Ahmed went out and closed the door.
Angel took another look at the photographs, selected two from the CCTV print-outs and the one in colour and marched out of his office down to the superintendent’s office. He knocked on the door and heard the bark: ‘Come in.’ Superintendent Harker swivelled round his chair to face the door.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said sternly.
‘Oh,’ Angel said, trying to look innocent. ‘I was out early doors, John. I’ve been in since ten.’
‘And I’ve been with the chief until two minutes ago. Or else I would have come looking for you. Your time’s up. In fact it was up on Friday. What are you messing about at?’
‘Yes sir. I know. Is the chief pleased that all the brouhaha has moved away to the hospital?’
‘Delighted,’ said Harker curtly. ‘Now, what are you messing about at? Why haven’t you pushed that Jones case up to the CPS?’
‘I still haven’t got Mac’s report on Jones’s clothes, house and car. I am expecting it any time.’
‘I’ll sort Mac out,’ replied Harker ominously. ‘What’s he playing about at? But that’s an excuse. I gave you a direct order to get shut of this case.’
Angel thought quickly. ‘Can I answer that question with a question, sir?’
‘No,’ snapped Harker. ‘But I’ll listen. Nobody can ever say I don’t listen.’
‘Will you have a look at these photographs?’
The super pulled a pained face and shook his head.
Angel placed the two photographs from the CCTV and the coloured one on the desk.
The super glanced at them briefly, then looked up.
‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.
‘The question is, are they the same person?’
Harker looked again at them closely for a few seconds.
‘Yes. No,’ he said. Then he added tersely: ‘They seem to be.’
‘Yes sir. They seem to be, but are they?’
The super’s jaw stiffened. He gripped the arms of the chair. ‘Look here Mike, I don’t care what he looks like. I don’t care if he looks like Ann Widdecombe. If he shot Charles Tabor, bang him up! If he didn’t, chuck him out! It’s of no interest to me what he looks like. God knows, I’ve seen all sorts! If they’re brought in here in the best suits, spats and a monocle, I don’t care. If they come in, half-starved, in fashion torn jeans, with rings in their ears, pins in their noses and heroin needles up their arses, it doesn’t make any difference to me, either. This isn’t Pop Idol. If they’ve committed an offence, bang ’em up, and if they haven’t, chuck ’em out!’
Angel was surprised at the outburst. He knew he was potentially in trouble because he had gone well past the ultimatum, but he didn’t expect the superintendent to be so explosive.
‘This isn’t the time for nancying around with diddy photographs and wet-nursing a cardboard cut-out of a man, courted because he knows a bit about art, appears on television and wears a technicolor suit. I don’t know what you are messing about at. Are you going to hand the case up to the CPS or do you want me to boot you out and do it myself?’
‘I’ll do it, sir,’ said Angel resignedly.
‘Today!’ boomed Harker.
‘Today.’
Angel didn’t say another word. He collected the photographs off the desk, came out of the super’s office and quietly closed the door. He was subdued and ruffled, but as he trundled up the corridor, he thought, all in all, that he had come out of the contretemps rather well. Harker could have formally reprimanded him on the spot, which would have appeared on his record. He wouldn’t have liked that. There was no alternative. He would now have to wrap up the Jones case. He couldn’t see the urgency. He still needed Dr Mac’s report, and another day or two wouldn’t have mattered much, especially as the news-gathering fraternity had totally deserted the station in favour of the hospital. This should have soothed the chief constable’s nerves.
Round the corner, he met Ahmed carrying what looked like an old occurrences book.
‘I was looking for you, sir.’
‘What, lad?’
‘That Dooley incident, sir.’
‘Come in the office.’
Angel slumped into his chair at the desk, rubbing his chin. Ahmed closed the door.
‘I’ve got the occurrences book which includes December 2003, sir.’
‘That’ll have to wait, lad.’ Angel sighed. ‘You’d better bring all the stuff you have on Jones, the videos, the exhibits, everything. And get me the CPS on the line,’ he said glumly.
Ahmed’s face brightened briefly, then he looked confused.
