He stopped singing, looked at it and snatched it up. ‘Angel.’
It was Superintendent Harker. ‘Dammit, why is your phone always busy when I want to speak to you?’
‘Don’t know, sir,’ Angel said, not knowing what alternative reply he could have made.
‘Come up here, right away,’ Harker said.
Angel replaced the phone. His happy morning had suddenly taken a 180 degree turn.
He left his office and went up the corridor to Harker’s office. He knocked on the door and pushed it open.
The powerful smell of menthol battered his nostrils like a hot blanket. The usual towers of boxes, papers, files, books, medications and thick brown envelopes covered the little man’s desk.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ Angel said.
‘Aye. Sit down. It’s Friday, and I’m concerned about what you are planning to do about the two men you have out in Birmingham and the young lad you have in Leeds.’
‘Valuable information is coming in from both locations, sir. Last night I heard from the Birmingham team. They now have a contestant’s phone and her living room fitted with transmitters, and they have already heard and recorded firm information that somebody is supplying her with the answers to the questions.’
‘Did they get the individual’s name?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir, but that’s the basis of the motive, I believe, for both murders.’
‘Maybe, but I’m sure you’re aware that you can’t use information recorded in such a way in court.’
‘Of course,’ Angel said. ‘And the lad, Ahaz, undercover in the Leeds television studios, very nearly had the name.’
Harker sniffed then sighed. ‘It’s always “very nearly” but “not quite” with you, Angel, isn’t it? It’s never “positively”. Well, I can’t afford to pay for the gargantuan appetites of those men of yours out there, staying in five-star hotels over the weekend, as well as their overtime.’
The speed of Angel’s breathing increased. He might have expected this sort of attitude from Harker. It was always the cost of the CID department that bothered him most of all.
‘They’re actually booked into a three-star hotel, sir,’ Angel said.
‘No matter. The cost of these sorts of jaunts is always astronomical.’
Angel suddenly felt a hot lump in his belly. It rose rapidly, mushroomed across his chest and spread up to his face, turning it scarlet.
‘We have to have awareness about what expenses the taxpayer will see as reasonable and acceptable for this sort of inquiry,’ Harker said.
Angel’s fists were clenched. ‘The taxpayer is always delighted when we manage to get the guilty convicted and put away for an appropriate term.’
‘But you don’t seem to be getting there, lad, do you?’
‘I am getting there, sir. But if you take away the channels through which I acquire the necessary intelligence I won’t be getting anywhere, will I?’
Harker shook his head. ‘You always make this so personal,’ he said.
‘You make it personal. Whenever I am making progress in a case, you come along with some reason – usually the cost – as to why that course should be abandoned, and then you leave me stranded without that primary line of inquiry to pursue. And I have to start afresh.’
‘You have to learn that this station is not here merely to provide you with employment and glorify your little successes to the media. The police service has many arms. Solving crime is only one of them, and I cannot allow it to be supported at the expense of any other. Because it’s Friday, it is necessary to recall Crisp and Scrivens now, so that they can be in Bromersley by five o’clock and will therefore not be eligible for overtime or away from home expenses. All right?’
Angel had no choice. The superintendent had the rank and the authority.
‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘What about Ahmed Ahaz in Leeds?’
‘So far as the rest of this week is concerned, he must not remain in a situation of working beyond his regular hours nor should he be in left in a position where he can justifiably claim expenses.’
‘And if he continues to deliver useful intelligence, can he continue where he is next week?’
Harker shuffled uneasily. He looked like a bus driver sat on a boil. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘But he had better not be filing any claim for expenses.’
Angel came out of the superintendent’s office with his stomach in knots and his mind full of anger. He stormed his way down to his office: if anything had been in his way he would not have seen it. He sat in the swivel chair and tried to reduce the pile of paper but his concentration was shot. His mind was on the face of Trevor Crisp, who he was very shortly going to have to tell to pack up and come home even though – Angel was convinced – the team were on the very brink of overhearing the source of the answers to the quiz questions which would give them the identity of the murderer.
