by Norma Hanton
When Cotton and the team arrived at the scene they were not surprised to find that Agatha Moorhead had long gone. The house was empty and, of course, scrubbed as clean as a new pin. Cotton’s heart sank, he’d been sitting having tea with a heartless killer, how she must have laughed. He kicked a door in his frustration.
“Excuse me, sir,” PC Evan’s interrupted, “it may be nothing, but the last time we were here I remember a photograph that was hanging on the wall right here,” he pointed to a bright patch on the wall where it was obvious a picture had once hung. “I also remember what was on it – a group of workers in front of a fish factory. The name on the sign above them said ‘G. Mitchell – Ireland’s finest catch’. Maybe if the factory’s still there, they might still have her address.”
“And maybe you’ll be in line for promotion soon. Evan’s, you’re a genius.”
“There’s nothing else here, sir, except this picture torn from a book. We found it lying in the grate. It’s a bit singed but I can just make out the word ‘Glasgow’ and what looks like an advert for B&B’s.”
Cotton snatched it from the officer’s hand.
“I knew it. She’s in Scotland hoping to make us think she was back in Ireland.”
“Sir, forensic has found a partial thumb print on an electric wall socket.” The officer cringed as Cotton thumped him on the back and shouted. “You are definitely on my promotions list too, Kirshaw, I could hug the pair of you.”
“Please don’t, sir, you’re not my type,” laughed Evans.
Although they waited until the body had been totally uncovered Cotton was sure the corpse would turn out to be Patrick Donovan. What he couldn’t figure out was, apart from Ballymena, there was no connection. Was this man a witness to what the killer had done to the two women? Couldn’t be that, because Donovan had already gone missing before the women moved in? Cotton stopped in his tracks, of course, what an idiot. Donovan was a witness to the murder in Ballymena, Louisa Murphy. That had to be the answer. He would call Seamus as soon as he got back to the station. No! He would call him now to let him know about Donovan.
Time he was at it he would call off the surveillance of Ann Bell. Damn it, he’d have to grovel a bit, he owed that woman a huge apology.
She would have to say goodbye to her mother. There would be little chance of saying goodbye once they found out.
She hurriedly pack the few possessions she’d left out of storage and put them in the boot of an old camper van She’d acquired the van when she’d thought it safer to leave Mulberry Court. It had all been done with great discretion. Cash in the hand of a greedy car dealer meant no paper work, and no trail to follow.
She parked the van in the closest street to the nursing home and walked the rest of the way. That way they would think she lived locally, if she was spotted.
River View Nursing Home was indeed situated in sight of the river, providing one could climb onto the roof of the building. It was considered the best in London, and her mother was happy enough there.
Entering by a side door she stood quietly listening for the sound of voices. She knew this was hand over time for the new shift and hoped she’d timed it well. She walked swiftly along the corridor and entered her mother’s room unchallenged.
“Angela! What a surprise!” Her mother stared at her. “But why are you dressed as a nurse?” Molly’s puzzlement made her effort to dress up all the more enjoyable, “and your hair? How long have you been a redhead?” Her mother laughed and Angela scowled. “I’m sorry, dear, but it’s just not your colour, not your colour at all.”
Looking at her watch Angela snapped, “Will you shut up and listen. I don’t want to late for my first day. I’m due to be on duty in one hour so you must let me finish.”
Molly lay back on her pillows as her daughter continued.
“You’re going to hear some nasty things about me, Mummy, all of them really untrue of course.” She smiled as her mother’s hand tightened into a ball in her fist and tried to pull away. “I don’t know why they’re trying to blame me for everything, honest. They’re trying to send me to prison. It’s so unfair, it really is.”
“What??” Molly couldn’t think straight. “Did you say prison? Why, Angela? What have you done?” Suddenly her mother pulled her hand free of Angela’s grip and she clutched the eiderdown with both hands. “Angela, what have you done? Have you been bad again?”
“They say I killed people, Mummy. Can you believe that? They’ll blame anyone, won’t they?” She stroked her mother’s face, lined with age and pain and, at that moment, fear. “So when they come to see you, and they will, remember to tell them it wasn’t me. Oh, Mummy, don’t let them lock me up.”
Angela looked at her watch.
“I have to go now, Mummy, God bless you. Goodbye.”
The moment the door to her room closed Molly the bell to summons the nurse.
Staff nurse Brodie Marsh found her patient weeping.
“Oh, Molly, this is not like you. Whatever is it, dear? Are you in pain?” She stroked Molly’s brow and felt her flinch when she said, “Just think, that lovely daughter of yours will be here tomorrow.”
“Get the police, Brodie, right away. Please Hurry.”
“Molly! What is it? The police will want to know.”
“Tell them, I know who killed the two women in Mulberry Close.” Molly closed her eyes and wept.
Chapter Twenty Two
“Hello, Mrs Charlton, my name is Detective Inspector Cotton. The constable tells me that you believe you know who murdered the two women in Mulberry Close. Is that right?”
“That’s right, Inspector, and you can lower your voice I’m not deaf yet.”
Cotton had the grace to blush.
