The Dog Collar Murders Page 5

  She beamed.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Angel added.

  He returned to his office.

  A few minutes later, after Carter had seen Mrs Vincent out of the station, she made her way to Angel’s office.

  He wasn’t in a bright mood. He was chasing a noisy winter bluebottle round his office with a rolled-up copy of Police Review. It suddenly stopped buzzing and disappeared, back into hibernation. He didn’t see where it had landed. He returned to his desk, dropped the magazine on to it and sat down.

  ‘Who would want to murder a ticket clerk, Flora?’ he said. Before she could reply, he said, ‘It couldn’t simply be for a ticket to Sheffield, Land’s End or London or somewhere. And it wasn’t for the contents of the till. There was only peanuts in it. And it was intact anyway. Miss Costello said she had heard the gunman shout at the ticket clerk: “Where was he going? That’s what I want to know.”’

  ‘Must have been referring to someone they both knew, sir?’

  ‘Mmm. But he was shouting it, Flora. Not asking it. Must have been important to him.’

  ‘He wasn’t getting an answer, sir.’

  ‘Or he wasn’t getting the answer he wanted to hear.’

  ‘Or Harry Weston simply didn’t know the answer.’

  ‘It might be that their relationship was more than a ticket sales clerk and rail traveller.’

  ‘Yes indeed, sir.’

  ‘I’ve met some bent priests and queer vicars in my time,’ Angel said, ‘but I have never met a reverend who was a murderer, or carried a handgun. The bogus ones that I have had dealings with were pathetic, inadequate men whose crimes were limited to stealing female underwear from clothes lines and manipulating young people to talk freely about their sex lives.’

  She nodded, knowingly. ‘I had a boyfriend who was a bit like that.’

  Angel frowned.

  ‘Only joking, sir. Seriously, do you think that the murder was personal, then? Not really anything to do with travelling on the railway but to do with Harry Weston, the man?’

  He shook his head. ‘I really don’t know.’

  There was a knock at the door. It opened. It was Crisp. He peered round the door, smiling.

  Angel’s eyes flashed. His hands gripped the ends of the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white.

  ‘Am I intruding, sir?’ Crisp said.

  ‘Of course you’re intruding!’ Angel roared. ‘But come in anyway. Shut the door. Wait there and keep your mouth shut a minute.’

  He turned back to Carter and said, ‘Now what were you saying, Flora?’

  ‘I was wondering if the relationship between the murderer and the murdered man had some history to it.’

  ‘I don’t know, lass. I want you to find that out. SOCO are going over his pad now. They should be finished by lunchtime. They have done the ticket office. I want to know if Harry Weston had a man friend who fits the description of the murderer … or any sort of a friend of either sex. Find out who he mixed with. What he does – what he did – for kicks. What jobs he had before, if any. And in particular, if he had anything to do with the church, or a genuine priest or a man who parades round in a dog collar.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  She nodded at Crisp, who smiled, and went out.

  Crisp took a tentative step towards Angel’s desk.

  Angel glared across at him. ‘Where the hell have you been? I give you an important job and then you disappear into outer space.’

  ‘That van, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘You asked me to—’

  ‘I know what I asked you to do. Right. What have you got?’

  ‘The van was stolen from a removals firm parking lot in Sheffield, Sunday night, Monday morning, sir. Nobody noticed it had been taken until nine o’clock yesterday morning. It was reported stolen by the owners to Sheffield force. It wasn’t loaded. An hour later, at ten o’clock exactly, the van was found parked awkwardly across Almsgate with two tyres slashed. I couldn’t find anyone who actually saw it being driven into position.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. So the removals van had been in position only seconds before the security van arrived and indeed before the assault on the van with the overhead crane. It was pretty close timing. The tyre slashing sounded to be excessively heavy-handed just to make sure the van was kept in position for several minutes.

  ‘Any prints? DNA? Clues? Anything left behind?’

  ‘Just the screwdrivers used to slash the tyres.’

