The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  He turned the sign round to read OPEN and turned the key.

  A fat, irate old woman with a face like a bag of bones waddled in.

  It was Mrs Beasley. She scowled at Grant and said, ‘I thought this shop opened at eight o’clock, young man?’

  Grant knew his mother would have had it open at eight o’clock even if it was in the middle of an earthquake. ‘Well, I don’t have a fixed time, really, Mrs Beasley. What can I get for you?’ he said.

  She wrinkled her nose.

  Grant noticed for the first time that her nostrils were black and round, and her nose was short, like that of a pig.

  ‘A bottle of vinegar,’ she said. ‘You can’t eat chips without a good sozzling of vinegar.’

  Grant put a bottle of vinegar in front of her. ‘Twenty-nine pence,’ he said.

  She looked at it, sniffed and said, ‘And summat for his breakfast.’

  ‘What?’ Grant said. ‘Rice Krispies? Shredded Wheat? Muesli?’

  ‘No. No. None of that muck,’ she said as she gazed round the shop. ‘How much is that tin of corned beef?’

  Grant frowned and reached up to one of the high positions. He turned the tin all the way round, hoping that his mother had put a price on it. He was relieved to find that she had.

  ‘Two pounds ninety-eight,’ he said. He put it down on the counter in front of her. ‘Anything else, Mrs Beasley?’

  She looked at him, sniffed again and said, ‘Not at these prices, Cliff. You know, I was very sorry to hear about your mother, but she was always far too dear, and it looks as if you’re following in her footsteps.’

  She tossed a five pound note grudgingly onto the counter. Grant shook his head in dismay and rang up the money to put it in the till. ‘If I could sell as much as Cheapo’s, Mrs Beasley, I could be as cheap as Cheapo’s.’

  ‘None of your smart talk, Cliff. I’ve known you and your mother a long time. I wiped your backside when all you could do was bawl. And my goodness, could you bawl!’

  He smiled at her. ‘I never knew that,’ he said, pushing her change towards her. ‘Two pounds two pence. Thank you very much.’

  She raked up the coins, then looked at him closely and with a serious expression said, ‘There’s a lot you don’t know, Cliff Grant.’

  The shop door opened and Maisie Spencer came in. She looked at Grant. He looked back at her. Her face was glowing. His heart missed a beat. They smiled at each other.

  Mrs Beasley took one look at her, then at him and said, ‘And you want to be careful of her, Cliff, for one thing. Give her half a chance and she’ll eat you up and spit out the bones.’

  Maisie Spencer’s face went scarlet. ‘Mind your own business, Mrs Beasley. What do you know?’

  ‘Well, I know a helluva lot, Maisie Spencer. I know that I didn’t have to rent it out at ten quid a time, like your Aunt Dolly did. I was straight up and down when I married my husband and we’ve been together for forty-two years. Had four children and brought them up proper. I’ve stuck it out through thick and bloody thin. And let me tell you, there’s been more times thin than thick.’ She made a gesture with two fingers, lifted her arm and said, ‘So up yours.’

  Maisie Spencer was so angry she could hardly speak. She snatched the handle of the shop door, yanked it open and said, ‘Get out, you bleeding old trouble-maker.’

  ‘I’m going, when I’m good and ready,’ Mrs Beasley said.

  Then she picked up the vinegar and the tin of corned beef from the counter and turned to Grant. ‘I can see what’s going on here with this tart, Cliff,’ she said. ‘And I have to say that your mother would never have approved. She would have wanted you to settle down with a decent lass, not a lass that’s tried it on with just about every man on Canal Street.’

  ‘You dirty, lying bitch!’ Maisie Spencer said.

  Mrs Beasley lifted up her head, turned and waddled towards the open door of the shop.

  Her grand exit was spoiled by the arrival of Percy Maddison, the bread deliveryman. He usually delivered at that time and was trying to get to the counter, past Maisie Spencer and Mrs Beasley. He carried a large wooden tray of bread and cakes.

  ‘Oh, sorry, madam,’ Maddison said as he squeezed through. ‘Excuse me.’

