The Money Tree Murders by Roger Silverwood

Author:Roger Silverwood
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Robert Hale
Published: 2014-12-04T11:36:40+00:00

Angel began to read Sergeant Edwards’ detailed report on Jeni Lowe’s car. He already knew the pertinent facts about the cause of the crash, the damage, the finding of the blue plastic cap under the nearside front seat and the discovery of fresh fingerprints lifted from inside the car. What he didn’t know was the identity of the person. The report said that the fingerprints were not those of Antony Edward Abercrombie, ‘known to be associated with the case’, nor were they available at records, so Angel knew the person had not been through the criminal system.

He eased back in the swivel chair and rubbed his chin.

The phone rang.

‘Angel,’ he said.

‘It’s Trevor Crisp, sir, reporting in.’

Angel leaned back into the swivel chair. ‘Good lad. Have you found the woman’s house?’

‘Yes, sir. It’s a semi-detached, small garden, on a leafy outskirts of Brum. There’s hundreds of them. All look the same. We’re in the van and parked at the opposite side of the road to where she lives. Camera is all set up. We’ve been here about an hour. Haven’t seen a person who could be Josephine Huxley yet. Or anyone else in the house, if there is anybody in.’

‘Right, Trevor. Is Scrivens all right?’

‘Yes, sir. At the minute he’s got binoculars on the windows hoping to get a glimpse of life.’

‘Hmm. Well, you know what you have to do? Don’t take any stupid risks.’

‘Oh no, sir. We’ll wait for an opportunity.’

‘Right, lad,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll leave it with you. Ring me when you have anything to report.’

He replaced the phone. It immediately rang again.

He snatched it up. ‘Angel,’ he said.

It was Superintendent Harker.

‘Angel, I want you up here straightaway,’ he said.

‘Right, sir,’ Angel said.

Harker banged down the phone.

Angel wasn’t pleased. He looked as if he’d caught the smell of the gravy in the cook house in Strangeways.

He replaced the phone and pushed the chair away from the desk. He wondered what Harker wanted. It was never anything pleasant. Always a grumble; never appreciation or thanks.

He trudged up the corridor to the door, knocked on it and then pushed it open. He was met with the usual menthol-smelling fug.

‘There you are,’ Harker said from behind the barricade of files, letters, reports, boxes of Kleenex, Movicol and Co-codamol. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to the chair opposite. ‘I’ve been trying to keep abreast of your progress, or lack of it, with the murders of this young woman Lowe and the man Abercrombie, and I don’t understand why on earth you have sent Ahaz undercover to the television company. We are very short-staffed here, and I am not certain that that was at all necessary. Are you still trying to edge your way into becoming a television star? You’ll be doing commentaries and documentaries on crime for them next, like that man, years ago, Edgar Lustgarten.’

‘Nothing could be further from the truth, sir. There is enough evidence to indicate that the murderer is a member of the staff of a particular programme made and transmitted by the company.

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