He stopped and listened. It was coming from the other side of a set of flats. It was a man but he couldn’t identify him.
A man with a foreign voice replied: ‘I said I vud try and see that you would be amply rewarded.’
Ahmed’s eyebrows went up. It was the unmistakable voice of Viktor Berezin. He switched on the recording machine in his top pocket and listened.
‘You said that you’d find me a director’s job in the States or even Australia,’ the unknown man said.
‘Nonsense,’ Berezin said. ‘I said I’d find you a job there if it all went wrong here and you got ze sack, which it hasn’t. It hasn’t been exposed yet and I am hopeful it will not have to be. But you haven’t earned your wheat. I am not paying you for work not done. You said you vud find out how the money tree works. But you haven’t told me anysing I didn’t already know.’
‘I told you who makes it work?’
‘Zat’s not new. I already knew zat. It’s the mechanics of the thing, the details but also ze proof. I must have ze proof. So that we can get him by the short and curlies.’
‘How can I possibly get proof? He’s far too crafty.’
At that point, a door nearby opened and then closed.
‘Somebody’s coming,’ the voice said.
Ahmed heard two sets of footsteps walking away in opposite directions. He switched off the recorder and returned to pushing the trolley towards the offices. He looked round to see if he could see discover the owner of the voice. He didn’t see either man.
He finished his round and returned to the post room.
His boss was waiting for him. ‘Tha’s been a long time, Ahmed. Now, look, lad. Check off the size and weight of all the stuff to be despatched. Enter it in the book. Then frank it and put it in that bag for collection by the post van by four o’clock. You’ll have to be quick. I’ve got to go out. The chairman wants to see me.’
Ahmed knew that to mean he was going out for a crafty smoke on the fire escape. He reckoned he would just have time to phone Angel and play the recording to him.
‘Great stuff, Ahmed,’ Angel said from his desk at the station. ‘It’s a pity you weren’t able to find the identity of the man with Berezin. It sounds like he’s the very man we are looking for.’
Ahmed’s eyes flashed. ‘You mean he’s the murderer, sir?’
‘One of them over there is,’ Angel said. ‘Carry on and keep in touch.’
‘Right, sir.’
FOURTEEN
It was 3.45 p.m. on Thursday 21 November.
Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a number.
A young woman answered. ‘Ackroyd and Whitehouse, estate agents and auctioneers. Rachel speaking, can I help you?’
‘I want to speak to Archie Ackroyd, please. This is Michael Angel.’
‘Thank you. Putting you through.’
‘Hello, Michael, what can I do for you?’
‘I want you to do me a small favour, Archie. I want you to act as estate agents for a recent client of yours, Paul and Helen Rose.’
‘Oh yes. If I can, I will,’ Ackroyd said. Then he added, ‘Don’t tell me they want to sell The Brambles so soon?’
‘I’m afraid they do. And they want you to offer it for sale. After all, you know all about it, don’t you? But she wants … well, actually, it’s me. I want you to offer it for sale at no charge.’
‘No charge? Why, is it for charity or something?’
‘No. It’s not a charity.’
‘Well, it’s a beautiful house, with great views over the west and south sides, but they might not get back what they paid for it. Why are they selling it?’
‘What I want you to do is advertise it in the Bromersley Chronicle in exactly the same way you would do in usual circumstances. You will be fully reimbursed for the cost of that, of course. And you won’t be out of pocket. It’s just your time and expertise I want for free.’
‘Then what do you want me to do?’
‘Get started with that, Archie, will you? Look at the time. I’ll have a word with you later about everything else. I have to catch a young lady as she leaves work. Goodbye.’
Ten minutes later, Angel stopped the BMW at the side of the road on Havercroft Lane, just out of sight of The Brambles’ front gate. He switched off the ignition and waited.
In the gloomy light, through his car rear mirror he watched the pavement and just after four o’clock he saw a woman come into view. He quickly got out of the car and went up to her.
