The Dog Collar Murders Read online

  A man in a blue uniform with the word ‘Stationmaster’ on his hat opened the office door to meet them. His face was red and his eyes moist. He looked at the men in the green paramedic clothes, stepped back and pulled the door wide open.

  ‘He’s in here,’ the stationmaster said.

  The paramedics rushed in with blue canvas valises, followed by Angel holding up his warrant card.

  ‘Police,’ Angel said.

  The stationmaster looked at it, blinked, nodded, and closed the door after them.

  The paramedics rushed over to a bundle of clothes in a pool of blood.

  Angel looked round the small office and saw a woman sitting uncomfortably on a high stool at the far end of the little office. She was dabbing her face with a tissue. That must be the witness. ‘You saw the man who shot this young man, miss?’ he said.

  She gulped and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see which way he went?’

  She shook her head.

  He screwed up his face. ‘Be with you in a minute,’ he said.

  Angel buttonholed the stationmaster. ‘Did you see which way he went?’

  ‘No, sir. I was on the platform checking on some goods for the down train. I heard a bang. I thought it was a gunshot from somewhere near the ticket office. I couldn’t believe my ears. I ran towards the office, unlocked the door and found young Harry Weston on the floor, blood rushing out of his shirt front …’

  The man’s face creased. He couldn’t speak any more. He turned away towards an old iron fireplace in the corner littered with Silk Cut cigarette packets and cigarette ends.

  ‘Has anything been taken? Cash? Tickets?’

  Without turning round, the stationmaster shook his head.

  ‘Do you have any CCTV anywhere? Covering the platforms, the trains, the ticket office?’

  The stationmaster shook his head.

  Angel patted him gently on the shoulder and said, ‘That’s all for now. Will you come down to the station with me later … make a statement?’

  He nodded.

  Angel crossed to the corner of the office where the paramedics were kneeling. They had rolled the blood-soaked young man over. His face was still and white.

  ‘What’s his name?’ one of the paramedics said.

  ‘Harry Weston,’ the stationmaster said.

  The paramedic put the working end of a stethoscope on the young man’s neck and after a few seconds looked up. ‘There’s a pulse,’ he said quietly.

  The stationmaster licked his lips, took a few deeper breaths and tried to smile.

  Angel’s heart seemed to rise, open out and float in his chest. He did not know the young man, but it was great news.

  The man pulled the stethoscope away from his ears to let it hang round his neck. He ran out.

  The other paramedic promptly found a suitable vein in the back of the wounded man’s hand, introduced an intravenous line into it then held up a plastic bottle.

  Angel realized the injured man wasn’t able to talk, so he returned to the young woman. ‘I am Detective Inspector Angel,’ he said.

  ‘Zoe Costello,’ she said.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector. A man. A vicar. A priest. Well, a man in a dog collar was at the ticket window shouting at the clerk inside … then suddenly he pulled a gun out of his pocket, just like on the films, and shot him.’

  ‘You actually saw him?’

  ‘Well, yes. Briefly. Very briefly.’

  Angel’s heart leaped. She had actually seen the gunman. He nodded encouragingly. ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ She thought a moment then shuddered. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Did he come back on to the platform?’ he said.

  ‘No, he didn’t pass me. I was on the platform, you see. Waiting for a train.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. He frowned. ‘He must have gone the other way … out of the station, into the town then.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

  Angel nodded at her and said, ‘Right. Do you mind waiting here for a few minutes, then coming to the station and having a look at some videos? That gunman might be already known to us.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  The paramedics were lifting the injured man on to a stretcher, the stationmaster now holding the drip.

  Angel dashed over, opened the door, went out ahead of them and called out, ‘Make way, please. You may save this man’s life if you get out of the way. Everybody move away, please. Thank you. Thank you.’

  Ahmed came up to him, saw what was happening and joined in the job of moving the crowd back.

  The crowd obligingly eased back but craned their heads to look at the injured man’s face as the stretcher was whisked past them.

  As soon as the ambulance had driven away, Angel addressed the crowd, which had increased to around thirty by then, and said, ‘I am a police officer. I believe a man was shot here a few minutes ago. Did anybody here see what happened? Did anybody here see a priest? A vicar? A man wearing a dog collar? Did anybody see which way he went? Did anybody see anything at all unusual?’

  Nobody said a word.

  ‘If anybody saw anything, please come forward. Let’s try and catch the man with the gun who shot that young man.’

  Still silence.

  ‘If you saw nothing and can’t assist the police, then please move on. There’s nothing more to see here. Thank you very much.’

  Angel watched them, but nobody made a move to leave. Everybody looked as if they’d been planted where they stood. Passers by coming out of the bus station stopped, looked at the crowd, saw the police uniforms and stood around adding to the numbers. An ice-cream van pulled up. Its siren played a few discordant notes and a glass window opened for business.

  Angel turned, grabbed hold of Ahmed’s cuff, and quietly said, ‘Start taking their names and addresses. That’s a sure-fire way of getting them to leave.’

