THE CHESHIRE CAT MURDERS an enthralling crime mystery full of twists (Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 18)
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THE
CHESHIRE
CAT
MURDERS
An enthralling crime mystery full of twists
ROGER SILVERWOOD
Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 18
Revised edition 2020
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain 2012
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Roger Silverwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
©Roger Silverwood
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ISBN: 978-1-78931-523-3
Contents
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The River Lizard, Little Bottom, Cheshire.
2.45 p.m. Saturday, 25 September 2010
‘This is the 999 emergency service, police, fire and ambulance. Which service do you require?’
‘Police, please,’ the man said.
‘Police. Hold the line. Putting you through.’
‘Little Bottom Police Station. Sergeant Gurney speaking. Please give me your name and the number of the telephone you are speaking from.’
‘Oh, dear. Yes. I’m Sir Giles Brownlee . . . I’m on my mobile. I don’t know the damned number. I have a terrible thing to report . . . Oh it’s too awful. Dreadful. I don’t know where to start.’
‘Is somebody hurt, sir?’
‘A man — I think it’s a man — has been torn to pieces. I saw the rear end of it. It had a long black tail. I saw it eating . . . actually eating the poor man’s leg. It was that big black wild cat that’s on the loose. It ran off when I turned up. If only I had had my shotgun. If it had come towards me, I would have given it both barrels, I can tell you. Anyway, it ran off into the long grass.’
‘The man attacked, sir, do you think he’s dead, Sir Giles?’
‘Of course he’s dead, man. The cat’s eaten huge lumps of his leg, his arm up to his shoulder, a big piece out of his face and . . . it’s dreadful, dreadful, a bloody, bloody mess and unbelievable.’
‘And have you or anybody else there suffered any injuries at all?’
‘There’s only me. No, I’m all right. I shall never forget it, though, man. I can’t stop my hand shaking.’
‘We’ll get a doctor to you as soon as we can, Sir Giles. Where are you?’
‘Oh I’m all right. On the south bank of the river . . . about two miles up. I think the poor man must have been fishing.’
‘Can an ambulance get there, sir?’
‘Ambulance? Don’t need a bloody ambulance for him, man. Just send the mortuary van.’
30 Park Street, Forest Hill Estate, Bromersley,
South Yorkshire, 7.30 a.m. Monday, 25 October 2010
Michael Angel was upstairs in the bathroom drying his face after a shave when he heard the clap of the flap of the letterbox followed three seconds later by the clink of the catch on the front gate. He leaned out onto the landing and called out to his wife. ‘It’s the post, love!’
Mary Angel pulled the grill pan out from under the heat, ran into the hall and looked down at the mat.
Angel hovered at the top of the stairs awaiting her reply. He was hoping there weren’t any bills. Bills were not welcome in the Angel household at that time. Food and heating costs were rising insidiously and he was not expecting an incremental rise in his copper’s salary until next year.
‘There’s only one,’ she said, looking towards the stairs. ‘It’s addressed to you,’ she added, turning it over.
‘Who is it from?’
‘Don’t know. It says, ‘Gilson, Wimpey and Hetty’.’
‘Don’t mess about,’ he called.
‘I’m not messing about,’ she said.
‘I thought you said, ‘Wilson, Keppel and Betty’.’
She frowned. ‘Looks like a firm of solicitors.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t like the sound of the word ‘solicitors’. He dashed downstairs.
She handed him the letter. He glanced at it, rushed into the kitchen, pulled open the cutlery drawer, took out a knife and slit the envelope open. He read the letter quickly and then re-read it. He pulled an unhappy face.
Mary mashed the tea. ‘What is it then?’
‘Uncle Willy’s died,’ he said.
She looked up from the gas stove. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Which was Uncle Willy now? Wasn’t that your Uncle Reg’s brother, the antiques dealer?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He must have been ninety-five. He had a daughter, Doreen. I remember her.’
‘Yes, lovely woman,’ Mary said. ‘But I hardly knew them. Only seen your Uncle Willy once, at your dad’s funeral.’
‘I wonder how she’s taken it,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘I don’t suppose — strictly speaking — they are relations of ours.’
He passed her the letter.
She read it aloud.
Dear Mr Angel
We regret to advise that William Edwin Gardiner of Brentwood, Gildersome Road, Wakefield, died on 21 September last.
In his last will and testament he bequeathed you a safe and contents therein. It is located at the address above. In order to facilitate the sale of the house, and the winding up of the estate, would you kindly remove the item as soon as possible? Access to the house can be made by contacting the late Mr Gardiner’s daughter, Mrs Doreen Goodman.
With thanks.
Yours sincerely
Gilson, Wimpey and Hetty
Angel dropped the letter on the worktop and said, ‘Well, he’ll be in a better place now.’
