Holiday had thoroughly enjoyed his afternoon and was reluctant to leave, but he wanted to arrive home in Castleford before it became dark. It was twenty minutes to five when the Angels stood at the front door and saw Sam Holiday drive away.
Angel was not disappointed that it was too late in the day to pursue the business of hiring oxyacetylene equipment, because, as he pointed out to Mary, he had to change all the clocks in the house, including the central-heating clock. Tomorrow was the end of British Summer Time. Mary was not pleased, particularly as while he was upstairs putting the clocks back an hour, she phoned both local hire shops and discovered that they were both on the point of closing, that they would both be closed the following day, Sunday, and would not reopen until Monday morning at 9 a.m.
* * *
It was 8.28 on Monday, 1 November. It was raining, cloudy and cold.
Angel arrived at his office carrying a white plastic bag. Inside was the pot lion, Pascha. He placed it gently on the desk. He threw off his coat, sat down and fingered through the pile of letters and reports in front of him.
There was knock at the door. It was Ahmed.
‘Come in.’
‘Good morning, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘You wanted me to check with the Community Charge Office in the Town Hall and the IRC to see if Miss Sharpe owned any properties or paid rent for any.’
Angel looked up, wide-eyed. He certainly did. That information was just what he needed, the place where she kept the big cat. ‘Yes, lad?’ he said. ‘And what have you got?’
‘Both inquiries came back negative, sir.’
Angel’s face dropped.
Ahmed continued: ‘The Community Charge Office said that they were certain that she didn’t pay the corporation for any other property in the borough, and the revenue office could only say that there were no standing orders or regular payments being paid out of her bank accounts that could be regarded as rent.’
‘Oh,’ Angel said. He wrinkled his nose. There was another line of inquiry down the pan.
There was a knock at the door. It was Scrivens.
‘What is it?’
Scrivens looked at Ahmed and then back at Angel. ‘Can I have a word, sir?’
‘I’m waiting for a report from you, aren’t I, lad?’ Angel said. ‘About Hobbs’s old girlfriend, Miranda somebody or other.’
‘It’s Imelda, sir, Imelda Cartwright. That’s just what I want to see you about, sir. I could have done it more quickly, but you’ve had me on other jobs, you know.’
‘All right, lad. All right,’ Angel said. ‘Don’t get excited.’
He turned to Ahmed, picked up the plastic bag on his desk by its handles, passed it to him and said, ‘Take that to Don Taylor and ask him to check it for fingerprints. It’s a pot ornament so don’t drop it.’
Ahmed’s eyebrows went up.
Angel said, ‘Tell him I’m looking for the dead girl’s dabs. If they are not on it, ask him to phone me without delay.’
‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said, then he went out and closed the door.
Angel turned back to Scrivens. ‘Now tell me. Has this Imelda Cartwright got an alibi for Sunday night?’
‘She was on the Zeebrugge to Hull ferry, sir,’ he said, ‘coming back from a holiday, touring with three other friends. She has the ticket, the tan, the car stickers and the friends to prove it.’
Angel groaned. ‘And I suppose the three friends were enthusiastic in corroborating the alibi?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Thought they would be. That brings us back to exactly where we were — nowhere!’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Scrivens felt impelled to say.
Angel smiled weakly. ‘It’s all right, lad, it’s not your fault. Sounds as if you’ve done a perfectly splendid job.’
He stood up and said, ‘Tell Ahmed, if anything urgent crops up I’m going down to that hospital on Rustle Spring Lane.’
* * *
It was ten minutes past nine when Angel arrived at St Magdalene’s Hospital. He went straight up to the reception desk and the beautiful Candy Costello, who looked more fragrant than ever. She fluttered her eyelashes, raised her eyebrows, smiled, looked at Angel as if she had known him all her life and said, ‘Can I help you?’
He asked for Sister Clare. The receptionist put out a call for her, then right on cue, as before, out of his office came Dr Rubenstein. The doctor made straight for Angel, smiled and rushed across the lobby, hand outstretched to greet him.
