by Norma Hanton
“Yes, sir, Broom responded, as he looked into the eyes of a very tired man, a man desperately in need of a long rest. He waited for a moment then turned to leave.
“Oh! Broom, while you’re at it, question that Doctor Jackson Brown fella who attends her father. Find out what he knows about the Bell family.”
“Will do, sir, do you want me to bring him in as well?”
“Why not, Sergeant, let’s get this Bell thing put to bed.”
Mathew Cohen was arranging a display in the shop window when DC King entered.
Marion Cohen’s smile slipped quietly away when King produced his warrant card.
“What can we do for you, Constable, more stolen jewellery to watch out for?”
“I’d like you,” King nodded in the direction of the window, “and your husband, to tell me about the visits made by Ann Bell to these premises.”
The couple stared at him in surprise. Mathew recovered first.
“What on earth do you mean? What possible business could that be of yours?”
“Just making routine enquiries, sir, what you say may help us to eliminate Miss Bell from our enquiries.”
“What enquiries? What could you possibly suspect Ann Bell of?” Marion Cohen’s puzzlement showed plainly on her face.
“I’m not at liberty to disclose the reason at this moment, madam; could you please answer the question?”
DC King looked from one to the other.
Mathew looked at his wife, shrugged his shoulders and said,
“Just tell him, Marion, they’ve obviously made a huge cock-up and anything we say can only help Ann.
His wife smiled broadly,
“Very well, dear, if you think it’s for the best.”
King, sighing with relief, took out his notebook.
“Ann visits us here every fourth Wednesday, she has done for a few years now, to pick up our donations to the Children’s Hospice Appeal. She also collects a homemade fruit cake which I bake for her. She pays cash for the cake, passes the time of day and then leaves.” She stared at him for a moment. “Oh, and she collects plants for the new parents wing. You know, so the parents can stay overnight if necessary. Now was there anything else, constable?”
King’s mouth hung open.
“Was there anything else?” Mathew grinned at him.
Policewoman Alison Watson was just as dumbfounded as her colleague had been as she left the last of the four premises allocated to her by Mulhern. Every one of Ann Bell’s visits was simply made to collect envelopes containing regular donations to the Hospice.
After a few minutes of social intercourse she would leave. Once she’d finished her round of the shops in question she’d go on, they said, to deliver the money to the Hospice.
What Alison couldn’t understand was, and she’d asked each of the traders, why they didn’t just pay the money to the Hospice themselves.
Apparently they’d not wanted their names to become common knowledge as each of them had a child born deformed, and some of those that were still alive were spending their last years in peace, away from prying eyes. When Ann Bell had first asked for her help she’d promised to call once a month to collect the donation and to keep their names out of it.
So was that the reason Bell had been so hell bent on giving Alison the run-around all this time.
Meanwhile, back at Ellis Street, Mulhern was breathing fire.
“All that manpower all that cost, for what? So Miss Bell can play silly buggers. Get her in here, Broom, I’ll let her know what happens to people that waste police time and resources.”
“She’s already in interview room one, sir, she and her solicitor.”
Broom was amazed at the alacrity of his superior officer. Mulhern leapt to his feet and was going down the stairs like a bat out of hell.
Ann Bell jumped when the door to the room burst open and Mulhern stood in the doorway, his breath rasping.
“My client was merely going about her lawful business, Superintendent, unaware that she was being stalked by your officers.” Hampton glared at Mulhern.
“Your client, Mr Hampton, was a suspect in a murder enquiry. Her movements were followed as part of the said enquiry. She was certainly NOT being ‘stalked’. I think your client has taken every opportunity to try to make fools of the officers assigned to the case and I’m very tempted to charge her with wasting police time.”
“You do that and I can promise you at least one journalist who will make you accountable for wasting money on harassing an innocent woman. You’d be a laughing stock. I can see the headline now, ‘Innocent Charity Collector Hounded by Police’. How does that grab you, Superintendent?”
“Take your client and go before I change my mind. As for you, Miss Bell, I hope you realise that because of your ‘jolly capers’ another young woman lost her life. Think about that when you and your solicitor here are congratulating yourselves.” He stood near the door, she seeming a little reluctant to squeeze past him. “You’re free to leave,” he stepped aside, “Constable, show them out.”
Mulhern sat rubbing his aching temples, he was so tired. He’d been forced to lie awake on the settee because Mary had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the television. Curled up like a child she’d slept while he guarded her. He sighed, she’d look so peaceful, and so like the beautiful woman he’d married all those years ago. With that thought he got to his feet,
“OK, Sergeant lets go and see Doctor whatever his name is. Then maybe this station can get back to normal.”
But in the interview room Doctor Jackson Brown proved to be very unhelpful.
Because of patient confidentiality he couldn’t disclose any details of Nathaniel’s health problems, or, if any, of Ann’s.
He did tell them about the death of Ann’s mother. How he’d thought it wise to call on a colleague to declare the cause of her death, merely as a formality. As such a close friend of the family he might have been accused of a cover-up if foul play were suspected.
