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

by Roger Silverwood

  There’s many a time Angel had wanted to say that, but from experience it resulted in the man being more persistent and phoning every hour. Besides, there was many a time he needed the help of the local newspaper.

  ‘No, put him through, please.’

  There was a click and then a cheery voice said, ‘Hi there, Michael, you old fox. You have a juicy killing by a big, wild cat and you don’t tell me about it. What’s the dead man’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know how you found out about it, Selwyn, but there’s no proof yet that the victim was killed by a wild cat.’

  ‘Makes a great headline, Michael. You’re always so guarded. You know I can always say that a police source said that the victim was killed by a wild cat, then if fresh evidence shows that things are different, nobody loses face. Have you got any pictures?’

  ‘Pictures of what?’

  ‘Anything! Well, anything interesting, the wild cat, the dead body . . . you know . . . anything that will get the people of Bromersley animated.’

  ‘No. Nothing I can release yet, Selwyn.’

  ‘Pity. Never mind. I know we’ve got a library shot of the mortuary van. I suppose we can use that, with a caption that the remains of the body were taken to the mortuary. What was the name of the victim, Michael?’

  ‘We think it is a thirty-year-old local man. He has not been formally identified, so I can’t reveal his name.’

  Plumm’s voice changed from friendly to wheedling. ‘Come on, Michael, you can let an old friend know. I can hold it back a day or two if you like.’

  ‘No. No,’ Angel said. ‘I really can’t say any more about him.’

  ‘Can you tell me his trade or profession?’

  ‘No,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘But I tell you what, Selwyn. You could possibly help me.’

  ‘In what way, Michael? What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know if anybody has seen a large, wild cat around these parts in the past month or so. You could make an appeal, Selwyn.’

  ‘An appeal to our readers?’ he said slowly, then he brightened and his voice took on a lighter tone. ‘Yeah. That might be good. What colour and how big?’

  Angel shook his head. He didn’t want to prompt any of the Chronicle’s readers and encourage any publicity-seeking reader to fabricate a sighting. ‘Just say what they saw, where and when, and what it looked like . . . and a photo would be helpful.’

  Plumm blinked. He thought how much his editor would like a picture of such an animal on the front page of the Chronicle. ‘A photo would be great. All right, Michael, I’ll write it up and we’ll publish it on Friday. Ta for now.’

  Angel replaced the phone. He rubbed his chin and wondered what he must deal with next. He picked up the post and began sorting through it again. It should be done every day, and it usually was, but this was yesterday’s. There was no time to worry about it. There was simply too much to do.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was Flora Carter. ‘About that break-in at the hospital, sir.’

  ‘Yes. What you got?’ he said, putting the letters back on the pile then pointing to the chair by his desk.

  She sat down.

  ‘Entry was made through a ground-floor outside window, sir,’ she said. ‘A simple brown paper and treacle job. No sign of the treacle tin, though. Looks like the thief came with a shopping list: ethanol and saltpetre. Nothing else was disturbed. No footprints. And no fingerprints. The fingerprint officer said the thief wore gloves, and from the size of the dabs, he thought it was probably male.’

  ‘How did the thief transport the stuff?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. It would be awkward because both items were bulky. The thief may have brought bags and carried them to a car.’

  Angel frowned and rubbed his chin. He suddenly stood up. ‘I’m going down there. Who did you see?’

  ‘Sister Mary Clare.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Nervous. Scared of her boss, I think.’

  Angel looked at her and frowned.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  It was Ahmed smiling and waving a sheet of A4. He stopped when he saw Flora Carter.

  She smiled and made a gesture to him to indicate that he should carry on. He still hesitated.

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Come on, lad,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘I had an email from the Cheshire Courier with the print of a photograph of the cat that killed that man who was fishing, sir. And a report on the case.’

