The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel released his grip of the banister rail and tried to wheel the chair backward, but even his strength could not return it any distance. He then tried to wheel the chair forward, but it would not budge. He realized that it would definitely have needed somebody to tilt the chair back by holding down the handles to allow the chair with its passenger to run dangerously down to the bottom. Of course, Mr Piddington could easily have fallen forward out of the chair and down the steps with the same end result, but the evidence was that he came down with the chair. Angel was now satisfied, nay positive, that he was investigating a case of murder.

  He got out of the chair, squeezed past it and wheeled it down the stairs to the hall.

  He was anxious to see what Dr Mac had discovered from the body of Nancy Quinn when his mobile phone rang.

  He pulled it out of his pocket, glanced at the LCD screen, saw that it was the superintendent, wrinkled his nose, pressed the button and said, ‘Angel. Yes, sir?’

  ‘Now then, lad,’ Harker said. ‘How are you getting on with that triple nine?’

  ‘It’s a murder case, sir. And it has led us to another body in Commodore House. Everything is going to plan. Still at the stage of gathering evidence, interviewing witnesses, awaiting forensic reports and—’

  ‘Aye well, you’ll have to break off that. I’ve had a worrying call from the manager of the Royal Westminster Bank, Mr Ballantyne. I don’t know what it’s about. He couldn’t discuss it over the phone, he said. You know what banks are like for secrecy. He wanted me to go and see him ASAP. Well, I can’t go. I’m up to my neck in finalizing the details of this meeting of ACPO here in July. I told him I’d have to send you. See what is troubling him and sort it out … you’ll know what to say. I bank there so I don’t want him upsetting. All right?’

  Angel wasn’t pleased. ‘Well, I’ve two murders on my hands, sir. Time just now is at a premium. Perhaps you could send—’

  ‘Don’t be difficult, Angel,’ Harker bawled. ‘Rodney Ballantyne is a very important man. It is imperative that we keep good relations with key people in the town. I told him you’d see him within the hour. Ask for his secretary and tell her you’re expected. Now get on with it.’

  There was a click and the phone went dead.

  Angel was furious. But it was useless arguing. He’d never heard of Rodney Ballantyne and he couldn’t care less about the Royal Westminster Bank. He was never likely to be interested in the manager of the bank unless a serious crime was threatened or had already been committed. He doubted that that was the situation. And he had two serious crimes to deal with already. No crime was more serious than murder.

  He stormed outside, ignored the constable on the door, got into his car, started the engine, rammed the gearstick into first gear and let in the clutch.

  FIVE

  ‘I’m Rodney Ballantyne, pleased to meet you, Inspector Angel. Please sit down. Tell me, that name is familiar. I wonder … are you the same Inspector Angel I read about from time to time who always gets his man, like the Canadian Mounted Police?’

  Angel sat down and looked at the man across the desk. ‘It’s often reported like that,’ he said.

  ‘You mean you don’t always get your man?’ Ballantyne asked.

  Angel wished he had simply said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it really only applies to cases of murder. It is true to say that, with a lot of help from my team and sometimes some very sophisticated forensics, the investigations of the murder cases I’ve been involved with have been successful; the murderer has been caught, tried and sentenced. But there’s always a first time, when I might not be so lucky, and I don’t want to tempt providence. Now, Mr Ballantyne, I am sure that your problem is nothing to do with murder.’

  ‘No. It certainly isn’t, but it’s worrying nevertheless.’

  He opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out six £5 notes in an elastic band. He whisked off the elastic and dealt them out like playing cards in front of Angel.

  ‘Please have a look at them, Inspector,’ Ballantyne said.

  Angel picked one up, looked at it, turned it over, looked at it and then put it down. It was clean and crisp and hardly handled. ‘They’re not forgeries, are they? They’re very good if they are.’

  ‘No. They’re not forgeries. They were stolen from this bank thirty years ago. And they turned up in the cash paid in last Friday. They were put through our counting machine which rejected them because they are, strictly speaking, no longer valid currency. This issue was withdrawn in 1998. These six £5 notes are from a consignment of freshly minted notes, which were stolen from this branch in 1983. I’ve been in touch with our bank’s local director in York. He says that three men raided the bank in 1983 and got away with more than ten million pounds in £20, £10 and £5 denominations, straight from the mint. The men had handguns, and wore Yogi Bear masks. Two men were eventually caught and were given ten years’ imprisonment. The third man was never found.’

  ‘Did the bank recover any of the money?’

  ‘No. And none of the notes had been paid into this branch until last Friday when those six notes turned up. Of course, I can’t speak for other banks or other branches of this bank.’

  ‘And have you any idea who paid them in?’

  Ballantyne shook his head. ‘We know it was one of about 750 depositors.’

  It was Angel’s turn to shake his head. ‘You can’t possibly whittle it down?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Friday is a busy day, and we can’t have customers waiting more than a minute or so at the counters. We also have the additional complication of the need for cashiers to exchange denominations between themselves, from time to time.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. He rubbed his chin. ‘Well, how many times would the cashiers need to do that in the course of a day?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never thought. It all depends on how much cash is paid in, and in what denominations, and alternatively if there is the need to pay a lot of cash out, and again, in what denominations. It’s impossible to say.’

