The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  Another woman added: ‘I saw it too. His proper name’s Jones. Frank P Jones. Lives local. It’s dreadful. In broad daylight. Disgrace.’

  The other women muttered agreement.

  ‘He didn’t try to hide who he was, or anything.’

  ‘It’s not safe to go out at nights in Bromersley.’

  ‘It’s not safe to come out to work in daylight!’

  ‘What’s it all coming to?’

  Angel looked at the red haired woman. ‘Well, what did you actually see?’

  Her eyes opened wide, she held out her arms in front of her. She swallowed and said: ‘I saw everything. He came in and shot Mr Tabor.’

  ‘I saw it too.’

  ‘And I did.’

  ‘It was awful.’

  They all started talking at once and then Angel became aware that people were approaching him from behind. It was Dr Mac and two of his scenes-of-crime team.

  ‘Your case, Mike?’ asked the pathologist.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Angel.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘A man called Charles Tabor was shot and he’s just been taken to the hospital.’ He pointed to the door. ‘You could have passed him.’

  Mac looked down at the carpet by the desk.

  ‘Mmm. Blood.’ He sniffed. ‘Was he shot here?’

  Angel pointed to the floor. ‘There.’

  Mac’s mouth tightened. He glanced round the room, stuck out a thumb at all the people there and said:

  ‘This is a crime scene, Mike.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Angel said impatiently. ‘I’ll clear it. But I’m here on my own. Have you seen Gawber anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  Angel saw an open door at the other end of the office. He turned to Ingrid Dooley.

  ‘Where’s that lead to?’

  ‘That’s my office.’

  ‘Did the man with the gun come through there?’

  ‘No. They said he came through the general office. That’s through that door.’ She nodded towards the opposite door. ‘Right. I’ll use your office then, if you don’t mind.’

  Ingrid Dooley nodded. ‘I’ll go out. I feel a walk will do me good.’

  Two uniformed policemen arrived at the door. Angel sighed and waved a hand. One of them came across.

  ‘Are you in charge, sir?’

  ‘Yes, lad. And this is the crime scene. Get everybody out of here and out of that office next door.’ He turned to the other officer. ‘Come with me. Have you seen DS Gawber in your travels?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Angel shook his head and growled. He led the way into Ingrid Dooley’s small office. He dropped his hat on top of the filing cabinet, turned and leaned back against the desk.

  ‘I’ll see those five women and the man one at a time, Constable. Will you wheel that red hair in first?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  The red-headed young woman stood hesitating in the doorway.

  ‘Ah yes. Come in, love. What’s your name?’

  ‘Elizabeth Cracken.’

  ‘Right, Elizabeth. What did you see?’

  ‘I work in the general office through there. I was doing my work. I’m an accounts clerk. I was sat at my desk, working at a computer when the door opened and the man came in.’

  ‘Did he knock?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How was he dressed?’

  ‘Like I said. He was dressed like he is on television. In a pink suit.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Erm … A straw-hat. Sunglasses.’

  ‘What else? Pink shoes?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t notice his shoes.’

  ‘Pink tie?’

  ‘Yes. Dickie bow.’

  ‘Pink shirt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure about all this, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He opened the door into Mr Tabor’s office and went in. My desk is opposite the door so I could see what happened.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I heard Mr Tabor shout something and I saw him stand up. The man in pink went right up to the front of the desk and pulled a gun out of his pocket. He pointed it at him, fired it once, then, still carrying it in his hand, he came back out of Mr Tabor’s office through our office and out into the corridor.’

  ‘What was the gun like?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about guns. Only what I’ve seen on films. Small, I suppose, and black.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Tabor fall?’

  ‘Yes. It was awful. It was frightening. When I heard the gunshot, I ducked down behind the desk.’

  ‘So you didn’t actually see the man come back through your office and out into the corridor.’

  ‘Yes I did. I was on the floor peeping over the top of the desk. I saw it all.’

  ‘Are you absolutely positive it was this man in pink, the one on television?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ll be asked to make a statement. And sign it.’

  ‘Yes. I expect so.’

  Angel smiled and nodded. A good witness, he thought. No shilly-shallying. She knows what she saw and isn’t afraid to say so.

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  ‘Can I go?’

  ‘Leave your address before you go home, will you?’ Elizabeth Cracken left the room.

  ‘Constable!’ Angel called.

  The policeman showed his nose through the door. ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Show the next witness in, will you?’

  A young blonde lady came in.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Rachel Honeycutt.’

  ‘What did you see, Rachel?’

  ‘I’m the receptionist. I work at the front desk, downstairs. About an hour ago, that TV star, the man in the pink suit, came through the glass doors, passed me and he flew up the stairs. When I realized he was bypassing me, I called after him. He ignored me. Mr Tabor was a stickler for not allowing visitors into the building unannounced. I was in the process of moving some papers so that I could leave the desk and come upstairs to find him, when I heard a loud bang. I thought it must be a gun. Immediately after that, the man in pink came running down the stairs waving a gun in his hand, like in a cowboy film. He went straight out of the door.’

  ‘Can you describe the gun?’

