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

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Well, she is a free woman, isn’t she? She is divorced.’

  Woods’ eyes flashed. ‘The wrong sort, Inspector. That has been her trouble all her life. She doesn’t want a proper, decent, upright citizen. She always chooses flashy chaps in smart suits, filled to their gills with drugs and booze . . . who have never done an honest day’s work in their lives. We thought that when Maxwell Green and she split up and finally got a divorce that she’d learned her lesson and would look for someone decent.’

  ‘What caused the split between them?’

  ‘It was his drinking. He’s an alcoholic. He can’t leave it alone. He’s always half cut.’

  Isabel Woods suddenly came to life. She shook her head and said, ‘It was her fault. My own daughter. She had an affair with that hairdresser with the bleached hair and the ear-ring. I thought he was a poof. Everybody thought he was a poof, but he wasn’t. Maxwell Green found out and they had a flaming row.’

  Woods’ eyes flashed. His face went scarlet. ‘You don’t know that, Isabel,’ he said. ‘It’s only what we thought.’

  Her eyes grew big. ‘She told me,’ she said. ‘She admitted it. I shamed her into telling me. I wasn’t going to tell you. I was too ashamed, but things have gone too far.’

  ‘But now Maxwell Green wants her back,’ Woods said. ‘He’s hardly ever away from the place.’

  ‘She’s a beautiful girl, with a heart of gold,’ she said. ‘Of course he wants her back, but in his drunken state, who would want him?’

  ‘He’s worth hundreds. Thousands even!’ Woods said, waving his hands in the air.

  ‘Money isn’t everything,’ she said.

  Angel said, ‘What does Maxwell Green do?’

  ‘He manages pop stars,’ Woods said. ‘You’ll have heard of Purple Sandwich?’

  Angel looked as blank as a stolen prescription pad. ‘No.’

  ‘They’re all over the pop charts,’ Woods said. ‘He manages them. And lots more.’

  ‘They’re disgraceful rubbish,’ Mrs Woods said.

  Woods turned to Angel, put his hands out in front of him, palms upwards and said, ‘She doesn’t understand, Inspector. I keep telling her, it isn’t important what we think. Purple Sandwich are rubbish, I agree, but whatever we say won’t change things. In young people’s eyes they are wonderful, and for a month, a year, or five years they’ll continue to be wonderful, until somebody, or something else comes along. And it will. Then it’ll be all change. Purple Sandwich will be history. It will be goodbye. No more. Dead as a dodo. And the new thing — whatever it is — will be all the rage. And so it goes on. Every so often, the young have to have change. They make change into a virtue. Now our daughter is like that. She’s all over the present for a while and then has to have something different. She has got sucked into that way of living. She has absolutely no common sense. She wants to be in a world of loud drums and guitars, flashing coloured lights, short skirts, low necklines, and a man with a tan, a six pack, a guitar, a white Mercedes, a walletful of money, who is able to bawl to tuneless music. She won’t take any notice of us. That’s why she behaves as she does.’

  Angel’s mind had now one thought only and it wasn’t pleasant. He wanted to say something cheerful and optimistic to sustain the Woods and keep hope alive, but it didn’t come easily.

  ‘Wendy has only been missing about forty-four hours,’ he said, ‘she might have met someone she likes and is with him. She could be back anytime.’

  Mrs Woods pulled a face as long as a stick of rhubarb.

  Woods shook his head. ‘No. There’s something wrong. She wouldn’t have left Jamie like that, not without making arrangements.’

  Angel thought that he was probably correct, but he kept up the pretence and said, ‘When we do find Wendy, she’ll have to answer a lot of questions and may be at the station for some time. Would you arrange to look after Jamie until she can return home and assume her responsibilities?’

  * * *

  DS Carter duly returned the BMW to the front of the Woods’ house and changed over from the driver’s seat to the front nearside seat.

  Angel was expecting her and was waiting on the kerbside. ‘Everything all right, Flora?’ he said, as he got into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ DS Carter said.

  He engaged gear, let in the clutch and pulled away.

