The Big Fiddle (16 page)

She nodded. ‘What about Andrew King, sir?’

Angel rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His face hardened. ‘You can bet he’s fireproof, but charge him, and collate as much
information
as you can and let us hope that Mr Twelvetrees at the CPS can make a case against him stick.’

‘Right, sir,’ she said, getting to her feet, then she looked at him closely. ‘Christine Elsworth’s going to
love
you,’ she said.

He shrugged, then pursed his lips. ‘Huh. That’s a burden I will have to bear, Flora,’ he said lightly. ‘Now you’d better shift. You’ll need some help. Take two PCs with you.’

‘Yes. Right, sir,’ she said and she was gone.

Angel looked up at the clock. It was eleven o’clock already. He remembered his arrangement with Scrivens. He reached over for his coat and pushed an arm into a sleeve, then put on his hat and rushed out of the office. He crossed the corridor to the CID office, stuck his head in, saw Ahmed and Scrivens talking to each other. Both men saw him and stood up.

Angel looked at Scrivens. ‘Come on, lad.’ Then he turned to Ahmed. ‘I’m going to Leeds, if you want me, you can get me on my mobile.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.

Angel and Scrivens made their way quickly down the corridor, past the cells and through the back door to the car park and the BMW. Angel drove and Scrivens navigated. Forty-five minutes later they were in the middle of a large Victorian estate of terraced houses on the northern side of Leeds.

Angel thought the streets were unusually quiet for the time of day. He saw a woman washing the outside of the windows of an upstairs room by sitting outside on the window ledge with her legs and feet dangling inside the bedroom. Two boys aged about ten were kicking a tin can ahead of them in turns as they ran along the pavement.

Angel stopped the BMW outside the front door of number 166 Sebastopol Terrace. The two men got out of the car.

Angel said, ‘You take the back, Ted, I’ll do the front. I’ll give you five seconds. And have a peek through the window.’

‘Right, sir,’ Scrivens said and he moved quickly through a narrow ginnel in the row, which led to the back doors.

Angel peered through the net curtains into number 166, but could see only a sideboard loaded with pot ornaments and, nearer, the arm of a sofa. No signs of life.

He waited a few moments, then knocked on the door. There was no reply. He knocked again, more urgently.

Suddenly, the front door of the house next door opened, and a woman wearing a yellow cloth in the form of a turban and a
flowered
overall came out, stood on the doorstep and leaned against the door jamb. She looked Angel up and down, then took a
cigarette
end out of her pocket, lit it, took a big drag, blew out a cloud of smoke and folded her arms.

Eventually she said, ‘Looking for Bettina Almond?’

Angel looked back at her and smiled. ‘Yes, I am actually.’

‘Are you from the police?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Is Mrs Almond out?’

‘What’s she been up to?’

Angel blinked. ‘What time will she back?’

‘Couldn’t say,’ she said, taking another drag on the cigarette end.

Angel nodded. ‘Right. Thank you very much.’ He frowned. He was thinking of going round to the back door to contact Scrivens. It looked like a wasted journey. He couldn’t afford the time to hang around.

The woman suddenly said, ‘She’ll not be back today. She’s in hospital … the LGI. Going to have an operation. Taken sudden.’ Then she rolled her eyes, pointed downwards and silently mouthed the words, ‘Down below … all to be taken away.’ This was followed by a single, heavy, knowing nod of the head.

Angel hesitated, then said, ‘Er, right. Thank you.’

He went down the ginnel and collected Scrivens. He told him what he had found out and they immediately made their way back to Leeds city centre onto Calverley Street and through the
entrance to the car park of Leeds General Infirmary. The lady on the reception desk advised that Mrs Bettina Almond was in a ward in the Jubilee Wing. They made their way along several corridors, up in a lift and the ward they were looking for was facing the lift doors. The Sister in charge was at a desk in a small anteroom busy with several nurses, looking at patients’ charts. She looked up.

Angel showed his ID and explained that he needed to see Mrs Almond urgently on police business.

Sister said, ‘Well, it is not visiting time, but you can see her for five minutes only. She is in the bed nearest the door.’

