‘A month.’
‘Let out early, were you, on account of your impeccable charm and good looks.’
‘Mmm.’
‘And what’re you calling yourself these days?’
‘Eh? Same as always.’
Angel nodded. ‘They told me you were pulling the loss-of-memory stunt.’
‘Nah.’
Angel pointed to the thick white bandage wrapped all round his head.
‘What’s all this then? Are you changing your religion?’
The man swallowed and licked his dry swollen lips. ‘Look here, Inspector,’ he said, ‘can’t you go and annoy somebody else? There’s wards full of ’em out there. Hundreds of ’em. Why don’t you visit them and ask them your daft questions?’
‘You know, McCallister, you’ve got a mouth on you big enough to house a Black Maria. Ay, and a dog-patrol van as well. Why don’t you try giving me some answers. What were you doing in that stream by Canal Road?’
McCallister pulled a face. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You were hardly likely to be going swimming. It’s only a foot deep. How did you get there?’
‘I don’t know. Have you got a fag on you?’
‘I don’t smoke. You ought to tell me how you got there, McCallister. It might save your life.’
The man shook his head and turned away to face the wall.
‘What were you doing in the middle of January taking a swim?’ Angel continued.
‘I wasn’t. I didn’t. I don’t know.’
‘Somebody repaying a debt, was it?’
The man said nothing. He continued to look at the wall. ‘Are you still working the same racket I sent you down for?’
‘I’m not working no racket.’
‘You mean you’re not working, full stop.’
McAllister winced. ‘Buzz off. I’m ill. I’m a patient. I don’t have to put up with this,’ he growled.
‘Tut-tut, Tiny. Mind your temper. By the way, sorry about the bad news.’
McCallister’s eyes flashed. He looked at him intently.
‘Bad news? What bad news?’
‘The doctor says you’re going to be OK. You’ll probably be home by the weekend. He thinks there are no vital organs damaged. That’s bad news for all the poor souls on the Mawdsley Estate, your poor mother and me.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you going to tell me what happened, then?’
‘I fell down.’
‘Is that the best you can do?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘What’s happened to Spotty Minto?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t come ‘who’. He got two years with you. And Irish John? Where’s he now?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t remember ’em.’
Angel sighed. ‘All right, Tiny. You’ve got away with it this time. Next time you might not be so lucky. Whoever gave you this pasting might be back. And they might come back for you all tooled up.’
Tiny McCallister smiled, displaying teeth in glorious technicolor.
‘Well, if they do, I’ll be all ready for them, won’t I.’
Angel shook his head slowly. He’d seen all this before. A crook escapes death by a hair’s breadth and instead of learning how lucky he has been and making changes for his safety, displays nothing but bravado and engages in a programme of retaliation. He mistakenly thinks he’s immortal. The result is a blood-bath, and innocent people get caught in the crossfire. Angel didn’t want that on his patch!
‘You think you’re a big man, don’t you,’ Angel said. ‘You should wise up. Why don’t you go down to the council, get a brush and get back to sweeping the streets like you used to do.’
McCallister leaned up on his elbows.
‘Me, with a brush? Huh! Those days are ’istory. I would be mad to give up a good business. Don’t you worry, Mr Angel. I can look after myself.’
The inspector got to his feet.
‘Oh yes? I’m sure you can,’ he said sarcastically. Then he added thoughtfully: ‘You know, you remind me of Toulouse Lautrec.’
The man’s eyes opened wide. ‘Eh? Who’s he? Too Looze who?’
‘Toulouse Lautrec. Look him up.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He was just like you.’ Angel said heavily. ‘Colourful. Handy with a brush. A connoisseur of food and drink. Especially drink. And very, very small.’
‘Yah,’ Tiny McCallister snarled.
‘Yes,’ Angel went on, ‘And do you know what?’
McCallister turned to face him. ‘What?’
‘He died young, just like you are going to do.’
