The Dog Collar Murders (7 page)

‘You didn’t see his face?’

‘No. He had his back to me.’

‘What else was he wearing?’

‘I don’t know. The white coat almost covered him.’

‘Was it white towelling?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Was it the sort of coat a surgeon or a scientist might wear?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘You said it was a long bright shiny white coat.’

‘That’s right.’

‘It wasn’t a woman’s dress, was it? It wasn’t a man in a woman’s dress? You get all sorts these days.’

Wade’s expression answered the question.

‘Not the sort of coat, or garment, you’d wear in the street?’ Angel said.

‘Oh no. Not round here anyway. They’d laugh you to scorn. It were white and shiny. Like a silk dressing gown, but better.’

‘Did the man have a car or any means of transport?’

‘I didn’t see any.’

‘Was the man short or tall?’

‘Average.’ Cyril Wade said.

Angel and Donohue exchanged glances. Angel rubbed his chin.

Cyril Wade suddenly shook his head irritably. ‘Now look, I’ve told you all I know. Can’t we leave it at that?’

Angel said, ‘Mr Wade, you may have heard that the vicar of St Barnabas’s has been murdered in the vicarage this morning. Well, it seems that you were passing the vicarage shortly before he was murdered and the man in the white gown may well have been the murderer.’

Wade’s eyes shone. His mouth dropped open. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said.

‘So you will understand that we need to know every possible scrap of information that there is to know about that man. You see why every detail is so important to us?’

‘Oh yes. Yes. But I think I’ve told you all I know.’

‘And we are grateful, Mr Wade,’ Angel said. ‘Very grateful.’ He looked at him, then said, ‘And there is nothing else you can add to the description of the man in the white gown then?’

‘No,’ Wade said. ‘Did I say he had very dark hair? Black
probably
?’

‘Black hair,’ Angel said, writing it on his notes. ‘Anything else?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Thank you, Mr Wade. Thank you very much. Now, I want to ask you about the poor victim. What do you know about the vicar and his wife?’

‘I don’t know nothing about them, really. Them and the church was more the wife’s province, you know. I’ve not been to church since her funeral. I used to go regular when she was alive but somehow I lost interest since … and I drifted away.’

‘What about the vicar, Raymond Gulli? What sort of a man was he?’

‘Well, everybody round here spoke well of him. He does – he did – his share of visiting and his wife was always the first round if you were in any sort of trouble, you know.’

Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Would you describe them as being well off?’

‘They’re better off than me, I suppose. I only have my pension. This place is tiny. Look at the size of the place they live in.’

‘I wondered if Mr and Mrs Gulli might have had anything
valuable
around the house.’

‘Valuable? You mean gold statues or oil paintings …’

‘I mean money, jewellery, anything worth stealing.’

‘Shouldn’t think so. I never saw anything, anyway.’

‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Wade. If you remember anything else you consider might be helpful, please contact me at the station.’

The man nodded, stood up and opened the door. It was getting dark.

The two policemen came out of the little house and Cyril Wade quickly closed his front door behind them.

As they walked the short distance along the pavement towards the church, Angel said, ‘Thank you, Sean. That was a good piece of work.’

Donohue smiled. ‘Do you think the man in the white coat is the murderer, sir?’

‘Yes, lad. I do. The timing fits perfectly.’

‘Well, what’s the white coat all about then, sir? Doesn’t it make him highly conspicuous?’

‘It certainly does,’ Angel said. ‘I don’t know what it’s all about. I wish I did.’

He looked at his watch. It was too dark to read the dial. ‘Have you got the time, Sean?’

‘Ten to five, sir.’

‘Your shift’s almost over. It’s time you were on your way to the station.’

‘It is, sir. Unless you want me to stay on for anything?’

‘No. No. You go. Good night, lad.’

‘Good night, sir,’ Donohue said, then rushed ahead of Angel along the pavement to the Range Rover.

Angel walked on slowly behind him. He was excited that he had a witness who had probably seen the back of Raymond Gulli’s murderer. It wasn’t much but it all helped to build a picture, and had come at a time when there was so little evidence arriving from SOCO or anywhere else.

He reached the church gate as the headlights of Donohue’s Range Rover swept across the front of the church and the vehicle hurried away.

The night sky had become darker and the corner of the street quieter. The only vehicles outside the church were his BMW and SOCO’s van. He turned to go through the church gate when
unexpectedly
from behind he heard footsteps and a breathless Irish voice say, ‘You must be Inspector Angel. I’m Father Hugo Riley, the vicar of All Saints and Martyrs on Sebastopol Terrace.’