  Mrs Beasley glared at the man. ‘Get out of the bloody way, man,’ she said, angrily pushing the tray out of her face. The front of it went up, the back went down and loaves of bread and cakes slid off the tray onto the floor of the shop.

  ‘Stupid cow,’ Maisie Spencer said.

  Maddison turned back to her and said, ‘Nay, missis, you didn’t have to do that.’

  Mrs Beasley ignored them all. With her nose raised high, she toddled out of the shop.

  Grant’s mouth was wide open. He was stumped at the behaviour of the women. He saw the mess of bread and cakes on the floor and said, ‘I’ll give you a hand, Percy.’

  He lifted the flap in the gap in the counter and passed through to the customer side of the shop.

  He saw that Maisie Spencer was standing against the wall. She had tears in her eyes, her hands up to her face and she was shaking.

  He touched her gently on the arm. ‘Why don’t you go in the back, Maisie?’ he said. ‘I’ll be through soon.’

  She nodded and quietly slipped through the gap in the counter into the kitchen.

  Maddison put the bread tray on the floor and the two men squatted together on their haunches close together. From that position, as they retrieved the loaves, tea-cakes and fancies, Maddison came very close to Grant’s ear and in a confiding tone said, ‘Women are the strangest of creatures, Cliff. You need to be very careful.’

  Grant nodded. ‘I’m trying to be,’ he whispered.

  Then at his usual volume, he said, ‘Sorry about that, Percy. I don’t know what gets into them.’

  Maddison got to his feet and picked up the tray. ‘Not your fault, Cliff,’ he said. ‘But I must say, you do have some funny customers round here.’

  Maddison and Grant completed their business, Grant found himself obliged to buy more bread and cakes than he would normally have done, and the bread man left with a cheery, ‘See you tomorrow, Cliff.’

  Grant went into the kitchen and Maisie raced across to him and they embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other for a month of Sundays.

  When the passion eased and they rested from kissing, Grant said, ‘Maisie, my love, while I am over the moon to see you, you can’t stay. The shop bell can ring at any minute and I will simply have to answer it.’

  The smile left her.

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’ she said. ‘You could close the shop and lock the door.’

  Grant sighed. ‘Now you know I can’t do that.’

  She pouted her lips and ran her hands up and down his back. ‘You can. Just for an hour or so. Go on,’ she said.

  He shook his head several times rapidly. ‘No. This is my business now and I owe it to my mother to try to make a go of it.’

  She licked her lips for a few seconds and said, ‘Didn’t last night mean anything to you?’

  He smiled. ‘It was absolutely fabulous, Maisie.’

  She giggled. ‘Well, then …’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Maisie,’ he said. ‘After I’ve closed the shop—’ He broke off as the shop door opened and the bell rang.

  ‘We are busy this morning,’ he said. He gave her a peck on the cheek and turned to go.

  She grabbed his hand and held him back. ‘You do love me, don’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Of course I love you,’ he said quickly.

  She released the grip and he dashed into the shop.

  When he saw who was in the shop, his eyebrows shot up and his mouth dropped open. It was the dusky Ann Fiske dressed to the nines.

  ‘Good morning, Cliff. Remember me?’ she said.

  He swallowed. She looked like a film star arriving at the Oscars ceremony.

  ‘What’s the matter, Cliff? Cat got your tongue? You look as if you’ve been caught with your
fingers in the till.’

  He detected something unfriendly in her attitude towards him.

  ‘No, er … er Tutshy Face, not at all,’ he said. He was certain that Maisie Spencer would be listening and he couldn’t resist a quick glance in the direction of the kitchen. Shredded Wheat cartons blocked his view.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ he said. ‘How’s your father? Is he out of hospital?’

  ‘Yes, he’s home. It was a false alarm. He’s fine for the moment.’

  ‘That’s great,’ he said.

  He was struggling to find things to say that were not controversial. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school, teaching the kiddywinks how to scrape their violins?’ he said.

  ‘I’m a peripatetic music teacher, Cliff. And I don’t have a class on Friday mornings.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realize. Did you come for anything special?’

