The Dog Collar Murders (9 page)

Riley’s expression did not change. ‘The Good Lord, apparently, does not require my soul just yet,’ he said.

Angel nodded and rubbed his chin. ‘Somebody wants something – or has found and taken something – from these three churches. But what is it? The intruder wants it so badly that in two of the
breakins
, he murdered the priests.’

‘Yes. Bless their souls and comfort their loved ones. And two more worthy men you couldn’t wish to break bread with. I notice that the evil one has not approached churches where there are
women
priests, and there are six in this town, Inspector. Now I wonder why that would be.’

Angel shook his head. ‘Could be coincidence.’

Riley frowned.

Angel looked straight into his face. ‘I’m looking for a motive, Father, and you’re not helping. In some jammy churches sometimes there is a treasure by some famous artist … a painting, a triptych, or a silver chalice or paten, Georgian or older.’

‘There’s nothing like that in All Saints, Inspector. If there had been, the church wardens and I would have sold it to pay for a new boiler and eight radiators. The other churches would have done the same thing, I am thinking.’

A vehicle rattled past them. It was an ice-cream van, bouncing here and there in the potholes left by the heavy snow. Angel looked round and noticed it was one of Grogan’s. He stared at the number plate.

Riley noticed his interest. ‘Is that poor ice-cream man in trouble, then?’

‘No,’ Angel said, frowning. ‘But would you buy ice cream on a freezing cold day like this, Father?’

‘I wouldn’t, but children will eat ice cream regardless of the weather. There’s an ice-cream van up and down here all the time. I believe it does a roaring trade.’

A
ngel took his leave of Father Riley and returned to his office. He hung up his coat and turned back to his desk, when there was a knock at the door.

It was Ahmed. ‘I’ve had one result with that artist’s picture on the Automatic Criminal Recognition site, sir.’

Angel’s head shot up.

‘Peter King,’ Ahmed said.

Angel blinked, then pulled a face like a man who had overdone the Colman’s on his ham. ‘Peter King?’

‘Isn’t he the man who is always confessing, sir?’

He was, and it made Angel furious. King had taken to confessing to almost every serious crime that came along.

Angel leaned forward, picked up the phone and tapped in a six.

‘Control room,’ a voice said.

‘Angel here. I want you to bring a Peter King in … for
questioning
. He lives at – or hangs around – the bottom end of Sebastopol Terrace.’

‘Peter King, sir? We know where he can usually be found.’

Angel replaced the phone and then rubbed his mouth and jaw roughly. He looked up at Ahmed. ‘Did you want anything else, lad?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m ready to print off that artist’s drawing, sir. You’ll want to add a caption?’

‘Yes,’ he said. He thought about it for a second, then said, ‘This man wanted for the murder of Harry Weston, railway ticket clerk, Bromersley, the Reverend Samuel Smart of St Mary’s Church, Bromersley, and the Reverend Raymond Gulli of St Barnabas Church, Bromersley, on January 11 and 12, 2010. Any information to DI Angel, Bromersley Police Station. Got it?’

‘Yes sir. How many do you want, sir?’

‘You’d better make it seventy, lad. One for everybody in the station and a few left over. See that every constable gets one. And see that it is
put into his hand
, not left around in a pile to be picked up or left there as his fancy takes him, and then what’s not been taken, used as betting slips for Brian the bookie.’

Ahmed couldn’t prevent a tiny smile developing. He didn’t realize that Angel knew that some of the lads sneaked out and placed bets with the bookie in the next street.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,’ he called.

It was DS Carter.

He pointed to her to come in and sit down.

He looked back at Ahmed. ‘Take a copy down to the
Bromersley
Chronicle
. I’ll have a word with the editor. I’m sure he’ll run it.’

‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said.

‘Is that it, lad?’

Ahmed nodded. He rushed out and closed the door.

Angel turned to Flora Carter. ‘Now then, lass, did you catch up with Felicity Kellerman?’

Carter smiled. ‘I’ve brought her in, sir. To see you. She’s outside. I thought you might like to interview her yourself?’

‘Felicity Kellerman?’ Angel said as he scratched his head. ‘Yes. All right. Bring her in.’

Flora Carter went to the door and returned half a minute later with a small woman who waddled into the office. She stuck out her huge stomach proudly though she looked uncomfortable. She was dressed in black, with lots of strings of beads round her neck, big rings on her fingers and dangly earrings longer than a hangman’s rope in her delicate ears. Shiny bits of black fringe, decorating her dress, flashed here and there at the slightest movement.

Angel blinked when he saw her. He stood up. ‘Pleased to meet you, Miss Kellerman,’ he said. ‘Please sit down.’

‘Sure thing,’ she said.

