Murder in Bare Feet (5 page)

‘You’ll find he’s lying.’

‘And about another hundred and twenty guests?’

‘They’re lying. Must be. I tell you. I know him. I worshipped Emlyn Jones. I used to believe every word he said. I thought he was so … so honest. I can’t understand it … the lying, hypocritical, Welsh bastard.’

Angel shook his head. ‘I’ll check on it, most carefully, rest assured.’

‘If you have eyewitnesses, Inspector, then he paid them to lie. He’s like that. You can’t trust him an inch.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve got to do things by the book, Miss Frazer. But have no fear, I shall check out every word he utters … as I do with everybody’s evidence,’ he added.

‘I should hope so. And when you have done that, you’ll find that I’m right.’

He wanted to move on. It wasn’t easy, as she was quite worked up about her ex-husband.

‘Mr Pleasant,’ Angel said. ‘Did he have an arrangement to see somebody at the scrapyard yesterday?’

‘I believe so. Yes.’

‘Did he tell you who it was?’

‘I think he simply said it was business. I took that to mean that it wasn’t worth mentioning who it was or what it was about. It was somebody I wouldn’t have heard of. It was, I assumed, somebody simply bringing something to sell him. Scrap metal. That’s all I know.’

‘When was the arrangement made?’

‘I really don’t know. We were out by the pool. We had had a light lunch. At about three, he had a swim. Then dried off on the lounger, went in the house, came out a few minutes later in his suit … said he was nipping down to the yard and wouldn’t be long.’

‘Did you know that when he was found, he was not wearing shoes?’

She turned, whipped off the sunglasses and said, ‘Not wearing shoes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘That’s … ridiculous. I am sure he left here wearing shoes. He wouldn’t be able to get around … to the garage here to get the car out.’

‘Nevertheless, that’s how he was found. In his stockinged feet.’

‘I wouldn’t let him turn out of the house without shoes. It’s ridiculous. What happened to them? Why would he take off his shoes? He wouldn’t have been seen outside the house without shoes … only on a beach … on the deck of a yacht … in a swimming pool … in the bedroom. Did he still have his socks on?’

‘Yes. He was fully dressed apart from his shoes and we still haven’t found them. I need a description, if you please.’

‘Well, really,’ she said petulantly. There was a pause. ‘Black polished leather. Plain fronts. Elasticated sides. Size nine.’

He took an envelope out of his inside pocket and wrote it down. ‘Thank you. Was there anything special about them?’

‘Special? No. He bought them in town. He would only wear leather for regular, business occasions. They were polished and shining. Fussy about his appearance, Charles was,’ she muttered thoughtfully. ‘I don’t understand why he would be without shoes.’

‘You were not actually married to Mr Pleasant, were you, Miss Frazer?’

‘No.’

He pursed his lips, gave a little shrug and said, ‘I have to ask this, Miss Frazer. It may seem indelicate at this time, but it has to be asked. Who benefits from the death of Mr Pleasant?’

‘I do, of course. He left everything to me. I am not the least bit embarrassed by it, Inspector. It’s the way of the world. And I don’t mind telling you that I would give it all up to have Charles walk through that door and know that he was alive and well.’

‘I know. I am only sorry it can’t be done.’

She nodded.

‘Forgive me, if I continue,’ he said gently. ‘There’s a safe at the scrapyard, Miss Frazer. I wondered if you knew anything about it. In particular if you had a key for it … here … or anywhere?’

‘No. There’d be a key on Charles’s key ring, I think. Molloy has a key for it, I believe. I’m pretty sure Charles had said that he had. He has to have access to cash to pay out.’

‘That’s the safe in the office. I meant another safe. A much bigger one.’

Jazmin Frazer blinked. ‘I don’t know anything much about the business, Inspector.’

A mobile phone began to ring.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. He stood up and plunged his hand into his pocket.

It was Ahmed.

‘Sorry to bother you, sir. Two things.’

‘Yes?’

‘The super wants to see you urgently.’

‘Didn’t say what for?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Right. And the other?’

‘I phoned Philips and went through the routine as you instructed, sir, but they said that the records of all their safes manufactured before 1939 were destroyed when their factory was blown up by a bomb in the blitz in 1942.’

Angel wrinkled his nose. That was a disappointment. ‘Right, lad. Ta. Tell the super I’m on my way.’

He frowned and slowly closed the phone. He thought he had finished all the pressing business he had with Jazmin Frazer.

‘I am wanted back at the station,’ he said. ‘If you will excuse me?’

‘Of course.’

He got up to leave.

‘Please find poor Charles’s shoes,’ she said. ‘I can’t imagine what Emlyn Jones would want with them.’

I
t was 9.29 hours on Monday, 6 August. A man in overalls and hat appeared from down a ginnel through leafy lanes of accountants’, solicitors’ and moneylenders’ offices on to Huddersfield Road, Bromersley. He was carrying a tiny collapsible metal and canvas stool, a weatherproof canopy and a tool case; he had a small vacuum flask sticking out of a long hip pocket. He sat down on the stool in front of a green telephone connection box set in front of the front wall of a solicitor’s office. He put the canopy over the connection box, opened the tool box, took out a screwdriver and began to remove the connection box cover.

