The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  The audience was attentive and quiet. He then said that he was expecting a further three murders if he could not quickly discover the identity of the killer.

  He put his hands flat on the table top, leaned forward and said, ‘I want to make an appeal, and I want you to spread it quickly and prominently, if you will. It is to all middle-aged women. If you are a woman of about sixty years of age, and knew the three women who have been murdered, you could be next on the murderer’s list. Please dial 999 and ask for the police. The police can protect you and they will, but you must come forward and make yourself known to them.’

  He then thanked them for their kind attention and sat down. He poured some water into the tumbler and took a good drink.

  There was a subdued rumble of whisperings from the gathering.

  Then Angel said, ‘I would be happy to answer any questions you may have.’

  They were mostly questions about the method used by the killer to commit the murders, the cauliflower, the rice and the victims’ histories and lifestyles. They presented no difficulty to him. When he noticed that the questions were becoming hypothetical or he thought that he had already adequately answered them, he courteously brought the question and answer session to an end.

  The pressmen and women couldn’t get out with their trappings to file their stories quickly enough, and the Parade Room was emptied in quick time.

  It was eight o’clock on that same warm, sunny evening of Thursday 7 May. As the poet Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, ‘In the Spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ And so it was that Cliff Grant’s head had been turned that long May day by the sight across the shop counter of girls and young women who had been in the shop. The discarding of their coats and warm clothing had showed far too much sensuous skin and shapely limbs and bodies than they had realized, which had stirred the masculine inclinations in his head, his heart and his body. Such that that particular Thursday evening Cliff Grant had a powerful personal need of womanly comfort and attention, so at eight o’clock promptly, he locked the shop, had a quick shower, a shave, put on his best suit and taking an expensive box of chocolates out of the shop stock, he set off along Canal Street.

  He knew exactly where he was going. It was to number 120. The home of the highly desirable Ann Fiske. He took a deep breath as he lifted the knocker on her door and gave it a hard one-two-three.

  He stood there, listening for some sound that signified she was in. There was no certainty that she was. He reckoned it was possible that some virile school teacher or even a parent of one of her pupils had taken a serious interest in her and whisked her away.

  Suddenly he heard a bolt being drawn, the click of a key in a lock and then the door opened three inches on a chain. A pair of beautiful, bright brown eyes peered through the crack at him.

  Grant smiled. ‘It’s me, Tutshy Face,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Cliff,’ Ann Fiske said. ‘Just a minute.’

  He thought she seemed pleased to see him. That was a good start.

  The door was pushed to release the safety chain, then opened wide to reveal her in a light, floral patterned dress that curved sensuously around her thighs.

  His pulse increased at the sight of her.

  Ann Fiske looked him up and down and enjoyed his straight back, muscular legs, strong arms, black hair, warm tanned skin and curling smile.

  ‘What’s wrong, Cliff?’

  Grant smiled. ‘Nothing now I’ve seen you.’

  She shook her head and smiled. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  She closed the door and dropped the latch. ‘Come in here and sit down,’ she said and led him into the sitting-room.

  When he was comfortable she said, ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear about your mother. It’s absolutely dreadful. Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ve come to terms with it, Tutshy Face. We didn’t see eye to eye on many things, and she was difficult to live with at times, but the bond between us was strong. It must’ve been or I wouldn’t have come back.’

  ‘What’s happening to the shop?’

  She noticed the box under his arm.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grant said. ‘I’m trying to keep it going for the time being.’

  ‘Well, you know where to come if you’re stuck anytime.’

  ‘Thank you, Tutshy Face.’

  He took the box of chocolates from under his arm and said, ‘I’ve brought you these.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ Ann said. ‘What are they? Oh, my favourites. That is nice of you, Cliff.’

  She quickly undid the ribbon, removed the lid and gazed at the mass of decorated and gold foiled chocolates. She offered them to him. ‘They look very yummy. After you.’

  ‘Not for me, Ann. Not long since I had tea. Anyway, I brought them for you.’

  ‘It’s a bit too warm to enjoy chocolates,’ she said. ‘I’ll have one later.’

  She replaced the lid on the box and put it on the table. Then turned back, reached up to Grant, put her arms round his neck, pulled him down and kissed him gently on the lips.

  ‘Thank you, Cliff,’ she said.

  Something welled up in his throat. He pulled her to him. They kissed again. Her body ached for his caresses.

  Grant’s eyes closed. His arms went round her back. Her body was aflame. She pressed her stomach to his. His heart exploded with a scorching, pleasant lava which spread rapidly through his chest. Her arms tightened and overlapped round his neck. He gently pressed her to his hard body.

  In Ann’s imagination, she was intoxicated and drifting in and out of consciousness, wearing only a stream of white voile and floating slowly, and rhythmically to paradise. Then she heard the banging of the knocker on her front door.

  Her heart leapt. She pulled away from Grant.

  ‘The door,’ she said, trying to get her breath.

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ he said, still with his arms round her. His heart beating like a drum.

  The banging was repeated, louder.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ she said as she tried to pull away from him.

  ‘Ignore it,’ he said. ‘They’ll go away.’

