The Snuffbox Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Pimm, please.’

  After a few seconds a crisp, efficient sounding voice said, ‘DCI Pimm.’

  Angel bounced straight into dialogue with him. He had absolutely nothing to lose. He could only gain or stay as he was. He began very quietly. ‘I believe you are trying to determine the identity of a body found near Strawberry Reservoir yesterday?’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ Pimm said. ‘Who is this speaking, please?’

  ‘I am the driver of the unmarked police car you saw leaving the crime scene.’

  ‘Oh yes, the BMW,’ Pimm said.

  ‘I would like to point out that I didn’t interview any of the four men. They approached me and told me where the woman’s body was and how appalling it looked. I am pretty sure that they were fed up of waiting. They were anxious to tell their story so that they could leave and get on with their fishing. I didn’t ask them any questions. There was no interview. I didn’t even say I was from the police.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Pimm said. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘My sergeant, under my instructions, took some photographs because I thought the dead woman probably had a bearing on a case I am working on. Accordingly, we put them on the computer, blew them up and I discovered that I was able to identify the woman. I also know where she lived.’

  ‘Right,’ Pimm said. ‘That’s great. How could you recognize her? Her mouth had been mutilated, and the rest of her face had been—’

  ‘I know that her tongue had been pulled out with some sort of—’

  ‘Oh. You knew about that?’

  ‘I have another case, similar. He was shot in the heart, before the—’

  ‘Yes, this woman had been shot in the heart before the mutilation.’

  Angel was relieved to learn that the old lady hadn’t been alive to experience the savagery. ‘I identified her from a piece of jewellery … a gold crucifix on a chain I had seen her wearing recently.’

  ‘Ah yes. Good. Well, who is she?’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Angel said. ‘Now, I am in trouble with my super because you have written complaining – with some justification, I admit – of professional trespass.’

  ‘Oh, that’s what’s bothering you? Forget that, old chap. I was peeved because I thought you would turn out to be some cheeky sprog copper, treading heavily over my crime scene to get ghoulish photos of yet another corpse to enlarge his scrapbook collection and sell to the Daily Bugle for some outrageous sum of money.’

  ‘Not at all. Nothing like that. I will let you have all the photographs my sergeant took if you wish. And my sergeant was very careful approaching the body, and, after all, the crime scene was out of doors.’

  ‘Are you going to give me your name?’

  ‘My name is DI Angel and the dead woman’s name—’

  ‘Just a minute. DI Angel, did you say? Not Michael Angel, the cop who they say, like the Mounties, always gets his man?’

  Angel’s cheeks felt hot. He knew his face would be red. It always embarrassed him. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mumbled at length. ‘That’s me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well. Well, well. Pleased to meet you – well speak to you – Michael. Call me Archie. Well, well, well. That’s all right, Michael. I understand perfectly well. I wish I had your record. You say you know the dead woman’s name and address? Well, I forgive anybody anything who knows that. She’s not known on the NPC, there’s nothing on her clothes, only sawdust, no distinguishing marks on her body, she’s not been reported missing, there’s nothing. No that’s all right. I will immediately contact my super, straighten all that out and quash the whole thing. He’ll be delighted to have the dead woman’s ID. He’ll be on cloud nine. Wait till I tell him it was Michael Angel who told me. Well, well, well. Meeting Michael Angel at last.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Archie.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure, Michael.’

  Angel told Pimm what he knew about Aimée Podlitz, the huge fire on Bradford Road of her shop and home, and that he had just heard that the buildings at the back were all in her name and had been burned out the previous day. He told him that he believed that the property had been the HQ of the country-house gang, that she had probably been a lowly pawn, murdered because, in the eyes of the gang leader, she had become a security risk, following the visit by Angel to the shop, and that he assumed the gang must now have established themselves in other premises.

  Pimm and Angel parted good friends and Angel was clearly much happier. The three unwelcome helpings of Strangeway’s fish pie on his chest seemed to have swum away just as quickly as they had arrived.

  Angel then rang for PC Ahaz.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’ Ahmed said.

