The Man in the Pink Suit

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The Man in the Pink Suit Page 10

by Roger Silverwood


  Jones dropped pensively into the seat, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

  Angel turned to Ahmed and nodded towards the door.

  ‘Fetch three teas, lad.’

  The cadet nodded.

  ‘And leave the door open. Let’s get some air in here. Phew.’

  Ahmed nodded.

  Jones sat tentatively on the edge of the chair. He began strange movements with his hands on the tabletop as if he was kneading invisible dough.

  ‘It’s not me. That tape is faked. It’s surprising what they can do with technology these days. They can make quasi-humans from computer images. It’s amazing what can be done.’

  Angel leaned over to the recording-machine and switched it on. The red light glowed. He checked the tape was running, then he said:

  ‘Interview with Frank Percival Jones, Thursday, twentieth January, fourteen-forty hours. Present, DI Angel.’

  Angel looked across the table at Jones. The strange movements with the hands continued. His watery eyes stared unfocused across the room at the wall. Angel noticed this and it worried him. He had not seen this sort of behaviour before. The man’s face had lost its healthy-looking ruby hue and his hair looked lighter or greyer and a few strands lay across an eye. The policeman looked closely at him again. Was he ill? Was he going to play the nut-case card?

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  The man was deep in thought. He lifted his head. The corners of his mouth were turned down. The kneading business stopped. He stared at Angel for a few seconds.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Jones didn’t reply. He looked down at his hands again.

  Ahmed came in with a tin tray holding three plastic cups of tea. Angel took two cups from the tray and put one of them on the table in front of him.

  ‘Here. Tea.’

  Jones looked at him with a vacant expression.

  Angel took a sip from the other cup and then smacked his lips.

  ‘That’s better.’ He turned to the recording-machine. ‘For the benefit of the tape, Cadet Ahaz has just joined us.’ Then he pointed to the chair next to him. ‘Sit down, lad.’

  He looked across the table at the man.

  ‘Drink up, sir. You’ll feel better.’

  Jones looked up, blinked and reached out a hand. He put the cup to his lips. His eyes were half-closed. His complexion was returning to normal. He put the cup down.

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘Well, now then, sir. Let’s stop playing bloody silly games, shall we?’

  ‘I do not play games, Inspector,’ Jones replied, his voice rising an octave.

  Angel pulled the small key and key-ring out of his pocket and dangled it in front of Jones.

  ‘Is this yours?’

  Jones mouth opened and a smile briefly appeared.

  ‘Oh. Where did you get that?’ He reached out to take it from him.

  Angel pulled away.

  ‘What is it for? What does it open?’

  Jones’s expression changed instantly to a scowl.

  ‘It has nothing to do with you. It’s mine, and I’ll have it, thank you.’

  Angel put it back in his pocket.

  ‘What does it open?’

  ‘Mind your own business. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Is it something that is secret? Is it something you don’t want me to know about?’

  ‘Well, yes. No. It has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Is it the key to the hiding-place of the money?’

  ‘No. What money?’

  ‘The hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘Come on, Frank. The hundred thousand pounds that was in Charles Tabor’s safe.’

  ‘Certainly not. I don’t know anything about that. Like everything else, Inspector, you are barking up the wrong tree. I want to tell you … I want to tell you, categorically, that it was positively not me on that tape. It was obviously an impostor posing as me. I don’t care if he was wearing a pink suit. It doesn’t prove a thing.’

  Angel was unmoved. He shook his head.

  ‘And how many men do you think there are walking around in pink suits, for goodness sake?’

  ‘You see. You don’t believe anything I say.’

  ‘I’m trying to. Believe me. Well, let’s have the truth from now on, shall we?’

  ‘I have always told you the truth,’ said Jones with a tremor in his voice.

  Angel tightened his lips. He was going to pursue the argument but decided against it.