  ‘I caught up with Jamie Green,’ Carter said, ‘who is a delightful boy. Of course, he didn’t understand why I wanted to talk to him. I had to explain who I was and why I was there. He had no idea where his mother was and knew nothing at all about the company she might be keeping. He didn’t show any signs that he was worried, but he was pleased when I told him the photograph I was taking of him was to show to his dad.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘So he knew nothing about where she was going on Tuesday evening?’

  ‘No, sir. She must be making a very good job of keeping all that sort of information away from the boy.’

  Angel had to stop at the traffic lights on Park Road.

  ‘You showed the picture of Jamie to Maxwell Green?’

  ‘Yes, sir. His father was delighted with it, and he confirmed that it was Jamie all right.’

  ‘Good. And has Don Taylor sent a fingerprint man to Wendy Green’s house?’

  ‘He went himself, sir. He will have been there about half an hour.’

  ‘Good.’

  The traffic lights changed to green.

  Angel turned left onto Creesforth Road which comprised mostly architect-designed houses.

  ‘We’ll soon know,’ he said. ‘That lass lives at number 16. I think that’s at the far end.’

  As Angel drove along the road, he saw a police car on the drive of one of the houses and a uniformed officer in a bright orange high-profile coat standing by the front door which was wide open. The figure 16 was neatly painted in white on a black stone pillar.

  Angel turned right up the drive, pulled up behind the police car and stopped.

  Angel and Flora got out of the car and made for the house.

  The uniformed officer at the door recognized him and threw up a salute. ‘Good morning, sir,’ the young man said.

  ‘Good morning,’ Angel said and acknowledged the salute. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘About ten minutes, sir.’

  ‘Who is here beside yourself?’

  ‘DS Taylor, sir. DS Crisp left when I arrived.’

  At that moment, Don Taylor came to the doorway of the house holding a canister containing aluminium powder in one hand and a fingerprint brush in the other. ‘Oh, it’s you, sir. I thought I had heard a car.’

  Angel said, ‘What you got, Don?’

  ‘Up to now, only two persons’ prints, sir. A woman’s, I think, or a small man or a youth’s, and a child’s.’

  Angel sniffed. He wasn’t pleased. ‘Just the two people who live here, probably?’

  Taylor realized that he was disappointed. ‘If there’s a ‘warm’ print of a third person, sir, I’ll find it,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so, Don. Have you finished downstairs?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘We’ll come in then,’ Angel said, ‘you carry on.’

  ‘If you want me, I’ll be upstairs,’ Taylor said.

  Angel licked his lower lip thoughtfully, then looked at Flora Carter and put out a hand, inviting her to lead the way.

  She smiled acknowledging the courtesy and made her way up the step into the house.

  The entrance hall had wood-panelled walls, a cantilever staircase and a dazzling white, cut glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

  Carter took that in then disappeared down the hall to a door at the end.

  Angel had not taken a step inside when he suddenly noticed a familiar smell. It was the distinctive smell of the cheap scent he had first experienced briefly by the BMW when it was parked on St Magdalene’s Hospital car park. He stood motionless in the doorway. He did not mov
e. His pulse raced. His muscles tightened. He suddenly shivered. It was as if a frozen rat had run down his spine. The cold spread along his arms and legs. The skin on the back of his arms and hands turned to goose flesh. After a few moments, he shook his head in defiance, and began to sniff around the door way.

  ‘Flora,’ he called. ‘Flora!’

  She appeared through a door, with eyebrows raised. ‘What is it, sir?’ she said.

  ‘There is an unusual smell here. Can you trace where it is coming from?’

  ‘What sort of a smell, sir?’

  ‘It’s sweet, strong and . . . my wife would describe it as cheap and common scent.’

  ‘Where exactly?’ she said.

  ‘Here. Where I’m standing,’ he said.

  Flora sniffed round the doorway, and the hall, twitching her nose like a rabbit.

  ‘Yes, sir. I can smell it, sickly sweet.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Angel said. ‘Can you smell where it is coming from?’

  ‘It seems to be coming from you, sir.’

  The muscles of his face tightened. ‘No, lass. It can’t be.’

