The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Ay. Go on then, lad.’

  ‘Well, from the occurrences book, sir, it said that in the early hours of the morning of the twenty-fifth December 2003, Christmas Day, a man called Alec Dooley, a widower, of thirty, Park Street, died in the street outside Pewski’s, the undertakers, at sixty-one Sheffield Road. A taxi driver, Barry Turner, reported it through his radio and the taxi depot manager reported it by a triple-nine. Turner, the taxi driver, said he had picked up two men from the Feathers Hotel and taken the first man to the railway station, and was told to take the other chap to Pewski’s. When he got there his passenger, Mr Dooley, was dead. The doctor said he had died of heart failure accelerated by an excessive intake of alcohol and the verdict of ‘natural causes’ was subsequently brought in by the coroner. The dead man’s daughter was called Ingrid Dooley of the same address. She said that he had been celebrating his win of two million pounds on the lottery at the Feathers. However, the supposed winning ticket was never found.’ Ahmed looked up.

  Angel sniffed. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Well, mmm. I remember seeing Ingrid Dooley that Christmas Day. I must have been on duty. She must have come into the police station following her father’s death, to make a statement. There was a bit of a party going on in the CID office, and although we were working, there was a seasonal atmosphere about the station. So it was a bit poignant that she was mourning the loss of her father. It mustn’t have been very nice for her.’

  ‘No sir. Did you have to deal with the dead man, sir?’

  ‘Thankfully no. It wasn’t my case. Andrew Pogl dealt with it, I think. He’s retired now. Taken a pub in Anglesey. Who was the other passenger in the taxi?’

  ‘I wondered about that. It didn’t say that anywhere.’

  Angel frowned. ‘I wonder who it was? Mmm. I think I know how I can find out. I must go to the Feathers.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘You’ve been looking for me, sir?’ Crisp asked.

  ‘Yes. Where’ve you been? Did you have to have your leg amputated, then?’

  Crisp’s mouth opened in astonishment.

  Angel shook his head. ‘Never mind lad. You’ve been that long, I thought you must have had to go to the hospital to have your leg off.’

  ‘No sir. I’ve been down the cells trying to settle Eric Weltham down. He wants his solicitor.’

  ‘Well close the door. There’s a right old draught. He can have his solicitor.’

  Crisp closed the door and approached the desk.

  ‘I’ll tell him. He says it’s a case of entrapment.’ He smiled.

  ‘He’ll have a job on making that stick.’ Angel turned to Ahmed. ‘By the way, you’d better phone the hospital. Have a word with DS Gawber and see how Jones is. Do it in the CID room.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed dashed off.

  ‘Sit down, Sergeant. Now, how did you get on with the alibis?’

  ‘Oh yes. They look all right to me, sir. Everything checks out. All four left the factory around four and their movements have been accounted for until well after five o’clock.’

  ‘So there’s no question of the four colluding and ganging up and cooking up some fairy-tale about what happened and what they saw?’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. And they were never in a position to get at that safe, either separately or in a group?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Angel nodded. He reached forward and picked up the key and key-ring lying on the desk. He looked at them again, then put them down and pushed them across the desk.

  ‘Here. Take this. I’ve got a little job for you.’

  TWELVE

  ‘This is Inspector Michael Angel, Bromersley police,’ he said into the phone. ‘I’m in need of your assistance.’

  ‘Anything I can do, Michael. My name is Andrew Baccarat. I am an inspector here at Dashford.’

  ‘Yes. I think we can be mutually helpful, Andrew. They put me through to you. You’ve been chasing a regular customer on your manor called Alan Gledhill Taylor, aka Alan Fields and aka Jonno Fields, aged forty-four, is that right?’

  ‘Oh yes, I have. I most certainly have.’

  ‘What can you tell me about him? I know he’s served time. He was an associate of three men who robbed an RAOC depot in north Yorkshire in 1985 and got ten years.’

