The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  Helen Rose shuddered. ‘Ever since Cora told me all that,’ she said, ‘when I’m in the house on my own, I feel nervous. Every creak of a floorboard or any inexplicable noise and I freeze up. I can’t help it.’

  ‘All houses make noises, sweetheart. The last house I lived in made a sort of cracking noise occasionally. My father used to say, “They’re settling noises. Take no notice.” And we didn’t.’

  ‘But I don’t think the story is fiction, darling,’ she said.

  ‘It might not be, but the point is why would the Cudlipp family manifest themselves after all this time? That’s assuming you believe in ghosts. They haven’t the ability to harm you, so what are you worrying about?’

  ‘Well, I don’t believe in ghosts like spooky things running about in white sheets, but I do believe in the possibility of the spirits of people, particularly our loved ones who have died, being … around us, particularly in times of crisis, or when we have to make a momentous decision, and decidedly at the time of our death.’

  ‘Who knows?’ Paul Rose said. ‘You might be right. But, even if you are, you’re not anticipating the Cudlipps doing you any harm, are you?’

  ‘I suppose not, but … I can’t help … I can’t help how I feel.’

  THREE

  Angel stopped the BMW outside Jeni Lowe’s little house on Frog Lane, parking up behind SOCO’s white van. He acknowledged the salute of a uniformed constable on the front door, rang the bell and tried the door. It was unlocked so he went inside into a small hallway.

  A man dressed from head to toe in white and wearing a linen mask over his mouth and nose peered out of a room into the little hall.

  It was Don Taylor. ‘Oh, it’s you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Do I need gloves, lad?’ Angel said.

  ‘Got some here, sir,’ he said, taking a paper packet out of his top pocket and handing it to him.

  Angel tore open the paper wrapping and began pulling on the gloves. ‘What have you got then, Don?’

  ‘Nothing specific yet, sir. We’ve vacuumed everywhere, and we’ve swabbed all the access points, light switches, the lifting points on furniture, ornaments, pictures and the like. We’ve just started looking at the contents of the cupboards and—’

  Angel blew out a yard of air. ‘Have you found out anything about her?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. She’s clean, methodical, hasn’t much but what she’s got is good quality.’

  Angel said, ‘Yes, Don, but have you discovered where she works, who her friends are, who her next of kin is, or who her husband, boyfriend, partner or sugar daddy is?’

  ‘No, sir. But there are no signs of a man living or having lived with her here.’

  Angel’s eyes opened wide, displaying white all round the pupil. ‘Really? That is surprising these days,’ he said, shaking his head.

  He wandered into the hall. A moment later he returned. ‘Where’s her phone?’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to have one, sir.’

  ‘Strange,’ Angel said. He rubbed his chin.

  ‘There’s a drawer in the sideboard, sir. It has her passport and NHS card and other bits and pieces in it. All that ID gen might be in there.’

  ‘Oh good. Show me.’

  Taylor showed Angel into the living room, which was small but cosy. He was led to a sideboard, where Taylor pulled out a shallow drawer and put it on the table behind them. Angel sat down and began fingering through the few documents that were there.

  He saw that Jeni Lowe’s passport had her occupation down as a copywriter. There was a building society book that indicated that she had a mortgage with them and was making monthly repayments by standing order from the Northern Bank. There were bank statements dated 2010 in a plastic binder giving an address in Nottingham. There was nothing else in the drawer. He had expected her cheque book at least being there. He took possession of the documents and returned the drawer to the sideboard. Then he pulled out his mobile and phoned DS Crisp.

  The recorded voice on Crisp’s mobile directed him to voicemail as so often it did. Angel made an angry exclamation and cancelled the call.

  DS Trevor Crisp was one of the two sergeants on his team. He was in his thirties, and a regular Romeo. Women liked him but he never seemed to develop a long-standing relationship with any of them.

