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

by Roger Silverwood

‘Do you remember when I said that I could smell a rich, sickly sweet smell at Wendy Green’s house the day she was found murdered?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, I also came across the same smell at Ephemore Sharpe’s house, and then again at St Magdalene’s Hospital. These last few days, that smell has haunted me. I can’t explain it yet but I believe that it is the smell of the murderer. Wherever the smell was, there was also some crime. Well, that smell was the same smell as this and it looks as if it was originated here.’

  Flora straightened up and stared at him. She could feel her heart beating a tattoo. She knew she must keep on her toes.

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Leave it with you then, Flora. Keep in touch.’

  Angel went out of the room, and out of the building, glad to be away from the stink of the place, and elated at the early possibility of being able to put his finger on the murderer. He climbed into the BMW as his mobile rang out. It was Crisp.

  ‘Now, lad. What do you want?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve met Candy, sir.’

  ‘Isn’t she a picture?’ Angel said beaming. ‘I wasn’t exaggerating, was I? What progress have you made?’

  ‘I’m taking her out tonight.’

  Angel’s head went up. ‘Tonight’s no good, lad. I expect access to the computer will close when she leaves at the end of the day. Why not now?’

  Crisp blinked. ‘Now? She never leaves the desk, sir.’

  ‘What, never?’

  ‘No. And I can’t hang about her all the time. Visitors and patients look at me funny, and Dr Rubenstein pops out of his office now and again. He’s already given me a strange look.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘You haven’t told her you’re a copper, have you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied indignantly.

  ‘Good. What you need there is a diversion. Does she have a car?’

  ‘She was saying that she’d just got a brand-new Volkswagen Polo.’

  ‘Has she come to work in it?’

  ‘I think so, sir. I don’t know for certain.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out. Where are you speaking from?’

  ‘I’m in my car in the car park.’

  ‘Well stay in your car but park so that you can see the hospital entrance, because in about twenty minutes, Miss Candy Costello is going to come running out. And that’s your cue to go running in. Access to that computer should be easy. You’ll have about four minutes, which should be ample. I want the full list of patients in the hospital at the moment, plus their medical records. All right?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  Angel cleared the line and then tapped in another number. It was DC Scrivens.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Go to the armoury, Ted, see the duty sergeant and ask him for a six-minute white smoke bomb for me. Tell him I’ll call in and sign for it later. Then bring it to St Magdalene’s Hospital ASAP. I’ll be waiting for you in the car park.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel closed the mobile, dropped it in his pocket and drove straight to St Magdalene’s Hospital. He spotted Crisp in his car in the front row of the parked cars strategically placed facing the hospital doors.

  Angel busied himself scouring the hospital car park for all the recently registered Volkswagen Polos. There were only two newish ones. He noted their registration numbers, phoned them through on the special police line to Swansea and eventually found which one was registered to Candy Costello. Then he waited by her car and looked round for Ted Scrivens who should be arriving with the smoke bomb any second.

  Right on cue, his car came through the gates and Angel gave him a wave. Scrivens drove his car up to Angel and parked it.

  ‘Everything all right, lad?’ Angel said. ‘Have you got the bomb?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Scrivens said handing him a small box. ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. When I say ‘when’, I want you to rush through that door up to the reception desk where you will see the most beautiful girl in the world. Tell her that there’s a car on fire on the car park. Tell her it’s a new Volkswagen Polo and that you don’t know what to do about it. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you can go back to the station.’

  Scrivens frowned. ‘You’re not really going to set fire to it, are you, sir?’

  Angel clenched his fists. ‘No! Now do you know what to say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Make it sound urgent and desperate, lad. Imagine it was your own car. And make sure you say it to the pretty girl at the reception desk. Her name is Candy Costello. She’s got a name badge on. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right. Off you go and run. It will look good if you’re puffed.’

  Scrivens rushed off.