  ‘Yes. He’s been in here a few times, but we never seem to get anything to stick. He’s rough and dangerous. We had something on him for dealing in Class A, but the only witness we had failed to appear. Of course, he’d been got at. We’ve not seen the little man since. I dread to think what happened to him. Taylor comes over your way, these days, I believe. Started a loan scam.’

  ‘That’s what I’d heard. Do you know his haunts, his associates, who he lives with, his address?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a loner. He drifts hither and thither, doesn’t have a regular address. Flits from girlfriend to girlfriend. Doesn’t seem to have any regular associates or dependants either. It’s difficult to pin anything on him. There’s nobody to let him down. He’s a wily customer. He frequents the Sportsman at Hillesley.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Angel muttered thoughtfully. ‘Will you email me a photo of him, Andrew?’

  ‘Certainly will.’

  ‘Ta. Well, I’ve got a punter here. Harold Percival McCallister, aka Tiny McCallister, he’s got a loan scam operating in Bromersley. I’ve got to get shot of him. He’s driving my chief nuts.’

  ‘I know the feeling, Michael.’

  Angel said, ‘I thought we could help each other there, Andrew.’

  *

  For the third time, Angel banged on the door of the terraced house. Then it was suddenly yanked open and a small, smartly dressed old woman appeared. She had a shock of white hair and a white craggy face with more lines than Clapham Junction. She squinted at Angel with eyes like raisins and waved her arms in the air.

  ‘What a bloody racket!’ she yelled. ‘What’s happened? If you’re a tallyman, I don’t want anything. Buzz off!’

  Angel thought by the look of her face and shape of her head, that maybe there was something in Darwin’s theory.

  ‘Are you Mrs McCallister? I’m looking for Mr McCallister.’

  ‘He’s dead. Died in 1979. What are you wanting with him anyway?’ Suddenly her mouth opened wide to show her stubby brown teeth. ‘Are you from the insurance?’

  ‘No. I’m looking to speak with Harold Percival McCallister. Would that be your son?’

  ‘You’re not wanting money on the chuckie, are you? That’s my department. I lend it out. I decide who has it and how much.’

  A huge face appeared from behind the door. It was Tiny McCallister in a blue open-necked shirt and jeans. He saw Angel and pulled a face like a sluice man.

  ‘He’s a copper, mother,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with him.’

  The old woman immediately turned, shoved the gorilla out of her way and scuttled into the house. McCallister dug his thumbs in the top of his jeans and strutted on to the step. ‘What do you want, Angel?’

  ‘Well, well, well, Tiny. You don’t look any worse for the thrashing you had, do you.’

  McCallister breathed in and stuck out his chest.

  ‘Takes a lot to get me down. Now what do you want?’

  ‘I’ve had a complaint.’

  The big man rocked his head slightly from side to side. ‘You always get complaints.’

  ‘About your treatment of some of the old ladies on this estate.’

  ‘Don’t have much to do with old ladies.’ McCallister smirked. ‘I like them younger.’

  Angel’s fists tightened. He was angry but he spoke quietly. ‘I’ve come to warn you.’

  ‘You what?’ McCallister sniggered.

  ‘Leave them alone. It’s a rotten scam you’ve got, lending money to poverty-stricken old folk at exorbitant rates.’

  ‘It’s not a scam. It’s a perfectly legitima
te business. If we didn’t lend it to them, they’d go without. Nobody else will lend them anything. Nobody!’

  ‘They’d be better off struggling through. Once they’re in your clutches they can never get paid off.’

  ‘Oh please,’ he replied mockingly. ‘You’ll have me crying, Inspector Big-head.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to close you down,’ Angel continued quietly.

  ‘What I’m doing is perfectly legal.’

  ‘It may be legal, but it’s dishonest, it’s immoral and it’s cruel. If you won’t close down this scam voluntarily, I am going to find a way to shut you down.’

  ‘I’ve every right to carry on my perfectly legal business. As long as I stay within the law, you can’t touch me. So go ahead Mr know-it-all Angel. Do your worst!’

  ‘Oh I will. Rest assured, I will.’

