The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  He glanced at it and put it in his mouth.

  She watched him swallow it and follow it up with another sip of tea.

  ‘Moira sends her love. She’s got a new boyfriend. Only known him a week. Moved in with him. He seems a bit old for her. He seems to be well off, though. And I can’t do anything with her. She’s over eighteen. She’s got the law on her side, so she says. Are you listening to me, Dad?’

  He nodded and took another sip.

  ‘I think you’re a bit better this afternoon, aren’t you?’ she said.

  She often said that to try to keep him cheerful.

  ‘Do you feel better?’ she said, trying to get him to speak.

  He gave her a brief smile, nodded, then straightened his face, looked down at his white, skinny hands and shook his head.

  Christine was disappointed. ‘Why don’t you speak, Dad. I know you can still speak if you want to.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ he began.

  She smiled at him and brushed her hand through his thin, white hair. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Now what is it you want to say?’

  He took a deep breath and said, ‘There’re thousands and thousands of pounds.’

  Christine Elsworth shook her head. The corners of her mouth turned downward. ‘Not that again,’ she said.

  Then again, louder and with enthusiasm Piddington said, ‘Thousands and thousands. Thousands and thousands.’

  TWO

  30 Park Street, Forest Hill Estate, Bromersley. 14.00 hours. Sunday, 5 May 2013.

  Inspector Michael Angel was at home in his sitting room in jogging trousers and sports shirt, catching up with his reading of the local weekly paper, the Bromersley Chronicle.

  He had just cleared two helpings of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and sprouts followed by a generous helping of fresh fruit salad, and was thoroughly enjoying the peace of the day while his wife, Mary, was in the kitchen banging pans about and slamming cupboard doors.

  Eventually she appeared carrying two beakers of coffee. She put them down on coasters on the library table between them.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ he said, without looking up. Then he added, ‘Here, Mary, listen to this.’

  He read: ‘“The International Jewellery Fair is being held in Leeds on May 14th to the 19th. Lord and Lady Tulliver from Tunistone will be there to open the fair on Wednesday at 10 a.m. Lady Tulliver will be wearing the Mermaid Diamond.”’

  He looked up at her. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Mary said, ‘I don’t think her ladyship will be selling it, darling.’

  ‘Pity,’ Angel said. ‘I was trying to think of something nice for you for our anniversary.’

  She smiled.

  ‘No,’ he went on, ‘but you would have thought that the people employed as security to the fair would have advised us about it,’ he said. ‘I’ve not heard a word about an international jewellery fair. Every crook in the area will be thinking how he can get hold of Tulliver’s diamond or some other enticing bits of booty.’

  ‘There’s time yet,’ Mary said. ‘And it isn’t in Bromersley, it’s in Leeds, that’s twenty miles away.’

  ‘That’s twelve minutes in a Lamborghini.’

  ‘Anyway, I wonder why that diamond is called the “Mermaid” Diamond?’

  ‘I dunno. It says more on page ten. Just a second.’ He lifted the paper up and quickly turned over some pages. ‘Mmm. It’s here. Shall I read it to you? … It says,

  “One of the most dazzling exhibits in the Schumacher Museum in South Africa was a 39-carat diamond. It became known as the Mermaid Diamond, because in 1760 a 10-year-old girl found it while playing in a stream. A local sheep farmer heard of this and claimed the stone for himself. In 1768 it was used as barter to secure the release of a lover of Marie Antoinette from the guillotine. Thereafter, the stone changed hands many times and in 1939 it was loaned to the Schumacher Museum by the railway millionaire Henri Van Musdomen who had had it made into a pendant and had presented it to the Princess Farina of Persia on the day of their marriage.

  “Over the years, several attempts to steal the many treasures of the Schumacher were foiled by the security systems put in place by the directors of the museum. The cleaners, tellers and workmen at the museum were even subjected to a strip-search and X-ray before leaving at the end of their shifts.

