The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Michael,’ the American continued louder than ever. ‘Let’s make it twenty thousand dollars a week with a minimum of ten weeks and a contract for another movie. How’s that?’

  ‘It’s not the money, Mr … er.’

  ‘Hiram. Call me Hiram.’

  ‘It’s not the money, Hiram. I just can’t come to America. I can’t leave here just now.’

  ‘It’s a great opportunity for you, Michael. We’ll be coming over there later, to shoot some exteriors in your beautiful York Shire.’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve got a job. I’ve got a murder to solve. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What if I come over there and —’

  ‘No. No. Don’t do that. Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. No thanks.’

  He replaced the receiver on the cradle. He took a deep breath, smiled and wondered whether he had missed the opportunity of a lifetime. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion he hadn’t. And his wife Mary wouldn’t have moved out of Bromersley even if Hiram had offered her a solid gold kitchen, a diamond studded oven and a flock of trained flunkeys.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’

  It was Ahmed with a cup of tea. He carried it precariously on a black tin tray advertising the merits of Bromersley Best Bitter.

  ‘I’ve phoned the hospital and I have spoken to Constable Scrivens, sir.’

  Angel looked up. ‘Ah yes?’

  ‘He said that it was a bit of a bear garden. He had to chase television people and autograph hunters out of the ward. But all’s well now. He said Mr Jones seems to have had a quiet night. He doesn’t look much different from when he went in. He is still sleeping a lot. He is still on a drip and still wearing an oxygen mask. The doctors haven’t been round to see him yet. He thinks he must be sedated.’

  Angel looked up. ‘Sedated?’

  ‘Yes sir. That’s what he said.’

  Angel ran his hand strongly round his mouth and jaw.

  ‘Did you manage to get Sergeant Gawber?’

  ‘I’ll get him now for you, if you like.’

  ‘Ay.’

  Ahmed dialled the number. Angel thoughtfully sipped the tea. As the dialling tone rang out, the young man said:

  ‘Sounds as if Mr Jones is very ill, sir.’

  ‘Ay, lad, it does.’

  ‘What would happen if he died, sir?’

  Angel shook his head, considered the question briefly.

  ‘I reckon if he died, lad, it would be murder.’

  Ahmed’s eyes shone like a cat’s caught in headlights. ‘Murder?’ he muttered.

  There was the sound of a click and a voice from the earpiece.

  Ahmed passed the handset to Angel and made for the door. The Inspector waved him back.

  ‘Is that Ron Gawber?’

  ‘Yes. Oh. Good morning sir.’

  ‘How’s the ankle?’

  ‘Painful.’

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘With difficulty, sir. On crutches, you know.’

  ‘Ron, do you think you could do a bit of guard duty at the hospital? I’ve got Frank P Jones in there. It’s a sit down job. You could take a book. The place is surrounded with media. I am worried about his security.’

  There was hesitation.

  ‘Yes. All right sir. I’m bored here anyway.’

  ‘That’s great. Thanks Ron. I’ll send the area car.’

  He replaced the phone and turned to Ahmed.

  ‘Tell the desk sergeant I want a car to transport DS Gawber to the hospital pronto.’

  ‘Yes sir. Pronto.’

  ‘Did you get hold of DS Crisp?’

  ‘He’s on his way, sir,’ Ahmed said, his hand on the doorknob.

  ‘Good lad.’

  The door closed.

  Angel reached out to the in-tray and filtered through the pile looking for one particular packet. He found it. It was an A5 manila envelope, personally addressed to him, with the words: Star Agencies, Personal Management, Charing Cross Road, London, printed on the flap. He opened it carefully with a penknife and slid out a ten-inch-by-eight-inch photograph mounted on cream board and covered with tissue, together with a With Compliments slip. It had a note scrawled on the slip in big writing, Photo as requested, and it was simply signed Jack Starr. The caption under the photograph read: Frank P Jones, studying a cartoon by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Louvre, Paris, June 2004. The picture was almost a full-square front view of Jones, from the top of his straw hat down to his shoes, in his pink suit, carnation, bow tie, shoes, the lot. He was holding the da Vinci framed drawing with his right hand and signalling with his left, looking in the camera, in one of his flamboyant, royal-type gestures.

