The Money Tree Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘They’re very much in love, don’t you think?’ she said as she served something from a dish on to two plates.

  He dried his hands, pursed his lips and said, ‘Aye. Well, she is. I only hope he warrants it.’

  She put the plates on the table. ‘You said that seriously. Is something bothering you?’

  He looked at his plate and frowned. ‘What is this?’ he said.

  ‘What does it look like?’ she said. ‘Dried-up steak and kidney, overboiled potatoes and carrots, Sherlock.’

  He stuck a fork into the steak. ‘I don’t think it’s likely that the three different “visions” or “events” would come entirely from her imagination. When she is normal, that is to say when she is not afraid, she doubts the veracity of what she has said.’

  ‘She begins to doubt herself.’

  ‘Exactly. Yet she is perfectly normal to talk to.’

  ‘Perfectly,’ she said.

  She saw Angel having a tussle with a piece of steak. ‘Sorry it’s dry, Michael. I can make some gravy?’

  ‘Don’t bother, love. But I have had three rounds with this piece,’ he said, pushing the gristle to the edge of his plate. ‘I will have to throw in the towel.’

  They ate in silence for a few moments, then Mary said, ‘What are the three “events” or manifestations of ghostly activity you referred to, love?’

  Angel stopped loading his fork. ‘Well, the business tonight of the woman disappearing into the wardrobe, the inability of her and her help, Cora Blenkinsop, to light a real fire in the room downstairs, and the man in a stovepipe hat bearing down on her in her back yard, believed to be Amos Cudlipp.’

  ‘Mmm. I see. And do you believe that gory tale about Amos Cudlipp?’

  ‘I have heard that there was such a character living there some time back. That story could all be true, love. Those are facts that can be verified. I don’t know what to think about all the other stuff.’

  ‘Are you suggesting she’s making it up?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. She needs help of some sort. I would have liked to have looked in her wardrobe earlier this evening.’

  Mary pulled a face. ‘Not me,’ she said with a shudder. She put her fork down and concentrated on chewing, then swallowed a piece of steak. After that she said, ‘Should she see a psychiatrist?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far at this stage, but have you noticed her husband is never around when these ghostly manifestations occur?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Michael, I believe her,’ she said. ‘Ghosts, if there are such phenomena, can’t be explained by forensic experts and policemen.’

  ‘No, but fake ghosts can,’ he said. ‘Look at the situation as it is. A young man marries an older woman for her money, then when they’ve been married a short time, a young bit of fluff takes his eye. And he fancies taking her to bed rather than his older wife. How is he going to arrange it?’

  ‘Well, the days are gone when he could have his wife consigned to a private mental asylum.’

  ‘Aye,’ Angel said. ‘The easy way is kill her off and make it look like an accident.’

  ‘Is that what you think Paul Rose wants to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Never met the man.’

  ‘You are ghoulish.’

  TEN

  It was half past eight on Tuesday 19 November.

  Angel was at his desk fingering through the huge pile of mail and paperwork – the blight of every policeman’s life – when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  The door opened and the pretty face and shapely figure of PC Leisha Baverstock, the station beauty, appeared. She was the woman who was having an on-off relationship with DS Crisp, which Angel could not keep up with nor comprehend.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘I got a message to say that you wanted me.’

  ‘You may know that DC Ahmed Ahaz is away for me on an undercover job.’

  She smiled and said, ‘Yes, sir. He’s been round everybody telling us about it. It’s in the post room at Zenith Television.’

  Angel was surprised that the PC knew, and he wasn’t too pleased. ‘It’s supposed to be an undercover job, Leisha. You’ll keep that information to yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But it’s all round the station. He was so proud.’

  ‘I understand,’ Angel said. ‘Now while he is away, I want you to stand in his shoes. When I’m out, I want you to take my messages, all right?’

