The Dog Collar Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘No. He’s in theatre.’

  ‘I’m the police officer investigating his attempted murder. It is important that I speak to him as soon as ever possible.’

  ‘I understand that, but he won’t be permitted visitors for at least twelve hours. Maybe not even then. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and replaced the phone. He rubbed his chin. Nothing there then. He looked round the office. There was nothing else that needed doing that couldn’t wait until the morning. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. He’d known worse days.

  He was home for 8.10.

  Mary glowered at him. ‘Why didn’t you ring me and let me know?’ she said.

  ‘I couldn’t. It was an attempted murder case. I was expecting a breakthrough.’

  ‘Huh,’ she said. ‘If you’d got your breakthrough you wouldn’t have been here now.’

  It was true. He was stuck for an answer. ‘Is there any tea?’ he said.

  ‘It’s in front of you.’

  He took off the cover plate. Underneath were three thick slices of cold roast beef and a big spoonful of cold cauliflower and potato. The pickle jar on a saucer stood prominently in front of him. He picked up the knife and fork.

  Mary slumped down in the chair opposite him. ‘I married you for companionship but I never see you,’ she said.

  ‘You had me all weekend to argue with,’ he said.

  She glared at his plate. ‘You can’t eat that meat now. It’s all dried up.’

  He looked round the table. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘Any bread and butter?’

  She frowned. ‘Bread and butter? You never have bread and butter with cold meat.’

  ‘Is there any bread and butter?’ he repeated slowly.

  She stood up. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said and went into the kitchen. ‘What do you want to drink?’ she called.

  ‘I’ll have a beer while you’re by the fridge.’

  He heard her take a sharp intake of breath. ‘If you have alcohol now, it’ll make you sleepy.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s what I want to do, sleep.’

  ‘You’d be better off with tea or coffee.’

  He banged the cutlery down on the table. ‘Mary! Do you have to argue about every single thing?’

  ‘I am only thinking of your welfare.’

  ‘My welfare would be best served by you letting me decide for myself what I would like to eat. If you have no objection.’

  ‘I don’t care what you eat. You can eat yourself silly if you want to. But if you’re ill, I will be the one who will have to look after you.’

  He frowned.

  Mary arrived with the butter dish, butter knife and a packet of sliced brown bread. She banged them down on the table.

  He looked up at her as she turned away to the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said without meaning it.

  She then returned with a can of beer and a glass. She banged them down on the table.

  Angel opened the pickle jar in silence and helped himself to several onions and a large piece of cauliflower.

  She looked at the pickles on his plate then watched him replace the lid on the jar, screw it tight and put it back on its saucer.

  ‘Do you know how much that jar of pickles cost?’ she said.

  His lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘No, but I know I am destined to find out.’

  ‘£1.68,’ she said. ‘£1.68! It’s daylight robbery.’

  In silence, Angel reached out for the pickle jar, unscrewed the lid and, with his fork, picked up the pickle from his plate, a piece at a time, and ceremoniously returned it all to the jar. Then he screwed the lid on, put the jar back on the saucer and pushed the saucer away to the middle of the table.

  Mary had watched his every move and she stared at him for several seconds with her mouth open.

  Meanwhile, Angel picked up the knife and fork and began to cut into the beef.

  Eventually she said, ‘What did you do that for?’

  ‘The pickles are obviously far too good for me.’

  Her lips tightened.

  ‘You can be so ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You know I didn’t mean that.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘half the time I don’t know what you do mean. Don’t you think, to save any more misunderstandings, and so that I can get on with my supper, we should stop arguing and switch on the telly?’

  Mary ran the tip of her tongue thoughtfully over her bottom lip, then said, ‘Was there some programme you especially wanted to see?’

  ‘No,’ he said, buttering a slice of the brown bread. ‘No,’ he repeated. He had no idea what was on.