  ‘Unusual. They wouldn’t be sharp enough, would they?’

  ‘They were ground to points, sir. Fine points.’

  Angel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Get them. I want to see them.’

  ‘SOCO will have them.’

  ‘Well, you know where their office is,’ Angel said. ‘If they have finished with them, get them. Bring them here. Now.’

  Crisp, surprised at Angel’s sudden outburst, jumped up, mouth open, said, ‘Yes, er, right, sir,’ and dashed out of the office.

  Angel reached over to the phone. He picked it up and tapped in a number. ‘Ahmed, how are you making out with that NCOF artist and Miss Costello?’

  ‘This afternoon, sir. Two o’clock. Here. I thought they’d be all right in the CID briefing room or an interview room if it’s busy.’

  ‘Sounds good, lad,’ he said and replaced the phone.

  It rang as soon as it landed in its cradle. The caller was Don Taylor.

  ‘We’ve just arrived at Harry Weston’s place, sir, 82 Shaw Street. It’s a scruffy two-room flat, Victorian house split into eight flats.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to give it the full treatment, Don. Harry Weston died overnight.’

  ‘Oh,’ Taylor said. There was an awkward moment while he took in the sad news and the significance, then he said, ‘Well, it still won’t take long, sir. The bathroom’s out for a start. Three other parties share it.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Angel said. He raised his eyes heavenward and breathed out. That was more bad news. Private bathrooms were usually a good source for DNA. Shared bathrooms would provide all sorts of irrelevant and therefore unreliable samples.

  ‘What did you get from the scene?’

  ‘There was nothing we could get the murderer’s DNA from. There were no fingerprints or footprints. Harry Weston was shot in the chest with one round from a .32 handgun. We found the shell case under the ticket-office window. It had been wiped clean of prints before loading. That’s all.’

  Angel grunted. ‘About as clean a job as a murderer would wish for.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Right. What about that crane?’

  ‘That crane,’ Taylor said. ‘Phew! I’m still getting my breath. It wasn’t safe. It swayed in the wind.’

  ‘You’re getting soft. What did you find up there?’

  ‘There were no prints, nor DNA, sir. The control box had been jemmied open and a screwdriver jammed between terminals to bypass the power switch. Crude, but effective.’

  ‘He must have known what he was doing. Let me have the screwdriver when you’ve finished checking it out.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel replaced the phone and leaned back in the chair. He rubbed his hand slowly over his chin. It was becoming apparent that forensic science was not going to help him solve this case. He was going to have to depend on old-fashioned legwork, intuitive questions and experienced observation.

  He suddenly became aware that the bluebottle had started up its monotonous buzzing again. It zigzagged across his desk and made for the closed window. He stood up, reached out for the Police Review, rolled it up and was about to lunge into attack when the phone rang.

  He turned back and picked up the handset. The caller coughed. Angel recognized the noisy breathing. It was Superintendent Harker.

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he said, lowering the magazine.

  ‘It’s a triple nine, lad. A priest found in a bad way in St Mary’s Church vicarage, by his housekeeper, died a few minutes ago. She said a
wound to the chest.’

  Angel’s head came up. His heart began to pound.

  That was the Anglican church closest to the station and regarded as the town church of Bromersley. Angel knew the priest there – Sam Smart, a pleasant, elderly gentleman who wouldn’t harm a fly.

  ‘Police and ambulance summoned,’ Harker said. ‘Man was pronounced dead in situ at 1006 hours.’

  ‘Did the housekeeper give the name of the victim, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Reverend Samuel Smart.’

  It hit Angel right in the chest. A gentle man, much loved and respected.

  ‘There is a uniformed officer from foot patrol in attendance,’ Harker said.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Angel managed to say then he replaced the phone.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Crisp. He came in brightly. He was brandishing the two screwdrivers recovered from the tyres of the stolen removals van. When he saw Angel, his expression changed.

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  Angel breathed in deeply, then exhaled. He told Crisp about the triple nine, instructed him to inform SOCO and the uniform branch, and then to join him at the scene.

