Angel turned off the ring road on to a short link road called Wells Road. Bromersley General Hospital was on a crossroads off Wells Road.
Grogan said, ‘Well, then, if you won’t take me to the railway station, please stop and let me out here.’
‘Can’t do that, Mr Grogan. You are in my custody. You are wanted for the murder of four men, for armed robbery and for dealing in cocaine.’
Grogan stared at him; his jaw dropped. ‘Ridiculous. You must be out of your mind.’
‘But I wouldn’t want you to die on us from septicaemia before you are tried, so we are going to the hospital to have that bullet taken out of your shoulder before we go straight to the station.’
‘There is no bullet in my shoulder! I told you it was—’
‘Come on, Grogan. You can’t fool me. If it was a flesh wound it wouldn’t be bleeding so profusely. It has never stopped since you got in the car. It’s a good job this upholstery is genuine plastic. Besides, you have a small hole in your raincoat that exactly matches that of a bullet hole.’
Angel pulled on to the frontage of the hospital and began looking for a place to park. It was very busy. An ambulance man at the Accident and Emergency entrance was delivering an elderly man on a stretcher. Two nurses were getting an elderly woman out of a car. There were NO WAITING signs everywhere.
Angel looked round in every direction. There was simply nowhere to park the BMW.
Grogan’s eyes were shining like landing lights on a 747. Suddenly, he reached into his left-hand raincoat pocket, pulled something out and pointed it Angel.
Angel noticed the movement and turned to see what was happening. He found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. His eyebrows shot up. His heart began to thump like a steam hammer.
‘I see that you know what this is,’ Grogan said, shaking the gun at him.
Angel nodded. ‘A Walther PPK/S .32 automatic.’
‘Good. Now drive me out of this frigging place. I told you I didn’t want to be here, and I frigging well don’t. I want to get well away from here and it now looks like you have frigging well volunteered to be my frigging chauffeur.’
Angel breathed deeply several times. He noticed how Grogan had changed. He sounded different. He even looked different. Deadly, awful and brutal.
Angel drove the BMW round the semi-circle past the main doors of the hospital and stopped at the exit road.
‘Turn right,’ Grogan said.
Angel pulled the wheel round to the right. ‘Where are we going?’ he said.
‘I’ll tell you all you need to know,’ Grogan said.
Angel drove the car along the road in silence. He drove straight ahead unless told otherwise. They seemed to be headed for Barnsley.
After a few minutes, Grogan said, ‘What made you think I was dealing in cocaine?’
‘I first got the idea when we had notice that 250 boxes of cocaine in the form of biscuits were heading for a customer in Barnsley.’
‘That didn’t have to be me.’
‘No, it didn’t. But when I saw that many of your teenage customers were indiscriminately dumping your exceedingly delicious ice cream and the cones on paths and grass, it got me thinking. Cones are, of course, biscuits. Maybe the 250 boxes of cocaine in the form of biscuits were delivered to you, and maybe in the bottom of each ice-cream cone was a twist of cocaine, so that it could be distributed discreetly and in a big way. That would explain why your ice-cream salesmen could still find it worthwhile to stand outside a school or a park in the middle of winter and still make a profit.’
‘Ridiculous. You will have to prove it.’
Angel smiled. ‘When the judge and jury find out that your salesmen are mostly unemployable crooks, such as Angus Rossi and the lad who stood outside the park last Saturday afternoon, Johnny Oxford, it won’t be difficult. That name only came to me this morning. He did three years for handling stolen goods – I put him away myself. Were the rest of your salesmen ex cons?’
‘They worked cheap, Angel. And they kept their frigging traps frigging shut.’
Angel came to a junction. The sign ahead said ‘Barnsley 4 miles’. Angel drove the BMW straight on.
‘Something else has just occurred to me,’ Angel said. ‘250 boxes of 500 ice-cream cones to a box, with a twist of cocaine in each cone, would amount to a huge amount of money … in the region of four million?’
Grogan said nothing.