  She leaned over towards him. After a few seconds she said, ‘I want to talk to you, Michael. Seriously. I’ve something to say.’

  He stared at her. He wondered what was coming next. ‘You don’t have to announce it, Mary. You can just come right out with it and say it.’

  ‘You know how you were saying that we hadn’t a decent bed for Lolly when she comes …’

  Angel looked heavenward. So that’s what it was all about. He knew that there had to be something strange going on but he hadn’t linked it to his dizzy sister–in-law and Mary’s sudden wish to make accommodation available for her. He had thought that that subject had been discussed and closed that morning. He looked at her and frowned.

  ‘I didn’t say that we hadn’t a decent bed for Lolly. You said that.’

  ‘Well,’ Mary continued, ‘I have gone into my mother’s money and bought one. It’ll be here in a couple of days.’

  Angel held his hands upwards. He didn’t approve of her hacking lumps off the few thousand pounds her mother had left her. He reckoned that they could happily manage on his salary if matters were sensibly managed. He had considered that Mary’s mother’s money was hers exclusively and hardly took it into account. It was there for a rainy day and the fact that the gas bill was a month overdue he didn’t consider was even a shower.

  Anyway, she had said that she had actually bought one. In which case there was nothing more to be said. He gave a little shrug and cut into the beef more vigorously.

  She knew that buying a spare bed wouldn’t be seen by him as sensible. ‘It was my mother’s money,’ she said. ‘I reckon she would wholly approve of me shelling out for a bed for her daughter, my sister, to sleep on.’

  Angel sniffed and said, ‘Do you think she will approve next year when we have to buy more beds for her daughters and maybe for a brand new husband when they all descend on us?’

  THREE

  DI Angel’s office, Police Station, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK. 8.28 a.m., Tuesday, 12 January 2010

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a number.

  ‘Intensive Care,’ a woman’s voice said.

  ‘Bromersley Police,’ Angel said. ‘I am enquiring about Harry Weston. Would it be possible to see him briefly this morning? It is extremely important.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Harry Weston passed away in the night.’

  Angel swallowed. He took a deep breath then said, ‘Right, dear. Thank you.’ He sighed as he replaced the phone. He wasn’t that surprised. He had lived in improbable hope that Harry Weston might have survived, recovered his health and identified the gunman. It was not to be. The young man was dead. It didn’t matter how many times he saw or heard about somebody dying, he always felt sad. They say that policemen get hardened to it. Angel never had nor ever expected to be. Death was particularly difficult to deal with when the deceased was young, and Harry Weston was only in his twenties.

  Angel rubbed his chin. There was a change in the circumstances. He was now investigating a case of murder. The muscles round his mouth and chin tightened. He reached out for the phone and tapped in a number. He was ringing Crisp on his mobile. It rang out and rang out. As it was still ringing, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was Ahmed.

  Angel looked up at him and said, ‘Is Tre
vor Crisp in CID?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He banged down the phone and said, ‘I can never get hold of that lad. I never know what the hell he’s up to.’

  Ahmed turned to the door. ‘I’ll try and find him, sir.’

  ‘Hang on. There are one or two more things. Got your notebook?’

  Ahmed turned back, his eyebrows raised. He reached into his top pocket.

  ‘That lad, Harry Weston, died in the night. I want you to phone the hospital to check that his body has gone or will go straight to the mortuary. Then phone the mortuary and have them point out to Dr Mac that Weston is a murder case of mine and that I want to know the calibre of the gun that shot him, ASAP, please. Also anything else that might be useful.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘Then I want you to get Harry Weston’s home address. You can get that from the stationmaster, Mr Evans. The key for the place will presumably be among the dead man’s clothes. It would be in his pocket when he was taken into hospital yesterday afternoon. Get hold of it and let DS Taylor have it PDQ.’

  ‘Right, sir. Is that it?’

  ‘No. I want you to get an artist from NCOF at Wakefield and set up a meeting, this morning, if possible, with Zoe Costello. She’s the only witness who saw the murderer.’

