The Dog Collar Murders (11 page)

‘Did you know the Reverend Samuel Smart and the Reverend Raymond Gulli?’

‘Yes, Mr Angel. Used to call to see them. Regularly. They gave me money. They used to give me money when I had nothing. Nothing to buy for my tea. My giro would run out on Tuesday for certain. I used to call on them. They gave me enough to buy a
sandwich
or some chips. When you have nothing, it’s a lifesaver, particularly in the winter. There’s no St James’s Crypt in Bromersley, you know.’

‘Let’s take one man at a time. The Reverend Samuel Smart. When did you last see him?’

King took a deep breath. He screwed up his eyes. Eventually he said, ‘It must have been last Monday morning.’

‘What time?’

‘I don’t know. In the morning. Not too early. His cleaner was there. The sexy one.’ He sniggered.

Angel frowned. He thought about King’s description of Norma Ives. When Angel had interviewed her, he saw her as a small, slim, shapeless young woman, pleasant enough but in no way overtly sexy. He considered it a frivolous comment for King to make in view of the horror of Sam Smart’s death.

‘You
knew
her, did you?’ Angel said.

‘I’d seen her before but I didn’t
know
her, Mr Angel. I could have done her a bit of good, if you know what I mean,’ he said with a snort and a titter.

Angel turned away. His patience was oozing away.

King said, ‘You can tell when somebody don’t dislike you, Mr Angel.’

‘What happened then?’ he said.

‘The usual. I asked to see the vicar. He came along to the door. He looked at me and I told him the tale. He invited me into the office. It was the same stuff. He asked me if I had got a job yet. I told him that I had this back problem, two disintegrating discs, and that I am dyslexic. I’ve told him that a hundred times before. He told me I must get a job of some sort. He gave me a blessing, a five pound note and I’m on my way.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘This conversation took place in his office?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where did he get the five pound note from?’

King’s fingernails went up to his mouth again. His eyes flitted to the left and to the right. He didn’t say anything.

Angel said, ‘Well, did he get it out of his pocket or out of a cash box or a safe … or somewhere else?’

Eventually King blinked and said, ‘Out of a wallet in his pocket.’

‘Were there any other notes in there?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

Angel’s face muscles tightened. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Of course you noticed. You were anxious to get some money for some food, weren’t you? Money was the reason for calling on him, wasn’t it? You would be naturally curious.’

‘I won’t answer you if you shout at me,’ King said, his bottom lip quivering.

Angel sighed heavily. He pulled out an empty drawer in the table between them and slammed it shut with a loud bang. Then he sat back in the chair, closed his eyes, took control of his breathing and relaxed until it became normal.

King meanwhile looked round the room as if he was a painter and decorator thinking about preparing a quote.

Angel said, ‘You sure it was out of a wallet in his pocket?’

‘I think so.’

‘You
think
so? What was the wallet like?’

‘I don’t know,’ King said quickly, then he added, ‘No comment.’

‘Is it no comment because maybe there wasn’t a wallet and you’re therefore stuck for what to say next, or because you think I want you to say that he got the money out of a drawer or a cash box or a safe or some other place?’

‘No comment.’

Angel clenched his fists and shook them momentarily. He blew out a balloon’s worth of breath, then rubbed his chin hard.

‘This is getting us nowhere, lad,’ he said. Then suddenly he said, ‘And all this time, did you have that gun in your pocket?’

‘Yes.’

Angel’s patience was exhausted.

‘There
never
was a gun, was there?’

‘I told you.’

‘So you pulled it out and shot him?’

‘I might have.’

‘What for?’

King’s face went scarlet. ‘No comment.’

Angel stared into his eyes. ‘You didn’t shoot him because his housekeeper, Norma Ives, was there. You would have had to shoot her as well.’

His eyes rolled round his head. Then he smiled and sniggered. ‘No. You don’t know what she’s like … she’s lovely.’

Angel turned away, his face registering disgust. After a few moments, he turned back and said, ‘I feel sorry for you, lad.’

King looked at him and smiled like a baby.

Angel shook his head. He couldn’t stand any more. He stood up and dashed out of the interview room. He collared a PC on the corridor, and told him to go in and stay with King while he arranged relief. Then he returned to his office, phoned Transport and instructed them to convey the man back to Canal Street as soon as they had a vehicle going in that direction.

‘Excuse me, sir. Can I have a word?’

It was Constable John Weightman at the door.

Angel looked up from his desk. ‘Of course, John. Come in, lad. What is it?’