‘Hello, Cora,’ he said.
She stared up at him curiously.
‘It’s Inspector Angel, Bromersley police,’ he said.
‘Oh, I know who you are,’ Cora Blenkinsop said. ‘I just wondered what you want?’
‘Are you going home? I can give you a lift,’ he said. ‘We can talk as we go.’
She shrugged. ‘If you like,’ she said.
He opened the nearside car door. She got in. He closed the door and went round to the other side.
When he had started the engine, put on the lights and pulled away from the kerb, he said, ‘Has Mrs Rose told you that she and her husband have decided to sell The Brambles?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She told me just before I came out. That’ll put me out of work.’
‘Sorry about that, Cora. I suppose it will,’ he said as he changed up to top gear. ‘If I hear of anybody wanting help in the house, I’ll let you know.’
She nodded. ‘Right, Inspector. Thank you.’
‘It’s good that you are keeping out of trouble, Cora, isn’t it?’ he said.
She stared at him in surprise. ‘I’ve never been in trouble,’ she said.
‘When both your mum and dad have served time in prison,’ he said, ‘as has happened in your case, it often doesn’t serve as a warning to the next generation. Instead the children seem to think it is a licence for them to copy their parents and also behave dishonestly, so that many a time the children finish up serving time too. That’s tragic, isn’t it? And ridiculous.’
He stopped at some traffic lights and waited patiently for them to change to green. He turned on to the ring road. ‘Did your mother tell you what it was like in Holloway?’
Eventually she said, ‘Well, she certainly didn’t … like it.’
‘It’s pretty awful, Cora, I can tell you. I’ve had a look round it. The cells are still the original cells. And the petty restrictions are extremely hard to bear. Practically every little thing has to be earned. I don’t mean by work, I mean by behaviour. You have to earn the privilege of having a pillow, of using the phone, or of having a transistor in your cell. I don’t know how the inmates stand it. And do you know most of the women are in jail because of some blind allegiance to some man who often has pretended to love them or has promised them a gold palace or something? But it’s usually pie in the sky. Once the man has got the money or the sex or whatever it is, he will dump her for some classier, richer, more beautiful woman, and then chase after an even bigger trophy.’
She frowned. ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Inspector?’ Cora said.
Angel pursed his lips. ‘No. Just shop talk.’
He turned into Canal Road. ‘But if there’s anything you want to tell me, this would be a good opportunity, before we get to your house.’
She shook her head.
A few moments later, he stopped the car outside number 102. ‘Here we are,’ Angel said.
Cora Blenkinsop didn’t say a word. She quickly got out, closed the car door, rushed across the pavement and let herself into the house.
Angel watched the door close. He wrinkled his nose, let in the clutch and immediately drove the BMW back to The Brambles. He had an arrangement with Helen Rose and DS Taylor to meet there at a quarter past four.
He saw that Taylor had already arrived because the white SOCO van was at the top of drive. He pulled the BMW behind it. He switched off the lights and the engine and went up to the back door.
Mrs Rose admitted him. �
�Good afternoon, Inspector,’ she said.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Rose,’ he said. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that everything is all set. The ad for the sale of The Brambles should be in the Bromersley Chronicle tomorrow.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. I hope the plan works, Inspector.’
‘It’ll work, Mrs Rose. Just you see.’
She nodded. ‘Your sergeant is in the sitting room. Please follow me.’
‘I’ve only just arrived, sir,’ Taylor said.
Angel nodded then turned to Mrs Rose and said, ‘Please show us the room where you believe you saw a woman’s dress disappear into your wardrobe.’
‘Of course. Please follow me,’ she said. She switched on the hall and landing lights.
The two men followed. Taylor carried a large bag on a sling on his shoulder.
She led the way upstairs into the front bedroom, switched on the light and pointed to a handsome old mahogany wardrobe.
Angel looked at it and said, ‘It’s built in, isn’t it? It must have been here when you bought the house.’
‘It was indeed, Inspector,’ she said.