  ‘What’s NCOF, sir?’

  ‘National Crime Operations Faculty. You should know that by now. It’s a specialist police unit on all sorts of specialist subjects. Chemicals, drugs, engines, gases, et cetera. The point is they have an artist on tap. I’m hoping he can come this morning and that she can remember what the murderer looks like. With a bit of luck, he’ll draw him for us.’

  Ahmed’s face looked bright at that prospect.

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said and turned to go.

  Angel called after him again. ‘By the way, did anybody from Leeds force collect Peter King?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s not in a cell. I think I heard in the canteen that the super gave him a caution and released him, when you were out yesterday.’

  Angel thought about it for a moment and seemed content with the news.

  Ahmed turned to go.

  Angel called after him. ‘What did you come in for?’

  Ahmed frowned, then turned back a page of his notebook and tried to decipher his own handwriting. His face suddenly brightened. ‘Ah yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Yesterday, you asked me to find out if anybody had had any dynamite stolen recently. And I found out that in North Derbyshire, at the South Creekman quarry, overnight November 5th to the 6th, their site offices were broken into and a part box of thirty-two sticks were stolen.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘They should have been in a safe.’

  ‘They were, sir.’

  ‘The safe registered with the local authority and approved by them.’

  ‘It was, sir.’

  ‘And checked every twelve months by the local police.’

  ‘Ah. I don’t know about that, sir.’

  Angel smiled. ‘I knew I’d catch you out on something,’ he said.

  Ahmed grinned.

  Angel made a note of the relevant facts on the back of an old envelope taken from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Right, lad. Now off you go. Chop, chop.’

  Ahmed closed the door.

  Angel reached out for the phone and tapped in a number. He was soon speaking to the manager of the Sheffield branch of the First Security Delivery Services.

  ‘It seems to me, Mr Earnshaw,’ Angel said, ‘that the robbers were expecting your van to take that particular route yesterday.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Earnshaw said.

  ‘The two men,’ Angel said, ‘have they been working for you long?’

  ‘Both impeccable records, Inspector. First thing I thought of when I knew the van was under attack. Both served the company longer than I have. Both come from excellent backgrounds. Both have been double-bonded by our insurance company.’

  ‘They were not harmed at all, Mr Earnshaw.’

  ‘Put that down to their excellent training and discipline while under pressure.’

  ‘Well, it was not a coincidence that a thumping great van was slewed across the road thereby bringing your van to a stop and at the same time a mammoth crane was conveniently hovering overhead ready to pick your van up and drop it so that a team of villains could blast their way into it.’

  ‘I don’t see how they could have known, Inspector. The routes of all our vans are changed every day, on a two-week cycle.’

  Angel frowned. ‘A two-week cycle?’

  ‘I mean we change the route of every van every day for two weeks. For ten working days our drivers call on our clients by a different route and in a different order.’

  ‘Highly commendable,’ Angel said with one eye half closed then, drawing the man further, added, ‘Then I suppose you start on the same cycle again?’

  ‘Of course. Believe me, the timetable took some working out.’

  ‘And how long have you been using that system?’

  ‘Since I came here, twelve months ago.’

  Angel ran his hand through his hair. ‘Don’t you realize, Mr Earnshaw, that you have established a pattern? And a very distinct and easy pattern indeed. And there is nothing random about it at all.’

  ‘Not random! Nobody could possibly work out the route our drivers take. Every day for two weeks is completely random.’

  ‘It may well be different, Mr Earnshaw, but it is not random. What about the third and fourth weeks? And the fifth and sixth weeks? I tell you this, Mr Earnshaw, robbers intending stealing four million pounds from FSDS would be more than willing to monitor the route the van took for four or five or six weeks if necessary.’

  There was silence for a few seconds, then Earnshaw said, ‘Oh. Do you really think that’s what happened?’