‘You’ve solved the case, sir?’
‘No lad. I haven’t,’ Angel replied gruffly. ‘Come on. Chop-chop. Get on with it. We’ll look into the Ingrid Dooley business later.’
‘Right, sir.’
Suddenly the door opened with a flourish. It was a red-faced Superintendent Harker in his hat and buttoning up his overcoat.
‘Ah, Mike,’ he said excitedly, his bright eyes sparking like a welder’s arc. ‘I’ve just had a tip-off from Scotland Yard. The Home Office has sent them a signal. A drugs baron intent on operating up here in a big way has just moved into the town. I’m taking a squad up there. I want every available man and women uniformed and plainclothes on this. Now!’
Angel leapt up. ‘Yes, sir. What’s the address, sir?’
The super read from a piece of paper in his hand.
‘It’s Flat 6, 452 Sheffield Road. I’ll see you there.’
He dashed off. Angel watched him run out of his office and up the corridor. Then he turned to Ahmed.
‘Nip smartly into the CID room, the loo and the briefing room and tell anybody there to turn out pronto to that address,’ he ordered. ‘Then join me in the carpark. You come with me in my car,’ he added, grabbing his coat. ‘Now this’ll be an entertainment!’ He gave a grin.
When Angel arrived on the scene, there were four marked police cars and two unmarked on the forecourt of the new flats. As the inspector and Cadet Ahaz made for the main doors, two other police cars pulled up behind them. They entered the lift and pressed the button for Flats 5 to 8, which were on the first floor. Entry had already been effected into Flat 6, and there were a dozen policemen and two policewomen swarming inside. The flats were modern, fully furnished but tiny, comprising a main room with a bed, a kitchen and a bathroom. Under the doorbell push was a piece of card with the name ‘A Berk’ handwritten in ink. There was little space for them in the crowded room so Ahmed stood with Angel in the corridor looking into the flat through the open door.
Superintendent Harker was in the centre of the main room surrounded by police.
‘Quiet everybody,’ he called. ‘Quiet. Disappointing that there’s no villain here, but we can wait. Now, where’s the fingerprint man.’
‘Here, sir.’
‘Just dust these drawers.’
The police constable waved his magic brush with aluminium powder on the front of the chest of drawers and the knobs.
‘There’s nothing there, sir.’
Harker turned to DS Crisp and pointed to the drawers.
‘Have a look in there, Sergeant,’ he said.
Crisp opened the top drawer and pulled out some underwear and some photographs. The group reacted with murmurs of delight tinged with concern when a white plastic bag of powder was found at the back of the drawer.
‘Careful lad.’
Crisp carefully put the plastic bag on top of the chest. The super nodded to the constable with the brush to try for dabs. He did the business and eventually reported: ‘Nothing sir.’
The superintendent then pierced the bag at the corner with his bail-point, put a moist finger on the hole, collected a few crystals and applied them to his lips.
‘Mmmm. Yes. I think it’s heroin.’ He nodded to Crisp and pointed to the other drawers. ‘See what else there is, lad.’
The sergeant pulled open the drawers and closed them i
n turn. They were empty.
Just then, Angel heard a commotion behind him and a voice he recognized.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen will you let me through? I’m Eric Weltham, your member of parliament. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you very much.’
The MP bustled across in front of Angel and made his way into the room.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
‘I am, sir. Superintendent Harker. What can I do for you?’
‘Ah. My name’s Eric Weltham. Your MP.’
‘Ah yes, sir,’ Harker said, recognizing him and trying to be seen as accommodating.
‘I live opposite and I saw this crowd of police cars arrive; naturally I was curious to see what was happening. Now, what’s going on?’
‘We think we have made a drugs bust, sir.’
‘Oh? Well, I want to offer my help and support if it is needed. I am always interested in supporting the police and aiding in any community matters, you know.’ He saw the bag of white powder, which had been placed on the top of the chest of drawers. ‘Is that it?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Yes,’ Harker replied. ‘Well thank you, sir. Thank you very much. But everything is in hand.’