  ‘It must be round the doorway then. It’s outside, I think.’

  They both spent some time searching around.

  He came into the entrance hall, opened the doors into the three main rooms of the house, looked round and closed them. He went three steps up the stairs and then down again. He even went back outside.

  The officer on sentry duty saw him, came up to him, looked at him strangely and said, ‘Are you all right, sir? Can I do anything for you?’

  ‘Have you noticed a peculiar smell? A sickly sweet pong, especially round this doorway?’

  The PC gave Angel a strange look. ‘I had a shower this morning, sir, and clean underwear, I don’t think it could be me.’

  Angel clenched his fists. His face muscles tightened. ‘I’m not suggesting it is you, lad. If I had thought that, I would have torn a strip off you and sent you home. No. There’s a smell, a sickly sweet, tarty perfume. Two minutes ago I noticed it, now I can’t place it. I need to know what it is and what it’s about. I noticed it in this doorway. Now, you have been here a quarter of an hour or so. Have you noticed it or anything like it?’

  The officer looked at him with a blank expression. ‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘I haven’t.’

  Angel nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Right, lad,’ he said. ‘Carry on.’

  Then he stepped back into the house, gave a last sniff round the doorway and then closed the door.

  He hoped that Flora Carter might have found the source of the smell, and he looked across at her.

  She shook her head.

  His lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘It’s gone,’ he said, holding his arms out shoulder-high, hands facing upwards, fingers stretched open and tense. ‘It’s ridiculous, but it’s gone!’

  She saw how important he seemed to think the smell was. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘Smells do that sort of thing. They’re here and then they’re gone.’

  ‘True,’ he said. Then he shrugged. It was very annoying. He would have to find out where it was coming from or he would go mad. It was the sort of thing that would keep him awake at nights. But he must move on.

  ‘Did you find the kitchen?’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘It’s this way, sir,’ she said.

  Flora Carter went down the hall to the door at the end which led to the back of the house.

  Angel followed quickly.

  She led him into a big kitchen with all the domestic machinery and utensils you might expect in such a large house. It was tidy and clean except for silver-coloured aluminium powder on door and cupboard handles, door edges, taps and on the controls around all the appliances, which confirmed that Don Taylor had recently been there.

  Angel made straight for the sink and peered into the water at the dirty pots and cutlery visible under areas of a soapy scum on the surface.

  Flora Carter watched him.

  Without disturbing them, he deduced that they represented a small meal for two people only. He then looked around for the waste bin and found it under the worktop. He opened the lid with his pen and inside, on top of other refuse, he saw an empty Coco Pops box with a used teabag lying on top of it. He closed the lid but left the bin out.

  He turned to Flora Carter and said, ‘Looks like the last meal served here was breakfast, and it was probably eaten by Wendy Green and her son Jamie, but I want Don to check on any prints on that Coco Pops box before he leaves . . . just to be sure.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell him, sir,’ she said.

  He nodded and Flora Carter went out.

  Angel had a quick look round the rest of the downstairs rooms, the summerhouse, the garage and the well-kept garden but could see nothing helpful to his investigation. As he returned to the house, he met Don Taylor in the hall. He had just come down the stairs.

  ‘I’ve finished up there, sir.’

  ‘Any new prints,’ Angel said.

  ‘Don’t think so, but I need Mrs Green and her son’s prints for elimination.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ Angel said rubbing his chin. ‘Of course you do. I’ll get Flora to organize it.’

  ‘I’ve just to do that breakfast cereal box and then I’ve finished here.’

  ‘Right, Don. You push off when you’ve done. I won’t be far behind you. You didn’t come across a woman’s hairbrush or comb upstairs, did you?’

  ‘Yes. I tested for a print on the handle of a long comb, but it was smudged. It was on the dressing-table in the big bedroom at the front.’

  ‘Good. Have you got a small evidence bag?’

  Taylor rummaged in a pocket, produced one and handed it to him.

  ‘Ta,’ Angel said, and he dashed up the stairs.