Angel stopped and turned round. ‘Good evening, Father.’

‘This is a dreadful state of affairs, young man, that priests are being cut down in this way. How is Mrs Gulli? Poor, dear woman that she is. I hope that somebody is with her. Have you found out yet who is responsible?’

‘No, Father. The investigation has only just started. Mrs Gulli and her daughter are being comforted at a friend’s house tonight. Perhaps you can assist us in our inquiries. Is there anybody you know who has a grudge against the clergy?’

‘No, why would they? Are we not here to help the poor, the needy and the disadvantaged?’ Riley said.

‘I hope so, Father, but yesterday a man in a dog collar shot dead a ticket collector.’

‘So I heard. It could not possibly have been a priest, Inspector. A man of the true God simply could not deliberately kill another man.’

‘Is there any person, group, sect or organization that would want to murder the clergy of Bromersley?’

‘I can’t think of any, and I certainly hope not. I must say to you that my life as a priest is wholly committed to God. I am unmarried and live on my own. I had one of your officers there today, and because of these two murders, he gave me certain advice. But I told him, there was no way that I could leave the presbytery unattended. A parishioner may have need of me in the night. Nor could I bring in another priest as your superintendent has suggested. There is simply nobody available. Clergy are in very short supply, you know?’

‘I’m sorry about that, Father. Police officers are also short on the ground. I strongly recommend you to compromise … perhaps stay in a hotel for the next few days and nights.’

‘
What
?’ he said. ‘Stay in the luxury of a hotel when so many of my parishioners are struggling to pay their bills and I am trying to preach the virtue of being frugal? I
don’t
think so.’

‘There is a murderer out there, Father Riley. He seems to be targeting priests. If you think you could still be useful to your flock dead then you
could
take the risk, I suppose. If not, then out of consideration for them, you should take all the steps necessary to stay alive. You do not have to stay at The Feathers. You don’t even have to stay in Bromersley. There are probably several very
comfortable
guesthouses in Barnsley, Rotherham or Sheffield that might not be seen as excessive. We are hopeful that these measures are
temporary
and will take only a few days.’

‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Inspector, you may have a point. I must pray about it.’

‘Well, don’t be long about it, Father.’

Angel heard a door open behind him. He turned and saw a light shine through the open vicarage door and the silhouetted figure of DS Taylor in his disposable paper overalls coming out with a white box on a strap slung over his shoulder.

Angel turned back. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Father,’ he said, ‘I need to press on. Nice to have met you. Careful how you go, and remember what I told you.’

Angel reached out in the dark to shake the priest’s hand. The man had an earnest grip but his hand was as cold as prison milk.

‘Indeed I will,’ Riley said. ‘God bless you, Inspector Angel. May you find the murderer soon and may he be condemned to a life in purgatory. Good night.’ Then the man in black turned swiftly away into the night, his cloak flowing behind him.

‘Good night,’ Angel said, then he went up to the SOCO’s van.

Taylor heard him approach and flashed a torch in his face. ‘It’s you, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve completed the scene of crime.’

‘I’ll take a look, then,’ Angel said.

‘The body’s gone,’ Taylor said as he held the door open for him. ‘Dr Mac saw it in situ. The murder took place in the little office in the vestry. One shot in the chest, through a cushion to deaden the noise. Same as Samuel Smart, sir.’

Angel nodded and said, ‘The same man murdered both priests. Through a cushion? It’s a long time since anyone used that old trick. Shell case?’

‘One, sir. .32. No prints.’

Angel sniffed then nodded knowingly.

Taylor led Angel into a tiny room with only a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet in it. ‘The body was found on the floor, squashed between the chair and the desk.’

Angel peered at the space. He saw dried blood on the desk drawer and the carpet. He quickly looked over the front of the desk drawers, the chair, the cushion on the chair, and the floor. His eyes took in everything. He didn’t linger over the scene. There would be a hundred or more pics available to him from the SOC photographer in the morning.

‘There was more room in Samuel Smart’s office, sir,’ Taylor said. ‘His body was full length on the carpet. Otherwise this seems to be the same layout and MO.’

‘Any sign that Raymond Gulli or Samuel Smart had retaliated or had any actual physical contact at all with the murderer?’

