The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel put the description on the back of the envelope. ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘You know, Miss Cole, a photograph would be much better. Is there a photograph of Mrs Pulman wearing it, that we can blow up?’

  ‘There’s bound to be,’ Miss Cole said. Then she put the fingers of one hand to the corner of her mouth as she thought. After a few moments, she held up one finger and marched towards the room door. Angel followed. She went out to the hall and into the dining room. She crossed to the huge sideboard and went straight down on her knees and pulled open a drawer, she fished inside it and eventually took out an old cardboard shoe box. She lifted the lid and it was filled with photographs.

  She handed the box to Angel with a cherubic smile.

  ‘I expect there will be one in there that will be suitable, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Cole. Thank you.’

  He took the box to the dining table and began to look through the photographs. They were mostly of Michele Pulman, who looked stunning in every one. Some were with her husband, and some with him and their daughter, but they were mostly of her. Many were studio photographs taken about forty years ago when she was eighteen or twenty, showing her wearing the flimsiest of costumes. The outfits were obviously stage clothes and made to titillate.

  He looked round for Miss Cole but she wasn’t there. It could have been because she knew the sort of photographs that most of them were. He had almost forgotten that he was looking for a suitable photograph of that two stone diamond ring. He put the studio photographs back in the box. Some of the later photographs of Mrs Pulman had her wearing the ring and eventually Angel found a suitable one. She was seated somewhere outside in a rose arbour or garden by herself. She had her hand up near her face and it showed the ring off to perfection. He took the photograph back into the drawing-room.

  When Angel returned to the drawing room, he saw that Michele Pulman’s body had been collected and Mac had gone with it. The SOCOs were packing up their vacuuming and photographic equipment, tripods, spotlights and samples, mostly into white canvas bags and taking them out to their van. DS Taylor was wrapping the fingerprint block prior to packing it into a box. Miss Cole was standing at the foot of the bed, holding up her hand and wiping her black fingertips on a tissue.

  Taylor came up to Angel and said, ‘We’ve taken the bed and bedding to pieces, sir, but there’s no sign of that ring.’

  Angel nodded, then he turned to Miss Cole. He showed her the photograph and said, ‘Right, Miss Cole. I have found this one. It’s the one that best shows up the ring. Thank you. When you’re ready, I’d like a little chat with you about some of the other photographs.’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector,’ she said, then she looked at her black fingers and said, ‘That’s the best I can do until I get home and get some hot water and the pumice stone at them.’

  ‘Let’s go into the dining room,’ he said.

  They sat down at the table and Angel quickly found one of the more salacious photographs he had seen of Michele Pulman. He turned it over and read aloud the handwritten words, ‘Michele Noble. Grounds For Divorce. May 1975.’

  He added, ‘I suppose “Noble” was her maiden name. But what does “Grounds For Divorce” mean?’

  Miss Cole sighed. Then shook her head. ‘That was the name of a group of dancers. Well, they called themselves dancers. They were all the rage in the seventies. There was this dreadful man … can’t remember his name … oh yes, I can. It was Rupert Homer. Now Rupert Homer married a local dancer, Ernestine something or other … I forget …anyway, they formed a group of about sixteen girl dancers who used to perform outrageous and frankly, dirty routines. At first, I believe they started in clubs and pubs. He would play the piano and drive the van with the girls and their costumes – they were so flimsy – round the clubs in Batley, Manchester, Sheffield, Leeds and eventually on television. You must have seen them.’

  Angel frowned. ‘I don’t think I did,’ he said. ‘If I had, from what you say, Miss Cole, I certainly wouldn’t have forgotten. So Michele Noble, her maiden name, was a dancer with Rupert Homer’s “Grounds for Divorce”?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She told me they also travelled abroad to Berlin, Paris and Rome. She said that Bromersley was geographically ideally suited for Yorkshire, Granada and the midland television studios.’

  Angels eyebrows squished together. ‘And what happened to Rupert Homer?’