  “However, on 2 May 1986, a 46-year-old employee, Moses Black, a cleaner, who was polishing the showcase where the Mermaid Diamond and other precious jewels were exhibited, forced open the cabinet, took the stone and fastened it to the leg of a homing pigeon he had smuggled into the museum in a container attached to his leg. He then released the bird through an aperture he made by springing back a segment of a ventilation fan on a window in a staff lavatory, and the diamond was on its way to the tiny pigeon loft he had at his primitive corrugated-iron house two miles away.

  “Since that time, the diamond has not been seen nor heard of until April 2009 when it was offered for sale in a Swiss auction house, and it was bought for an undisclosed sum by Lord Tulliver of Marlborough House, Tunistone.”’

  Angel lowered the paper and looked across at Mary. With eyebrows raised, he said, ‘Must be worth millions!’

  Mary wrinkled her nose. ‘You know, Michael, on reflection I won’t have that for our anniversary. I wouldn’t know where to keep it. And I wouldn’t sleep at night knowing that there were people out there wanting to break in and steal it.’

  ‘Lady Tulliver doesn’t keep it in a tin box under the bed, sweetheart, nor even in a combination wall safe behind a picture of a hunting scene, drinking the stirrup cup or whatever. Those days are over. Her ladyship will wear it for show at special occasions, when there will be a security man, or a team, watching over her. The rest of the time it will be in a bank vault, in a safe-deposit box. Everybody makes their own arrangements, which of course they keep quiet about.’

  ‘Yes. I see that. It’s too much of a chore and a worry for me.’

  ‘The insurance company do all the worrying, darling.’

  ‘For a great deal of money, I expect.’

  ‘Well, yes. But that is what they are for. It’s their business.’

  ‘And jolly good luck to them,’ she said, and reached out for a magazine she had been reading earlier.

  Angel returned to the paper.

  They read quietly for a minute or so, then Mary said, ‘In a standard pack of playing cards, which king is the only king without a moustache?’

  Angel said, ‘That’s an old one: it’s the King of Hearts.’

  ‘Is it? Well, thank you, darling.’

  He frowned, looked up and said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘It’s a competition.’

  ‘A competition? You’re wasting your time. You’ll never win anything. They’re all devised to sell or advertise something – not give anything worth having away.’

  ‘I know. I know. But you sometimes get nice prizes. There’s a woman in Rhyl – a Mrs James – who won fifteen hundred pounds last month.’

  ‘You don’t want to take any notice of that. They make it up. Do you know Mrs James of Rhyl?’

  ‘Of course not, but somebody will. There’s a photograph of her.’

  ‘If there is such a person. It could be anybody. That photo could be the boss’s grandmother who lived in Sussex and died ten years ago.’

  ‘You do have a fertile imagination.’

  ‘It’s not worth the postage … do you realize what a second-class stamp costs these days?’

  ‘How did we get to this? I only asked you a question about kings on playing cards.’

  ‘We’ve got to watch our costs, Mary,’ he said.

  ‘Are you going to cut the lawn, before it rains?’ she said. ‘The clouds are building up, and there are a lot of dandelions that want rooting out.’

  Angel buried his head back in the newspaper.

  The Police Station, Bromersley. 08.28 hours. Monday, 6 May 2013.

  Angel arrived at hi
s small office, closed the door, threw his hat at the plastic hook glued onto the side of the green metal cabinet. The brown fedora landed on the hook and stayed there. He looked at it almost in disbelief and he smiled briefly. He looked down at the pile of post on his desk and pulled a face: his nose went up and the corners of his mouth turned downward. He sat down in the swivel chair and began to riffle through them when the phone went.

  He reached out for it. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  It was Sergeant Clifton in the control coom. ‘Good morning, sir. Sorry to bother you so early, but a woman phoned in a triple nine at 08.10 hours to say that she found her father dead at his home.’

  Angel rubbed a hand across his mouth. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. She’s the daughter, next of kin. She was very distressed. It wasn’t easy talking to her.’

  Angel nodded. He could understand that. ‘Has a doctor been summoned?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. He examined him and pronounced him dead.’