‘And if you were dependent on the proceeds of the raid on the First Security Delivery Services van to pay for it, and you lost those proceeds, you would make some unsavoury people very, very unhappy – so unhappy they might want to murder you and your gang and blow up your factory.’
Grogan said, ‘You will have to prove this, you know.’
Angel shrugged. Then his eyes shone briefly. ‘That explains something else. That’s why you are hell bent on getting as far away from here as possible. That’s not an MI5 or a Special Unit of Operations bullet in your shoulder, it’s come from one of your Colombian friends. I suppose you are lucky to escape with your life.’
‘It’s another frigging figment of your imagination,’ Grogan said.
The traffic lights on Market Hill in the centre of Barnsley had just turned to red as Angel drove the BMW up to them. He pulled on the handbrake and looked up at the shops, the bank, the town hall. This was familiar territory. But contact was denied him. Angel had a quick look down at the Walther being held steadily in Grogan’s left hand and he sighed. The muscles of his jaw tightened. He looked thoughtfully along the bonnet of the BMW. If he had reached for the door handle he would have been dead in seconds.
‘Get on to the M1,’ Grogan said.
The traffic lights went to green. Angel eased off the handbrake, let in the clutch and turned the corner. Ten minutes later, they were on the M1 travelling northwards at 60mph. Angel had no idea of Grogan’s destination or how much longer they would be travelling. He hoped, however, that throughout the time he would be able to keep Grogan talking.
After a few minutes, he said, ‘I suppose you hand-picked four of those poor bent souls to assist in the robbery of the First Security Delivery Services van.’
Grogan laughed. ‘What makes you think I had anything to do with that?’
‘It was the work of a genius,’ Angel said. Flattery often opens the most stubborn doors. ‘A masterstroke.’
Grogan smiled. ‘It was, wasn’t it? How are you proposing to try to frigging well hang it on me?’
‘Well, you know the screwdrivers used on the job?’
Grogan frowned. His face changed and it was not to a happy expression. ‘There weren’t any fingerprints on them, were there? I warned Angus Rossi and Johnny Oxford to wipe them well. We all wore gloves. Did you know that?’
‘Oh yes. We have a witness who saw the robbery, the whole thing.’
‘I didn’t see anybody.’
‘She was in a building on an upper floor. She had a ringside seat.’
‘But we all wore balaclavas.’
‘She didn’t see your faces until afterwards when you took them off and you were walking away with the suitcase full of money.’
‘She saw my face?’
‘Just a glance, but I’ll be able to prove your gang did the job because of the screwdrivers. We traced them back to Rossi, your employee and number one henchman, who bought them in an auction in Leeds in 2002.’
Grogan’s face went scarlet. ‘He said no one would be able to frigging well trace them!’
Angel said nothing. He kept his foot squarely on the accelerator. This interview was proceeding better in the car than it would have done at the station.
Grogan sighed then said, ‘So what. That’s eight years ago, Angel. There were a lot of those around.’
Angel shrugged. ‘The stealing of the dynamite used can be traced back to a robbery last November in Derbyshire, and that can also be traced back to Rossi and you.’
He turned down his lower lip like a child denied a toy.
‘Why me? How can you trace it back to me? I wasn’t even there.’
‘Do you know of a property company called Catania and Modica Limited?’
Grogan’s eyelids lowered halfway as he wondered what Angel was going to say next. ‘Yes, yes. Of course I do.’
‘I have a colleague looking into it.’
Grogan pulled a face and said, ‘It’s a frigging holding company wholly owned by me.’
‘Well, then, that completes the link, Grogan,’ Angel said. ‘Both the dynamite and the screwdrivers were found in a lock-up owned by Catania and Modica Limited.’
‘You will have to prove that Catania and Modica knew that the dynamite and screwdrivers were in their lock-up.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ Angel said. ‘But as Angus Rossi’s prints were all over both boxes, and as he rented the place from Catania and Modica, which is you, I don’t think that it will be too difficult a connection for a jury to make, do you?’
