Murder in Bare Feet (16 page)

The station was hectic when Angel returned. Such a lot of coming and going. Phones were going like voting on
The X Factor
.

He put his head into the CID office; Ahmed saw him and came to the door. ‘Did you get hold of DS Crisp, lad?’

‘He’s coming in straightaway, sir. And he said to tell you that the woman is Chantelle Moses. She does have a mole on her right temple.’

Angel frowned. It didn’t seem to matter now. ‘Right. What about everybody else?’

‘Everybody should be here, sir. I said ten o’clock. The Operations Room should be empty. DC Scrivens is behind you.’

Scrivens came running up. His face as sad as a Strangeways dumpling. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. Then he looked down at the floor.

Angel got the message. ‘Never mind, lad. So you didn’t find the ambulance. The trouble is, these robbers are far too smart for us. It will have been transformed into a dodgem car and sold on to Alton Towers, I expect, by now. Never mind. Come on. We have other fish to fry.’

Scrivens looked up and gave a weak smile: the tension had gone.

Angel bustled down to the Operations Room followed by the other two. He opened the door and looked inside. It was empty.

‘This’ll do for us,’ he said.

It was the size, and similarly arranged to, a school classroom. There were local maps and blackboards on the walls and flip charts on easels and twenty-five or so chairs facing a raised platform.

Ahmed said, ‘By the way, sir. The number on the fake ambulance was for a bus in Wiltshire. I didn’t pursue it.’

‘It’s what I expected. Ta.’

Gawber joined them. ‘Sit down everybody,’ Angel said.

There was a knock on the door and Crisp arrived.

Angel said, ‘Ah. Glad you were following the right woman, lad. Anything new there?’

‘She still spending money, sir. Clothes, shoes, hairdos.’

Angel nodded. ‘Right, Trevor. Take a pew.’

Angel looked round. All he had summoned were there. ‘I’ve called you all together to see if we can put our communal mind together and make some progress in this bare foot murder business … the murder of Charles Pleasant. I want to put a few facts to you and see if we can make any sense of the thing. Feel free to butt in if anything occurs to you. Now, there are a few unusual factors in this case that I haven’t come across before. One, it seems apparent that Pleasant, although he had a scrap metal business employing one man, Grant Molloy, he was actually making his money through dealing in stolen valuables or works of art … expensive pieces … well, relatively expensive pieces.’

‘The jade head was worth millions, sir,’ Gawber said. ‘Wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Ron. But I shouldn’t think he paid millions for it.’

‘No, but couldn’t he have been murdered for it,’ Crisp said.

‘I shouldn’t have thought so. A man called Goldstein died for it and it was at any rate returned to its rightful owner, the Empress of somewhere or other. But you have brought me to the point about motive. He was found with £8,000 in notes on him.’

‘So he was going to buy something, sir?’ Scrivens said.

‘We have to assume that … yes. Whatever it was, I suppose we may never find out. It doesn’t matter anyway. We know that somebody phoned him that Sunday morning, and set up a meeting at the scrapyard, we believe, for 4.30 in the afternoon. Although, as we know, Pleasant arrived early at 4.18 or 4.19, and he was shot dead at about 4.19.’

‘Can we not find out who it was from the phones?’ Gawber said.

‘Don Taylor’s checked out Jazmin Frazer’s. Come to think, she’d hardly be phoning the man she’s living with. We have had no success there. If we had enough evidence, we could check out the other suspects’ phones. But I expect that a pay-as-you-go mobile was bought specifically for the job. The one call was made and the phone slung into the River Don.

‘Now, the caller who set up the meeting would know that Pleasant would have £8,000 on him, but no attempt at robbery was made. His pockets had not been rifled. The money was intact. That indicates that the murderer wasn’t interested primarily in financial gain. This murder was about something else. It has to be revenge or … retaliation or fear. There are a few people who had cause to hate him, but before going there, I’d like to remind you of some of the peculiarities of this case. Firstly, the murderer was bare foot. Secondly, the victim had no shoes on. And thirdly, there are no prints on the car door handle, yet Pleasant wasn’t wearing gloves. Why would he want to wipe it clean of prints if, indeed, he did?’

The men looked at each other, but nobody made to say anything.

Angel passed his hand through his hair. ‘Why shoot a man in your bare feet? What’s the point?’

There were a few mutters of, ‘Don’t know, sir,’ and shaking of heads.

‘We don’t seem to know, sir,’ Gawber said.

Angel nodded. ‘No. And neither do I.’

He continued. ‘There also seems to be an inconsistency in the information I got from the manager and his wife at the lodging house. One of them happened to mention that they had a dog and a kennel. I looked round there two days ago and there was no sign of either, nor was there any mess in the yard or any giveaway signs of that sort. In itself it’s not at all important, but if there isn’t a dog why lie about it. If there is a dog, where is it? Anyway, next Sunday, I am making a point of being at the scene of crime at the vital time and I’ll take the opportunity of speaking to them about it then … try and clear it up.’

