The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

‘Well, we’re going to be,’ he stammered.

  ‘Going to be — doesn’t mean you are!’

  Irish John pouted. ‘There you are disputing all that I say,’ he whined. ‘Trying to make out I am telling lies.’

  Angel came up to him. He shook his head. ‘You are telling lies,’ he said. ‘You’re stupid, John, stupid. You’re like a bungalow. You’ve only got one story, you’re low down, and there’s not a lot going on upstairs!’

  *

  Angel returned to his office at the police station. His desk was covered with paper in one form or another, mostly letters. His in-tray was piled more than ten inches high with unopened envelopes in all sizes, colours and descriptions, mostly bearing UK postmarks, some with foreign stamps, some typewritten, mostly handwritten, almost all addressed to the Man in the Pink Suit or Frank P Jones. Angel sorted through them, envelope after envelope. He put letters and papers for his attention on his left and mail for Jones in the in-tray until it grew more than ten inches high. The pile toppled over, some letters fell on to the floor. He scrambled down to pick them up and blew out a long sigh as he packed them safely in the tray. Then he leaned back in the chair, stared at the ceiling briefly and closed his eyes. He found it difficult to understand why a man like Jones should receive so much fan-mail. The man wasn’t even good-looking. He’d less charm than a fridge. This was ‘celebrity worship’ gone mad. All the man seemed to know about was art and artists. He was no Don Juan. Angel’s mind wandered down a few dead ends and then he heard a distant church clock chime. He opened his eyes, looked at his watch, tipped the chair forward and reached out for the phone.

  ‘Ahmed?’ he called down the mouthpiece.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Come in here, lad.’

  Angel slammed down the phone, leaned back in the chair and rubbed his hand over his chin. A minute later Ahmed knocked at the door.

  ‘Come in, lad.’ Angel pointed to the wire tray heaped with letters. ‘Take that lot to that chap in the cells.’

  Ahmed grinned, flashing his even white teeth.

  ‘The Man in the Pink Suit? Yes sir,’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘In this nick we call him Jones,’ Angel said sourly.

  The grin disappeared. ‘Yes sir,’ Cadet Ahmed Ahaz said with a straight face. He picked up the wire tray and turned to go.

  Angel had a thought.

  ‘Ahmed. Can you operate that new videotape editing clobber?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Angel picked up the four tapes and held them in his hand while he spoke.

  ‘Well, copy all these four tapes, and then, from the copies, edit the tapes tightly to show Jones appearing in the reception area, his progress up the stairs through the general office, into Tabor’s office, the shooting, then his return through the office and back down the stairs. The sequence should only run for about ninety seconds. You’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘Right sir.’

  Angel dumped the four tapes into the basket on top of the heap of mail.

  There was a knock on the door and it swung open. There came a familiar voice.

  ‘Are you free, Mike?’’

  ‘Come in, Mac. Nice to see you.’ Then to Ahmed, Angel said: ‘Off you go lad. That editing job is urgent. Do it next.’

  Ahmed struggled to the door with the wire basket. He brushed past the Scotsman.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘It’s all right, laddie. I’ll get the door after ye.’

  Angel stood up. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?’

  Mac closed the door behind the cadet and came up to the inspector.

  ‘I have a result on the gun.’

  Angel looked intently at him. This vital news could put Jones away for life. He licked his lips.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We did the field tests this morning. It’s positive. It is the gun that killed Charles Tabor.’

  Angel slowly nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Ay. But the number on the gun is difficult. Some of the digits have been partly obliterated. I don’t know if we’ll be able to make it out. It will be interesting to see if it can be traced back to him. I’ve a lad working on it now.’

  ‘Soon as you can, Mac.’

  ‘Ay.’

  Angel heaved a sigh. ‘What makes a dandy man like Jones choose a small, vicious piece like a Walther?’

  ‘The PPK/S .32 automatic is small. Fits in the pocket. Cuts anybody down at close range.’

  ‘He must have hated Charles Tabor.’