Grogan sniffed. ‘What a load of frigging crap. A frigging good barrister would make nonsense of all that. Besides, I didn’t take the money.’
‘You were seen,’ Angel roared. ‘My witness saw you.’
The pupils of Grogan’s eyes rose up and came down again. He’d been caught in a blatant lie.
‘What I meant was I haven’t got the frigging money,’ he said. ‘If I haven’t got the frigging money, how can you charge me with stealing it? A good barrister would have that frigging charge of robbery or attempted robbery removed altogether.’
Angel didn’t think so. But he didn’t want to rile him any more than necessary. He was the one with the Walther. The one he had used to kill four men, maybe more. And Angel must keep him talking.
‘It must have felt good,’ Angel said. ‘Walking off with four million in that case.’
‘It felt frigging good, Angel. I can tell you.’
‘So you walked down to the railway station, went up to the ticket window and bought a ticket.’
‘How do you know that? I suppose you have another witness?’
There was no other witness. Angel just smiled as if he knew a lot more than he was saying, but he had only said what he thought must have happened. It wasn’t differential calculus.
‘Where was the ticket to?’ Angel said.
Grogan stuck out his chest. ‘There was another frigging aspect of my genius,’ he said. ‘I knew you frigging police would be sniffing all over, like pimps round a virgin, expecting us to be making our escape by frigging car, so I planned it so that the lads would leave on foot in different directions, and I would leave with the suitcase by train. And it worked. I bought a ticket to the next station down the line, Skiptonthorpe.’
‘And that’s where it went wrong.’
Grogan pulled a face. ‘I was queuing at the ticket window, standing in front of a frigging idiot in a dog collar and a black shirt. I wouldn’t normally have noticed him but almost every person that passed spoke to him in a friendly way and he answered them. He seemed well known and as popular as sex.’
‘But he picked up the wrong suitcase,’ Angel said.
Grogan’s face went scarlet as the memory of the incident returned to him. ‘The frigging stupid bastard!’ he yelled. ‘Yes. He picked up the wrong frigging suitcase.’
‘And you didn’t find that out until you reached the gents toilet at Skiptonthorpe?’ Angel said.
Grogan was still fuming. ‘The frigging stupid bastard,’ he said. Then he suddenly caught up with Angel’s question. ‘Don’t tell me you had a witness in the frigging bog?’
Angel shook his head. ‘So you put on the dog collar and black shirt front from out of the case you had taken. You thought it would make you popular as well as make it easier for you to talk to people. You also thought it would make it easier to find the priest who had taken your case.’
‘Yeah, Angel. Exactly.’
‘You had to get the money back,’ Angel said. ‘You had to pay for the cocaine. It was four million quid. It had to be paid. You were desperate. You took the next train back to Bromersley, and you asked the lad in the ticket office, Harry Weston, for information about the priest who had been standing behind you. His reply wasn’t helpful, probably cheeky or offhand. You were so angry and frantic, you threatened him and you shot him.’
‘No.’
‘Then you dashed out of the station and hid on the floor of one of your own ice-cream sales vans which happened to be standing by the station entrance.’
‘No. It’s not true. You’d never prove it. Anyway, Rossi would deny it.’
‘Then you murdered two priests and harassed others in your desperate search for the suitcase and the money. Unfortunately for you and them and their families, you never found the right priest.’
‘That’s absolute frigging rubbish.’
‘Inside the suitcase you found a white garment which you put on because you thought it would be an appropriate garment to wear to visit ‘brother’ priests in their homes, when they are off duty, so to speak. You thought it would give you immediate acceptable access. What you didn’t know was that that garment was a scapular, only worn in the church on certain days specified in the church’s calendar, almost only when bread and wine are being consecrated.’
He frowned. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Never mind,’ Angel said. He didn’t want to try and explain. Grogan clearly had had no experience of Christian church culture. Angel wanted to change the subject and he noticed that they passed the sign at the slip road exit of junction 40 to Wakefield. ‘How far north are we going, Grogan?’
