The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘You don’t happen to know the number, do you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Right. I’ll get Ahmed on to it. Let me know if anything interesting turns up here. I must get this mobile back to the office.’

  Angel took his leave of Taylor, dashed out into the cold November wind, turned the BMW round and headed straight for the police station.

  Ahmed saw Angel in the corridor on his way to his office through the open door of the CID office. He quickly picked up his notebook and followed the inspector into his own office.

  Angel turned and saw him. ‘Yes, Ahmed, what is it?’

  ‘I’ve done that PNC check on Alan de Souza, Dennis Grant and Viktor Berezin, sir. And they’re all “not known”.’

  ‘Oh,’ Angel said and wrinkled his nose. It would have helped if one of them had been known. ‘All right, lad. Thank you.’

  ‘The case not going very well, sir?’ Ahmed said.

  Angel blew out a length of air. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry about that, sir. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Aye. Two things.’

  Angel put the plastic Tesco’s bag on his desk, took out the mobile and handed it to him.

  ‘This was Jeni Lowe’s,’ he said. ‘Will you check off all the calls she made in the last two weeks?’

  Ahmed smiled. ‘I’ll do it straightaway, sir. What was the second thing?’

  ‘Old Mr Abercrombie’s house – The Bailiff’s House – has a landline. Find out the number, and check his calls for the last two weeks and let me have them ASAP.’

  It was four o’clock on Friday afternoon and darkness was approaching as the November storm clouds were gathering. Helen Rose went into the small room off the hall, which she had provisionally called the study, and switched on the lights. She looked at the ancient two-bar electric fire, which had come with the house, standing in front of the stark fireplace constructed from bricks painted black. She had tried to make the little room cosy. It had two easy chairs, a desk, a swivel chair and an occasional table in the corner with a flatscreen television on it. There was a water-heated radiator on the far wall but when it was cold outside the room needed more heat and she believed that nothing was warmer than a coal fire. She made a decision. She unplugged the old fire and put it to one side.

  Cora Blenkinsop was busy putting the washed pots and pans in the cupboards or on the hooks where they belonged.

  ‘Hasn’t it gone cold?’ Helen Rose said.

  ‘I reckon we’ll have some snow soon.’

  ‘Do you know how to light a coal fire?’

  ‘I should say so, Mrs Rose. Haven’t I been doing it for my mother since I was nine?’

  Helen smiled. ‘Will you light the fire in the study? We’re going to have a proper coal fire.’

  Cora stared at her. ‘In the study?’

  ‘Yes. I want it nice and warm for when my husband gets in. I’ll get the coal in and bring it through.’

  ‘But there’s an electric fire in there, Mrs Rose. I don’t think you’re supposed to have a fire in that grate.’

  ‘Why on earth not, Cora?’

  ‘Health and safety. Something to do with the clean air laws, I think.’

  ‘I’ve not heard anything about that.’

  ‘Well, have you had the chimney swept recently, Mrs Rose? The smoke might come back into the house and spoil the decorations.’

  Helen Rose frowned. ‘If you don’t want to do it, Cora, I’ll do it.’

  ‘No, it’s not that, Mrs Rose,’ she replied quickly. ‘I just wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble, but it’s all right. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it straightaway.’

  ‘Thank you, Cora,’ she said and she went outside. A cold wind swirled round her. She crossed to the old slaughterhouse and opened one of the doors. She filled two buckets with coal. She carried them into the house then down to the study and put them next to Cora in the big fireplace.

  Cora was making tight coils of newspaper and putting them in the grate.

  Helen said nothing but she was pleased to see Cora getting on with it. She went back up to the kitchen. It was a few minutes to four, time she was getting Paul’s tea ready.

  Several minutes later, Cora entered the kitchen, went up to the sink, turned on the hot tap and began to wash her hands.

  ‘Time you were off, Cora. How’s that fire doing?’

  ‘It should be drawing like mad in a few minutes,’ she said as she dried her hands. ‘You and Mr Rose should be as cosy as two bugs in a rug tonight,’ she said with a grin.