No, Ann had no mental health problems that he was aware of. She was, he told them, a wonderful young woman who had dedicated her life to her father’s business and with that Sergeant Broom had shown him out.
Chapter Thirty Three
Angela lay huddled in a sleeping bag, shivering despite the warmth from the Calor gas heater she’d found in the shed. She thought of the food she’d brought with her and, unwrapping herself from the quilt, she stood up and stretched. Hurriedly putting on a thick dressing gown she went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee.
Looking around the rich, homely kitchen she remembered how, anger getting the better of her, she’d been tempted to burn the place to the ground before her move to Ealing, but then that would have drawn attention to her, and that was last thing she’d wanted, and she did want to return home someday. So she’d left the place empty.
Slowly sipping the scalding liquid she thought about the day she’d found out about ‘that woman’.
‘The Nook’ had been her present on her thirty first birthday. George had said she could buy herself something exciting if she wanted too, something she really desired. He promised never to ask what it would be. She should have known then that he had a secret. He’d never asked her, not once, what she’d spent five thousand pounds on. That had been the price of the run down cottage plus fees. She made the purchase under the name of Margaret Dunwoody. It was somewhere she could run to when the need arose; somewhere she’d be in charge.
She’d quietly furnished it with small pieces of furniture moved discreetly from their home, and money from her own account. George still never asked about it.
He died of a heart attack, so the doctor informed her, could have happened any time, bla, bla ,bla. Angela had barely prevented a smile forming on her lips, she knew well the cause of his death; she’d been there at the time.
She went into the sitting room and cleared away the sleeping bag and blankets. There would be a delivery of coal and logs soon. They would be arriving abo
ut ten. After they’d been she’d light the fire and then enjoy a luxurious bath. Then she’d begin to enjoy life again.
Even though she knew they’d still be looking for her, she felt confident they wouldn’t come this way. She was in another country, one where they’d never think of looking for her. They had no idea she was here. She could now be Margaret Dunwoody, retired librarian, and live her life out in peace and solitude. The idea made her lips curl into a rare smile.
The cottage stood in haughty isolation. A quarter mile drive up a steep, rutted track before you came to the front door; they’d never know it existed.
After a quick wash she dressed in some casual tweeds and then stood watching for the delivery. The view from the window was magnificent; it lifted her spirits every time she looked through the glass. Trees and flowering shrubs covered the area. During the spring months the place came alive with crocus, daffodils, and bluebells.
She even gave a little chuckle when the thought crossed her mind that her troubles were all gone now. They were finally over. Now all she had to do was relax, she was beginning a new life. It was sad that she’d never see her mother again, but these things happen. She could lay low for about a year and then revisit her. But then her mother would probably be dead before the year was out.
Sitting by the window she let her mind slip back to the day she discovered George’s ‘little secret’.
It had been a spur of the moment decision to take a drive into town to do some shopping, maybe get George a small gift for his birthday. Angela had no idea that he intended to be in town that day, none whatsoever. Maybe it was God intervening, who knows? Maybe one day, when she was on her deathbed, she’d ask another priest to hear her confession and ask him for his opinion.
She’d shopped till she dropped. Her feet ached; the packages that contained her shopping dragged her down, so when she’d spotted the corner restaurant she’d decided to dine before heading for home. She’d entered the building and stood looking around for an empty table. Then, as her eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, she was unable to believe what she saw.
She’d blinked rapidly. Surely that wasn’t George sitting with his back to her, deep in conversation with a pretty young girl. She’d stared hard, trying to focus. Then he’d reached out and covering the girls hand with his he’d raised himself up from the chair, bent low, and had kissed his young companion on the lips. There was no doubt now; George had been clearly reflected in the mirror above the girls head.
Anger had raged up inside but she’d known this was not the time, nor the place, to challenge him so she’d turned and hurried out. He’d been too engrossed in that – that slag - to notice her.
She’d thrown the shopping into her car, slamming the door with such ferocity it had made passers-by jump and look around them. Sitting behind the wheel she’d fought hard to keep her emotions under control. Her feet drummed a desperate beat on the car floor; her hands gripped the wheel so tightly her knuckles were bloodless. Desperately wanting to storm back into the restaurant and beat the whore to a pulp, but she’d known in her heart it would be the end of her life with George. She was not going to play into the bitches hands. She’d known well enough that she had to calm down, make plans, but most of all, to keep her own council.
That night George returned home to find a birthday meal, and his gift, waiting for him on the table. She’d smiled and flattered him, but said nothing of what she’d seen.
Hiring a car to follow him she’d waited outside the Green Leaf restaurant day after day, trying to find out where the bitch lived. They’d turned up one evening dressed to the nines and she’d finally got her chance to follow them to the girl’s home.
Her chance to avenge the situation came when George’s mother died and he’d had to go to Florida to sort out her estate.
“I’ll probably be away for four or five days. If you need anything you can dip into your own account until I get back.”
