The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel blinked. ‘What time will she back?’

  ‘Couldn’t say,’ she said, taking another drag on the cigarette end.

  Angel nodded. ‘Right. Thank you very much.’ He frowned. He was thinking of going round to the back door to contact Scrivens. It looked like a wasted journey. He couldn’t afford the time to hang around.

  The woman suddenly said, ‘She’ll not be back today. She’s in hospital … the LGI. Going to have an operation. Taken sudden.’ Then she rolled her eyes, pointed downwards and silently mouthed the words, ‘Down below … all to be taken away.’ This was followed by a single, heavy, knowing nod of the head.

  Angel hesitated, then said, ‘Er, right. Thank you.’

  He went down the ginnel and collected Scrivens. He told him what he had found out and they immediately made their way back to Leeds city centre onto Calverley Street and through the entrance to the car park of Leeds General Infirmary. The lady on the reception desk advised that Mrs Bettina Almond was in a ward in the Jubilee Wing. They made their way along several corridors, up in a lift and the ward they were looking for was facing the lift doors. The Sister in charge was at a desk in a small anteroom busy with several nurses, looking at patients’ charts. She looked up.

  Angel showed his ID and explained that he needed to see Mrs Almond urgently on police business.

  Sister said, ‘Well, it is not visiting time, but you can see her for five minutes only. She is in the bed nearest the door.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister,’ Angel said. ‘I don’t think it will take us that long.’

  The two policemen made their way to the double swing-doors. Angel reached out for a door handle and pulled it. He stopped when he saw the back of a man in a brown overcoat leaning over the bed nearest to them. Angel allowed the door to close, then he pulled the handle so that there was a half-inch gap between the two doors and he peered through it. The man was in his forties, suntanned and had dark hair. Angel didn’t recognize him.

  The man was leaning over somebody in a bed. Angel could hear him.

  ‘I’d better go,’ the man said. ‘I shouldn’t be here. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. See you tomorrow afternoon. You will be awake by then.’ He leaned down, Angel thought it was to kiss her, then the man turned towards the door.

  Angel backed off quickly, pushing Scrivens into the door jamb. ‘Sorry, lad.’ Angel spat out the following rapidly: ‘He’s coming out. I’ll collar him. You interview the woman. All right?’

  Scrivens’s mouth dropped open. ‘Er – yes. Right, sir.’

  The swing door opened. Scrivens went into the ward as the man came out.

  Angel stepped in front of the man in the brown overcoat. ‘Excuse me, sir. I am a police officer, I wonder if I might have a word with you.’

  The man stopped, looked round, then attempted to brush past Angel and make a quick dash along the corridor.

  Angel reached out and grabbed him securely by the wrist. ‘There’s no need to try to run off, sir.’

  A look of fear showed in the man’s eyes and lips.

  Angel also noticed that the man was about the same height as he was, so that he would readily fall into the category of tall, and he was certainly dark and handsome. The two witnesses who saw the murderer also described him as having a cherubic face. Angel wouldn’t have described him as having a cherubic face.

  The man in the brown overcoat developed a smile. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I did that. Did you say you were a police officer?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just a few questions, to help with our enquiries.’

  ‘What do you want?’ the man said.

  He looked into Angel’s eyes, then down at the iron grip he had round his wrist, then back up to his eyes again. His jaw muscles tightened. ‘Do you mind?’ he said.

  Angel slowly released his grip, watching the man very carefully.

  ‘Thank you,’ the man said.

  Angel said, ‘Have you any means of identification, sir?’

  ‘Whatever for?’ the man said as he reached into his inside pocket and took out a wallet. ‘What do you want? Bank card, store card, driver’s licence …’

  ‘Driver’s licence would be fine.’

  The man handed it to him.

  Angel read out the name. ‘Charles Almond?’ He compared the photograph. It was a fair enough likeness. He handed the card back. ‘What is your father’s first name, Mr Almond?’

  ‘He had two. They were Vernon Alan, and my mother’s names are Bettina Aimee. Is there anything else? Is that all you wanted me for? I have matters to attend to.’