He turned to Taylor and said, ‘Take a look at it, Don. See what you can find.’
Taylor put down his bag, unzipped it and pulled out a hammer with a rubber head. He opened the wardrobe door and was faced with lots of clothes: women’s dresses and men’s suits and coats.
Helen Rose stepped forward. ‘I’m sorry. I should have thought of that. I’ll take those out. You understand I don’t come up here on my own after dark.’ She reached inside and began to lift out bunches of coat hangers with garments suspended from them. Angel stepped forward and assisted her. They put them all on the bed. Then Taylor climbed into the wardrobe. There was ample room for him in there except for the height. He was about eight inches too tall to be able to stand upright. He began a gentle tapping operation with his hammer.
Angel and Mrs Rose stood by waiting, watching and listening.
After a few minutes of gentle tapping, Taylor came out of the wardrobe. ‘I’ve defined a big area that echoes,’ he said with a smile.
Angel looked at Mrs Rose and smiled. Out of politeness, she smiled back.
Taylor went over to his bag. He found a stick of chalk and a measuring tape, then climbed back into the wardrobe. Quite soon he looked out of the wardrobe door and said, ‘There’s an area in the centre at the back that is five foot four by two foot six. Now the difficult part: finding how to get into it.’
‘Anything I can do?’ Angel said.
Taylor pointed to his bag. ‘There’s a torch and a big magnet in there, sir.’
Angel found them and passed them up to him.
Taylor turned back into the wardrobe. Minutes later, there was a click, followed by the creaking of dry timber and then the squeal of hinges that had never seen oil.
Angel looked at Mrs Rose, who looked surprised.
A few seconds later Taylor turned round to face them. ‘You open it by sliding the middle hook to the left. It’s a space cut into the stonework. It’s big enough for a man or a woman to hide in. They wouldn’t be able to move around much. Probably used by Amos Cudlipp to hide his fancy women.’
‘Is there anything in there, Don?’
‘Just a minute,’ he said. He turned round and fumbled about a little while then came out with a black great-coat, a stovepipe top hat and a white silk woman’s underskirt.
When Mrs Rose saw them, she gasped and turned away.
Angel looked at them, rubbed his chin, looked at her and said, ‘Hmm. The big coat and the hat would explain the appearance that evening outside the slaughterhouse, wouldn’t they?’
Helen Rose could only nod.
Angel said, ‘And the silk skirt would explain what you saw disappearing into the wardrobe, wouldn’t it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned to Taylor. ‘Bag those items, Don. Let’s hope we find confirmatory forensic on each of them.’
He turned back to Helen Rose.
‘Now we need to know why you have never been able to light a fire in the study downstairs.’
She nodded.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can tidy this up later. Let’s go and have a look at that fireplace.’
The three of them trundled downstairs, Taylor bringing up the rear with his bag on his shoulder.
Angel moved the electric fire out of the way and, peering at the mass of black-painted bricks that formed the grate, took out his penknife and scratched a tiny flake of paint off one of the bricks. Underneath it reflected a shiny yellow colour.
He turned and looked at Taylor. They nodded and smiled.
Then Angel said, ‘Have you brought the nitric acid?’
Taylor quickly dived into his bag and produced a small brown bottle with a white screw cap. Angel carefully unscrewed the cap and with the glass rod sticking out of the screw cap, he transferred a tiny drop of the nitric acid on to the yellow scratch on the brick. It began to bubble ferociously. He wiped the area clean with a white tissue and looked at it. It was bright yellow.
He smiled and showed it to Taylor.
‘Twenty-four carat, sir,’ he said.
Angel nodded and turned to Mrs Rose. ‘Looks like you’re a very wealthy woman. If all the bricks under the black paint are gold, you’re a multi-millionaire. How does it feel?’
Mrs Rose just stood there, open mouthed.
Taylor said, ‘I’ll go and finish off upstairs, sir.’
‘Right, Don,’ Angel said.