  Angel took the sheet of paper from him and sat down. He looked at the photograph. It showed the rear half of a large muscular black cat with a long black tail, about fifteen to twenty centimetres taller than a German Shepherd. Its head and most of the body was obscured by long grass. Then he skimmed through the report and handed it to Carter.

  She read the report and shuddered slightly when she saw the photograph.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to come across an animal like that, sir,’ she said, as she handed the email back to him.

  Angel nodded.

  She said, ‘You don’t think that that cat actually made its way across here, do you, sir?’

  ‘That’s nearly thirty or forty miles away, Flora. I don’t know.’ He looked up at Ahmed. ‘Don’t they have a wild animal expert at Wakefield then?’

  ‘They say they’ll come back to us on that one, sir, later on today.’

  Angel shrugged. ‘Must be having difficulty in digging one up.’

  ‘They were surprised when I put it to them, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘I told them you were looking for someone who knew about large, wild cats . . . that we had somebody who had been killed by one.’

  Angel frowned then eventually nodded. ‘Right, lad,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  Ahmed went out.

  Angel stood up. He turned to Flora. ‘I’m going down to that hospital now, before anything else crops up.’

  4

  Angel steered the BMW off Rustle Spring Lane and through the black iron gates into the grounds of St Magdalene’s Hospital. He drove past the manicured lawns and symmetrical floral borders. He noticed a man in overalls behind a noisy mower in the middle of a big lawn, cutting grass in lines as straight and parallel as iron bars in a prison. He looked up at the grimy, grey Georgian stone construction with its black stone window surrounds. The main building had smoke-stained red-brick extensions built on at one side and to the rear. There were white on black signs all over the place. Several of them read, ‘All visitors must report to reception’. However he carried on past the main door and drove round the back of the building through extensive areas of trees, bushes, plants and grass on both sides with cars parked higgledy-piggledy on the service road up to the delivery door. On the short journey, he spotted a boarded-up ground-floor window and stopped the BMW twenty metres away from it. He got out of the car, crouched down and peered at the ground around him. Then he stood up and made his way slowly towards a window that was partly boarded-up. He looked through the glass next to it. There were rows and rows of bottles, jars and boxes. On the bench underneath he could see several small bags and packets which appeared to be prescriptions awaiting delivery or collection.

  As he was taking all this in, he heard footsteps behind him. He turned round to see a man in overalls advancing towards him at speed. The man was carrying a garden hoe. It was the man he had seen minutes before mowing the lawn at the front. He didn’t look friendly. He stopped two metres away and said, ‘Here. What you doing?’

  Angel reached into his pocket and pulled out his ID. ‘Detective Inspector Angel, Bromersley Police,’ he said. ‘I am investigating a robbery. Who are you?’

  The man’s shoulders dropped and he sighed. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. He seemed relieved. ‘I am the gardener here, Pryce is my name. I know about the robbery. The boss, Dr Rubenstein said I should keep a lookout
for strangers behaving in an unusual manner. I was only doing as I was told.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Pryce. Did you see anything unusual?’

  ‘No. I would have reported it if I had.’

  ‘Have you seen anything of a bottle of ethanol and a bag of saltpetre?’

  He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

  Angel reached into his pocket and took out a business card and gave it to him. ‘If you see or hear of anything give me a ring.’

  Pryce glanced at it and put it in his pocket. Then he produced a card of his own and waved it in front of him before handing it over. ‘And if ever you need any gardening doing, Inspector Angel, I’ll do it for you at a special rate.’

  Angel smiled. He took the card, looked at it and said, ‘You never know. If my back gives out, I might have to call on you.’

  Pryce waved, turned and walked quickly away.

  Angel then returned to the car and started the engine. He engaged gear and let in the clutch. It was then that he noticed an unusual sickly sweet smell. He sniffed carefully. It was strong and sweet but not unpleasant. He looked round to be sure that nobody had entered the car without him knowing. There was nobody there. The smell reminded him of his mother. As a boy, he remembered being out shopping with her and a smart, overdressed woman, hair piled up, wearing a fur coat, lots of make-up, and strong perfume had sailed past them. The sickly sweet smell had lingered after she had passed out of sight, and Angel’s mother had said, ‘You want to beware of women smelling of cheap scent, like that, Michael.’

