The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  Tabor permitted his lips to turn up at the corners slightly. After a moment, he sniffed and then said quietly:

  ‘Women can be so unreasonable.’

  ‘I’ll say,’ Weltham replied, coming out of the glass. ‘It’s funny you should say that, Charles. Yes. Funny you should say that,’ he replied, swilling the brandy around. ‘Have you any idea what my wife wants in the way of a settlement?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She wants the house, and a five-figure sum, annually, until she’s seventy-five! What do you think to that?’

  Tabor screwed up his eyebrows and shook his head slightly. ‘And what’s more,’ Weltham continued. ‘She wants it index-linked to the cost of living!’

  Tabor pursed his lips in sympathy.

  ‘She’s been watching too much bloody politics on television!! I didn’t know she knew what index-linked meant. What’s happened to equal rights? It would be cheaper to stay married to her!’

  Tabor nodded.

  ‘And I might just have to do that,’ Weltham muttered. ‘Dammit!’ He stuck his nose in the glass again. ‘I’m still paying my first wife, Greta,’ he continued after a slurp. ‘Now there was a woman. A real woman. She’s still got her looks, as well. She’s forty-two, you know. She’s the mother of my son, Charles. My only son. Mmm. Yes. And he’s costing me a fortune at that poncy university. I tell you, it’s all pay, pay, pay!’

  ‘But you get a good screw as a cabinet minister, Eric?’

  ‘I do. I do. But it is soon spent. You have to keep up with everything, you know. And I have commitments. I have to keep three homes going. And it’s not like living in Bromersley, you know. My flat in Westminster costs me a bomb.’

  ‘But there are perks.’

  ‘Perks? The only perks I get is the chauffeur and car.’ He dived into the glass again and drained it. Then he added quickly: ‘So I get a free trip to Swansea or Todmorden or somewhere now and again. So what? If it was Monte Carlo or Rio de Janeiro, then that would be something, wouldn’t it? Hey! Is there any more brandy?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Plenty.’

  Tabor picked up the bottle and discovered it was empty. His eyebrows went up. ‘Oh. Soon fix that.’

  He picked up the small gilt bell on the table and shook it. It made a little, high-pitched tinkle.

  ‘I’m sure things will go well for you from now on. After all, ten years ago — isn’t it? — you were working in a glass-factory: now you’re a cabinet minister! If that isn’t a success story, I don’t know what is.’

  A bald-headed waiter came in with a crisp towel over his sleeve. Charles Tabor was waiting for him. He held the empty brandy-bottle out to him.

  ‘Fill that up, will you, son?’ he said. ‘And make it quick.’

  The waiter nodded and went out.

  Weltham swirled the empty brandy-glass round.

  ‘That’s true. I’ll be all right if I can retain my seat and my office at the next election. If the government becomes unpopular, as they do, after three terms in office, it’ll not be easy hanging on to a marginal like Bromersley South, I can tell you.’

  ‘There’s some years to run of this government, Eric. As a high-profile cabinet minister and Privy Councillor, you’ll become even better known than you are now. That exposure will provide you with all kinds of opportunities to mix in commercial circles and increase your earnings capacity for the time when you retire from politics.’

  ‘I expect you are right, Charles. I expect you’re right,’ Weltham said, clearly unconvinced. He shook his head several times and then said: ‘But you see, old chap, I need funds now!’ He swung the glass in the air. ‘Where’s that brandy?’ he called.

  ‘It’s coming.’

  This was the opportunity Tabor had been waiting for. He rubbed the lobe of an ear between finger and thumb.

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Mmm. As a matter of fact, I may be able to help you there, Eric.’

  Weltham’s eyes clicked open.

  ‘Help me? That would be nice, for someone to help me for a change.’

  ‘Oh yes. Why not? We are friends aren’t we?’

  ‘What have you in mind?’ Weltham asked brightly.

  Tabor pushed a plate and knife away from him.

  ‘As you know, my business in Bromersley is doing very well. I don’t intend to let the grass grow under my feet. I’m in an expansionist mood, Eric. Computers are here to stay. They are the commercial miracle of today. I am going upwards and onwards.’

