Murder in Bare Feet (3 page)

He looked towards the staircase and yelled, ‘Well mop it up, for god’s sake.’

He turned to Angel, held up his hands and said, ‘It’s like this all day. That’s the wife.’

Angel said, ‘I shall want to speak to her. I shall want to speak to everyone in the house. What about guests? How many have you staying with you. Can I see your register?’

The door at the end of the hall slammed. A girl about 14 or 15 wandered through.

‘There’s nobody else. Just the wife and daughter. Trade is very bad. It’s the weekend.’ Tickle lifted up the register. ‘Have a look but there’s nobody in.’

‘Nobody at all today? Or yesterday.’

‘No.’

The girl shuffled up to the counter, three fingers in her mouth, hair over her face. She stood next to Angel. He smiled at her. She turned up her nose and looked away.

Tickle stared at her with angry eyes.

Angel thought he wanted to say something to her.

Tickle licked his lips and said, ‘Marcia, you should be in the back. You know your mother doesn’t let you come out here.’

‘S’orlright. There’s nobody in. I want ten quid, Dad. Give me ten quid and I’ll go out.’

Tickle shook his head and looked in pain. He turned to Angel. ‘My daughter, Marcia. This is Inspector Angel.’

Angel nodded. ‘Did you hear any gunshots, Marcia. Outside here. About an hour ago?’

‘Naw,’ she said without looking at him.

‘Did you see anything happening unusual at the scrapdealer’s across the way?’

‘Naw.’

She was still gazing at Tickle with her hand held out.

Tickle growled then felt in his pocket, pulled out a small fold of notes, pulled out a ten-pound note, handed it to her and said, ‘Now get out of here and don’t tell your mother.’

She took it, turned and ran towards the door at the end of the hall.

A voice boomed from the staircase. ‘Don’t tell your mother, what?’

Angel turned round. A tall, curvaceous, handsome woman in a smart, sleeveless floral dress carrying a bucket and mop, which looked incongruous in her hands, stepped down off the bottom step. He observed that her hair, make-up and nails were all carefully maintained. Angel thought she was a pretty woman who wasn’t very happy.

It was Mrs Tickle. She stepped into the hall.

The door banged. Marcia had gone.

Tickle looked his wife straight in the face and said, ‘I’ve given ’er a couple of quid and told ’er off for coming out front.’

She wasn’t pleased. She didn’t believe him. She turned to Angel and smiled. She had a small, pretty mouth.

Tickle said: ‘Joanie, this here is Inspector Angel. The police.’

Joan Tickle’s eyes bounced then she smiled quickly. ‘Ooo, Inspector Angel,’ she said. ‘Whatever can we do for you?’

Angel asked her the questions he had asked her husband and her daughter, and she gave the same replies as they had done.

‘Oh dear. Who has been shot then?’

He hesitated. ‘We’re not sure,’ he said. ‘Well, thank you very much. If you hear of anything or remember anything, please contact me at the police station, will you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘How awful. Just outside here and we never knew about it?’

Angel turned away from the counter and made for the front door.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector,’ she said charmingly.

‘Good afternoon.’

Immediately, in a very different tone, he heard her say, ‘You’ve let that dog in again, Samson Tickle. There’s a pool of water on the landing.’

‘Why don’t you just mop it up?’

‘I have done. Where is it now?’

‘Oh. It’s nothing. I’ll take a look,’ he growled. ‘In its kennel, I expect.’

‘Huh! How much money did you give her?’

Angel reached the door and stepped outside. He didn’t wait to hear Tickle’s next lie. He was glad to be out of the smelly place and into the sunshine. He turned right and made for the terraced house next door.

Angel and Gawber discovered nothing helpful from the house-to-house. Nobody had seen anything unusual or heard any gun shots, which confirmed Angel’s thoughts that the murderer had used a gun with a silencer.

They returned to the scrapyard to find that a low loader had arrived, and was lined up ready to winch the Bentley on to the trailer as soon as SOCO had completed its on-site routine of checks.

Angel went inside the marquee. There were four men in whites hovering round the car driver’s door. They were just about ready to open it to transfer the body on to a postmortem stretcher table placed alongside.

DS Taylor came across to Angel and said: ‘Funny thing, sir. There are no fingerprints on the door handle. The dead man isn’t wearing gloves, yet the door handle has been wiped clean.’

Angel blinked, frowned, turned back to Taylor and said, ‘The victim, after stopping, unlocking and opening the yard gates, wouldn’t get back in the car, lower the window and wipe the door handle from the inside, would he?’