‘No, sir. But we have a small sample of white thread lifted from Raymond Gulli’s left coat sleeve that I think must have come from the murderer. There is no other source of that fabric in the room from which it could have originated. I will send it off to Wetherby – see what the lab boys can tell us.’

Angel’s face brightened. ‘A man was seen in a white gown, dress or garment of some sort outside the door at ten o’clock this morning.’

Taylor looked up. ‘I was going to say the time of death of Raymond Gulli was between 0930 and 1100 hours this morning.’

Angel nodded. A few pieces were fitting into the jigsaw.

‘There’s something else, Don,’ Angel said. ‘The calibre of bullet used to kill Harry Weston, Samuel Smart
and
Raymond Gulli is a .32. Check and see if the
same
gun was used in all three murders.’

‘Right, sir.’

A
ngel arrived in his office as usual at 8.28 a.m. the following morning, Wednesday 13 January, and was followed in by Ahmed, who had been watching out for him. He was carrying a large brown envelope.

‘Got that artist’s impression of the murderer of Harry Weston, sir,’ Ahmed said.

‘Right, let’s have a look,’ Angel said. He quickly took off his coat and sat down at his desk.

Ahmed carefully pushed to one side the pile of post and reports that always seemed to be there, withdrew the large card out of the envelope and placed it on the desk.

Angel looked at the pencil drawing. He licked his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue as he did so.

The drawing showed a very ordinary-looking man of about forty, wearing a dog collar. It simply looked like a good, wholesome, respectable priest.

Angel considered it to be an excellent portrait, and at the back of his mind he thought he might have seen such a man very recently. He scratched his head and hoped that it was a fair representation of what the murderer really looked like.

‘Make six copies and try this picture on the Automatic Criminal Recognition site. See if it throws anybody up. You never know.’

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

Angel leaned forward and reluctantly pulled the pile of post towards him. He began fingering through the envelopes, trying to determine what might be urgent and what might be inconsequential. He didn’t get far. His fingers gradually stopped moving. His mind wasn’t on it; instead it was on the portrait of the murderer. He was
back to wondering if he had ever seen the face before when the phone rang. It broke the spell. He reached out for it.

It was Taylor. ‘The markings on the shell cases
are
identical, sir,’ he said.

Angel’s head went up. The obvious implication was that the same person had murdered all three victims. And that was probably exactly what had happened, but it might not be so. It could have been three different killers using the same gun. Or maybe two. You learn in the detection of crime never to take anything for granted. You need to prove the situation step by step. But for the moment, he intended to assume that the same killer murdered all three victims.

‘Thanks, Don,’ Angel said. ‘That’s great. Where are you now?’

‘Back at St Mary’s vicarage. We’re trying to catch up.’

‘Yes, of course. In your searching there, see if you come across a book or notes or any reference at all to a “Discretionary Fund”. It’s a note of what the vicar might have handed out to tramps, needy cases or scroungers who knock on his door.’

‘Right, sir. Will do.’

He replaced the phone and returned to fingering through the envelopes in the post. He managed to filter out circular letters with literature selling police uniforms, hard-wearing boots, union pensions, savings schemes, and insurance against everything such as being trampled on by a herd of elephants, stung by a swarm of bees, injured by a meteorite falling out of the sky or death from contracting beri beri. He promptly shredded the pages that included any station officers’ names in the address or text. He had just returned to the pile when there was a knock at the door. It was DS Carter.

‘Is it convenient to report on Harry Weston, sir?’

‘Yes, Flora. Come in. Sit down.’

He had been thinking that it was about time she checked in. ‘What you got?’

‘It’s not been easy, sir.’

He pulled a face. ‘Come on, lass,’ he said. ‘If it had been easy, I would have given the job to a schoolboy for a bag of toffees.’

‘Well, Harry Weston lived on his own. He was a bit of a loner. He went to the pub across the road from where he lived. He used to go in there and take a girl with him for a drink, regularly. Sometimes,
he’d buy a bottle of sherry and they’d go back to his place for an hour or two. He’d been doing that Friday and Saturday nights for a year or so. Then suddenly he stopped. I found out the girl’s name. It was Madeleine Rossi.’

Angel pursed his lips.

‘She lived in the next street,’ Carter said. ‘I went round there to speak to her. A man I took to be her father answered the door. When he heard that I was from the police, he told me I had the wrong address and slammed the door in my face.’

‘That would be Angus Rossi, a loud-mouthed Scot,’ Angel said.

‘That’s him, sir.’