  ‘At the moment, I cannot think of any other explanation. If I were you, I’d instigate a system today, and make the route entirely random. Let it depend on the toss of a coin, the throwing of dice or the cutting of cards. And I’d arrange to have every van driver do that daily. And make it the last job just before he leaves the yard.’

  ‘In that case,’ Earnshaw said slowly, ‘the driver wouldn’t know the route until the very last minute.’

  ‘That’s right. There’s no harm in that, is there?’

  Earnshaw hesitated. ‘No. No, I don’t suppose there is.’

  ‘It would add another degree of security to the operation.’

  ‘Very well, Inspector,’ Earnshaw said. ‘It will mean a lot of changes. I will get on to it straightaway.’

  Angel replaced the phone.

  There was a knock at the door. It was DS Flora Carter.

  ‘Come in, lass. I need eye witnesses. What have you got?’

  ‘Apparently most of the upper rooms on Almsgate are storerooms, but there was a cleaning lady who saw the whole thing from a window on the second floor.’

  ‘Can she describe the villains?’

  ‘Would you like to speak to her yourself, sir? She’s in interview room one?’

  Angel’s head came up. ‘Oh? Yes. Yes, I would.’ He stood up and dashed out of his office, followed by Flora Carter, along the green corridor, past CID to the interview room. He pushed through the open door and saw a lady seated at the table.

  ‘It’s Mrs Vincent, sir,’ Carter said as she closed the door.

  Mrs Vincent looked up at Angel’s face warily.

  He smiled at her as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel,’ he said. ‘I know that you’ve already told DS Carter what you saw this morning. Would you mind repeating it to me, and telling me what you saw?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said, sitting up in the chair and sticking out her chest. ‘Well, as I said, four men appeared from nowhere, three dressed in jeans and jackets and trainers, one looking much smarter in a dark suit and tie. When I realized that it was an FSDS van, that they were all wearing black woollen balaclavas and had guns, I dia
lled 999.’

  Mrs Vincent stopped and looked from Angel to Carter and then back to Angel.

  ‘You did exactly the right thing, Mrs Vincent,’ he said. ‘Please go on.’

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘One man held a gun over the driver and his mate almost all the time. Another of the men had a small bag, like a valise, and another had a suitcase. Anyway, they opened the van door with a crowbar then disappeared into the back of the van with the valise. Half a minute later they rushed out and hid round the front of the van. Then there was a loud bang and a small cloud of grey smoke covered the van. When it cleared, I could see that the back doors were off, there was a big black hole in the van and packets of what looked like paper money thrown around. The men quickly stuffed all the money into the suitcase, then pulled off their balaclavas and ran off in different directions. The man in the suit took the suitcase down Almsgate. He passed the big black van slewed across the street. Very soon after that a police car arrived and then two more … and that’s about it.’

  ‘What did they do with their balaclavas?’ Angel said.

  ‘They stuffed them in their pockets, I think.’

  ‘The four men. When they removed their balaclavas, you would see their bare heads. Can you tell us the hair colouring of any of them?’

  She frowned then said, ‘Oooh yes. I never thought of it. One of them was bald or almost bald. The others were … well, I don’t know.’

  ‘Anything striking? Such as ginger or sporting a strange haircut, or dyed an unusual colour?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you see any of their faces?’

  ‘No. I was two floors up above them.’

  ‘Of course you were,’ he said. ‘Mmm. And what was the suitcase like, Mrs Vincent?’

  ‘Big, sir. Stone coloured with a sort of pattern on it.’

  It would have needed to be big with four million pounds in it, he thought.

  ‘I need a full description of the case, Mrs Vincent,’ he said, then he turned to Carter. ‘Flora, get a full description and see if you can buy one like it.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

  He turned back to Mrs Vincent and said, ‘That description of what you saw yesterday will be very useful, Mrs Vincent. We are most grateful.’