The Big Fiddle

by Roger Silverwood

  Taylor nodded thoughtfully. He shook his head. He wasn’t pleased, but he smiled. ‘Well, sir, we’ve dealt with worse situations, haven’t we?’

  ‘If you take away the pillow under his head, the scene would be about as accurate as we can make it.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go out and get togged up.’ He turned round and went back out of the front door.

  Angel checked his watch. It was 9.57. He was thinking about that young carer, Nancy Quinn. He went up to the door again. Then he saw his old Glaswegian friend Dr Mac coming up the path.

  ‘Good morning, Michael,’ he said. ‘What a beautiful day for doing a spot of fishing in the Spey?’

  ‘Too early in the year for me, Mac. It would be too cold, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ye would have to bring a bottle of Glenfinnan in your pocket. That would keep you warm. Now what have you got for me this time?’

  ‘You’re a bit premature, Mac. SOCO haven’t done their stuff yet. Anyway, come in.’

  Angel stood back to allow the doctor through.

  Mac saw the dead man and the wheelchair on its side. ‘Oh, I see. Hmm. What happened, then? Has he come down the stairs in the wheelchair?’

  ‘He was very old, Mac. He was ninety-two.’

  The doctor’s grey, bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Really! It’s a great age. A very great age. You know, this could be accidental death, Michael.’

  ‘Could be; however, the daughter said that he hadn’t the strength to pull the chair upstairs himself, suggesting that some person possibly took the chair up with him in it. Fingerprints on the chair might show who that might have been. Having reached the top, the chair was then accidentally or deliberately pushed off the landing. It sailed down the stairs, and didn’t apparently turn over until it hit the bottom. At least, that’s what it looks like.’

  Mac screwed up his grey, bushy eyebrows and peered up the staircase. ‘It’s a fair fall, that, Michael. It could finish anybody off if they fell from the top up there.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Apparently he had no call to go upstairs. I understand that everything the old chap needed was downstairs. This house even has a downstairs loo.’

  DS Taylor came bustling in with three others from SOCO. They were all dressed in white sterile overalls, caps and wellingtons. Two of them were carrying large white holdalls.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Taylor said.

  Angel and Mac moved back towards the front door.

  Taylor looked at Angel and said, ‘I know it’s a bit late, but I’ll tape off the area round the bottom of the stairs, the steps themselves and the landing at the top. We’ll treat that area as the possible crime scene, sir, if you agree?’

  Angel nodded. ‘Whatever you think, Don.’

  Taylor seemed to like the answer. He smiled and rushed off with a roll of 2"-wide plastic tape that was printed blue on white: CRIME SCENE – DO NOT CROSS. He started wrapping it round furniture and sticking it to wherever he could with Sellotape.

  Angel and Mac edged further towards the front door. Angel looked at his watch. ‘What time do you make it, Mac?’

  ‘It’s ten o’clock on the button.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I make it.’

  Angel opened the front door and looked out. ‘Mr Piddington’s carer is due here at ten,’ he said.

  Mac said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, Michael, I might as well get kitted up. I don’t think Don will be long round the body.’

  ‘Yes, right, Mac. Talk to you later.’

  Mac went out.

  Angel held the door open for him. The doctor made his way down the path.

  A car slowed down and stopped.

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. He peered across the tiny front garden to the gate. A young woman appeared. It was Detective Sergeant Flora Carter, one of two sergeants who were on Angel’s team, and quite the most beautiful member of the Bromersley force.

  He was pleased to see her, but he urgently wanted to see Nancy Quinn. She should have been there, at 22 Jubilee Park Road, attending the old man. He hoped that she had not done a bunk. It could take years to find her. Access to the world was comparatively easy these days, and many countries had no extradition arrangements with the UK. He felt in his pocket to find the page torn out of Sean Donohue’s notebook. He peered at it and checked Nancy Quinn’s address. He nodded and went out of the door, closing it after himself. He met Flora Carter at the gate.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Flora said. ‘Came as soon as I could.’

