Murder in Bare Feet

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘Did your wife or your daughter see him?’

  ‘No. Why? Who was he?’

  ‘He was the murderer of Charles Pleasant.’

  Tickles face went white.

  Angel checked his watch. It was 4.15 p.m. He left the little man recovering behind the counter, and stepped out of the lodging house into the sunshine. It was still a pleasant day but nothing like as hot as it had been the same time the previous week. He glanced back at the scrapyard. The gates were locked and everywhere was silent. Just as he expected it would have been the previous Sunday. It was spooky. The raucous racket from the lodging house started up again. He started walking down Sebastopol Terrace away from the scrapyard and away from the noise. Nobody was about. One might have expected children to be out playing ball games or hop scotch or similar. Nobody was out scrubbing their step, washing their windows or painting the gate. He continued his way towards the junction of Bradford Road. In the distance, but very loudly, he heard the chime of an ice cream van. ‘Half a pound of tuppeny rice, Half a pound of treacle’. A few seconds later, it turned the corner and stopped at the junction. The driver parked up, switched off the chime. Angel was about a hundred yards away. He made a beeline for him. Several people rushed out of their houses and formed a short queue. The driver served them quickly and everybody disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. The salesman was about to close the serving window, when he saw Angel approach. He held up a finger to catch his attention.

  He flashed his warrant card and made himself known.

  ‘Were you here about this time last Sunday?’

  The salesman said, ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘A man was murdered, shot in his car outside the scrap-yard at the far end of the street. Did you see anything at all?’

  His eyebrows went up. ‘No, mate. I was pulled off my feet last Sunday. It was the hottest day for fifteen years. I had to go back to the depot three times for a fill up. My takings was up ten times what I usually take. Everybody worked sixteen hours, flat out. They made part-timers into full-timers. We was that busy. I would like to help. I didn’t see nothing.’

  ‘Anybody running away, any cars, anything unusual? Anybody in bare feet?’

  ‘Bare feet?’ He blinked then shook his head.

  He saw nothing at all unusual last Sunday on his travels.

  Angel thanked him.

  The ice cream van rattled on up the hill.

  Angel turned round and walked at an easy pace the length of Sebastopol Terrace, past his car and up to the scrapyard gates. He looked at the piles of metal rubbish through the bars. He felt uncomfortable as the critical time of 4.19 passed. He had to be there. Something or somebody might have caused something to happen. But nothing did.

  He glanced down the long row of terraced houses until just after 4.30, then returned to his car, unable to avoid the hideous racket emanating from speakers in the lodging house.

  He was home for 4.40. He put the car in the garage, locked up and went in the bungalow.

  Mary was at the sink washing a lettuce. She gave him a sideways glance.

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, in a minute.’

  ‘Ta, love.’

  She sighed. ‘You can’t leave that job alone, can you? Whatever will you do when they make you retire?’

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.’

  ‘If you get to it.’

  They had tea and then watched television. There was Songs of Praise, followed by a re-run of Last of the Summer Wine, then the titles came on for one of those eighteenth-century classical costume plays.

  Mary was delighted and settled back in her chair with a contented expression.

  Angel yawned when he saw what he was in for. He’d seen the like before … an overpublicized, expensive production incorporating a brigade of famous actresses and actors, the men in tight pants and the women fluttering up and down in big hats, saying things like, ‘Mamma, I do declare that Mr Clothhooly looks very handsome on a horse.’ ‘Mamma, do you think the vicar will bring the new curate for tea?’ ‘Mamma, Sir John Finglechomp wants to speak to Papa (sob sob). O Mamma, dear Mamma, I really he think wants to ask Papa permission to take my hand in holy matricide.’ He yawned again.

  Mary poured him and herself a second cup of tea without taking her eyes off the screen.

