The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘I’ve told you, lad, I’d take it back.’

  ‘I can’t, sir. My next-door neighbour did me the most enormous favour letting me have this cheap.’

  ‘Ahmed, whatever price it was, it wasn’t cheap enough if it doesn’t tell you the right time.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘See who that is, lad,’ Angel said.

  Ahmed opened the door and a PC from SOCO said, ‘Package for DI Angel.’

  ‘Who has sent it?’ Ahmed said.

  ‘DS Taylor from SOCO.’

  ‘Right, thank you.’

  Ahmed took a fat envelope from him, handed it to Angel, closed the door, turned back and said, ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said, to Ahmed’s surprise. ‘When are you going to give me the list of calls made by those two phones?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve finished Jeni Lowe’s mobile, sir, but there are a few numbers Mr Abercrombie rang that I can’t get a reply from. I may have to go to the phone company and ask them. It shouldn’t take long.’

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Well, let me have Jeni Lowe’s straightaway, and crack on with the other. They’re both very urgent.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said and went out.

  Angel opened the mail that had been intended for Mr Abercrombie. There were four envelopes inside the larger one, and sadly each was a letter asking for payment of a bill of some sort. Two were saying that it was their second time of asking and, in the case of the electricity and gas companies, they were both writing to say that they may have to cut off his supply.

  Angel put the letters back in their respective envelopes and pushed them to one side. He could now understand the desperate situation Mr Abercrombie had fallen into. He was still thinking about it when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed. He was holding two A4 sheets of paper.

  ‘These are the calls made by Jeni Lowe on her mobile, sir,’ he said. He put the two pieces of paper on the desk in front of Angel, who eagerly peered down at them.

  ‘You’ll see, sir, that the early part of the last two weeks of her life,’ Ahmed said, ‘she made calls to her parents … usually in the evenings, lasting five or ten minutes. Then there were odd calls to shops, and supermarkets … then there were calls, one or two a day, to Zenith Studios. As the days passed these calls became more frequent and for longer periods of time.’

  Angel’s pulse increased. His chest began to buzz. ‘So she did have an interest there?’ Angel said. ‘Hmm. Did you find out who she was speaking to?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s a very busy switchboard and they have twenty-four lines. They said they had no idea and there was no way of checking.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Now look at the last few entries, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘The day before she died, Saturday. No calls at all to Zenith. Then the day after, Sunday, the only call she made was to her parents in Nottingham at four o’clock in the afternoon.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Does it make any sense to you, sir?’

  ‘I think so, lad,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to phone somebody if you are sat next to them, holding their hand. She had an interest at Zenith all right. I guess a man. Although you can never be quite certain these days. She probably was with him all of Saturday and until two or three o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Give her an hour or so to tidy up her mind and think of other things, remember her parents, wonder how they are and give them a ring. Something like that.’

  Ahmed beamed. He was glad to be so useful to his boss.

  Angel said, ‘Now buzz off, there’s a good lad, and let me have the same run-down on old man Abercrombie’s calls.’

  Ahmed grinned. ‘Won’t be long, sir,’ he said, and he went out.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He had a great deal of heavy thinking to do. He wanted to try and get into the mind of Jeni Lowe.

  His thoughts were full of her when, twenty minutes later, there was a knock on his door.

  It was Ahmed carrying a yellow paper file.

  ‘Come in, lad. Have you got Mr Abercrombie’s calls?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said as he opened the file on the desk in front of Angel. ‘I now know the destination of each call he made during the last two weeks of his life. It’s very unusual. All of his calls until Monday, the day Jeni Lowe died, were made to the off licence, Heneberry’s, on Bradford Road.’

  ‘No doubt ordering food and booze,’ Angel said. ‘I expect they delivered to the door.’

  ‘Then he made only two calls to the Zenith Studios on Monday, and to –’

  Angel’s eyes lit up. ‘I knew it, Ahmed!’ he said. ‘The phone calls are the common denominator. The murderer is somebody who works at Zenith Studios.’

  ‘Looks like it, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘I was going to say that he made two calls to Zenith on Monday, three calls on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, the day he died, he made one to Zenith and then one to our number here, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I spoke to him. I remember it well.’

  ‘Then you were the last person he rang before he died, sir.’

  Angel’s face muscles tightened. He wasn’t pleased to have that honour. He might have been able to have saved Abercrombie’s life if he hadn’t been delayed by the superintendent. He now knew he should have told the super to go to hell and gone straight down to The Bailiff’s House. He might have been there in time. But then again, hindsight is a wonderful thing.

  ‘Right, Ahmed. Thank you,’ he said.

  Ahmed made for the door.

  ‘Just a minute, lad,’ Angel said, looking at his watch.

  Ahmed turned round.

  ‘Ask DS Carter and DS Crisp to come and see me here at eleven o’clock.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said.

  Angel reached for the phone and said, ‘Can you get me the number of the police station in Birmingham Central.’

  EIGHT

  It was ten minutes past eleven.

  In Angel’s office with him were DS Carter, DS Crisp and DC Ahaz. They were seated round the desk.

  Angel was bringing them up to date with the latest evidence that had come to hand.

