The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  Harker growled and pulled an angry face. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ve hardly had time to think about it,’ said Angel. ‘I can’t just let him get away with it, can I?’

  ‘On that girl’s evidence alone, you’ll have to!’

  Angel nodded. It was true.

  *

  Angel drove his car purposefully along Sheffield Road. A line of traffic ahead caused him to apply the brakes. He rolled to a stop behind a beer wagon. He peered forward. He couldn’t see the beginning of the queue or the cause of the delay. He knew a short cut down St John’s Road that would bring him into the Mawdsley Estate, on to Damon Street, along Park Street, then Clarendon Street and up to a T-junction, then he could turn right on to Charles Street and up to the top to rejoin Sheffield Road. He edged forward and turned left off the main road on to St John’s Road. He made a few twists and turns up to the T-junction, where he had to slow down behind a car. The driver ahead was nervously about to make the turning. It was providential that he was delayed. Angel looked left and then right in preparation to making the turn.

  That was when he saw him! It was Spotty Minto. A pasty-faced scruff leaning on a wall with his hands in his pockets outside Charles Street post office smoking a cigarette and conspicuously failing to look inconspicuous. Spotty had a foot up backwards against the wall by the door of the double-fronted terraced shop. He was in his thirties, wearing a woolly hat, leather jacket and jeans. He wasn’t called Spotty for nothing. His face had more holes in it than a pub dartboard.

  Angel quickly pulled the steering-wheel hard over to the left, and stopped with two wheels on the pavement. Three other cars were parked outside the two little shops at each the side of the post office. There were no signs of anybody else in the street.

  Spotty looked across and saw Angel getting out of the car. He spat out the lighted cigarette on to the pavement and made off hastily in the opposite direction with his hands in his pockets.

  Angel immediately called: ‘Hey, Spotty!’

  A woman with a shopping-bag came out of the butcher’s shop. She looked at the policeman. Her mouth opened then closed. She made a beeline for the newsagents next door.

  Spotty Minto kept walking away, his head down, looking at the flagstones, his hands in his pockets, and increasing his speed.

  Angel stood his ground outside the front of the post office door.

  ‘If you don’t come back here, Spotty, I’ll put a warrant out for your arrest,’ he bellowed.

  The man took four more steps, stopped, hovered and turned round. He raised his head slightly and glanced up. His mouth dropped open and, with his head still down he ambled slowly back until he was twenty feet from the policeman.

  ‘Didn’t know it was you, Inspector. Honest, I didn’t,’ he called. He had a high-pitched voice and spoke like a schoolgirl trying to convince her father, the bishop, that the swelling would be a virgin birth. ‘Otherwise I would have come the first time. I haven’t done anything wrong you know. I was just waiting. That’s all. I mean there’s no law against waiting, now is there?’

  Angel pointed downwards with a finger to a spot three feet in front him.

  ‘Come here, lad.’

  Spotty Minto’s thick-soled shoes brought him silently into position. His shifty eyes kept sliding towards the post-office door and back.

  ‘What are you doing, lad?’

  Spotty sniffed. ‘Waiting.’

  Angel began to walk round him. ‘What for?’

  Spotty shrugged.

  The policeman noticed the bulging back pocket of the jeans.

  ‘What have you got in there, Spotty?’

  ‘Where?’

  Angel dug into it and pulled out a wad of notes fastened by an elastic band.

  ‘Here, what you doing?’ protested Spotty.

  ‘Playing at Robin Hood?’

  ‘Eh? That’s my money.’

  The post-office door opened. An old lady with a face as wrinkled as a pound of tripe came out. She was holding her pension book and some money in her hand. She looked uneasy at seeing Angel and Spotty looking at her. Spotty Minto turned away. He stared at the pavement and covered one side of his face with a hand. It would be a disaster to meet this woman in front of the policeman. He desperately wanted to disappear. He wished Endora would arrive and cast a spell.

  The old lady looked from one to the other and then back to the Inspector.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said forlornly, holding out some money. ‘I have to see this young man.’

  Angel smiled sweetly at her.

