The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve not seen anybody all day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve not had any visitors?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anybody phoned you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t answer it. It rang several times. It rings all the time. I don’t always answer it.’

  Angel licked his dry lips. ‘So no one can corroborate your story that you have been in this house all day?’

  ‘It isn’t a story. I know that I have been here all day. It is my house. I have every right to be here. I don’t need anybody to corroborate it.’

  Angel shook his head and blew out a long sigh.

  Jones frowned and leaned forward. ‘Is this a game? Have I won something?’ he asked, pertly.

  ‘Won something?’

  ‘Well it is some sort of contest, isn’t it?’

  ‘It most certainly is not.’

  ‘Hmm. Well would you please tell me why my whereabouts this morning are of interest to you? I must say that you have captured my curiosity. I am utterly intrigued.’

  ‘Do you know a man called Charles Tabor?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Do you know Charles Tabor?’ Angel insisted.

  ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘He has a big factory on the Northrop Estate.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know people with big factories. And where they put them is of no interest to me.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know Charles Tabor?’

  ‘I’m not good with names.’

  ‘Tabor Industries make computers.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Jones replied, pointing a finger upwards. ‘Yes, yes, yes. Mmm. Charles Tabor. Horrible man. Yes I know him. I met him once.’

  ‘You met him this morning.’

  ‘No. No. I would have remembered. It would be a year or two back, now.’

  Angel set his jaw. ‘You went to his office this morning, in your pink suit with a gun and shot him.’

  ‘In this weather? Don’t be ridiculous.’ He made a little moue and then said, as an afterthought, ‘But it’s quite a good idea.’

  ‘You deny it?’

  ‘I do.’

  Angel shook his head then he stood up. ‘Where’s the gun?’

  The man smiled. ‘The gun? Do I look like John Wayne?’

  The inspector was not amused. He held out his hand. ‘Where’s the gun?’

  Jones made an involuntary squeak of protest, shrugged and said:

  ‘There is no gun.’ Then he added: ‘Is he dead?’

  Angel looked at him sternly. ‘Frank P Jones, I am arresting you for the shooting of Charles Tabor. You are advised not to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence. Do you understand that?’

  Jones nodded and smiled knowingly.

  ‘This is a ruse to get me to the studio, isn’t it?’

  ‘No sir. It isn’t. This is very serious. You shot a man this morning in front of four witnesses. I am arresting you, and you’re coming down to the police station.’

  ‘I can’t come now,’ Jones said lifting his hands. ‘I haven’t had my lunch. And I have to finish a commentary on Rubens. I tell you what, you give me the address of the place and I promise I’ll come down tomorrow afternoon. I should be finished by then.’

  ‘No, sir. You have to come with me now.’

  *

  ‘Empty your pockets, sir.’ Inspector Angel said.

  Frank P Jones looked all round the custody suite office. ‘This really is the police station, isn’t it?’

  Angel looked at him in disbelief and shook his head.

  ‘Come on, sir, empty your pockets.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For safety.’

  ‘Safety? You said this was the police station. Isn’t it safe here?’

  ‘So that nothing goes missing. We list it and put it in this envelope. And sign for it. And that ring. Take it off. Do you have a watch?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That as well, please.’

  ‘Really. How will I know what time it is?’

  Angel ran his tongue round the inside of his mouth. ‘Where you are going, believe me, sir, time won’t matter.’ Jones didn’t seem to hear what was said. He was busy unloading his pockets of wallet, keys, handkerchief, some coins and a small bottle of pills.

  Angel spotted the small brown plastic bottle with the white screw top and reached out for it.

  ‘What are these for?’

  ‘They’re prescribed for me by my doctor,’ Jones answered. ‘I really need to have them with me.’

  ‘What are they for?’ Angel persisted still holding the bottle. He read the handwritten label: 28 Diazepam 5mg tablets. To be taken as prescribed by doctor. If sleepy do not drive/use machines. Avoid alcohol.