Taylor shrugged. He couldn’t explain it. ‘Knew you’d want to know, sir. That’s all.’

He nodded. ‘That’s right, lad.’ He frowned.

‘Everybody ready?’ Dr Mac said.

There were nods and grunts indicating their agreement. Mac grabbed the powerful lamp, put his gloved hand on the car door handle and pulled it open.

The victim’s blood-soaked right arm slid off the steering wheel and flopped down. The SOCO photographer stepped forward and took a string of photographs. Then Mac went up very close with the lamp and began to look over every inch of the body and the surround before it was transferred to the stretcher.

Angel didn’t need a powerful light and magnifying glass to notice something very unusual, something that was to concern him for some time to come. The smartly dressed dead man in the driving seat had no shoes on.

A
s Angel considered the strangeness of this revelation, Mac and the others in the white suits began the exacting business of transferring the body to the stretcher. At the same time, in the street outside the marquee, a low-slung, powerful car came to a halt with a loud squeal of brakes. It stopped in front of the blue and white POLICE LINE – DO NOT CROSS tape, and a busty blonde, with legs so long it must have been snowing at the top got out, lifted up the tape and rushed determinedly towards the white marquee.

PC Weightman saw her coming. He rushed in front of her, raised his hands and said, ‘No, Miss. No, Miss. You must stay behind the tape. Behind the tape, Miss, if you please.’

Her face was red and her eyes watery and frightened. ‘What’s happened? I heard that Charles has been shot. Is that right? And that he’s dead. Shot dead. I’m Charles Pleasant’s … partner. Is that right? Oh no. Say it isn’t.’

‘Behind the tape, Miss, if you please,’ Weightman said, trying to turn her round by her elbows.

She didn’t move backwards at all. She wriggled free. ‘Tell me. Please. Is Charles Pleasant dead?’

‘I’m not sure, Miss. But you must go behind the tape. This is a crime scene and—’

‘But you don’t understand,’ she cried. ‘If he is dead, I know who’s done it. I know exactly who has done it. You must let me through. Besides, I’m his next of kin. I’ve a right to know.’

‘Yes, Miss. But behind the tape, if you please.’

‘I want to see whoever’s in charge?’

PC Donohue licked his lips, rubbed his chin and looked down at the marquee. He took in the situation and came over. They exchanged a few words and Donohue went off to the marquee.

Weightman stayed with the woman. ‘We’ll see what we can do, Miss,’ he said, while shepherding her back under the tape.

Standing outside the marquee was Gawber. Donohue said something to him. Gawber nodded, and went into the marquee.

The young woman wiped her eyes with a tiny tissue.

Weightman sighed and rubbed his chin. He wanted to put his arm round her but he didn’t.

‘Is Mr Pleasant dead, do you know?’

Weightman shook his head. ‘I really don’t know. The body has not been identified as far as I know.’

A few moments later a sombre-faced Angel came out of the marquee, had a few more words with Gawber and then gazed around.

Weightman held up a hand to get his attention.

Angel saw him standing next to the blonde. He walked the few yards up the road, lifted up the tape and went up to them.

‘This is the lady who says she knows who has committed the murder, sir,’ he said.

‘Thanks John,’ he said.

Weightman returned to guarding the tape.

Angel looked wide-eyed at the woman. He noted the tanned tearful face, the long blonde hair and the fruit salad figure. She teetered anxiously up to him. He noticed the excessively high-heeled shoes and guessed they’d come with an excessively high price tag. He also took in the smell of French perfume. At the right time, it could have been more dangerous than a blackjack.

‘You in charge?’ she said tearfully.

He nodded. ‘DI Angel. You are Charles Pleasant’s partner, and you say you know who murdered him?’

‘He is dead? I knew it. I knew Emlyn would do it one day. Yes. My name is Jazmin Frazer, my maiden name. It used to be Jones. I’ve been with Charles for four years now. Oh, whatever am I going to do?’

‘Sorry to have to break the sad news to you, Miss Frazer.’

‘It was too good to last. It really was.’ She began to cry again.

He hesitated, but the question he wanted to ask couldn’t wait. ‘You said that you know who murdered him.’

She looked up. Her lips tightened. ‘Oh yes. Yes. Indeed I do.’ She sniffed. ‘My ex-husband. Well, he’s no man, more of a snake. Emlyn Jones, the antiques dealer. That’s who’s murdered my Charles.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. He knew Jones. An oily, creepy sort of a man. Served two years for drunken driving. Hit a phone box. Was found unconscious with a half-dressed underage girl drunk out of her skull projected through the windscreen from the seat beside him. Indeed Angel had interviewed him several times over the years. His name was frequently cropping up, but he had never been able to make anything stick.