‘I am so glad to see you again, Inspector,’ said, while shaking his hand. ‘As a matter of fact, you’re just the man I want to see.’
Angel smiled courteously, but he wasn’t particularly pleased to see him. He hadn’t time for any social chit chat. The double murder inquiry was his priority, and there was a lot to do that morning.
When he had retrieved his hand, he said, ‘Pleased to see you, Doctor. But I have specifically called in to see about another breaking and entering case . . . iodine stolen this time, I understand.’
Rubenstein waved his hand in a casual way and said, ‘Yes. Yes. That’s not important. Please come into my office, Inspector. There’s something cropped up that I need your advice about. Can you spare me five minutes?’
‘Of course,’ Angel said. What else could he say? He couldn’t have said anything else. ‘But I must see the sister before I leave,’ he said.
‘Of course. Of course. Come in.’
Angel followed him into the plush office.
Rubenstein closed the door and when they were both seated, Angel said, ‘Now then, Doctor, how can I help you?’
The doctor seemed to have difficulty assembling his thoughts. He frowned and had his hands as if in prayer, the tips of the opposite fingers touching lightly, with fingers splayed. He separated his hands and brought them back together, several times. The corners of his mouth were turned downwards. He looked about as happy as a man with toothache waiting to be interviewed by Her Majesty’s Inspector of Taxes.
Eventually Rubenstein said, ‘Can I speak to you unofficially and in confidence?’
Angel looked back at him and slowly rubbed his chin. Sounded as if the doctor was about to make a confession. If so, Angel wanted to hear it, but didn’t want to walk into making a promise he couldn’t keep.
‘You can,’ he said, ‘except, of course, Doctor, if a crime has been committed and you told me about it, I may very well be obliged to follow it up.’
Rubenstein frowned again. He pursed his lips.
‘It’s my job,’ Angel continued. ‘And anyway, I can’t help myself, Doctor. It’s what I do. Tell me, is it you? Have you broken the law?’
‘No. No,’ Rubenstein said quickly. ‘It’s to do with a patient, a very unhappy person, who I think I can only completely heal by telling you about the crime and allowing the law to take its course. However, I am forbidden to do that.’
‘Has he broken the law?’
‘No, but —’ He broke off. ‘You understand, I have to abide by the special confidential relationship that exists between doctor and patient,’ Rubenstein said.
‘Of course. Of course,’ Angel said.
He mustn’t frighten Rubenstein off. Information was the lifeblood of all criminal investigations, but there were standards to maintain in the police force as well as in the medical profession.
‘Supposing you approach the subject from a hypothetical point of view, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Would that work for you?’
Rubenstein pursed his lips. After a few moments, he began, choosing his words carefully. ‘Well, supposing while hypnotized, a patient had told me that a murder had been committed and it was clear to me, in my professional capacity that it had significantly adversely affected that person’s psychological and physical health and — it would be no exaggeration to say — quite severely ruined their life . . .’
‘Yes?’ Angel said.
‘In such hypothetical circumstances, what could I do about it? I need to heal my patient.’
&nb
sp; ‘I take it that he is unwilling or unable to tell the police about it?’
‘That’s correct. Both in fact.’
‘Is that because he is to blame or partly to blame for the murder?’
‘No. Not at all. Love and fear combined constitute the basis for the reluctance.’
Angel rubbed his chin. He reckoned it must be someone very close.
‘In your opinion,’ he said, ‘is the patient ever going to be able to speak to the police about the crime?’
‘No.’
‘In your opinion, will your patient only recover when the guilty party is revealed, tried and punished?’
Rubenstein’s face brightened. He was pleased that Angel seemed to understand the situation perfectly. ‘I am of that opinion.’
‘And yet the patient will not give a name or provide any information to help secure a conviction?’
‘That’s how it is, Inspector. That’s exactly how it is.’
‘Well,’ Angel said after some thought, ‘the problem seems insurmountable.’
The doctor sighed.
‘Are the police already aware of the murder?’ Angel said.
That seemed a difficult question for the doctor. He pondered a few moments before he answered. ‘I won’t answer that question, Inspector, if you don’t mind.’