There were more nods all round.

‘Well, let’s move on to the suspects, then,’ Angel said. ‘Let’s see if we can throw any new light there.’

‘Grant Molloy is a thoroughly dishonest piece,’ Gawber said.

‘He is, but—’ Angel said rubbing his chin.

‘There’s Emlyn Jones and his son,’ Crisp said. ‘And Abe Longley. And Jazmin Frazer.’

‘Yes,’ Angel said. ‘Yes. And there’s one other. Adolphe Hellman.’

He reported the interview he’d had with that morning with the butcher and told them in detail about the supplying of the chopper to Pleasant, the murder of Bridie Frazer by Pleasant and the subsequent blackmail by Hellman.

‘We can’t get him for the blackmail,’ he said, ‘but thankfully it died when Charles Pleasant died. However, Pleasant was obviously becoming strapped for cash. Hellman and the Frazer women had almost picked him clean. Pleasant could have been desperate, resented paying the blackmail, threatened to expose the big man, who shot him dead to save his own skin. He has no alibi for Sunday afternoon. He was at home by himself, avoiding the sun and trying to keep cool.’

Angel looked round to see if anybody had any comment to make. There was nothing.

‘To sum up then,’ he continued, ‘we know from the footprint that the murderer is a man, so it couldn’t be Jazmin Frazer. Abe Longley has an alibi from three good people. The annoying thing is that I am convinced that Jones and his son Stanley knew the arrangements, the time at least of the murder, yet they seem to have the perfect alibi. We have been unable to break it. That only leaves Adolphe Hellman.’

T
he remainder of that Friday seemed to have been wasted in a morass of pointless paperwork and blind alley inquiries. Angel was glad to get home. It was the weekend. Two days out of the office. There were no fireworks nor interesting or exciting plans to look forward to there, just the humdrum business of living, eating, shopping and keeping house. He dutifully went with Mary to the supermarket on Saturday afternoon and spent Sunday morning and the early afternoon in the garden, cutting the lawn and weeding the borders. At three o’clock, he put the tools away, had a wash and put on his office suit. He came down the stairs through the hall to the kitchen.

Mary was at the sink filling the kettle. She heard him approaching and turned round. She saw the suit, looked him up and down, pulled a face and said, ‘What’s this then? Going somewhere?’

He expected a certain amount of disapproval. That’s why he hadn’t mentioned it. Mary believed that he should not be working between 5.30 p.m. on a Friday and 8.30 a.m. on a Monday morning.

He had other ideas.

‘Yes. I’m going up to Sebastopol Terrace. It’s a week today since—’

‘I remember,’ she said. ‘It spoiled a most beautiful day. We were in the garden. Quite the sunniest day for years. Ruined.’

‘Won’t be long.’

He escaped without any further censure.

He parked the BMW outside ‘the rooms to let’ lodging house, next to the hole in the road and facing Charles Pleasant’s scrapyard. Everything looked the same as it had done a week ago. Strange and eerie. He got out of the car and the rowdy racket from that hideous radio met his ears again. His face muscles tightened. After a peaceful day at home he had a great desire to get that teenage girl and her rattle box and throw them both off Flamborough Head into the sea.

He braced himself, stepped into the lodging house, went up to the counter and pressed the bell. As before, the racket stopped, the door opened and the man with the face of a ferret, Samson Tickle, came out. He needed a shave.

He looked up at the policeman. The pupils of his eyes grew bigger momentarily. ‘It’s Inspector Angel, isn’t it? What brings you back, Inspector?’ he said, looking away and fidgeting with a book on the counter.

Angel gave him one of his searching looks. ‘I think you know, Mr Tickle.’

‘Ah, well, I didn’t realize that it would matter.’

Angel frowned. He didn’t know what he was talking about. He stopped frowning but maintained the gaze.

‘I mean the working girls round here can’t afford much. When they bring their clients they only take the room for an hour or so, we can’t charge them much, we never thought it mattered. Commercial travellers don’t want their firms knowing they stay here, at a quarter the cost their expense chitties say. But if I was to make a show of booking them in, they would shy away for fear of being caught out fiddling their expenses. That’s the whole point. Their firms think that they’re staying at a much more expensive place. The idea of putting it through the books … why, they would stop coming altogether. Don’t you see that, Inspector?’

Angel only had a slight grasp on what he was saying. He decided to clear one thing at once. ‘Where is the dog you had last Sunday and where is its kennel?’

Tickle’s jaw dropped. ‘What did you say?’

‘Have you a dog in the house?’