  Since then the situation had happened more than once. He smiled at the memory.

  Mystified, he drove round to the front of the building to the car park. It was a large marked out area but at that time, only a few cars were there. He parked the BMW next to a grey Bentley just as his mobile phone began to ring. It was Ahmed.

  ‘What is it, lad?’ Angel said.

  ‘I’ve had a wild animal expert from NCOF, Wakefield on the phone, sir. He can see you in your office this afternoon at one o’clock. Will that be convenient?’

  Angel had a surge of encouragement just when he needed it.

  ‘That would be great, Ahmed,’ he said. ‘Is he their best man on wild cats?’

  ‘He’s their only man on wild cats, sir. A professor. He said he had recently been in Africa on conservation work.’

  ‘Good,’ Angel replied. He was enthusiastic about meeting the man. There were so many questions he wanted to put to an expert. ‘Tell Don Taylor I want to see him at twelve forty-five,’ he added, ‘and I want the plaster casts of the animal’s paws and all the info from the scene of crime he’s got. All right?’

  He closed the phone, dropped it in his pocket, got out of the car and made his way smartly up to the hospital entrance. The sickly sweet smell was still hovering in his nostrils. He wondered if it was something in the air, released by the hospital, or a factory close by. But, as he thought about it, there weren’t any factories at that side of town.

  The reception desk faced the revolving door. The area was very clean and well lit.

  Behind the polished pine counter was a strikingly beautiful young woman in a neat black suit. Her body had more curves than Silverstone and she was gifted enough to suckle for Yorkshire.

  She fluttered her eyelashes, raised her eyebrows, smiled and said, ‘Can I help you?’

  Angel took note of her name. He had an excellent memory, and remembering beautiful women was not difficult.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley Police. Could I see Sister Mary Clare, please?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Candy Costello said, picking up a phone. ‘There’s a Detective Inspector Angel to see Sister Mary Clare.’

  She replaced the phone, turned to Angel and said, ‘Won’t keep you a minute.’ She pointed to the right of the desk to a block of chairs against the wall. ‘Please take a seat.’

  Angel looked across at the line of eight upholstered chairs and beyond them down a long seemingly endless corridor with a highly polished parquet flooring. He turned back to her. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  However, before he had chance to move, a door behind him opened and an American or Canadian voice said, ‘Inspector Angel? Are you Inspector Angel?’

  Angel turned to see a man with a bushy beard holding out his hands.

  The man grabbed Angel’s hand and shook it firmly. ‘So very pleased to meet you, Inspector. My name is Doctor Edward G. Rubenstein. Come on through,’ he said. ‘I’m the President of St Magdalene’s. Sister Mary Clare is on her way, but I didn’t want to keep our Chief of Police waiting. Please, come into my office.’

  Angel followed the man into the office. He felt the plush carpet beneath his feet and took in the polished oak-panelled walls.

  He grinned. ‘I’m not the Chief of Police, Dr Rubenstein,’ he said.

  ‘No matter. I expect you soon will be. You are that famous policeman, aren’t you? Sit down,’ he said, pointing to a red leather chair. ‘The homicide detective with the unbroken record, who always gets his man, aren’t you? I have read about you.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed and he looked away. It was a tag given to him years ago by a crime reporter after digging into the history of his career. Reference to it always embarrassed him. It also made him conscious that someone might be observing him carefully . . . hoping he wouldn’t be able to maintain the record.

  Angel sat down and ran his hands down the chair arms. Rubenstein sat in a leather swivel chair behind the desk and looked across at him.

  Angel said, ‘I suppose it would be me, Doctor.’ Then he added quickly, ‘I understand that you’ve had a robbery of some ethanol and saltpetre from your pharmacy?’