There was no fond farewell. She was too busy with her plans to care. She’d followed him to the airport and had watched him board the plane - alone. Once the plane had left the ground she’d driven quickly over to his ‘love nest’ and, hiding the car from sight of the road, she’d sat a moment making sure she could reach the door unseen. The rest was easy.
Posing as a member of the Protestant church she’d knocked on Louisa’s door, showed her a handful of pamphlets she’d snatched from a stand in the church nearby, and asked Louisa Murphy if she’d care to read about the Easter message. The bitch had been sugary sweet.
“Well now, I am of the other persuasion but I’ll gladly read it. You’ve taken the trouble to get here, it’s the least I can do. Thank you.”
Angela had smiled at the cause of her troubles and then had suddenly clutched her chest and sagging against the doorpost, she’d professed a mendacious illness.
George’s tart, that’s what she was, a tart, had played the Good Samaritan and invited her in to rest.
Dear Louisa had walked right into her trap.
“Sit down, dear, sit yourself down. I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”
While Louisa tripped back into the kitchen for some biscuits, that was a clever move, pretending to be hungry, she’d poured the drug into her coffee.
Later she’d watched the blue eyes slowly closing, then opening wide as she realised what was happening. She’d smiled at the bitch and said calmly,
“I hope you don’t mind if I introduce myself;” and quietly drew a breath, “my name is Angela Mitchell, wife of George, how do-you-do.”
Fear showed in Louisa’s eyes as they slowly closed. The amount of heroin she’d then injected into the girl’s arm kept them that way. For a moment she’d stood and stared at her rival’s lifeless body.
She had punched the young, perfect face several times before the anger subsided.
Now she stood chuckling to herself at the recollection stopping only when the coal man arrived.
Two hours later and Angela sank blissfully into the foam filled, scented bathtub, deep in thoughts of that day.
She reflected on how she’d wrapped Louisa’s body in sheeting before turning her mind to getting the body up the stairs to the bedroom. She’d found that Louisa, even though dead, had been light enough for her to lift onto her shoulder and carry her, albeit slowly, up the narrow staircase to the bathroom. After a brief rest she’d lined the bed and floor with more sheeting, put the body in the bath, and began to destroy the thing that was trying to steal her George.
Angela laughed out loud as she thought of how she’d stripped the bitch’s body before folding her clothes neatly into a box.
What a night she’d had. Using all her pent-up anger she’d taken away Louisa’s beauty. First she took away her eyes, no more to be fluttered at George, or anyone else. Then the rest of her pretty face. Finally she’d placed Louisa on the bed, all dressed in virgin white, to await his caresses. In the room a large vase of flowers stood on a table near the window, she’d selected one crisp white lily and placed it in the dead hands of his lover. The jar containing the blue eyes she put into the fridge, before cleaning up the mess. She’d then taken the liberty of sleeping peacefully for a couple of hours on the sofa. After which she’d loaded her car with the incriminating evidence before scrubbing the house from top to bottom. By midnight she’d completed her task and, after one last look at the girl, she’d left.
It was a simple matter to burn all the evidence in the open fireplace at home.
When George rang to say he was on his way back the excitement made her laugh aloud, all day she kept saying to herself, ‘Just you hurry home, my darling, and see what a surprise I have for you’.
George had driven straight home but, within an hour, had made the excuse of having to call in at the office and make his report. She’d followed him, watching in anticipation as he unlocked the front door of the cosy love nest. He’d called out, ‘Louisa darling, I’m home’.
She’d crept closer, hiding in bushes.
Suddenly a high pitched scream rent the air, George had begun yelling,
‘No! No! Oh! My God! No! Louisa! Louisa!
He appeared in the doorway, his face ashen, before staggering forward and slowly crumpling into a heap on the grass. She’d been taken aback. She remembered thinking, what was he doing? Was this some trick to bring her out of hiding? Had he realised that she was watching? She hadn’t bargained for anything like that. Should she stay, or get closer, or just hightail it out of there?
Slowly, inch by inch she had approached him. Warily she’d moved forward on all fours. In the dying embers of that evening she could just make out his face, contorted with pain, the skin colour grey, beads of sweat stood like teardrops on his skin. She knew nothing of First Aid and what she did know made her feel inside his wrist. A slow thread like ripple was all she could feel.
Her next move was one of pure impulse. She ran to his car and opened the door. He’d been semi-conscious as she dragged him into the passenger seat, there was no doubt getting him into the car had taken all her strength and she’d sat for several minutes regaining her breath.
Closing the door to their love nest she drove swiftly home where she’d parked the car in the garage, closing the door from the inside. Then once more she dragged his heavy body taking him in through the door of the kitchen and on through to the lounge where she’d placed him on the sofa. Only then had she called an ambulance.
George only opened his eyes once in all that time, just as the sound of sirens filled the air he watched as she towered over, grinning down at him. He’d reached up with feeble hands and grabbed at her throat, then letting go clutching them to his chest as his face contorted with searing pain. Slowly, he released his grip as his face went white. As the ambulance man worked she’d knew he was wasting his time. She knew George was dead, even before they reached the hospital.