  *

  Angel drove to the Sportsman at Hillesley that night straight from the office. It was ten miles north out of Bromersley on the A61. It wasn’t much of a pub for sportsmen; it wasn’t much of a place for anybody except those who wanted beer cheap and little else. He climbed uncomfortably on to a stool at the bar and ordered a glass of beer. He took a sip and put the glass down. It tasted as if it had come straight from the spillage tray from the previous night’s session.

  The barman was a lumpy fellow in his fifties, who was trying to look busy, wiping things, moving things, repinning cards of nuts and pork-scratchings, squashing crisp-packets, rattling bottles in crates and splashing water. All the time, his eyes were darting about looking everywhere and particularly at Angel.

  There were only two other customers in the pub. They looked like workers having a drink on their way home. They sat at a small table behind him.

  Angel looked at his watch: it was 7 p.m.

  Several customers came in, had a drink and went out. The round black-and-white brewery clock on the wall moved slowly to 7.30 p.m.

  The barman leaned over Angel’s glass.

  ‘Do you want another?’

  Angel pushed the near full glass towards him.

  ‘I’ll have a whisky.’ He took out a note and held it while the drink arrived.

  Suddenly, the door opened behind the inspector and a big man with a tanned skin and a light-blue tracksuit came in. Angel clocked his target in the mirror but didn’t turn round.

  The barman smiled slightly.

  ‘Usual, Alan?’

  ‘Ay. A pint.’

  Taylor took up a position at the opposite end of the bar to Angel.

  The inspector heard some muttering followed by the ring of the till.

  The door opened again and DC Crisp came in. Angel saw him and quickly took something out of his pocket. It sparkled in the pub’s lights. He dropped it over the bar at the barman’s feet. The man looked down, then up at Angel, who shook his head slightly. Alan Taylor also saw what had happened. He quietly stuck his nose into the glass of lager.

  DS Crisp strutted up to the bar. The barman tried for a smile.

  ‘What can I get you?’

  The sergeant stared through him.

  ‘I just want a word with this gentleman.’ He turned to Angel, jerked his head towards the door. ‘Won’t keep you a minute, sir.’

  Angel licked his lips, said nothing, climbed off the stool and walked slowly to the door.

  They went out to the small carpark at the front.

  Taylor found a piece of window he could look through to watch what was happening. Outside, Angel started shouting at Crisp who then shouted back. Next thing Angel emptied his pockets on to the car bonnet, Crisp fingered quickly through it. There were more angry exchanges. Crisp had the last word and Angel stuffed his possessions back into his pockets. Crisp pointed a masterful finger at him, and then pointed at the pub.

  Angel started for the door followed by Crisp.

  Taylor had returned to his place at the bar.

  Angel came in looking cool, climbed silently back on to the bar stool.

  Crisp looked round the room. There were only three customers besides Angel and Taylor. Crisp approached the barman.

  ‘Has this person been trying to sell you anything?’

  ‘Nope,’ the barman said, drying a glass off with a tea-towel. Crisp looked at the others.

  ‘Has this person been trying to sell you anything?’

  ‘No,’ they all replied, including Taylor.

  The sergeant looked slowly round the little bar at the staring, blank faces, then giving a long look at Angel, he suddenly snapped, ‘Right,’ and strode straight out through the door.

  Angel listened until Crisp’s car was out of earshot, then he sighed, picked up his glass, drained off the whisky and nodded to the barman to refill it.

  ‘Here. You dropped this,’ the barman said with a grin and handed him a heavy-looking gold chain about forty-eight inches long.

  ‘Ta,’ Angel said smiling, and stuffed it quickly into his pocket.

  The other drinkers and Taylor gathered round him.

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘Gold chain,’ Angel said.

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Angel pulled it out and draped it on the bar.

  ‘What carat is it?’ said one of the men.

  ‘I bet it’s eighteen,’ said another.

  They all had their fingers on it and began to feel it and gently pull at it.

  ‘What’s it weigh?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Is it pinchbeck?’

  ‘No. It’s gold.’

  ‘What do you want for it?’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘Six hundred quid,’ he said boldly.

  ‘Let me see,’ Taylor said reaching out for it.

