The Big Fiddle (12 page)

I
t was 9 a.m. on Friday, 10 May 2013.

There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

Flora entered with a black metal box the size of a cigar box, with a length of connecting cable wrapped round it.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.

‘Come in, lass,’ he said.

‘You’ll not be surprised to hear that all the money is gone,’ she said.

‘Not at all. It’s worth it, if it’s all recorded on that videotape. You’ve got it?’

‘Yes, sir, and there’s the front door key,’ she said, putting a shiny new key on his desk.

Angel picked it up and put it in his pocket.

‘How long has the tape run for?’

‘Looks like more than an hour, sir.’

He looked pleased. He swung round in the swivel chair to the table behind, picked up his laptop and gave it to her. ‘Can you set it up and let’s see what we’ve got?’

Flora began the business of linking the video to the laptop with a cable and finding a mains power socket in which to plug the laptop.

Angel said, ‘Did you see anything of a Yogi Bear mask in Piddington’s attic?’

‘No, sir. But I do remember you did say something about it being with the money. I expect Christine Elsworth took it.’

‘There might be good prints on it,’ he said. ‘Provide evidence of the robbery.’

They both looked at the laptop screen. It was pitch black.

‘It’s running, sir. I hope it’s working,’ she said.

‘It records when there is enough light,’ he said. ‘And it has a night lens, so it should be OK.’

A clock face suddenly appeared on the screen informing them that the time was 02.06 hours, Friday, 10 May 2013. That was followed by a flashing picture of Piddington’s attic, depicting the underside of the roof tiles, the wooden beams, the cobwebs and the camouflaged water tank.

The ever-moving light source seemed to be a flashlight. A human figure carrying something bulky came into view from the bottom of the picture. It covered the video camera lens briefly. The figure then moved towards the wooden case and disposed of whatever it had been carrying out of range of the picture. The figure then seemed to be trying to find an appropriate position for the flashlight, first placing it on the edge of the wooden case where it fell into it. The figure then leaned inside to retrieve it when for the first time the head turned to the camera and as the light was brought out of the case it was possible for Angel and Flora Carter to see the face of the figure in the picture was a woman.

‘Mrs Elsworth,’ they said in unison.

Angel was shocked. He shook his head and wrinkled his nose. ‘His own daughter,’ he said.

‘Did Christine Elsworth murder her own father, sir?’

‘Well, she had the means, the opportunity and now
there’s
the motive. But, we have still to prove it,’ he said. ‘There are some prints on the back of the wheelchair that have not yet been
identified
. Don Taylor is trying to match them up.’

They both stared at the laptop screen.

Christine Elsworth was bending up and down over the packing case. She worked quickly and energetically. The explanation for her movements became clear. She was transferring the money into sacks. When she had filled a sack sufficiently, she tied a knot in the neck of it and dropped it through the loft door. The operation was repeated many times. Angel sped up the replay until they saw her put the cover over the packing case and leave the loft. When the flashlight went down through the loft door, the camera stopped rolling and the recording stopped.

He switched off the laptop, turned back to his desk and looked across it at Flora. ‘The first thing is to get a warrant for the arrest of Christine Elsworth for handling stolen money.’

Flora frowned. ‘What about the charge of murdering her father?’ she said.

‘We would look like awful berks if we were wrong about that, whereas we know for certain that she has handled the stolen money. We can add a murder charge when we have proof.’

‘Right, sir,’ she said.

‘Then liaise with Don Taylor. I want a full search of her house, her car and the flower shop, obviously for the money, but also for that Yogi Bear mask which I want you to handle as little as possible and bag for SOCO; hopefully they’ll find prints.’

‘Right, sir,’ she said and made for the door.

He called after her. ‘By the way, didn’t I ask you to contact HMRC and make surreptitious enquiries into her accounts?’

Her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘That was only yesterday morning. When have I had the time to—’

‘I know, Flora. I know,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘I’m not chasing you. As soon as you can, lass. I only wanted to say that now, the enquiries need not be at all surreptitious.’

‘Oh yes. I see. I’ll get to it … eventually … I hope.’

He watched her leave and the door close before he allowed himself to smile after her.

