He got out of the car, went up the path and rang the front doorbell again. This time, he didn’t want to find anybody in. He was not disappointed. He waited a minute or two and then casually looked around. He took in all the windows of the neighbours and satisfied himself that he was not being observed. He sauntered round the side of the house on a concrete path past the side door to the garden. He looked down the crazy-paving path across a big lawn to the end of the area that looked out to fields. He could hear a flock of bored sheep bleating and munching in the field and the sound of motorway traffic beyond.
He didn’t know what he was doing there, or what he was trying to find. He certainly didn’t expect to find £100,000 sticking out from under a grass sod. He took in the two big greenhouses and noticed some early tomato and spring plants through closed, steamed up windows. Next to them was a garden shed. He tried the door. It was locked. He glanced down at the purpose built sun-trap at the side and the rose arbour beyond the lawn. He came back towards the house, passing a large glass-and-metal sun-lounge built as a lean-to against the room he guessed would be the dining room.
Round the corner, he saw a brick-built area where dustbins were kept. It housed two galvanized metal bins. It was spotless. He raised the bin lids. They were both lined with clean plastic bags and held no rubbish.
Angel pulled a face. It was annoying. Dustbins were a detective’s stock in trade. He lifted them up. On the concrete floor under one of the bins was part of a small plastic capsule: the sort that might have held pills. It was about the diameter of a test tube and about three inches long. Only part of the container was there. The top was splintered and had jagged points towards where the cap or stopper might have been. It looked as if it might have dropped out of an overfull bin carelessly handled, and then been damaged by having the rim on the base of the bin slammed down on top of it. He looked on the floor of the area to see if there were any fractured pieces but it had been recently swept. He held the part-capsule up to the light. He could see a few grains of a red powder sticking to the inside bottom of it. It wasn’t dried blood. It wasn’t a drug familiar to him. He had no idea what the substance was, but he knew Mac would tell him. And he also knew instinctively that that ménage à trois needed looking at more closely.
NINE
The following morning, Angel bought a copy of the Northern Daily Echo on his way into the office. The headline was stunning and magnetic. He settled in his chair to read it:
MAN IN PINK SUIT NEAR DEATH!
Frank P Jones, the man in the pink suit, collapsed and was raced to hospital by ambulance in a mercy dash. He fainted during interrogation by a senior police officer in Bromersley police station at 3 pm yesterday afternoon.
This dramatic turn of events began when Jones was arrested yesterday and charged with the murder of local industrialist, Charles Tabor in his office in front of four witnesses.
Jones denies the charge.
The well-known art critic and TV star was admitted to a private ward in Bromersley General Hospital under armed guard.
Buxom beauty, Louella Panter, celebrity panel-game hostess, who also lives in the town, when asked about Jones is reported as saying: ‘I’ve never heard of the stupid man.’
Full report inside. See pages 4–11.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Angel grunted.
It was Ahmed. Angel looked up from the paper.
‘Now lad. Have you broken that computer again?’
‘No sir,’ Ahmed protested.
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘I’ve got an email from ballistics, sir. I know you’d want to see it straight away.’ He passed the paper over the desk.
Angel folded the newspaper, tossed it on a chair and took the email eagerly.
‘Ta. Where’s Crisp?’
‘Don’t know, sir. I can try to raise him on his mobile.’
‘Ay. Do that, lad.’
Ahmed turned to go.
‘Hang on. Have you read this?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mmm.’
It read:
History on Walther PPK/S No. A22394297WT.
Manufactured in 1969. Originally sold to Dutch police, one of a batch of 40. The Dutch police do not say how or when it left their possession.
It was recovered by Royal Ulster Constabulary in July 1984 following a bank raid in Belfast and despatched to an RAOC ordnance depot in North Yorkshire. It was stolen from there overnight between 21 August 1985 and 22 August 1985.
Two of the three robbers were caught, tried in Lincoln and jailed, but part of the haul including the gun was not recovered.
