The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  Bloomberg’s face creased. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Whereas if Grant was released and returned home,’ Angel said, ‘the killer would know that the plan has failed, and would almost certainly resume the murders.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s more than likely, though.’

  Bloomberg wasn’t happy. ‘Well, my client would have to know that you no longer believe him to be guilty of the murders,’ he said. ‘I would have to tell him that. And I must say, that I must advise him not to accept your proposal. It would be on his record for years and be possibly wrongly interpreted by a court in the future. He has a business to run and the longer he is away from it, the more it will deteriorate. I must remind you it is his only source of income.’

  The corners of Angel’s mouth turned down. ‘Yeah, I understand that,’ he said, then he rubbed his chin. ‘Well, I hope that you will nevertheless put it to him. And there’s something else.’

  Bloomberg raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh?’

  ‘He refuses to say how he came into possession of that diamond ring, which, according to the victim’s carer, has been stolen. That charge will still stand.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, Inspector.’

  ‘No. Of course you can’t. I just wondered if you thought he would now be willing to make a statement about how he came by it.’

  Bloomberg showed no emotion. ‘I’ll put it to him.’

  The phone rang.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Angel said as he reached out for it.

  It was a young PC at the reception desk. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s an old lady here who is asking to see you. Her name is Miss Cole.’

  Angel’s jaw dropped. His face creased. ‘Is she short, grey-haired and speaks nicely?’

  ‘That’d be her, sir.’

  Angel couldn’t believe it. The sensation of a forest fire began to rage in his chest. His pulse was racing. ‘Don’t let her out of your sight. Keep your eye on her. Imagine that she’s Lord Lucan. I’ll be up right away.’

  He replaced the phone, turned back to the solicitor and said, ‘You must excuse me, Mr Bloomberg. Something very important has come up. You’ll put those points to Grant?’ He made for the door.

  Bloomberg stood up. ‘That’s all right, Inspector. Yes, I’ll go back to Grant, discuss those points with him and let you know what he decides.’

  Angel looked back briefly and called, ‘That’s fine.’

  Bloomberg followed him out of the office and closed the door.

  Angel rushed up the corridor towards reception. He opened the security door with his ID card and looked around. Unusually, there was nobody sitting in the waiting area. He peered through the little inquiry window into the reception office and saw a couple of young PCs gawping at computer screens and tittering.

  ‘Hey, you lads,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a Miss Cole.’

  ‘PC Hardy is with her in the interview room, sir,’ one of the young PCs said.

  Angel whipped round and pushed his way through the door into the interview room. There he saw the diminutive figure of Miss Cole with her handbag on her lap seated opposite the door, looking uncomfortable. A PC was facing her, standing with his back to it.

  Angel sighed with relief and said, ‘There you are, Miss Cole. Thank you, Constable. I’ll look after Miss Cole now.’

  The PC went out. Angel pushed the door to.

  Emily Cole was all of a twitter. ‘Oh, Inspector. My nosey next door neighbour said that you had called at my house this morning. I thought it might be something important.’

  Angel glanced down at the black handbag on her lap. He had never noticed her handbag before. He thought that it could easily have held a knife. He would be very careful.

  ‘Well, yes, Miss Cole. As a matter of fact it is very important. I noticed the For Sale sign outside your house. I thought you had said you liked the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Oh, I do. I do,’ she said. ‘But you see, the house isn’t mine. The owner wants to sell it and consequently I have to move.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Angel said. ‘And where are you intending moving to?’

  She slumped in the chair. ‘That’s the rub, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I haven’t much of a choice. I may have to live with my sister and her husband in Warrington, or take – if I can get one – a warden supervised flat, either here or in Warrington. My brother-in-law is exploring the possibility of buying the house and renting it back to me at a rent I could afford. He’s quite well off and may see his way to being able to do that, but he says the property is far too expensive, so he’s talking to the agents. I am not optimistic. I went to Warrington this morning to take a few of my treasures in preparation for the evacuation on 1st June. It’s all very upsetting.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Miss Cole,’ Angel said. He was thinking that her explanation sounded reasonable enough, and there were some parts of it he could actually check on. Also, it really seemed as if she still didn’t know that she had inherited Mrs Pulman’s substantial estate.