  Ahmed nodded and reached into his pocket for his notebook and ballpoint.

  At that moment, two marked police Range Rovers arrived, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

  Angel’s face went scarlet. His eyes flashed. He rushed out to the front to meet them. ‘Switch that racket off! This isn’t a ruddy funfair. Your blue flashers are more than enough. I’m trying to get rid of a crowd, not drum one up.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Get rid of these people and that ice-cream van, tape round and then check with DS Taylor. He should be here any second. When he arrives, I’m off.’

  He turned away. SOCO’s van arrived. He stopped, turned back and quickly briefed DS Taylor. Then DC Edward Scrivens arrived.

  ‘What can I do, sir?’

  ‘Find Ahmed and send him to me, then somewhere around is the stationmaster. Take him to the nick. Put him in an interview room. Give him a cup of tea and make him as comfortable as you can.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel went back into the ticket office. Zoe Costello saw him and eased herself off the stool.

  ‘Right, Miss Costello. My car’s outside. Let’s go.’

  Interview room one. Police Station, Bromersley, South Yorkshire, UK. 5 p.m., Monday, 11 January 2010

  ‘Yes, I’d love a cup of tea, Inspector,’ Zoe Costello said.

  Angel looked up at Ahmed. ‘Two teas, lad. And see if you can find those pot cups and saucers we used to use before they put that machine in that makes everything taste of cardboard.’

  Ahmed’s eyes narrowed. He had a feeling that that china had gone upstairs to the chief constable’s suite. ‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’

  ‘And will you let me have a laptop and the disc with the new videos of our rogues’ gallery?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He went out.

  ‘Now then, Miss Costello,’ Angel said, ‘please tell me everything that happened from when you arrived at the station this afternoon. What time did you get there?’

  ‘I got there
at three o’clock. I was going to catch the 3.05 to Meadowhall. Do a quick bit of shopping and then dash back home. I went up to the window for a ticket, and bought a day return. The clerk would have been the lovely young man who was shot.’

  ‘What do you remember about him? What was he like?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to think back, but there was nothing special about him. He had fair hair, I think … and he wasn’t very old. That’s about all I remember. The business of getting a ticket took only a few seconds. You see, I had the right money …’

  ‘Was there a queue? Did you see who was in front of you, or behind you?’

  ‘No. There was no queue, Inspector. It wasn’t busy at all when I went there.’

  ‘So you went through to the platform?’

  ‘Yes. On my way to the platform I passed the priest coming off the platform. I didn’t take much notice but a dog collar makes you look again, if you know what I mean.’

  Angel’s heart leaped. She had seen the priest from the front. He nodded encouragingly. ‘Would you describe him?’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘A typical, average, middle-aged man in a dark suit, with a dog collar and black shirt and, I think, black shoes.’

  ‘How tall was he?’

  ‘Say, about five foot eight.’

  ‘What was his hair like? Did he have a moustache or a beard? And was he wearing specs?’

  ‘I only saw him for two seconds, Inspector. But I don’t think he had any facial hair, and he wasn’t wearing spectacles. His hairline was average, I suppose. To tell the truth, I can’t remember. There was nothing striking about his face or his hair. It must have been brown or black. He was just … ordinary. Except for the dog collar, everything about him was … very ordinary.’

  Angel nodded.

  ‘I must say,’ she said, ‘he looked very much like a priest. Smart, intelligent and sober. He could be a real priest.’

  Angel considered it. She was right, of course, but what a dreadful thought! ‘Mmm. Then what happened?’

  ‘I went on to the platform.’

  ‘Did you see anybody on the platform … either platform?’

  ‘There were a few people … fifteen or twenty … all sorts of people …’

  ‘Can you describe any of them?’

  ‘No. There were people of all kinds. Looked like workmen, students, housewives doing what I was doing, shopping and so on …’

  ‘So where do you think the gunman came from? Which direction?’

  ‘He definitely came from the direction of the platforms. Don’t ask me which platform. I didn’t see.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I could hear my train coming in the distance. I looked down the platform for it. Then I heard a loud, angry voice behind me. It was from the ticket office. I was only a few yards away from the barrier. He shouted something like, “Where was he going? That’s what I want to know.” I think that’s what he said. If the clerk replied, I didn’t hear him. I thought it was unusual, so I turned round, stepped up the platform to the barrier and peered round the corner. My train was almost at the platform. The brakes shrieked. Carriage doors slammed. I saw the priest reach down into his right pocket – well, I assume that’s what he did. It was his right-hand side. I could only see his left-hand side. Anyway, up came his hand with the gun in it. He pointed the gun at the window and then there was a very loud bang. It was very loud. I pulled back round the corner before he saw me. I went all shivery and leaned back against the wall. Then the stationmaster rushed past me. My heart was pounding. He had been on the platform. He was making for the ticket office. I recovered myself and looked round the corner again, but there was no sign of the man with the gun. The stationmaster was having trouble unlocking the ticket-office door. The key seemed to be stuck. He was very upset. I helped him. We went in together and found the ticket clerk on the floor bleeding profusely from his chest.’