It was at that moment that Angel’s mobile rang. It was Ahmed.
‘Yes, lad? What’s up?’ Angel said.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘Well, it’s a funny thing, sir. I didn’t know what to do. This morning, I was summoned to the HR office, and when I got there it was to give me a wage. Well, I took it and signed for it. It would have looked fishy if I had declined it.’
‘Aye. That’s all right, lad. You did right. Put it in your pocket and hand it to the accounts office here when you’re next in the station. And by the way, is it possible for you to get two tickets for Sunday evening’s transmission of the show?’
‘I should think so, sir. I’ll ask my boss, manager of the post room. He’ll know how to swing it.’
‘If not, ask Berezin. He’ll certainly be able to fix it.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Good. And what time do you finish there today?’
‘Friday is a four o’clock finish, sir. And the post distribution office doesn’t open on Saturdays and Sundays.’
‘And what time do you start on Monday morning?’
‘Same as there, sir. 8.30,’ Ahmed said. ‘Am I working here for another week, sir?’ he said, his eyes popping out.
Angel sensed he was pleased. ‘You are. Hopefully to get some further information that will help me to close this case.’
‘I know, sir. I’ll do what I can. Goodbye, sir.’
Angel closed the mobile and pushed it back into his pocket.
Then, on his landline, he phoned Crisp and ordered him to close down the obbo and come home.
‘You’ve served your purpose, Trevor,’ Angel said. ‘You’ve confirmed the motive that somebody at Zenith was giving the answers to the questions to the contestant, enabling her to win lots of money.’
‘But we were very nearly given the name, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘It would have slipped out during the next few days, and certainly when she was celebrating or cursing on Monday morning.’
‘I know all that. And I know that there have been two murders brought about by the villain needing the secret to be maintained. But we have Ahmed in the TV station. I’m expecting him to come out with the info soon. So let’s have no more argument, Trevor, pack up and come home.’
He ended the call and banged down the phone. He hated curbing Crisp’s enthusiasm. He was almost at the end of his tether with Harker. It would be a relief to get away from him for the weekend.
He reached into his pocket for his notes. He pulled out the brown envelope with the tiny writing on it and began to draw lines through the items he had dealt with. There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called without looking up.
It was Leisha Baverstock. ‘There you are, sir. Couldn’t find you anywhere. There’s been a man on the phone going crazy because he couldn’t reach you.’
Angel looked up. He was concerned. ‘Did he leave a name?’
‘Yes, sir. His name was Archie Ackroyd, of the estate agents, Ackroyd and Whitehouse. Do you know him?’
Angel’s face muscles tightened. He snatched up the
phone, looked up the number and clicked on it.
It was soon answered. It was Archie Ackroyd.
‘It’s Michael Angel. You been ringing me?’
Ackroyd sighed with relief. ‘Ah, Michael, you asked me to let you know about anybody who inquired about The Brambles,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve got a man here now. He wants to buy it. He says he doesn’t need to see it. He isn’t haggling either. He’ll pay the asking price. He wants me to take his banker’s draft for £25,000 as a deposit, and take it off the market. What do you want me to say to him?’
Five minutes later, Angel turned the BMW into Market Square in the centre of the business offices in Bromersley and parked on a yellow line. He put his ‘Police On Duty’ card on the dashboard then rushed through the door into the reception area of Ackroyd and Whitehouse’s office. A girl behind the desk looked up. She looked worried.
‘I’m Inspector Angel. Mr Ackroyd is expecting me.’
Her face flushed up. It was as red as the guilty light of a breathalyser. She pointed to a door. ‘Through there, sir,’ she said.
Angel went straight through and saw Ackroyd at his desk with a man seated opposite reading a document.
Ackroyd stood up and pointed at the man.