  ‘Yes, lad. Who is on surveillance of Edward Street?’

  ‘Ted Scrivens, sir. Been there since 0600 hours.’

  ‘Is Riley in the house?’

  ‘Unless he went out in the night, sir, yes.’

  ‘Any post? Any phone calls?’

  ‘Only the electric bill and a mail-order catalogue, sir, both addressed to Mrs V. Beasley. No phone calls yesterday, not even a wrong number.’

  ‘Right lad. If there’s any change, let me know.’

  Ahmed made for the door.

  ‘And find DS Carter and ask her to see me.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said, then dashed out.

  Angel phoned Don Taylor and told him that Brian Farleigh had been caught and charged with the murder of Charles Razzle. He instructed him to search Farleigh’s premises on Abbeydale Road, also his home address. He also told Taylor that he was looking particularly for anything valuable and compact that Farleigh could have stolen from Razzle’s safe.

  He then rang Mr Twelvetrees at CPS and had a long discussion with him about the case against Farleigh. Angel wasn’t too pleased with the outcome. He was returning the phone to its cradle when there was a knock at the door. It was DS Carter.

  ‘Come in, Flora. Sit down. I’ve just been talking to the CPS. There are a few snags. Mr Twelvetrees says he needs to know how Farleigh came by the gun that he used to murder Charles Razzle. He’s happy about the fact that it was Razzle’s gun all right, and that Rosemary Razzle said it was kept in the drawer of the table on her husband’s side in their bedroom. But Twelvetrees thinks there needs to be some explanation as to how Farleigh actually came to possess it to commit the murder. Twelvetrees also said he needs to know how Farleigh managed to get hold of the key to the front door of the house from which a cast was made. He says the case needs those points strengthening, or some additional compelling evidence is required, such as whatever Farleigh stole from Razzle’s safe being found in his possession, before he’d be satisfied in taking the case to court.’

  Carter frowned. ‘I thought you had enough, sir.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘Well about the keys, sir,’ she said. ‘There were four keys to the front door, weren’t there?’

  Angel nodded. ‘Charles Razzle, Rosemary Razzle, Jessica Razzle and Elaine Dalgleish each had one. I can’t see Charles Razzle parting with his to anybody easily. Jessica was abroad up to the time of the murder, so she’s way out of it. That leaves Rosemary and the housekeeper. I wish I knew where Rosemary was … we can’t ask her until she turns up. That leaves the housekeeper, Elaine Dalgleish.’

  ‘Do you want me to see her?’

  ‘No, I’ll see her,’ he said. ‘I’ve got used to her.’

  ‘Well, didn’t you want me for something, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Flora. I’m concerned … very concerned. We’ve only one lead to the country-house gang.’

  ‘You mean if we find Sean Noel Riley with a bullet through his heart and his tongue pulled out, we’ve been the cause of another death and we’re no further forward.’

  Angel blew out a metre of breath and ran his hand over his chin. ‘I didn’t mean to be as graphic as that, but, yes.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said with a slight shrug. ‘What do you propose to do, sir?’

&n
bsp; ‘We’ve got to get a bug in there somehow. We’ve got to know what’s happening.’

  It was an hour and a half later when Angel came out of the station and drove the BMW down through town on to Park Road, where he parked. He walked round the corner to Edward Street and joined DC Ted Scrivens, who was in his car parked in a line of other cars. He had an unhindered view of the front door of 26 Edward Street.

  ‘Any movement?’ Angel said as he opened the door to get in the seat beside him.

  ‘Nothing, sir. Nobody been out. Nobody been in. No outgoing phone calls. No incoming phone calls. It’s all very boring.’

  Angel squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. ‘Are they both in there?

  ‘I believe so. Saw her at about ten minutes past eight. She was opening that bedroom window. I haven’t actually seen him this morning.’

  ‘Let’s hope he is in there or this whole set-up is a waste.’

  Scrivens’s face hardened. ‘He’s in there, sir.’

  Angel knew that it was wishful thinking, but he thought Scrivens was probably right.