  ‘If you must know, they’re tranquillizers,’ Jones said, his lips twitching.

  ‘I know they’re tranquillizers. They’re Valium. What are you taking Valium for?’

  Jones raised his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ he said stubbornly.

  ‘It’s everything to do with me. I’m responsible for you while you’re in here.’

  ‘You’re not a doctor.’

  ‘What are you taking these for?’ Angel persisted.

  Jones looked up at the ceiling briefly. His face was white. He swallowed, licked his lips, then he snapped:

  ‘They are to steady my nerves when I am appearing in front of the camera. Now, can I have them?’

  ‘There are no television cameras in here. I’ll just check them out with the doc,’ Angel said, slipping them into his pocket. ‘If he says it’s all right, of course you can have them.’

  ‘I really think you should let me have them now,’ Jones said angrily.

  ‘You won’t need them in here.’

  ‘Oh!’ Jones growled angrily and turned away. ‘Very well. Keep them. Keep them,’ he snapped.

  The door opened and DS Crisp rushed in.

  ‘Hey sir. There’s a tale going round the station that you’ve arrested the man in pink.’

  Frank P Jones looked up and deliberately turned round to face the man. Crisp’s jaw dropped.

  ‘You have! It is him!’

  Jones nodded and smiled like a benevolent dictator. Crisp stared and grinned back.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. I saw you on television on Saturday night.’

  Jones maintained the smile, and nodded his head slightly at an angle, like royalty receiving the freedom of the city.

  Angel’s knuckles tightened. He dashed over to Crisp, grabbed him by a shoulder-pad and pulled him into a corner of the room. He spoke quietly through his teeth.

  ‘Look here, lad. Are you out of your tiny mind? Get a grip on yourself. This is a police station, not Blankety Blank. There’s no need for you to be fawning all over him simply because he works on the telly. This man is under arrest for attempted murder. Try and remember that.’

  Crisp shrugged. ‘I didn’t mean anything, sir.’

  Angel released his grip of the coat. He realized he might have overreacted.

  ‘Yes, well, don’t show yourself up, man. You’re not a groupie. And he’s not a god. He’s only a man who works on the box, and gets overpaid for it.’

  Crisp dusted down his coat and pulled it back into shape. Angel returned to the desk, then turned round.

  ‘I thought I told you to go to the hospital and keep an eye on Charles Tabor.’

  ‘I did, sir. But his son was there and he was taken to theatre, and surrounded by doctors and nurses. I thought I was superfluous.’

  ‘What if I hadn’t found Jones, and he had made a beeline for the hospital?’

  ‘Well, er …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I thought I could be more useful here.’

  ‘In future, as long as you’re on my team, Sergeant, note that I do the th
inking. You do the doing! Right?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Did you collect all those security tapes?’

  ‘I put them on your desk, sir.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Right.’ Angel sniffed. ‘Look, he’s been charged, and I’ve just started on his personal effects and valuables. You can finish off here. And when you have banged him away, go to his house. Dr Mac and his team will be there. Work behind them and see what you can find. I want that gun.’

  ‘Right sir.’

  They returned to Frank P Jones.

  The door suddenly opened and swung back noisily. Two young uniformed WPCs came in, talking and laughing. Angel glared across at them. The two women saw him. Their faces straightened.

  ‘Oops! Sorry, sir.’

  They stared at the man who was picking through the contents of his pockets on the desktop; their jaws dropped.

  He looked at them, smiled quietly and for their amusement, and his own, dropped his keys and wallet on the counter with a flourish.

  The women looked at each other, nodded and then giggled.

  Angel’s eyes flashed. He glared across at them.

  ‘Get out!’ he bawled.

  The WPCs scurried away like schoolgirls at Hallowe’en and pulled the door close behind them.

  Jones’s eyes followed their exit. He smiled and then turned to Angel.

  ‘You know, I really think they came to see me.’

