THE CHESHIRE CAT MURDERS an enthralling crime mystery full of twists (Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 18)

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel stared at the blood-soaked victim, with no chest, leg gouged and one arm almost severed. He sighed. The horror of the scene caused his pulse to beat so hard that his eardrums pounded like a tambourine at a Salvation Army meeting.

  He tried to wave away a score or more flies hovering over and landing on the open flesh and on the trail of dried brown blood that led to the stream, but it was a waste of time. They were insistent.

  Angel shook his head. He exchanged glances with Dr Mac in silence. Eventually, through the mask, he said, ‘I’ve never seen anything like this.’

  Mac nodded and said, ‘I remember my father telling me about attending to an animal trainer after he had been savagely killed by a Canadian bear that was part of an animal act. It happened in the wings of the Hippodrome in Glasgow a hundred years ago. The trainer had had his ear and one cheek actually bitten off. The bear had taken several bites. It was ghastly.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose under the mask and turned away. He looked around and in the muddy ground at the edge of the stream he saw sixteen numbered moulds the size of saucers. They had been filled with quick drying Denstone KD plaster. This plaster is both strong and fine enough to record small detail in the impression, and can be lifted with care after thirty minutes, although it may take up to forty-eight hours for them to set completely hard. He was optimistic that the moulds would produce both useful and adequate forensic information to conclude the case.

  Taylor came up to the two men and saluted.

  ‘Now, Don,’ Angel said. ‘What you got?’

  He shook his head and lowered his eyes. ‘It’s pretty horrific, sir.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Worst I’ve seen,’ Taylor said. Then he brought up a clipboard, looked at it and said, ‘We’ve got what seems to be the remains of a male, white, aged sixteen to fifty. There are animal paw prints around the edge of the stream.’

  Angel said, ‘Are there any human footprints?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Angel frowned. He went to rub his chin, but the mask prevented him. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘Smudged or partial?’

  Taylor didn’t like Angel doubting him. ‘There are no fresh human footprints at all, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘I have checked all round.’

  Angel frowned again. ‘Right,’ he said. The unavoidable conclusion was that the death of the victim must have been caused by an animal of some sort.

  Eventually Taylor said, ‘The prints are undoubtedly from a very large cat, sir. The sort that was seen in Cheshire a month ago.’

  ‘I read about that.’

  ‘It was thought to be a black panther.’

  ‘Yes. It couldn’t be the same one, could it?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I suppose they roam around the country at night.’

  ‘Or there might be more than one? I’ll look into it. Any means of the victim’s ID?’

  ‘There is a small bulge in his inside pocket, sir. It could well be a wallet. I haven’t yet looked there. Didn’t want to risk contaminating the scene.’

  ‘Pass it to me.’

  Taylor leaned over the remains, gently turned back the suit coat, put his gloved fingers inside the pocket, lifted out a brown leather wallet and passed it up to him.

  Angel opened it carefully. It wasn’t easy to handle wearing rubber gloves. There was a pocket for business cards which had four or five of them sticking up. He took one out by its edges and read it out, ‘Julius Hobbs, property developer, The Old Manse, Ripon Road, Bromersley.’

  He blinked. ‘I’ve heard of him,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen his ads for posh, expensive houses in the Bromersley Chronicle.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Somebody will have to go there . . . tell his wife.’

  * * *

  ‘I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such tragic news, Mrs Hobbs,’ Angel said. ‘I came as soon as I discovered that the body was that of your son, and I regret that it will be necessary for you to identify the body formally in the next day or so.’

  The elderly lady nodded and wiped away a tear.

  Angel said, ‘Are you up to answering a few questions now? I am afraid they are necessary, but I can come back another day if it is too much for you.’

  ‘No. No, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I would rather deal with matters now.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you’re up to it, I need to confirm that you are Julius’s next of kin.’