‘Used to be a regular customer here,’ Angel said. ‘Done time for robbery and handling, but he’s kept his nose clean these past few years. I wonder who’s been treading on his corns?’ Angel considered the matter a few moments then added, ‘Wonder what he’s got to hide?’

Carter shrugged. ‘Anyway, I eventually caught up with Madeleine Rossi. She works part-time behind the grille at the bookies on Dunscroft Street. She seemed straightforward enough. She said that Harry had been her steady boyfriend for about six months, but that he wasn’t exactly a firecracker. That was
her
word. Nevertheless, she said she was devastated when she heard on the news that he had been murdered. She said that she had not been aware that he had any other friends, either male or female. He would only take her out on Saturday and Sunday nights, he had said, because he didn’t like
clubbing
, and the other nights he liked to stay in his flat to practise on his guitar. Then about a fortnight ago, a friend of Madeleine told her she’d seen Harry Weston out with another girl in the
Scheherazade
.’

Angel nodded. ‘She wouldn’t like that.’

‘She was furious,’ Carter said. ‘She had it out with Harry and the end result was that a fortnight ago they packed it in. Now, she said, she already has a better-looking bloke twice as good as Harry Weston.’

Angel nodded. ‘Was Harry Weston ever seen with a man about forty wearing a dog collar?’

‘No, sir. Nobody I spoke to ever saw him in the company of anybody except Madeleine Rossi and then, latterly, this woman from the
Scheherazade
.’

Angel nodded, leaned back in his chair and said, ‘And was Harry Weston a member of a church?’

‘No, sir. I checked with the vicars of the two nearest churches to where he lived at the junction of Shaw Street and Sheffield Road, and the Roman Catholic church in town, and he was not known to any of them.’

Angel rubbed his chin.

‘The stationmaster, Deri Evans,’ she added, ‘told me that he came to work at the railway station straight from school as a junior clerk. He had never worked anywhere else. Also he said he didn’t know of any friends that he had. He’d never seen him with anybody.’

Angel continued rubbing his chin and looking across the desk at the bare wall, his eyes unfocussed. Something was on his mind.

Carter looked at him and wondered if he had listened to the last part of her report.

‘Do you think, sir,’ she said, ‘it is worthwhile chasing up the girl Harry Weston is supposed to have taken to the
Scheherazade
?’

‘Yes I do, lass,’ he said, suddenly rising to his feet. ‘I most certainly do. Crack on with it,’ he said as he reached out for his coat. ‘What number Mount Street did you say Angus Rossi lives at?’

Seven minutes later, Angel was knocking on the front door of 12 Mount Street. It was answered by a big Scotsman who glared at him and said, ‘What do
you
want?’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me in, Angus?’

‘Have you got a warrant?’ Rossi said.

‘Do I need a warrant just to
talk
to you?’

‘That means you havna. Take a friggin’ hike,’ Rossi said and stepped back into the house.

‘I can just do that, Angus. But with your past record, I might just think you had something to hide. In which case, I could be back here in about half an hour with a warrant and a dozen officers, and we might just have to take this house to pieces brick by brick.’

Rossi hesitated then stepped forward. ‘Do I look stupid, Angel? I got the hint you were getting on my back when one of your lackeys called yesterday to see Madeleine. Don’t you think that if I had had anything to hide from the police, I would have had it buried
somewhere
by now?’

Angel shrugged. ‘Does that mean I get to come in? Or must we both stand here like this until we get pneumonia?’

Angus Rossi stared at him for a moment, then grunted something unintelligible, released his grip of the door handle, turned round and went into the house. Angel followed him in and closed the door. They arrived in the small kitchen, where there was a roaring fire in an old black iron range.

When Angel saw the red-hot coals, his face brightened. He held out his cold hands briefly in their direction and said, ‘That’s better.’

Rossi sat down, pointed to a chair opposite him and said, ‘Well, sit yourself doon, but dunna make yourself too comfortable, Angel, because you’re not stopping there long.’

‘I never waste time, Angus. You should know me better than that.’

Rossi sniffed then said, ‘I know that you think you’re somebody these days, Angel. You get mentioned in the papers. They write about you in magazines. They say you’ve a reputation of always getting your man, like that Canadian Mountie. You must be worried when you get a particularly difficult case and you aren’t getting nowhere?’

Angel eyed him for a few seconds then said, ‘That’s why I’m here. I thought my friend Angus knows what’s going on. I’ll go down there and maybe he’ll tell me.’