FOUR
When Inspector Angel left the hospital, he was not very happy with life. McCallister had not supplied any information that would be useful in catching his assailants, nor let slip any intelligence that might aid his investigations in other directions. All he had done was to waste Angel’s time. He was therefore all the more eager to reach Bromersley police station to view the videos taken from Tabor’s factory, and, he hoped, wrap up that murder and pass it to the CPS.
As he turned the street corner towards the prominent modern concrete-and-glass frontage of the station, he discovered he was running up towards an unexpected gathering of vans, cars and people. Two big vans with giant saucer-shaped aerials perched on their roofs were parked on yellow lines on the road in front of the station. One van was plain white, the other had the words IMPERIAL TV CHANNEL 44 in big red letters painted on the side. On the wide steps leading up to the double doors was a crowd of between twenty or thirty men and women, some standing with stepladders and cameras, some in jeans unloading connecting-boxes, mirrors and reflectors, and others rolling out wires. There were two tripods with larger cameras mounted on them. There were yellow and red cables from the vans running in all directions. The centrepiece, positioned next to the main door was a tiny, blonde woman, who was holding a microphone. She was stamping her feet and blowing into her hands to warm them.
Angel was dumbfounded. He passed the circus and turned into the station carpark. He approached the back door up the now sand-covered slope where D S Gawber had recently slipped and broken his ankle.
Two young men in jeans, jumpers and trainers, with their hands in their pockets, were hovering at the bottom of the slope. They peered at him superciliously as he passed.
He stopped, turned, and went back to them.
‘What are you doing here?’ he growled. ‘What do you want?’
‘We’re waiting,’ one of the young men said. He touched his mouth with a finger and gave a little sniff. ‘Who are you?’ he asked defiantly.
Angel breathed in quickly and pulled in his stomach.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he said angrily. ‘You’re trespassing. Get out of it.’
The two young men looked at each other and smirked.
Angel glared at them. The skin on the back of his hands tightened.
‘Move! before I lock you up for loitering with intent,’ he bawled.
They hesitated, then the taller one said, ‘We’re waiting for our boss.’
At that moment Angel heard the click of the bolt and the back door opened. A constable rushed out and signalled to Angel.
‘The super wants you, sir. Urgently.’
‘Right.’ Angel waved towards the two young men. ‘Who are these?’
‘They’re waiting for the chap from the television, sir.’
‘Eh? Oh. This isn’t a stagedoor. Move them on, lad. Tell them to wait at the front of the station.’
Angel charged past the cells and up to Superintendent Harker’s office. The door was open.
The superintendent was leaning against the front of his desk, remote control in hand, looking at a television set in the corner of the office. On the screen was an advertisement for a three-piece suite. His face was scarlet; his jaw set square. When he saw Angel, he turned off the sound and stood up.
‘Ah!’ he roared, pointing an arm and waving a f
inger at the end of it. ‘Have you seen that lot in front of the station?’
‘Yes. What’s happened?’
The super’s eye caught the TV screen.
‘Just a minute. It’s the news. You are in for a shock. Listen to this lot.’ He pressed the remote control. Loud booming music reverberated round the office.
Angel stood next to Harker with arms folded. They stared at the familiar picture of a newsreader in a dark suit and tie seated at a desk. The music faded. The man spoke:
‘This is the news.
Frank P Jones, the television personality known as ‘the Man in the Pink Suit’, was arrested this afternoon at his country home in Bromersley in South Yorkshire. It is alleged that he murdered Charles Tabor while the industrialist was working in his office. Charles Tabor was Chairman of Tabor Industries, the computer giant, which made a meteoric rise in its short life of two years. The accused, Frank Jones, who has just finished recording a new series, ‘Man and Art,’ is being held at Bromersley Police Station. We hope to bring you a live on-the-spot report from Anna Humphreys before the end of this bulletin.’
Superintendent Harker pressed the mute button and the TV went silent. He turned to Angel.