  ‘Of course. He’s not married, if that’s what you are getting at. He was married for four years but, well, he wasn’t the marrying kind, Inspector. He was not a man for settling down and living the quiet life, if you see what I mean. He married a very nice girl, Dorothea Webber . . . but she was not his type. It didn’t last long. She wouldn’t put up with his travelling around the place and never at home. You see, my Julius was very intelligent. He was always top of the form in school. Did well. Went to university. Got a first in architecture. Opened an office on York Street opposite the Town Hall. Never looked back. He was interested in property in different parts of the country, and Dorothea simply didn’t want to travel around. She wanted to stay at home and start a family. He didn’t want that. They had a clean, straight divorce, two years ago. No children. In a way I was sorry for her, but I loved my son.’

  ‘Have you got her address?’

  ‘Oh yes. In my address book, Inspector. I’ll give it to you, before you go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Then suddenly she lowered the damp tissue and raised her head. ‘These days he was seeing that actress Celia Hamilton,’ she said proudly, then she lowered her eyelids, rolled each shoulder round alternately several times and slowly turned her head from left to right and back.

  It was a routine she employed to emphasize a point.

  Angel knew of Celia Hamilton. She was the present darling of every television and film producer. She was very beautiful, played romantic roles and was hardly ever off the screen.

  ‘I take it they didn’t marry?’ he said.

  ‘No. She has a flat in London. He stayed there sometimes. Occasionally she stayed here, especially when she was filming or appearing in a theatre nearby. I don’t know what will happen now. You see this is his house. He persuaded me to come and live here after my husband died a few years ago. But I can’t stay here on my own. Look at the size of it.’

  Angel nodded and smiled. ‘I am sorry to have to ask you, Mrs Hobbs, but do you know the whereabouts of your son’s will?’

  ‘It’s at the solicitors, Bloomfields, but I know the contents, Inspector.’

  ‘Would you be good enough to tell me?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s very simple. After his divorce from Dorothea, he left everything to me. I am sure that he would have told me if he had altered it.’

  Angel nodded and then said, ‘Did your son have any enemies . . . in his personal life or his business life?’

  She frowned. ‘What sort of a question is that, Inspector?’

  ‘We have to look at all possibilities, Mrs Hobbs.’

  ‘But if my son was killed by a . . . an animal, isn’t the question irrelevant?’

  ‘We have to be very thorough, Mrs Hobbs. Because your son’s death is so unusual, the cause of his death will have to be heard in a coroner’s court and these questions may very well arise.’

  She shook her head in disbelief, wiped away a tear and said, ‘Well, his ex-wife is not kindly disposed to him. I did tell you about her. And there’s a young lady he was with after that, Imelda Cartwright. They were together a year or more. That was a rather vindictive split . . . then there’s a man he was always in competition with, buying property — Sir Raphael Quigley. Julius used to bid higher prices for property making Sir Raphael offer more. Then Julius would withdraw. The result was that Sir Raphael invariably paid out more than he had originally intended. I never did approve of that, and I told him so. Sir Raphael Quigley came here once. He was furious. Julius just laughed.’

  Angel eagerly wrote these names down on the back of an envelope. He w
ould get the addresses afterwards. He stayed quiet, pen poised ready in case there were any more names to come.

  ‘I don’t believe there were any others,’ she said. ‘Anyway, if there were, he never mentioned them to me.’

  ‘What do you know of Julius’s movements yesterday, Mrs Hobbs?’

  ‘He was in his office yesterday morning as usual. He works from an office here. A girl from an agency comes in to do his letters. We had a quick light lunch together in the sitting room. And he said he would be out for dinner and that I wasn’t to wait up. He left at about two o’clock . . . and that was the last I saw of him.’

  ‘Did he seem all right? Was there anything troubling him?’

  ‘He seemed absolutely normal, Inspector.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where he went, or what he did yesterday afternoon and evening?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I will need to look at his diary and through his recent correspondence and so on, see if that assists us.’ He stood up.