  Angel took out his mobile and tapped in Crisp’s number.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Stand by. Candy is going to come running out in less than a minute.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel closed the phone, moistened his little finger to see which way the wind was blowing, moved to the other side of the little car, looked round to make sure he was not being observed, and then he threw the smoke bomb hard onto the ground close to the car. It made a slight crashing sound as the glass capsule shattered.

  Angel then walked slowly away whistling ‘The Flower Duet’ from Lakmé.

  White smoke billowed out all round the little car.

  Seconds later, Candy Costello came rushing out of the hospital, as Crisp, carefully avoiding her, discreetly entered.

  Candy rushed over to her car, her hands up to her face.

  Angel turned and approached her.

  ‘What’s the matter, Miss?’

  ‘That’s . . . that’s my car!’

  ‘What’s happened to it?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s new. I’ve only had it a month. What shall I do? Oh dear.’

  ‘What have you done?’ he said. ‘Is it on fire or what?’

  ‘It’s on fire,’ she said.

  He pulled out his mobile and said, ‘Do you want me to call the Fire Brigade?’

  ‘Oh yes, please.’

  A small crowd of people was gathering, watching the white smoke billowing round the car and then drifting away in the gentle breeze.

  Angel tapped in 999, then pressed the ‘cancel’ button instead of the ‘send’, and spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Yes. Fire please . . . the car park at St Magdalene’s Hospital, Rustle Spring Lane, Bromersley . . . car on fire . . . I’m phoning on behalf of a young lady, it’s her car . . . yes, I’ll tell her. Thank you.’ He closed the phone, put it in his pocket, turned to Candy Costello and said, ‘The Fire Brigade is on its way. The fire officer said it won’t take five minutes to get here, and he said to ask you to stay near your vehicle until they arrive?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re very kind.’ Then she gave him a wan smile that would even have melted the heart of Alan Sugar.

  * * *

  As Angel was walking down the station corridor to his office, he could hear his phone ringing. He dashed into the office and picked it up.

  It was Dr Mac.

  ‘I’m worried about this wild animal case of yours, Michael.’

  Angel blinked several times. ‘You and me both,’ he said. ‘Have you got some fresh information, Mac, or are you just ringing me up to make me more miserable than I am already?’

  ‘It occurred to me last night. My wife and I were watching a ghastly film about eating habits and there were a few close-up and distasteful shots of wee kiddies, you know, chewing gum. And that got me to thinking about the way animals eat, and, do you know, Michael, in the case you are working on, at no point did I see any animal saliva on or near to either of the victims — not a drop. Now there should have been some. So I got in touch with my opposite numbers in both Glasgow and Edinburgh and they agree that an amount from a teaspoonful to a la
dleful, in, on or near the victim, would be the norm. I would expect to have seen small or tiny pools, enough to have been able to recover sufficient to check the DNA, and that would have shown the breed of the animal and possibly more. But there was none.’

  ‘Mac,’ Angel said. ‘What are you saying? Where are you going with this lack of saliva tale?’

  ‘It isn’t a tale, laddie: it’s a fact. There are no physiological reasons why there wasn’t any. Mammals cannot masticate without saliva, and wild cats produce much greater amounts than humans. There should have been an indication and there was none. And we have two crime scenes — two instances — where this phenomenon is illustrated. There must be an explanation.’

  ‘I am utterly confused, Mac. Are you saying that the victims were definitely not killed by a wild cat?’

  ‘Of course not. I am saying that . . . I suppose I’m saying that . . . that it’s a possibility.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘A possibility? But what about the claw marks, the teeth marks, the paw prints in the mud? How were the bodies moved, because you said that they were both killed elsewhere and moved six or twelve hours later? And remember there were no human footprints in the mud anywhere near the bodies.’

  ‘I don’t know, Michael. I’m just a doctor. I tell you what I know are facts. It’s up to you to interpret them. I know it’s a difficult case, I know that the facts seem ridiculous, but that’s — that’s science.’