‘Poor Doreen. I wonder how she’ll manage?’
‘She’ll be all right. She won’t be short of anything, that’s for sure.’
‘Didn’t you say he was very well off? I wonder what’s in the safe?’
‘He was loaded. He owed my dad some money from way back. A hundred pounds. When money was money. When you only bought one kettle in a lifetime. The 1940s I think. Uncle Willy needed to pay somebody off who was on his back and my dad told me he helped him out, that’s all. He had an IOU for £100. I bet that this is a sort of r
epayment of it. He could have paid out sooner. He took up antique dealing . . . made a lot of money. Never paid any tax. Dealt a lot in old silver and jewellery.’
Mary’s eyes shone. ‘Would there be enough to have the sitting room decorated and some new curtains?’
‘Hang on, love,’ Angel said. ‘We’ve still got the mortgage and the gas to pay.’
She didn’t seem to hear him. ‘And I’d like a really nice coat for Christmas.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘We’ve got to get the key for the safe from Doreen. I must phone her. We could go over tonight . . . maybe.’
‘Yes, we must,’ she said. ‘Red shoes. I’ve always wanted a really good pair of red shoes . . . with three-inch heels.’
Detective Inspector Michael Angel’s office,
Bromersley Police Station, South Yorkshire,
8.28 a.m., Monday, 25 October 2010.
Angel parked the BMW in the police vehicle park at the rear of the station. He dashed up to the rear door, swiped his card down the door jamb and pushed open the door into the station. He passed the cells and made his way up the green-painted corridor. He was breathily whistling to himself, ‘Oh what a beautiful morning, Oh what a beautiful day.’ He had something to be happy about. He was a beneficiary. When he reached the CID office, he stopped the whistling and looked through the open door.
PC Ahmed Ahaz was seated at a desk near the door. He was gazing at his computer screen, waiting for it to load up. He recognized Angel’s breathy whistling, he turned, saw him and quickly got to his feet.
‘Good morning, sir. You wanted me?’
Angel took a break from the melody. ‘Yes, lad,’ he said. ‘In my office.’
Ahmed followed him across the corridor.
Angel opened his office door, took off his raincoat, put it on the hook at the side of the stationery cupboard and turned back to face him.
‘Get a cardboard box, Ahmed,’ he said. Then he pointed to the table behind his desk. ‘And pack up all that stuff . . . those files, papers, witness tapes, exhibits and stuff. It’s all to do with that ticket clerk and vicar’s murders. Take it across to the CPS and leave it with Mr Twelvetrees. He’s expecting it.’
Ahmed’s eyebrows shot up. He nodded and said, ‘Is that case all wrapped up then, sir?’
‘It is, lad,’ Angel said. ‘And it’s as tight as the chief constable at the Christmas booze-up.’
Ahmed grinned.
The phone rang.
Angel looked at it, frowned and reached out for it.
It was the woman civilian on the switchboard. ‘I have a call from somebody called Sister Mary Clare from St Magdalene’s Hospital,’ she said. ‘That’s that private hospital on Rustle Spring Lane. She asked for the chief constable, but his secretary said he wasn’t in. He is around somewhere because his car is in its car space. Anyway, I tried Superintendent Harker and he said he was too busy and that I was to push her onto you. Will you speak to her? She won’t tell me what it’s about . . . except that it is very important.’
Angel let out a long sigh. ‘Put her through.’
There was a click and he said, ‘Sister Mary Clare, sorry to have kept you waiting. Detective Inspector Angel. What seems to be the trouble?’
‘Ah yes, Inspector,’ she began, in an accent as thick as a garda’s shillelagh, ‘It is a bit delicate. I wouldn’t want it to get out to the newspapers or become general knowledge, don’t you know.’
Angel’s face muscles tightened. He rubbed his chin roughly and said, ‘Has a crime been committed, Sister?’
‘Oh yes, Inspector.’
‘Well, you are obliged to report it, Sister. What exactly has happened?’
‘You see, our chairman was out of the country and I have been unable to reach him. He would probably deal with this robbery his own way.’
‘What exactly has been taken, Sister?’
‘A bottle of ethanol and a quantity of saltpetre,’ she said. ‘The pharmacy was broken into last night, Inspector. A pane of glass was smashed and a window opened, would you believe?’
Angel blinked at the word saltpetre. It could be used to make gunpowder. It worried him.
‘The pharmacist is still taking stock,’ she said. ‘There might be other items.’
Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Get everybody out of the pharmacy, Sister,’ he said, ‘and lock the door. Your pharmacist might unwittingly be destroying evidence.’
‘Oh but he’s a very intelligent, professional man, Inspector.’
‘I don’t care if he’s the winner of Mastermind, Sister. To give us the best chance of catching the thief, the crime scene has to be preserved. Please have the area cleared immediately and lock up all points of access.’