‘Hmm. Have you searched the place? Have you found any documents? Papers? Records?’
‘No sir.’
‘Oh.’ Weltham looked disappointed. ‘Well, who lives here, then? Who’s the tenant? Who rents the place?’ he puffed.
Angel pushed into the room from the doorway, followed by Ahmed.
‘I do,’ the inspector said quietly.
There were murmurs of surprise.
Angel strode casually across to the chest of drawers, and picked up the contents of the drawer piece by piece.
‘Yes. These are my pants, my vest and my socks. These are my handkerchiefs with my initials on, look MA. My wife bought me them last Christmas. And look, this is a photograph of my wife, and there’s one of my dog, Bonnie. I took these on holiday in Scarborough in July. And that’s a photograph of my front garden at home. That’s the new birdbath we got from Focus. Looks nice there, doesn’t it?’
He turned to Eric Weltham and pointed to the alarm-clock on the bedside table. ‘You see that clock? That’s from the side of my bed at home. It’s a good timekeeper. It’s spot on. Look, three o’clock.’ He turned to Ahmed. ‘Tell them, lad. Tell them what you did early this morning.’
Ahmed coughed into his clenched fist.
‘I came with DI Angel early this morning and brought those clothes and photographs, and alarm clock,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I checked that the clock was the correct time. It was. It was a quarter past eight. I don’t know where the bag of heroin came from, but we didn’t bring it.’
Weltham brought himself up to his full height.
‘Well,’ he said loudly, ‘I do, and I’m not surprised. We’ve got a crooked policeman in our midst,’ he boomed, eyeing Angel pointedly. ‘A druggie who is a dealer and a police inspector at that! Superintendent, arrest that man.’
Harker looked stunned.
Angel smiled and slowly turned to Ahmed.
‘Just a minute, sir. Cadet Ahaz has not quite finished, have you lad.’
‘No sir.’
‘Go on, Cadet. Spit it out!’ Harker said impatiently.
‘We also brought a vibration-operated video-camera, and set it on top of the wardrobe,’ Ahmed said quietly.
Angel pointed up to the top of the wardrobe. All heads turned to look at it.
‘Ay. It’s there. It’ll be recording this now.’
A tiny, black, shiny eye could just be seen peeping over the top of the wardrobe.
‘It was deliberately placed in range to record pictures of anyone who came into the room and also the clock, so that we would know the time. It will have recorded the person putting that bag of heroin there and the time.’
Weltham was dumbfounded. His eyes shone and his forehead glistened with perspiration.
‘Your name wasn’t on the doorbell,’ he said, his shaking hand reaching up to his bottom lip.
‘No sir,’ Angel said.
‘Well, who is A. Berk, then?’ he asked weakly.
‘I’ll give you one guess, Mr Weltham,’ Angel said with a smile, and slowly turned to Crisp. ‘Search him. Charge him. And lock him up.’
*
Eric Weltham was charged with being in possession of a Class A drug for the purposes of selling for profit. DS Crisp brought him back to the station, and amidst his protests, he was processed and put into a cell.
Meanwhile, Angel had phoned through to the CPS to get the case against Frank P Jones in motion. The clerk had said he would arrange the collection of the paperwork and exhibits the following morning. Thereafter, Angel had busied himself fixing the prints from the CCTV and the large colour photograph on to his office wall with Blue-Tack. He had spaced them at eye-level facing his desk and was reflecting on his handiwork when there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed. He had four box-files with several plastic bags on top of them in his arms.
‘Where do you want these, sir?’
‘On the desk, lad. On the desk. Is everything there?’
‘Yes sir,’ Ahmed said as he placed them all down carefully.
Angel returned to studying the photographs on the wall.
‘You’d better push off. It’s gone five o’clock.’
‘Yes sir. Good night, sir.’ Ahmed turned to go, then he stopped. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked.
‘Ay. I’m all right.’ Angel sighed. ‘Tired maybe. Fed up, maybe.’
‘It was a good wheeze to get that politician, Mr Weltham, charged and arrested, wasn’t it.’
