Authors: Roger Silverwood
Flora closed her eyes and said, ‘I can’t think …’
‘“No apples,”’ he said, repeating the clue. ‘Years ago they used to put apples in a barrel.’
‘In that story …’
‘
Treasure Island
by Robert Louis Stevenson.’
‘That’s it,’ she said.
‘The boy hides in an apple barrel. An apple barrel.’
‘“No apples. Just water,”’ she said reading the clue again.
‘Does that mean a water barrel? The only water barrel I know of round here is at the vicarage.’
He dashed out of the Feathers. Flora caught up with him at the door of the BMW. ‘Shall I come with you, sir?’
Abstractedly, he pointed to the nearside door of the car.
‘Shall I drive?’ she said.
‘No.’
She got into the car.
Angel drove like a madman. Flora hung onto the seatbelt as the BMW rocked wildly from one side to the other. The car roared along Park Road, then turned right down a narrow lane and through the vicarage gates. It careered down the drive, spraying
the recently laid shale like water, and stopped with a jerk at the front door. He dashed out of the car and up to the doorbell, pressed it, then without waiting for a reply, ran to the back of the house to a water barrel set up on bricks with a metal cover, designed to collect rainwater. He yanked off the cover. It was almost full. Floating on the surface of the water was a tin that had once held tobacco. He picked it out of the water, removed the lid and found inside a folded piece of paper.
Flora caught up with him. ‘What’s it say?’
Angel’s heart sank. He had had enough of this stupid game. He wanted to get to Mary. It made him sick thinking what might be happening to her. He quickly tore open the paper. It said: ‘You
are
on form, Angel. Try this – inside, but outside where it’s cold, where your missives may be held in contradiction to gravity.’
He read the clue again, pulled a face like thunder, then passed the note to Flora.
‘He’s got me beat this time.’
‘No, he hasn’t, sir. You can do it.’
‘It doesn’t make sense. What’s he mean, “Inside, but outside where it’s cold”? Where is it cold?’ Angel said.
‘The Arctic, the Antarctic, the sea generally, cold-rooms,
refrigerators
…’
‘It says, “Inside but outside where it’s cold”. Does that mean on the outside of cold-rooms and refrigerators that are
inside
a building, as opposed to the Arctic where it is cold outside?’
‘I should think so, sir. Give it a try.’
‘Hmmm. Well, why does it say, “outside where it’s cold”?’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘Not inside. Not inside the cold-room or the refrigerator.’
‘“Where your missives may be held in contradiction to gravity,”’ Flora said.
‘A missive is a letter or a note or some sort of communication,
isn’t it? He’s put the word “your”, so it means my office or home or car or wherever.’
‘What’s “held in contradiction to gravity”?’
Angel shook his head. ‘I don’t even know what he means. I suppose he means something that defies gravity? But nothing defies gravity, does it?’
‘Say a ball bouncing, the sponginess in the ball causes the ball to bounce up in the air. Is that defying gravity?’
‘In a way it is. You could say that all aeroplanes defy gravity,’ he said.
‘And birds and chickens, they fly. And kangaroos, they jump.’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘Not kangaroos,’ he said. ‘Right, Flora, what have we got now?’
‘Not inside the cold-room or refrigerator, where your letters or notes are held, defying gravity, like aeroplanes, birds or chickens.’
Angel shook his head. He sighed. ‘I don’t know, Flora. I really don’t know. While we are playing this damned silly parlour game, what’s happening to Mary? That man is clearly off his head.’
‘But sir, we have to solve this to get to Mary.’
He took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes. All right. What have we got, then?’
Flora said, ‘Not inside the cold-room or refrigerator, where your letters or notes are held, defying gravity.’
Angel suddenly said, ‘I know who that Edward Oliver is. He was a freelance crossword- and puzzle-setter for newspapers and magazines. It’s quite terrifying. His real name was Dennis Reville. He murdered his wife in the most cruel way … must be twelve years ago. I arrested him. He always threatened to get back at me. His brief put up a brilliant defence. He brought psychiatrists in to testify from all over the place. They said he was a psycho. The judge sent him to Wilefowle, north of the county, at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Hadn’t heard he’d escaped.’
‘We must solve this, sir,’ Flora said. ‘Come on.’
‘Oh yes. Outside a cold-room or refrigerator, where your letters or notes are defying gravity.’
Suddenly his eyes stopped roving around. His mouth dropped open. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said.
He ran to the driver’s door of the BMW. Flora had to be quick. He pulled away before she had closed the car door.
‘What does it mean, then?’ she said when she had her seatbelt fastened.
