Angela's Dead

by Lou Peters

  Thanks to the police she knew where Richard had gone that morning. But she still didn’t know why. Jackie had told Rachel not to mention to the coppers that she couldn’t remember a thing after that brief conversation with Richard. Jackie had said it would only complicate matters. It was better if she’d said she’d remained at home for the rest of the day and evening waiting for him to return. Which Rachel supposed, in some respects, was true. Only her memory, after she’d closed this building’s door on Wednesday morning, until just before midnight that same day, had somehow been erased.

  ‘Over here, sarge.’

  Rachel looked up as the quiet fatherly policeman motioned to Detective Sergeant Cooper.

  ‘What is it?’ Rachel asked, coming to stand between the two men. She followed their gaze to the same spot where both sets of eyes had been drawn. On the wall were a row of hammers, affixed in a straight line. Each one slotted in a yellow plastic sleeve. The items ranged in size from the smallest at the right, progressing to the largest, on the left side of the holder. The last sleeve, which should’ve contained the largest implement, was empty. The men exchanged a telling glance, only it wasn’t telling Rachel a thing.

  ‘Have you any idea where the missing hammer might be, Miss Smith?’ The smile previously present had vanished.

  ‘No, not really, it should be here somewhere.’ Rachel rummaged around in the neatness, scanning shelves for the missing item, not realising what the real significance of it not being where it should be, was. Rachel only knew, from the look in both men’s eyes, it was vitally important she found it and returned the hammer to the rest of the matching set.

  *

  Rachel closed the door as the last blue uniform exited the cottage.

  ‘You should have made them get a search warrant,’ Jackie accused her. Her friend had returned to the cottage shortly after Cooper had phoned the inspector for permission, after gaining Rachel’s, to extend the search from the outbuildings to the actual property. A couple more uniformed officers were drafted in to speed up the process.

  ‘There was no need; I’ve got nothing to hide. Richard’s got nothing to hide. So what’s the big deal?’

  ‘The big deal kid, is that you’ve let the police search Richard’s workshop only to find one of his hammers is missing. For all you know, a hammer could’ve been used in the murder of that old woman, and now they’ll think it’s Richard’s.’

  ‘You don’t really think so?’

  ‘Come off it Rache. Why else as soon as you couldn’t find that damn tool, did they want to search the cottage? Are you really that naive?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I’m naive where the police are concerned, but I know Richard’s innocent, so we’ve got nothing to hide. They didn’t find anything, did they?’ Rachel yelled at her.

  ‘That’s just it.’ Jackie responded, equally vocal. ‘They didn’t find the hammer and more telling, they didn’t find Richard’s passport either. Now if you were a policeman, what conclusions would you draw?’

  ‘You’re not helping Jackie.’ Rachel said quietly, as her friend’s words sank in.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Saturday Afternoon 12 December 2009

  ‘I could get used to this Cooper.’ Walters took another sip of coffee, wishing it was an Irish, ‘and before you say it, I don’t give a damn about the “super’s” budget.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything sir, but I agree this is one swanky joint.’

  ‘Not you as well Cooper?’ Disappointment plainly in evidence, Walters glanced at the sergeant over the rim of his dainty cup.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Swanky joint, is that the best you can do? Why can’t you say it’s a really nice hotel, or that it’s plush, or grand, but swanky joint for God’s sake.’ Walters’ frustrations were beginning to show through his veneer of well being.

  Lunch, as it turned out, had consisted of a ham salad baguette purchased from the station kiosk after alighting from the train at ten o’clock. Mistakenly Cooper had thought the roll was merely a snack and had hurriedly devoured it while hoofing through the walled city. Half an hour later he was paying the price as his indigestion kicked in. Cooper realised this over the top place would have been too expensive to partake of the lunchtime menu, but why couldn’t they have eaten in one of the many other pubs in the location. He’d prefer a pint to a sodding cup of coffee any day. Walters however, had had other ideas. ‘Got a lot to get through, we haven’t got time for lunch. We’re not on our holidays here, Cooper.’ Still, returning to the city later, he’d found the time to drag him into this over priced establishment for a stingy cup of coffee.

  ‘Sorry sir.’ Arnold couldn’t see what the fuss was about, and not quite sure why he was apologising. What was wrong with the bloke? Hadn’t they got more important things to worry about other than a few slang expressions? The morning so far, had produced nothing of significance. Even though the detectives had managed to speak to the majority of names on the list of contacts Rachel Smith had provided. A diverse group of people, but nevertheless, each one spoken to had said the same thing, in one form or another. Richard Johnson was imaginative in his designs, hardworking, punctual, normally kept within budget very likeable yet unassuming. One or two people asked if Walters would like to view the man’s work, but the DI had politely declined with the relevant excuse of being pressed for time and it was hardly the season to see the showpieces on offer at their best. When posed with the question would they recommend the gardener’s services to friends or neighbours? Without exception they had all said that they would and no, there had been no recent sightings or contact with Mr. Johnson. The man had not been reticent in advising of his relocation and did the policemen know Johnson had left the area. Helpfully suggesting the officers would be better focusing their attention in the South West of the country, from the area they’d just travelled from. Of course there’d been the normal curiosity as to why the police were so interested in trying to locate Johnson. One of the people interviewed had even joked, ‘Why he hasn’t done a murder has he?’ then laughed at the absurdity of it, as though that was the last thing Johnson was capable of. On the inspector’s instruction the officers had played down the reason why they’d wanted to ascertain Johnson’s whereabouts.

