‘Did you know Harry Weston?’
King frowned then said, ‘No comment.’
‘What do you mean, no comment? He’s that ticket clerk who was shot dead in the ticket office at the railway station.’
‘Oh, him?’
‘Yes, him. Do you know him? Did you know him?’
‘I saw him around. I didn’t know him. He used to go with Madeleine Rossi but chucked her to go with that singer, Felicity Kellerman,’ he said, then with a snigger added, ‘Did you know she’s pregnant?’
‘Yes, I know she’s pregnant,’ he said quickly. ‘What do you know about that?’
He grinned again, dirtily, almost obscenely. ‘Nothin’.’
‘So you knew Harry Weston?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘How did you come to know him? Was he a friend of yours?’
‘No, Mr Angel. I didn’t know him to talk to. He had been dancing with Felicity Kellerman at the Scheherazade. I had been watching her. She looks … very nice. I was just interested.’
‘But how did you know the man she had been dancing with was Harry Weston?’
‘I asked the barman.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘But why would you want to know who he was?’
King frowned. ‘I dunno.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ages and ages ago.’
Angel’s neck went red. He dragged down on his collar to loosen it. ‘What do you mean, ages and ages ago? Do you mean two years ago? Ten years ago? 1939? 1066? At The Flood? When?’
King looked shocked at Angel’s reaction. It took him several seconds to answer. ‘Seven or eight months ago, I suppose, Mr Angel,’ he said.
Angel reckoned that King’s answer was in accord with the facts. At least the maths were correct. Felicity Kellerman had been in Bromersley since late March, and her pregnancy would not have been showing at that time.
Angel sighed. King had not said anything that he could check on, which would have enabled Angel to charge him. Nor had he appeared to be so scrupulously snow white that Angel could have sent him back home. Angel had had times like this with King before, and invariably finished up without finding a single offence he could make stick.
Angel wondered if he should stick a priest’s collar round King’s neck and have Zoe Costello look at him in a line-up with nine other men dressed the same. The trouble was, she might artlessly pick King out. That wouldn’t help at all if he was innocent. That was the way things seemed to go. The case against him might then zip along out of Angel’s control. Meanwhile the real murderer would get away scot free.
There had been too many cases of wrongful arrest and imprisonment because the accused simply couldn’t tell the truth, and there was no system in place to protect the man against his own ignorance or stupidity. Angel didn’t want this to happen if King was innocent. He shook his head and turned back to King, who was still smiling. Even though his intellect was limited, King knew the chaos he was capable of creating in his interviewer’s thought processes.
Angel must continue the questioning. Something irrefutable might come out of it.
‘Did you know the Reverend Samuel Smart and the Reverend Raymond Gulli?’
‘Yes, Mr Angel. Used to call to see them. Regularly. They gave me money. They used to give me money when I had nothing. Nothing to buy for my tea. My giro would run out on Tuesday for certain. I used to call on them. They gave me enough to buy a sandwich or some chips. When you have nothing, it’s a lifesaver, particularly in the winter. There’s no St James’s Crypt in Bromersley, you know.’
‘Let’s take one man at a time. The Reverend Samuel Smart. When did you last see him?’
King took a deep breath. He screwed up his eyes. Eventually he said, ‘It must have been last Monday morning.’
‘What time?’
‘I don’t know. In the morning. Not too early. His cleaner was there. The sexy one.’ He sniggered.
Angel frowned. He thought about King’s description of Norma Ives. When Angel had interviewed her, he saw her as a small, slim, shapeless young woman, pleasant enough but in no way overtly sexy. He considered it a frivolous comment for King to make in view of the horror of Sam Smart’s death.
‘You knew her, did you?’ Angel said.
‘I’d seen her before but I didn’t know her, Mr Angel. I could have done her a bit of good, if you know what I mean,’ he said with a snort and a titter.
Angel turned away. His patience was oozing away.
King said, ‘You can tell when somebody don’t dislike you, Mr Angel.’
