The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  She passed the papers to him.

  ‘Fire away,’ he said, taking the papers.

  He looked through them as she spoke. ‘You’ll see that Christine Elsworth does very well. The inspector of taxes pointed out to me that she seems able to sell the flowers at an enormously high margin of profit. There’s nothing illegal about that, he said, but it is hardly credible. If she buys six hundred pounds’ worth of flowers, she usually sells them for about five times that, say three thousand pounds or more. Whereas, he was saying, the competition spending the same amount might sell them for only twelve hundred pounds. In addition, all flower shops put in a claim for about 10 per cent or 15 per cent wastage, sometimes more. Mrs Elmore doesn’t claim for any waste. That suggests that she sells her stock far more quickly than the competition and therefore doesn’t incur any waste.’

  Angel looked up from the papers. ‘I have taken on board all that you have said, Flora, and I agree it is strange. It’s not the only thing that’s strange. Did the inspector of taxes say anything about her accountant’s charges?’

  ‘He said he thought they were rather high.’

  ‘I would say so. She’s claiming that she pays King and Company £600 a week. That’s over £40,000 a year. From such a small sales outlet that’s not realistic, is it?’

  ‘Maybe he does all the bookkeeping, sir? It can be so boring.’

  ‘But it’s for a little shop not much bigger than a double prison cell.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know. I haven’t seen the place.’ Her forehead creased. ‘Is Mr King taking advantage of her, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know, Flora,’ he said. ‘There might be a perfectly reasonable explanation.’

  Flora Carter shook her head.

  Angel pursed his lips. Then suddenly he put the papers relating to Christine Elsworth’s accounts together and pushed them back into her hands. ‘Take these—’

  The phone rang.

  He snatched it up. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Don Taylor of SOCO, sir. I have a result on—’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Don.’

  He turned back to Flora and said, ‘Look, Flora, take those accounts. See Christine Elsworth and see what she has to say about it, and let me know the outcome.’

  She stood up. ‘Right, sir,’ she said. She went quickly out of the office and closed the door.

  Into the phone Angel said, ‘Now then, Don. Sorry about that. You said you had a result?’

  Taylor said, ‘Yes, sir. That Yogi Bear mask recovered with the money in Christine Elsworth’s cellar … it has two persons’ prints on it: they are Ernest Piddington’s and Christine Elsworth’s.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. That was no surprise at all. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The old man’s would be prints from the time he robbed the bank, and his daughter’s recently, since she found the money.’

  ‘That sounds right, sir. And the only clear prints on the second Yogi Bear mask found in Morris’s rubbish were the same as those found at the back of the wall clock in his flat. We’ve emailed them to Records, sir, and they’ve come back “Not identified”.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘It might be that Morris – or whatever his name is – has not yet been caught, so Records wouldn’t have his dabs on file.’

  ‘Could be,’ Taylor said.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called, then into the phone he said, ‘Anything else, Don?’

  ‘No, sir, that’s all I’ve got,’ Taylor said.

  Angel replaced the phone.

  It was Crisp at the door. Angel saw that he was holding a fingerprint card by its edges. He smiled. ‘Ah! You got them, lad? Good.’

  ‘Still wet, sir.’

  ‘Right, well let Don Taylor have them. He has some important comparisons to make.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘By the way, sir, there’s been no change in the matter of the white van.’

  Angel frowned. ‘What white van?’

  ‘You remember my telling you about a white van parked outside Gregg’s newsagent’s shop?’

  ‘Oh yes. What about it? It isn’t a restricted area, so the driver can park his van there for as long as he likes. It has a valid road tax disc. It isn’t a derelict. It hasn’t got bald tyres or anything, has it? He isn’t breaking any laws, is he?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s not that the driver is doing anything illegal. It’s just a bit strange that even though the van is parked there for hours and hours, old man Gregg never can catch the driver. It’s driven away late at night, and it appears back on that parking space around lunchtime the next day. Mr Gregg mentioned it again to me when I went in for a paper this morning. It is really annoying him. He reckons it is keeping some of his customers away.’