  ‘The daughter is still at the house, I take it, and the body is still there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I sent Bravo Romeo Two, that’s Sean Donohue. He’s a good lad. You’ll want SOCO, Dr Mac and your sergeants, I take it. Do you want me to alert them?’

  ‘Yes please, Bernie. I’ll go there straightaway. What’s the name and address?’

  ‘Christine Elsworth, 22 Jubilee Park Road.’

  As Angel drove the BMW along Park Road looking for number 22, he saw Bravo Romeo Two standing outside a house next to a small black Ford car. He pulled across the road and parked behind the police car.

  Number 22 was small, detached and stone fronted. He knocked on the front door, opened it and walked in.

  Two faces turned round to look at him, the police patrolman, Sean Donohue, and a woman. Her eyes were red and moist, and she looked weary. He assumed she was Mrs Christine Elsworth.

  Behind her on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, he saw the body of a small, old man in pyjamas and dressing gown. His head was resting on a cushion. His eyes were closed and his face and hair were white. Beside him was a wheelchair on its side.

  The patrolman who was holding a pen and a notebook saluted. Angel acknowledged the salute, turned to Christine and said, ‘I take it this is Mrs Elsworth?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Good morning, sir,’ Donohue said. He turned to the woman and said, ‘This is Inspector Angel.’

  Angel went up to her and said, ‘Mrs Elsworth, I am very sorry to hear of your loss.’

  She nodded and said, ‘I hope you are going to find out who is responsible?’

  The muscles of his mouth and chin tightened. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, then he said, ‘Did you find your father’s body?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I called in about thirty-five minutes ago, it would be. I last saw Dad alive at about 5.30 yesterday afternoon. Nancy Quinn should have been in and settled him down last night from six to seven. Made sure he was comfortable … given him a drink … filled his hot water bottle … made sure he had taken his pills … put his phone handy… checked the windows and locked the door … and so on.’

  ‘And was the door locked this morning?’

  ‘No. And it’s not the first time she’s forgotten.’

  ‘And was your father exactly where he is now?’

  ‘He was on his side facing away from the wheelchair. I turned him on his back to make him more comfortable and I put the pillow under his head.’

  ‘So you came in at approximately 8.25. You were naturally shocked and distressed. You moved his position slightly to make him more comfortable.… Didn’t you think he was dead?’

  ‘I knew he was dead. I could tell from the expression on his face … and the fact that he was cold.’

  ‘So you didn’t phone for a doctor?’

  ‘I did. The first thing I did. I phoned for his GP. And then I dialled 999 and asked for the police.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘So what do you think happened, then?’

  Christine Elsworth said, ‘It’s obvious what happened. Somebody took my father upstairs in the wheelchair, then let it go. He certainly could not have taken the chair up there himself.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘And who might have done that, Mrs Elsworth, and why?’

  ‘Well the only person who had access to my father was the girl who was his part-time carer, Nancy Quinn.’

  ‘And why would she do that?’

  ‘Who knows? Young people are all alike these days. Drunk or drugged up to their eyeballs. Brainless yobs, most of them … all they know about is sex, money and drugs.’

  ‘Are you saying that Nancy Quinn, your father’s carer, was like that?’

  She hesitated then said, ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do something about it?’ Angel said.

  ‘I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. She’s the third carer I’ve had for him since Christmas. They don’t stay long. And I pay well above the going rate.’

  Angel pursed his lips, then turned to Donohue. ‘Where’s the doctor?’

  ‘He’s been and gone, sir. He left the death certificate. I have it here.’

  ‘Right, Sean,’ Angel said. ‘Hang on to it for now.’ Then he turned back to Christine Elsworth. ‘Was this …. is this Nancy Quinn unreliable?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said, after a moment’s thought. ‘No, I wouldn’t say she was unreliable.’

  ‘So … is she due to call on your father today?’

  ‘Oh yes, indeed she is,’ she said. ‘In fact she should be here at ten o’clock.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And I’m very late opening my shop. Not that it matters that much. But if there’s nothing else you need from me, Inspector, I’d better go and open it. Of course, if there is anything, I’ll stay.’