  ‘Did you notice what shoes the man on the tape was wearing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He was wearing suede shoes. They appeared to be brown suede shoes. There were enough shots to be certain they were suede shoes. When you are dressed up in your pink suit for the television, what sort of shoes do you wear?’

  ‘Brown suede shoes,’ said Jones after a long pause.

  The policeman nodded slowly.

  ‘And did you notice the gold ring on his right hand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s exactly like the one you are wearing now. Exactly.’

  ‘One plain wedding ring is very much like another.’

  ‘Did you notice the rest of the outfit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s precisely the same as you wear in every particular, isn’t it. Even down to the buttonhole.’

  ‘Yes. But it can all be duplicated, easily. It doesn’t prove a thing. And the suit was tatty. I don’t suppose you noticed that. You could see how badly it was cut. And it needed pressing. The sunglasses and the hat would disguise his face.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘You’re not impressing me any, you know.’ He sighed. ‘I wonder if you’ll have any better luck with a jury?’ He shook his head. ‘Somehow I doubt it.’

  ‘It’s obvious it’s not me,’ snapped Jones. ‘A blind man on a galloping horse could see that. Look at the way he walked. He was obviously a poof!’

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘That man looked like you, because it was you. Four people who saw you in the flesh are all prepared to swear on oath it was you. And they were not looking at videotape. They haven’t even seen this tape. They were looking at you.’

  Jones eyes lit up. His face reddened.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ he yelled.’ He banged a fist on the table. ‘It wasn’t me!’ he screamed.

  ‘Very well,’ Angel said drily.

  He was diffident at putting the next question. He didn’t want to show the man a possible easy way out. However, in the interests of justice, it was necessary for the question to be put.

  ‘Have you ever been hypnotized?’ he asked quietly. ‘Hypnotized?’ echoed Jones, his eyes flashing. ‘No.’

  Angel thought the answer came too quickly.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘I don’t mean necessarily in a theatre or a studio or a nightclub environment, as an entertainment.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not for medical, psychological reasons?’

  Jones’s eyes lit up again.

  ‘Certainly not. No!’

  He seemed positive about that, Angel mused. There was still the possibility he had been hypnotized without realizing it. Or was he simply lying? Angel could do nothing about that. He moved on.

  ‘Have you had any sort of an accident lately?’

  The man looked weary.

  ‘What sort of an accident?’

  ‘Any sort. In the car. At home. Falling down stairs. In the bath. Hitting your head on a shelf. I don’t know. You’ll have a cellar in your house, I suppose. Have you fallen down the steps? Anything?’

  ‘What a strange question. No. I have not,’ retorted Jones angrily.

  ‘Just checking. Just checking. Eliminating a few things.’

  ‘Come along, Inspector, if you are not releasing me then lead me back to my
cell. Stupid questions! At least I can get a bit of peace and quiet there. This room smells awful. And I want those tranquillizers you took from me. I have every right to them. They were properly prescribed for me by a doctor. They are mine. I want them back.’

  Angel sniffed. He had no intention of giving him the diazepam.

  ‘We’ll have to see about those, sir. You’ll not be appearing in front of your public for a bit yet.’

  Jones began drumming his fingers on the table.

  ‘I want to go back to my room. I don’t like it in here. Let me out of here. This treatment is insufferable!’

  Angel was determined to continue.

  ‘I have nearly finished the questions, sir. Tell me, how is your family?’

  ‘What family? I have no family.’

  ‘Father, mother, brothers and sisters?’

  ‘My father and mother are long gone. I was an only child. I have some cousins somewhere. Canada, I believe. I have not seen them for years and I have no wish to.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘No. I have no friends. My agent is the nearest I have to a friend, and there are times when he is a nuisance. He can be very boring.’

  ‘Anybody in your circle died recently?’

  ‘I haven’t got a circle,’ Jones said quickly and then suddenly his eyes lit up, and waving his hand in the air added, ‘Ha! You’re going to suggest I cut their throats with a palette-knife, aren’t you?’

