The Big Fiddle (11 page)

‘Right, sir,’ Flora said and she went out.

Angel stood in the hall, and rubbed his chin. He heard the front door close. He picked his way through the debris on the stairs, climbed to the top and then stood on the landing amidst broken bricks and mortar and stared up at the wooden rectangle in the ceiling, the entrance to the loft. He knew there should be a pole somewhere around to gain access. He could see nothing of it anywhere in the corners of the landing walls. He saw the airing cupboard and tried to open the door. He had to kick rubble away from the front of it so that it would open, to reveal a smooth, brown wooden pole with a brass hook that fell out into his hands. Behind it was the cistern and several shelves of bedclothes and towels.

With the pole, he was able to reach up to the loft door, open it and unhook the aluminium steps so that they came rattling down to the floor of the landing, ending at his feet. He tested them and they seemed perfectly safe, so he climbed up through the loft door all the way to the top. He had come prepared with a torch and he shone it around. There were networks of spiders’ webs of different sizes draped at the far end of the area and behind him, and it was strange to be looking through them at the underside of the roof slates, wooden beams and cross members. Looking downwards, the bedroom and bathroom ceilings seemed to be well covered with insulating material to a thickness of about fifteen
centimetres
, and he could see three metres away what looked like a lagged water tank and a pipe leading from it also lagged with brown insulating material. There was nothing else in the loft. It all looked very proper and he was about to return down the steps when it occurred to him that, although there was a plethora of spiders’ webs throughout the loft area, there were none actually around the loft door and between him and the water tank. That suggested that there might have been a human presence in the loft recently. He pursed his lips. Of course, it could just have been a plumber checking the tank.

Before he could stop himself, he had gingerly made his way across the top of the fibreglass insulation material on the beams to the water tank. He shone the torch onto the top of the tank and turned back the insulation. He found that it was covered with a wooden lid. He removed the lid and shone his torch inside. There was not a drop of water in sight. Instead, at the top, he saw a plastic Yogi Bear mask. Underneath it were many bundles of £20 notes wrapped in see-through wrappers. His pulse began to bang away. His mind was in overdrive. He knew he’d found what he had been looking for and possibly the motive for the murders. It was not a water tank at all, but a large wooden crate. It must have
been made in situ because it would have been too big to pass through the loft door. As he fished through it, he discovered that there were £5, £10 as well as £20 notes, each denomination wrapped tightly in cellophane packets of £1,000. A packet of £20 notes straight from the Mint took up little space, and so he found that it was impossible to estimate the amount of the find, except that it must run into millions. He moved the Yogi Bear mask
carefully
to one side to enable him to pull out a token packet of £1,000 in £20 notes, which he stuffed into his pocket, replaced the lid and the loose insulation on the wooden case, and came down the steps. With the pole, he pushed the aluminium steps back up to the landing ceiling and then pulled down the loft door. As he put the pole back in the cistern cupboard, he wondered where the missing water tank for the house was located, and then, he looked upwards, above the shelves of bedding and towels. The water tank was there, located above the cistern. Simple. Only a plumber would be likely to realize that the camouflaged wooden box in the loft did not contain water.

As he stood on the landing amidst the rubble, he heard the front door close with a bang.

It was Flora Carter. ‘It’s me, sir,’ she called. ‘Are you there?’

He came down the stairs.

She waved the key at him and said, ‘I’ve got it, sir.’

His face shone. ‘Good. So have I,’ he said, and he told her about the find, showed her the packet of £20 notes and said, ‘The Yogi Bear mask and the old picture of the Queen indicate that the money is from a big bank robbery from the local Royal Westminster Bank, in 1983. There were three robbers on that job, and all three were wearing Yogi Bear masks.’

Flora’s eyes twinkled with excitement. ‘Wow, what a find.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I want you to keep it absolutely shtum. Two men served time for it, while the third – it now looks as if he was
the late Mr Piddington – got away scot-free. We might be able to find out who knows about this if we keep it to ourselves for a little while.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘Now what I want you to do is to get a duplicate of this house key made ASAP. The quickest way would be at that little cobbler’s and key-cutter’s on Almsgate.’

‘Right, sir. What for?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get back. Now fly!’

