THE CHESHIRE CAT MURDERS an enthralling crime mystery full of twists (Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 18)

by Roger Silverwood

  He took off his coat and took it into the hall. Then he noticed the door to the area under the stairs was ajar and that the safe had gone. Then he remembered, Mary had phoned him . . . something about a car breaker at Barnsley Common who could open it with an acetylene torch. ‘The safe’s gone then?’ he said.

  Mary’s eyes twinkled and she had a smile from ear to ear. ‘Isn’t it exciting?’ she said. ‘I phoned them up and spoke to a really nice man, Mr Jordan, and told him of our predicament.’

  ‘We haven’t got a predicament.’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’

  ‘Is he the owner of the business?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose so. Let me tell you.’

  ‘Can he open it and what will it cost?’

  ‘Mr Jordan said that he would send his team round straightaway and collect it, and they were here in twenty minutes. His team was his three sons. They’re lovely —’

  ‘What will it cost?’

  ‘Well, he . . . he didn’t know.’

  Angel’s jaw muscles tightened. ‘He didn’t know?’ he said. ‘I said get a quote.’

  ‘Yes, er . . . He said that he usually had twenty-five per cent of the value of the contents.’

  Angel’s face went red. ‘Those are crook’s rates!’ he said. ‘That’s the language of villains. You’ve got us mixed up with a gang of crooks!’

  ‘I said no,’ Mary said. ‘I said ten per cent and he agreed.’

  ‘Ten per cent?’

  Her face hardened. So did her voice. ‘Look, Michael,’ she said, ‘I thought that if I didn’t do something, we’d never get that safe out from under the stairs and opened up. You’re too busy with your work. Now I know you’ve got a difficult case on . . .’

  His face was like thunder. ‘We don’t know what’s in there, Mary. Could be worth thousands.’

  ‘He says he’ll start cutting tomorrow morning. It could take all day, or a day and a half, and I can go up there and stay with him until he’s actually inside it, if I want to. You could get off work for an hour and join me, couldn’t you? It’s very important that you should be there, Michael. And if there is a really big diamond, I want it made into a nice ring for me.’

  ‘If there’s a really big diamond in there, we’ll have to sell it to pay for transporting that safe up and down the country. What is he charging us for taking it to his place?’

  ‘Nothing. That comes out of his ten per cent,’ Mary said nonchalantly. Then she turned away and headed for the kitchen.

  Angel shook his head in incredulity. Then he sighed. He’d had enough. There’s only so much he could take in a day.

  Mary opened the oven door. ‘Tea’s about ready,’ she called.

  Angel shrugged and went into the sitting room to look for the Radio Times.

  * * *

  After Angel had finished his coffee, he went out into the hall and came back into the sitting room in his overcoat and hat.

  ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ he said.

  Mary looked up at him in amazement. ‘Where to?’ she said.

  ‘Nowhere. Just a walk. Blow some cobwebs off.’

  ‘Where are you going to?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular. I just want to think something out.’

  ‘Is it the safe? You are not worrying about the safe, are you?’

  ‘No. No, it’s not that. Anyway you seem to have taken that out of my hands. I’m leaving it up to you.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  He hesitated, touched his chin and then said, ‘I know how those two murders were committed. But I have to work something out. I can do it best where it’s quiet and I’m on own.’

  Her face brightened. She knew what it meant to him.

  ‘Oh, that’s fabulous, darling. But you don’t have to go out, Michael. You can go in the bedroom or . . . or the kitchen or . . .’

  ‘No. No. The phone might go. Or you’ll suddenly want to ask me an urgent question.’

  She looked up at him and frowned. ‘What sort of an urgent question would I want to ask you?’ she said.

  ‘Well, I don’t know . . . whether I want peas or beans with the chops tomorrow, or something like that.’

  She lifted her head and stuck out her chest. ‘That’s not an urgent question,’ she said.

  ‘Well, you might have thought it was, love,’ he said. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about it. I’m off. You’ll be all right, won’t you? Don’t wait up.’

