The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  ONE

  DI Michael Angel’s office, the Police Station, Bromersley, South Yorkshire. 8.28 a.m., Tuesday 5 May 2015

  The phone rang. The detective inspector reached out for it.

  ‘Angel,’ he said.

  ‘Control, sir, DS Clifton. I’ve got a triple nine suspected murder, just come in.’

  Angel blinked. He quickly picked out a scrap of paper to write on from the pile of letters, papers, reports and envelopes piled up on the desk in front of him. Then he picked up his pen.

  ‘Fire away, Bernie,’ he said.

  ‘Body of a woman aged about sixty,’ Clifton said, ‘name of Gladys Grant in a corner shop at 83 Sebastopol Terrace, that’s off Canal Street. Reported by a Mrs Edith Beasley of 180 Canal Street, a customer. First report received at 8.25 a.m. Patrol car and paramedic notified and despatched. That’s it, sir.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Advise SOCO, Dr Mac, DS Carter and DS Crisp. Tell them I want them at the scene ASAP. And ask DI Asquith to provide two PCs for security duties there.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Angel said and he replaced the phone.

  Angel drove the BMW slowly along Sebastopol Terrace, not wanting to drive past the little shop. He soon came up to number 83 and the dilapidated sign, P. Grant. High Class Groceries and Provisions, and stopped the BMW. He noticed the sign in the door window informing him that the shop was open.

  He quickly reached forward to the glove compartment and took out a thin, sealed white paper packet. He tore off the top and took out a pair of elasticised rubber gloves. He put them on, got out of the car, locked it and crossed the pavement to the shop door and went in.

  There was a short, rotund woman standing there, looking as if she preferred to be somewhere else. They looked at each other.

  Angel said, ‘Did you send for the police, love?’

  She looked relieved. ‘Yes. At last. Oh, I thought you was never coming. I have been waiting here on my own for ages. Absolute ages.’

  ‘You reported a body?’

  ‘Yus. Gladys Grant. She’s on the floor. Behind the counter.’ She tossed her head in that direction. ‘Dead as a dodo. It’s awful. Never seed anything like it.’

  Angel peered over the counter. In the small space, he saw the figure of a small woman with mousey-coloured hair, wearing an apron over a floral dress. The body was in a sitting position on the shop floor. Her hands were on her lap and she seemed to be holding something. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought it was a cauliflower. Her back was supported against wooden packing cases positioned on their sides which constituted makeshift shelving. The packing cases were crammed full of tinned and boxed foods.

  He strained further over the counter to see as much as he could. There were no signs of a weapon or a showing of blood or anything else unusual or irregular.

  He turned back to the woman. ‘You must be Mrs Beasley,’ he said. ‘You found the body?’

  She blinked, breathed in, stuck out her ample chest and said, ‘Yes.’

  Angel nodded, pursed his lips and said, ‘On your way here, did you see anybody leaving the place?’

  ‘No.’

  The shop door opened. It was DS Taylor, head of SOCO at Bromersley. He was dressed in the obligatory disposable white paper suit and blue Wellingtons.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Taylor said.

  There was hardly room in the shop at that side of the counter for the three of them.

  ‘Good morning, Don,’ Angel said, then he looked back at the short, corpulent woman and said, ‘We’d better go outside, Mrs Beasley. Give them a bit of room.’ Then he turned back to DS Taylor and said, ‘The victim is on the floor at the other side of the counter. I haven’t been round there. Seems to be holding a cauliflower…? Can’t think that’s right.’

  Taylor frowned. ‘Sounds funny, sir. A cauliflower? I’ll have a good look.’

  Angel ushered Mrs Beasley out of the shop and suggested that they could talk in his car.

  She felt important as she climbed into the passenger seat and Angel closed the door. He went round the car to the driver’s door and was soon seated beside her.

  ‘You know, Inspector,’ she began, shaking all her chins, ‘I thought it was a cauliflower she was holding. Why on earth would she want to be holding a cauliflower?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘No idea. Now then, Mrs Beasley, please tell me all that has happened this morning.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t sleep very well, last night, Inspector. But I woke up about eight o’clock, and I was desperate for a fag. You know how it is. So I scratched around and got two quid together. I knew that that would buy me some. I got washed and threw on my clothes. I knew that Gladys Grant usually opened the shop up at about eight. I suppose it’s to catch folk on their way to work. I only live a few doors away, and I was that relieved when I saw that the open sign was showing. Anyway, I pushed open the shop door. The shop bell rang out enough to waken the dead. But nobody came. I thought maybe Cliff, her son, would serve me. He came home yesterday. He’d been away a year or so.’

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘You knew him?’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘Oh yes. Known him since he was a little lad. Went to school with my lad. But he wasn’t much for schooling, wasn’t Cliff. Whereas my son Benjamin went to uni and got himself a degree. He’s now got a big job in Northampton. Eight hundred people under him.’

  ‘So the dead woman’s son is called Cliff Grant?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, I’ve just thought,’ she said. ‘He’ll cop for the shop and all Gladys Grant’s money, won’t he?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, I think he will,’ Mrs Beasley said. ‘She’s no closer relations I’ve heard of. There hasn’t been a Mr Grant for twenty years at least. Might be longer.’

