The Dog Collar Murders

by Roger Silverwood

  ‘You don’t know what happened to the suitcase containing the borrowed vestments, do you?’

  She blinked several times. ‘Father Robin Roebuck, my brother’s locum, would have been the priest who left it here. He must know.’

  Angel smiled. ‘And how can I reach him, Miss Wilkinson?’

  It was 5.45 p.m. when Angel drove the BMW into his garage at 30 Park Street. As he put his key in the back door, he noticed that the house was in darkness except for a light in the back bedroom. The house was comfortably warm but he pulled a face when he noted that there was no sign or smell of any cooking.

  He put on some lights, crossed the hall and looked up the stairs. ‘Anybody at home?’ he called.

  ‘Oh. Oh! Is that the time?’ Mary said. ‘Coming, love. Coming.’

  Angel took a small notebook and a pen out of his pocket, hung up his coat, got a beer out of the fridge and sat down in the sitting room. He made out a list. It read: ‘Irish John. Ben Wizard. Peter King. A priest.’

  He sipped the beer, stared at the list for a few moments then tossed the notebook on to the library table, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  Mary came down the stairs. She saw him in the sitting room and went in. He didn’t open his eyes. She looked at him a moment then she leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Are you tired?’ she said. ‘Dinner won’t be long.’

  He opened one eye. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve almost finished the wallpapering,’ she said and went into the kitchen.

  He closed the open eye and fell asleep.

  It was almost 7.30 when they finished dinner and returned to the sitting room. Angel carried his beer and Mary’s coffee through, put them on the library table between their favourite chairs, sat down, picked up the notebook and stared at it, reading and re-reading the names, while stroking his non-existent beard.

  Mary came to the room door. She was wiping her hands on a tea towel. ‘That’s the pans to soak and I’ve covered the leftovers.’

  Angel grunted his approval without looking up.

  Mary put her hands on her hips and said, ‘Well, Michael, don’t you want to see my wallpapering then? It’s nearly finished.’

  ‘I’ll look at it when we go to bed.’

  Her face changed. She was disappointed. ‘You can put Lolly’s bed together now, you know. I thought you could do it tonight? There’s nothing stopping you. There’s nothing on the telly.’

  He glanced up. ‘I’ll do it later, love.’

  Mary wasn’t pleased but she could see he was distracted. She went out, came back without the tea towel and sat down. She reached out for the coffee and saw him gazing at the notepad.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  She peered over his shoulder, read it, then looked at him and said, ‘It’s a list of suspects, isn’t it?’

  He rubbed his chin for a few moments and then said, ‘Well, sort of. But there are different reasons why it can’t be any of them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shook his head, hesitated, blew out a foot of breath and said, ‘Well, it’s complicated.’

  She looked at him. She knew he wanted to talk about it even though he was apparently unforthcoming.

  ‘Well, all right then,’ he said, passing her the notebook. ‘Take the first one. Irish John. He’s dead. It couldn’t be him, could it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ she said. ‘Although he could have murdered that ticket clerk and the two priests, and then somebody else may have shot him, maybe in retaliation.’

  ‘It’s possible, love. It’s possible. But they were all shot with the same gun, in the heart. And a pillow or a cushion was used in the murders of Sam Smart and Raymond Gulli. How would the murderer of Irish John know the MO sufficiently well to improvize with a kneeler, and find and take possession of the same gun and shoot John directly in the identical place in the chest?’

  Mary shook her head.

  ‘But it’s all possible,’ Angel said. ‘Then there’s Ben Wizard. He had begun his journey to the States when the first victim, Harry Weston, was murdered. Flora Carter has seen a tape of him boarding a plane at Heathrow on that day at a time that meant that he could not possibly have been in Bromersley.’

  ‘That rules him out then, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It does if it really was him on the plane.’

  ‘Hadn’t she seen him?’

  ‘Not in person. Nor have I. We are relying on photographs and a description from Felicity Kellerman. He has a beard and big sideburns, which he could stick on and take off to order.’

