by Norma Hanton
Cotton was wide awake and alert. Adrenalin marched through his brain, his hands shook.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, Andrew; tell me how you’re so certain it was her, and how she got away.”
“We’ll have to wait until morning before we can verify it properly but one of the people interviewed by my men in the aftermath of the murder declared, and I quote, ‘A well-dressed lady came in here yesterday and hired a Rover for one week and she looked, a little, like that woman’, unquote. She was being shown an artist’s impression of Mitchell.”
There was silence on the line and Inspector Morgan began shouting.
“Hello!! Are you still there, Cotton?”
“Yes, I’m still here, Andrew. I’m afraid this can’t, and won’t, wait till morning we’ll have to go and knock them out of bed. I need to know how much of a head start she has and how the hell we can catch her up. And I need to know now. Give me the address and I’ll meet you there.”
Maggie Macintyre was definitely not amused at the incessant ringing of the loud doorbell. It had woken her mother and her Gran and had set the dog barking loudly.
“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” she yelled, locking the dog in the kitchen and struggled with the bolts on the front door. “If you don’t take your bloody finger off that bell I’ll rip you heart out.”
She yanked the door wide and peered out at them, her once impressive back combed hair now a messy tangle of dark locks.
“This had better be good,” she snarled, “some of us have work to go to tomorrow, or should I say today?”
“Miss Macintyre? I’m so sorry for the lateness of the hour but this is a matter of life and death and we need your help,” Cotton said with a calmness he did not feel. “May we come in?”
“You may not!! Who the hell are you? And don’t give me that bloody spiel about ‘a matter of life and death’ I can do without that at this time of night.”
Cotton produced his warrant card.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Macintyre, my name is Detective Inspector Cotton and this,” Andrew held out his own card, “is Inspector Morgan. We need to hear your statement again about the woman that hired the car from you on the day of the killing. I know it’s very late and a terrible inconvenience to you but we think you may be able to help us track the murderer. Will you help us?”
Maggie shivered with excitement, her eyes widened.
“Of course I will, come in, come in. Just keep your voice down if you can. Mother and Gran might go back to sleep.”
They were shown into the best parlour and sat around the solid looking oak table with a shine on its surface that said it was loved and cherished.
“Can I get you a cuppa? I could definitely do with one. Hen party last night and I’m feeling a bit hung over already,” she grinned at them and raised a rather smudged eye brow.
“No thanks, Miss Macintyre, we’re in a bit of a hurry, that’s the reason we had to knock you out of bed,” Cotton tried to keep his voice level and unhurried, “but you have one, by all means.”
She put the kettle on and sat down on the edge of her chair ready to run when it boiled. At the same time Andrew Morgan took the artists impression from a pocket and handed it to her.
“This might help you to think, Miss Macintyre. Is this the woman you saw?”
“Call me Maggie, everyone else does.” She made a great show of examining the picture and was finally about to speak when the kettle whistle loudly. They sat waiting, restless with impatience the killer could be in America before this girl woke up properly.
“Yes, that’s her alright,” Maggie said as she entered the room once more, “toffee nosed bitch.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cotton, “What happened? What did she say?”
“Give us a minute, Inspector; I’d like to have a swig of me tea, if you don’t mind?”
They sat twitching as she sipped the scalding liquid.
“Wow, that’s much better. Well she came into the car hire company where I work and asked to hire ‘one of the better models’. Well I said I’d have to ask for advice from my supervisor because I don’t know one car from another yet, and she told me to let ‘someone that knows’ serve her and that ‘she didn’t have all day‘,” she drank a little more tea, “and then she produces the necessary papers, driving licence and what not and she’s off before Lillian, that’s my supervisor, can check the petrol. Lillian was furious and said that if the woman came back to complain the tank was empty I was to give her a shout and not get involved. And that was it. Except she had asked me for directions to Edinburgh while Lillian was in the office.”
Cotton jumped to his feet.
“You may be the only lead we have to catching this woman, Maggie, so if you think of anything else, no matter how small, contact the station and ask for Inspector Morgan here. I’m Inspector Cotton in case you want to leave me a message also.”
Before Maggie could get her head around it all they’d left, closing the door quietly behind them.
“Edinburgh, in my opinion, is just another bluff. After all I’ve read and come to know about this woman this is just another time waster,” Andrew said once they were back in the car and heading for the office. “She wants us to run around like headless chickens while she saunters up country to wherever it is she’s going.”
Cotton grinned in the dark,
“I know where she’s headed, Andrew, she’s going back home, back to Ireland. She’s heading for a ferry port. Stranraer is my guess. I have to get to a phone and let Seamus Doyle know so he can make arrangements at his end,” he said. He was still grinning like a fool when they entered Andrew Morgan’s office.
Chapter Thirty One
Seamus reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of the old photograph of Angela Mitchell provided by Mary O’Doul. He was sitting staring into her face when he was informed that there was a telephone call for him.
“I’m a hundred percent certain that Moorhead, aka Mitchell, is heading for the Stranraer ferry. She’s running your way, Seamus, she’s going home,” Cottons voice was filled with excitement. “I’m at the airport now. Meet me here and we’ll go and wait for her arrival at the ferry.”