  ‘I hope so. Thank you very much.’

  She reached out for her coat. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  The door slammed.

  Helen Rose looked up at the clock. It said one minute past four.

  It was the worst time of the day for her. She would be alone in the house until Paul arrived from work at around 5.30.

  She busied herself preparing some chicken legs for a casserole.

  After a few minutes, she wondered how the fire in the study was going. She wiped her hands and went down the hall to find out. As soon as she opened the door she knew it wasn’t lit. There was no warmth in the air and no flame from the grate. She switched on the light. There were a few scorch marks where some of the newspaper had been burned but it clearly had not spread and had soon gone out. She went into the fireplace and kneeled down. She removed the coal pieces and the sticks and noticed that the newspaper underneath was excessively damp. In fact blobs of water had drained downward on to the tiles below.

  No wonder it was not blazing.

  Helen Rose frowned. It looked as if somebody had deliberately doused the fire in the grate with water.

  SEVEN

  It was Friday and it was 5.35 p.m.

  Angel had simply had enough for another week. When he realized the time, he closed the books on his desk and pushed them and all the papers into the top drawer, reached out for his coat and went home.

  It was Friday, so it was bound to be fish for tea. Poached salmon, peas and new potatoes.

  He came in by the back door, gave Mary a kiss, got a beer out of the fridge and then went without a word into the sitting room. He sat down and tore the ring off the top of the can and had a swig of the beer. Then he looked round for the post.

  Mary came in. ‘What’s the matter?’ she said.

  He looked up at her.

  She could see from his eyes that he wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘Nothing,’ he said. Then he added, ‘I gave you a kiss, didn’t I?’

  ‘Oh yes, oh master,’ Mary said, shuffling forward with her feet together and her head bowed Chinese-style. ‘Most gracious of you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’m curious,’ she said. ‘I’m curious to know what’s on your mind.’

  Angel scratched his head and, lowering his eyebrows, looked at her.

  ‘You come into the house,’ she continued. ‘You don’t say anything. You give me a dutiful kiss across the table, get a beer and disappear into here. You treat this place as if it was a hotel.’

  He frowned then said, ‘What did you want me to do? Grab you by the hair, drag you upstairs and claim my conjugal rights?’

  She smiled. ‘No, you fool. But when you come in here with your face down to your boots, it’s natural for me, as your wife, to express concern.’

  ‘My face is not down to my boots. It’s just that I’m tired and a bit fed up. And this murder case …’

  ‘I knew it. I knew it would be work,’ she said. ‘I think it’s time you gave that job up. It’s getting too much for you. You take it to heart so much. Why don’t you put your uniform back on and go and assist Inspector Asquith?’

  ‘Nay, lass. Don’t talk daft. For one thing it would mean a cut in money. You wouldn’t like that, would you? And besides, I don’t want to. I like what I do.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so, the way you carry on.’

&nbs
p; ‘Well, I’ve hit a brick wall, Mary. That’s all. The clues are not there. I know a few bits and pieces but I am missing a big chunk of the puzzle. And I can’t at the moment see a way clear to enable me to make any progress. The murderer interfered with the brakes on Jeni Lowe’s car, causing it to crash. Old man Abercrombie helped her out of the wrecked car. Before she died, she told him about a racket and the name of the man working the racket, who had also fixed her brakes, and that he should inform the police. Abercrombie was also murdered and before he died he said that he tried to get money out of the murderer. He also said he was a monster and that he had a found a money tree. And that’s about it.’

  Mary thought a moment, then she said, ‘Well, how could Abercrombie have extracted money out of him?’

  ‘Blackmail, I expect. He must have told him that he’d better cough up or he’d report the whole thing to the police.’

  ‘Mr Abercrombie must have given the murderer his address.’

  ‘Of course. Abercrombie was no experienced crook.’

  ‘He would have made contact with the murderer by either letter or phone.’

