The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘I wanted to ask you a few questions,’ Angel said.

  She gave him a coy smile which made the dimple. ‘Anything I can do to help.’

  Angel screwed up his eyebrows. ‘I have a feeling we met some time ago. I can’t think where,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied with a broader smile.

  ‘Your face seems so familiar.’

  She brushed a piece of non-existent fluff off her black skirt, rattling the heavy gold bracelet on her wrist.

  ‘People are always saying that to me.’

  Angel rubbed the lobe of his ear. It must have sounded like a chat-up line. But he was not in the chatting-up business. He looked at the slim white hands with the scarlet nails resting on her lap. The third finger of her left hand had no ring, but there was a two-carat blue-white diamond solitaire sitting conspicuously on the third finger of her other hand.

  ‘Mmm.’ Angel leaned back in his chair and briefly referred to his notebook. Then he looked up. ‘At the time Charles Tabor was shot, where were you exactly? You weren’t in your office?’ he suggested.

  ‘No, Inspector. Mr Tabor had asked me to take some orders and paperwork down to the dispatch department on the shop-floor.’

  Angel raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? Wouldn’t that have been a job for a junior?’

  ‘Ordinarily yes, but there were some special instructions connected with the order. We had apparently sent a customer an item in error. It was only a small part. We were to send a replacement. This all needed explaining to the dispatch clerk; also it was important to get the part in the post that day. I had already prepared a letter for Mr Tabor promising that we would.’

  Angel ran his tongue across his lips.

  ‘Where were you when the shot was fired then?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know. I didn’t hear it. I don’t think anybody on the shop-floor heard it. I must have been on my way back to the office.’

  ‘Is it noisy on the shop floor?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought so. I suppose it is.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I came up the stairs and into my office. At first I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I heard some commotion from Mr Tabor’s office. The door was open. I looked in and saw the girls from the general office gathered round his desk looking at the floor. One of them was screaming, the others were holding their heads in their hands. I rushed in and saw Mr Tabor on the floor. He had his hands across his stomach. Blood was oozing out between his fingers. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I asked what had happened. The girl normally on reception, Rachel Honeycutt, was also there. She told me what she had seen and what the girls had told her. I came back to my own office, dialled 999 for an ambulance and then the police. Then I phoned Mark’s office on the factory-floor. He wasn’t there, so I told the girl to find him and ask him to come up urgently. That’s about it.’

  ‘And when did Mark Tabor arrive?’

  ‘Oh, he came up a minute or two later, and then, after what seemed an endless time, the ambulance men arrived and then you were close on their heels.’

  ‘Hmm. When I took over your office to do the questioning, you went out of the building, didn’t you? Where did you go?’

  ‘I just walked around the estate. It is a pleasant enough walk.’

  Angel frowned. ‘It was thawing, and raining. We had had a snowfall the night before. And it was quite windy.’

  ‘I was well wrapped-up. I had a good pair of boots. I like walking. That office is so stuffy. We’re on the fringe of the countryside. I had seen enough blood and mayhem for one day. I was glad to get outside. I had to think things out a bit.’

  ‘What do you mean? What had you to think out?’

  ‘My job for one thing. I had already thought I would have to look for something else, before Mr Tabor was murdered.’

  ‘Mmm. You didn’t actually see anything of the murder or the murderer then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you any idea why he would want to murder Charles Tabor?’

  ‘It’s no secret, Inspector. There was a long-standing dispute between Jones and Charles Tabor.’

  ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘Well, it started more than a year ago. Jones owed the firm two thousand pounds for office furniture and stuff supplied, and Mr Tabor was taking him to court for not paying for it. The hearing was next week. I don’t know what will happen now.’

  ‘And did he owe it?’

  ‘Yes. Er — well, I assume he did. I knew the accounts office had been sending letters to him demanding payment, and I had written a letter for Mr Tabor to his solicitors instructing them to prosecute him.’ She stopped, ran her tongue over her lips and, giving the policeman an old-fashioned look, said: ‘I suppose if Charles Tabor thought he could get paid twice for something, he wouldn’t hold back.’

