The Money Tree Murders Page 12

  ‘Point taken, sir.’

  ‘Keep me posted.’ He returned the phone to its holster.

  Angel rubbed his chin really hard. He was asking Crisp to break into a house to set up listening devices, without a warrant. If he was caught, he would be clearly breaking the law, and the householder, in this case Josephine Huxley, who may be totally innocent of any crime, could bring the matter to court. There would be bad publicity for Crisp and Scrivens but mostly for Angel and the force generally. It needed careful planning.

  He was ruminating on that theme when there was a knock at the door.

  It was Leisha Baverstock. She was carrying a clipboard.

  ‘Come in,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, sir,’ she said. ‘You asked me to check on Vera Malwhinney, Edwin Malwhinney, Hubert Grant and Charles.’

  ‘Yes, Leisha. And did you find anything out?’

  ‘Not from the PNC, sir. There’s nothing there on any of them. And I couldn’t produce anything anywhere for Charles. You have to have his full name.’

  Angel nodded. He was not a bit surprised.

  ‘Anyway, when I inquired at the Inland Revenue about Hubert Grant, HM Revenue and Customs records showed that he was charged at Leeds with an attempt to defraud HM Customs and Excise (as it was known then) of a sum of £22,000 in 1981. He was an on-course bookie at the time, you know. Stood at all the racecourses round here, Doncaster, Lincoln, York, Wetherby, Aintree and so on.’

  ‘Oh, really? So Hubert was a bit of a boy, was he?’ Angel said thoughtfully. ‘Did he do time?’

  ‘No, sir. He got a hefty fine. Double the amount plus another £20,000 and costs.’

  ‘It would be more than a hundred grand. Phew. Right, Leisha. Thank you.’

  She went out.

  Angel was beginning to think that a pattern was developing. The reason why it was not possible to light a fire in the little room at the front of the house might be because there was something blocking the chimney. He wondered if Paul Rose would take heed of his recommendation to have the chimney swept. He consulted his address book, found the phone number of The Brambles, reached out for the phone and tapped it on to the pad. It was soon answered by Helen Rose, who was very affable.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Angel said, ‘thank you. I’ve been making a few inquiries about different aspects of the ghostly things that have been bothering you there, and there is one suggestion I would strongly make. That is to have the chimney swept. In fact, I casually made this suggestion to your husband, Paul, who I saw this morning. In the small room at the front of the house where the fire refuses to be lit, it’s possible that the chimney is blocked or partly blocked, which might significantly affect the drawing ability in the grate. That might be why a fire cannot be lit there.’

  ‘Well, we can do that, of course,’ Helen Rose said, ‘but Cora and I have tried to light fires in that grate several times, and we have noticed that even though we began with dry paper and sticks, they somehow got wet and wouldn’t ignite.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if that’s because of condensation, but I strongly urge you to call a sweep in.’

  ‘Very well. Inspector Angel, I will. At the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘Good. And I’d like to be present at the time the chimney is swept, if you wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘You know you’re welcome here any time,’ Helen Rose said. ‘I’ll certainly let you know when I have found a sweep and arranged an appointment.’

  TWELVE

  DC Ahmed Ahaz was pushing a trolley loaded with letters and packets around the four-storey home of Zenith Television Studios. He was wearing a peak hat with the words ‘Post Room’ embroidered in yellow gilt wire on it and a brown overall with the same words emblazoned in black on the top pocket. Conveniently located in that pocket was his regular police-issue recording machine with a fingertip push-button control so that it could be quickly and easily switched on when needed.

  Ahmed’s heart thumped a little bit harder at every office he had to enter and every time he had to speak to anybody. He hoped it didn’t show. He actually thought he was acting the part quite well and appeared to have been doing the job of post clerk for months rather than hours. He had to make a full tour of all the offices four times a day. Two journeys were to deliver post and two journeys to collect items that had to be posted. He was also called upon to deliver internal post.

  He glanced at the Mitto-Amino watch on his wrist and checked the time. It was 11 a.m. He was right on time, if the watch was correct. He was at the beginning of the second journey of the day, delivering the second post, and had just completed deliveries to the top floor, where the chairman and the company directors had their offices. He was now in the lift travelling down to the third floor, where the makers of the programmes, the producers and directors had their offices.