  ‘Any more questions?’ Angel said.

  Nobody said anything.

  ‘Right, well, we know that the murderer is employed at or involved with Zenith Television. Abercrombie’s statement, which I have on tape, indicated that the murderer is male. We know that Jeni Lowe had taken to doodling Viktor Berezin’s name. It’s a clear indication that at some time his name was on her mind but it’s difficult to know in what connection. It may have been a romantic notion. It’s hard to believe it was an overtly sexual thought. However, Berezin is reputed to be vastly rich. Riches can bring power. Young women can be in love with a powerful man who is also immensely rich. I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you any evidence or indications about anybody else, sir?’ Flora Carter said.

  ‘No. I have spoken to the three key men on that particular show. Besides Berezin, I have interviewed the presenter, Alan de Souza, and Dennis Grant, the programme director. As we do not yet know much about either of them, I want to keep a totally open mind.’

  Crisp said, ‘You mean you don’t rule them in and you don’t rule them out?’

  ‘Exactly. Now I have a rough plan. Mr Abercrombie in his last words said that the murderer had found a money tree.’

  Crisp said, ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘Glad you asked, Trevor. I believe it is a mythological tree that grows money all the time and keeps increasing its yield.’

  ‘That’s double-talk for a great racket, isn’t it, sir?’ Crisp said.

  ‘In this case, it certainly is. A money-making racket that gets bigger and bigger, presumably with minimum effort on the part of the villain or villains. Now I want you, Flora, to go to Heneberry’s off licence on Bradford Road. Find out about Abercrombie’s relationship with them. What did he buy? Do they deliver down where he lives? Find out whe
n anyone there last saw him and what happened.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said and stood up.

  ‘Just a minute, Flora. I want you to hear this next bit.’

  She sat down.

  Angel said, ‘We are going to approach this investigation from two directions.’ He turned back to Crisp. ‘I want you to go down to Birmingham. You might be away for a few nights.’

  Crisp’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Birmingham, sir?’ he said. ‘Why Birmingham?’

  ‘I want you to set up a watch on a Mrs Josephine Huxley. She’s the current big-money winner on that TV show Wanna Be Rich?. I’ve got her address from Birmingham CID.’

  ‘What has she done, sir?’

  ‘I am not aware that she has done anything, Trevor. She may be as white as the padre’s kneecap. That’s what I want you to find out. I can tell you that Birmingham police have absolutely nothing on her. And now, of course, they are aware of our interest so they will keep well away from her.’

  Crisp said, ‘When do you want me to go, sir?’

  ‘Now,’ Angel said. ‘You can take Ted Scrivens with you. He can drive the observation van. You can take your own car. I want you to get her phone bugged and her sitting room or kitchen, wherever she spends most of her time. All right?’

  ‘Is she married, sir?’

  Angel tried to hide a smile. ‘Trust you to ask a question like that,’ he said. ‘Birmingham say that there was a man registered on the electoral roll a year last October. But judging from last October’s roll, he doesn’t seem to be on it now. There is at least one child though. Now off you go. When you get established ring me and let me know. Ahmed’s got the address. You can tell Ted Scrivens the good news.’

  It was 2 p.m., later that day, Monday 18 November.

  Angel walked up to the pretty girl on the reception desk at Zenith Television and asked for Mr Viktor Berezin.

  ‘Ah, you’ve been before, Inspector, haven’t you? I remember you. You know where the interview rooms are, just round the corner? Would you care to wait in room number one and I’ll page him for you?’

  Angel made his way round the corner, looking up at the signs on the door. He soon found interview room number one. The door was ajar so he peered inside to check that it wasn’t occupied. It wasn’t, so he went in and sat down in one of the chairs facing the desk. Minutes later there was a mighty hubbub of screaming and shouting in the hallway outside.

  Eventually, the door opened and Berezin looked in. He looked very smart in a well-cut dark suit. However his face suggested that he was not happy; he looked harassed and tired. He transferred the card that read INTERVIEW IN PROGRESS from the inside to the outside doorknob and closed the door.

  ‘Ah. Good afternoon, Inspector,’ he said as he took the seat behind the desk. ‘Have you come to tell me that you have found ze young lady’s murderer?’

  ‘I wish I could tell you that, Mr Berezin,’ Angel said. ‘But I am still making inquiries. That’s what brings me back to see you. There is one question I would like to ask.’

  ‘Vot is it, Inspector? I will answer it if I can.’

  ‘Thank you. I would like to ask you about the questions in your show Wanna Be Rich?. How many people involved with making the programme have access to the answers?’

  ‘Just about everybody except the contestants. Why?’

  ‘Are the questions and answers not held somewhere safe in secrecy until they are opened in front of the audience by the presenter of the show?’