Sergeant O’Conner had followed Doyle into the adjoining office and watched as he picked up the receiver and listened. A slow smile crossed Doyle’s face before he gave a huge shout of, “Yes, yes, yes.”
Replacing the receiver he grinned at the photo in his hand.
“Come to daddy,” he whispered to the image, “I’ll be waiting.”
Looking up, and still grinning from ear to ear, he grabbed O’Conner and danced him around the room.
The telephone on his desk sprang into life.
“She’s been seen by one of our men boarding the ferry,” O’Conner informed him. “He’s positive it’s her wearing a copper wig and red spectacles and calling herself, would you believe it, Louisa Murphy.”
Doyle was smiling now, “Well now, let’s go and make the lady welcome,” he laughed. He headed for the airport to meet Cotton.
On board the ferry Angela Mitchell had noticed DC Scott, and had seen him examining a piece of paper in his hand then looking at her. She watched him slyly, being more covert in her action than he was, ensuring he didn’t realise she was on to him. Her hands shook with excitement as she sipped her coffee. This called for another change of image. They would be reaching port in just fifteen minutes; - there was just enough time. Watching Scott out of the corner of her eye she waited. When he started talking to a steward that was her cue, she slipped away. Using the contents of her overnight bag she made the change in the ladies. Did the police never learn?
The chestnut wig was quickly replaced by a grey one, the stylish glasses removed, then, using padded underwear from her case, she added a few pounds to her frame. Thicker make-up aged her by a few years and, by accentuating the crow’s feet around her eyes, she looked just like a slightly overweight, elderly woman. How age had its advantages? Turning the rev
ersible coat inside out she then put on warm, tweed trousers and placed a colourful headscarf on her head.
Adding the last touch, a pair of thick, horn rimmed glasses, she walked passed Scott and attached herself to a group of five people. No one seemed to notice that, as they headed for the shore, the woman’s family were ignoring ‘Grandma’ who was being left to fend for herself. Shuffling down the gangplank, as if the old arthritis were playing up, she was amused to see the distress she was causing Scott.
He was running round like a man possessed even, at one point, pushing past her on the ferry landing as she headed for a taxi.
“Oh! My God,” Scott was muttering to himself, “They’ll have my guts for garters. Have me back on the beat for this. Where the hell did she go?”
He ran down the landing stage trying to get a sighting as the people disembarked. Panic rapidly setting in as he grabbed a woman wearing a red coat then spent precious minutes apologising and showing his warrant card. Then when everyone had disembarked he ran back on board to look around, in case the woman was still aboard. She must have spotted him, but he was sure she’d not passed him, and this was what he explained to Doyle.
But to say Seamus was angry when he and Cotton heard the news on their arrival was an understatement.
“How the hell did you manage to lose her on a ferry? You gormless idiot,” he bawled at Scott, “For Christ sake, what are you, a moron? Or have you been supping Guinness instead of concentrating on the job? Well you’ve completely let the side down now so you might as well get hold of any information you can. Try showing those pictures to security, and then report back here.”
Scott reluctantly headed to the police station carrying the photographs covering the arrival of the ferry.
“Calm down, Seamus, before you blow a gasket,” said Cotton, who was just as sick as his friend about losing Mitchell, “it isn’t worth giving yourself an ulcer. We know she’s here somewhere, we’ll find her.”
“Maybe not soon enough Eddie; supposing she’s here with the sole purpose of killing again. What if she’s intent on making sure those people at the factory can’t give evidence in court? I’d never forgive myself if she kills someone simply because there weren’t enough men on that ferry.”
Cotton felt the same way, but kicking yourself after the deed didn’t help you to move forward, he now knew that only too well.
“Let’s start with those photo’s, Seamus, and put some men onto her mother’s old address and, you might not agree with this, put men at the factory, just in case.”
“Sorry, Eddie, I can see your point. It’s no good me having tantrums, let’s get the job done,” a forlorn smile crossed his face. “I think your right about the house and the factory, but I think we need to go one step further and include Murphy’s house. Let’s face it, she’s some cocky woman. Bold enough, I think, to return there.”
The door to the office opened and a red faced Scott entered.
He stammered and stuttered. “Look here, sir, I’m really sorry about losing her. I don’t know how she did it. I followed her everywhere, I even stood outside the ladies and, when she failed to re-emerge, I went in and searched the place.”
“And all that tells me is that Mitchell saw you panicking and simply walked passed you unnoticed. Your mind was clearly elsewhere. Give me those photos and get out of my sight before I tell you what I really think of you.”
Cotton couldn’t hide a grin as Scott scuttled out of the office.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Seamus; I seem to remember both of us having been in that position, once or twice.”
“I intend to take a leaf out of my old governor’s book and make him suffer for a couple of weeks at least,” Seamus grinned, “Now let’s look at these photos and see if we can spot Mitchell.”
In the end all they could make out was Scott running hither and thither like a demented chicken.
“Bloody moron,” Seamus hissed, “must have been bloody well pissed to have lost her. Let’s send these over to forensic, maybe they can come up with something.”