  He approached the office of Viktor Berezin and noticed that the door was slightly ajar. He pushed the trolley close to it and could hear voices. Two men were arguing. He switched on the little recording machine in his top pocket.

  ‘You should see a doctor,’ the deep foreign voice said. ‘You might need to rest.’

  ‘Can’t do that,’ a lighter voice said. ‘No way. There’s nobody in the world that could take over my job provided that I keep healthy, available and willing, which I most definitely am. Nobody.’

  ‘Don’t vorry, Alan. There are at least a dozen presenters out there that could do the job just as well as you, maybe better.’

  ‘Maybe? But you daren’t risk any one of them, dare you, Viktor? You’re scared the ratings would tumble, and they would.’

  Suddenly the alarm on Ahmed’s wristwatch began to ring out. His heart came up to his mouth and his face went as red as a judge’s cloak. He mustn’t get caught on his first solo undercover job! His heart pounded like a Salvation Army drum. His efforts to cancel the buzzing were to no avail, so he snatched up the letters for Berezin, tapped on the open door and went in. ‘Excuse me, sir. That’s my watch alarm. Sorry but I can’t switch it off.’

  Both men stared at his very red face, then turned away.

  An unhappy Viktor Berezin was seated behind his desk looking as if he had lost a 5p piece through a hole in his pocket, while Alan de Souza was standing at the other side of the desk, one hand in his smart jacket pocket, his nose held high, seemingly smelling the paint on the ceiling.

  The alarm stopped and Ahmed feigned a smile.

  ‘Post,’ he said, and he quickly put the envelopes in the in-tray on the desk in front of Berezin and said, ‘Anything to post, sir?’

  ‘No,’ Berezin grunted.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ahmed said as he came out. He sighed with relief. He seemed to have got away with it. He was buzzing with excitement. He couldn’t wait to find a private corner where he could take out his mobile and transmit the conversation to Angel. He looked at the watch on his wrist. He wished he knew how to operate the alarm.

  It was two o’clock and DS Trevor Crisp and DC Edward Scrivens were in the observation van in the leafy suburbs of Birmingham. Scrivens was putting on his raincoat and hat, while Crisp, through the binoculars fitted on a stand in the back of the van, was watching the side door of Josephine Huxley’s semi-detached house.

  After a few minutes, the door opened and Mrs Huxley came out carrying a plastic shopping bag.

  ‘She’s on her way,’ Crisp said. ‘Wearing that same bottle-green coat with the fur trim.’

  He leaned over, switched on the video camera and returned to the binoculars.

  ‘She’s no taste,’ Crisp added. ‘She may have stacks of money, but she’s no taste.’

  Scrivens, having pulled on his leather gloves, was standing with his hand on the back door handle of the van.

  ‘I’m ready, Sarge,’ Scrivens said.

  ‘She’s come through the gate and turned left, the same as yesterday,’ Crisp said. ‘A creature of habit, I am happy to say. Good luck.’

  ‘I’m off,’ Scrivens said and he opened the van door. />
  He had to walk fast at first to get her in his sights. There weren’t many cars and practically no pedestrians on that gloomy November afternoon.

  Eventually he caught sight of her at the opposite side of the street, carrying the plastic shopping bag, which looked quite heavy.

  She walked pretty fast and Scrivens had to be watchful to maintain a sensible distance behind her.

  She turned left at the end of the street on to a wider road comprising larger houses. Trees were planted every twenty yards or so along it. It led to a shopping precinct of about eight shops. Mrs Huxley stopped momentarily to look in the newsagent’s window. Scrivens also stopped and positioned himself behind a convenient tree, just in case she looked back.