  Angel reckoned it was an excellent photograph of Jones, a good representation of the man, faithful in colour and sharp in focus, and he murmured his satisfaction.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Crisp. ‘You wanted me, sir?

  ‘Yes.’ Angel put the photograph down. ‘I thought you were going through Jones’s house with Mac.’

  ‘I was. We finished last night, sir.’

  ‘Oh. Anything new?’

  ‘No sir. Nothing.’

  ‘Any drugs, cash, gold, firearms, explosives, pornography, a hidden safe?’

  ‘No sir. Nothing like that.’

  Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a surprise.’ He glared at Crisp and added: ‘I hope you looked! Has Mac taken his pink suit and stuff to the lab?’

  ‘Yes sir. He says he’ll let you have the entire outfit tomorrow.’

  ‘Ay.’ Angel rubbed his chin with his hand. He thought tomorrow might be too late. He picked up the photograph. ‘Take a look at this, lad.’

  Crisp took it and eagerly peeled back the tissue, carefully avoiding touching the surface with his fingers.

  ‘Yes,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Very nice, sir.’ He turned it over. ‘Has he autographed it?’

  Angel scowled and tightened his grip on the chair arms.

  ‘Autographed it?’ he roared. ‘This isn’t Top of the Pops’. He snatched the photograph back. ‘This a murder case, lad. We’re not running a fan club! This isn’t pop memorabilia!’

  Crisp made his lips the shape of a doughnut and exhaled slowly. He said nothing.

  Angel shoved the photograph back into its envelope and pushed it roughly into Crisp’s hand.

  ‘Here. Take it. I want you to pick up the statements of those four women who work at Tabor’s factory. Cadet Ahaz has them. Then go up there and interview them each in turn again. That secretary lass, Ingrid Dooley, might let you borrow her office for the job. She’s a bit of a looker, but keep away. She’s spoken for. I know you think you’re a bit of a ladies’ man, but she could gobble you up and spit out the bones to make soup for Maggie Thatcher!’ He pointed to the envelope. ‘That is the latest photograph of Jones,’ he said. ‘Take care of it. And I want it back. Ask those women whether they are positive he is the man who shot Charles Tabor. The slightest difference. Anything. They must speak now. I want a firm yea or nay. Their evidence is absolutely vital. They’ll be called into the box, and I don’t want any muck ups in front of the judge. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And another thing. You know a hundred thousand pounds has gone walkabout out of that safe up there. It reportedly went missing between four and five o’clock the afternoon of Tabor’s murder. See what alibis those girls can provide for themselves for that time slot. See if they know anything at all about the robbery. Jones denies taking it. Well, we know he didn’t go near the safe, the videotapes tell us that. Ask again if they saw anybody anywhere near the safe that day. The slightest clue. Fish about. Use your initiative. You know what to do.’ He sighed. ‘We have nothing to go on at all!’

  *

  It was 9 a.m. Another day, and forty-eight hours past the deadline the superintendent had given Angel to wrap up the Jones case and p
ass it on to the CPS. Angel was only too well aware of this and he was still managing to keep out of the super’s way. He was waiting for the forensic report from Mac about Jones’s house and the pink suit and then he would have to make a decision. In the meantime, this morning, he was looking for £100,000 and the place he hoped to find it was at 455 Sheffield Road, the home of Eric Weltham, MP.

  He drove along Sheffield Road, past the posh flats, to Weltham’s house. The American car was not there. A big black car was parked in its place, and there was a man in the driver’s seat wearing a nebbed hat pushed to the back of his head. He was smoking a cigarette and reading the Guardian. That looked like a cabinet minister’s car; perhaps Louella and Nigel were off somewhere. Angel got out his car and strode determinedly up the path carrying a fawn coloured paper file.

  It was Eric Weltham himself who answered the door. He looked very smart in a broad pin-striped dark suit. He scowled when he saw it was Angel.

  ‘What do you want, Inspector?’ he growled.