  Her mouth dropped open. ‘Don’t wait up?’ she said. ‘Why? How long are you going to be?’

  The back door slammed.

  * * *

  It was 8.28 a.m. on Tuesday, 2 November, when Angel arrived at his office. He wasn’t likely to forget that day: it was the day he arrested one of the cleverest murderers that he had had the misfortune to meet.

  He threw off his coat, picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘Nip down to Don Taylor’s office, lad. He’s got a pot lion figure that belongs to Ephemore Sharpe. Ask him to give it to you and bring it up to my office. And don’t drop it,’ he said, and replaced the phone.

  He stood up and went over to the window. He twisted the plastic control knob to angle the blinds to 90 degrees and then pushed up one of the slats and looked through. All he could see was a section of the grey stone wall of the building next door, which he knew was the offices of the local branch of the Weavers, Menders and Shoddy Workers Trades Union, the WMSWTU. He wrinkled his nose, withdrew his hand and turned away. It wasn’t much of an outlook: it wasn’t much of an office. He sat down in the swivel chair and tried to relax.

  Ahmed arrived. He was carrying a plastic shopping bag.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ he said, carefully placing the bag on the desk. ‘One pot lion. And I didn’t drop it once.’

  ‘Thank you. Now at four o’clock this afternoon, I am going out to Ashfield Lodge Farm, with DC Scrivens and some uniformed. Later on, we’ll be bringing in Miss Ephemore Sharpe.’

  Ahmed’s eyes glowed like headlamps. ‘You’ve solved the wild cat murders, sir? You’ve got the evidence? That’s terrific news, sir.’

  ‘Have you still got that blue and white teapot, and four-cup set that was nicked by the chief constable’s secretary?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. It’s on a tray in the CID cupboard.’

  ‘Well get it out, lad. I’ll be asking you to make us some tea in it when we get back.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘I’ll get it out now.’

  He made for the door.

  ‘Just a minute, lad. I’ve got another little job for you.’

  Ahmed turned back. ‘Yes, sir?’

  Angel pulled out a small wad of notes, peeled off a dirty orange tenner and held it out for him. ‘You know that little fishing shop on William’s Walk,’ he said.

  Ahmed’s mouth dropped open. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, taking the note.

  ‘Go there and get me a small, lightweight, collapsible fishing stool. They’re only about eight pounds.’

  Ahmed frowned. ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘It’s for fishing.’

  The phone rang.

  ‘Get off and fetch it now,’ Angel said as he reached out to the handset. ‘I won’t need you until later on.’

  Ahmed went out.

  It was Flora Carter on her mobile.

  ‘I’m still on Huddersfield Road at the taxidermist’s place, sir,’ she said. ‘Don Taylor can confirm that the saltpetre, the ethanol and the iodine are all from St Magdalene’s Hospital.’

  ‘Good,’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, sir. But I have still not been able to find out whose place this is.’

  Angel had already worked out who the amateur taxidermist must be, but it was necessary to have documented evidence for the court.

  ‘None of the other shopkeepers on the block has ever seen anybody arrive or leave,’ she said. ‘The Council Tax office thought the premises were unoccupied. Up to now, I
seem to have drawn a blank.’

  ‘Well, keep at it, Flora.’

  ‘SOCO’s fingerprint man is here lifting prints from those glass bottles, glass tanks and so on. There is plenty to go at. We might get a useful print that we can identify.’

  ‘When you get the ID, seal that place up and come back here.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He cancelled the call and replaced the phone. He rubbed his chin, then reached out for the phone again. He tapped in his home number.

  ‘I am glad you rang, darling,’ Mary said. ‘I was about to ring you. I’ve just had a phone call from Mr Jordan.’

  Angel winced like a bald judge with a scratchy wig on a hot day. Very slowly he said, ‘And who is Mr Jordan?’

  At the same tempo Mary said, ‘The man who is going to open the safe. I told you all about him yesterday.’

  ‘Oh yes. What about him?’