  After a few seconds he edged forward to see her but she had gone. Disappeared. He gasped. He mustn’t lose her. His pulse was racing. It was absolutely vital that he found out how Mrs Huxley occupied her time in the afternoon. He crossed the road, his eyes scanning the shopping precinct like an auctioneer looking for a bidder. He went in each shop in turn and she didn’t appear to be in any of them. Next to the butcher’s at the end was a building with a sign that said ‘Council Offices’. He went in. He saw signs that said ‘Clinic’, ‘Council Tax’ and ‘Library’. He tried the clinic door. It led to a room with chairs on all sides like a waiting room. A young woman was busy knitting something in white. There was a tiny reception window. A girl saw him and she peered through it.

  She giggled and said, ‘Can I help you?’

  Scrivens licked his lips. He didn’t know what to say. ‘What’s that?’ he said.

  ‘Did you want somebody?’

  ‘Is this where I see the doctor?’ he said.

  ‘You can’t see the doctor here this afternoon,’ she replied, still smiling. ‘This is the women’s clinic.’

  Scrivens didn’t care what was happening. He only wanted to know if Josephine Huxley was in any of those rooms beyond. But he couldn’t come straight out with it.

  The door opened behind him and a young woman who was obviously heavily pregnant came in. He looked back at the lady who was knitting and realized that she also was expecting a happy event… . It began to dawn on him where he was. His face coloured up. He now knew why the girl was laughing at him. It also occurred to him that Josephine Huxley was not likely to be there at her age.

  He made for the door. ‘Right … erm, thank you,’ he said, and closed the door quickly.

  He tried the door handle to the council tax office but it wouldn’t open. It was obviously locked. He turned and saw the double swing-doors to the library. He pushed one of the doors and went in, heading to the reception desk. His heart was thumping. He knew DS Crisp would be dismayed if he lost Josephine Huxley, and DI Angel wouldn’t be pleased.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the woman at the reception desk said.

  Scrivens turned round sharply. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I was looking for a book.’

  ‘Oh yes? What’s the title of it?’

  ‘I can’t quite remember,’ he said.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what’s the author’s name?’

  ‘Do you know, I’ve forgotten that as well.’

  ‘Well, what’s it about?’

  ‘Erm … it’s about two men.’

  ‘Two men? Is that all? Aren’t there any women in it?’

  ‘Oh yes. There are two women in it as well.’

  ‘Two men and two women?’

  ‘Erm, yes. And a dog. If I could just come in and take a look round the shelves it might come back to me.’

  ‘Can I see your library ticket, please?’

  ‘Library ticket. Library ticket? Oh yes.’ He made a show of looking through his pockets, then he said, ‘Sorry. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.’

  The librarian leaned forward and in a quiet voice said, ‘Are you registered with the library?’

  As she leaned forward, Scrivens was able to see behind her through an open door of a room marked ‘Reference Library’, and he saw a woman sitting at a long table with a pile of books in front of her, and her nose in another one. She was wearing a green coat with a fur collar. It was Josephine Huxley. Joy upon joy! He was so relieved. He sighed silently. He lowered his shoulders and smiled.

  The librarian’s patience was wearing thin. ‘I said are you registered with the central library?’

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. He was trying to think fast. ‘I’m not sure about that. Do you know, I think I will leave it. Sorry to have been a trouble to you. Good afternoon.’

  He left swiftly.

  The librarian almost boiled over. There was a pile of returned books in front of her. She cooled herself down by checking them off and banging each of them in turn loudly on the counter top.

  Out in the cold, he took up a position across the road behind the trunk of a tree. He expected a long wait. He knew that yesterday she had arrived at her home at 16.52 and, as she lived a ten-minute walk away, she may not come out of the library until 16.42. That meant he may have to wait more than two hours.

  It was five o’clock and Angel was in his office on the phone to Scrivens, who was reporting on his observation of Mrs Josephine Huxley.

  ‘So I had to wait a good two hours, sir,’ Scrivens said. ‘She came out of the library at 16.35 hours and I followed her back home, where DS Crisp spotted her – although it was dark – arriving at 16.45.’

  ‘Well, I expect she was swotting up for the programme next Sunday night, lad. There doesn’t seem to be anything terrible about that. Put me back on to DS Crisp.’

  Scrivens handed the phone to the sergeant.

  ‘Now then, Trevor, I don’t want you to take any unnecessary risks tomorrow. If the circumstances are not right, you’ll have to wait until they are.’

