‘Yes, of course. Oh, don’t worry about me, Inspector. It’s only a few more days and Tom will be back. And I have been on my own many times in my life. I have my personal alarm phone. I wear it all the time,’ she said, pointing down the front of her dress. ‘Besides, your murderer is obviously only interested in male Anglican priests. I fit none of those categories.’
Angel thought about that for a moment. ‘That might only be a coincidence, Miss Wilkinson. It would be safer if you could arrange not to be here alone.’
There was a knock on the open door and Elaine came in with a tray laden with pots.
‘Ah, tea,’ Miss Wilkinson said, pleased to be interrupted.
Elaine said, ‘I brought a cup for the inspector.’
Angel’s face brightened.
The picture on both televisions had changed. One of them showed horses being directed into the starting gates.
‘Excuse me,’ Miss Wilkinson said as she pressed the button on the remote.
The sound of the racecourse and a commentator came up.
‘They’re off!’ the man’s voice said and continued verbosely, faster than a television weathergirl.
Miss Wilkinson’s eyes were on the screen and stayed there, hardly blinking.
Elaine poured the tea, silently handed Angel a cup, put a cup on Miss Wilkinson’s bed-table and then sat back to enjoy her own.
For the next one minute and forty seconds the commentator’s voice reigned supreme. His last few words were, ‘So first is Rat Trap at ten to one, second Widow’s Weeds at twenty to one and third Archie Pelago at four to one.’
Miss Wilkinson beamed. She turned off the sound, did some quick calculations on the calculator and wrote a figure on the writing pad. ‘Highly satisfactory, thanks to Widow’s Weeds,’ she said, banging the pen down on the bed-table. ‘I always said outsiders were the best.’
Elaine smiled. ‘Good going, Miss Wilkinson,’ she said.
Angel strained to make out what the figure was but all he could see was a series of squiggles.
‘There’s a fresh cup of tea, Miss Wilkinson,’ Elaine said, pointing towards the table.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said and reached out for the cup.
Angel said, ‘I was saying, it would be better if you could arrange never to be here alone, Miss Wilkinson.’
‘So you were, Inspector. But I don’t think the murderer would bother with an old lady like me.’
‘Murderers are not normal people. You can’t know what this man might do.’
She put a forefinger to her mouth. ‘On the other hand, he might be interested in stealing the money. Tell me, Inspector, what would you do with it to keep it safe? It’s my inheritance, you know. It’s my half share of the sale price of The Grange, my late father and mother’s house.’
Angel frowned. It would be quite a sum. ‘You have all that here, in cash?’ he said.
‘Yes. It’s well hidden, of course.’
He pursed his lips. Thieves, like policemen, are good at finding hidden treasure of any kind, but he couldn’t get heavy-handed about it. It was the Wilkinsons’ money and nothing to do with him. And the old lady seemed compos mentis, a little eccentric maybe. He hoped she wasn’t gambling it all away on the horses.
‘My advice would be to put the money in a bank, Miss Wilkinson.’
‘Would you really?’ she said. ‘That’s what Tom would have said, I’m sure. I must give that some thought.’
‘Pay it in there today,’ Angel said. ‘And please don’t stay here on your own tonight. I shouldn’t think The Feathers will be booked up at this time of the year. Have you got transport?’ he said.
‘Oh, Inspector, Elaine can soon organize a taxi for me, thank you.’
The picture on one of the televisions changed again to show horses being lined up for a race. Miss Wilkinson said, ‘If you will excuse me, I don’t want to miss this.’ Then she reached out for the remote, pressed a button and the voice of the race commentator began again.
Angel quickly finished the tea, thanked Miss Wilkinson for her courtesy, and Elaine for the tea, and made a quick exit.
He pointed the bonnet of the BMW back towards town, turned on to the ring road then on to the Fitzallan Trading Estate to one of the modern units situated at the end of a lane which had a big sign on the roof that read, ‘Grogan’s Ice Cream’. It was a large brick-built single-storey building with two delivery vans waiting to be unloaded at one side, and Grogan’s vans at the other being loaded up with ice cream, boxes of cornets and wafers and so on, ready for release on to the streets. He drove to a car space marked off for visitors only, parked up and walked through an automatic door to a busy reception desk. Unusually, it had a large plate-glass window directly behind it through which visitors could see right into the factory.