  ‘Oh?’ Angel said, exaggerating a look of surprise. He looked at her closely.

  After a few seconds she gave a little smile.

  ‘Come on, Inspector. Don’t let’s pretend. I expect you know perfectly well that Charles Tabor was not exactly a hundred per cent straight.’

  Angel shrugged slightly and leaned back in chair. He knew from experience he was about to be told a tale, and the teller was eager to tell it. All he had to do was sit back and listen.

  ‘Why do you think I was looking round for another job?’

  ‘I thought it was a good job. Comfortable working conditions. Your own office. Well paid,’ he said craftily.

  ‘Yes. It was well paid. It was all those things, but, from time to time, I had to do things I would rather not have done.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, telling lies for him. Shutting a blind eye to some of the strokes he pulled.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Well …’ she broke off. She looked down at the floor. ‘I wish I hadn’t started this.’

  Angel smiled to himself. ‘Go on.’

  She hesitated, then said: ‘Well, the safe was nearly always crammed full of cash.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He used it for bribes to get orders …’ She stopped again. ‘I am going to get myself into a lot of trouble telling you this.’

  ‘Maybe you’d get into more trouble if you didn’t.’

  She didn’t hesitate again. She dived straight in.

  ‘Well, last September, he was anxious to get a big order from the government for computers and stuff — from the Department of Research and Development. Well, it was cash from that safe that was used to bribe the minister, a man called Eric Weltham, into giving him the order.’

  ‘Mmm. Eric Weltham?’

  Angel was surprised. His reaction didn’t go unnoticed. The name seemed familiar, but he couldn’t put it into any context.

  ‘It was for millions!’ she went on enthusiastically. ‘That’s why the factory is so busy.’

  ‘How much was he paid?’

  ‘A hundred thousand pounds. I overheard Mr Tabor telling Mark about it.’

  ‘So it was quite common to have those sorts of sums in the safe, then?’

  ‘Yes. Although I don’t really know exactly how much was in there the day he was shot. It would be over a hundred thousand pounds. He never let anyone, including his own son Mark, near the keys.’

  ‘Didn’t he trust Mark, then?

  ‘I don’t think he trusted anybody and they were always having rows about one thing or another.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About — er — anything, everything.’

  ‘You must have overheard them.’

  ‘They were always at it. Mark was always trying to do the right thing. And he was worried about this business with Eric Weltham. He felt it was very risky tapping an MP, especially a high profile cabinet minister like he is. I agreed with him but I never said so. It was nothing to do with me, besides, I had a job to protect and I wasn’t ready to leave yet. I always came out of the office when I thought a row was brewing.’

  �
��You’re a very wise woman,’ Angel said shrewdly.

  She leaned back in the chair, raised her head, looked up at him and smiled, pleased that she had been able to impress him.

  Angel knowingly smiled back. He deduced correctly that a bit of flattery would stand him in good stead with Ingrid Dooley.

  ‘Do you happen to have the address of this MP chap, Eric Weltham?’ he asked.

  *

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called. It was Ahmed.

  ‘I’ve done that job, sir,’ he said, waving the videotape.

  ‘Have you checked it, lad? Do you think it’ll be all right?’

  Ahmed looked at the inspector intently.

  ‘It’s what you said you wanted, sir.’

  Angel took it from him and looked at the label.

  ‘How long does it run?’

  ‘About ninety seconds, sir. What you said. That’s all.’

  ‘Right,’ said Angel. ‘We’ll have a look at it. Go down to the custody suite. Get the duty PC to let you take Jones to the CID office and when you are there, give me a buzz.’

  Ahmed nodded. He went out and closed the door.

