The Money Tree Murders Read online

  ‘It needs a customs declaration label,’ Berezin said. ‘Haven’t we got one?’

  ‘I’ll have to check,’ the young blonde woman said. She walked slowly out of the office, like a leopard. Ahmed watched her go.

  Berezin looked at Ahmed. ‘Won’t be a minute, young man. We need a customs declaration label. Have you any in the post room?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t really know. I haven’t seen one. I have no idea what they look like.’

  Berezin rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. I show you. I had a package of a videotape sent from New York this morning. The wrapping’s probably in ze rubbish.’

  He bent down, picked up the wastepaper basket and put it on his desk. ‘I shouldn’t have to be doing all zis,’ Berezin grumbled.

  There wasn’t much in the basket but as Berezin fished around in what there was, Ahmed saw a small blue plastic top or cap identical to the one he remembered Angel had been trying to identify. The one left by the murderer under the seat in Jeni Lowe’s car.

  Berezin pulled a face. ‘Nossing here,’ he said. He grabbed the basket and sulkily banged it down at the side of his desk.

  The young woman slinked back into the room. She was all hair, all smiles and waving something at the Russian. ‘We’ve a whole new pad of them,’ she said.

  Ahmed took the opportunity and dived into the wastepaper basket to retrieve the plastic gizmo. He slipped it into his pocket. Nobody seemed to notice.

  Berezin smiled at the woman. Ahmed had not seen him smile before. It was not a convincing sight.

  ‘Give it to ze postman,’ Berezin said.

  She passed the pad of customs declaration labels across the desk to Ahmed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ahmed said and made for the door.

  Berezin called out. ‘Hey! Postie!’

  Ahmed felt his face go red. He stopped and turned.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten somesing?’ Berezin said with another big smile.

  Ahmed frowned. His mouth dropped open. He couldn’t think what he might have forgotten, unless it was something to do with the blue plastic thing he had taken.

  Berezin pointed to the packet to be posted still on his desk. ‘You’ve forgotten zis.’

  Ahmed relaxed his breathing and returned to the desk. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, then he picked up the packet and went out.

  ‘Strange young man,’ the woman said, running a hand through her long blonde hair.

  Ahmed went out of the office bursting with excitement. He was pleased to have the empty lift to himself. As it travelled to the ground floor, he examined the blue gizmo for any giveaway clue as to the owner or what use it could possibly have had. He discovered neither but he knew he must urgently tell Angel about his find.

  Zenith Studio Two, Leeds.

  Sunday 24 November 2013, 9.30 p.m.

  Angel and his wife had just seen an episode of Wanna Be Rich? broadcast live from Zenith Studios in Leeds. Thanks to Ahmed, they had been on the front row of the studio audience. Their hands were sore with all the clapping.

  They had seen Josephine Huxley answer correctly the twelve questions put to her by the charming Alan de Souza, and she had won a further sum of £42,000.

  They had been encouraged by a man in a red suit to clap and applaud vigorously at every twist and turn of the show.

  The show had ended and Angel had turned to Mary and said, ‘I want to go backstage, would you like to come with me?’

  Her bright eyes got brighter. ‘Oh yes,’ she said.

  ‘Come on then,’ he said.

  By the time they had found the right door and been allowed access by studio security, the contestants and Alan de Souza were leaving. There were a few members of the crew standing by.

  As always, de Souza was met by Marie, his gofer with the trolley, who went through the routine of taking his microphone, battery, transmitter and earpiece receiver, and passing him in turn a glass of cool water, his inhaler and a towel.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr de Souza,’ Angel said. ‘May I introduce my wife, Mary?’

  Alan de Souza smiled as he patted his perspiring forehead with the towel. ‘Very pleased to meet you, Mrs Angel. You should come out to dinner with me some evening,’ he said. ‘Preferably when your husband is out on his investigations,’ he added, with a mischievous grin.

  Mary laughed.