He closed the door.

PC Weightman was a policeman of the old school, in his fifties and on the verge of retiring. Angel had known him more than fifteen years and always found him rock-solid and reliable.

‘Funny thing, sir,’ Weightman began. ‘I was doing a routine check on the display of gambling licences this morning, and I called in on
Brian Glogowski’s shop round the back of the station. Trades as Big Brian, the bookie.’

‘I know it, John. Know it well.’

‘I was behind a young woman, waiting to see Brian. I thought I knew her but I wasn’t sure at first. She passed Brian a list of bets she wanted putting on at Kempton
and
Doncaster this afternoon. Then she gave him a plastic bag. I could see it was stashed with paper money. When Brian read the betting slip, he leaned through the grille and whispered, “I can’t take all this, Elaine. It’s far too much. I would need to lay some off and there isn’t enough time. The first race is in ten minutes. Give my apologies to Miss Wilkinson, will you? And explain. I can’t take the first race. I’ll deduct that. So I’ll give you that five thousand back now. All right. I’ll take on the others. To tell the truth, she’s getting too expensive for me, Elaine”.’

Angel frowned.

‘Aye,’ Weightman continued. ‘Now that was Elaine Jubb, sir. She’s housekeeper to Father Tom Wilkinson at St Joseph’s Catholic Church. Phoebe Wilkinson is his sister. She’s quite a bit older than him, disabled and, they say, a bit simple. Now Brian whispered all that to her but I could still hear him. He knows me, of course. The uniform didn’t worry him, so I don’t think
he
was up to anything shady. About Elaine Jubb or Miss Wilkinson, well, I don’t know.’

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘But I wondered where the money had come from,’ Weightman said. ‘It was a lot of cash. I wondered if everything was all right.’

‘Right, John. Sounds odd. I can’t think that the Reverend Tom Wilkinson would do anything dishonest.’

‘Oh no, sir. Lovely man. Lovely man.’

‘It would need handling with kid gloves,’ Angel said.

‘That’s why I came straight to you, quiet like.’

‘Leave it with me, John. I’m glad you did.’

Weightman nodded, smiled and went out.

Angel’s face creased as the door closed. Another inquiry – as if he didn’t have enough on. He thought about St Joseph’s Catholic Church, a beautiful building in the centre of Bromersley, and Father Tom Wilkinson, a much respected priest as straight as the icicles that hang down from Strangeways’ loos. He couldn’t visualize him hawking the church treasures then putting the loot on a horse to
raise the air fare to abscond to Rio de Janeiro. Anyway, he also understood that the Wilkinsons were rather well off in their own right. He must call there to see what was happening. There would no doubt be some sensible explanation. However, he had heard that Tom had a sister, who had not got a full row of beads.

He stood up and reached for his coat.

He would need to think of a reason to call.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he called as he pushed his arm into a sleeve.

It was DS Carter.

‘What is it, lass? I am just going out.’ Then he remembered. ‘You’ve come back from Moon Street, checking on Grogan’s
ice-cream
van,’ he said, before she could reply.

She smiled. ‘That’s it, sir.’

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’

He peeled off the coat, tossed it on the chair in the corner, returned to the swivel chair and sat down.

‘Well, sir, I drove up Moon Street at five minutes past twelve noon exactly as you said. There
was
one of Grogan’s ice-cream vans parked on the grass verge, and a few boys and the occasional girl were climbing over the wall, which I agree was not to be recommended. It could be dangerous if one fell or there was any larking around. I think their ages would be around twelve to sixteen. There was a short queue at the ice-cream van. The driver seemed to be doing good business.’

‘Were all his customers kids from the school? Were there any people from the cardboard factory, the glassworks or passers by?’

‘I only saw schoolchildren there, sir.’

Angel nodded.

‘Well, I drove up to the top of the street, sir, parked there and sauntered back down on the opposite side of the road.’

Angel nodded. ‘Is that it?’

‘Not quite, sir. No. Strange thing. After having a good look round, I walked back up to the top of Moon Street to my car. Then I drove back down. I suppose it was then about half past twelve. Grogan’s van had gone and I noticed some ice-cream cornets thrown down on the grass verge, near where the van had been. I counted fifteen actual cones in a big splodge of ice cream. I didn’t understand it.’

Angel stood up. He wanted to get away. ‘I don’t understand it, either, Flora. Maybe the ice cream was off, or it was too rich. I have much more to worry about than the quality of Grogan’s ice cream. I am hunting down a triple murderer.’

