The Big Fiddle (9 page)

Her eyebrows knitted together. ‘Is that all?’

‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘What’s for tea?’ he said quickly. ‘I must go up and take this suit off. I don’t want to get it creased.’

He drank more of the beer, emptied the remaining contents of the can into his glass, then took another swig.

Mary glared at him. ‘What are you hiding? All these quick, diversionary tactics, Michael Angel. I know you of old. What did he really say?’

‘I’ve told you,’ he said. Then he added: ‘And you’re the one doing the diversionary tactics. I said, what’s for tea?’

‘Ham salad, strawberries and ice cream,’ she snapped,
continuing
to eye him closely.

‘Very nice,’ he said, quickly turning towards the hall. ‘I’m going upstairs. Get out of this suit … keep it nice and pressed. Won’t be a jiffy.’

I
t was 8.28 a.m. the following morning when Angel arrived at his office. He glared at the pile of post, circulars, letters and reports on his desk, then picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

‘Is DS Crisp anywhere on the horizon, lad?’ he said into the mouthpiece.

‘He’s at his desk, sir,’ Ahmed said.

‘Huh. Right, lad,’ he said. ‘Tell him I want him.’ He banged the phone down into the cradle.

There was a knock at the door and Crisp came in.

Angel looked up at him.

Crisp felt very guilty. ‘I was just coming anyway, sir,’ he said.

Angel doubted it. ‘I asked you to phone me on my mobile as soon as you had the information from the witness. It’s very urgent, lad.’

‘I didn’t get to see him until late yesterday afternoon. I would have had to ring you at home. I didn’t think you’d want
bothering
.’

‘This is a murder case, lad. I always want bothering. You’ve rung me at home many times before.’

Crisp looked at him with an expression of surprised innocence.

Angel shook his head, knowing it was hopeless reasoning with him and said, ‘You’d better have a good description of that chap.’

Crisp turned over a few pages of his notebook. ‘I have, sir. Ray Rich said that the man he saw was about six feet tall, dark hair, probably in his early thirties and had a cherubic face—’

‘Cherubic face? What’s that mean?’

‘Face like a cherub, sir.’

‘And what’s a cherub look like?’

Crisp shrugged slightly, looked aimlessly around the office, then looked back at Angel and said, ‘Dunno exactly. That’s what the witness said. I suppose he meant young looking, chubby cheeks, a bit like those angels on Christmas cards.’

Angel was impressed at his totally sensible explanation. Then he suddenly remembered that somebody else had described the man he was looking for as cherubic. It was Mrs Roman, the lady who lived next door to Nancy Quinn.

Angel pursed his lips. Was it really possible that he had two independent witnesses using the same word to describe the man who may very well turn out to be the murderer of their
neighbour
? This was progress. Progress indeed.

‘What else?’ Angel said. ‘Was he clean-shaven?’

‘Oh yes, sir.’

‘Great. What else?’

‘Ray Rich said that he thought he was wearing a stone-coloured raincoat.’

‘Stone-coloured?

‘Yes, sir, and he was carrying the
Sunday Telegraph
and a plastic bottle of milk.’

‘
Sunday Telegraph
. That’s even better. Did he speak with an accent?’

‘He didn’t speak. Neither of them spoke.’

‘Did he smell of anything? I don’t only mean body odour. I mean mints or cigars or garlic or Vicks or soap or anything at all.’

‘No, sir. I went through all that.’

‘Right, lad. And you’ve nothing else to add?’

Crisp frowned, then said, ‘No, sir.’

Angel rubbed his chin, then said, ‘Sounds like we’ve got a psycho for a murderer, who is well turned out, attracts women, speaks nicely, likes Beethoven and is kind to animals.’

‘Have you anybody in mind, sir?’

‘Yes, lad. About half the population of the UK.’

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Angel called. It was Ahmed.

‘What is it, lad?’

‘I’ve got Charles Morris’s National Insurance number, sir,’ Ahmed said.

Angel smiled. ‘Ah. You found his doctor, then?’

‘Yes, sir. Morris had some pain in an ear in December last, sir, so he had to register with a GP’s practice to get treated.’

‘Great stuff. What was up with him?’

‘Don’t know, sir. Didn’t sound serious. He had his ears syringed and he’s not been back.’

‘Good lad,’ he said to Ahmed. ‘Give the number to DS Crisp here.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel then turned to Crisp and said, ‘Find out all you can about Charles Morris. He’s recently started taking an interest in Ernest Piddington’s granddaughter, Moira Elsworth. She’s a bit of an
eye-knocker
, but he’s at least twenty years older than she is.’