  ‘What do the airline say?’

  ‘They confirmed that a man called Ben Wizard got off the plane in Seattle.’

  ‘Isn’t their word reliable?’ she said. ‘US airlines are so nervous these days.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. He sounded more confident. ‘That’s very true. That probably means he’s not the one. He’ll be twanging his guitar all round Seattle and Washington State.’

  Mary smiled and consulted the notebook. ‘Then there’s Peter King,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he the one who wants to go to prison?’

  ‘Oh yes, and he wants to be in the headlines of all the papers for something horribly gory, sexual and macho.’

  Mary frowned.

  Angel thought about King a moment, shook his head and said, ‘Even though he tried hard to be picked out in an ID parade by the only witness we have, Zoe Costello, she still passed him by and declined to identify him.’

  ‘It won’t be him then.’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Mary squinted at the notebook. ‘What’s this last one? Your writing is getting worse.’

  ‘A priest,’ he said.

  ‘A priest? Which one?’

  ‘I don’t know which one. I find it hard to believe that it could be a priest at all, but there’s so much evidence,’ he said. ‘It was a man in a dog collar – priest or not – who shot Harry Weston. We now know it was a man in a scapular – priest or not – who murdered the two priests Sam Smart and Raymond Gulli. Also a man in the same or similar garb was seen before gaining access to and inflicting havoc on Father Hugo Riley’s house and church.’

  Mary pursed her lips and looked at him. ‘I see what you mean,’ she said.

  Angel said, ‘Why would a priest want to kill his brother priests and search through their places? I mean, what about his vows as a priest? And what was he looking for?’

  ‘The two priests who were murdered were both Anglican, weren’t they? Father Riley is Roman Catholic isn’t he? He wasn’t attacked. Do you think the fact they were different denominations has anything to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought so. There are a lot fewer differences than there used to be. The ministers of the Methodists, the Baptists, the Pentecostals and the other free churches have not been attacked either. If the murderer is an accredited minister or priest, he must have gone completely off his chump. Why also would he murder a ticket clerk and a man of the road? I tell you, that man, whoever he is, has a private room waiting for him in Broadmoor. I’ve got to catch him, Mary,’ he said, running his hand through his hair, ‘before he murders anybody else. I am running out of lines of inquiry. This case has got me licked.’

  ‘No it hasn’t,’ she said, patting him on the hand. ‘You’ve always solved your cases in the end, but you are now probably too close to it. What you need to do now, love, is to rest that part of your mind and involve yourself in something entirely different.’

  Angel narrowed his eyes. He looked at her and said, ‘Like what?’

  Mary’s face brightened. ‘Well, there’s Lolly’s bed that needs putting together.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose.

  It was almost nine o’clock when he went upstairs, into the back bedroom, and switched on the glaring, shadeless lightbulb. It shone down brightly on the new, clean wallpaper.

  Mary followed him in, lo
oking proudly around at her handiwork.

  ‘Well?’ she said, looking at Angel expectantly.

  He didn’t notice her or the walls. He went straight to the bed, still fastened with paper tape to the long box, tore it away and opened it. There was an A4 leaflet listing the parts and four diagrams in the form of exploded line drawings illustrating how some parts should be assembled but with no words of explanation. He looked at it, pulled a face and tipped the contents out on to the carpet. All the parts were packed in separate polythene bags. He carefully checked them off against the leaflet: 64 x 2cm bolts, 64 x 2cm washers, 64 x 2cm nuts, 108 x 8cm springs, 72 x 12cm springs, 8 x 10.2cm bolts, 216 x 6.5cm double-ended wire connectors, 144 x 4cm single-ended connectors, 8 Y pieces, 4 Z pieces.

  He stood up, looked at the leaflet and the polythene bags, and rubbed his chin. It was like doing the cloudless blue sky in a jigsaw puzzle.

  Mary watched him from the door, hesitated and said, ‘Well, aren’t you going to put it together?’

