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

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘So what is the colour of the cougar, Vince?’

  ‘Well, typically, it is tawny, but it could range to silvery-grey and even to a reddish brown.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think for our purpose, we’d better say light brown.’

  The professor smiled and said, ‘Michael, the cougar’s great majesty, beauty and range of coat colour is far too fascinating to be described merely as light brown.’

  Angel sighed. ‘That cat might be attractive to you, Vince, I simply need to know what it looks like so that I can tell people. You see . . . to most Bromersley people, coming across a cat like that — particularly at night — could mean a death sentence.’

  The professor nodded and said, ‘Yes Michael, I understand that, but the cougar does not generally regard the human animal as prey and, interestingly, prey recognition is a learned behaviour. It’s true that if the cougar was cornered by a human, of course, it would fight, but then, usually only to escape. Only because of great starvation, or because the human looked a very easy target, being small, or a child, would it attack. There are instances in the US of a cougar attacking and killing children, but few indeed of attacking and killing adult humans.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have described our victim as small, Vince. He was average build and aged thirty.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Angel said.

  ‘You see, if the victim looked small, and therefore appeared to be an easy target, the cougar might attack, particularly if it was a male cat.’

  ‘You mean if the victim was kneeling down or something like that?’

  The professor nodded. ‘Or, perhaps seated.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. That was a possibility, he thought. He turned to Taylor. ‘Was there a fishing rod or any of that sort of thing anywhere around, Don?’

  Taylor thought a moment, ‘No, sir. Were you thinking that he could have been crouched on a fisherman’s stool?’

  ‘Could have been.’

  ‘No, sir. There was no kit of any sort around the body.’

  The professor said, ‘Well, I’m sorry. I can’t explain it. We are all made differently. Maybe this cougar has an unusual and therefore dangerous temperament.’

  ‘Something else unusual, Vince.’ Taylor said. ‘There are marks of hypostasis on the victim.’

  The professor said, ‘He could have been killed in one place, but eaten later by the stream where the body was found.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That would mean someone else, a human had been involved, to move it,’ he said.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ the professor said. ‘It is quite usual. The cougar is typically an ambush predator. It stalks through brush and trees, across ledges, or other uncovered spots, before making a powerful leap onto the back of its prey and delivering a lethal neck bite. It might then drag the kill to a preferred spot, cover it with brush and return to feed over a period of days.’

  Angel looked at Taylor. ‘That could have happened in this case, Don.’

  ‘I suppose it could, sir. But if it did, we have no idea where the actual killing took place.’

  ‘Were there any signs that the body had been dragged to the stream?’ Angel said.

  ‘No, sir,’ Taylor said.

  Angel turned back to the professor, and said, ‘Would the cat be able to drag a twelve-stone man, Vince?’

  ‘Oh yes. They have been known to bring down both wild and domestic horses and even large moose.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  It was Ahmed carrying a tin tray with a teapot in blue and white, with matching sugar, milk, cups and saucers.

  Angel gave him a knowing grin. Ahmed smiled back.

  ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ Angel said, then he turned to the other two men and said, ‘Tea break. Come and get it.’

  Ahmed did the honours, then turned to go. Angel reached up, grabbed his jacket sleeve and pulled the young man towards him. ‘I want DS Crisp, DS Carter and DC Scrivens here at two o’clock,’ he said.

  Ahmed nodded. ‘Right, sir.’

  Then, in full throttle, waving the cup around, Angel said, ‘The tea’s great, Ahmed . . . tastes much better out of this teapot.’

  Taylor and the professor looked across and nodded.

  Ahmed smiled and went out.

  The three men finished their tea. Then Angel thanked the professor for his useful knowledge about wild cats, delivered in words, he said, he understood, and the professor thanked Angel for his friendly reception. The professor took a business card out of his top pocket, wrote a number on it, handed to him and said, ‘Don’t stand on any ceremony, Michael, if I can help you anytime, ring that number.’

