The Dog Collar Murders (13 page)

The mobile was still ringing. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the LCD. It was Duty Sergeant Clifton calling.

He pressed the button and said, ‘Yes, Sergeant?’

‘We’ve received an urgent call that somebody has broken into the presbytery, and is there now. I’ve sent another patrol car.’

Angel’s eyebrows shot up. ‘That’s
me
,’ he said. ‘I’m in the
presbytery
now, in Miss Wilkinson’s bedroom. But she’s not here. There’s nobody here. Who was the caller?’

‘Miss Wilkinson herself, sir. She’s patched through to me via a nursing service. They give 24/7 telephone cover to subscribers, particularly those who are disabled and live on their own. I have her on hold now.’

Angel scratched his head. ‘Miss Wilkinson? Well, how on earth did she know?’

Sergeant Clifton hesitated, then said, ‘Because she’s
there
, sir.’

‘Here? In the presbytery?’ he said, his face creased by the mystery. ‘Is she? Well,
where
? Ask her.
Where
is she exactly?’

Through the phone earpiece, he heard Clifton say, ‘Inspector Angel says that everything is all right now, Miss Wilkinson. He’s in the presbytery looking for you. He wants to know where you are.’

Angel pressed the mobile closer to his ear, intent on hearing her reply. He heard nothing through the earpiece though, but instead was startled by the squeaking sound of the hinge of a wardrobe door directly behind him, followed by the gentle and now familiar voice that said, ‘I’m here, dear Inspector Angel. Where did you think I was?’

He turned round, startled to see the dazed but smiling little old lady, swathed in a large red dressing gown, framed in the doorway of the wardrobe, shielding her eyes against the light.

‘Oh, Miss Wilkinson,’ he said. Then he sighed. He was so relieved to find her.

She stepped tentatively out of the wardrobe.

‘Are you all right?’ Angel said, putting a hand out to support her.

‘Oh yes, thank you, Inspector. But I will be better in my bed.’

He helped her across the room.

She flopped on to the bed, took off her slippers, swivelled round and pulled the bedclothes over her.

‘What were you doing in the wardrobe, Miss Wilkinson?’

‘Hiding,’ she said. ‘I heard the sound of breaking glass. I didn’t know what it was. I assumed it was an intruder, and I had no wish to be murdered in my bed. So I hid in there. Then I remembered I was wearing my personal radio alarm,’ she said, pointing to her chest, ‘so I pressed the button.’

Angel nodded. ‘And they rang the station.’

‘I believe so,’ she said, tidying the duvet cover then stroking it.

Angel suddenly heard a sound along the landing through the open bedroom door.

Miss Wilkinson heard it too. She looked at Angel, open mouthed.

Angel’s pulse raced.

A stern voice called out, ‘This is the police! Identify yourself. Come along. Come on now. This is the police.’

He sighed and said, ‘This is DI Angel. Who is that?’

‘Oh. PCs Donohue and Elders, sir.’

Angel pulled back the bedroom door. There were smiles and sighs all round. The PCs nodded and smiled at Miss Wilkinson, who looked bemused.

‘Sergeant Clifton sent us,’ Donohue said.

‘How did you get in?’

‘There’s an open window at the back, sir.’

Angel nodded. ‘Search downstairs, quickly. Someone could still be around.’

The two PCs ran out of the room and along the landing.

Angel turned back to Miss Wilkinson, scratching his head. ‘Now what are we going to do with you?’

‘I’m all right, Inspector, thank you. If you switch the room light out, I will probably go back to sleep straightaway.’

‘No. No, Miss Wilkinson. We can’t just leave it at that. There’s the matter of a broken window.’

‘I had thought about that. Quentin, our gardener and driver, will see to that in the morning. He’s very handy at all those little jobs.’

‘We can’t leave it until then, Miss Wilkinson. It isn’t safe and the
hole will rapidly bring down the temperature of the house, which is not healthy for you, could be dangerous. With your permission there is a twenty-four-hour emergency service the police use. They are expensive, but they do a first-class job and turn out straightaway even in this sort of weather.’

‘Very well, Inspector. If you think it’s the best.’

‘And you must realize that somebody has been snooping around outside and may be in the house now. I have two men looking round downstairs now.’

‘Well, you’re here now, Inspector, so that’s all right.’

‘No. It isn’t all right, Miss Wilkinson. I can’t stay here all night. You know that we are looking for a man who has killed two priests and another man. He broke into their vicarages, ransacked them and shot the priests. That could happen to you.’

‘I heard he also broke into All Saints and Martyrs on Sebastopol Terrace, but he didn’t harm dear Hugo Riley.’