‘Why would he want to do that?’

‘Jealousy. Jealous as hell he was. When I told him I was leaving him, he just laughed. He couldn’t believe that anybody would take a fancy to me. He went wild when he heard it was Charles. He threw two pieces of Rockingham into the fireplace – smashed into a thousand pieces. Twelve hundred pounds just like that.’

‘Has a son, hasn’t he?’

She sniffed. ‘He’s my son, too. Yes. Stanley.’

Angel knew Stanley too. He was no saint.

He licked his lips. ‘How did Emlyn Jones come to know Charles Pleasant then?’

‘Knew him from way back. They’re about the same age. Went to school together.’ Tears welled up again. ‘Oh dear, what am I going to do?’

Angel pursed his lips. He wasn’t much good at comforting witnesses, especially glamorous ones. Weeping women made him as soft as a Strangeways dumpling, and were such an embarrassment.

‘Do you know why your husband turned up here on a Sunday? I mean, was there really any business to be done on a hot, Sunday August afternoon?’

‘Said it was an appointment. Somebody rang this morning. He was meeting somebody with … something. I don’t know what exactly. Half past four. Couldn’t come tomorrow, I think he said. Charles wouldn’t miss a deal if there was profit in it.’

Angel frowned. An appointment? It was both interesting and dreadful: an appointment to be murdered. Nobody was hanging around with any scrap to sell.

‘Didn’t give a name, I suppose?’

‘Didn’t say.’

He shook his head. He couldn’t stay any longer with her. He would have to go back to the scene. Moving the body might reveal more evidence. This wasn’t a good time. There was too much to do.

‘Do you live in town?’

‘Creesforth Road. The Hacienda.’

He remembered it. He had passed it several times. Reminded him of a Mexican ranch he’d seen on American westerns. White stucco front. Outside porch, upstairs balcony. Fountain out front. Incongruous among the other expensive houses on that road.

He nodded. He pulled out his mobile phone and muttered something into it. Then he turned back. ‘I am sending a WPC back with you, Miss Frazer, and I’ll be in touch tomorrow. Thank you for your assistance and please accept my sincere condolences.’

She seemed more controlled then, and was clearly comforted by his few words.

‘You’re very kind,’ she said and turned away.

He called Weightman over, whispered something, then lifted the tape and ducked under it.

Gawber came rushing up.

Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘She says her ex-husband did it.’

Gawber frowned, then shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine anyone deliberately removing their shoes and socks to murder somebody outside, sir.’

‘I know her from somewhere. Says her maiden name is Jazmin Frazer. Ring any bells, Ron?’

‘No, sir. Can’t say it does.’

‘Wasn’t it her sister, Bridie Longley, used to be Frazer, that was found in pieces in an oil drum on the A1 in Leicestershire?’

Angel stopped the BMW on a narrow road in the older part of Bromersley town. He parked on double yellow lines. Being Sunday, almost all the town centre shops were closed; the streets were quiet, resulting in plenty of room to park. He got out of the car right outside The Old Curiosity Shop. It was a big shop with many tiny windows in the frontage and the door. The windows were not decorated in themselves, but the shop stock was clearly to be seen through them. Through any pane of glass could be seen a jumble of antiques plus toys of yesteryear, such as a penny-farthing bicycle, a large Victorian doll’s house and a ventriloquist’s doll in a proportionately small dinner jacket.

Outside and high up on the outside wall was a white alarm box with the words ‘Potts Security’ stencilled on it in blue. Above that were three windows along the length of the wall with strips of pretty floral curtains visible at the sides.

He went up to the door. It had a neat sign in the window advising that the shop was closed. Nevertheless, he found the bell push and leaned on it for a couple of minutes. There was no response. It surely would have roused Rip Van Winkle. He repeated the action and received curious looks from a young couple passing by.

Suddenly he saw a smiling man with shining eyes and a short beard appear inside the shop. It was Emlyn Jones. He was looking especially smart, wearing a dinner jacket. When he saw that Angel had seen him, he rushed to unlock the door.

‘Oh, so very pleased to see you, Inspector Angel,’ he said in a breathy, Welsh voice. ‘Please come in. So very nice of you to call.’

He was almost always smiling.

Angel nodded and went into the shop. He had been there several times over the years, so the style of the man in no way surprised him. He always looked smart, but that evening he looked smarter than usual.

Jones shot a bolt across the door behind him and locked it.

