Murder in Bare Feet Page 13

  Suddenly, from behind a large bookcase, a shiny young man in a shiny blue suit appeared and made a beeline for him. It was Stanley Jones. His black hair was oiled down and shone in the bright white shop lights, and his chin was jutting out. He had an angry look about him. His eyes stood out like bilberries on stalks. He came right up close to Angel and whispered in his ear.

  ‘You shouldn’t come in here. Not in shopping hours. Not when customers are around. It’ll give the shop a bad name.’

  Angel pulled away from the hot breath and said, ‘But you have no customers, Mr Jones. The shop is empty; haven’t you noticed?’

  He moved further into the shop, passing a gathering of teddy bears of various prices, ages and conditions. Stanley Jones followed close behind, all the while becoming more agitated.

  Angel stopped at a shelf of large interesting glass vases, gold fish bowls and colourful antique chamber pots all filled with water. Each also had a red rubber ball in the water; some of the balls were floating, some were sunk and some were in between.

  He hovered there a few moments.

  Stanley Jones edged closely up to him again. ‘What do you want,’ he said breathily, then looked round at the two shop assistants to see if they had heard him.

  One was yawning, the other about to yawn.

  ‘What is the purpose of the balls in the water,’ Angel asked mischievously.

  The young man stuck out his chin belligerently. ‘To check that the vessels are sound, of course,’ he snarled.

  At that moment, Angel heard the little door to the tiny office under the stairs behind them close, and the unmistakable fruity loud Welsh voice said, ‘We couldn’t sell a leaking Victorian chamber pot to a wealthy American, Inspector Angel, now could we?’

  Angel turned round. Emlyn Jones was standing there in a shiny black velvet suit, smiling as always, with his hand on the door knob. Jones waved a gently dismissive hand at Stanley who glared at Angel, before turning away and slowly walking to the other end of the shop to disappear round the back of a bookcase of old leather-bound books.

  ‘Youth is so beautiful, Inspector, don’t you think?’ Jones said. ‘So much future ahead of them. So much time to achieve whatever they want. Yet they are always in a hurry. You see them running hither and thither without a moment to lose, pushing past you on the pavement, in the shops, overtaking in a car, but you never see them arrive anywhere, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Angel said politely.

  He looked at the man, pursed his lips and wondered what he was really thinking. What secret was behind that oily smile. After twenty-one years of marriage, Charles Pleasant had taken Jones’s wife from him only four short years earlier, providing the man with a most powerful motive. But Jones had the most perfect alibi, the absolutely indisputable alibi, in wonderful photographic colour. So had his son, Stanley, who also had a motive. Stanley had taken that crucial photograph. So his alibi was sound. They positively had both been there. In the ballroom. At 4.30. Harker had confirmed it. Superintendent Harker had positively confirmed it.

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  Jones said, ‘Now then, did you want to see me about something particular, Inspector? Would you like to come into my office? It is private and very quiet in there.’

  He opened the door of the little cubbyhole under the stairs.

  Angel nodded and went inside. Jones sat behind the little desk and Angel sat opposite him.

  ‘Isn’t this cosy?’ Jones said with a grunt of a laugh. ‘It is almost coffee time. Or would you like something a little stronger?’

  ‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ Angel said.

  ‘No? Well, what is it I can do for you, Inspector?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you, Mr Jones. It’s like this. You know my business. I have a murder to solve. Perhaps you can help me.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve come to me, Inspector. But I’ll try. Always willing to help the law in any way I can. You know that.’

  ‘It’s a little complicated, Mr Jones, but I’ll try to keep it simple. There is a man, you see … a married man … been married twenty-one years. To a beautiful woman, and they had a son. Now four years ago, his wife left him to go to live with another man, a very rich man.’

  Jones’s eyebrows shot up. He dropped the smile and rubbed a hand across his mouth. ‘You’re getting very close to home, Inspector,’ he said quietly. ‘Where are you going with this … this story?’

  ‘The rich man is murdered and the first thing the ex-husband does is have his son present a photograph to me, taken by him, of his father sitting with a senior police officer with a clock showing the crucial time. The photograph … you might say … is the pictorial representation of the absolutely perfect alibi.’

  ‘Yes. Well what’s wrong with that? It must make your life simple in one way, Inspector. It makes for eliminations, doesn’t it? The photograph obviously and simply means that we … my son and I … could not have murdered Charles Pleasant.’

  ‘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 o
ut 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.’

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  Angel 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.’