  Angel took out his brown envelope from his inside pocket. ‘What is your brother-in-law’s name, Miss Cole?’ he said.

  ‘Oates, Nigel, and my sister’s name is Adele.’

  He scribbled them down on the envelope and put it back in his pocket. ‘Good. Well, that’s that,’ he said getting to his feet. ‘Thank you for coming in.’

  Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Is that all you wanted to know, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. For now,’ he said.

  ‘I always feel much better after I have met you, Inspector. You always make me feel normal when so many people, especially young people, seem to think that old people are stupid and just so much of a nuisance.’

  Angel grinned at her and opened the room door. ‘Goodbye, Miss Cole.’

  ‘Goodbye, Inspector,’ she said and she toddled off towards the revolving door.

  Angel turned away. He stuck his card in the internal security door and went down the corridor back to his office.

  He was met at the door by Bloomberg.

  ‘You want me?’ Angel said. ‘Come in. Sit down.’

  ‘No need,’ Bloomberg said. ‘As predicted, Inspector, my client wants to be released immediately, and he has no comment to make about a diamond ring. He and I understand that the charge for his possession of it still stands.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased, but Grant was well within his rights. ‘Very well,’ he said, running his hand through his hair. ‘I’ll sign a release order for him straightaway. He can be out of here in a few minutes.’

  ‘I’ll go and tell him,’ Bloomberg said. He rushed off.

  Angel went into his office, completed and signed a release order, summoned Ahmed and instructed him to take it down to the jailer.

  Then Angel phoned Watts & Wainwright, the estate agents, and was soon speaking to Wilf Wainwright again.

  ‘Have you had an approach about 6 Orchard Grove from a man called Nigel Oates in Warrington?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, Inspector, as a matter of fact he was one of the first inquiries we had way back in December last year.’

  ‘Yet you still haven’t sold the property?’

  ‘No. It’s a matter of price, Inspector. He has made a rather low offer which was not acceptable to the vendors.’

  ‘Right, Mr Wainwright, what’s the situation with Oates now?’

  ‘There are a couple of other prospective purchasers but at the moment, none of them seem eager to pay the asking price. But it’s a highly desirable property, I’m in little doubt that we will sell it at the asking price or very near, when we get vacant possession on 1st June.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Wainwright.’

  Angel ended the call and replaced the phone.

  He rubbed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb as he thought about Emily Cole. The call to the estate agents about her brother seemed to clear her from any suspicion, which left Angel without a suspect again. He grit
ted his teeth. He was furious that the murderer had led him by the nose to suspect Cliff Grant, when the man was clearly innocent. Angel felt that the case was slipping away from him. He had to keep a grip on all the evidence gathered so far. If any of it was doubtful, it should be checked and rechecked. Thank goodness he still had one line of inquiry. He was still expecting that somebody on the force was going to spot the red Polo soon. And it was beginning to look as if he would be owing Daniel Ashton the full price of £800, which he hadn’t got for the ring for Mary. There were only two days left. Their anniversary was on Thursday.

  He heard the church clock chime. He looked at his watch. It was five o’clock. He’d had enough of Tuesday. It had been a wasted day. He’d released one suspect and absolved another. And now he hadn’t a suspect in mind. Worse than that. He knew that he could expect another woman aged around sixty years to be murdered between five and eight tomorrow morning, but if not, then the morning after. It was one of those times when he was out of love with Michael Angel. With an expression of a sick toad, he reached out for his hat and went home.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was 7 p.m. that same Tuesday evening, 12 May 2015.

  The delightful Mary had served up an agreeable tea, then after coffee, when they were settled in their chairs, she switched on the TV and played back an old recording of Bad Girls which Angel seemed to be enjoying. However, by the time the second commercial break interrupted the programme, she noticed he was fast asleep. She also noted that on the table between them, his mobile phone was open and switched on.