She grinned and rushed off.

Angel reached out for his phone and was soon in conversation with the manager of the local branch of the Royal Westminster Bank.

‘Are you making any progress in finding out who is passing that old money?’ Rodney Ballantyne said.

‘I think you might say yes to that, Mr Ballantyne,’ Angel said. ‘But I need your assistance regarding the history of the case. I need to know the details of the two robbers who were caught, and the result of the court case.’

‘That’s no problem, Inspector. I’ll get all that emailed to you within the hour, if that would be all right?’

‘Excellent. Look forward to it, and thank you.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Inspector, and good luck.’

Angel cancelled the call, then tapped in another number.

‘National Crime Operations Faculty,’ a voice said. ‘Which department do you want?’

‘This is DI Angel of Bromersley force,’ he said. ‘I would like to speak urgently to someone in the electronic surveillance
equipment
department …’

A
ngel parked the BMW on Main Street in the town centre. He looked at his watch. It was 4.30. He got out of the car, rushed down the busy street to the corner on Market Street to Christine Elsworth’s flower kiosk.

The girl behind the counter recognized him and said, ‘Hello. Mrs Elsworth is in the back.…’

Christine Elsworth peered round the doorway behind the counter. She didn’t look pleased. ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector. Come on through.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and he followed her into the small
workroom
where she was busy cutting a piece of Oasis to fit a metal frame intended to support a floral display.

Angel said, ‘I thought you’d like to know … I have locked up the house and and here’s the key.’ He fished around in his pocket, found it and handed it to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Did you find anything at all helpful there?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ he lied. He rubbed his jaw. ‘I cannot for the life of me see what the intruder was looking for.’

‘I’ve been thinking who I can get to make good the damage.’

‘You can probably claim on your insurance, and I would have thought your estate agent would be able to advise on that.’

‘Of course. I must ask him.’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Those holes in the walls made me think that the intruder must have been looking for something …
something
really valuable. I have had a good look round and I couldn’t find anything, anything at all. Have you any idea what it was? Did your father keep any jewellery in the house … or a stockpile of sovereigns … or a big pile of cash?’

‘Not to my knowledge, Inspector,’ she said. ‘If he had, it would have turned up by now, wouldn’t it? My father only had his pension and it was a struggle every week to pay all his bills, keep him cared for, warm and well fed. I invariably had to contribute something to keep him going. Not that I minded. He kept
me
going when
I
was in trouble. He kept me together when my husband died.’

Angel nodded sympathetically. ‘Even so, Mrs Elsworth, there must be a reason why someone would make holes in the walls like that.’

‘Well, Inspector, I’m sorry, I have no idea what it was.’

‘Right, well, if anything occurs to you, give me a ring. Good afternoon.’

‘I certainly will, Inspector. Good afternoon.’

He came out of the kiosk and back round the corner to the BMW. He started the engine and pointed the bonnet in the direction of Victoria Road, the long street of offices. He soon found Ernest Potter and Son and went through the glass door and up to the counter. A young woman was tapping
something
out on a computer keyboard. She turned and looked up at him.

‘I want to speak to Mr Potter, Adrian Potter, please,’ he said. ‘I am DI Angel.’

‘I’m Adrian Potter,’ a voice behind him said. He had followed him through the internal door. ‘I was just leaving, Inspector. But if I can help you …’

‘Can we go somewhere where we can talk?’ Angel said.

He noticed that Potter blinked nervously, as he said, ‘Of course. Please follow me.’

Potter made his way out of the reception area, through another door into a small, tidy little office.

Angel followed him, looking round at all the different
photographs
of houses and properties on the wall.

Potter pointed to the chair in front of the desk, while he sat down behind it. ‘Now, Inspector, what’s it all about?’

‘You have been instructed by Mrs Christine Elsworth to sell a house?’

‘Yes, 22 Jubilee Park Road.’

‘You had a key to the place? Mrs Elsworth gave it to you late yesterday afternoon?’

‘Yes. A police sergeant, a very pretty woman, took it from me this morning. I have her name and number in the key book. I hope that was on the level.’

‘Yes. That was my sergeant. And I have just returned the key to Mrs Elsworth.’