  For Angel, the film was destined to send him to sleep. He expected it to begin with a funeral and a flock of people returning to a big house and removing their coats and hats. And it did! Then he saw something that caught his attention. It wasn’t that unusual. At that time, even insignificant. A woman with a gigantic hat pin. It looked about 10” long. She looked quite dangerous with it. She took it out of the hat so that she could take it off. He wondered what she would do with it after she had removed the hat. It reminded him of the collection of hat pins at Jones’s shop. This woman stuck the pin back in the hat and put the hat on a table. He wondered. What if she had intended parting with the hat and therefore had had no hat to stick it back into. Supposing she had to transport it somewhere. At Jones’s shop, he had a big pincushion to stick it in, but supposing, just supposing, she had wanted to take it upstairs or next door or down the street, or have given it to her ‘Dear Mamma, I do declare?’ The thing was dangerous. Ten inches of steel with a sharp point. It could be a real weapon. It needed a cover of some sort surely … a holster … a cork at the end might be all right, but it could get knocked off … it needed an all-over cover … like a long sausage shaped thing … a sausage itself wouldn’t do … once it’s punctured there’d be greasy stuff coming out all over … a French stick … that would be too crumbly … an apple … not long enough … a carrot … yes a carrot … good, but still not quite long enough … a parsnip would be just right … a PARSNIP! He stopped.

  He suddenly heard Mary’s voice. ‘Are you all right, Michael?’

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Are you all right? You shouted something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You shouted “Parsnip” I thought it was,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?

  He shook his head and looked at her strangely.

  ‘Look,’ she said, her fists clenched, ‘if you really don’t want this, we’ve got a tape somewhere of Benny Hill.’

  ‘No, love. No,’ he said. ‘You enjoy it. I will go for … a walk. I want to think something out … I’m all right. You enjoy it. Won’t be long. I must go—’

  And he was gone.

  It was a quarter past nine on Monday morning when Angel pulled up outside The Moo Moo Ice Cream Parlour, Abbeyside Road, Sheffield. The Moo Moo was a well-known short-order café, and of course sold the celebrated Moo Moo ice cream. Staff in their distinctive white overalls flitted from table to table cleaning and clearing in preparation for another busy day. There were only half a dozen customers in there at that time, drinking coffee, as it was so early.

  Angel went straight up to the cashier at the paydesk, made himself known and asked to see the manager. A few moments later, a pleasant young man came up to him.

  ‘I’m Roland Markway, shop manager. How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m making inquiries about a Miss Penelope Furnace,’ Angel said. ‘Does she work here?’

  The man smiled. ‘She certainly does, Inspector. She’s my fiancée.’ Then his face changed. ‘Is she in any trouble?’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. Now there was a surprise. How many fiancés does she have? He rubbed his chin. ‘Is she here now?’

  ‘She’s part time. Doesn’t start until 10 o’clock. Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so, Mr Markway. This is just an inquiry. All I really need to know is whether she was at work here at 4.20 last Sunday afternoon?’

  ‘She certainly was. That was the day of the heatwave.’

  The pupils of Angel’s eyes rose up and then down. His pulse began to race. This may be the breakthrough he had been looking for. There was an uncontrollable fluttery movement and warmth in his chest, a
ccompanied by a regular thumping of his heart. He always had a reaction like this when he sensed that he was near solving a difficult case. He had been like this ever since he had caught his first murderer as a sergeant in 1988. He hoped that he was able to conceal his excitement from Roland Markway. He took in a deep breath and tried to breathe out slowly and evenly.

  ‘Are you certain?’ he said. ‘At 4.20?’

  ‘Oh yes. She was here all day from ten o’clock until eight in the evening. Penny worked jolly hard. Everybody was here. Sales were an all-time record. I didn’t get home myself until almost eleven o’clock. Is she in any trouble?’

  He hesitated before replying. ‘No. No,’ he said, feigning unhurried serenity and benevolence. It wasn’t true, but he had no choice. He didn’t want Markway alarming Penny, then her tipping Abe Longley off and him legging it away. Villains can be in Rio de Janeiro in ten hours these days if they have it planned ahead.

  Angel thanked the young man, left the café and returned to his car.

  Things may be moving at last.

  He took out his mobile and tapped in Gawber’s number.