  She breathed in smartly through her nose, raised it and said, ‘Oh yes, as a matter of fact I did. A little bird told me that after you left me last night, you went visiting.’

  Cliff heard the sound of a sharp intake of breath from behind him. It could only have come from Maisie Spencer.

  He began to think that Ann Fiske knew more than she had said. His eyeballs slid sideways away from her and then back again. He licked the corners of his lips. He had better not deny it.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘It was to Miss Spencer, wasn’t it?’ She said. ‘Maisie Spencer.’

  ‘It might have been. Where have you got all your information from? Have you got a private detective following me or something?’

  ‘And that you stayed there a long time. How long did you actually stay, Cliff?’

  ‘What is all this, Ann? I don’t have people following you around,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t have people following you, either. It was just that a friend of mine saw you. How long were you there, Cliff?’

  ‘Well, er, she’s a friend.’

  Ann Fiske blinked. ‘I thought we had an understanding.’

  ‘Well, so we have.’

  ‘It doesn’t allow for you spending long evenings alone in the privacy of Maisie Spencer’s home. Everybody knows she’s “the tart with a heart”.’

  Cliff heard a further angry outburst of hot breath from behind the Shredded Wheat boxes. He bit his top lip and said, ‘Well you have to be erm … erm … reasonable in this situation.’

  That was too much for Ann Fiske. Her face went scarlet. ‘Reasonable?’ she said. ‘I have never made promises of exclusive devotion to you and brought you chocolates, and then visited another man!’

  And that was too much for Maisie Spencer. The Shredded Wheat boxes came to life.

  ‘Chocolates,’ she boomed as she came from behind them. She stood hands on hips, facing Grant and said, ‘You’ve never brought me any chocolates.’

  Ann Fiske gasped then glared at Maisie and said, ‘You trollop. You rotten, little trollop. You’ve been listening to everything I’ve been saying.’

  ‘Don’t you dare call me names, Miss Iron Knickers. Just because you can’t pull a man, there’s no need to go around making rude remarks about those who can. Besides that, me and Cliff are engaged.’

  Ann Fiske’s eyes stood out like bilberries on stalks. ‘Engaged,’ she roared. She turned to face Grant. ‘Is this true?’

  Grant blinked several times. His mouth opened as if to speak. Nothing came out. He coughed then said, ‘Well, we’d been … er, talking about it.’

  Maisie Spencer’s turned to face him. ‘Talking about it?’ she said. ‘You bloody liar. You asked me to marry you over a year ago, before you went away.’

  Ann Fiske said, ‘Right, Maisie Spencer, where’s the ring? Hold up your hand. Show me the engagement ring.’

  ‘He never bought me a ring,’ Maisie said.

  Ann Fiske smiled. But there wasn’t any warmth in it. ‘No,’ she said, ‘and he never will.’ Then she looked fiercely at Grant and said, ‘Because he’s no good. My father said that after he first met him. He knew his father, Philip Grant. He was another right conman. I came here this morning hoping for an explanation I could live with. I would almost certainly have made it up with him, but what I know now there is no chance of that.’

  Grant was overwhelmed by them, but he had to try and rescue his reputation.

  ‘Ann,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t buy her a decent ring because I couldn’t afford to. I didn’t have a bean until Ma died.’ Then he turned to Maisie Spencer and said, ‘Don’t listen to her. I’ve promised you a ring and I will get you a ring.’

  ‘You must have said that a hundred times,’ Maisie said.

  ‘And I meant it every time I said it,’ he said.

  Ann Fiske said, ‘Well, I’ll have to go. I’m fed up of listening to your lies and excuses.’ She looked at Maisie Spencer and said, ‘Are you coming or are you going to wait until he talks you into bed?’

  ‘Huh! It’ll be a long time before he talks me into any bed,’ she said.

  Maisie Spencer pushed past Grant, lifted the flap in the counter and squeezed through the gap, and the two young women swept out into the street, banging the shop door noisily behind them.