  Weltham nodded. ‘Why not? Why not? Strike while the iron’s hot! Make hay while the sun shines, what?!’

  Charles Tabor beamed. His quarry could not have spoken a truer word. He licked his lips, leaned forward as he began to set the trap.

  ‘I have noted with obvious interest the advertisements for tenders to supply your ministry, Research and Development, with several hundred computers, printers and scanners.’

  Weltham screwed his eyebrows upwards and grunted. ‘Oh yes. Yes.’

  ‘And I am in the business,’ Tabor smiled.

  The MP pursed his lips. ‘Oh. But I can’t do anything about that, Charles,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘I know. I know. Hear me out.’

  ‘Where’s the brandy?’

  On cue, the waiter came in with the bottle on a silver tray. He went over to the service table, wrapped the bottle in a towel and began to withdraw the cork.

  ‘Requisitions of that sort are matters entirely for the Civil Service,’ Weltham said as he pulled the cigar out of his mouth and looked round at the waiter. ‘Yes. They’re for my ministry, but I just rubber-stamp their proposals.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. I thought that would be the case. But, you do see the tenders, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The waiter came forward with the bottle held at the ready.

  ‘Brandy, sir?’

  Weltham held up his glass. The waiter poured a generous measure.

  ‘That’s it, son,’ Weltham said, pulling the glass away from the bottle and up to his lips.

  The waiter turned to Charles Tabor. ‘For you, sir?’

  ‘Put the bottle down and leave us,’ Tabor said brusquely. He waved the man away.

  ‘Very good, sir. Will there be anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  The waiter bowed and made for the door.

  ‘Well, Eric, if I knew the contents of the other tenders, I would easily be able to meet and beat their prices and terms. The only serious competition I have is from American companies. Well, I don’t have to deliver from the other side of the world. My production costs in Bromersley are far lower than theirs. And my prices are much lower than theirs. And my business is all British capital, you know. It isn’t a British office selling parts of US patterns with US money. Oh no. And do you know, Eric, the savings I would make on landing this order, this year alone, would amount to around a hundred thousand pounds. If I secure the order, it wouldn’t half please your constituents, wouldn’t it? To know that their jobs were even more secure, eh?

  ‘Of course, some of your constituents work for me. Wouldn’t they be pleased if they knew you were the blue-eyed boy who helped to secure their jobs and pushed work locally? It would go down well at the next election, too, wouldn’t it? It would drive your popularity up. It would certainly mean more votes! And I could pass that saving on to the one who had the wisdom, the foresight and the patriotism to help me keep that order here in Britain, in Bromersley, in your constituency. And I could pass that saving on to you!’

  Eric Weltham’s jaw dropped.

  ‘What? Did you say, a hundred thousand pounds?’

  ‘That’s this year. Could be more next year. What with repeats, add-ons, service, etcetera. And all I need is sight of the other tenders. That’s all. In fact, I don’t need to see the originals. Photocopies would do. The originals need never leave your office.’

  Weltham breathed in deeply and expired noisily.

  ‘It sounds very risky.’
r />   ‘Not at all. There’d be absolutely no risk if I paid you in cash, would there.’

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘Yes. Literally cash. Tens. Twenties. There’d be no trace back to its source. Nothing in writing. No witnesses. No third party. No leaks. What could go wrong?’

  Weltham rubbed his chin. His thumb and fingers excitedly danced on the stem of his glass.

  Charles Tabor’s dark-blue eyes stared across at him observing every reaction. He leaned forward. ‘You could pay your wife off,’ he added. ‘Pay your son’s expenses at university. And, in the highly unlikely event of your not being returned at the next election, it would help cushion any loss of office, wouldn’t it.’ He slapped down an open hand on the tabletop. ‘And think of the honeymoon you and Miss Panter could have with that sort of money. And nobody has to know anything about it.’

  Charles Tabor reached out for the brandy-bottle, poured himself two fingers, drank it in one gulp and replaced the glass firmly on the table with a flourish.

  ‘Just think about it, Eric,’ he said blowing a cloud of smoke across the room.