  Angel rubbed his chin slowly. He looked at the man. Jones’s face was bright red. His collar was curled up on one side. The burgundy bow-tie was askew. A few more strands of fair hair flopped across an eye. His lips, usually tight, controlled and still, now twitched and moved involuntarily. Purple patches showed through the pink of his lips. His long fingers tapped indecipherable Morse code nervously on the tabletop. This was a very different man from the one Angel had first interviewed among his antique furniture in his house two days ago.

  ‘No, sir,’ Angel said quietly. ‘Believe it or not, I am trying to be helpful. I am trying to find a reason why you behave the way you do.’

  Jones gave a long sigh.

  ‘I behave the way I do because I am being asked such stupid and irrelevant questions. No. Nobody close to me has died recently.’

  Angel nodded. ‘When was the last time you saw a doctor?’

  ‘Years and years ago. I enjoy excellent health.’

  ‘Well, when did your doctor prescribe the diazepam, then?’

  ‘Oh?’ Jones looked down and then up, and said, ‘I bought them in a shop. A chemist’s shop.’

  ‘You can’t buy them. They’re on prescription only.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember. I bought them when I was in Antwerp recently. Making a programme on Frans Hals. They haven’t got such silly restrictive laws over there.’

  ‘The label is written in English. They must have been supplied by a chemist in Britain.’

  ‘No.’ Jones shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t remember.’

  ‘You must have had a prescription from a doctor in the UK.’

  Jones put a hand to his temple. He shook his head. ‘Well, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Ever had amnesia?’

  ‘Amnesia? No! Certainly not.’

  ‘Are you sure? You can’t remember how you came by these pills?’

  ‘I will remember, and when I do, I will tell you,’ Jones said, rocking his head angrily from side to side. ‘I have an excellent memory. I never forget a face or a name. I can rattle off names, dates and titles of every dominant artist in the world,’ he said, waving an expressive hand in the air.

  Angel had only one more question for him that afternoon. But it was a vital one, and he didn’t expect to get a satisfactory answer. He delivered it quickly.

  ‘Where did you get the gun from?’

  Jones’s jaw dropped. He hesitated.

  ‘What gun?’

  ‘The gun hidden in your car. The Walther. The one that killed Charles Tabor.’

  Jones threw up both hands. His eyes flashed.

  ‘There is no gun in my car. I don’t have a gun. I don’t own a gun. I wouldn’t know how to fire a gun if I had one.’ He got to his feet. He dabbed his watering eyes. ‘This is intolerable. How many times do I have to tell you I didn’t shoot that man. It must have been somebody dressed like me. If you found a gun in my car, you must have planted it there. If you didn’t, well one of your stooges must have put it there. I certainly don’t know the first thing about it.’

  ‘It just appeared there from nowhere?’ Angel said drily. ‘Was your car locked?’

  ‘Of course it was locked. I always lock my car.’ Jones took out a white silk handkerchief from his top pocket, wiped his forehead and resumed his seat. ‘I suppose I have to take your word for it that there is a gun.’

  ‘It was found in your locked car, under the seat.’

  ‘Ridiculous! It must have been put there. I understand that no special talent is required these days to break into a car.’

  ‘They’d have to break into your garage first.’

  Jones jumped up again. He folded his arms in a defiant gesture.

  ‘I am not saying another word until I have spoken to a solicitor.’

  ‘Ah!’ Angel smiled. He was glad that Jones was seeing sense and taking the crime seriously. ‘It’s about time, Mr Jones. It’s only since I told you we had found the gun that you realize how serious the situation is.’

  Jones’ eyes closed momentarily. He leaned over the table and put his shaking hands palms down on the top. His lips were thin, tight and blue. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Angel. He spoke quietly but as gravely as a judge in a black cap.