‘It wasn’t a wheeze, lad. He was actually caught in possession.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ahmed’s smile changed to a frown. ‘Now that’s what I don’t understand?’
Angel sighed. ‘Go home, Ahmed. Go home. Your curry will be getting cold.’
Ahmed smiled. ‘Yes, sir. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ Angel murmured, rubbing his chin and peering at a photograph.
The door closed, but was opened again almost immediately.
‘What you doing?’
Angel recognized the gruff voice of Superintendent Harker. He turned round.
‘Oh. Just having another look, John. That’s all.’
‘Ay,’ Harker replied abstractedly. ‘There’s been a right old shemozzle up there today on the Mawdsley Estate. Right outside that post office. Did you warn off all the lumps I told you to?’
Angel rubbed a hand over his mouth.
‘Well I think so, John. I have had rather a lot on my plate lately.’
Harker’s face went red. His eyes gleamed.
‘We’ve all got a lot on our plates,’ he barked. ‘Tomorrow I want you to sort it out. It’s top priority. There’s that lump McCallister putting the fear of God into all the old folk up there. The chief has had that councillor woman, Elizabeth Mead, bending his ear most of the afternoon.’
‘She’s not old.’
‘No. But her mother is!’ he yelled. ‘And she lives up there.’
‘Yes. All right, sir. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Mike,’ said Harker slowly, staring into his eyes. ‘I want you to do better than you can. Oh yes. I want McCallister on a spike, wrapped up in barbed wire and transported as far away from Bromersley as possible. Have you got that?’
Angel sighed. ‘Yes sir.’
The superintendent made for the door. Then suddenly he stopped, turned back and with a smile that would have terrified Dracula, said:
‘Oh yes. I just wanted to say you pulled a good ’un today.’
Angel’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Ah yes,’ he replied. ‘Well, I was never going to get him for bribery and corruption, was I.’
‘Hmmm. No. No,’ Harker said thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t know he was into heroin, though.’
‘He wasn’t, John.’
‘Eh?’ Hark
er, screwing up his face.
‘Al Capone wasn’t an accountant, was he,’ Angel replied with a wry smile.
*
‘Another day, another dollar,’ Angel muttered to himself as he turned the key in the bungalow door. He withdrew it, thoughtfully, walked up the path to the garage, unlocked it and lifted up the door. Then he walked into the car, put the key in the lock. He had carried out this routine a thousand times, maybe a million, but this morning, it was different. He had used three different keys in less than twenty seconds, and each time, as he had checked the key before pushing it into a lock, something like a flash of light, had zipped across his mind. He couldn’t put a finger on it. The last time he’d had this experience was the other morning, when he was shaving and a picture of Ingrid Dooley in tears in the waiting area at the police station two years ago had flashed by. Memory plays tricks on you. He didn’t know what this heralded or where it was to lead.
He reversed the car out of the garage, still thinking about it, and it remained at the forefront of his mind when he arrived at the police station and pulled round the side into the carpark. He tapped the code on the panel on the back door and let himself in. When he reached his office and saw the four box-files with several polythene bags on top, stacked ready for the CPS, he rummaged through the bags to find one labelled, Exhibit 12, which was the key. The key that mysteriously opened nothing!
The phone rang.
‘Angel?’
‘Good morning. This the CPS. Can I send someone to pick up the paperwork for the case against Jones?’
‘Oh? Ah. Yes. Tell him to ask for Cadet Ahaz, will you?’
‘Will do.’
The man rang off. Angel tapped in a number. The phone was answered.
‘Cadet Ahaz.’
‘Is DS Crisp there?’
‘No sir.’
‘Right. Well, bring yourself in here, lad? We’ll deal with that Dooley business.’
‘Yes sir.’
Angel sat at his desk looking at and fingering the key and key-ring. He turned it every which way until Ahmed arrived with a thick journal and a bunch of papers.
‘Now then. What were you able to find out?’
‘Well, I’ve got the occurrences book, and I’ve made some notes from it and from a taxi driver’s statement, sir. My writing’s not so good. Can I read it out to you.’
The Man in the Pink Suit Page 15