  Weltham pursed his lips and said nothing. His pulse raced. His thoughts whizzed round his head faster than a bee in a bottle.

  *

  The telephone rang.

  ‘CID. Cadet Ahaz speaking,’ the young man said in a very precise voice. ‘No sir. Detective Inspector Angel is with the chief constable.’

  Ahmed Ahaz felt a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Not any more, lad. I’m here. What is it?’ the DI said brusquely.

  He looked up from his chair at the big man.

  ‘Oh.’ He turned back to the phone. ‘Please hold on, sir.’

  ‘Who is it?’ growled Angel.

  ‘It’s the super. He wants to see you. It’s very urgent.’

  Angel’s bushy eyebrows moved upwards.

  ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’ He left the office and shot down the olive-green police-station corridor to the last door on the right. A printed plastic sign was screwed on to the door. It read, SUPERINTENDENT J. HARKER. Angel knocked, opened the door and pushed his head into the little office.

  Another big man with a head shaped like a turnip, and with short white hair was seated at a desk. He waved Angel in as he replaced the phone.

  ‘You wanted me, John?’

  ‘A woman has just rung in. Triple-nine call. A secretary. Ingrid Dooley. A man has been shot in an office at Tabor Industries. On that new industrial estate.’

  ‘I know it.’ Angel turned to go.

  ‘She’s sent for an ambulance. I’ll send forensics, SOCOs and some uniformed.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ He closed the door and hurried up the corridor to the CID room. The door was wide open. He glanced inside. It was unusually quiet. Three plain-clothes men were in a corner in deep conversation. The young Cadet Ahmed Ahaz, was seated at the computer on a long bench-table near the door, concentrating on the screen and tapping the keys.

  ‘Where’s DS Gawber, lad?’ Angel puffed.

  Ahmed turned round. ‘He’s gone to the hospital, sir.’

  ‘What?’ roared Angel. ‘What for?’

  ‘Fell down, sir.’

  ‘Fell down?’ Angel roared again.

  The three detectives at the far end of the room looked across. Angel noticed but ignored them.

  ‘He was coming in through the back entrance and slipped on that sloping path on the ice,’ Ahmed explained. ‘It was a nasty fall.’

  ‘Did you see it happen?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well how do you know it was a nasty fall?’

  Ahmed gawped at him.

  ‘Never mind. See if you can raise him on his mobile. Tell him to meet me at Tabor Industries, smartish. A man’s been shot.’

  Cadet Ahmed Ahaz’s jaw dropped. ‘Shot, sir?’

  Angel turned to leave. He turned back. ‘Have you got that, lad?’

  ‘Oh. Yes sir.’

  ‘Well do it then!’ bellowed Angel.

  ‘Yes sir.’ Ahmed’s eyes flashed as he reached out for the phone.

  Angel arrived at his own office, put on his raincoat, shoved his leather-backed notepad in his pocket and went through the rear exit, down the slope and into the yard.

  He knew that the Tabor Industries factory was sited on the Northrop industrial estate north of Bromersley. He pointed his car in that direction and was on the estate service-road in four minutes. He soon found the place. It was a large, new, brick-built factory with the words: TABOR INDUSTRIES, in bold letters within a huge outline of a computer as its logo, fixed to the front wall. The high roof was covered with melting snow which was slithering down the tiles. An ambulance was standing on a yellow-hatched area, by the entrance. Angel speeded up to park his car alongside it. Water from thawing snow dripped on his neck as he reached the big glass automatic doors which opened in front of him. He glanced down the entrance hall. The area was deserted. It was bright, clean and businesslike, warmly illuminated by six concealed wall lights. At the far end was a long counter with the word Reception above it.

  Behind the desk, lights from a small PBX flashed impatiently. On one side of the counter was a lift door and on the other an open staircase with a pedestal sign with the words ‘To Offices’. A big palm-tree in a small pot stood at the bottom of the stairway. Suspended from the ceiling and focused on him was a CCTV camera. He made for the stairs and was soon at the top. There were four doors on the landing, all wide open. He could hear hushed voices as he reached the nearest door. He rushed into the office and quickly took in the scene.