  She smiled broadly. ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  Angel scratched his head, then said, ‘You’ll need to tell the switchboard, the post room, the duty sergeant, DS Taylor at SOCO and anybody else who you think might need to know. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  ‘And there’s something I want you to do for me. There’s a house called The Brambles on Havercroft Lane, off Sheffield Road. I want you to ring round the estate agents and see if you can find out who had it on their books and sold it recently to a Mr and Mrs Paul Rose. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. She made some hieroglyphics on her notepad.

  ‘And I want you to go on to the PNC and find out if there’s anything known of a Cora Blenkinsop. She’ll be between twenty and forty years of age. I don’t know where she lives, but she must live locally. All right?’

  ‘All right, sir,’ she said. She made some more hieroglyphics then left.

  Angel smiled and returned to wading through the pile.

  A few moments later, there was a knock on the door again.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  It was PC Leisha Baverstock again. She held out a yellow paper file.

  He looked up. That was quick, he thought.

  ‘There were these notes I found on Ahmed’s desk, sir. They looked important.’

  Angel took the file. It was a report from Martin Edwards, the sergeant in charge of the Motor Vehicles section. It was marked for DI Angel’s attention. He opened the file.

  ‘Thank you, Leisha.’

  Angel began to read Sergeant Edwards’ detailed report on Jeni Lowe’s car. He already knew the pertinent facts about the cause of the crash, the damage, the finding of the blue plastic cap under the nearside front seat and the discovery of fresh fingerprints lifted from inside the car. What he didn’t know was the identity of the person. The report said that the fingerprints were not those of Antony Edward Abercrombie, ‘known to be associated with the case’, nor were they available at records, so Angel knew the person had not been through the criminal system.

  He eased back in the swivel chair and rubbed his chin.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Angel,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Trevor Crisp, sir, reporting in.’

  Angel leaned back into the swivel chair. ‘Good lad. Have you found the woman’s house?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s a semi-detached, small garden, on a leafy outskirts of Brum. There’s hundreds of them. All look the same. We’re in the van and parked at the opposite side of the road to where she lives. Camera is all set up. We’ve been here about an hour. Haven’t seen a person who could be Josephine Huxley yet. Or anyone else in the house, if there is anybody in.’

  ‘Right, Trevor. Is Scrivens all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. At the minute he’s got binoculars on the windows hoping to get a glimpse of life.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, you know what you have to do? Don’t take any stupid risks.’

  ‘Oh no, sir. We’ll wait for an opportunity.’

  ‘Right, lad,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll leave it with you. Ring me when you have anything to report.’

  He replaced the phone. It immediately rang again.

  He snatched it up. ‘Angel,’ he said.

  It was Superintendent Harker.

  ‘Angel, I want you up here straightaway,’ he said.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Angel said.

  Harker banged down the phone.

  Angel wasn’t pleased. He looked as if he’d caught the smell o
f the gravy in the cook house in Strangeways.

  He replaced the phone and pushed the chair away from the desk. He wondered what Harker wanted. It was never anything pleasant. Always a grumble; never appreciation or thanks.

  He trudged up the corridor to the door, knocked on it and then pushed it open. He was met with the usual menthol-smelling fug.

  ‘There you are,’ Harker said from behind the barricade of files, letters, reports, boxes of Kleenex, Movicol and Co-codamol. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to the chair opposite. ‘I’ve been trying to keep abreast of your progress, or lack of it, with the murders of this young woman Lowe and the man Abercrombie, and I don’t understand why on earth you have sent Ahaz undercover to the television company. We are very short-staffed here, and I am not certain that that was at all necessary. Are you still trying to edge your way into becoming a television star? You’ll be doing commentaries and documentaries on crime for them next, like that man, years ago, Edgar Lustgarten.’

  ‘Nothing could be further from the truth, sir. There is enough evidence to indicate that the murderer is a member of the staff of a particular programme made and transmitted by the company. That’s all.’

  ‘If you are referring to the scribble on the victim’s notepad at her place of work… ?’

  ‘There’s more than that, sir. It’s all in my report.’

