She nodded back at him. ‘Indeed we have, Inspector. You’ll be wanting to know about the stolen items?’ she said.
‘Yes, please.’
She passed in front of him and pointed up to the shelf. ‘Well, the ethanol was in a tall brown bottle on that shelf up there. It contained five litres full, but it wasn’t quite full. And the paper sack of saltpetre was in the cupboard under the workbench. Our stock records show that there were four and a half litres of ethanol and twenty kilos of saltpetre taken.’
‘Thank you, Sister. Have you any idea who might have stolen the items?’
Rubenstein said, ‘You mean it was an inside job?’
Sister Mary Clare’s eyes opened wide. ‘To be sure, Inspector, I have not,’ she said.
‘The window was smashed from the outside, wasn’t it, Inspector?’ Rubenstein said.
‘It was,’ Angel said. ‘But it doesn’t mean to say that access was made through the window. If it was an inside job, it would be a good ploy to have the window smashed from the outside after the robbery, by the thief or an accomplice, wouldn’t it?’
Rubenstein blinked, smiled, and said, ‘You’ve a devious mind, Inspector. No wonder you’ve such a reputation!’
Angel ignored the compliment. It was standard police practice to take nothing for granted. Rubenstein should have known that.
‘How many keys are there to this room?’ he said.
‘Two,’ Rubenstein said. ‘I have one and the other is currently in the hands of the pharmacist. It is passed from duty pharmacist to duty pharmacist, and signed for as it is handed over. Some nights and weekends, when we might not have a qualified pharmacist on duty, a doctor or a senior member of the nursing staff may have the key. That’s only in case a patient needs some medication urgently.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘That means quite a few people have had possession of the key at some time or another.’
‘Yes, but . . . but they are all professional people, Inspector,’ Rubenstein said.
Angel wanted to point out that Crippen and Shipman were also professional people, but he didn’t.
‘You are certain that nothing else was taken, Sister?’
‘We have checked off the rest of the stock with the book and it matches precisely, Inspector,’ she said.
Angel nodded, had another quick glance round the shelves, the workbench and the floor. He went over to the door, opened it, examined the keyhole, then locked and unlocked the door. He seemed satisfied. He turned back to them and said, ‘Well thank you. That’s about all I can do here.’
Sister Mary Clare said, ‘Well, if you will excuse me, Inspector, I have a lot on this morning. I will return to it.’
‘That’s fine, Sister, thank you,’ Angel said.
She looked across at Rubenstein, who said, ‘Yeah. That’s fine, Sister. Thank you.’
She rushed out.
On the way back to reception, Rubenstein turned to Angel and said, ‘Perhaps you and your good lady — I assume you are married, or have a partner as they say these days — would care to come to dinner one evening at my house? My housekeeper is an excellent cook.’
Angel frowned. The suggestion didn’t appeal him, and he knew Mary definitely wouldn’t want to. She didn’t know him and she’d be worrying all the time about asking him back to their small, unpretentious house.
‘Sounds very . . . nice,’ he said vaguely. But he hoped that Rubenstein would quickly forget about it.
* * *
‘Excuse me eating my sandwiches, as we talk, Inspector,’ the veterinarian said from behind his desk. ‘As I said on the phone, the first free time slot I had today was my lunch break. And I only take twenty minutes for that, and I usually do some office work while I’m chewing.’
Angel sat down at the other side of the desk facing a colourful poster illustrating the innards of a dog. He wrinkled his nose and turned away from it.
‘My receptionist can make you a coffee if you would like one?’ the man said, biting into another sandwich.
‘No thanks,’ Angel said, involuntarily licking his lips.
‘What can I do for you?’ Fairclough said.
‘I’ll try to be brief. Thank you for seeing me promptly, but the matter is urgent and you being probably the oldest and most experienced vet in the town, I naturally came to you first.’
Fairclough nodded.
Angel rubbed his hand across his chin. ‘The fact is, a local man has died having been savagely half eaten by a large catlike animal,’ he said.
