Murder in Bare Feet Page 6

  The gang leader pulled a cook’s clockwork timer out of his pocket, set it for one minute and put it on a shelf in the vault. Then he took two plastic bags from the tool kit, threw one at the other man and the two of them began to fill them with all the used paper money they could see.

  Out of the corner his eye, the leader saw Widdowson sidling towards the security door. He pointed the gun in his direction and pulled the trigger. A shot rang out and made a hole in the plaster a foot away from his head.

  Widdowson cried out, ‘No! No!’ His hands shot back up and he froze against the wall.

  The two young clerks pressed themselves closer to the wall, their arms stretching upwards and shaking.

  Faces with expressions of panic, fear, excitement, but mostly fear appeared at windows in the security door. The constant hum of the buzzer on the door added to the racket and bedlam.

  In the vault were shelves and shelves of paper money in cellophane packets. The robbers were selective. Some packets contained euros and various foreign currencies. They chose used sterling notes, in tens and twenties. There were a lot of the new twenty-pound notes: they preferred the old design, but they didn’t waste time being choosey.

  Suddenly, the bell on the cook’s timer rang. The leader picked it up, stuffed it in the bag with the money and turned to his mate. ‘Come on,’ he yelled.

  They screwed tight the necks of the bags, picked up the tool box, looked round to make sure nothing was left behind, rushed over to the rear door of the bank, unlocked it with the keys on Widdowson’s bunch and dashed out.

  Outside waiting was the counterfeit ambulance, with its rear doors wide open. They threw the sacks and tool boxes in the back and then themselves. Then the vehicle roared away from the bank, siren wailing as they pulled the doors to from the inside.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Come in,’ Harker said, looking meaner than usual. His ginger eyebrows fluttered up and down as he spoke. It frequently happened when he didn’t understand something or was unusually surprised. He was waving a paper in his hand.

  Angel recognized it as his short account of yesterday’s events.

  ‘I’ve read your report. It doesn’t make any sense. You have to write reports that make sense.’

  Angel sighed. For the first time in his life, he realized that Harker’s head looked like a Neolithic skull with ears, nose and chin added as an afterthought.

  ‘What exactly—’

  ‘You’ve got down here that the man who shot this scrapdealer, Pleasant, was in his bare feet.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Well there you are. I mean, that can’t be right. How could he get around? I mean, well, firstly, how could he get to the position on the side of the road to shoot the scrapdealer and then make good his escape? If he had no shoes on, how could he run? And how could he possibly drive? It’s almost unknown for us to get a killer by use of a firearm who does not make his or her escape on foot or by means of a road vehicle?’

  ‘I only reported what I found, sir. I can’t yet explain—’

  ‘Have you tried walking on pavements and streets without shoes and socks on?’

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘It’s bad enough trying to walk across the sands. Those sun-baked corrugated surfaces … and pebbles and sea shells play havoc with your instep.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Had you considered that if this outlandish theory was correct, which I don’t believe for one moment, then the killer could be used to walking about without shoes?’

  ‘You mean like a native of some foreign country?’

  ‘The Blackfoot were members of a tribe of Algonquin American Indians. I believe they walked about bare foot.’

  Angel blinked. ‘That was years ago.’

  ‘Might run in the family. Or could it have been a Sasquatch?’

  ‘Sasquatch? Not sure if they really exist, sir.’

  He frowned. Harker was getting carried away. Angel couldn’t imagine a seven foot ape-like character committing a murder in the backstreets of Bromersley in broad daylight.

  ‘Anyway, they’re native to America and have huge feet,’ he said. ‘But I will keep all my options open, sir.’

  ‘I should hope so.’

  ‘It’s early days,’ Angel said. ‘I certainly have enough evidence to prove that the murderer, at the time of the murder, was standing in his bare feet. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Ah! But that isn’t the entire story, is it? There’s more, isn’t there? You go on to say that the murdered man, who is fully dressed in a lounge suit, found dead in the driving seat of a Bentley, has no shoes on! No shoes on. Could he possibly have driven the car there in his stocking feet? And he lived on Creesforth Road. I don’t think he could have driven that far in his stocking feet.’

