Angel smiled and nodded.
‘Now it’s your turn, Inspector. What do you want from me?’
‘Answers to a few questions, Mrs Malwhinney, if you don’t mind. I understand that you were the executor of a trust that owned The Brambles on Havercroft Lane in Bromersley?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said. ‘My father bought the house more than thirty years ago. It was in trust for my mother but she died in 1999 and my father died in August last.’
‘I understand that the house was sold to a Mr and Mrs Paul Rose recently?’
‘Well, yes, I understand that it was, Inspector, why?’
Charles arrived with a small tray with a glass of brandy on it. He put the glass on the table and went out.
‘Did you ever live there?’
‘I spent all my life there until I got married at twenty-four,’ she said. She reached out for the glass, took a sip, then swigged the rest in one swallow.
‘I understand that Amos Cudlipp committed several horrific murders there.’
‘Oh yes, Inspector. It’s true. I’ve had that story told to me many a time.’
‘While you were living there, did you see anything spooky or experience anything unusual, that couldn’t be explained?’
She grinned. ‘You mean the appearance of a man in a stovepipe top hat carrying a huge knife, and a young girl in a long dress coming out of the wardrobe?’
Angel’s face brightened. ‘Yes?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘There were stacks of horror stories of that sort going round. I never saw anything. It might have been rather fun if I had.’
He blinked, then frowned. ‘What about your father and mother?’ he said.
‘They never saw anything either. Not to my knowledge. We weren’t that sort of people, Inspector.’
Angel pursed his lips.
‘Why, Inspector, has it come up that somebody has seen something?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Mrs Rose has been made very upset apparently. There’s just one more question. There’s a small room near the front door.’
‘Yes. Dad used to use it as a sort of study or office.’
‘That would be the room. When you were there, how was it heated?’
‘As a young girl, we had gas central heating installed throughout the house. There’s a radiator in there under the window. That provided background heat but in the winter Dad used to have a two-bar electric fire in there also.’
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Malwhinney.’
ELEVEN
Leisha Baverstock knocked on the door, opened it and peered into Angel’s office. ‘You wanted me, sir,’ she said.
‘Yes, Leisha,’ he said. ‘Got your notebook?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right. Come in. Sit down. I want you to find out if anything is known of a woman called Vera Malwhinney or Vera Grant, Edwin Malwhinney, Hubert Grant and a Chinese man with the unlikely name of Charles.’
Leisha frowned. ‘Charles what?’
‘Just Charles, lass,’ he said. ‘That’s all I know. There can’t be many Chinese in Bromersley called Charles.’
She wrote something else in her notebook.
He felt in his jacket pocket and found the blue plastic cap that he had been carrying around for the last few days. He took it out and held it between his second finger and thumb.
‘Have you any idea what this is, Leisha? It was found under the seat of Jeni Lowe’s car. The owner of it is her murderer and the murderer of old Mr Abercrombie.’
She took it from him and had a good look at it.
‘It’s from the top of something, sir … to keep the dust out,’ she said, then she handed it back.
‘We know that, but what?’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea, sir.’
Angel slipped the thing back into his pocket.
Then she said, ‘Now you asked me to find out if anything is known about a Cora Blenkinsop.’
His face lit up. ‘Oh yes. What have you got?’
She turned back a page of her notebook.
‘There’s nothing at all about her on the PNC, sir, but there are some Blenkinsops known who live at 102 Canal Road. There’s a Lionel Blenkinsop, born 1962, who has served four years, from 2001 to 2005, for forging vehicle registration books, assaulting a police officer and resisting arrest.’
Angel pulled a face. ‘Oh yes, I remember him now. Nasty piece of work.’
‘Also Selina Blenkinsop, born 1965, who served two years, from 2001 to 2003, for passing stolen vehicle registration books.’
‘Oh, I remember her too, of course.’
‘I then checked that Canal Road address with the electoral roll and found that in addition to Lionel and Selina Blenkinsop, a Cora Angelina Blenkinsop born 1984 also lives there. I assume that that is the woman you wanted me to check on?’
‘It certainly is, Leisha,’ he said. ‘And with a family background like that, she is definitely worth a visit.’
It was twenty minutes to five and the sky was growing dim when Angel pulled on the handbrake of the BMW outside 102 Canal Road. A cold wind blew along the deserted street; the stray dogs who usually perambulated the area in daylight hours must have found warmer, more hospitable places to inhabit.
Number 102 was a terraced house on the cobbled street, one of several hundred built near the canal around 1904 by coal mine owners for their workers.
As Angel climbed out of the car and looked round, a dozen or so houses showed light from their cosy but poky front rooms, and four from their upper front floor bedrooms, but there were no other signs of life.
There was a street lamp outside number 102, as there was intermittently along the long rows of houses, but none were lit, and when Angel shone his torch at the top of the lamppost, he noted that all the glass had been systematically removed, probably by catapult or airgun.
He reached up to the knocker of 102 and banged it deliberately four times. A few moments later light shone through the front room window on to the flagstones and cobbles. Then he heard the sliding of a bolt and the turn of a key. The door was opened and a big man appeared.
Angel recognized him immediately.