Fairclough stopped chewing. His eyes locked onto Angel’s face. His mouth dropped open momentarily showing bread and the red of tomato. ‘Goodness me,’ he said. ‘Did this happen in Bromersley?’
Angel nodded then said, ‘Yes. The cat must have originated in Africa or South America or somewhere like that. Can you tell me if you have treated such an animal recently?’
‘This is absolutely dreadful. No. Not recently. No. Let me see. It’s twenty or more years since I had any contact with a large cat and that was a leopard with a skin rash. It was at the Scholes travelling circus in Jubilee Park. It seems a lifetime away now. But the cat you are looking for must have escaped from some private owner . . . or been deliberately set free?’
Angel looked down and frowned. ‘I really don’t know that yet. Have you any knowledge of anyone who keeps or has kept such an animal?’
‘No. It would need to be somebody eccentric. And rich.’
‘And stupid,’ Angel said.
Fairclough smiled and nodded in agreement. ‘He or she would need space to exercise it . . . a place in the country or a farm. There was a recent case the other side of the Pennines —’
‘In Cheshire,’ Angel said. ‘Yes, the animal killed a man. I wondered if we had a similar animal round here?’
‘Do you know, Inspector, my father spoke about the proliferation of small circuses in the late Victorian and Edwardian period, all the way up to the 1930s. Apparently it was possible then to make a handsome living from them.’
‘That was then,’ Angel said. ‘There are stringent laws prohibiting the caging and exhibition of animals for the purposes of entertainment now.’
‘I know. I know,’ Fairclough said. ‘Was the poor man who was killed anyone I would know?’
‘I can’t say. He hasn’t been formally identified yet.’
Fairclough had finished eating. He looked at Angel wistfully, put the lid back on the sandwich box and said, ‘No, Inspector. I know of no one. It is absolutely tragic. What breed of cat was it?’
‘We don’t know that yet either,’ Angel said, getting to his feet. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Fairclough.’
The man’s face suddenly brightened and his eyes opened wide. ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Don’t go, Inspector. I don’t know if this has any relevance, but many years ago, Haydn Sharpe had a small circus . . . back in the early 1900s.’
‘Haydn Sharpe?’ Angel said. He frowned and added, ‘Who was Haydn Sharpe?’
‘Ephemore Sharpe’s grandfather, it would have been. In fact, I believe he was the actual animal handler. There were six tigers. I’ve seen a poster of him somewhere. He was in a leotard standing in the middle of them. You know Ephemore Sharpe, Inspector, don’t you? She lives at Ashfield Lodge Farm, Bromersley, end of Ashfield Road. Cat mad. Wants locking up.’
Angel blinked. He didn’t say that the dead body of Julius Hobbs was found less than 200 yards from her farm. ‘I’ve met her. She must be a client of yours.’
Fairclough’s face changed to granite. ‘I found her to be personally the most obnoxious and charmless woman I have ever met,’ he said. ‘I had need to call on her a few years back now, to try to sort something out, but it was to no avail. She has never been in these premises, nor does she call on the services of any of the other vets in town. We compare notes at veterinary association branch meetings, you know. Ephemore Sharpe reckons she is an authority on anything and everything feline. In fact she has almost set herself u
p in competition with the veterinary profession and I know she has actually taken some business away from me. Oh that doesn’t matter, I don’t mind that. I can afford it. But she was only a history teacher at the grammar school before they changed its name. I don’t know what it is called now. She thinks she is an expert in the feline world because of a long-term family interest and devotion to photogenic domestic cats and cute kittens. But, you know, Inspector, she doesn’t stand a chance against modern drugs and prevailing scientific diagnostic techniques. There must be fifty cats roaming about her house and in those barns and outbuildings in her yard. Could even be a hundred. If she really cared for her pets, she would seek professional help, modern drugs and the latest advice. But she won’t. Some people call her ‘The Cat Woman’; they admire her, but they don’t know the truth of the matter.’
Angel frowned. “The Cat Woman,” he said. ‘Indeed?’ he added, and gently rubbed his chin.
