The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Why not? I interviewed the girl on Tuesday, and asked her to call in here ASAP and bring him with her.’

  ‘They haven’t been here, sir.’

  Angel breathed in and out heavily. ‘All right, Don,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me, I’ll have to chase them.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said as he replaced the phone.

  It was DS Crisp. ‘Ahmed said you wanted me, sir.’

  Angel’s top lip tightened back against his teeth. ‘Of course I want you. I wish I didn’t. I gave you a simple enquiry the day before yesterday and I’ve not heard a word from you. Where’ve you been, lad, Moscow?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve had a terrible job. The Charles Morris … the one with that National Insurance number you gave me, is dead.’

  Angel frowned. ‘Dead?’

  Crisp pulled out a folded piece of paper. He opened it up. ‘This is a copy of his death certificate. He died last November in a hospital in Hull of hepatitis and pneumonia, aged forty-two.’

  He passed it over to Angel. He took it and read it carefully, then rubbed his chin.

  ‘He’s not known at HMRC,’ Crisp said. ‘And Work and Pensions have him down as sign-writer for a firm in Hull, but made redundant in May last year. The NHS have him down as single and living in Stanley Road, Hull, which is the same address given by Work and Pensions and the council tax office in Hull town hall.’

  ‘That sounds pretty conclusive,’ Angel said. ‘Right, Trevor. Good work. The question now is, who is the man with a six pack in Tunistone, parading about as a man about town?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir. But it isn’t Charles Morris.’

  ‘Very well, Trevor. Bring him in for questioning, and do it straightaway.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was Flora Carter.

  ‘I’ve got Mrs Elsworth and her solicitor in interview room number one, sir.’

  Angel stood up. ‘Right, Flora, who is her solicitor?’

  ‘A man called Gerald Mackenzie.’

  Angel shook his head as he crossed the little office and made for the door. ‘Never heard of him.’

  They went down the corridor and Angel said, ‘Is Don Taylor getting on with searching Christine Elsworth’s house?’

  ‘He said he would get on with it straightaway,’ she said, ‘and phone you on your mobile if they find the money.’

  They reached the interview room to find PC Leisha Baverstock on the door.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said with a big smile.

  Angel nodded and smiled back. ‘Don’t let anybody interrupt us, Leisha.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel and Flora Carter went in.

  Christine Elsworth and Gerald Mackenzie were seated at the interview table. Mackenzie stood up and came across to Angel and held out his hand to shake it.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector. I’m Gerald Mackenzie. I’m representing Mrs Elsworth.’

  Angel shook his hand. He had a warm, strong grip that Angel liked. ‘Good morning, Mr Mackenzie.’

  He then looked across at Mrs Elsworth and smiled and nodded. She raised her nose and lowered the corners of her mouth, then turned away.

  Angel had the uncomfortable feeling that she really could have murdered her own father.

  Flora took the seat opposite Mackenzie and Angel sat opposite Mrs Elsworth.

  Angel switched on the recording machine and rattled through the obligatory introduction, then began the questioning.

  ‘Mrs Elsworth, what do you know about a large quantity of stolen paper money concealed in the loft of your late father’s house, number 22 Jubilee Park Road?’

  Christine Elsworth’s eyes shone and her mouth dropped open. The question had astounded her. There were several seconds before she said, ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  Angel’s eyebrows dropped and he rubbed his chin.

  Mackenzie whispered something into her ear.

  ‘I mean I knew it was there,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t know how it got there.’

  ‘You didn’t know that your father with others had stolen it from a bank?’ Angel said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where did you think the money had come from, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really have no idea.’

  ‘There were ten million pounds in your father’s attic and you had no idea how it got there?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘And is that all you have to say on the matter?’

  ‘I took it for granted that if it was in my father’s attic, it must have been his.’

  Angel ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Ten million pounds,’ he said. ‘Why? Did you think that your mother had saved it out of the housekeeping?’

  Flora smiled.

  Mrs Elsworth looked furious and stared at Mackenzie.

  Mackenzie said, ‘Really, Inspector. That’s a very improper question.’

  ‘Very well,’ Angel said. ‘I will withdraw it, if you will get your client to treat my questions seriously and answer them truthfully.’

  Mackenzie and Mrs Elsworth exchanged whispers.

  Angel rubbed his chin and waited until they had finished, then said, ‘All right, I’ll try it another way. Did you think that the money in your father’s loft had been attained by hard work and honest toil?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘What was your father’s job?’

  ‘He was a tyre fitter in a garage.’

  ‘A tyre fitter in a garage … that’s not a very highly paid job, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Mrs Elsworth,’ he said, then he shrugged and shook his head. He pursed his lips, thought a moment, then said, ‘Mrs Elsworth, how long have you known that there was all that money in your father’s loft?’

  She frowned. ‘Not very long,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it has been there for thirty years. How long are we talking about? Twenty years, ten years, two years?’

  ‘About six weeks,’ she said.

  ‘I understand that your father suffered from a form of amnesia during the last few months of his life.’