  ‘Incidentally, the clip still had seven rounds in it. So it had been fully loaded. I suppose he might have spent more rounds if anybody had got in his way while he was making his escape.’

  ‘I don’t like guns. I’m glad to have it off the streets,’ Angel said, pulling a face. ‘Have you gone over his clothes yet?’

  ‘Should have that for you in a couple of days,’ answered the doctor as he pulled a sealed see-through packet out of his pocket. It contained a pink carnation. It was drooping, but far from dead. He dropped it on the desk in front of Angel.

  ‘You wanted to see that?’

  ‘Ay.’ Angel picked it up. ‘Only to see whether it could have been worn yesterday morning or not, that’s all.’ He looked at it closely. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh, it was. There are the slightest grey marks of powder burns on the flower itself and two minuscule specks of blood on a petal. I expect to get a positive reading that the blood is Tabor’s, but we’ll see.’

  ‘Hmmm. Right.’ Angel tossed it thoughtfully back on the desk. ‘If only it could talk.’

  ‘And I’ve got this for you. Might be something. Might be nothing,’ the wily Scotsman said, waving a small key and a key ring at him. Angel took it and looked at it closely. The key was small, flat, made of white-metal, one and three-quarter inches long. It had the letters LF and the word England stamped on one side, and a number, 92283, on the other. It was suspended from a plastic key-ring, the sort of thing businesses give away for advertising purposes. It was a small, flat, six-sided plastic moulding in the form of a television set, and it had the words ‘Imperial TV Channel 44’ in blue on white and the station’s logo: a television mast with rays drawn on it to suggest transmission.

  ‘One of my lads found it between two flagstones in the back garden. Well, it’s not a garden. He’s got the whole area flagged over. In the backyard. Do you ken, that house has not a blade of grass in sight. That man’s a heathen. Very unnatural.’

  ‘I know. Was it hidden?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘And what do you think the key is from?’

  ‘I don’t know. We tried the burglar alarm, a filing cabinet and the locks on the double glazed windows. It wasn’t for any of them. I don’t know what else it might fit. I reckon it could be a safe-deposit box in a bank somewhere.’

  Angel’s eyes glowed briefly. ‘I’ll ask him. I’ll see if he’ll tell us,’ he said, pocketing the key. Then suddenly he added: ‘I knew there was something.’ He began searching around in his coat pocket. He produced the little bottle and held it out. ‘I’ve got these pills. They were in Jones’s possession.’

  Dr Mac took the container and read the label.

  ‘Yes? Hm. 28 Diazepam 5mg. Yes?’

  ‘I wondered if it would be safe for him to have them, I mean while he is in custody. He says they were prescribed for him by his doctor. He says they are to help his nerves when he does his stuff on the telly. What do you think?’

  ‘Sounds reasonable.’

  ‘Should I let him have them?’

  ‘Depends on his temperament really.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well if he can be trusted to take them as directed, it would be all right.’

  ‘I don’t know that, do I?’

  ‘Well, they’re a common tranquillizer; they’re obviously dangerous if misused. And diazepam is a hypnotic. Very useful to someone who’s doing his job, I should think. But they’re ad
dictive.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Hypnotic?’

  Dr Mac unscrewed the white cap and shook one of the pills into his palm.

  ‘Yes. They look all right. Yes.’ He looked up at him. ‘A hypnotic drug induces tranquillity, sleep.’

  ‘What has it to do with hypnosis then?’

  ‘Well, hypnosis is sleep: controlled superficial sleep.’

  ‘Does a hypnotist or a hypnotherapist use a hypnotic drug to put his patients under, then?’

  ‘Not necessarily. He might use it as an aid.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Angel. ‘I didn’t know that. And don’t they say if a subject had been hypnotized once, he’ll be an easier subject for hypnotic suggestion on any subsequent occasion?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  Angel hesitated. ‘Well, do you think Jones could have been hypnotized?’

  Mac rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know, Mike. Why do you ask that?’

  Angel pointed to the chair opposite him.

  ‘Sit down a minute.’