  ‘Why blacken the man’s name, when we’re not sure if he committed the crime.’

  Then why are we here? Arnold wanted to ask, not believing what he was hearing. He wondered how long it would be before the Nationals got hold of the story. Arnold was surprised the Harrisons hadn’t already contacted the Mail, to complain about police inefficiency. Perhaps they were leaving it until Monday. It all seemed like a waste of time to him, yet Walters seemed more concerned with his misuse of the English language, than planning the officers’ next step.

  A waiter appeared at the table, like an apparition, as if he’d just walked through the flock papered wall, elegant silver coffee pot in hand. The man was dressed in a black suit, complete with matching waistcoat. A dickie bow of the same hue fastidiously fastened around the collar of his immaculate white shirt. The impression of a Victorian butler was enhanced by the white cloth draped over one arm.

  ‘May I refill your cups gentlemen?’ the hovering man enquired courteously. He spoke as though he’d a plum in his mouth, his past profession as a BBC newsreader before the common touch and localised accents had become popular. Cooper guessed the affect was contrived, put on for the benefit of the upmarket clientele the establishment normally attracted and he again wondered what the hell he was doing there.

  Walters nodded his head in assent to the request. Cooper inwardly groaned; as did his stomach which was crying out to be fed. The man poured the steaming liquid into the miniature cups, before discretely blending into the background. Cooper reached for the silver bowl containing the small white cubes. He ignored the dainty silver tongs, preferring to use his fingers. Popped a couple of squares into his cup and stirred rapidly until the caramel liquid resembled a small whirlpool.


  ‘Where do we go from here, sir?’

  Walters glanced at his wrist watch. ‘Two thirty,’ he said to himself, leaving the sergeant’s question unanswered. ‘Tell me honestly, Arnold,’ Walters turned to face Cooper, ‘do you think we’re on a wild goose chase? His stare was unwavering. ‘I can see by your face you’re not happy about something and I would prefer it if you’d just spit it out.’

  ‘It’s just...’

  ‘Go on detective sergeant, now you’ve started.’ Still the blue eyes bore into Cooper’s.

  Arnold returned the unflinching gaze. His hunger combined with his indigestion was making him vexed and had put a dent in his normal bonhomie. ‘It’s just the more we learn of Richard Johnson, the less likely it appears he could have committed the crime. If he didn’t do it, then why are we here, sir? I’m not even convinced that you think he’s the killer. But he’s the only suspect we have and if he didn’t do it, then who did?’ He would have liked to have added and what the hell are we doing in this swanky joint, when we could be tucking into pie and chips in a pub down the road.

  Walters relaxed back into the comfort of the chair, as if they had all the time in the world. His hands rested on the plush velvet arms, intense eye contact with Cooper for the moment broken. ‘I know if people had had derogatory things to say about Johnson, like he was untrustworthy, never finished a job, charged over the odds, we would be more likely to believe he was capable of committing murder. But just because on the surface he appears to be a genuine sort of person, that doesn’t mean underneath there isn’t lurking a darker, alter personality and vice versa. I believe every one of us, given the right set of circumstances, is capable of murder. We need to find that set of circumstances Arnold. But you’re right; at this present moment I’m not one hundred percent convinced that Johnson has done the deed. Don’t ask me why, because I couldn’t give you a straight answer. I’m just hoping our next set of interviews will prove to be more productive, and may alter that opinion.’

  ‘The victim’s neighbours, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly Arnold, or the dead woman’s friends. I think here, this area, is the link to the murder. So no, I don’t think we’re wasting our time. We just have to be very careful. Keep all of our wits about us so we don’t miss that significant something. This may prove difficult, as we’re not even sure what we’re looking for. But what I am sure of, this is probably are one and only chance. So we better not mess it up. I doubt we’d even be here, if the “super” was around. Now finish your coffee. Let’s settle the bill and get the hell out of this swanky joint.’

  ‘I’m with you sir,’ Cooper downed his coffee. The cup held between the man’s large thumb and forefinger, appeared as a child’s, as though he’d been a participant at a dolls’ tea party.

  Walters had relented, allowing the sergeant to buy a bag of chips as they walked back to the hire car. ‘Would you like one, sir?

  Walters had declined. He’d wait for his evening meal.

  Making short work of his purchase, Cooper scrunched up the wrapper. Savouring his last mouthful he wiped the grease from his fingers before stuffing the used paper into a nearby waste bin. Cooper as before, positioned himself behind the wheel. Walters was glad he’d listened to the detective sergeant’s advice and hadn’t left the trip until Monday. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking. Maybe he wasn’t up to the case, after all. Of course more people would be at home at a week-end and so it had proved. It would be great to think Cooper and he could complete the interviews that day and head off back home early the following morning. Walters might even be able to keep the arrangements he’d made with Janice. He should have phoned his sister, he knew, certain she would have done an extra large shop that week-end for his benefit. But he hadn’t got around to it, so that was that. It was the worst case scenario, leaving it until the last minute to cancel, he had to admit. He’d call her later with the bad news. Perhaps while he was in the city, he’d send her some flowers via Interflora, help soften the blow and hope she’d forgive him.