  ‘Hmmm. Where’s Crisp? Have you seen him on your travels?’

  ‘No, sir. Not this morning.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t pleased. ‘Never can find that lad. I don’t know what he gets up to.’

  Flora nodded.

  Angel said, ‘I want you to go with me to investigate, and possibly bring in for questioning, the victim’s carer, a lass called Nancy Quinn. We’ll go in my car.’

  THREE

  Ernest Potter and Son, Estate Agents, Victoria Road, Bromersley.

  10.00 hours. Monday, 6 May 2013.

  Adrian Potter was sitting at his desk. He had dealt with the post. It had only been bills and another circular letter from Sun Life. He wasn’t a bit interested in life insurance, but they were offering a free Parker pen for enquiring. He would think about that. It might just be worth answering the ad to get the free Parker pen. He looked at the computer monitor, and checked the Inbox on his emails. There was nothing there needing a reply. His paperwork was up to date, there had been nothing to file, and there was nothing on the voicemail. He’d had two cups of tea. He leaned back in the swivel chair, put his feet on the edge of the wastepaper bin and yawned. It wasn’t long before his eyes glazed over and he began to think about money and then girls. Girls and money.

  He was thinking how much of both he could have if he really could sell thousands of houses or, alternatively, rob a small bank. It was possible. It was quite possible. If you thought about it long enough anything was possible. He could just see himself all bronzed up on a yacht in the blazing sun in the Mediterranean drinking champagne with half a dozen hipless beauties waiting on him hand and foot, and not another man for miles. The sun’s rays would do him the world of good. He was already feeling warmer, important and powerful. Money meant power. And power meant girls. He looked in the mirror and flashed his teeth. He wrinkled his nose and flashed them again. How great it would be to have his teeth covered at the front with bleached white veneers. He was wondering where he could have it done in Bromersley when the phone rang.

  His mouth dropped open with shock as he was dragged back to reality. He sucked in a lungful of air, turned up the corners of his mouth to simulate a smile, coughed very lightly to clear his throat, reached out and grabbed the phone. ‘Good morning, Ernest Potter and Son, Adrian Potter speaking, can I help you?’ he said.

  ‘I am thinking of moving into the area,’ the caller said. ‘I am looking for a small detached house with a garage near Jubilee Park. It doesn’t matter what the superficial condition is, provided that it is reflected in the price. I intend to do it up from top to bottom anyway. My name is Edward Oliver, by the way.’

  ‘Well, let me see, Mr Oliver, we have more than a dozen properties that might fill the bill.’

  ‘Anything on Jubilee Park Road?’

  ‘Mmmm. Nothing actually on Jubilee Park Road. I have one round the corner on Park View. That’s a small detached house. And it has a garage. And another further down the road which has room for a garage. I have some very attractive properties in all districts of Bromersley. Why don’t you call in sometime, Mr Oliver?’

  ‘I live out of town and I am all over the place, Mr Potter, but if I give you my mobile number, would you be kind enough to give me a ring if anything on Jubilee Park Road comes in during the next week or so?’

  ‘With pleasure. And in the meantime, I’ll go through our portfolio myself and let you have brochures of the properties near to the park for your interest, if you would let
me have your address.’

  ‘No. I don’t need all that, thank you.’

  Potter was surprised by the man’s response, but he took the mobile number Oliver offered him gladly, made all the noises one would make to a new, prospective customer and ended the phone call.

  Angel checked the address of Nancy Quinn given to him by Police Patrolman Donohue and then stuffed the notebook sheet into his pocket. It wasn’t far, four or five minutes in the BMW. On the journey, he briefed Flora Carter on the case to date. She asked one or two pointed questions and by the time they reached Sheffield Road, she was fully conversant with the case and with Angel’s ideas and opinions.

  The address of Nancy Quinn’s flat was Commodore House on Commodore Street, which was on the right. It was a large block of flats that had been built – or thrown up – in the 1960s to try to end the great shortage of housing there had been in the town. It was an off-white concrete monster built where slums had been.