Rossi turned the corners of his mouth down. ‘I’m no copper’s nark,’ he said.

‘It’s like this,’ Angel said. ‘A young man called Harry Weston was shot dead the day before yesterday.’

‘Aye. Well, that’s nothing to do with me.’

‘I understand that your daughter had been keeping regular company with him.’

‘Aye, and she could have done a lot better for herself. He was a pretty useless piece of humanity and a two-timing little bastard as well. While he was taking Madeleine out, sweet-talking her, and who knows whatever else, he had got some other bird up the duff and was parading her round the
Scheherazade
.’

Angel looked up when he heard the news.

Rossi saw that he had made an impression. ‘You didn’t know about that, eh?’ he said. ‘Well, anyway, Madeleine gave Harry Weston the old heave-ho two weeks ago. What happened to him after that has nothing to do with her. She’s well set up now with
another young man who has far more about him. So she doesn’t want to know anything more about Harry Weston, thank you.’

Angel nodded. He was prepared to accept that for now.

‘Is that it?’ Rossi said.

‘No,’ Angel said. ‘A First Security Delivery Services van was stopped and robbed of four million on Monday morning. What do you know about that?’

Rossi’s eyes shone. He flashed his uneven, brown teeth and said, ‘Not a thing.’

‘Where were you at ten o’clock on Monday morning?’

‘Here. Right here. And no, I can’t prove it. But then again, you can’t prove I was anywhere else.’

Angel knew that was true.

He looked carefully at Rossi and said, ‘I’m also looking for a man loose on the streets wearing his collar the wrong way round, like a vicar. But he isn’t a vicar … and he carries a handgun. I have reason to believe that he has murdered three men. What can you tell me about him?’

‘Not a thing,’ Rossi said.

Angel looked round the room. He was aware that Rossi was following his eyes. It was a clean, tidy, warm and comfortable little kitchen. The Scotsman didn’t seem to be wanting for anything.

‘The wife still working, Angus?’

‘I have no wife. She buggered off a couple of years back. Good riddance.’

Angel rubbed his chin. He knew that Rossi’s daughter, Madeleine, would be bringing in a wage.

‘In work, are you, Angus?’

‘Aye,’ Rossi said. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.
Full time
.’

Angel blinked. He was surprised. ‘Full time?’ he said. ‘Well, why aren’t you there just now then?’

‘Wednesday is my day off.’

Angel thought about it a while then said, ‘What do you do?’

‘I work at Grogan’s. I’m a van salesman.’

Grogan’s ice-cream vans were to be seen all round Bromersley. Outside schools, in the market, at the football ground, wherever there were crowds of people.

Angel frowned then he said, ‘What, in January?’

‘All the year round, if you know where to go. Kids always want ice cream, and so do many grown-ups.’

Angel nodded. He supposed he was right.

‘And now,’ Rossi said, leaping to his feet, ‘Detective Inspector Angel, your time is up.’

‘Right, Angus,’ he said, also now standing. ‘Didn’t take long, did it? Thanks for the warm and the information. I can see myself out.’

Rossi was not pleased. He glared at him, his eyes like two fried eggs in a frying pan. ‘I didna give you
any
information.’

Angel shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Angus. Whatever you say.’

Angel returned to his office. He slumped down in the chair. He rubbed his hand across his mouth several times. Rossi was certainly involved in some nefarious activity: he was touchy on every crime Angel had mentioned. However the only hard information that he had acquired from him was that the girl associated with Harry Weston was pregnant.

Flora Carter was in the CID office. She saw Angel pass the door and followed him into his office. ‘I’ve just come back from the
Scheherazade
, sir,’ she said. ‘I spoke to the cellarman. He said that the girl Harry Weston has been seen around with was a Felicity Kellerman. A professional singer. Sings in local pubs, clubs and what have you.’

‘She’s up the duff, isn’t she?’ he said.

Carter blinked. ‘Yes, sir. How did you know that?’

Angel smiled to himself. ‘Seven or eight months gone?’ he said.

‘That’s what I was told, sir. Got her address and phone number from the office. I phoned her there and on her mobile, but there was no reply. Do you want me to follow it up, sir?’

‘Oh yes, and find out the identity of Madeleine Rossi’s new man. It might not matter at all, but you never know.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ Angel called.

It was Ahmed. He was carrying a cream paper file. He looked from one to the other. ‘Busy, sir?’