  Angel said, ‘Will you call in to the station sometime soon to have your fingerprints taken, Mrs Elsworth? It’s so that SOCO can eliminate your prints from the crime scene. And I will want to interview you at length later. You get off, if you will be all right on your own?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I will be better working than being here.’

  ‘Is there anybody else who calls regularly or works here who might have called in to see your father since last night?’

  ‘No. I can’t think of anybody. The last time I saw him was at about 5.30 … oh dear.’ She began to cry again.

  Angel nodded. He patted her on her arm and said, ‘Right, Mrs Elsworth, that’s all for now. Leave the phone numbers and addresses where I can reach you … with Patrolman Donohue.’

  ‘I’ve already got all that, sir,’ Donohue said.

  ‘And I will need the address and phone number of the old gentleman’s carer, Nancy Quinn,’ Angel said.

  ‘I’ve got that as well, sir.’

  Angel nodded with satisfaction at Donohue.

  ‘I’ll be back later, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. I shall need to see you today for a statement.’

  She took a longing look at the body of her father, swallowed hard and went out.

  Angel glanced at his watch. It was 9.50. He had it in mind that if Nancy Quinn had pushed old Mr Piddington down the stairs, as was suggested by Christine Elsworth, she might not come to work at ten o’clock that morning. Then again, if she wanted to brazen it out, perhaps she would come. Whatever happened, he wanted to be certain to see her reaction to the news that the old man was dead.

  He turned to Donohue. ‘Sean, tell me, what did you find when you arrived?’

  Donohue turned back a few pages in his notebook and said, ‘Well, sir, I got here at 08.43 hours to find Mrs Elsworth on her knees in tears, putting a cushion – that cushion – under her father’s head. I immediately put my hand to his neck; there was no pulse, and he was very cold, so I knew he was a goner. I phoned back to our control room and reported what I’d found. Sergeant Clifton said he’d notify the super. Then a few minutes later you arrived.’

  ‘Yes, Sean, I’ve got all that, but what was the scen
e like? I mean, the old man didn’t have his head on a pillow, did he?’

  ‘No, sir. Mrs Elsworth put it there.’

  ‘What I want to know is – where exactly was he?’

  ‘Pretty much where he is now, sir.’

  ‘And what do you think happened?’

  Donohoe looked at Angel and frowned. ‘Well, I dunno, sir. I suppose he accidentally took his wheelchair over the edge of the top step and came tumbling down the stairs.’

  ‘Do you think he came down in the wheelchair and fell out at the bottom?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, sir. It seems to me it doesn’t matter. I think he came down the stairs at speed and was killed by the fall.’

  ‘It does matter, Sean. It matters a lot. Anyway, thank you for your help.’

  There was the sound outside of vehicles arriving.

  ‘Sounds like the cavalry,’ Angel said. ‘You’d better get off home. I know you’ve been up all night.’

  ‘I’ve written out those addresses and phone numbers of Mrs Elsworth and Nancy Quinn, sir,’ he said, tearing a page out of his notebook and handing it over to him.

  Angel took it, glanced at it, nodded and shoved it into his pocket. ‘Thank you, lad,’ he said, ‘and give that death certificate to Ahmed in the CID office before you go, will you?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Donohue said and he went quickly out of the front door.

  Angel looked around the hall to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything, then he crossed to the front door and opened it.

  The SOCO van and Dr Mac’s car and the mortuary van were parked outside on Jubilee Park Road. DS Donald Taylor, head of SOCO at Bromersley, was coming through the gate. Angel opened the door wide and indicated to him to come into the hall.

  Taylor saw the dead man and the mess at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Hmm. I see,’ Taylor said. ‘Not very nice, sir.’

  Angel said, ‘I’m afraid that the scene has been contaminated by the daughter, Don. She found him. And there’s nothing we could have done about it. Also a GP has been over him to examine him to issue a death certificate.’