  ‘Well, where is he now, this Cliff Grant?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘No idea.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He’ll be about thirty, same age as my Benjamin.’

  ‘Could he be at work?’

  She smiled. ‘I’d be very surprised if he’s in work, Inspector. Cliff’s not very keen on work. Anyway, if he’d got a decent job, I don’t think he’d come back here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, Inspector, Gladys Grant was no bundle of joy. She was mean and she’d have worked him like a workhorse. He wouldn’t have stuck it. Oh no. Cliff wasn’t interested in hard work. He has always taken what had seemed to him to be the easiest way. When you meet him, you’ll see what I mean. He’s positively lovely. He’s a proper lady’s man. A very handsome young chap. I mean, if there was any mistletoe about, I wouldn’t have minded going under it with him, if I was years younger.’

  Angel wasn’t in the mood for frivolity. He was far too worried. ‘Well, where is he now?’ he said. ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Mrs Beasley looked at Angel and frowned. ‘I think that you think that he might have done it, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Like they had had some row about something.’

  ‘No, no, no. I don’t know anything yet.’

  ‘Well, she could be very aggravating, I can tell you. But he wouldn’t kill her. Cliff wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  Angel licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. He had come across
some of the nicest, mildest men who normally wouldn’t harm a fly, but along came somebody – frequently a relative – who pressed the wrong button on the wrong day and released a monster that had been shackled far too long.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Beasley,’ Angel said. ‘I may come back to you if anything else crops up.’

  ‘Righto, Inspector. Call on me anytime if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  Angel went round to the passenger side of the car, assisted Edith Beasley out of the car and watched her waddle along Canal Street.

  At that moment, the glamorous member of Angel’s team arrived in a small, unmarked Ford car. She saw Angel, parked her car behind his, got out and came up to him. It was Detective Sergeant Carter.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘Got your message. Are we on a murder?’

  ‘Ah. Looks like it, Flora,’ Angel said. ‘The proprietor of this shop was apparently murdered either during the night or early this morning. Start the door to door, lass. See if anybody was around. I’m particularly interested in the son, Cliff.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said and turned away.

  ‘And Flora,’ he called. She looked back. ‘Seen anything of Crisp?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said, unable to conceal a smile. ‘I don’t expect he’ll be long.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  DS Carter went off to begin her inquiries.

  Detective Sergeant Crisp was always missing, always late, always prepared with a list of excuses and implausible explanations.

  Just then, Angel saw another unmarked car he recognized as a police car coming along Sebastopol Terrace towards the shop. He was pleased to see that the driver was Trevor Crisp. On this occasion he was … surprisingly almost prompt.

  Angel waited outside the shop door for the sergeant to park the car and make his way to him.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Crisp said with a smile.

  ‘One of these days you’ll actually be on time,’ Angel said.

  ‘You can’t say I’m late this time, sir. I only knew about the call eight minutes ago.’

  Angel shook his head, puckered his lips and blew out a metre of air and let him win the round.

  ‘There’s a woman apparently murdered in there,’ Angel said. ‘Until uniformed arrive, will you guard this door? I expect there’ll be customers and nosey parkers flocking round. When uniformed can take over from you, I want you to liaise with Flora and assist her with the door to door. She’s already started on Sebastopol Terrace.’

  Crisp shrugged. ‘All right, sir.’

  Angel sensed that the sergeant didn’t seem to like the job of door to door. Probably thought it was demeaning.

  ‘That’s very important work, Crisp,’ Angel said. ‘We might pick up the sighting of the murderer or a witness … who knows?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Angel turned back to the shop door, pressed the handle down and went inside.

  At the sound of the door closing, Taylor and a DC also in whites looked up and across the counter. They were still working around the body.

  ‘What you got then, Don?’ Angel said.

  Taylor said, ‘She’s certainly dead, sir. There are several wounds in her heart. She’s lost a fair bit of blood.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  ‘You wouldn’t have seen it, sir,’ Taylor said, ‘because of the cauliflower.’

  Angel responded by filling his cheeks with air and frowning. ‘Appalling,’ he said. After a moment or two, he said, ‘What do you reckon the cauli’s all about, Don?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘Is there any sign of how the killer gained access?’

  ‘No signs of a break in, sir. All downstairs windows and doors sound as a bell.’

  The shop door rattled. Angel turned towards it. The door opened and a short man also in whites came in. He was carrying a Gladstone bag.

  It was Dr Mac. Although he had lived in England most of his life, he spoke with an accent that would instantly have informed all Scotsmen and many others that he was a Glaswegian.

  Angel always liked to tease the old Scot. ‘Good morning, Mac,’ he said. ‘Where have you been? Don Taylor and his team have been here hours.’

  ‘So there you are again, Michael Angel, with your untruths,’ Mac said. ‘I happen to know that they’ve been here about ten minutes. You don’t catch an old soldier out as easily as that.’

  Angel grinned. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I happened to ask your sergeant on the door, young Crisp, on my way in,’ Mac said with a teasing twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re not the only detective in the camp, you know.’