  ‘I am puzzled by it, sir, but I have only just started. I have a good footprint of the murderer. If an appropriately qualified suspect’s bare foot matches that footprint, then we have irrefutable evidence that will certainly convict him.’

  Harker nodded in confirmation, which made Angel look up in surprise. Harker didn’t usually agree with anything he said.

  The phone rang. Harker snatched it up.

  It was a civilian telephonist in the operations room. She sounded unusually agitated. ‘Just received a call from the manager of the control room of Bex Security in Sheffield, sir. They have received a signal indicating an unidentifiable interruption to normality at one of the clients they monitor in Bromersley, namely The Great Northern Bank. They also said that all the banks phone lines are down, and that their fax and computer contacts are dead. Bex are therefore formally advising us that a bank raid is now in progress.’

  Harker felt his heart begin to thump. ‘Right, I—’

  ‘One moment, sir, please hold on. Something just coming in … in connection with that … ah, my colleague tells me she has received a call from the actual manager of the bank, a Mr Hobson. He confirms that all their lines are down and says he’s been able to make contact because he is using his personal mobile phone. He would like to speak to a senior police officer. Shall I patch him through to you?’

  Harker licked his lips. He was anxious to take some action. He wasn’t certain what. ‘Yes, of course.’

  The caller’s voice was strained.

  ‘Hello? This is Hobson here. I am the manager of The Great Northern Bank.’

  ‘Yes sir, go ahead. Detective Superintendent Harker here.’

  Harker could hear the bank alarm screeching through the earpiece.

  ‘We have just had an armed robbery, and the robbers have stolen a great deal of the bank’s money!’

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  Angel and the SOCO team led by DS Taylor arrived to find the Great Northern Bank in chaos and disorder.

  A few people were hanging around the front door, which was closed and locked. Customers had been asked to leave. Water was still pouring out of the staff lavatory and the hideous indescribable stink pervaded the entire building.

  Angel soon found the source of the smell. It was actually outside the lavatory. Tacked by sticky tape in the hinge of the door was the remains of a small glass vial of what he guessed had contained sulphretted hydrogen. That’s what would have created the foul smell. It was simple to trigger. All that had been required was for the lavatory door to be closed. That would have smashed the vial and released the smell. Easy.

  Angel was still there at half past four after having surveyed the scene, interviewed the manager, all the staff and taken their written statements. He had worked out most of the details of how the raiders had perpetrated the devious scheme to rob the bank, although he had not yet established how they had managed to arrange for a flood of water to envelop the bank some minutes after the ‘pregnant’ woman had been taken away in the counterfeit ambulance. The plumbers said that the smell was in no way associated with the water closet or the drains, which were not blocked and had not been b
locked throughout the mayhem. The flood, which had consisted of clean, cold water had been caused by some mysterious interference with the ball cock mechanism causing the cistern to overflow ten minutes after the phoney ambulance had taken the woman away. They were unable to provide any explanation as to how the robbers had organized the sophisticated delay and the ensuing flood so skilfully.

  SOCO had searched throughout the areas where the raiders had been, but they had not been able to find any fingerprints, footprints, DNA or any other physical evidence. The shell case from the spent bullet was a .32 calibre; it was too common a calibre to be certain of the gun that it was fired from, also there were no prints on the shell case.

  Angel had commandeered all the CCTV tapes throughout the bank for that day and hastily raced through them in one of the bank’s offices. He observed that the ID of the two male raiders was not going to be possible as they both wore real or false beards during the time they were in the banking hall and then masks in addition when in the secure area. He noticed also that they wore rubber gloves. The CCTV pictures of the ‘pregnant’ woman were clear, but females were notoriously able to disguise their appearance with wigs and make-up, and the padding stuffed up the young woman’s skirt totally camouflaged her physical outline. Her thumb tip and fingertips must have been covered with glued pads because no fingerprints were found on the places she had touched, such as the door and handle of the loo. He made a rough estimation of her height at about five feet four inches.