Fairclough reached out for a beaker of coffee and took a sip.
Angel slowly stood up. ‘Well, must get back to the office. I have an appointment. But thank you very much, Mr Fairclough. Thank you.’
5
It was 12.45 a.m. exactly when Angel arrived back at the office. There was no sign of DS Taylor. Angel frowned. He looked up at the wall clock to check that his watch was correct, then wrinkled his nose. He picked up the phone and tapped in a number.
There was a knock at the door.
He replaced the phone and called, ‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed.
‘I thought you were Don Taylor,’ Angel said. ‘Where is he?’
‘On his way, sir.’
‘He’ll have to get a move on, lad. See if you can chase him up.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And when that professor arrives bring him straight in.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And organize some tea for us? Where has that nice blue and white teapot and four-cup set disappeared to?’
‘Last time I saw it, it was on a tray outside the chief constable’s office, sir. It must have been nicked by the chief constable’s secretary.’
Angel’s eyes flashed. ‘It was antique,’ he said. ‘It belongs here. It was given to us by Phoebe Wilkinson as a thank you for finding the murderer of her friend, Father Gulli. Go and fetch it back.’
‘Supposing she sees me.’
‘Supposing she does? She won’t bite. Tell her I sent you. It belongs in this office by rights. Ask her for it. If she’s not there, take it.’
Ahmed’s mouth opened. He was about to protest when there was a knock at the door.
‘See who that is,’ Angel said.
Ahmed turned and opened it. It was DS Taylor.
‘There you are,’ Angel said. ‘Come in, Don. You’re late. We haven’t much time.’ He turned back to Ahmed and said, ‘Off you go, lad. And get on with that little job, smartly.’
Ahmed looked like a patient waiting to have a colonoscopy. He went out and closed the door.
Taylor was carrying a big wooden tray with four-inch high sides like a deliveryman’s bread tray. On it were thirty-eight pink wax moulds resting on their corresponding plaster casts. Also pressed under his arm was a clipboard holding several sheets of A4.
‘Can I put this tray on your desk, sir?’
Angel moved the day’s post which he had not yet seen and put it on the table behind him.
Taylor carefully placed the tray in the middle of the desk. Angel peered down at the contents.
Each pink cast had a number 1 to 38 in blue felt pen on white paper stuck to it. Underneath each cast was the matching white plaster mould of an animal paw mark taken from the muddy ground around the remains of the body of Julius Hobbs.
‘Are they set hard enough to handle?’ Angel said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said.
Angel tentatively picked up one of the casts and its pink mould. He pressed the cast several times. Then he looked under the mould at the paw mark. Then replaced it on the mould and put it back on the tray.
‘The numbers refer to the location of each paw mark? You have the chart?’
‘And photographs, sir.’
‘Good. Did you make any of the paw prints on paper?’ Angel said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said. He handed him the first sheet off the clipboard. On the next sheet were labelled illustrations in black ink of the front pawmarks and the back pawmarks of three breeds of cats. They were puma, lynx and leopard.
Angel looked at them attempting to make a comparison.
‘There’s very little difference between them,’ he said.
Taylor pointed to the top one and said, ‘I think it’s this one, sir. The puma.’
Angel nodded. ‘Could be. What colour is a puma?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘The prof will know,’ he said tidying up the papers. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. The body was moved. There were hypostasis marks all down the body. It had been face down for at least six hours before being turned over onto its back.’
Angel’s face creased. ‘The body was moved?’ he said.
‘Yes, sir. It was discovered at the side of the stream on its back.’
As Angel was digesting that important piece of information, the door suddenly opened. They both turned towards it. It was Ahmed.
‘Professor Stevenson is here, sir,’ he said.
Angel stood up. ‘Ah, good,’ he said. He had been looking forward to meeting the man. ‘Show him straight in, lad.’ Then he whispered, ‘And bring in that tea ASAP.’
Ahmed nodded, stood to the side and said, ‘Professor Vincent Stevenson.’
