The Dog Collar Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  Rossi sniffed then said, ‘I know that you think you’re somebody these days, Angel. You get mentioned in the papers. They write about you in magazines. They say you’ve a reputation of always getting your man, like that Canadian Mountie. You must be worried when you get a particularly difficult case and you aren’t getting nowhere?’

  Angel eyed him for a few seconds then said, ‘That’s why I’m here. I thought my friend Angus knows what’s going on. I’ll go down there and maybe he’ll tell me.’

  Rossi turned the corners of his mouth down. ‘I’m no copper’s nark,’ he said.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Angel said. ‘A young man called Harry Weston was shot dead the day before yesterday.’

  ‘Aye. Well, that’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘I understand that your daughter had been keeping regular company with him.’

  ‘Aye, and she could have done a lot better for herself. He was a pretty useless piece of humanity and a two-timing little bastard as well. While he was taking Madeleine out, sweet-talking her, and who knows whatever else, he had got some other bird up the duff and was parading her round the Scheherazade.’

  Angel looked up when he heard the news.

  Rossi saw that he had made an impression. ‘You didn’t know about that, eh?’ he said. ‘Well, anyway, Madeleine gave Harry Weston the old heave-ho two weeks ago. What happened to him after that has nothing to do with her. She’s well set up now with another young man who has far more about him. So she doesn’t want to know anything more about Harry Weston, thank you.’

  Angel nodded. He was prepared to accept that for now.

  ‘Is that it?’ Rossi said.

  ‘No,’ Angel said. ‘A First Security Delivery Services van was stopped and robbed of four million on Monday morning. What do you know about that?’

  Rossi’s eyes shone. He flashed his uneven, brown teeth and said, ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Where were you at ten o’clock on Monday morning?’

  ‘Here. Right here. And no, I can’t prove it. But then again, you can’t prove I was anywhere else.’

  Angel knew that was true.

  He looked carefully at Rossi and said, ‘I’m also looking for a man loose on the streets wearing his collar the wrong way round, like a vicar. But he isn’t a vicar … and he carries a handgun. I have reason to believe that he has murdered three men. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Rossi said.

  Angel looked round the room. He was aware that Rossi was following his eyes. It was a clean, tidy, warm and comfortable little kitchen. The Scotsman didn’t seem to be wanting for anything.

  ‘The wife still working, Angus?’

  ‘I have no wife. She buggered off a couple of years back. Good riddance.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. He knew that Rossi’s daughter, Madeleine, would be bringing in a wage.

  ‘In work, are you, Angus?’

  ‘Aye,’ Rossi said. ‘As a matter of fact, I am. Full time.’

  Angel blinked. He was surprised. ‘Full time?’ he said. ‘Well, why aren’t you there just now then?’

  ‘Wednesday is my day off.’

  Angel thought about it a while then said, ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I work at Grogan’s. I’m a van salesman.’

  Grogan’s ice-cream vans were to be seen all round Bromersley. Outside schools, in the market, at the football ground, wherever there were crowds of people.

  Angel frowned then he said, ‘What, in January?’

  ‘All the year round, if you know where to go. Kids always want ice cream, and so do many grown-ups.’

  Angel nodded. He supposed he was right.

  ‘And now,’ Rossi said, leaping to his feet, ‘Detective Inspector Angel, your time is up.’

  ‘Right, Angus,’ he said, also now standing. ‘Didn’t take long, did it? Thanks for the warm and the information. I can see myself out.’

  Rossi was not pleased. He glared at him, his eyes like two fried eggs in a frying pan. ‘I didna give you any information.’

  Angel shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Angus. Whatever you say.’

  Angel returned to his office. He slumped down in the chair. He rubbed his hand across his mouth several times. Rossi was certainly involved in some nefarious activity: he was touchy on every crime Angel had mentioned. However the only hard information that he had acquired from him was that the girl associated with Harry Weston was pregnant.