Angel smiled to himself. Rubenstein was no fool. If the force had already known of the unsolved murder, Angel could have produced a list of them and by process of elimination, perhaps, have been able to identify the case, and who knows what else. He wondered if it was a murder committed some time ago that was soon to be discovered. He was certainly intrigued, and he also had sympathy for the patient. He wished he could help the situation, if it was genuine.
He realized that what was required was that he should solve a murder that he wasn’t allowed to know had happened.
A distant bell rang. He wondered what it was. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock.
This speculation was getting him nowhere. He stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor. I don’t think I can help you with this one. If you can tell me anymore . . . ?’
Rubenstein got to his feet. ‘Regrettably I can’t, Inspector.’
Angel nodded. ‘Well, if the circumstances change, you know where I am. Now I must see Sister Mary Clare.’
‘I will take you down there, Inspector. It won’t take us long.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
The two men came out of the office and walked down the long corridor towards the pharmacy.
‘I remember having iodine daubed on my knee when I grazed it as a boy,’ Angel said, ‘but does it have any other uses, Doctor?’
‘Iodine is mainly used as a germicide and an antiseptic.’
‘Really? All to do with treating wounds and keeping us clinically germ free.’
‘Yes. And as a dye used in certain radiology applications.’
Angel frowned. It sounded very boring. He couldn’t see why anybody would want to steal a large bottle of iodine.
They arrived at the pharmacy door. Rubenstein produced a big bunch of keys, unlocked it, opened it and switched on the light.
It was all tidy and clean. The window was boarded up.
‘The bottle was kept up there,’ Rubenstein said, pointing to a space between other bottles on a shelf shoulder-high. ‘There is another bottle on order but it doesn’t seem to have been delivered yet.’
Angel turned to look at the boarded-up window. ‘And I suppose access was made through that same window again?’
‘It was smashed, Inspector, the catch was unfastened and there was broken glass everywhere, just as last time. We were having it boarded up permanently, but the carpenter hadn’t got round to it.’
Angel looked down at the floor. ‘I don’t see any glass around, Doctor.’
‘Oh no. It’s all been cleaned up. The staff couldn’t have worked treading on broken glass. It was sharp and gooey and sticking to their shoes.’
Angel shook his head and pulled a face. He was wasting time. He couldn’t solve crimes where the evidence had been swept away.
‘I can’t do anything here, Dr Rubenstein,’ he said. ‘If there had been any evidence, it has all been cleared away or contaminated by your staff. Please tell Sister Mary Clare that I called to see her. I’ll find my way out. Good morning.’
16
Angel returned to his office, threw off his coat, reached out for the phone and tapped in a number. It was promptly answered by Trevor Crisp, who didn’t seem very happy.
‘Hello, yes,’ he said.
‘Anything happening, Sergeant?’
‘Nope. She’s been out to feed the cats in the barn,’ he said, ‘otherwise it’s quieter than a mortuary.’
Angel took in a lungful of police station air and blew it out rapidly. ‘What’s the matter with you, lad?’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten who you are speaking to?’
‘No, sir. Sorry, sir,’ he said quickly.
‘What’s the attitude for?’
‘Well, erm . . . I’m sat here in the car, sir . . . it’s like watching paint dry.’
‘Would you like a job with a pretty young lady, aged about twenty-six, with strawberry-blonde hair and legs so long that it’s snowing at the top?’
Crisp hesitated then frowned. He had to be careful with Angel. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ he said.
‘Well, make your mind up, lad. I’m not hawking this job round the station. There are plenty of coppers who would snap it up. The other day you told me you didn’t have a regular lady friend. Is that still the situation?’
He hesitated. ‘Well, er, yes, sir. Are you serious?’
‘Well, you can stay there for the rest of the week, if you prefer to.’
‘Oh no, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘What’s it all about? What do I have to do? And who’s going to relieve me? Ted Scrivens is on the rota.’
‘I’m cancelling the obbo. I can’t spare any more time watching Sharpe. I simply haven’t enough men. If she had been going to visit the animal I reckon she would have done it by now.’