  Angel took it, looked at it, put it in his pocket and said, ‘Thank you, Vince. I might have to take you up on it.’

  The professor nodded, smiled and went out.

  As the door closed, Angel and Taylor sat down, and looked across at each other. Angel sighed.

  Taylor said, ‘What do we do now, sir?’

  Angel ran his hand through his hair and said, ‘Well, I can’t send you and Scrivens out to bring in a male, brown cougar, 2’6 inches at the shoulders, for questioning, can I?’

  Taylor nodded.

  Then Angel said, ‘It’s the old, old story, Don. We simply haven’t enough info. We don’t even know where Hobbs actually died. I want to see the place where the cougar actually killed the poor man. I would expect to see bloodstains and signs of a struggle. It might also be where the cougar is hiding in the daylight hours. So you had better get a team together. Search a quarter of a mile radius from the spot where the body was found. It isn’t a large area, so I want it searched thoroughly, including the stream, and all the outbuildings, huts, sheds, garages and so on. I want every square yard scratched and sifted through. I don’t think a cougar would have ventured inside a house to kill anybody, so at the moment I am not including searching living accommodation. However every house — except one! — in that area must be visited and the residents asked if they saw the dead man at all yesterday, and if they have seen a wild cat roaming the neighbourhood over the past few days. Now you are going to need a lot of help, so take everybody available from the CID office, the canteen and the general office. I’ll phone Inspector Asquith and get him to let you have whatever uniformed he can spare. All right?’

  ‘You didn’t say which house it was you didn’t want anybody to call on,’ Taylor said, getting to his feet.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Angel said. ‘That’s Ephemore Sharpe’s place, Ashfield Lodge Farm. I’ll call on her myself. I don’t want any of your team being scared by her — could put some of your probationers off women for life.’

  Taylor grinned.

  But Angel’s face was as straight as the crease in the chief constable’s trousers. ‘Don’t stand there grinning, Don,’ he said, ‘buzz off and get on with it, before that big cat finds another victim.’

  6

  It was just after two o’clock when Crisp, Carter and Scrivens filed into Angel’s little office and settled down on the tubular steel framed chairs.

  ‘Find somewhere to sit and listen up,’ Angel said, then he brought them up to date with the latest facts gleaned from the professor and Don Taylor minutes earlier and then said, ‘There were three women in the victim’s life: Dorothea Webber, Imelda Cartwright and Celia Hamilton. Ahmed has their addresses.’

  Then he turned to Crisp and said, ‘Now, Trevor, I want you look up Dorothea Webber. She was married to Julius Hobbs briefly. Not happily, according to his mother, and that was not entirely her fault. A bit odd for the mother not to blame the daughter-in-law, but that’s what she told me. Anyway, see what you can find out about Dorothea, the relationship she had’ with Julius and the reason for the break up and subsequent divorce. Also where she was on Sunday evening. All right?’

  Crisp’s forehead creased producing a dozen parallel lines. ‘If a wild cat killed Julius Hobbs, sir, why do we need to make these inquiries?’
r />   ‘It’s called thoroughness, lad.’

  Crisp wasn’t satisfied, but he didn’t want to say so. He involuntarily shook his head and said grudgingly, ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel said, ‘You see, there’s one thing that cougar will never tell us, Trevor, and that is, its motive.’

  ‘Hunger, sir,’ Crisp said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Carter agreed.

  ‘He wanted something to eat, sir,’ Scrivens put in.

  ‘Maybe,’ Angel said. ‘But satisfying its hunger is what happened after the killing. What made the cougar select Julius Hobbs?’

  ‘Because he was the first accessible human being, sir,’ Crisp said.