Crisp’s eyebrows went up. ‘Right, sir,’ he said, grinning. He turned and made for the door.

Angel noticed the grin. ‘And she’s too young and innocent for you, Crisp,’ he called. ‘So don’t get any fanciful ideas.’

Crisp smiled. ‘If she’s over seventeen, sir, she’s not too young.’

‘It’s Charles Morris I want you to look into, not Moira Elsworth.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

Both Crisp and Ahmed went out.

Angel watched the door close and shook his head.

He glanced at the pile of post, envelopes and reports directly in front of him. It looked bigger and bigger. He leaned back in the chair. He tried to clear his mind so that he could consider what he might have neglected to do to progress the inquiry, and then, what he ought to do next. He was still cogitating when there was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he called.

It was Don Taylor. He was carrying two big brown envelopes with the word EVIDENCE printed across each of them in red ink. ‘Have you a minute, sir?’

‘Yes. Sit down,’ Angel said.

‘We’ve finished at both Ernest Piddington’s house and at Nancy Quinn’s. And there were no illegal or suspicious items in either house. We have eight hair samples taken off the woman’s clothes. These have been sent to Wetherby to have their DNA checked. The prints on the bottle of milk from Nancy Quinn’s fridge are hers and there are no others.’

‘That’s a disappointment Don, but it confirms that she was alive at ten o’clock on Sunday morning. Anything else?’

‘I regret to say that we have still not found the owner of the prints on the back of Piddington’s wheelchair.’

Angel’s face muscles tightened as he rubbed his chin. ‘We’ll have to keep our eyes on that.’

Taylor then put the EVIDENCE envelopes on the desk in front of Angel and said, ‘And these are the personal effects of Nancy Quinn and Ernest Piddington, sir. That’s about it.’

‘I’m still awaiting the history of the phone calls on Nancy Quinn’s mobile, Don.’

‘We’re working on it, sir, but we are rather overwhelmed with everything happening at once.’

‘Let Ahmed do it. He’s done it before. Would that help?’

‘Oh yes, sir. I’ll pass that on to him. And I’ll let you have my written report on both cases ASAP.’

‘Right, lad.’

Taylor went out and closed the door.

Angel was disappointed that so much promising evidence was turning out to be useless. However, it was quite usual, and he had always found that as well as hard work, you needed a bit of good luck to solve any mystery or crime.

In considering the murder of Ernest Piddington, he had not entirely eliminated Christine Elsworth, his daughter, as a suspect. She had motive, opportunity and means. She inherited everything. On the other hand, she didn’t seem to have inherited very much. Also, she had shown every sign – apparently genuinely – of being a loving, caring daughter. Then there was Moira Elsworth. But she had no motive that he was aware of. Also he was looking closely at Charles Morris, her boyfriend. Then there was Nancy Quinn. She didn’t have a motive as far as Angel could see, but she did have opportunity and the means. However, if she had murdered the old man she’d be out of a job. There didn’t seem to be any other suspects at that time.

The murderer of Nancy Quinn was certainly a man. But who would have the impudence to write up on a wall, in the victim’s blood,
Inspector A – keep out of my way
? The message suggested that the murderer actually
knew
Angel, and that he had had a close personal encounter with him in his work as a police officer, a witness, or offender or member of Neighbourhood Watch or in his private life. Perhaps the man was a neighbour, someone Angel had met in the pub, or an acquaintance he might have met briefly in the park, in a shop or on holiday.

He sighed and gently poured the contents of one of the EVIDENCE envelopes onto his desk top.

It contained a small handbag, not much bigger than a purse. He opened it and found a credit card, a handkerchief, a lipstick, a small compact, a ballpoint pen and a part tube of mints. That was all.

Angel frowned, rubbed his chin, then put the items back in the handbag and the handbag back into the envelope. He reached out for the phone and tapped in a single digit to SOCO’s office.

Taylor answered.

‘Is everything here from Nancy Quinn’s purse, Don?’ Angel said.

‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘There wasn’t any money. I thought I had mentioned that.’

‘It’s not that, Don. It’s something very strange. I didn’t find any keys. There should be at least one key there, the key to her flat.’

‘There were no keys in the purse, sir. And, in fact, we didn’t find any keys inside the flat either.’

Angel frowned. ‘Right, lad. Thank you.’

He ended the call and dropped the phone into its cradle.

He sighed and gently poured the contents of the second EVIDENCE envelope onto his desk top.