  ‘Ah yes, the phone calls from both victims to the TV company’s switchboard? I don’t suppose you have been able to find out the recipient of the calls? I bet we’ve all phoned the TV company with some query or complaint over the years. That’s probably what’s happened.’

  ‘It’s tenuous, sir, I admit, but it’s all I’ve got.’

  Harker stuck out his chest; it wasn’t much bigger than a budgerigar’s. ‘You’ll have to be careful, lad, or you’re going to lose your golden-boy status with the press.’

  Angel’s lips tightened. ‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ he said. But of course he did. He was used to being insulted by the superintendent. As a mere detective inspector, it went with the job. Up to that present day, he had solved every murder case on his patch, and the appreciation from the innocent involved in the cases, the rest of the force, the public and the media more than compensated for the barbs and petty insults he endured from Superintendent Harker. One day, however, Angel feared that he was going to fail to find the murderer, and he lived in dread of it.

  ‘And another thing,’ Harker said. ‘What’s the idea of sending two men, one of them a sergeant, all the way to Birmingham on inquiries? We do enough inquiries for Birmingham for them to be pleased, nay, eager to do inquiries for us, and on a quid pro quo basis.’

  ‘The inquiries are too complex and too extensive for a simple inquiry to be commissioned, sir. Birmingham have already found and supplied us with the address of the woman we are interested in.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think that would tax them overmuch with their budget. What are you wanting Crisp and Scrivens to find out that is beyond Birmingham CID?’

  ‘It’s not beyond them, sir. It might be complicated and wide ranging. I want my men to make covert inquiries about a contestant, Josephine Huxley, who is running up big winnings on the quiz show Wanna Be Rich?.’

  Harker’s eyes flashed. ‘What?’ he said. ‘That means there’ll be accommodation for the two men, meals in fancy restaurants, petrol hither and thither …’ The colour in his face drained away.

  ‘Well, er, yes, sir,’ Angel said.

  ‘Your men eat like prize-fighters when they’re on expenses and overweight jockeys when they’re at home. All I can say is that this expedition of yours had better show some results very soon. Right. I’m very busy searching for a Father Christmas for the ACPO children’s party. Off you go. I hope to see somebody charged with murder in the very near future.’

  Angel left the superintendent’s office, cursing and swearing under his breath all the way down the corridor. By the time he was back in his chair in his own office, he was feeling much better.

  PC Leisha Baverstock knocked on the door.

  Angel looked across at her. ‘What is it, lass?’

  ‘I’ve found the estate agent who sold The Brambles on Havercroft Lane to Mrs Rose, sir,’ she said.

  Angel’s face brightened. ‘Oh? Great stuff,’ he said and reached out for his pen.

  ‘It’s Ackroyd and Whitehouse, sir. And their phone number is 223942.’

  ‘Thank you, Leisha.’

  She smiled, went out and closed the door.

  He had heard of them. They were an old-established, ostensibly respectable firm with an office on a side street in the centre of Bromersley. He reached out for the phone and tapped in the number and was soon speaking to the man in charge, Archie Ackroyd.

  ‘I understand that you sold a house called The Brambles recently?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, a Regency stone-built gentleman’s residence with several interesting features. I sold it to a Mrs Helen Rose, who had recently married.’

  Angel blinked. ‘To Mrs Rose?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. A very charming lady,’ Ackroyd said. ‘What is your interest, Inspector?’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Didn’t a villain called Amos Cudlipp live there?’

  ‘Many, many years ago. He had the house built for himself and his child bride in or about 1740.’

  ‘Oh? What else can you tell me about him?’

  Ackroyd told him the entire horrific story through to Cudlipp being found dead in the River Don.

  Angel listened carefully.

  When he had finished, Ackroyd said, ‘What’s your interest in the property, Inspector?’

  ‘These are just inquiries of a private nature, Mr Ackroyd,’ he said, not wanting to give anything away. ‘Who was the vendor in the sale to Mrs Rose?’