‘Yes, sir, but I have never known kids throw ice cream away.’

‘Nor have I. But it is the middle of winter. Maybe they should have been served hot chocolate.’

‘I am serious, sir.’

‘So am I. Anyway, I hope to see Raphael Grogan this afternoon. If there’s time, I’ll ask him about it. I intend to stop any of his vans exceeding their presence near the school over and above that already agreed with the headteacher and confirmed by Health and Safety. Also, I need to phone headteacher Fiske and settle him down, but I also have another call to make first.’

I
t was 2 p.m. when Angel pressed the doorbell to the presbytery of St Joseph’s Catholic Church. The door was eventually opened an inch at a time by Elaine Jubb in her blue overall. Angel heard a
television
or radio blaring out behind her. It sounded like crowds of people shouting excitedly.

Angel held up his ID card and badge. ‘Sorry to bother you, miss, I am Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley Police. Could I see Father Tom Wilkinson? He may remember me. We have met several times.’

‘Oh’ she said. ‘I am afraid Father Tom is in Rome, Inspector. He’s there for two weeks. His duties have been taken over by Father Roebuck. Miss Wilkinson has a telephone number for him
somewhere
. I will ask her for it, if you like.’

Angel frowned. He was surprised to hear that Tom was away.

‘Who is it, Elaine?’ a voice called from the inside of the house.

‘It’s a policeman, Miss Wilkinson,’ she called. ‘A Detective Inspector Angel.’

‘A policeman?’ the voice said.

Elaine Jubb said: ‘That’s Miss Wilkinson, Inspector. Father Tom’s sister.’

‘Well, kindly show him in, Elaine,’ she called.

Angel stepped into the hall. He wondered what the potty Miss Wilkinson was like.

‘Please go straight ahead,’ Elaine Jubb said, pointing to the
sitting-room
door behind her. She then closed the front door, locked it and ran along the hall and down a staircase at the far end.

Angel crossed the hall through the open door facing him into the sitting room. His eyebrows edged higher as he entered. It looked very
different from the way he remembered it the last time he was there. In the middle was Miss Wilkinson in her electric lounger chair with the foot rest up; a bed-table was across her lap, littered with newspapers, writing pads covered in notes and figures, pens, three remote controls, a calculator, a mobile phone and a cup in a saucer. Two very large
slimline
television screens were set facing her. Both showed different pictures. On one screen, horses were being walked round a paddock and on the other a jockey was being interviewed by Clare Balding.

The rest of the furniture had been pushed to one side, except for an occasional table and two chairs placed strategically next to Miss Wilkinson’s big chair.

She looked up at Angel, smiled sweetly, picked up a remote, pressed a button and the televisions were silenced. She then looked back at him and said, ‘Good afternoon. A policeman? An inspector? That’s very interesting. Come in, Inspector. Excuse the disorder. Please sit down,’ she said, pointing to the chair next to her.

‘Good afternoon. Thank you, Miss Wilkinson,’ he said.

There was a heavy red book on the seat of the chair. Angel picked it up, looked at the spine and read Tootal’s Horse And Jockey Form Book 2008/2009. He sat down on the chair and put the volume on the floor.

‘Sorry to intrude while you are so very busy,’ he said, smiling.

She noticed the smile and beamed back at him. ‘My brother Tom is away so I am enjoying myself at the races, and having a rollicking good time. I haven’t enjoyed myself as much since I was a girl. And that’s more years than I am willing to admit to, I can tell you.’

He smiled at the old lady and nodded.

‘Now what can I do for you?’ she said.

‘It was really a matter for your brother Tom, Miss Wilkinson. But as he’s away I am afraid I will have to mention it to you.’

‘Yes. Yes,’ she said, occasionally glancing at the television screens.

‘You will be having regular visits from our patrol cars?’ Angel said.

‘Yes. Yes. Oh yes. Goodness me. I see what this is all about. I know about the murders, Inspector. Ghastly business. God bless those poor, dear Anglican priests. Nice men, I heard. I have tried to keep up with it all from the newspapers. Have you come to tell me you have caught the wretched murderer?’

‘I am here to make a few checks. I didn’t know that your brother was away. Are you presently here in the presbytery alone?’

‘No. Elaine is here most of the day.’

‘And at night?’

‘Quentin, our driver and gardener, checks the doors and locks up for me at seven o’clock.’

‘But you are on your own after that?’