  Angel put the tape down carefully on his desk. There was anticipation in the air. He had a warm pounding in his chest. He had the feeling he was about make an important discovery about the Man in the Pink Suit. He rubbed his hands together like a rat catcher in a sewer.

  The phone rang. He reached out for it.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘Mac here.’

  ‘Yes, Mac?’

  ‘I’ve been looking up the side effects of diazepam, Mike. And there’s one very interesting one.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘Impairment of memory.’

  ‘Impairment of memory,’ Angel said slowly. ‘Impairment of memory. You mean he could have shot Tabor and now he can’t remember it?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched, I know, but it happens. There’s two recent cases in America. Ay. Also, I have another possible explanation.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Ay. Had you considered that he might have been suffering from amnesia? That could have been brought on by a blow to the head, or through shock, or a massive change to the status quo.’

  ‘Amnesia?’

  ‘Ay. If he had fallen down stairs … or had an accident in the car and hit his head … or someone close to him, his nearest and dearest, had died unexpectedly … or in a horrific way … and perhaps he had witnessed it.’

  ‘Any of these might have triggered amnesia?’

  ‘Ay. Any one of them.’ Then the doctor added pointedly, ‘And subsequently, if he had absolutely no knowledge that he had murdered anyone, he would feel particularly incensed to be arrested for it, wouldn’t he.’

  Angel acknowledged that this was a fair point.

  ‘And he’d be very convincing with his answers!’ Mac went on. ‘He wouldn’t be acting. He’d be speaking from the heart. He’d be saying what he thought was true and smarting from what he saw as a totally unjust situation.’

  Angel had to agree. He hadn’t thought of amnesia at all. ‘And he wouldn’t remember anything?’

  ‘He might not. Not a thing. That might be the explanation.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac. Mmm.’ Angel slowly replaced the phone, leaned back in the swivel-chair and closed his eyes. He rubbed his chin and sighed. What a turn-up for the book. Was it just possible that Jones had fallen down the cellar steps or something like that, or had had a great shock, or experienced some horrendous incident that had unbalanced him? Hmm. He thought about it for a while, then shook his head. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. No. The elusive world of fantasy was knocking on the door. He could just visualize the witness-box swamped with so-called ‘expert witnesses’. Psychiatrists, trying to look earnest, brought in by the defence and the prosecution, vying with each other to be believed by an artless jury. He didn’t like the prospect one little bit. He could foresee the possibility of Jones getting away with blatant murder as a result of a smart city barrister in a Savile Row suit and a poncy haircut evoking all that guff about the accused being not guilty because the balance of his mind was disturbed.

  Angel didn’t want any of that. He had heard it all before. Some murderers had been freed on the strength of an accomplished barrister aided by a brilliant head doctor. Anyway, if he left things as they were, it wouldn’t happen. The superintendent would hardly allow him to withdraw the case from the CPS unless there was some new, hard evidence. The magistrate’s hearing would most certainly go ahead, the man in the pink suit would be remanded and the circus would undoubtedly move away from Bromersley nick.

  Unless …

  Angel was now ready to show Jones the CCTV. It was to be the man in the pink suit’s last chance to come clean and admit he shot Charles Tabor.

  The phone rang again. Right on cue. He opened his eyes and reached out.

  ‘Angel?’

  ‘We’re ready for you, sir.’

  ‘Right, Ahmed. Switch the machine on.’

  He replaced the phone and sighed. The moment had arrived. He picked up the tape, went out of the office and down the green corridor. As he approached the CID room, he could hear Jones’s raised voice.

  ‘I’m not an animal to be trundled here and there at anybody’s whim. Where is the inspector?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Angel boomed as he came through the door.

  The room was empty except for Jones and Ahmed.

  Jones was standing with his hands on the back of a chair by the video-player. His face was red, his eyes were staring and his chest was heaving up and down. He stared at Angel with the look of a stripper whose G-string had just snapped.

  Standing next to him was Ahmed with his mouth wide open.

  Jones bristled angrily. ‘What’s happening? What’s all this, Inspector?’

