The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  Suddenly, things were looking grim for Emily Cole.

  When he arrived at the police station, Angel went straight to the duty jailer to be admitted into Grant’s cell.

  Grant looked up from his bunk. ‘Back again, Inspector? What do you want this time?’

  Angel’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘You ought to be damned grateful to me, Grant. I’m trying to get you off these charges but you’re not helping me and you’re not helping yourself.’

  Grant frowned. ‘Well, all right, Inspector. What do you want from me?’

  ‘Primarily, I want the truth,’ Angel said.

  ‘I’ve always told you the truth,’ Grant said.

  ‘Have you?’ Angel said, staring at him.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Grant said, staring back. Then he added, ‘I have, but while we’re on about that, Inspector, I hope you will realize that my girlfriend, Maisie, was only trying to give me an alibi. She wasn’t with me those nights she told you about. And I hope you aren’t going to be rough on her for trying to help me.’

  Angel softened. ‘Thank you for that, Grant,’ he said. ‘However, I never did believe her. I’m not malicious. I’ll just strike it out and pretend she never said anything of the sort.’

  Grant sighed. ‘Thank you.’

  Angel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know, I don’t think you realize what sort of a mess you’re in,’ he said.

  Grant frowned. ‘Huh? It couldn’t be much worse. Charged with murder. Stuck here in a cage … What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, hasn’t it occurred to you that somebody is deliberately trying to pin these murders on you?’

  Grant’s mouth dropped open. He stared at Angel.

  Angel could see he had made an impression. ‘Can you think of anybody who might dislike you sufficiently to set you up like this?’ he said.

  Grant shook his head several times and looked down. ‘No,’ he said. ‘How awful. I know I’m not whiter than white, but I’ve never done anybody any real harm in my life. I have maybe led some girls on … but they’ve led me on as well. It’s not all been one-sided. No. I can’t think of anybody, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, that’s something you should think about,’ he said. ‘If any name comes to you, let me know. Now, let’s quickly take the evidence against you. You have to tell me how you came by that two stone diamond ring.’

  ‘I told you, I can’t give you a name. I gave my word.’

  Angel hesitated. ‘Well, that’s something else you should think about. Let’s move on.’

  After a few moments, he said, ‘Now, there’s the matter of finding rice in the right hand pocket of your shop coat.’

  ‘I’ve no idea how that got in there, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, it must have been deliberately planted there. There is only a pinch of the stuff. But the murderer would have had to have been pretty close to you. I mean, if anybody had to lean over to reach your pocket, you would have been suspicious, wouldn’t you? Who has been really close to you?’

  Grant’s bronzed face creased, then he said, ‘Well, I suppose Maisie and Ann. Can’t think of anybody else.’

  Angel said, ‘Maisie Spencer I know, who is this Ann?’

  ‘Ann Fiske. She was a girlfriend of mine. Teaches music.’

  ‘Have Maisie or Ann any bitterness towards you? I mean, can you see either of them wanting to exact their revenge on you?’

  Grant hesitated. Then he said, ‘Well, not Maisie, Inspector. Certainly not.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘What about this Ann Fiske?’

  ‘Well, I dunno. We used to be very close, but I haven’t been in touch with her for about a week.’

  Angel exhaled and shook his head. ‘A week. And she’s not tried to visit you here, has she? A woman in love might think a week is a hell of a long time, Cliff,’ he said. ‘I’ve found that women can be very vindictive in certain situations. You’d better give me her address. I’ll check her out.’

  Grant rattled off the address. ‘120 Canal Street, Inspector, but I don’t think Ann would be so spiteful.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Angel said, scribbling down on his envelope. ‘Leave it with me.’

  Grant nodded.

  Then Angel said, ‘Then, there’s the presence of two dozen cans of Monty’s lager – your favourite – on the shop premises. Well, it only supports your penchant for the stuff, nothing more. By itself, it proves nothing. However, the finding of the can in Mrs Pulman’s waste bin is damning. And your fingerprints are all over it. They are not faked. They are definitely your prints. Can you recall an occasion when someone gave you a can of Monty’s lager and you handled it with both hands and then returned it?’

  Grant shook his head slowly. ‘I’ve certainly supped my share, Inspector, over the years … usually direct from the can, but I cannot remember an instance when I handed a can – full or empty – back to anybody.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have actually taken the can from you in their hands. If they had done that, they would have left their dabs on it. It would be somebody telling you to put the can down there or on that shelf or—’ Angel broke off. His face suddenly brightened. ‘I was going to say – or drop it in that bag. As a matter of fact, I saw that actually happen. A week today, last Tuesday. Yes. In the early evening. I remember I was sat in the car outside Cheapo’s store in their car park. I was waiting for my wife. It was a dreadful day. The rain was beating down and the powerful wind was whisking it in every direction. The sky was black. It made it almost as dark as night. An old lady came along and dropped a can of Monty’s lager and it rolled away from her, and a tall young man without a hat or umbrella, saw it, ran after it in an almighty downpour, stopped it rolling away, picked it up and—’

  Grant suddenly said, ‘It was me!’ His eyes shone. His face brightened. ‘I remember it exactly. It was early Tuesday evening. And it was a can of Monty’s lager. It was a grey-haired old lady … and now I think about it when I returned it to her, she just held an open shopping bag out towards me and I dropped the can in there, and she never did touch it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Angel said. ‘I saw it happen. So it was you. Can you describe the old lady?’