  Angel considered him to be a handsome philanderer, who could charm monkeys out of the trees, and occasionally he had put Crisp in situations where he had used that charm to progress inquiries in difficult cases. He was also adept at keeping out of the way, particularly when there was work to do.

  Angel pulled out his mobile and scrolled down his contacts to Ahmed Ahaz.

  ‘Is DS Crisp there, lad?’

  Ahmed looked round the CID room. ‘Can’t see him, sir. He’s not here.’

  ‘Find him, Ahmed. I’ve got a job for him. Find him. And have him phone me ASAP.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel stuffed the phone into his pocket.

  Something was bothering him. He walked up and down the room several times, frowned and ran his hand through his hair. Then he stopped, stood still and rubbed his chin. He turned to Taylor and said, ‘Are you sure you haven’t come across Jeni Lowe’s mobile phone?’

  ‘No, sir. I didn’t know she had one.’

  Angel pursed his lips briefly then said, ‘She was bound to have one. She hasn’t a landline. She was under thirty and not short of a few bob.’

  ‘Well, it’s not here, sir.’

  The following morning was Tuesday 12 November.

  Angel reached his office at 8.28 a.m. as usual. He picked up the phone. ‘Ahmed,’ he said. ‘When DS Crisp comes in, don’t forget, I want to see him.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘And let me have the CID copy of Yellow Pages covering South Yorkshire.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Ahmed brought in the phone book and rushed out.

  Angel turned to Advertising Agencies. There were only two: J.S.P. Tollemache Limited and The Meyer Agency. They were both in Sheffield. He phoned them and discovered that Jeni Lowe worked for The Meyer Agency, that she had been missing from work yesterday and that they had not heard from her, which was very unlike her. Angel didn’t explain but made an arrangement to call on the creative director, Harry Khan, her immediate boss, later that day. He replaced the phone and rubbed his chin. He was thinking about what he needed to do next when there was a knock on his door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Crisp. ‘Good morning, sir. I understand you’ve been looking for me.’

  Angel stared at him. He could feel rage bubbling in his chest and rising to his face. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get you since yesterday afternoon.’

  Crisp smiled uncertainly.

  Angel said, ‘In the meantime we’re in the throes of an investigation into the murder of a young woman. Absolutely nothing is more important than that at this time.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m up to speed on it. I’ve read the report.’

  ‘Now, I’ve warned you, Crisp, more than once, about you switching your mobile off in working hours.’

  ‘I think it must be faulty, sir.’

  ‘Well, get it checked out.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Now let’s get on with some work. I want you to find out who lives at that Nottingham address on Jeni Lowe’s 2011 bank statements. We need her next of kin, but more importantly we need to know the names and addresses of her circle of friends and relations, and most importantly the menfolk in her life.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said.

  He stood up and rushed off.

  Angel watched the door close. He sniffed and shook his head.

  He reached out for the phone and tapped in Flora Carter’s mobile number.

  ‘Where are you, lass?’

  ‘CID office, sir,’ Flora Carter said.

  ‘Pop across. I’ve got a job for you.’

  T
wo minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Flora Carter came in and closed the door.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I want you to go to the Northern Bank.’

  He swivelled round to the small table behind his chair and picked up a black plastic folder. It was a Northern Bank issue statement cover.

  ‘Here are Jeni Lowe’s bank statements,’ he said, passing it to her. ‘They go back to 2011. See what you can find out about her: who she pays out to and what for. See if she buys anything unusual. And see if she buys anything for a man. We need to find the man in her life.’

  Leaning her head to one side, Flora said, ‘Have you never thought, sir, in these enlightened days, that Jeni Lowe might have a partner?’

  Angel looked into Flora’s mischievous eyes. ‘Well, whatever it is, Flora, whether it’s animal, mineral or vegetable, I want to know about it.’

