The Man in the Pink Suit

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel reached out for the chair, dragged it to the side of the bed and sat down.

  Jones looked at Angel with doleful eyes.

  ‘More questions, Inspector?’

  ‘I have some very good news for you, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘We are dropping the charges.’

  Jones’s mouth opened. He didn’t look pleased; he rubbed his chin. He looked surprised.

  ‘Oh.’ His eyes moved unsteadily from side to side then came to rest looking into Angel’s. ‘That means, I am free to go?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘As far as the police are concerned there is no case to answer. We will not be pressing any charges,’ said Angel with a smile. ‘When you are fit, you can leave hospital and do what you like. I am withdrawing police supervision immediately.’ DS Gawber, who had been listening, smiled.

  ‘Does that mean I can step down, sir? I’d like to go home.’

  ‘Whenever you like, Ron. And thank you for stepping in. Get that ankle rested.’

  ‘I will.’

  Jones turned to him. ‘And I thought we were getting along so well.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘Yes sir. We were.’ He struggled to his feet and put the crutches under his arms

  ‘Leave discreetly Ron,’ said Angel. ‘Don’t let that press pack realize you’re going. When this news breaks, I expect there will be all hell let loose. Tell Scrivens what’s happened but tell him to keep his trap shut. Tell him to hang on for ten minutes after you, and then leave quietly for the station.’

  ‘Right.’ Gawber reached the door. ‘Goodbye, Mr Jones. I hope you go on all right.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant, and thank you for your company.’

  ‘Goodbye Ron. See you soon.’

  ‘Goodbye, sir.’ He opened the door. The constable assisted him out of the room and closed the door.

  ‘That police sergeant has been a delightful companion,’ remarked Jones. ‘He knows nothing about Picasso, though.’

  Angel smiled. ‘There are a few questions, Mr Jones.’

  Jones nodded. ‘I have one for you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I told you from the very beginning that I knew nothing about the shooting. What finally convinced you?’

  ‘Primarily forensic evidence. Your pink suit was not the suit worn by the man or woman who shot Charles Tabor.’

  ‘I told you that.’

  Angel nodded. ‘You told me all sorts of things,’ he chided. ‘You told me things that were not quite correct. For instance, you told me that your garage was locked at the time and it wasn’t. And you wouldn’t tell me that the key that was found was for the garage door. I mean, why say that? What was the point?’

  ‘Ah,’ Jones responded, pointing a finger skyward. ‘There’s a good reason for that, Inspector. The newspapers are printing everything you know, every detail. If my insurance company had discovered that I had told them the car was normally locked up in a garage when it wasn’t, it might have invalidated the insurance. I lost the key a month or so back. I had intended sorting it out but I’ve been so busy. Besides that, Inspector, you were being extraordinarily annoying with your questions.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘It’s a little thing like that that could have put you behind bars.’

  Jones smiled. He put his hands together on his lap, touching and separating at the fingertips in quick succession.

  ‘And another thing,’ said Angel. ‘I asked you where you got the diazepam tablets from, that were in your pocket. You said you hadn’t seen a doctor in years, then you said they were prescribed for you, then you said you bought them in Holland. But you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jones replied, looking worried. ‘I really cannot afford to get mixed up with anything illegal you know, Inspector. Especially drugs. Oh dear no. That would never do. And everything, every little detail is reported in the papers. If the papers learned I had drugs, look what a big thing they would have made out of it. It could have ruined me. No. The truth is, I was protecting a friend. Well, he’s not exactly a friend. I meet him from time to time in a studio I occasionally work in. He recommended them, and said he could get some for me. I don’t want to get him into trouble. He was helping me, you see. I really do not want to give you his name.’

  ‘You should have said so. I will not pursue the matter, in this instance, provided that you promise me to see your GP about the matter and get a legitimate prescription from him.’

  ‘Oh, I will. I will. And thank you.’

  The door opened and a young nurse put her head round. She saw Angel but ignored him.

  ‘Are you all right, Frank?’ the nurse said in a voice that had the resonance of a cracked cup.