  She didn’t disturb him. She let the recording continue and went into the kitchen to clear away, wash up and set breakfast.

  At ten o’clock she returned, stopped the playback and tuned into the news. The loud introductory music woke Angel, who promptly reached out for his mobile. He blinked at the LCD, put it back on the table, looked at Mary and said, ‘Oh. Hello.’

  She raised her eyebrows, glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf and said, ‘You fell asleep.’

  ‘Oh?’ he said with a yawn. ‘Sorry, love.’ He noticed the clock, then looked at his watch. ‘Ten o’clock. Is that the time?’ He gestured towards the TV screen and added, ‘What happened to her then? Miriam or Marlene or whatever her name was?’

  ‘Maureen. That tall, bullying girl arranged to meet her down the cellar where she battered her to death with an iron bar, then the bully and her skinny friend tried to make it look like she’d escaped.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. He picked up his mobile and seemed uncertain what to do with it.

  Mary saw him and said, ‘Are you expecting a call?’

  He hesitated before replying. ‘More like hoping for a call, love,’ he said.

  Her eyes flashed. ‘What? At this time?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got the force looking for a particular car.’

  Her face tightened. Her eyes narrowed. ‘So you’ll be getting up again in the middle of the night to make an arrest, I expect?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘It’s to do with that murderer of those four women, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘The car’s probably locked away in some garage for the night. But either way, it’s nothing to worry about. There’ll be scores of other men with me.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re the boss. They expect you to lead them. And you’re so stupidly brave.’

  Her eyes caught the light and Angel saw that they were moist. He hadn’t wanted to upset her – he loved her so much. He reached out and put his arms round her.

  ‘There, there,’ he said, as one might say to a child.

  She struggled angrily to be free of the embrace and said, ‘And besides that, I know what a great big show off you are!’

  It was 3.45 a.m., Wednesday morning, 13 May. Lucky for some.

  The sky was as black as an undertaker’s cravat. There was no hooting of owls. No barking of dogs. It was as quiet as death.

  The only sounds to be heard in the front bedroom of the Angel homestead were the ticking of the clock and the steady, regular breathing of two people asleep.

  Suddenly Angel’s mobile phone rang. His eyes shot open. His heart began to thump. In the dark, he rolled over and reached out to the bedside table, found the phone, switched it on and put it to his ear.

  A man’s voice said, ‘DI Angel?’

  Angel cupped his hand over the phone, hoping not to wake Mary. ‘Yes. Who is this?’

  ‘Patrolman PC Donohue, sir. I’ve found that little red Polo car you’re looking for, sir.’

  Angel’s heart beat faster. ‘Hold on,’ he whispered.

  He whipped back the duvet, swivelled round, pushed his feet into his slippers, stood up and made his way through the darkness of the bedroom, grabbing his dressing gown off a chair on the way. He crossed the landing to the bathroom, put on the light and closed the door.

  ‘You’re in a marked car, aren’t you?’ Angel said. ‘I hope the driver hasn’t seen you. Have you got the registration number?’

  ‘My car’s well out of the way, sir. I’ve checked out the registration number. It’s in the name of a Mrs Robinson, 12 Fountain Street.’

  He frowned. He didn’t know anybody called Robinson and he couldn’t remember where Fountain Street was.

  Angel said, ‘It’s Sean Donohue, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the PC said, pleased that Angel remembered his Christian name.

  ‘Sean, we are talking about an almost new red Polo with a dent and a few scratches in the centre under the number plate at the rear, aren’t we?’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. This car ticks all the boxes.’

  ‘Great stuff,’ he said. ‘Right, is Fountain Street that cul-de-sac off Canal Street?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And where are you?’

  ‘I’m on foot on the corner of Fountain Street and Canal Street.’

  ‘Stay there, Sean. But keep out of sight. I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.’

