The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘The alarm, sir,’ he said, switching it off. ‘Sorry about that. I haven’t got used to it yet. It’s a copy of the £12,000 Swiss Mitto-Amino watch.’

  Angel frowned. He tried to look interested.

  Ahmed said, ‘As well as London, it tells the time in New York, Sydney and Tokyo.’

  ‘Well, what’s the time now?’ Angel said, looking at the dial. ‘It says 3.17. That’s not right. It’s nearly twelve o’clock.’

  ‘No. I haven’t set it right yet, sir. It takes some getting used to. It’s also got a compass so that you know in what direction you’re travelling.’

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘A neighbour. It was an unwanted gift. He had it given and he already had one. He let me have it cheap.’

  ‘I should get it set to the right time.’

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

  ‘I will, sir. I will,’ Ahmed said, scrutinizing the dial on his way to the door.

  ‘Angel,’ he said into the phone, watching Ahmed shake his wrist violently several times then peer again at the dial.

  It was the station civilian telephone receptionist. ‘There’s a man whose name is Abercrombie of The Bailiff’s House, Long Lane. He says you know him. He’s very anxious to speak to you—’

  ‘Put him through, miss.’

  ‘Oh? Right,’ she said. ‘You’re through, Inspector.’

  Angel said, ‘Hello. Is that Mr Abercrombie?’

  ‘Ah, there you are, young fellow my lad. Inspector Angel. Just the one. Now see here, I’m in a spot of bother, old chap, and I want you to come down here so that we can talk about it, sort of thing. Very important.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Well, Mr Abercrombie, is it to do with the young woman neighbour of yours who died in the car crash?’

  ‘Oh yes, old chap. The very thing. Oh, do hurry up. Get it off my chest, don’t you know. Man to man.’

  Angel frowned. It sounded as if he wanted to confess something. ‘Is it anything we can discuss on the phone?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, do come down here, old chap. Can’t get to you, else I would. Osteoarthritis. Something you would want to know. The hips, you know. Soon as you can. The weather, damned wicked. Quid pro quo. Information. I know something – well, I might know something – and I’ve not been exactly straight up, don’t you know. Quid pro quo. That’s what I want. A special arrangement with you. Look, time’s running out.’

  ‘I’ll come straightaway.’

  ‘Good chap. You won’t regret it.’

  Angel replaced the phone and pursed his lips. He felt as if a wild bird was inside his chest, flapping its wings, and a big bass drum was banging out a fast beat. At last! A possible new line of inquiry.

  He reached into his drawer for his buttonhole recorder. He checked the state of the battery, slipped the slim recorder into his inside jacket pocket and threaded the wire from it through a small hole he had made behind the lapel, then he fastened the mike with adhesive tape to the suit material. He pushed the swivel chair back, stood up, and was putting one arm in the sleeve of his overcoat as the phone rang.

  He looked at it, pulled a disagreeable face, hesitated, put his arm in the other sleeve then reached out for it.

  ‘Angel,’ he said into the mouthpiece.

  It was his boss, Superintendent Horace Harker, who coughed several times, cleared his throat and then said, ‘Ah, Angel. Come up here. Something urgent has cropped up.’

  Angel sighed. ‘I was just on my way out, sir,’ he said. ‘I have an important call to see a witness in this Jeni Lowe murder case. Can I call in on my way back?’

  ‘No, that will keep,’ he said. ‘This is urgent. Come up here straightaway.’ There was a loud click in the earpiece as Harker banged down the phone.

  Angel’s fists tightened as he stormed up the corridor. He soon arrived outside a door with ‘Superintendent H. Harker’ painted on it. He sighed, knocked on the door, pushed it open and went in. An invisible curtain of hot air reeking of menthol hit him in the face. It was accompanied by the sound of the gentle whirring of two portable electric fan heaters directed towards Harker’s feet.

  The superintendent was a thin man with a turnip-shaped head, very little hair, and a ginger and grey moustache. He had a small mouth and big ears. Angel often thought his head looked like a skull with ears attached.