  ‘He must have died. He was about 50 in 1975, so if he was still living, he would be 90 now.’

  ‘And what about Ernestine, his wife?’

  ‘She’d be over eighty. I don’t know, Inspector, but I expect she won’t be around either.’

  ‘Whereabouts did they hang out?’

  ‘Ernestine started with a dancing school on Sheffield Road where Hammerton’s auctioneers is now. I believe they lived over the shop, as they say. But as time went on they moved up here and lived somewhere on Creesford Road. I don’t know exactly which number.’

  Angel wrinkled his brow. ‘Up here?’ he said.

  ‘Well, they could afford to, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Cole,’ he said.

  He rubbed his chin. He wondered why all the murders had taken place within ten minutes easy walking distance of each other. He was convinced that the murderer lived locally and didn’t need any transport.

  She looked at him, nodded and smiled as sweet as a pot of honey.

  ELEVEN

  It was five minutes past eight that Saturday night, when Cliff Grant closed the shop and locked the door. He had had a shave, was in his best suit and wearing a clean shirt, and with a small package under his arm, he set off along Canal Street in the direction of Wakefield Road.

  There was very little traffic moving along the street, but there were a few cars parked outside the houses. It had been a hot day for May so that Saturday evening was pleasantly warm.

  He was intent on seeing Maisie Spencer. Since that heated clash in the shop between her, Ann Fiske and himself, Maisie had been on his mind. Those big, flashing dark eyes and silver hair were not easy to forget, and pictures of her returned to him frequently, between cutting rashers of bacon on the antiquated bacon slicer, weighing out potatoes and washing pots in the kitchen sink. He didn’t believe that Maisie meant half of what she had said to him when Ann Fiske was there. He reckoned given a chance he would be able to talk sense into her.

  Ann would have been the more difficult of the two. She was more elusive and inhibited than Maisie. It was true that once the barriers were down, Ann was more responsive and passionate and their love-making almost always culminated in highly satisfactory mutual climaxes, but in other aspects of their relationship, she was challenging and wanted to dominate him.

  However, Maisie was all woman and he reckoned that she was the one for him. She had always had a kind, gentle and forgiving nature. And he hoped she was in a forgiving mood that evening.

  He passed 120 Canal Street and trusted that Ann Fiske had not been looking out of any of her front windows. He hoped also that her informant was otherwise engaged. He didn’t want anybody in Ann’s camp spreading any more stories about him.

  A car was approaching from behind. The sound of the engine grew louder. He hoped it wasn’t going to Ann’s house. She could be a passenger and she was sure to recognize him. He resisted the temptation to look round. The car passed by. He glanced up to see if he knew the driver. He didn’t. He sighed a little.

  He strode out on Canal Street, increasing his speed until he arrived at number 24. He adjusted the package under his arm and knocked on the door. He ran a hand over his hair to flatten it down, pulled his tie tighter, and polished each of the caps of his shoes on the back of his trouser legs. Although unsure about how the meeting might work out, he was really looking forward to seeing her again. As he heard some movement at the other side of the door and the turn of a key, he put on his best Sunday smile.

  The door was opened and Maisie Spencer of the
big, sparkling dark eyes and even white teeth, looked out at him with a big smile and said, ‘Yes?’

  Then realizing who it was, she stopped smiling, pulled back her head and said, ‘Oh. It’s you. What do you want, Cliff Grant?’

  ‘I want to see you, Maisie. I want to apologize and explain.’

  ‘I thought I had made my feelings to you absolutely clear.’

  ‘You did. You both did. Between you both, you got me very nicely over a barrel.’

  ‘It took the two of us to show what a liar you had been.’

  ‘I know, Maisie, but two against one isn’t fair, is it? You and her tripped me up every time I opened my mouth. And what she said was not always the exact truth. It just looked bad for me. I didn’t have a chance.’

  Her eyes showed that she was wavering. He pressed the advantage.

