Murder in Bare Feet Page 4

  ‘The divorce was … mutual,’ he said. ‘Expensive, but mutual, dear Inspector. When I threw that bitch out, I thought it healthier for Stanley to have a place of his own. She is his mother, after all. I can’t change that, although I wish that I could. I let him create his own establishment so that she could visit him without me tripping up over her and falling into any more of her feminine trickery. Women can be so deceitful, don’t you think, Inspector? They can think up evil and sinfulness so much more easily than straightforward feeble men like us. You must have come across that in your long experience of studying crime, Inspector?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘So what’s his address?’ he said.

  ‘I am sure he would love to see you, but I don’t think he will be at home, right now. You could telephone him.’

  ‘I may call on him tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow would be good. He will be here all day. You would be sure to catch him.’

  ‘His address and phone number, please.’

  ‘Of course. It is Flat 14, Council Close, Potts New Estate. Telephone 223942.’

  It was half past eight before Angel reached home that night. Mary wasn’t pleased. He hadn’t managed to eat anything since the lunch they had had together at about twelve, noon.

  ‘You’ll put yourself on your back if you don’t eat regular meals,’ she said. ‘That’s what gave your father that ulcer.’

  ‘Yes, well, there wasn’t anywhere … open. It’s Sunday.’

  ‘You must eat proper meals at regular intervals.’

  The roast beef sirloin joint Mary had planned for serving at around 6 p.m. had been left to cool on the work top and covered with a wire-framed linen protector.

  ‘Would you like a slice of cold beef, Yorkshire pudding and gravy? That’s the best suggestion I can make.’

  He nodded thankfully, opened a tin of German beer out of the fridge and settled down at the kitchen table.

  ‘You know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘It’s strike while the iron’s hot. I like to be where it’s happening. There’s always some little thing that the system doesn’t necessarily include that might point to the murderer.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said sceptically as she poured batter across the bottom of the blisteringly hot pan. ‘And has it worked for you this time?’

  He pulled a face. ‘No. Although I might have missed a footprint.’

  ‘Your scenes of crimes team would have picked that up, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Probably. But this was a very unusual footprint. I simply needed to be there.’

  Mary closed the oven door. ‘Oh,’ she said, sitting at the table with him.

  He sipped the beer. It tasted good.

  ‘It was a footprint of the murderer,’ he added. ‘When he shot the victim, he was in his bare feet.’

  ‘Bare feet? Why would the murderer walk about in bare feet? Are you sure it was human?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Why did he take his shoes off then? Was it so that he could creep up behind the victim or something?’

  ‘I don’t know why. He had no need to. He was in the street … about twenty feet away from the man when he shot him.’

  ‘Where did he keep his shoes then? In his pockets? You don’t know if he was dressed or not, do you?’

  ‘No, but I suppose he had trousers on, at least. He wouldn’t get far in Bromersley without them, would he? It was a summer’s day. Sebastopol Terrace was quiet, but he had to get away. It was a cul-de-sac. He would have to get away somehow, either on foot or in a car.’

  ‘He couldn’t drive a car in bare feet, could he?’

  He licked his lips and frowned. ‘Now, there’s a thing.’

  ‘Are you sure the foot marks belonged to the murderer?’

  ‘The angle of entry of the bullets into the victim fits, the range fits, there were discarded shell cases on the floor in front of the footprints. Everything says the murderer had no shoes and socks on, but why?’

  Mary frowned.

  ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘The murdered man was shot in a car and he also had no shoes on. He had socks on, but no shoes. He was smartly dressed. Reid and Taylor worsted, handmade bespoke suit, gold cufflinks, white shirt and tie, but no shoes.’

  ‘It would be hard to drive in his stocking feet.’

  ‘Very difficult. Uncomfortable, pressing on the pedals, especially the brake. What would be the point?’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s going to beat me, Mary, this is. It’s crazy.’

  ‘No it won’t. You’ll solve it,’ she said confidently. She stood up and moved to the sink. ‘You always have done,’ she added.

  He shook his head. She’d more faith in him than he had in himself.

