‘No, no,’ he said.
‘We didn’t do anything extravagant or spectacular. We would go to the pub, have something to eat, have a few glasses of vino, talk about music, new discs, new people, the music scene, he was mad about all that. Then we’d come back to the flat, talk some more, listen to music, watch films on the telly, make love, snooze for a couple of hours or so … It’ll never happen to me again. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I was mad about him.’
She stopped. She turned her head away from Angel briefly, then turned back. A tear caught the light as it trickled down her cheek.
He didn’t say anything. He waited.
She brushed it away with the back of her hand.
‘I was a fool,’ she said. ‘I thought he thought as much about me. I was stupid. I wanted to meet him in the week sometime but he always said that he wanted to practise on his guitar. We only met at weekends. Spoke a lot on the phone, though. I used to ring him every lunchtime … I always made the running … I should have known.’
She stopped again.
Angel waited and waited.
‘What happened then?’
‘We had had wonderful times together that Christmas. Then on the Monday evening, three days after Christmas, I got a phone call at home from somebody I didn’t know to say that he’d seen Harry with Felicity Kellerman at the Scheherazade, and that he knew that we were going steady and that he thought I’d want to know.’ She swallowed. ‘I was almost sick,’ she said. ‘My heart was in my mouth. Deep down inside me I knew that it was too good to last. Anyway, I phoned for a taxi and smartened myself up. I couldn’t do much in the few minutes the taxi took to come. The taxi arrived at the Scheherazade at five minutes to eight. I went in. They were at the bar drinking. He was holding her hand. He didn’t see me. Then he leaned over and … he kissed her. Just a peck on the cheek, but I knew. I knew then. For me, it was over. It was eight o’clock and it was all over.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I dashed outside. I was in a flood of tears. I had asked the taxi to wait. I went straight home. I cried all night. Dragged myself to work on the Tuesday morning. As wonderful as it had been, there was no way I could take him back. He phoned me … at home and at work three times. He came round here. Dad sent him off with a flea in his ear. That was it.’
‘Your father told me you were dating Clive Grogan.’
‘Yes. That’s right,’ she said. ‘He’s perfectly charming.’ Her voice had changed. It was lighter. ‘I met him at Grogan’s staff Christmas party,’ she added. ‘Dad took me. I’ve been out with Clive four times now. He’s very different from … him, you know.’
Angel was certain that he was, but he was thinking of other matters. He rubbed his chin. ‘Did you find out who phoned you that Monday evening to tell you about Harry and Felicity Kellerman?’
‘No. I never did.’
‘Have you any idea who it might have been?’
‘No.’
‘Have you any idea who shot Harry Weston?’
‘No,’ she said. There was anger in her voice. She didn’t like that last question. ‘I think I’ve told you all I know, Mr Angel,’ she said, fumbling for the door handle. ‘I must go in now. Dad will wonder where I am.’
‘All right, Miss Rossi. Thank you very much.’
‘Good night,’ she said.
‘Good night.’
She slammed the car door.
Even though it was ten minutes past five, Angel returned to his office and phoned headteacher Fiske to tell him the content of his meeting with Raphael Grogan. At first, Fiske wasn’t at all satisfied but Angel reasoned with him and argued with him and eventually seemed to settle him down. Angel thought it would keep him out of his hair, at least until the three months were up.
He replaced the phone and looked at his watch. It was 5.30 p.m. He yawned. He was ready for home. He looked through his office window at the night sky. It was blacker than fingerprint ink. He pushed all the papers and stuff on the desk into a drawer, grabbed his coat, switched off the light and closed the office door.
NINE
Angel turned the BMW into his drive and up to his garage door. He unlocked the garage and raised the up-and-over door. In the car headlights, he saw a very long object wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the wall. He frowned. It was longer than he was. He wondered what it could be. Anyway, it was in the way. He couldn’t get the car into the garage. It would have to be moved. It was not as heavy as he had expected. He wondered what on earth it could be. He looked round it for a label, found one and turned it towards the car headlights. He read it. It was addressed to ‘Mrs M Angel’, and was from the ‘Sleep Sweeta Bed Company, Hangchow, China’. It was then that he realized it was the bed Mary had bought for her sister. He nodded knowingly, then pulled a wry face.
