The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  Grant gasped and briefly closed his eyes. ‘It’s not true,’ he said. ‘Not one word of it. I’m not a thief or a murderer.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He shook his head. ‘You stole the cigarettes and matches from her. You intended relieving her of a further £300. Those are not actions of a devoted son, are they?’

  Grant sent Angel a long, pained look and then broke eye contact. He swallowed hard.

  ‘You would’ve had to have lived with her to understand,’ he said. ‘I mean, she wasn’t the usual type of mother that doted on her children. Her attitude was that kids were useful to run errands and do jobs for them. Which I have always done, and then she regarded me as her insurance against loneliness in her old age. She said that to me.’

  ‘You said that she wanted you to look smart and well off. That’s why she wanted you to have a good watch.’

  ‘That’s also true.’

  Angel wrinkled his brow, put his tongue in his cheek then said, ‘You know, lad, you’re going to have to make it clear to me, what part of what you say is true and what part isn’t.’

  Angel then looked at his watch. He stood up, turned to Grant and said, ‘Excuse me. There is something I must do. We will talk again tomorrow. Please stay there a minute. One of my colleagues may be able to take your fingerprints now. It is—’

  Grant eyes flashed in horror. ‘My fingerprints?’ he said. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘It is purely for elimination, Mr Grant. That’s all.’

  Grant sighed. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Whenever you like, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Angel went out of the kitchen and into the shop to find out how far SOCO had reached.

  Taylor said, ‘We’ve completed the scene, sir. And we’ve been through the rubbish box in the shop, the waste bin in the kitchen and the wheelie outside. Nothing interesting, sir.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased. He breathed in noisily.

  ‘We’ve not done the fingertip search of the house and shop yet, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Right, Don,’ Angel said. ‘We’ll sort that out tomorrow. I’ve finished with Grant, for the time being,’ he said. ‘I’ve left him in the kitchen. If you have a spare pair of hands, take his prints.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  THREE

  Angel came out of the little shop. He intended making for his car for some peace and quiet in order to think things out. But there was a gathering of eight or so women on the pavement in front of the shop window. When they saw Angel they advanced towards him. A rough-looking woman said, ‘Are you in charge of this case, young man?’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Angel said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, what’s happened to Gladys Grant, and how long are we going to have to wait to get into the shop? There are things we need. We have all got to feed our kids and our men folk, you know.’

  Some of the rest of the group muttered their agreement and pressed forward, surrounding him.

  Angel wrinkled his nose. He needed to think out what to say.

  The policeman on the door came up to them. Angel caught his eye and with an easy look, assured him that he did not need any assistance.

  Angel said, ‘Well, tragically, early this morning, somebody came into the shop and murdered Mrs Grant.’

  The women were aghast.

  ‘Oh my god,’ one of them said.

  ‘Poor sod,’ said another.

  ‘I told you,’ said a third.

  And a fourth said, ‘Oh, how awful.’

  ‘If anybody knows anything or saw a person entering or leaving the shop early this morning, they should tell me about it.’

  The gathering of people looked at each other then back at Angel. ‘None of us saw anything, sorry. When will the shop be open?’

  ‘I don’t know, but we will be leaving shortly. I don’t know whether Mr Grant will want to open up or what will happen. That’s up to him. I’m sorry.’

  Angel turned away from the gathering, intent on leaving the scene to return to the office when he saw a big yellow van pull up close behind his BMW. Angel realized it was a bread van. A man dressed in a white coat and hat got out. The driver went to the back of the van and began sorting out a wooden tray and was filling it with bread and cakes in accordance with a book he was holding. Angel went up to him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, taking out his ID and showing it to the man.

  The bread man glanced up casually from the order book. ‘Yes?’ he said. When he saw Angel’s ID, he lowered the book and gave the inspector his full attention. ‘Police?’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to deliver anything to Grant’s today. There’s a serious incident being looked into.’

  The delivery man smiled confidently. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘Mrs Grant ordered this stuff.’

  ‘I’m afraid Mrs Grant is dead.’

  The bread man stood motionless for several seconds, then he said, ‘What happened? She was as right as rain yesterday.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘About five o’clock. I popped in about then. I only live round the corner on Fountain Street. I actually pass here on my way to work.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Well, I start at 8, but I was a bit late so I reckon it would be just after 8 this morning.’

  ‘Were you on foot?’

  ‘No, I was in my car, and, as a matter of fact, I saw an old woman with grey hair in a long sheepskin coat go into the shop.’

  Angel’s eyebrows went up. His chest began to burn. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Positive,’ he said. ‘Poor old Cliff, her son, you know. How’s he taken it?’

  ‘Pretty well, I think. Look, we will need you to make a formal statement. What’s your name?’

  He reached into his top pocket and pulled out a card with the baker’s name and address on it, and his name across the middle. ‘Maddison, Percy Maddison. Of course, anything I can do to help. How awful. Give my condolences to Cliff, will you, Inspector?’

  Angel nodded. The man shoved the tray of bread and cakes back into the van and quickly drove away.