  ‘Of course, Inspector,’ she said. ‘His office is facing the front door. His diary with any appointments is on his desk. Please help yourself.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Hobbs.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘While you are doing that, there are some phone calls I must make.’

  * * *

  Angel had a look at Hobbs’s diary, address book and the post on his desk. Then he headed back to the station. It was almost five o’clock when he hurried down the corridor and saw Ahmed coming out of the CID office.

  ‘There you are, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Come in my office and close the door. Sit down there a minute. There are some jobs I want you to see to.’

  Ahmed took out his notebook and held his pen at the ready.

  ‘First thing in the morning,’ Angel said, ‘I want you to find out the name of the local newspaper that covers the village of Little Drop Bottom in Cheshire. It’s near Evens-field Prison. It’ll likely be a weekly. Ask for the editor or chief reporter, and pour on the charm, lad. Ask him if he would be kind enough to let us have copies of any photographs, also any description he might have, of the animal that attacked and killed one of their local men a few weeks back, and if he would kindly send whatever he has to us by email. Tell them that we would be most grateful. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘Now, there were three women in Julius Hobbs’s life,’ Angel said. ‘They were Dorothea Webber, Imelda Cartwright and Celia Hamilton. I want you to find out if anything is known on the PNC. The first two are local and the third has a London address.’

  Ahmed’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Is that Celia Hamilton the actress, sir?’

  ‘It is, lad,’ Angel said.

  Ahmed’s eyes glowed. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Saw her on television last night, sir.’

  Angel gave a little shrug. ‘She’s on every night,’ he said drily, ‘like Vick on the super’s chest.’

  Ahmed smiled. ‘She’s very good, sir.’

  Angel blinked. ‘She’s only a woman, lad. A competent actress and just about old enough to be your mother. And if you stop fantasizing, I’ll move on.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Then I want you to phone the NCOF at Wakefield and ask them to put us in touch with a wild animal expert. They might have different specialists, Ahmed. We need one on big, wild cats.’

  As Ahmed scribbled away, he said, ‘Do you really think the man Hobbs was killed by a big cat, sir?’

  ‘Unless the murderer could fly, Ahmed, I am left with no other alternative. There were only big cat prints near the body. Now you push off home. See to all that in the morning. And stop thinking about Celia Hamilton. It’ll put you off your curry, and your mother will worry about you.’

  Ahmed grinned. ‘Right, sir,’ he said. ‘Good night.’

  * * *

  Mary wound the car window down and said, ‘It’ll have a ‘For Sale’ board up won’t it, darling?’

  The cold night air swirled into the car and round their ears.

  Angel slowed the BMW right down. ‘I would have thought so,’ he said. ‘I seem to remember it was somewhere around here. The house is called Brentwood. It was the only house with tall trees at the front.’

  Suddenly Mary said, ‘It’s this next one. There’s the ‘For Sale’ sign. There are the trees. Brentwood. This is it, darling.’

  ‘Right,’ Angel said, as he tugged on the steering wheel.

  The house was in total darkness.

  The BMW went through the open black wrought-iron gates, veered round to the right. Three floodlights suddenly illuminated the front of the house, the drive, the cluster of bushes and trees and the double garage at the side.

  He drove up to the front steps and then stopped. As he turned off the car engine, a light went on in the hall, the front door opened and an elderly lady in a long overcoat came out to greet them. It was Doreen Goodman. They exchanged warm courtesies, with pecks on the cheeks and hugs. Angel said how sorry he was that her father had died. She seemed to have come to terms with it easily, in view of his long years. She said that he was still dealing until a year ago, attending auctions and a few local antiques fairs.

  She then led them into a small ground-floor room which was empty except for a large old safe in the corner standing on bare floorboards.

  ‘This had been Dad’s office cum study,’ Doreen Goodman said. ‘There was a desk, bookcase and a filing cabinet over there . . . and a television and easy chair over there. They’ve all been sold. In fact, I’ve also put all his stock into a London auction, while silver prices are high. There’s only the house and this safe, and Dad was most insistent that you should have the safe.’