Sister Mary Clare was wondering whether reporting the burglary had been a wise move. ‘Very well, Inspector,’ she said at length.
‘And how much saltpetre, and how much ethanol has been taken, Sister?’
‘A five-litre bottle of ethanol, and a twenty-kilo paper sack of saltpetre.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. There were the constituents of many a crime. ‘I’ll send the forensic team to you immediately, Sister, and I’ll be down there myself as soon as I can.’
He ended the call and promptly tapped in the number of Bromersley’s Scene of Crimes Officer, Detective Sergeant Taylor. It was ringing out.
Ahmed had overheard the conversation and was still at the door. ‘What’s ethanol, sir?’
Angel glared across at him. ‘It’s a fancy word for alcohol, lad,’ he said. ‘Now buzz off. Find that box, and be quick about it.’
‘Yes. Right, sir,’ he said, and he went out quickly and closed the door.
The phone was answered by DS Taylor.
Angel quickly briefed him and instructed him to get his team to St Magdalene’s Hospital promptly, then he returned to fingering through the pile of envelopes in front of him. After a few moments, he frowned and his fingers stopped moving. He looked up, reached out for the phone again and tapped in a number. It was the station incident room.
‘Duty officer, DS Olivier,’ a voice said.
‘Have any fires or cases of arson, or explosions large or small been reported during the night, Callum?’
‘No, sir. It’s been pretty quiet for a Sunday night.’
‘A burglary has been reported . . . enough saltpetre to blow open a bank vault for example, and more than enough ethanol to organize a booze-up afterwards. If any incidents come up that could be linked to this burglary, let me know.’
Angel replaced the phone and returned to the pile of envelopes.
Shortly afterwards, Ahmed arrived with a cardboard box that had originally contained fingerprint ink he had found among the station rubbish. He cleared the side table, filled the box and went out.
Angel sighed and returned to checking through the pile of post. He was quick to pull out mail shots advertising membership of a local gun club, life insurance at special rates for police officers, and a buy-one-get-one-free offer of motorized scooters for the disabled. He promptly dumped the lot in the wastepaper basket in the kneehole of his desk with a gesture of satisfaction. He had resumed the search through the pile when the phone rang. His face muscles tightened. He ran his hand through his hair and reached out for it.
It was Detective Superintendent Harker.
‘Ah, Angel,’ he said, then he coughed loudly and persistently for several seconds. Angel held the phone away at arm’s length.
Eventually Harker managed to speak. ‘Just had a triple nine. A man walking his dog in that field at the back of Ashfield Lodge Farm came across the remains of a body. He said the “mangled remains”, so I don’t know what you might expect.’
Angel’s heart began to thump. ‘Mangled remains, sir?’
Harker said, ‘It is in a bad way, the witness said. He only knew it was human and that it was male.’
The corners of Angel’s mouth turned downwards as he visualized the scene. He had seen many horrific sights in his time
, and in spite of what people say, for him it never had become any easier.
‘The witness is standing by,’ Harker said, ‘and a patrol car is in attendance. I have instructed DI Asquith to send a squad of uniformed to the scene ASAP.’
‘Right, sir,’ Angel said, and he replaced the phone.
His chest was buzzing like a queen bee’s boudoir on a hot sunny day.
He phoned Ahmed, summoning him to his office, then tapped out Don Taylor’s mobile number. He instructed him to leave a fingerprint man and a photographer at St Magdalene’s Hospital until they had completed that job, then to direct the remainder of his team to the field at the back of Ashfield Lodge Farm.
He replaced the phone as Ahmed knocked on the door and came in.
Angel stood up, reached out for his coat as he told Ahmed about the finding of a body and its location, and instructed him to phone the mortuary at Bromersley General Hospital to inform Dr Mac, then to find DS Trevor Crisp and DS Flora Carter, inform them and ask them to join him there promptly.
‘Got all that, lad?’ Angel said, as he brushed past him through the office door.
‘Yes, sir.’
2
A field at the rear of Ashfield Lodge Farm, Bromersley.
9.00 a.m. Monday, 25 October 2010.
The narrow lane along the side of Ashfield Lodge Farm, at the end of Ashfield Road was crammed with police vehicles. Radios chattered in distorted monotones. Blue lights buzzed round incessantly.
Angel parked his BMW on Ashfield Road and walked between the vehicles and the perimeter wall of the farmyard to the rear of it to a large open field bordered at the far side by bushes over-hanging a small stream.
About a tenth of the field including part of the stream was taped off, and six men in white overalls were erecting a small marquee over an area by the stream. Twenty officers in high visibility orange coats were positioned strategically round the outside of the perimeter of the taped area. A small group of onlookers fingered the tape and gawped across it expectantly.