  Flora Carter was in the CID office. She saw Angel pass the door and followed him into his office. ‘I’ve just come back from the Scheherazade, sir,’ she said. ‘I spoke to the cellarman. He said that the girl Harry Weston has been seen around with was a Felicity Kellerman. A professional singer. Sings in local pubs, clubs and what have you.’

  ‘She’s up the duff, isn’t she?’ he said.

  Carter blinked. ‘Yes, sir. How did you know that?’

  Angel smiled to himself. ‘Seven or eight months gone?’ he said.

  ‘That’s what I was told, sir. Got her address and phone number from the office. I phoned her there and on her mobile, but there was no reply. Do you want me to follow it up, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes, and find out the identity of Madeleine Rossi’s new man. It might not matter at all, but you never know.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was Ahmed. He was carrying a cream paper file. He looked from one to the other. ‘Busy, sir?’

  ‘Come in, lad. Sergeant Carter is just leaving.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ he called after her.

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said as she closed the door.

  Ahmed produced a sheet of A4 from the file and handed it to Angel.

  ‘Men posing as clergymen, sir,’ he said. ‘All have served their sentences, believed to be still alive and living in the area.’

  Angel blinked and glanced down the sheet. After a few moments he began reading from it aloud: ‘Seven persons posing as clergymen in the town who have been charged over the past eight years for various offences. Two with indecent exposure, two stealing underwear from clothes lines, one attempting to extract money by fraud, one being drunk, disturbing the peace, stealing a bicycle and a pound of plums, and one inciting a minor to perform two acts of lewdness.’ He looked up at Ahmed and said, ‘Well, thank you, lad.’

  ‘Their full names, last known addresses and telephone numbers are lower down, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Ahmed. Leave it with me. I have taken it in. Mentally ticked off the names. None of them resonate with our present inquiries. I am hopeful that we won’t have to start scratching around looking into this lot.’

  Before Ahmed could answer, the phone rang. Angel reached out for it. It was the civilian telephone switchboard operator. ‘There’s an excitable Irishman on the line, Inspector, asking to speak to you,’ she said. ‘Says he’s a priest. Doesn’t sound like a priest to me. Calls himself Father Hugo Riley.’

  Angel’s jaw muscles tightened.

  It irritated him to hear the station operator voicing an opinion on the standing of callers to his office as if it was her job to vet them like some upper-class receptionist at a private surgeon’s consulting rooms.

  He blew out a length of air, then said, ‘Put Father Riley through.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  There was a click and he said, ‘Inspector Michael Angel speaking.’

  A loud, spirited voice said, ‘Father Hugo Riley speaking. I have been out of my house and have just returned, Inspector. In that time, that evil monster has been here. That son of Satan has been in and through my church vestry and presbytery like a plague of locusts.’

  ‘Are you all right, Father?’

  ‘Apart from seething with rage, I am very well indeed, my son.’

  ‘What time did you go out?’

  ‘Just past nine. This place has been empty this past three hours. I have been visiting two of my e
lderly housebound parishioners.’

  ‘Where are you actually speaking from?’

  The priest’s eyebrows shot up. ‘The church vestry as it happens, Inspector.’

  Angel had a disturbing thought. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘As I shall be on the day of judgement, Inspector, yes. Why?’

  ‘Well, get out of there, Father. Go to where there are people. There’s a pub somewhere round there, isn’t there?’

  ‘Next door. But I am not afraid of the fiend, Inspector. I would relish an encounter with the evil one. He would not get past me.’

  ‘He has a gun, Father Hugo. He has already murdered two of your brother priests and possibly another man.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Very well,’ Riley said. ‘I may wait outside the public house, The Fisherman’s Rest. I can keep an eye on the vestry door from there.’

  ‘And don’t touch anything. There might be fingerprints. I’ll come straightaway. Your church is All Saints and Martyrs, near Canal Road, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s on Sebastopol Terrace, parallel to Canal Road, Inspector.’

  Angel knew exactly where the church was. It was in the centre of Bromersley’s poorest houses, next to Canal Road’s red-light district, where the most crime and the most domestic incidents happened.