  ‘It’s all right, dear. He doesn’t want it. I’m his boss. The slate is wiped clean. You don’t owe us anything.’ He pushed the money he had taken from the man’s back pocket into her hand. ‘Here’s some of last week’s back. It was too much. But take some advice. Don’t borrow money from Mr McCallister again. All right?’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Ooooh. Thanks, young man. No, I won’t. Oh no, I won’t.’

  She toddled off, counting the wad of notes Angel had given her.

  Angel turned back to the man. The smile had gone. He grabbed him by the collar. And with his finger an inch from his nose, he wagged it and said:

  ‘You leave that old biddy alone, do you hear? Unless you want to go down again for a four-year-stretch.’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Angel. Oh no,’ squealed Spotty Minto.

  ‘I won’t warn you again. Next time, I won’t be so soft with you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes. Yes!’

  ‘And you can tell Tiny McCallister what I’ve told you,’ said Angel, pushing Spotty against the wall and releasing hold of the collar. Then he sniffed. He turned up his nose as if he’d just opened a sewer. ‘And for God’s sake, get a bath, and a proper job, and keep out of trouble.’

  He turned away angrily, and made for his car, trying to rub away invisible muck from between his thumb and finger as he went. He was soon back on the main Sheffield Road and on his way to Eric Weltham’s house, two miles out of the centre of Bromersley. He checked the address Ingrid Dooley had so readily provided. He was looking for 455 Sheffield Road. He followed the numbers up to it. There was a smart block of twenty-four newly built flats with gardens, and a tarmac drive in the process of being completed out at the front. He noticed posters in the windows that read: Luxury Flats To Let, long or short lease: Apply Telephone Bromersley 394297. The high block was at the opposite side of the road and was a good landmark for locating Eric Weltham’s modern, large, red-brick and detached mansion. It looked expensive and well-maintained. The front lawn looked as if it had just been returned from Sketchley’s. The house stood high on a ridge in line with other similar houses whose large private rear-gardens faced south with a view across fields towards the Ml motorway. The drone of traffic could almost always be heard from the garden without being able to see a single vehicle. The drive gates were open and on the Italian-tiled drive in front of a double garage was parked a big American car. Someone was home. Angel nodded approvingly as he stopped by the kerb and pulled on the handbrake.

  He went up the short front path and pressed the bell. He then fished in his coat pocket for his ivory card-case and took out a card in readiness.

  The door was opened promptly by a smart, young man in a cream lightweight summer suit. He had bleached blond hair, white shirt, tie and white deck-shoes. He held on to the door handle and looked Angel up and down, taking in every detail.

  ‘Yes?’

  The policeman switched on his Sunday smile, leaned forward and offered the card.

  ‘I am Inspector Angel from Bromersley police,’ he said. ‘I want to see Mr Eric Weltham.’

  The young man took the card but didn’t look at it.

  ‘Have you any means of identification?’ he said in a cockney voice.

  Angel looked up into the steely blue eyes of the man. He had not called on a cabinet minister before. Was this the new style of security men the Home Office provided?

  Angel put his hand up to his i
nside pocket.

  The young man stiffened.

  Angel noticed.

  ‘Just getting my warrant card out, lad,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s nothing to get excited about.’

  He slowly pulled out his wallet using the tips of his extended first and second fingers, opened it and showed it to the man.

  The man looked at it for a few seconds.

  ‘Are you satisfied, lad?’ Angel asked.

  ‘That’ll do me.’

  The door was then suddenly pulled open further and a chubby young woman in a big loose fitting housecoat with a lot of long blond hair falling around her head in all directions came round the edge of it. She had obviously been monitoring this introduction from behind the door.

  ‘Of course you can see Eric. Please come in. He’s on the phone at the moment.’ She reached out, took the card, glanced at it, passed it back to the young man and pointed upstairs. ‘Nigel will tell him you’re here.’

  The young man turned away and left the hallway. The woman closed the front door. Angel heard the latch click.

  ‘Come this way, Inspector.’

  Angel looked at her. He felt he knew her from somewhere.