  It was only a short drive from the city centre to Upton by Chester and with the aid of Satellite Navigation they’d managed the one way systems without any problem. Taking a right exit off the dual carriageway, they’d driven down a long straight road on the periphery of a large estate, where semi detached houses were banked on either side. Smoke billowed out of chimneys as more families had decided to dump the convenience of gas or electric fires, for living flames. So much for the nation’s carbon footprint, Walters mused. On this road most of the houses were blocked from view by high hedges. However, the ones he could see were bedecked with Christmas lights. Not switched on as yet, but it wouldn’t be long before he was sure the area would look like a mini Las Vegas.

  A sharp left turn and after driving for a few minutes the scenery changed dramatically. They were in serious money country Walters could tell. Tree lined avenues with briefly glimpsed imposing properties. The concept of doctors, dentists and other wealthy professionals taking up residence in this elite neighbourhood was borne out by the presence of the type of cars parked in the large driveways. Mercedes, BMW’s, large off roaders, reaffirmed Walters’ opinion that the residents in this part of the world were not short of a bob or two. There were no men in bright red suits, or snowmen wearing top hats and scarves adorning these buildings advertising the coming of Christmas. It would have been sacrilege if there had been. However, driving past the extensive gardens, Walters did notice through gaps in the shrubbery and iron railings, the occasional presence of discreet fairy lights strung through the branches of a few of the trees. Walters would lay a pound to a penny, that these bulbs would be clear and of the non flashing variety.

  The men still hadn’t arrived at their destination. Walters was growing impatient. He drummed his fingers against his leg, alerting Cooper to his mood. The road continued with further twists and turns. After taking a further left, things began to change yet again. One side of the road contained grand Victorian semi detached villas. On the other side more modest buildings had been constructed, presumably years later, devaluing the original properties. This was where Ruth Montgomery had lived for the majority of her life. Witnessing these changes, Walters wondered how the woman must have felt when the bulldozers had moved in. It was still daylight when Cooper brought the car to a standstill in the avenue.

  Walters was cognisant that Ruth Montgomery’s former residence had been transformed from a single dwelling and converted into four student flats, thanks to information gained from the electoral register. He was glad the old lady hadn’t been around to witness the desecration of her home. Standing on the road side of the railings, looking up towards the house it appeared to Walters that the exterior of the building would have changed very little since Mrs. Montgomery had moved out. The property had a shabby appearance in comparison to its conjoined neighbour, which by the look of it had had a recent face lift. The decorative bargeboards of the house next door sparkled crisp and white with a fresh coat of paint. Above the curved door recess of Ruth’s old house was etched 1839, confirming the year the property had been built. Two years after Victoria ascended the throne. The property was constructed of red brick under a grey slate roof. The bricks laid alternately, short side then long side, the pattern repeated throughout. At the top of the house the brickwork was more elaborate and coloured oblongs gave a pleasant herringbone effect. The downstairs bay sash windows, under their own small slate roofs, remained intact.

  There were no name plates or individual buzzers in the small porch. Walters depressed the single button attached to the wooden, stained glass door. He heard the jingle deep inside of the house. Sensing Cooper looming over his shoulder, not for the first time Walters had been glad of the sergeant’s presence. You were never sure what you might encounter, especially in unknown territory. In this instance, however, the officers had nothing to fear, as the door was opened by a diminutive man with a hunched back. Appearing to be having trouble lifting his head to make eye contact with
the detective inspector, the vertically challenged man had absolutely no chance of doing the same with the towering Cooper. As with the previous interviews concluded that morning, the caretaker had been notified of the policemen’s visit. In the event, he was in no hurry to let them into the building before thoroughly scrutinising the warrant cards placed under his nose.

  Eventually satisfied, he said, ‘you’d better come in gentlemen.’

  His voice was imposing, deep and full. It took the policemen by surprise. The man led them down a corridor towards the rear of the property and to where his own rooms were located.

  ‘I believe your investigating the murder of the previous owner of the Villa, but I’m not sure how I can help, as I’ve never met Mrs. Montgomery. Please take a seat.’

  The man scooped up a large black and white cat from one of the armchairs. A multitude of hairs remained in wait for one of the unfortunate officers to sit on. Cooper drew the short straw, as he knew he would. What the hell, it was only cat hairs that could be brushed away later. Arnie was sure he’d sat in worse things than that, in his time. Unusual for a man, he rather liked the furry felines.

  ‘I realise that Mr. Roberts, but while we were in the area we thought it advisable to call in. Have you lived here long?’

  ‘It took about six months for the conversion to be completed. I was the first one in, so I reckon I’ve been here about eighteen months.’

  ‘And do you have much contact with your neighbours?’ Cooper enquired.