  ‘I’m in Sheffield, Ron. Drop everything. Find Scrivens or a PC, bring a plaster cast of the footprint of the murderer – there’s one in my office – come over here and see if it fits Abe Longley. If it does, arrest him, book him and take him back with you. He’s probably at his flat.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘According to her boss, who strangely happens to be her boyfriend, Penelope Furnace was working all day Sunday the 5th, serving up ice cream at the time she said she was having tea with him and her parents. Now, if the parents change their tune, we could have our murderer.’

  Gawber whooped with joy. ‘Great stuff, sir. I’ll leave straightaway. We should be there in twenty-five minutes.’

  ‘I’m now going straight to Penny Furnace’s parents. See what they have to say. Keep in touch.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He closed the phone and drove determinedly up Barnsley Road to the flats. He was there in seven minutes. He parked up the BMW, went up the concrete steps and along, passing Abe Longley’s flat number 112, to the Furnaces’, number 114. He tapped on the door. It was answered by Mrs Furnace. When she saw Angel she smiled but it wasn’t the same smile she had greeted him with four days previously.

  ‘Mr Angel? Good morning. What brings you here? I’m afraid our Penny has just stepped out to the shop.’

  He looked her straight in the eye and said: ‘It’s you and your husband I have come to see. May I come in?’

  He noticed the looks that were exchanged between the husband and wife as he stepped into the tiny living room. Mr Furnace was sitting in a chair by the fireplace and the television was blaring away, the big slim screen dominating the room. Mrs Furnace invited him to sit by the table and then turned the television off.

  ‘Now what is it, lad?’ Mr Furnace said.

  ‘It’s about the whereabouts of Abe Longley a week last Sunday, the 5th.’

  Mr Furnace rubbed his chin vigorously. Then he looked into his wife’s sad eyes and said, ‘It’s no good, love. We’ll have to tell him.’

  She nodded.

  ‘It was for our Penelope, really,’ she said. ‘We wanted what we thought was the very best for her.’

  Angel nodded gently and said, ‘Of course. Tell me all about it.’

  ‘Well, we wanted her to find a nice young man and settle down. We thought she’d found one. We understood Abe’s father had died and left him over a million pounds. He bought us this television set. It’s very, very nice, but we thought it was a bit fishy. He doesn’t look or seem like a millionaire’s son.’

  ‘His father is alive in Wakefield prison, Mrs Furnace. But he is innocent and shouldn’t be there. I intend to have his case re-tried. But he isn’t a millionaire. Never was. Like his son, he was a butcher.’

  ‘Oh. A butcher? He said his father was dead,’ she said and she looked at her husband.

  Mr Furnace said, ‘He said his father had been a property developer!’

  He shook his head. ‘The money he’s throwing around is part of the proceeds of an armed bank robbery.’

  The couple stared at each other open mouthed.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Furnace said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well, tell me about that Sunday afternoon, the 5th.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well, he came here all flushed, late that Sunday night. Said that that afternoon, he’d been to a car boot sale, while our Penelope was at work. He said that while he was looking round for a present for her, his car was clamped, and that it was going to cost him £160 to pay to get unclamped. Anyway, he hadn’t got the £160 on him. He said he was angry. He said that he had a hacksaw in the boot of his car and managed to remove the clamp and throw it over the hedge. Then he said that if the clamping company found out who he was they could fine him for damaging their clamp. On the other hand, as nobody had actually seen him, he could get away with it if he could say that he was with us. So with pressure from our Penelope, we agreed, but we hadn’t realized that … oh dear.’

  ‘Where is your Penelope now?’

  The room door opened and she stepped inside. Her face was red, she was wiping her eyes. ‘I’m here,’ she said. She was wearing the white overall dress with Moo Moo embroidered on the lapels. ‘I had a text on my mobile from Roland. I’ve just rung him. He told me you’d been asking about that Sunday. And I heard it all. Every word.’ She looked at Angel. ‘No. I wasn’t with Abe Longley having tea at 4.30 a week last Sunday. I was down at that rotten ice cream shop, slapping out ice cream sundaes and banana splits till gone ten o’clock.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Penny,’ he said. He knew she must be smarting at the embarrassment.