  Angel smiled. ‘It could never happen, Mr de Souza. I find it impossible to leave her, even for an evening. Her cooking is out of this world.’

  ‘I thought by definition beautiful women couldn’t cook.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘you have met the exception.’

  De Souza smiled and said, ‘I will let you have the last word, Inspector.’ Then he turned to Mary and said, ‘You will excuse me, my work is not quite done. There are some matters I have to attend to.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr de Souza.’

  ‘And you also,’ he said and rushed off.

  A young man who Angel noticed had been hovering nearby took the opportunity of approaching him. ‘Inspector Angel? You might not remember me. I’m the floor manager here, Jed Morrison.’

  ‘Of course, I do, Mr Morrison,’ Angel said. ‘This is my wife.’

  Morrison looked at Mary and nodded politely. She smiled back.

  ‘Can I ask you … I understand that you’ve had our director, Dennis Grant, arrested for something. What exactly has he done?’

  ‘Well, he’s been arrested on suspicion of attempting to obtain property by deception. Why, what do you know about the case?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Morrison said quickly. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Do you know anything about the death of Jeni Lowe or Antony Edward Abercrombie, then?’

  ‘No. No. You already asked me.’

  Viktor Berezin appeared from nowhere and said, ‘Excuse me, Inspector, if you please, but Jed is wanted urgently by our new director.’

  Morrison looked up. ‘Oh?’ he said. He looked at Angel. ‘Will you excuse me, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course,’ Angel said. ‘Please carry on. We don’t want to be a nuisance.’ He looked at Mary and added, ‘Do we, darling?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mary said.

  Jed Morrison dashed off.

  Berezin turned and began to walk away.

  Angel called after him. ‘Mr Berezin.’

  The Russian looked back. ‘We have nothing to say to each other, I think, Inspector Angel,’ he said. ‘You get me to arrange a job for your young policeman in ze post office here, then you repay me by arresting my director and had him locked up. That meant that I had to replace him at very short notice. I have been frantic vis worry that he could direct the show to standard. But vis my help we have managed it, I think. But please do not arrest anybody else from my show. Good night to you.’

  He turned and walked off.

  It was 8.28 a.m. the following morning, Monday 25 November, when Angel arrived at his office in Bromersley police station.

  His incursion into Zenith Studios the previous evening had not produced any further clues. As far as he could see, none of the suspects there had given themselves away and yet he was positive that the murderer of Jeni Lowe and Antony Edward Abercrombie was either Viktor Berezin or somebody else who worked at Zenith Studios. Furthermore, he believed that whoever it was, he or she was still making money out of Zenith Studios that benefited Josephine Huxley and possibly other smaller winning contestants as well as the crook himself.

  The phone rang. He reached out for it.

  It was Harker, coughing his head off. Eventually he said, ‘Come up here, lad. Straightaway.’

  Angel replaced the phone, pulled a face and got up from the desk. He arrived outside Superintendent Harker’s office, knocked on the door and let himself in. As he expected, the office smelled like a chemist’s shop in a heatwave.

  The superintendent was still coughing and the recurrent tiring effort had caused bright
pink patches to appear on his cheeks.

  He pointed a finger downwards to indicate to Angel to sit down.

  At length he stopped coughing, disposed of the tissue he was holding, and looked across the desk.

  ‘Now then, Angel, have they got back safely?’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘Crisp and Scrivens, lad. They have been on an obbo in Birmingham, haven’t they?’

  ‘Oh. I assume so, sir. On your instructions, I ordered them back. I’m sure they will have returned.’

  ‘I thought you would have known.’

  ‘It’s only just gone 8.30, sir.’

  ‘Do you see your job as an office-hours-only job then? Do you not see – in your role as a senior officer – that your responsibilities do not necessarily end at five o’clock on a Friday and begin again at 8.30 on Monday morning?’

  ‘I am frequently working out of hours, sir. In fact I was working last night until after ten o’clock at Zenith Studios, Leeds.’

  Harker sniffed then said, ‘Did you manage to get yourself in front of the cameras then?’

  Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘It became necessary, as you had taken away my opportunity of listening in on Josephine Huxley, the top winner of the show Wanna Be Rich?, who would of course by now almost certainly – having won an additional £42,000 – have mentioned the name of the one giving her all the answers.’

  ‘That is pure conjecture.’

  ‘The odds are that she or her son would have let it slip. I already have the son on tape confirming that his mother was being given the answers. Why not the name tripping off his or her tongue speaking casually about the person who supplied them?’

  ‘It is still only conjecture.’

  Angel was fuming. ‘Everything that hasn’t yet happened in this life, sir, is conjecture. It stops becoming conjecture when it has become fact. I am talking about the possibility, the probability, the also damned bloody likelihood of what might have happened!’

  Harker stared at him, his purple lips quivering. ‘Are you swearing at me, lad?’

  ‘Not at you, sir. No. I use the word for emphasis.’

  There was a moment or two of silence.

  Harker’s chest heaved. He was having some difficulty breathing. His face was scarlet. His shoulders were hunched and lowered in quick succession. His breathing was laboured.

  Angel wondered if he needed medical attention.

  Harker reached over the desk for something. His fingers fumbled around, searching. He found it. It was a small medicated vapour spray. He pulled off the mouthpiece cover and dropped it on the desk.

  The mouthpiece cover caught Angel’s eye.

  Harker put the inhaler opening to his mouth and pressed the bottom of the canister several times. The aerosol sprayed medicated vapour into his mouth. It travelled along his air passages to his lungs.

  In a few seconds, his breathing became slower. He closed his eyes briefly as he enjoyed the relief. His face was returning to normal, the colour of the lavatory walls at Pentonville.

  Angel reached across the desk and picked up the mouthpiece of the inhaler. He looked at it. Then he reached down into his pocket and took out the one found in Jeni Lowe’s car. He put them together. They were identical.

  His heart leaped and then began to thump as if it was trying to get out of his chest. He remembered the one person on his shortlist of suspects who also used a vapour spray. That person was the murderer of Jeni Lowe and Antony Edward Abercrombie. It was Alan de Souza.

  He looked across at Harker, who was looking round his desk for something.

  Angel still had the two mouthpiece covers in his hand. He held one up. ‘Looking for this, sir?’

  Harker snatched it off him and in a strained voice said, ‘Get on with it then. And remember what I said.’

  Angel’s mind was very busy. There was a lot to do. He couldn’t help but think that that was the first time Harker had ever assisted him in solving a case.

  As he arrived at his office, Crisp and Scrivens were waiting for him.

  ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Got an urgent job for you two. First get a warrant to arrest Alan de Souza for the murder of Jeni Lowe and Antony Edward Abercrombie. Then go to Zenith Television and arrest him.’

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

  It was Don Taylor. ‘I’ve had an email this morning from the lab in Wetherby reporting that the DNA of the hair and hair follicles on the black coat, stovepipe hat and the silk skirt found in the cavity at the back of the Roses’ wardrobe match that of Dennis Grant.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Thank you, Don. That makes that case cast iron. I will advise the CPS.’

  ‘I thought you’d like to know, sir.’

  Angel replaced the phone.

  It was an hour later, at 10.30 a.m., when the phone rang again. Angel reached out for it. It was Crisp ringing from Leeds. ‘De Souza is not here, sir. He hasn’t turned out for work. There’s always a meeting of the key people of the show at ten o’clock the morning after transmission. Well, he’s not shown up for it, which is very unusual.’

  Angel didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Who have you been speaking to?’

  ‘Mr Berezin’s secretary, sir.’

  Angel frowned. ‘I didn’t know he had one. What’s her name and what does she look like?’

  ‘Didn’t catch her name, sir, but she has long blonde hair and a pasty face.’