Molly Charlton repeated the story she’d told to the police woman and went on.
“The person you are looking for is my own daughter. Her name is Angela Mitchell, nee Charlton.” She lowered her head and a tear ran down her face. “She did it alright, I know she did. I know her so well.” She looked into Cotton’s face. “She came here tonight to warn me that the police would be calling on me, and to tell me to keep quiet. She was dressed as a nurse, as if Angela would care for anyone.” Her hand gripped Cotton’s arm. “She’s going to run away, tonight. You’ve got to stop her.”
Tears flowed down her face as she handed Cotton a photograph.
“I was so proud of her that day. She told me she had worked hard for the promotion to supervisor. Then a neighbour told me she’d been given it in exchange for helping to shrink the workforce without the manager having to pay out redundancy monies. I was so ashamed I never told anyone.”
Her frail body seemed to shrink back and become absorbed into the bed.
“Then she married the owner, George Mitchell, and I was so sure that would make her settle down, but she got even worse. She became angry and bitter over the slightest thing and George could do nothing right. He once told me that she had killed any affection he once had for her.
When George died she moved back to England, sold all my belongings, after she had me admitted here, and lived in my bungalow for a short while.
A friend told me she’d seen George in a restaurant with a pretty, young girl and I said ’good luck to the man, he deserves some happiness.”
“Did she tell you the girl’s name?”
“No, Inspector, but I’m pretty sure now that Angela knew. She was acting wilder than usual at the time.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Molly, but do you think her capable of murdering those women?”
“Don’t apologise, Inspector, I know she’s capable of anything when she wants her own way.” Molly pulled up the sleeve of her nightgown and showed Cotton a horrific scar on her forearm. “She did this to me because I said no to her demand for ten pounds. I refused her because it’s a week’s wage for some people, and why would anyone need ten pounds to go to a kid’s matinee at the pictures. I was ironing her blouse at the time and she calmly picked u
p the hot iron and pressed it firmly on my arm.” The tears began again. “Do I think she killed all of them? Yes, Inspector, I do, without a shadow of a doubt.”
Cotton looked into the sad eyes. Molly had been through so much, yet she couldn’t even be left to die in peace. What kind of person was this Angela?
“I think so too, Molly, and we have to stop her. Can you think of anywhere she’d go to hide, anywhere at all?”
“I can think of only one place she’d head for, Inspector, Ballymena. She loved that place, and it is where George is buried. She might go to see the grave.” She reached for a small notebook on the bedside cabinet. “I can give you the address where she and George once lived, but I doubt she’ll be there. She sold it when she moved to England.”
She handed Eddie the notebook and he copied down the address.
“Catch her soon, Inspector, before she kills again. It’s my fault for turning a blind eye all her life. If I’d had her committed those women would still be alive. God help her now.”
“I think Molly’s had enough for one day, Inspector,” Nurse Brodie chided the two men. “Out you go. I’m quite sure you have pressing work to attend to, and we want a bit of peace and privacy here.”
Once outside the room Brodie held the door closed and whispered.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Inspector. Angela loves wearing wigs. I saw blonde hair poking out of her brown wig the last visit. Please try and leave Molly in peace. She hasn’t much more time left now and all this will probably hasten it.”
Cotton nodded. “I’ll try my best. Thank you for your help.
Agatha Moorhead, alias Angela Charlton, jumped up from her chair and turned up the sound on the television. Her photograph was being shown and they were talking about her. The photograph was from the days she worked in the office for the fishing industry. It was taken just after her promotion to supervisor. How the hell did they get hold of it?
The police officer being interviewed was warning the public not to approach her, but to call the police immediately.
“Make no mistake about it, this woman is very dangerous and should not be approached at any cost. She could be carrying a weapon”
She smiled, dangerous woman, she liked that, most impressive. The smile slipped from her face however, when he added that she had been seen in the West Ham area and anyone that had seen her should call in, they might be eligible for a reward on the apprehension of Moorhead alias Mitchell. Angela was indeed in West Ham in a rented flat under yet another alias. This meant that it was time to move on, such a nuisance.
Angela gathered up a map plus a bag full of cash and left the flat. She was not unhappy at the thought of making her way north, just at leaving her mother alive. She knew who had told the police and even thought of taking the risk of paying her another visit. She would have like to teach her a strong lesson on loyalty, but knew she would never see her again.
Taking the van loaded with her belongings from the multi-story car park she left, unaware that she had been seen. Fortunately for Angela the fact would go unreported for two days because the attendant had left his post to place a bet at the bookies at the time and so hadn’t been in a hurry to come forward.
The camper van barely made it to a camp site just outside Windscale in Cumbria. Smoke was billowing from the engine and she was forced to abandon it after a couple of days. She moved on as dawn broke taking only the haversack of clothes she’d need to change her identity enough to evade the police.
The site manager was not amused at the cost of having the van taken off site a few days later. He thought of reporting it to the police, but decided against it. They’d probably be all over the site, might start poking their nose into everything, even his dodgy dealings with prostitutes. He saw no wrong in giving the men on site, who were working away from home, and paying him high rents for their caravans, a little light entertainment in the site clubhouse. A fortnight later he had a friend of his take the van to his scrap yard and crush it, contents and all.