‘Yes, of course. Oh, don’t worry about me, Inspector. It’s only a few more days and Tom will be back. And I have been on my own many times in my life. I have my personal alarm phone. I wear it all the time,’ she said, pointing down the front of her dress. ‘Besides, your murderer is obviously only interested in male Anglican priests. I fit none of those categories.’

Angel thought about that for a moment. ‘That might only be a coincidence, Miss Wilkinson. It would be safer if you could arrange not to be here alone.’

There was a knock on the open door and Elaine came in with a tray laden with pots.

‘Ah, tea,’ Miss Wilkinson said, pleased to be interrupted.

Elaine said, ‘I brought a cup for the inspector.’

Angel’s face brightened.

The picture on both televisions had changed. One of them showed horses being directed into the starting gates.

‘Excuse me,’ Miss Wilkinson said as she pressed the button on the remote.

The sound of the racecourse and a commentator came up.

‘They’re off!’ the man’s voice said and continued verbosely, faster than a television weathergirl.

Miss Wilkinson’s eyes were on the screen and stayed there, hardly blinking.

Elaine poured the tea, silently handed Angel a cup, put a cup on Miss Wilkinson’s bed-table and then sat back to enjoy her own.

For the next one minute and forty seconds the commentator’s voice reigned supreme. His last few words were, ‘So first is Rat Trap at ten to one, second Widow’s Weeds at twenty to one and third Archie Pelago at four to one.’

Miss Wilkinson beamed. She turned off the sound, did some quick calculations on the calculator and wrote a figure on the writing pad.
‘Highly satisfactory, thanks to Widow’s Weeds,’ she said, banging the pen down on the bed-table. ‘I always said outsiders were the best.’

Elaine smiled. ‘Good going, Miss Wilkinson,’ she said.

Angel strained to make out what the figure was but all he could see was a series of squiggles.

‘There’s a fresh cup of tea, Miss Wilkinson,’ Elaine said, pointing towards the table.

‘Thank you, dear,’ she said and reached out for the cup.

Angel said, ‘I was saying, it would be better if you could arrange never to be here alone, Miss Wilkinson.’

‘So you were, Inspector. But I don’t think the murderer would bother with an old lady like me.’

‘Murderers are not normal people. You can’t know what this man might do.’

She put a forefinger to her mouth. ‘On the other hand, he might be interested in stealing the money. Tell me, Inspector, what would you do with it to keep it safe? It’s my inheritance, you know. It’s my half share of the sale price of The Grange, my late father and mother’s house.’

Angel frowned. It would be quite a sum. ‘You have all that here, in cash?’ he said.

‘Yes. It’s well hidden, of course.’

He pursed his lips. Thieves, like policemen, are good at finding hidden treasure of any kind, but he couldn’t get heavy-handed about it. It was the Wilkinsons’ money and nothing to do with him. And the old lady seemed compos mentis, a little eccentric maybe. He hoped she wasn’t gambling it all away on the horses.

‘My advice would be to put the money in a bank, Miss Wilkinson.’

‘Would you really?’ she said. ‘That’s what Tom would have said, I’m sure. I must give that some thought.’

‘Pay it in there today,’ Angel said. ‘And please don’t stay here on your own tonight. I shouldn’t think The Feathers will be booked up at this time of the year. Have you got transport?’ he said.

‘Oh, Inspector, Elaine can soon organize a taxi for me, thank you.’

The picture on one of the televisions changed again to show horses being lined up for a race. Miss Wilkinson said, ‘If you will excuse me, I don’t want to miss this.’ Then she reached out for the
remote, pressed a button and the voice of the race commentator began again.

Angel quickly finished the tea, thanked Miss Wilkinson for her courtesy, and Elaine for the tea, and made a quick exit.

He pointed the bonnet of the BMW back towards town, turned on to the ring road then on to the Fitzallan Trading Estate to one of the modern units situated at the end of a lane which had a big sign on the roof that read, ‘Grogan’s Ice Cream’. It was a large brick-built single-storey building with two delivery vans waiting to be unloaded at one side, and Grogan’s vans at the other being loaded up with ice cream, boxes of cornets and wafers and so on, ready for release on to the streets. He drove to a car space marked off for visitors only, parked up and walked through an automatic door to a busy reception desk. Unusually, it had a large plate-glass window directly behind it through which visitors could see right into the factory.