He had to wait at the desk until the young lady who was on the phone had finished taking an order from a customer and then dealt with a man in a brown overall standing in front of him waving a piece of paper around, who needed to know where to deliver a consignment of cones and wafers.
Angel spent the time he had to wait looking through the big window into the factory. At the forefront was a huge, enclosed, ribbed refrigerated structure with steaming cream-coloured liquid mix dribbling down it from the height of the building into a giant funnel which was directed over a cold holding vat at the bottom. He watched the process and assumed it was to cool the hot mix rapidly to complete the important pasteurizing process. He was impressed with being able to see part of the ice-cream-making process in a factory that illustrated its cleanliness and modernity.
He eventually reached the receptionist and introduced himself. She made a phone call, then promptly showed him into a small office close by where a pleasant, middle-aged man in shirt sleeves stood up from behind a big desk, hand outstretched.
‘Good afternoon, Inspector. I am Raphael Grogan. Very pleased to meet you. Please sit down. What can I do for you?’
Angel relayed details of the phone call he had had from the headteacher of Curzon Street School, Mr Fiske, and the subsequent findings of DS Carter about the positioning of one of Grogan’s vans by the school yard wall.
Grogan listened attentively then said, ‘And what do you want me to do, Inspector? My drivers are paid on commission. Of course, I would not have them break the law or park anywhere where they would be a nuisance or be dangerous, but my driver stops on Moon Street hoping to sell ice cream to the workers from the glassworks and the cardboard factory during their lunch break, and of course any other passers by. He certainly does not expect pupils from the school to scale a six-foot-high wall to reach him. If they are that eager to be served, then they could come round the outside perimeter of the school to reach the van.’
‘Apparently they are not allowed out of the school gates at that time unless they are going home. It’s a school rule. Matter of road safety. Keeps them off the roads away from traffic.’
‘Oh? I understand that, but surely it is the responsibility of the school to stop their pupils scaling the wall to get to the van then,’ he said. ‘Anyway, one of my vans serves them most days after school at the main gate. We have an arrangement with Health and Safety which I believe is working all right.’
‘I believe that arrangement is satisfactory. By the way, my sergeant reports that while she was observing on Moon Street, nobody from the factories at the other side of the road, nor any passers by, bought anything. Indeed, children from Curzon Street School appeared to be your driver’s only customers.’
Grogan looked thoughtful.
‘Don’t you think, Mr Grogan,’ Angel said, ‘that under the circumstances, you could instruct your drivers not to park on that spot or indeed anywhere else where the children can actually see the van from the school grounds, except of course at the agreed place at four o’clock each day?’
Grogan rubbed his chin then said, ‘I don’t like making an arrangement that I might later regret, Inspector. After all, in the summer, on a hot
sunny day, the workers in those hot factories there on Moon Street might be eager to buy a nice cool ice-cream, lollipop or cornet. Now if I had made an arrangement not to trade there, I would have simply lost out, wouldn’t I? And worse than that, my competitors from out of town could come along, park there and clean up.’
Angel pursed his lips. Taking everything into consideration, he didn’t think that what Grogan had said was unreasonable.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ Grogan said. ‘I’ll instruct my vans not to park anywhere on Moon Street for the next three months provided that no other ice-cream vendor parks up there, and provided that the headteacher at Curzon Street School institutes another school rule, that no children should attempt to climb over school playground walls, especially when they are over six feet high. Does that fill the bill, Inspector?’
Angel smiled. ‘I’ll have a word with him and see what I can do. Thank you very much for your cooperation.’
‘It’s a pleasure.’
Angel stood up. ‘By the way, Mr Grogan, would it be possible for me to see your son, Clive, on an entirely unrelated matter?’
Grogan frowned.
