The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  Jeni Lowe

  Miss Jeni Lowe

  Viktor Berezin and Jeni Berezin

  Mrs V. Berezin.

  Angel rubbed his chin. His pulse quickened and his chest felt as if spring had come, even though it was November. Who was Viktor Berezin? He had heard the name somewhere. He asked Khan and the men and women in the creative department but nobody knew. Anyway, Angel had a lead. Find Viktor Berezin.

  FOUR

  It was twelve noon before Angel returned to his office. He dropped Jeni’s notebook on his desk, picked up the phone and tapped in SOCO’s number.

  Don Taylor answered.

  ‘Don,’ Angel said. ‘I want you to pick up a computer from The Meyer Agency in Sheffield. It was regularly used by Jeni Lowe. I want you to see what you can find on it.’

  ‘Right, sir. We’ll give it a thorough search.’

  ‘Good. And while you’re on, have you heard of a man called Viktor Berezin?’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘No, sir. Sounds foreign to me. Czech or Romania, that sort of country.’

  ‘Just a minute, Don,’ Angel said, then he put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and called out, ‘Come in.’

  Flora Carter opened the door. Seeing him on the phone, she hesitated.

  ‘It’s all right. Sit down, Flora. Won’t be long.’

  He removed his hand from the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, Don?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir. I haven’t heard of Viktor Berezin,’ Taylor said.

  ‘If it comes to you, let me know,’ Angel said.

  He replaced the phone, turned to Flora and said, ‘Now then, what did you find out at the bank?’

  ‘Not much, sir,’ Flora said. ‘Jeni Lowe opened the account in Nottingham and it was transferred to the Bromersley branch last year. She has a small credit balance. Her salary is paid directly into her account. She makes a standing order to the building society every month. The payments she makes appear to be mostly by credit card for groceries, clothes and petrol. There are no unusual debits or credits from it. She manages her account properly and carefully. There’s nothing else really to say.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Hmm. Nothing there to help us then?’

  Flora shook her head.

  ‘Right. Moving on. Have you heard of a man called Viktor Berezin?’

  ‘Sounds Russian, sir. Is he one of the oligarchy who have recently fled Russia?’

  ‘Huh! So that Mr Putin doesn’t get his hands on their roubles?’ Angel said. ‘I dunno, Flora. I really don’t know.’

  He picked up the notebook and pointed to the four short lines of neat handwriting on the front cover. ‘It’s a name that meant something to Jeni Lowe,’ he said.

  Flora Carter read them. She frowned. ‘Yes, well,’ she said. She flicked through the notebook to see if there was anything written inside, then she said, ‘It certainly looks as if she had a dream, or … or an idea, or an expectation or anticipation of some sort.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I thought. We’ve got to find Viktor Berezin.’

  Helen Rose was in the kitchen of The Brambles setting the table for supper. She looked up at the kitchen clock. She had looked at it a dozen or more times in the last five minutes. It was five o’clock. Paul wouldn’t be home for another forty minutes or so. She would be overjoyed to see him.

  Outside, the sky was as black as fingerprint ink, and a cold powerful wind began to blow from the east causing the trees and bushes in the garden at The Brambles to wave wildly in response.

  Suddenly, from outside, a high piercing squeak of old dry metal hinges followed by the loud bang of a door came from the big stone outbuilding which stood twenty yards away from the back of the house.

  The din was repeated. Again. And again.

  Helen Rose’s breathing quickened. She stood by the table motionless and listened as she tugged tight the teacloth she was holding between her hands. She remained there a minute or more. Then she suddenly charged over to the window, pulled open a curtain and peered out into the darkness. By cupping her eyes over the glass, to mask out the kitchen light, she could just make out that a door on the outbuilding was swinging free and taking quite a battering.

  The old stone building had had many uses over the years. Originally it had been a slaughterhouse at one end and a stable and a place to house a carriage at the other, but latterly it had been a workshop, and a garage. The Roses only used the one end of it at the moment to garage the car that Paul took to work.

  Helen rushed into the hall at the front of the house, grabbed her raincoat, put a headscarf on, took the chain off the back door and went out into the storm. The cold rain beat into her cheeks like pins fired from a battery of guns. She soon reached the garage door. It required a steady grip to wrestle against the wind to close it. But she managed and then dropped the latch. She turned round to make her way back to the house when suddenly she saw the silhouetted figure of a big broad-shouldered man wearing a stovepipe top hat about twenty feet away and coming towards her.

  Her blood turned to water. Her heart pounded like a machine gun.

  She screamed and turned to run.

  Her legs were slow and heavy as lead, but she made it round the back of the outbuilding and down the drive towards the lane.

  A vehicle was travelling along the lane from Bromersley and veered towards her. She was trapped in its lights like a hare. Terrified, she froze on the spot. The vehicle slowed down. It turned left up the drive and stopped at her side.

  Its windscreen wipers were working hard and the rain flashed like silver wire in the headlights. Still panting, she saw that it was her husband, Paul Rose, in their car. She sighed with relief.

  He lowered the car window. ‘Darling! What’s the matter? What are you doing out here?’ he said. ‘You’re soaked. Get in the car.’