‘What happened then?’ he said.
‘The usual. I asked to see the vicar. He came along to the door. He looked at me and I told him the tale. He invited me into the office. It was the same stuff. He asked me if I had got a job yet. I told him that I had this back problem, two disintegrating discs, and that I am dyslexic. I’ve told him that a hundred times before. He told me I must get a job of some sort. He gave me a blessing, a five pound note and I’m on my way.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘This conversation took place in his office?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did he get the five pound note from?’
King’s fingernails went up to his mouth again. His eyes flitted to the left and to the right. He didn’t say anything.
Angel said, ‘Well, did he get it out of his pocket or out of a cash box or a safe … or somewhere else?’
Eventually King blinked and said, ‘Out of a wallet in his pocket.’
‘Were there any other notes in there?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
Angel’s face muscles tightened. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Of course you noticed. You were anxious to get some money for some food, weren’t you? Money was the reason for calling on him, wasn’t it? You would be naturally curious.’
‘I won’t answer you if you shout at me,’ King said, his bottom lip quivering.
Angel sighed heavily. He pulled out an empty drawer in the table between them and slammed it shut with a loud bang. Then he sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, took control of his breathing and relaxed until it became normal.
King meanwhile looked round the room as if he was a painter and decorator thinking about preparing a quote.
Angel said, ‘You sure it was out of a wallet in his pocket?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so? What was the wallet like?’
‘I don’t know,’ King said quickly, then he added, ‘No comment.’
‘Is it no comment because maybe there wasn’t a wallet and you’re therefore stuck for what to say next, or because you think I want you to say that he got the money out of a drawer or a cash box or a safe or some other place?’
‘No comment.’
Angel clenched his fists and shook them momentarily. He blew out a balloon’s worth of breath, then rubbed his chin hard.
‘This is getting us nowhere, lad,’ he said. Then suddenly he said, ‘And all this time, did you have that gun in your pocket?’
‘Yes.’
Angel’s patience was exhausted.
‘There never was a gun, was there?’
‘I told you.’
‘So you pulled it out and shot him?’
‘I might have.’
‘What for?’
King’s face went scarlet. ‘No comment.’
Angel stared into his eyes. ‘You didn’t shoot him because his housekeeper, Norma Ives, was there. You would have had to shoot her as well.’
His eyes rolled round his head. Then he smiled and sniggered. ‘No. You don’t know what she’s like … she’s lovely.’
Angel turned away, his face registering disgust. After a few moments, he turned back and said, ‘I feel sorry for you, lad.’
King looked at him and smiled like a baby.
Angel shook his head. He couldn’t stand any more. He stood up and dashed out of the interview room. He collared a PC on the corridor, and told him to go in and
stay with King while he arranged relief. Then he returned to his office, phoned Transport and instructed them to convey the man back to Canal Street as soon as they had a vehicle going in that direction.
‘Excuse me, sir. Can I have a word?’
It was Constable John Weightman at the door.
Angel looked up from his desk. ‘Of course, John. Come in, lad. What is it?’
He closed the door.
PC Weightman was a policeman of the old school, in his fifties and on the verge of retiring. Angel had known him more than fifteen years and always found him rock-solid and reliable.
‘Funny thing, sir,’ Weightman began. ‘I was doing a routine check on the display of gambling licences this morning, and I called in on Brian Glogowski’s shop round the back of the station. Trades as Big Brian, the bookie.’
‘I know it, John. Know it well.’
‘I was behind a young woman, waiting to see Brian. I thought I knew her but I wasn’t sure at first. She passed Brian a list of bets she wanted putting on at Kempton and Doncaster this afternoon. Then she gave him a plastic bag. I could see it was stashed with paper money. When Brian read the betting slip, he leaned through the grille and whispered, “I can’t take all this, Elaine. It’s far too much. I would need to lay some off and there isn’t enough time. The first race is in ten minutes. Give my apologies to Miss Wilkinson, will you? And explain. I can’t take the first race. I’ll deduct that. So I’ll give you that five thousand back now. All right. I’ll take on the others. To tell the truth, she’s getting too expensive for me, Elaine”.’