  Angel took charge of the situation. He glared at the man. He realized for the first time how ill-tempered it was possible for him to be.

  ‘Sit down,’ he boomed authoritatively. Then he turned to Ahmed. ‘Close your mouth, lad. I don’t want to see what you had for your dinner.’ He pointed to the chairs. ‘Both of you, sit down.’

  ‘I really must protest at being pushed about from pillar to post like this,’ said Jones, still red in the face.

  Jones and Ahmed both sat down.

  Angel put up a protesting hand.

  ‘Mr Jones, you are about to see a video of yourself. It’s important. Look at the screen.’

  Jones’s jaw dropped. His eyes lost their intensity and he blinked. He gave a short sigh and relaxed his shoulders. He smiled slightly.

  ‘Oh? Is it something I’ve recorded recently?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Angel said meaningfully. ‘Oh yes. Very recently.’ He pushed the tape firmly into the slot. ‘Now watch this carefully.’

  Angel stood at forty-five degrees to the video screen so that he could observe Jones’s reactions.

  The screen was about four feet by three feet, and the picture, which was slightly fuzzy, was in black-and-white. The picture briefly showed the reception area at the factory. A man in a light suit appeared with his back to the camera.

  Jones sat upright and stared at the screen. He turned briefly to Angel.

  ‘Whereabouts is this?’ he asked urgently.

  Angel didn’t reply.

  The film showed the man run up the stairs into Tabor’s office, stand in front of the desk, pull the gun out of his pocket and fire it. Tabor fell across his desk and on to the floor.

  Jones eyes opened wider as he stared at the screen, his jaw dropped.

  ‘When was this? Where was this?’

  The picture on the screen then showed the man rush swiftly down the stairs and out of the picture. The screen went blank. The tape had ended.

  Jones turned to face Angel.

  ‘I demand to know where that was filmed and who the phot
ographer was.’

  Angel turned to Ahmed.

  ‘We’ll go in the interview room, lad. Take charge of that tape and follow us in there.’

  He nodded.

  Jones stood up. He faced Angel square on. Suddenly he seemed to have a lot to say. He spoke quickly.

  ‘It was not me, you know. It’s nothing like me. That man’s fatter than me. I don’t walk like that either. I’m not a pansy. I may not be married but I’m not a poof. I may get married one day, if I meet the right woman. That man is quite obviously a homosexual. He swings his hips from one side to the other, like a woman. Homosexuals walk like that. He’s nothing like me. Who is it impersonating me? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘Come on, sir. Let’s go in the interview room. We can talk there,’ he added as he moved into the corridor.

  Jones followed.

  ‘It’s not me, you know,’ he continued with a finger moving excitedly as he walked. Then he pointed back at the video screen. ‘I don’t look like that. It’s ridiculous. It’s a put up job. That’s not me, I tell you.’

  Ahmed came from behind them to the interview room door. He opened it and the three of them went in.

  ‘It’s a caricature of me. It’s not for real. It’s not me. It’s an actor fellow. An impersonator. Must be … somebody trying to cash in on my celebrity status.’

  The heat of the room hit them. It was very warm and stuffy and a sickly smell of polish or similar met them as they entered the room. Jones’s nose began to twitch. He sniffed several times, and searched for a handkerchief. He found one and held it to his nose, then continued:

  ‘And that suit is a disgrace. It is rubbish, nothing like the quality of my suit. It’s a pity your pictures aren’t in colour. You would see that the colour is different. My suit is an entirely different shade. It’s darker. And it is better cut. Look at the lapels for a start, and the waist. It’s not a patch on the suit I wear. That suit of mine cost me a thousand pounds.’

  Angel pointed to a chair at one side of the table.

  ‘Sit there.’ He looked round the room. The stuffy smell annoyed him. He looked up to the windows and found they were both fastened. He opened them both and set the catches on maximum. The smell of clear air was pleasing.