  ‘There are a few more questions I have to ask. We need somewhere quiet where we can talk.’

  ‘What’s this all about? I was just visiting my mother, she’s having a serious operation later today.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry to hear that, sir. But—’

  Angel broke off. Over Charles Almond’s shoulder, he saw the lift arrive, the doors opened and an attractive young woman stepped out. She looked round. She seemed lost.

  Angel’s eyes grew bigger. He knew he recognized her. It was Moira Elsworth.

  Almond turned round to see what had caught Angel’s attention.

  Moira had seen him, she smiled and was advancing towards him. He stepped towards her, holding out his arms and they embraced.

  ‘Oh Charles,’ she said breathily. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic was dreadful.’

  ‘Darling. Glad you made it,’ Almond said.

  She put her arm under his and clenched his hand, then she turned and saw Angel. She blinked several times.

  ‘Oh. Excuse me, Inspector, what a coincidence meeting you here. Have you met Inspector Angel, Charles? He’s looking into the death of Granddad, you know. This is my boyfriend, Charles Morris.’

  ‘Charles Morris?’ Angel said. ‘He said his name was Charles Almond.’

  SIXTEEN

  Mary brought the coffee into the sitting room and put the tray on the table between them.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ Angel said, sitting down in his usual chair. ‘Lovely dinner,’ he added. ‘I like your cottage pie … I think I’ve eaten too much.’

  She smiled and passed over the coffee cup.

  ‘Anyway, where was I?’

  ‘You were telling me that very curious story about that Italian double-bass player and the—’

  ‘No. I’d finished that, love, although it is still very much on my mind. Do you know, I might nip out for a breath of fresh air, and have a look at his old shop. It’s not far. It’s in Clement Attlee Square.’

  ‘You’ll finish your coffee?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said, taking a sip.

  They sat there in silence for a while, then he said, ‘Ah yes, I remember. I was saying that Charles Almond has a satisfactory alibi for the Sunday evening and night of 5 May, the times when Ernest Piddington and Nancy Quinn were murdered; besides that, Almond hasn’t a cherubic face, so he isn’t the murderer.’

  ‘What about him stealing the identity of Charles Morris? Why did he do that?’

  ‘He admits that he came to Bromersley as Charles Morris originally so that he could get close to Ernest Piddington and the money, without arousing the old man’s or the Elsworth’s suspicions. Almond’s father, of course, before he died had told him all about the robbery in 1983, and that he was entitled to a third of the proceeds which were in the care of Ernest Piddington.’

  ‘Does Moira Elsworth know all this?’

  ‘Almond says he’s told her everything.’

  ‘And do you believe him?’

  ‘Well … I suppose I do. But it doesn’t matter whether I do or I don’t, really, he’s got a rock-solid alibi. And he told me that since the court got custody of the money, he has lost interest. He could see that there was no hope of his ever laying his hands on it. Admitting that demonstrates that he is speaking the truth, doesn’t it?’

  She didn’t answer the question; instead she said, ‘He’s still interested i
n Moira.’

  ‘Very much. Yes, but she’s doing most of the chasing. They’re a good-looking couple. Lust at first sight and all that … sort of thing.’

  Mary smiled, then she said, ‘If he thought so much about Moira, why did he leave Tunistone so abruptly?’

  ‘His mother was seriously ill and needed an operation urgently. The news also coincided with the court order to take possession of the stolen money. So his plan was utterly thwarted.’

  ‘But love wins through and he must have contacted Moira after a few days.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Will he be prosecuted for taking the ID of the real Charles Morris, the man who had died in Hull?’

  ‘I’ll have to put it in my report, but I’m not much interested in taking that any further. There’s enough to do. However, the super might insist on it.’

  Mary sipped the coffee, then said, ‘You didn’t actually see Mrs Almond?’