  ‘Well, put a figure on it.’

  Ballantyne shrugged, then said, ‘Up to fifteen times perhaps.’ Then he added, ‘It might be possible for us to install a system that records each exchange, although it would mean an extra internal transaction. That would be very time-consuming.’

  ‘To be effective, each teller would have to record each note by its number?’

  ‘Dear me. I suppose so. Couldn’t do that, Inspector. It would take far too long.’

  Angel nodded. He understood perfectly.

  He had thought of something else. ‘Anyway, what would prevent your tellers from re-issuing the notes to a customer who wants to withdraw cash from their account?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Unless the teller happened to notice that the picture of Her Majesty was not the current one. But that’s a lot to expect when large sums are being paid in and there is a queue of half a dozen busy and impatient customers to serve.’

  ‘Seems to me,’ Angel said, running his hand across his mouth, ‘that the only certain way of identifying the depositor of the old notes would be at the time the deposit was being made.’

  ‘You are absolutely right, Inspector, but I’m not sure that I can expect our tellers to be as observant as that.’

  ‘Well, I think you will have to make them aware of the situation, Mr Ballantyne, otherwise there may not be much hope of identifying the person who deposited them.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he said. ‘I will try and get their cooperation. It may be a good idea to stick one of these six notes at each till, right in front of their noses, to remind them that they’re now in circulation.’

  Angel nodded in agreement, then said, ‘What has happened to the robbers?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was told that they pleaded their innocence at the time of their arrest, throughout the trial and when they were in prison.’

  Angel blinked. That was a surprise. ‘And the third man?’ he s
aid.

  ‘He was never identified.’

  Angel pursed his lips and his eyes narrowed.

  Angel came out of the Royal Westminster Bank and got into the BMW. As he was putting his key into the ignition, his mobile rang out. He glanced at the screen. The caller was the Chief Constable. Angel’s eyebrows shot up. This was unusual. Contact with the boss was rare and was usually about matters of discipline or special commendation, and as he was not aware that he was up for either, he couldn’t guess what he wanted. He pressed the key and said, ‘Angel. Yes, sir?’

  It was a woman who spoke. ‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. It’s Mrs Murchison. How are you?’

  She was the Chief’s secretary. Angel had hardly spoken to her over the six or seven years she had been in the job, but they knew each other by sight well enough. However, he couldn’t imagine what she wanted.

  ‘I am fine, thank you, Mrs Murchison,’ he said in his best Sunday voice. ‘And I trust you are well?’

  ‘I am very well, thank you. Now, the Chief Constable wants you to make yourself available for a short meeting in his office tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. He wants to address all senior officers, so Superintendent Harker and Inspector Asquith will also be present. That’s all.’

  Angel wondered what it was about. Maybe the Chief was moving on, retiring or being promoted. He didn’t think so. Or perhaps there was to be another Home Office inspection. He hoped not.

  ‘Is that all right, Inspector?’ she added.

  ‘Yes, of course. I will be there, Mrs Murchison. Thank you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Inspector Angel.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mrs Murchison.’

  He closed the phone. His first thought was to ring Haydn Asquith, the uniformed inspector, and the only other inspector at the station, to see if he knew what the meeting was about, but he decided against it. The meeting was early the next morning. He would have to control his curiosity until then. He pocketed the phone and started the BMW. He looked at the time on the dashboard. It said 16.22 hours.

  He couldn’t make his mind up where to go next. He wanted to see what SOCO had turned up at each of the crime scenes. That was important. Trevor Crisp was on the door to door, he might have some useful information. That was important too. Flora Carter was seeing Piddington’s GP to find out about his health and his capabilities. That would certainly be very useful. And then there was Dr Mac, who might have conclusive information about the cause of death of both the old man and his carer and maybe other information that modern science can sometimes determine from dead bodies.

  He decided to visit Dr Mac. The mortuary was on the right side of town to leave him well placed to get home at a reasonable time for once.

  He duly arrived at Bromersley District General Hospital, found a car park space, went into the hospital, and made his way up the long corridor to the mortuary. The door was always locked as it had been known for bodies to go missing. He rang the bell and an assistant in a green overall recognized him, admitted him and told him that Dr Mac was in his office at the far end of the department.

  The mortuary was a big, smelly suite of rooms, white tiled, and with huge windows. Gutters, green hosepipes and banks of refrigerated bodies stood on the side and there was water, water everywhere. There was a constant smell of ammonia, sulphurated hydrogen and carbolic soap.

  As he passed through the theatre, there was a body on an operating table covered with a green cloth.

  Angel reached the offices.

  Mac looked up from his writing through the internal window of his office and saw Angel approaching. He smiled and waved him in.

  ‘I thought you wouldn’t be far away,’ Mac said, as he pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down.’

  Angel looked round the little office, although he had been there many times before. ‘I don’t know how you work in this abominable smell,’ he said as he closed the door and eased himself into the chair.