‘They want somebody to make a statement. We must decide what to do. There’s the TV boss man prancing up and down reception like an expectant father. He says if we don’t give him an interview now, his boss will make him stay here until we do give him one. He needs a decision. He wants an officer — preferably you, as investigating officer — to give them a live statement in this newscast now.’
The phone rang. ‘That’ll be him again.’ The super reached out for the handset. ‘Harker … Yes. He’s just come in. Hold on.’ He turned to Angel. ‘Yes. It’s him. He needs an answer now.’
Angel didn’t fancy himself as a television reporter, but the super obviously wanted him to give the statement. It would presumably defuse the situation, so what was there to lose. ‘Yes. All right, John. Let’s get shot of them.’
The Super nodded. ‘Right,’ he called down the phone, ‘DI Angel will give you a statement. We’re coming up now.’
He dropped the phone back in its cradle and went straight out into the corridor. Angel followed him. He tapped a number into the door lock and they entered the reception area.
The dozen men with cameras who had been in the waiting seats or lolling against the wall suddenly came to life. Camera lights flashed. Three policemen behind the counter jammed their heads through the enquiry window to see what was happening. A young man in denims and a blue jersey, wearing earphones and a microphone and carrying a clipboard and a mobile phone rushed up to the two policemen.
‘Are you DI Angel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you come outside, sir? We are going live to London in two and a half minutes. Excuse me, gentlemen. Excuse me.’
The photographers made a reluctant space for the trio to let them out of the building. The two policemen followed the floor manager through the door on to the steps outside. The small crowd outside surged nearer and the photographers pushed from behind. The young man positioned Angel next to the small blonde lady holding a microphone. She smiled at him. Angel instinctively closed his mouth and turned away at the powerful smell of Chanel. Another man clipped a tiny microphone to his tie and ran the wire along the floor to a connection box. Another man asked the policeman his name and title and chalked it crudely with a thick felt pen on a big card, which he then held above his head facing the woman. The man with the headphones was looking at a monitor, which was facing the young woman.
‘Thirty seconds everybody!’ he yelled suddenly.
The blonde lady turned to Angel, smiling.
‘I’ll simply ask you for a statement about the arrest of Mr Jones, Michael,’ she said. Be as forthcoming as you can, will you?’
Angel nodded. ‘Right. Yes.’ He wasn’t nervous. He had thought he would have been, but he would be glad when it was over.
‘Louder please,’ a voice from the van bellowed.
A big light on a stand was switched on.
Angel blinked. He wondered if his hair was in place. He reached up to his neck and pulled up his tie.
Another man tilted the lamp in all directions several times until a voice behind a camera said: ‘That’s it, Mark.’
A man appeared from nowhere with a card with the young woman’s script on it. He held it up above his head.
‘Is that all right, Anna?’
She read it. ‘Yes. Fine.’
‘Ten seconds.’
‘Get that man to speak louder.’
The superintendent stood next to Angel but out of shot. ‘Can you speak a little louder, Michael?’ said Anna.
‘Yes,’ he bellowed. ‘How’s that?’
A voice from behind the crowd said: ‘Thank you.’
Anna smiled. She seemed to be the calmest person there. ‘Quiet everybody. Here we go!’
Suddenly somebody turned up a loudspeaker on a monitor. The newsreader’s voiced boomed out.
‘As reported at the top of the news, the man in the pink suit, Frank P Jones was arrested on suspicion of murder today at his home in Bromersley. Our reporter, Anna Humphreys, is in South Yorkshire and takes up the story.’
The floor-manager pointed at the young woman. The loudspeaker went silent. Everybody froze. The bustle and yelling stopped. There was absolute stillness and silence. All that could be heard was the flapping of two pigeons overhead in the dull sky.
Anna Humphreys looked at the camera.