  ‘Let me see,’ Ackroyd said. ‘It was sold to close the estate of Hubert Grant. If you remember he had a shop in town called Aladdin’s Cave.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘I remember it well. It began as an antique shop, but it sold all sorts of curios and unusual things. He used to buy from the public as well. He had a big sign on the front of the shop that said “I buy owt”.’

  ‘That’s right. His house and contents were sold under the instruction of his daughter, Mrs Malwhinney. The contents were sold by us by auction in September last. Did very well, I recall.’

  ‘Have you got an address for her?’

  ‘I’m just looking it up, Inspector. Let me see … yes, here it is. It’s Mrs Vera Malwhinney, The Coach House, Liddle Lane, Puddleton, Bromersley.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Ackroyd, goodbye.’

  Angel replaced the phone.

  He rubbed his chin. He knew Puddleton was a pretty hamlet on the Wakefield side of Bromersley, about four miles away. He decided he would visit her. He reached out for his hat and coat and was soon on his way.

  Angel found The Coach House hidden away behind bushes and trees at the end of a long single-track lane.

  He drove the BMW up to the front door, got out and pressed the bell-push. He could hear it ring in the distance. He stood on the boot-scraping grid and waited. He pressed the bell-push again and it was eventually opened by a powerful-looking Chinese man in a crisp white shirt buttoned up to the neck, black trousers and red braces.

  He scowled at Angel and growled something that sounded like, ‘Mnya?’

  Angel took him to be a sort of butler-type character, produced a card and gave it to him. ‘I would like to see Mrs Vera Malwhinney, please,’ he said.

  The man took the card, bowed, growled, ‘Mnya, myna,’ and closed the door.

  Angel was surprised to have the door closed in his face. He looked up at the grey November sky and hoped it wouldn’t rain before he was admitted.

  Another few minutes and the door opened. The man stood back and gestured for Angel to enter. He was directed by hand signals and grunts to go along a long corridor at the side of the house. He went through several rooms which were deli
ghtfully furnished and eventually was directed into a big room that housed a large blue swimming pool with a domed glass roof above it. A blonde woman in a two-piece bathing costume was making a strong swim away from him. She turned quickly at the far end and swam back to the corner of the pool where the steps were and where Angel was standing. She stopped swimming, looked up at him, her feet found the steps and she walked majestically out of the pool.

  Angel thought she looked in great shape.

  She looked Angel up and down. ‘I won’t keep you a moment, Inspector,’ she said.

  Angel nodded.

  She was met on the top step of the pool by the Chinese man, who was carrying a pair of rubber shoes, a white bathrobe and a towel. He assisted her in putting on the bathrobe then went out. Meanwhile she swept up the long blonde locks and in a couple of deft moves rolled them all into a turban.

  ‘This way,’ she said and she went through a door into a gymnasium where there were half a dozen exercise machines, lined up against a wall, facing a giant TV screen and a massage table.

  The man was opening two sun chairs and setting them by a small occasional table by the window.

  ‘Thank you, Charles,’ she said. Then she turned to Angel and said, ‘Please sit down. Would you care to join me in a small brandy? I always have a drink after a swim.’

  Angel smiled. ‘No, thank you,’ he said.

  Mrs Malwhinney held up one finger and said, ‘Just the one, Charles, please.’

  The man nodded, grunted and went out.

  Angel watched Charles leave.

  ‘Now, Inspector, what can I do for you?’ she said.

  Angel turned back to face her. He was rubbing his chin.

  ‘I suppose you are wondering about Charles?’ she said.

  Angel hesitated, then shrugged.

  ‘It’s not difficult to explain. My late husband Edwin engaged him when we lived in Hong Kong, then when we needed to come back to UK, Charles came with us. Shortly after that, my husband died and Charles and I had become – shall we say – used to each other. He didn’t want to go back so he stayed with me. He’s an excellent cook but his real expertise is massage. He has the most healing hands I know. He knows exactly where to press his thumbs. And he’s a most excellent houseman and loyal bodyguard.’