Authors: Roger Silverwood
I
t was 8.28 a.m. Thursday morning, 9 May.
Angel had arrived at the station and was making his way down the corridor. As he reached the CID office, he stopped and looked in. Several officers were busy at their desks and Ahmed nearest the door was staring at a computer screen. Sensing that he was being watched, Ahmed raised his eyes from the screen. Seeing Angel, he stood up and said, ‘Oh. Good morning, sir. Looking for me?’
‘DS Carter,’ Angel said.
Ahmed glanced round. ‘She’s not here, sir. Do you want me to find her?’
‘Thanks, lad. Ask her to come to my office ASAP. Are you still checking Nancy Quinn’s mobile phone calls?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said, looking surprised. ‘DS Taylor told me—’
‘That’s all right, lad. As soon as you’ve done, let me know.’
‘Right, sir. I’ve only about six numbers left to check.’
Angel nodded and made for his own office.
It was only a few moments later that there was a knock on the door. It was DS Carter.
‘Good morning, sir, you wanted me?’
‘Come in, Flora. Sit down,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘Do you know … last night I was thinking about Christine Elsworth and that little flower kiosk of hers. It’s so tiny. Her accountant says she
does very well. I just wondered
how
well. It wasn’t very busy when I was there, and she wasn’t exactly crammed out with stock either.’
‘Well, sir, with cut flowers, I don’t suppose you want more stock than you can expect to sell pretty quickly.’
‘True. When I was there, she only had a dozen or so large vases with ten or twenty flowers in each vase. What’s a single flower worth to buy on average, do you think? 50p?’
‘Depends. Maybe a bit less. Say 40p.’
‘Right, 40p. That roughs up to … 200 flowers at 40p each … that’s about … eighty pounds. She wouldn’t have made a fortune if she had sold every bloom in the shop that day, would she? She’s got staff wages, rent, rates, light, heat, phone, delivery vehicle, petrol, depreciation, insurance, security, bank charges, advertising, wrapping boxes and paper and cards and—’
The phone rang. Angel glared at it. He snatched it up. ‘Angel.’
‘It’s Clifton, sir, duty sergeant control room. I’ve just had an anonymous call from a man who said he’d seen a light in a room of 22 Jubilee Park Road in the early hours of this morning. That’s the house where you were recently investigating the murder of an elderly man, I believe. It’s not on my list to be secured any more, and SOCO had reported that they’d finished there. I just thought you might want to know … before I did anything about it. I was only going to get a patrol car to stop as he was passing and take a look at the outside of the place, try the doors and so on.’
Angel frowned. ‘Yes, well, thank you, Bernie. You say you don’t know who reported it?’
‘It was the usual Mr Anonymous, sir.’
‘Right. I’ll see to it. Thank you. Leave it with me.’
He replaced the phone and turned back to Flora Carter. He told her what the sergeant had reported and instructed her to go there to see if there was anything amiss.
‘Give me a ring and tell me what you find,’ he said. ‘After all, it
could be nothing. Christine Elsworth might have been sleeping there and got up in the night to make a cup of tea, or something.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Now, where were we? I know. I want you to contact HMRC to get a better understanding of Christine Elsworth’s financial
position
. I’ve already seen her accountant, Andrew King. And he did say that she was doing very well.’
‘Right, sir,’ she said. ‘I understand, but I’ll have a look at 22 Jubilee Park Road, first.’
Angel nodded and she went out.
He looked at the growing pile of post, reports and letters sitting on his desk. He leaned back in the chair for a moment, wiped his hands over his face and considered whether there was anything else he could do to progress the investigation of the murders. Deciding that there was nothing, he pulled the pile towards the middle of the desk and began with the letter at the top.
It had a circulation slip attached to it and had already been seen by the Chief Constable and Detective Superintendent Harker.
It was from the Deputy Chief Constable of West Yorkshire to his Chief Constable. It began with a cordial personal greeting, then it pointed out that the International Jewellery Fair was being held in Leeds from 14 to 19 May and it went on to say that …
As the Fair organizers are employing their own security company, my force will not supply uniformed presence in or around the premises. Nevertheless, the force will be on hand to deal with conventional attempts at stealing, by pilfering, product substitution and other similar methods by one or more unarmed persons, as well as attempts at major hauls by small armed gangs. However, as a preventive measure, I would ask for your assistance by bringing this Fair to the attention of your officers and asking them to advise me of the
presence of any known thieves surfacing in your area both before and during the course of the Fair so that they can be identified, warned, marked by us and tracked by our officers.
