The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘I suppose so, yes. What for?’

  ‘Long enough to have interfered with the brakes on Jeni Lowe’s car.’

  His face changed. His big blue eyes stuck out as if they were on bilberry stalks. ‘What?’ he said. ‘I don’t even know the girl. Or which one was her car. And, anyway, why should I?’

  Angel smiled but it wasn’t a warm smile. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Why should you?’

  Jed Morrison looked perplexed.

  ‘That’s the answer I would have given, Mr Morrison,’ Angel said. ‘As long as the investigator doesn’t know the motive for the crime, he can’t solve the mystery, can he?’

  ‘But I didn’t know her, Inspector. I didn’t murder her.’

  ‘Do you know why she was murdered?’

  ‘No. What makes you think her murder has anything to do with me?’

  ‘I’ll tell you. It was a doodle on her notebook … a man’s name … linked with hers.’

  ‘It wasn’t my name. It couldn’t have been.’

  ‘And then there were phone calls from both victims to someone here … both timed at shortly before they died. Were they to you?’

  ‘Certainly not. I don’t know anything about any phone calls.’

  ‘Where were you last Wednesday afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d have to think. Last Wednesday afternoon… . That was the thirteenth. I was here. I had a meeting in the morning with Viktor Berezin about a new show he is considering … it dragged on a bit … went straight through lunch. Grabbed a sandwich and a coffee about three o’clock, then went to my office and caught up with my paperwork until around five o’clock. Then I went home.’

  ‘Was anybody with you when you were at your desk?’

  ‘You mean, have I got an alibi?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Inspector. I was on my own from about three o’clock. Maybe somebody saw me through the office window. I don’t know.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. Then he searched around in his coat pocket for the little blue plastic cover or top. He held it up between finger and thumb. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  Morrison took it, looked at it, frowned and handed it back. ‘No idea, Inspector.’

  ‘Ever seen it before?’ Angel said.

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Morrison said.

  Angel stuffed it back into his pocket.

  ‘Mr Morrison,’ Angel said. ‘Is there any way in which I can check on phone calls coming into Zenith Television?’

  Morrison thought a moment. ‘No, Inspector, I don’t think there is,’ he said. ‘The only way it could be done is for the switchboard operators to write down every call that came in, but they get thousands in a day, and there doesn’t seem to be any need for it.’

  Angel wasn’t surprised but he was disappointed. ‘Right, Mr Morrison,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  The chiming clock in the hall at The Brambles struck four o’clock. The sky was colourful even though it was becoming dark. Cora Blenkinsop had already left for home and Helen Rose was alone in the kitchen preparing tea for her husband Paul and herself. She discovered that the last three slices of a loaf of bread had green mould on the crust, so she cut the bread up roughly into cubes and scraped it on to a plate. Then she looked outside down the garden at the bird table. It was in an open area of grass in the midst of trees at the side of the old slaughterhouse. The wintry sky beyond was red and gold and purple. The trees stripped of leaves stood starkly in silhouette.

  She went into the hall, put her coat on over her overalls, kicked off her slippers and put on some old shoes. She returned to the kitchen, collected the plate of bread and went outside.

  It was cold but there was no wind and no rain.

  As she approached the bird table, she noticed how slippery it was underfoot. She looked down and discovered she was walking on sodden leaves, which was not surprising considering the number of trees there were in the garden and the woods beyond, and the recent weather.

  She reached the bird table and hurriedly tipped the bread on to it, then took the plate to the back step of the house to collect when she went in. She wanted it safe. It had been a wedding present and she didn’t want it broken. Then she went down the path to the old slaughterhouse. It was not until she reached the door that the fear of the history of the Cudlipps, never far away from her, returned. Nevertheless she pressed on. She needed the stiff yard brush that was in the slaughterhouse and she intended getting it. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and looked into the dark building. She could just make out forks, rakes and other tools hanging on the wall. She spotted the brush, reached out for it, lifted it up, turned and quickly left, pulling the door after her. Her breathing returned to normal as she went up the unmade path towards the bird table. The brushing quickly removed the leaves and unexpectedly exposed a straight line of irregular white stones, each about the size of a tea plate, more than five feet in length. She followed the line and brushed clear the next stone to reveal more stones ahead, but also to the left and to the right. She kept brushing the leaves away until she revealed the shape of a cross. Then it dawned on her. She gasped and put her hand to her face. She had unsuspectingly uncovered the burial place of Amos Cudlipp. Her breathing increased. Her heart began to race. Her immediate impulse was to cover up the stones. But she dropped the brush, ran quickly to the back door, let herself in, locked the door and stood with her back to it until she decided what to do. Her first instinct was to ring the garage where her husband worked and ask the manager to let him come home … but she would look so stupid and clinging … she couldn’t do that. Her eyes flitted from left to right and she lightly squeezed the flesh under her nose between finger and thumb for a few moments as she thought. Then she made a decision.

  She raced round the house and switched on the lights in every room. Then she took off her coat, changed into her slippers and returned to the kitchen. She looked at the clock. It was a quarter to five. Paul would be home in half an hour.