  ‘Wasn’t very big.’

  ‘Hmm. How was he dressed?’

  ‘Like he is on the television. Pink suit. Straw hat. Pink carnation in his buttonhole. Sunglasses. You know.’

  ‘What else?’

  Rachel Honeycutt screwed up her eyebrows. ‘Pardon?’

  Angel said: ‘What colour was his shirt and tie?’

  ‘Pink, I suppose.’

  ‘And his shoes?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘Were they pink?’

  She shook her head. ‘I think I would have noticed if they were pink. I don’t think they were pink. But there was something a bit different about them. They were brown, I think. Yes. Brown.’

  ‘Brown leather?’

  She thought a moment. ‘Do you know, Inspector? I think they were suede.’

  Angel smiled. ‘You seem pretty sure about everything else.’

  ‘I am. Whatever he was wearing, he looked just like he does on the telly.’

  ‘What did you do then? Did you follow him outside?’

  ‘No. I went straight upstairs to see what had happened. I thought I might be in for trouble.’

  ‘You didn’t see what happened to him when he went outside. If he got in a car or whatever?’

  ‘No. I never thought. I was anxious to find out what had happened upstairs.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Right, Miss Honeycutt, thank you.’ He turned to the constable. ‘I’ll see Mr Mark Tabor next.’

  The young man with the glasses came in. His head was shaking slightly.
<
br />   ‘Do you know how he is, Inspector?’

  ‘No, lad. I don’t. Forgive me pressing you at this time. Did you see what happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmmm. Did your father have any enemies?

  ‘Obviously, this man,’ Mark Tabor muttered angrily. ‘This man in the pink suit. He’s a queer, isn’t he? Must be mental. This Frank P Jones.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘I believe there was an outstanding debt. Jones wouldn’t pay for something he’d ordered. It goes back a long way. I’m not very sure about it. Dad deals with the accounts and all things like that. I’m responsible for the works: production and dispatch.’

  ‘Right. If you remember any more about this, will you let me know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Was there anybody else who might have a grudge against him?’

  ‘You always make enemies in business, Inspector. I don’t know of anybody in particular who would feel like this about Dad.’

  ‘Where were you at the time of the shooting?’

  ‘I was in my office in the factory, sorting through some orders.’

  ‘Did you hear the shot?’

  ‘No. My office is on the ground floor at the other end of the building. When I heard, of course I came running up to see what had happened. It must have taken a few minutes for the news to reach me. Actually, somebody in the general office came through on the phone.’

  ‘Where was Ingrid Dooley?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Right. We’ll leave it at that for now, Mr Tabor. Thank you.’

  Angel went to the other door and opened it.

  Dr Mac and two other men were peeling off rubber gloves and unzipping their protective white-plastic overalls.

  ‘Have you finished, Mac?’ Angel called.

  ‘Ay,’ the Scotsman replied. ‘I’ve finished here, just about. He lost a lot of blood. I’d like to see the wound. There’s nae fingerprints. The man didn’t touch anything. There’s nothing here. We might get something from his shoes. I don’t know. I’ll let you know tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac.’

  Angel ran his hand across his chin. This was looking like a cut-and-dried case. He closed his notepad and made his way hurriedly down the stairs. At the bottom, he stopped, looked round the reception hall and, finding it still deserted, took out his mobile phone and tapped in a number.

  It was soon answered. ‘DS Gawber.’

  ‘I’ve been ringing you all morning. Where the hell are you?’

  ‘I am at home sir.’

  ‘You’re harder to get than the enquiry desk at British Rail. Are you my sergeant or what?’

  ‘Your phone must have been switched off, sir. I have tried several times to reach you. I thought Ahmed would have explained. I asked him to let you know. I fell down on the ice on that slope leading to the station back door, landed awkwardly and I’ve broken my ankle. I’ve been in casualty all morning. I’ve just been brought back by ambulance.’

  Angel blew through pursed lips. ‘Marvellous. A fat lot of good you’re going to be to me. Can you walk?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long are you going to be like this?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. You’ve got more excuses than a plumber. I can see what’ll happen. I shall finish up with Crisp. I can feel it in my water. He’s the only sergeant on the strength who hasn’t got a regular attachment.’

  ‘Sorry about that, sir.’

  ‘Not half as sorry as I am, lad. Hmm. Here, while you are on, do you happen to know where that chap from the telly — the Man in the Pink Suit — lives?’

  ‘The art expert? He has a house on Huddersfield Road. I don’t know the number, but it’s opposite the park entrance. It has a big black stone lion at each side of the front door.’

  ‘Right lad. Get that ankle right.’ He switched off the phone, dropped it in his pocket and made for the glass doors.

  They opened automatically but it wasn’t his movement that had triggered them. A tall, smartly dressed young man was standing outside.

  Their eyes met. It was Detective Sergeant Crisp.

  ‘There you are, sir. I’ve been looking for you.’

  Angel pulled a face. ‘Oh? What do you want, lad?’

  ‘DS Gawber’s broken his ankle, sir. Superintendent Harker has put me on your team for the time being.’