‘Thank you, Sister,’ Angel said. ‘I don’t think it will take us that long.’

The two policemen made their way to the double swing-doors. Angel reached out for a door handle and pulled it. He stopped when he saw the back of a man in a brown overcoat leaning over the bed nearest to them. Angel allowed the door to close, then he pulled the handle so that there was a half-inch gap between the two doors and he peered through it. The man was in his forties, suntanned and had dark hair. Angel didn’t recognize him.

The man was leaning over somebody in a bed. Angel could hear him.

‘I’d better go,’ the man said. ‘I shouldn’t be here. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. See you tomorrow afternoon. You will be awake by then.’ He leaned down, Angel thought it was to kiss her, then the man turned towards the door.

Angel backed off quickly, pushing Scrivens into the door jamb. ‘Sorry, lad.’ Angel spat out the following rapidly: ‘He’s coming out. I’ll collar him. You interview the woman. All right?’

Scrivens’s mouth dropped open. ‘Er – yes. Right, sir.’

The swing door opened. Scrivens went into the ward as the man came out.

Angel stepped in front of the man in the brown overcoat. ‘Excuse me, sir. I am a police officer, I wonder if I might have a word with you.’

The man stopped, looked round, then attempted to brush past Angel and make a quick dash along the corridor.

Angel reached out and grabbed him securely by the wrist. ‘There’s no need to try to run off, sir.’

A look of fear showed in the man’s eyes and lips.

Angel also noticed that the man was about the same height as he was, so that he would readily fall into the category of tall, and he was certainly dark and handsome. The two witnesses who saw the murderer also described him as having a cherubic face. Angel wouldn’t have described him as having a cherubic face.

The man in the brown overcoat developed a smile. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I did that. Did you say you were a police officer?’

‘Yes, sir. Just a few questions, to help with our enquiries.’

‘What do you want?’ the man said.

He looked into Angel’s eyes, then down at the iron grip he had round his wrist, then back up to his eyes again. His jaw muscles tightened. ‘Do you mind?’ he said.

Angel slowly released his grip, watching the man very carefully.

‘Thank you,’ the man said.

Angel said, ‘Have you any means of identification, sir?’

‘Whatever for?’ the man said as he reached into his inside pocket and took out a wallet. ‘What do you want? Bank card, store card, driver’s licence …’

‘Driver’s licence would be fine.’

The man handed it to him.

Angel read out the name. ‘Charles Almond?’ He compared the photograph. It was a fair enough likeness. He handed the card back. ‘What is your father’s first name, Mr Almond?’

‘He had two. They were Vernon Alan, and my mother’s names are Bettina Aimee. Is there anything else? Is that all you wanted me for? I have matters to attend to.’

‘There are a few more questions I have to ask. We need
somewhere
quiet where we can talk.’

‘What’s this all about? I was just visiting my mother, she’s having a serious operation later today.’

‘Yes. Sorry to hear that, sir. But—’

Angel broke off. Over Charles Almond’s shoulder, he saw the lift arrive, the doors opened and an attractive young woman stepped out. She looked round. She seemed lost.

Angel’s eyes grew bigger. He knew he recognized her. It was Moira Elsworth.

Almond turned round to see what had caught Angel’s attention.

Moira had seen him, she smiled and was advancing towards him. He stepped towards her, holding out his arms and they embraced.

‘Oh Charles,’ she said breathily. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. The traffic was dreadful.’

‘Darling. Glad you made it,’ Almond said.

She put her arm under his and clenched his hand, then she turned and saw Angel. She blinked several times.

‘Oh. Excuse me, Inspector, what a coincidence meeting you here. Have you met Inspector Angel, Charles? He’s looking into the death of Granddad, you know. This is my boyfriend, Charles Morris.’

‘Charles Morris?’ Angel said. ‘He said his name was Charles Almond.’

M
ary brought the coffee into the sitting room and put the tray on the table between them.

‘Thank you, darling,’ Angel said, sitting down in his usual chair. ‘Lovely dinner,’ he added. ‘I like your cottage pie … I think I’ve eaten too much.’

She smiled and passed over the coffee cup.

‘Anyway, where was I?’