  ‘I know what your game is, Inspector. You are trying to prove that I am ill, and that I murdered that man while in a trance or illness of some kind. Well, I didn’t. I have full control over my mind and my memory at all times. I am an educated man, an academic. I am not some ill-educated, drugged-up youth who will crack under your questioning and confess to anything you care to suggest to him. You are in for a fight. You would like me to crack under your interrogation. Well, I won’t. You cannot brainwash me into thinking I murdered a man simply because you have pictures of someone in a pink suit similar to mine waving a gun around —’

  Angel’s patience was up.

  ‘Not a gun. Not any old gun. The gun. The actual gun that killed Charles Tabor. Only that gun was used. Ballistics prove it. It couldn’t have been any other. That is a fact. And it was found deliberately concealed in your locked car!’

  Suddenly, Jones’s head dropped. He crumpled down into the seat, his head hit the table, his arms splayed out in front. He was motionless.

  Angel stood up and leaned over him. He turned the man’s head to one side and put two fingers on his neck searching for a pulse.

  Ahmed stood up, his jaw dropped. He looked anxiously at Jones and then at the inspector.

  Angel turned to him.

  ‘Well don’t just stand there, lad. Get a doctor!’

  EIGHT

  The doo-dah wail of the ambulance siren brought Superintendent Harker in shirt sleeves charging out of his office and racing up the green corridor. Angel, hands in pockets, head down was making his way from the back door of the station to his office. He had just seen an unconscious Frank P Jones on a stretcher, an oxygen mask across his face and a drip sachet being held by a paramedic, being speedily loaded into an ambulance. It was surrounded by a fevered, chattering crowd of television cameramen, photographers and reporters surging round the stretcher and the ambulance doors, as the medics made an urgent bid to get the man away to Bromersley General. Angel had quickly conscripted PC Scrivens, from the reception counter, to accompany and guard the prisoner.

  The superintendent and the inspector met abruptly outside Angel’s office door.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ roared Harker.

  Angel shrugged. ‘It’s Jones. He fainted or something. I sent for a doctor.’

  ‘What did you do t
o him?’

  Angel’s jaw stiffened. ‘Nothing!’ he replied angrily.

  ‘Is that siren one of ours?’

  ‘It’s an ambulance. They’ve carted him off to the hospital.’

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  Harker pulled a face. ‘Can’t do with a death while in custody job. He’s alive, I hope?’

  ‘Yes. I think so.’

  ‘How bad is he?’

  ‘Bad. An attack of asthma or something.’

  ‘Come into my office.’

  The superintendent led the way. They walked down the corridor in silence. The door was open. Once inside, Harker closed the door and pointed to a chair.

  Angel sat down.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A normal interview. A normal final interview. I was closing down all the alternative options of his story and facing him with the inevitable facts, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Harker grunted, scowled and shook his head.

  ‘He got very wound up.’

  Harker’s eyes flashed. ‘Ah.’

  Angel sensed disapproval. He headed it off.

  ‘Cadet Ahaz was there. It was being taped. It was all very proper.’

  ‘Hmm. Glad you’ve got a record,’ said Harker, relieved. ‘Oh.’ His shoulders dropped. He sighed, then nodded. ‘Good. Good.’

  There was a slight pause. Angel made to stand up.

  ‘If there’s nothing else, John?’

  ‘Ay. Hang on a minute,’ he said, waving him to sit down. ‘You know, we should have got him to court, Mike. Then this would never have happened here. All this would have happened in Armley nick.’

  Angel didn’t reply.

  ‘Is he going to die?’ Harker asked brusquely.

  Angel shrugged. ‘Hope not.’

  ‘Are you ready to push this to court now?’

  ‘My forty-eight hours aren’t up till tomorrow morning, sir.’

  ‘No. But, well, he’s in hospital …’

  ‘Come on, John. Let’s see what happens between now and then, eh?’

  Harker nodded. ‘What are you doing about this MP chap, Eric Weltham? Are you going to be able to make out a case?’

  ‘No.’

 

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