  ‘Sergeant Carter is on her way. She’s going to plant a bug in there. She’s wearing a wire.’ Out of his pocket he took a small black plastic box that looked like a mobile phone, pressed a button and put it his ear. ‘I’m going to monitor her.’

  Scrivens grinned. He was pleased to see that things were moving.

  ‘She’s here now,’ Angel said. He felt his pulse quicken.

  A small car turned the corner, past Scrivens’s Ford which they were in, and stopped at the opposite side of the road outside number 26 Edward Street. DS Carter in the uniform of a NHS sister stepped out of it, carrying a black bag.

  The two men watched her knock on the door of number 26.

  She very much looked the part in the navy-blue raincoat, black stockings and white cap. Scrivens thought she looked very sexy.

  Angel heard the knock through the receiver.

  The hot, throbbing pain in his chest began. He’d had it for years. It was part of the job.

  It was a while before the knock was answered. The door was eventually opened by Mrs Beasley

  ‘National Health Service,’ Flora Carter said. ‘Mrs Beasley?’

  The woman’s jaw dropped. ‘Yes?’

  Flora Carter flashed an ID card made up by Ahmed on his computer twenty minutes earlier, using an NHS logo and a recent head-and-shoulders photograph of Flora from her police record, but Mrs Beasley was hardly interested in it.

  ‘Well, what do you want?’

  ‘It’s a swine flu check.’

  ‘Swine flu!’ Mrs Beasley exclaimed. Alarm showed in her eyes. ‘I haven’t got swine flu.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have, Mrs Beasley,’ Flora Carter said. ‘Need to go through a check list of symptoms with you and take a sample of water from your cold tap. That’s all. Only takes a minute.’

  Mrs Beasley put her hand on her chest. She knew there was something very unusual about this National Health Service visit, nevertheless she was looking forward to having it confirmed that she hadn’t caught swine flu, also that the supply of water to the house was as pure as it should be.

  Mrs Beasley stepped back and pulled the door open wider.

  Flora Carter swung the black bag in front of her and swept into the house with a flourish of confidence.

  Angel saw the back of her raincoat disappear past the doorjamb, then saw the door close. His jaw tightened. He rubbed his chin. He hoped this was all going to work. Ideally she’d need the woman out of the room for a few minutes, but a few seconds would suffice.

  ‘Is there just you living here, Mrs Beasley?’ Flora said.

  Unexpectedly, through the receiver, Angel heard a deep, man’s voice say, ‘No. There’s me an’ all. Now what’s this all about? You’re not calling at every house?’

  Angel held his breath. The owner of the voice had to be Sean Noel Riley.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Flora Carter said. ‘One in every fifty. It’s a survey. I’m working fourteen hours a day as it is. If you don’t want to take part just say so and I can easily go next door.’

  ‘No. No. It’s all right,’ Mrs Beasley said quickly.

  ‘You said it only takes a minute?’ the man said.

  ‘That’s all,’ she said breezily.

  Angel was worried. There were now two people in the room with Flora. How could their attention possibly be diverted?

  Angel heard the click of Flora’s, ball point. ‘Can I have your name, please?’

  ‘What me?’ said the man’s voice. Then he said, ‘Sean Noel Riley.’

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘December the twenty-fifth, 1967.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Flora said.

  Angel felt a drum beating in his chest. He turned to Scrivens. Very quietly he said, ‘He’s in there. Riley’s in there.’

  Scrivens nodded.

  Flora said: ‘And your name is Violet Beasley … date of birth, Mrs Beasley?’

  ‘May the third, 1971.’

  ‘Thank you. Now has either of you any of the following symptoms. Fever, cough, shortness of breath, sore throat, tiredness, aching muscles, sneezing, runny nose or loss of appetite?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Flora Carter said.

  There was a sigh. It sounded as if it was from Violet Beasley. Riley didn’t reply.

  ‘Now I just need to take a sample of water from your cold tap,’ Flora Carter said.

  Angel’s eyes suddenly flashed. ‘She’s stuck with both of them watching her,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to give her a chance.’ He dropped the receiver into his pocket, opened the car door, dashed across the street and up to number 26. He banged hard on the door. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say.