  ‘So he did,’ she said, ‘most of the time. But he managed to talk to me sensibly one day. He told me that there were thousands and thousands of pounds in the loft and that if anything was to happen to him I was to take it. It was for me.’

  ‘Didn’t you ask him how much there was, and how he had come by it?’

  ‘I did. But he had gone back into the fog by that time.’

  Angel breathed in and then noisily breathed out. ‘Did you ever take any of the money and spend it at any time?’

  ‘No. I have never considered the money mine even though it was left to me by my father.’

  ‘So you left it there, concealed in the loft?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it is still there?’

  ‘Yes, as far as I know,’ she said.

  Angel shook his head and rubbed his chin. If lying were an Olympic sport, Christine Elsworth would have been awarded a bag of gold medals.

  His mobile rang. He took it out of his pocket, pressed a button, read the LCD and saw that it was Don Taylor.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said and turned away.

  ‘Yes, Don,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘Yes … yes … how many? … You’re certain? … Thank you, Don. ’Bye.’

  He turned back to face Christine Elsworth. ‘So, you were saying that, as far as you knew, the money concealed in the loft, is still there.’

  She stared hard at him and said, ‘Yes.’

  Angel said, ‘You’ve been keeping something back from me, Mrs Elsworth, haven’t you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. Her face was straight, tight-lipped and defiant. ‘I’ve answered all your questions.’

  ‘That is so, yes. But you neglected to tell me about
your twin sister.’

  She frowned, then said, ‘But I haven’t got a twin sister.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘Because somebody who looked just like you cleared out all the money from the loft in your father’s house at just after two o’clock this morning. She put the money in twenty black plastic bags and – of all the cheek! – hid them in the cellar in your house.’

  Christine Elsworth went red and then purple. She turned to Mackenzie, who looked confused. Some fervent whispering ensued.

  Angel quietly turned away.

  At that morning’s sitting of the magistrates’ court, Christine Elsworth was summoned to attend the crown court on a date to be determined, charged with handling the money, with bail set in her own recognizance at £5,000. The magistrates also issued a court order for possession of the stolen money.

  Angel came out of the court with the chief clerk to the court, solicitor Mr Cresswell, and the CPS barrister, Mr Twelvetrees. Both legal eagles agreed that the crown court would find Christine Elsworth guilty when the case was heard later in the year.

  Angel made his excuses courteously on the steps of the court and rushed over to his office in the police station. He was pleased to see that Ahmed had brought in the reel-to-reel recorder and put it on his desk. He would have to get to it as soon as he possibly could.

  He picked up the phone and tapped in DS Taylor’s mobile number. ‘Don, when you have checked over those plastic bags of money, I want you to take them to the magistrates’ court office. The magistrates have issued a court order for possession of the money, so it will all have to be delivered to the clerk of the court, Alan Cresswell, ASAP. And be sure and get a receipt. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Tell me, have you found anything else of interest to us in her house?’

  ‘Only that Yogi Bear mask, which we have carefully bagged. If she’s anything to hide, she’s made a good job of it.’

  ‘Right, Don. Keep at it.’

  Angel returned the phone to its holster. It immediately began to ring. He reached out for it again. It was DS Crisp.

  ‘Yes, lad,’ Angel said. ‘I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.’

  Crisp sounded breathless. ‘It’s Charles Morris, sir. He’s gone. The flat has been vacated. Apparently he left yesterday, although his rent is paid up to the end of the month.’

  Angel was speechless. He was kicking himself for not being quicker in reacting to the man’s reluctance to come forward to leave his fingerprints. Morris could be the murderer and Angel had so easily let him slip through his fingers.

  ‘Are you there, sir?’ Crisp said.

  ‘How do you know he left yesterday?’ Angel said.

  ‘The neighbours told me. They’re two old biddies who would never miss anything. They saw him loading his bags and stuff into his car.’

  ‘And how do you know his rent is paid up?’

  ‘The church apparently still owns the old vicarage and lets it out, and the rent is paid monthly to a church warden, Mr Timms, who told me.’

  ‘Mmmm. See what else you can find out about Morris. Ask around the village locals, his neighbours, anybody he might have come into contact with. Morris might have dropped some titbit of information in an unguarded moment.’

  ‘Right, sir. I’ll give it a try.’

  ‘I wish we had a photograph of him.’

  ‘He’d be very chary about that, particularly if he’s on the run.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Tell you what, Trevor, I’m going to send a fingerprint man up there immediately, so stop anybody going into the flat. Also, find Morris’s refuse and guard it with your life until Don Taylor and his lads get up there. Then report back to me. All right?’

  Angel then promptly instructed DS Taylor to send a fingerprint man to Morris’s flat in Tunistone directly, and then for the rest of the SOCO team to join their man in Tunistone as soon as they had finished searching Christine Elsworth’s property. He needed to know as much as possible about the mysterious Mr Morris.

  He then turned his attention to the reel-to-reel recorder on his desk in front of him. He connected it to his landline phone, switched on the recorder, cleared his throat to check the sound level indicator needle, then he tapped in Edward Oliver’s mobile number.

