The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Right, well, if anything occurs to you, give me a ring. Good afternoon.’

  ‘I certainly will, Inspector. Good afternoon.’

  He came out of the kiosk and back round the corner to the BMW. He started the engine and pointed the bonnet in the direction of Victoria Road, the long street of offices. He soon found Ernest Potter and Son and went through the glass door and up to the counter. A young woman was tapping something out on a computer keyboard. She turned and looked up at him.

  ‘I want to speak to Mr Potter, Adrian Potter, please,’ he said. ‘I am DI Angel.’

  ‘I’m Adrian Potter,’ a voice behind him said. He had followed him through the internal door. ‘I was just leaving, Inspector. But if I can help you …’

  ‘Can we go somewhere where we can talk?’ Angel said.

  He noticed that Potter blinked nervously, as he said, ‘Of course. Please follow me.’

  Potter made his way out of the reception area, through another door into a small, tidy little office.

  Angel followed him, looking round at all the different photographs of houses and properties on the wall.

  Potter pointed to the chair in front of the desk, while he sat down behind it. ‘Now, Inspector, what’s it all about?’

  ‘You have been instructed by Mrs Christine Elsworth to sell a house?’

  ‘Yes, 22 Jubilee Park Road.’

  ‘You had a key to the place? Mrs Elsworth gave it to you late yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Yes. A police sergeant, a very pretty woman, took it from me this morning. I have her name and number in the key book. I hope that was on the level.’

  ‘Yes. That was my sergeant. And I have just returned the key to Mrs Elsworth.’

  Potter frowned. ‘If I am expected to sell the property, Inspector, the key should be here in this office at all times for prospective buyers to be able to see over the place.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, but perhaps you could sort that out with Mrs Elsworth?’

  ‘I certainly will, but what’s your interest, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, I need to know the names and addresses of the people who have expressed interest in the place.’

  ‘Well, nobody has actually had the key, Inspector. It is early days. Nor has it been advertised in the papers yet. I believe there has only been just the one phone call. I remember speaking to somebody yesterday about it. My secretary may have fielded some other enquiries while I was out.’

  He picked up the phone and said, ‘Jane, have you had any enquiries at all re 22 Jubilee Park Road? … Nothing? … Oh?’

  Potter’s eyebrows shot up.

  Angel watched him attentively.

  ‘Of course,’ Potter continued into the phone. ‘Yes. I remember now … yes … right.’

  He replaced the receiver, turned to Angel and said, ‘She reminded me that there was a standing enquiry for anything near or around the park from a Mr Oliver.’

  Angel frowned.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘No, sir. There’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘I will be able to continue to offer it for sale, won’t I? It’s in a popular area, near the park, and on the fringe of a better class of architect-designed homes. Although the market is very depressed, I would expect to sell it fairly quickly.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Again, you’ll need to sort that out with Mrs Elsworth. Now will you let me have the two names and addresses?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Potter said, opening a drawer. ‘It’s here, in my book.’ He took out a large property book and turned over some pages. ‘Here we are, 22 Jubilee Park Road. He read out his notes. ‘9/5/13, Charles Morris, the Old Vicarage, St Peter’s Close, Tunistone, phoned requesting full details and price.’

  Angel was not surprised to hear that name. He was still awaiting a report on that man from Trevor Crisp. He must remember to put a squib up Crisp’s backside. He took out the old envelope from his inside pocket and made a note of Morris’s address.

  Potter then turned back to the first page in the property book. ‘And this is the name and phone number of the standing enquirer interested in any property in or near Jubilee Park, Mr Edward Oliver. He phoned originally on 6/5/13. Only means of contact, by mobile phone.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. That was suspicious in itself, he reckoned as he licked his bottom lip. Edward Oliver was a name he had not come across in this inquiry. Heat began to generate in his chest and increased as he scribbled away. There was another suspect.

  ‘I phoned him yesterday,’ Potter said. ‘I told him I had this house to offer and he sounded interested. He said he would drop into the office when he was next in town.’

  Angel’s heart was thumping. ‘And what was his number?’

  ‘07763193880,’ Potter said.

  As Angel scribbled the number down, his chest was burning and throbbing. He now had three suspects when up till then he had had only one. Things were looking up.

  As he looked at the number the more he thought he had recently come across it before. The double seven at the beginning and the double eight at the end seemed familiar. He eagerly turned his envelope over, searching for the number. He found it. It was there. It was the same number; it was identical to the one Nancy Quinn had rung frequently on her mobile the last two weeks of her life except for the last two days. For those two days, Angel reckoned, the owner of the number, Edward Oliver, was living with her in her flat and it was he who eventually, madly, crazily stabbed her to death while they were apparently making love.

  Angel reached into his pocket and took out his business card. He put it down in front of Potter and said, ‘I would be pleased if you would kindly let me know if Edward Oliver makes any further approach to you.’

  ‘Oh yes, Inspector,’ Potter said. ‘I didn’t know you knew him. What sort of a man is he?’

  ‘Interesting,’ Angel said. ‘Very interesting.’

  He came out of Potter’s office, got into the BMW. He was quite excited now that he had the name of the murderer. He looked at the dashboard clock. It was 5.15. So he drove straight home.

