Murder in Bare Feet (13 page)

‘It does. But it means more than that, Mr Jones. Much more. It means that you knew the day and the time the murder was planned to take place.’

‘No. No. I see how it may look, now. But it’s obviously a coincidence. It’s a coincidence, pure and simple.’

‘There was nothing pure and simple about it, Mr Jones. You and your son Stanley are accessories before the fact. As more evidence comes out, it is possible that you will be charged and, if found guilty, you could be awarded a custodial sentence.’

Jones’s face changed. ‘What? Aaaah! Not again!
I couldn’t stand it
!’ he shrieked uncontrollably. Then his eyes slid slyly in Angel’s direction to see how he had reacted to the telltale outburst.

Angel had missed nothing. ‘I know all about that business in your car with that … girl,’ he said.

Jones’s eyes flashed. ‘She told me she was 18, I swear it.’

Angel acknowledged the reply with a non-committal wave of a hand.

Jones played with his bottom lip, nipping it gently as his mind assimilated all that was happening around him. After a few seconds, the smile returned and, slapping the flat of his hand on the top of the desk, he said: ‘This is ridiculous! You would have to prove it first, Inspector, and you could never do that because it simply isn’t true. It’s a coincidence, that’s what it is. A pure coincidence. Any right thinking, God-fearing jury would see that.’

‘I would not put money on it, Mr Jones. If I uncover any evidence to show that you were involved in the murder of Charles Pleasant in any way at all, any God-fearing jury would inevitably believe that there would simply be too many coincidences for you not to be involved in the murder!’

The Welshman’s eyes flashed again. ‘That would be very unjust. It cannot be true. No. No. No. God knows I am as innocent as a newborn babe. I must go to the chapel and light a candle. Six candles. My life is an open book. A dedication to the Ten Commandments, which I reiterate daily and endeavour to keep. I made a little mistake in the past, but I was tempted. Tempted by a serpent … in a skirt. You should read the psychiatrist’s report on the woman. It was in no way my fault.’

Angel didn’t believe a word he said. Jones might just as well have been talking to a tin of corned beef. After a calculated pause, he leaned forward in a confidential manner and quietly said, ‘Of course, there may be a way … this unpleasantness could be … minimized.’

Jones’s eyes opened wide for second, then he leaned forward. ‘Minimized?’

‘Very simply,’ Angel said with a nod.

Jones leaned even nearer. ‘Simply? How?’

‘Simply tell me who murdered Charles Pleasant.’

Jones jumped back. ‘I have no idea,’ he bawled. ‘Absolutely no idea. On my sainted mother’s grave, I tell you Inspector Angel, I have not the slightest notion. Fancy you thinking I knew anything about that.’

Angel was satisfied with the interview. It had proceeded pretty well as he had expected.

He took his leave of a worried and irritated Jones, came out of The Old Curiosity Shop, walked round the corner out of the possible sight of the shop windows, took out his mobile and tapped in a number. It was promptly answered.

‘I’ve just come out of the shop, Ron. He should be leaving any minute now.’

‘Right, sir.’

A
ngel returned to the office and shuffled through the pile of envelopes on his desk looking for SOCO’s report on the Great Northern Bank premises. He found it. He was relieved to find that it was only five A4 pages. It was only five pages because, as usual, in the cases that came his way these days, there was so little forensic. If the crime scene had been crowded with fingerprints, footprints and DNA it would have been a much easier job catching the robbers. Criminals were becoming more sophisticated every day, catching up with modern scientific advances. However there were the security tapes. He reached out for the phone. He was about to tap in Ahmed’s number when there was a knock at the door. It was Crisp. He came in all smiles. He was carrying a stone-coloured paper folder.

Angel’s lips tightened. He banged down the phone. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve had Ahmed trying to reach you for two days. Why didn’t you report in? Is your mobile on the blink again?’

Crisp looked stunned. ‘What’s the matter, sir?’ he said.

‘You know damned well what’s the matter. I give you a job. Tell you to keep in touch, and you disappear into outer space. When anybody tries to contact you, you’re unreachable.’

‘I have been hard at it, sir, honest. And look, I’m here now.’

‘About time. What is the matter with your mobile?’

‘Nothing, sir. It’s been switched on most of the time.’

He pointed to the chair, directing Crisp to sit down.

Angel couldn’t sustain a verbal offensive against him. He was far too intelligent to be in any way worried about anything Angel might say. If Angel really wanted to frighten him, he’d have to formally discipline him in writing, which might affect his promotion and pay. He didn’t want to go that far, but Crisp really tried his patience.

‘Well, I hope it’s all been worthwhile. What have you got?’

Crisp opened the paper file. ‘Her name is Chantelle Moses, sir. She is 29, a bit older than Stanley Jones. She has a record. Shoplifting and soliciting when she was a teenager. Nothing recently. Mother not known. Father in Armley, half way through a sentence of four years for stealing two hundred and forty metres of copper signalling wire near Doncaster, off the main Aberdeen to Kings Cross track in 2005.’

He held out a computer print of a photograph. Angel took it.

‘That’s Chantelle ten years ago.’