  He trawled the street outside the bank, and ventured into the solicitor’s office next door, but no one could give a useful description of the man in the telephone engineer’s rig-out, seated on the little stool on Huddersfield Road, who had managed so expertly to intercept and manipulate the various telephone calls to and from the bank and then, before leaving, to assist the gang in its escape, had managed to sever all the bank’s telephone and internet links to the outside world. No one seemed to have noticed him and his illicit shenanigans. The presence of a man dressed like that, working at an outside communication box in the street, was such a common sight these days.

  Two local bank directors had arrived post haste from Nottingham. They took over the bank from Hobson, interviewed him and sent him home. Their principal tasks had been to cooperate with the police in their investigation to find the raiders, to consider what changes, if any, ought to be made to maintain the highest level of security, determine the branch’s losses and get the bank in order for reopening as soon as possible. Under their direction, bank staff, plumbers, carpenters, locksmiths, cleaners, alarm and telephone engineers rushed round the building trying to get the bank organized and ready for re-opening the following morning.

  Angel went up to the open door of the manager’s office and spoke to one of the directors busy at the desk.

  ‘My chaps have finished here, Mr Benson. And I am off. Have you worked out how much money they took?’

  ‘I have it exactly.’ He reached out to an adding machine print out and said, ‘Four million, nine hundred thousand pounds sterling. Mostly in used ten and twenty-pound notes. Not bad for a morning’s work, eh?’ he said wryly.

  Angel shook his head. ‘Not good,’ he said.

  ‘Have you any suspects then?’ Benson said.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Angel said. He tried to sound bright and optimistic, but privately he reckoned it was going to take some solving. It was a very thoroughly thought out operation. Some person or persons with an understanding of modern telephone technology as well as a master of organization, discipline and simple psychology had conceived this bold plan that had left behind no forensic for him to work on.

  ‘You discovered the source of the foul smell and how it was activated, but did you manage to work out how they managed to flood the place ten minutes after the woman had left the premises?’ Benson said.

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘No, but I hope to.’

  ‘These thieves could have taught Houdini a few tricks, eh?’

  Angel sniffed then nodded thoughtfully.

  Ahmed opened the door. ‘Good morning, sir. You wanted me?’

  ‘Yes, lad,’ Angel said. ‘Come in. Close the door a minute.’

  Ahmed’s eyes narrowed as he came up to Angel’s desk.

  ‘In the SOCO office,’ Angel said, ‘Don Taylor has got the lads there making copies in plaster of Paris of the print of the bare foot of the murderer of Charles Pleasant. They’re for distribution to the Head of CID at all forty-three forces. It’s important that they arrive speedily and in perfect condition. Now I’ll give you the draft of a letter to accompany each of them. I want you to print copies of the letter, then liaise with SOCO, and pack them, include a copy of the letter, label them, and get them posted ASAP. All right?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘And tell Don I want a couple of extra copies for me in here, and I want another for our charge room. I’ll brief the duty sergeant in the charge room myself, and he can pass it on to the afternoon shift and so on. All right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said and bounced cheerfully out of the office.

  Angel watched the door close, then looked down at the pile of envelopes on his desk. Most of them had arrived while he had been out of the office the previous day. He fingered through them disinterestedly with a faraway look about him. Then his fingers stopped moving. His mind was on a blurred male figure, at the side of the road, on Sebastopol Terrace, standing there in bare feet, firing a gun. He couldn’t stop himself from repeatedly asking why anyone would choose to remove their shoes and socks in order to commit a murder. It had no merit that he could see. It was simply not a good idea, unless the murderer was used to walking bare foot. If that had been so, he would have to consider whether he was looking for someone who didn’t need shoes to walk about or drive a car. But that didn’t seem right either, because in this country, a barefooted man would be so conspicuous. Nobody could walk the streets of Bromersley without shoes.