It included an old, battered leather wallet containing no money, and two bank credit cards with expiry dates 06 1986 and 02 1989. An old age pensioner’s card to allow treble points if you shopped at Cheapo’s supermarket on Wednesdays. In the big opening at the back of the wallet was folded the paper-style driving licence. He pulled it out and opened it up. It showed that it was a clean licence and valid up to 1989. There seemed to be nothing there of interest. Angel opened up the pocket to push the stiff paper licence back down when he felt something in the way. He peered inside. It was light brown, the same colour as the wallet itself. Curious, he fished it out with a paperknife. At first it looked like a piece of the lining of the wallet, but it wasn’t, it was a small
newspaper cutting scrunched up and brown with age. He carefully opened it and straightened it out. The tiny black printing in bold letters read:
Bottomley, Ronald Arthur.
Then in ordinary print he read, “
12 December 1926 – 16 May 1986. Beloved husband of Bettina Aimee, father of Sean and Patrice. Service 10 a.m. Wednesday next, St Cecilia’s Church, followed by interment at Tunistone Road cemetery.

He squeezed the lobe of an ear between finger and thumb, and read the cutting again. Then he pulled an old envelope from his inside pocket which was covered with his small writing. He peered at it carefully and eventually found what he was looking for. He reached out for the phone and tapped in a number. When he heard the ringing-out tone he eased back in the chair.

It was eventually answered. ‘Christine’s flower shop,’ she said.

‘Michael Angel here, Mrs Elsworth, good morning to you. Just a couple of points. Did Nancy Quinn happen to have a key to your father’s house?’

‘Yes, Inspector, she did. Why?’

‘Oh, just curious, that’s all. We have not been able to find one among her things. Also I am in the process of going through your father’s possessions and I have come across the announcement of a man’s death, Ronald Arthur Bottomley … it goes back to 1986. Do you know who the man was and what connection he had with your father?’

‘No, I’m sorry, Inspector. I have no idea. I have never heard the name.’

‘All right, thank you, Mrs Elsworth. It was just a long shot. I thought you might have been able to help us. If it comes to you, please let me know. Thank you very much, goodbye.’

He ended the call and replaced the phone.

He wasn’t really happy with her answer. She didn’t query the name. She didn’t even ask him to repeat it, and her answer came
out too quickly for her to have given it any careful thought. There was definitely something fishy about Christine Elsworth.

Now he had another couple of puzzles to solve. Where were Nancy Quinn’s keys, and who the heck was Ronald Arthur Bottomley?

If the man was alive today, he’d be eighty-seven, five years younger than Ernest Piddington. He was buried at St Cecilia’s. That meant he must have been a Roman Catholic. So what? That wouldn’t help much to identify the man. What part did he play in Ernest Piddington’s life that made him bother to cut the
announcement
out and save it all those years?

There was a knock at the door. It was Scrivens. His eyes were glowing. ‘Can I have a word, sir?’ he said brightly.

Angel noticed the enthusiasm. It sounded promising.

‘Come in, lad. Sit down. I take it you’ve found our man?’

‘I think so, sir. There’s a little newsagent’s round the corner from the Commodore flats. On the corner of Commodore Street and Peel Avenue. He does more trade on a Sunday morning than he does the rest of the week. He remembers a tall man, about forty, coming in for a bottle of milk and a paper.’

Angel’s heart began to thump through his shirt. ‘Was he able to describe him?’ he said.

‘Only in broad terms, sir,’ Scrivens said, taking out his notebook and finding the page. ‘He said he looked about forty, tall, black hair, good tan, looked well to do, wearing a smart raincoat. When I pressed him about the colour of the raincoat he said that he thought it was a light shade, fawn or stone-coloured.’

Something in Angel’s stomach did a fandango. ‘That’s our man.’

‘He’s certain he bought the
Sunday Telegraph
,’ Scrivens said, ‘because he doesn’t sell too many of them round there. He only orders five copies and he knows pretty well who buys them. Also the man offered him a £50 note which he doesn’t accept any more
because he was caught with a counterfeit one once. When he refused it, the man wasn’t pleased, but he eventually paid him with a £20 note. He’s not sure of the time. He’s so busy, he doesn’t know about time. He’s in the shop by 5.15 and he closes about one o’clock because he’s pretty well sold out of his papers by then.’

‘That’s great, lad. It fits in exactly with the description we already have. He is almost certainly the man who murdered Nancy Quinn.’

Scrivens beamed when he saw how elated the boss was.

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Now I’ve got another little job for you, lad.’

Scrivens took out his notebook, opened it up and looked across the desk.

‘I want you to find out about a man called Ronald Arthur Bottomley.’