  ‘Wasn’t there a shoe fetish murderer Wakefield way a few years ago?’ she said.

  ‘Mmmm. It was a very strange case. He raped women then murdered them, then stole their shoes.’

  ‘Maybe this murderer misses out on the rape, commits the murder and steals the shoes?’

  ‘Both the murderer and the victim are without shoes. One has socks on, one hasn’t. Doesn’t make sense.’

  Mary was standing in front of the oven stirring a small pan of gravy. She suddenly shuddered. ‘It’s awful. And dangerous. That’s what you’ve been doing this afternoon, is it? Looking for a murdering lunatic who murders people in his bare feet. Why don’t you get a proper job? Like a teacher or something? At least it’s decent and … honourable and safe, dealing with children all day.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘We’ve been through this, Mary, many a time. You know it’s a necessary service … to the community. Somebody needs to do it.’

  ‘Yes, but why you?’ she snapped. ‘It’s dirty. It’s dealing with all sorts of unsavoury people. And it’s downright dangerous!’

  He was caught, unable to find a reply.

  ‘The truth is you enjoy it!’ she added triumphantly.

  He couldn’t deny it. He sighed. He unfolded his serviette and then fiddled with his knife and fork.

  ‘Oh!’ she whooped. ‘Yorkshire pudding’s almost ready. Carve what you want. I’m past it, now. Couldn’t eat a thing.’

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  ‘Good morning, sir. You wanted me?’

  ‘Yes. Good morning, Ron. Come in. Sit down.’

  Gawber closed the office door.

  Angel told Gawber about his interview the previous evening with Emlyn Jones.

  ‘I remember him, sir. Oily individual. Could talk for Wales. With a sickly smile that never went away.’

  ‘It went away when we talked about his ex-wife,’ Angel said.

  They exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘I didn’t get to see their son, Stanley. No reply when I phoned him. No doubt tipped off by his father. I left it until today; however, it’ll have to be done later. Maybe this evening. I don’t want to interview him with his father around.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘No. I’ll catch up with him. There’s plenty I want you to see to. Emlyn Jones. See if you can find anything on his ex-wife, Jazmin Jones aka Jazmin Frazer, also her late sister, Bridie Longley aka Bridie Frazer, on the PNC.’

  The phone rang.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and went out.

  Angel nodded and picked up the phone.

  It was DS Taylor. ‘We’re still here, going through Pleasant’s yard and office, sir. There’s a man turned up for work. Says his name is Molloy. I thought you might want to speak to him.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Keep him there. I’ll come straightaway.’

  The small yard was a tight jumble of crashed cars, refrigerators, oil drums, washing machines and unidentifiable lumps of metal in all shapes, colours and sizes. It was in piles stacked as high as fifteen feet in places. In between the piles was a track, wide enough to enable a vehicle to be driven through the junk to the one-storey breeze block building at the back.

  In the doorway of the building stood a
middle-aged man with his hands in his pockets. He was watching the SOCOs in their white forensic overalls around the yard, picking up pieces of scrap, looking at them, dropping them down behind them and moving on. Occasionally the man looked down at his trainers and kicked the dust like a frisky young pony.

  Angel drove the BMW round the circle and stopped behind the SOCO van. He got out of the car and walked up to him. He introduced himself and found out that the man was called Grant Molloy.

  ‘You the manager, here?’ Angel said.

  ‘I was the manager. Well, I was the only one here. I ran the business for Mr Pleasant … single-handed. He was hardly ever here. In fact, I can’t think what he was doing here yesterday, a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon like it was. Hottest day for years. Can’t think that anybody’d be bringing scrap in at that time. Besides, he scarcely knew copper from 24-carat gold. Anyway, who would want to do a terrible thing like this? It’s like the Wild West.’

  ‘Have you any idea who would profit from Mr Pleasant’s death?’

  ‘No. Nobody.’

  ‘Nobody at all?’ Angel said. ‘Difficult traders who felt they hadn’t had a fair deal?’

  ‘It would be me they would take their revenge out on. I was on the front line.’