Potter frowned. ‘If I am expected to sell the property, Inspector, the key should be here in this office at all times for prospective buyers to be able to see over the place.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, but perhaps you could sort that out with Mrs Elsworth?’

‘I certainly will, but what’s your interest, Inspector?’

‘Well, I need to know the names and addresses of the people who have expressed interest in the place.’

‘Well, nobody has actually had the key, Inspector. It is early days. Nor has it been advertised in the papers yet. I believe there has only been just the one phone call. I remember speaking to somebody yesterday about it. My secretary may have fielded some other enquiries while I was out.’

He picked up the phone and said, ‘Jane, have you had any enquiries at all re 22 Jubilee Park Road? … Nothing? … Oh?’

Potter’s eyebrows shot up.

Angel watched him attentively.

‘Of course,’ Potter continued into the phone. ‘Yes. I remember now … yes … right.’

He replaced the receiver, turned to Angel and said, ‘She reminded me that there was a standing enquiry for anything near or around the park from a Mr Oliver.’

Angel frowned.

‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No, sir. There’s nothing wrong.’

‘I will be able to continue to offer it for sale, won’t I? It’s in a popular area, near the park, and on the fringe of a better class of architect-designed homes. Although the market is very depressed, I would expect to sell it fairly quickly.’

‘I don’t see why not. Again, you’ll need to sort that out with Mrs Elsworth. Now will you let me have the two names and addresses?’

‘Certainly,’ Potter said, opening a drawer. ‘It’s here, in my book.’ He took out a large property book and turned over some pages. ‘Here we are, 22 Jubilee Park Road. He read out his notes. ‘9/5/13, Charles Morris, the Old Vicarage, St Peter’s Close, Tunistone, phoned requesting full details and price.’

Angel was not surprised to hear that name. He was still awaiting a report on that man from Trevor Crisp. He must remember to put a squib up Crisp’s backside. He took out the old envelope from his inside pocket and made a note of Morris’s address.

Potter then turned back to the first page in the property book. ‘And this is the name and phone number of the standing enquirer interested in any property in or near Jubilee Park, Mr Edward
Oliver. He phoned originally on 6/5/13. Only means of contact, by mobile phone.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. That was suspicious in itself, he
reckoned
as he licked his bottom lip. Edward Oliver was a name he had not come across in this inquiry. Heat began to generate in his chest and increased as he scribbled away. There
was
another suspect.

‘I phoned him yesterday,’ Potter said. ‘I told him I had this house to offer and he sounded interested. He said he would drop into the office when he was next in town.’

Angel’s heart was thumping. ‘And what was his number?’

‘07763193880,’ Potter said.

As Angel scribbled the number down, his chest was burning and throbbing. He now had three suspects when up till then he had had only one. Things were looking up.

As he looked at the number the more he thought he had recently come across it before. The double seven at the beginning and the double eight at the end seemed familiar. He eagerly turned his envelope over, searching for the number. He found it. It
was
there. It was the same number; it was identical to the one Nancy Quinn had rung frequently on her mobile the last two weeks of her life except for the last two days. For those two days, Angel reckoned, the owner of the number, Edward Oliver, was living with her in her flat and it was he who eventually, madly, crazily stabbed her to death while they were apparently making love.

Angel reached into his pocket and took out his business card. He put it down in front of Potter and said, ‘I would be pleased if you would kindly let me know if Edward Oliver makes any further approach to you.’

‘Oh yes, Inspector,’ Potter said. ‘I didn’t know you knew him. What sort of a man is he?’

‘Interesting,’ Angel said. ‘Very interesting.’

He came out of Potter’s office, got into the BMW. He was quite excited now that he had the name of the murderer. He looked at the dashboard clock. It was 5.15. So he drove straight home.

He put the car in the garage, and went down the path to the back door. He let himself in with his key, closed the door and looked round the kitchen. There was no sign of Mary and no sign of tea. He was about to call out when he heard her rushing from the hall to the kitchen with a magazine in her hand. She had a big smile on her face.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘I thought I heard the door. What are you doing here?’

He frowned. ‘I live here,’ he said.

‘No, no,’ she said with a laugh and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I mean you’re so early. You’re never as early as this.’

‘I am sometimes. I finish at five,’ he said.