  Her mother went over to her, but she shrugged her off.

  He was sorry that there had to be so much pain in this business, but he was excited that he’d had confirmation that there was no alibi.

  Angel suddenly looked up. ‘Does anybody know where Abe Longley will be at the moment?’

  ‘He’ll still be in bed,’ Penny said as she looked at her watch. ‘Oh! I’ll be late for work, ’she said. Then her face brightened. She was a different woman. She dashed round the room, gave her mother and father each a quick peck on the cheek, and then crossed to Angel. She stretched up on to her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek, laughed and went out, closing the door after her.

  Angel smiled and dug into his pocket for his mobile.

  CHAPTER 17

  * * *

  He arrived home at six o’clock. It had been a busy, tiring day.

  Mary was in the sitting room on a lounge chair with her legs up on a matching stool, watching the news on television.

  ‘I’m in here,’ she called when she heard the back door close.

  ‘Right, love.’

  He came in, leaned over and gave her a kiss.

  She smiled at first then her face straightened. ‘You’ve been drinking.’

  ‘I’ve had a couple in the Fat Duck.’

  Her jaw dropped. Then she said, ‘You’ve got somebody for that murder?’

  He smiled. ‘What’s for tea?’

  ‘You’ve got the gang who robbed the Great Northern Bank?’

  ‘Tell me what’s for tea and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘It’s salmon and salad. It’s in the fridge. We can have it whenever we like.’

  ‘Good. Let me get a beer and take my coat off.’

  He went into the kitchen and the phone began ringing.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he said and came back into the hall.

  Mary switched off the television.

  He picked up the phone.

  It was Ron Gawber.

  ‘What’s wrong, Ron?’

  ‘Nothing wrong, sir. Thought you’d like to know that Abe Longley’s shooting his mouth off. He’s hinted that he knows who did the Great Northern Bank Robbery and he wants to do a deal.’
>
  ‘No deals, Ron.’

  ‘He wants to tell us how the robbery was done and the names of the gang.’

  ‘I know all that. No deals, Ron. Goodbye.’

  There was some hesitation before Gawber said, ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  He replaced the phone.

  Mary heard the clunk. ‘Who was that?’ she called.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he yelled. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge, a glass out of the cupboard and came into the sitting room. ‘It was Ron Gawber. A prisoner wanted to grass on his mates and tell us how the robbery was done.’

  ‘You mix with some nice people.’

  He poured the beer, took a sip and put it on the coaster.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ she added.

  ‘I know how it was done.’

  ‘Oh? Are you going to tell me then?’

  ‘Of course. You remember that overpumped costume play you saw last night and enjoyed so much.’

  ‘And you didn’t. The only part you saw was the beginning. The hat pins.’

  ‘Yes. The hat pins. And last week, I told you about the parsnips I saw in both the Jones’ – father and son – houses. Well, I worked out that, as daft as it sounds, a parsnip would be a safe, suitable and cheap holster in which to carry a hatpin around.’

  ‘Mmm. I suppose. Yes, but what for?’

  ‘I’m coming to that. A hat pin would be a very suitable tool with which to puncture the plastic ball cock in a lavatory cistern, which would result in the water seeping into it, causing it slowly to sink and stay sunk. Subsequently, the water filling the cistern would then overflow and flood the place out.’

  ‘The Great Northern Bank?’

  ‘Precisely. All it left for forensic and the plumber was a pinprick in the ballcock. No wonder they were bewildered. All of this dawned on me when I remembered that I had seen a set up in Jones’s shop without realizing that that’s what he was doing. There were a series of bowls and chamberpots with plastic balls, one in each, some sunk and some floating. He was experimenting with different hat pins, making different diameter holes in rubber balls to determine which hat pin to use to sink a ballcock in a specific length of time. I realized later that it was a timing experiment. I had asked him what they were and he told me some rubbish about checking whether the pots leaked or not. It has been at the back of my mind ever since.’