The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  A tall figure with a cherubic face peered down at him from a place in shadow beyond the curve in the stairs.

  Then Angel heard a voice he knew so very well. ‘Michael, help me. I’m here.’ It was his beloved Mary. The voice came from the sitting room. That was the first door on the left. He entered the old house and rushed up to the door and put his hand up to the sneck to open it. Then he heard the voice again. ‘Michael, help me. I’m here.’ He stopped. There was something odd about the voice. It was certainly Mary, but the intonation was wrong. The call was repeated again. He realized that it was repeated every two and a half seconds. It was a recording of her voice on a loop. He looked round the door and on the floor was a sprinkling of what looked like white powder. He bent down to look at it. It was sawdust. There was something very strange. He straightened up. The recorded voice cried out again.

  He continued to look at the door as the tape played Mary’s voice again. Then he made a decision. He turned, went outside onto the shale and round to the sitting-room window. He peered inside and the muscles in his chest tightened as he saw Mary fastened to a chair, the rifle aimed directly at her, and the cord stretched tautly between the door and the rifle. He turned away from the window and looked around. He saw a small wooden garden seat. He dragged it towards the vicarage wall, then lifted it and threw it against the sitting-room window. There was a loud crash as the garden seat crashed into the window, causing the glass to splinter into a thousand pieces, creating a big hole in the glass. He climbed through the hole and dashed over to Mary. He firstly moved the chair holding the rifle so that she was no longer in the line of fire. He untied the scarf and she spat out the gloves.

  ‘Oh Michael,’ she said, her big eyes looking up to him. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said as he began to undo the rope around her wrists. ‘Are you all right? Let’s get you out of here.’

  ‘I’m all right now, darling. But you must watch out for him. He’s an evil monster.’

  ‘I know. I know. He’s as mad as a hatter. I hope he hasn’t hurt you.’

  ‘No. No,’ she said.

  He had finished freeing her hands and bent down to untie the rope round her ankles.

  Mary suddenly saw Reville’s cherubic face, looking devilish. He was now unhooded and for an instant stood just outside the window. Then he was climbing in. ‘Look out, Michael. He’s behind you.’

  Reville leaped through the window and landed on top of the policeman, pulling him away from loosening the rope round Mary’s ankles and throwing punches with clenched fists at Angel’s head.

  Mary looked round for something to use as a weapon against the madman, but there was nothing within her reach.

  Angel managed to stand up despite the barrage of hard fists being showered on him; he was then better able to defend himself in the style of a boxer.

  Reville threw a powerful left at Angel, who ducked, allowing the man to lose his balance and come towards Angel, who produced a hard left to his chin that stopped the man falling forward; Angel’s punch was so powerful that Reville fell backwards to the floor. He quickly recovered and looked round for something to throw. There was a white marble bust. He grabbed it and threw it at Angel, who managed to duck and avoid it. Reville followed it through and darted towards Angel with the heavy wooden bust stand – waving it about. The stand caught the cord still draped between the door and chair. It triggered the rifle, there was a loud report and Reville collapsed to the floor. He didn’t move. Angel went forward to see what had happened and discovered a bullet had entered Reville’s head at his left temple. He put his hand on his neck, but could find no pulse.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Angel said.

  He turned away from him and returned to unfastening the rope around Mary’s ankles.

  There was the sound of a car door being closed. Then a face appeared at the hole in the window. It was Flora Carter. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

  Angel and Mary exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘Yes, Flora,’ Angel said. ‘But you’d better send for an ambulance for him.’

  Dennis Reville was pronounced dead at the scene and the mortuary wagon took him away after DS Taylor and SOCO had finished their routine checks and observations.

  The vicar and his wife were found gagged and bound to beds in an upstairs room. They were taken to hospital for a check-up, found to be satisfactory and safely returned home.

  Flora Carter took Angel and Mary to the hospital, where several small injuries to Angel’s face and head were treated and dressings applied. Apart from rope burns to her wrists, Mary was apparently unscathed. After treatment Flora took them both home.

  At the front door, Angel turned to Flora and said, ‘Thank you very much, lass. Now, my car is still outside the vicarage, can you pick me up in about an hour and take me to collect it?’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll get somebody from transport to deliver it to you here ASAP, sir. How’s that?’

  ‘Even better,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Flora.’

  He began to follow Mary into the house, then suddenly he turned back and called out, ‘Oh, Flora.’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ she said, running back up the path.