  The phone rang. It rang loudly. Imperatively. She wasn’t expecting anyone to call.

  She made her way into the hall and picked it up. It was Paul.

  She sighed with relief. It was so good to be able to talk to him. ‘Oh, hello, darling, so pleased to hear your voice.’

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just lovely to hear you. I haven’t heard you since breakfast.’

  Paul Rose laughed. ‘And it’s lovely to hear you too,’ he said. ‘Look, darling, things have gone a bit pear-shaped here today. Promises have been made that shouldn’t have been and the long and short of it is that I’ve got to get a car finished tonight because the customer needs it first thing in the morning. So I’m going to be at least an hour late … thought I’d let you know so that you wouldn’t be worried.’

  Helen wasn’t pleased, but it was work. What could she do? ‘Never mind, love,’ she said. ‘I’ll hold tea back. Just come as soon as you can. And I love you.’

  ‘Certainly will, my darling. And I love you too. Byeeee.’

  ‘Goodbye, my darling.’

  NINE

  It was 4.45 when Angel arrived back at his office. He was about to summon Ahmed when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called. It was Flora.

  ‘I’ve just come back from Heneberry’s off licence, sir. Thought you might want to hear about it – if it’s convenient?’

  ‘Oh yes? Sit down, lass. What did you find out?’

  ‘They were sorry to hear of Mr Abercrombie’s death, sir. They genuinely liked the old boy, who they had known many years. He seemed to buy ninety-nine per cent of his food and bits and pieces from them. They used to deliver his main order on a Friday morning, but were often put to the trouble of bringing oddments he had run out of at other times in the week. And they were not pleased that he had run up a bill of £300, which might not get paid.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘The last time anyone saw him was Tuesday la
st when Mr Heneberry himself delivered some oddments to his house, including a bottle of whisky.’

  Angel frowned. ‘Just a minute, Flora,’ he said. ‘When did I see him the first time? It was Monday, a week today. He said somewhat shamefacedly that he didn’t have any booze in the house. That’s right. It fits. Carry on, Flora.’

  ‘Mr Heneberry said that he had a go at Mr Abercrombie about settling his bill. Apparently Abercrombie said that he was expecting a lot of money coming to him very soon and that he would easily be able to clear his bill, and that he – Mr Heneberry – wasn’t to worry about it.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘That’s interesting, Flora. That he said he was coming into a lot of money. You know, although I didn’t really know old Mr Abercrombie, I don’t think he uttered one lie to me. He even admitted that he had stolen Jeni’s money and valuables after she had died.’

  ‘But that’s despicable, sir.’

  ‘It is. But he was desperate. If Heneberry’s had called in their debt, he could have been declared bankrupt. Then where would he be? His pride wouldn’t have survived it.’

  ‘It’s no excuse.’

  ‘No, but it makes it understandable. Jeni Lowe told him who had interfered with her brakes, as well as the stuff about the money tree racket.’ He bit his bottom lip and shook his head. ‘If only he had told me.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was Ahmed.

  ‘Ah, come in, lad. Just the one I want to see.’

  Ahmed grinned. He wasn’t used to such a greeting.

  Flora Carter stood up. ‘Well, I’ll be going, sir, unless you want me.’

  He looked across at her. ‘Anything more to tell me about Heneberry’s?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said.

  He nodded and she went out.

  Angel turned to Ahmed and said, ‘Now, lad, what did you want with me?’

  ‘DS Taylor phoned this afternoon while you were out, sir. He said I was to tell you that the prints on the whisky bottle found at the scene of Jeni Lowe’s murder were those of Abercrombie. Of course it will be confirmed in his report but he thought you might like to know in advance.’

  Angel’s screwed up his face in thought. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Hmm. I see. Well, it only confirms what we already know, that Abercrombie was on the scene and so on. Right. Thank you, Ahmed. Make a point of thanking DS Taylor for me, will you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. Now you said you wanted me for something?’

  ‘Yes. How would you like an undercover job?’

  The young man’s eyes lit up. ‘What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘I’ve got a job for you in the post room at Zenith Television, Leeds. Report to their Human Resources department at 8.30 tomorrow morning and don’t be late.’

  ‘Wow! Sir.’

  Helen Rose was in the kitchen at The Brambles setting the table. The Westminster chiming clock in the hall struck five. She made a quick calculation and worked out that Paul wouldn’t be home from the garage for seventy-five minutes. She wasn’t very pleased. Seventy-five minutes could drag like hell. She was still on edge but feeling better than she had been an hour earlier.

  She peered in the oven at the casserole. It was very gently bubbling so she turned it down to slow cook. Then she checked the table. Everything seemed all right there.