He drove the car in, locked the garage and went in the house.
In the kitchen, Mary was hovering over something bubbling on the gas ring. She looked up, smiled, leaned over towards him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Angel considered a kiss while she was busy at the oven was a bit unusual. He thought about it a moment, then said, ‘What’s that for?’
‘Can’t I give my husband a welcome home kiss?’
He pursed his lips briefly, then turned back, pulled her gently away from the oven, put his arms round her and gave her a bigger, longer, more tender kiss on the lips. She put her free arm round his neck and held the wooden spoon she had been using up in the air, so that gravy would not drip on to either of them.
As they pulled away, she smiled and said, ‘And what’s that for?’
He blinked. ‘It’s called a show of spontaneous affection, sweetheart.’
She smiled. ‘Oh?’ she said as she unravelled her arm from round his neck. ‘And did Superintendent Harker teach you that, or was it the chief constable?’
‘Huh,’ he said.
He walked to the hall and took off his coat.
‘Any post?’ he called.
‘One from Lolly. Got it here, in my pocket.’
He pulled a face.
‘Will you set the table, sweetheart?’ she said. ‘This is about ready to serve out.’
‘All right,’ he said from the sitting room.
‘She’s ever so excited at coming over …’
Angel wrinkled his nose.
They finished the meal and Mary arrived with the coffee. She sat down and then eagerly produced the letter from her sister, Lolly. She took it out of the envelope. Angel asked to be given it, to read it for himself, but Mary insisted on reading it to him.
‘I’ll just read the relevant bits, then. She’s ever so excited.’ She opened the letter and glanced through the first page, reading bits and commenting on them. Then she read: ‘“The decorator is very experienced and works at great speed. So he is a few days ahead of schedule. He tells me that he expects to be finished by Tuesday the 19th, so I would be free to come on Wednesday the 20th, if that’s OK.”’
Angel sighed.
Mary continued reading: ‘“Can’t wait to see you both. It will be great to give you a big hug. And Michael, of course. Lots of kisses. Love you. Lolly.”’
Angel sighed again. He didn’t say anything for a moment and then said, ‘What’s on the telly?’
Mary banged her cup down in the saucer. ‘I hope you are going to bring that bed in and set it up for her.’
He frowned. ‘What bed?’ he said.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see it in the garage.’
‘Oh. That’s what it was.’
‘Huh. And you supposed to be a detective.’
He shuffled uncomfortably. ‘What, tonight?’
‘Yes, tonight. I’ve been round the room. Washed all the paint. Cleaned out that bedside cabinet. Washed the curtains and put them up. You know, Michael, I didn’t realize what a nice outlook that room has.’
The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘What’s on the telly?’
Mar
y glared at him. ‘Nothing you like. I’ve looked.’
Angel wrinkled his nose. He knew he had lost the battle. ‘Just let me have five minutes to let my tea go down,’ he said, moving from the table to his favourite easy chair.
Mary stood up and began to clear the table.
Angel reached out for the Radio Times and glanced down a page, and then another, and another. After several minutes he tossed it to one side with a grunt of dissatisfaction.
Mary looked across at him. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
With a lazy flamboyant wave of the arm, he said, ‘Darling, you are always right.’
‘Come on, Michael. You’ve had a good twenty minutes. Bring that bed in for me. Please.’
He stretched his arms and looked out of the window. ‘It’s freezing out there.’
‘Put your coat on.’
It was another ten minutes before Angel put on his coat, went out to the garage and returned with the bed. It wasn’t heavy, but it was big.
With Mary’s assistance, Angel managed to angle the bulky parcel through the back door into the kitchen, over the top of the gas oven, the table, then into the hall, across the banisters, up the stairs, and round the turn at the top ultimately into what had now inevitably become known as Lolly’s room.