  Grant’s eyes, unblinking, stared at the closed door. He clenched his teeth. His face went scarlet. He turned and punched the stack of boxes of Shredded Wheat piled up against the side of the wall. They scattered across the floor of the shop. Then he went into the kitchen, violently kicking the boxes that had fallen in his way. He went to the settee, slumped heavily onto it, leaned down to the side and picked out a can of Monty’s lager from an open pack, grabbed the ring, tore off the seal and took a long swig of lager. He swivelled round to put his head on one arm of the settee and his legs over the other, then he put the can back to his lips, emptied it and threw it powerfully at the sink. It hit the teapot standing at the edge of the draining board, which rolled off and smashed onto the kitchen floor.

  NINE

  Angel made contact with Mr Dale Lunn, husband of the late Felicity Lunn, and arranged to meet him at his house, 62 Cemetery Road at 9.30 that Friday morning.

  Angel asked him the usual routine questions, but Mr Lunn was unable to tell him anything that progressed his inquiries. So Angel arranged for Lunn and his daughter to call in at the SOCs’ office to have their fingerprints taken for elimination purposes. He then took his leave and hastily returned to his own office at the police station.

  He was not a happy man. It was 12.30 and he felt that he had wasted an entire morning. He quickly phoned for Scrivens and set him on checking on Lunn’s alibi, then he spoke to Don Taylor and asked him if there had been any fresh developments from the previous day’s forensic investigations in the Felicity Lunn case. He was thinking in particular of the vacuuming of the SOC, and the rest of the house; also the contents of the waste bins. However, Taylor’s reply to both questions was in the negative.

  Angel replaced the receiver, sighed heavily and promptly returned to his notes. He was checking to see that he had not overlooked anything.

  He noticed that regarding the appeal that had had front page coverage in most national papers, up to five minute pieces on television news and shorter reports on the radio, no 60-year-old women who knew any of the three victims had come forward. Angel regarded that as very bad news. It was making it easy for the murderer to continue her evil activities.

  The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was Detective Superintendent Harker. Angel’s face dropped as he expected the Superintendent was to send him out on another cauliflower and rice murder.

  ‘Angel? Come up here,’ Harker said.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Angel said.

  He put the phone back in its cradle. He began wondering what Harker could be wanting to see him about. It was a relief that it wasn’t another cauliflower and rice murder. That would have been far too urgent for any discussion at this stage. However, it was never for anything helpful and it was never to approve of anything he had done or said. He
knew that whatever it was, he would need to have a hide as thick as a Centurion Tank and the feelings of a gnat to survive the old warrior.

  He trudged up the green corridor to the Superintendent’s office and knocked on the door.

  Amidst a bout of coughing Harker said, ‘Come in. Sit down.’

  Harker’s office as usual smelled of a mixture of TCP and Fennings Fever Cure and was predictably as hot as Death Valley.

  Harker was seated at his desk. He was a skinny, small man. His bald head, with taxi door ears, was the shape of a turnip. The small amount of hair left to him by parsimonious living was a mixture of ginger, orange and white. His large desk was a jumble of piled up files, papers, letters, telephones, Kleenex, and boxes of different medications, including Movicol, paracetamol, and Co-codamol.

  Angel noticed also that immediately in front of Harker was a pile of newspapers.

  Harker sniffed, looked down at them and said, ‘Made quite a name for yourself again, Angel, I see?’

  Angel didn’t attempt to take the bait.

  Eventually Harker said, ‘What was the motive in promoting such far-reaching publicity for a murderer who is quite obviously a local man?’

  ‘I didn’t need such extensive coverage, sir. But I did need intensive coverage, and I have no control over the boundaries the media covers. I needed to tell every woman in South Yorkshire who is around sixty years of age to try to remember the three women victims and if they knew them to come to the police for protection.’

  ‘And how many have come forward?’

  ‘None so far, sir. But it isn’t twenty-four hours since I made the appeal.’

  ‘The TV news and radio programmes were reporting it last night. All the tabloids ran with it on the front page and the broadsheets had pieces inside. If there had been any people out there who could have filled your requirements, they would have come forward, so clearly the plan failed.’

  ‘It’s very early to reach that judgement, sir.’