‘No, sir. No pets allowed in the rooms. No dogs, cats, budgerigars, snakes—’

‘Last Sunday you said you had a dog. I thought it was your dog. Somebody mentioned a kennel?’

Tickle frowned, then he smiled; at least Angel took it for a smile. He was one of the few people in the world, like Gordon Brown, who couldn’t smile. It made him look as if he was about to throw up. ‘I remember,’ he said. ‘That was the wife, Inspector.’

Angel rubbed his forehead gently with two fingers. ‘Please explain.’

‘We don’t have no dog. Never had no dog, Inspector. Whenever there’s a puddle of water anywhere, my wife pretends it’s a dog having cocked up its leg when it shouldn’t have. It’s a polite way, she says, of explaining away any water leaks or spillages.’

Angel’s face brightened. ‘You had some leaks or spillages on the landing, I recall?’

Tickle looked away quickly.

‘How did they get there?’ Angel said.

‘There were a few puddles of water on the landing, I believe. Nothing much.’

‘How did they get there?’

‘All right, Inspector. All right. They were the result of some yob who had left his shower on.’

‘But you said you had nobody staying with you.’

‘We hadn’t at the time. He had left earlier.’

‘What time?’

‘Don’t know. Didn’t see him go. Left the water running. Water running down the chandelier rose in the drawing room.’

‘Didn’t you think of reporting it to the police?’

‘We’re used to that sort of carry on, Inspector. We can’t do nothing about it. Anyway, what could we possibly have charged him with, wasting water?’

Angel sighed.

‘He even left his underwear,’ Tickle said. ‘Even left his shoes with his socks still stuck in them.’

Angel’s pulse began thumping. ‘Where are they?’

‘What?’

‘Shoes. And socks. And underwear.’

Tickle wrinkled his ferret-like nose. ‘Incinerator. They weren’t nice.’

Angel’s face went scarlet. ‘Show me the room he was in.’

Tickle went round the counter and up the dark staircase. Angel followed. They passed several doors each side and ended at the last door, which was open.

Angel followed him into the room. It was clean, basic and altogether satisfactory. It smelled of beeswax. There was a modern power shower in the corner. Clean towel on a towel stand. A window looked out on to the road in front. He looked down at the scrapyard and nodded knowingly.

‘The wife’s cleaned it out thoroughly, of course.’

Angel sniffed. She appeared to have made a good job of it too. He wasn’t pleased.

They returned downstairs to the counter.

‘What did the man look like?’

‘I didn’t really notice. Just ordinary. Average, you might say.’

‘Had he any distinguishing features? Tattoos? Was he tall, short, fat, thin?’

‘Just average, I’d say.’

‘Bald, thick head of hair, red, blonde, white?’

‘Just average.’

‘Would you recognize him if you saw him again? If I showed you photographs—’

‘Shouldn’t think so. He kept his head down as he passed his money over.’

‘What did he pay?’

‘Ten pounds. Everybody pays ten pounds. He paid me with a ten-pound note.’

‘Have you still got it?’

He sniggered. ‘Shouldn’t think so. Money comes and goes, you know.’

Angel’s jaw stiffened. ‘What time did he arrive?’

‘About three o’clock, maybe later. He didn’t stay long.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Just that he’d like to rest a few hours … keep out of the sun. How much? I said ten pounds. Choose any room you like and close the door. That’s what I always say. He paid and went up the stairs. It took less time than I took to tell you. That’s all I know.’

‘Did your wife or your daughter see him?’

‘No. Why? Who was he?’

‘He was the murderer of Charles Pleasant.’

Tickles face went white.

Angel checked his watch. It was 4.15 p.m. He left the little man recovering behind the counter, and stepped out of the lodging house into the sunshine. It was still a pleasant day but nothing like as hot as it had been the same time the previous week. He glanced back at the scrapyard. The gates were locked and everywhere was silent. Just as he expected it would have been the previous Sunday. It was spooky. The raucous racket from the lodging house started up again. He started walking down Sebastopol Terrace away from the scrapyard and away from the noise. Nobody was about. One might have expected children to be out playing ball games or hop scotch or similar. Nobody was out scrubbing their step, washing their windows or painting the gate. He continued his way towards the junction of Bradford Road. In the distance, but very loudly, he heard the chime of an ice cream van. ‘Half a pound of tuppeny rice, Half a pound of treacle’. A few seconds later, it turned the corner and stopped at the junction. The driver parked up, switched off the chime. Angel was about a hundred yards away. He made a beeline for him. Several people rushed out of their houses and formed a short queue. The driver served them quickly and everybody disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. The salesman was about to close the serving window, when he saw Angel approach. He held up a finger to catch his attention.

He flashed his warrant card and made himself known.

‘Were you here about this time last Sunday?’

The salesman said, ‘Yes, I was.’

