‘It certainly isn’t.’
‘It is only one o’clock on the day of publication. Many people won’t even have read their newspaper yet.’
‘Those who didn’t see the television news, listen to their radio last night and this morning and haven’t even glanced at the front page of a newspaper will be very few people indeed.’
Angel shrugged. He could be right, but he hoped he wasn’t.
‘I suppose it has dawned on you that all three murders were executed between 5 and 8 a.m. What does that signify to you?’
‘That the murderer wants to make it difficult for us to establish alibis, sir,’ Angel said. ‘Most people are in bed at that time. Many of them on their own. It probably simply means that that’s the only time convenient.’
Harker nodded. ‘What line of inquiry are you pursuing now?’
‘We are delving into the history of the three victims to find out what is common to them all.’
‘And where do you hope that that will lead?’
‘I am hoping that whatever is common to those three will also be common to the remaining three, which should reveal the murderer.’
‘Sounds to me that you are depending on luck and providence rather than a sensible, thought-out plan.’
‘I assure you, sir, it is a very well thought-out plan.’
‘You have witnesses who have seen a peculiar woman with grey hair in a sheepskin coat in or near to two of the scenes. Why have you not pursued that?’
‘I have, sir. A standard question to all people close to the victims has been, “have you seen anybody unusual around about the time of the murder?” And the answers – except for two witnesses – were “no”. We have not broadened the public search because the description is so general and because the witnesses described the person differently. One said “strange-looking” and the other said “queer-looking” and I have not been able to reconcile that part of the description. All I’ve got that is common to both is “woman”, “grey hair” and “long sheepskin coat”. I simply didn’t think it was sufficient to try and find a suspect on the strength of that alone. I was hoping that that information would be confirmed when we finally make an arrest.’
Harker wasn’t favourably impressed. He looked as if the smell of the gravy in the cook house at Strangeways had just reached his nostrils.
‘It seems to me that you are totally dependent on good luck, Angel. I thought that about your major strategy. And as for yesterday’s time-wasting exercise with the national news media, it seems to me that you are seeking to cast yourself as some sort of detective supremo, the see-all, know-all and cure-all of everything criminal. This self-aggrandizement will not be appreciated by the Home Office.’
That stung Angel hard, even though over the years, he had tolerated all kinds of similar insults from Harker.
However, he kept his cool. ‘Perhaps their opinion will change, sir,’ he said, ‘if I am able to catch this murderer.’
Harker shook his head and smiled. His smile was unusual … and rare. Angel saw it. It was enough to make a pig sick.
‘Angel,’ Harker said. ‘You’ve about as much chance of catching this murderer as you have of winning the lottery.’
Angel shrugged off the insult. Anyway, it did not apply to him. He didn’t buy lottery tickets.
It was 4.45 on Friday afternoon, 8 May. Angel was glancing through the post to see that nothing important was being neglected while he was fully occupied with the cauliflower and rice murders, when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called.
It was Ahmed. He did not seem to be his usual joyful self. He looked very serious. ‘Can I talk to you, sir? It’s not about the case.’
‘Of course you can, lad. I know it’s a bit of a madhouse, but if it’s important I hope you know you can always talk to me. Now … sit down. What is it about?’
‘Well, sir, I’ve had a phone call from Mrs Kenworthy, the Chief Constable’s … er, secretary.’
Angel looked at the young man. ‘Yes?’ Angel said.
‘I’ve never spoken to her before, sir. I’ve seen her many a time … but if you pass her in the corridor or anywhere she looks the other way.’
‘Well, she thinks she’s important, Ahmed. Don’t worry about her. She does the same thing to me. She never nods or smiles or invites conversation. So what?’
‘Well, sir, she said on the phone that the Chief Constable’s away, that he returns on Wednesday 13th May, and that he wants to see me in his office at ten o’clock next Thursday morning. I asked her what for and she said she was not at liberty to say and that it was a confidential matter.’
Angel frowned, gently rubbed his chin and said, ‘Yes, so what?’