  Angel dashed out of the station, crossed the road, stepped lively along the flagstone footpath towards town for twenty yards or so, then turned left down to the church gates. Beyond the church and gravestones, he could see the bright yellow coat of PC John Weightman. The big man was stamping his feet and rubbing his hands outside the black door of the stone vicarage in the grounds of St Mary’s Church. Angel made his way through a gate and along a path towards him.

  Weightman threw up a salute as Angel came up to him.

  ‘Anybody in there, John?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Weightman said. ‘Except the body of the vicar, Samuel Smart, of course.’

  ‘Where’s the housekeeper?’

  He pointed across the graveyard. ‘She was in the church.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s taken it bad, sir. Real bad.’

  Angel couldn’t avoid the slightest sigh. ‘Did you get her name?’

  ‘Norma Ives, sir.’

  Angel took the short walk along a narrow path through the gravestones towards the church door. As he reached out for the handle, the door opened and a young woman came out. She looked at Angel momentarily then looked away. Her face was white and her hands were shaking in the cold.

  ‘Are you Miss Norma Ives?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. You will be the police?’

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Angel. I need to ask you some questions, miss. Shall we walk up to the police station? It’s only a couple of minutes away. It’ll be warm in there too.’

  She nodded, and they set off towards the main gate.

  Crisp was on his way down from the station when he saw Angel and Norma Ives crossing the churchyard, approaching him. He made for the gate, opened it and stood back to let them through. ‘SOCO and uniform on their way, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Right, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Run on ahead and organize some tea in my office. We’re perished.’

  Crisp dashed off.

  When the three were settled with cups of hot tea, Angel took note of her address then said, ‘Now then, Miss Ives, please tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘Well, I do the cleaning, shopping and sometimes a bit of cooking for the vicar, Mr Smart. Call me Norma, by the way. Everybody does. I start at nine o’clock. I have a key, so I let myself in. The vicar has usually had his breakfast, but not always. He might be in the kitchen, finishing off. Anyway, there are pots from the previous night’s supper, so I always wash up and tidy round the kitchen first of all. Then I make him a coffee and take it to him. He could be anywhere … usually the study. Then he tells me what he wants me to do – what to shop for, what to prepare for his evening meal and so on. Well, this morning, I went in. At first I didn’t notice anything unusual, although the sliding wardrobe doors in the entrance hall were not completely closed, and the vicar never used them. He had used them in the past, but they made his clothes damp. So I thought it was unusual. Anyway, I closed the wardrobe doors and went into the kitchen. Again, most of those cupboard doors were open and the stuff inside disturbed. Again I didn’t think anything of it. I thought maybe he’d been looking for something and couldn’t find it. So I straightened them up and closed the doors. Then I washed the pots, dried them and put them away.’

  ‘Nothing unusual about the dirty pots?’ Angel said. ‘No signs that the vicar had had a visitor? No extra cups or glasses?’

  ‘No. Just the usual. Then I made his coffee and went to his study. It’s only across the hall. The door was open so I tapped on the door and went straight in. And there he was on the floor, his shirt and coat and the carpet covered in blood. His eyes were closed. His face was grey. I knew he was dead. Oh, it was awful. Awful. I immediately dialled 999. Then I noticed the mess the study was in. All drawers opened and stuff thrown about, cupboards opened and papers thrown on to the floor, all the pictures on the walls removed and dumped in a pile, corners of the carpets lifted. I couldn’t stay in there. I rushed out. Went upstairs. The scene was the same. All his clothes taken out of the wardrobe and thrown on the floor. Drawers had been pulled out and the contents tipped on to the floor. Pictures thrown in a pile.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Sounds as if the intruder was looking for something, Norma. Had the vicar anything of value?’

  Her eyes grew big. ‘In a vicarage?’ She shook her head. ‘If he had, I never saw it.’

  ‘To your knowledge, did the vicar have anybody call on him over the past few days? I am thinking in particular of anybody unsavoury, who might wish to harm him?’

