The Man in the Pink Suit
Page 19
‘But let’s go back a bit. When Eric Weltham and you first met, you were both doing rather well. He was an important man: a respected cabinet minister. You were earning a fortune on the box. You two bunked up together, and with your joint resources, began to live in style. You met important people. You both mingled with the famous from governments, both British and foreign, as well as entertainment stars and celebrities. You travelled with him, discreetly, abroad, holidayed together. I expect you had visions of being a cabinet minister’s wife. Everything was hunky dory until you found out that your lovely Eric had accepted money from Charles Tabor for inside government information, and that now Tabor was blackmailing him, and getting all the money back and more!
‘This drain on your resources began to affect your lifestyle: the trips became limited, the parties were getting fewer, at the same time, your celebrity status was diminishing and work was slower coming in. If there was any more bad publicity, your television career might be over. Also your spats with Frank P Jones were coming more frequently. And you were envious of him, particularly when he got any publicity locally, and you didn’t. Overnight, the sequence of glamour, success, TV work, celebrity status and money was grinding to a halt. You saw these two people, Charles Tabor and Frank P Jones as the cause, and you decided to have them removed.
‘So you, or Nigel here, or both of you, had this brilliant idea: to dispose of the blackmailer by shooting him, and have your irritating rival blamed for it. Well, you only had to wiggle your hips, give one of your well-practised smiles and make a few empty promises to Nigel here, and he’d slay a dragon for you, and he’d do it in style. And that’s what happened. So you cooked up this vicious scheme to dispose of two very different types of birds with one stone.
‘Nigel had a motive too. His father had been unceremoniously both sacked and robbed by Charles Tabor on the same day, two years ago. I only found out about that by accident, yesterday. You already had a gun bought by Nigel a year ago from a regular customer of mine, Irish John. Jones had a similar figure, was the same height, and his face and hair would virtually be covered by the hat and the sunglasses. You thought it would be a ‘hoot’ and you could polish off two enemies for the price of one. You engaged Mrs Tassel innocently to make Nigel a made-to-measure cream suit and you dyed it pink. I found the dye container in your dustbin area at the back of your house. You even stuck a wedding-ring on his right hand. Pity you didn’t get the correct finger. You picked a fresh carnation from the greenhouse, and after he’d got dressed up, you drove him to the factory, where he went into the building and shot Charles Tabor. He then surreptitiously returned to the car and you drove him back home.
‘Later that same day, while you disposed of the clothes, Nigel went to watch Jones’s house. You knew the police would be there, and when he saw me cart him off to the station, he went into his garage. Luckily, he didn’t need to force the door. It wasn’t locked.’
Angel turned to face Nigel who was sitting there with his mouth open.
‘You opened the car with a strip of metal from a packing case like a practised car thief, and put the gun under the seat. You know, lad, even an innocent like Frank P Jones would have known to dispose of the gun in a pond or somewhere and not leave it placed so easy for us to find. Then you sneakily dropped the used carnation buttonhole in the dustbin.
‘Do you know Nigel, that was your biggest mistake. If you had done your homework, you would have discovered that Frank P Jones suffers from allergies. In particular, he can’t live near pollen. The slightest whiff triggers his asthma. He could never have worn a natural flower! Yes, on the telly, he always wore a carnation, but it was artificial.’
Angel stood up. He could feel his pulse thumping, he knew his face was red.
Louella Panter and Nigel Coldwell sat in stunned silence. Angel turned to Crisp.
‘Search ’em. Charge ’em. And lock ’em up.’
*
That night, Angel slept the sleep of the just; it was the best night he’d had for a fortnight. The next morning was Sunday, a day of rest. He took his wife to see her mother in Bridlington, had a walk round the harbour, sunk three halves of Old Peculiar in a bar overlooking the sea, had a fish-and-chip tea in York and was home in time to see Last of the Summer Wine at 6.15.
On Monday morning, he couldn’t wait to get to the office. He wanted to finish writing his report and pass up to the CPS the case of the man in the pink suit, as it became famously known. He reached the office by 8.20 and sifted through his post. There was a small white packet, addressed personally to him. He opened it carefully with a penknife he kept for such jobs. Inside was a small piece of cake topped with pink and white icing, and a handwritten ivory card. It read:
To Inspector Angel. Please accept this piece of cake to celebrate the marriage of (Irish) John Holmes to Kathleen Docherty at the Feathers Hotel, Bromersley. Saturday, 22nd January. We done it by speshul liscence.
Angel smiled and shook his head. He closed the box and carefully put it in the drawer.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Ahmed, with his eyes bright, wearing a big smile. He was eagerly waving a piece of paper.
‘What’s that, lad?’
‘It’s an email, sir. It’s about Ingrid Dooley.’
‘Oh yes. Well, come on, lad, what’s it say?’
‘It’s from the Met. A patrol spotted her car in Knightsbridge, in London, yesterday. They stopped her, arrested her and she’s being held at Paddington Green. They want someone to go down and collect her.’
‘Hmm. Good. I’ll send Crisp. When you see him, tell him I want him.’
‘Yes sir,’ Ahmed said and left.
The phone rang. He picked up the handset.
‘Angel.’
‘This is Inspector Baccarat from the Dashford force.’ He sounded happy.
‘Ah,’ Angel said, his eyes opening wide with expectation. ‘What’s the news, my friend? Did it work?’