  ‘Come on, Maisie,’ he said. ‘We’ve known each other a long time now. We had been engaged for nearly ten months. We’ve always had a good time when we’ve been together, haven’t we? I have always felt happier after being just alone with you, whether it was for five minutes or a few hours. I thought that you might have felt the same. I think in all fairness you should hear both sides of the case. Even a murderer is allowed that much.’

  He noticed that her eyes were shining even brighter because they were moist.

  She sniffed, but maintained the hard voice. ‘You can come in for five minutes only,’ she said, stepping back a little. ‘That should be long enough for you to say what you’ve got to say. And I shall time you.’

  ‘Thank you, Maisie,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Go into the living room and sit down,’ she said as she closed the front door and turned the key.

  Cliff went into the room. There was the usual clutter of women’s magazines, What’s On TV and newspapers on the chairs and the settee. The television was switched on with the sound off.

  He went up to an easy chair. It had a stocking draped over the arm. He picked it up and looked round, wondering where to put it.

  Maisie came in, saw him and her eyes flashed angrily. She quickly snatched it off him, rolled it up and put it in her pocket. ‘I wasn’t expecting anybody coming … not at this time,’ she said.

  Cliff sat down in the easy chair. He put the package on his lap.

  Maisie picked up the remote control for the TV from the settee and turned the set off.

  ‘You needn’t turn it off for my sake, Maisie,’ Cliff said.

  ‘It’s all right. It was a repeat, and I’d seen it anyway.’

  He nodded and smiled.

  She settled on the settee, pulling tight any creases in her skirt, then she straightened the collar of her blouse, put her hands on her lap and looked at him.

  ‘Now then?’ she said. ‘What have you got to say? Make it quick.’

  Cliff could see that she was not willing to make it easy for him.

  He cleared his throat. ‘First things first,’ he said, and he passed the package that was on his knee across to her.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said. She couldn’t stop a small smile developing.

  He smiled back and said, ‘As if you didn’t know. Open it. Go on. It’s for you.’

  She put her hand into an open end of the package and pulled out a red box with a ribbon across a corner. She peered at the writing on the top of the box. Her face lit up.

  ‘Chocolate liqueurs,’ she said. ‘Oh, I didn’t know. Thank you, Cliff.’ She took off the lid and looked at the silver paper wrapping around each chocolate which was the shape of a miniature bottle. She saw some printing on the inside of the lid. ‘Oh, and they’re from Belgium, they look too good to eat.’

  ‘Nothing’s too good for you, Maisie,’ he said. Then he added, ‘And before you make any wisecracks, the box of chocolates I took to Ann Fiske was just an ordinary box of milk chocolates with different fillings.’

  She looked across at him and beamed. After a few seconds her face hardened. She slowly put the lid on the box and said, ‘Well they’re certainly great, Cliff, and I do thank you for them. But I am not going to let you buy your way into my good books. You’ve played with my feelings for some time now and the time has come for us to have a proper understanding.’

  Grant was thinking he had made some progress.

  ‘Yes. Right, Maisie, maybe I have,’ he said. ‘Well, I am not going to try to paint myself as something special because I know I’m not. Nor will I ever be. But my life has lately been turned upside down. My mother gave me such a hard time that I had to leave home. I had to go. She was driving me mad. I got a job away from home and I was doing all right, but I was lonely. I missed you and I missed my home. So I eventually gave it all up. I came home. Next day, Ma’s dead. Worse than that, she’s been murdered. The police don’t have a clue. I am now left living in that house by myself, living above the shop on my own. And I find it very hard. My mind is constantly on her. I’m … sort of … expecting her to appear and tell me what to do. Anyway I seem to have dropped into the business, and it seems a pity not to try to keep going, at least for the time being. But the place is so quiet some days, and absolutely silent in the evenings. Some nights when I have locked the shop door at eight o’clock, I think I’ll go mad. So the other night, I got a box of chocolates and, seeking company and a change from the telly, I knocked on the door of Ann Fiske.’

  Maisie’s eyes flashed. ‘I understand all that so far,’ she said, ‘but why did you pick on her first? After all, I’m the one you’re supposed to be engaged to.’