  As Angel entered, Harker looked up from behind three separate piles of files, letters, reports, boxes of tissues and Movicol on his desk.

  ‘Come in, Angel,’ he said. He pointed to a chair opposite him. ‘This Viktor Berezin … you mentioned him in your report. Tell me about him.’

  Angel licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. ‘Could we not do this later, sir? I have a witness who seems to be anxious to tell me something urgently. It would be a pity—’

  ‘No. This is important, Angel. Tell me about this Viktor Berezin.’

  Angel sighed and sat down in the chair opposite. ‘Well, sir, I found his name in Jeni Lowe’s notebook. That’s all. We have tracked him down. Apparently he is a television producer and I have an appointment—’

  Harker’s eyes suddenly shone angrily. ‘Television?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I have an appointment to see him at the studios in Leeds tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Harker said with a sniff. ‘So you’re now planning a career on the small screen, are you?’

  Angel frowned. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’re going to have them make a star out of you, are you? Not content with appearing in the papers as the detective who always gets his man, you now want to be on television. Are they going to make a series out of you? Well, you’re scruffy enough to play Columbo, I suppose.’

  ‘No,’ Angel said. ‘It’s nothing like that at all. It’s a simple, straightforward interview of a witness. That’s all.’

  ‘It had better be. What concerns me is that that man, Viktor Berezin, is a Russian, isn’t he?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want you meddling around with a powerful Russian oligarch, if that’s what he is. They’re very secretive and difficult to deal with. They are like the Chinese, you can’t tell what they’re thinking. We’d be safer bringing in Special Branch. They’re trained and equipped for dealing with such characters.’

  ‘I hardly think he is a Russian oligarch, sir. His address is in the States and he is the producer of television games such as Wanna Be Rich?.’

  Harker pursed his lips and frowned. Eventually he said, ‘Oh, I see. Well, I hope you’re right.’

  Angel also hoped he was right.

  Harker suddenly looked up and said, ‘Well, cut along then, lad. I thought you had a witness to see urgently.’

  Angel’s face went scarlet. The muscles round his mouth and jaw tightened. He pushed himself out of the chair towards the door. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

  He banged Harker’s office door, ran down the corridor, then turned left past the cells, through the rear door and outside to his car.

  FIVE

  It was 1 p.m. exactly when Angel pulled the BMW into the side of the narrow lane outside The Bailiff’s House and turned off the ignition.

  He got out of the car and looked round. A thin stream of smoke emerged from the chimney. Everywhere was quiet; unusually quiet. He locked the car and went up the path to the back of the house.

  He put his hand up to knock at the door but stopped when he noticed it was ajar. He gave it a gentle push and it swung open to reveal the small kitchen-cum-dining-room floor, table and other furniture littered with papers, magazines, letters, cutlery, pans and other cooking implements. He looked up and saw a pale white patch on the wallpaper over the fireplace where he remembered a painting of a hunting scene had been. His heart began to beat faster as he realized that old man Abercrombie had had unwelcome visitors. And they couldn’t have been long gone.

  He stepped into the room and saw and felt the
warmth of the open fire. He looked round at the untidy mess. Then in the corner of the room between built-in cupboards and an easy chair, he saw the crumpled figure of Mr Abercrombie. His face and head were bloody, his eyes were closed. He was motionless.

  Angel’s pulse banged faster and harder until he could hear it drumming in his ears. He dashed across to him and kneeled down by his side. He put his fingertips on his neck. He was still warm. There was a slight pulse. Angel’s heart rose. He dived into his pocket, took out his mobile, tapped in 999 and asked for an ambulance.

  As he closed the phone, Abercrombie opened one eye, then the other. He immediately began to shake.

  Angel said, ‘It’s all right, Mr Abercrombie, it’s Michael Angel. Who did this to you?’

  Abercrombie looked into Angel’s face; it took several seconds for him to stop shaking and focus his eyes. He sighed, then smiled.