  ‘We’ll be there in five minutes, Father. Now, please, get out of the building.’

  ‘Very well. I will wait on the pub steps.’

  Angel ended the call, then tapped in a nine. As it began to ring out, he turned to Ahmed and said, ‘Quick. Have you your mobile on you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, ring Don Taylor. Ask him to attend All Saints and Martyrs Church, Sebastopol Terrace, parallel to Canal Road, with a fingerprint man and a photographer urgently.’

  Ahmed nodded then began to tap a number into his mobile.

  Angel’s phone was answered.

  ‘Control room. Duty sergeant.’

  ‘This is DI Angel. Send an armed unit to All Saints and Martyrs church on Sebastopol Terrace, next door to The Fisherman’s Rest. The property has been broken into. Intruder may still be on premises and may be armed with a handgun. Also, direct four uniformed officers to rendezvous with me there for house-to-house inquiries.’

  ‘Right, sir. Call timed at 1218 hours.’

  Angel banged down the phone, snatched his coat from the hook and put it on.

  Ahmed finished delivering his message to SOCO’s DS Taylor and closed his mobile.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘On their way, sir.’

  ‘I’m off,’ he said and ran out of the office, down the green corridor, past the cells, through the back door to the police park to the BMW. He pointed the car bonnet towards Wakefield Road. A few minutes later, he turned on to Sebastopol Terrace, a cobblestoned, grimy backstreet. He could see the cross at the top of the church in front of a cold blue sky and below, next door, the front of The Fisherman’s Rest. The BMW shook as he progressed rapidly down the road, bouncing through the potholes. As he reached the public house, the tall, dark figure of Father Hugo Riley, with eyes shining like a cat’s in headlights, dashed out and waved the car down.

  Angel lowered the window.

  ‘Have you seen anybody, Father?’ Angel said.

  ‘The evil one must have departed, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Not a soul has appeared out of the church, the vestry or the vicarage since I arrived.’

  A dark-skinned, grey-haired woman in a red dressing gown, thin bare ankles and red slippers was jumping up and down and calling excitedly out from the open door of a terraced house opposite. ‘Father Riley! Father Riley!’

  The priest heard her, turned away from the car, held up his long arm in acknowledgement and ran across the road. Angel got out of the car and followed him.

  ‘My dear lady,’ Riley said. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘A man has been looking for you, Father,’ she said, pulling the thin dressing gown across her chest and up to her chin. ‘He tried the vestry door and the front door of the church then he went round the back.’

  ‘For me?’ Father Riley said. ‘Did he ask for me by name?’

  ‘I didn’t speak to him, Father. I saw him trying the doors so I assumed he was looking for you.’

  ‘What is your name, ma’am?’ Angel said.

  ‘Mrs Injar Patel,’ she said. ‘I am a widow.’

  Riley frowned and said, ‘I do not know you. You do not come to my church?’

  Her eyes looked at him in a very doting way. ‘No. But everybody knows you, Father,’ she said.

  Angel said, ‘I can tell you that Father Riley has recently returned from visiting two of his parishioners and discovered that somebody – almost certainly the man you saw – has illegally entered the church and the vestry and probably the vicarage. And I am a police inspector investigating the case.’

  Her jaw dropped.

  ‘Did he actually speak to you, Mrs Patel?’ Angel said.

  ‘Oh no. I called out to him but he didn’t take any notice. He probably didn’t hear me.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Angel said.

  ‘Just after nine it was.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘It was very strange. He was wearing a long white garment that almost covered him.’

  Angel pulled a face. He bit his bottom lip. He ran his hand through his hair.

  It was frustrating to hear again about a white garment and not know what it was.

  ‘What else can you tell me about him, Mrs Patel?’ he said.

  The lady shrugged. ‘What else is there to say? He had dark hair, I believe. And the way he ran from the church door to the vestry door and then round the back made me think he was not old. I didn’t see his face. That’s about all I know, Inspector.’