A thin young man with spectacles came in. He didn’t look happy and hardly looked up.
Angel held out his hand to shake it. The young man looked at it, seemed uncertain at first what to do, but eventually responded to what was expected, taking only the tips of Angel’s fingers, lifting them up and down twice then releasing them.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel and this is Detective Sergeant Taylor,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Very nice. Yes. I’m Vincent Stevenson. Please call me Vince.’
Angel pursed his lips. ‘Please sit down, Professor Vince,’ he said, rubbing his chin.
‘No,’ the professor said. ‘Just Vince.’
The young man sat down on the edge of the chair.
Angel continued to rub his chin. ‘You are on the Wakefield-based panel of experts of the National Crime Operations Faculty, aren’t you, Vince?’ Angel said. He wanted to be certain that he was the right man.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘And are you conversant with big wild cats . . . cats that could kill a fully grown man?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good,’ Angel said. ‘By the way, you had better call me Michael.’
‘Right, Michael,’ the professor said. That seemed to please the young man. He smiled and shuffled backwards to occupy the full seat of the chair.
Taylor leaned forward and said, ‘And I’m Don Taylor. Please, call me Don.’
The young professor looked up, smiled and said, ‘Yeah. Right, Don.’
Angel smiled and said, ‘We’re in need of your help, Vince.’
The young man leaned forward and looked at them.
Angel quickly told him about the finding of the body near the stream on the wasteland behind Ashfield Lodge Farm, and showed him an aerial photograph of the area. He then showed him the more intimate photographs of the crime scene, the wax casts of the animal paw marks, the prints and said, ‘There are no human footprints anywhere near the victim, but these paw prints are all over the place, distributed as the chart shows. We are obviously led to the conclusion that the killer therefore is a big cat. We have no sighting of any animal but inquiries from the general public are being canvassed. To begin with, can you tell us what animal made those paw marks?’
The professor looked carefully at the sheet o
f A4 with the prints produced by Don Taylor and said, ‘There are only minuscule differences between the prints of the puma, lynx and leopard,’ the professor said. ‘But looking at these, I am inclined towards the puma, or the cougar as it is more correctly known.’
Taylor smiled. ‘The cougar, Vince?’ he said.
‘We don’t have an example of the paw prints of a cougar,’ Angel said.
The professor said, ‘The cougar, mountain lion, mountain cat, panther and puma are all the same animal.’
Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? And these are the paw prints of a cougar?’
‘Yes, Michael. I believe so. An adult cougar.’
‘And how big is an adult cougar?’
‘Pretty big. It stands two feet to two feet six at the shoulders.’
Angel frowned as he visualized the animal standing next to him, the height of the desk top. He didn’t like it. He was thinking of the people of Bromersley: they wouldn’t like it either, if they knew.
‘It is big, Vince,’ he said.
The professor smiled. ‘Yes. And it’s a beautiful animal, Michael.’
‘From North America, aren’t they?’ he said.
‘Mainly,’ the professor said. Then his voice hardened. ‘In the UK, of course, cougars in the wild are out of their own environment. It should shame those who, on a whim, smuggle an animal into an environment unfamiliar to it, and then later, when they become bored with it, release the poor animal into a world it doesn’t understand. It’s cruel and disgraceful. And then, whatever goes wrong . . . if anyone gets hurt, the animal gets all the blame!’
Angel rubbed his chin and shook his head at the same time. This was obviously a subject close to the professor’s heart. He exchanged looks with Taylor then said, ‘And is the cougar black, Vince?’
‘No. Despite anecdotal evidence to the contrary, an all-black pigment has never been documented in cougars.’
Angel hesitated. ‘But I have heard the term ‘black panther’ many times,’ he said.
‘Yes, Michael. The term ‘black panther’ is used colloquially, particularly in fiction, to refer to occasional freak instances of other species that have a pigmentation that causes the darkening of their coats, but that applies specifically to jaguars and leopards.’
THE CHESHIRE CAT MURDERS an enthralling crime mystery full of twists (Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 18) Page 5