Angel and the Actress by Roger Silverwood Page B

nothing in particular.
    ‘Hello. Are you still there, Inspector?’ Cairncross said.
    Angel shook his head in an effort to think clearly. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m here, Mr Cairncross. Thank you. Thank you very much. Goodbye.’
    He slowly replaced the phone. He was surprised at the news.
    Armed with this new information on Trott, he considered all the other facts he had on him, then dismissed the subject. He then took out the old envelope from his inside pocket to check off all the jobs he had to do. He was peering down at it and striking his ballpoint through the tasks he had already attended to when there was a knock at the door.
    It was Ahmed.
    ‘What do you want, lad?’
    The young policeman rushed in breathless, his eyes sparkling, his face red. ‘Thought you’d like to know, sir. I was in the Control Room when it came in. A triple nine.There’s a car just seen on fire in Cheapo’s car park. The sergeant’s advised the fire brigade.’
    Angel frowned. ‘So what?’ he said. ‘It happens now and then. Kids steal a car and drive round till they’re bored out of their drugged-up little minds, then they carve up the upholstery for laughs, smash all the headlights for fun and set it on fire for a lark. Then they run off and watch it burn from a safe distance and see how law-abiding citizens cope with it. It makes a change from sticking a steak knife in another young man’s stomach.’
    Ahmed’s eyes remained bright. ‘Ah, yes, sir,’ the young man said, ‘but this was a nearly new blue Ford Mondeo. Could be the stolen one used in the robbery of the Slater Security van.’
    Angel pulled his head back. His eyes grew big and unblinking. Then he said, ‘Ah, I see. Well spotted, Ahmed.’ He leaped up, sending the swivel chair backwards. It hit the wall with a bang. He reached out for his hat and coat and was gone.

SEVEN
    I T WAS 8.28 a.m. on Wednesday, 5 November, Fireworks Day.
    Angel walked down the corridor, passed the CID office and entered his office.
    Ahmed appeared from nowhere, knocked on the door and came in waving a newspaper around.
    ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s full of stuff about Joan Minter and the investigation.’
    Angel looked up. He was eager to read it, but there were important things that had priority. ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ he said, ‘But I must go out to Cheapo’s and see what that wreck can tell us.’ He quickly glanced through a pile of envelopes that had been added since the previous afternoon, looked round the office, then made for the door.
    ‘Shall I leave it here, sir,’ Ahmed said, putting it on his desk, ‘and pick it up later?’
    ‘Yes. Thank you. Do that. Must go,’ Angel said from the door. ‘By the way, your paper from yesterday is in the middle drawer of my desk. Help yourself to it.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    Angel spent most of the remainder of the morning with DS Taylor. Together they looked through the burnt-out wreck of the Ford Mondeo that had featured so prominently in the robbery of the Slater Security van. Angel had been hopeful of finding something that would help identify one of the gang of robbers, but there was nothing. If there had been any prints, they had disappeared in the heat of the fire.
    They gave up the search at about 12 noon and Angel returned to his office, where he found on his desk the morning paper that Ahmed had left, as well as three pickaxes and six photographs of them.
    He picked up the paper and saw the front-page story was still about the murder of Joan Minter. It was headed by an ancient picture of her playing the female lead in Romeo and Juliet . He quickly read it, then turned the page to find lots of detail about the investigation of the case: some was accurate some was intelligent guesswork.
    However, contained in the text he noticed the words, ‘The results of the gunshot residue tests arrived by police courier,’ which made him think. He blinked, lowered the paper and looked straight ahead at nothing in particular.