‘You were telling me that very curious story about that Italian double-bass player and the—’

‘No. I’d finished that, love, although it is still very much on my mind. Do you know, I might nip out for a breath of fresh air, and have a look at his old shop. It’s not far. It’s in Clement Attlee Square.’

‘You’ll finish your coffee?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, taking a sip.

They sat there in silence for a while, then he said, ‘Ah yes, I remember. I was saying that Charles Almond has a satisfactory alibi for the Sunday evening and night of 5 May, the times when Ernest Piddington and Nancy Quinn were murdered; besides that, Almond hasn’t a cherubic face, so he isn’t the murderer.’

‘What about him stealing the identity of Charles Morris? Why did he do that?’

‘He admits that he came to Bromersley as Charles Morris
originally 
so that he could get close to Ernest Piddington and the money, without arousing the old man’s or the Elsworth’s
suspicions
. Almond’s father, of course, before he died had told him all about the robbery in 1983, and that he was entitled to a third of the proceeds which were in the care of Ernest Piddington.’

‘Does Moira Elsworth know all this?’

‘Almond says he’s told her everything.’

‘And do you believe him?’

‘Well … I suppose I do. But it doesn’t matter whether I do or I don’t, really, he’s got a rock-solid alibi. And he told me that since the court got custody of the money, he has lost interest. He could see that there was no hope of his ever laying his hands on it. Admitting that demonstrates that he is speaking the truth, doesn’t it?’

She didn’t answer the question; instead she said, ‘He’s still
interested
in Moira.’

‘Very much. Yes, but
she’s
doing most of the chasing. They’re a good-looking couple. Lust at first sight and all that … sort of thing.’

Mary smiled, then she said, ‘If he thought so much about Moira, why did he leave Tunistone so abruptly?’

‘His mother was seriously ill and needed an operation urgently. The news also coincided with the court order to take possession of the stolen money. So his plan was utterly thwarted.’

‘But love wins through and he must have contacted Moira after a few days.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Will he be prosecuted for taking the ID of the real Charles Morris, the man who had died in Hull?’

‘I’ll have to put it in my report, but I’m not much interested in taking that any further. There’s enough to do. However, the super might insist on it.’

Mary sipped the coffee, then said, ‘You didn’t actually see Mrs Almond?’

‘I didn’t, no. Ted Scrivens interviewed her. She had nothing to say in the way of usable evidence so I didn’t see the need, coupled with the fact that she was not very well. Ted said that she had quite a lot to say about Ernest Piddington. She was indignant that her husband had served eight years in prison and Piddington had got away scot-free. Even so, she trusted him enough for him to hold on to her husband’s share until they agreed to divide it. She said that Vernon had told her that the three men had made an agreement that they would not touch the money for at least five years. They looked on it as their pensions. It was actually a lot longer than five years, and now that Mrs Almond could do with a handout, the court has taken possession of it. You can understand her not being pleased with the old man.’

She nodded, then said, ‘Having eliminated him, what do you know about the murderer or murderers now?’

Angel breathed out heavily. ‘Now that it has been determined that the fingerprints on the back of the wheelchair do not belong to Moira Elsworth, I believe that both murders were committed by this Edward Oliver.’

Mary nodded. ‘Are you any nearer finding out who exactly this Edward Oliver is?’

‘No. He knows me, so I must know him. He has an educated but menacing voice. He is the conventional tall, dark and
handsome
character … and has a cherubic face. The dreadful state of Nancy Quinn’s body indicated that he was brutal, cruel and highly sexed. He is probably psychotic. The awful thing is that I must have spoken to him frequently.’

‘Well, who is it, then?’

‘The damned annoying thing is that I can’t place him. I have racked my brain but I can’t …’

‘He doesn’t sound like a man
I’d
like to come up against,’ Mary said.

‘I hope you never do, darling. I hope you never do,’ he said. He reached out for his coffee and finished it off.

‘You must be very careful. He sounds like a very bad lot.’

‘I’m always careful.’

‘More coffee, sweetheart?’ Mary said.

‘Please,’ he said, passing his cup.

Mary filled the cup, then refilled her own.