  As he listened to the phone ringing out, he felt his mouth go dry and his pulse rate quicken. After all, he was about to speak to a murderer.

  A man’s voice all of a sudden said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘It that Mr Oliver?’ Angel said.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  The owner of the voice was fairly well spoken. He was either educated or giving a good imitation of someone who had been educated.

  ‘I understand that you were interested in 22 Jubilee Park Road?’

  There was a pause, then the voice said, ‘I might be. Who is this?’

  ‘I’m speaking for Adrian Potter, estate agents, Ernest Potter and Son, Victoria Road. He wondered if you wanted to view the house?’

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘I know who you are. You’re that nosey detective who is always getting his name in the papers. The know-all who reckons he hasn’t lost a case yet. Detective Inspector Michael Angel, isn’t it? Look, Angel, I’ve given you one warning. And from me, one is enough, I promise you. Keep out of my way.’

  ‘You don’t frighten me – whoever you are, just because you murdered a young woman. Why don’t you give yourself up? You’re obviously sick.’

  ‘You don’t understand. And you never will understand. I loved that girl, but she wouldn’t tell me where the money was hidden.’

  ‘Maybe that was because she didn’t know.’

  ‘She knew. Anyway, I am warning you, Angel, keep out of it, or you’ll go the same way she did. You’ll never catch me.’

  ‘I am only a footstep behind you. Give yourself up before you hurt anybody else.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not scared of you, Angel. Now, this is your last warning. I haven’t finished yet and you’ll be next if you don’t keep out of my way.’

  ‘Huh! I don’t think so.’

  The line went dead.

  Angel knew he had gone. His heart was beating like a Salvation Army drum. He replaced the phone in its holster, ran back the recording and listened to the playback. He was quite disturbed by some of what he heard.

  Firstly, he realized that the man recognized him solely from the sound of his voice, therefore he must have heard him speak several times at least. A voice could not be remembered after a short, casual exchange. He must have heard Angel speak at length, perhaps in an interview, or several interviews, or in court. The policeman had interviewed hundreds of witnesses and villains over the years, and been interviewed himself many times in court. It was disturbing. And there was something else: if the murderer knew him, then Angel must know the murderer.

  Secondly, there was the threat to keep out of his way or he would murder him. Over the years Angel had had so many threats from all sorts of villains and brushed them aside as merely words. On this occasion, it seemed different.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed.

  Angel looked up at him.

  ‘I can’t find any trace of an Edward Oliver, sir. I’ve also tried Ted Oliver, T. Oliver, Ed Oliver and Eddie Oliver. I can’t find a thing. Do you want me to extend the area or try another name?’

  ‘No, Ahmed, thank you. It is obviously a waste of time.’

  ‘Is Edward Oliver the name of the murderer of Nancy Quinn, sir?’

  Angel nodded. ‘It’s an alias he has used, Ahmed. I’d give anything to know his real name. I now have his voice on the recorder. Will you take that machine into the CID office and ask the officers to listen to it? If anybody thinks they recognize the voice I’d be pleased to hear from them.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel stood up and reached out for his coat.

  ‘Oh yes, Ahmed. There’s another th
ing.’

  Ahmed reached for his notebook and pen.

  ‘Can you get in touch with Scrivens on his mobile?’ Angel said as he pushed an arm through the coat sleeve. ‘I’ve sent him off to get some info on a character called Ronald Arthur Bottomley. Will you tell him that Bottomley was one of the two robbers caught after the big robbery from Royal Westminster Bank in 1983. If he comes across it, the other one’s name was Vernon Almond. Got it?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said with a knowing look. ‘So you managed to get through that email from the bank, then, sir?’

  ‘Aye. I make a point of reading everything to do with the case that is put in front of me, Ahmed. I look at everything and everybody concerned with the case. It’s sorting out what’s significant to the investigation, and what is not, that’s important.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said thoughtfully. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘I’m going up to Tunistone to Charles Morris’s flat. If you want me, you can get me on my mobile.’

  THIRTEEN

  Angel found the flats easily. He only had to look for a church steeple, to find St Peter’s Church, and the old vicarage was only thirty metres away.

  The ground floor had only two flats on it and Morris had been living in flat 2. Angel knocked on the door, opened it and looked inside.

  DS Taylor in his white paper overalls and four other men dressed similarly looked across at him.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, sir,’ Taylor said.

  Angel nodded.

  Taylor came across the big room towards him. The other three SOCO men carried on with the searching operation.

  Angel closed the door and looked round. It was a big, sparsely furnished sitting room with French windows both sides of the fireplace which opened out to a long, well-maintained garden. On the chimney breast was hanging an old French clock with a face the size of a dinner plate. It showed the time at 10.58 a.m.

  ‘Got anything of interest, Don?’

  Taylor smiled. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, ‘and I think you’ll like it.’

  He reached into a large white shoulder bag at his feet, unzipped it, took out a polythene evidence bag and held it up.

  Angel could see that the bag contained a plastic Yogi Bear mask, identical to the one he’d found with the money in Piddington’s loft. His pulse began to race. ‘Where did you find that?’