  Flora Carter was at the top waiting for him. She had overheard the conversation. ‘I’ll see that Don gets Wendy Green and her son’s prints for elimination, sir. And I’ve seen that comb. There’s quite a lot of hair round it. Is it for a DNA test?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said and he handed her the little bag. ‘Hurry up. I’ll just have a quick scout round the rooms. I have another urgent call I must make today.’

  ‘Why do you want her DNA, sir?’

  He looked at her closely, took a deep breath and said, ‘Because Flora, I regret to say that it is becoming abundantly clear that Wendy Green is the second victim of the wild cat or cougar or whatever it is!’

  10

  Angel urgently wanted the specimen from the comb and hair taken from the victim’s body to be despatched to the police laboratory at Wetherby by special post that day for comparison to confirm (or otherwise) that the deceased was indeed the woman, Wendy Green. So, as soon as he had finished at the house, he drove the BMW back to the police station with Flora Carter and dropped her off so that she could attend to it. He urgently needed to see Ephemore Sharpe. He had wanted to interview her himself and had postponed the meeting several times because other important matters had cropped up. If she was in any way responsible for the deaths of Julius Hobbs and Wendy Green, he didn’t want to give her any more time to prepare an alibi or cover up evidence.

  He drove the BMW purposefully through the town to Wakefield Road, turned right up Ashfield Road and up to the end to Ashfield Lodge Farm, where he parked the car by the side of the road, behind a pickup truck with a commercial lawn mower, a wheelbarrow and long-handled hoes and rakes loaded on it.

  He crossed the pavement and reached out to open the farm gate. Then he heard someone speaking loudly. It came from a man standing facing the front door of the farmhouse. Angel assumed he was addressing Ephemore Sharpe, so he dodged back behind the wall.

  ‘It’s only sixty pounds, Miss Sharpe,’ he heard the man say. ‘This is the third time I’ve been back.’

  Angel recognized him. It was Philip Pryce, the jobbing gardener he had met cutting the lawn at the back of the St Magdalene’s Hospital on Rustle Spring Lane.

  ‘I said I’d take a cheque but you
said you’d run out of cheques,’ the man said.

  Angel strained to hear her reply. She sounded huffy. ‘I hope to get to the bank tomorrow, Pryce,’ she said. ‘I’ll post it on to you then.’

  ‘No, I prefer to call for it, Miss, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, if you must. Make it tomorrow afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘I’m working tomorrow afternoon, Miss,’ he said. ‘I’ll call for it on Saturday morning. Thank you very much.’

  The door closed with a bang.

  A solemn looking Pryce turned away from the door and made his way across the yard.

  Angel opened the farmyard gate and stood back to allow Pryce through.

  When Pryce saw him, his face brightened. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Angel nodded.

  Then Pryce looked back and said, ‘It’s Inspector Angel isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Thought any more about your garden, sir?’ he said. ‘I said I’d give you a special rate.’

  Angel smiled. ‘No thanks,’ he said, as he closed the gate. ‘I’m managing at the moment.’ He nodded towards the house. ‘Having difficulty getting paid? Couldn’t help but overhear.’

  He shrugged but didn’t smile. ‘I do her garden for her. Cut the lawn, do the weeding, keep it right, and I feed the cats for her when she’s not well or goes into hospital. But it’s always the same with her.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’

  Pryce smiled. ‘She’s loaded, you know. Just doesn’t like parting. She’ll pay me. I know she will, but I’ve got to keep chasing her for it.’

  Angel nodded understandingly.

  ‘Cheers,’ Pryce said and he crossed the pavement to his pickup truck.

  Angel frowned. He was wondering if Miss Sharpe really was as financially well favoured as everybody seemed to think. In his job, over the years, Angel had known many ‘customers’ who had put on a big front to give the impression they were wealthy, when all the time they owed the pawn shop for the shirt on their backs.

  He made his way across the yard up to the farmhouse door and knocked on it. He waited a minute and there was no answer. He knocked again. On that occasion, the door was opened only four inches. Through the gap, Angel could see a crimson eye, purple coloured nostrils with zigzag shaped septum, and half of a pair of thin blue lips.