  His eyes lit up. ‘Oh yes, thank you, nurse,’ he said extravagantly.

  ‘Do you wanna cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Is there anything you do want?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘That man’s rung up from California, again!’ she said with a big grin.

  Jones shrugged. ‘Never mind!’

  The door closed. Jones smiled at Angel.

  ‘Interruptions like that, all day,’ he chuckled. ‘When I get out of here, I’m going to have to get a full-time secretary.’

  ‘Looks like she’s got a year’s work ahead of her, answering all these letters,’ Angel said, pointing at the box under the bed and the pile on the bedside locker.

  ‘You know, Inspector, I never expected that morning eleven days ago, when you came to my house and accused me of murdering Charles Tabor, that as a result of that mistake — an understandable mistake — my life would be transformed like this.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘You are out of the woods. But I still have to find the murderer of Charles Tabor. And there is one very serious question I have to put to you. This is probably the last question I will ever have to ask you.’

  ‘Hmm. What is that, Inspector?’

  Angel scratched his head. ‘Somebody wants you put away. Out of commission. Silenced. In prison. Yes. Who is it, Mr Jones? Who is your enemy?’

  *

  Angel left the hospital at 10.15 a.m. He drove straight to the Feathers Hotel and went up to the reception desk. A big woman aged about thirty came forward.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Angel put on his best Roger Moore smile.

  ‘I’m sure you can. I am Inspector Angel of the Bromersley police. I would like to see the receptionist who was on duty on Christmas Eve two years ago.’

  ‘Two years ago?’ echoed the big woman. ‘Oooo. That was the night of the storm, very heavy rain, wasn’t it. I nearly got pneumonia. I was on duty, Inspector. I was on duty all night until six o’clock Christmas Day morning. We were fully booked and very busy; well, we always are at Christmas.’

  ‘Ah, good. There was a gentleman here, at the bar that night, celebrating a rather spectacular win on the lottery.’

  ‘Oh yes. The poor man died. Mr Dooley. On his way home. Died of natural causes. Yes I remember, Inspector.’

  ‘He was celebrating somewhat spectacularly. Had a lot to drink. Champagne, I expect.’

  ‘No, it was brandy, Inspector.’

  Angel was pleased. She remembered; that was good. ‘Brandy, was it?’

  ‘I told all that I knew to the police at the time, and his daughter, poor woman. Ingrid, I think her name was. Yes. He was a widower, you know. It was very sad. Him winning all that money, two million pounds and then dying the same night, never to touch a penny. Mind you, she would be all right. All that money. She came to see me, you know. I told her all about it, everything I knew. But it was natural causes, you know. The coroner’s verdict was that. Oh yes. Natural causes, he said. Yes. I helped put the gentleman in the taxi.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector.’

  ‘And who went with him in the taxi? Who paid the fare? And gave you a big tip to keep your mouth shut?’ he sniffed.

  Her eyes stared angrily a
t him, and her fat red lips tightened.

  ‘There was no need to say that! Well, it doesn’t matter now, anyway. He’s dead. It was Charles Tabor.’

  There was the link, the link Angel had been seeking, someone who hated both Frank P Jones and Charles Tabor. Hated them enough to see Charles Tabor shot dead and Frank P Jones sent to prison for life.

  It was Ingrid Dooley.

  Angel got in his car and drove straight up to Tabor’s factory. He went past the receptionist, up the stairs along the landing to the secretary’s office. The door was open and he walked straight in.

  Ingrid Dooley was seated at the desk shuffling papers around. She looked up and smiled.

  ‘Hullo Inspector.’ She dropped the papers and cut the smile when she saw his face. ‘You want to see me. Sit down, Inspector.’

  Angel came right up to the desk, put his hands on the top of it and leaned forward.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Charles Tabor stole your father’s lottery ticket?’

  ‘How did you find that out?’

  ‘The same way you did. Did you take on this job to get your own back, to kill him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it to get at his son?’