‘Well, sir, I can’t think what he wants. He knows all there is to know about me. There’s nothing confidential I can think of. Has anybody been complaining about me or something?’
Angel sighed. ‘I’m sure I don’t know, Ahmed, but it is probably nothing at all. It could be that somebody has said something good about you. Had you thought about that?’
At that, Ahmed gave Angel a huge smile, and Angel had to smile back at him.
‘If I were you, I’d get my haircut, and on that Thursday, I’d press my best suit and come in it. The Chief will appreciate that, and it will give you confidence. Then, whether it is trouble, something mundane or something really nice, you would be suitably dressed.’
Ahmed lowered his eyes and shook his head. ‘But what if he doesn’t think I’m suitable to be in the force and he wants me out?’
Angel’s eyes opened wide. ‘It’ll be nothing like that, Ahmed. I should just be patient and wait. Think happy thoughts. I’m sure it will be all right.’
He looked up. ‘Do you really think so, sir?’
‘I do,’ Angel said. ‘It’s always best to be an optimist, Ahmed. Now push off, there’s a good lad. I’ve a lot on my plate.’
Ahmed got to his feet.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Angel called.
It was DC Scrivens. He looked at Ahmed and then back at Angel. ‘Oh, are you busy, sir?’
‘Ahmed’s just going,’ Angel said.
Ahmed looked at Angel and said, ‘Thanks very much, sir.’
Angel gave him a reassuring smile and a nod, then Ahmed went out and closed the door.
Angel turned back to Scrivens and said, ‘Now then, Ted, what is it?’
‘I’ve finished checking on Dale Lunn’s alibi, sir.’
Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That was quick.’
Scrivens said he had been to the Corporation Bus depot and spoken to the general manager who had confirmed that Lunn was on route 63 that Wednesday night/Thursday morning, in addition, the night cashier who checked Lunn’s money satchel that Thursday morning gave Scrivens the times that were recorded on Lunn’s receipt and in the company’s log book. Angel found that everything matched exactly with the report Lunn had made to him. So that clearly made it impossible for him to have murdered his wife.
Angel thanked him. Scrivens smiled and went out.
Angel looked at his watch. It said five o’clock. He rubbed his chin … wrinkled his nose and reached for his hat. It had been far from a perfect day.
Angel didn’t like working Saturdays (and Mary didn’t like him working on Saturdays either) but sometimes it had to be done.
He arrived at his office at 8.28 on the button, as if it were a weekday. He knew that there would be no Ahmed to run about for him. CID, including SOCO, was virtually closed down out of hours except for serious cases. The uniformed division operated seven days a week, but there were fewer officers on duty, unless there was something special happening such as a home football match. The vehicle unit, however, was always on patrol, monitoring a section of the M1 as well as selected roads and streets in the Bromersley area where motorists might be tempted to exceed the speed limit or break the law in other ways.
Angel took out the pocket r
ecording machine and was considering starting the playback when there was an unexpected knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ he said.
It was DS Crisp and DS Carter. They didn’t look overjoyed, either.
‘Good morning, sir,’ they said.
‘Come in. Come in. Sit down. Have you both completed your interviews? Did you manage to get any old friends or a relation who was older than the victim?’
‘Well, sir,’ Flora said. ‘I—’
The phone rang.
Angel glared at it, then looked at Flora. ‘Sorry, lass. Just hold what you were going to say.’
He snatched up the phone. ‘Angel,’ he said.
‘It’s DS Clifton, sir. I saw that you were in the building. I’ve just had a triple nine. A woman by the name of Michele Pulman, has been found dead, reported by her daily help, Emily Cole.’
Angel’s hand went to his head. His pulse raced. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Not another.’ His chest tightened.
He looked at Trevor and Flora. They looked back at him. They could see it was serious. He sighed. Then snatched up a pen.
‘Give me the address, Bernie,’ Angel said into the phone.
‘13 Creesford Road, sir.’