  Angel made for his car. He was in a buoyant mood;. he was thinking it was good to have an eyewitness for a change. Closing the car door, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile and phoned the mortuary. He managed eventually to speak to Dr Mac.

  ‘You disappeared before I had the opportunity to have a word with you,’ Angel said.

  ‘I looked into the room where you were, Michael,’ Mac said. ‘You were interviewing somebody. I didn’t think you’d welcome an interruption.’

  It was true. ‘Yeah. Yeah,’ he said. ‘Well, anyway, what you got?’

  ‘I haven’t had chance to look at her yet. Should get to her tomorrow. What I can tell you from the in situ examination, is that she died from three knife wounds to the heart, and that she died between five and eight o’clock this morning.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac,’ he said. ‘What do you make of the cauliflower?’

  ‘I don’t make anything of it. I wouldn’t think it played any part in causing her death, Michael, if that’s what you’re asking me. But I can’t be absolutely sure. I may be able to report more after the post mortem.’

  ‘Thank you, Mac,’ Angel said and he ended the call. He pushed the mobile back into his pocket, reached down to the ignition switch and was about to turn the key, when the delectable DS Flora Carter tapped lightly on the car window.

  He smiled when he saw her. He noticed her eyes looked brighter than usual. She was also smiling. Angel thought she looked so pleased with herself that maybe she had discovered something on the door to door. He pressed the button and lowered the window.

  ‘Got something, Flora?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  With a hand gesture he indicated that she should go round the car and get in.

  When she had closed the door she said, ‘A woman in a house only three doors up said
that just after eight this morning, from her bedroom window, she saw a strange woman with grey hair, in a long sheepskin coat, walk into the shop.’

  That was confirmation of what Maddison, the bread delivery man had said. A warm glow developed and expanded in Angel’s chest. His hand went up to his face. He ran his fingertips up and down his temple. ‘That’s great, Flora. We now have two independent witnesses. Is that the best description you can get? I mean, is there anything more she can tell us?’

  ‘It’s the most I could get, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like to speak to her yourself?’

  ‘I would. What’s her name and which house is it?’

  ‘Mrs Rhoda Lee, 202 Canal Street.’

  He scribbled it down on his notes. Then he looked up and said, ‘Have you finished the door to door?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s Trevor Crisp?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for about an hour. He’ll still be out there, on the knocker, I expect.’

  Angel pursed his lips. He wished he could be sure of it. ‘Right, Flora. See you tomorrow.’

  Flora Carter rushed off.

  He got out of his car which was parked behind the SOC van. He saw that on the pavement, by the side of the van were the four SOC men. They were taking off their white sterile disposable overalls, which had to be discarded before they arrived at the next crime scene so that there was no possibility of the cross contamination of evidence.

  Angel spotted DS Taylor and went up to him. ‘I see you’re ready for off, Don. What have you found out that I will need to know?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘She was stabbed three times in the heart. And you know about the cauliflower. There were several grains of rice – at least I think it’s rice – on her clothes, her neck and her chest. I’ll be checking on them and I’ll let you know.’

  Angel’s eyes widened, his eyebrows went up. ‘Rice?’ he said. ‘Where did that come from?’

  Taylor shrugged then he said, ‘Well, it is a grocer’s shop. I expect she sold rice.’

  Angel shook his head. He didn’t think that that explained why there were grains of the stuff on her body. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Right, Don. Thank you. .’

  Angel then set off walking along Canal Street. His mind was on the rice. Several grains of rice on her clothes, her neck and her chest, Taylor had said. Angel tried to dredge up from his memory what he knew about rice. It was a staple food and was grown in China and India and parts of Asia. So what? It was sometimes used as confetti at weddings. Much more frequently, it had milk added, was cooked in an oven and served as a pudding. His mother had made hundreds of them in her lifetime, and Mary had made a few. Lately, Mary had also been serving up chicken with rice and vegetables and calling it ‘chicken risotto’. But he had wandered a little way from the point. Why were there grains of rice on Gladys Grant’s body? He had to find out if the rice was cooked and left to go cold, or if it was in its dry state. It would not matter, but then again, it might. Mac would be able to advise him further on the subject.

  A raucous horn blast from a passing car brought him back to realize where he was. He was walking down Canal Street. He was looking for house number 202. He looked up at the doors. There it was. He knocked on the door.

  A middle-aged woman with a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth opened it.

  ‘What do you want, love?’ she said with a wrinkled brow and wiping her hands on a towel as she spoke.

  ‘Mrs Rhoda Lee?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You a copper?’

  Angel nodded.

  She stepped back and opened the door wider. ‘It’s really awful about Gladys Grant,’ she said. ‘Mindst you, she could be a bit sharp if she wasn’t getting her own way, you know. And it doesn’t do to make enemies, especially when you’re in business. Well, come in. Come in. Don’t stand out there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. He was in a small sitting room.

  ‘Sit yourself down, we’re not posh, but it’s all paid for,’ she said with a smile.

  Angel removed his hat and nodded his understanding.

  ‘You told my sergeant that you saw a woman walk into Grant’s shop early this morning?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. A grey-haired woman.’

  ‘How old do you reckon she was?’