  ‘It might be my mother,’ she said. ‘Let me go, Cliff.’ She pulled away from him again. She was worried. ‘I must answer it.’

  Grant released her. He wasn’t pleased.

  She ran towards the hall. ‘Do I look all right?’ she said.

  ‘You always look wonderful, Tutshy face,’ he said. He breathed in deeply.

  He sighed and took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  When she reached the door, she straightened the front of her dress and ran her hands over her hair.

  He heard her unlock the door and say, ‘Yes?’ And he could hear a man’s voice reply, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Grant hoped that whoever it was could be dismissed quickly. He sat down on the settee. He bounced on it a couple of times and nodded with satisfaction. He looked around admiringly at how clean and polished everything was.

  He could still hear the mumbling. Then he heard the front door close.

  Ann Fiske came back into the sitting room, putting on a raincoat. ‘My dad’s been taken into hospital again, Cliff. It’s his heart. I’ll have to go to my mother’s. I have to try and settle her down. That was their next door neighbour. He’s going to give me a lift in his car. He’s waiting for me. Sorry, darling, I really am.’

  Grant reckoned it sounded conclusive. ‘Oh, I’m sorry too, Tutshy face,’ he said. ‘Of course, you must do your best for them both.’

  ‘Sorry to push you out,’ she said.

  He didn’t show his disappointment; he opened the front door and went outside.

  Ann Fiske followed him with her handbag in one hand and a bunch of keys in the other.

  He saw a small car parked against the kerb. The engine was running. There was a bald man with spectacles in the driving seat.

  Ann Fiske leaned down a
nd climbed into the car. Grant got hold of the car door handle. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Thank you. See you soon,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Call in the shop sometime,’ he said and closed the door.

  The bald man let in the clutch and the car moved off.

  Grant gave her a wave, and remained there until the car took the corner and was out of sight. He looked at his watch. It was eight minutes past eight. The night was young. He knew exactly what he was going to do with the rest of it. He made a determined step towards the far end of Canal Street. He was heading for number 24.

  He soon arrived there, and knocked on the door.

  It was answered by Maisie Spencer who smiled widely. She couldn’t be more pleased to see anybody on that balmy spring evening. She had been thinking of him only minutes ago. ‘Come in, Cliff, come in,’ she said.

  He smiled at her and flashed his best seductive smile. She quickly closed the door and dropped the latch.

  ‘Thank you, Maisie,’ he said.

  She looked as alluring as always. He immediately felt a stirring in his loins.

  ‘How are you?’ he said.

  His voice always charmed her. It was warm, clear and seemed to be educated.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, Cliff. Go on through into the room, and sit down,’ she said.

  She noticed that his fine-looking black hair had been smartly trimmed, his shoes polished, that he’d had a shave and there was a neat crease in his trousers. She knew he had a powerful physique under that dark navy blue suit.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘How have you been keeping?’

  ‘Oh, it’s been so lonely here on my own, particularly since Angie went to my mother’s.’

  Angie was reputed to be Maisie’s sister, but she was only eight. That would have meant that there was fourteen years between them, and their mother, if she was their mother, was almost fifty-five years of age.

  ‘I hope she’s all right,’ he said. He cleared some women’s magazines and newspapers off the settee and sat down.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Maisie said. ‘What brings you here?’

  She plumped a cushion on an easy chair opposite him as she prepared to sit down there. He reached out, took her hand and pulled her down onto the settee by his side.

  ‘It’s all right to visit the girl I’m engaged to, once in a while, isn’t it?’

  Maisie Spencer smiled. She was delighted that he thought of them as being engaged. She knew then that if he made an advance on her that evening, she would not be able to resist him.

  ‘As we’re engaged, shouldn’t I have a ring to seal it?’ she said.

  ‘Yep, and as soon as I can, I’m going to get you one,’ he said.

  She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. He didn’t let her get away. He put his arms round her and gave her a much longer kiss on the lips. She hung on to him. He stopped, turned her round so that her back was across his lap and her legs stretched out along the length of the settee. They kissed several times, their hearts pumping faster and faster as their passions dictated.

  She kicked off her shoes.

  Grant applied his warm, gentle hand with dexterity under her skirt along her smooth, long legs.

  EIGHT

  It was two o’clock in the morning of Friday 8 May.

  Moonlight shone brightly through the window onto the bed.

  Cliff Grant awoke. He blinked. Momentarily he wondered where he was, and then he remembered everything and smiled. He peered in the dim light at Maisie, beautiful and fast asleep. He smiled.

  He gently peeled back the bedclothes and eased himself out of the bed, not wanting to wake her. He walked barefoot over a trail of clothes, some his and some hers to the bathroom. While he was there, he had a good wash. Then in the moonlight he collected the clothes from the floor, putting hers on a chair and retaining his own. He crept quietly downstairs, collecting his suit coat and tie off the stairs on the way. In the sitting room, he checked that the curtains were closed, switched on the light and got dressed. Then he looked round for paper and pen. He found a pen in a tumbler filled with other pencils and crayons on the mantelpiece, and behind a candlestick were several envelopes opened but with contents of some sort. He selected one and in big letters on the back of it he wrote, ‘I LOVE YOU,’ and he left the envelope leaning across the dial of the sitting room clock. She was bound to see it when she wanted to know the time. He switched off the light and let himself out by the front door. He was in his own bed by 2.30 a.m.

