Angel was outraged. He had difficulty remaining seated. His eyes shone like lasers and he had to consciously regulate his breathing to control himself. He’d known Harker eleven years and he knew he couldn’t reason with him but he would have to think very carefully indeed about what his boss had just said. He felt uncomfortably hot, and it wasn’t entirely caused by the fan heater. He ran his fingers round his shirt collar, pulling it away from his neck. It didn’t afford him much relief. He knew he must change the subject, move on and get out of Harker’s office.
‘About that cocaine intelligence, sir,’ Angel said.
Harker’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Aye. What about it?’
‘How long do you want to maintain the surveillance? I have had two teams outside those warehouses for two days now. Could be getting risky.’
‘Mmm,’ Harker said, nodding. He pursed his thin blue lips.
Angel watched him and waited. Harker wouldn’t be pleased if his posh mate in the Met had fed him duff information.
‘Call the surveillance off at the end of today’s shift, lad,’ Harker said.
Angel looked up, his mouth open. He was amazed to find that there was something they agreed on. It was years since that had happened.
Then Harker started coughing. He quickly took two pills with a sip of water. The coughing continued. Angel waited. Harker went red in the face. As soon as the coughing subsided, it started up again. Eventually, Harker picked up a throat spray, pointed to the door and waved Angel away. He didn’t need telling twice.
He came out of the sweatbox and made his way down the green corridor to his office. He slumped down in the swivel chair. His face was a picture: he looked like he’d bitten into a Jaffa and found it was a lemon. He leaned back in the chair, rubbed his face and considered what exactly had happened in those last few minutes. Harker had instructed him to organize an identity parade, and he wanted him to fix it (if it needed fixing) so that Peter King was picked out as the murderer by the witness, Zoe Costello, then to build a case against him to make sure he was convicted. And he wanted him to do that to increase the clear-up rate, because King was a nuisance when he was out of prison and because Harker considered it would be relatively easy to build a case against him as King was so desperate to be a famous criminal, even a multiple murderer.
Angel didn’t like it one bit and he knew he couldn’t do it. He mulled over the problem a little while then made a decision. He would do all that Harker had said, go through all the motions, but stop before actually charging the man. If King was innocent, there were bound to be big holes in the case. Angel could highlight them to Mr Twelvetrees, the barrister at the CPS, if needs be. He would reject the case and hopefully that would be the end of the matter. Of course, a more certain way of preventing Peter King being charged, tried and imprisoned was for Angel to find and charge the actual murderer.
His thoughts were disturbed by a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he called.
It was Ahmed. He was holding an envelope. ‘There’s a young lady at reception, sir. She sent this letter down for you. There’s a man with her. I think he’s her driver.’
Angel tore open the envelope. The letter was handwritten on blue letter-headed notepaper. It read:
St Joseph’s Presbytery,
St Joseph’s Catholic Church,
King Street,
BROMERSLEY.
Dear Inspector Angel,
Thank you so very much for kindly attending to me and advising me last night. I certainly intend to put most of that money in the bank. However, I need some readies, as they say, on hand because I am going racing again this afternoon. Accordingly, I have arranged for my help and friend, Miss Elaine Jubb, the bearer of this letter, assisted by my brother’s driver, Mr Quentin Lamb, to collect the flour bin from you.
Please accept and hold this letter as authority from me for you to give it to them.
They have instructions to take it to the Northern Bank where I have made arrangements with the manager for the money to be counted, in their presence, checked and deposited there in my name.
Many thanks again,
Yours sincerely,
Phoebe Wilkinson (Miss)
Angel looked up at Ahmed. ‘Good,’ he said and he patted his jacket pocket to check that he had the key to cell two. ‘Come with me, lad.’
They trudged up to the reception office and Angel peered through the partially obscured striped glass window to check that it was Elaine Jubb who had brought the letter, and also to clock in Quentin Lamb and make sure that everything was above board. Then Angel gave the key to cell two to Ahmed and instructed him to hand the sealed flour bin over to them, return the key to the duty jailer and report back to him ASAP.
Ahmed rushed off in the direction of the cells, while Angel went back down the green corridor. When he arrived at his office, Angel picked up the phone and tapped out a number. It rang out a long time but was eventually answered by Crisp.
‘Where are you, lad?’ Angel said. ‘The south of France?’
‘I’m down Canal Road, sir. Looking for those men of the road.’
‘Aye, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing. Haven’t heard a peep out of you for days. I thought you’d taken off on your annual holidays.’
‘That’s not funny, sir. I’ve put a lot of leg work in, and there’s no sight or sound of any men of that sort. I can only think that they must have gone to ground. The one known as Irish John used to be in and out of The Fisherman’s Rest on Canal Road all the hours it was open. But he has not been seen since last Monday, the day the murders began.’
‘All right, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Leave that for now and come on in. I’ve another job for you.’
He cancelled the call and immediately tapped out another number.
‘Probation Service,’ a voice said. ‘Kathy Ellison speaking.’