  Angel stood back and looked at it. It was obviously old, very heavy and much bigger than he had expected. He rubbed his chin.

  Mary stepped forward and looked closely at the big door handle, keyhole and manufacturer’s moulded brass plaque bearing the words, ‘J. P. Phillips, Birmingham — Mark II’.

  Angel turned back to Doreen and said, ‘What exactly did Uncle Willy keep in here, love?’

  She shrugged. ‘Anything and everything valuable. But I don’t believe that I have seen it wide open for ten years or more. Dad was always very secretive, you know. It was his way.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Do you have the key?’

  Doreen Goodman shook her head. ‘I haven’t, Michael. Now I hope that’s not going to be a big problem. My father became a little forgetful during the last couple of years. He always used to carry it with him. It was a big key by today’s standards and it made holes in his coat pocket lining so I persuaded him not to keep it there and to find a different place for it, but after he died I couldn’t find it anywhere. It wasn’t among his clothes, his papers or anywhere in here. I am afraid it seems to be lost.’

  Angel pulled a face.

  Mary looked at him and said, ‘You can easily deal with that, darling, can’t you?’

  Angel wasn’t so sure it could be dealt with easily, but he smiled weakly. He didn’t want to seem to be tiresome. After all, he was getting a safe for nothing with who knows what inside it.

  ‘You’ve solved bigger mysteries than that, haven’t you, Michael?’ Doreen Goodman said.

  He turned to her with eyebrows raised.

  ‘I keep reading complimentary things about you in the papers,’ she added.

  Mary looked at him and smiled. He gave a slight shrug and looked away.

  * * *

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Crisp said.

  ‘Come in, lad. Sit down.’

  Crisp sat down in the chair nearest Angel’s desk.

  ‘There’s nothing known about Ephemore Sharpe, sir.’

  Angel was disappointed. And confused. He pulled a face. ‘And it looks like Julius Hobbs was killed by a wild cat,’ he said.

  Crisp looked at him closely. ‘But you don’t really believe that, do you, sir?’

  ‘If this was certain parts of Africa or we were in the South American jung
le I might be persuaded to believe it, but on the outskirts of Bromersley, it stretches the imagination.’

  ‘It happened in Cheshire a month ago, sir, and there was a witness.’

  Angel shrugged and began to look through the morning’s post.

  Crisp said, ‘I understand that there are only paw prints near the body.’

  Angel looked up. His face creased. He dropped the letters. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem. The animal presumably devoured part of the poor man by the stream, having killed him somewhere else and dragged him there.’

  ‘Have you any idea where that was, sir?’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Not an inkling. Nobody has reported seeing a wild cat anywhere round here.’

  ‘Do you think the one that was in Cheshire has somehow worked its way across the Pennines and finished up here, sir?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. I don’t think so. Not unless someone physically transported it in a cage or something. It is well known that there are a few animals that have been let go free or have escaped from private zoos, or have been smuggled in the country somehow and that the keeper can’t afford to keep them, or gets bored . . . or for whatever reason, they are set free.’

  ‘They want shooting,’ Crisp said. ‘The keepers I mean. The least they could do for the poor animal is to return it to its country of origin and give it a chance to survive and reproduce among its own kind.’

  Angel grunted in agreement. He rubbed his chin for a moment then impatiently ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘You crack on with your reports, lad. And don’t go far away. I’ll want you to do a job for me, when I get sorted.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said. He went out and closed the door.

  Angel thought about the possibility of the Cheshire cat making its way across the Pennines probably by night, killing a sheep for its sustenance on the way. It was possible, he supposed. He resumed sorting through the post.

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it. It was the civilian switchboard operator. ‘I’ve got a call for you from that Selwyn Plumm, the reporter from the Chronicle,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to tell him you are out?’