  ‘I didn’t, no. Ted Scrivens interviewed her. She had nothing to say in the way of usable evidence so I didn’t see the need, coupled with the fact that she was not very well. Ted said that she had quite a lot to say about Ernest Piddington. She was indignant that her husband had served eight years in prison and Piddington had got away scot-free. Even so, she trusted him enough for him to hold on to her husband’s share until they agreed to divide it. She said that Vernon had told her that the three men had made an agreement that they would not touch the money for at least five years. They looked on it as their pensions. It was actually a lot longer than five years, and now that Mrs Almond could do with a handout, the court has taken possession of it. You can understand her not being pleased with the old man.’

  She nodded, then said, ‘Having eliminated him, what do you know about the murderer or murderers now?’

  Angel breathed out heavily. ‘Now that it has been determined that the fingerprints on the back of the wheelchair do not belong to Moira Elsworth, I believe that both murders were committed by this Edward Oliver.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Are you any nearer finding out who exactly this Edward Oliver is?’

  ‘No. He knows me, so I must know him. He has an educated but menacing voice. He is the conventional tall, dark and handsome character … and has a cherubic face. The dreadful state of Nancy Quinn’s body indicated that he was brutal, cruel and highly sexed. He is probably psychotic. The awful thing is that I must have spoken to him frequently.’

  ‘Well, who is it, then?’

  ‘The damned annoying thing is that I can’t place him. I have racked my brain but I can’t …’

  ‘He doesn’t sound like a man I’d like to come up against,’ Mary said.

  ‘I hope you never do, darling. I hope you never do,’ he said. He reached out for his coffee and finished it off.

  ‘You must be very careful. He sounds like a very bad lot.’

  ‘I’m always careful.’

  ‘More coffee, sweetheart?’ Mary said.

  ‘Please,’ he said, passing his cup.

  Mary filled the cup, then refilled her own.

  ‘Now, haven’t we had enough of this dreary shop talk?’ he said. ‘Is there anything on the telly?’

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ she said. She began sorting through the small jumble of magazines and newspapers on the shelf of the library table, looking for the Radio Times. She suddenly spotted a magazine with the page open and turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, darling, can you help me with this? You might know the answer.’ She glanced at the open page and found the place she wanted. She read, ‘“In what ocean is Easter Island?”’

  Angel screwed up his face. ‘Is this one of your tatty quiz jobs?’

  ‘They’re not tatty … if you don’t know, say so.’

  ‘It’s in the South Pacific somewhere.’

  ‘If you don’t know, don’t guess.’

  ‘I’m not guessing … don’t know exactly where it is. I know it was named Easter Island because it was discovered on Easter Day. And it’s in the South Pacific.’

  ‘I’m putting that in. I hope it’s right.’

  ‘It is right. Is there any post?’

  ‘Oh yes. I forgot. There’s a circular on the sideboard at the end, where I always put it.’

  Angel growled and got to his feet. ‘Oh yes. It’s always there, except when it isn’t. Sometimes you shove it in my hand, or put in front of me at the table, or it’s in your handbag, or it’s a bookmark in a book, or under the cushion, or on the worktop in the kitchen, or wherever your latest fancy takes you.’

  The longer he went on, the redder her face became. ‘Yes, darling,’ she said, turning a page of the Radio Times and banging and slapping it as noisily as possible.

  He glanced at her, frowned, then shook his head. He reached the sideboard and picked up the envelope. He tore it open, took out the letter and read it. His face changed. His mouth set in a grim line. ‘Would you believe it? It’s from the gas people. They are saying that because our boiler is over ten years old, it ought to be changed because if anything went wrong with it they may not be able to get the parts. Also they say that changing to a new boiler could save us up to 43 per cent off our consumption rate. Huh! What do you think to that?’

  ‘Well, they might be right,’ Mary said quietly.

  Angel glared at her, then he screwed up the letter and threw it angrily at the hearth.

  She stared at him.

  ‘Yes and I think I saw a herd of pigs fly past the window,’ he said.

  Mary looked up, concerned. ‘Where? What?’ she said urgently.

  Angel smiled down at her.

  She looked up at him. With a grin, she said, ‘Oh, you fool!’