  Berezin smiled. It was a rare occasion and not a pretty sight. His big teeth seemed too large for his small mouth and his face creased, causing his eyes to be reduced to slits.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Remember, ze show it is live, so there is no room for mistakes. That opening of the sealed envelopes containing the question and answer is a bit of showmanship to heighten the tension of the show. In truth, there is no secrecy. You see, if the presenter and the crew are not fully aware of the questions and answers at rehearsals, the questions could not be put on the teleprompter, the presenter could not rehearse the pronunciation of any difficult vords, the effects man would not know whether to play the raspberry effect when the answer is wrong or the orchestra chord when it is correct, and it would delay the man who manages the scoreboard making the change after each answer. There are many other reasons. The programme assistants need to check that the easy questions come early in the game, the harder ones later, and they must not seem to be easier or more difficult than any previous game to minimize any sense of unfairness from the audience as well as the contestants. It is this attention to ze detail that makes the show vital and appear so … so … spontaneous.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. He was not a happy man.

  Berezin looked across the desk at him. He waited a second and then said, ‘At ze same time, Inspector, I must say that everything is done to make sure that the contestants do not see the answers, of course.’

  Angel wondered if that really was a priority. He rubbed his chin. The two victims of murder had both been in touch with somebody at Zenith Television shortly before they were found dead. It was the major similarity in the two murders. It was the common denominator. The girl’s doodling of Berezin’s name in a way that suggested she was imagining being married to him was another link to Zenith. Ridiculous, of course; he was old enough to be her father and had as much charm as a breeze block. Then Angel recalled that Abercrombie had said that the murderer had found a money tree. Angel knew that he needed to find out where that was. It must be Zenith Television. If he could find it, would it lead him to the identity of the murderer?

  ‘Vell, Inspector, if that is all, you will excuse me. I am up to my shoulders in verk. Was there anything else?’

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact there is. I need to have an undercover detective on these premises full-time for the next week or so. I have reason to believe that a murder might take place here at any time. Can you organize that?’

  Berezin’s face looked uglier than ever. He frowned and said, ‘Making television programmes is a very creative and expensive business, Inspector, successfully and profitably made by teams of highly experienced men and vimen. It would be a distinct hindrance to be verking with an amateur who has another agenda. Besides, he would stick out like – how do you say it? – like a sore toe.’

  ‘I was thinking of a job in the post room,’ Angel said. ‘That would allow him to move around the building unchallenged.’

  ‘You really think it’s necessary, Inspector?’

  ‘I do, and it would have to be kept absolutely secret for his safety.’

  ‘Our HR department manager would have to know.’

  ‘Right, but nobody else.’

  Berezin wasn’t happy about the arrangement. He looked down, sighed, shook his head and said, ‘Very well. I will arrange it.’

  ‘He can start tomorrow?’

  Berezin shrugged. ‘Have him report to our HR department tomorrow morning.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Good. He’s a good man. He won’t get in your way.’

  Berezin looked at his watch. ‘Now, is there anything else?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Yes. There was something. Oh yes. I would like to know if there is any record of telephone calls coming into the building?’

  Berezin frowned. ‘I really don’t know about that one. You should speak with our floor manager. He knows about the matters like zat. I get him for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said.

  Berezin reached out for the phone on the desk in front of him and tapped in a number. There was no reply. He dialled several different numbers until he caught up with him.

  ‘Morrison?’ Berezin said. ‘Jed Morrison? … I have Detective Inspector Angel of ze police here with me. He would like to see you. Interview room number one… . Now, I sink.’ Eyebrows raised, Berezin looked at Angel.

  Angel nodded.

  Berezin replaced the phone. ‘He’ll be two minutes,’ he said. ‘Now if you will excuse
me, Inspector, I must rush. It has been nice meeting you again.’

  Angel doubted it. He stood up. They shook hands.

  Berezin then left the room, closing the door.

  Angel quickly made up his notes and then sat back and waited for Jed Morrison. He hadn’t met the man before and he wondered what he was like.

  There was a knock at the door and a bronzed, smiling face appeared. ‘Inspector Angel?’ the young man said.

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Mr Morrison?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the tall man said. He had a lot of fair, wavy hair, powerful shoulders and a body to match.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel said. ‘Please sit down.’

  Morrison smiled. When he smiled his whole face lit up. He had charm even when he wasn’t trying to be charming. ‘What is it you want me for, Inspector?’

  ‘I am investigating the murders of Jeni Lowe and Antony Edward Abercrombie.’

  ‘That’s the young lady in the car crash where you come from? Erm, Bromersley? Well, I don’t know her. Never met her. I don’t understand …’

  His voice trailed to nothing.

  ‘She was loosely connected to Zenith TV,’ Angel said, ‘and I’m looking at all the options. I hope you don’t mind me asking you one or two questions?’

  ‘No, Inspector Angel, not at all.’

  ‘Good. Good. For instance, where were you last Sunday afternoon and evening?’

  Morrison frowned. ‘Well, I was here, of course, in Studio Two.’

  ‘All the time? Who was with you?’

  ‘Well, I was checking on all the props and the girls and the flowers and the facilities for the studio audience some of the time. And I was in my office, going through the script, most of the time.’

  ‘Who can verify that, Mr Morrison? Who were you with?’

  ‘I don’t suppose anybody could verify it. I was on my own but there were people moving around, checking on the things they were responsible for. It was a live show. Everything had to be just so.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Mr Morrison. But it was possible for you to escape from the hurly-burly of the preparation of the show for a short while, wasn’t it?’