  ‘You get used to it. You’ve timed it well. I’ve just finished the examination of the young woman. I haven’t written it up yet, but I should be able to email it to you tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s great, Mac. Just give me the basic info I need to know.’

  ‘Well, I can confirm that the body is that of Nancy Quinn. She’s been a patient at this hospital, so I’ve been able to get her records. She was born on 11 October 1988. Admitted three years ago for appendicitis, and she has the scar to prove it. Also, in 1992 she had a mastoidectomy, which also left her with a scar behind the right ear. So it all checks out. She died from eighteen stab wounds to the neck, chest, back, stomach and thighs. The weapon was a thin knife with a blade at least six inches long. Could have been an ordinary steak knife.’

  The corners of Angel’s mouth turned down, and he recalled the image he saw when he entered her poky flat in Commodore House.

  Mac said, ‘And there’s something else, Michael. And you won’t like this either.’

  Angel frowned. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She was beaten, I would say systematically, on several occasions.’

  ‘On several occasions?’

  ‘Two or three times. There are contusions all over her stomach, buttocks, chest, thighs and her arms. They seem to have been inflicted with a clenched fist. The skin wasn’t punctured and none of the contusions were on her hands or her face. The varying condition of the skin indicates that they were inflicted over a period of time … on different occasions … say, over ten days or two weeks or so.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

  ‘What some people have to tolerate. Was the weapon – the steak knife – found?’

  ‘I haven’t seen it. Don Taylor didn’t mention it. There might be more when the analyses of the stomach contents, the liver and so on come back from the lab. No visual signs of drugs or foreign substances.’

  ‘Any needle marks?’

  ‘Couldn’t find any.’

  Angel considered all that Mac had told him and then said, ‘Have you finished your examination of the old man?’

  ‘Yes. Except for the writing up. He broke his neck, which snapped his spine and he died instantly.’

  The muscles in Angel’s face tightened. ‘It’s a relief to know that he died straightaway. Any other wounds?’

  ‘Bruising of his hands, fingers and his right elbow, no doubt incurred trying to save himself as he fell.’

  ‘Those wounds couldn’t have been inflicted while defending himself against an attack by somebody?’

  ‘They could have, but it is usually the case that when we are falling we put out our open hands in front of us to try to limit the impact of a fall, or to find something to grab hold of to save ourselves. It may not be a brilliant idea, Michael, but that’s the reflex action most people take if they find themselves falling forward.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mac. Just looking at all the options.’

  It was 5.15 p.m.

  Angel drove the BMW straight into the open garage, pulled down the door, locked it, walked along the path to the back of his house, unlocked the kitchen door, went in and closed the door. He looked round. There was no sign of Mary.

  ‘Anybody home?’ he called. ‘Hello. Is there anybody there?’

  But there was silence. She did not reply.

  However, there were the giveaway signs that food was being prepared: the warmth from the oven, the smell of cooking meat, and the sight of pots and kitchen utensils soaking in the sink.

  He bent down and looked through the glass door of the oven and saw a casserole dish. He nodded with satisfaction and anticipation.

  He went through the kitchen into the hall and called up the stairs. ‘Anybody home? I’m back.’

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Mary called. ‘I’m in the loft. I’m coming down now.’

  His eyebrows shot up. He wondered why she was in the loft. There was nothing up there but a thick layer of dust, a thicker wadding of insulation, cardboard boxes of rubbish and a lagged water tank.

  ‘No
rush, love,’ he called. ‘Any post?’

  ‘On the hall table,’ she said smartly. ‘It’s always on the hall table.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said quietly, then shook his head. He was thinking, he knew it was always on the hall table except when it wasn’t, which was three or four times a week. Then it was on the worktop in the kitchen, or in Mary’s handbag or on the mantelshelf or somewhere totally impossible to guess such as tucked inside her library book.

  He glanced down at the hall table. There was one envelope. He knew the sender before he picked it up. He wrinkled his nose. It was from the gas company, a cheap brown window envelope, in an irregular size. He tore it open. It was never good news. Either the price of gas was going up, or he was behind with the payments. He read it quickly. There were four long paragraphs of reasons, excuses, explanations and glorification of the company and the wisdom of the directors followed by the hard news that the cost of gas was being increased by five per cent a therm in a month’s time. Angel frowned. Five per cent a therm? What does that mean in money? By how much is it going to increase the cost of the bill? The letter didn’t say. He was mulling over the possible consequences of the increase in price, when Mary appeared.

  ‘You’re early, love, is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. What you doing in the attic?’

  She saw him holding the letter. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Letter from the gas company. They’re shoving the price of gas up again.’

  ‘Oh. I was looking for an atlas. I thought we had an atlas. A big flat book with a blue cover.’

  ‘I know what it looks like,’ he said. ‘You put it in the church jumble. You said it was out of date.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘So that’s where it went. Of course I did. I remember now. No wonder I couldn’t find it. We need an up-to-date one. Anyway, what’s the capital of Ethiopia?’