  Two ambulance men were kneeling, attending a man on a green flowered carpet by a large desk. One man was unwrapping a stethoscope, the other pressing a padded dressing over the man’s chest. Bright red streaks of blood marked his shirt, his coat and the carpet. The man’s eyes were closed. He was very still. He had lost a lot of blood.

  Angel pursed his lips and shook his head. He looked around the room. Four young women were huddled in one corner of the office, whispering and occasionally glancing towards the man on the floor. A man in a white coat and a pretty woman stood anxiously near the desk, also looking down at the bleeding man. The young woman was dabbing her face with a handkerchief from time to time. This was a large, expensively furnished office with one big desk, a swivel-chair and four other chairs, a filing-cabinet and a black Chinese cabinet against a wall. Behind the desk, a big window overlooked a double-glazing factory on the opposite side of the road next to a wholesale stationers at the side of a petrol service-station. The office had three doors, one in each of the other interior walls. A red light flashed irregularly from a CCTV camera high in the corner of the room directed towards the desk.

  As Angel made for the medics, the young woman left the man in the white coat and came over to him.

  ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She put her hand up to mouth. It was shaking slightly.

  ‘I phoned you. I dialled 999.’

  Angel said, ‘Just a minute, love.’

  He went over to the side of the desk where the injured man lay. He leaned over the shoulder of one of the ambulance men, who had a stethoscope on the man’s chest. ‘I’m DI Angel, Bromersley CID,’ he said quietly. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Give us a minute, guv.’

  ‘Right.’

  Angel turned back to the young lady and pointed at the bloodied man on the floor.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Mr Tabor. The boss. My boss.’

  ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Ingrid Dooley, his secretary.’

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘No. I was out of the office at the time.’

  The young man in the white coat and spectacles came over. ‘Is he going to be all right? I’m his son, Mark Tabor.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Angel said quietly. ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel noticed the ambulance men packing up the
ir instruments. He leaned over to them.

  ‘How bad is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Gunshot wound. He’s in a bad way. We’ll have to move him. We can’t do any more for him here.’

  ‘Mmm. Is he conscious?’

  ‘He keeps slipping in and out.’

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘You can try. We’ve got to get him to theatre.’

  They dashed off carrying bags.

  Angel’s eyes followed them out of the door. He dropped down on his knees and eased his head right up close to the man. Despite the loss of blood, the man’s face was red. He had a big nose and there was a crease on the bridge where his spectacles had rested. His mouth was partly open but Angel couldn’t detect any breathing.

  He looked up at Ingrid Dooley and Mark Tabor.

  ‘What’s his name in full?’

  ‘Charles Tabor,’ replied Ingrid.

  Angel leaned close to the man’s ear.

  ‘Can you hear me, Mr Tabor?’

  There was the slightest grunt.

  ‘Who did this to you, sir?’

  Another grunt.

  ‘Mr Tabor. We can catch him, if we know who it is. What is his name? Whisper it.’

  Angel quickly put his ear an inch away from Tabor’s lips.

  He waited. There was something. Angel’s eyelids lifted momentarily then lowered.

  The ambulance men bustled in purposefully with a stretcher.

  Mark Tabor pushed forward again.

  ‘What did he say? Did he say anything?’ he asked eagerly.

  Angel pursed his lips.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’ He raised himself up from the carpet and pulled away, rubbing his chin. He wandered thoughtfully over to the four women in the corner. They turned towards him. ‘Did any of you see what happened?’

  They crowded round him. Ingrid Dooley and Mark Tabor joined the group.

  A young red-headed woman spoke up confidently.

  ‘I saw it. It was the Man in the Pink Suit.’

  ‘Yes. Yes,’ said the others.

  Out the corner of his eye, Angel saw the ambulance men manoeuvre the stretcher with Charles Tabor aboard through the office door and out of the room.

  Another woman said, ‘Yes. I saw it. It was him. Him that’s on the telly. Does programmes about ‘Art’ an’ that. Yes. They call him the Man in the Pink Suit.’