‘Now, haven’t we had enough of this dreary shop talk?’ he said. ‘Is there anything on the telly?’

‘I’ll have a look,’ she said. She began sorting through the small jumble of magazines and newspapers on the shelf of the library table, looking for the
Radio Times
. She suddenly spotted a
magazine
with the page open and turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, darling, can you help me with this? You might know the answer.’ She glanced at the open page and found the place she wanted. She read, ‘“In what ocean is Easter Island?”’

Angel screwed up his face. ‘Is this one of your tatty quiz jobs?’

‘They’re not tatty … if you don’t
know
, say so.’

‘It’s in the South Pacific somewhere.’

‘If you don’t know, don’t guess.’

‘I’m not guessing … don’t know exactly where it is. I know it was named Easter Island because it was discovered on Easter Day. And it’s in the South Pacific.’

‘I’m putting that in. I hope it’s right.’

‘It is right. Is there any post?’

‘Oh yes. I forgot. There’s a circular on the sideboard at the end, where I always put it.’

Angel growled and got to his feet. ‘Oh yes. It’s
always
there, except when it
isn’t
. Sometimes you shove it in my hand, or put in front of me at the table, or it’s in your handbag, or it’s a bookmark
in a book, or under the cushion, or on the worktop in the kitchen, or wherever your latest fancy takes you.’

The longer he went on, the redder her face became. ‘Yes, darling,’ she said, turning a page of the
Radio Times
and banging and slapping it as noisily as possible.

He glanced at her, frowned, then shook his head. He reached the sideboard and picked up the envelope. He tore it open, took out the letter and read it. His face changed. His mouth set in a grim line. ‘Would you believe it? It’s from the gas people. They are saying that because our boiler is over ten years old, it ought to be changed because if anything went wrong with it they may not be able to get the parts. Also they say that changing to a new boiler could save us up to 43 per cent off our consumption rate. Huh! What do you think to
that
?’

‘Well, they might be right,’ Mary said quietly.

Angel glared at her, then he screwed up the letter and threw it angrily at the hearth.

She stared at him.

‘Yes and I think I saw a herd of pigs fly past the window,’ he said.

Mary looked up, concerned. ‘Where? What?’ she said urgently.

Angel smiled down at her.

She looked up at him. With a grin, she said, ‘Oh, you fool!’

It was a warm, dry, spring evening, just right for a gentle walk to shake a double helping of cottage pie and cabbage down, so Angel decided to walk the mile or so into town to Clement Attlee Square to check out the Italian double-bassist’s shop. He passed a few people on the way. He arrived just as the light was failing. There was a car parked outside the Northern Bank, which was on one side of Vittorio Ramazzotti’s empty shop, and a white van parked outside Gregg’s newsagents, which was on the other side. Angel
realized that the white van must be the one that Gregg had been complaining about. He walked round it. He peered into the cab but there was nothing to see that was out of the ordinary. The road-tax licence was in order. The tyres appeared to have adequate tread. He read off the licence plate and consigned the number to his memory. Then he went up to Vittorio Ramazzotti’s shop, which had
closed-down
signs pasted all over the windows. The shop doorknob was smooth so he reckoned Ramazzotti used that door as his usual means of access. He stepped back and looked up at the first-floor windows and saw a light being switched on followed by the little man actually closing the curtains. Angel thought he must live there.

He looked round the square and found nothing else of interest so he turned and made for home. His mind became busy, very busy with something he had seen. If he passed any people on the way home, he didn’t notice them.

It was dark when he arrived home, and Mary had already gone to bed.

He wrote the number of the white van onto the edge of the
Radio Times
, tore it off and shoved it into his pocket. He locked the door, turned off the light and went upstairs.

It was 6.30 a.m. It was pitch black. Angel’s eyes clicked open. He was wide awake. He wondered what had wakened him. He listened. All he could hear was the gentle, even breathing of Mary asleep next to him.

Then his mind, in the darkness, filled with scenes of the mad Italian feverishly playing a double bass, the mysterious white van being driven away by an invisible man, and the angry newsagent Gregg jumping up and down on the pavement in front of his shop waving an
Exchange & Mart
in the air.