  ‘Well, I have a partial theory about some of it, Mac. Ephemore Sharpe comes from a circus family. She could possibly walk on stilts, and stilts would not leave a permanent indent of the floor of the stream. The movement of the water would soon level off any depression that might be made, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Mac said. ‘Sounds great, Michael. I see you haven’t lost any of your unique skill as the master detective.’

  Angel beamed but was immediately suspicious. Mac was a good friend, but he never ever handed out compliments. There was a catch somewhere.

  ‘Tell me,’ Mac said. ‘This suspect of yours, Ephemore Sharpe, is she strong enough, while balancing on stilts to walk up the stream carrying the first victim, Julius Hobbs? He was a big man, you know. Twelve stone, ten pounds. She must be young and very strong.’

  Angel pulled a face. There it was. Mac had set a trap and he had walked right into it.

  ‘All right, Mac,’ he said. ‘You win. Ephemore Sharpe is in her seventies and I suppose she couldn’t possibly have lifted him.’

  He could almost hear Mac grinning.

  ‘But I’m not finished yet,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll find out how she did it before I have done. You know, Mac, this is one of the most annoying and mystifying cases I have ever worked on.’

  ‘Aye. But I’m sure you’ll solve it in the end, Michael.’

  ‘Thank you, Mac,’ he said. ‘You’ve more faith in me than I have. Goodbye.’

  He put the phone back and turned to the endless pile of letters and reports on his desk in front of him. But he couldn’t concentrate on anything. His mind was in turmoil.

  After an hour or so, there was a knock at the door.

  It was Trevor Crisp. He was waving a sheet of printed A4. There was a glint in his eye as he passed it over to Angel and said, ‘I think this must be the case you were looking for, sir. So I have printed it off.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Sit down, lad,’ Angel said taking the sheet of paper from him. He glanced at the heading, then passed it back to him. ‘Read the bits that matter.’

  ‘Well sir,’ Crisp began, ‘It refers to a Maisie Evans, a widow of 11 Royston Mews, Bromersley, date of birth 23.4.1954. There is a lot of medical stuff and mumbo jumbo then — I think this is the important bit, sir — it says,

  Transcript of consultation on 27 October 2010 under hypnosis.

  Dr Rubenstein: Now, Maisie. You wanted to tell me about the time you got your broken ribs.

  Maisie Evans: Oh yes, Doctor . . .

  (Pause of ten seconds)

  Dr Rubenstein: Well, Maisie?

  Maisie Evans: Oh yes, Doctor . . . My husband, Charles and me was very happy on our own but he didn’t get on with Philip. He’s my son. I was married before, you see. They was always bickering. It started when he started at Bromersley Comprehensive. You see he wasn’t very good at school work. He said he couldn’t do certain things like algebra and trigonometry and geography and things like that. My husband said that he must work harder, and that it looked like he took no notice of the teachers and didn’t pay attention in class. Philip said that he wasn’t made out for things like that. He was better with animals. He wanted a little dog, but Charles wouldn’t let him have one. Well, I wouldn’t have minded, but Charles said that he would have finished up looking after it. Anyway, they was always rowing. It didn’t improve with the years. It got so bad that when Philip left school, he straightaway got a job labouring for the council at Jubilee Park and he left home. He took a little flat over a pub near the park. Then on 19 October 2007, it was a Friday, he visited me one afternoon, Philip, when he should have been at work. He was in his overalls. I was surprised to see him. He said that he’d heard that his dad had been having it off with that girl from the fish shop. That his dad had finished early from work that day and called in at the Fisherman’s Rest and then gone on to the Market Hotel. Well, I didn’t believe it. But he’d been with her before and I thought it was all over. She was a real tart. Well, that made me furious, and when he came home I faced him with it. He stank of beer. And I could tell by his face that it was true. Well, we had a right set to. The worst we ever had. Anyway, in the middle of all this, Philip came back. When his dad saw him, he blamed him for everything and flew at him and began to belt him in the face with his closed fist. It was terrible. I pleaded with him to stop and I got two cracked ribs for my trouble. Then Philip pulled out a dibber from a long pocket down his overall leg and began trying to defend himself with it. They was in the kitchen at the top of the cellar steps. I was crying and holding my chest. It was hurting and I couldn’t stop coughing. And every time I coughed it hurt all the more. And in between I was . . . I was shouting at them to stop it, but, of course, they didn’t take any notice. They were still going at it hammer and tongs. Philip waved that dibber around and caught Charles a right crack at the side of the head. Charles staggered backwards at the top of the cellar steps. Next thing I know, I heard a shout from Charles and a lot of noise. It was Charles falling down the cellar steps. Then it was quiet. Too quiet. We waited a bit then Philip went down.