  ‘No. No! He got my father drunk, so drunk that it killed him, and while he was drunk, he stole the winning lottery ticket from him. That was two million pounds. A fantastic amount of money for the likes of my father! We had always rubbed along managing on a hand-to-mouth existence, and then came the chance to break out of the rut, to have a nice house, car, new clothes, holidays, all that I had dreamed of. No more worrying about money. And it was all taken away by this …’

  ‘So you took a job here to get your own back.’

  ‘I came here to keep an eye on him. I was hoping I might get enough evidence to prove he stole it, and recover the money. I know it was a long shot, but to me, it was worth trying. That money would have revolutionized my life. But the man was evil. Do you know what else he did?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There was a man in the accounts department here. He made a mistake. A trivial thing. It was soon put right. But Charles Tabor wanted rid of him. He not only sacked him, he played a dirty trick on him. He got him to sign away his rights to his notice, his holiday pay and his pension rights for five thousand pounds, which he duly paid him in cash. He then arranged to have him robbed of the whole lot on his way to pay it into his bank!’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘It’s true. His name was Coldwell. I was here, in this office. I heard the whole thing. And do you know who Tabor set on to rob him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A well-known local crook, McCallister, Tiny McCallister. You must have heard of him.’

  Angel blinked. ‘McCallister. Oh yes. I’ve heard of McCallister.’

  ‘He did all his dirty work.’

  ‘Did he? Did he? All right. Why did Tabor tell the taxi driver to take your father to 61 Sheffield Road, Pewski’s the undertakers?’

  ‘A cynical joke. A cruel and sadistic act. Typical of Charles Tabor.’

  ‘You know, Miss Dooley, the person who shot Tabor and had Jones blamed for it, was somebody who had reason to hate them both. I can’t make it all fit yet, but you are the only person in the world I know of who fills that bill. The stake was high. And it wasn’t only for a hundred and five thousand pounds, it was for all this.’ He waved a hand in the air.

  Her mouth opened wide. ‘Ridiculous! Who could I have got to dress up as Jones and kill Charles Tabor?’

  Angel glared at her.

  ‘You could have done it yourself.’

  FOURTEEN

  Angel was excited when he reached the office the following morning. Even though it was Saturday, he was exhilarated having unravelled a mystery as confusing as this had been. It was during watching a television programme with his wife the evening before, about a celebrity-programme presenter bitching about another celebrity-programme presenter, that the last cog had dropped into place.

  This morning, he plunged enthusiastically into assembling the facts of this latest murder, in sequence, for his report to the CPS.

  He was still in this euphoric mood when the phone rang.

  ‘Angel,’ he sang into the mouthpiece

  ‘This is Mark Tabor. I’m very worried, Inspector. Ingrid Dooley has cleared out her desk. I went through it this morning looking for something. Looks like she’s done a bunk!’

  Angel’s face dropped. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. She’s disappeared. She’s been so reliable. I phoned her home, but there was no reply. I am very dependent on her since Dad died. I went immediately round to her house. There’s this morning’s post sticking out of the letter-box and the house certainly looks unoccupied. A neighbour said he’d seen her last night put two suit-cases in her car and drive off, but I can’t think where she’s gone. I thought she would have told me. I can’t think what’s happened.’

  Angel sighed. ‘Oh. Thanks for letting me know, Mr Tabor. I’ll have my sergeant look into it as soon as possible.’

  Angel wondered if the superintendent had come in. He immediately went down to his office.

  Harker was there in a tracksuit.

  ‘It’s predictable. With all that brass the girl can go anywhere. Put out a notice in the Police Gazette, circulate the airports and the national dailies.’

  Angel nodded. ‘With her looks and in that car, she’ll not get far.’

  ‘It’s rough that she was done out of her father’s lottery winnings,’ the superintendent said, being uncharacteristically compassionate. ‘But she can’t flout the law and run away like that.’

  ‘If she returns most of the money, pleads guilty, gets a good barrister to make an effective case in mitigation, and the judge sees she’s genuinely remorseful, she’ll be treated sympathetically, won’t she.’

  ‘Maybe. But not if it’s Judge Keeler.’

  ‘I could even put a word in for her, myself.’