Angel looked at the print. It was head and shoulders of a young woman with frizzy black hair. She was probably pleasant looking, but it was a prison photograph and she seemed to be looking at the photographer defiantly. He read the description in small print underneath. Height 5’ 4”. Weight 6 st 9 lb. Black hair. Brown eyes. Small brown mole on left temple. Date of birth 12 April 1978 (Cardiff Royal Free Hospital). Father: Jake Moses (West Indies). Mother: Maria Thomasina (Ireland).

‘What’s she doing now?’

‘I think she’s just playing house for Stanley Jones, sir. During the two days I was watching her, she only went out to the shops. That’s all she did all day.’

‘You didn’t approach her, then?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Didn’t fancy her?’ Angel jibed.

Crisp had a reputation for chasing anything in a skirt.

He knew Angel was teasing him. He shrugged in a non-committal way.

‘Anything else?’ Angel said.

Crisp produced six more photographs. ‘I took those yesterday.’

The photographs were of a very smart young woman: black hair brushed straight and combed back, and dressed in blouse, a short skirt and high boots and carrying a shoulder bag. The photographs were of her locking the door of the flat and coming out of various shops carrying bags or boxes of shopping.

Angel looked at the photographs carefully. He blinked and said, ‘Big difference. She’s wearing more make-up than the cast of Showboat. Are you sure these are of the same woman? Prison photographs are like those on a passport.’

‘Oh yes, sir. Chantelle Moses.’

Angel then rubbed his chin.

‘You’re sure? Did you see the mole on her left temple?’

Crisp’s mouth opened. He said nothing. It closed. Eventually he said, ‘No, sir.’

‘Did she spot you, do you think?’

He grinned confidently. ‘No, sir. Not a chance.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be any food in her shopping. Did she only go into dress shops?’

Crisp frowned. ‘No sir. She went into a shoe shop, several shoe shops, in fact. And a jeweller’s.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up. ‘A jeweller’s?’

‘But mostly dress shops.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Right!’ he suddenly snapped. ‘Get back to her. Stick to her.’

Crisp’s face dropped. He couldn’t believe what he’d heard. He hesitated then said, ‘You’re not wanting me to hang around this tart all day just to get a charge of soliciting, are you, sir?’

‘No. There’s much more to it than that, lad. Didn’t you think she was spending rather too much? And on what you and I might call luxury items? Do you think Emlyn Jones would pay his son enough money to enable his live in girlfriend to spend all her time shopping? No. There might be something fishy there. Where’s she getting the money? Is she back on the game? See where she goes, what she does. And for goodness sake, don’t take silly risks, but see if you can check out that mole. Make sure you’ve got the right suspect.’

Crisp stood up.

‘And give Ahmed your mobile number,’ Angel said. ‘And ring in at least once a day.’

‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said in a loud, firm voice.

Angel was almost convinced that he would, as the door closed. But not altogether.

Although the murder investigation could hardly be said to be going well, Angel had all his team out on inquiries, and felt that he ought to allocate some of his time to investigating the robbery of the Great Northern Bank. He felt it was necessary because he never knew when the honey monster might appear and ask for another report on progress and he didn’t want to face that awkwardness again. He didn’t agree with Harker’s order of priorities. In his view, the solving of a murder case must always rank as more important than any bank robbery, however well the Chief Constable knew the deputy chairman of the bank!

He quickly shuffled through the envelopes on his desk to find SOCO’s report; he found it, skimmed through it again and brought himself up to speed. He was at the stage of needing to see the CCTV tapes, so he got Ahmed to collect them down from SOCO, copy them and transfer them to a disc, then the two of them viewed them in his office on his laptop.

The beginning of the playback had a caption that read: ‘Front Door’. It was outside the bank showing the arrival of the woman who had pretended to be pregnant. He slowed the playback. She was in a long shot so not very much was revealed except that she had a lot of hair, that it was black or dark brown and that she was wearing a wedding ring. She disappeared inside the bank. He ran the recording on at high speed. Soon the phoney ambulance arrived with the two phoney ambulance men. He stopped the tape and zoomed on to the rear of it.

‘Ahmed,’ Angel said. ‘Make a note of that index number. And check it out. I don’t suppose it will get us anywhere.’

‘Right, sir.’

Then Angel clicked on the fast forward until the playback showed the two men carrying the woman out on a stretcher. There was nothing distinctive about the men except that they both were young and had beards and moustaches. They slid the stretcher and the woman into the back of the ambulance and accordingly sped away out of the range of the camera. There was nothing of interest on the rest of that tape, so he ran the playback up to the ‘Rear Door’ caption. It simply showed the ambulance arrive and reverse up to the rear of the bank; a woman in a plain dark trouser suit, who looked similar to the woman who had worn much more feminine clothes earlier and played at being pregnant, jumped out of the cab, opened one of the rear doors, then climbed back into the driving seat. Angel noticed that she was not wearing any finger rings. Almost immediately the back door of the bank opened. The two robbers wearing overalls and masks emerged, they threw the bags into the back of the ambulance, jumped in and pulled the door to from the inside as it drove swiftly away. The next caption read: ‘Security Door’. There were many more close-up shots of the gang’s faces. The woman’s abundant and curly black hair covered most of her ears, down her forehead, and over part of her cheeks; it was so profuse that Angel concluded that it must have been a wig, worn by a woman determined not to be identified from a CCTV recording. By making comparisons with the height of the door, he estimated that she was about 5’ 4” in height. The two male robbers were clearly wearing false beards and moustaches throughout, also masks when they were in the secure area. He ran the playback to the end then concluded that, even though the bank’s CCTV cameras had been well placed, and were in colour and in focus, he had not learned very much from them. The raid had clearly been organized and carried out in a most professional way. The solving of this crime was not going to be easy. The gang leader had been most meticulous; even the female member of the gang had removed her wedding ring when she changed her role from pregnant young wife to ambulance driver.