  He put the car in the garage, and went down the path to the back door. He let himself in with his key, closed the door and looked round the kitchen. There was no sign of Mary and no sign of tea. He was about to call out when he heard her rushing from the hall to the kitchen with a magazine in her hand. She had a big smile on her face.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘I thought I heard the door. What are you doing here?’

  He frowned. ‘I live here,’ he said.

  ‘No, no,’ she said with a laugh and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. ‘I mean you’re so early. You’re never as early as this.’

  ‘I am sometimes. I finish at five,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I know. Well, I’m sorry. Tea isn’t ready. I didn’t expect you for another half hour or so.’

  ‘That’s all right, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush.’

  ‘But you’ve come just in time,’ she said and she thrust the magazine she was holding into his hand and said, ‘What’s the answer to question nine? It’s for a winter cruise round the Norwegian fjords. You’ll know it. You have that sort of memory.’

  He wrinkled his nose and held up the magazine. ‘You always said you didn’t want to go anywhere cold for a holiday. And there’s nowhere colder than the Norwegian fjords in winter.’

  ‘Never mind all that, Michael. It’s free!’

  ‘Free? So what? I wouldn’t go on a holiday I didn’t want to go on simply because it was free.’

  ‘There are other prizes,’ she said, then she snatched back the magazine, glanced at the question and said, ‘“What is the name of the Greek goddess of love and beauty?” Do you know it?’

  He smiled. ‘Of course I know it. The Greek goddess of love and beauty is Mary,’ he said boldly and with a deadpan expression. ‘Now, how about something to eat?’

  Mary looked at him and frowned. Her mouth opened slightly
. She licked her pretty lips. ‘I know that Venus is the Roman goddess of love and beauty … and I was pretty certain that the Greek was Aphrodite.’

  ‘It’s Mary, definitely,’ he said. He turned away to avoid her eyes. ‘Now, what’s for tea?’

  ‘I just want to finish this,’ she said, still frowning and trying to catch his eye. ‘Are you sure it’s Mary?’

  ‘If you’ve put Aphrodite, your name won’t even be in the hat. You’ll ruin any chance of going up to the North Pole.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘It isn’t the North Pole, it’s the Norwegian fjords.’

  ‘Well, Mary, I ask you. Do you really want to go to the Norwegian fjords in the middle of winter?’

  She hesitated. ‘If it’s free, I suppose … well, I wouldn’t mind. They say it’s breathtaking.’

  ‘I think you’ve misread it.’

  She looked at him indignantly. ‘I have not misread it. Give me credit for being able to read.’

  ‘No. You’ve misread it. It says that it’s freezing, not that it’s free!’

  Her eyebrows went up, then came down as she looked at him closely.

  He couldn’t contain himself any longer. He had to smile.

  She saw him and broke into a laugh.

  The game was up.

  He guffawed, then said, ‘I mean … I mean … whoever heard of Mary at the waterhole?’

  ‘I knew it was Aphrodite all the time,’ she said. ‘You rotten tease.’

  ‘What did you ask me for, then?’

  ‘I just needed confirmation, that’s all.’

  They had a good giggle, then Mary turned away to the fridge, opened the door and took out a packet of smoked salmon, eggs, butter and milk. ‘If you set the table, Michael, tea will be ready in five minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ he said, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips.

  He took out a beer from the fridge and a tumbler from the cupboard and poured himself a glass of his favourite German beer.

  They had smoked salmon and scrambled egg, one of Angel’s favourite meals. And when they had settled in the sitting room with coffee, Mary said, ‘You seem in a good mood tonight, Michael, is there some particular reason?’

  ‘Oh, well … it’s coming home to you at the end of the day,’ he said.

  She kissed him on the forehead. ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ she said, smiling.

  He smiled back and squeezed her hand.

  ‘No,’ she continued. ‘Something has happened at work. Er … you’ve solved the case? You’ve got the murderer?’

  ‘You’re partly right, sweetheart. We have got the murderer’s name.’

  ‘Oh? That’s great, isn’t it?’

  ‘It would be if I knew where to find him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Edward Oliver.’

  ‘Edward Oliver? Which one is he? Where does he fit in? I’ve not heard you mention him before.’

  ‘I don’t know myself. We have his mobile number, and we have two independent witnesses who have given us descriptions of the man which are pretty well in agreement.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s why you’re looking like the cat that got the cream.’

  ‘Well, we’ve still got to find the man,’ he said. ‘That’s the first thing – no, the second thing I must see to in the morning.’

  Mary blinked. ‘Why, what’s the first?’

  ‘There’s a video recorder with a night lens, set up in the attic of old Mr Piddington’s house. There is a hoard of paper money hidden up there, enough to constitute a motive. I want to see who knows about it. It could be our Mr Edward Oliver.’

  TWELVE

  It was 9 a.m. on Friday, 10 May 2013.

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  Flora entered with a black metal box the size of a cigar box, with a length of connecting cable wrapped round it.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Come in, lass,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll not be surprised to hear that all the money is gone,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. It’s worth it, if it’s all recorded on that videotape. You’ve got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and there’s the front door key,’ she said, putting a shiny new key on his desk.