  ‘Where was he accessible? We don’t know. It was a cool evening, very cool. It is not likely that the wild cat was inside a house, and it is not known why Hobbs would be out of doors in October without a topcoat. He was not noted to be particularly interested in hobbies or sports that might have required him to be out of doors that autumn evening. Now there might be very satisfactory explanations to these questions but I don’t know what they are yet. So we must keep on with our inquiries until we have answers that will satisfy a coroner. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said.

  Flora Carter shuddered and said, ‘I am not sure I would want to be out at night in Bromersley if a cougar is on the prowl.’

  Angel tried to think of something to say to lessen her fear. ‘Flora,’ he said, ‘the odds of you bumping into it are millions to one. You’ve a better chance of winning the lottery. And while I have you in my sights, Flora, I want you to inquire into the activities of that actress Celia Hamilton and her relationship with Hobbs. His mother said that they had been seeing each other a few months now. Contact her and see what you can find out. Obviously, it may require you to break the tragic news to her. Also find out what she was doing on Sunday evening.’

  Crisp and Scrivens exchanged glances.

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  Angel then turned to Scrivens and said, ‘And you, Ted, I want you to inquire into Hobbs’s relationship with a Miss Imelda Cartwright. Hobbs’s mother said that they were together for about a year and the split was rather vindictive. Ask the same questions I have told the others. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Angel then glanced round to check that he had the attention of the three of them and said, ‘I want you to see if you can find a motive for the killing. Hobbs seems to have been a regular sort of chap. There must be something bad about him. Also see if you can find out where he was and what he was doing on Sunday evening. All right? Any questions?’

  There was none. ‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘Off you go then.’

  They went out and, as the door closed, Angel pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out a telephone directory. He opened it, found the page he wanted, scanned down the column, and then reached out for the phone. He was soon speaking to Sir Raphael Quigley, the property developer. And forty-five minutes later he was seated in his modern office with glass walls on two sides, in a new, multi-storey building in Leeds city centre.

  ‘Now then, young man,’ Quigley said, peering over his half lens spectacles, ‘as I told you on the phone, I fail to see how I can be of any help to you in connection with this Julius Hobbs person?’

  ‘I think you may be able to help me quite a lot, Sir Raphael,’ Angel said. ‘Firstly, you can tell me what kind of a relationship you had with him.’

  Quigley blinked. His nostrils quivered as though he had been hovering too close over the gravy vat in the cookhouse in Strangeways. ‘I didn’t have any kind of a relationship with that young man,’ he said.

  Angel sensed prevarication. ‘Come along, Sir Raphael. Don’t mess me about. Hobbs was a competitor of yours, wasn’t he? He used regularly to outsmart you at auctions and when submitting tenders, didn’t he?’

  Quigley’s small black eyes suddenly glowed like the flame of a safe-breaker’s acetylene cutter.

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ he said. ‘He certainly did not.’

  ‘That’s what Hobbs’s mother said.’

  ‘What do mothers know about their sons? She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’

  ‘You knew his mother then?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. I’ve met her.’

  ‘So you’ve met her son then?’

  ‘Well, yes. Hobbs was a small-time, impertinent young opportunist who drifted in and out of the property business . . . buying and selling in an entirely irresponsible manner to make a quick buck.’

  Angel thought that that was what every property developer did.

  ‘So we’ve established that you knew Julius Hobbs, Sir Raphael,’ he said.

  Quigley raised his eyebrows, lowered the corners of his mouth and looked across at the big modern clock on the wall facing him.

  ‘Yes of course,’ he said. ‘You’d better get a move on, Angel. The time is three fifty-two. I have an appointment in London in an hour. And my helicopter leaves in eight minutes.’

  ‘If you answer my questions in a helpful and complete manner, Sir Raphael, it is possible that you might be able to keep your appointment,’ Angel said.

  Quigley’s face went scarlet.

  Angel continued, ‘Did you and Hobbs have any financial proposition pending?’

  ‘Certainly not. I didn’t . . . I couldn’t have dealt with him. He wasn’t . . . he wasn’t ethical.’

  ‘Really? In what way?’