‘Bernie, will you notify SOC, Dr Mac and the duty officer?’
‘Right, sir.’
‘And have you got the phone number?’
Clifton gave Angel the number.
Angel replaced the phone, turned to Trevor Crisp and Flora Carter and gave them the news. They both expressed their dismay at another suspected murder. Angel directed them to divide the house numbers on Creesford Road between them and begin the house to house. They rushed off.
He tapped in the phone number DS Clifton had given him and then took out a brown envelope from his inside pocket and a ballpoint pen to make notes. The phone rang out a long time before it was answered and then nobody spoke.
Angel could hear quick, soft breathing.
‘Is this the home of Michele Pulman?’ he said.
There was still no reply.
‘This is the police,’ he said. ‘Is this Miss Emily Cole?’
‘Oh yes,’ a small, polite voice said. ‘I’m sorry but er … I am not used to er … Hello?’
‘Miss Cole, don’t worry,’ Angel said. ‘A doctor and the police are on the way. Are you all right?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you. However, I will be relieved to hand over the responsibility for Mrs Pulman to them.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘Please don’t touch anything or move anything, will you?’
‘Oh no. I am afraid that I have, I used the phone to report the …’
‘That will be all right, Miss Cole, but please don’t touch or move anything else. While you are waiting, perhaps you could help me with some information?’
‘I will try,’ she said.
‘Why do you believe that Mrs Pulman is dead?’
‘Well … oh dear … well, her chest is covered in blood, she has no pulse and she is not breathing … oh dear … also … also she seems to have choked on uncooked rice. Although I have absolutely no idea how she came by it. In fact, I don’t think she liked rice.’
Angel sighed heavily. He rubbed his temple for a few seconds. ‘I suppose that there is a cauliflower on her stomach?’ he said slowly.
There was a long pause. He wondered what was happening. Eventually Emily Cole said, ‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘We are looking for a psychopath, Miss Cole. One who kills because he or she likes killing. The killer has killed three times before. The victims were women aged around sixty or thereabouts. We know about the cauliflower because it was part of the MO.’
‘Oooooh,’ she said. ‘Mrs Pulman has just had a birthday. She was sixty-one.’
He nodded. It was no surprise, just more unnecessary corroboration.
‘Will you tell me how you came to find Mrs Pulman in this state?’
‘I am Mrs Pulman’s carer. I called as I usually call, every day at about 8.15 to wash her, change her and give her her breakfast. I have a key and I let myself in. She’s usually asleep and I have to wake her up. I didn’t notice anything different about the house until I came in here and saw her sitting up in bed, her head in a strange position, her cheeks bloated and all that blood … I went up close to her and picked up her wrist to see if there was a pulse, and there wasn’t. Her mouth fell open, some rice dropped out … and I saw all that rice round her teeth and gums. So I knew she had gone and that I had to phone the police.’
Angel bit his lip and said, ‘Sorry to put you through that, Miss Cole.’
‘I’m stronger than I look, sir,’ she said, then she added, ‘I had forgotten, you can’t see me.’
Angel smiled. ‘No, but I can visualize you. Did you notice if anything in the house has been stolen … anything at all?’
‘No. But I hadn’t thought about it … I must have a look round …’
‘And has anything been left by the murderer?’
‘I haven’t noticed, and I would know if there was anything.’
‘If you do notice anything after Scenes of Crime have made their checks, do please come forward and tell us, won’t you?’
‘I certainly will.’
‘That’s good. Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘And by the by, what relation are you to Mrs Pulman?’
‘Well, I am – I looked after her. I was her friend. I was also her paid carer and I ran her house for her.’
‘Did you sleep in?’
‘No. Perhaps I should have done. I came every day, usually twice, but sometimes more. She was bed-bound, you see. Every day, I did what was necessary. Two or three hours, sometimes up to six hours. I’ve been doing it for eight years.’
‘Whereabouts do you live?’
‘I’m not far away. Six Orchard Grove. Across the road. Third house down on the left. You can reach me on the phone, Bromersley 249322.’