He peeled the duvet back gently so as not to disturb Mary, fished around on the carpet for his slippers and quietly slipped out
of bed. He reached out for his dressing gown, then made his way out of the room and closed the door. He had a quick shower, a shave, then he dressed. He made himself a pot of tea and some toast which he dawdled over. He left a note under a magnet on the fridge door. It said: ‘Gone to the office. Everything OK. Love you. M.’

Then he left the house and got the BMW out of the garage and drove straight to Clement Attlee Square. The sun was coming up. The town was quiet with very little traffic. He passed a big Asda van only. There were no pedestrians about. The square was deserted. The two vehicles that had been parked there earlier had gone. He stopped the BMW in the middle of the square and got out. He walked towards the place where the white van had been parked. He selected a spot in the middle of the parking space and squatted down in the road. As he looked around, he saw a
pencil-thin
line of soil about the length of a book, next to a metal plate about three feet by three feet set in the road which had the words ‘Gas Inspection Chamber’ moulded on its surface. He reached out and pressed one finger down on the soil, then drew his finger downwards making a smear mark on the ground. He rubbed his thumb against his finger to try to clean off the earth.

His eyebrows lowered, and his heart began to thump away. He straightened up from the crouching position and returned to the BMW. He sat in the car rubbing his chin. After a few minutes, he dived into his pocket for his mobile and tapped in a number. It was to the Firearms Special Unit in Wakefield. He wanted to speak to Detective Inspector Waldo White. They were old friends.

‘Sorry to ring so early, Waldo,’ Angel said into the phone.

‘It’s not early for us, Michael,’ he replied. ‘We are on duty 24/7. What’s up?’

‘I have a situation developing here, Waldo, and later today, I may need some of your specialist brand of muscle.’

‘I can be there in about twenty-five minutes.’

‘Great stuff,’ Angel said and he ended the call, closed the phone and put it in his pocket. Then he started the engine and drove the BMW to the police station.

As he parked the car in his usual marked-out parking spot, near the rear entrance, he looked at his watch. It was 8.27 a.m.

As he came down the corridor, he looked into the CID room and found Ahmed taking off his coat.

‘Ahmed,’ he said.

He turned round. ‘Good morning, sir. Did you want
something
?’

‘Yes, lad. I want you to find Sergeants Carter, Crisp, and Taylor, and DC Scrivens and tell them I want to see them in the briefing room ASAP on a matter of extreme urgency. All right?’

‘Oh yes, sir,’ Ahmed said and he reached out for the phone with a free hand.

‘Keep on it, lad, until all four have been contacted, and I want you to come in as well. Oh yes,’ he added as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper on which he had scrawled the white van’s number. ‘Will you find out who owns this vehicle? It’s a large white Ford van.’

‘Right, sir.’

Angel then turned away and made for his office.

About twenty minutes later, assembled in the briefing room at Bromersley station, were Angel, Flora Carter, Crisp, Taylor, Scrivens, Ahmed Ahaz and DI Waldo White. Ahmed was last in. He looked round to see that everybody was present, then he closed the door.

‘Everybody’s here, sir.’ Ahmed said.

‘Right, lad,’ Angel said. Then he looked around at the expectant faces. ‘Sit down, everybody, please. Anywhere. Quick as you can.’

The seven were seated in an informal semi-circle so that
everybody
could see everybody else.

Angel began.

‘Thank you all for responding so promptly. I give special thanks and a warm welcome to DI White of the FSU for coming over from Wakefield.

‘Today Lord Tulliver will be opening the International Jewellery Fair in Leeds at ten o’clock. Accompanying him will be Lady Tulliver wearing the Mermaid Diamond. I don’t need to spend any time talking about its worth, the papers have been full of it, nor to suggest what an attraction it will be to every thief in the world. I understand that there will be a highly respected firm looking after the general security of the fair and that there will be a number of West Yorkshire plain-clothes police there. Some insurance
companies
will, no doubt, also have their men watching over their more significant clients. I also understand that the hall, the public rooms and corridors will be monitored by CCTV. So I wouldn’t expect a large-scale robbery to be attempted in the building.