  ‘Nay, it’s complicated, Mary. There’s a lot to it,’ he said.

  She was not pleased. ‘It’s not that difficult, surely,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not used to this sort of thing,’ he said as he leaned down and began to put the polythene bags back in the box. ‘It’s a job that will need a lot of time. It’s best done when I can get a good run at it – three or fours hours at a continuous stretch.’

  ‘Lolly’s coming the day after tomorrow, you know.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, love. I can’t do it tonight. It’s a bit late and I’m tired.’

  ‘Michael!’

  The phone rang.

  Angel reached out for it. It was Mac.

  ‘Good morning, Michael,’ he said. ‘This character we are calling Irish John – he’s turning out to be full of surprises. I thought you’d like to know that there is nothing in his pockets. Nothing at all. He has obviously been thoroughly searched and his pockets emptied. The linings of his trouser pockets were actually hanging out.’

  Furrowed lines formed on Angel’s forehead. ‘Unusual,’ he said.

  Mac said, ‘The murderer was anxious to conceal the victim’s identity?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Angel said. ‘Maybe. Anything else?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mac said. ‘A lot more. This character has £400 on him. £20 notes … £200 in each boot.’

  Angel blinked. Now that was a surprise. ‘£400?’

  ‘Yes. Neatly packed under the insoles, Michael. I haven’t finished the PM yet. Should be done by about lunchtime. But I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Yes indeed. Thanks, Mac.’

  Angel replaced the phone. How could a man of the road come by £400? It was a lot of money to a man who ostensibly had no regular income and was on the cadge from the church. It could have been his life savings, of course. Or he could have stolen it. It looked as if the murderer knew he was in possession of the money, maybe told him to hand it over, Irish John refused, the murderer shot him, searched his body … but didn’t think of looking in his boots. It sounded a feasible explanation.

  There was a knock at the door. Angel looked up. ‘Come in.’

  It was Trevor Crisp.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Knocked on all the houses visible from the back of All Saints and Martyrs Church and nobody saw or heard anything unusual, sir. And I went in The Fisherman’s Rest, spoke to the landlord – nobody saw or heard anything, Sunday evening. He did happen to say that between about nine and ten, Felicity Kellerman was on stage singing. She brought her own mike and amplifier kit, so it would have been a bit noisy.’

  ‘That was within the time range that Mac says Irish John was shot. He was probably shot while she was in the pub screaming her head off.’

  ‘She sings country and western. She’s rather nice. I like her.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘You like anything in a skirt, lad. You need pills for it.’

  Crisp grinned.

  Angel told him what Mac had said about Irish John.

  ‘It’s strange that the victims are so different, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘A ticket office clerk, two Anglican clergymen and now a rich tramp. And we have no proof that the same murderer has killed all four, have we?’

  ‘The MO is similar. The gun used is the same gun. All victims were shot through the heart. It is very likely but there is no absolute certainty, no. We’ve no motive for the first three murders. If we knew that, we could make real progress. The way Mac found Irish John suggests that the motive in his case was robbery.’

  ‘Or attempted robbery,’ Crisp said, ‘considering he didn’t actually find the money.’

  ‘All right,’ Angel conceded, ‘but his pockets may have been emptied purely to conceal his identity and delay our investigation.’

  Crisp nodded.

  ‘Well, he’s somebody’s son,’ Angel said, ‘as my mother would have said. He’ll have to be given a decent burial.’

  ‘It won’t have to be a pauper’s, sir. There’s funds there to do it.’

  ‘Aye. But see if you can find his next of kin. That had better be your next job but one.’

  Crisp peered at Angel. ‘Next job but one?’

  ‘Aye. I want you to chase Don Taylor and get the shoe size and a print of the pattern of the soles of the murderer’s shoes from the footprints found at the scene of the crime, then print off copies for distribution to the squad. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said. He got up and made for the door.