‘He means the next clue is under a magnet on the fridge in our kitchen!’ he said as he whisked the steering wheel round to take a corner.
She nodded as her mind caught up with his explanation.
It was another scary race across Bromersley.
Eventually they arrived at his house. He dashed out of the car, leaving the door open, raced into the house to the fridge. There was a note waiting for him. He snatched it from under a magnet. It read, ‘Go back two.’ His eyes flashed. That must mean go back to the vicarage. He raced back to the BMW. The paper with the clue was left floating to the floor as Flora arrived in the kitchen. She saw it, picked it up, read it, then rushed out of the house.
Angel was already driving away when Flora arrived at the kerb. She stood there, mouth open, watching the BMW race down the road, and hearing the low purr of the exhaust. As he turned at the end of the street, she took out her mobile and tapped in a number.
Angel’s mind was everywhere. He was frantic with worry. As the car rocked from side to side, he suddenly had a thought. He had rung the doorbell at the vicarage, and there had been no reply. Even if the vicar was out, there was his wife and his housekeeper who could have answered. He had never found the vicarage
unoccupied
. Even when the vicar and his wife were on holiday a covering priest from Wakefield used to stay in the house.
M
eanwhile inside the vicarage, Dennis Reville, the tall, dark and handsome man with the cherubic face, had been busy drilling holes in the woodwork of the sitting room and fitting up a cord threaded to the sneck on the old door then through
eye-hole
screws directly to the trigger of a rifle fastened to a chair and aimed directly at Mary, who was fastened to a chair by her wrists and ankles.
‘You see, my dear,’ Reville said to her, ‘your dear husband has only to lift the sneck of the door to enter and it will tighten this cord which will pull the trigger of the rifle and you will be out of the world for good. And he will have murdered you. Isn’t that a hoot?’
Mary screamed, then said, ‘You’ll never get away with it.’
He walked behind the chair, produced a scarf and gloves. He stuffed the gloves through her teeth.
‘Oh, yes I will,’ he said with a big laugh, as he tightened the scarf over her mouth and tied several knots in it. ‘And your dear Michael will spend the rest of his life in torment.’
He then turned and switched on an audio tape recorder.
Angel arrived in the BMW at the vicarage, spraying the shale around the drive. He leaped out of the car and went up to the front door. He banged the Victorian knocker hard and the door opened
two or three inches, as if it had not been closed properly. He pushed it open and called out, ‘Anybody there? Michael Angel here! Vicar!’
A tall figure with a cherubic face peered down at him from a place in shadow beyond the curve in the stairs.
Then Angel heard a voice he knew so very well. ‘Michael, help me. I’m here.’ It was his beloved Mary. The voice came from the sitting room. That was the first door on the left. He entered the old house and rushed up to the door and put his hand up to the sneck to open it. Then he heard the voice again. ‘Michael, help me. I’m here.’ He stopped. There was something odd about the voice. It was certainly Mary, but the intonation was wrong. The call was repeated again. He realized that it was repeated every two and a half seconds. It was a recording of her voice on a loop. He looked round the door and on the floor was a sprinkling of what looked like white powder. He bent down to look at it. It was sawdust. There was something very strange. He straightened up. The recorded voice cried out again.
He continued to look at the door as the tape played Mary’s voice again. Then he made a decision. He turned, went outside onto the shale and round to the sitting-room window. He peered inside and the muscles in his chest tightened as he saw Mary fastened to a chair, the rifle aimed directly at her, and the cord stretched tautly between the door and the rifle. He turned away from the window and looked around. He saw a small wooden garden seat. He dragged it towards the vicarage wall, then lifted it and threw it against the sitting-room window. There was a loud crash as the garden seat crashed into the window, causing the glass to splinter into a thousand pieces, creating a big hole in the glass. He climbed through the hole and dashed over to Mary. He firstly moved the chair holding the rifle so that she was no longer in the line of fire. He untied the scarf and she spat out the gloves.
‘Oh Michael,’ she said, her big eyes looking up to him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said as he began to undo the rope around her wrists. ‘Are
you
all right? Let’s get you out of here.’
‘I’m all right now, darling. But you must watch out for him. He’s an evil monster.’
‘I know. I know. He’s as mad as a hatter. I hope he hasn’t hurt you.’
‘No. No,’ she said.
He had finished freeing her hands and bent down to untie the rope round her ankles.
Mary suddenly saw Reville’s cherubic face, looking devilish. He was now unhooded and for an instant stood just outside the window. Then he was climbing in. ‘Look out, Michael. He’s behind you.’