‘Thank you. I’m just writing it down, Miss Cole,’ he said. ‘And how old are you?’
‘I’m seventy-two. But don’t think that I was too old to be capable of looking after Mrs Pulman and running two households.’
‘You sound much younger, Miss Cole, and I don’t doubt your capabilities for one moment. Do you happen to know Mrs Pulman’s next of kin?’
‘That would be her cousin in Canada, I believe. But she hasn’t seen her for many years.’
‘Isn’t there anybody nearer? Isn’t there a husband and children?’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I understand that she had been married and had a daughter, but they both died, some years ago.’
‘Does she have a solicitor?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Barnes and Barnes on Victoria Road.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Have you any idea of anybody who would wish Mrs Pulman any harm?’
‘Certainly not. She was a very good-living, charming and beautiful woman. I’m not aware that she had an enemy in the world.’
‘Well, who would benefit from her death? I assume she has left a Will.’
‘Ooooh, I have no idea. I know I don’t. I’ve lost a dear friend and I’m out of a job. That’s all I know.’
Then through the phone, Angel heard a loud banging. It sounded like someone knocking on a door.
‘Excuse me,’ Miss Cole said. ‘I think your men have arrived. Hold on, please.’
Through the earpiece, Angel heard the door being unlocked, opened, a distant male voice talking to Miss Cole and then her reply. That was followed by several other voices. Seconds later she came back to the phone.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Are you there? Yes, they are policemen.’
‘I’m assuming they are the men from the Scenes Of Crimes Office, Miss Cole? Can I speak to DS Taylor?’
‘I’ll ask,’ she said.
Moments later Taylor came onto the phone. ‘Is that you, sir?’
‘I have already found out that the MO is as before, Don,’ Angel said. ‘Would you check
that there is a note on the victim’s chest? And if there is, read it out to me.’
‘Right, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘Hold on. It’ll take a little while.’
Angel waited. He used the time to re-read his notes and make any hastily written unclear words comprehensible.
Taylor came back to the phone. ‘Yes, it’s the same MO, sir. The note is folded the same. As the lady was dressed in night attire, it was shoved down the neck of her nightdress, sticking out so that it could be seen. I had the victim photographed before taking it out, so that you will be able to see exactly how it was.’
‘Thank you, Don. Read it out.’
There was the crinkle of the paper being unfolded.
Taylor said, ‘It says:
Michele Pulman was unfaithful, that is why,
In spite of her beauty, she had to die.
Michele is the fourth, and there are two more to go.’
Angel rapidly scribbled it down.
He winced when Taylor read out the last line.
‘Thank you, Don,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’
He replaced the phone.
Angel read it again silently then rested his hand on his chin and closed his eyes. He was thinking … the note was about a relationship or more than one relationship. It said she was murdered because she was “unfaithful”. The notes left on the other women were also criticisms of their natures. Gladys Grant was “a vicious bitch”, Fay Hough was “self-willed”, and Felicity Lunn was “too much fun, nasty and dirty”.
Was the murderer writing about the relationships the women had with her father, he wondered? With psychopaths, as with many criminals, their moral parameters become confused. Rampton was full of people who were perfectly normal most of the time, but there was a kink in their genetic makeup that from time to time caused them to commit the most horrendous crimes while instantly returning apparently to their usual amiable natures. Standards are very low among some families and communities in this post religious society, Angel thought.
He was further ruminating about low moral standards when he heard a distant church clock strike ten o’clock. It arrested his thoughts. This wasn’t the time for idle meditation. He could do that while shaving, watching wordy repeats on television or when he couldn’t sleep. He looked down at the notes he had made while interviewing Emily Cole. There were matters he couldn’t deal with in a few minutes on a Saturday morning. He wondered if Barnes and Barnes, the victim’s solicitors, would be accessible. He pulled out the telephone directory, found the number and tapped it on to the phone keypad.
The Murder List Page 10