  Angel waved his arm and said, ‘Well, I’m sorry if his sales of the Beano are down, lad … I wish that’s all I had to worry about.’

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

  There was a loud coughing in his ear. He recognized the initiator of the cough as Superintendent Harker. The racket persisted for another ten seconds, then it stopped and the superintendent said, ‘Ah yes, Angel, I want you up here ASAP.’ The phone was then slammed down.

  Angel frowned as he replaced the handset. He looked at Crisp. ‘I’m wanted in the super’s office.’ He pointed to the print card Crisp was still holding. ‘Get those prints down to Don Taylor before you smudge them.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said and then he made for the door.

  Angel was right behind him out of the office. Crisp went down the corridor, and Angel went up.

  FOURTEEN

  Angel knocked on Harker’s door, pushed it open and went inside. The usual Mediterranean heat and smell of menthol hit him as soon as he turned to close the door.

  Harker, partly hidden by several piles of ledgers, papers and files on his desk, said, ‘Ah, there you are, lad. Been waiting for you.’

  Angel’s face creased. ‘I came straightaway, sir.’

  ‘Don’t argue, lad. Sit down and we can begin.’

  He noticed that DI Asquith was present and sitting facing the super’s desk.

  Asquith looked across at him, nodded in acknowledgement, and pointed to the chair next to him.

  Angel sat down.

  Harker cleared his throat noisily, then said, ‘Now, I’ve asked you both here again to give you the opportunity to report on what I said to you last Tuesday … about gangs. I asked you then if either of you had any notion of a gang of, say, four or more crooks, working together on our patch. I have heard nothing from either of you and the Chief Constable needs to know what you have to say.’

  Angel looked at Asquith, who didn’t seem to have anything to say.

  ‘Well, sir,’ Angel said. ‘I have nothing to report. I understand that the Chief has the facility to call in an external unit to overcome such a situation, but I am not aware of any gang functioning on our patch at the moment.’ He then turned to look at Haydn Asquith.

  ‘I am not aware of any gangs either, sir,’ Asquith said. ‘We occasionally get a disturbance created by kids up on Nelson Mandela Gardens, which you already know about. But they are kids and we can easily contain it.’

  Harker looked as if he had just smelled the drains at Armley. ‘I am not talking about juveniles,’ he said. ‘I am talking about gangs of evil men who manoeuvre themselves into positions where they can put the screws on senior policemen, bank officials, judges, politicians or anyone else in a position of power over others, or have control over huge sums of cash or valuables. Those are the sort of evil monsters we are looking for.’

  Angel and Asquith looked up at him. Angel noticed that the superintendent’s head looked like a skull with ears stuck on.

  Harker looked from one to the other and back. ‘Well, is that it, then?’ he said. ‘Have neither of you anything to contribute? The Chief feels that he should put something in his report.’

  Angel couldn’t think of anyth
ing else useful to say. He just looked at him.

  Asquith also remained silent.

  Harker waited a few more seconds, then he sighed, sniffed and said, ‘Right. Carry on, DI Asquith. Hold fast, DI Angel. I have something else I want to say to you.’

  Angel’s heart dropped down to his boots. He couldn’t think what the superintendent wanted. Harker could see how the case was going from Angel’s daily reports.

  Asquith nodded at Harker, then Angel, and said, ‘Right, sir,’ and went out.

  When the door was closed, Harker peered across at Angel and said, ‘I see that you have let your prime suspect, Charles Morris, slip through your fingers?’

  Angel shuffled a little in the chair. It was true. It was difficult to defend it. ‘I am not sure he is my prime suspect, sir,’ he said. ‘He is one of several.’

  ‘You realize that if he commits another murder before he is caught, there would have to be an inquiry into your professionalism in the matter?’