  Angel nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘It don’t look as if I’m going to get another wage packet out of this place,’ Molloy said. ‘Does it?’

  ‘I don’t know who Mr Pleasant will have left the business to, but there is bound to be somebody, and presumably they would like you to stay. Do you know Miss Jazmin Frazer? She’s the most likely one to know, I should think.’

  ‘I’ve met her,’ he said. ‘I suppose I should go round and see her.’

  ‘It might be a good idea.’

  Molloy nodded then said: ‘Aye, maybe I will, but I won’t stay here, Mr Angel. It’s time I moved on. This wasn’t a proper business, you know. There could be weeks pass, and I’d only take in a few hundredweight of mixed scrap mostly from regular totters and scroungers. You will know that since scrapdealers had to be registered, it became too big a risk to be accepting sheets of lead and the like, and that used to be the cream of the business. The boss was quite definite about not accepting scrap from doubtful sources. I think he once said he only kept the business going because his grandfather started it and he hadn’t the heart to shut it down. It was a tax loss. That’s what it was, he said, a tax loss.’

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  He asked him further questions about the running of the business, and Molloy took him into the office, unlocked the small, built-in safe in which there was a receipt book, an accounts book and £600 in mixed notes. The arrangement was that Mr Pleasant regularly provided Molloy with a float of a £1,000 and Molloy had that week paid out £400, to totters and people who had brought scrap in. The list of the amounts was in the accounts book and the names and addresses on the carbon copy of the receipt with the cash paid out and description of the scrap received and the weight. Pleasant called in, usually on Monday morning, checked the cash and made the float back up to £1,000.

  Angel took possession of Molloy’s keys, gave him an informal receipt and was taking note of his address.

  There was a noise behind him. It was Taylor.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Could you get the gentleman to move the forklift? There’s stuff behind we need to take a look at.’

  Molloy said: ‘It don’t move. Been broken down years. Mr Pleasant had the only key. But I would have thought you could’ve gotten behind it.’

  Taylor said: ‘Will you have a look, sir?’

  Angel and Molloy followed Taylor out of the office to a yellow, rusty forklift truck that had seen better days. It was backed up close to the side of the office wall, but there were piles of assorted sheets of metal wedged behind it.

  Taylor stood there and pointed to the stuff trapped between the perimeter wall of the yard and the back of the forklift.

  Angel pursed his lips. It didn’t seem that anything could be concealed behind it. It was possible to see pretty well all there was there. He climbed up on to the platform of the forklift and peered down behind it. There were just offcuts from steel sheets. There was no way anything could be concealed. He nodded appropriately and stepped down.

  ‘Shall we leave it, sir?’ Taylor said.

  Angel looked at the rear of the forklift. ‘We can’t push it, Don.’

  ‘You’d never move that by hand,’ Molloy agreed.

  Angel walked round to the front of the forklift and looked down at the parched ground in the sunshine. Something caught his attention. He squatted down and peered closely at the dried earth and the vehicle’s front tyres. He stood up and said: ‘This has been moved … and not long since. It would be shortly after the last heavy downfall of rain.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been,’ Molloy said. ‘The battery’s not been on a charge for two years at least.’

  Angel glanced at him, then went to the back of the forklift, unbuckled the plastic cover from over the top of the battery which was under the driver’s seat, then looked around for something. It was a matter of finding something convenient that would conduct electricity. He saw two strips of steel plate offcuts, each more than yard long. They were hardly a convenient size, but he touched each battery terminal with the corners of the offcuts and then brought the two steel pieces in close proximity to each other. There was a spark sufficient to show that the battery was lively.

  Molloy’s jaw dropped open.

  Angel discarded the offcuts. ‘All we need is the ignition key.’ He turned to Taylor. ‘Have you got Pleasant’s keys?’

  Taylor blinked and dug into his pocket and pulled out a small bunch. ‘Yes, sir. They were in the gate padlock. We used them to lock up last night.’

  Angel nodded.