Angel frowned.
‘Aye,’ Weightman continued. ‘Now that was Elaine Jubb, sir. She’s housekeeper to Father Tom Wilkinson at St Joseph’s Catholic Church. Phoebe Wilkinson is his sister. She’s quite a bit older than him, disabled and, they say, a bit simple. Now Brian whispered all that to her but I could still hear him. He knows me, of course. The uniform didn’t worry him, so I don’t think he was up to anything shady. About Elaine Jubb or Miss Wilkinson, well, I don’t know.’
Angel rubbed his chin.
‘But I wondered where the money had come from,’ Weightman said. ‘It was a lot of cash. I wondered if everything was all right.’
‘Right, John. Sounds odd. I can’t think that the Reverend Tom Wilkinson would do anything dishonest.’
‘Oh no, sir. Lovely man. Lovely man.’
‘It would need handling with kid gloves,’ Angel said.
‘That’s why I came straight to you, quiet like.’
‘Leave it with me, John. I’m glad you did.’
Weightman nodded, smiled and went out.
Angel’s face creased as the door closed. Another inquiry – as if he didn’t have enough on. He thought about St Joseph’s Catholic Church, a beautiful building in the centre of Bromersley, and Father Tom Wilkinson, a much respected priest as straight as the icicles that hang down from Strangeways’ loos. He couldn’t visualize him hawking the church treasures then putting the loot on a horse to raise the air fare to abscond to Rio de Janeiro. Anyway, he also understood that the Wilkinsons were rather well off in their own right. He must call there to see what was happening. There would no doubt be some sensible explanation. However, he had heard that Tom had a sister, who had not got a full row of beads.
He stood up and reached for his coat.
He would need to think of a reason to call.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called as he pushed his arm into a sleeve.
It was DS Carter.
‘What is it, lass? I am just going out.’ Then he remembered. ‘You’ve come back from Moon Street, checking on Grogan’s ice-cream van,’ he said, before she could reply.
She smiled. ‘That’s it, sir.’
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
He peeled off the coat, tossed it on the chair in the corner, returned to the swivel chair and sat down.
‘Well, sir, I drove up Moon Street at five minutes past twelve noon exactly as you said. There was one of Grogan’s ice-cream vans parked on the grass verge, and a few boys and the occasional girl were climbing over the wall, which I agree was not to be recommended. It could be dangerous if one fell or there was any larking around. I think their ages would be around twelve to sixteen. There was a short queue at the ice-cream van. The driver seemed to be doing good business.’
‘Were all his customers kids from the school? Were there any people from the cardboard factory, the glassworks or passers by?’
‘I only saw schoolchildren there, sir.’
Angel nodded.
‘Well, I drove up to the top of the street, sir, parked there and sauntered back down on the opposite side of the road.’
Angel nodded. ‘Is that it?’
‘Not quite, sir. No. Strange thing. After having a good look round, I walked back up to the top of Moon Street to my car. Then I drove back down. I suppose it was then about half past twelve. Grogan’s van had gone and I noticed some ice-cream cornets thrown down on the grass verge, near where the van had been. I counted fifteen actual cones in a big splodge of ice cream. I didn’t understand it.’
Angel stood up. He wanted to get away. ‘I don’t understand it, either, Flora. Maybe the ice cream was off, or it was too rich. I have much more to worry about than the quality of Grogan’s ice cream. I am hunting down a triple murderer.’
‘Yes, sir, but I have never known kids throw ice cream away.’
‘Nor have I. But it is the middle of winter. Maybe they should have been served hot chocolate.’
‘I am serious, sir.’
‘So am I. Anyway, I hope to see Raphael Grogan this afternoon. If there’s time, I’ll ask him about it. I intend to stop any of his vans exceeding their presence near the school over and above that already agreed with the headteacher and confirmed by Health and Safety. Also, I need to phone headteacher Fiske and settle him down, but I also have another call to make first.’