  Crisp said, ‘Well, sir, she got back at almost the same time as the day before, which, if she does the same again tomorrow, will give me a window of two and three-quarters of an hour. I only need ten minutes max. That’s easy peasy.’

  Angel sighed. ‘I hope you’re right, lad. Of course you have still to check out what the son is up to.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’re geared up for that first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Right, Trevor. Speak to you later.’

  He replaced the phone in its holster and reached out for his coat.

  It was ten minutes past eight on Thursday when Tom Huxley came out of the side door of his home into the early-morning November mist and dark clouds.

  DS Crisp was already in the observation van looking through the binoculars at the house.

  ‘Off you go, Ted,’ Crisp said. ‘He’s going in the same direction as he went yesterday.’

  ‘Right, Sarge,’ Scrivens said as he opened the van door. He got out and closed the door quietly.

  Scrivens soon picked him out in the quiet street. He followed him, carefully keeping sixty yards or so behind him on the opposite side of the road. He had no idea where the young man was headed, but as he had left home at about that time the previous morning, it was assumed that he was headed for a place of regular employment.

  Huxley maintained a steady pace through the outskirts of the city for around fifteen minutes, making several turns but in the same general direction. There were a few cars with their sidelights on travelling up and down the gloomy streets and a few pedestrians.

  After turning yet another corner, Scrivens saw the bright lights of a small shopping frontage, where he eventually recognized an illuminated sign indicating a branch of Cheapo’s Handy Market and the illuminated windows of a newsagent’s, a hairdressing salon, a chemist, a bank and an independent butcher’s.

  Scrivens increased his pace so that he did not miss any quick turns Huxley might make if his destination was to be any of the shops. He watched Huxley walk across the front of all the shops and then disappear down a small alleyway at the end.

  Scrivens sped up to the alley and looked down it. There was a door at the end. It was a side door into Cheapo’s. He checked his wa
tch. It was twenty-five past eight. Huxley’s shift must start at 8.30. He noticed the store trolleys outside on the pavement and saw several customers wandering round the aisles. He realized the store was already open and must have been open for some time. He drifted out of the bright lights into the mist and relative gloom of the opposite side of the road, where he could still observe the side door. He remained there for ten minutes then strode boldly across the road, went into Cheapo’s and picked up a wire basket near the door. He sauntered down the aisles trying to look interested in the posters, the groceries, the prices and the special offers. It was some minutes before he saw double doors burst open at the far end of the store and a trolley six feet high loaded with chocolate Father Christmases being pushed along an aisle into the store. A young man in the white and red livery of the store was pushing it from behind. As he passed by, Scrivens was pleased to see that it was Tom Huxley.

  It was ten o’clock when Mr Goode of the All Electric Sweep Company pulled up his three-wheeler van outside The Brambles.

  He knocked on the door and was admitted by Cora Blenkinsop and shown into the little room at the front of the house.

  DI Angel had arrived five minutes earlier and was standing amidst acres of dust sheets covering all the furniture and most of the carpet. He was drinking coffee with Helen Rose.

  Goode looked at Angel and nodded, then looked at Helen Rose and said, ‘This the chimney you want sweeping, missus?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Helen Rose said.

  He took a look at the fireplace, nodded and said, ‘Hmm. That’s an old one but not to worry. This is the All Electric Sweep Company. It won’t take me long and there’ll be no mess. You’ll want to see the brush out of the chimney top, I ’spect?’

  ‘I do,’ Helen Rose said.

  ‘No problem. I’ll tell you when I’m through.’

  He went out to his van and in two trips he brought in bags of brushes, extensions, a vacuum cylinder, a knee pad, a roll of electric cable, and a wide roll of sticky tape.

  Ten minutes later, he had a thick fabric stuck on the black bricks round the mouth of the chimney with sticky tape. Through a small hole in the middle of the fabric was the brush and the vacuum pipe head, and he was beginning the process of screwing an extension piece to the brush handle. He had only screwed one extension to the brush when he found that the brush head had come up against something immoveable. He tried all ways to make headway but to no avail. The object in the chimney, whatever it was, couldn’t be moved.