  Angel sniffed and turned away. ‘You’ll be wanting to contact your solicitor,’ he said. ‘If you give me his name, I’ll arrange for him to visit you.’

  Jones turned to face him.

  ‘What for?’

  Angel peered closely at him.

  ‘What for?’ he said slowly. ‘Attempted murder, or wounding with intent to kill are very serious offences. You need all the help you can get!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man,’ Jones puffed. ‘Nobody in their right mind would believe I could harm a fly.’

  Angel sighed. ‘I have to say, Mr Jones, that unless you have evidence to the contrary, this case will go to court. The jury will nod like the front bench at Prime Minister’s Question Time. And you will go to prison.’

  ‘Poppycock!’ Jones protested waggling a hand in the air.

  Angel shook his head and pulled his chin into his chest.

  ‘Well, that’s the way it is, whether you believe it or not.’

  Jones gave a disdainful snort.

  ‘I can produce a thousand character witnesses.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘That won’t make any difference. It doesn’t work like that. I can produce four people who saw you pull the trigger. And you can’t produce one to show you didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Jones said. ‘But I still don’t need a solicitor. All this fuss! If this nonsense goes further, I would defend myself.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Well, that’s up to you. It’s a very bad idea, sir, but it’s up to you.’ Then he asked quickly: ‘What did you do with the gun?’

  Jones frowned then turned slowly to face him. He put two fingers to his temple and closed his eyes.

  ‘That was very devious of you, Mr Angel.’ He opened his eyes and lowered his hand. ‘I think you intended to catch me out. I have no gun. And I assure you, if I had a gun, I wouldn’t know how to use it.’

  Angel looked at him and shook his head. Jones raised up his head defiantly.

  The inspector turned to Crisp.

  ‘Right, Sergeant,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m off. And don’t you be long. I want you to go over the house before it gets dark. I want you to find that gun pronto.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Crisp carefully squeezed an inch of black ink from a tube on to a block in preparation to taking Jones’s fingerprints. Angel looked over his shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing now, lad? You don’t need much of that ink. It’s expensive. You’re not blacking him up for Showboat you know.’

  Jones’s eyebrows shot up in alarm.

  Crisp shook his head and began rolling out the ink.

  The telephone rang. Angel crossed to a desk in the corner and picked up the receiver. ‘Angel.’

  After a moment, he sighed, pulled a face and said: ‘Right, sir.’

  He slowly replaced the phone and looked across at Jones, who was trying to remove the ring from his middle finger. He had his hands across his chest and his elbows were jigging about. His face was taut and the shaking caused a few strands of hair to fall across an eye.

  ‘It’s no good, man,’ he protested to Crisp, who was patiently holding a big brown envelope. ‘It won’t come off. I’ve worn this ring for over twenty years. My mother gave me this when I left home to go to university. I’ve never taken it off.’

  ‘Well leave it on then!’ Angel bellowed.

  Jones stopped struggling and looked across the room at the inspector.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Angel shook his head, slowly. ‘If it won’t come off, leave it on. Now you’ve got far more important things to worry about!’

  Crisp and Jones sensed that Angel had something serious to say; they stared at him as he came towards them.

  ‘The man’s dead. It’s now a case of murder,’ he said coolly.

  There was a pause.

  Angel thought he noticed a slight smirk on Jones’s lips. It soon left him when Crisp took one of his fingers and rolled it on the ink stone.

  ‘What are you doing? What are you doing?’ Jones said irritably.

  ‘Relax your hand, sir. Just leave it to me. Relax!’

  ‘I don’t want that black stuff on my hands.’

  ‘It’ll soon wash off.’

  ‘I hope so. I must have spotless hands. And clean nails. The camera picks up every little detail, you know. When I am holding a painting …’

  Angel closed the door of the custody suite and returned to his office, eager to view the security videotapes from Charles Tabor’s factory. He had just sat down at his desk, when he heard the doorknob rattle and the door open. Superintendent Harker bustled into the room. He was carrying a sheet of paper.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you, Mike.’