He began to close down the laptop, turned to Ahmed and said, ‘Thank you. Check that ambulance number. See where it leads to. And let me know.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and went out.

As soon as the door closed, Angel sighed and wrinkled his nose. He was not a happy man. He was plagued with questions. He had been solving crimes now for nearly sixteen years but he had never had two cases so full of annoying, even ridiculous issues. For instance, why would a man commit murder with no shoes on? What sort of idiot walks about with no shoes on, waving a gun around? What’s the reason? And why had the victim no shoes? Two men without shoes? Both the murderer and the victim were walking about without shoes. It didn’t make any sense.

He ran his hand through his hair.

And why are the Joneses so secretive about having parsnips in the house? What’s so special about parsnips, for goodness sake? Were they used in connection with the murder of Charles Pleasant? There must be something dishonest about them. And he didn’t trust Emlyn Jones. He was sure he had something to do with Pleasant’s murder. But what? You can’t poison anybody with them. You can’t shoot them or knock anybody unconscious with them. They are not even slippery like a banana skin. You couldn’t put one on the top of the cellar steps to get rid of a rich, elderly relative with any certainty; he’d likely catch it with his stick without noticing and send it rolling down the stairs.

‘What possible use is a parsnip other than to eat the damned thing?’ he called out loud in exasperation.

And how did that woman manage to flood the bank ten minutes after she’d left the place? The plumber said it was something to do with the ballcock, but he couldn’t quite see what. Neither did he know how she had managed to delay the leak for ten minutes to allow her and the phoney ambulance to make a clean getaway.

And why is it that at the boarding house next door to the scrapyard they say they have a dog and a dog kennel, but the dog kennel is nowhere to be seen?

The phone rang. He reached out for it. ‘Angel.’

It was Don Taylor. ‘Excuse me, sir, but I’ve found out what that standing order for £800 a week payable to Hellman is for, sir.’

‘Oh yes, what?’

‘Well it’s to a Mr Hellman. He owns The Hacienda. Pleasant was paying him £800 a week rent.’

Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘The Hacienda? £800? Pleasant doesn’t own it then? Sounds a lot, £800 a week?’

‘Well, you know the price of houses today, sir. I’ve spoken to Mr Hellman. He bought the house from Pleasant in 2003.’

Angel took the news in only slowly. ‘Who is this Hellman, then?’

‘He’s a local wholesale butcher … in a biggish way. Has premises on St George’s Road. A couple of retail shops. A stand in the market. Sells pre-packed meat lines like potted meat, salami and sandwiches to local factory canteens and so on. Imports and sells corned beef, tongue and other tinned meats. Well respected. He sounds kosher, sir.’

Angel blinked. ‘You seem to know a lot about him?’

‘I knew you’d ask, sir.’

Angel nodded and smiled. He replaced the phone. He rubbed his chin. He was amazed to learn that the house didn’t belong to Pleasant. He wondered about it briefly. Over the past twelve years, the Frazer sisters, between them, had certainly made a good job of spending his money.

The phone rang. He reached out for it. It was Gawber.

‘Yes?’ Angel said.

‘I followed Emlyn Jones to the block of flats in Sheffield where Abe Longley lives, sir. I couldn’t follow him in, of course. I’m waiting outside.’

Angel nodded. He had thought that Jones might contact his nephew, Abe, and warn him that he might be approached by the police and to be guarded about what he might say. But he was surprised that Jones would drive the fifteen miles to Sheffield, presumably to avoid creating the record of a phone call and the possibility of being overheard.

‘Right, Ron. Well, hang on there and see where Jones goes next. Follow him and ring me on my mobile. I’ll get over there just as soon as I can. See what Abe Longley has to say for himself. All right?’

Gawber rang off.

Angel glanced across the desk. It was very untidy. Papers all over the place. Correspondence read but not dealt with. Messages on backs of envelopes. Mysterious words scrawled on sticky notes. Not his usual style, but he decided that there was nothing he couldn’t leave until later. His blood was up. He was determined to get to the bottom of the case. He hoped that following Jones’s urgent visit to Abe Longley he might trip across some vital clue or titbit of information that would be the key to solving this case. Jones was very careful. Very careful indeed. And extremely clever. His attention to detail was quite exceptional. If he was up to anything criminal, Angel knew he’d need to draw on all his skills to catch him out.

He dashed out of the office and down the corridor.