‘A man was murdered, shot in his car outside the scrap-yard at the far end of the street. Did you see anything at all?’

His eyebrows went up. ‘No, mate. I was pulled off my feet last Sunday. It was the hottest day for fifteen years. I had to go back to the depot three times for a fill up. My takings was up ten times what I usually take. Everybody worked sixteen hours, flat out. They made part-timers into full-timers. We was that busy. I would like to help. I didn’t see nothing.’

‘Anybody running away, any cars, anything unusual? Anybody in bare feet?’

‘Bare feet?’ He blinked then shook his head.

He saw nothing at all unusual last Sunday on his travels.

Angel thanked him.

The ice cream van rattled on up the hill.

Angel turned round and walked at an easy pace the length of Sebastopol Terrace, past his car and up to the scrapyard gates. He looked at the piles of metal rubbish through the bars. He felt uncomfortable as the critical time of 4.19 passed. He had to be there. Something or somebody might have caused something to happen. But nothing did.

He glanced down the long row of terraced houses until just after 4.30, then returned to his car, unable to avoid the hideous racket emanating from speakers in the lodging house.

He was home for 4.40. He put the car in the garage, locked up and went in the bungalow.

Mary was at the sink washing a lettuce. She gave him a sideways glance.

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, in a minute.’

‘Ta, love.’

She sighed. ‘You can’t leave that job alone, can you? Whatever will you do when they make you retire?’

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.’

‘If you get to it.’

They had tea and then watched television. There was
Songs of Praise
, followed by a re-run of
Last of the Summer Wine
, then the titles came on for one of those eighteenth-century classical costume plays.

Mary was delighted and settled back in her chair with a contented expression.

Angel yawned when he saw what he was in for. He’d seen the like before … an overpublicized, expensive production incorporating a brigade of famous actresses and actors, the men in tight pants and the women fluttering up and down in big hats, saying things like, ‘Mamma, I do declare that Mr Clothhooly looks very handsome on a horse.’ ‘Mamma, do you think the vicar will bring the new curate for tea?’ ‘Mamma, Sir John Finglechomp wants to speak to Papa (sob sob). O Mamma, dear Mamma, I really he think wants to ask Papa permission to take my hand in holy matricide.’ He yawned again.

Mary poured him and herself a second cup of tea without taking her eyes off the screen.

For Angel, the film was destined to send him to sleep. He expected it to begin with a funeral and a flock of people returning to a big house and removing their coats and hats. And it did! Then he saw something that caught his attention. It wasn’t that unusual. At that time, even insignificant. A woman with a gigantic hat pin. It looked about 10” long. She looked quite dangerous with it. She took it out of the hat so that she could take it off. He wondered what she would do with it after she had removed the hat. It reminded him of the collection of hat pins at Jones’s shop. This woman stuck the pin back in the hat and put the hat on a table. He wondered. What if she had intended parting with the hat and therefore had had no hat to stick it back into. Supposing she had to transport it somewhere. At Jones’s shop, he had a big pincushion to stick it in, but supposing, just supposing, she had wanted to take it upstairs or next door or down the street, or have given it to her ‘Dear Mamma, I do declare?’ The thing was dangerous. Ten inches of steel with a sharp point. It could be a real weapon. It needed a cover of some sort surely … a holster … a cork at the end might be all right, but it could get knocked off … it needed an all-over cover … like a long sausage shaped thing … a sausage itself wouldn’t do … once it’s punctured there’d be greasy stuff coming out all over … a French stick … that would be too crumbly … an apple … not long enough … a carrot … yes a carrot … good, but still not quite long enough … a parsnip would be just right … a PARSNIP! He stopped.

He suddenly heard Mary’s voice. ‘Are you all right, Michael?’

‘What?’ he said.

‘Are you all right? You shouted something.’

‘What?’

‘You shouted “Parsnip” I thought it was,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?

He shook his head and looked at her strangely.

‘Look,’ she said, her fists clenched, ‘if you really don’t want this, we’ve got a tape somewhere of Benny Hill.’

‘No, love. No,’ he said. ‘You enjoy it. I will go for … a walk. I want to think something out … I’m all right. You enjoy it. Won’t be long. I must go—’

And he was gone.

It was a quarter past nine on Monday morning when Angel pulled up outside The Moo Moo Ice Cream Parlour, Abbeyside Road, Sheffield. The Moo Moo was a well-known short-order café, and of course sold the celebrated Moo Moo ice cream. Staff in their distinctive white overalls flitted from table to table cleaning and clearing in preparation for another busy day. There were only half a dozen customers in there at that time, drinking coffee, as it was so early.

Angel went straight up to the cashier at the paydesk, made himself known and asked to see the manager. A few moments later, a pleasant young man came up to him.

‘I’m Roland Markway, shop manager. How can I help you?’