EIGHT
It was 2 p.m. when Angel pressed the doorbell to the presbytery of St Joseph’s Catholic Church. The door was eventually opened an inch at a time by Elaine Jubb in her blue overall. Angel heard a television or radio blaring out behind her. It sounded like crowds of people shouting excitedly.
Angel held up his ID card and badge. ‘Sorry to bother you, miss, I am Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley Police. Could I see Father Tom Wilkinson? He may remember me. We have met several times.’
‘Oh’ she said. ‘I am afraid Father Tom is in Rome, Inspector. He’s there for two weeks. His duties have been taken over by Father Roebuck. Miss Wilkinson has a telephone number for him somewhere. I will ask her for it, if you like.’
Angel frowned. He was surprised to hear that Tom was away.
‘Who is it, Elaine?’ a voice called from the inside of the house.
‘It’s a policeman, Miss Wilkinson,’ she called. ‘A Detective Inspector Angel.’
‘A policeman?’ the voice said.
Elaine Jubb said: ‘That’s Miss Wilkinson, Inspector. Father Tom’s sister.’
‘Well, kindly show him in, Elaine,’ she called.
Angel stepped into the hall. He wondered what the potty Miss Wilkinson was like.
‘Please go straight ahead,’ Elaine Jubb said, pointing to the sitting-room door behind her. She then closed the front door, locked it and ran along the hall and down a staircase at the far end.
Angel crossed the hall through the open door facing him into the sitting room. His eyebrows edged higher as he entered. It looked very different from the way he remembered it the last time he was there. In the middle was Miss Wilkinson in her electric lounger chair with the foot rest up; a bed-table was across her lap, littered with newspapers, writing pads covered in notes and figures, pens, three remote controls, a calculator, a mobile phone and a cup in a saucer. Two very large slimline television screens were set facing her. Both showed different pictures. On one screen, horses were being walked round a paddock
and on the other a jockey was being interviewed by Clare Balding.
The rest of the furniture had been pushed to one side, except for an occasional table and two chairs placed strategically next to Miss Wilkinson’s big chair.
She looked up at Angel, smiled sweetly, picked up a remote, pressed a button and the televisions were silenced. She then looked back at him and said, ‘Good afternoon. A policeman? An inspector? That’s very interesting. Come in, Inspector. Excuse the disorder. Please sit down,’ she said, pointing to the chair next to her.
‘Good afternoon. Thank you, Miss Wilkinson,’ he said.
There was a heavy red book on the seat of the chair. Angel picked it up, looked at the spine and read Tootal’s Horse And Jockey Form Book 2008/2009. He sat down on the chair and put the volume on the floor.
‘Sorry to intrude while you are so very busy,’ he said, smiling.
She noticed the smile and beamed back at him. ‘My brother Tom is away so I am enjoying myself at the races, and having a rollicking good time. I haven’t enjoyed myself as much since I was a girl. And that’s more years than I am willing to admit to, I can tell you.’
He smiled at the old lady and nodded.
‘Now what can I do for you?’ she said.
‘It was really a matter for your brother Tom, Miss Wilkinson. But as he’s away I am afraid I will have to mention it to you.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ she said, occasionally glancing at the television screens.
‘You will be having regular visits from our patrol cars?’ Angel said.
‘Yes. Yes. Oh yes. Goodness me. I see what this is all about. I know about the murders, Inspector. Ghastly business. God bless those poor, dear Anglican priests. Nice men, I heard. I have tried to keep up with it all from the newspapers. Have you come to tell me you have caught the wretched murderer?’
‘I am here to make a few checks. I didn’t know that your brother was away. Are you presently here in the presbytery alone?’
‘No. Elaine is here most of the day.’
‘And at night?’
‘Quentin, our driver and gardener, checks the doors and locks up for me at seven o’clock.’
‘But you are on your own after that?’
The Dog Collar Murders Page 11