  Angel arrived at his office at 8.28 a.m. that Friday morning. Almost as soon as he sat down, his phone went. It was the civilian telephone receptionist.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I’ve a Mr Daniel Ashton on the phone for you. He says he’s an old friend. Do you want to speak to him?’

  Angel hadn’t had time for the cat and had purposely not been in touch with Daniel Ashton about that diamond ring he very much liked.

  ‘Yes, of course, put him through, please.’

  There was a click and then a voice said, ‘Is that Michael?’

  ‘Hello, Daniel,’ he said. ‘Look Daniel, I am up to my neck in muck and bullets. I got your message, but I have this serial murder case on my lap and I have had to put thoughts of diamond rings absolutely on hold.’

  Daniel said, ‘That’s all right, Michael. I know how it will be. It’s in all the papers. Quickly, I have had a three-stone diamond ring brought in which is a bigger flash than the original one you saw and liked, and it is nearer your price.’

  ‘No, Daniel, thank you. I like the solitaire best. Look, if or when I catch this killer, I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Tell you what, Michael. You like a flutter, don’t you? A bit more incentive. If you catch the killer before your wedding anniversary on 14th May, I’ll do the solitaire you liked at your price, £500, and if you don’t, it’ll be £800. How about that?’

  Angel smiled. That would be great. He reasoned that even if he didn’t solve the case and had to pay £800, Daniel hadn’t put a time of delivery on it, so Angel wouldn’t be pressured finding the £300 difference on the dot. He hoped that Daniel would let him have the ring for 14 May, the date of the anniversary, and allow him a few weeks to get the difference together somehow.

  ‘All right, Daniel, you’re on.’

  Angel had only happy memories of DI Ashton as he was known before he retired from the police. He replaced the phone.

  He took out the brown envelope where he made his notes from his inside pocket and began to review his priorities. The most important outstanding matter was the interviewing of Dale Lunn, Felicity Lunn’s husband. He reached out to the phone and summoned Ahmed.

  There was a knock at the door and DS Carter put her head round. ‘I’m with Trevor Crisp, sir. Can we come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Flora. I was wondering where you two had got to.’

  They were followed round the door by Ahmed.

  Angel looked at Carter and Crisp. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

  Then he turned to Ahmed. ‘Will you get me Dale Lunn’s phone number, lad? Don Taylor may have it. Or it might be in the phone book.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said and he dashed out.

  He looked over the desk at the two sergeants and said, ‘Right, what have you got?’

  They glanced at each other and then Crisp said, ‘I, er, we didn’t speak to anybody who had seen anything unusual, sir.’

  Angel sighed.

  Flora said, ‘We inquired about newspaper deliveries and no one on Cemetery Road had papers delivered anymore. So I went to the post office and the manager of postal deliveries said that that walk was started at 8.10 a.m. yesterday which was way after the murder was committed.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Yes, that’s right. The murder was committed between 5 and 8 a.m. The murderer could have returned home, had a wash and gone back to bed.’

  ‘That’s assuming that …’ Crisp began. ‘Are you thinking that the murderer lives loc
ally, sir?’

  ‘Well, yes. Sebastopol Terrace, Monserrat Street and then Cemetery Road are the addresses of all three murders which are easily within a ten-minute walk of each other, aren’t they?’

  ‘So this murderer may not have a car,’ Flora said.

  Angel nodded. ‘Probably has, but doesn’t choose to use it. A knife, the cauliflower and the rice would easily fit in a plastic shopping bag or a carrier.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angel glared at it. There were far too many interruptions. ‘Come in,’ Angel said.

  It was Ahmed. He had a slip of paper in his hand. He seemed surprised to see DS Crisp and DS Carter still there.

  ‘That’s that phone number you wanted, sir,’ he said, passing Angel a page torn out of his notebook. He looked at the sergeants. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Ahmed,’ Angel said, taking the slip of paper and stuffing it in his pocket.

  Ahmed went out.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ Angel said. ‘We learn from the murderer’s notes that he intends to kill six people. He has already killed three. It is therefore a matter of great urgency that we find him before he gets to the fourth. I fear that short of posting armed officers with every woman about sixty years of age who lives in Bromersley, the guarantee of their safety is unachievable.

  ‘At this time, there is nothing more important than this investigation. We are trying to save lives. Do not get involved in any other case. If you have a problem with this with another member of staff, refer them to me. And if either of you think you have come across anything, phone me on my mobile. It is never switched off. Right. That’s it. Off you go.’

  Meanwhile, in his bedroom over the shop at 83 Sebastopol Terrace, Cliff Grant was hastily pulling up his trousers and tucking in his shirt as he could hear the shop door being hammered on so hard that he thought it might be knocked down if he didn’t go down the stairs and open it. He pushed his feet into his slippers and rushed down. From the back of the chair in the kitchen, he snatched up the long blue overall his mother used to wear in the shop and shoved an arm in the sleeve as he made for the shop door.