  Angel spoke forthrightly, not rude, but in that no-nonsense style that is supposed to epitomize the Yorkshire character.

  ‘A few questions, sir. It will take only three minutes.’

  ‘Make it two and I’ll see you now. Otherwise you’ll have to make an appointment in London with my secretary. I have to be off. My car is waiting.’

  ‘I can ask the questions in ten seconds, sir. It really depends on you how long you take to answer them.’

  Weltham growled, then he snapped, ‘Come in.’ He showed Angel into a dark wood-panelled room with shelves of books covering most of the wall space, a French window, a few chairs, and a big desk in the centre of the room. He pointed Angel to a chair and took another himself behind the desk.

  ‘Now what is it,’ he said testily, looking at his watch.

  Angel opened the folder, it held only a single sheet of A4 paper, handwritten on both sides. He glanced at the sheet, turned it over and then silently read a few lines. He closed the file and looked across the desk.

  ‘I have a statement here from a witness who overheard you and Charles Tabor discussing competitors’ tenders for computers for the R and D ministry and an arrangement whereby you supplied details of the tenders in return for a cash payment to you of a hundred thousand pounds.’

  Weltham pouted. ‘Ridiculous. Outrageous!’ he bellowed. Unmoved, Angel said coolly: ‘I wondered if you had anything to say to rebut the statement.’ He placed the file on the polished desk.

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. I’ve plenty to say,’ roared Weltham. ‘Plenty. I deny it absolutely. It’s complete nonsense. Who is it that libels me in this way? Who is it? I’ll sue them for every penny they’ve got. A bit of tittle-tattle does not constitute a case to bring against me, an MP, a cabinet minister and a member of Her Majesty’s Privy Council. Whoever it is had better have a super abundance of evidence and a damn good counsel to deliver it. I can tell you that. Who is it?’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say, sir.’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. Where was it? And when?’

  ‘Your counsel will be informed of that in due course.’

  ‘Oh yes? You definitely intend bringing it to court, then?’

  ‘In the absence of some satisfactory explanation, I have no option, sir.’

  Weltham bit his lip. He wished he hadn’t. He regretted letting Angel see how much this charge was unnerving him. There was a short pause. He stood up and went over to the French windows, he put his hands in his pockets and looked out across the garden at the long lawn and the greenhouses, but he didn’t see them. He soon recovered his composure and returned to the desk rubbing his chin. He sat down, leaned forward and looked straight into Angel’s eyes.

  ‘Well now, Inspector,’ he said in a low measured voice, ‘it seems to me that you have got yourself in a bit of a pickle.’

  ‘How’s that, sir?’ Angel said, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘You have got the wrong side of me for a start,’ said Weltham icily. ‘This trumped-up story is typical of the way my political enemies try to bring me down. It’s a device. A politician’s life is a minefield. Your informant, whoever he is, will not be a man of substance and he will not find anybody of standing to support his story. There is nobody in the world who can make this sort of fairy-tale stick with unsupported evidence. And you haven’t got any or you wouldn’t be sitting here now trying to bluff me into a confession. And I think you are a wise enough bird to know that what I say is true. Litigation against me could run into several millions. No prosecution barrister in his right mind would touch the case. So if you decide to take this fabricated claptrap to court, if you are stupid enough, not only would you inevitably lose the case, but you would lose your credibility and in turn, probably your job!’

  Weltham was cleverer than Angel had thought. Most of what the man had said was true. He knew he’d never get a case to stick on present evidence, but he was not beaten yet. He intended to fight this battle to the end. He sat there waiting for Weltham to finish his spiel.

  ‘On the other hand, I have noticed what a hard-working, determined, single-minded, go-ahead man you are. And you are your own man; I like that. Now, as it happens, one of my best front-bench friends and colleagues is the Home Secretary, Sir Jasper Keene. He listens to me, Inspector. And he owes me a favour. Now if you could see your way clear — in view of the hopelessness of the case — to dropping it, and say, losing that statement, I would whisper a few words in his ear, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t be a superintendent … in a few weeks’ time.’