  She frowned. ‘Dunno. Hard to say. I mean, she was no lightweight flighty lass in her teens or her twenties. At the same time, she was no old biddy. But she was very odd-looking.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘How do you mean, odd-looking?’

  ‘I don’t know. I meant odd-looking. Peculiar like. I can’t put it into words. Maybe she wasn’t the full shilling.’

  Angel blinked and rubbed his chin.

  ‘Was she the murderer then?’ Rhoda Lee said. ‘It would be a funny sort of justice if it was a woman that did her in, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, I know you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Gladys Grant had a wicked, unforgiving tongue on her, and a memory longer than a dole queue.’

  ‘She made a lot of enemies?’

  ‘Not enemies exactly. I just mean she wasn’t at all popular. She always spoke her piece when it would have been kinder sometimes to have kept her mouth shut.’

  He nodded knowingly. ‘That woman you saw this morning … you said she had grey hair?’ he said. ‘Was it long and flowing grey hair, or curled up tight or in a bun?’

  ‘It was curled up tight, as you call it, I think. And she was wearing a long sheepskin coat.’

  ‘What were her shoes like?’

  ‘Didn’t notice, to tell the truth.’

  ‘Was she wearing a skirt or trousers?’

  ‘I don’t know. I only saw her for a few moments. I’ve told you and that other female copper all I know.’

  ‘Was she carrying anything?’

  ‘I don’t know. She had a hand up her front. I suppose she could have had summat in it.’

  ‘Which direction did she come from?’

  ‘Looked like she had come from the direction of the main road, and walked straight from there all the way along Canal Street. And don’t ask me which way she went when she came out because I wasn’t there to see her.’

  ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘A couple of minutes past eight.’

  ‘How can you be so sure about the time?’

  ‘My alarm goes at eight o’clock, and I always get out of bed promptly. If I didn’t, I might fall back to sleep again, and that would never do. I did that once and didn’t wake up until half past eleven. No. The alarm went. I got out of bed and crossed to the window to see what sort of a morning it was, and that’s when I seed her. And that would be a minute or two past eight.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Lee. You’ve been most helpful.’ He turned towards the door.

  ‘Do you know who done it then?’ she said.

  He looked back at her and said, ‘We’re working on it, Mrs Lee.’

  He made a quick exit and proceeded back to his car. It had been a long, hard day. He let in the clutch and pointed the car bonnet home. He looked at his watch. He sighed heavily. He was going to be late. Mary would not be pleased. Particularly as it was her shopping evening. Most shops in Bromersley were kept open an extra two hours or so on Tuesday, and as a matter of interest to him, he was in need of a haircut, and he had to find a present to celebrate his and Mary’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, coming up in nine days’ time, on 14 May, and he had it in mind secretly to buy Mary something special to celebrate the occasion.

  It was 6.30 p.m. on the same day, Tuesday 5 May 2015 in the town centre of Bromersley. A strong wind was building up to a gale. Trees were waving and bending precariously over the roads, railways and houses. The sky was filled with black clouds. More heavy rain was imminent. Tired and irritable shoppers with their umbrellas were pushing through the wind to their cars, the bus st
op or round the sweaty stalls in the market. Weary vendors were looking with disdain at the clock while thinking about the amount of unsold stock they were going to be humping back home. Every person was in a hurry to get somewhere but nobody was seen to arrive, and everybody was impatient.

  As it happened, Mary was in Cheapo’s supermarket, looking for the latest bargains, where Angel had dropped her while he called at the hairdresser’s for a short back and sides.

  Next door was Ashton’s Antique shop. Daniel Ashton had been in CID a few years ago. He had left the police to take over his father’s small antique shop in town. Angel called in briefly to keep in touch with his long-standing old friend. In addition, he also wanted to see if Ashton had any special piece of jewellery that he thought Mary would like for their anniversary.

  ‘What’s your budget, Michael?’ Daniel Ashton said.

  ‘Well,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘I reckon I could go to £500 if it was really exceptional. But it would have to be exceptional.’

  Ashton turned away from the safe and brought a small, black display pad with eight rings in it. ‘Your twenty-fifth, you said? Well, there’s a lovely ruby and diamond ring, I could do it for £450, but that would really be for a ruby wedding.’

  Angel looked at the label. It was marked £595. He thought Daniel was offering him a good price, but as he said, the ruby ring was for forty years of married bliss and he couldn’t yet claim that.

  On the same pad was a sparkling, large single stone ring twinkling away at him. Daniel kept moving the box slightly so that the stones in the rings caught the light.

  Angel replaced the ruby and diamond and picked up the sparkler. ‘How much is this, Daniel?’ he said.

  ‘That’s too much for you, Michael. It’s way out of your budget. It’s great value. It’s £900. It’s a diamond solitaire in platinum. White as snow.’

  Angel took it to the sunlight coming through the glass window in the door. Without magnification the stone looked clean, it was claw set and there was no illusion setting around the stone to make it look bigger than it really was. It looked very good. Very good indeed. He tried it on his little finger up to the first joint, which he knew was the size of Mary’s third finger of her left hand. It fitted a treat. He returned to the counter and handed it back to Ashton.