‘I’m outside Bromersley Police Station where Frank P Jones is being held,’ she began. ‘I am with Detective Inspector Michael Angel, who is in charge of the case.’
The camera lens zoomed back to give a two-shot.
Anna turned to him and said: ‘Inspector, I understand you have Frank P Jones under arrest. What is he charged with?’ Angel spoke with quiet calmness. ‘The accused has been charged with the murder of Charles Tabor, a local man.’
‘Can you tell us the circumstances of the murder?’
‘Yes. He was shot in his office at close range at approximately eleven hundred hours today and died about an hour later.’
‘What was the motive for the murder?’
‘I’m not in a position to comment on that at this time.’
‘Do you have any witnesses?’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘And what will happen now?’
‘Well,’ said Angel, ‘he’s been charged. The matter will go to the Crown Prosecution Service and thereafter I anticipate he will go to court and be tried before a jury.’
‘Thank you.’
She turned back to the camera. It zoomed forward to a one shot of her.
‘This is Anna Humphreys live at the police station, Bromersley, South Yorkshire.’
She remained in position holding the microphone for a few seconds until the man with the headphones yelled: ‘Right. It’s a wrap.’
She turned to Angel. ‘Well, thank you, Michael. That was fine.’
The big light went out. The hubbub started again. Hands reached out and unclipped the wire from Angel’s tie. Somebody else took Anna Humphrey’s microphone from her and she moved away. A man lifted the camera off the tripod. The men holding the prompt-cards dropped them. Cables were unplugged from boxes and were being rolled up. All sorts of kit, reflector screens, monitors were being carried away down the steps and loaded in the vans.
Angel and the super turned towards the door. A gang of men in raincoats closed in on the two policemen, thrusting microphones and small recorders into their faces.
‘Inspector, who were the witnesses? What do you think the motive was, then? Is the man in pink wearing the suit now? How long will he get? Will he get life imprisonment? When can we see him? Will he still be able to make his television programmes? Was there much blood? Can we speak to him? What does he say? Does he plead ‘guilty’?’
Angel turned back. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, there�
��s nothing else I can tell you at this time. If you leave your cards at reception, I’ll try to notify you if we have a press conference.’
‘Is he allowed to have mail?’ asked a man in a raincoat. ‘If I left a note for him, would he be allowed to read it?’
‘Of course. I must go,’ Angel said.
‘When’s the press conference?’ a man said.
‘Where is it?’ another man asked.
Without a word, the superintendent and the inspector pushed their way back through the station door. Two constables came out and good humouredly helped disentangle them from the crowd. Through the clamour, they made their way across the small reception area and through the security door. When Angel got it closed, he pushed against it to check it was locked, and then caught up with the super. Together, hands in pockets, they ambled silently down the green corridor.
Superintendent Harker was the first to speak.
‘The quicker we get rid of this case, the better. I can’t do with time being taken up working round the media like this. I want you to push this one along, Mike.’
‘I’ll do what I can, John. It depends what comes up. You can’t tell.’
‘I haven’t patience to see what comes up. Get shot of it,’ he said brusquely.
‘Right, sir.’ There wasn’t much else Angel could say to him. They walked on a few more steps.
‘By the way,’ Angel said. ‘That man in hospital is Tiny McCallister.’
‘McCallister? I remember him. A big lump of a man.’
‘There’s no amnesia. It was a punch up. A warning shot, I’d say.’
‘Any idea who it might have been?’
Angel shook his head. ‘They gave him a good pasting, but they didn’t want him dead. No heavy metal; some local godfather marking out his territory.’
‘I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. I want every ‘heavy’ on this patch with a record of violence visited and personally warned by a senior officer.’
Angel sniffed. ‘Where will I get time, John?’
‘You can do some of them. The hardest. Let Gawber do the rest.’
‘He’s off, with a broken ankle.’
‘Oh yes. Set Crisp on then.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Well what else are we to do?’ roared Harker.
The Man in the Pink Suit Page 5