  Grant shook his head. ‘Just a grey-haired old lady.’ His eyes opened wider as he ran the scene back through his memory again. ‘Come to think of it, I remember she did look odd. She didn’t want me to see her face. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Only a squeaky thank you – nothing else.’

  Angel rubbed his chin and with half-closed eyes said, ‘A squeaky thank you. Pity. Well, anyway, that explains the prints on the can.’

  Grant sighed and then smiled.

  Angel then said, ‘That woman could very well be our murderer. I don’t suppose you noticed the car number plate, or the make of the car?’

  ‘I didn’t think about the number, but it was a red Polo. A newish one.’

  Angel blinked then stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. A red Polo. Late last year or early this year.’

  Angel’s heartbeat began to race. ‘That’s terrific. So it would have the number of the year, 14 or 15 among the letters on its number plate, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  ‘No,’ Grant said. ‘Only the scratches and the small dent in the bodywork just under the rear licence plate. She probably backed into something like a pipe sticking up out of the ground or the corner of something. I remember cos I thought what a pity it was for it to happen to a new car.’

  Angel’s heart missed a beat. He had solved crimes with less evidence than that.

  ‘Well, Grant, that let’s take you off the hook. I am happy to dismiss the murder charges against you, but there’s still the one of withholding evidence regarding how you came to be in possession of the stolen two stone diamond ring.’

  ‘Oh, Inspector, I didn’t know it was stolen. And you wouldn’t want
me to break my promise to the person who sold it to me, would you?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘Well, if you won’t, you won’t.’

  ‘I can’t. I gave that person my word.’

  Angel pursed his lips. His eyes creased. ‘Well, I’ll have to leave you locked up then. I should ask the officer to arrange for your solicitor, Mr Bloomberg, to come here and see you. And do tell Bloomberg about the dropped charges and the outstanding one.’

  Grant smiled. He sighed. ‘Wow!’

  Angel called the jailer and asked him to let him out of the cell. He let Angel out then locked the cell door.

  Grant stood up. He watched him leave, ran a hand through his thick, black hair and then sat down again. He was relieved to be off the murder charges, but he was still locked up.

  Angel went straight up to the control room and up to the duty officer’s desk. He was pleased to see it was an old buddy of his in the chair, Sergeant Clifton.

  ‘Ah, Bernie,’ Angel said. ‘I’ve got an urgent message I want transmitted to all personnel in this station, and I want you to include the Traffic Wardens.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Clifton said and he passed him a notepad and ballpoint pen. ‘Would you like to write it down?’

  Angel wrote: Urgent. Be on lookout for almost new red Polo saloon car wanted in connection with recent murders of four elderly women. It has a small dent and several scratches at the rear of the car under the number plate in the middle of the panel. Do not apprehend driver, who is extremely dangerous, but record registration number, phone in and keep under surveillance at a discreet distance.

  He passed the pad over to Clifton. He quickly read it and said, ‘It’ll be texted right away, and I’ll pass it on to the duty sergeant on the afternoon shift.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Thanks, Bernie. And if there’s a sighting, let me know on my mobile.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Clifton said. ‘Sounds promising, sir.’

  Angel felt a quiver of excitement in his stomach. He hoped that someone spotted the car soon, before another woman was murdered, and checked his mobile to make sure it was switched on.

  He came out of the control room and went to his own office, knowing where he had to go next. He phoned for Ahmed then reached out for his raincoat.

  Ahmed knocked and came in with a big smile on his face. ‘I’ve just got your text, sir,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you’ve got a new lead?’

  Angel’s eyes sparkled. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I’m going to see a woman called Ann Fiske. I am not expecting to be gone long. If you need me, ring me on my mobile. All right?’

  SIXTEEN

  It was 12.20, when Angel drove the car into Canal Street. He allowed the BMW to run over the uneven cobbles at its own speed, right up to the door of number 120.

  There was a little girl on the pavement, playing with a ball on the wall of the house next door. When she saw Angel, she grabbed the ball and ran through the ginnel nearby to the back door.

  Angel locked the car and went up to the front door of number 120 and banged on the knocker.

  Out of his eye corner he saw the imitation lace curtains of the house next door move slightly. He banged the knocker again. There was still no reply. Then from the house next door, he heard door bolts being shot back, followed by the turning of a key. He heard the door open and saw the head and shoulders of a woman with teeth as big as a racehorse peer round the door jamb. She was in curlers under a voile headscarf and wearing a pink house coat.

  ‘Miss Fiske is out,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What time will she be back?’ Angel said.

  ‘She’s a purry-pathetic teacher, you know. And she moves from school to school. She might be back for her dinner hour. Depends where she’s at. Where you from? You can leave a message with me, if you like.’

  ‘If she comes home for lunch, what time would she be here?’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  Angel looked at his watch. ‘It’s 12.25.’