  It was a warm, dry, spring evening, just right for a gentle walk to shake a double helping of cottage pie and cabbage down, so Angel decided to walk the mile or so into town to Clement Attlee Square to check out the Italian double-bassist’s shop. He passed a few people on the way. He arrived just as the light was failing. There was a car parked outside the Northern Bank, which was on one side of Vittorio Ramazzotti’s empty shop, and a white van parked outside Gregg’s newsagents, which was on the other side. Angel realized that the white van must be the one that Gregg had been complaining about. He walked round it. He peered into the cab but there was nothing to see that was out of the ordinary. The road-tax licence was in order. The tyres appeared to have adequate tread. He read off the licence plate and consigned the number to his memory. Then he went up to Vittorio Ramazzotti’s shop, which had closed-down signs pasted all over the windows. The shop doorknob was smooth so he reckoned Ramazzotti used that door as his usual means of access. He stepped back and looked up at the first-floor windows and saw a light being switched on followed by the little man actually closing the curtains. Angel thought he must live there.

  He looked round the square and found nothing else of interest so he turned and made for home. His mind became busy, very busy with something he had seen. If he passed any people on the way home, he didn’t notice them.

  It was dark when he arrived home, and Mary had already gone to bed.

  He wrote the number of the white van onto the edge of the Radio Times, tore it off and shoved it into his pocket. He locked the door, turned off the light and went upstairs.

  It was 6.30 a.m. It was pitch black. Angel’s eyes clicked open. He was wide awake. He wondered what had wakened him. He listened. All he could hear was the gentle, even breathing of Mary asleep next to him.

  Then his mind, in the darkness, filled with scenes of the mad Italian feverishly playing a double bass, the mysterious white van being driven away by an invisible man, and the angry newsagent Gregg jumping up and down on the pavement in front of his shop waving an Exchange & Mart in the air.

  He peeled the duvet back gently so as not to disturb Mary, fished around on the carpet for his slippers and quietly slipped out of bed. He reached out for his dressing gown, then made his way out of the room and closed the door. He had a quick shower, a shave, then he dressed. He m
ade himself a pot of tea and some toast which he dawdled over. He left a note under a magnet on the fridge door. It said: ‘Gone to the office. Everything OK. Love you. M.’

  Then he left the house and got the BMW out of the garage and drove straight to Clement Attlee Square. The sun was coming up. The town was quiet with very little traffic. He passed a big Asda van only. There were no pedestrians about. The square was deserted. The two vehicles that had been parked there earlier had gone. He stopped the BMW in the middle of the square and got out. He walked towards the place where the white van had been parked. He selected a spot in the middle of the parking space and squatted down in the road. As he looked around, he saw a pencil-thin line of soil about the length of a book, next to a metal plate about three feet by three feet set in the road which had the words ‘Gas Inspection Chamber’ moulded on its surface. He reached out and pressed one finger down on the soil, then drew his finger downwards making a smear mark on the ground. He rubbed his thumb against his finger to try to clean off the earth.

  His eyebrows lowered, and his heart began to thump away. He straightened up from the crouching position and returned to the BMW. He sat in the car rubbing his chin. After a few minutes, he dived into his pocket for his mobile and tapped in a number. It was to the Firearms Special Unit in Wakefield. He wanted to speak to Detective Inspector Waldo White. They were old friends.

  ‘Sorry to ring so early, Waldo,’ Angel said into the phone.

  ‘It’s not early for us, Michael,’ he replied. ‘We are on duty 24/7. What’s up?’

  ‘I have a situation developing here, Waldo, and later today, I may need some of your specialist brand of muscle.’

  ‘I can be there in about twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘Great stuff,’ Angel said and he ended the call, closed the phone and put it in his pocket. Then he started the engine and drove the BMW to the police station.

  As he parked the car in his usual marked-out parking spot, near the rear entrance, he looked at his watch. It was 8.27 a.m.

  As he came down the corridor, he looked into the CID room and found Ahmed taking off his coat.