The Irish Connection

by Norma Hanton

  Returning by taxi she’d went back to the junction of the main road closest to Louisa’s house. She told the driver to stop saying she was to wait for her son at the road end. She stood fumbling in her handbag after paying him off and watched as he turned and drove back the way they’d come. As soon as his lights had dimmed into the distance she walked to where her car was hidden, it wouldn’t do for anyone to find it.

  She’d closed and locked Louisa’s front door, being careful of fingerprints, before driving George home.

  She drove home humming softly to herself.

  News of the girl’s ‘horrendous’ death had filled the newspapers. She’d liked the thought of it so much she still had a copy. As soon as George’s fishing business and their home were sold, and when she was sure she was totally unsuspected in any way of his death, she’d made the move to England to be nearer her mother. She needed someone to love her. Someone she could trust.

  Once her mother was dead she’d planned to return quietly to Ireland, and to a new life in her cottage.

  She’d finally found a beautiful apartment in London, had loved it on sight. The estate agent had assured her that it was a very sought after location. He couldn’t say anything but the previous owner had moved back to Hollywood, nudge, nudge.

  It was one of fourteen which stood in four acres of land and had a fantastic swimming pool in the basement; it was, at least, compensation for having to leave ‘The Nook’.

  She got some of their furniture out of storage and had it shipped to England.

  She’d been amusing herself one day reading a magazine which contained a letter from some man who had bought an antique bureau and had found a hidden draw which contained a valuable amount of jewellery. He had wanted to know if he had the right to keep it as he had paid good money for the desk. Of course she had jumped up from her chair and searched for a spring in George’s bureau.

  She found it and pressed. She was soon wishing she hadn’t read the damned article. Inside the draw she discovered a letter to George which contained a photograph of a tiny baby. The letter said his daughter was to be named Caroline, after George’s mother, and was signed, all my love Louisa.

  There was also a partially written will. She’d read how he’d intended to leave her only a quarter of his estate. The rest would have been left to Louisa and Caroline. Her rage being such that she’d ran round the room smashing anything that came to hand, she couldn’t believe it, that cow was still getting into her life, under her skin, controlling her very existence. In that moment of anger she’d torn up the offending document and burnt it the sink. Then in a sober moment she found herself tidying up the mess.

  Deciding to go through the remainder of his papers the next day she’d discovered addresses and photographs of the bitch’s daughter, Caroline, growing up. A regular payment was being paid to a Mr P. Donovan; the same name appeared on letters showing a postal address in southern England. The letters indicated that Patrick Donovan was the girl’s guardian, the earlier ones spoke of herself being a danger to the girl if she ever found out about her existence.

  That was it. Once more her anger was roused. Was there no end to this? There was only one thing for it she’d have to move nearer to the address given and put an end to it.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Seamus sat up in bed and look at the clock. Four fifty. It was no use he couldn’t sleep, not while that woman could be so close.

  Tiptoeing onto the landing to avoid wakening Cotton he was startled to see the kitchen light casting a soft glow into the hallway. He ran down the stairs hollering at the top of his voice,

  “Police officer, you’d better be gone before I get there, or you’re under arrest.”

  Cotton shouted back,

  “Police officer, trying to have a quiet cuppa, so stop yelling”

  Loud laughter chased away the night and the two men settled down to sipping hot coffee while piecing together all they knew about Agatha Moorhead alias Angela Mitchell.

  “If only we could find a tiny hint as to where she could be I’d be a happy man,” Seamus stared at all the paperwork on the table.

  “It has to be here somewhere,” replied Cotton, “Yet I’m damned if I can find it. We must be losing our touch, Seamus.”

  The sun was rising as they dressed; the dark circles under their eyes betrayed the stress they were under.

  “I’d like to go see Maureen again, Eddie, if you don’t mind. See if anyone’s showed up yet.”

  “Be my guest, Seamus, but I have to see to the paperwork for my governor.”