He leaned it against the bedroom wall. Then together they tore off the strong outer waterproof wrapping paper. There were Chinese symbols in red paint over the inner brown paper wrapping, under that was a polythene cover that entirely enrobed a mattress and bed base, and strapped to that was a long, narrow cardboard box. Angel opened the cardboard box to find that there were many wood parts, some in the form of decorated wooden rings that apparently, when assembled in the correct way, would form the legs. Other shapes made up the complementary pattern which would make up the bedhead. Angel looked at the parts and counted them. There were 128, including steel screws of three different sizes.
He pursed his lips. ‘We need daylight really to be playing about with this,’ he said.
Then the phone rang.
Angel and Mary looked at each other. Neither was expecting a call.
Mary’s face hardened. ‘It’ll be the station,’ she said.
Angel thought it would more likely be somebody selling wheelchairs at thirty-five per cent off, or inviting him to enter into a survey for some dubious opinion poll. He went out on to the landing, into their room, crossed to the bedside cabinet and picked up the phone. ‘Hello, yes?’
‘DS Clifton here. Sorry to bother you, sir, but one of the patrol cars was doing the round of the vicarages and was making a call on St Joseph’s presbytery on King Street. The driver, PC Sean Donohue, observed a prowler, who ran off. Donohue and his partner gave chase on foot, caught him and brought him in. It turned out to be Peter King.’
Angel sighed.
‘Now, I knew you’d seen King earlier today … I can charge him with trespassing but—’
‘Is he armed?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you checked the presbytery? I have reason to believe that there’s a disabled old lady, Miss Wilkinson, in there … possibly on her own.’
‘Oh,’ the sergeant said promptly, alarm in his voice. ‘I’ll get someone round there straightaway.’
‘Yes. And I’ll go straight there myself. I’m nearer.’
‘Right, sir. In the meantime, what shall I do with King?’
‘Charge him with trespassing, then process him and, for once, take your time about it, understand?’
‘Oh yes, sir, I understand,’ he said. ‘I take it you’re coming in then?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. But I’ll go to St Joseph’s first.’
Angel replaced the phone, rubbed his chin, turned off the light and came out of the room.
Mary had been in the bedroom next door, on her knees sorting through the small parts of the new bed, and had heard every word of his side of the conversation. She stood up. They met on the landing.
She was not pleased.
‘You’re going back out then?’ she said, hands on hips.
‘Got to. There’s an old lady possibly in danger. A patrolman has arrested a man, a prowler. He’s known to us.’
‘Is he your murder suspect?’
He knew she worried about guns and knives, the dangers of the job and his safety in particular. He would have to tailor his replies accordingly.
‘Erm, no. I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Don’t you know? You said something about somebody being armed.’
‘No. I asked if he was armed and he wasn’t. The old lady is probably perfectly safe. Look, Mary, I have to go.’
‘You said you were going to St Joseph’s Church.’ There was a tremor in her voice.
He began to put on his coat. The business gave him time to think what to say.
‘There’s a man with a gun on the run,’ she said. ‘He’s murdered a railway worker and two priests. It’s in all the papers, even on TV. And you’re not telling me about it. That’s the case you’re working on, isn’t it?’
Angel realized she knew more than he’d thought. ‘Yes, but this lady isn’t a priest. It’s a lady who is old, disabled and has won a lot of money, so she’s a prime target for thieves. That’s what this is all about. So stop worrying. There’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Oh Michael.’
‘It’s all right. I won’t be long. Look, it’s 10.30. If I’m not back by midnight—’
‘I’ll wait up for you.’
Angel didn’t like telling Mary half-truths and misleading her in that way, but he had a job to do and he felt that it was justified.
He was seriously worried about Miss Wilkinson. She was on her own, her brother was away and her life was potentially in danger. He didn’t believe the old lady had had any intention of leaving the presbytery and checking into a hotel as he had urged her to do earlier that day. She was far too involved in her racing project.
As he made his way along the path to his garage, he noticed a white mist in the air. A hard frost had settled on top of the earlier fall of three inches of snow and had frozen harder than the crust on a Strangeways’ meat and potato pie.