Reville leaped through the window and landed on top of the policeman, pulling him away from loosening the rope round Mary’s ankles and throwing punches with clenched fists at Angel’s head.
Mary looked round for something to use as a weapon against the madman, but there was nothing within her reach.
Angel managed to stand up despite the barrage of hard fists being showered on him; he was then better able to defend himself in the style of a boxer.
Reville threw a powerful left at Angel, who ducked, allowing the man to lose his balance and come towards Angel, who produced a hard left to his chin that stopped the man falling forward; Angel’s punch was so powerful that Reville fell
backwards
to the floor. He quickly recovered and looked round for something to throw. There was a white marble bust. He grabbed it and threw it at Angel, who managed to duck and avoid it. Reville followed it through and darted towards Angel with the
heavy wooden bust stand – waving it about. The stand caught the cord still draped between the door and chair. It triggered the rifle, there was a loud report and Reville collapsed to the floor. He didn’t move. Angel went forward to see what had happened and discovered a bullet had entered Reville’s head at his left temple. He put his hand on his neck, but could find no pulse.
‘He’s dead,’ Angel said.
He turned away from him and returned to unfastening the rope around Mary’s ankles.
There was the sound of a car door being closed. Then a face appeared at the hole in the window. It was Flora Carter. ‘Is
everything
all right, sir?’
Angel and Mary exchanged knowing glances.
‘Yes, Flora,’ Angel said. ‘But you’d better send for an ambulance for him.’
Dennis Reville was pronounced dead at the scene and the mortuary wagon took him away after DS Taylor and SOCO had finished their routine checks and observations.
The vicar and his wife were found gagged and bound to beds in an upstairs room. They were taken to hospital for a check-up, found to be satisfactory and safely returned home.
Flora Carter took Angel and Mary to the hospital, where several small injuries to Angel’s face and head were treated and dressings applied. Apart from rope burns to her wrists, Mary was apparently unscathed. After treatment Flora took them both home.
At the front door, Angel turned to Flora and said, ‘Thank you very much, lass. Now, my car is still outside the vicarage, can you pick me up in about an hour and take me to collect it?’
She smiled. ‘I’ll get somebody from transport to deliver it to you here ASAP, sir. How’s that?’
‘Even better,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Flora.’
He began to follow Mary into the house, then suddenly he turned back and called out, ‘Oh, Flora.’
‘Yes, sir?’ she said, running back up the path.
Angel pursed his lips, then said, ‘Reville had to have some form of transport to gad about like he’s been doing. It would be useful if we can find it. He might have been using the vicar’s, or he might have hired a car or stolen one. Check out the vicar’s first. If it’s not that, get a squad of men to look around the streets nearby. I would expect it to be in easy walking distance of the vicarage. And keep me posted.’
‘Right, sir. I’ll get right on it.’
He had a light lunch of soup and fruit and had a good long talk with Mary. He wanted to be sure that she was safe and sound and hadn’t suffered any psychological damage at Reville’s hand. Then he had a shower, changed his suit and shirt and returned to the police station.
It was 2.45 p.m. when Angel sat down at his desk. He reached out for the phone and tapped in Flora Carter’s mobile number.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said brightly. ‘I hope you’re feeling OK.’
‘Yes, lass, thank you. Have you found that diamond?’
‘No, sir, but I’ve quite a lot of other news.’
‘I hope it’s all good. Where are you?’
‘I’m in the vicar’s garage, sir, with Don Taylor and a couple of his officers. I’ll come outside, the signal will be better.’
‘Right, Flora. Fire away.’
‘Well, sir, we discovered the vicar and his wife gagged and tied to their beds. They were promptly despatched to the hospital for a check-up, but I think they’ll be all right. Before he went, the vicar told me that Reville knocked on the vicarage door at about nine
o’clock this morning asking for help. He asked him in, then Reville drew a gun and held them at gunpoint. He demanded the keys to his garage and car, then he made them go upstairs. He fastened them to their beds with clothes line. Apparently Reville had been using the vicar’s car, a small black Ford, as his own runabout this morning. The car was parked and locked in an old stable that the vicar used as a garage. It was opposite the back door of the vicarage. Don Taylor found Reville’s fingerprints all over the car. The key to the garage was found in Reville’s pocket together with keys for Ernest Piddington’s house and Nancy Quinn’s flat.’
‘Good. That will help to show the free and easy way he had access to his victims.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. In the back of the car, under a seat, Don Taylor found a kitchen knife covered in dried blood with Reville’s fingerprints on it. It was wrapped in a newspaper, which also had his prints on it.’