  Angel felt his heart begin to pound at the thought of the suggestion that he could be responsible for anybody’s death. And he certainly didn’t want an inquiry into his method of working, which had not failed to let him down in the past. He didn’t want to be hidebound by a system called HOLMES 2, which was an acronym for a Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, and had nothing to do with the great fictional character, Sherlock Holmes. HOLMES 2 was a methodical and overwhelmingly detailed and laborious (thus expensive) system currently used in the investigation of murder and other big crimes by the larger police forces.

  ‘I hope my methods will be seen to be satisfactory, sir,’ he said.

  Harker wrinkled his nose and said, ‘I see. You’re hoping that your record will hold you in good stead. You flatter yourself. I tell you, Angel, another death at the hands of Charles Morris would not be justified. You failed to arrest him when you had the opportunity, and you cannot get away from the fact.’

  Angel was momentarily stuck for words. In essence what Harker said was true, but there were extenuating circumstances.

  ‘I don’t see how I could possibly be held responsible for someone’s death at the hands of Charles Morris,’ Angel said. ‘He disappeared before I had sufficient evidence to arrest him.’

  ‘Aah,’ Harker said. ‘That’s exactly the fine point a judge and jury would have to decide.’

  Angel’s facial muscles tightened and his fingers gripped the ends of the chair arms.

  Harker looked at him. He concealed a smirk. Eventually he said, ‘Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ His thin eyebrows arched upwards. ‘Now, you said you had other suspects. Who are they?’

  ‘Well, it’s early days, but I am not happy about Christine Elsworth for one.’

  Harker’s eyebrows arched up even higher. ‘A woman murdering her own father? Sounds a bit far-fetched. Tell me the others.’

  Angel wished he had had time to get ready for this. Harker was catching him grossly unprepared.

  ‘There are others chasing the stash of money that had been hidden in Piddington’s attic. Before each of the men died they would naturally but quite wrongly have told their families that they were entitled to a share of the money held for them by Ernest Piddington and the families may have had to murder old man Piddington, trying to find out where it was hidden.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe. What are their names, and, if that were so, why was Nancy Quinn murdered?’

  ‘It could have been because she had discovered the hiding place, told her boyfriend—’

  ‘Charles Morris?’

  ‘– then he murdered her to keep the money for himself.’

  Harker frowned. ‘Well, why didn’t he take the money before he disappeared, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Hmmm. And I thought Morris was involved with Moira Elsworth.’

  ‘He was, but it wouldn’t have stopped him having a relationship with Nancy Quinn at the same time.’

  He nodded, then said, ‘You haven’t told me who your other suspects are.’

  ‘Anybody who was related to any of the three robbers, Almond, Bottomley and Piddington, sir. Almond had one son, Bottomley had a son and a daughter, and Piddington had a daughter and a grown-up granddaughter.’

  ‘What about the spouses?’

  ‘Scrivens is looking up Almond’s widow as we speak. Bottomley’s widow is eighty-two and in poor circumstances, and Piddington’s widow has passed on.’

  ‘That makes six or seven suspects, lad,’ Harker said. ‘Well, I’d better let you crack on and try and solve these two murders,’ he said, then he added with a sneer, ‘in your usual idiosyncratic way. But you’ll have to get a move on. Time is money, you know.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased.

  Angel returned to his office and sat down at his desk. He could have committed a murder himself, but he soon recovered and began to think constructively about all the loose ends connected with the two murders he had to solve and was happy that every line of inquiry was being properly investigated. He was awaiting several important pieces of forensic information from Dr Mac and the laboratory at Wetherby, but he knew that the processes of science take time. The murders were only committed five days ago so he would have to be patient for a few more.