  She went into the hall and happened to notice that the landing and all the rooms up there still had their lights on from her panic attack an hour earlier. She pursed her lips. It wouldn’t do for Paul to see what she had felt a need to do. He might think she was going out of her mind. She switched off all the unnecessary lights downstairs and then those upstairs. After that, she went into the bedroom, and a heavy gust of rain drummed loudly on the glass panes of the big window. She quickly closed the curtains, cutting out the rainstorm and the darkness. Then she crossed to the dressing table, sat down on the kidney-shaped dressing table stool and looked in the mirror. She began to brush her hair but soon became impatient – it wouldn’t quite stay how she wanted it. She worked diligently until she had the curls and waves in the right place, then reached out to the back of the dressing table for the hairspray. She approved of the result. It was much better. As she returned the container of lacquer to the back of the dressing table, out of the corner of her eye, in the mirror, she saw a piece of white lace or tulle or similar, like the bottom of an old-fashioned dress, disappear rapidly under the edge of the wardrobe door, which was open two or three inches. It then closed with a click.

  She froze to the spot. For a second or two she held her breath. There was only the sound of rain on the bedroom window. Her heart was pounding like a steam engine. She could not move. Her eyes were still glued to the mirror, watching to see if there was any further movement. She began to breathe rapidly. Then she suddenly jumped up, crossed quickly to the landing, raced down the stairs and straight out of the back door. All she could think about was putting distance between herself and the house.

  Rain was tumbling down as though a cloud had burst.

  She ran down the path, through the gate and into the road, totally oblivious to anything.

  The headlights of a car, travelling at around 30 miles an hour, was the only illumination of the normally deserted road. The driver braked. She ran into the side of it even though it was still moving. The impact of her body on the bonnet and wheel arch made the loud echoing noise of a man kicking a drum. She bounced back off the bonnet and landed in the gutter.

  Angel pressed on the car’s emergency flashers, pulled the BMW into the nearside, picked up the police-issue rubber-covered torch off the dashboard shelf and quickly got out.

  The woman was several yards behind the car in the gutter. He shone the torch in her face. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t move. Angel thought she was dead. Then he saw her chest heave and her eyes open.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said.

  She looked in every direction. ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  ‘Detective Inspector Angel,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? You ran into my car.’

  She put her hand to her face. She remembered the vision of the dress in the wardrobe door and groaned.

  ‘Oh, dear. Oh, yes.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said. ‘Can you stand up?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ he said, putting his hand under her arm. ‘Have you any pain anywhere?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think so.’

  Angel pulled her up hard. She was on her feet.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  She turned her head round and looked upwards.

  Light shone from some of the windows of The Brambles.

  She shuddered and said, ‘Up there.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you home.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘No. I can’t go back there.’

  A rain cloud seemed to open directly above them.

  Angel said, ‘Well, let’s get you into the car.’

  He held her under her arm, opened the nearside front door, helped her inside and closed the door. He noticed how wet her clothes were and that she wasn’t wearing a coat of any kind.

  He rushed round the car and climbed in behind the steering wheel.

  ‘I should take you round to the hospital, check you are all right.’

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you very much. You are very kind.’

  ‘You don’t want to go back home?’

  ‘No,’ she said promptly. ‘Not until my husband arrives.’

  ‘I don’t think you should sit in those wet clothes for long. I live only a mile away. Shall I take you to my house? My wife will be there and she will be able to … well, it will be warm and dry there.’

  Before she had time to protest, Angel had turned the ignition key and started the car engine.

  ‘More coffee, Helen?’ Mary said.

  ‘No, thank you. You’ve both been extremely kind. I ought to be getting back. I’d rathe
r my husband didn’t know how silly I’ve been.’

  ‘You could phone him and see how close he is to finishing,’ Mary said.

  ‘Yes, if you don’t mind, I will,’ she said, finishing off her coffee and returning the cup to the tray.

  ‘The phone’s in the hall,’ Mary said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you.’

  ‘And I’ll take you home, when you’re ready,’ Angel said.

  ‘He’s bound to be suspicious when he sees you in my clothes,’ Mary said, as she led the way out of the sitting room into the hall.

  Helen Rose smiled as she followed her. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think he notices what I’m wearing, and your clothes are all a pretty good fit. I’ll be certain to launder them and return them to you tomorrow, and I am eternally grateful.’

  ‘There’s no rush at all.’

  Mary returned to the sitting room as Helen Rose used the phone. Her face showed her concern and compassion for the newlywed. She looked at Angel and they exchanged smiles.

  Five minutes later, Angel stopped the BMW at the back gate of The Brambles. A happier and dryer Helen Rose got out. Angel opened the boot and took out a plastic bag containing her clothes.

  ‘I’ll take that, thank you,’ she said, reaching out for the bag. ‘And thank you very much again. And thank Mary again for me.’

  ‘Will you be all right? Do you want me to come in and wait until your husband comes?’

  ‘No. I’ll be all right now. But thank you. Please go. If he sees you, he’ll ask questions and I don’t want that.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Good night then,’ he said and returned to the car.

  ‘Good night,’ she said and waved him off.

  Angel was soon back at home. He put the car away and let himself in through the back door.

  Mary was looking in the oven. ‘I don’t know what this’ll be like,’ she said.

  Angel took off his jacket and put it on the newel post in the hall. He came back to the kitchen, rolling up his shirt sleeves.

  ‘Did you see the husband then? Love’s young dream?’ Mary said.

  ‘She didn’t want me to see him,’ he said as he began washing his hands under a running tap.