The robbers were Alan Gledhill Taylor (aka Alan Fields and Jonno Fields) aged 38 and Peter Patrick Stone aged 22.
Angel looked up. He scratched his chin.
‘Mm. Ahmed. I’ve got a little job for you.’ He handed the email back to him. ‘Print out their photographs. And find out their known associates. Straight away.’
Ahmed took the paper. ‘Right, sir.’
There was a knock at the door.
Ahmed opened it. It was DS Crisp.
‘Come in, lad. Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking all over for you. Been squeezing your boil?’
‘I haven’t got a boil.’
‘I should hope not.’
Angel noticed the young cadet smirking.
‘Hurry up with that job, Cadet,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve something else I want you to do when you come back.’ He turned to Crisp. ‘Now sit down, Sergeant.’
The door closed.
Angel opened the desk drawer and found a see-through evidence bag in which he had put the remains of the broken plastic tube-shaped container.
‘I want you to take this to Mac at the hospital. He’s expecting it.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘I don’t know. I found it round the rubbish at Eric Weltham’s place. I am hoping Mac will be able to tell me. What’s it look like to you?’
‘A broken plastic container. Could be from a child’s chemistry set or similar.’
‘Ay. Could be, I suppose. When you’ve delivered it, I want you to find someone for me.’
Crisp dipped into his pocket for his notebook.
‘A missing person, sir?’
‘No. A woman aged about sixty-five. Small, thin, weight about seven stone or less, white hair, known as “Mrs Tassel”. I presume resident locally.’
Crisp looked up from his notebook.
‘Not much to go on, sir.’
Angel smiled, but he wasn’t pleased.
‘Would it help if I gave you her car registration number?’ He pulled out his own notebook and showed Crisp the number.
The sergeant silently copied it into his own book.
‘Do you want me to bring her in?’
Angel frowned. ‘No, lad. No. Just find out what you can about her, covertly. That’s all.’
‘Right, sir.’
Crisp went out as Ahmed came in.
‘Now then? Have you got those pictures? Any Roger Moores among them?’
Ahmed gave the inspector print-outs of the head-and-shoulder photographs of two ugly men with hair shaved to the scalp. Angel glanced at them.
‘Hmm. No, there isn’t,’ he said, answering his own question. ‘Mmm. Don’t know either of them. Hmm. Have you got that list of associates?’
‘Yes sir. There are six.’
‘Ta, lad.’ Angel stuck his head into the list of names. ‘Mmm.’ Suddenly he looked up at Ahmed. ‘Here’s one, lad.’ He read it out loud. ‘Angus Stuart Holmes (aka Robert Birch, aka Alan McFee) Born Glasgow Royal Free Hospital, first January 1935. Died twentieth August 1990, Helensburgh, aged fifty-five.’ He looked up, his eyes shining. ‘Mmm. That was in 1990. He was the father of Irish John Holmes. Now we are getting somewhere. Mmm. I must get to see him.’ He turned to Ahmed. ‘I’ve another job for you, lad. It’ll take you out of the office.’
Ahmed beamed. Angel noticed he was pl
eased. It would make a change from logging in statistics.
‘It’s not an excuse for mucking about, lad.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Ay. Well, do you know what a carnation flower looks like?’
‘Of course I do, sir. They wear them at weddings in lapels and that.’
‘Ay. I want you to go round all the florists’ shops in Bromersley. And I mean all. I reckon there’ll be about six or eight. Anyway, look in Yellow Pages.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Find out if there’s a shop that has in the last two weeks, sold a single pink carnation for use as a buttonhole. I think a florist might remember that. Then see if they can tell you who bought it, or describe them to you.’
Ahmed nodded knowingly. ‘Like the one worn by the man in pink?’
‘That’s right, lad. Exactly. But don’t prompt them, you understand?’
‘Yes sir.’ He turned to the door.
‘I’m going up the Mawdsley Estate,’ Angel said. ‘You can get me on my mobile if anything crops up.’
‘Right sir.’