‘I know. I know. Well, I’m sorry. Tea isn’t ready. I didn’t expect you for another half hour or so.’

‘That’s all right, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush.’

‘But you’ve come just in time,’ she said and she thrust the
magazine
she was holding into his hand and said, ‘What’s the answer to question nine? It’s for a winter cruise round the Norwegian fjords. You’ll know it. You have that sort of memory.’

He wrinkled his nose and held up the magazine. ‘You always said you didn’t want to go anywhere cold for a holiday. And there’s nowhere colder than the Norwegian fjords in winter.’

‘Never mind all that, Michael. It’s
free!
’

‘Free? So what? I wouldn’t go on a holiday I didn’t want to go on simply because it was free.’

‘There are other prizes,’ she said, then she snatched back the magazine, glanced at the question and said, ‘“What is the name of the Greek goddess of love and beauty?” Do you know it?’

He smiled. ‘Of course I know it. The Greek goddess of love and beauty is Mary,’ he said boldly and with a deadpan expression. ‘Now, how about something to eat?’

Mary looked at him and frowned. Her mouth opened slightly. She licked her pretty lips. ‘I know that Venus is the
Roman
goddess of love and beauty … and I was pretty certain that the Greek was Aphrodite.’

‘It’s Mary, definitely,’ he said. He turned away to avoid her eyes. ‘Now, what’s for tea?’

‘I just want to finish this,’ she said, still frowning and trying to catch his eye. ‘Are you sure it’s Mary?’

‘If you’ve put Aphrodite, your name won’t even be in the hat. You’ll ruin any chance of going up to the North Pole.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘It isn’t the North Pole, it’s the Norwegian fjords.’

‘Well, Mary, I ask you. Do you really want to go to the Norwegian fjords in the middle of winter?’

She hesitated. ‘If it’s free, I suppose … well, I wouldn’t mind. They say it’s breathtaking.’

‘I think you’ve misread it.’

She looked at him indignantly. ‘I have not misread it. Give me credit for being able to read.’

‘No. You’ve misread it. It says that it’s freezing, not that it’s free!’

Her eyebrows went up, then came down as she looked at him closely.

He couldn’t contain himself any longer. He had to smile.

She saw him and broke into a laugh.

The game was up.

He guffawed, then said, ‘I mean … I mean … whoever heard of Mary at the waterhole?’

‘I knew it was Aphrodite all the time,’ she said. ‘You rotten tease.’

‘What did you ask me for, then?’

‘I just needed confirmation, that’s all.’

They had a good giggle, then Mary turned away to the fridge, opened the door and took out a packet of smoked salmon, eggs, butter and milk. ‘If you set the table, Michael, tea will be ready in five minutes.’

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips.

He took out a beer from the fridge and a tumbler from the cupboard and poured himself a glass of his favourite German beer.

They had smoked salmon and scrambled egg, one of Angel’s favourite meals. And when they had settled in the sitting room with coffee, Mary said, ‘You seem in a good mood tonight, Michael, is there some particular reason?’

‘Oh, well … it’s coming home to you at the end of the day,’ he said.

She kissed him on the forehead. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ she said, smiling.

He smiled back and squeezed her hand.

‘No,’ she continued. ‘Something has happened at work. Er … you’ve solved the case? You’ve got the murderer?’

‘You’re partly right, sweetheart. We have got the murderer’s name.’

‘Oh? That’s great, isn’t it?’

‘It would be if I knew where to find him.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Edward Oliver.’

‘Edward Oliver? Which one is he? Where does he fit in? I’ve not heard you mention
him
before.’

‘I don’t know myself. We have his mobile number, and we have two independent witnesses who have given us descriptions of the man which are pretty well in agreement.’

She smiled. ‘That’s why you’re looking like the cat that got the cream.’

‘Well, we’ve still got to find the man,’ he said. ‘That’s the first thing – no, the second thing I must see to in the morning.’

Mary blinked. ‘Why, what’s the first?’

‘There’s a video recorder with a night lens, set up in the attic of old Mr Piddington’s house. There is a hoard of paper money hidden up there, enough to constitute a motive. I want to see who knows about it. It could be our Mr Edward Oliver.’