THE MAN IN
THE PINK SUIT
An enthralling crime mystery full of twists
(Yorkshire Murder Mysteries Book 3)
ROGER SILVERWOOD
Revised edition 2019
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published 2005
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Roger Silverwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
©Roger Silverwood
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Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
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ONE
It was 1 am on Christmas Day, 2003. The sky was as black as a witch’s cat. Squally winds were blowing heavy rain in all directions. Broken tree branches sailed across the hotel carpark, banging on wheel-caps and flapping against expensive bodywork, before flying over cedar-wood fencing.
Two flickering lights shone down from the eaves of the Feathers Hotel, Bromersley, picking up the twinkling reflections of a black taxi gliding through parked cars to the front door of the ivy-covered Georgian building. Rain bounced six inches from the shiny-waxed car bonnet.
The sound of a five-piece orchestra scraping through ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was heard momentarily over the howl of the wind as the glass doors opened and two men and a woman in evening-dress pushed their way through and down the hotel steps. The woman and the larger of the two men were supporting the older, smaller man by his arms. His feet moved uncertainly like a puppet’s and his head was slumped down on to his chest. Heavy blobs of rain showered down on their backs as they packed him into the back of the taxi and closed the door.
The fat woman in a thin, tight dress stood in the pouring rain in the driveway, her hands over her head, trying to protect her twenty-five quid perm. The stark overhead lights did nothing to make her lined face look young. She shuffled her sodden, silver sandalled feet in and out of a shallow puddle.
The man pushed something at her.
Her hand came out like a striking cobra.
‘Ooh, ta, sir. Thank you, and a merry Christmas.’
‘Aye,’ he mumbled.
The woman turned and wriggled her lumpy backside rapidly up the steps and into the hotel.
The big man sped round to the far side of the car and climbed in out of the rain.
‘Where to?’ the taxi driver chirped.
‘The railway station. And make it quick.’
Three minutes later the car pulled into the forecourt of the small, grimy red-brick station, illuminated by a stark white light screwed high up on the crumbling wall. The driver made a semicircle, splashing through a puddle and spraying the pavement. He pulled up by a metal sign fastened to the wall. It clattered noisily as the rain beat on to it. Yellow lights illuminated the blue-and-white letters that simply read: TO TRAINS.
‘There you are, guv.’
The man got out. ‘How much?’
‘That’s a fiver to you, sir, seeing as how it’s Christmas.’
The man sniffed and peeled off a note from a roll in his pocket and pointed to the figure slumped and silent in the back of the cab.
‘Here’s ten. Take him to 61 Sheffield Road.’
The driver smiled like a dead tortoise. ‘Right boss, and a merry Christmas to you.’
The man held down his hat and danced over the puddles to the train waiting in the station.
The taxi driver switched the windscreen-wipers on to full speed and looked back at the somnolent passenger in the back seat. He sniffed, turned his head out of the haze of brandy, and let in the clutch.
It was only a few streets to Sheffield Road; he was there in two minutes. His weary eyes peered between the windscreen wipers and the explosions of raindrops on the glass. The filaments in the streetlights made bright star-shapes on the car bonnet. He rubbed the windscreen with a rag and narrowed his eyes. The road consisted of a few terrace houses and dowdy second-position shops and offices with accommodation above. He leaned forward and peered, trying to read the property numbers. He could make out a sign that said Ogden & Company, Office Suppliers, numbers fifty-five to fifty-seven, then a florist’s shop, number fifty-nine. When he arrived at sixty-one, his eyeballs shot up to his eyebrows, as he picked out the words: HAROLD PEWSKI & SON, FUNERAL DIRECTORS.
He pulled a face and licked his lips. He scratched his head and wondered if he had been given the wrong address. He shrugged. Somebody had to live there.
He pulled on the handbrake and turned round to the comatose brandy-bottle in the back.
‘We’re here, sir. Sixty-one,’ he said tentatively.
The strong, distinctive smell billowed across to the driver’s nostrils.
The passenger didn’t move.
The heavy rain pounded on the car roof like the timpani in the 1812.
The driver leaned over to the back and stretched out an arm to try to reach the man to waken him. It was too far.
‘This is it, Jack. Come on. Look, you’ve had your Merry Christmas. Let me go home and have mine.’
The passenger did not reply.
‘Come on!’ he called loudly. The passenger remained motionless.
The driver looked out at the rain, pulled a face, groaned and banged the steering wheel hard with both hands. He muttered something and it wasn’t Shakespeare. Then he reached down to the shelf under the dashboard, found a baseball cap, pulled it tight on to his head and turned up his suit coat collar. He got out of the cab hanging on to the door, closed it with both hands and turned to face the driving rain. Holding on to his cap, he swiftly leapt over a puddle and round to the back of the taxi. He yanked open the rear passenger door.
‘Here we are, sir. Now come on,’ he pleaded. ‘There’s nothin’ to pay.’