Angel pointed his car north out of town. He was going to seek out Irish John Holmes. He needed to confirm that Irish John’s father had given him the stolen gun before he died, and that Irish John had sold it to Jones. That’s the sort of evidence the CPS’s barrister would sell his mother for; the case against Jones was strong, but more supporting evidence would not be unwelcome.
Angel turned out of the police station yard into Market Street then into Market Hill. Out of his eye corner he saw a striking young woman leap out of a brand-new burgundy-coloured Jaguar limousine parked outside the Northern Bank. He had to drive carefully; the road was busy. His eyes zipped back to look more closely at the long-legged brunette. She was wearing a short astrakhan coat with the collar turned up and she was carrying a black leather handbag. She looked round as she pulled the key out of the car door. She needn’t have bothered: everybody was looking at her. She had not gone unnoticed by all the male populace over fifteen.
A tall tanned young man held the glass door of the bank open for her and was rewarded with a big carmine smile and a dimple. Angel suddenly realized who it was. It was Ingrid Dooley. Wow! She had certainly come out of herself since he had first met her at Charles Tabor’s factory five days ago. She had looked attractive then, but not eye-dazzling as she unquestionably was this afternoon.
He was certain he had seen her somewhere before, but he couldn’t place where. One day something would trigger his memory and it would all come flooding back. The more he thought about her, the more he knew he needed to ask her some very pointed questions.
Ingrid Dooley passed out of his mind as he pressed the car towards the Mawdsley Estate. He was heading for the little shop where Irish John Holmes lived with Kathleen Docherty and their son. He was still considering how he might approach the subject of the Walther his father had stolen in 1990. Irish John was no pushover. He wasn’t bright, but he was bright enough not to incriminate himself. It wasn’t going to be easy to get him to tell him the truth.
He was considering this as he turned into Market Street and was passing the local hotel: The Feathers. His attention was suddenly caught by the erratic antics in the pub doorway of a tall thin man with a small head, who was hanging uncertainly on to a well-dressed, long-legged girl wearing a tight black sweater, a navy-blue coat and red skirt. The man was wearing an ill-fitting suit, a white silk scarf and an ancient trilby, and he was waving a hand about as if he was conducting the Halle Orchestra. Then he seemed to lose his balance. He turned to reach out to the door jamb, missed and fell. The girl tried to save him but he fell on to the pavement on his backside. He nearly pulled the girl down on top of him, but she unravelled herself from him in time and now stood there staring down at him. He sat there a few moments looking up at her and laughing. He was clearly drunk.
Angel recognized him straight away. It was Irish John, the man he was on his way to see. He didn’t know the girl, but for certain it was not Kathleen Docherty, the woman John had said he was going to marry. Angel stopped the car and pulled over to the kerb. He looked back to the hotel. A few passers-by were trying not to notice the drunk still sitting in the hotel entrance. Irish John fumbled round for his hat, found it and slapped it unceremoniously on his head. Then he looked up at the girl, smiled and held his arms up to her. She was also laughing. She took his hands and after a struggle managed to get him to his feet. Then she wrapped her arms round him to keep him standing upright.
Angel had an idea. He reached for his mobile phone and tapped in a number.
‘Hello, Crisp? … I’m outside the Feathers. I’m observing Irish John Holmes and a woman, and I want you to come down here and take over from me straight away. It’s the woman I want to know about, lad. Hurry up!’
*
Inspector Angel pulled up his car outside 11 Westbourne Grove, a small modern bungalow in the better residential area of Bromersley. He crossed the pavement, pushed open the little wrought-iron gate and made his way up the short path to the glass-panelled front door. He pressed the illuminated button set on the door jamb, heard the ding, and waited staring at the modern bubble-patterned glass panel patiently.
The door was presently opened a little way by a small elderly woman with grey hair. Angel was pleased to see that it was the driver of the car he had followed from Eric Weltham’s house the day before. So far so good.
‘Yes?’ she asked peering and blinking through the mean gap the doorchain would allow.
Angel smiled. ‘Is it Mrs Tassel?’