They looked at each other very closely.

Flora Carter said, ‘I’ll go and see to that other job, sir. If that’s all right?’

Angel nodded.

Flora Carter went out and closed the door.

Felicity Kellerman said: ‘You that big-time Inspector Angel that always gets his man? Wow! I heard of you. Now I seen you. That’s real great,’ she said with a smile as she eased herself gently into the chair. ‘Ever thought of going on tour?’ she continued. ‘You could get second top billing after Johnny Cash if you didn’t mind travelling, you know. Make a mint of money. Do you mind me asking, Inspector, can you sing? Or dance? Can you handle a rope?’

Angel shook his head. He had noticed that sometimes, but not always, she spoke like Dolly Parton.

‘You could learn fire eating, or plate spinning,’ Felicity Kellerman said.

He shook his head again. ‘I’m very happy here, miss, doing what I do, thank you.’

She nodded.

He could see that she had a pretty face when she smiled and a beautiful figure, even when pregnant.

‘You may know that I am looking into the shooting of young Harry Weston,’ Angel said.

‘Terrible,’ she said. ‘Oh my God. Terrible. Poor Harry. I told him he needed some crystal near him. In his pocket would have been ideal. I guess he didn’t have any. I told him many times. It would have been his protection against the evil one.’

The use of the words ‘evil one’ made Angel blink. ‘Who do you mean? Who is the evil one?’

‘Ah well, a person or spirit who wishes anyone evil,’ she said. ‘In Harry’s case the man with the shooter. Do you have any crystal on you, Inspector?’

‘I don’t go along with that, Miss Kellerman.’

‘I see a light around your head, the colour of amethyst. I guess amethyst is your colour and I guess your stone. I expect your birthday is in February, Inspector?’

Angel gasped. It was. He was surprised that she knew, and a little uneasy. He had no intention of confirming what she said. She probably knew the date as well. Looked it up on a biography on the internet or something like that. He didn’t want to encourage this line of talk.

‘I’ll send you a piece of amethyst. It will protect you. No charge. My treat.’

‘Please don’t, Miss Kellerman. I want to talk to you about Harry.’

‘Poor Harry. Yes.’

‘Tell me all you know about Harry.’

‘He was a Sagittarian. Fourteenth. Born on the cusp. Lovely young man. But nothing was ever going to be straightforward for him.’

Angel ran his hand through his hair. With voice slightly raised he said, ‘How did you first meet him?’

‘I used to work all over, you know, with my partner, Ben Wizard. We covered the States, the southern parts of Canada, Ireland and most of the UK together. Then last March, we split up. He went back to the States and I worked my way around on my own
wherever
my agent booked me a gig. I came to Bromersley on the 28 March to do a gig at the
Scheherazade
. After I had done my second spot I went into the bar and standing next to me was Harry Weston. I knew straightaway that he was a Sagittarian. We got chatting and enjoyed a glass or two of real ale. He told me about his interest in the music business and the guitar. Later I heard him play. He was pretty darned good too. He said he wanted coaching to bring him up to professional standard. He was fed up with the railway job. He wanted to leave it and make a career in music. Tell the truth, Inspector, I needed a friend and I needed some company. I had intended working until my baby was born, but I’m just too big. Can’t sling a guitar around in front of this any more, so I thought I would put down some roots here in Bromersley. Rented a nice apartment. The rent’s a bit high, but it faces south and has the right aura. I have a couple of gigs then I have it in mind to rest my voice and hang up my guitar in Bromersley at least until after baby is born. Then I’ll see how I go.’

‘But what about Harry Weston? Did you have a relationship with him?’

‘If you mean did I sleep with him … I’ll not answer that. Damn it, I’m ten years older than he is. Anyway, he never asked me. I think he saw me as an elder sister.’

‘So who is the father of the baby you are carrying?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘My partner, Ben Wizard. What sort of a woman do you think I am?’

Angel sighed.

‘That blue aura round your head has gone, Inspector,’ she said.
‘It’s more of a bright red colour now. It tells me you are thinking bad thoughts, Inspector.’

‘I thought you said you had split up with this man, Ben Wizard?’

‘To tell the truth, Inspector, I don’t quite know where I stand with Ben. We parted friendly, like. I still love him but I can’t keep
dragging
myself round the world after him, toting a guitar. I want to put down roots and have a family. He wants to wander round like a wandering minstrel. I’m hoping when I have this baby that he’ll change, or at least find a compromise, and not be constantly on the road. He’s a lovely man, Inspector Angel. Have you ever seen Ben Wizard?’

She opened her large, brown leather handbag and fished through some cards.

‘No. I can’t say that I have,’ Angel said.