  Angel reached for his hand and gently squeezed it. ‘You’re going to be all right. I’ve sent for an ambulance.’

  ‘Angel, old chap, don’t bother. Look, before I go, I must tell you something.’

  Angel remembered he had set up his buttonhole recorder. He reached into his inside pocket and switched it on.

  Then he said, ‘Who did this to you? What happened?’

  Abercrombie began. It was a great struggle for him to speak. ‘It was me who …’ His voice trailed away.

  Angel rubbed his hand and said, ‘Come on, Mr Abercrombie, tell me who did this to you.’

  ‘I was up there looking for kindling. Keep the fire going. I opened the car door … helped the girl out of the damned thing before it … anyway she told me about the racket and that I should tell the police about him … but I thought that …’ His voice trailed away again. His eyes closed.

  Angel muscles tightened. He reached out to both his hands and gently squeezed them. ‘Come on, Mr Abercrombie. Tell me who did this to you.’

  Abercrombie opened his eyes again. His chest was heaving.

  Angel looked into his face. It was a mass of wounds and congealed blood.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ Angel said. ‘Tell me, Mr Abercrombie, please.’

  Abercrombie breathed unevenly several times and then, taking a deep breath, he said, ‘I took the girl’s money and watch and ring and phone. May I be forgiven? Tried to get money out of him too … not a bean, old chap … he’s a monster … he’s found a money tree… .’

  At that point, Abercrombie’s eyes closed, his head dropped forward and his chest stopped heaving.

  Angel reached out for the old man’s hands again but there was no response. He touched his neck. There was no pulse.

  Angel gently lowered Abercrombie’s head and shoulders back down on to the stone floor, stood up, looked into the yellow flames of the fire and sighed.

  It was three minutes to ten the next day, Thursday, when Angel walked up to the reception desk at Zenith Television in Leeds. ‘I am Detective Inspector Angel,’ he said to the young lady behind the desk. ‘I’ve an appointment with Mr Berezin at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Would you kindly take a seat while I locate Mr Berezin for you?’ she said.

  Angel looked round the reception area at the white painted walls adorned with forty or fifty blown-up portraits of current famous faces in the entertainment business. He was thinking how few he could name.

  A lift door opened and a noisy group of young women spilled out. In the middle of them was a man in his thirties in a very well-cut light grey suit. He was suntanned and looked as if he had just walked out of a Savile Row tailor’s window. The young women were screeching and screaming for his attention and brushing as close to him as they could as he walked along. He merely glanced at them from time to time, unsmilingly, as he made his way to the reception desk.

  The man said something to the receptionist, who pointed to Angel. He then nodded and crossed over to him. The throng of females accompanied him.

  ‘I am Viktor Berezin,’ he announced. He had a deep voice and spoke with a slight East European accent. ‘You vanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Angel said.

  The women then looked at Angel. They turned to each other with quizzical looks, saying, ‘Who is he?’ ‘Don’t know.’ ‘Do you recognize him?’ ‘No.’

  One girl turned to him and said, ‘Are you anybody, sir?’

  Angel smiled at the question. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Afraid not.’

  Meanwhile to whoops of delight, Berezin was signing the young ladies autograph books. He rattled through them very quickly. Some thanked him, some kissed him on the cheeks or the forehead, much to his feigned protestations. Then they all filtered away, looking round for someone else to buttonhole.

  Berezin then turned to Angel and said, ‘It is the same everyvere I go. Nossing I can do about it. Now, you are from ze police, are you not?’

  ‘Bromersley force,’ Angel said.

  ‘Please follow me.’

  He directed Angel into a small empty room with four chairs and a small desk.

  There was a card hanging on the knob of the door on the inside. It read INTERVIEW IN PROGRESS. Berezin hung it on the outside doorknob.

  ‘There,’ Berezin said. ‘We shall not be interrupted, Inspector. Now what is it that the English police could possibly want from me?’

  Angel quickly explained the circumstances of the murder of Jeni Lowe and how he had found Berezin’s name written in a particular way on her notebook. Then he showed him the photograph of her in her passport.

