The Dog Collar Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel arrived in the office at 8.28 a.m. as usual that Monday morning and was looking through the pile of envelopes and reports on his desk when there was a knock at the door. It was DC Scrivens.

  ‘Good morning, sir. You said you would tell us whether you still wanted us to continue keeping obbo on those two warehouses.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Ted,’ he said. ‘Sit down. The super insists that the intelligence was from a very reliable source. Is it possible the delivery in some way got passed you chaps?’

  Scrivens blinked. ‘I don’t see how, sir. We were in position before 8.30 until after five each day. Those were the times both warehouses were advertised to be open. All delivery vehicles were videoed. Every driver and any crew were photographed and were not recognized by the ARS. Every licence plate was logged and checked with Swansea while the vehicle was still at the warehouse. Details of every consignment were checked with the vehicle owners, and none of the vehicles delivered any biscuits.’

  ‘Right, Ted. Well, stand down. We can’t afford any more time on that. If a load of cocaine arrived packed as biscuits in Bromersley last Wednesday, Thursday or Friday, I don’t know where it was delivered to.’

  ‘Nor do I, sir,’ Scrivens said, standing up.

  ‘Sit back down a minute, there’s something else,’ he said. He reached behind him to the small table on which there were two polythene EVIDENCE bags. He opened the one with only one screwdriver in and passed it over to him.

  ‘This is one of the screwdrivers used in the robbery of the FSDS van, isn’t it, sir?’ Scrivens said.

  Angel nodded. ‘If you look carefully on the handle, there is a tiny design or logo constituted from five white rectangles, three black rectangles and the letters MO embossed over the design.’

  ‘Yes. I can see it, sir.’

  ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Ask around … try the library. Maybe garages might know. See if you can find out what it means.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And don’t mess about. Put your mind to it. It’s got to mean something.’

  Scrivens went out and closed the door.

  Angel picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was soon answered.

  ‘Ahmed,’ Angel said. ‘I want to speak to the office, department or authority that checks on the purity and quality of dairy food products such as milk and ice cream here in Bromersley. Find out who that is, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said and rang off.

  Angel leaned back in the swivel chair and looked up at the ceiling. He had three murders and the robbery of a security van on his plate and he wasn’t making any progress with solving any of them. For the first time he noticed a ring of black all the way round the rose directly above the frosted glass globe which illuminated the room. He was thinking it must be ten years since his office was decorated.

  There was a knock at the door. He leaned forward in the chair. ‘Come in.’

  It was DS Taylor waving a sheet of paper.

  ‘I’ve got a report back from Wetherby, sir, about that thread found on Raymond Gulli’s sleeve,’ he said.

  He offered it to Angel.

  ‘You read it, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Save time.’

  ‘Report on textile sample submitted 13 January 2010.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I know that. Get to the meat of it, Don, if there is any.’

  ‘Well, sir, it says sample is 4.2 centimetres long, and is described as a thread of tussore that contains traces of oxidized borate with a peroxide linkage of sodium salt used as bleach.’

  Angel’s jaw dropped. ‘It’s a thread of strong silk that has been bleached, at least twice.’ He gave a heavy sigh.

  There was no hiding his disappointment.

  ‘Why might it have been bleached twice, sir?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘I suppose because the weaver or thread maker wasn’t satisfied with the shade the first time.’ Then his face lit up. Something dawned on him. ‘The thread must have been needed for something very special.’

  Taylor frowned. ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Well, not some humdrum inconsequential garment or trimming. No. But for something that was going to be used for important ceremonial purposes, such as a garment for a monarch or archbishop at a coronation, or for special garments for priests to wear when consecrating the bread and wine. The thread needed to be whiter than white, purer than pure.’

  Angel’s eyes glowed. He looked at Taylor. ‘You know what this means, Don.’