‘Ah, Kathy, Michael Angel here. That chap, Peter King, made the subject of an interim Probation Order this morning. What address have you got for him?’
‘Oh yes, Michael. Just a minute.’ There was a rustle of papers. ‘Yes. We haven’t got one yet. He wouldn’t tell us.’
‘We’ll get it. Thank you, Kathy.’
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ he said as he replaced the phone.
It was Ahmed. ‘You wanted me, sir?’
‘Yes, lad. I want the most recent address of Peter King. Check on his past records and somewhere you’ll find his National Insurance number. Then phone Social Security, give them his name and that number and they’ll give you his address.’
Ahmed’s face brightened. ‘Is it as easy as that, sir?’
‘Yes, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Where the giro goest, the villain goest.’
Ahmed nodded.
‘Then give that address to DS Taylor. He’ll need it to be able to search King’s pad, all right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he said and turned to go.
‘Just a minute,’ Angel said. ‘Before that, I want you to get ten square yards of plain black cloth and ten priest’s dog collars, smartish.’
Ahmed’s mouth dropped open.
‘Well, don’t stand there looking like Goldie the goldfish,’ Angel said, ‘Swim off and get them.’
ELEVEN
The identity parade in this instance had to consist of white men between five foot six and five foot eleven, of proportionate build, dark haired, no beard or moustache, no spectacles, in a dark suit, wearing a black frontal and a traditional priest’s dog collar.
It took more than an hour to organize such a line-up. Some of the men were off-duty policemen, some clerks from the insurance company next door and two pedestrians simply accosted while passing the station who had the time to spare and were seemingly persuaded by the token sum of money they would be paid.
The CID briefing room was transformed into the site for the ID parade simply by stacking the chairs and pushing them against the wall. The procedure could be observed through a on
e-way glass from an observation gallery. All audio communication between the rooms was through mikes and loudspeakers. Observers in the gallery could speak to those in the briefing room when required through a mike which was on a small table next to a telephone.
The shirt fronts were simply made from two lengths of black cloth used as table coverings when ad hoc meetings such as press conferences had been set up in the canteen. Ahmed had cut the cloth into suitably sized pieces, which were attached to the collar and tucked in the trouser top and stuck over the man’s own shirt where necessary with Sellotape. He had contrived the priest’s collars from white, glossy cardboard retrieved from two boxes which had contained high-profile luminous waistcoats delivered to the station the previous day. He had carefully cut and fitted the cardboard collars round the necks of each of the men and fastened them to size at the back of the neck with the CID office stapler.
Angel arrived and went into the briefing room. He looked down the line of the nine ‘vicars’ and involuntarily shook his head. Then he looked at Ahmed and winked.
Ahmed smiled and nodded. He knew Angel was pleased with the way the line of men looked.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ Angel said. ‘Are we all ready? Please stand with your backs to the blackboard … That’s it. Thank you … Now when the accused is brought in, he is entitled to choose where he stands, so please, allow him that courtesy. All right?’
There was no response.
‘Then when the witness comes in,’ he said, ‘please keep still and look straight ahead. It is possible that she may touch you lightly on the shoulder. Please allow her to do that, and don’t worry about it. It simply means she has chosen you and she could be wrong. It happens sometimes. Do not speak to her unless she speaks to you. All right?’
Some muttered ‘Yes’ but most of them looked at each other and shuffled uneasily.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He turned and went out of the briefing room, along the corridor a little way then through a side door, up six steps into the gallery where Mr Bloomberg, Peter King’s solicitor, was already waiting. He knew him of old and had had many clashes with him over the years in the magistrates’ court.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Bloomberg,’ Angel said. He pointed with his thumb through the one-way glass. ‘Is everything all right? Are you satisfied?’
‘Good afternoon to you, Inspector. Yes, of course.’
King had not wanted a solicitor to represent him but in an identity parade it was a regulatory requirement. The police needed his presence there as much as the accused, otherwise the line-up – a procedure that can only be undertaken once – might not be regarded as fair and square. In the case of murder, such as this one, an error by a witness at an identification parade could take away an innocent man’s freedom for many years.
Angel picked up the phone and tapped in the number of the extension phone on the wall down in the cells. It was promptly answered.
‘PC Weightman, sir.’
‘We’re ready, John. Bring him up.’
‘Right, sir.’
Then Angel phoned the superintendent. ‘We’re ready for you, in the gallery, sir.’
‘Right. I’ll be straight down,’ Harker said.
Ahmed began to go down the line, checking that all the men’s cardboard collars and improvised black shirt fronts still looked good. He also tidied up any disorderly pocket flaps and jacket button fastenings.
A few moments later, Peter King strutted into the CID briefing room followed closely by Weightman.
The policeman waited by the door while King looked along at the line-up of the nine men dressed similarly to himself. He seemed to think it amusing.
Ahmed finished titivating them and then stepped back to the door.
Angel picked up the mike and pressed the switch. ‘Thank you, John.’
Weightman said, ‘Right, sir,’ and took up a position by the door next to Ahmed.
‘Now then, King,’ Angel said.