  Berezin frowned. ‘Yes, I do remember ze young lady’s face. Very pretty.’

  ‘How close did you get to her, Mr Berezin? Did you meet her somewhere? Did you take her out on a date?’

  ‘No. No. I would certainly have remembered if I had had such a close relationship as that. Tell me, Inspector Angel, was she a contestant or an actress or somesing?’

  ‘No. She worked in advertising,’ Angel said, ‘And while you think about that, Mr Berezin, can you tell me where you were last Sunday night?’

  ‘Sunday night? That was the night they were broadcasting Wanna Be Rich?. I was in my hotel suite watching the show, of course.’

  ‘Which hotel was that?’ Angel said.

  ‘The MacNaughton on The Headrow, here in Leeds.’

  ‘Who were you with?’

  ‘I vas on my own.’

  ‘Can anybody vouch for you? Did you have any contact with any member of the hotel staff, for instance?’

  Berezin frowned. ‘I don’t sink so.’

  Angel shook his head.

  Berezin said, ‘She worked in advertising, you said? Which company did she work for?’

  ‘The Meyer Agency.’

  ‘Ze Meyer Agency. Oh yes. I remember now. She was present at meetings – several meetings – we had a few months ago regarding the presentation proposals to market the format of the show of Wanna Be Rich? at the Rome Film Festival.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘How well did you get to know her?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he said bluntly. ‘She answered my questions. That’s all, really.’

  ‘Who else was at the meetings?’

  ‘There were just the two from Meyer. Their creative director – I forget his name – and the girl, and supporting me were Alan de Souza, and Dennis Grant. They are the presenter and director here, in the UK.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘And how many meetings where Jeni Lowe was present were there?’

  ‘Three or four, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Inspector, I attend meetings all day long. My life is made up of meetings. That’s how I run my business. De Souza or Grant would be able to tell you that accurately if it matters so much.’

  ‘Did Jeni Lowe meet anybody else besides de Souza and Grant?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How friendly were these meetings? Did you or any of them pair off and have a meal together, for example?’

  ‘Probably, possibly. I don’t believe I did, but I
cannot speak for any of the others. But what you are most interested in is the young lady, Jeni Lowe, isn’t it? And I can tell you that I didn’t have any contact with her outside ze meeting rooms. Believe me, Inspector, I have a surfeit of women in my life. I do not need another.’

  Angel looked at him, nodded and rubbed his chin. ‘Very well, Mr Berezin, how can I make contact with de Souza and Grant?’

  ‘They are both in the building, Inspector. Would you like me to see if I can reach one or both of them?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said.

  Berezin reached out for the phone on the desk and tapped in a number.

  Angel pushed his notebook back into his pocket. As he did so his fingers touched the plastic top or cap that had been found in Jeni Lowe’s car. He took it out.

  Berezin muttered something into the phone. ‘I have asked a runner to find them and ask them to ring this number. It won’t take long, I am sure.’ He stood up.

  Angel then held up the blue plastic top or cap. ‘Can you tell me what this is from?’

  Berezin took it, looked at it carefully then handed it back. ‘I’m afraid not. Is it from a Christmas cracker?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I hope to find out.’

  The phone rang. Berezin answered it. ‘’Allo? … Yes … Come up to ze interview room at reception straightavay.’

  He replaced the phone and turned to Angel. ‘That’s Alan de Souza, the presenter. You may have heard of him. He’s a bit … er brash, but he’s all right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said.

  ‘I must get on, Inspector,’ he said, reaching out for the door handle. ‘You will excuse me, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The phone rang again. Berezin turned back and answered it. The conversation with the caller was very brief. It took only a few seconds, then he replaced the phone, turned to Angel and said, ‘Zat was Dennis Grant. He’s the director of the show. I told him you wanted to see him here in ten minutes. I trust that is OK.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘I hope you find ze girl’s murderer.’

  Angel nodded. They shook hands and he was gone.