  ‘Oh great! That’s marvellous!’ Angel said, his eyes shining and his fists clenched. ‘Tarzan’s got Cheetah, and I’ve got you!’

  THREE

  Angel despatched DS Crisp to Bromersley General Hospital to keep an eye on the victim. He didn’t want to make it easy for the man in the pink suit to have an opportunity to fire off another pot-shot at Tabor.

  Meanwhile, he drove off to investigate where the arty-crafty man lived. He pulled his car up in front of a big Victorian stone-faced house on the main road between Bromersley and Huddersfield and stepped out into the wet. Most of the snow had turned to water but there was a track of slush at both sides of the road. He strode over the slush, crossed the pavement, reached over the low gate and lifted the latch to admit him on to a small frontage which he conjectured had originally been a pathway through a small garden to the front door. It appeared the area had been neatly covered over with flagstones recently, to minimize maintenance for the resident who didn’t enjoy gardening.

  He made his way up the path to two black-painted stone lions guarding the door. He went up two steps and pressed the doorbell. He didn’t know what to expect. He’d seen the Man in the Pink Suit on television occasionally and had been slightly curious because he was a local man, but he was not at all interested in his programmes or in academic art. On the evidence of four witnesses, it was inevitable that he would have to arrest him, and he hoped there would be no show of firearms. The longer he waited the more apprehensive he became and he wondered if he should have come armed. He noticed a peephole in the door and wondered if he was being stared at. Eventually, there was the sound of several bolts being drawn back, the rattle of the door furniture and then the door was opened three inches on a chain.

  A thin nose, an eye and a mouth appeared through the gap. An academic high-pitched man’s voice said: ‘Yes?’

  Angel identified the voice and demeanour of the man.

  ‘I am Inspector Angel of Bromersley police. Are you Frank P Jones?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man said with a sniff.

  ‘I need to speak to you, sir.’

  The man pursed his lips. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘I’m from the police.’

  ‘Oh?’ he said, his voice a little higher. The man sniffed again. ‘Very well.’

  The door closed briefly and then opened wide to reveal a man about forty, of lean build, with fair hair. He was wearing a pair of black tapered slacks, red smoking-jacket, a loud-checked shirt without a tie and leather slippers.

  ‘Now, what is it?’ he said, grimacing and shaking his head.

  ‘Can we go inside, sir?’ Angel asked, knowing that he was going into the house whatever the man said.

  Jones stared at him closely and put up a hand, holding his fingers splayed like a cockatoo’s feathers. He held the pose momentarily.

  ‘Very well,’ he said condescendingly and pulled open the door. ‘Follow me.’

  Angel stepped into the dark hallway.

  Dark paintings in rich gilt frames looked down on him from every wall. Heavy furniture reduced the passageway down the hall to single file. Everything was spotlessly clean. There were no ornaments, vases or flowers.

  Jones closed the door. He held up his head and walked purposefully down the hall taking big steps. He turned into a room on his right. This too was over-full with gloomy furniture, making the room seem small and dismal. A grandfather clock ticked delectably in the corner.

  The man made a flamboyant gesture with his arm to a comfort
able looking wing chair and Angel took it, while the other sat on a similar one at the opposite side of the highly polished fireplace, of which the black grate had not seen hot coal for many years.

  Jones sat pouting in his chair, waiting for Angel to speak.

  ‘You are Frank P Jones, known as the Man in the Pink Suit?’

  ‘If you say so,’ he replied, drumming the arm of the chair with his fingers.

  Angel peered closely across at him.

  ‘No, sir. I don’t say so. I am asking if you are?’

  The man looked up at the ceiling, then shook his head slightly.

  ‘Well then the answer would be yes, my name is Frank P Jones, and sometimes I wear a pink suit,’ he replied in a bored voice. ‘I believe you knew that.’

  ‘You were wearing the suit this morning?’

  Jones frowned. ‘Was I? I don’t think I was, but if you say so. Does it matter?’

  Angel’s jaw tightened. ‘You were seen wearing it.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘Amazing.’

  There was a slight pause. Angel felt his pulse rate rising.

  ‘Mr Jones, can I ask where you have been this morning?’

  ‘You may.’

  There was silence.

  The two men looked at each other.

  Jones was now tapping the tips of the fingers with their counterparts on the other hand while he alternately pursed and then relaxed his lips.

  After a few seconds, Angel blew out a sigh. ‘Well, where have you been this morning?’ he demanded, angrily.

  ‘Nowhere.’

  ‘You were seen at a factory on the Northrop industrial estate.’

  Jones shook his head. ‘Really? What tosh? What would I be doing on an industrial estate?’ he said with a sniff. ‘I have been here all morning. I have not moved out of the house. I have no need to. All I want is within these four walls.’

  ‘You were seen by four witnesses.’

  Jones shook his head. ‘They are wrong.’

  ‘All four are wrong?’

  ‘You said there were four. If it were four hundred and four they would still all be wrong. They were mistaken. Wrong. Seeing things. In error. Choose your own words.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Are you saying you have been here all day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was anybody here with you?’