  ‘That the thread is, after all, from a priest,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Yes. Now I believe that the garment the murderer was seen wearing, variously described by witnesses as a gown, a cloak and a coat, was in fact a scapular. That’s the very special garment a priest wears over his other attire when he is consecrating the bread and wine.’

  ‘But this thread is white, sir. I’ve seen priests in green and purple and scarlet.’

  ‘They wear different colours, but at Christmas and just after, they always wear white. All three witnesses agree that the colour of the mysterious garment was white.’

  ‘Do you think that the murderer is a priest, sir?’

  Angel’s face creased with distaste. ‘All three victims were shot with the same gun, and all three murders were the same MO. We know that much for certain. The murderer at the railway station was in a dog collar, and is presumably the same man. I’ve always fought against it, but I am sadly coming to the conclusion that all three murders were committed by a priest who has gone out of his mind.’

  ‘Good morning. This is Detective Inspector Angel at Church Street Police Station. Have I the right extension number? Is that Mr Jarvis? Is your office responsible for checking the quality and purity of food products sold in the town?’

  ‘It is, Inspector, why? Is there an item you want us to look into?’

  ‘No, not specifically. I need some general information.’

  ‘Has there been a complaint?’

  ‘No. This is in the nature of a personal inquiry, but it could become an inquiry in the public interest. I’m not sure that I want to complain about anything at all, Mr Jarvis. All I really need at this stage is some information.’

  ‘Ask away, Inspector.’

  ‘My wife and I had an ice-cream cornet from one of Grogan’s mobile vans on Saturday. And I have to say how very nice it was.’

  ‘It’s a bit cold for me is ice cream at this time of the year, but I had some in the park with my children several times last summer and we enjoyed it too. So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I need to know if you make tests on the ice cream.’

  ‘We certainly do. Being a milk-based item, produced in the town, we take random samples twice a year, which are sent to an independent laboratory for analysis and report.’

  ‘And what do the reports say?’

  ‘Well, I can’t remember any details without looking them up, Inspector, but Grogan’s reports are and always have been quite excellent. I would have remembered if we had had to submit a warning or take any disciplinary action. And I wouldn’t be buying any of their ice cream for my children, I can tell you.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Jarvis. Goodbye.’

  He replaced the phone.

  It rang immediately. It was Crisp.

  Angel’s lips stiffened. He clenched the phone tightly. ‘I’m glad you’ve decided to clock in, lad. I thought you’d emigrated. Where are you? You’re supposed to be looking for Irish John and any other tramp-like character who just might be able to give us a lead.’

  Crisp’s voice was stark. ‘I think I’ve found “Irish John”, sir. Fits the description. Behind some rubbish bins at the back of All Saints and Martyrs Church on Sebastopol Terrace. He won’t be able to help us much. He’s been shot in the chest and he’s dead!’

  Those last two words echoed in Angel’s head.

  It was an hour later when Dr Mac, in white disposable
overalls, carrying his bag, came out of the canvas marquee which SOCO had erected over part of the back yard of All Saints and Martyrs Church, Sebastopol Terrace. Mac lifted the blue and white DO NOT CROSS tape and passed a small line of women onlookers who were standing shivering on the snow-covered pavement. He was making his way to his car when Angel arrived in the BMW and stopped behind it.

  Angel lowered the window and called out, ‘Have you finished, Mac?’

  Mac took the few steps up to the car and said, ‘Aye, I have that, Michael. And do you know, it’s as cold as Hogmanay in the Cairngorms.’

  ‘Jump in a minute,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll keep the engine running, warm your little haggis-filled toes.’

  Mac opened the car door, put his bag in the footwell, climbed in and quickly closed the door. He peeled off the rubber gloves and briskly rubbed both the palms and backs of his hands.

  He looked at Angel. ‘You’ve got me in here under false pretences,’ he said with a straight face.

  Angel turned the heater blower up to the top setting and put his foot on the accelerator. ‘I’m trying to save you from getting pneumonia,’ Angel said with a grin.