  Angel looked down at the desk and shook his head. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. While he had been flat out trying to find the serial killer, the pile of files, envelopes and loose papers on his desk had grown and grown. They had grown like the pots in the sink to be washed when Mary used to leave him to go away and visit her mother. And that reminded him, he had promised her (well, he had been ambushed by her) that he would assemble that bed tonight for her sister, Lolly. He had no idea how to do it. He didn’t want to do it and it was such a bore. He wondered how he had gotten himself into making such a promise.

  There was a knock at the door.

  He opened his eyes, eased the chair forward and said, ‘Come in.’

  It was Flora Carter. Her face was glowing, her eyes intense.

  ‘What’s the matter, Flora?’

  ‘That job you sent me on, sir. Two young men were trying to rob Cheapo’s outside cash machines by blowing them up.’

  Angel’s mouth dropped open. ‘Blowing them up? What with?’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t know, sir. Boys will be boys. They broke into a lock-up garage and they took an old van from outside the pub.’

  Angel rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ve got one of the lads in the interview room, with his mother,’ she said.

  ‘His mother?’ he said. He pulled a face and shook his head. He didn’t like interviewing young villains when their mothers were present. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  He frowned. ‘Eighteen? In the eyes of the law, he’s a man. Has he any form?’

  ‘No, sir. I thought you would want to interview him?’

  Angel looked up at her, eyebrows raised. He rubbed his mouth roughly several times. ‘You know, Flora, I haven’t really time for this. I am up to my eyes. You interview him.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ she said, making for the door. ‘Just keeping you posted.’

  He nodded.

  She opened the door.

  ‘Get his own solicitor, if he has one, or Edwin Bloomfield, to sit in, lass,’ he called.

  But Flora Carter knew all about conducting a formal interview.

  ‘I know, sir,’ she said, flouncing out and banging the door.

  He looked up in surprise. His lips displayed the smallest possible smile.

  There was an immediate knock and the door was reopened. It was DC Scrivens. ‘Have you a minute, sir?’

  ‘Aye. Come in, Ted,’ he said. ‘This place is busier than a prison on visitors’ day
.’

  Scrivens was carrying a screwdriver. ‘These screwdrivers, sir, with this logo,’ he said, pointing to the design on the handle. ‘I phoned up the patent office, then sent them a drawing of it, and I had an email from them yesterday morning. The logo was registered in 1986 to Maestro Organs. Of course, if you look at it right, sir, it’s some white notes and some black notes as on a keyboard with the letter M and O superimposed on it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes,’ he said quickly.

  ‘Well, Maestro Organs used to sell and distribute electronic organs around Yorkshire and Lincolnshire,’ Scrivens said. ‘Their address was 111/113 Bulstrode Way, Leeds. I tried to reach them on the phone but discovered that they went bust in 2002. Fortunately they didn’t pay their council tax so from their records Leeds Council Tax office was able to tell me the name of the solicitor’s practice who represented Maestro Organs during the winding-up process. In turn, I spoke to the partner who dealt with them. He couldn’t recall much detail, but remembered the name of the warehouse manager of Maestro Organs, who is now retired. I traced him and he said that when the company folded, there wasn’t much left, but all the surplus bits and pieces and oddments, such as these advertising screwdrivers, were sold by a firm of auctioneers. Incidentally, he also told me that these screwdrivers were given away. They were packed individually in a fancy box with “Maestro Organs” plastered all over it. They were used to assemble the larger organs and the bench seats that were often delivered in flatpacks. The screwdriver might be used by the delivery men and then left behind intentionally as an advertising gift. Good idea, sir. Nobody throws a screwdriver away, do they?’

  Angel said, ‘But did you find out who bought the screwdrivers from the auctioneers then?’

  ‘Well, no, sir,’ Scrivens said. ‘I hadn’t thought about taking it any further after all this time?’

  ‘Why not?’ Angel said. ‘You know what a difficult case this is. You know how I’ve been scratching away for a clue, a hint, a sniff, and nothing has come up. Everything so far has led to a dead end.’