‘If we’ve time, John. We’re always working against the clock.’
‘Do it,’ Harker said tersely. ‘I’ll get out a list.’
Angel knew when not to argue. ‘Right sir.’
He arrived at his office and turned into it. The super continued down the corridor.
Angel’s desk was just as he had left it when he had had to chase over to Tabor Industries. It was littered with papers, letters and reports. There were the four security videotapes in the centre of the clutter. He expected them to provide conclusive evidence. He picked them up, trekked down to the CID office and pushed one into the video player.
All four tapes had clear shots of the Man in the Pink Suit, wearing sunglasses, hat, etcetera, exactly as he was seen on television, even down to the suede shoes. Not much of his face was distinctly visible, being obscured by the hat and sunglasses, and there were very few moments when his face was directly full front to the cameras. However, there were clear, full-length pictures of him entering the reception area of Tabor Industries, climbing the stairs, walking through the general office and arriving in Tabor’s office. He didn’t touch any of the internal doors. There was no need. They were all ajar. He didn’t waste any time. As soon as he entered the office, Charles Tabor stood up. It looked as if he had shouted something. Two or three words, no more. The man in the pink suit instantly drew the gun out of his jacket pocket, pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. His aim was bad even though he was only a yard away from his victim. He seemed to have missed the heart and hit the stomach. Charles Tabor fell across the desk and slid behind it on to the floor. The fall was immediate and heavy.
It was like watching a Hollywood thirties gangster film. The fact that the tapes were played without sound made the scenes even more chilling. Then, without wasting a second, the man in the pink suit, waving the gun in his hand, retraced his steps through the general office and ran down the stairs to the reception area towards the outside door where he went out of shot of the camera.
Angel replayed the tape from the camera sited in Tabor’s office several times in slow motion. The gun appeared to be an old-fashioned Walther PPK/S. The man had pulled it out of his right hand jacket pocket and held it in his right hand throughout. Angel made a mental note to check whether Jones was right-or left-handed. It would add strength — not necessary, under the circumstances, but nevertheless helpful — to the case against him if it was confirmed that he was right-handed.
FIVE
Angel had had a very busy day and was pleased to reach home and relax. He didn’t sleep well. He never did when he had a murder case to solve. He was only happy when he had accumulated all the relative facts, lined up the evidence, written his report and sent it across to the CPS. The following morning, he arrived at the office to find his desk in a mess. He buzzed Ahmed on the phone.
‘You wanted me, sir?’ the cadet said as he closed the office door.
Angel picked up a big handful of papers from his desk and waved them at him.
‘What’s all this stuff, lad?’
‘They are letters, notes handed in and phone messages for the Man in the Pink Suit, sir.’
Angel sniffed. ‘In this nick we call him Jones.’
‘Right, sir, Jones. And there’s a fair crowd of people in reception waiting to see him?’
Angel pulled an angry face.
‘This is not a clinic, Ahmed. Reception isn’t a waiting room. We don’t do flu jabs. We’ve got to get reception sorted and kept sorted. We can’t have people crowding round like a load of patients from the psychiatric ward,’ Angel said, stuffing the messages into a large envelope.
Ahmed’s eyes opened wide. ‘What do you want me to do about it, sir?’
‘You can’t do anything, lad. Find DS Crisp and tell him to bring his Armani-clad backside in here.’
‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said. He closed the door.
Angel took the envelope and a writing-pad and went down to the custody suite. The constable on duty let him into the cells area.
‘Is Jones all right, lad?’ Angel asked.
‘Very subdued, I’d say, sir.’
‘Is he any trouble?’
‘No. He doesn’t like the grub, but who does?’
Angel nodded knowingly. ‘In a couple of minutes, will you bring us two teas? And I’ve a particular reason for asking you to bring them on one of those tin trays. And hand the tray to me.’
‘Righto, sir.’
Angel nodded towards the cell door. The constable unlocked it.