In Ballymena the grave of George Mitchell was found in St Mathew’s churchyard. Someone had recently filled the black urn that stood on the grave with a large bunch of fresh flowers. Doyle was informed immediately. After setting up around the clock surveillance on the church and the grave he and Cotton set about finding the house once owned by Angela and George Mitchell.
They’d visited the former home of the Mitchells where the owner told them that the house had been so spick and span when they moved in it had amazed them. There had been nothing at all left by the previous owner, not even a scrap of paper.
They were now at the house of Louisa Murphy. The present owner, an elderly woman called Maureen, treated them to a guided tour.
“Whoever killed her wants putting to sleep like the animal they are,” she told them, “She was such a sweet young thing, pleasant, caring, and polite. Why would anyone want to kill her?”
“So you knew her personally, Maureen?” Seamus asked
“Everyone round here knew her. She’d pass the time of day with you, call in when you were ill, and enquire if she could help when you were in trouble. Father Corrigan was right; he called her one of God’s little Angels. At mass, after her death, he said we’d never meet her like again in this cruel world. He was right there too”
“Did she have a child living here, or a man?”
“You must have a short memory, Inspector Doyle; you asked me that very question when it happened. You were a lot younger then, of course, and so was I, but your memory’s worse than mine.”
Doyle was puzzled as to when had they met before.
Maureen laughed.
“I used to live in the next house but one, right down the bottom of the lane there,” she pointed in the general direction. “You came to my door and asked me those same questions. I was six months gone with our David at the time. I told you then and I tell you now, she did have a friend’s baby for a while but handed it back when the young couple got settled, and yes she had male callers from time to time, but as far as I could tell, because we lived so far apart, none of them were permanent.”
“Sorry, Maureen, we called on so many neighbours at the time I completely forgot,” Doyle apologised.
“That’s alright, I’m just teasing. I bought this house for the extra space when my David was born; no one else was interested because of the murder so I got it for a song. I’ve had a few nutters knocking at the door asking if they could have a séance, but they usually get threatened with the broom handle,” she laughed. “I had one only yesterday, believe it or not, an elderly woman wanting to know if the house was haunted. I told her, ‘Yes it is, but only by nutcases like you’.” Maureen laughed at her own wit but stopped abruptly when Cotton grabbed her arm.
“This is important, Maureen, what did this woman look like?”
Maureen brushed his hand away.
“Elderly, sixty odd I’d say, grey hair, glasses, brown coat. What else would you like to know?” she rubbed her arm where he’d grabbed her, “There’s no needs to get physical you know.”
“Sorry, Maureen, I got a bit excited, but I think you’ve had a lucky escape. Keep this under your hat for now, but I think that woman could have been the one we’re looking for in connection with the murder. So you see anything you can tell us might help us to bring her to justice.”
Her face flushed red as she raised her hands and covered her eyes for a moment, then she let her arms drop by her sides and stared at the detectives,
“You’re kidding me. What if I’d let her in? She could have done for me an all. Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I can’t believe it,” her legs buckled.
“Just you sit here, Maureen. Try to keep calm now, we don‘t want you passing out on us, now do we? The sooner you tell us what you can the sooner we can apprehend her,” Doyle poured her another cup of tea and handed it to her. “Drink this and try to think of anything else she might have said. Try your best -
for me.”
She looked at him with a sad smile on her face. “I’ll do my best,” she said, as she sat back in the chair and closed her eyes. They watched as her brow furrowed with apparent concentration. “Well, I was washing the dishes, it must have been about one thirty or so, and there was a knock on the door. I dried my hands on my way to open it and found a woman, as I’ve just described, standing on the step. She was wearing a hooded coat, a duffle sort of thing, dark tweed trousers and them strong walking boots with laces done all the way up. Her grey hair was sticking out from the front of the hood and she was wearing thick framed specs that did her no justice, believe me. She had an English accent, but now that I think about it, it had a hint of something else in it, but I couldn’t say what. What else?” she questioned herself. “Oh! Yes, the skin on her hands was pretty smooth for a woman her age and her teeth,” she paused for a moment, “her teeth, had been well looked after.” She opened her eyes, “and that’s all I can think of.”
“Thanks, Maureen, you’ve been brilliant. Is there anyone you could stay with until we catch her? I’d sleep better in my bed knowing you were safe,” He smiled at her.
“Well, I could stay with my David and his family, but only for a while mind. They’re newlyweds you know. They’ve got their own life to lead.”
“Excellent! Pack a case quickly and I’ll have one of my men run you to your son’s house right away.”
With Maureen upstairs packing a bag Seamus dragged Cotton into the kitchen, out of earshot.
“Do you think she’ll come back here, Eddie?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Seamus, ”but I want to be ready if she does.”
Chapter Thirty Two
Joe Broom was standing in front of Mulhern’s desk waiting for instructions.
“I want you to take four officers and visit all these places Bell calls on so regularly and find out the reason for it. It may all be very innocent, but I want to know, Broom, and I want to know today. I think this young lady has been playing mind games with us and, in my opinion; we’ve wasted enough time on her, so let’s get it all wrapped up – now. Bring her in.”