‘That’s because Father Riley wasn’t
there
.’

She blinked. ‘Oh dear.’

‘He was out visiting some of his parishioners.’

‘I didn’t know, Inspector.’

Angel shook his head. ‘So you see you can’t stay here on your own. Not for a few nights anyway, not until we’ve caught the man. I tried to persuade you of that this afternoon but you were far too taken up with the racing.’

Her face brightened. ‘Oh yes. It’s such fun, you know.’

Angel considered that it certainly was, if you always won. The regular work of the horses he backed was pulling hearses at Co-op Funerals.

‘And did you pay your winnings into the bank, as I suggested?’ he said.

She pursed her lips, lowered her head on to her chest and frowned.

Angel understood that to mean that she had not.

‘Well, let’s hope you’ve hidden it well,’ he said.

Her face suddenly changed. She sat bolt upright in bed. The pupils of her eyes darted in every direction. She was clearly worried about something.

‘I take it the money is still in the house?’ Angel said.

‘I didn’t have the time to bank it, Inspector,’ she said. ‘The banks closed at four o’clock, and the last race was at 3.50. But I really must check that it is safe. It is not
all
mine, you know.’

She whisked back the duvet and reached down for her slippers.

‘Will you help me?’ she said.

He wasn’t pleased. It was nearly midnight. There was nothing he wanted more at that time than to be at home in his own warm bed with Mary snuggled next to him.

‘Yes, of course,’ he said, holding out his arm.

She took it and they went out of the bedroom, along the landing, on to the stairlift, which took her downstairs. Angel walked slowly behind it.

The lights were on in all the rooms, and Donohue and Elders arrived from opposite directions and met them in the hallway.

‘Nothing, sir,’ Donohue said.

‘There’s nobody downstairs, sir,’ Elders said.

Angel said: ‘Are there any indications that anybody has been in the house?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Good,’ Angel said. He looked at Miss Wilkinson and nodded, and she smiled back. He turned back to Donohue and Elders and said, ‘Right. Have a good look round upstairs, and one of you organize that 24/7 joiners to repair that pantry window before Miss Wilkinson turns into a snowman.’

‘Right, sir,’ Donohue said. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘Right,’ Angel said, then he turned back to Miss Wilkinson.

She led the way down to the far end of the hall, through the
ice-cold
kitchen to the pantry. The door was partly open and freezing cold air was wafting in through the broken window.

She reached up and switched on the pantry light.

There were shelves of tinned foods and groceries in packets all round the little room. Broken glass and a little snow covered the provisions near the window, but most of the glass and snow was on the floor.

On the floor stood six huge, old, green and gold containers with the names of various foodstuffs printed on them: Currants, Raisins, Sugar, Flour, Coffee and Salt.

Miss Wilkinson made a bee-line for the one marked Flour, and put
her hand across the lid, which was about as big as a dinner plate. The lid fitted tightly but she eventually managed to remove it.

Angel saw packets of paper money roughly stashed in the container and loose notes, tens and twenties, bursting out of the top. His jaw dropped. He was truly amazed. He rubbed his chin. There was a very great sum of money in there, and that could make Miss Wilkinson very vulnerable to assault and robbery.

She glanced at the container, nodded with satisfaction then replaced the lid.

She turned back to Angel and said, ‘It’s all right, Inspector. It’s all there. Thank you.’

They came out of the freezing pantry and Angel closed the door.

He was deep in thought. The situation could not stay as it was. Miss Wilkinson could not be left in the presbytery on her own, particularly now that he knew that she had such a large stash of money there.

He tried to persuade her to book into The Feathers for several nights without success, but she did agree to have Elaine Jubb sleep in the presbytery, in the room next door to hers, for two nights, if Elaine was willing. This was a tortuous business to arrange over the phone in the middle of the night, but everybody cooperated and PCs Donohue and Elders eventually set off out in the cold to collect the young woman and bring her back to the house.

Angel then brought up another matter.

‘Now, Miss Wilkinson, the presence of all that money in the flour bin makes you vulnerable to robbery, you know that.’

Miss Wilkinson yawned.

‘That cash really needs to be in a bank,’ he said.

‘Oh dear. I’ve heard all that before, Inspector. But I don’t see why I should. And look at what a mess the banks are in.’

‘Your private account is safe enough, and it doesn’t mean that it is out of your control. You can still access it when the bank is open, and you can move it around with a debit card and a cheque book without even physically touching it, you know. And the banks don’t charge you for this.’

‘I don’t like banks, Inspector. Never liked them. I had an account for years, but lost the cheque book so my brother Tom closed the account on me.’