  ‘In every way.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Well, for instance, at some property auctions, where we might have had competing interests, he would often run my estates manager up to some outrageous figure and then drop out at the last moment leaving him having to agree to pay a greater sum than would have been necessary. When I subsequently spoke to Hobbs about it afterwards, he just laughed . . . laughed in my face.’

  ‘He probably thought it was fair competition, Sir Raphael, after all, anybody can bid in an auction, and he could have misjudged how high your company would bid and have finished up having to buy the property at the price he bid at. What would he have done then?’

  ‘He would probably have attempted to sell it to me, the impertinent rascal. However, it never happened. He seemed to know when to stop bidding.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be because he knew the property’s true value?’ Angel said.

  Quigley growled and looked away through the glass wall. The office was on the eighth floor so all he saw was cloudy, grey sky.

  Angel rubbed his chin and said, ‘Have you any notion of any transaction in which he was currently involved?’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I thought it might be possible.’

  Quigley lowered his eyebrows, with very long manicured fingers tapped his chin several times and said, ‘No. I don’t know much about his business, but there is one project I heard of that had very probably been of interest to him. It was, perhaps, too small for my company . . . and it is in Bromersley, right on his doorstep, so it certainly would not have missed his eagle eye. There is a plot of building land, around six hectares that is ripe for development into a small estate of semis. There is an old farm in front of it that needs to be purchased and demolished to allow adequate sewerage and road access. It is the sort and size of project that might just have suited young Hobbs.’

  Angel blinked as he experienced a small tingle of pleasure. He might just know the plot of land to which Quigley had referred.

  ‘Who owns it?’ Angel said.

  ‘I don’t know, but it is in the hands of an agent,’ Quigley said. ‘Adrian Hastelow Estate Agents. He’s in the book.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said and he scribbled the name down on the back of an envelope taken from his inside pocket. ‘Just one more thing, Sir Raphael, for the record. Where were you on Sunday evening last?’

  Quigley’s eyebrows shot up again. ‘Sunday evening?’ he said. ‘Am I obliged to answer such an int
rusive question? Am I under suspicion of having committed a crime of some sort?’

  ‘No, sir. Not at all, and you are not obliged to answer the question. I will perfectly well understand if you find the question . . . embarrassing.’

  Quigley’s lips tightened. ‘The question is not in the least embarrassing,’ he said.

  ‘Oh good,’ Angel said brightly and he looked expectantly across the desk into the man’s face.

  Quigley instantly looked away, his jaw set harder than Dartmoor granite. He breathed in and then out slowly, three times, then he looked back at Angel and said, ‘If you must know, I was at my home in Harrogate.’

  ‘With your family?’

  ‘I have no family. I live alone. I was relaxing . . . listening to music and re-cataloguing my butterfly collection.’

  ‘You were alone all day?’

  ‘No. My housekeeper left at four o’clock. I was alone after that.’

  ‘Did you receive any phone calls at all after four o’clock?’

  ‘I don’t think so, why?’

  ‘A phone call to you might have helped confirm that you were there.’

  ‘I know I was there!’ he said banging the top of the desk with a clenched fist.

  The phone rang. He snatched it up. ‘Yes? . . . I’m coming.’ He slammed it down, turned to Angel, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Well, Inspector, have you any more questions for me?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘No, Sir Raphael, thank you,’ he said, standing up. Then he added slowly, ‘That’s all for now.’

  Quigley glared at him across the desk.

  A door flew open and a woman dashed in carrying a laptop case and a black overcoat with black silk-faced lapels. She had the laptop under her arm and was holding the overcoat shoulder-high by the collar.

  As Quigley slid his arms into the coat sleeves, he said, ‘Miss Prendergast, immediately after I have gone, show this . . . this person out.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Raphael,’ she said.

  Then Quigley snatched the case from her and dashed out of the office buttoning the coat.

  Angel watched the door close and wrinkled his nose.