  ‘Don’t know her,’ Angel said. ‘Well, find out de Souza’s home address and follow it through, quick as you can. Also ask them if there is any club or place where he might have sought shelter or accommodation. Girlfriend or relation. We must find him.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel tapped in Ahmed’s mobile number. It rang a long time before he answered. ‘Is it all right to talk, Ahmed?’

  ‘I’m in the lift on my own. I’m OK for a minute, sir.’

  ‘Well, quickly, I have sent DS Crisp and DC Scrivens to arrest Alan de Souza but they can’t find him. Have you any idea where he might be?’

  ‘No, sir. Is he the murderer?’

  ‘Yes, lad. I believe it’s cut and dried but we’ve got to find him. So I want you back here ASAP. Make it all right with the people in Human Resources and come home.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel replaced the phone and rubbed his chin. Perhaps de Souza, anticipating his arrest, had run off somewhere. Perhaps he was at home, ill? Perhaps the moon was made of Strangeways’ Yorkshire pudding. It was no good, he would have to be patient. There was a lot of desk work to be done, so he reached out to the pile.

  About an hour later, Angel’s phone rang again.

  It was Crisp. ‘De Souza’s not at home, sir. We broke into his flat on the outskirts and it looks as if he might have packed a bag and left in a hurry. We’ve asked the neighbours. They know him but they’ve no idea of his likely whereabouts.’

  Angel sighed. That’s about the worst that could have happened. A rich young man not burdened with familial ties could so easily disappear to some other part of the world and start up a new life if he wanted.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Inside his flat, sir.’

  ‘Any photographs of him anywhere around? Is his passport there? Have a look. Set Scrivens on it. I’ll hold on.’

  Two minutes later, Crisp said, ‘No, sir. We can’t find any photographs at all. And his passport isn’t here.’

  Angel blew out a yard of air. It didn’t look good. ‘Right. Go back to Zenith TV and see Berezin. Or that blonde with the pasty face and the long hair. Ask them for a recent photograph of de Souza, the sort of thing we can copy and give out to the newspapers and television news.’

  ‘You going to make a national appeal, sir?’

  ‘If you don’t find him, Trevor, there’s no alternative. He’s a murderer on the loose.’

  SEVENTEEN

  After a hectic Monday morning, Angel had an equally hectic afternoon. He no
tified the press and the television people that Alan de Souza was wanted for murder, he furnished them with a recent photograph and he requested them to ask the public for help in finding him. The sound and television media had already run the story from six o’clock that evening, and the national daily papers were running it in their first editions this coming morning.

  He also notified all the airports, seaports and UK border guards.

  Having done all that he could do, Angel went home to the beautiful Mary, had a meal, watched an hour of TV, and was now in bed sleeping the sleep of the good.

  That late November night, the sky was bright, the stars were sparkling, and Jack Frost was casting his cold spell over the paths, roads and roofs of the land.

  In the distance, a church clock chimed three. Angel opened his eyes. He was wide awake. He turned his head to the left to check the clock on his bedside cabinet. The luminous paint on the hands indicated that it was either a quarter past twelve or three o’clock. He was inclined to agree with the church clock. He then looked to his right. He couldn’t see Mary, but he could hear her gentle even breathing. She sounded fine.

  Then he heard a noise he couldn’t explain. It sounded like a pan being knocked off the pan stand in the kitchen. It was easily done. You only had to brush by and catch a pan handle that might be sticking out a little way and down the pan went, landing on the tiled kitchen floor, making a fair old rattle.

  Keeping very still, he listened. A few seconds later, he heard another noise. His heart began to thump. Somebody was downstairs. He regularized his breathing and whisked back the duvet. He pushed his feet into his slippers and made his way silently out of the bedroom, along the landing and down the stairs. As he reached the bottom step, he saw flickers of light and shadows from a small torch in the sitting room. He silently approached the door and saw a figure with long blonde hair and a pasty complexion. The figure had pulled open the sideboard drawer and was looking inside it. Angel swiftly made his way into the room behind the settee across to the library table and switched on the reading lamp. The intruder turned back from the sideboard and gasped.