The passenger was propped against the door, and, as it opened, his head and shoulders flopped heavily sideways out of the car. His body followed and then, with increasing momentum, the little man rolled into the gutter with a splash.
He was dead.
*
On the 6th September 2004, Charles Tabor opened the newspaper on his desk and glanced at the front page. The Daily Chronicle was always good for a topical story, especially if it was supported by an uncommon photograph. It specialized in features that embarrassed celebrities and Members of Parliament, and struck out at the establishment.
Tabor’s eyebrows lifted when he saw the photograph of a man on his knees on the pavement by the open door of a limousine. The man’s eyes were screwed up, his mouth open, and his hand was reaching out towards the camera. There was the side view of a woman reaching down to him. She had long fair hair and a short dress, revealing heavy legs. From the reflections and the background, the photograph had been taken in the dark with a flash.
Tabor sat down at his desk to savour the article pri
nted beneath it. He read:
EX ‘BOOZE’ BOSS TRIPS!
Cabinet Minister in the gutter
The Right Honourable Eric Weltham, MP, PC, 45, Minister for R & D slipped on the pavement and fell in the gutter while getting into a car in the rain outside Fenella’s Nightclub in the West End of London last night. The MP for Bromersley South had earlier been seen dancing and dining with his latest girlfriend, Louella Panter, the glamorous host of TV’s newest big money panel game, What’s in it for me?
A photographer, who was passing, covering an unrelated story, took this exclusive pic.
He asked the MP if he was ill and needed a doctor. The cabinet minister said, ‘B***** off.’
The photographer then asked if he had been drinking.
The Minister replied, ‘If you publish that b***** photograph I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got!’
Miss Panter, who tore her tights while assisting Mr Weltham to his feet, bundled him into the car with the help of her young, blond security man, who then drove the embarrassed couple away quickly in the direction of Park Lane.
Visitors to Fenella’s said that the couple had been there more than two hours, and that they had seen the couple drinking and dancing. It was thought that they had consumed several bottles of wine.
Frank P Jones, art critic and bon viveur, known as ‘the man in pink’, who was dining alone, commented: ‘I have no idea who the fat girl is. I have never heard of her or her programme.’
The manager of Fenella’s refused to make any comment.
Eric Weltham was appointed to the newly created Cabinet post last February. Earlier this year, it was reported that his failed drinks and casinos group, Boozers And Winners, went into liquidation with debts of over a million pounds.
His second wife of four years is understood to be seeking a divorce. His twenty-year-old son from his first marriage was charged with drunken driving and given community service in December last.
Eric Weltham has held the seat in Bromersley South for ten years with successively reduced majorities at each of the three elections. At the last election fourteen months ago, his majority was down to 1,805.
The corners of Charles Tabor’s mouth turned up. He nodded several times, lowered the newspaper, folded it and tossed it to the corner of the big desk.
Pretty Ingrid Dooley came through the open office door carrying a letter file. She stood at the desk and looked down at the big man.
‘There’s Mr Coldwell to see you, from accounts, Mr Tabor. And I’ve finished your letters.’
‘Right. I’ll sign them now. He can wait,’ he said, running a hand over his forehead and back over his receding hairline.
Ingrid put the file on the desk in front of him and opened it at the first letter.
Charles Tabor clicked his pen and began reading. He stopped briefly and, without looking up, said:
‘I want you to get me the telephone number of our illustrious MP and cabinet minister, Eric Weltham.’
He sniffed and with a rapid flourish of the wrist, applied his signature to a letter.
‘Do you want me to get him on the line?’
He lifted up his eagle-shaped nose. ‘No. Just get me his London number.’
‘Right, sir.’
He scratched away at the letters, then leaned back from the desk and replaced the top on his pen.
Ingrid closed the folder and picked it up. He pulled a face and sniffed again. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘send Coldwell in.’
She made for the door and came back a moment later, leading a small man.
‘Mr Coldwell, sir.’
‘Come in, Coldwell. Sit down.’
‘Good morning, Mr Tabor,’ the man said with the look of a startled rabbit.
‘Morning. Now, Coldwell, how old are you?’
‘Fifty-eight, sir.’
‘Mmm. Yes,’ Tabor replied heavily. ‘I’m prepared to be very generous to you because of your age.’
The little man blinked and licked his lips. He gripped the arms of the chair tightly.
‘I don’t want to leave, Mr Tabor,’ he said in a small voice.
Tabor glared across the desk at him. ‘You’re making too many mistakes. You have to.’
‘I only made the one, sir. And I found it, and put it right before the accounts were sent out.’
‘One mistake is one too many. Besides that, you are slow. Anyway, I am not arguing about it. As I said, I’m prepared to make you a substantial one-off payment. Call it a golden handshake, if you like. Five thousand pounds. In cash. How’s that?’
Coldwell’s eyes lit up. A big smile expanded his small, round twitching orifice.