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘Lot of money.’

  ‘Too much.’

  ‘Is it hallmarked?’

  ‘Don’t know. I expect so.’

  ‘It’s hallmarked there, look.’

  ‘Oh ay.’

  ‘It’s very worn.’

  ‘It’s old. How old is it?’

  ‘It’s antique.’

  ‘It’s worn.’

  In a loud stentorian voice, Taylor suddenly said:

  ‘I’ll give you a hundred quid.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘No.’

  At that, the men began to drift back to the tables. Angel picked up the chain from the bar and stuffed it back in his pocket.

  Taylor was rubbing his chin slowly.

  ‘I could go maybe to a hundred and fifty.’

  ‘No,’ Angel said abruptly.

  Taylor brought his glass and sat on the stool next to him.

  ‘Where’d you get it from?’

  ‘Mmm. Roundabout,’ Angel answered vaguely.

  ‘You’re not a dip?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘It’s nicked though, isn’t it?’

  Angel hesitated, and then said, ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve served time, haven’t you?’ Taylor winked and nodded encouragingly.

  ‘Might have,’ Angel said, trying to look nonchalant.

  ‘You have. I’ve seen you.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Angel said indignantly.

  ‘I have. It was in Durham.’

  ‘No.’ Angel knew he must be careful. Taylor could have been laying a trap. He knew he’d served time in Armley.

  ‘Doncaster?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wakefield?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Armley?’

  Angel smiled.

  ‘Ah,’ Taylor said triumphantly. ‘I knew you were an old-timer. Hmmm. What landing were you on?’

  ‘Second.’

  ‘I was on the second. What were you in for.’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’ Angel emptied his glass. ‘I must be going.’

  ‘No. Have another.’ Taylor turned to the barman. ‘Give him another, Jeff.’

  The barman whipped his glass across to the optic.

  ‘I really should be going.’
>
  Taylor rubbed his chin again. ‘I bet you’re a con artist.’ Angel smiled.

  Taylor continued: ‘You’re dressed the part. Smart suit. Collar and tie. Polished shoes. Smart haircut.’

  Angel smiled again.

  Jeff placed the whisky and water in front of him.

  ‘Well thank you,’ Angel said. ‘But really I shouldn’t. I’m driving.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Bromersley.’

  Taylor’s face changed. ‘Bromersley?’ He thought about it for a while. ‘I’d got you down for Headingley.’

  ‘No,’ Angel said. ‘Let me ask a question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where do you live?’ Angel picked up the glass.

  ‘Chapeltown.’

  ‘Coincidence. I know a man in Bromersley who knows a few chaps from Chapeltown.’

  ‘Big place,’ Taylor said, taking a gulp of lager. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Big man. Funny that. He was saying how he knocked ten bells out of a man who fancied himself as a bit of an athlete. Had a big head. Trying to muscle in on his loan business, he said. On the Mawdsley Estate in Bromersley.’

  Taylor’s mouth dropped open. His eyes wavered uncertainly from side to side and then settled.

  Angel noticed this with satisfaction.

  ‘There’s a lot of cream there, you know,’ he continued. ‘Lots of biddies with pensions. Gave him hell. I would have liked to have seen him running, crying all the way down that canal. Middle of January, it would be. He came from Chapeltown. You might know him. P’raps not. As you say, it’s a big place.’

  Taylor’s face was scarlet, his jaw set like a steel trap, his icy blue eyes narrowed and his vision blurred with rage. He tried to speak, but couldn’t.

  ‘Is there anything wrong?’ Angel asked.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Taylor managed to ask eventually. ‘Dammit! What’s his bloody name?’ He screamed and banged his fist on the bar.

  ‘Er … Tiny McCallister, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘McCallister!’ bellowed Taylor. ‘I knew it!’

  The men on the tables behind looked up. The barman looked worried.

  Angel tried to look concerned. ‘That’s the chap. He lives on —’

  ‘I know where he lives!’ Taylor ranted. ‘I know where he lives!’ he railed. ‘But not for much longer, he don’t!’