  Angel pursed his lips, then said, ‘Reville had to have some form of transport to gad about like he’s been doing. It would be useful if we can find it. He might have been using the vicar’s, or he might have hired a car or stolen one. Check out the vicar’s first. If it’s not that, get a squad of men to look around the streets nearby. I would expect it to be in easy walking distance of the vicarage. And keep me posted.’

  ‘Right, sir. I’ll get right on it.’

  He had a light lunch of soup and fruit and had a good long talk with Mary. He wanted to be sure that she was safe and sound and hadn’t suffered any psychological damage at Reville’s hand. Then he had a shower, changed his suit and shirt and returned to the police station.

  It was 2.45 p.m. when Angel sat down at his desk. He reached out for the phone and tapped in Flora Carter’s mobile number.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said brightly. ‘I hope you’re feeling OK.’

  ‘Yes, lass, thank you. Have you found that diamond?’

  ‘No, sir, but I’ve quite a lot of other news.’

  ‘I hope it’s all good. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m in the vicar’s garage, sir, with Don Taylor and a couple of his officers. I’ll come outside, the signal will be better.’

  ‘Right, Flora. Fire away.’

  ‘Well, sir, we discovered the vicar and his wife gagged and tied to their beds. They were promptly despatched to the hospital for a check-up, but I think they’ll be all right. Before he went, the vicar told me that Reville knocked on the vicarage door at about nine o’clock this morning asking for help. He asked him in, then Reville drew a gun and held them at gunpoint. He demanded the keys to his garage and car, then he made them go upstairs. He fastened them to their beds with clothes line. Apparently Reville had been using the vicar’s car, a small black Ford, as his own runabout this morning. The car was parked and locked in an old stable that the vicar used as a garage. It was opposite the back door of the vicarage. Don Taylor found Reville’s fingerprints all over the car. The key to the garage was found in Reville’s pocket together with keys for Ernest Piddington’s house and Nancy Quinn’s flat.’

  ‘Good. That will help to show the free and easy way he had access to his victims.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In the back of the car, under a seat, Don Taylor found a kitchen knife covered in dried blood with Reville’s fingerprints on it. It was wrapped in a newspaper, which also had his prints on it.’

  ‘Was it the Sunday Telegraph?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Dated 5 May.’

  ‘Good. That would be the copy he bought the day he murdered Nancy Quinn. There is quite enough there, Flora – with what we already have – to prove that he murdered old man Piddingt
on and Nancy Quinn.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but you haven’t found that diamond. We need to find that to be able to wrap this bank robbery well and truly round Reville’s neck. Tell me, did SOCO search his body thoroughly?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. Don Taylor knew you that you particularly wanted to find the diamond.’

  ‘What about the vicar’s car?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Don and his team finished that a few minutes ago. It isn’t there.’

  ‘Well, keep looking. It has to be found. I can’t think where it has got to.’

  At four o’clock Angel felt tired, with his eyes closing, and his mind not thinking of what he was trying to write. He knew he wouldn’t fall asleep, but he wasn’t achieving anything useful either. It had slipped his mind that work had taken up most of the previous night. He phoned Ahmed and told him he was going home. Then he drove himself home, put the car away and let himself in by the back door.

  Mary was very pleased to see him. Unusually she was in a nightdress and housecoat. She put her arms round his neck and pulled him towards her to deliver a slow and gentle kiss.

  ‘What are you doing home, darling?’ she said.

  ‘I was falling asleep at my desk,’ he said. ‘Why the housecoat? Been to bed?’

  ‘I thought I would have a nap, but when it came to it, I couldn’t get off. We must have an early night tonight.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, then he went to the fridge and took out a can of German beer. He found a glass on the draining-board and poured it out.

  Mary came back up to him and said, ‘How’s your face?’

  ‘Sore.’ Then he said, ‘How are your wrists?’

  ‘Sore, but getting better.’

  ‘You are sure he didn’t hurt you, sweetheart, aren’t you?’

  ‘He scared me. He scared me stiff, but he didn’t hurt me. Only my wrists.’

  Angel shook his head.

  He went through to the sitting room. He sat in his favourite chair for about a minute. He was thinking through the events of the day, and he didn’t like what he remembered. Then suddenly, he looked up brightly and said, ‘Any post?’

  ‘Two,’ Mary said and she went to the sideboard and brought them to him.

  He looked at each of them in turn and wrinkled his nose. He reluctantly tore into the first envelope. It consisted of several colourful leaflets.