He reached out for the phone. ‘Ahmed,’ he said. ‘Come on in here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

Angel replaced the phone.

Ahmed knocked on his office door and entered. He had a few loose sheets of A4 in his hand. ‘Good morning, sir.’

‘There are a few jobs I want you to do for me, lad,’ Angel said.

‘Before you start, sir, can I give you these notes? They came by email from the Royal Westminster Bank, and they are about that bank robbery in Bromersley in 1983.’

Angel frowned, then brightened as he remembered. ‘Right, lad. Thank you. Put them down there,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll see to them later. I’ve a lot on my mind and I don’t want to forget anything. Right, now firstly, I want you to find DS Crisp and tell him I want him. Secondly I want you to get me that
reel-to-reel
recorder. I want to make a phone call and make a recording of it. And thirdly, I want you to go onto the PNC and see if you can find any record of a villain called Edward Oliver. He lives somewhere in Yorkshire, Lincolnshire or Derbyshire, I think. If you can’t find him on the PNC, try the telephone directories. All right?’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and then ran out.

Angel picked up the phone. He tapped in a single digit for the SOCO office. Taylor answered.

‘Now then, Don, about the prints on the back of the wheelchair, have you found out whose they are?’

‘No, sir. They’ve been checked off against all the prints I have. But, you know, I haven’t seen the prints of Moira Elsworth nor her boyfriend, Charles Morris.’

Angel pursed his lips. ‘Why not? I interviewed the girl on
Tuesday, and asked her to call in here ASAP and bring him with her.’

‘They haven’t been here, sir.’

Angel breathed in and out heavily. ‘All right, Don,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me, I’ll have to chase them.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Angel said as he replaced the phone.

It was DS Crisp. ‘Ahmed said you wanted me, sir.’

Angel’s top lip tightened back against his teeth. ‘Of course I want you. I wish I didn’t. I gave you a simple enquiry the day before yesterday and I’ve not heard a word from you. Where’ve you been, lad, Moscow?’

‘No, sir. I’ve had a terrible job. The Charles Morris … the one with that National Insurance number you gave me, is dead.’

Angel frowned. ‘Dead?’

Crisp pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it up. ‘This is a copy of his death certificate. He died last November in a hospital in Hull of hepatitis and pneumonia, aged forty-two.’

He passed it over to Angel. He took it and read it carefully, then rubbed his chin.

‘He’s not known at HMRC,’ Crisp said. ‘And Work and Pensions have him down as sign-writer for a firm in Hull, but made
redundant
in May last year. The NHS have him down as single and living in Stanley Road, Hull, which is the same address given by Work and Pensions and the council tax office in Hull town hall.’

‘That sounds pretty conclusive,’ Angel said. ‘Right, Trevor. Good work. The question now is, who is the man with a six pack in Tunistone, parading about as a man about town?’

‘Don’t know, sir. But it isn’t Charles Morris.’

‘Very well, Trevor. Bring him in for questioning, and do it straightaway.’

‘Right, sir.’

There was a knock at the door. It was Flora Carter.

‘I’ve got Mrs Elsworth and her solicitor in interview room number one, sir.’

Angel stood up. ‘Right, Flora, who is her solicitor?’

‘A man called Gerald Mackenzie.’

Angel shook his head as he crossed the little office and made for the door. ‘Never heard of him.’

They went down the corridor and Angel said, ‘Is Don Taylor getting on with searching Christine Elsworth’s house?’

‘He said he would get on with it straightaway,’ she said, ‘and phone you on your mobile if they find the money.’

They reached the interview room to find PC Leisha Baverstock on the door.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said with a big smile.

Angel nodded and smiled back. ‘Don’t let anybody interrupt us, Leisha.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel and Flora Carter went in.

Christine Elsworth and Gerald Mackenzie were seated at the interview table. Mackenzie stood up and came across to Angel and held out his hand to shake it.

‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector. I’m Gerald Mackenzie. I’m representing Mrs Elsworth.’

Angel shook his hand. He had a warm, strong grip that Angel liked. ‘Good morning, Mr Mackenzie.’