Angel recognized him. It was Dennis Grant. He had last seen him at Zenith Television, when he had interviewed him about Jeni Lowe.
Grant looked up. He recognized Angel. He looked across angrily at Ackroyd. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘What is this?’
Angel said, ‘I hear you are interested in buying The Brambles?’
Grant shrugged. ‘I might have been. What’s it got to do with the police?’
‘Normally nothing but when you’ve been trying to scare a woman rigid so that you could pick up the house cheaply, it is everything to do with the police.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do.’
‘Look, I came here to buy a house. That’s all I know. And I’m prepared to pay its advertised price. What’s wrong with that?’
‘The advertised price is wrong. I think you know that. Considering there’s a fireplace in there that’s made of gold.’
Grant’s eyes glowed. ‘That gold is mine,’ he said. ‘And I can prove it. It was put there by my father. Painted over for security reasons. It was his life’s savings. My father told me about it years ago. It was for me, not for my sister. She’s totally round the twist. Gone oriental. Having it off with old Charlie. She sold the house. Never even told me Dad was dead. It should never have been sold. My sister had no right to do that.’
Angel said, ‘I don’t think your wife knows you’re thinking of buying The Brambles.’
‘It’s nothing to do with her.’ He blinked in surprise and then looked back at Angel. ‘How do you know my wife?’
Angel had made a stab in the dark. He hadn’t known if Grant was married or not. ‘Oh?’ he continued. ‘Are you buying it as a little love nest on the side for you and Cora then?’
Grant flinched at the mention of the girl’s name. ‘Who is this Cora you are referring to?’
‘You know, you really are good,’ Angel said. ‘Your appearances as the villain, Amos Cudlipp, in the coat and stovepipe hat and then the disappearance of a silk skirt into the wardrobe were absolutely brilliant. And that trick of Cora not being to light a fire in the study and making sure nobody else could either … You nearly sent Mrs Helen Rose completely out of her mind. Do you realize that?’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘And do you know something interesting? Having worn that coat and that hat at least once means that something of you will be on the garments: a hair, a miniscule speck of dead skin less than the size of the smallest fragment of talcum powder, or some saliva or body odour. From that our forensic department will be able to determine the presence of your DNA, which will prove your guilt.’
‘Absolute rubbish. I wasn’t there. It wasn’t me.’
‘And what we can’t corroborate by forensic science, we can rely on Cora to fill in the missing bits of evidence to put before a judge.’
‘Huh! You can’t rely on anything Cora says,’ he said. He looked at Angel’s determined face and said, ‘I need a brief, a solicitor.’
‘You certainly do,’ Angel said.
There was a knock on the door and two burly police patrolmen came into the room.
Angel nodded towards them. ‘Right on cue, lads.’
They advanced towards Grant, one of them unhooking a pair of handcuffs from his belt.
Angel said, ‘Dennis Grant, I am arresting you on suspicion that you attempted to obtain property by deception. You do not have to say anything but …’
Angel returned to his office and immediately phoned the station desk sergeant. It was an old friend, DS Clifton.
‘Ah, Bernie,’ Angel said. ‘Two patrolmen are bringing in a man called Dennis Grant for attempting to obtain property by deception. Find him a solicitor, will you? And allow him a phone call. And will you also send a couple of PCs to The Brambles, Havercroft Lane, off Sheffield Road to pick up a Cora Angelina Blenkinsop for questioning?’
‘Right, sir.’
Angel replaced the phone. He sighed. He rubbed a hand hard against his chin. He was tired but the day had only just begun. He pulled the pile on his desk towards him and began to finger through some of the paperwork at the top.
Fifty minutes later, he had really made a difference to the pile. Then there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called. It was patrolman PC Sean Donohue.
‘I’ve put Cora Angelina Blenkinsop in interview room number one, sir. I assume that’s all right?’
‘Anybody with her?’
‘Yes, sir. Leisha Baverstock.’
‘Yes. Right. Thank you, Sean.’