  He drove up the drive and round to the outbuilding, garaged the car and the two of them went into the house.

  After she had told him everything that had happened, he shook his head and said, ‘Well, you’re all right now, sweetheart. I couldn’t do with anything happening to you. You’d better get into some dry clothes.’

  She nodded and went upstairs, undoing her blouse buttons as she walked.

  Paul Rose then went into the front hall and put on his most waterproof coat, hat and boots. He pocketed a rubber-cased torch then went outside into the storm. He returned a few minutes later as Helen came downstairs in her nightdress and housecoat.

  When she saw him in his wet coat and carrying a hat, her eyes flashed. ‘Oh, Paul,’ she said. ‘You’ve been out!’

  He smiled gently at her. ‘Just to see that everything was all right, sweetheart. Any tea?’

  ‘Tea’ll be five minutes. Well, er … what did you find?’

  ‘Everything seems all right to me,’ he said and turned towards the hall. ‘I’ll go and get ready.’

  She lifted her head, breathed in and said, ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring.

  She relaxed a little. ‘I thought you were … I thought you might be just pacifying me.’

  He looked at her strangely. ‘Oh no, sweetheart. If you think you saw a big man in a stovepipe top hat coming after you, then I believe you.’

  She frowned. ‘But Paul, I did see a big man in a stovepipe top hat.’

  ‘And I believe you. Now exactly what did he look like? How big was he?’

  ‘Very big. That’s not the same as saying that you agree that there was a man out there.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you actually saw, do I? I have to rely on what you tell me.’

  Helen considered pursuing the matter, then decided against it and said, ‘Don’t be long, sweetheart. Tea will only be a few minutes.’

  It was 8.28 a.m., Wednesday 13 November 2013. Angel was in his office going through the post when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was Ahmed
. He had a sheet of A4 in his hand. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Angel had his head in the Police Gazette. He was looking to see if there was anybody in there he knew.

  Ahmed said, ‘That man you were looking for, sir, Viktor Berezin.’

  Angel promptly looked up. ‘What, lad? What about Viktor Berezin?’

  ‘He’s a TV producer, sir. He seems to specialize in game-show-type programmes.’

  ‘What do you mean, lad?’ Angel said.

  ‘Well, shows like One, Two, Three, Go, Never On A Sunday, Two For A Pair and Wanna Be Rich?. My mother loves Wanna Be Rich?. She watches it every Sunday evening. She loves that man on it, Alan de Souza.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Well done, Ahmed. Where’s Berezin live?’

  ‘I don’t know that, sir. But I can ring the studio.’

  There was a knock at the door. It opened. It was Trevor Crisp.

  ‘Come in, lad,’ he said, then he turned back to Ahmed and said, ‘That’s great stuff, Ahmed. Do that, ASAP. And keep me posted. I have some important questions to put to that man.’

  Ahmed went out and closed the door.

  Angel looked up at Crisp. ‘Ah, now, lad, you went to look up Jeni Lowe’s original address, didn’t you?’ he said. He pointed at the chair opposite him. ‘Tell me, who lives there?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Lowe, her parents, in their early fifties.’

  ‘Did they know what had happened to Jeni?’

  ‘No, sir. I had to tell them.’

  Angel pursed his lips. It was an awful job but it had to be done. ‘Did Jeni Lowe have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Two sisters. Both away from home working as cabin crew on airlines.’

  ‘Very nice. Had Jeni ever had her life threatened, as far as they knew?’

  ‘No, sir. They were astounded when I told them that the braking system on her car had been interfered with. They couldn’t imagine who would do that to her.’

  ‘Did you ask them if they had any idea where she might have been earlier that Sunday evening?’

  ‘They had no inkling of what she got up to. She said that she had a happy social life in Bromersley and left it at that. She didn’t want to talk about it – not with them, anyway.’

  ‘Did they say anything about her character, her personality, her ability and so on?’

  ‘They said that she was a natural academic.’

  ‘She was as thick as Strangeways’ gravy?’ Angel asked.

  Crisp shrugged. ‘That’s not what they said, sir.’

  ‘What else did they say?’

  ‘That she was a very hard worker, and was gifted with a vivid imagination and fanciful ideas.’

  ‘When was the last time they saw her?’

  ‘She went back to them most weekends. She was home the weekend of the 2nd and 3rd November but not last weekend.’

  ‘Hmm. Did the Lowes know anything about Jeni’s relationships?’

  ‘Not recently. She didn’t volunteer any information about boyfriends to them, and they’d stopped asking.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s too bad.’ Angel wrinkled up his nose. ‘Hmm. That’s another dead end,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we can record them as next of kin, and one or both of them should formally identify her. Will you see to that, lad?’

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

  ‘Martin Edwards here, sir. We’ve finished examining Jeni Lowe’s car.’

  ‘Yes, Martin, and what have you found?’

  ‘There are good, clear prints inside around the nearside front seat, sir, which are not hers. Then we’ve found prints on the front offside door handle, the window, the steering wheel and gear stick, which are hers. It looks like a mostly one-person car, which has had a passenger only on rare occasions.’