  His mind went back to Harker’s question about the presence of gangs in Bromersley. He could not think of any at the moment. He remembered in the early nineties, there had been a gang of crooked moneylenders who were terrorizing householders on their doorsteps and in their homes, but they had managed to stamp that out. His mind wandered back to what Crisp had been saying about the white van parked outside Gregg’s the newsagent’s. The driver was entitled to park in that little square as long as he wanted. Perhaps the driver lived nearby. The van had been parking there every day for about two weeks. Strange that Gregg didn’t challenge the driver and ask him to move. Crisp said that Gregg never saw the driver. It was as if there wasn’t one. There had to be a driver. According to Crisp, the van was moved late at night and returned late the following morning. It always parked on the same space.

  Angel heard the church clock strike five. Home time, and a weekend to look forward to. He gathered all the post, papers and files not dealt with onto one heap and stuffed it into a desk drawer. Then he reached out for his coat, switched out the light and closed the door.

  He was home in fifteen minutes. He let himself in by the kitchen door as Mary was peering into the oven.

  ‘You’re home early, darling,’ she said. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘I’m not really early,’ he said, giving her a kiss.

  It was the time he would always arrive home if he didn’t get carried away with the job and forget, or was delayed by circumstances. He crossed the kitchen to the fridge and took out a can of German beer.

  Mary watched him and passed him a tumbler from the draining board.

  He smiled in acknowledgement.

  Then she said, ‘I don’t suppose you know where the Peterloo massacre occurred?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ Angel said with a frown. Then he said, ‘Whatever do you want to know that for? Is it one of those daft magazine quizzes again?’

  ‘They’re not daft. You can win really good prizes if you can get all the answers right. It was somewhere in Russia, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was Manchester … early in the 1800s, I think. And if you’re chosen out of thousands and thousands of entries. Of course you’ve a much better chance if you’re the daughter of the chairman of the publisher of the magazine.’ He had a sip of the beer. It tasted good. He held it up to the light.

  ‘Manchester?’ she said.

  ‘It was a political thing … a dreadful incident. Some people murdered and many wounded with sabres. Peterloo was a made-up word. Something to do with combining the name of the place in Manchester where the massacre took place, St Peter’s Field, with the Battle of Waterloo that had taken place only a year or two earlier.’

  She went into the sitting room,
wrote the answer in the magazine, came back into the kitchen, looked at him and said, ‘Know-all.’

  He smiled and took another sip of the beer. ‘What’s for tea?’ he said.

  ‘Salmon. Would you like to set the table?’

  After tea, Angel went into the sitting room with Mary. They were enjoying their coffee and watching the news on television. The world and national news was followed by the local news, which was mostly a preview of the National Jewellery Fair to the trade, opening in Leeds on Tuesday next. There were interviews with the chairman of the fair followed by several jewellers who had interesting, rare gemstones set in silver, gold or platinum that would be on display and offered for sale to the trade at the fair. An interview that was of particular interest to Angel was with Lady Tulliver from Tunistone. She said that her husband was going to open the trade fair next Tuesday morning and that she would be with him wearing the famous Mermaid Diamond pendant. She was asked to explain how the stone became known as the Mermaid Diamond and to retell its origins, which she did most delightfully. The announcer then introduced the weatherman and there the news programme ended.

  Angel knew that the stone was worth a seven-figure sum and would be the target of every lowlife thief in the business. While the 39-carat stone was too well known to be sold as it was, it could be cut by an expert jeweller into several smaller stones and sold piecemeal. Although this would very much reduce the value, it would still produce a substantial sum, well worth the effort of a gang of dedicated thieves.

  The more Angel thought about the Mermaid Diamond, the more he thought it would be stolen. Such a supposition was hard for him to dismiss, and he considered that the interview with Lady Tulliver was tantamount to a challenge to all thieves.

  Unfortunately, it was one of those rainy weekends when it never seemed to stop. There was nothing of interest on the television and he had read all his library books. Finding nothing to distract him over the two days, his mind toyed with ways and means of stealing the big stone. It became an entertainment for him … devising plans how he would set about stealing the diamond without being caught, if he were a thief.