  ‘She’s only a few doors from the shop,’ he said. ‘And I thought she would be more likely to be … erm available.’

  ‘Available? What do you mean available?’

  ‘Knowing how popular you are,’ he said craftily, ‘I naturally thought that one of your admirers would be courting you, whereas Ann Fiske would be … as I said, available.’

  Maisie thought about this for a few moments. She liked the idea that Cliff thought she was likely to have a string of boyfriends battering her door down. And, specifically, in greater demand than Ann Fiske.

  A slow smile developed across her face.

  Grant noticed the smile and he thought he was doing well.

  ‘Go on,’ Maisie said.

  ‘Well, there was a phone call,’ he said. ‘Her father had been rushed to hospital, so of course she had to go. And I came out, having only been there a few minutes.’

  Maisie frowned. She pursed her lips, sniffed and said, ‘A few minutes? … How long exactly is a few minutes?’

  ‘A few minutes … five or ten, not more than ten. Don’t you believe me?’

  She looked at him with a knowing expression.

  ‘Well, work it out, Maisie,’ he said. ‘I closed the shop at eight. Then I got washed, shaved, changed and walked to Ann’s house. I was there only five or ten minutes. Then I left her house and legged it up here. I suppose I arrived at your house at about twenty past eight, didn’t I?’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t remember when you arrived exactly, but it couldn’t have been much after that.’

  He smiled. ‘There you are then,’ he said. ‘I was lonely, desperate. You know what loneliness is like. You told me how lonely you were after your little sister went to live with your mum and dad.’

  It was true. Maisie did find the house bearing down on her most evenings, particularly since she was living on her own. She nodded and smiled. The smile lit up her face.

  If Grant had had a flag and a flagpole, he would have run the flag up to the top. ‘So are we still friends then, Maisie?’

  ‘Of course we are,’ she said, holding out her arms.

  Grant leaped out of the chair to the settee opposite and they kissed very warmly. Then he broke away and said, ‘There’s something else, sweetheart.’

  Her eyebrows shot up. She looked worried. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘We are supposed to be engaged,’ he said.

  She frowned and nodded. ‘Well, we are – only if you want to be.�
��

  ‘Of course I want to be. What about you?’

  ‘You know I do,’ she said.

  Then Cliff fumbled about in his jacket pocket, pulled out a small box, opened it and took something out. Then he reached out for her left hand, lifted her third finger and slid on a ring. ‘Well, I want to seal it with this.’

  Maisie was shocked. She snatched her hand back and gazed at the glittering clear stones and the white band on which they were set. ‘Wow! Oh, Cliff. Are they real diamonds?’

  He smiled. ‘Of course they are real diamonds.’

  ‘It’s wonderful, Cliff. Absolutely wonderful. I’ve never owned a gold ring before. It is gold, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s platinum, actually. It’s an antique platinum diamond ring.’

  ‘These diamonds are huge. I thought you were going to get me a solitaire?’

  ‘Well, I was, but this came along and I thought it was too good to miss. Do you like it?

  Her face lit up. ‘Oh yes, Cliff. I think it’s fabulous.’

  She leaned across to him and gave him a gentle kiss on the lips.

  He put his arms round her and held her very close.

  ‘Oh, thank you, darling,’ she whispered.

  He licked his bottom lip. ‘There is one thing, though,’ he said.

  She pulled her head back a little so that she could look him in the face.

  ‘Might be a good idea not to wear it for a while, at least not out of the house.’

  ‘Why?’ she said joyfully. Then she waved an arm around, finishing with her hand pointing to the ceiling as she added, ‘I want the whole world to know that we love each other.’ Then her face changed. ‘What’s the matter? Are you ashamed of me or something?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that I don’t want any repercussions from some of the people in the street. Particularly since my mother was murdered. And those other women. When all these inquiries are finished with and they’ve got the killer, it won’t matter, will it?’

  She frowned and stuck out her bottom lip. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Cliff.’