He had to wait at the desk until the young lady who was on the phone had finished taking an order from a customer and then dealt with a man in a brown overall standing in front of him waving a piece of paper around, who needed to know where to deliver a consignment of cones and wafers.

Angel spent the time he had to wait looking through the big window into the factory. At the forefront was a huge, enclosed, ribbed refrigerated structure with steaming cream-coloured liquid mix dribbling down it from the height of the building into a giant funnel which was directed over a cold holding vat at the bottom. He watched the process and assumed it was to cool the hot mix rapidly to complete the important pasteurizing process. He was impressed with being able to see part of the ice-cream-making process in a factory that illustrated its cleanliness and modernity.

He eventually reached the receptionist and introduced himself. She made a phone call, then promptly showed him into a small office close by where a pleasant, middle-aged man in shirt sleeves stood up from behind a big desk, hand outstretched.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector. I am Raphael Grogan. Very pleased to meet you. Please sit down. What can I do for you?’

Angel relayed details of the phone call he had had from the
headteacher
of Curzon Street School, Mr Fiske, and the subsequent
findings of DS Carter about the positioning of one of Grogan’s vans by the school yard wall.

Grogan listened attentively then said, ‘And what do you want me to do, Inspector? My drivers are paid on commission. Of course, I would not have them break the law or park anywhere where they would be a nuisance or be dangerous, but my driver stops on Moon Street hoping to sell ice cream to the workers from the glassworks and the cardboard factory during their lunch break, and of course any other passers by. He certainly does not expect pupils from the school to scale a six-foot-high wall to reach him. If they are that eager to be served, then they could come round the outside perimeter of the school to reach the van.’

‘Apparently they are not allowed out of the school gates at that time unless they are going home. It’s a school rule. Matter of road safety. Keeps them off the roads away from traffic.’

‘Oh? I understand that, but surely it is the responsibility of the school to stop their pupils scaling the wall to get to the van then,’ he said. ‘Anyway, one of my vans serves them most days after school at the main gate. We have an arrangement with Health and Safety which I believe is working all right.’

‘I believe that arrangement is satisfactory. By the way, my sergeant reports that while she was observing on Moon Street, nobody from the factories at the other side of the road, nor any passers by, bought anything. Indeed, children from Curzon Street School appeared to be your driver’s only customers.’

Grogan looked thoughtful.

‘Don’t you think, Mr Grogan,’ Angel said, ‘that under the
circumstances
, you could instruct your drivers not to park on that spot or indeed anywhere else where the children can actually
see
the van from the school grounds, except of course at the agreed place at four o’clock each day?’

Grogan rubbed his chin then said, ‘I don’t like making an
arrangement
that I might later regret, Inspector. After all, in the summer, on a hot sunny day, the workers in those hot factories there on Moon Street might be eager to buy a nice cool ice-cream, lollipop or cornet. Now if I had made an arrangement not to trade there, I would have simply lost out, wouldn’t I? And worse than that, my competitors from out of town could come along, park there and clean up.’

Angel pursed his lips. Taking everything into consideration, he didn’t think that what Grogan had said was unreasonable.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ Grogan said. ‘I’ll instruct my vans not to park anywhere on Moon Street for the next three months provided that no other ice-cream vendor parks up there, and provided that the headteacher at Curzon Street School institutes another school rule, that no children should attempt to climb over school playground walls, especially when they are over six feet high. Does that fill the bill, Inspector?’

Angel smiled. ‘I’ll have a word with him and see what I can do. Thank you very much for your cooperation.’

‘It’s a pleasure.’

Angel stood up. ‘By the way, Mr Grogan, would it be possible for me to see your son, Clive, on an entirely unrelated matter?’

Grogan frowned.

‘It’s a confidential matter,’ Angel said.

Grogan pursed his lips. ‘He’s not being getting up to anything he shouldn’t have, I hope,’ he said, picking up the phone and pressing a button.

‘I shouldn’t think it’s anything for you to worry about,’ Angel said. ‘I assure you.’

‘There’s an Inspector Angel of the police to see you, Clive,’ Grogan said into the phone. ‘I’m sending him down. And I shall want to see you as soon as he’s gone.’

‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ Angel said.

Grogan replaced the phone, followed him to the door, where they shook hands, then he directed Angel down a long corridor. At the far end of it, a door opened and a smartly dressed young man came out. He saw Angel, acknowledged him with a wave and took a few paces towards him. As soon as they were in speaking distance, the man said, ‘Inspector Angel? I’m Clive Grogan. I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you. Please come into my office.’