‘Maybe it’s dead, sir.’
‘I don’t know. Anyway, make your way to my office smartish. We are wasting time.’ Angel replaced the phone.
He managed to find ten minutes of uninterrupted time to begin to clear the two weeks of accumulated paperwork on his desk, when the phone rang. He put down his pen and reached out for it. It was Selwyn Plumm from the Bromersley Chronicle.
‘I thought you would like to know, Michael,’ he said. ‘We only had three replies from my piece about the wild cat.’
Angel frowned. He had to direct his thoughts back to the news appeal Plumm had made on the front page of the Bromersley Chronicle.
‘Oh good,’ Angel said. ‘Any photographs?’
‘No. The trouble is that each reader described the cat they saw differently. You would think there were three cats. But all three readers said that the cat they saw was the biggest cat they had ever seen!’
‘Where do they say they saw them? Any two in the same place?’
‘No. Afraid not.’
‘Does any of them say they saw a cat anywhere near the field at the back of Ashfield Lodge Farm?’
‘Let me see . . . one in a garden in Tunistone . . . one coming out of an outhouse in Carlton . . . and one at the rear of St Magdalene’s on Rustle Spring Lane. Huh, a woman has written in to say that her mother saw it from her hospital bed in the middle of the night. No, Michael, I’m afraid not. Is that where the victims were found?’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘I wonder if any of them saw anything resembling a cat.’
‘Sorry, Michael.’
Angel was becoming used to lines of inquiry leading nowhere.
‘See that they are courteously acknowledged, Selwyn. And perhaps this week you would thank your readers for being such good public citizens. Tell them the police appreciate it.’
‘Of course I will, Michael,’ Plumm said. ‘Now then, have the two victims been identifi
ed yet?’
‘Yes,’ Angel said and proceeded to give him their names and ages. Plumm then followed that with a stream of other questions about the two killings. Angel only answered matters that could be confirmed (which was very little) and declined to say anything about his suspicions. Plumm said that he hoped that the wild cat, whatever it looked like, would soon be caught and returned to wherever it belonged. Angel thanked him and replaced the phone.
Angel’s thoughts drifted back to Dr Rubenstein’s patient and the predicament the doctor was in, when there was a knock at the door. It was Don Taylor.
‘Wendy Green’s house, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘We’ve been through it thoroughly and there are no recent signs of the presence of a man anywhere. I checked the bedroom, the bed and the bathroom and there were absolutely no fresh signs of anybody other than Wendy Green and her son Jamie. If she was playing around, she wasn’t playing at home.’
Angel looked as miserable as Friday’s fish on a Monday morning.
‘Anything else?
‘Yes, sir. I can confirm that the ethanol and saltpetre found at Ephemore Sharpe’s place were not taken from St Magdalene’s Hospital on the 24th/25th October. That copy invoice her solicitor produced dated 2009 must have been the genuine article.’
Angel looked as if he was ready to jump off Beachy Head. ‘Anything else to cheer me up, lad?’
Taylor nodded. ‘That pot lion, Pascha, sir. You’ll be pleased to know that the only prints on it are Ephemore Sharpe’s. Almost a complete set.’
Angel was pleased about that.
‘That’s good, lad. That’s very good.’
Taylor said, ‘But if Wendy Green didn’t steal the pot lion from her what was the point of it all?’
‘To make a liar out of Wendy Green,’ Angel said.
Taylor looked puzzled.
‘Look, Don,’ Angel said, ‘Sharpe told me how useless Wendy Green was. She also said she was a thief and that she stole a pot lion from her. She would have seen me write it all down. Afterwards she must have thought that we might check on it. Therefore it wouldn’t do for the pot lion to be found in her house, would it? So she got hold of the ornament intending to dispose of it somehow, then thought what better place was there than to plant it in Wendy Green’s house? After all, the woman’s dead. She can’t deny it. However, what Sharpe didn’t know was that we were watching her and actually caught her at it.’
THE CHESHIRE CAT MURDERS an enthralling crime mystery full of twists (Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 18) Page 17