  Angel stopped the BMW at 9.55 a.m. outside a new tall building in the middle of Sheffield. It looked as if it had been built with aluminium, glass and bathroom tiles. He saw a sign that invited visitors to use the company car park. It directed him to drive through a short tunnel in the building and then down a steep narrow slope to a barrier in the basement. He drove up to the bar across the road and a white-haired man dressed in a black uniform not dissimilar to a standard police uniform came out of a kiosk.

  As he leaned forward, Angel lowered the car window.

  The man said, ‘Good morning, sir. Who did you want to see?’

  ‘Harry Khan at The Meyer Agency. He is expecting me. My name is Inspector Angel.’

  The man peered back at him and smiled. ‘Did you say Inspector Angel, sir? Are you Detective Inspector Michael Angel?’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why, yes, I am.’

  The man smiled broadly. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘I was reading about you in the paper recently. It was about that case where you discovered that the crooks in the town had a cuckoo clock, and that helped you to find a murderer and bring him back from Switzerland. Fantastic. You’re the detective who always gets his man, aren’t you? Huh! Like the Mounties. You’re on the Bromersley force, sir, aren’t you? Eeee, wait while I tell my missus I’ve met you.’

  Angel smiled. He waited while the torrent ceased. ‘Do you think I could see Mr Khan, please?’

  The man smiled. ‘Of course, sir. You must excuse me. We don’t see many celebrities on this job, you know.’

  He went back into the kiosk, reached for the phone, pressed several keys, muttered something into the mouthpiece, waited, then replaced the phone, came out of the kiosk and said, ‘Right, Inspector. Drive straight on, park up in any marked-out space, then take the lift to the second floor to Mr Khan’s office, room 207.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said, and followed the attendant’s directions.

  Harry Khan stood up. ‘Come in, Inspector Angel.’ He shook his hand firmly. ‘Please sit down. Can I offer you coffee or tea … or anything?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you,’ Angel said.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable and tell me what’s happened to Jeni Lowe. Whatever has happened that requires a police inspector to visit us?’

  ‘You are Jeni Lowe’s immediate boss?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. I am the creative director. She worked in the studio with the rest of the creative team. What’s going on?’

  ‘Jeni Lowe met with a tragic accident. Her car went through a stone wall and hit a tree. We discovered that her brakes had been interfered with. She died shortly afterwards. We are treating the case as murder.’

  Harry Khan’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘I need to know who her closest friends were,’ Angel continued. ‘In particular the name of anyone who was a close friend or partner?’

  Khan looked down and shook his head. ‘It’s unbelievable. She was such a nice young woman.’

  ‘Please tell me what you know about her.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ Khan said.

  ‘I know it’s a shock. Tell me, in your own time.’

  ‘Yes, well. Er, thank you. She came here in answer to an ad for a copywriter about five years ago. I interviewed her. She had no experience of working in an agency. I gave her and the other two candidates briefing for an ad, and a half hour to do the best they could with it. She produced the best copy by far, so she got the job. Since then, she’s just been great. Pleasant, reliable and so on. She had bizarre ideas and an uncommon and colourful imagination. She understood business. She was also very presentable to clients. Not all arty people are, you know.’

  ‘You mean she was attractive?’

  ‘That as well. Let’s face it, Inspector, everybody loves beautiful people. And generally speaking, a smart, pretty woman will sell more cars to men than men, and a handsome hunk of a man will always sell more gowns and groceries to women than women. It’s a fact.’

  ‘It’s sex.’

  ‘Absolutely, and Jeni Lowe often accompanied the account executive to clients’ offices. She has accompanied me on some occasions. It’s tragic. She’ll be very sadly missed.’

  ‘Did she strike up a special relationship with anybody else here?’

  Khan pursed his lips. ‘She was popular with everybody, as far as I know.’

  ‘Where did she actually work?’

  ‘She had a desk in the studio, with the other members of the team. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘I certainly would. And I would also like to meet her workmates.’