  Angel smiled. ‘I thought you’d been having an extra wee portion of porridge maybe to celebrate Robbie Burns’s birthday.’

  Mac looked at him. ‘I did have an extra portion of porridge this morning, Michael, but it was to fortify me to come out and solve the puzzles you set me. And as a matter of fact, this is the 5th of May. Robbie Burns birthday is 25th January as every true Scot will tell you.’

  Angel smiled then nodded. The smile left him as the seriousness of the situation prevailed. ‘A woman was stabbed and died holding a cauliflower, Mac. That’s this morning’s puzzle.’

  The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’ he said.

  Taylor and the detective constable stood up.

  ‘You can come round here now, Doctor,’ Taylor said. ‘There isn’t much room, but we’ve done all we can do here until she can be moved.’

  ‘Thank you, Don,’ Mac said.

  The two SOCO officers then went into the sitting room.

  Dr Mac looked at Angel, who gestured with an open hand the narrow door in the counter between the customer side and the serving side of the tiny shop. ‘Through here, Mac,’ he said.

  Mac raised his bag chest high and squeezed through, accidentally catching the corner of a box of Shredded Wheat, which rocked and caused the few boxes above it to sway. Nothing fell.

  When he was on the other side, Mac stood there and looked at the body for a few seconds. He had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of dead bodies in his experience but he was always in awe of the first sight of a body that had been murdered.

  The shop door behind Angel opened and Crisp looked in. He looked at Angel. ‘Oh, there you are, sir. There’s the son out here. He insists on coming in. He’s asking me all sorts of questions.’

  Angel’s face muscles tightened then relaxed. ‘All right, Trevor, I’ll see him.’

  Crisp went outside back onto the pavement, followed by Angel. He closed the shop door.

  A tall, smart, well-dressed, some would say handsome, Cliff Grant came up to Angel.

  Crisp said, ‘This is Mr Grant, sir.’

  The young man was well-groomed and wore a smart suit, collar and tie. He looked at Angel with soft blue eyes, both angry and afraid.

  ‘Are you in charge?’ he said. ‘I really want to speak to whoever’s in charge.’

  ‘I’m in charge, Mr Grant,’ Angel said.

  ‘Well, what is happening? What are all these police cars doing here? Why can’t I get into my own home? Why won’t anybody tell me anything?’

  TWO

  Twenty minutes later, Cliff Grant was on the settee in the living room of the shop, holding a brandy glass containing less than a finger’s worth of the golden liquid. He was sipping the last of his late mother’s private bottle taken from the sideboard cupboard. His bronzed face was lined and weary. He kept rubbing his forehead with his hand.

  Sitting opposite him was Angel. In front of him he had an envelope he made notes on that he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket. He sat there, with pen in hand, patiently waiting … waiting to ask questions.

  ‘Are you ready now, Mr Grant?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes, Inspector. It’s been such a shock.’

  ‘Well, in your own time, tell me everything you did this morning.’

  ‘Yes. Certainly. I’ll try,’ he said. ‘Let me see. I was asleep in my room j
ust above the shop here. First thing I remember, I was being shaken and called. It was Ma, she was telling me to get up. She said that I had a lot to do. I don’t know what time it was. I didn’t have a watch or a clock. But it was early. Well, I knew I had a lot to do. She was already dressed. She said she was going down to start breakfast, that the bathroom was free and I was to get up and get washed, shaved, dressed and come down. Well, I was halfway through shaving when she called up that my breakfast was out and going cold. I finished shaving and went downstairs. Anyway, when I finished breakfast, she said I was to get dressed and set off to the hairdresser in town as soon as possible. Then I had to walk the two miles or so to town to the Job Centre.’

  Angel looked up from his notes and said, ‘So what time did you leave the shop?’

  ‘Must have been about eight o’clock.’

  ‘And was your mother all right when you left her?’

  Grant looked up. His lips tightened. He didn’t like the question. ‘Of course she was all right. What do you mean?’

  ‘What was she doing? I assume she was busy with something.’

  ‘She was always busy with something. She was clearing the breakfast table, putting the dirty pots in the sink … and so on.’

  ‘Was the shop door open for business?’

  ‘Yes. I went out that way. It was nearer than going out the back.’

  ‘What about the back door?’

  ‘That was always locked when the shop was open anyway. It was a rule she had made. She had once been robbed when an accomplice of a young thief took her attention in the shop. She wasn’t leaving herself open for it to happen again.’

  ‘Yes,’ Angel said slowly as he rubbed his chin. ‘And you’re sure that nobody else was in the house or shop when you left at eight o’clock, and that your mother was alive?’

  Cliff Grant’s jaw dropped open. He looked slowly round the living room. ‘Look here, Inspector, that’s the second time you’ve hinted that I might have…’ He broke off, swallowed and continued. ‘I know that my mother and I didn’t altogether hit it off. She was very difficult, and we didn’t seem to get on well, but I wouldn’t, I couldn’t do anything to hurt her. When I left the house to go to the hairdresser’s and the shops, she was fine. She was a bit put out by me, but she was absolutely fine.’