  Angel pulled up outside the building. Several small children were playing ball games. One older lad was drawing matchstick men on the outside wall with white chalk. He saw Angel and Carter and ran off.

  ‘That little monster should have been in school, I reckon,’ Angel said.

  It amused Flora Carter, but she kept a straight face. ‘Do you want me to chase him, sir?’ she said.

  Angel looked grim. He shook his head. ‘We’ve bigger fish to fry, lass,’ he said.

  They found the lift, which had graffiti all over the doors. Angel pressed the button and was amazed to find the mechanism working. When the lift cage arrived and the doors opened, the inside was an eye-dazzling spectacle of bright colours, naked figures, and faces. It was peppered with swear words, some with very creative spelling.

  They rattled up to the first floor, then wandered along a corridor with many doors. There were tiny screw holes in the woodwork of the doors where Angel imagined metal or plastic numbers had at one time been fixed; now a daubing of black paint indicated the flat numbers. Eventually they found number 21.

  Angel pressed the green button and they heard it noisily ring ‘ding-dong.’ As they waited, he turned to Flora and said, ‘I hope this woman hasn’t run off. It would make life so difficult.’

  Flora nodded. She knew it would.

  He rang the doorbell again, several times in quick succession.

  They waited. There was still no response.

  A woman came out of a nearby flat. She looked them both up and down, then walked away quickly towards the lift.

  When the sound of the lift was out of their hearing, and all was quiet, Flora noticed that Angel was looking down the corridor, his eyes almost motionless. She knew he was listening. She didn’t know the reason.

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ she said.

  In a whisper he said, ‘Keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if anybody is coming.’

  He looked quickly left and then right.

  ‘Why, sir?’ she said. ‘What are you going to do?’

  He looked at her, shook his head and said, ‘You don’t want to know.’

  Then he reached into his pocket, took out a plastic card, inserted it in the gap between the door and the door jamb in line with the lock and gave it a sharp tap with the palm of his hand. At the same moment, he turned the doorknob, applied pressure to the door and the latch was pushed back enough to allow the door to be unlocked. He pushed it open a few inches.

  Flora looked at him wide-eyed and said, ‘So that’s how it’s done?’

  ‘Well … don’t tell anybody,’ he said.

  Angel recovered the plastic card, put it in his pocket, pushed open the door and looked into the little room.

  He saw a mess of arms, legs and hair, partly clad, on the floor, in the middle of a pool of blood. Also one of the walls was smeared with blood. His stomach came up to his mouth and he drew in a deep breath.

  Flora Carter saw the scene from behind him. A cold shiver ran down her spine. ‘Oh my God,’ she said.

  Angel and Flora Carter had no time to nurture their shock.

  ‘Wait here, Flora,’ he said, then he took four steps into the room, peered at the blood-covered face of the young woman, touched her neck, then tiptoed back out of the room and pulled the door to.

  In the corridor, he said, ‘She’s been dead some time. We’ll have to stay here.’

  He tapped a number into his mobile.

  ‘What can I do, sir?’ Flora said.

  ‘Ring Inspector Asquith, tell him what we’ve found here, give him my compliments and ask him if he will secure the scene ASAP. And ask him if we could have some men here right away.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said as she started tapping a number into her mobile.

  Then into his mobile phone, Angel said, ‘Don? … How much longer will you be there? … Oh, can you speed it up? … we’ve just found the body of a woman … I think it’s Mr Piddington’s carer … very messy, certainly murder … get over here as soon as you’ve finished everything there … and would you tell Dr Mac?’

  He gave Taylor the address and then rang off.

  He looked up at Flora. She was still on the call to Inspector Asquith.

  He tapped in another number. It was soon answered. ‘Control room, Bromersley. Sergeant Clifton speaking.’

  Angel told him what they had found, that it looked like murder and instructed him to inform Superintendent Harker immediately. Clifton said that he would. Then he said, ‘And have you seen anything of Trevor Crisp?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Clifton said. ‘Have you lost him again?’

  ‘If you see him, Bernie, will you tell him that I’m looking for him? I’ll get a dog collar and a lead and wrap that round his bloody neck if he doesn’t stop disappearing like this, just when I need him. When he does turn up he’ll have more apologies, explanations and justifications than Rupert Murdoch.’

  ‘I’ll put out a call for him, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Bernie.’

  He rang off.

  Flora closed her phone at the same time. She said, ‘Inspector Asquith said he would put it on his list and that he will send four men straightaway. He said he will have to take them from traffic duty.’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘If you’re happy staying here on your own until help arrives, I’ll start on the door to door.’

  She stretched up to her best height, squared her shoulders and said, ‘I’ll be all right, sir.’

  He nodded. She was very competent. He wasn’t really in any doubt about it. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘See if you can get Trevor Crisp on his mobile. I never can. If you can, tell him I want him here smartish.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel turned round and knocked on the door opposite. It had the figure 20 painted crudely on it. There was no reply. He tried again, but no one answered. He moved along the corridor to number 23. That was the flat adjacent to Nancy Quinn’s flat. There, an elderly woman holding a cat opened the door on the chain. She wouldn’t let Angel in until she had had a close look at his police badge, photograph and name.

  ‘You’d better come inside, Inspector Angel, and let me close the door so that I can put my little soldier down. If I let him out there’s no knowing what those children will do to him.’ She tickled the cat on the top of its head, put a hand under its stomach and lowered it to the ground. ‘There you are,’ she said. The cat meowed and ran behind the settee.

  ‘Please sit down, Inspector Angel. Now, what is all this about?’

  Angel looked round the pleasant little room, sat down on the settee and said, ‘Firstly, may I ask you your name?’

  ‘Mrs Vera Roman. I’m a widow.’

  ‘I take it you live here alone?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. When my husband died I didn’t want to stay at our four-bedroom detached house on Creesford Road. There was such a lot of work running it, so I sold it and moved here in 1995. I used to be the manageress and buyer at the ladies’ department at Avery’s department store, and moving here was the bigge
st mistake of my life. Cyril, that’s my late husband, Cyril would have been appalled. Appalled he would have been. Absolutely appalled!’

  ‘I wonder if you could tell me about your next-door neighbour in number 21.’

  ‘Who? Nancy? I don’t know her very well, Inspector. Why, what’s the matter? What’s happened?’

  ‘We are not sure. That’s why I am asking you. There’s been an incident that we are looking into. That’s all I can say, at the moment.’

  ‘Oh? An incident involving Nancy Quinn? I bet it involves a man. She’s a nurse, isn’t she? A very pretty girl. But I don’t know her very well.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Nurse? Is she a professional nurse?’

  ‘She says she is. I have my doubts. She’s always scratching round for work, and I thought we were short of nurses. Tell you what, Inspector. She’s not short of men. But they don’t seem to last for long.’

  ‘Has there been one lately? Say yesterday, last night?’

  ‘Yes. A big fellow. Very nicely spoken. Handsome. Really nice. She doesn’t usually seem to attract nice men like he was.’

  Angel had a job concealing his excitement. ‘You saw him yesterday?’

  ‘It was yesterday morning, early. I was letting my cat in. He’d escaped and been out all night. Well, you know, I didn’t expect my cat to be there. But he was. I opened the door, and he literally fell in. I was so relieved.’

  ‘Tell me, what did you see of the man?’

  ‘He was passing. I heard Nancy’s flat door close and this big fellow passed about the time I opened my door and was picking up my cat. He said, “Good morning, my dear.” I remember that.’ She beamed. ‘A woman my age doesn’t forget a man who calls her “my dear” in such a nice way.’

  ‘Where was he going?’

  ‘Towards the lifts.’

  ‘And what time was this, Mrs Roman? Can you remember?’

  ‘Not exactly. I had only just woken up. Maybe seven or eight o’clock.’

  ‘Does that mean he spent all night with her?’