  ‘Of course,’ Khan said. He stood up. ‘Follow me. They are all very busy just now, with deadlines to meet.’

  Khan opened a door opposite the one Angel had entered through, which led directly into a studio which was set out like a schoolroom. There were eight designers’ desks with a young man or woman stood or seated behind each one, and two writing desks with computers standing on them. They were all facing a large blackboard that occupied the entire wall.

  Angel noticed that one of the writing desks was unattended.

  Khan addressed the group. He told them that Jeni Lowe was dead and how she had died. There was shock and tears from the group. He explained who Angel was, then said, ‘The inspector wants to ask you a few questions.’

  Khan then waved a hand in Angel’s direction.

  Angel said, ‘Thank you, Mr Khan.’ He turned to the group and said, ‘Please gather round. It’s possible you can help me. Do you know of any person who might have wanted to frighten – or as it has sadly resulted, murder – Jeni Lowe?’

  ‘Oh no,’ they all said.

  ‘It must have been someone who is sick,’ a young woman in a T-shirt and jeans said.

  The rest of the group showed or muttered their agreement.

  Angel nodded then said, ‘Has any one of you had, or were having, a special relationship with her?’

  ‘No,’ they all said.

  One young man, with a diamond stud in his ear and tattoos appearing through the banana-yellow collar of his shirt, said, ‘I took her out once. She was absolutely lovely but we didn’t quite hit it off. I was interested in music and having a few drinks but she could only talk about work, and she didn’t like modern music or drinking very much either.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Angel said.

  ‘But she was good fun at the Christmas party,’ another man said.

  Angel turned back to the group and said, ‘Does anybody know if she had a person with whom she had a special relationship?’

  A young woman said, ‘Quite recently she said that she had to get home quickly after work because she had a date with a man who she was keen on.’

  Another young woman said, ‘She told me that. Poor Jeni.’

  ‘But did she mention his name or indicate anything that might help identify him?’ Angel said.

  ‘No. She didn’t to me, anyway. But she had certainly got the hots for him.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Well, thank you for that, everybody,’ he said. ‘Just one more thing. Does anybody have Jeni’s mobile number?’

&
nbsp; ‘Yeah, sure.’ The young man with the tattoos checked the list on his mobile and wrote it down on a scrap of paper.

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said, and stuffed it into his wallet. Then he said, ‘Has anybody any idea where she might have been on Sunday evening? We think she was travelling home when the crash happened, but we have no idea where she had been.’

  Nobody replied. Nobody seemed to know.

  ‘Right, thank you. Now lastly, if any of you can think of any reason why anyone would want to murder her, please let me know. I’ll leave my phone number with Mr Khan. We have to find her murderer. Thank you very much.’

  With that, he turned to Khan and said, ‘Thank you for letting me talk to them.’

  Khan nodded and turned to the group. ‘All right, girls and boys,’ he said.

  They returned to their working stations in silence.

  Angel said, ‘That computer on the desk at the back, Mr Khan … the one that is unattended. Was that Jeni Lowe’s place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d like to look through that desk, Mr Khan. And I’ll need to borrow that computer tower.’

  Khan gestured with his hands that Angel should do what he had to do.

  Angel quickly made his way between the designers’ desks to the back of the room and looked through the two drawers. There was a part pack of A4 white paper and a notebook in the top drawer, and a giant dictionary and thesaurus in the other.

  He slammed shut the drawers and blew out a length of air. He thought a moment then pulled open the top drawer again. He reached inside and took out the notebook. It was open at a blank page. He flicked through the book. All the pages were blank on both sides. Clearly Jeni Lowe had torn out the used pages and disposed of them as they had become no longer useful. Angel found the front cover of the notebook with the stationer’s name and address printed on it. There were also, in blue ballpoint, several doodles of the curly-whirly type that Jeni might have done when engaged in a phone call. Angel then noticed something he thought very significant. In the top left-hand corner of the cover, in very neat handwriting, she had written: