Murder in Bare Feet (15 page)

‘He had no spirit, Inspector. The doctor at the trial said that he was physically strong and in good health. Being a butcher all those years. Humping all that meat about, I suppose. No. He was weak with people … let my sister, Bridie, walk all over him.’

‘Until he wouldn’t stand anymore, I suppose?’ he said. ‘Then he suddenly let out all the accumulated stifled hatred he had been storing up.’

‘That’s what the psychiatrist said.’

Angel nodded. ‘That’s what psychiatrists always say.’

They stared at each other.

Angel added: ‘But you don’t believe it, do you?’

Her mouth dropped open.

Angel continued. ‘Then they usually say something like: “The monster crept up on her from behind and when she least expected it, he hit her brutally with a blunt instrument.” Did that prosecuting barrister, Twelvetrees, say something like that?’

She didn’t answer. She looked afraid. She put a clenched fist to her mouth.

He stared into her eyes. ‘Did he?’ Angel said. ‘Did he say something like that?’

‘Yes. Yes. I think he did.’

‘You can bet your life, he did,’ Angel said, his eyes shining. ‘And then it probably went something like this … Twelvetrees might have said, “She instantly fell down dead. Then the evil monster, Longley, carried her to another place, and with a chopper taken from his place of work, chopped her up into pieces, put her in an oil drum, shoved it in the back of a lorry and drove the lorry a hundred miles down the A1. Then, when he thought he was safe, he lowered the tailgate of the lorry, pushed the oil drum off and drove away.” Isn’t that what he said? Or something like that.’

‘Oh yes,’ she cried. Her cheeks were wet. Her face was red. ‘Yes. Yes,’ she muttered into a wet tissue.

He gave her three seconds to wipe her eyes, then he went in for the kill. He spoke each word clearly and deliberately. ‘
But it wasn’t true, was it
?’

‘No,’ she screamed. ‘It wasn’t. It wasn’t. It wasn’t,’ she cried. It seemed to come out as if it was a relief to speak out at last. ‘He didn’t do it. I
now
know he didn’t do it.’

‘It was Charles Pleasant who murdered Bridie, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know that at the time. I only found that out last Tuesday. The day before I went to visit Larry. That’s five days before Charles was murdered. He told me. We were having a row about money. Our rows were always about money. It got very heated. He said that I’d have to cut down. He was always saying that. He’d been saying it for years. This time, though, he seemed to mean it. He was very insistent about it. He said some very cruel things. I got quite hurt, angry and distracted and I threatened to leave him. He said he’d kill me if I ever even attempted it. I ridiculed the idea and said what nonsense. Then he said that he’d done it before, he could do it again.’

He kept his eyes on her. She shuddered as if a blast of Arctic air had suddenly blown through the room.

‘If he said it to frighten me, he certainly succeeded,’ she said. ‘I knew
exactly
what he was referring to.’

Angel sighed. The truth had at last been told. A statement from Jazmin Frazer would be enough to take to a judge to make a prima facie case for an unsafe sentence or at the very least grounds for a retrial. In the light of the new evidence, it was possible that Larry Longley could be released from prison shortly.

‘Would you be prepared to make a statement to that effect, Miss Frazer?’

‘I must. Oh yes. I wouldn’t have let Larry go to prison for something Charles had done,’ she said. ‘That man Twelvetrees put up what seemed to be a strong case … with that doctor and the psychiatrist and all those witnesses. And the police finding the butcher’s chopper with his fingerprints on the handle and Bridie’s blood on the blade, buried in his back garden….’

‘What about the defence?’

‘Larry had a barrister, of course. A Mr Bloomfield, I think his name was. He spoke well enough. But he didn’t produce many witnesses. The most prominent was Larry’s employer who I remember spoke up for him. A big man. His name was Adolphe Hellman. He was wonderful.’

Angel’s head came up and his eyes brightened momentarily. That name, Hellman, had cropped up very recently. He was the man who now owned The Hacienda and to whom Pleasant had been paying £800 a week for the privilege of living there. He wondered if she knew?

‘Can you remember what he said?’

‘He spoke in glowing terms about how good a worker he was, how honest he was, what a good timekeeper, how he got on well at his butcher’s business, but that he was quiet and kept himself to himself. I remember he was asked about his personality, and Mr Hellman said that his personality, in his view, didn’t match the requirement of a murderer or something like that.’

‘I shouldn’t think Mr Twelvetrees would like that.’

‘From memory, he called the psychiatrist back, and nullified everything that Mr Hellman had said.’

He nodded. That’s how the game was played. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully a few times, then he said: ‘You saw Larry Longley about a week ago. In Wakefield prison?’

She looked down, licked her lips and said: ‘Yes.’

‘How was he?’

‘It was the first of August. He was very quiet. Very withdrawn. I couldn’t get anything much out of him … just a few nods and grunts … nothing more. I tried to cheer him up. It was a waste of time. I think he’s very ill.’

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘We’ve got to get him out of there. Time is of the essence.’ He looked at his watch. It was 4.30. ‘We need to get back to the station for you to make a formal statement that will start the wheels turning.’

‘Oh yes, Inspector,’ she said with a sigh.

H
e had a warm feeling of compassion towards Larry Longley, as well as the heady feeling of playing a leading role in the beginning of the restoration of justice to him and the ill-fated Longley family. The emotion was still with him as he arrived home, closed the back door and turned the key.

He was greeted by the satisfying smell of sizzling beef fat and the sound of bubbling from vegetable pans on the oven top.

Mary was by the sink, rinsing a serving spoon under the tap. She turned when she heard the door close. ‘You’re early.’

He stepped past the steamy oven, leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek.

She smiled then blinked. ‘You’ve got the murderer.’

‘No,’ he said as opened the fridge and took out a beer.

She frowned. ‘You’ve arrested the gang that robbed the bank,’ she said, passing him a glass tumbler from the drainer on the worktop.

‘No.’ He poured out the beer.

She looked at him with her lips half formed into a smile. ‘Harker’s taken a job in … Tasmania?’

He knew Mary was ribbing him, but he couldn’t smile. There was nothing funny about Horace Harker. He took a trial sip of the beer, swallowed it, then took a good swig.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get an innocent man out of prison.’

She turned to face him square on, opened her eyes widely and said, ‘Really?’

He told her about the interview and the facts that led up to the voluntary statement from Jazmin Frazer. She was impressed and pleased, and listened to the details. They chatted through the meal about the consequences and change to the status quo and then she said, ‘But will her evidence assist you in finding Charles Pleasant’s murderer?’

He frowned then said, ‘It might highlight the suspects.’

She thought for a moment as she swallowed to clear her mouth. Then she said, ‘Well, who are they?’

Angel looked up from an enticing piece of beef that wouldn’t come away from the bone, wondering if she was really serious.

‘The prime suspect would be Emlyn Jones, wouldn’t it?’ she said. ‘When Bridie Longley was murdered, her sister, Jazmin Jones, as she was known at the time, left Emlyn and moved in with Pleasant. He would be bound to hate Pleasant as a consequence.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But he’s got a 24-carat alibi: the photograph with the super, taken by his son, Stanley.’

‘And the clock showing the time at 4.30.’

‘The clock at 4.30. His son, Stanley, would have been a suspect too. He wouldn’t have liked his mother hopping off to Charles Pleasant, would he? And it was Stanley who took the photograph, so he couldn’t have shot him either. The super saw him and positively confirms it.’

‘Who else? What about Abe Longley? He was Bridie and Larry Longley’s son, wasn’t he?’

‘He would be the next most likely suspect, but I’ve just seen him. He’s got a watertight alibi. He was with his girlfriend and her parents at the time of the murder. Then there’s Grant Molloy. The man who worked for Pleasant. He was fiddling Pleasant. I don’t know if Pleasant knew about it, or what their relationship was like. But he was downright dishonest. He even found his way into Pleasant’s hidden safe.’

‘He stole the jade head, didn’t he?’

‘Well, yes, he did, but he couldn’t have murdered Pleasant either. His foot didn’t fit the plaster cast.’

‘Oh.’ She was quiet for a moment as she cut away a mouthful of apple pie with her fork and spoon.

‘Mmmm. Who else?’

Angel had just pushed in a large spoonful of the apple pie and was trying to chew it out of the way so that he could reply.

‘There’s Jazmin herself,’ Mary said.

His eyebrows shot up. They came down slowly and turned into a frown. He chewed quickly and swallowed. ‘Couldn’t be her,’ he said. ‘Her foot wouldn’t fit the plaster cast.’

He put the spoon and fork in the dish and pushed it away.

They had finished the meal. Mary poured the coffee thoughtfully and they carried it through to the sitting room.

When they were settled she said, ‘Michael, are you sure about that footprint? Are you sure it is the murderer’s?’

‘I’m sure of nothing, love, but the range and direction of the bullets fired at Pleasant fit; the used shells ejected from the gun were found on the soft earth of the dug up road, exactly in the place where they would have fallen if a right-handed man in his bare feet had been standing there and had fired a handgun.’

‘So you know the murderer was right-handed?’

‘He must have been.’

She frowned. ‘You keep saying “he”.’

‘Because the plaster cast is of a man’s foot.’

‘Oh. I see.’

They drank the coffee in silence for a few moments, then Mary said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’

Angel wrinkled his nose.

‘If Larry Longley didn’t murder his wife,’ she said, ‘how did that chopper come to be found buried in his garden?’

‘Obviously it was planted there. Expecting the police to find it. That was the crux of the whole case. That’s what finally made the jury bring in a guilty verdict.’

‘Well, how did it get there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If you find that out, you’re one step nearer to finding out who murdered Charles Pleasant, aren’t you?’

Angel frowned. He was thinking about what Mary had said.

‘Well,’ she said impatiently. ‘What do you think?’

‘I was thinking … is there any more apple pie?’

It was 8.35 on Friday the 10th when Angel pulled up at Hellman’s giant butcher shop on St George’s Road. He stepped inside the brightly illuminated, mirror, glass, chrome and white ceramic emporium, where meat of every shape and texture was displayed seductively under gleaming clear glass. Fifteen men and women dressed in white overalls and hats ran hither and thither up to the long counter and back to the huge cutting and refrigeration area under the watchful eye of a big man seated at a high desk in a glass case strategically placed at the far end of the uncommonly long counter.

Customers were efficiently and pleasantly served and for them, there was no hanging around.

Angel showed his identity to one of the young men in white, who tracked down and along behind the long counter to the end to consult with the big man in the glass case. He looked over the half glasses at Angel who stood patiently amid animated customers, mostly women, thrusting, pointing and questioning the long-suffering and hygienically attired men and women in white.

The young man returned and directed Angel out of the shop door and up the outside of the building to a side door that was opened as he arrived by the big man himself.

‘Inspector Angel?’ he said, red faced and breathing heavily. ‘You want to see me? Come on through.’

He led the way into a small but impressive-looking office. He slumped into a big chair behind a desk and pointed to a chair facing him.

Angel began speaking as soon as he sat down. ‘You’re Adolphe Hellman. You have two shops, a stall in the market, you sell fresh meat to most of the schools in Bromersley, and pre-packed sandwiches and some prepared meals to the Cheapo chain of supermarkets.’

‘That’s right,’ Hellman said.

‘You import tinned and fresh meat products as well as salad items from abroad.’

‘Huh,’ he snorted. ‘You have been through my books.’

‘No, but I’ve been through Charles Pleasant’s books,’ Angel said looking straight into the bloodshot eyes.

‘Oh?’ Hellman said. He didn’t look pleased. His thick eyebrows lowered and he took out a big spotless handkerchief and wiped it across his forehead.

‘Also, you used to employ Larry Longley?’

‘I did.’

‘And you came to his defence when he was accused of murdering his wife, Bridie, when things looked very black for him.’

‘I did. Indeed, I did. By the way, Inspector, I should say that figures alone do not tell the complete story.’

‘And it was from your shop that he took the chopper that he used to hack Bridie Frazer’s body to pieces.’

‘Apparently. Yes. He must have done.’

‘No, he didn’t,’ Angel said.

Hellman’s head came up. His jaw dropped. He blinked, held up his hands then frowned.

‘Now, you own Charles Pleasant’s house,’ Angel said. ‘The Hacienda.’

‘I do. What are you getting at, Inspector?’

‘For which you paid only £50,000.’

‘Ah. Yes.’ He held up a finger quickly and added, ‘But there’s a reason for that.’

‘What is it?’

‘He was extremely short of money.’

‘That doesn’t make sense. You owed him a fortune, for the transport of your imported goods, from London to here. You didn’t pay him for months. It added up to a pretty figure.’

‘I owed everybody. It is difficult making a profit in the butchering business, Inspector. Staff wages. Competition from the multiples. Health and Safety regulations. Ministry of this, that and the other. Foot and mouth. It’s hell, I tell you.’

‘At the same time as you owed him all this money, the Frazer sisters were milking him at a colossal rate.’

He shook his head. He didn’t know what to say. He waved the handkerchief at him. ‘I’m not responsible for what the Frazer girls got up to.’

‘He was paying you eight hundred pounds a week. What was that for?’

His jaw stiffened. He clenched his hands. ‘Look, I don’t have to answer these questions. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘If you refuse to answer I can arrest you for obstructing police with their inquiries.’

He groaned. ‘Rent. Rent on The Hacienda.’

‘Eight hundred pounds a week?’

‘Yes. I own it. It’s worth it. I am entitled to ask whatever rent I like.’

‘But you only paid £50,000 for the house. Laughably, the surviving Frazer sister, Jazmin, will be the one paying you the outrageous sum of eight hundred a week for the privilege of living in what she currently believes is her house. She doesn’t know that Charles Pleasant sold it from under her nose and that you are her landlord. Wait till she finds that out!’

Hellman held his hands in the air. ‘One has to do one’s best.’

‘I suppose that amounts to taking advantage of a man in financial difficulty.’

‘I was the one in financial difficulty, Inspector Angel. Me. Adolphe Hellman! Charles Pleasant? No. Never. His father left him a thriving metal retrieving business, and he sold his own transport business for a seven-figure sum, I believe. I bought the house to help him out. We both had cashflow problems. The butchering business … I have told you, it is difficult to make a profit. I still have a cash flow problem. Even now. Yes. A big cash flow problem. Do you know what the total council tax bill is for my properties?’

‘You owed Charles Pleasant so much money for transporting your stuff from the London docks and Smithfield market that he could have bankrupted you if he had issued a writ for the money you owed him?’

‘Yes. Well, at the time, maybe,’ he said as he wiped his fat red neck with the sticky handkerchief. ‘I wouldn’t want the world to know that. It is not good for business.’

Angel rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a few seconds, then his eyelids rose up and then down. ‘So when Charles Pleasant suggested that you gave him Larry Longley’s chopper straight from the position in the shop where he had last put it, you agreed.’

Hellman’s face went scarlet. ‘I did not agree,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have betrayed an employee like that. It’s disgraceful that you should suggest such a thing. I loved that man.’

‘If you didn’t give him the chopper, then you must have been the murderer of Bridie Frazer.’

‘I murdered nobody. What are you trying to do to me?’

‘Be sensible, Mr Hellman. If you didn’t murder her, then Charles Pleasant must have done. In which case, how did he get hold of the chopper?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t. I mean, it was Larry Longley who—’

‘You left it somewhere where Charles Pleasant could easily have helped himself to it.’

‘This is outrageous! I want my solicitor. I am entitled to have my solicitor present.’

Angel jumped to his feet. ‘Yes, sir. You are,’ he said. ‘Come with me down to the station. We’ll record all this and we’ll have your solicitor in, and do all this officially … on the record.’

Hellman looked up at the ceiling and rubbed his chin vigorously. He remained seated and said, ‘I have just remembered; I can’t. I am expecting a big delivery of beef carcasses. I need to check them before they are unloaded.’

Angel slowly sat down again. ‘Let’s not play games, Mr Hellman. If you didn’t kill Bridie Frazer, you know who did. And it was the person you let have Larry Longley’s chopper.’

Hellman’s bottom lip quivered.

Angel stared into his eyes. ‘It was Charles Pleasant, wasn’t it,’ he said.

Hellman gave the very slightest nod, then quickly turned his bloodshot eyes away from Angel’s penetrating gaze.

Angel now knew the truth. He licked his lips and said, ‘You must know that the finding of the chopper buried in his own garden with Bridie’s blood still on it proved to be the vital evidence that sealed Larry Longley’s fate.’

‘No. I know nothing about it,’ Hellman said weakly.

‘After Charles Pleasant had murdered her, he dumped her in the scrapyard, took the chopper from here, hewed her to pieces, then buried the weapon in Larry Longley’s garden. He put her remains in an old oil drum and transported it in one of his lorries down the A1.’

Hellman covered his face with his handkerchief. ‘I know nothing about it, I tell you,’ he wailed uselessly. ‘I stuck up for Larry in the witness box. I gave him an excellent reference. I even said he wasn’t disposed to any kind of violence. He was a lovely man. Why are you telling all these lies?’

Angel sighed. He rubbed his chin. It wasn’t difficult to ignore Hellman’s pleas.

Angel sniffed and then said, ‘After that, blackmail was easy, wasn’t it? The rent is actually disguised blackmail, isn’t it? To buy your silence. £800 a week is outrageous, but the plan was that next year it would have been £1,000 and the year after that £2,000 and so on, ad infinitum. That’s how you planned it to work, didn’t you? What a wickedly cruel, brilliant plan. You’re a blackmailer. It was the formula for a most wonderful pension for you in your old age, wasn’t it? Better than any insurance company could have devised. But, alas, the plan went wrong. Something you never thought of. A real bombshell. The rich sucker was murdered and, sadly for me, I can’t prove one word of your involvement in the wrongful imprisonment of Larry Longley and this subsequent despicable crime. Sadly for you, Mr Hellman, blackmail is not transferable. You will slowly sink in your own mire.’