King looked up and around, not pleased that he couldn’t see Angel.
‘Decide where you want to be. You can stand in any position you like.’
King looked towards the door, and decided to take the first position nearest to it. He stood there a moment, thinking about it. He looked each side and then decided that he didn’t like being there. He came out of the position, turned round and looked at the line-up. He stood there a few moments, then he pushed his way into the second position in the line-up. He looked to his left and his right and still seemed unsure.
Angel switched on the mike. ‘Are you satisfied that’s where you want to be?’
King looked around the room, then looked along to his left and then his right and eventually said, ‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
King’s face suddenly creased up. He put up both his hands, spread his fingers and shook them very quickly. ‘Yes. I’m frigging sure. I said so, didn’t I?’ he bawled. ‘Frigging hell, let’s get on with it.’
Ahmed went up to him to check on his shirt front, collar and so on. King made a fierce face at him and waved him away.
Angel saw it, pressed the button on the mike and said, ‘All right, Ahmed. Leave him. Thank you.’
Ahmed turned away and returned to the door.
King maintained the position, but kept looking at the men to his left.
Angel turned to Bloomberg, pointed through the window and said, ‘Are you satisfied with that?’
Bloomberg, who Angel thought had been following events, didn’t seem very interested. ‘That’s fine by me, Inspector.’
Angel picked up the phone and tapped out a number.
It was promptly answered by Crisp, who was waiting in Angel’s office with Zoe Costello. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.
‘Right, Trevor,’ Angel said, ‘bring her up. And don’t forget, bring her back to my office after the parade.’
‘Right, sir.’
He replaced the phone.
King suddenly yelled out, ‘Where the frigging hell is she?’
Angel heard him, looked through the window and reached out for the mike.
Weightman stepped forward with his hands open and in front of him in an effort to quieten him. The other men in the line stared down at King. They didn’t like the disturbance. They pulled faces and began to shuffle their feet.
‘Be quiet, King,’ Angel said, squeezing the mike. ‘You have to keep quiet until the witness has been and gone.’
‘I can’t stand here all day like a monkey up a frigging stick.’
‘You have to. The witness is on her way. It is only a matter of seconds now. And then it won’t take long.’
The other men in the line muttered between themselves.
‘Now everybody, back in position, please,’ Angel said.
Superintendent Harker arrived in the gallery in a haze of TCP.
Angel noticed the smell and turned round.
‘Is everything all right?’ Harker said.
‘Yes, sir. King is getting a bit worked up, that’s all.’
Harker smiled.
Angel frowned. He couldn’t understand what he was smiling at. He hardly ever saw him smile. Angel had heard years ago that the officers in the station said that every time the superintendent smiled a donkey died.
Harker nodded at Bloomberg, who nodded back and said, ‘Good afternoon, Superintendent.’
Harker stood next to Angel and surveyed the line-up below. ‘I see King is in position number two, Inspector?’ he said. ‘I’ve never known a suspect stand there.’
‘That’s where he chose, sir.’
Suddenly, from the briefing room, PC Weightman looked up in the direction of the gallery window and said, ‘The witness is here, sir.’
Angel reached out for the mike, pressed the button and said, ‘Right, John. Tell DS Crisp to carry on, please.’
Weightman waved an acknowledgement and went out into the corridor.
King looked agitated and kept looking towards the doorway.
Second
s later, Zoe Costello arrived. She stood there and looked round the room. When she saw the line of men in dog collars, her eyes opened wide and she froze on the spot. She couldn’t move.
Crisp and Weightman edged close up to her.
‘Go on, miss,’ Crisp whispered. ‘I’m going to be right behind you.’
‘It’s all right, miss,’ Weightman said.
Angel, Harker and Bloomberg looked down at the doorway from the gallery in silence.
Zoe Costello took a tentative step into the room.
King stared hard at her.
‘Now then, miss,’ Crisp said, ‘look carefully at each man. If you see the man who shot the ticket clerk at the railway station last Monday, just touch him on the arm. That’s all you have to do. Now take your time.’
Zoe Costello looked back at Crisp, nodded and edged towards the first man. She stopped in front of him, looked at his face and into his eyes. He avoided looking directly back at her. She glanced down his front to the floor then back up to his face, pursed her lips momentarily, relaxed them and then moved on.
Crisp was only a step behind her, and Weightman only a step behind him.
King was next in line and he was staring at her hard.
The three men in the gallery leaned forward so that they would not miss anything.
Zoe Costello was aware that King was staring at her. Her face creased. She found it an embarrassment and wished that he would stop. She had to look at his face, which she did quickly, then glanced down at the front of his jacket, and to the floor. As her head came back up, she noticed out of her eye corner that in addition to staring at her, he was now making small, quick nodding movements.
She pursed her lips and turned to Crisp, her eyebrows raised and her open hands turned upwards with her fingers spread.
Crisp shrugged. He couldn’t say anything. Identity parade rules did not allow him to make any comment about any individual person in the line-up until the witness had left the parade.
Zoe Costello frowned.
The Dog Collar Murders Page 16