Angel remembered reading that the jewellery fair was coming to Leeds. He had not noted the date. The letter advised that it was coming in five days’ time. He recalled the old adage: Doesn’t time fly?
He wrinkled his nose and thought a moment. The jewellery fair would certainly be an attraction to crooks, but he couldn’t say that he’d recognized any of his old clients sniffing around Bromersley of late. But Leeds was twenty miles away. He didn’t think it likely that crooks would assemble in Bromersley. Then he recalled that Lord Tulliver lived at Marlborough House, Tunistone, which was only a few miles away, and that the Tullivers were opening the Fair on the first day and that Lady Tulliver would be wearing the fabulous Mermaid Diamond. That jewel alone would tempt many would-be thieves to try to come up with some imaginative idea to get round the strategies of the private security firm, the police and the insurance company.
He had no information to give to the West Yorkshire force, so he ticked his name on the circulation card and rang for Ahmed.
‘This needs to go to Inspector Asquith urgently, Ahmed,’ he said, handing him the letter.
‘Right, sir. And I’ve just finished checking off Nancy Quinn’s mobile phone, if you would like me to—’
Angel’s face brightened. ‘Oh yes, lad. Bring the list in. It’s very important.’
Ahmed had listed the telephone number, person called (where known), date, time and length of each call made from Nancy Quinn’s mobile over the last two weeks of her life.
Angel looked at the list. It was surprisingly short.
‘Some calls were to Christine Elsworth, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘Some to the flower kiosk, several were to her mobile and several to her home address. She made a lot of calls to shops. It seems that she was always buying clothes by phone.’
Angel knew that to be true. Her flat had been bursting with them.
‘Were there any calls made that you were unable to identify?’ Angel said.
‘Yes, sir. Sixteen, all to the same number. I’ve marked it in red.’
‘Sixteen?’ Angel said. ‘07763193880. Who do you phone that frequently, Ahmed?’
‘Dunno, sir.’
‘Someone you are worried about, someone who owes you money or somebody you love.’
‘But she didn’t ring that number the two days before she died, sir,’ Ahmed said.
Angel said sombrely, ‘Aye. That will be because she had no need to. Her lover – and murderer – was living with her.’
Ahmed’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean that that number is the number of her murderer, sir?’
‘I believe so, Ahmed,’ he said. ‘It makes sense, doesn’t it? And that’s the tall man described as having dark hair and a babyface.’
‘Wow. She made about two calls most days to him. I have been through to the phone company and all they could tell me was that it was a live line and that it was a pay as you go phone.’
Angel frowned, ran his hand over his mouth and said, ‘If we could find someone else who has also spoken to him on that number. It might be possible to catch up with him.’
‘How can we do that, sir?’
Still frowning, Angel said slowly, ‘I don’t know, Ahmed. I really don’t know. Leave it with me. I’ll give it some thought.’
The phone rang. It was Flora Carter. She sounded strange.
‘I’m at Piddington’s house, sir, 22 Jubilee Park Road. A lot of damage has been done here; there’s rubble everywhere. I don’t understand it.’
‘Well, force an entry and have a closer look.’
‘You don’t understand, sir. I’m already inside the house, and the front door wasn’t locked. Inside is a mess. Like squatters have been. I think you’ll want to see this for yourself.’
Angel stopped the BMW outside the late Mr Piddington’s house. He noticed a FOR SALE board in the garden which had not been there before.
He ran up the garden path. He had been concerned about Flora Carter’s safety. As he drove from the station, it occurred to him that intruders might still be in the house.
The front door was opened from the inside by Flora Carter.
‘Have you checked all the rooms, Flora?’ he said.
‘Oh yes, sir. There’s nobody here now, sir, if that’s what you were thinking.’
He stepped inside the house and was amazed by what he saw. Some of the internal walls had holes big enough to put your hand and arm through into the next room or hallway. The floors in the hall and rooms were covered with rubble, broken red bricks, old grey mortar, fragments of faded wallpaper, some stuck to plaster, and grey dust. He looked into the sitting room, which still had its table, sideboard, settee and armchairs, but now with the walls full of holes and the furniture a floor laden with grey dust. Mr Piddington’s wheelchair was on its side covered in grey dust. He went all over the house. It was all the same.