The patrolman went out.
Angel closed the file he was reading, placed it on top of the pile and pushed it away. He made his way to the interview room two doors away.
Cora Blenkinsop was sitting opposite PC Leisha Baverstock, drinking tea out of a paper cup from the machine in the corridor.
Leisha stood up. Cora gawped at him.
‘Right, thank you, Leisha.’
Leisha smiled and went out.
He sat down opposite Cora.
‘What you brought me here for?’ she said. ‘Disgusting, two coppers knocking on my employer’s address wanting to bring me in for questioning, as if I was a common criminal.’
‘Now, Cora,’ he said, ‘this is a preliminary interview for me to decide whether or not to prosecute you for attempting to obtain property by deception. I am not recording this and there are no witnesses. If I do decide to prosecute, you will need a solicitor. Do you understand that?’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ Cora Blenkinsop said. ‘I mean, Dennis said that it wasn’t really wrong because he said the house was his. His father left it to him, and his sister had stolen it. She hadn’t told him his father was dead. He’d been dead three months and the house sold before Dennis knew anything about it. And he adored his father and his father adored him.’
‘But Cora, if Dennis adored his father, he would have lived with him, or close by him, or visited him frequently, or spoken to him on the phone, wouldn’t he? Every day or every week, surely? You said Hubert Grant had been dead three months before Dennis found out. If Dennis had thought anything about his father he would have known, wouldn’t he? There’s something wrong there. Where was he at that time?’
‘He was living in Wakefield with his wife and kids. Lived there twelve years. And working at Zenith. I never thought.’
‘And what was he going to do with the house when he got possession of it?’
‘It was for us to live in. He was going to leave his wife and we were going to live there, and start all over again.’
‘And what did he plan to do with all that gold?’
Cora looked at Angel and frowned. ‘All what gold?’
&n
bsp; Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Didn’t he tell you about the gold?’
She shook her head and sneered at him. ‘No. What are you talking about?’
‘Didn’t he tell you not to let the Roses light a real fire in the study? Didn’t you always have to make sure that the sticks and paper were always too damp to burn?’
‘Well, yes. That’s because he said that his father had deliberately had the chimney blocked off by stuffing something up it to keep the room warm, and that it would billow out black smoke if a real fire was lit.’
‘Well, why didn’t you tell Mrs Rose that?’
‘Because Dennis said not to. He said it would make for another bit of fun and spookiness.’
‘That’s what he told you?’
The muscles round her mouth tightened. ‘I’ve told you,’ she said.
Angel rubbed his chin.
Then Cora said, ‘Now, what’s all this about gold?’
SIXTEEN
The manager and Ahmed were very busy in the post room of Zenith Studios, Leeds: the manager was snuggled in a corner with a newspaper folded small and a pencil, trying to pick out a winner in the four o’clock at Kempton Park while Ahmed was sorting the three sacks of mail just delivered by the post office.
The phone rang. The manager was next to it. He pulled a face and reached out for the handset. ‘Post room manager.’
It was the unmistakable voice of Viktor Berezin. ‘I vant you to collect a small parcel which contains a videotape for urgent despatch to Japan. It will require a customs declaration certificate. Will you send somebody up for it?’
‘Right away, Mr Berezin,’ he said. He replaced the phone and turned to Ahmed and said, ‘That’s that Russian fella. Thinks he owns the place. Go up there and collect a parcel. For urgent despatch, he says, on a Friday, huh! That’s what he thinks. Room 507. Fifth floor.’
‘All right. I know the way,’ Ahmed said.
He caught the lift to the fifth floor, got out when it stopped and made his way left along a corridor to the seventh door, which was on the corner of the building and the largest office on that floor.
He tapped on the door and went in.
Berezin was standing behind his desk looking at a pasty-faced young woman with long blonde hair on the other side holding a notebook and pencil. There was a small packet on the desk in front of him.
The Money Tree Murders Page 15