  His thoughts dissolved away as he realized that someone was knocking at the door.

  It was Doctor Mac. He was carrying a large, tightly stuffed Manila envelope with the word EVIDENCE printed in red across it.

  Angel smiled at his old friend.

  ‘I finished the PM last night,’ Mac said. ‘I still have the report to tidy up and print out, but I wanted to get rid of this money. The mortuary doesnae have a safe, you know.’ He slapped the thick envelope on Angel’s desk.

  Angel frowned. He picked up the envelope. It was certainly bulky. ‘What’s in here?’

  ‘The contents of the victim’s pockets including eight thousand quid in twenties, tenners and fivers.’

  Angel’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘The money was spread about his pockets,’ Mac continued, ‘so that it wouldn’t stick out too much, I suppose.’

  ‘Is his wallet there?’

  ‘Yes, with more than a hundred quid in it, and there was a parcel of that cash in the same pocket, keeping it company.’

  ‘So our murderer’s motive wasn’t robbery then,’ Angel said. ‘Ta, Mac. What else can you tell me that’s interesting?’

  ‘Nothing much. He was shot in quick succession, I expect … in the head, twice … then once in the arm and once in the chest. A .32 … from between ten and fifty yards. He would have died instantly.’

  ‘Must have used a silencer?’

  Mac nodded. ‘Aye. I’m not much into ballistics, but I know with a modern silencer it would have made less noise than the backfiring of a kid’s motorbike.’

  ‘Hmm. Was it a handgun?’

  ‘I think so. If it was a handgun, it was well aimed. No wide shots. The one in his arm went straight through him and then out through the windscreen.’

  ‘Any prints on the shell cases?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hmm. What sort of a health was he in.’

  ‘Pretty good fettle. Early signs of cirrhosis. Not much. He must have been taking plenty of water with it. Everything else looked in good or
der. Looked after himself. Probably a member of a gym. Signs of a deep natural tan wearing off. He probably wintered in a hot climate somewhere. His clothes were of the best. Reid and Taylor worsted suit, silk underwear, monogrammed shirt.’

  Angel smiled. ‘He doesn’t sound like your regular scrap-metal man, does he? Was he into drugs?’

  ‘Not as far as I could see. No needle marks … well, not in the usual places anyway. And no tattoos.’

  He stood up and made for the door. ‘I must go. I’ll email the full PM report to you later today.’

  ‘Well thanks, Mac. Must ask you. Can you possibly understand why a murderer would stand in the street in his bare feet to shoot his victim? I mean, have you any idea at all?’

  ‘I have no idea, Michael. I was thinking about it last night. I have absolutely no idea. I’m a scientist. I deal in facts. My investigations produce specific answers. With me, it’s yes or no. Positive or negative. Black or white. Fortunately, I don’t have those kind of peculiar puzzles to solve. You’re the expert there, sorry.’

  Angel looked at him and frowned.

  Mac went out and closed the door.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He didn’t feel much of an expert. He reached out and tipped the contents of Pleasant’s pockets out of the evidence envelope on to the desk. As well as the big wodge of £8,000 in mixed notes, there were the more usual things: handkerchief, some coins, a soft camel-skin wallet and a five-lever key on its own. He quickly reached out for the key and sighed with satisfaction. He looked at it closely, turned it over, turned it back, there were no marks on it at all. He held one end between finger and thumb, tapped the other end in the palm of his other hand and looked away through the window. It looked as if it might fit the Philip’s safe he had discovered in the scrapyard under the forklift. He put the key in his pocket and amended the inventory on the paper stapled to the envelope. Then he reached out for the wallet. Inside there was £120 in notes, plastic cards from all sorts of organizations, including the AA, the Great Northern Bank, and some other lesser known names. He had a few business cards of his own describing the business as metal recovery experts, and that was all.