The Cuckoo Clock Murders by Roger Silverwood

Author:Roger Silverwood
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Joffe Books crime, thriller and mystery
Published: 2020-04-16T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 9

It was four o’clock.

Angel was sitting in a small office. At the other side of a small desk was Oliver Razzle.

‘Do you know anything about a loaded handgun being found in the gentleman’s washroom here?’

Razzle’s eyes grew bigger. ‘A handgun? No. Certainly not.’

‘Have you ever seen a gun anywhere in the studio complex?’

‘No, Inspector. What’s a handgun doing here? Whose was it? Was it lost?’

‘People who own guns don’t lose them, Mr Razzle. Do you know anybody here who owned one?’

‘No. Frankly, Inspector, I’m very surprised. Do you think that someone here is a target? Do you think that whoever murdered Peter Santana is after somebody else?’

‘I don’t know, but Mr Santana died by being shot with a handgun.’

Razzle nodded.

Angel said: ‘Where were you on Monday night, the night Peter Santana was murdered?’

‘I was here, on the studio floor, until around 11.30. The scene was a bit tricky. We were using real sky as a backdrop and clouds kept rolling across it. We could more easily have used back projection, but Bill Isaacs wouldn’t have it. He wanted the real thing.’

‘Where were you after 11.30?”

‘Straight home and straight to bed. It had been a long and tedious day.’

‘Somebody can confirm that you were with them all night, can they?’

Razzle pulled a face that told Angel they could not.

‘My wife was away that night,’ Razzle said. ‘Went up to town, London, on a Christmas-present-buying trip. She incorporated a visit to her mother in Dulwich, and an old friend. We used to live there, you know. She came back yesterday.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed. There was another prospect without an alibi.

‘Any idea why Mr Santana was murdered?’ Angel said.

‘No. None. I expect it was for money, but it doesn’t make sense.’

Angel nodded. ‘How did you get along with Mr Santana?’

‘Fine. Just fine. I didn’t see much of him, Inspector. He was in a different world really. Only came here for an hour or so a month, with his PA. Spent most of the time with Bill Isaacs. Occasionally called in Hector Munro or Samson Fairchild for a few minutes to iron something out. Or some big moneyman from a studio down south or occasionally from the US or from Rome or anywhere, he would see by arrangement, of course. If I saw a helicopter land on the pad at the other side of the car park, I knew that some big wheel was arriving and that Mr Santana would be in his office.’

‘But you had met him? He knew you?’

‘Oh yes. Of course. If we met in a corridor, or wherever, he’d stop briefly and shake hands. He’d say, “How’s things going then, Oliver?” And I’d say, “Fine, thank you, Mr Santana,” and then he’d smile and that was it. Somebody would jump in and say that he ought to leave and they’d rush off. It was always like that.’

‘And what was he really like? He was seventy-two, wasn’t he?’

‘Well, lately, he was a bit thinner, a bit pastier and maybe his voice wasn’t as strong, but he seemed just as vital and full of enthusiasm as he had always been.

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