  The woman pulled a face, making her look even more like a Derby winner. ‘Oh well, you’ve missed her,’ she said. ‘She won’t come now. If she’d been coming, she’d have been here by this time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said. It was annoying. He wasn’t at all pleased. He really did need to speak to Miss Fiske.

  A car suddenly arrived at the door of number 120. A man with grey hair was driving it and there was a woman seated next to him.

  Angel looked up.

  The woman from next door said, ‘Oh. Look. She’s here now. Oh, she’s got a lift from Mr Prendergast. He teaches mathew-matics and algie-baba at the Central school, you know.’

  Ann Fiske got out of the car, looked up at Angel, frowned, turned back to the car driver, thanked him, closed the door and he drove away.

  The neighbour said, ‘This gentleman wants to see you, Ann. He’s been waiting for you. I don’t know who he is, but er …’

  Ann Fiske gave her a sweet smile and said, ‘Right, Gloria, thank you.’ Then she turned to Angel. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Angel smiled at her and took his ID out of his inside pocket and showed it to her.

  Her eyebrows went up.

  ‘Shouldn’t take long, miss,’ Angel said.

  She nodded and said, ‘Right, come inside.’ She put her key in the front door and turned it. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

  ‘Is everything all right, Ann?’ the neighbour said from the pavement.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Gloria,’ Ann Fiske called. Then she closed the front door with a bang.

  ‘Please go through, Inspector Angel. Sit down. I haven’t much time. I have to be at St Thomas’s School on York Street at 1.55. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I am investigating the deaths of several local women, and have a man, Cliff Grant – I believe you know him – charged with the murders.’

  From the movement of Ann Fiske’s eyes, Angel could see that she was absolutely astonished and that her mind was busy assimilating what he had said and how she should respond.

  ‘Well, excuse me, Inspector,’ she said, ‘but that’s ridiculous. I know or perhaps I had better say, knew Cliff Grant very well indeed. He is a rogue where women are concerned. He’s lazy, shiftless, sometimes sly, but there is no hatred in him at all. I don’t believe he could even kill a spider.’

  ‘As you knew him so well, can you tell me what his relationship with his mother was like?’

  ‘Well, awful. Truly awful. She was tempestuous, ill-tempered, domineering … they didn’t get along. But despite that, there was also a powerful mother-son relationship. He would run away. He already had done, last year, rather than stand up to her. If you are thinking that Cliff could kill anybody – even his tyrant of a mother – frankly, that’s ridiculous.’

  Angel nodded. ‘But there is a lot of evidence against him. And I wonder if you can help me with this? Some traces of dried rice, the same as that found at the scene of each of the murders, was found in a pocket of the blue smock coat he usually wore in the shop. He says he doesn’t know how it got there, but, when pressed, he listed the people he had been really close to who could have slipped the rice – only a pinch of the stuff – into his pocket. You were on that list.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Are you asking me if I put a pinch of dried rice into his smock pocket?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said, ‘exactly that.’

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t do anything to harm him. I loved Cliff, Inspector. Until recently, I was madly in love with the handsome great lump. I really thought that I could straighten him out, tidy him up, find him a job that suited his personality, and that we could have lived happily ever after. But I realized that he wouldn’t have changed sufficiently for me to be happy, and I would only have made his life a misery. So I decided that he was not for me, even though since his mother died he has changed considerably. He’s taken on the shop and from what I can see he is running it sensibly, conscientiously and enjoying it. The responsibility is suit
ing him. Anyway, Inspector, I have now given up all ambition I may have had in his direction. He has his eyes set on Maisie Spencer and I wish them both well together. I certainly wouldn’t do anything to harm him.’

  Angel pursed his lips. He had expected her to be possessive and bitchy and vindictive, but she was all sweetness and light. He was confused. He couldn’t understand her. Ah well, he thought, she was a woman! And that he shouldn’t always expect to comprehend their logic. He stood up to go.

  ‘Well, that’s all I wanted,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much, Miss Fiske.’

  Angel arrived back at his office at 3 p.m. He took his mobile out of his pocket and placed it on his desk. He looked at it from time to time. He was very anxious for it to ring. Around 130 policemen and women, including the traffic wardens, were out there in the streets and in car parks, mingling among the public, checking on every red Polo car they might see. If it was there, one of them should spot it.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Come in.’

  It was Bloomberg. ‘Can I have a brief word, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course you can, Mr Bloomberg. Sit down a minute.’ Angel indicated the chair opposite his desk. ‘Grant will have told you about the murder charges being dropped.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it. However, there is the matter of the possession of a diamond ring. Of course, Inspector, you will know that you can’t hold him for that. You will have to release him and then charge him for that separately, to be heard later.’

  Angel licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘I know, Mr Bloomberg,’ he said. ‘I know. I wonder if you can work with me on this?’

  Bloomberg frowned. That didn’t seem likely.

  ‘Confidentially,’ Angel said. ‘The murderer of the four women has been trying to frame Grant for the murders, and as long as Grant is – or appears to be – locked up, the killer won’t strike again.’