  ‘Excuse my appearance,’ she said loudly as she flounced down the hall. ‘I’ve just got out of the bath. We’re getting ready to fly to Nice for a concert and dinner. Isn’t it a hoot?’ she said with an excited giggle.

  She saw him staring.

  ‘Oh. I’m not married to Mr Weltham,’ she said chirpily, forcing a smile. ‘Eric is in the throes of divorcing her. Please come in here.’

  It was a very comfortable looking sitting-room, furnished with two three-piece suites, two fireside chairs, a coffee-table, a small bar and a large teak cabinet which Angel supposed housed a television set, video and whatever else. Everything was light in colour, spotless and uncluttered.

  ‘Please sit down, Inspector. I’m Louella Panter.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Angel said. ‘I thought I knew you from somewhere.’

  She flashed an attractive smile. ‘Television people are soon forgotten. My show has been off the air for two weeks and nobody knows me.’ She giggled.

  Angel recalled she was the woman who hosted the new popular television panel quiz game: What’s in it for me? He had seen it once on a Saturday evening. He didn’t think much to it, but it seemed to be popular. The winner was the player who was insulted the most and embarrassed the least for money for half an hour. Knowledge and intelligence were not in great demand from the players or the audience. It wasn’t Angel’s choice in entertainment.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Angel thought it was difficult to believe she was the glamorous woman he had seen on the screen. She looked shorter, chubbier, had wrinkles above her nose and her face was a patchwork of red blotches.

  The young man with the bleached hair came into the room.

  ‘He’s coming, Lou.’

  ‘This is Nigel Coldwell, Inspector,’ said Louella Panter. ‘I don’t know where I’d be without him. He looks after me. And Eric, of course.’

  The young man gave her a blank look.

  Angel noticed it. Louella didn’t.

  The inspector nodded at Nigel Coldwell.

  ‘Hi,’ the man said with hardly a glance. He looked towards Louella.

  ‘The inspector doesn’t want a drink, Nigel,’ she said.

  Coldwell went out of the room.

  ‘You won’t keep Eric long, will you?’ said Louella. ‘We have to leave for the airport soon.’

  There were mutterings in the hall. It was Weltham exchanging words with Nigel. Then he came in. He was in a smart pin-striped suit, crisp collar and tie. He waved a small cigar at the policeman and smiled.

  Angel recognized him straight away. He looked and spoke exactly as he did on television. It was surprising that Louella appeared so different. He made to get up out of the chair. Weltham waved him down.

  ‘Now, Inspector, you are from the local force?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Angel nodded.

  The MP flopped into an easy-chair next to him.

  Louella was leaning across the back of the settee, holding a glass in her hand.

  Weltham glared meaningfully at her.

  She waved the glass at him and said pertly: ‘It’s only tonic, Eric. It’s only tonic.’ She looked at Angel. ‘He doesn’t want me to drink, Inspector. I have to get trim before I start recording my new series in two weeks.’

  Weltham turned to the Inspector.

  ‘What did you want to see me about?’

  ‘Can we speak privately, sir?’

  Louella’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘Oh. Not to worry,’ she said. ‘You boys stay here. I’ll go and get dressed. You won’t be long, darling, will you?’ She sailed off through the glass door and closed it behind her.

  Eric Weltham pulled the cigar out of his mouth and leaned towards Angel.

  ‘Is it a security matter?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘No sir. No. But I’ll come straight to the point. You may have heard that Charles Tabor, the man with the big computer factory on the Northrop Estate was murdered in his office on Monday morning last.’

  ‘Oh yes. That odd fellow in the pink suit shot him, didn’t he? The arty-crafty chap on television.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Well, there’s a matter of a hundred thousand pounds missing from the safe in Charles Tabor’s office.’

  Eric Weltham’s jaw stiffened momentarily. ‘Really? That was the motive, then?’

  ‘We are not sure about that, sir. It wasn’t taken at the time of the murder.’

  ‘Well — erm — what’s this got to do with me?’

  Angel said nothing. He looked into Weltham’s eyes.