‘Was it the
Sunday Telegraph
?’
‘Yes, sir. Dated 5 May.’
‘Good. That would be the copy he bought the day he murdered Nancy Quinn. There is quite enough there, Flora – with what we already have – to prove that he murdered old man Piddington
and
Nancy Quinn.’
‘I thought you’d be pleased, sir.’
‘Yes, but you haven’t found that diamond. We need to find that to be able to wrap this bank robbery well and truly round Reville’s neck. Tell me, did SOCO search his body thoroughly?’
‘Well, yes, sir. Don Taylor knew you that you particularly wanted to find the diamond.’
‘What about the vicar’s car?’
‘Yes, sir. Don and his team finished that a few minutes ago. It isn’t there.’
‘Well, keep looking. It has to be found. I can’t think where it has got to.’
At four o’clock Angel felt tired, with his eyes closing, and his mind not thinking of what he was trying to write. He knew he wouldn’t fall asleep, but he wasn’t achieving anything useful either. It had slipped his mind that work had taken up most of the previous night. He phoned Ahmed and told him he was going home. Then he drove himself home, put the car away and let himself in by the back door.
Mary was very pleased to see him. Unusually she was in a
nightdress
and housecoat. She put her arms round his neck and pulled him towards her to deliver a slow and gentle kiss.
‘What are you doing home, darling?’ she said.
‘I was falling asleep at my desk,’ he said. ‘Why the housecoat? Been to bed?’
‘I thought I would have a nap, but when it came to it, I couldn’t get off. We must have an early night tonight.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, then he went to the fridge and took out a can of German beer. He found a glass on the draining-board and poured it out.
Mary came back up to him and said, ‘How’s your face?’
‘Sore.’ Then he said, ‘How are your wrists?’
‘Sore, but getting better.’
‘You are sure he didn’t hurt you, sweetheart, aren’t you?’
‘He scared me. He scared me stiff, but he didn’t hurt me. Only my wrists.’
Angel shook his head.
He went through to the sitting room. He sat in his favourite chair for about a minute. He was thinking through the events of the day, and he didn’t like what he remembered. Then suddenly, he looked up brightly and said, ‘Any post?’
‘Two,’ Mary said and she went to the sideboard and brought them to him.
He looked at each of them in turn and wrinkled his nose. He reluctantly tore into the first envelope. It consisted of several colourful leaflets.
‘Hey up, Mary. I’ve won a £50 voucher that can be spent at any of the forty-two branches of Warmglow Sunshine Tanning Salon.’
Mary smiled and said, ‘Fifty pounds, eh? There’s one in town. On Wath Road.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Hey. This is addressed to me. It should be addressed to you.’
‘No. I’ve been entering competitions in your name just to prove that you
can
win prizes.’
‘Oh? Really? Well, thank you, sweetheart. Let me give you a kiss.’
He kissed her gently on the lips. Then he said, ‘But, you know, I’m not into getting myself tanned. You have it.’
Mary wasn’t pleased. ‘I got it for
you
. It’s always the same. You never let me give you
anything
without a lot of argument.’
‘When have I the time to go and play about at getting a tan?’
Mary gasped loudly and walked out of the sitting room. She was not pleased.
Angel noticed. As he began to open the second letter he said in a very low voice, ‘And I bet you’ve spent more on postage than the voucher is worth.’
He took the letter out of the second envelope. His face dropped. He looked round. ‘Mary,’ he called. ‘It’s from the ruddy gas company.’
Mary put her nose into the room. ‘What are you shouting about now?’
‘It’s from the ruddy gas company. We owe them £192, and gas is going up another 5 per cent at the end of June. What do you think of that?’
‘Well, Michael, you’ve got to be reasonable. It’s going up for everybody.’
He put his arms in the air in exasperation and yelled, ‘Reasonable? I’m always reasonable. I’m the most reasonable man I know. Here,’ he said, handing Mary the suntan voucher and the letter from the gas company. ‘Send that to the gas board. Tell them to deduct that from our bill.’
Mary stared at him, not at first realizing what he had said. She sighed.
Angel’s mobile rang.
He fumbled down into his pocket, found it and pressed the button. ‘Angel.’
‘Hello there, Michael.’
Angel recognized the Glaswegian voice of his good friend, Dr Mac. ‘You old codger. I hear you’ve been picking a fight with a madman.’
‘Huh. I had to defend myself, Mac, that’s all. He picked the fight with me.’
‘Aye, so I understand. Well, assuredly he didn’t get the better of you. You can still enjoy a dram, whilst he will never again even smell the cork.’