‘Did you find any tools? This sort of damage must have been made by tools such as picks and hammers … or stone chisels and hammers.’
‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘There are no tools or anything like that. In fact, there is just the furniture. What’s the explanation? What were they looking for?’
Angel pursed his lips. ‘Oh, yes. He or she or they were looking for something all right. I wonder what Mrs Elsworth can tell us. Better get her here straightaway, Flora. Phone the shop. Then pop round to the neighbours. Somebody’s bound to have seen or heard something. I’ll just take another look around here.’
‘Right, sir,’ she said.
Ten minutes later, Christine Elsworth arrived. She was shocked when she saw the state of the house. She went from room to room, her mouth open, her head shaking in disbelief, striding over piles of rubble, treading on bits of broken brick or mortar.
Angel waited for her in the hall.
When she came downstairs, she came across to Angel and said, ‘I don’t understand it, Inspector. It was all right when I left it yesterday afternoon, after I had shown the estate agent round.’
‘You locked the door?’
‘Yes, I locked it myself.’
‘And what did you do with the key?’
‘I gave it to Adrian Potter. He’s the estate agent, of Ernest Potter and Son, Victoria Road.’
‘But DS Carter found the front door unlocked.’
Christine Elsworth gasped as she heard the news. Then her lip quivered as her hand went to her face.
Angel frowned, then said, ‘What’s the matter?’
She shook her head. She was unwilling or unable to tell him.
Angel rubbed his chin and said, ‘I understand. The other key was with Nancy Quinn and is now in the possession of the man who murdered her.’
She nodded.
‘And do you know who that is?’ he said.
She swallowed, found her voice and said, ‘No. Of course not. If I knew that, Inspector, I would tell you.’
He wasn’t so sure that she would. He ran his hand through his hair and said, ‘I noticed that the damage is only to the non-
load-bearing
walls. Do you know why that might be?’
She frowned. ‘No idea,’ she said.
‘I think it is because he was looking for something. Something he expected to find bricked up in a wall. Now, what would he be looking for?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Will he come back?’
She shuddered, and her eyes shone like car headlights. She looked away. ‘How should I know? I sincerely hope not,’ she said. Then quickly she added, ‘I must get back to the shop, Inspector. We sometimes get busy at lunchtime. You must excuse me.’
Angel saw that she was terrified. He watched her scurry towards the door.
‘Mrs Elsworth,’ he said, ‘don’t worry about the house tonight. We’ll get the key from Adrian Potter, lock up and return the key to you at the flower shop, if that’s all right with you?’ he said.
She stopped, turned, sighed and said, ‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Inspector. Thank you very much.’
As she went through the front door, Flora came in and closed it. She looked after her and said, ‘She seems in a hurry.’
‘She’s scared to death, Flora. Too scared to say what she knows. Did you find out anything?’
‘Nobody saw or heard anything, sir.’
Angel shook his head. His face muscles tightened. ‘Amazing,’ he said. ‘Well, we’ll have to do it the hard way. Do you have a long measuring tape in your kit?’
‘It’s in my car boot, sir. Do you want me to get it?’
‘And have you a pad of graph paper?’
She frowned. ‘The sort we use for in road accidents … to show the position of vehicles, skid marks and so on?’
‘That’s the stuff,’ he said. ‘Get it.’
She nodded and dashed out to her car.
When she returned, they measured the outside walls of the house and then the inside measurements, allowing between twenty-seven and twenty-eight centimetres for the thickness of the external walls and between fifteen and sixteen centimetres for internal walls. Then, in the hall at the bottom of the stairs on a small table, Angel drew a plan neatly on the graph paper and, to his dismay, the sums were correct. Using the same system, they measured upstairs and found these sums were also correct.
Angel wrinkled his nose. He had expected to find a discrepancy of a metre or so, that would indicate the presence of a false wall, but it was clearly not so. As he finished winding in the tape, he handed it to Flora and said, ‘I’ll have another think about this. In the meantime, go to Potter, the estate agents on Victoria Road, and get the key for this place, so that we can lock it up. I’ll stay here and wait for you.’