‘Like a dream. Your customer, Tiny McCallister, is in hospital in Leeds General with a broken arm and collarbone, and we’ve charged Alan Taylor with GBH and causing an affray. With a bit of luck he’ll get five years.’
Angel smiled. ‘Good. Good. That’ll keep McCallister out of the chief’s hair for a bit too. I’ll tell him.’
‘I thought you’d like to know. We followed him to the house, as you said, and waited until he came out. He was only in there about five minutes. Then we arrested him and sent for an ambulance for McCallister. I want to thank you.’
‘It’s a pleasure. Any time. Goodbye.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’
It was Ahmed struggling in with a big cardboard box. By the look on his face, it was heavy. Angel looked up.
‘What have you got there, lad? Put it down before you do yourself an injury.’
Ahmed put it on the chair by the door. ‘Don’t know, sir,’ he puffed. ‘Just come. Got a label on it. It’s addressed to you. Delivered by van.’
Angel stared down at the box.
‘Mmm. Oh, yes. No lad, it’s not for me. It’s for you.’ Ahmed’s eyes lit up. ‘For me, sir?’
‘It’s nobbut my dues and demands, Ahmed. It’s a case of Pepsi. I never go back on a deal.’
‘Oh. Thanks very much, sir.’
‘Aye. Well, leave it there for now and hop it. I’ve a lot on this morning.’
‘Yes sir.’ Ahmed went out and closed the door.
Angel made substantial progress in reducing the pile of papers on his desk. He completed his report on the murder of Charles Tabor and assembled all the documents, statements, tapes and exhibits for Ahmed to take to the CPS. At length, he took off his reading glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked up at the clock. It was 12 noon: lunch-time and he was ready for it.
He decided that, for a change, he’d go to the Feathers. He fancied a big piece of game-pie and a half of Old Peculiar, and the walk through town would be a
welcome change after being cooped up in the office all morning. He put on his coat and gloves and made his way up the corridor, through the reception area to the front door.
It was a cold, January day, but the sun was shining and had burned away the early frost. He had gone out of the station door and started briskly down the steps when he saw a large pink car turn the corner. It was a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce which had been sprayed pink. It was quite a spectacle and the few pedestrians on the quiet street stopped and stared at the phenomenon as it made its stately progress towards the police station. Angel watched the limousine glide to the kerb and stop ten yards ahead of him. He continued to stare as he went down the steps. By the time he’d reached the pavement, the passenger window had moved smoothly downward and Frank P Jones’s happy face was smiling at him from the car.
‘Inspector Angel,’ he called, removing his straw-hat and adjusting the pink bow tie.
Angel’s jaw dropped, then his face changed into a smile.
‘Hello, Mr Jones. This is a big surprise. You’re looking very — er — fit? When did you get out of hospital?’
‘Fit as I’ll ever be. I was discharged yesterday. I must keep away from every kind of flora and, I’m told, I will be absolutely fine. I’m going away for a little break, so I’m glad I caught you. I have come to thank you, Inspector, for getting me off the hook. You have said some pretty outrageous things to me, during my stay in your jail, but I realize it was all for my own good. And I appreciate your acts of fair play, and consideration throughout. I must have been a great pain.’
A woman with two small children passed by and stared open-mouthed at the pink limousine and its unusual passenger peeking through the window. Jones smiled at them and doffed his hat. The woman smiled; the children turned away. A car passed by, the driver tooted his horn and waved; Jones waved back.
‘However, my detention in your primitive accommodation was not a total waste,’ Jones went on. ‘There have been several positive improvements in my life and my outlook over the last ten days or so has changed spectacularly. You could say, in fact, my life has been revolutionized. I now see everything in a new light! I don’t think I shall ever take anything seriously again. For that, I thank you.’
Angel smiled and shook his head.
‘You’re welcome.’
Jones held out his hand. Angel shook it and squeezed it.
‘Thank you. Thank you again, Inspector. Well, I must go. I shall be late. I have to catch a plane to the United States. Meeting a man, called Hiram something or other. Drive on, Tompkins. Goodbye Inspector Angel. Goodbye.’
THE END
OTHER BOOKS BY ROGER SILVERWOOD
YORKSHIRE MURDER MYSTERIES
Book 1: THE MISSING NURSE
Book 2: THE MISSING WIFE
Book 3: THE MAN IN THE PINK SUIT
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Glossary of English Slang for US readers
A & E: Accident and emergency department in a hospital
Aggro: Violent behaviour, aggression
Air raid: an attack in which bombs are dropped from aircraft on ground targets
Allotment: a plot of land rented by an individual for growing fruit, vegetable or flowers
Anorak: nerd (it also means a waterproof jacket)
Artex: textured plaster finish for walls and ceilings
A Level: exams taken between 16 and 18
Auld Reekie: Edinburgh
Au pair: live-in childcare helper. Often a young woman.
Bar: as in The Bar, the profession of barrister.
Barm: bread roll
Barney: argument
Barrister: lawyer who argues in court
Beaker: glass or cup for holding liquids
Beemer: BMW car or motorcycle
Benefits: social security
Bent: corrupt
Bin: wastebasket (noun), or throw in rubbish (verb)
Biscuit: cookie
Blackpool Lights: gaudy illuminations in seaside town
Bloke: guy
Blow: cocaine
Blower: telephone
Blues and twos: emergency vehicles
Bob: money
Bobby: policeman
Broadsheet: quality newspaper (New York Times would be a US example)