‘Most generous, Mr Tabor. Most generous. Well, thank you, sir.’
The big man looked at the door. ‘Ingrid!’
Miss Dooley put her nose round the doorjamb.
‘A discharge form,’ he said, raising a hand.
She nodded and left.
Tabor reached forward on the desk and picked up two keys with shafts ten inches or so long. He crossed the room to a black-lacquered Chinese cabinet set on a marble stand in the corner of the office. He opened the double doors to reveal the front of a steel safe. Thick blue and red plastic-covered wires were fitted across the door of the safe, and threaded round the side to the back, out of sight. He inserted the long keys, one above the other and pushed them deep into the thick casing of the safe. He turned them, and then pulled open the door with a brass handle. He reached in and picked up five Cellophane packets. Each packet was printed: Northern Bank. £1,000. He tossed them on to the desk in front of the starry-eyed man.
‘Oooh. Thank you, sir.’
Tabor locked the safe door and withdrew the keys.
‘You have to sign a receipt absolving the company from any further salary or pension liability. This is payment in full. It includes absolutely all payments due to you. Severance pay, holiday pay, pension rights, everything. And you don’t have to work a notice period. You finish work today. Is that understood?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Tabor. Most generous.’
Ingrid came in with the discharge form.
‘Right. Read it. It’s all written down there. And sign it at the bottom.’
The little man began writing.
‘You want to put that money somewhere safe.’
‘Oh yes, Mr Tabor. I’m not taking any chances. I’ll go straight up to the Mercantile bank with it.’
‘Take a taxi.’
‘Oh? Er, yes.’
‘I shall order one for you.’ Tabor picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘This is Charles Tabor here. Is that the taxi company? I want you to collect a valued ex-employee and deliver him safely to the Mercantile bank … Yes. The bank. Do you understand? He’s leaving my office now.’
He replaced the phone and looked at the little man who was stuffing the money in his pockets.
‘A taxi will pick you up outside the front doors in five minutes,’ Charles Tabor said, then he crossed to another door leading directly into the hallway. He opened it and beckoned the little man to go through it.
‘Oh. Thank you, Mr Tabor, sir,’ he said, nodding and smiling. ‘Thank you very much. Good day to you, sir. Good day.’
‘Goodbye,’ the big man said brusquely and closed the door. He smirked with satisfaction as he returned to the desk. He knew the £5,000 would be back in his safe before the end of the day.
Ingrid Dooley came into the office waving a slip of paper.
‘The private London number of that MP, Eric Weltham, is ex-directory, sir. But I have the number for the Ministry of Research and Development.’
She put the paper on the desk in front of him.
‘Right,’ Charles Tabor said. He reached over to the telephone on his desk. His podgy, soft, manicured fingers stabbed at the phone-buttons.
TWO
‘More brandy?’
Eric Weltham, MP for Bromersley South, held forth the huge glass across the dining-table.
‘Why not
, Charles? Why not?’
Tabor took the six-inch cigar out of his mouth, and poured an adequate triple measure into his guest’s glass and a single into his own.
The MP dragged the napkin up from his lap and wiped his mouth.
‘That was a delightful meal, Charles. I thought I had been to all the best eating-houses in the city, but this is a new one to me. I suppose you have to be a member of the club?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And to get a private room like this, book well in advance?’
Tabor looked down his nose over his spectacles.
‘Or over-tip the restaurant manager,’ he said pointedly.
Eric Weltham thought for a moment and then smiled.
‘Yes. Of course.’ He relaxed back in the chair, sipping the brandy and occasionally shaking his head with eyes half-closed, hoping the lobster would soon find a position in his stomach that it liked.
Charles Tabor pulled at the cigar, drummed his hand on the crisp tablecloth for a few seconds before he broke the silence. He forced a smile and said:
‘You’re good company, Eric,’ he lied. ‘There’s no wonder you’re so popular.’
Weltham looked across the table at him. He shook his head.
‘Popular? Huh! I’m not popular.’
‘Women like you. They flock round you,’ Tabor nodded reassuringly, with a smile that could have been mistaken for a sneer.
‘Don’t talk to me about women,’ he replied, shaking his head.
‘Oh? I couldn’t help but read about your exploits with the delectable Louella Panter.’
Weltham smiled. ‘Ah yes. Now she’s all right,’ he said briefly. He took a sip of the brandy and looked vaguely at the burgundy flocked wallpaper at the far side of the room. He smiled again and shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Women,’ he said for no reason at all.
Tabor pursed his lips, his ears attuned.
‘You should ask my wife about me,’ said Weltham. ‘Oh yes.’ He paused deliberately, and then continued: ‘Oh no. Huh. On second thoughts, you shouldn’t ask my wife about me. You are too much of a gentleman to hear such language!’ He laughed at what he considered was a great joke.
The Man in the Pink Suit Page 1