‘It’s a confidential matter,’ Angel said.
Grogan pursed his lips. ‘He’s not being getting up to anything he shouldn’t have, I hope,’ he said, picking up the phone and pressing a button.
‘I shouldn’t think it’s anything for you to worry about,’ Angel said. ‘I assure you.’
‘There’s an Inspector Angel of the police to see you, Clive,’ Grogan said into the phone. ‘I’m sending him down. And I shall want to see you as soon as he’s gone.’
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ Angel said.
Grogan replaced the phone, followed him to the door, where they shook hands, then he directed Angel down a long corridor. At the far end of it, a door opened and a smartly dressed young man came out. He saw Angel, acknowledged him with a wave and took a few paces towards him. As soon as they were in speaking distance, the man said, ‘Inspector Angel? I’m Clive Grogan. I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Please come into my office.’
They walked back together into a tiny private office.
When they were seated, Angel said, ‘I have to speak to you about the death of Harry Weston.’
Clive blinked several times then said, ‘I never met him, Inspector. I know who you mean, of course. A nasty piece of work.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I thought you would know all about it. You know he was going steady with Madeleine Rossi?’
‘So I am given to believe.’
‘They had had an understanding, Inspector. They were planning to get married next year. Well, while he told Madeleine he was in his flat at nights, on his own, studying and practising the guitar, he was actually in the backroom of that sleazy club, the Scheherazade, bedding a woman considerably older than he was, a Felicity Kellerman, who he eventually managed to get pregnant.’
‘Felicity Kellerman says the father is her long-term partner or ex-partner, Ben Wizard.’
‘Ben Wizard is supposed to be touring the States, Inspector,’ Clive Grogan said. ‘If he were the father do you think he’d be three thousand miles away from her so near to the time he expects his child to be born?’
‘I don’t know,’ Angel said. ‘I really don’t know. Some fathers just don’t want to be fathers. I’m asking questions of you and all the parties involved to try to get answers.’
‘You are investigating the murder of Harry Weston, Inspector. Well, I didn’t like what I heard about him but I wouldn’t want to kill him. I wouldn’t want to kill anybody. I hope you don’t suspect that I had anything to do with it?’
‘If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,’ Angel said. ‘I understand that you are now seeing Madeleine Rossi?’
‘Yes. I am. A lovely girl.’
‘Her father works here?’
‘Yes, he’s a van salesman, and very good at it, he is, even in this weather. And we know all about his record. He’s turned over a new leaf. We have absolutely no complaints at all about him.’
Angel was surprised but he didn’t show it. ‘Good. Good,’ he said. ‘Well now, all I need to know, Mr Grogan, is where you were at three o’clock on Monday afternoon.’
‘I was here, of course, Inspector,’ Clive Grogan said. ‘Huh, my father wouldn’t let me out of this building during working hours, I can tell you. You can ask him.’
‘I will,’ Angel said. ‘I will.’
Then he courteously took his leave, walked along the corridor to Raphael Grogan’s office, knocked on the door and briefly spoke to Grogan Senior, who confirmed that his son Clive was in the factory all Monday afternoon.
Angel thanked Grogan for his cooperation, came out of the factory and returned to the BMW on the car park. It was cold and dark. He started the car engine, switched on the lights and checked the dashboard clock. It was five minutes to five. He nodded. He reckoned he had just enough time to make one more call if he was quick.
He touched a button on the car radio. A lively orchestra was vigorously playing the Radetzky March. He steered the BMW out off the industrial estate on to Park Road. Then it was a straight run for about a mile, so Angel lightly hummed the Strauss and banged out the beat on the steering wheel until he reached the street he was looking for on the left, a short street called Dunscroft Street that led to Wakefield Road. He looked along it for a bookies. On the right, he saw a brightly illuminated window amid a row of terraced houses in darkness. That was it. He saw a small illuminated sign informing him that he was outside Felton’s the bookies. He pulled the BMW across to the wrong side of the road into the grey slush in the gutter against the kerb, right outside the shop door. He heard six pips on the radio. It was five o’clock exactly. He turned the radio off but kept the car engine running. Warm air circulated round his face, ears and fingers.