  Meanwhile, Angela was out and about, suitably disguised, buying supplies. She’d bought enough to last her for at least four months, including the wherewithal to bake fresh bread, and her last stop was the newsagent. Certain that boredom would be the bugbear if she had to remain housebound; she’s selected puzzle books, crossword books, reading books and magazines of all types. She had then moved on to the newspapers.

  “Well now, this is a fine selection,” the newsagent said, smiling at her “You going to enter all them competitions are you?”

  “I am in a hurry,” she said quietly.

  Looking at the anger in her eyes he needed no second bidding and was glad to see the back of her, even though she’d spent a fortune.

  Seamus stopped the car just short of Maureen’s house and spoke to the officers who were on watch.

  “Have you anything to report, Johnson, has anyone been calling?”

  “I’ve nothing to report, sir, not yet. We’ve checked out the milkman, postman, and meter reader. We’ve chased away all canvassers or hawkers, and stopped them from knocking on the door.”

  “That should keep Maureen happy!” Seamus smiled, nodded to the men before driving to Maureen’s son’s house. As Seamus raised a hand to knock on the front door he stopped, with his hand hovering in mid-air. He stood like a statue. The officer with him was about to go to his aid when a broad smile lit up his face and he ran back to the car.

  Back at the office Cotton was sitting trawling through the paperwork when Seamus ran in and grabbed a file of statements.

  “What’s up, Seamus, I thought you were going to talk to Maureen?”

  “Just hang on a minute, Eddie, I must find that statement from Alan Denton at the fish factory.”

  Cotton sat in silence as Seamus shuffled through papers.

  “Here it is. I may be on to something here, Eddie.” Excitement shone in his eyes. “I was just about to knock on Maureen’s front door when I remembered Denton mentioned a door in his statement. This is it! He said, and I quote:

  ‘I was so angry I followed her home that night with the crazy idea of smashing all her windows and driving away. By the time we’d reached her cottage I had cooled down and the minute she went in I turned round and drove back. It was a black, shiny door, and the door knocker was a bit over the top, just like her. A giant dolphin it was, big enough for a bloody mansion house door’ unquote.”

  “And?” Eddie raised his eyebrows.

  “Mitchell’s old residence has no door knocker; I’ve just been there. It has never had one. I could tell that that door had been there since the house was built.” he slapped Cotton on the back. “There must be another house somewhere.”

  The two men looked at each other, their lips slowly curving upward into relieved smiles.

  “By God, Seamus, your right, but where do we start?”

  “Let’s go see Denton again. Take a map, maybe he can give us a route.”

  Back at the factory Alan Denton was more than willing to cooperate.

  “If I can help in any way to catch that woman I’ll die a happy man.”

  “If you even remember the direction you travelled in that night, and remember roughly the length of time it took, we may be able to find the cottage.” Cotton told him.

  “Take your time, Alan, and try to think,” said Seamus, trying to appear calm, when all he wanted to do was to get on her trail as quickly as possible.

&nb
sp; An hour later and the two men raced back to headquarters to arrange for officers to check out all residences in the area they had ringed on the map. With their help Alan had given them a thirty mile radius from the factory. He was unsure of the direction of travel near the end of his drive because in the darkness he‘d driven in circles trying to find a main road. But at least they were only left with a small area to search.

  The elation Cotton had felt at the beginning of the thirty or so mile drive was starting to flag yet again. His mood was fluctuating hourly. He was certain that Mitchell’s deviousness was too powerful to allow her to return to her old haunts.

  “Do you honestly think she’ll be stupid enough to be here in some old hang-out, Seamus? We know she’s clever and thinks well ahead, so why would she do such a thing?”

  “I can feel it in my bones, Eddie. That woman thinks she has the upper hand and is probably laughing her socks off at us right this very minute.”