  The door opened. It was Violet Beasley. ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Angel said. ‘Could you direct me to the … to the abattoir, please?’

  Violet Beasley frowned. She wasn’t pleased. ‘The abattoir? I don’t think I know where that is? Just a minute,’ she said. She turned and called back into the house. ‘Sean, can you direct this young man to the abattoir?’

  ‘What?’ Riley said.

  She shook her head and gritted her teeth. ‘Come and have a word with this young man,’ she snapped.

  There was the muttering sound of dissension from Riley as he thrust his way up to the front door.

  Angel’s heart began to beat like the drums at the end of the 1812.

  Riley looked down at Angel as if he was looking in the slop bin at Strangeways.

  ‘He wants the abattoir,’ she said, pointing at Angel, then she turned and went back in the living room.

  Riley said: ‘I’m a stranger round here myself, lad. I don’t know where it is. Sorry.’ He closed the door.

  Angel reckoned that that had given Flora Carter about six clear seconds to hide a sticky bug somewhere in the room. Six seconds wasn’t long, but it was long enough. He only hoped that in the process Riley hadn’t suspected anything.

  It was one o’clock exactly, only sixty minutes after the successful placing of a listening device at the back of a picture on the wall in the sitting room at 26 Edward Street. Flora Carter had gone back to the station, changed out of the nursing sister’s uniform, and returned it, and the bag, to her friend at the hospital. Don Taylor had set Scrivens up in the white unmarked surveillance van outside the house with earphones to monitor the bug, and Angel had set off down to 22 Canal Road to interview Elaine Dalgleish again.

  ‘Come on through, Inspector,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘Just back from the shops myself. Sit yourself down there. I’ll just put these bits and bobs away in the fridge; if you don’t mind.’

  She quickly pulled groceries out of two shopping bags. She slotted some purchases in a cupboard, put some in the fridge and left some on the worktop, then squeezed up the empty plastic bags and dropped them in a waste bin underneath. She washed her hands under the tap, wiped them on a towe
l by the sink, then slid on to a stool, dragged off her headscarf and said, ‘Now what is it, Inspector? Have you heard from Mrs Razzle?’

  ‘No I’m afraid not.’

  She pulled a face. ‘I’m worried about her, Inspector. Her husband shot dead. Tried to make it look like that robot. The murderer might be … looking for her.’

  ‘Why? What has she done? Do you know something I don’t, Mrs Dalgleish?’

  ‘No. No I don’t. But I just … I just wish she’d come back. Besides, if she doesn’t come back soon, I think I’m going to have to look round for another job.’

  Angel knew how difficult it was getting employment of any sort in Bromersley at that time and nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shrugged then smiled.

  ‘I came to ask you a couple of questions,’ he said. ‘Small matters that need tidying up. Firstly, about the gun that was in the drawer in the bedside table at the Razzle’s house.’

  Her lips tightened almost imperceptibly. ‘I thought we had been through all that.’

  ‘I need to know who you told about it.’

  ‘I didn’t tell anybody about it,’ she said staring coldly at him. ‘It was the Razzles’ business. I wouldn’t tell anybody anything about the Razzles that was private.’

  He maintained the stare she had started.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now, that was the actual gun used to murder Mr Razzle. The murderer took that gun out of the drawer the night of the murder, or earlier. Or someone took it from there and gave it to him or left it somewhere for him to collect. But however he came by it, he would need to know that it was there in the first place, wouldn’t he? Now only you, Mr Razzle and Mrs Razzle knew of its existence. I have this problem, you see. I can’t understand how the murderer knew it was there.’

  She blinked. ‘I have no idea.’

  Angel rubbed his cheek. ‘Is it possible that Mr Razzle might have innocently told somebody? Maybe someone he trusted … while talking about his security arrangements.’

  ‘I suppose so. He was a nice man, a gentleman. He would talk to anybody. I suppose it’s possible.’

  ‘But you never heard him … telling anybody about the gun?’