‘Yes,’ she said with an enquiring smile, surprised to be addressed by name by a stranger.
‘I’m Inspector Angel of the Bromersley police. Might I have a few words?’
‘Well — erm. What’s it about?’ she said nervously.
Angel pursed his lips. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult to talk to you out here.’
‘Oh.’
Angel took out his wallet and held up his warrant card for her to see it through the gap.
‘There you are. Can you see it?’ He pointed to the photograph. ‘That there isn’t a monkey.’
She looked at him curiously.
‘It’s me,’ he added with a smile.
She looked at the photograph, grinned and unfastened the door latch.
‘Come in. Go straight ahead, turn left into the front room. I’ve got the heater on in there. I’m busy doing some sewing for a customer.’ She closed the front door and followed him down the hallway.
‘Thank you,’ Angel said, pushing open the door.
The little room was clearly dedicated to sewing. There was a three-piece suite pushed against a wall, a table in the middle of the floor and a heavy duty sewing-machine next to it.
‘Sit down,’ she said as she closed the room door and pointed at the nearest easy chair. ‘Oh, I’ll just move these skirts.’
She swept the skirts off the chair and dumped them on the table. She took up position on the chair in front of the sewing-machine with her back to a small electric fire in the grate.
Angel relaxed into the big easy-chair positioned against the wall.
‘So you’re a dressmaker, Mrs Tassel?’ he said breezily, trying to put her at ease.
‘A widow has to make a living somehow, Inspector,’ she said with a ready smile.
‘Indeed. What sort of dresses do you make?’
‘I don’t make many dresses. A few garments for young girls now and then. So far as sewing for women is concerned, most of the work I do is letting clothes out or taking them in.’ She pointed to the skirts on the table. ‘I am about to take those waistbands in. About six weeks ago, I was letting them out for her. It’s a customer who has a weight problem. She’s up and down like a yoyo.’
‘Bulimic?’
‘No. I don’t think so. She’s in showbusiness and she always has to look good in front of the cameras. She has a huge wardrobe and finds it difficult to keep her weight down. She’s either on a strict d
iet or she’s bingeing.’
‘Mmm.’ Angel nodded. ‘Must be Miss Louella Panter.’
Mrs Tassell looked surprised. ‘Er — yes.’
‘Do you make clothes for men?’ he asked quickly.
‘Yes.
‘Do you make suits?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever made a pink suit?’
Mrs Tassel had a very nice smile. She beamed across at him. ‘You’re joshing me.’
‘No, Mrs Tassel. I’m serious.’
‘No, of course not. A pink suit, never. I have made men’s and boys’ suits in all kinds of materials, colours and shades but never pink. I made a beautiful two-piece alpaca suit for a gentleman only last week. It was in cream. The idea!’
‘There’s a chap on the telly who wears a pink suit,’ Angel prompted.
Her eyes shone briefly.
‘So there is.’ She stuck her nose up and said: ‘Well, I wouldn’t make any clothes for him under any circumstances. That’s that man, Frank P Jones you’re referring to, isn’t it? And doesn’t he look ridiculous in sunglasses and a straw hat in midwinter?’ She shook her and pouted. ‘He shot a man didn’t he?’
Angel nodded. ‘I’m trying to find out who makes his suits.’
‘Oh, that’s what brings you here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I have no idea who makes those ridiculous suits for him. And I hope that Mr Jones goes to prison for a very long time.’
Angel was taken aback by her vehemence.
‘Do you know the man, then?’
‘I’ve met him. It was his fault a gentleman I know’ — knew, he’s dead now — ‘had to give up the violin. In fact, his daughter Ingrid always said that it was that that killed him.’
‘What’s that?’ Angel raised an eyebrow. ‘His daughter Ingrid?’
‘She works at the factory where it all happened. Ingrid Dooley. A nice lass. You must have come across her. She’s quite a looker now. She’s done very well for herself since her father died. Don’t know why she never got married.’
The Man in the Pink Suit Page 12