  Mac sat down and Angel swivelled his chair to face the doctor. He wiped a hand across his mouth.

  Dr Mac sighed.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said. He licked his lips and his eyes narrowed as he considered the question further. Then he shook his head. ‘But a man in a trance wouldn’t do anything that was contrary to his natural instinct.’

  Angel leaned further forward over the desk.

  ‘He hated the sight of Charles Tabor!’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, I suppose I’ve got to admit it’s possible.’

  *

  ‘Come in!’ Superintendent Harker bawled.

  Angel opened the super’s door. The eyes in the turnip-shaped head were already staring at him.

  ‘You wanted me, John?’

  ‘I do,’ said Harker crisply and pointed at a chair.

  Angel sensed something was wrong.

  ‘What’s up?’

  The grey-haired man threw his pen on to the desk.

  ‘Have you noticed anything unusual about this nick, Mike?’

  Angel thought for a moment. He wondered what the super was referring to.

  ‘No sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. Have you not noticed that there are thirty-odd press men, two television vans, innumerable cars and, now that the holidays are with us, a gang of twenty or thirty star-struck kids on skateboards banging up and down the front steps of this police station? Have you not noticed that the reception area is now in a state of permanent siege? There are four men with cameras occupying the bench-seat intended for three, dropping chewing-gum and newspapers, knocking hell out of our tea machine and earwigging our everyday business.

  ‘It is so busy out there, I now have to have an additional officer on duty round the clock. The switchboard is fielding upwards of a hundred phone calls a day from the world’s press as well as the general public asking the most inane questions. And the number increases as the days go by. They are asking, will the man in pink be hanged? Where can they see the execution? Is it true he’s on hunger strike? Is it true he has had both his hands cut off? What does he eat? Is there anything he needs? And from teenage girls and old women, ‘Will you tell him that Ermintrude from Salt Lake City will marry him whatever he’s done.’ A chap from Hollywood wants to fly over to see him. Can it be arranged to meet him? He says his story will make a great movie. And so it goes on.

  ‘The chief constable is getting tired of this nuisance, and so am I. Let’s get this poofball out of this station, into court and on remand. Let somebody else … let Armley put up with this pantomime!’

  Angel felt his pulse notch up twenty beats and his face burn with anger.

  ‘I don’t like it either. What can we do about it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we can do about it,’ Harker replied, his powerful jaw set square and his blue eyes glowing like Ferrari headlamps. ‘Get Jones in court. Get him on remand. And get rid of this entourage and all this unwelcome nuisance. What more do you want? I understand that you have four eyewitnesses, critical videotape and now the gun found in his car. Added together it makes a rock-solid case, doesn’t it.’

  ‘I haven’t got all Mac’s reports in yet. I’ve no forensic on his house, his car or the clothes he was wearing.’

  ‘I think you’re just stalling.’

  ‘And I have not found out where the big wad of money reported missing from Tabor’s safe around the time of his death has gone to, either.’

  ‘Has that anything to do with Jones? Are you thinking Jones did it or had a hand in it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know! He couldn’t have stolen it at the time of the shooting, anyway. It would have shown on the tape. But nevertheless, it’s still missing!’

  ‘Well in that case, tackle it separately. You have nothing to link it to Jones. Jones isn’t known to be a thief or short of funds, is he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, what more do you want? I want to know what the delay is. I had thought you had the case all sewn up. Isn’t it ready for the CPS yet?’

  ‘Confirmation. A few loose ends, John. That’s all.’

  ‘Oh? What? We haven’t time for any finesse, you know.’

  ‘A few inconsistencies then,’ Angel added by way of explanation.

  ‘Like what?’

  Angel rubbed his earlobe between his first finger and thumb.

  ‘Well, I can’t make my mind up why the crime was executed by the man wearing clothes that were, after all, his personal trademark: a bright pink suit. You don’t see a lot of those about, do you. In fact, you don’t see too many murders committed in broad daylight in front of witnesses either. It’s as if Jones wanted to advertise the fact that it was him.’