  Angel’s face changed. He was sickened at what he had heard and he slowly shook his head.

  ‘That won’t do, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘That won’t do at all. I know you are guilty of accepting money by using your high office for your own ends. And I’m going to do all that I can to get you to pay for it. I am not beaten yet. As for trying to bribe me, well, I don’t think I have ever thought of being a superintendent. It’s not really my cup of tea. I really don’t want the responsibility of being in charge of CID: all that paperwork and meetings. I enjoy my job as inspector. It’s not too low, and it’s not too high. I don’t mind getting my hands dirty occasionally chasing leeches like you and locking them up.’

  He stood up. His pulse was banging away in his ears. His face was red. He had a hot pain in his chest that he always experienced when his gander was up. ‘I do regret that in this case,’ he went on, ‘It will take me a little longer.’ He reached out in front to pick up the file and instead knocked it flying across the top of the polished desk. The inside sheet slid out right in front of Weltham’s nose.

  ‘Give me that here,’ Angel snapped and quickly leaned over the desk and reached out for the file, but not before the MP had read the name and address on the heading. ‘You haven’t seen the last of me, Mr Weltham.’

  The MP’s eyes blazed like Catherine wheels on 5 November. He leapt to his feet.

  ‘You’ve had your chance, Angel,’ he bellowed. ‘Get out and don’t come back until you’ve got evidence, hard, rock-solid evidence.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘Right. Let’s have a look at them then, lad. Put them down there,’ Angel said pointing at the desk in front of him. Ahmed carefully placed six postcard size black-and-white photographs one at a time on the desk.

  Angel eagerly peered at the slightly fuzzy pictures showing the man in the pink suit taken from the CCTV tape.

  ‘The contrast is not very good, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘There wasn’t enough light.’

  Angel looked closely at them, moving systematically from one print to the next.

  ‘Hmm. I can see that. Oh dear. Hmmm.’ Angel was clearly disappointed. ‘For stills, I suppose they’re good, but, I mean, from these pictures, I can’t say with absolute conviction that this is Jones. The figure looks right. The size and shape. The suede shoes. The suit. The bow tie. But the hat and the sunglasses cover most of his face. Now, he has a distinctive mouth. Is that his mouth? Mmm.’r />
  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Crisp. ‘I’ve brought that photo back, sir.’ He put a big envelope on the desk.

  ‘Ah, it’s you. At last. I thought you’d gone off on a world cruise.’

  ‘Nay sir,’ he protested.

  ‘Have you spoken to those women?’

  ‘Yes sir. All four of them. And all four of them say this is the photograph of Frank P Jones.’

  Angel pulled a face. ‘Well I know that, lad, don’t I? His agent sent it to me, didn’t he. Of course it’s Jones. I want to know if it’s the man who shot Charles Tabor!’

  ‘Yes. They’re one and the same!’

  Angel shook his head wearily. ‘That’s what I am trying to find out!’ he bellowed. ‘Are they?’

  ‘Each one of the witnesses was seen separately and each one says that that is the photograph of the man who shot Charles Tabor.’

  ‘Definitely?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Right. Did you find out anything about the safe being robbed?’

  ‘They didn’t see anything, sir. None of them. On the afternoon of the murder, after you had interviewed them they left the factory together at the same time, about four o’clock and then made their separate ways. Two went straight home, one went shopping and the other one called on her mother and then went home. Do you want me to check on their alibis, sir?’

  ‘Ay. Better get on with it. I am still fishing in the dark about that missing money. Get me something to work on. Anything!’

  Crisp rushed off.

  Angel picked up the envelope and pulled out the photograph of Jones taken in the Louvre. He compared it with the CCTV prints. He shook his head.

  ‘Ahmed.’

  ‘Yes sir,’

  ‘Look at these and tell me if they are of the same person.’

  Ahmed pored over the pictures carefully, then he pulled back and shrugged.

  ‘They look the same to me, sir.’

  Angel nodded, but he wasn’t pleased. ‘Yes. Right lad.’

  ‘Do you want me to look the Dooley incident up next, sir?’

  ‘Ay. Right. Push off then.’