  Seamus Doyle was almost right, but not about her laughter. At that moment, Angela was walking up and down the sitting room feeling miserable. She hadn’t been outdoors since she’d made her purchases, hadn’t watched television, nor listened to the radio, she’d no idea what was happening in the outside world. However, Seamus was right in thinking Angela thought she had the upper hand. She was sure they’d never find her as long as she kept a low profile, and, more importantly, her nerve. After all no one knew about the cottage except her, so how could they possibly find out? But being stuck indoors was depressing her, she craved for freedom. Even being on the run was better than being cooped up like this.

  Slowly a thought developed in her mind, she could use this waiting time writing an account of her life? She like the thought that her exploits wouldn’t be lost to the world if she did. When she died they would find out just how she’d eluded the police for so long. How her cleverness had outwitted them all. How she had made that woman pay for stealing her man. She chuckled to herself, wouldn’t that nice Inspector Cotton get a shock. He’d had tea with a killer and lived.

  She stopped her pacing and, with a broad smile on her face, went into the garage, got a box of papers out, and began her life story.

  The call came in at five fifteen and was passed, without delay, to Inspector Doyle.

  “Good morning, sir, Sergeant O’Conner here. Sorry to disturb your sleep but I thought you’d want to know right away. The whereabouts of the cottage has been discovered by a postman, at least it all adds up to it being that cottage.”

  O’Conner heard the Inspectors rapid breathing.

  “Where the hell is it, Sergeant?”

  “We don’t exactly know, Inspector, the manager of the sorting office, Mr McCauley, rang in ten minutes ago to say one of his men telephoned him, after we had been there, and said he’d found a cottage with the same door described by us and he would report to him on his return to the office.”

  “Pass the news on to Inspector Cotton and tell him I’m on my way to the sorting office and, if I don’t meet him there, I’ll ring to confirm the whereabouts of the cottage.”

  There came the sound of scuffling activity then, “If it is where that woman is hiding I will need you to round up all available men to cordon off the place.”

  Seamus slammed on the brakes and brought the blue Consul to a screeching stop. Hurrying along the panelled passageway of the sorting office he stopped and knocked on a door bearing a copper plaque with the inscription, P McCauley – Manager.

  A voice called ‘Enter’ and Seamus was for the moment reminded of the growling voice of his old headmaster, whom he’d hated without compromise.

  “Have a seat, Inspector Doyle,” there was no salutation, no hand shake, only a pointing finger, yellow stained with nicotine. “You’ll have to wait a while I’m afraid, Bryant is still on his round

  Seamus sat in silence as he listened to McCauley’s pen scratching over the paper the noise added to his constant throat clearing cough and was just about getting unbearable when there was a light tap at the door.

  “Enter,” bawled McCauley.

  A small, happy looking, hobbit of a man entered the room.

  “Good day to you, sir,” the hobbit said on being introduced to Seamus.

  “Tell the Inspector all about your ‘grand discovery’, Bryant,” he took a file from the desk, “In the meantime I’ve work to do so I’ll leave you to it.”

  The impatience must have shown on Doyle’s face because Bryant, the moment McCauley left the room, pointed to a map on the wall.

  “Well now, sir, if I could just have your attention at this here map on the wall I’ll show you where the cottage is.” Pointing to what looked like a wooded area on the map Bryant went on. “You cannot see it from the road at all, but I needed a spot of relief, if you get my meaning, so I walked up a narrow track. As I could see fresh tyre marks in the mud I hid in a bush before unzipping, if you see what I mean?”

  “Yes, yes man! Just get to the point will you?” Seamus snapped at him.

  “Well now, sir, that I will, just wait and see if I don’t,” he cleared his throat as if he were about to sing. “Well! I’m hidden in the said bushes when I hear the sound of a car engine. Peeking out I see a small red car rattling and bouncing along up the track, one of them foreign things. Then, just as I zip up, the engine stops and I hear a car door slam,” he beamed at Seamus, “so I go to investigate, out of curiosity like, and see a small cottage with the very door knocker mentioned in your leaflet” Bryant’s ruddy face glowed with excitement. “I’ll tell you something else, sir, I saw a woman open that very same door with a key, and,” he paused dramatically; “I can describe her – exactly. So what do you think of that then?”