‘Come this way, Inspector. You want to see me about something important? You must do, calling at this time on a Sunday evening. Look, bless you, it is half past six. Please come this way. You will be missing evensong, I know. It’s a sacrifice we have to make when we are in business or in a profession, like you and me. When I was at home in Swansea, I would never have missed chapel, Inspector. It wouldn’t have been allowed. It was a tradition and a discipline to keep us on the track of honesty, integrity and, and, to remind us of those
beautiful
Ten Commandments.’

He led the way past a life-sized teddy bear, an upright piano with two brass candleholders across the front of it and a box of fisherman’s glass floats, a big doll with a pincushion for a stomach with all kinds of old-fashioned hat pins, some twelve inches long, with pearl, brightly coloured glass or Whitby jet ends sticking out of it. On the shelves were various glass vases, goldfish bowls, chamber pots filled with water and each with a red rubber ball floating on the top. Angel frowned and wondered if the floating balls were there to check the wholeness of the pot. Jones took him to a small door with a brass knob. It led into a cubbyhole under the stairs, which had been turned into the tiniest of offices. It had little more in it than a desk, a small cupboard and three chairs.

‘Find a seat you like, Inspector Angel. I will join you directly. Would you like to join me in a glass of port?’

‘No thank you,’ he said sitting on a plush antique chair.

He looked round the tidy little office and was surprised to see four large parsnip roots piled together on top of the low cupboard. He lowered his eyebrows as he considered how they came to be there. There didn’t seem to be any cooking facilities in sight. He remembered Jones had a delightful kitchen in the flat above the shop.

Jones suddenly saw the parsnips and reacted strangely. He was clearly embarrassed. His eyes flashed and he initially put his hands over the parsnips to hide them. Then he looked at Angel and smiled, then he opened the cupboard door, snatched them up and stuffed them quickly on a shelf in there and then clattered some glasses together. He came out with a glass and bottle and with a big smile on his face, showed it to Angel. ‘The very best,’ he said and brandished the label.

‘Not just now,’ Angel repeated.

‘Very well,’ he said still smiling. He placed the glass on the desk, poured the wine into it, put the cork in the bottle, returned the bottle to the cupboard and sat down opposite Angel. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Are you comfortable. It is so long since I have seen you. This is nice. Now, what can I do you for you, Inspector?’

Angel sighed. He began slowly. ‘I met your ex wife, Jazmin, this afternoon. Never met her before.’

Jones’ face changed briefly. The leering smile left him. He took a deep breath. The smile returned. ‘What did the cow want,’ he said, still beaming.

‘She told me that you murdered Charles Pleasant,’ he said evenly.

The smile went again. His hands went in the air. His eyes stared and his face changed to that of a man in agony. ‘So my friend Charles is dead? Oh, how dreadful. How awful. It is a sin. A great sin. I went to school with him, you know. We are the same age. Oh dear. Well, well. Oh, I will sing a Psalm to his memory tonight, Inspector. Two Psalms. Oh, how I wish I could have had gone to chapel this evening. But how perfectly shameful of you, Inspector … to believe that I might have had anything to do with it. I am surprised that you took any notice of that bitch. She would say anything to besmirch my good name.’

Angel stifled a smile. He was not aware that Jones had a good name.

Jones then looked at the glass of port, wrinkled his nose and pushed it away.

‘What happened? When did this tragedy happen?’

‘He was shot. This afternoon at about twenty minutes past four,’ Angel said: ‘Where were you at twenty minutes past four?’

The smile returned.

‘I was with my son – you know my son, Stanley – at the celebratory luncheon at The Feathers, to mark the opening of Potts’s new offices,’ he replied. ‘I was surprised that Charles had not been there. If he had been a client of Potts, he would have had an invitation. Of course, if he had another appointment, if he was money grubbing on the Sabbath … tut tut. If he had been there, maybe his death could have been … avoided.’

‘Is there anybody who can actually confirm that you and your son were actually at The Feathers at twenty past four?’

His eyes twinkled and he raised his eyebrows and kept them raised. ‘Oh yes, Inspector. I think so,’ he said, smiling and rocking his head confidently from side to side.

Angel didn’t see it coming. ‘Who?’ he said.

‘There was your Superintendent Harker for one.’

Angel blinked.

‘I think you know him?’ he said with a grin. ‘And then there were about a hundred and twenty other guests.’

Angel nodded. He saw that he had walked into a set up. He recovered quickly. ‘Can you think of anyone who would have benefited from Charles Pleasant’s death?’ he said, then added deviously, ‘Apart from yourself.’