  ‘Right, Martin. Check those prints with records, and let me have the results ASAP. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, sir, I’m not sure if it’s important but we’ve found a small plastic cap or top or cover of something in a dull blue plastic. It was under the seat on the nearside front. No clear prints on it. Are you interested in it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d better have a look at it. Could have been left by the murderer, I suppose. Send it across.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel replaced the phone.

  He had hardly started on his notes when there was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed, smiling from ear to ear. ‘That Viktor Berezin you are looking for, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve found him. He lives at Malibu Beach.’

  Angel blinked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said, referring to his notebook. ‘10660 Westward Boulevard, Malibu Beach, California 90267, USA.’

  With a straight face, Angel said, ‘Well, I can’t go over there before lunch.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Ahmed said with a smile. ‘But Mr Berezin will be at Zenith Television until after Christmas. One of his shows, Wanna Be Rich?, is being broadcast live from there until the end of January. It is not known what his plans are after that. He has many TV interests on a worldwide basis.’

  ‘Where have you got all this stuff from, Ahmed?’

  ‘The publicity department at Zenith Studios, sir. The woman there said he has an office there.’

  ‘Good. Make me an appointment to see him, will you?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Ahmed opened the door and found DS Taylor just arriving.

  Angel saw him. ‘What is it, Don?’ he said.

  ‘That bottle you found in the brambles near the victim, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘It had contained whisky … there’s a full set of digits of the right hand clear enough. I’ve put them through records and they have no match.’

  The corners of Angel’s mouth turned downwards. ‘And they don’t belong to the dead girl?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You agree that the bottle had not been there long?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘So it is very likely something to do with the case?’

  ‘Very likely, sir.’

  ‘That’s what I think. But what?’ There was silence for a few seconds, then Angel said, ‘Right, Don, thank you.’

  Taylor went out.

  Angel reached for the phone. He tapped in the number of the mortuary at Bromersley General Hospital and was soon speaking to his old friend.

  ‘Can you tell me any more about Jeni Lowe, Mac?’

  ‘You’ll be getting my full PM report by email tomorrow, Michael. Can you not wait until then?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Mac, I’m stuck. There’s no info. So little to go on. Can you tell me, for instance, if she was stone cold sober at the time of the accident?’

  ‘It’s hard to be absolute about that, Michael, but neither drugs nor alcohol were indicated in her blood stream. And her kidneys were very healthy, which suggests she had not been a serious drinker either.’

  ‘So it’s reasonable to assume that the accident and therefore her death are entirely a result of the deliberate interference with the brakes on her car.’

  ‘Aye, I would certainly say that, Michael.’

  ‘And was the girl pregnant?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t, and as far as I could see, physically she was a perfectly healthy young woman of around twenty-six years of age. No tattoos and no body piercing. She might have lived to be a hundred if she hadn’t hit a tree in a runaway car.’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Excuse me, Mac,’ he said.

  He covered the mouthpiece and called, ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed.

  ‘What is it, lad?’

  ‘A constable has just brought this round, sir,’ he said. He held out a small polythene bag which contained a blue plastic cover or stopper. ‘DS Edwards from the station garage sent it, sir.’

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. He took the little bag from him and eyed it eagerly. ‘If it wasn’t a possession of Jeni Lowe’s, it must have been left by the murderer. Have you any idea what it is?’

  ‘The top or cover of something, sir?’


  Angel shrugged. He knew that. ‘All right, lad. Thank you.’

  Returning to the phone, Angel said, ‘Sorry about that, Mac.’ He then went on to describe the blue plastic part and asked the pathologist for any suggestions as to what it might be.

  ‘How big is it, Michael?’

  Angel took a ruler out of his top drawer and measured it.

  ‘It’s roughly an inch by half an inch by just over half an inch. And it’s sort of lozenge shaped.’

  ‘Has it got any screw threads on it?’

  ‘No. But it has ridges inside the rim, so it could presumably be snapped on to something.’

  ‘It’s not off a scent bottle then,’ Mac said. ‘It’s probably no more than a piece off a bairn’s toy.’

  ‘You might be right, Mac. But at the moment, it’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Good luck, Michael.’

  Angel replaced the phone.

  He had never relied on luck in the past and now wasn’t the time to start. He took out an envelope on which he kept his notes. He went down them systematically to see what avenue he might explore next. It would have been useful to find out where Jeni Lowe had been earlier that Sunday evening. Her mobile phone was missing. It would have been a big help in illustrating who she was in touch with, and where she might have been shortly before the fatal crash. He had asked her workmates and they had no ideas, and her parents weren’t able to throw any light on the situation either.

  He was still thinking about that when there was a knock on the door. It was Ahmed.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment at Zenith Television Studios for you, sir,’ he said, ‘to see Mr Berezin at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. I hope that’s convenient. The woman said you won’t be allowed very long.’

  ‘That’s great, Ahmed, thank you. I hope you told her it was police business and not an out-of-work actor looking for a job.’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  Suddenly there was a strange tinny, whirring sound.

  Angel looked up. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh,’ Ahmed said. ‘That’s my new watch, sir.’ He pulled up his jacket sleeve proudly and showed Angel the bright gold wristwatch.