Jones was on his bunk-bed reading a newspaper. He looked over his half-spectacles.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.
‘It’s me,’ Angel said evenly.
Jones dropped the newspaper, stood up and faced Angel square on.
‘I really must say that you should have allowed me to appear in that news programme on the television. It’s not you they want to see on the screen, it’s me.’ He gave Angel a beady look. ‘And they didn’t show any photographs of me or any VT from my new series, I understand. Nothing! It just went on with this silly nonsense about Charles Tabor. All this use of my name and no mention of my new series, nor a penny in fees. That director should see my agent. He has all manner of tapes and stills of me including an up-to-date biography. Next time there is to be a news item concerning me, I want to know about it.’
Angel shook his head. He reached out for the chair by the door, sat astride it and put the big envelope on the floor.
‘And while you are here,’ Jones continued, ‘I must say, this room is dreadful. I want an upgrade. If it costs more, I will gladly pay the difference.’ He waved his arms in the air. ‘It’s primitive, stifling and very boring. And there’s no view at all. There’s nothing to look out onto. I don’t know how long you intend keeping me in these conditions. I don’t even know if it’s legal. I need access to a phone. I need to phone my agent and my director. There may be others I need to contact. And I need some books. And my post will be piling up. And I may as well work on that Rubens programme while I am in here.’ Angel sighed. He failed utterly to understand the man. ‘Haven’t you got it into your head, Mr Jones, that you are in jail because you shot a man. You murdered a man. You may never walk free again!’
Jones blew out a puff of air. ‘Poppycock! If you knew me, you’d know that I couldn’t kill anything, not even a bluebottle. If one is buzzing around the window, I trap it in a glass tumbler and release it through the door.’
Angel shook his head. ‘I have seen the videotapes. They prove the case against you.’
Jones looked up surprised. ‘What videotapes? I’m not aware of any videotapes.’
‘The security videotapes from Tabor’s factory.’
‘Oh!’ Jones said, waving a hand irritably.
‘Would you like to see them?’
‘What for? Certainly not,’ said Jones with a sniff.
Angel licked his lips. ‘I thought it would give you some idea of the weight of the case we have against you.’
‘Rubbish.’ Jones waved a hand to indicate that he wished to close the subject.
Angel sighed. ‘Let me ask you a question.’
‘I’ve done nothing but answer your questions since you rang the bell on my front door yesterday,’ said Jones, lifting his chin and looking down his nose.
‘When you are on television and wearing your pink suit, sunglasses and so on, what shoes do you wear?’
‘Shoes?’
Angel nodded.
‘I have a pair of brown suede shoes that I keep especially for the occasion. I did try to get pink shoes. I went to Berman’s. They didn’t have any. My agent suggested that I had pair of black patent leather shoes painted, but I couldn’t be sure of obtaining the right shade of pink. I did endeavour to complete the pink outfit but eventually decided that, as only the top half of me is usually seen, it didn’t seem to matter that much. And those suede shoes are soft and comfortable and quite suitable for hanging around hot television
studios and galleries.’
‘How many pairs of suede shoes do you have?’
‘Why? Just the one pair.’
The constable opened the door and proffered a tray with two mugs on it as arranged.
‘Tea, sir.’
Angel took it and winked. ‘Ta, lad.’
The cell door closed.
Angel turned and leaned forward to Jones with the tray. ‘Help yourself.’
Jones stuck his nose in the air again.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, it’s not champagne, lad.’
Jones frowned and looked at him sternly.
Angel wondered if he would take a mug.
Jones leaned forward and contemplated the two mugs. After a moment, he made a choice and took one.
Angel noted with satisfaction that he picked up the mug with his right hand. That was more evidence to confirm his guilt. He now wanted to see which hand he used when writing.
‘You know, you really do need a solicitor,’ he said heavily.
‘Don’t go on about it, man,’ Jones replied, waving a hand in the air. ‘Nobody in their right mind is going to believe that I could kill anybody, especially in that pseudo-dramatic way. It sounds more like a clip from an old James Cagney film.’