  The MP looked straight back at him. Then he broke away to stub the cigar butt in an ashtray on the chair-arm. His lips moved as if he was about to say something but he remained silent.

  Angel leaned across to him. ‘A little bird told me that you knew something about it, sir,’ he said, in a very small voice.

  Weltham’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, man,’ he replied quietly and evenly.

  ‘You knew Charles Tabor. You’ve met him.’

  ‘What if I have?’

  ‘You approved a big order for your department, the department for Research and Development, for computer hardware and I understand that in response to that, in September last, you were paid a hundred thousand pounds in cash.’

  Eric Weltham got to his feet. His face was red.

  ‘This conversation terminates right here, Inspector Angel. I am an MP and a Privy Counsellor.’

  Angel rose. He was undeterred.

  ‘I know that, sir. I know that only too well.’

  ‘Who is suggesting that I knew anything about stolen money?’ frothed Weltham. I’ll sue them for every penny they’ve got. Who is it?’

  There was a gentle tap on the door. Louella Panter appeared. Her hair was now in some sort of order. The wrinkles above her nose were no longer visible and the red blotches on her face were hidden under a layer of makeup. She was wearing a short, floral-patterned dress too tight at the bust and furrowed across the hips. Angel thought the dress more appropriate for someone younger.

  ‘Excuse me, chaps,’ she chirped. Then she looked at Angel. ‘Is the inspector staying for a quick cup of tea?’

  ‘The inspector’s leaving,’ Weltham said heavily.

  ‘Oh. Right, Eric.’ She went out, pulled the door to and then immediately reopened it. ‘I’m ready when you are.’

  ‘Right, Lou.’

  She closed the door.

  ‘You won’t assist me with my enquiries then, sir?’

  ‘No. Not I won’t, I can’t. I know nothing about any money, stolen or otherwise. The Civil Service made the final decision as to which tender to accept, and I understand Tabor’s was the best on the day,’ replied Weltham sternly.

  ‘I will inform the chief co
nstable accordingly,’ Angel said drily.

  Weltham sniffed. ‘You do whatever you have to do, Inspector. You haven’t told me who’s been suggesting that I know anything about stolen money.’

  Angel tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. ‘Information received, sir. I can’t say more than that.’

  Eric Weltham pulled an angry face. The interview was over. He turned towards the door.

  A doorbell rang. Two pairs of feet sped along the hall. Weltham went to the room door, opened it and listened into the hall. Angel stood behind him.

  The front door was opened. Angel heard Nigel’s cockney voice.

  ‘Oh. Good afternoon, Mrs Tassell.’

  A woman’s small voice said, ‘I’ve brought these for Miss Panter.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Louella said brusquely. ‘Take them, Nigel, quickly. We’re just going out, Mrs Tassell. I must go. I’ll phone you.’

  ‘Yes of course, Miss Panter.’

  The door closed quickly.

  Nigel rushed past carrying a large brown-paper bag held in his arms in front of him and made for the stairs. Louella followed.

  Weltham opened the room door and led Angel into the hall.

  Louella Panter turned on the stairs.

  ‘Are you leaving, Inspector? Sorry we have to dash. Nice to have met you.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

  Weltham opened the front door.

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  The front door closed with a bang.

  Angel dashed down the path to the pavement and looked along the road in each direction eager not to lose the visitor, a Mrs Tassell. He spotted a small car travelling towards Bromersley, its outline diminishing with every second until it disappeared completely as the road curved away. He bounced into his car, made speed along the road and eventually caught up with it. He noted the index number, then surged forward to overtake it. He observed that the driver was a small grey-haired lady, hunched over the steering wheel and gripping it as if it was trying to get away from her. He would make contact with her in due course.

  He pressed harder on the accelerator to the next junction. He drove down a crescent and made a right turn to bring him back on to Sheffield Road facing the opposite direction and travelled along until he reached the new block of flats opposite Weltham’s house. He slowed down and noted with satisfaction that the big American car had gone. He stopped the car, lowered the window and looked up to the house eaves, the garage, the outbuildings, then across to the telegraph-poles and trees. He was looking for CCTV cameras. He could see no signs of any.