He drove the BMW carefully towards town then along Park Road, cut through several side streets until he was soon on Birdwell Street, where he stopped and parked up by the cemetery wall, sixty yards away from St Joseph’s Church. He switched off the lights, took a torch out of the glove compartment, got out of the car, quietly closed the door and moved silently across the snow, making less noise than a villain slipping a tenner into a screw’s pocket. He passed the dark stone walls of the graveyard, on to the small presbytery forecourt next to the church, then stopped and listened. Apart from the humming sound of the M1 two miles away, all was quiet.
Firstly, he searched around the outside of the presbytery, the garden, the bushes and the trees. There were many footprints in the snow, indicating that somebody had been snooping around. He sighed. He found it disturbing. He looked closely at the prints. They certainly seemed to be those of a man. There was a cluster of prints under the sitting-room window that suggested that the man may have been trying to glimpse into that room.
Angel also identified the footprints of two other men, presumably PC Sean Donohue and his colleague. There were a lot of those, clearly on the chase of the other man through the evergreen bushes, apparently round the house and terminating in a scuffle near the front door. There were also fresh tyre tracks there, which would be those of the patrol car. Angel was satisfied that there were only the three men’s footprints there.
He then stepped smartly up to the front door of the presbytery, put his hand round the cold copper doorknob, turned it and pushed. It didn’t open. It was securely locked. That was a relief. He nodded accordingly. Then he turned round, stepped back to the entrance to the presbytery forecourt, pointed the torch up at the front elevation of the house and methodically scanned every pane of glass in each window. He found that all the glass was sound and all th
e windows were closed. He had the same result for the left and right sides. He was pleased about that. However, when he scanned the glass on the rear elevation, he found a broken window on the ground floor. He ran up close to it. There was a hole in a glass pane the size of a slop-bin lid, easily big enough to let an average man gain access. He flashed the torch on the ground. Directly beneath it in the snow were more footprints and a few shards of broken glass. His pulse began to race. He was worried for Miss Wilkinson. He shone his torch inside. It revealed a small room such as a storeroom or a pantry. He hoped that Miss Wilkinson had taken his advice and moved out of the house. The murderer could be inside at that moment: Angel reckoned that he might be only yards away from him. He decided not to wait for any support from the station. He put the torch between his teeth, reached under the bottom of the window with the broken pane in it, and with both fingertips managed to lift it up. It slid up easily and he was inside the pantry in seconds. He stopped and listened. All was quiet. He hoped nobody had heard him. He quietly found his way out of the pantry. He made his way quickly through the kitchen into the hall and up the stairs, pushing past the stairlift, which he noted was at the head of the staircase. That position indicated that Miss Wilkinson was probably still in the house and upstairs … and hopefully alive! He flashed the torch around the landing. There were six doors leading from it. Four were closed. He could see from the white tiles reflecting from his torch that one of the two open doors led to the bathroom, and he assumed that the door ajar next to it was the lavatory. He supposed therefore that the four closed doors were bedroom doors, so he approached the one nearest to him. He gently turned the knob. It rattled with age but he couldn’t avoid it. He was as quiet as he could possibly be. The loudest noise was his pulse banging in his ears. The door led into a large bedroom, tidy, clean and unoccupied. He moved to the next room; that was the same. And so were the next two. He therefore had to assume that the last bedroom was Miss Wilkinson’s. He subconsciously breathed in, put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. It was at that moment that his mobile phone rang out. It surprised him and he wasn’t pleased, but he ignored it and pushed open the door. He flashed the torch around. It was another bedroom, in darkness like all the others, apparently empty but with the bedclothes turned back indicating that someone had been sleeping there. His mobile was still ringing. He switched on the light and walked quickly round the room. There was a dress, some stockings and other women’s underclothes over a chair near the bed. But there was no sign of Miss Wilkinson. He put his hand in the bed. It was still warm. Surely she was not far away. He had another quick look round and ran his hand through his hair.
The Dog Collar Murders Page 13