‘What do you want?’ the big man said.
‘Well, well, well,’ Angel said. ‘It’s Mr Lionel Blenkinsop.’
‘Who the ’ell did you expect to see, Lady bleeding Gaga?’
‘It’s Inspector Angel, Bromersley police.’
‘That’s a surprise. I thought it was Father bleeding Christmas coming early to bring me a present. Well, go away. I’m having my tea.’
‘It’s not you I want to see, Lionel.’
‘Selina’s having her tea as well.’
‘It’s your daughter, Cora Angelina Blenkinsop, I want to see.’
‘Well, she won’t want to see you. You’ve nothing on her. She’s as clean as Snow White.’
A gust of cold wind blew up some dust and a discarded fish and chip paper off the pavement around Angel’s feet.
Blenkinsop said, ‘It’s blowing cold air in here. I gotta close this door.’ He began to push it to.
‘Just a minute, Dad,’ a woman’s voice said from behind him.
Blenkinsop stopped and turned.
A head of hair appeared under his arm. It looked up at Angel.
‘I’m Cora Blenkinsop. What’s all this about?’
Her face became visible through the hair.
Blenkinsop said, ‘Get inside, Cora. Finish your tea. You don’t have to take any notice of this bleeding copper.’
‘If she hasn’t done anything wrong, she’s nothing to fear from me,’ Angel said.
Cora’s eyes flashed. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ she said. ‘But I’d like to know what the policeman wants me for, that’s all.’
‘If he can’t find anything you’ve done wrong, he’ll make summat up, believe me,’ Blenkinsop told her. ‘Now, Cora, I am closing this bleeding door.’
‘No, Dad,’ Cora said. ‘Don’t be
daft.’ She looked up at Angel and said, ‘Come in, please. Quickly.’
Blenkinsop grudgingly allowed Angel in and immediately slammed the door shut. ‘The house’ll be like a bleeding fridge now,’ he said. Then he turned round to Cora and said, ‘This chap, Angel, is no good, Cora. He was responsible for putting me down for four years and your mother for two, you know. Just be careful what you say. He’ll turn what you say into summat discriminating if you’re not careful.’
Angel shook his head. ‘You know that’s not true, Lionel. You were tried fair and square by an independent judge and jury.’
‘They were all nobbled,’ Blenkinsop said. ‘They’d been got at.’
‘All thirteen?’
‘Every one of them.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
Cora turned to Angel and pointed to the settee. ‘Please sit down,’ she said as she sat in the easy chair opposite.
‘I’ve warned you, Cora,’ Blenkinsop said.
‘Aw, buzz off, Dad,’ she said. ‘Dammit, I’m thirty. I’m old enough to look after myself.’
Blenkinsop shrugged. ‘I can do no more,’ he said. ‘And my tea’s going cold.’
He strode angrily out of the front room into the kitchen and banged the door shut.
‘Now then, Inspector Angel, what do you want from me?’ Cora said.
‘I understand that you work for Mr and Mrs Rose at The Brambles, and I wondered if you could help me to understand what is happening there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, Mrs Rose believes that the house is haunted by the family who used to live there many years ago, the Cudlipps. Have you seen any evidence of this?’
‘Not directly myself, no. But Mrs Rose has seen a few things, and I believe her.’
Angel pursed his lips, then rubbed his chin. ‘Is it correct that you have found it impossible to light a fire in that small room near the front door?’ he said.
She hesitated.
Angel noticed.
‘Yes, it’s quite correct,’ she said.
‘But why? What happens?’
‘It won’t light. If it does, it goes out almost as soon as you have lit it. I can’t explain it. I’ve tried several times, so has Mrs Rose. Now they are managing with an old two bar electric fire, but she is not very pleased with the situation.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about the ghostly activity there?’
‘To tell the truth, Inspector, going there don’t do my nerves no good. If it gets much worse, I shall have to leave. As it is, I daresn’t work there when it gets dark.’
‘I think I see how it is, Cora,’ he said.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘You’ll be able to answer that better yourself,’ he said.
He stood up and made for the door.
Angel was on the phone. It was the sixth garage he had phoned that Wednesday morning. He hoped the sixth call would be lucky.
‘Is that Knight’s Garage?’ he said
A young lady said yes.
‘I understand that you have a gentleman by the name of Paul Rose working there?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s our reception engineer.’
Ah, bingo!, Angel thought.
‘What make of car have you got?’ she said.
He had to think quickly. ‘BMW,’ he said. ‘It’s an intermittent problem,’ he added. ‘It doesn’t always start straightaway. It’s all right most of the time.’
‘You’d better bring it in. He could have a look at it. What name is it?’
‘Angel,’ he said. ‘Can I bring it round now?’
‘Yes, Mr Angel. Any time,’ she said.
‘I’ll be there in a few minutes.’
He ended the call. Checked on the address. He knew exactly where it was, and he was round there in five minutes. It was only a small business on a busy corner site ideal for petrol and diesel sales. He saw a vacant parking spot in a block of twelve, drove into it, got out and walked past the pumps through a glass door to a ‘window’ in a pre-fabricated wall that had the word ‘Reception’ painted over it.