  Taylor jumped on the forklift and began to try to see if he had the key to fit the ignition. He found it. In seconds, he was able to drive it forward the ten feet or so to enable them to work behind it. He pulled on the brake and stepped down from the driving seat.

  Angel wasn’t interested in what was behind it. He had already looked at that from the platform of the truck. His interest was in what might be underneath it. And he was not disappointed. There was a thin steel sheet about four feet long by two feet wide set on top of well-trodden earth. He stepped forward, lifted it up and pushed it to one side.

  Molloy and Taylor looked on, surprised at Angel’s unexpected move.

  Underneath the steel plate, in an excavated hole, on its back, was a large old iron safe. He nodded with satisfaction and stepped forward to look closely at the door. He recognized the make. It was a Philips Mark II made in Birmingham in the 1930s. He had some idea what the key would look like. He looked at Taylor. ‘You’ve got the keys, Don. Is there one on the bunch to fit this?’

  Taylor reached up to the ignition of the forklift, took out the keys, glanced at them, looked at Angel who with a gesture invited him to toss them down to him. He caught them easily and quickly went through them and instantly knew it wasn’t there. He tossed them back and rubbed his chin. He peered down at the safe and found a serial number stamped neatly on a small brass-coloured plate under the handle. ‘12574’. He wrote it down on the back of an envelope.

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do about that until we get the key.’ He reached down, picked up the steel sheet and threw it back across the top of the safe. Then he instructed Taylor to reverse the fork lift and leave it as it was.

  Molloy had been standing silently when Angel discovered that the battery was charged and the forklift was in working order and that there was a safe hidden underneath it. When Angel questioned him, he said he knew nothing at all about it and thereafter he left his home address and took his leave.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He took out his mobile and tapped in a number. It was soon answered. It was PC Ahaz.

  ‘Ahmed, I want you to look up the telephone number of Philips Safes in Birmingham in the address book on my tabl
e. You’ll need to ask to speak to a specified name and then give them a specific code word – both are in my book – before they will tell you anything helpful. It’s their security routine, all right? When you’ve gone through that, ask them if they would be good enough to send by registered post a key for one of their safes. It is a Mark II and the serial number is 12574. All right?’

  ‘Got that, sir.’

  ‘Also, I want you to ask Inspector Asquith if he would be good enough to organize a full-time security watch on these premises from 1700 hours today until 0830 hours tomorrow.’

  He closed the mobile, pushed it into his pocket. He looked round for Taylor who was with other SOCOs, turning over the scrap metal. He went up to him and said, ‘By the way, Ron, I want you to lift the street grates.’

  ‘I thought you would, sir. We’ll do that on the way out. How far do you want us to go?’

  ‘Just to the end of this street. Being a cul-de-sac, it’s the only way the murderer could have gone. If he was on foot, he wouldn’t want to have carried the gun far.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And see if there are any shoes on your travels.’

  ‘Shoes. Right, sir.’

  Angel then said: ‘By the way, the plaster cast of that footprint, I hope you’ve got it somewhere safe?’

  ‘It’s on my desk at the station, sir.’

  ‘Good. When you’ve finished here, I want you to make forty-three copies of it. I want to send each force a plaster cast.’

  Taylor raised his eyebrows. ‘Great idea. Then at each force CID, when a likely candidate comes into their hands, they’ll be able to check on the spot whether he’s our man or not. A bit of a twist on the prince fitting the slipper on Cinderella, sir?’

  Angel nodded grimly, then shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing else to go on.’

  He pointed the bonnet of the BMW along Creesforth Road and through the open gates of the big white detached house, The Hacienda. He steered round the marble fountain, pulled up in front of the white steps, got out, glanced at the spray of water shooting out of the mouth of the angelic marble figure facing the blue sky, then ran up the steps on to a balcony. He stepped forward to the giant wooden arched door, found the iron handle at the side of it and pulled it down several times. He heard bells ring from somewhere distant. He waited for what seemed a long time and there was no response. He was beginning to think that Jazmin Frazer was out when he heard a woman’s voice call out above the sound of the fountain spray: ‘Inspector!’