  Mac held his red hands out to the warm vent on the dashboard, and with a sober face, he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s the same MO, Michael. He was shot, at close range, in the heart. Don Taylor found one bullet case. It’s a .32. Same as the other three victims.’

  Angel put a hand up to his chin and rubbed it. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Why murder a tramp?’

  ‘Why murder anybody? Your lad, Crisp, said that his name was Irish John.’

  ‘That’s all I know. It was a nickname given to him by Sam Smart from St Mary’s. It was told to me by his housekeeper. I’ve no idea what his real name is.’

  ‘I’ll put that on the docket for the time being.’

  ‘But why murder a tramp? The only reason I can think of is because he knew too much. He saw or heard something that jeopardized the murderer’s anonymity.’

  Mac nodded.

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t to rob him,’ Angel said. ‘He had nothing.’

  He looked at Mac. ‘Was he shot in situ?’

  ‘I believe so. Can’t be sure until I’ve got him on the table.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘The sound of the shot? It would waken the universe, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘There was a kneeling pad … a thing you kneel on in church … cast away on top of him. It has powder burns and a hole through it. It was used to deaden the noise.’

  ‘A kneeling pad? From out of the church? You mean a hassock?’

  ‘All right, posh boy, a hassock. Not being high church and with a free church background, I wasn’t brought up to call things by fancy names. It’s about fourteen inches long by ten inches wide and about one inch thick. Call it a hassock if you like. I call it a kneeling pad or even a kneeler.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s a hassock. I wonder how he came by that?’

  ‘Simple. The murderer saw his prey, nipped into the church, came out with a kneeler and shot him. He would have to be able to get into the church, wouldn’t he? I thought churches were locked up when not being used for a service.’

  Mac was right. Angel rubbed his chin hard. He was conscious that rubbing his chin was getting to be a habit but it helped him with his thinking. He didn’t like what he was thinking.

  ‘The priest here would have access all the time,’ Angel said. ‘What time did the murder take place, Mac?’

  ‘My sums are a bit rough and ready. I need to know what the temperature was at its lowest last night, but it looks like he died between 7 p.m. and midnight.’

  ‘At this church, I spotted on the noticeboard that evensong in the winter is at 4.30. That would last about an hour. Half an hour to tidy up, put the lights out and so on. So the church I expect would be locked up by six o’clock.’

  ‘Sounds as if you’ve solved it, laddie. I must go.’

  ‘Thank you for the info,’ Angel said.

  ‘Thank you for the warm. I feel more human now. I will email my findings tomorrow morning,’ he said, and he opened the car door, letting in a blast of Arctic weather, picked up his bag, closed the door and was gone.

  Angel switched off the engine and got out of the car as Crisp came running out of the marquee towards him.

  ‘Ah, there you are, sir,’ Crisp called. ‘Don Taylor wants you to see the scene of crime and OK the removal of the body to the mortuary, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m coming, lad. I’m coming,’ Angel said. Then when they were up close, he said, ‘Find Father Hugo Riley for me urgently. I want to speak to him.’

  Crisp blinked. His face went blank. ‘What’s he look like, sir?’ he said.

  ‘He’ll be in a dog collar, won’t he? And a black coat or a cloak. This is his church. We’re in his parish. Dammit! Ask around. Ask anybody. You’re a detective, aren’t you?’

  Crisp was taken aback. ‘Yes. Right.’

  ‘And have you done the door-to-door?’

  Crisp’s face went scarlet. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

  Angel’s face muscles tightened. ‘Well, crack on with it. Let me know what you find out.’

  Crisp dashed off towards the presbytery.

  Angel strode quickly off to SOCO’s marquee. He lifted the flap and went inside.

  A powerful light was trained on the dead body of Irish John laid on the snow-covered ground. The top half of the body was covered with dried blood.

  DS Taylor and a PC, both in white disposable overalls, looked across at Angel and gave a respectful nod.