  Angel picked it up and put it in his pocket.

  ‘How long has the tape run for?’

  ‘Looks like more than an hour, sir.’

  He looked pleased. He swung round in the swivel chair to the table behind, picked up his laptop and gave it to her. ‘Can you set it up and let’s see what we’ve got?’

  Flora began the business of linking the video to the laptop with a cable and finding a mains power socket in which to plug the laptop.

  Angel said, ‘Did you see anything of a Yogi Bear mask in Piddington’s attic?’

  ‘No, sir. But I do remember you did say something about it being with the money. I expect Christine Elsworth took it.’

  ‘There might be good prints on it,’ he said. ‘Provide evidence of the robbery.’

  They both looked at the laptop screen. It was pitch black.

  ‘It’s running, sir. I hope it’s working,’ she said.

  ‘It records when there is enough light,’ he said. ‘And it has a night lens, so it should be OK.’

  A clock face suddenly appeared on the screen informing them that the time was 02.06 hours, Friday, 10 May 2013. That was followed by a flashing picture of Piddington’s attic, depicting the underside of the roof tiles, the wooden beams, the cobwebs and the camouflaged water tank.

  The ever-moving light source seemed to be a flashlight. A human figure carrying something bulky came into view from the bottom of the picture. It covered the video camera lens briefly. The figure then moved towards the wooden case and disposed of whatever it had been carrying out of range of the picture. The figure then seemed to be trying to find an appropriate position for the flashlight, first placing it on the edge of the wooden case where it fell into it. The figure then leaned inside to retrieve it when for the first time the head turned to the camera and as the light was brought out of the case it was possible for Angel and Flora Carter to see the face of the figure in the picture was a woman.

  ‘Mrs Elsworth,’ they said in unison.

  Angel was shocked. He shook his head and wrinkled his nose. ‘His own daughter,’ he said.

  ‘Did Christine Elsworth murder her own father, sir?’

  ‘Well, she had the means, the opportunity and now there’s the motive. But, we have still to prove it,’ he said. ‘There are some prints on the back of the wheelchair that have not yet been identified. Don Taylor is trying to match them up.’

  They both stared at the laptop screen.

  Christine Elsworth was bending up and down over the packing case. She worked quickly and energetically. The explanation for her movements became clear. She was transferring the money into sacks. When she had filled a sack sufficiently, she tied a knot in the neck of it and dropped it through the loft door. The operation was repeated many times. Angel sped up the replay until they saw her put the cover over the packing case and leave the loft. When the flashlight went down through the loft door, the camera stopped rolling and the recording stopped.

  He switched off the laptop, turned back to his desk and looked across it at Flora. ‘The first thing is to get a warrant for the arrest of Christine Elsworth for handling stolen money.’

  Flora frowned. ‘What about the charge of murdering her father?’ she said.

  ‘We would look like awful berks if we were wrong about that, whereas we know for certain that she has handled the stolen money. We can add a murder charge when we have proof.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Then liaise with Don Taylor. I want a full search of her house, her car and the flower shop, obviously for the money, but also for that Yogi Bear mask which I want you to handle as little as possible and bag for SOCO; hopefully they’ll find prints.’

  ‘R
ight, sir,’ she said and made for the door.

  He called after her. ‘By the way, didn’t I ask you to contact HMRC and make surreptitious enquiries into her accounts?’

  Her eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘That was only yesterday morning. When have I had the time to—’

  ‘I know, Flora. I know,’ he said, waving a hand. ‘I’m not chasing you. As soon as you can, lass. I only wanted to say that now, the enquiries need not be at all surreptitious.’

  ‘Oh yes. I see. I’ll get to it … eventually … I hope.’

  He watched her leave and the door close before he allowed himself to smile after her.

  He reached out for the phone. ‘Ahmed,’ he said. ‘Come on in here.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  Angel replaced the phone.

  Ahmed knocked on his office door and entered. He had a few loose sheets of A4 in his hand. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘There are a few jobs I want you to do for me, lad,’ Angel said.

  ‘Before you start, sir, can I give you these notes? They came by email from the Royal Westminster Bank, and they are about that bank robbery in Bromersley in 1983.’

  Angel frowned, then brightened as he remembered. ‘Right, lad. Thank you. Put them down there,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll see to them later. I’ve a lot on my mind and I don’t want to forget anything. Right, now firstly, I want you to find DS Crisp and tell him I want him. Secondly I want you to get me that reel-to-reel recorder. I want to make a phone call and make a recording of it. And thirdly, I want you to go onto the PNC and see if you can find any record of a villain called Edward Oliver. He lives somewhere in Yorkshire, Lincolnshire or Derbyshire, I think. If you can’t find him on the PNC, try the telephone directories. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and then ran out.

  Angel picked up the phone. He tapped in a single digit for the SOCO office. Taylor answered.

  ‘Now then, Don, about the prints on the back of the wheelchair, have you found out whose they are?’

  ‘No, sir. They’ve been checked off against all the prints I have. But, you know, I haven’t seen the prints of Moira Elsworth nor her boyfriend, Charles Morris.’