A man in smart blue overalls came up to the window and said, ‘Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘Excuse me,’ Angel said. ‘Are you Paul Rose?’
Rose’s eyebrows went up. ‘Yes. Have we met before?’
‘I don’t think so. My name is Angel. I met your wife the other night when—’
‘Oh yes. You’re a police inspector, aren’t you? I want to thank you for all you and your wife did.’
‘That’s all right, Mr Rose. I didn’t do much. I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes. Can you get away?’
He hesitated. His eyes narrowed as he licked his lips, then he said, ‘Yes. Of course. I’ll just have a word with …’
He turned away from the window to speak to somebody unseen by Angel. A moment later he came out of a door near the window, wiping his hands on a piece of oily cloth.
‘We can sit in my car,’ Angel said.
‘I’m all right for five or ten minutes,’ Rose said.
They went through the glass door to the BMW.
Rose finished wiping his hands and stuffed the rag in his overall pocket.
‘How is Mrs Rose?’ Angel said.
‘She’s fine mostly but she’s upset by all the things that are happening in our house.’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about. Have you seen any of the ghostly things for yourself?’
‘No, to tell the truth I haven’t. The whole thing is getting on my nerves. It seems to be monopolizing our lives. All our conversations are about this chap Cudlipp appearing here and there and women disappearing into wardrobes.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘And what’s this about not being able to light a fire in the little room by the front door?’
‘Oh, the study? Helen says that whenever she’s tried to light a coal fire in there, it goes out.’
‘Have you had the chimney swept?’
‘Well, no. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘It would increase the draught, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said brightly, then his face changed. ‘But the cause, according to Cora – she’s our daily – is that the paper and sticks are always wet … they seem to get wet even though they are bone dry to start with. I don’t understand it. Dry paper and sticks don’t become wet before your eyes, do they?’
Angel shrugged. ‘Have you tried to light a fire there?’
‘Me? No. Oh no. My wife needs no encouragement. If, for some reason, I couldn’t light a fire there, in her mind it would confirm the fact that there are spooks in the house.’
‘And you don’t believe in spooks, as you call them?’
‘I can take them or leave them, Inspector. I worry more about her sanity than I do about spooks. I’m afraid these so-called appearances are really getting to her … making her ill. I know it’s out of fashion to say that you love your wife, but in my particular case, I do. And I worry about her. She wants a baby desperately. And she’s forty. The doctor said that we needed a quiet, peaceful, loving relationship to conceive at her age. When we bought The Brambles, in its own grounds, off the main road, near the woods and with a lovely outlook, we thought we would have all that, but it’s not working out that way. If this nonsense continues, we’re going to have to sell the house and find somewhere else. And I really don’t want to go through all that again either.’
Angel sympathized. He hated change, especially when it could easily be avoided.
‘Well, give my best wishes to your wife, Mr Rose,’ Angel said, ‘and I hope things work out right for you both very soon.’
‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Rose said, ‘and thank you for your kind interest.’ He climbed out of the car and returned to the garage.
Angel started the car and drove off the garage forecourt, heading for the station. When he had joined the ring road, he began to think. Helen Rose h
ad given such vivid, detailed accounts of what she had seen. To her everything was unmistakably real, but then again, Angel was thinking, dreams seem unmistakably real. But was Paul Rose being entirely honest?
He arrived at Bromersley police station and drove the BMW round the back to the station car park and into his parking space.
As he reached his office, his phone began to ring. He picked it up. ‘Angel.’
‘It’s Trevor Crisp, sir.’
Angel’s eyes brightened. He was eager to hear his news.
‘Yes, lad. What have you got?’
‘We’re outside Josephine Huxley’s house, sir, in the van,’ Crisp said. ‘There seem to be two people living in the house. Mother and son, I think. We spotted her for the first time yesterday afternoon when she apparently went out shopping.’
‘What time did she go out?’
‘She went out at 1400 hours on the dot and returned at 16.52, just before her son.’
‘Probably back to make a meal for him. What’s the son like?’
‘Aged twenty to twenty-five. I assume he is her son. He returned yesterday at 1710, and he went out this morning at 0808 hours, so I expect he has a job.’
‘Careful, lad. He might just be going out to shoot pool, collect his money from the Social, call at the bookies and spend the rest of the time in the pub.’
Crisp smiled. ‘We’ll be careful, sir.’
‘What’s she look like in real life?’
‘Pleasant enough but nothing special, sir. About forty-five, spectacles, dark hair.’
‘Not your type, eh?’
He grinned. ‘Too old, sir.’
‘I’ve known you chase older.’
‘That was when I was too young to know better, sir.’
‘Do you know if she has a job at all?’
‘Not sure, sir. Doesn’t look as if she has.’
‘See if that configuration is repeated today, and if it is, consider going in tomorrow afternoon. If she goes out this afternoon, get Scrivens to follow her and find out.’
‘I’m more concerned about the man, sir.’
‘I understand that, but Ted Scrivens can do both. He can follow her this afternoon and the man tomorrow morning. I would be happier if we knew that the young man was not out merely for recreation. I don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks.’
The Money Tree Murders Page 11