Angel ran his tongue round his mouth.
‘Well, you weren’t exactly a friend of Charles Tabor, were you?’ he said cunningly.
Jones eyes flashed. ‘Phh!’ He held up a finger pointing to the ceiling. ‘Horrible man. I was most certainly not. He was an unschooled, unprincipled money-grubbing thief and a liar. Anyone who has had any dealings with him will tell you that.’
‘Oh?’ Angel replied, trying to sound surprised.
Jones turned to the bunk and sat down. He took a sip of the tea, looked round for somewhere at table height to put the mug, and finding nowhere, settled for placing it on the floor.
‘I’ll tell you about that man, shall I?’
The policeman nodded, trying not to appear unduly interested.
‘He had a tiny little shop selling office supplies; envelopes, paper, pens, pencils, that sort of stuff, on Sheffield Road before he suddenly branched out into making computers. About two years ago, I bought an office suite from him: desk, chair, stationery cupboard, filing-cabinet, you know the sort of thing, to set up a small office at home. He offered me a substantial discount if I paid in cash. It was tempting, so I agreed. It was duly delivered and I paid him personally two thousand pounds, in twenty-pound notes, I remember, on the worktop in my kitchen. Naturally, I thought that was the end of it. But he’s been billing me for the stuff ever since. He says I haven’t paid him. He has my signature for delivery and I haven’t a receipt from him for payment, have I? Why, only the other day, I received a final demand, as they call it, from a firm of solicitors instructed by him. They are taking me to court next week. I think Charles Tabor thought I would be afraid of the bad publicity and would pay up to avoid it. He underrates me and he underrates the general public. The man is a fool. The public would believe me and not him, anyway.’
‘The man is dead!’ Angel said.
‘Ha!’ Jones eyes brightened as if he had only just heard about it. ‘Revenge is sweet, saith the Lord.’
Angel shook his head. There it was. That was Frank R Jones’s motive for the murder of Charles Tabor: £2000. And the accused had admitted it, easily and openly. He had made no attempt to conceal the dispute and his dislike of the victim.
Angel reached down for the big envelope he had brought and held it out to Jones.
‘There’s some fan-mail for you.’
Jones’s eyebrows shot up. He smiled for the first time that day.
‘Ooh.’ He leaned over eagerly to take it.
‘I’ll want your signature,’ said Angel. He pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen.
‘Certainly.’ Jones took the pen and scribbled something quickly.
Angel noted with satisfaction that he was writing with his right hand. That was all he needed from the man for the time being.
‘There you are,’ Jones said as he handed back the pad. He smiled knowingly. ‘But I don’t really have to sign for my post, Mr Angel, do I? I don’t know anything at all about police procedure, but I would doubt that.’
Angel didn’t reply. He just looked across at him.
‘You wanted my autograph and you didn’t want to ask me for it,’ Jones said, smiling and tapping the side of his nose with a finger. ‘I know.’
Angel smiled weakly, shook his head and looked down at the pad. Jones had written: Best wishes, Frank P Jones. Angel suddenly had a thought.
‘Are you, by any chance, ambidextrous?’
The man was skimming enthusiastically through the forty or fifty letters he had taken out of the big envelope. Smiling, he glanced up at Angel.
‘I say, all this in one day! What was that? Oh, am I ambidextrous? No, no, Mr Angel,’ he said, holding up his right hand, shaking it from the wrist and waving it in the air. ‘Just boringly normal.’ Then he licked his lips, returned eagerly to the letters and muttered: ‘Very normal, you know, very normal.’
Angel shook his head. He was far from normal. He watched Jones eagerly tear open an envelope, hurriedly read the contents, touch his lips, nod, smile, then throw the letter down and snatch up another. It was a fitting time to leave, Angel thought. Let him enjoy his fan-mail; after all, he wouldn’t be luxuriating in the life of a celebrity much longer.