‘I’ll tell you when,’ he said. ‘You said I murdered four men. Who was the fourth?’
‘You know full well it was Irish John.’
‘The tramp?’ Grogan said. ‘Was that the frigger’s name? He deserved to die.’
‘He was blackmailing you.’
‘He was hanging round St Mary’s Church. He heard the frigging gunshot, he watched me come out and followed me home. He assumed that I’d shot the vicar in there, and threatened to tell the police. I gave him money. But he was never satisfied.’
‘You tried to get it back. It was £400.’
Grogan’s eyes opened wide. ‘How do you know that?’
‘But you didn’t find it.’
‘How do you know that? How could you possibly know that? He was frigging crafty. Where was it? Tell me, Angel, where was it?’
‘There was £200 in each boot.’
‘In his boots? The crafty sod.’
‘What size shoes do you wear, Grogan?’
‘Size nine, why? What’s that got to do with it?’
‘That’s the size Irish John’s murderer wore.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me. You prove it, Angel. Just you frigging well prove it. Millions of people are a size nine.’
‘We will. The money was still in the Northern Bank sleeves. The sleeves were date stamped and initialled by the cashier who paid it out. If your bank statement shows a withdrawal of £400 or more on that date …’
‘Huh. The cashier will never frigging well remember. I’m on safe ground there, Angel.’
Angel shook his head. Bank records were usually a hundred per cent reliable.
He noticed they were approaching the slip road for junction 42.
Grogan suddenly looked ahead out of the windscreen. ‘Where are we? You’re putting me off.’ He looked up at the signs. He sucked in air and said, ‘It’s the M62. You want to be on the slip road; bear left quickly.’
Angel touched the stalk control and switched on the flashers, checked his mirror and moved left off the M1.
‘And take the road on the M62 east in the direction of Hull.’
Angel did as he was directed. He had little choice. But he did notice that as determined to watch him as Grogan has been, he had briefly lost his concentration and taken his eyes off him looking for road signs. It must have been for two long seconds. He reckoned that it would have been long enough for him to have wrenched the gun away fro
m him. At sixty miles an hour it would have undoubtedly been risky, but it would have been a risk worth taking. He thought about this in silence as he drove the BMW further and further along the motorway.
He reckoned that he was about the same weight as Grogan and several inches taller. Grogan had a bullet in his shoulder. Sticky blood was still seeping out through his coat on to the upholstery, which Angel reasoned must be weakening him. But Grogan was also in possession of a .32 automatic, which was pointed straight at his head.
Angel knew that he would have to make a challenge of some sort before he delivered Grogan to his destination – wherever it was – because he seriously didn’t expect Grogan to let him live, knowing that he had all that mostly indisputable evidence piled up against him. After all, what was another killing to a man who had murdered four men in the past three days?
Angel’s brain was operating at top speed. He knew he would have to create his own opportunity. He couldn’t rely on providence to save his life. He couldn’t leave it to lady luck. He wasn’t ready for his wings yet. There was too much to live for. And he couldn’t possibly leave Mary behind …
He glanced down at Grogan. He glared back at him and gripped the Walther tighter and tilted it upwards at Angel’s head.
‘What you looking at?’ Grogan said.
‘Just wondered how much further to go?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Do I just keep straight on this road? Don’t we turn off anywhere?’
‘I’ll tell you where and when,’ Grogan said. ‘Just keep your eye on the road.’
Angel pressed the BMW harder and faster until the motorway ended and the road ran into the A63, where he reduced speed appreciably.
Suddenly Grogan said: ‘Take the next turn right.’
Angel carefully pulled into the middle of the road. There was a lot of traffic in both directions, heavy wagons taking and delivering goods to the docks in Hull only a few miles away. Eventually a gap appeared and he turned carefully into a side road. It was more of a cart track. Ahead he could see the River Humber, which leads to the North Sea. He must be very close to the end of his journey. He knew he had to make an early bid.
The Dog Collar Murders Page 23