  ‘Hey up, Mary. I’ve won a £50 voucher that can be spent at any of the forty-two branches of Warmglow Sunshine Tanning Salon.’

  Mary smiled and said, ‘Fifty pounds, eh? There’s one in town. On Wath Road.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Hey. This is addressed to me. It should be addressed to you.’

  ‘No. I’ve been entering competitions in your name just to prove that you can win prizes.’

  ‘Oh? Really? Well, thank you, sweetheart. Let me give you a kiss.’

  He kissed her gently on the lips. Then he said, ‘But, you know, I’m not into getting myself tanned. You have it.’

  Mary wasn’t pleased. ‘I got it for you. It’s always the same. You never let me give you anything without a lot of argument.’

  ‘When have I the time to go and play about at getting a tan?’

  Mary gasped loudly and walked out of the sitting room. She was not pleased.

  Angel noticed. As he began to open the second letter he said in a very low voice, ‘And I bet you’ve spent more on postage than the voucher is worth.’

  He took the letter out of the second envelope. His face dropped. He looked round. ‘Mary,’ he called. ‘It’s from the ruddy gas company.’

  Mary put her nose into the room. ‘What are you shouting about now?’

  ‘It’s from the ruddy gas company. We owe them £192, and gas is going up another 5 per cent at the end of June. What do you think of that?’

  ‘Well, Michael, you’ve got to be reasonable. It’s going up for everybody.’

  He put his arms in the air in exasperation and yelled, ‘Reasonable? I’m always reasonable. I’m the most reasonable man I know. Here,’ he said, handing Mary the suntan voucher and the letter from the gas company. ‘Send that to the gas board. Tell them to deduct that from our bill.’

  Mary stared at him, not at first realizing what he had said. She sighed.

  Angel’s mobile rang.

  He fumbled down into his pocket, found it and pressed the button. ‘Angel.’

  ‘Hello there, Michael.’

  Angel recognized the Glaswegian voice of his good friend, Dr Mac. ‘You old codger. I hear you’ve been picking a fight with a madman.’

  ‘Huh. I had to defend myself, Mac, that’s all. He picked the fight with me.’

  ‘Aye, so I understand. Well, assuredly he didn’t get the better of you. You can still enjoy a dram, whilst he will never again even smell the cork.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Where is this leading?’

  ‘Oh, just idle chit-chat, an old doctor’s subtle way of finding out how you survived that wee punch-up. Your erstwhile opponent has a broken jaw and several nasty contusions to his face. I hope that you gave out more than you got.’

  ‘I really don’t know about that, Mac. But rest assured, I’m OK.’

  ‘Good. Good,’ Mac said. ‘You’ll have learned from that, that I have Mr Reville on the slab in front of me.’

  ‘I knew that he was in your accomplished hands,’ Angel said with a grin.

  ‘You can cut out the sarcasm, or I shallna tell you what you want to know.’

  ‘All right. I’m listening. Go on.’

  ‘I’m thinking you will be pleased. I took X-rays of his chest, thorax, hip and thigh parts and discovered a perfect hexagonal shadow in his stomach. When I opened him up I found a large clear stone. When I washed it under the tap, it glistened and reflected the most beautiful colours.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Do you know, Mac? That news is better than any of your bottles of medicine.’

  By the Same Author

  IN THE MIDST OF LIFE

  CHOKER

  THE MAN IN THE PINK SUIT

  THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING HONEST

  MANTRAP

  SALAMANDER

  SHAM

  THE UMBRELLA MAN

  THE MAN WHO COULDN’T LOSE

  THE CURIOUS MIND OF INSPECTOR ANGEL

  FIND THE LADY

  THE WIG MAKER

  MURDER IN BARE FEET

  WILD ABOUT HARRY

  THE CUCKOO CLOCK SCAM

  SHRINE TO MURDER

  THE SNUFFBOX MURDERS

  THE DOG COLLAR MURDERS

  THE CHESHIRE CAT MURDERS

  THE DIAMOND ROSARY MURDERS

  Copyright

  © Roger Silverwood 2013

  First published in Great Britain 2013

  This edition 2013

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1270 5 (epub)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1271 2 (mobi)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1272 9 (pdf)

  ISBN 978 0 7198 1033 6 (print)

  Robert Hale Limited

  Clerkenwell House

  Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1R 0HT

  www.halebooks.com

  The right of Roger Silverwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988