  ‘Did you see what he wore under the white garment?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something dark. His suit, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you notice his shoes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else significant about him? Was he big, small, short, tall or fat?’

  ‘He was … about average, I’d say.’

  ‘Did he come in a car?’

  ‘I didn’t see a car, Inspector. I didn’t see him arrive. I first saw him when he was trying the church door.’

  The sound of motor vehicle engines and the squeal of brakes caused Angel to turn round.

  Two Range Rovers in khaki with white on black POLICE signs on the front and back had driven in from Wakefield Road and stopped at the front of the church opposite. It was the Firearms Special Unit. Six men in body armour and helmets piled out of the vehicles. Five of them were carrying G36 Heckler and Koch rifles; the sixth, DI White, had a G17 Glock pistol holstered at his waist.

  Coincidentally, at the same time, from the opposite direction, a high-profile police patrol car arrived and four uniformed constables emerged from it.

  Angel turned back to Mrs Patel and Father Riley. ‘Thank you for your help. Excuse me. I must go,’ he said, then he dashed across the road.

  It was almost two hours later when Angel received a call on his office phone from Detective Inspector Waldo White, of the FSU.

  ‘We’ve been all the way through the church, the vestry and the vicarage, Michael, and no signs of the intruder. He must have been and gone before we arrived. The place is in one helluva mess, though. Every cupboard, cabinet and wardrobe door is wide open. The intruder apparently forced entry through a kitchen window at the rear. The place is a tip.’

  ‘Right. Thank you, Waldo. Sorry to have called you out.’

  ‘Not at all. Gives us something to do and keeps my team on their toes.’

  ‘Did you see anything of a SOCO team?’

  ‘Don Taylor and his lads? They went in as we came out,’ White said.

  ‘Thank you, Waldo. Goodbye,’ he said and replaced the phone.

  Angel went straightaway down to Sebastopol Terrace to All Sa
ints and Martyrs Church, eager to see what SOCO may have found. He stopped the car on the road in front of the church. As he got out of the BMW, Father Hugo Riley came out of Mrs Patel’s front door opposite and ran across the street towards him.

  ‘Inspector Angel!’ he called. ‘I’ve been watching out through Mrs Patel’s front window. She has generously provided me with warm shelter, a cup of tea and incessant chatter. And I can positively report that nobody has come out of any of my church building doors except your armed commandos. I presume the evil one has fled. Am I allowed back in my own church and home yet?’

  ‘Only briefly,’ Angel said, ‘to see how things are, and if you stay close to me and keep your hands in your pockets.’

  Father Riley blinked, lifted up his head and said, ‘I hope that I will be permitted to talk?’

  ‘I have never yet found a way of stopping a priest talking,’ Angel said.

  Riley’s face straightened. ‘Speaking God’s truth from the pulpit to a captive congregation on a Sunday is the only luxury a poor priest has. Would you take that away from him?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Angel said with a smile.

  They reached the vestry door. The priest reached out to open the door by the handle but Angel quickly pushed him gently to one side and promptly called out, ‘Hands in pockets, Father! There might be prints on there.’

  Riley shook his head several times quickly and said, ‘Oh dear. Oh dear. Sorry.’ His hands disappeared under his cloak.

  Angel clenched his fist and banged on the door.

  There was the sound of the turn of a key and the door was opened by DS Taylor.

  Angel quickly introduced the priest to the SOCO man then said, ‘Found anything, lad?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Intruder or intruders wore woollen navy blue gloves, so far. Back window glass and frame damaged to gain entry and exit.’

  Father Riley peered over Angel’s shoulder through the open door into the vestry and saw the wardrobe and cupboard doors open and all the vestments and contents thrown around the floor in disordered heaps. ‘Great heavens above,’ he said. ‘Looks like it’s been hit by the storms of hell.’

  ‘Is there any damage?’ Angel said.

  ‘Only the kitchen window, sir, I believe,’ Taylor said. ‘The vestry, the vicarage and the church have obviously been vigorously searched and left in the same state as St Mary’s and St Barnabas’s.’