She handed him a card about as big as a postcard. It had a coloured photograph of an outdoor man wearing a cowboy hat and a leather coat. He had long hair, a beard and sideburns. On the reverse side was a potted history of him, and his agent’s address in the US and the UK.

Angel looked at it and offered it back to her. ‘Thank you.’

‘Naw. Keep it. We got thousands.’

Angel put it on the desk and rubbed his chin. ‘So where did Harry Weston fit in then?’ he said.

‘As I said, we were just friendly. I was telling him how to look good on the stage. How to take a bow. How to milk the applause. I was advising him how to get a good agent, and how to get gigs. Stuff like that.’

‘That all?’

‘Just about. Hey. There’s a lot to being a country and western artist, Inspector, especially when you’re well down the bill, working solo, doing a seven-minute spot at a big venue like The Arena. You ain’t got much time to get the audience to like you, before you’re on your second number, you’ve finished and you’re off.’

‘So how far did this friendship with him go? Did you go to his flat?’

‘I went once. It was a miserable hole. Faced north-east. The
furniture
was set all wrong. There was no aura. He came to my place lots of times. He brought his guitar and his music. We played together. We had a lot of fun.’

‘You know he broke up with his regular young lady about two weeks ago?’

‘He told me. Madeleine Rossi, a young girl who works behind the grille at a bookies. Apparently somebody told her that he was seeing me, and she misunderstood.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t tell her.’

She shrugged, causing a span of shiny black fringe across her chest to reflect the light.

‘Was he very upset?’ Angel said.

‘At first he was. But after it had sunk in, I don’t think he was. I think he was more upset that Madeleine had found out by somebody sneakily telling her, and that she had so promptly taken the initiative without talking it out with him, but I don’t think he was madly in love with her.’

Angel considered what she had said and nodded. ‘There were no threats, big scenes, that sort of thing?’

She shook her head. The earrings swished down her neck and across the black shoulder straps of her dress. ‘Not in front of me, Inspector,’ she said. ‘No. It seemed to make him more determined than ever to concentrate on his music. He practised his guitar harder and longer. Anyway, it didn’t take Madeleine Rossi long to find a new beau. She soon got her claws into somebody called Grogan, Clive Grogan. His father apparently is in the ice-cream business.’

Angel’s head came up. Angus Rossi would be delighted that his only daughter Madeleine was courting the boss’s son.

‘When was the last time you saw Harry Weston, Miss Kellerman?’

She half closed her eyes as she thought. ‘It must have been Sunday night, about ten o’clock. Yes, it was. He came about six o’clock, brought his guitar and a bottle of something. We played around, trying out different songs. I had a pizza delivered at about nine o’clock and he left around ten.’

‘He never spoke to you about his family or friends?’

‘No. Not really. Didn’t seem to have any.’

‘Did he mention a man about forty, Miss Kellerman? Could have been a priest. The man who shot him was seen wearing a dog collar and a black shirt front.’

Felicity Kellerman stared at him and said, ‘Inspector, your aura is going all red again.’

Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. ‘He never mentioned anybody who would fit that description?’

‘No. No.’

‘Did you ever see anybody like that in company with Harry Weston?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘One last question, then I’ll let you go on home. Do you know of anybody who would have wished Harry Weston dead?’

‘No. Certainly not, Inspector. He was a nice young man … wouldn’t hurt a fly. Just lived for his music.’

‘Thanks very much, Miss Kellerman.’

The phone rang.

Angel looked up at the clock. It was straight up five o’clock. Time for home.

He stood up, glared at the phone, hoping it would stop ringing. It didn’t. He wrinkled his nose then reached out for it.

‘Angel,’ he said.

It was a civilian telephonist from the station reception desk. ‘Sorry to bother you, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I know it’s late, but there’s a Mr Fiske, the headteacher of Curzon Street School, at the front desk. He says that he has something very important to report, and he will only speak to somebody senior. He has asked to see the chief constable, whose secretary said that he was out, and the superintendent, who, as you may know, left early to go to the doctor’s. That left you and Inspector Asquith, and I know that Inspector Asquith is out dealing with a multi-vehicle road accident. That left you. Will you see him? I hope you will. I wouldn’t like to have to go back to him again and tell him he’ll now have to be seen by a sergeant.’

Angel groaned. Problems with kids and teachers and schools were tiresome, time wasting and not his forte, and he yearned to go home. He had some wide-ranging orderly thinking to do. He solved many of his cases seated in the presence of boring reality television programmes. However, he was there to serve.

‘All right,’ he heard himself say. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

He heard the receptionist sigh.

‘Get somebody to bring him down to my office straightaway, will you?’

Two minutes later, a uniformed constable duly delivered the teacher. He stormed into the little office with a red face and a lot on his mind.