  ‘He’s run out of oxygen or something, so he won’t be able to start cutting until he gets a delivery tomorrow. So there’s no need to leave work early.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, that’s what I’m ringing you about. I won’t be in for tea, anyway. I’ll be late home. Much later. Could be eleven o’clock or so.’

  Mary wasn’t pleased. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Just extra work with all this case.’

  ‘Whatever is it that you can’t leave until tomorrow?’

  ‘Just things. Work. All to do with this case.’

  ‘I’ll just have to put a casserole on. I was going to leave that until Thursday . . . if I can thaw the steak out all right . . .’

  ‘Whatever you like, love. Goodbye.’

  He replaced the phone.

  He sighed, then pulled the pile of post, papers, reports and the two most recent issues of Police Reviews towards him.

  * * *

  The sky began to get dark. Angel switched on the desk lamp. He was still at his desk.

  The church clock began to chime.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was DC Ted Scrivens. ‘It’s four o’clock, sir. The patrol car escort is ready waiting at the front. Are we going in your car?’

  ‘Yes, lad,’ he said and reached out for his coat.

  * * *

  It was 5.20 p.m. exactly when a sullen Ephemore Sharpe, in a grey tartan shawl and a long black skirt, escorted by Angel and DC Scrivens, one each side, followed by Patrolmen Donohue and Elders, trundled down the corridor of Bromersley station into interview room no 1.

  Ahmed, and about twenty other police personnel peered from office doorways in shocked horror as the glowering woman passed them.

  As the interview room door closed, Ahmed rushed off to make the tea.

  After a couple of minutes, Angel came back out, went two doors down the corridor to his own office, sat down at his desk, picked up the phone and, referring to a handwritten number on a piece of card, carefully tapped out a mobile number on the keypad.

  It was soon answered. ‘Hello. Philip Pryce, who is that?’

  ‘Ah yes, good evening, Mr Pryce. This is Michael Angel, I’m an inspector with Bromersley Police. We have met. You might remember me. I am sorry to bother you, but I am phoning on behalf of Miss Ephemore Sharpe.’

  ‘Of course I remember you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Good evening to you, sir. And what’s the matter with Miss Sharpe? Why can’t she phone herself?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘She says she wants you to feed the cats. She says you know what they have and where the food is and so on.’

  Pryce hesitated. ‘Does she mean just today, or what?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, she means for the time being, until she can make more permanent arrangements.’

  ‘Well yes, I suppose so, but why couldn’t she have asked me herself? Have you arrested her or something?’

  Angel never normally spoke about internal police matters particularly before they had actually been carried out. ‘Miss Sharpe is here with me at Bromersley Police Station now,’ he said. ‘She has been arrested and will be formally charged later.’

  ‘Oh dear. Goodness me. What on earth has she done?’

  Angel had to think quickly. ‘It’s to do with some people being attacked and killed by an animal,’ he said.

  He thought that he had given him sufficient information. Then he added quickly, ‘She said to tell you that she’ll see that you are paid, of course. Can I tell her that you will see to it for her?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector,’ Pryce said.

  ‘Right. Thank you. Goodbye.’

  He replaced the phone. He trapped his bottom lip lightly between his teeth and made small chewing movements as he thought about what still had to be done that day. Firstly, he must return to the interview room to settle all the arrangements for the immediate care and security of Ephemore Sharpe, then prepare himself for the other matter that urgently needed his attention.

  He stood up.

  19

  The sky was as black as fingerprint ink.

  It was eight o’clock that Tuesday night when Angel left his office and ventured out into the cold air. He jumped into the BMW and drove it through the town, then halfway down Beechfield Road, where he stopped and parked. He picked up a torch from the dash and opened the car boot, took out a flat plastic shopping bag, closed the boot and walked quietly through a ginnel to the street parallel to it, which was Ashfield Road, where he turned left.

  He was approaching Ephemore Sharpe’s farm.

  A courting couple, with their arms round each other’s waists, twisted, turned and giggled as they advanced taking a zigzag course towards him and then passed him by. A man walking a small white dog at the other side of the street suddenly took a turn to his left and disappeared down a pitch-black ginnel.