‘Even so, having all that cash in your house makes you vulnerable to thieves, and might put you in grave danger.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t warn you. That broken pantry window is almost certainly the work of the man who was disturbed by my patrolmen. I am pleased to say that they caught him. He’s a well-known villain, and he’s in a cell at the station waiting to be interviewed.’

‘Really, Inspector? Well, I don’t know how he found out about my good fortune. Nobody knew except Elaine Jubb, and I would trust her with my life.’

‘Well,
I
for one knew that you were betting big money before I came to see you earlier today.’

She screwed up her eyes to look at him and said, ‘How could you possibly have known?’

‘Because one of my officers was in the bookies when Elaine Jubb went in yesterday lunchtime with a bag of money and overheard Brian say that he didn’t want to take the bet on the first race because it was too much money and he hadn’t time to lay it off.’

She straightened up. Her mouth dropped open.

‘If my officer overheard her,’ he said, ‘other men in the bookies could have heard, and there’s no saying whom they might have told.’

She rubbed her chin thoughtfully.

‘I think, therefore, Miss Wilkinson,’ he continued, ‘that you should allow me to seal that flour bin of yours here, take it down to the station, put it in a cell and lock it up until tomorrow, when you must take it to the bank and have the money deposited. That will help keep
you
safe and it will ensure that the money isn’t stolen from you. Are you agreeable to that?’

‘Oh dear. Very well, Inspector. You win.’

I
t was 2.30 a.m. when Angel pushed his way through the front door of Bromersley Police Station. He was hugging a large flour bin, its lid secured with strong brown sticky tape. He was admitted through the security door on sight by a PC in reception, and he then made his way to the duty sergeant’s counter. There was nobody there. There was a bell to press for attention, but Angel ignored it.

‘Anybody there?’ he called.

Sergeant Clifton appeared from behind the barrier. He blinked when he saw Angel carrying the flour bin. ‘Oh, it’s you, sir. Taking up cooking?’

‘Very funny,’ Angel said, resting the flour bin on the counter. He looked round. ‘Are you having a quiet night?’

‘Makes a change, sir.’

‘Is there anybody who could make a cup of tea?’

Clifton smiled. ‘I think we can organize that, sir.’

‘Who is in the cells?’

‘Just Peter King. Waiting for you, sir. We couldn’t make processing him stretch out any longer,’ he added, passing three sheets of A4 stapled at one corner over to him. ‘He’s not a happy bunny.’

Clifton placed a key deliberately on the counter, then produced a clipboard and held it up for Angel. who scribbled his initials on it.

‘Nobody on duty down there then, I take it?’ Angel said, picking up the key.

Clifton shook his head. ‘The super’s on one of his economy drives.’

Angel nodded. ‘Better make it two cups. And will you let me have a key for an empty cell?’

Clifton frowned, put another key on the counter, then said, ‘Number two, sir.’

He scribbled something on the clipboard, passed him a pen and Angel initialled it.

Clifton looked at the flour bin on the counter and said, ‘Is it for that, sir?’

‘It’s more valuable than it looks, Sergeant.’

Clifton scratched his head then said, ‘I take it it’s a rare Victorian antique, sir.’

Angel picked it up and said, ‘Something like that.’

He returned to the green corridor, which was unusually deserted, and went straight down to cell number two. He put the flour bin on the floor, came out and locked it up. The other key was for cell number one. Angel peered through the inspection slot and saw Peter King, laid full length on the bed, hands behind his head, his feet crossed and his eyes closed.

He put the key in that lock and turned it. Before he had time to follow through and push the door open, the loud voice of Peter King said, ‘Who is it? Who the frigging hell is it?’

Angel pushed into the cell.

King saw it was Angel. ‘About frigging time,’ King said.

Angel was in no mood to be messed around. It was almost three o’clock in the morning and he was tired. ‘Shut up and listen,’ he said. ‘You’ve been arrested for attempting to burgle St Joseph’s
presbytery
.’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘You were seen by two patrolmen, and your footprints confirm it. Yours are the only prints there on fresh snow.’

‘It wasn’t me. You coppers do whatever you like. You don’t take any notice of me. If I say I done something you don’t believe me. If I say I
haven’t
done something you lock me up. I can’t make you out.’

‘Don’t talk in riddles, lad. I’m too tired to play games.’

‘I told you I raped and murdered that girl in Leeds before Christmas but you don’t believe me. Now that’s a big case, isn’t it? It was front page in the
Yorkshire
Post and the
Mirror
. It was even on TV. Breaking a little window in that church house place is peanuts, and I say it wasn’t me, but you don’t believe me when I say that either.’