  ‘You’re getting fussy, man. Who gives a toss why he chose to commit the crime in his party suit? It would have made no difference to me if he’d shot the man in his birthday suit! Let’s be thankful we’ve got eye witnesses, CCTV and the gun. What else do you need?’

  ‘Mac suggested that maybe he was ill, suffering from amnesia, shock or even that he might have been hypnotized.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ shouted Harker so stridently that his false teeth nearly bounced out on to the desk.

  Angel’s tongue rolled round his mouth before he said:

  ‘I wouldn’t want us embarrassed in court.’

  ‘Let the CPS worry about that.’

  Angel sighed.

  ‘They wouldn’t proceed if they thought the case was too weak,’ the super continued. ‘They’d be back to us for more evidence. Now, is there any other reason why we shouldn’t press on with it?’

  ‘I can’t tie that gun to him. I’m working on that now.’

  ‘It was found on his premises, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Under the seat in his car. But there were no fingerprints on it. No prints on the rounds either.’

  ‘But in his car. Locked wasn’t it?’

  ‘He says so.’

  ‘In his garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What more do you want? You’ve even got the actual flower worn at the time of the shooting — found in his dustbin — haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Angel noticed the super’s neck was a crimson hue. ‘Mike, all I’m suggesting is that if the case is tight enough, then let’s bring the CPS in now and save time. That’s all. And let’s get rid of these camp followers. Now what about it?’

  Angel demurred. He shook his head. ‘If you say so, John,’ he said grudgingly.

  The super sighed. ‘Not if I say so. If you are ready.’

  ‘Well I’m not ready, sir. I don’t want to shove Jones into the dock until I’m certain he is guilty.’

  ‘What?’ roared Harker. ‘You’ve gone soft on him.’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, I don’t understand. I don’t see any valid reason why you shouldn’t pass the file over now. Right now! I’ll tell you this, Mike. If it was any other inspector, I would insist on it. I su
ppose you have some deep-down, secret underlying reason for not wanting to prosecute the man.’

  ‘No, sir. It’s not like that. I just haven’t finished making a satisfactory case out yet. There are still some details.’

  ‘Well get on with it!’ bellowed the superintendent.

  Angel didn’t reply. He was thinking.

  There was a short pause.

  Harker impatiently held out his hands.

  ‘Am I missing something, Mike? Is there something I don’t know? What’s holding everything up?’

  ‘It’s his reaction. He still refuses to take the indictment seriously. He won’t have a solicitor. He doesn’t put up any defence. He simply says he didn’t do it and that’s that.’

  Harker was almost at screaming point.

  ‘It’s a textbook case: motive, opportunity and now means. All positive!’

  Angel’s hands tightened their grip on the chair arms. He breathed a long sigh.

  ‘Mac supports the possibility — I put it no stronger than that — that Jones shot Charles Tabor, in a hypnotic trance or whatever without even knowing it.’

  Superintendent Harker’s mouth opened, then closed, then he said:

  ‘What! I hope we are not going to have one of those stagey theatrical cases where expert witnesses waste the court’s time with hypothetical notions and mumbo-jumbo!’

  ‘It’s not like that, John.’

  ‘For god’s sake keep away from hypnotists, psychiatrists and doctors! Murderers have been known to get off when so-called expert witnesses start spouting professional claptrap to the sort of juries we get round here!’

  ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘It had better not be. And don’t keep saying: “It’s not like that,” because it bloody well is. I’ll give you another forty-eight hours but that’s the absolute limit. Do you understand?’

  SEVEN

  Angel went home that night highly dissatisfied. His workload was stressful enough without the super adding to it with an ultimatum. He approached work the next day fully aware that the clock was ticking. He was in his office early and had disposed of some of the post, when Ahmed told him that Ingrid Dooley was here to see him.

  ‘Thank you for coming to the station,’ Angel said. ‘Please sit down.’

  Ingrid Dooley gave him her best Sunday smile, flashed the big eyelashes, unfastened the leather belt fastening her coat and elegantly lowered her trim, Chanel-sprayed body into the chair.