  She stopped and reached in her pocket for a tissue.

  ‘Then you phoned for an ambulance and the police?’ Angel said.

  Her mouth turned down. A tear rolled down her cheek. She nodded.

  Angel stood up. ‘Well, thank you. We’ll take a little break, shall we?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ he said, making for the door. ‘I’ll see what’s happened to that tea.’

  He came out into the passageway. He looked up at the green corridor. It was very quiet, then he heard the rattle of pots. Ahmed came round the corner with a tin tray holding cups, saucers and teapot.

  ‘I thought you must have gone to Bombay for that tea, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Take it straight in. Then bring in the laptop with the videos of the rogues’ gallery. Then you’d better phone the hospital and see how Harry Weston is and if it is possible that I could have a few words with him.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel went into interview room two, next door. DC Scrivens and the stationmaster were seated opposite each other at the table. Scrivens jumped to his feet.

  Angel gestured to him to sit down. He looked at the stationmaster. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said quietly. ‘But I would like to know how Harry Weston is. And I would like to get home.’

  Angel knew the feeling. He felt exactly the same. The remains of yesterday’s topside of roast beef, cold with pickles, were waiting for him.

  ‘Won’t be long now, sir. By the way, the lad that’s been shot, Harry Weston. I need to know his next of kin.’

  The stationmaster jumped to his feet, his bottom lip quivering. ‘Why? Have you heard from the hospital?’ he said. He looked very grim, expecting the worst. ‘What’s the news?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t heard anything yet, sir. Need to inform his family, that’s all.’

  The stationmaster slumped back down in the chair.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Angel said. ‘He’s in good hands.’

  The stationmaster looked up at Angel and nodded. He knew it was true. Then he frowned and said, ‘He’s not married. Never has been. And I know his father and mother are dead.’

  ‘Right. Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’ He closed the door and returned to interview room one.

  He was pleased to see Zoe Costello holding a florally decorated saucer with one hand and sipping tea from a matching cup with the other. She looked across at him and smiled. ‘I hope that your tea is still hot, Inspector,’ she said, pointing to the cup on the tray.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Costello,’ he said. He closed the door, sat down, reached out for the cup and took a gulp. He put the cup down and licked his lips. ‘I’ve been waiting for that,’ he said.

  On the table he noticed the laptop that Ahmed must have brought in. He plugged it in and lifted the lid. The video had twenty-four of the worst-known-gun-toting thugs at liberty in the UK at that moment. It showed front face, left profile, right profile and front face again. He set the video running and watched for her reaction.

  After five minutes, the show was over.

  ‘He’s not there, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t pleased. He wasn’t surprised either. Nobody had ever said that catching murderers was easy.

  ‘Thank you very much, Miss Costello,’ he said. ‘I won’t keep you any longer. I’ll arrange for you to have a lift home. Thank you for your cooperation. I’ll be in touch.’

  He then unplugged the laptop and carried it next door.

  Scrivens stood up as he came through the door. He looked at Angel with raised eyebrows.

  Angel said, ‘Get Transport to organize the safe delivery of Miss Costello home, Ted. And Ahmed is still around somewhere. Send him to me, then sign out and get yourself off home.’

  Scrivens was pleased. He smiled, nodded and went out, closing the door.

  Angel looked at the stationmaster, who was very quiet. It had been a long day. ‘Won’t be long now, sir. By the way, what is your name?�
� he said as he plugged in the laptop and opened the lid.

  ‘Evans, Deri Evans,’ the stationmaster said.

  ‘Well, Mr Evans, I just want you to look at this short video of known villains. See if you can pick out anybody you may have seen today. Please take your time. This is very important. Then I’ll arrange for you to be taken home.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He started the CD. ‘Now then, do you recognize any of these charmers?’

  ‘You know I didn’t see the man actually pull the trigger, Inspector,’ he said as the first video picture arrived on the screen.

  ‘I understand that, Mr Evans, but you might have seen the man on the platform or hanging around the station?’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Aye. We’ve almost finished here, lad. Arrange with Transport to take Mr Evans home and be sure to take his address. Go and sign out, then collect him from here and get the driver to drop you off on his way back.’

  ‘I’ll stay on and assist you, sir, if you want me to.’

  ‘Nice of you, lad. But no need. Besides, your mother will wonder where you are at this time.’

  ‘Right, sir. I’ll be back for Mr Evans in a few minutes then.’

  He went out.

  Angel turned back to the stationmaster.

  ‘Any joy, Mr Evans?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’

  The picture show ended.

  ‘Sorry, inspector,’ Evans said.

  Angel sighed and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Evans. I hope you have a good night.’

  Angel then went to his office and slumped in the chair. He looked up the Intensive Care ward phone number at Bromersley General and tapped it out. He hoped he might be able to see Harry Weston briefly and ask him if he could name or describe his assailant.

  ‘Intensive Care,’ a soft woman’s voice said.

  ‘Bromersley Police,’ he said. ‘I am inquiring about Harry Weston. Would it be possible to see him briefly tonight?’