  Harker looked as if he’d just knocked the top off an addled egg.

  ‘Don’t go mad, lad. Just because she’s a bit of a looker!’

  The inspector had just returned to his office when the phone rang.

  ‘Angel.’

  ‘It’s Crisp, sir.’

  ‘What you doing here, lad? I thought you’d be off tormenting the women of Bromersley?’

  ‘I’m duty sergeant, sir. There’s that woman from the television, Louella Panter. She’s asking to see Eric Weltham. She’s got some post and fruit and stuff for him, and she also wants to see you.’

  Angel sighed.

  ‘Ay. All right. Bring her down to the interview room.’

  He replaced the phone, went straight out of the office, and down the green corridor. He opened the interview-room door and found the room predictably stuffy and uncomfortably warm as usual. He crossed to the windows, opened them both, and switched on the recording-machine. He heard footsteps along the corridor and turned to see DS Crisp, Louella Panter and Nigel Coldwell file silently into the room. He thought she looked shorter and tubbier than he remembered. She was wearing a light-coloured trouser-suit and her hair was in an organized jumble like a pineapple on the top of her head. Her lips and cheeks were very red as if she had applied her makeup in a hurry. She was carrying a shoulder-bag, holding on to it with one hand.

  Following her into the room was Nigel Coldwell in a smart suit with a light-blue shirt open at the neck. He carried a big canoe-shaped basket of fruit and had a bundle of envelopes and newspapers in an elastic band tucked under his arm.

  Angel felt hostility in the air, but he did his best to be affable.

  ‘Good morning. Please sit down.’

  Louella and Nigel both muttered: ‘Good morning. Good morning.’ The man put the fruit and papers on the table.

  Angel looked across at Crisp.

  ‘Come in, Sergeant, and close the door.’ He pointed to a chair.

  When the four were sitting at the table, Angel said:

/>   ‘Now then, Miss Panter, what did you want to see me about?’

  Louella touched both corners of her mouth with her middle finger and began in a businesslike manner.

  ‘I want to know what’s happening with Mr Weltham, Inspector. I mean, you know he has absolutely nothing to do with drugs.’

  ‘The videotape showed otherwise, but if he can give a satisfactory explanation to the judge then he has nothing to worry about,’ Angel answered, deviously. ‘And by the way, this conversation is being recorded, so anything you say may be used in evidence.’

  Louella’s lips tightened. She ignored the caution.

  ‘But it was a trick, Inspector. You know it was.’

  ‘It’s up to a judge and jury to decide that.’

  Her eyes shone with rage.

  ‘But you fixed it! You manoeuvred him into that position!’

  Angel felt his chest rise and swell.

  ‘What are you talking about,’ he said glaring at her. ‘An honest man couldn’t be manoeuvred. I didn’t manoeuvre him. I didn’t invite him into the flat. He broke in. I didn’t plant a kilo of heroin with the intention of destroying a man’s career! And that’s what his motive was, you know. He would have cut me down without a thought. My reputation to me, is as important as his reputation is to him. And I don’t accept bribes either! I know this is a time of crisis for you, Miss Panter! I know that your relationship with Eric Weltham is on the wane.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ she snapped, her eyes flashing angrily.

  Angel waved his hand impatiently. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you are not the slim beauty that had first caught his eye three years ago. You have a slight weight problem, don’t you. You can’t keep slim. Well, regrettably, some of us carry a few pounds more around with us as we get older. We may not like it, but we put up with it. But for you, it’s very different. Oh yes. Your appearance is your stock in trade. Glamour is your business. If you’re not glamorous, the TV mandarins won’t want you.

  ‘And that’s part of your trouble, isn’t it? But only part. Your new series isn’t going down too well, is it? Audiences are not flocking to switch it on like they used to. The viewing-figures are slipping. If they don’t hold up, your career in television could be over. As it is, your fellow celebrities have started gunning for you. You are forever spatting with local art man Frank P Jones. There are tit-bits all over the papers. And you know that once you become a figure of fun, it snowballs and every tin-pot personality, announcer and pub comic joins in with the jibes!