Angel returned to his office, dropped the notepad on his desk, slumped in the chair, leaned back on the headrest and closed his eyes. The evidence against Jones was conclusive. The statements made by the four eyewitnesses corresponded exactly with all the facts depicted on the tape. If DS Crisp was to phone him to say that he had found the gun somewhere in Jones’s house, then that would indeed be the cherry on the cake. The case would be conclusive. It would have all the requirements of a classical investigation: motive, means and opportunity.
Nevertheless, he decided he would wait for confirmation from Dr Mac that everything was as straightforward as it seemed. There might be some supporting forensic evidence forthcoming. He had no doubt that the murder had been executed exactly as he had seen it. The man in the pink suit had murdered Charles Tabor in cold blood. For a change, he was giving the CPS the guilty party trussed up and bound. Even the cleverest of counsel couldn’t cut through this evidence. You can’t argue with facts. There was complete, consecutive videotape coverage of the Man in the Pink Suit, from the moment he stepped into the reception area, made his way up the stairs, through the general office into Charles Tabor’s office, shot him, returned back through the general office and down the stairs to the reception area.
All the requirements of proof were there. Jones had no alibi. He said he was at home at the time of the murder, but he couldn’t produce anyone who saw him there to confirm it. He hadn’t answered the telephone or made a call that could have been checked on. He could easily have left his house by car, driven to Tabor Industries, shot Tabor and returned home, unnoticed. The whole business would have taken no more than twelve minutes.
The motive was clear. Jones had said that Charles Tabor had been trying to trick him out of £2,000, and that the court hearing was only five days away. If the case against Jones for trying to avoid paying a bill had gone ahead, it would not have done his public image any good. You can’t argue with facts. There wasn’t a jury in the world that wouldn’t convict him. Angel brightened. He shrugged. The case was as tight as an elephant’s pyjama cord.
The phone rang.
Angel leaned out for the handset. ‘Angel.’
‘It’s Crisp, sir. I’ve found a gun.’
Angel pursed his lips. ‘Great. Where was it?’
‘In his car.’
Angel stood up. ‘Was it hidden?’
‘It was under the car seat, in the garage. Wrapped in a duster.’
‘What sort is it, lad?’
‘It’s a Walther PPK/S.’
‘It’s been wiped clean, sir.’
‘Hmm. Is Dr Mac there?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Put him on.’
The doctor coughed as he took the phone.
‘Yes Mike?’
‘Mac, will there be any evidence from that Walther PPK/S to show who fired it?’
‘No. But the registration number is still partly decipherable. It has been attacked by a banshee with a rat tail file, but we might still get a lead.’
Angel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Ah. That’s something. Hmmm. Will you let me have confirmation as to whether that is the gun that killed Charles Tabor?’
‘Of course.’
‘Right. Jones was wearing his stage clothes, pink suit, pink shirt and so on at the time of the shooting.’
‘We’ve got all those. They are altogether in a smart leather suitcase.’
‘Good. He was wearing a pair of brown suede shoes.’
‘Right.’
‘He says there’s only the one pair.’
‘We’ll find them.’
‘And have you seen a pink carnation anywhere?’
‘Aye. In the rubbish bin.’
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘I’ll bring it for you to see.’
‘Thanks Mac. ’Bye.’
Angel replaced the phone, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes briefly. He was thinking that Jones would have presented himself at Tabor’s factory exactly as he would have been seen if he had been appearing on television, even down to the flower in his buttonhole. He was probably wearing makeup as well!
Another thing. There’d been no identification parade. He wondered if the defence would insist on it. The judge would have to allow it. The CPS would probably advise it, before the case reached court. That would require nine pink outfits! There was no other way to do it. What a farce. One pink suit is bad enough, but nine pinkos all lined up. It would look like a pier show. Never mind. It was all in the name of justice.
The phone rang. He reached out.
‘Angel.’
‘There’s a Mark Tabor on the line, sir.’
The Man in the Pink Suit Page 6