  Angel ended the call then scrolled down to DS Crisp and clicked on it. The call went straight to his mailbox. Angel’s face muscles tightened. His eyes looked despairingly at the ceiling.

  He ground his teeth briefly as he promptly scrolled to DS Carter. It rang for a long time before she answered.

  ‘Hello, yes?’ she said with a yawn.

  ‘DI Angel here, Flora. Sorry to wake you. Emergency. That red Polo has been found outside 12 Fountain Street off Canal Street. Can you meet me there ASAP?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘It’ll take me a few minutes.’

  Angel closed the phone, dressed quickly and went downstairs.

  Minutes later he was on Wakefield Road. He pulled up short of the turn onto Canal Street and finished the last 200 yards on foot.

  As he reached the turning to Fountain Street, a figure in black emerged from a house doorway.

  Angel turned back to face him.

  ‘It’s me, sir.’ It was Patrolman Donohue.

  ‘Ah,’ Angel said. ‘Where’s the red Polo, Sean?’

  Donohue peered round the corner. A lone lamp post gave enough illumination to show the reflection of the roofs of about a dozen cars parked on the street.

  ‘It’s the second car up on the right,’ he said. ‘Outside number 12. That’s Mrs Robinson’s address.’

  ‘I’m going in there,’ Angel said.

  Donohue’s eyebrows shot up. He knew Angel wouldn’t have had time to get a warrant. ‘It’s risky, sir.’

  ‘You don’t have to come, Sean. But I have to make the arrest. I’m not taking the risk of any more murders. You push off then and continue with your usual duties.’

  ‘I can’t leave you, sir. How do you propose to gain access?’

  ‘I don’t know until I see how the windows and door are secured. I’ve brought a glass cutter, a set of lock picks and … look, Sean, I’m wasting time. You get off and continue with your usual duties.’

  ‘No. I’m coming with you, sir.’

  ‘Only if you are
sure.’

  Donohue stepped round the corner onto Fountain Street. ‘Come on, sir.’

  Angel smiled and followed him.

  They arrived outside number 12. Angel shone his torch at the window catch. He thought it looked easy.

  ‘Give me a bunk up,’ he whispered.

  Angel was soon on the window sill. He took the glass-cutter out of his pocket and cut a small arc in the pane of glass round the window lock. Then he tapped the glass within the arc out with the handle of the cutter. The glass mostly went inwards. Some clattered noisily down into a sink. The racket caused the muscles on the faces of the two men to tighten. However, time was the enemy, so undiminished, Angel put his fingers through the hole in the pane and moved the catch through ninety degrees. He climbed down onto the pavement and between them, Angel and Donohue managed to push the bottom window upward. Angel climbed in.

  He scrambled over the sink and found himself not surprisingly in the kitchen. Donohue followed. They shone their torches round the little room. There was the conventional kitchen furniture. They found a door leading to the stairs and the front room, which contained no sign of life.

  Angel indicated that he intended investigating upstairs. Donohue kept close behind him. They noiselessly made their way up the stairs to the landing and found the bathroom on their left. To the right were two doors both closed. Angel put his hand on the handle of the first door, pressed it and went in. They flashed their lights around the room. There was a double bed with the bedclothes crumpled and untidy. He put his hand down the bed to check the temperature. It was stone cold. Donohue looked under the bed. Angel opened the wardrobe. He saw clothes for both sexes on hangers in there. He closed the wardrobe doors. They had looked in every place where anybody might have hidden.

  Both men went back onto the landing. There was only one more room. Angel opened the door and they went in. It was a very tiny room. Again, they shone their lights around the room. There was nobody there. It was mostly crammed with boxes and suitcases. He noticed incongruously placed on a pile of tea chests was a small wooden crate with a single cauliflower in it. The fact that there was only one made him think. He would have expected two cauliflowers to be in there. It worried him. Next to it was a small, white linen sack he put a hand in and pulled out a handful of dried rice. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. There was a small table piled with various papers facing the window, and a chair behind it.