Angela’s first destination would be Newcastle upon Tyne. She had been there twice before, with George. They’d stayed at the hotel next to the station. This time she would not afford such luxury, hotels would be one of the first places the police would check.
On leaving Newcastle Central Station Angela made enquiries from the man selling newspapers as to where she might find cheap accommodation in the area. Struggling to understand the accent she was only able to following his meaning by travelling in the direction of his pointing finger, making her way to the city’s West End.
Unlike the West End she was accustomed to in London this place was a hotchpotch of, not so desirable, housing. They would have been desirable at one time though. These huge buildings with four and five stories had probably been town houses for the well-to-do, complete with servant quarters. But now they were run down, B&B’s and flats for the not so well off and, as she was to find out later, DSS claimants, ladies of the night, drug dealers and villains were all hidden behind these front doors.
It was Mr Mahal who gave Angela, who was now using the name Beatrice Mason, a bed for the night - plus breakfast. She felt safe enough there, and was soon in a deep sleep on the freshly made bed.
The next morning was wet and windy and Angela awoke stiff and cold. She lit the small gas fire and after a lukewarm shower went down to breakfast. Mrs Mahal put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her, toast and marmalade were already on the table, and went back into the kitchen without speaking. A voice from the door behind her made her jump.
“Mum doesn’t speak any English, so if there’s anything you need just ask me or Dad.”
Angela turned and was surprised to find the Geordie accent coming from a beautiful Asian girl, complete with blue sari.
“Thank you very much,” she put her coffee cup slowly onto the table. “I wonder if you could help me find somewhere to go to rent a flat or a house in the area. I’m hoping to buy property here but need somewhere to rent till I find what I want.”
“See me Dad, he might have one somewhere. He owns flats in this area and, if he hasn’t got none, he’ll know somebody that has.” She studied Angela for a moment, “You’re not actually thinking of buying anything round here are you? Cos’ if you are you must be mad. Personally I can’t wait to get out. I’d like to live in one of them posh places, like Ponteland, its fantastic there; you should see it, clean, tidy, lovely houses and gardens. No back yards for them. If I play me cards right Dad might buy me one as a wedding present,” she laughed. ”Pigs might fly of course. Got to go to work now, see yer later.”
With the girl gone Angela was left to finish her breakfast undisturbed.
Chapter Twenty Three
After the grim discovery of Patrick Donovan’s body Cotton ordered his men to re-interview the residents of Mulberry Court in an attempt to try and uncover the character of the person they’d known as Mrs Agatha Moorhead.
“Oh my God,” wailed David Thornton. “We could have all been dead in our beds.”
“You usually are,” replied his soul mate, “at least you are when I’m around.”
“Bitchy, Marcus, very bitchy. Just the type of talk I need when my nerves have been shattered.”
“Gentlemen, please,” interrupted PC Erwin, “can we stick to the question. Do you remember anything about the resident at number one that may have stuck in your memory, anything at all - her moods, her dress, her comings and goings, anything?”
There were sniggers from Marcus Wellford, and a look of disgust from his partner.
“Really, Marcus, pull yourself together, or the officer, like me, will think you’ve been drinking a little too heavily today.” He took Erwin’s arm and led him over to the table. “You have a sit down here, away from him, and I’ll try to ignore the bleedin’ idiot and think.”
“She was just a nice old lady that wouldn’t harm a fly, you said. Well, ducky, she’s swatted a few now, hasn’t she?” Marcus rolled up a newspaper and slashed the air around
him; giggling so hard tears ran down his face.
“You’ll have to excuse my partner, officer, he seems to have lost his wits at the moment,” he glared at Marcus, “Let’s hope that he’ll find them again very soon.” The last words were hissed out.
“I could come back later, sir, if it would be easier for you to concentrate on the questions?” PC Erwin was getting a bit worried about Marcus Wellford’s behaviour and his sergeant was in the communal garden interviewing Margaret Wilson as she cooed over her infant. Too far away to help him, should the need arise.
Thornton walked to Wellford’s side and bending his creaking knees delivered a horrendous slap to Wellford’s face.
“Pull yourself together you fool, you’re showing me up.”
The injured party shouted at PC Erwin who had risen to his feet.
“Don’t forget that slap, officer, if he kills me tonight you’ll know who dunnit,” with this he stormed off and the room went silent.
“He could bring charges against you, sir, if he should choose to. That was assault and you could be prosecuted.”
“He can please his bleedin’ self, officer; no one acts like that when I have company. Showing me up like that just because I won’t let him book a holiday at a gay nudist camp.” Thornton smiled wanly. “Well, I ask you, at my age and in my physical condition, why the hell would I want to strip off in front of anybody, let alone strangers?”
Erwin gave in.
“I’ll come back tomorrow, sir. If you should think of anything in the meantime please ring the station.”
“I’ll do that, officer, sorry for your wasted time today but I’ll just sit here and think about your questions while he sleeps it off. Good afternoon.”
Erwin met WPC Connie Tate leaving Anna Woodward’s apartment.