He then looked across at Mrs Elsworth and smiled and nodded. She raised her nose and lowered the corners of her mouth, then turned away.

Angel had the uncomfortable feeling that she really could have murdered her own father.

Flora took the seat opposite Mackenzie and Angel sat opposite Mrs Elsworth.

Angel switched on the recording machine and rattled through the obligatory introduction, then began the questioning.

‘Mrs Elsworth, what do you know about a large quantity of stolen paper money concealed in the loft of your late father’s house, number 22 Jubilee Park Road?’

Christine Elsworth’s eyes shone and her mouth dropped open. The question had astounded her. There were several seconds before she said, ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

Angel’s eyebrows dropped and he rubbed his chin.

Mackenzie whispered something into her ear.

‘I mean I knew it was there,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t know how it
got
there.’

‘You didn’t know that your father with others had stolen it from a bank?’ Angel said.

‘No.’

‘Where did you think the money had come from, then?’

‘I don’t know. I really have no idea.’

‘There were ten million pounds in your father’s attic and you had no idea how it got there?’

‘No idea.’

‘And is that all you have to say on the matter?’

‘I took it for granted that if it was in my father’s attic, it must have been his.’

Angel ran a hand through his hair.

‘Ten million pounds,’ he said. ‘Why? Did you think that your mother had saved it out of the housekeeping?’

Flora smiled.

Mrs Elsworth looked furious and stared at Mackenzie.

Mackenzie said, ‘Really, Inspector. That’s a very improper
question
.’

‘Very well,’ Angel said. ‘I will withdraw it, if you will get your client to treat my questions seriously and answer them truthfully.’

Mackenzie and Mrs Elsworth exchanged whispers.

Angel rubbed his chin and waited until they had finished, then said, ‘All right, I’ll try it another way. Did you think that the money in your father’s loft had been attained by hard work and honest toil?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘What was your father’s job?’

‘He was a tyre fitter in a garage.’

‘A tyre fitter in a garage … that’s not a very highly paid job, is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Mrs Elsworth,’ he said, then he shrugged and shook his head. He pursed his lips, thought a moment, then said, ‘Mrs Elsworth, how long have you known that there was all that money in your father’s loft?’

She frowned. ‘Not very long,’ she said.

‘Well, it has been there for thirty years. How long are we talking about? Twenty years, ten years, two years?’

‘About six weeks,’ she said.

‘I understand that your father suffered from a form of amnesia during the last few months of his life.’

‘So he did,’ she said, ‘most of the time. But he managed to talk to me sensibly one day. He told me that there were thousands and thousands of pounds in the loft and that if anything was to happen to him I was to take it. It was for me.’

‘Didn’t you ask him how much there was, and how he had come by it?’

‘I did. But he had gone back into the fog by that time.’

Angel breathed in and then noisily breathed out. ‘Did you ever take any of the money and spend it at any time?’

‘No. I have never considered the money mine even though it was left to me by my father.’

‘So you left it there, concealed in the loft?’

She hesitated. ‘Yes.’

‘And it is
still
there?’

‘Yes, as far as I know,’ she said.

Angel shook his head and rubbed his chin. If lying were an Olympic sport, Christine Elsworth would have been awarded a bag of gold medals.

His mobile rang. He took it out of his pocket, pressed a button, read the LCD and saw that it was Don Taylor.

‘Excuse me,’ he said and turned away.

‘Yes, Don,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘Yes … yes … how many? … You’re certain? … Thank you, Don. ’Bye.’

He turned back to face Christine Elsworth. ‘So, you were saying that, as far as you knew, the money concealed in the loft, is still there.’

She stared hard at him and said, ‘Yes.’

Angel said, ‘You’ve been keeping something back from me, Mrs Elsworth, haven’t you?’

‘No,’ she said. Her face was straight, tight-lipped and defiant. ‘I’ve answered all your questions.’

‘That is so, yes. But you neglected to tell me about your twin sister.’

She frowned, then said, ‘But I haven’t got a twin sister.’

‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘Because somebody who looked just like you cleared out all the money from the loft in your father’s house at just after two o’clock this morning. She put the money in twenty black plastic bags and – of all the cheek! – hid them in the cellar in
your
house.’