  Seamus Doyle could have kissed the annoying little man but refrained from doing so. With his hands shaking he took out his notebook and, after inviting Bryant to sit at the desk, said,

  “You talk; I’ll listen, that way we’ll get it all down verbatim.”

  For a moment Bryant looked unsure.

  “What’s this here verbatim then, some fancy kind of shorthand?”

  Interview over and a full description of the woman written in his notebook Seamus rose to his feet, clapped Bryant on the back and extended his hand to him.

  “I have to run now but I’ll be back to buy you the biggest glass of Guinness in the whole of Ireland. Thank you.”

  Bryant stood with McCauley and watched the slim form of Inspector Doyle running down the corridor.

  As the wailing sound of the siren faded into the distance McCauley turned his attention to Bryant.

  “Well now, Joseph Bryant, if you’re finished playing Sherlock Holmes you’ll likely want to get off home to that wife of yours.”

  Seamus was positive that the woman Bryant had described to him was Angela Charlton. Hopefully she was unaware of the fact that she had been seen and was still in the cottage. He was anxious that she would be caught before she disappeared again and another poor sod lost their life.

  He put a call through to HQ and put the wheels of justice into action. Sorry as he was that Eddie had still not put in an appearance he decided not to wait for him. They needed to move fast.

  “You’ll be waiting for back-up, sir. You know what this woman is capable of?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, of course I will. I’ll just keep the place under surveillance till you get there.” His voice dropped to a murmur, “I want her in custody – today. I’ve waited a long time for this moment and I’ve no intention of blowing it now.”

  Angela, having fallen asleep in the chair, lay with her notes scattered around her. Snoring gently she was unaware that Seamus, too fearful of her evading capture, had slowly crept on hands and knees from bush to bush and was now below her window. He’d had one heart stopping moment when he’d looked out from one bush to find two bright eyes looking at him.

  His heart began to slow down only when the long bushy tail disappeared into the darkness and the sharp bark of a fox reached his ears. He’d tried
to take a look through the glass but had failed because of the drawn curtains. He crawled to the rear of the cottage and tried the back door. As the unlocked back door opened to his touch it caused a draft that caused Angela to mumble and murmur as she slept.

  Entering what appeared to be a small kitchen, Seamus stood trying to look around him. The blinds and heavy curtain were closed making the room very dark. He took a small torch from his pocket and swiftly flashed it on and off. In the split second of light he made out a door to his right and crept toward it.

  Some instinct, or maybe the click of the torch, alerted Angela to danger. Nerves taut she sat waiting, wishing she’d not fallen asleep, and trying to control her breathing.

  The handle of the sitting room door squeaked gently and she slid from her chair, lowered herself to the floor, and crept behind a pink armchair placed across the corner of the room. Crouched in her hiding place, her ears straining for the slightest sound, she held her breath.

  Suddenly moonlight swept the room as the curtains were quietly pulled open, and then came the soft noises of draws and cupboards being opened and closed. Unaware of her presence the intruder then moved to her desk, picked up some of the scattered pages of her memoirs, and began reading them by torchlight. Whoever it was became so engrossed in reading her papers that they were obviously unaware of her presence.

  With a piercing scream Angela leapt from her hiding place and threw herself at a shocked and flustered Seamus. The papers fell from his hands as he defended his face from her raking nails. Her screaming stunned his mind and froze his brain for a moment. She had the strength of a young man and Seamus was struggling hard to keep her at bay in the cluttered room.

  They crashed to the floor rolling over and over as each of them tried to pin down the other. The coffee table crashed onto its side, the edge of it hitting Seamus’ head with a dull, sickening thud. As the bright twinkling stars swam around his brain his grip on her arms slackened.