  ‘Must have been by phone because she was murdered on Monday and he was murdered on Wednesday. You know how long the post takes.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Well, you will have checked both his phone and Jeni Lowe’s, haven’t you?’

  ‘I left Ahmed busy with them. I shan’t know what he’s found until Monday.’

  ‘Well, there you are then,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to relax and forget all about it until Monday.’

  He knew she was right. He would try and do just that. ‘Yes, love.’

  Mary smiled. She stood up. ‘Tea will only be a couple of minutes.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. Then he remembered the little plastic cap in the bottom of his pocket. ‘Just a minute, love,’ he said.

  She turned and gave him a quizzical look.

  He found it and handed it to her. ‘That was found under the seat in Jeni Lowe’s car. Have you any idea what it is and what it’s for?’

  She turned it over, held it towards the light, thought a moment then said, ‘It can’t be the top of a scent bottle because it hasn’t any screw thread.’

  Angel nodded in agreement.

  ‘Well, then, I’ve really no idea, Michael,’ she said.

  ‘The owner of it is quite probably the murderer of Jeni Lowe and Antony Edward Abercrombie.’

  She pulled a shocked face and pushed the gizmo back into his hand. ‘Here you are. I don’t want it.’ Then she added, ‘I thought you were going to forget all about work until Monday.’

  ‘I never agreed to it,’ he said. ‘You suggested it. I made no comment.’

  Mary pulled a very serious face. She turned and stood in front of him with her arms akimbo.

  Angel pretended to be afraid and in a small voice said, ‘But I am willing to give it my most serious attention, your most honourable ladyship.’

  ‘I should think so,’ she said, relaxing the stance and turning to go into the kitchen.

  ‘Any post?’ Angel said.

  ‘Just one,’ she said, taking an envelope off the sideboard as she passed it and giving it to him. ‘It’s from the gas company.’

  She went out.

  Angel’s fists tightened. ‘They’ve not gone and put their ruddy prices up again, have they?’

  It was Sunday evening. Angel had remembered that the television programme Wanna Be Rich? with Alan de Souza was being transmitted live at 8.30 p.m. Although he rarely watched game shows, he wanted to see it because he had been to the studio and met three of the team involved in the show. Mary agreed, so at the appropriate time he switched on the television and they sat back to watch it.

  The dialogue was entirely predictable, and the audience’s hands must have been red raw from the number of occasions prearranged and ever-enthusiastic applause was coaxed out of them by a man in a red suit located just out of sight of the cameras.

  The woman who had won the most money last week, Josephine Huxley from Birmingham, had returned, hopefully to win more to add to the £62,000 she already had, and was facing two new contestants.

  The unseen announcer gave Alan de Souza the most tremendous build-up before he bounced on to the stage in the crispest dinner jacket ever made, smiling and bowing at all the cameras. He introduced the contestants and chatted with them for a few minutes, then began the game. All three contestants answered the first few questions correctly. They were standard general knowledge fodder for quiz enthusiasts. As the programme progressed, the questions became more difficult until by the time the show was transmitting its last segment after the third commercial break, there was only Mrs Huxley from Birmingham remaining and her prize money had risen to £100,000. Then she was to be asked the last question that could potentially increase her prize money to £150,000 or lose her everything – she could leave with nothing and no option to return the following week.

  De Souza jacked up the tension by bringing on a soundproof box with a glass window through which the audience could see only her head and shoulders. He asked for quiet so that the contestant would be certain to hear the question clearly.

  Fortunately, after some hesitation, she gave the answer to the question and de Souza announced that she had won £150,000 to tremendous applause. He asked her if she wanted to come back the following week and try for £250,000, and she said she would. There was more applause. Then the other two contestants were brought back, given a cheque each for their winnings, more applause, three beautiful girls came on and presented each contestant with a bouquet of flowers, more applause, and that was the end of the show.

  Angel pressed the button to switch the TV off. ‘What did you think to it?’ he said.