  ‘All sorts of people called there, Inspector. Mostly by appointment, so they’ll be in his diary, on his desk. But he also had a steady flow of men on hard times. Sometimes women, who came for a handout.’

  ‘Do you remember any particularly difficult person calling, or anyone who you might think would want to do him any harm?’

  ‘Oh no. Mr Smart was the nicest and most gentle of men. But of course there were the down and outs,’ she said. ‘Hardly a day went by without a knock on the door. It was usually a man who looked a bit grubby, needed a shave, sometimes smelled of beer or something worse. Couldn’t look me in the face. He would look down or to one side and say, “I want to see the vicar.” If the vicar was in, I’d ask him to wait a moment. Then I would tell the vicar there’s a “man of the road” to see him. The vicar would always come out in good humour. Sometimes he would deal with the man at the door. Chat with him several minutes, then put his hand in his pocket, give him something and then he would leave. Other times, the vicar would lead him into his study. And they might be together twenty minutes or more.’

  ‘And would the “man of the road” leave happily?’

  She hesitated. ‘I think so. I didn’t always see them go. Depended what I was doing.’

  ‘The vicar gave them money?’

  ‘Oh yes. And probably said a prayer and gave them a blessing. And in some cases, probably counselling. Not that they necessarily took any notice of him.’

  Angel nodded. He squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. He was looking for a murderer. Casual callers had been known to be guilty of murder and robbery. He needed to be sensitive to the possibility that the murder might have been spontaneous, committed by a man who saw something he wanted and the vicar was an obstacle in his way, preventing him from getting it.

  ‘Can you recall the “men of the road” who called during the past week or so, Norma?’

  ‘I don’t know any actual names.’

  ‘Tell me what you know.’

  ‘Well, there is a big, ugly Irishman in a navy blue duffle coat. The vicar used to refer to him simply as “Irish John”. He came only yesterday morning. The vicar took him into his study. They were there twenty minutes or so.’

  ‘Did the vicar keep a record of such a visit?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And where did he
keep the money he handed out?’

  ‘In his pocket, I believe. We are not talking big sums, Inspector.’

  Angel understood that and nodded in agreement. ‘Anybody else who called during the past week or so?’

  ‘There was a young man who had a crutch. He came last Friday morning. He’s been many times before. He used to limp up the path. He also had bandages on one hand. I think the crutch and bandages were just for show. He had very fair hair and for a man, a lot of it. I recall the vicar once referring to him as “Blondie”.’

  ‘Blondie,’ Angel said, nodding several times. ‘And you’d recognize him if you saw him again?’

  ‘Certainly would.’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘There’s a man who used to say that he wanted to see the priest to make a confession. Now he comes almost every week. I have heard the vicar call him Peter.’

  ‘Peter,’ Angel said thoughtfully and leaned back in his chair. ‘Do you think you’d be able to pick out these characters, and indeed any others, from video pictures in our rogues’ gallery?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so,’ she said.

  He turned to Crisp. ‘Set that up, Trevor. See if Miss Ives can find us a suspect.’

  Crisp and Norma Ives stood up to leave.

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

  It was Harker. His voice was stark and emotionless. ‘There’s another triple nine,’ he said. ‘Looks like murder and it’s another vicar.’

  The half-brick in Angel’s chest bounced on to his stomach and then back up.

  ‘The Reverend Raymond Gulli,’ Harker said. ‘St Barnabas Church on Rotherham Road. Found by his wife in the last few minutes.’

  Angel breathed in and then out, deeply, and said, ‘Right, sir. I’ll get straight on to it.’ He replaced the phone.

  Crisp stared at him. He knew Angel well enough to know that the call must have been significant.

  Angel looked up at Crisp and said, ‘Crack on with that job, Trevor. Use an interview room. And send Ahmed into me urgently.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Angel then turned to Norma Ives and said, ‘Thank you, Norma. We appreciate your help. Now if you will excuse me, something else important has cropped up.’