  The street was deserted when Angel reached the farm gate. He opened it silently and went into the cobbled yard. Several cats running across the yard in different directions stopped dead, looked at him briefly, then ran off even faster.

  He made for the garden which was at the rear of the house and opened the wicket gate in the wall. The hinges squealed louder than a cat on heat, which made Angel’s heart leap. He froze, looked round, waited a few seconds to be certain he had not disturbed anybody then continued through it. It made the same noise in reverse on closing but there was nothing he could do about it. He carried on along the path adjacent to the side of the house, and past the tool shed onto the lawn and up to the uncultivated part of the garden where there were trees and bushes. He opened the plastic bag and took out a fishing stool, opened it up, pushed his way into the foliage, selected a spot where he thought he could observe without being seen, placed the stool safely and squarely on the grass, and took up his position.

  He could see the back door of the house and most of the garden. He was out of the cool breeze, but there was no warmth in conifer branches. He hoped that he would not have to wait very long. He dug his hands deeply into his overcoat pockets. His hand felt the torch and a glove beyond. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat, put on his gloves and waited. And waited. And waited.

  It was two hours later at about ten o’clock when Angel suddenly heard the squeal of the wicket gate being opened. He listened to hear it close, which it did. There was somebody else in the garden with him!

  He sucked in a lungful of ice-cold air. His heart banged like the big drum at a Salvation Army Christmas service.

  He became aware of a figure walking along the path to the tool shed.

  Angel held his breath.

  He could just see him in silhouette. It looked like a man. He was carrying a bag of some sort. He dropped the bag on the lawn. It made a rattling sound. He opened the shed, then flashed a torch and came out with a wheelbarrow and a spade. He switched off the torch and proceeded to shovel the top surface of a long section of the soil of the border nearest the window into the wheelbarrow. After several minutes, he stabbed the spade in
the ground and began to open the bag.

  Angel had seen enough. He stood up, aimed the torch at the man and switched it on.

  The man visibly shook with surprise and fear.

  ‘Frigging hell! Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Michael Angel, Philip,’ he said walking down the garden towards him. ‘What are you doing?’

  Pryce gasped then quietly said, ‘Erm . . . Just a bit of weeding. I might as well keep up with my work.’

  ‘Funny time to be weeding. How can you tell what’s a weed and what’s a plant?’

  ‘I can tell.’

  ‘What’s in the bag?’

  ‘What bag? I haven’t a bag.’

  Angel pointed down to the bag on the lawn. ‘That one.’

  ‘Oh, that? I don’t know. It’s nothing to do with me.’

  Angel sighed. ‘You can’t get away from it, Philip. I saw you arrive with it, and it will have your fingerprints on it. What’s inside?’

  Pryce stayed his ground, pulled a long-handled dibber out of a pocket down his boiler-suit leg and raised it above his head.

  Angel said, ‘Are you going to tell me, or do I have to look for myself?’

  ‘Stay where you are, Angel. If you take one step nearer, I’ll bray you with this. I have told you that bag has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It’s no good, Philip. The game’s up. I know you murdered your stepfather — with that dibber you are holding in your hand.’

  Even in the dark, Angel could see the whites of Pryce’s eyes. It made him look like some figure from a Hammer Horror film.

  ‘He fell down the cellar steps,’ Pryce said.

  ‘After you hit him with that thing in your hand.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult to work out.’

  ‘Has my mother been talking to you?’

  ‘No. It was in your stepfather’s post-mortem.’

  ‘But the coroner said that his death was the result of injuries caused by him hitting his head on the cellar steps.’

  ‘That was one interpretation. And then you murdered your old school chums in the identical same way.’

  ‘It’s a lie.’

  ‘And I think I know why. I have had a long talk with Miss Sharpe.’

  ‘What! That old frigging bitch. You won’t get the truth out of that old cow. She’s never told the truth in her life. And she wouldn’t say anything good about me. Besides it was her that murdered them, not me. It’s just like her, trying to blame somebody else . . .’