  Mary yawned. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, covering her mouth. Then she said, ‘It was good for that sort of show.’

  ‘A lot of money, £250,000,’ he said. ‘It would go a long way to improve our circumstances.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mary said.

  ‘We could pay off the mortgage,’ he said. ‘Get a new gas boiler. Repaint the house. Go on a cruise.’

  ‘And I could get some new shoes,’ she said.

  He looked at her and frowned. He would never understand women. She smiled back at him.

  ‘All right. All right, Mary,’ he said. ‘If we had won £250,000, all you would have wanted is some new shoes?’

  She continued smiling. ‘Yes, darling. I didn’t say how many pairs.’

  It was 8.28 a.m. on Monday 18 November. It was wet, cold and dull.

  Angel arrived at his office as usual.

  Before he could take off his coat and hang it up, the phone rang. It was Don Taylor. ‘I have a report from our computer expert, sir, about Jeni Lowe’s PC.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Yes, lad. What’s it say?’

  ‘Well, sir, it says that he has opened all the drives and confirms that the machine appears to have been used exclusively for the preparation of copy for advertisements for clients mostly in the engineering industry and that he couldn’t find any notes or comments that might be helpful. He also says that the words “Viktor”, “Berezin”, “love”, “sex”, “marriage”, “murder”, and “kill”, are not used anywhere, in any context.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. He had hoped for something useful. ‘That sounds pretty conclusive.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does, sir.’

  ‘No point in going down that avenue any further. Anything else?’

  ‘I have Abercrombie’s mail, sir. I didn’t get round to opening it. It was handed to me by the postman as I was coming away on Friday last. There might be something helpful in there, sir.’

  ‘Right, Don. Send it up.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said as he replaced the phone. It was Ahmed. He was carrying a small red evidence bag sealed thoroughly with brown plastic tape.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘This has c
ome by a messenger from Dr Mac.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Ahmed placed the bag on the desk.

  Angel looked round the bag at a small white label that said, ‘Contents of pockets of Antony Edward Abercrombie decd’.

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. He peeled off some of the brown sticky tape, opened the top of the bag and poured the contents out on to his desk.

  He went first for the handsome pigskin wallet. He opened it. There were pockets for £20, £10 and £5 notes but they were empty. In a smaller pocket there were five plastic cards. Two were for membership of London clubs, White’s and the Reform, both expired in 2006, there was a bank credit card which expired in 2011, a debit card with Coutts & Co., which was still valid, and a card for Tesco’s for collecting points.

  The other items in the bag consisted of a bunch of keys, a car key for a Jaguar, although he had told Angel he hadn’t a car any more, five small coins amounting to 19p, and a handkerchief.

  Angel rubbed his chin. The contents told a story: a sad story for old Mr Abercrombie.

  ‘Nothing helpful there, sir?’ Ahmed said.

  ‘Unfortunately no,’ Angel said and began putting the stuff back into the bag. Ahmed leaned over to help him. As he reached out to pick up the coins, his suit sleeve slipped back a little, revealing the big gold watch.

  Angel saw it and grinned. Ahmed noticed that he’d seen it.

  ‘Have you got it telling you the right time yet, lad?’ Angel said.

  Ahmed smiled. He was pleased it was making an impression on his boss. ‘Almost, sir. I’ve been meaning to ask you something about it.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about watches, lad,’ he said. ‘But if I can help, what is it?’

  ‘Well, sir. I keep setting this watch but I never get it right. It’s Monday here in the UK, isn’t it? When it is six o’clock teatime, here, today, what day is it in Sydney, Australia?’

  Angel frowned. ‘Isn’t Sydney nine hours ahead of us? That means that at six o’clock here tonight, Monday, it will be three o’clock on Tuesday morning in Sydney.’

  Ahmed blinked. ‘Oh? Thank you, sir.’ Then with his fingernails, he pulled a button out of the side of the watch and began turning it. ‘It’s never right, sir. If I set it right for Sydney, it’ll be wrong for Greenwich.’