‘Had you ever thought it was because you are an inveterate liar, lad? Leeds police say that that rape and murder couldn’t have been you, so there’s an end to it. And so far as breaking the window is concerned, you know and I know that your boots will be a perfect fit to moulds Forensic will make when they check them later this morning.’

They heard footsteps and there was a knock on the open cell door. A constable brought a tin tray with two beakers of tea on it. He passed it to Angel.

‘Thank you, Officer,’ Angel said.

The young policeman nodded and went out.

Peter King’s face brightened and he sat upright when he saw two beakers on the tray. He looked at Angel and said, ‘One of them for me?’

Angel offered him the tray.

King took one of the cups, sipped the tea and nodded approvingly.

Angel also enjoyed the tea, the only refreshment he had had for hours.

After a few moments, King looked over the rim of the beaker and said, ‘I suppose you’re not bad for a copper, Mr Angel.’

Angel looked at him and shook his head. ‘Why don’t you tell the truth for a change, Peter? You’d be in less trouble if you did. This offence has two police witnesses and forensic to back them up, so you are certain to be found guilty.’

He sipped the tea thoughtfully then said, ‘If I’m found guilty, Mr Angel, how long would I get?’

‘You
are
guilty, lad. With your record, you will probably get thirty days, or at worst ninety.’

‘All right, and if I
pleaded
guilty, how long?’

‘The same, lad. Even if you had O. J. Simpson’s brief, I don’t see you getting off with less.’

He nodded. ‘That’s what I thought,’ he said and returned to sipping the tea.

Angel looked at him and pursed his lips. He really wanted to know King’s motivation. This was the closest emotionally he had ever been to the man. Did King actually know there was a
mountain
of cash in St Joseph’s presbytery, or was he breaking into the place on the off-chance there might be something there worth
stealing? Also, was he the murderer of Harry Weston, Samuel Smart and Raymond Gulli, and the man who broke into Hugo Riley’s church? He could fit the witness’s description. But he wasn’t seen wearing a white cloak. Could he really be that man? He supposed he might resemble the drawing executed by the police artist.

Angel warmed his hands briefly round the beaker then finished off the tea. He breathed deeply three times and tried to think friendly thoughts towards King. It wasn’t easy.

‘So, Peter, tell me,’ Angel said, ‘why did you try to break into the presbytery, the house where the vicar lives? There’s nothing there – is there? – but the usual domestic clobber. You might have found a surfeit of dog collars, Bibles and candles, maybe … but nothing really worth serving time for, was there?’

King smiled, his mouth puckering up like a baby’s. On him it was grotesque. ‘I think you are trying to pump me for information, Mr Angel.’

‘I think I am. It’s what coppers do.’

‘It must be very boring.’

‘It is sometimes, but not always. Not in your case, Peter.’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘Well, you know you have a very interesting personality.’

‘Do I really, Mr Angel? In what way?’

‘Oh yes. In many ways. For instance, you try and tell me that you
haven’t
tried to break into St Joseph’s presbytery when all the evidence indicates that you have.’

‘Well, you don’t expect me to admit that I have, just like that, Mr Angel. I
have
got standards, you know. In what other ways do you find me interesting?’

‘Well, attempting to break into a place where there is virtually nothing useful to take.’

‘Ah, well now, that’s where you’re wrong, Mr Angel. You might think that I don’t know what I’m doing. You might think that I think that St Joseph’s is a broken-down, poverty-stricken church, whereas I know it’s a very wealthy church. I know that the vicar there is well off. His father lived in a big house on Creesforth Road. The old man died recently; now that house must be worth a few bob. Also, Mr Angel, there’s more.’

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘Yes. The old lady of the house, his batty sister, is regularly winning big lumps on the ponies.’

‘Really? That’s extremely clever of you, Peter.’

‘I was in Brian’s the bookies a couple of days back when her cleaner came in to collect the old lady’s winnings. And it was a fair wad, I can tell you. Just about cleaned Brian out.’

‘Really?’ Angel said, trying to sound impressed. ‘I knew there were hidden depths to you, Peter.’

‘So you see, if your men had not driven up like lunatics and caught me in their headlights, I would have gotten into the house – there was no burglar alarm – and I might have found the old lady’s winnings and come out loaded. There!’

Angel nodded. King’s motive appeared to have been simple robbery. He was glad to have cleared that up.

‘That was good for us, Peter, but bad luck for you.’

‘Yes, Mr Angel. Bad luck, that’s all it was. Bad luck.’

King pounced on the words ‘bad luck’ like Harker spotting a five pence piece on the office floor. Angel knew he would. Villains always believed they’d got a bigger measure of bad luck than anybody else.