  Maisie Evans cries for 1 min 20 secs.

  Dr Rubenstein: Do you want any more tissues, Maisie?

  Maisie Evans: Mmmm . . .

  Dr Rubenstein: You were saying that it was quiet down the cellar and that Philip went down to investigate.

  Maisie Evans: Yes. I wondered what had happened. I shouted down to him. He didn’t say anything. I went down to have a look for myself like. Charles had his head on the bottom step and his body on the cellar floor and he wasn’t moving at all. It was awful.

  (Pause of ten seconds)

  Dr Rubenstein: What happened then, Maisie?

  Maisie Evans: I sent Philip off. There was no point in involving him. I didn’t want to lose him as well as Charles. He didn’t want to go, but I persuaded him. Then I straightened the place up and dialled 999 for an ambulance. The ambulance man looked at Charles and said he was dead and sent for the police. Two men came. One of them took a statement from me. I said that he came in drunk, we had a row, he punched me in the chest, then went to the cellar top looking for a half-bottle of whisky he said he had put there. Then he staggered, lost his footing and fell the full length all the way down. They wrote it all down then sent for a van from the mortuary and took him away. It was dreadful. Then they took me to hospital. They later sent me a report — I have it somewhere at home — where the coroner’s conclusions are that he died accidentally while under the influence of alcohol. I knew that wasn’t right, but I couldn’t let poo
r Philip be charged with murder, could I, Doctor?’

  Suddenly Angel said, ‘Trevor, stop there.’ He had been listening intently. He was looking down towards the floor and he didn’t look up. He was deeply disturbed.

  ‘There isn’t much more, sir,’ Crisp said.

  ‘No, lad. That’s quite enough.’

  Angel reached out for the phone and dialled the mortuary at Bromersley General Hospital. ‘Hello, Mac, this is Michael Angel. Would you kindly look up the PM report on a Charles Evans of 11 Royston Mews, who died on 19 October 2007?’

  ‘Now what are you up to?’ Dr Mac said.

  ‘Will you have a read and let me know if you find anything interesting?’

  ‘All right, but I can’t do it just now, Michael. I’ll ring you back in an hour or so. But even if I was the one who did the PM, it’s three years ago, I doubt if I will remember anything about it.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac,’ he said and replaced the phone. He turned back to Crisp, leaned forward, lifted out of his hands the paper with Maisie Evans’s statement on it, pushed his chair back and fed it into the shredder suspended over the wastepaper basket in the knee hole of the desk.

  Crisp stared at him open mouthed.

  Before he had chance to say anything, Angel said, ‘Clear that memory stick, lad, then re-format it. I don’t want any record of this interview keeping, and I want you to forget all that you know about it.’

  Crisp frowned. ‘All right, sir, but why?’ he said.

  ‘It was confidential information between patient and doctor.’

  ‘But you’ve heard it, sir.’

  ‘Yes. Well, like you, I hope, I am now going to forget it. I have made a big mistake.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘It’s not that much of a mistake, sir.’

  ‘Oh, it is, lad. You’ll see.’

  18

  Angel drove the car into the garage and was locking it up when he heard the church clock strike six.

  ‘Hello, love,’ Mary called, as he came into the house and closed the back door. ‘Everything all right?’

  It wasn’t. Far from it. But he said, ‘Yes,’ and gave her a kiss on the cheek.