  ‘Yes indeed, and as president of this hospital, Inspector Angel, I want to assure you that we want to do everything possible to stay at the right side of the law in every particular. And I intend to take a personal interest in this business . . . though I must say, Inspector, we are not overly-concerned about it. It is the only robbery we have had in years, and the value of the stolen items is less than a hundred pounds.’

  ‘It is not the value of the robbery solely that concerns me, Doctor. It is that both commodities could be used for dangerous activities, such as the making of explosives or as a means of starting a serious fire. The ethanol is, of course, alcohol and you can do all sorts of weird and wonderful things with the stuff apart from drinking it. And in that regard, I hope you will do all that you can from now on to make your pharmacy safe.’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed. I have that already in hand, Inspector. We are having iron bars fitted across the three outside windows.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Good. Good. I am very glad to hear it. Now perhaps you would be kind enough to take me there?’

  ‘Of course,’ Rubenstein said. He pulled open a drawer, took out a bunch of keys, closed the drawer and stood up. He crossed to the door. ‘Your fingerprint men and photographers have been over it . . . and one of your detectives has had a good look round and taken a statement from Sister Mary Clare.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’d like to have a look for myself,’ Angel said.

  ‘Of course. Why not?’ Rubenstein said, getting to his feet. ‘That’s all right. Please follow me, Inspector. I don’t know where Sister has got to.’

  They trudged along corridors, passing or being passed by the occasional uniformed nurse or hospital worker. Angel noticed how clean and quiet and well decorated the corridors and everywhere seemed to be.

  As they were passing a room with the number 21 on the door, it was suddenly opened and a woman in a nightdress looked out. She had long grey hair.

  Rubenstein stopped, looked at her and smiled. ‘Hello there, Maisie,’ he said.

  She smiled back at him, touched him on his crisp navy-blue suit jacket and said, ‘Philip. Are you all right, dear?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be resting, Maisie? Isn’t there a nurse with you?’

  From behind the old lady a much younger woman’s voice
called out, ‘I’m here, Dr Rubenstein. It’s Nurse MacNeil. Sorry about that. I was in her bathroom, cleaning the shower. Come along, Maisie. Let’s get you ready.’

  ‘Goodbye, Maisie,’ Rubenstein said, as he closed the door. He looked at Angel and shook his head. ‘That dear lady suffers from amnesia. It went suddenly when her husband died two or three years ago.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Very sad,’ he said. ‘But memory goes with age.’

  ‘So they say, but Maisie isn’t very old. She is still in her fifties.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened and he shook his head. After a few moments he said, ‘Is this a mental hospital, Doctor?’

  ‘No. Not at all. We nurse anybody who is sick or has undergone a procedure or a major operation. In fact we provide nursing for anyone who needs it.’

  ‘For which they pay?’

  ‘Why yes indeed, Inspector. We are not subsidized by the state or anybody else.’

  Angel wondered with dismay what it would cost to spend a week in the place.

  They continued down the corridor until they were outside a brown door with six small panels of patterned glass framed in it. The words ‘Pharmacy — No Admittance’ were painted on it in cream.

  Rubenstein produced the bunch of keys, selected one and opened the door. He went inside and switched on the light.

  Angel followed him into the tiny room. ‘Don’t you have a pharmacist to dispense prescriptions?’ he said.

  ‘We do, but he spends most of his time with the doctors and on the wards. We page him if we need something urgently.’

  Angel suddenly heard the bustle of starched skirts and rapid breathing behind him. He turned to see a woman in a blue uniform and white hat.

  Rubenstein said, ‘Ah. Sister Mary Clare.’

  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting, Doctor,’ she said. ‘A small problem in the kitchen. It’s all right, now.’

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Angel, Sister.’

  Angel smiled at her. He recognized the unmistakable accent. ‘We’ve already spoken on the phone, haven’t we, Sister?’