‘I’ve been dogged with bad luck all my life,’ King said.

Angel wanted to smile. He rubbed his chin to cover his mouth. He still wanted information about the murders. He wondered if King might be persuaded to talk about them. Everything he had said when he had last interviewed him had been annoyingly and deliberately inconclusive. Time had moved on, maybe circumstances had changed. He wondered how he might get round to reintroducing the subject.

‘You weren’t afraid then?’ Angel said.

‘Afraid? Me? Nah,’ he said, shaking his head then putting his nose into the beaker.

Angel waited. He expected King to say more.

King finished the tea and then half closed his eyes and pursed his lips. After a few moments he said, ‘Afraid of what?’

That was what Angel had hoped for.

‘The murderer, of course,’ he said as casually as he could. ‘He could have been ransacking the house. You could have interrupted him.’

King’s arms and shoulders twitched. The pupils of his eyes slid to the side and back. The mood had changed. ‘I’d better say no comment to that one, Inspector,’ he said. Then he leaned back on to the pillow and stretched out his legs. ‘I’m answering no more
questions
. Leave me alone. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep.’

Angel returned the key to cell number one to DS Clifton and went home. It was 3.30 a.m.

Mary was in her nightdress and housecoat and had fallen asleep in an easy chair. She awoke instantly when she heard Angel turn the key in the lock in the back door. She was relieved to see him but angry that he had not phoned. They had a few words but when he explained the situation concerning Miss Wilkinson, she quickly forgave him. She made them a hot drink, which she took to bed on a tray.

Angel got undressed, had a good wash, set the alarm for nine o’clock, finished the drink and went straight to sleep.

Next morning, he was in the office for ten o’clock. He had to attend court with Peter King at eleven. Despite the evidence, King pleaded not guilty, which angered the magistrate’s clerk, who gave him a telling off. The upshot of all that was that he was remanded to the Crown Court at a date to be notified, and made the subject of an interim Probation Order.

Angel was tolerably well satisfied with the result and he dashed back to the station. As he made his way up the green corridor to his office, he could hear his phone ringing. He pushed open the door and answered it in time.

It was DC Scrivens. ‘I tried to get you earlier, sir, but your mobile was on voicemail.’

‘What is it, lad? Something urgent?’

Scrivens hesitated. ‘Well, sir, I have still got two unmarked cars in positions observing the two warehouses.’

‘I know, lad. Has there been a delivery of phony biscuits, then?’

‘No, sir. We’ve monitored all the deliveries, videoed all the
vehicles
, drivers and crew, checked the index numbers with Swansea, and everything has been entirely in order.’

‘Pity. What are you bothering me for?’

‘We have been here since Tuesday afternoon, sir, and I am
concerned that if we stay here much longer, we are going to be sussed.’

Angel’s eyebrows went up.

‘I wondered what you would want us to do?’ Scrivens said.

Angel frowned. The lad had a point. It was a big consignment of cocaine they were on the lookout for, worth a very big lump of money, which would have to be paid for in cash. Drug deals were always cash. Therefore the delivery crew could very well be the principals, and if they were, would very likely be armed.

‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Scrivens repeated.

‘Well, do you think you can hang on there and stay unobserved until the warehouses close today, lad?’

‘I daresay we can, sir.’

‘Do that then. Stand down for the weekend, report to me on Monday early doors and I’ll make my mind up then whether to continue or not. In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled.’

He replaced the phone. It was always worrying when a large consignment of a Class A drug was reported to be coming into the area.

Angel ran his hand through his hair and looked at his watch. It was 11.30 a.m. and Miss Wilkinson had not yet arranged for the collection of her flour bin. He was still holding the key to cell two. So many things to do. So much detail. He reached out for the phone.

There was a knock at the door. More disturbance. There was no time to think. He looked at it, mouth slightly open and his lips tight back against his teeth. ‘Come in,’ he bawled.

It was DS Carter. She looked excited. She was carrying a suitcase.

‘I’ve got it, sir,’ she said, holding the case up for him to see.

‘According to Mrs Vincent, the witness, this is an exact replica of the suitcase she saw the thieves pack the money into, sir,’ Carter said.

He replaced the phone and blew out a lungful of air.

The suitcase was mainly stone coloured but had a dozen or more thin brown stripes across the lower half of it.

Angel looked at it thoughtfully, then he said, ‘It would hold four million quid, in tens and twenties, I suppose.’

Carter nodded in agreement.

‘I have seen that pattern before, but it
is
a bit unusual,’ he said.

‘That
should
help us,’ she said.