Three men came out of Felton’s with their heads down and their hands in their pockets. They shuffled quickly away through the snow in different directions. Then, a big tall lump of man in a dark overcoat came out and looked round. He saw Angel’s car and came down the two steps. He walked over to the driver’s window, leaned down and peered at him through the window. He had a big nose, big ears and a mouthful of big teeth.
Angel looked back at him.
The man acted out a circular winding action with his hand.
Angel pressed the button and lowered the window.
‘Are you wanting summat or what?’ the big man said.
Angel didn’t like the approach but he accepted that the man had a job to do. He took out his warrant card, opened it up and held it so that the man could see it in the light from the shop window.
‘I am Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley Police,’ he said. ‘I understand that Madeleine Rossi works here and I want to see her.’
He blinked. ‘Oh. Oh, I see,’ he said. He straightened up and returned to the shop doorway.
At that moment a chubby blonde girl in a very short coat came out.
The big man said something to her.
She looked down at the BMW, nodded, pushed her shoulders back and picked her way through the snow to the car window.
‘You must be Inspector Angel?’ she said. ‘I’m Madeleine Rossi.’
‘Yes. I want to talk to you about Harry Weston,’ he said. ‘I know you only live in the next street. I’ll take you there and we can talk in the car, if you would like?’
She agreed, and she called across the pavement to the big man at the door. ‘This man is giving me a lift home, Jim.’
‘Right, Madeleine,’ he said. ‘Good night.’
She came round to the nearside door and got in.
Angel noticed a lot of leg with an unbecoming rubber boot round the foot. At her other end was a tower of hair supporting what looked like a young aspidistra. When the door closed, a strange smell that he assumed was Madeleine’s perfume assaulted his nostrils. It seemed t
o be of watered-down petrol mixed with a potent cleanser he had noticed Mary used in the bathroom from time to time. It was very clingy and nothing like the sweet-smelling Californian Poppy his mother had used from time to time when he was young. He wrinkled his nose. He hoped that Miss Rossi’s overpowering fragrance would not linger, or he might have difficulty in explaining it to Mary.
The shop lights went out and another man stepped briskly outside carrying a shopping bag. The big ugly man took the bag, then stood close to him while he turned to lock the door.
Angel put the BMW in gear and pulled away from the shop as Madeleine Rossi struggled with the seatbelt.
‘So you’re Michael Angel, the wonder cop,’ she said in an aggressive manner. ‘You’re the man that put my dad in prison, aren’t you?’
‘That has, unfortunately, been my lot,’ he said. ‘Several times, I believe,’ he added. ‘And on each occasion he was tried fair and square by twelve ordinary men and women, who heard what he had to say, and what his barrister had to say, but still found him guilty. That is history. It is behind us, you, me and him. This is today, and I want to talk to you about the late Harry Weston.’
The BMW was soon in Mount Street. There was a streetlight on the pavement opposite the front door of number twelve. Angel drove up to it, stopped, extinguished the car lights, but kept the engine running. The light wasn’t good but he could see her profile in silhouette.
‘I’ve already told that woman copper all I know.’
‘I’d like to hear it for myself, if you don’t mind.’
‘Huh. You think my father shot him?’ she said.
‘I don’t know who shot him. I want to know about your relationship with Harry. Tell me about that. And tell me exactly how it was, the truth.’
He heard her breathe in, then sigh. He could see her shaking her head several times. There was a pause. He thought her attitude might have changed.
‘It isn’t easy going back over all that, Mr Angel,’ she said.
‘Go on,’ he said.
She sighed again, then said, ‘Harry was my first real love. I loved him, all of him. He wasn’t much to look at but he was all mine. Exclusively, all mine. Looking back, those Saturday and Sunday evenings we spent together was like waking up in a different world, as if my life until that moment had been in black and white and was now in glorious Technicolor. That’ll sound silly to you.’
The Dog Collar Murders Page 12