  ‘Well,’ Angel said, ‘what you got?’ He peered closely over the corpse’s face, then the chest, then the stomach. He worked his way slowly down to the dead man’s boots.

  ‘Footprints, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘The murderer’s footprints. They’re unfortunately smudged and might not be acceptable to the CPS as evidence but we have taken eight casts, five of the left foot and three of the right. We should be able to get rough composite moulds of each foot, then work out the size.’

  Angel’s face brightened. That was something. He pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s it, sir.’

  Angel pulled a face. He needed more direct clues. He had to find a suspect first before he could check on the size of his foot.

  The only facts he had were that Irish John was just another body along with three other bodies who had been murdered at point-blank range by a man of average proportions who wore priest’s clothes and had dark hair. That’s all he knew. He didn’t even know the motive.

  He turned to Taylor and said, ‘And what do you think happened, Don? What’s the choreography of the thing?’

  ‘I think that Irish John had been here a little while, sir. There are footprints that suggest he was stamping around between two wheelie bins trying to keep out of the wind, possibly hiding, possibly waiting for somebody. Also, in the snow there were some spent matches. If Dr Mac finds a box in the victim’s pockets, we can probably link them to him. If they are his, and as no cigarette ends have been found, it suggests that Irish John was smoking a roll-up. People who smoke roll-ups never throw the tab end away. Anyway, it looked as if the murderer had nipped into the church and purloined a kneeling mat. Then he came straight up to Irish John, and holding the kneeling mat over the gun, shot him at close range, dropped the mat and left the scene. Our ability to trace both the victim’s and the murderer’s footprints began and ended at the footpath. It is too well trodden and it is not possible to see from which direction either came.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed as he visualized the scene. ‘Where was the kneeler found?’

  ‘By his feet, sir,’ Taylor said, pointing to the ground. ‘Just tossed there.’

  Angel looked down to where Taylor had pointed.

  ‘We’ve bagged it,’ Taylor said. ‘For the lab.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well, it’s a church kneeler, sir, about twenty
inches by nine inches by three inches. It’s covered in powder burns on one side and has a hole in the middle with a scorch mark, as you’d expect, where the bullet entered.’

  ‘Mmm. Right.’

  Angel heard footsteps behind him. He turned to see the flap of the marquee lifted and Crisp standing there.

  ‘Father Hugo Riley has just turned up, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘Says he wants to see you.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, does he? I’ll be there in one minute, lad,’ he said.

  Crisp nodded, lowered the flap and went away.

  Angel turned back to Taylor, glanced down at the body of Irish John and said, ‘Right, Don. Ship him off to the mortuary. Disturb him as little as possible. And search the snow beneath him and around him thoroughly. And look carefully through the waste-bins.’

  ‘We are going to spray the entire area gently with watering cans of warm water. If there’s anything there, we’ll find it.’

  Angel was satisfied they would. He looked slowly round, wondering if there was anything he had forgotten. He couldn’t bring anything to mind, so he glanced back at Taylor and said, ‘Right, Don. I’m off.’

  As he lowered the flap outside, he heard the distinctive Irish voice of Hugo Riley talking to a group of four women on the pavement.

  As Angel walked across the yard towards them, he heard him saying, ‘Take heart, my dears. This is a time when your faith will sustain you. Let no one be afraid. The Lord is with you. Pray for the poor man’s soul, for the forgiveness of his sins and likewise pray for the person who has brought about the man’s passing over. He needs our prayers too. Then praise the Lord. Give Him thanks for all your blessings. Then pray to Our Lady. Say a decade of Hail Marys. Now go back to your homes. There is nothing to worry about.’ Then he made a sign of the cross in front of them, and with an open hand gave a very slow, gentle wave as the women turned away. Then he called after them. ‘I will open the church tonight at six o’clock for a special short service of prayers and thanksgiving for the man’s soul. Just twenty minutes or so. So spread the word. God bless you. God bless you.’