Helen Rose then said, ‘But, Inspector, how did you know?’
‘I didn’t. Just put two and two together. Finding the overalls bunging up the chimney. Gold dust in the pockets. Ghosts appearing and disappearing. But not known to have ever appeared before you bought the house. A home help who isn’t honest. It all came together. Made the impossible possible. Somebody wanted you out of the house.’
‘But … but … Who is the owner of the gold?’
‘As far as I know, you are. You are the owner of the freehold of the house, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. But how did it get there?’
‘I suspect the previous owner of the house hid it there, the late Hubert Grant. A lifetime’s saving from cash deals as a bookie and then buying old gold at his shop in the town. He was melting it down into moulds then building a fireplace with them and painting it black. Safest place in the world, provided you don’t want to light a fire.’
Helen Rose came up close to Angel. ‘I’ll always be grateful to you, Inspector. I honestly thought I was going crazy.’
‘Not you, Mrs Rose. Not you.’
‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Nothing. Just sit tight. Leave it to us.’
It was six o’clock on Thursday evening, 21 November. Crisp and Scrivens were at the bench in the observation van watching the big reel of recording tape rotating slowly. They were both wearing earphones and listening in to the conversation between Josephine Huxley and her son, Tom.
They had already overheard an hour of chatter that was in no way incriminating and they were wondering if the entire evening promised to be so uneventful.
After a few moments of silence, they heard the rustle of paper, then Tom Huxley said, ‘I’d love a yacht like that, Mum. Look.’
‘I might be able to afford to buy you a rowing boat,’ she said with a laugh.
There was a pause and then Tom Huxley said, ‘You know when you get up to a million, what happens then?’
‘What do you mean? There’s no certainty he’ll let me get that far.’
‘I thought the deal was that there was no limit.’
‘Well, that’s what he said.’
There was a pause followed by the rattle of pots and cutlery.
‘Provided the viewing figures continue to increase,’ she said, ‘and the interest in me as a personality grows, I expect he’ll stick to it, but there’s no telling with these people.’
‘What do you mean?
‘Well
… if I get invited to be a guest on, say, Woman’s Hour or Desert Island Discs, or a quiz programme, it would be a big plug for the show and they would value it highly.’
‘That’s not likely, is it?’ he said.
‘Don’t know. But it’ll have to happen soon before the audience is fed up of seeing me. I’m sure they’ll drop me like a red-hot brick if my appeal as an ordinary ex-dinner lady and part-time carer, who is a single parent and as poor as a church mouse no longer attracts big viewing figures.’
He laughed slightly. ‘Oh, Mum, the audience is not going to get fed up with you. They all know of you at Cheapo’s. They pull my leg about you. They think you’re great. Most of them will be tuned in to see how you do on Sunday night.’
‘That’s nice, love, but Zenith Television count their viewers in millions. We must get these pots washed. Here!’
There was the sound of a moan from Tom Huxley.
Then she said, ‘Come on. The quicker these are done, the sooner I can get to revising and the better chance I have to win you that yacht.’
‘If you’re still going to be given the answers,’ he said, ‘what’s the point of revising?’
Crisp and Scrivens exchanged glances.
Josephine Huxley breathed in loud enough for it to travel through the ether to the eavesdroppers, and then in a loud voice said, ‘In case he changes his mind.’ That was followed by a loud rattle of pots and cutlery.
Crisp took off his headphones. Scrivens took off his.
‘Nearly but not quite,’ Crisp said.
Scrivens nodded. ‘I think the boss would want to know.’
‘Yes. I’ll ring him now.’
FIFTEEN
The following morning, at 8.28 a.m., as Angel was walking down the corridor to his office, he found himself singing.
Oh what a beautiful morning,
Oh what a beautiful day,
Everything’s coming up roses,
Everything’s going my way
He quickly took off his coat and hat and put them on the hook glued to the stationery cupboard.
His phone rang.
The Money Tree Murders Page 14