  Angel stood up. ‘I was in custody suite office, John.’ It was unusual for the super to come to his office. ‘What is it?’

  Harker breathed out hard. He shoved the paper at Angel. ‘This fax has just come in.’

  Angel read it:

  ‘From Bromersley General Hospital. 11.15 am. 17.01.05.

  Ambulance responded to anonymous triple-nine call from phone-box on the Mawdsley Estate to unconscious man, aged about 45, covered in blood, found by children in stream under bridge off Canal Road. First aid administered in situ for abrasions and cuts to face, chest and abdomen. Admitted as an In Patient. Unable to establish patient’s identity. Patient suffering from amnesia. Your attendance requested.’

  ‘I have phoned the hospital,’ said Harker. ‘The doctor said it looked as if the man had been given a damned good thrashing by a rugby team. He is recovering well. They have no idea who he is. There’s no identity on his clothes. He is conscious now, but doesn’t have any recollection of what happened. Will you sort it?’

  Angel nodded reluctantly and reached for his coat.

  ‘I don’t like that sort of thing happening on my patch, Mike.’

  ‘No sir.’

  Superintendent Harker swept out of the room and was away up the corridor as Angel turned the other way, walked past the cells to the rear door and the carpark. He reached the hospital in ten minutes. He asked at ‘Enquiries’ and found the mystery patient was in ward 36 on the fifth floor. He made for the lift and soon reached the ward. A young nurse with a squint was sitting at a small reception booth facing the entrance.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said and referred to a crayoned chart on a board on the wall. ‘We’re calling him Miracle Man. He’s in room 12. Down that corridor on the left.’

  ‘How
is he?’

  She fingered through some notes. ‘Doctor thinks he’s very lucky. As far as he can tell, there are no vital organs damaged. Should be home in a few days. If he’s asleep, don’t wake him. He needs rest. And don’t stay long,’ she said bossily, slamming a folder back in the drawer.

  Angel found the room and opened the door. Inside the little ward was a bed, a chair, a wash-sink and a locker. A man with a heavily bandaged head was asleep in the bed. Angel quietly closed the door, tiptoed across the room to the chair by the bed and sat down. He noticed that the man’s feet almost touched the bottom rail of the bed and his head the top. The size of the blanket mound indicated that the patient possessed what the mail-order catalogues euphemistically refer to as the fuller figure. What could be seen of his face was red and blue and puffed up. He was bandaged round the temple and had a dressing on one cheek. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed, facing away from Angel and breathing evenly and noisily. He turned his head from side to side a couple of times, eventually resting facing the policeman.

  Angel peered closely at him, and pondered for a moment. He thought he recognized him. He stood up and leaned over to have a closer look. Suddenly the man’s eyes opened. He gasped and the bed shook as he saw a face so close to his. He pulled his hands out from under the blankets. Then he sighed when he saw who had been observing him so closely.

  Angel smiled and sat down.

  The man pulled a face and put his hands up to wipe the sleep out of his eyes and then winced as his fingers touched his swollen eyelids.

  ‘Hurt, does it?’ Angel grinned.

  The man grunted. ‘What you doing here?’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been told you’d had yours arms and legs torn off, they’d been stuffed in your mouth, choked you, that you’d died, and that the poor people you’ve cheated on the Mawdsley Estate were arranging to have a big party in the town hall to celebrate it,’ said Angel. ‘I’ve come to see if it’s true.’

  ‘Bah.’

  ‘I see it isn’t. Pity.’

  The man growled and turned away.

  There was a pause.

  ‘The last time I heard about you was at Christmas,’ Angel said. ‘I heard you were in Strangeways, doing a roaring trade selling mistletoe to the poofters.’

  The man snarled, and turned back to show an ugly selection of choppers.

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘How long have you been out?’