Twenty yards away, a small queue of customers began to form outside the Bromersley branch of The Great Northern Bank. There were four young men and then a youngish woman who sported the most enormous bosom and stomach so that she appeared to be close to giving birth to Sheffield Wednesday. Behind her in the queue two other men had arrived.

The bank door was opened with a flourish at 9.30 by a man in a black uniform with silver buttons down the front.

The queue shuffled inside the bank, but as the young woman approached a till, her breathing became uneven and her face contorted as if in great pain; she held her stomach, then collapsed in a heap on the floor.

A few customers turned to assist her. There wasn’t much they could do. Her forehead was moist and she was saying, ‘I need to go to the bathroom. I need to go to the bathroom.’

The security guard, Cyril Widdowson, the man with the buttons, came up. ‘Now Miss, whatever’s the matter?’

She gasped. ‘I need to use your … bathroom, very very quickly. Very quickly indeed.’

A woman rushed up and said, ‘If you’re not careful, she’ll have it in here! You should call for an ambulance.’

Widdowson’s face went white. ‘Right,’ he said helping the lumpy woman to her feet. He called to a girl on one of the tills, ‘Dial 999 and get an ambulance! Then tell Mr Hobson.’

The lady teller quickly took in the situation. ‘Right, Cyril,’ she replied.

He put his arm boldly round the big woman and assisted her up to the door leading to the bank vaults, stationery store, back door and lavatory. Then he looked around nervously. He still had certain security procedures to observe. However, there was nothing he could recall in standing orders about collapsing, pregnant women. He peered through a tiny window in the security door. Everything inside seemed normal. There was nobody near them on this side. He checked that the CCTV camera had them in its range. The situation seemed secure. He tapped the day’s code into the lock and the door clicked open.

‘Where’s the bathroom,’ she wailed as they went through the door into the secure area. The security door closed behind them.

Widdowson directed her to the lavatory door. ‘Will you be all right?’

She staggered through the door without replying and quickly slammed it shut. She shot the bolt across with a bang.

He stood outside, sighed and tried not to be alarmed as he heard groans and moans. He dreaded to think what the result of all the noises might be.

There was the sound of a buzzer. It was the noise caused by somebody wanting to get into the secure area.

He crossed over to the security door and looked through the tiny window. It was the bank manager, Mr Hobson.

Widdowson rushed to open the door to admit him.

Hobson came blustering through. He was not a happy man. ‘What’s happening?’

‘A pregnant women, sir. She’s in the staff toilet, Mr Hobson. Sounds like she’s having it now. Miss Phipps has phoned for an ambulance.’

‘Yes. I know. Well, be very careful. We must not lower our security, you know.’

‘I couldn’t very well deny her use of the lavatory, sir.’

‘No. No. I see that. But, well, we’ll have to escort her back out of here. Before anything.… Just as soon as we can.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hobson banged on the staff toilet door. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’

‘Yes,’ a quiet little voice said.

Hobson said: ‘I’ll go out and see if there’s any sign of that ambulance.’

He crossed over to the security door, peered through the tiny window at the customers queuing at the tills, and beyond them to the front door. He was just in time to see two men with beards in bright blue and green uniforms rush into the bank hall. The one with ‘Paramedic’ printed in white across his chest and back was carrying a shoulder bag. The other was carrying a stretcher. They rushed up to a teller’s window.

Hobson dashed back to the staff toilet door. ‘The ambulance is here now, Miss!’

‘I’m coming out now,’ she said.

They heard the bolt on the door slide back, the door slowly opened and there she was. Leaning back against the wall, her face perspiring. ‘I think my waters have broken.’

Hobson’s eyes flashed. ‘Can you manage to walk a few steps?’ he said.

‘I think so.’

Hobson and Widdowson escorted the woman out of the secure area back into the bank hall.

The men sighed with relief when they heard the click of the security door behind them.

‘This is the young lady,’ he said to the man holding the stretcher. ‘She’s, er, not very well.’

‘I’m a paramedic. We’ll soon have you in hospital, love. There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Not to worry,’ the other man said as he opened the stretcher. ‘There we are. Have you there in a jiffy.’

She nodded and tried to smile.

Two minutes later the woman and the two uniformed men were on their way in the ambulance; Mr Hobson was back in his office wiping his forehead with a handkerchief; Cyril Widdowson was in his little cubicle next to the bank vault franking letters ready to take to the post office in his lunch hour, and the man outside, sitting on the stool in front of the solicitor’s office next to the bank, smiled, poured himself another cup of coffee from the flask and rested the headphones momentarily round his neck.

The Bromersley branch of The Great Northern Bank resumed its normal business of accepting other people’s money, investing other people’s money, paying out other people’s money and retaining a small but healthy percentage for its directors, staff and shareholders, in the process.

However, after a quiet few minutes had passed, there erupted the most abominable stink from the smallest room, accompanied by a stream of water gushing out under the door.

The smell pervaded Cyril’s Widdowson’s cubicle, also the sound of running water. He acted immediately. He rushed over to the source of the ghastly smell. He held his nose and pushed open the loo door. Water was running down the wall from the lavatory cistern. He closed the door quickly.

He splashed back to his cubicle, picked up the phone on the wall, pressed a button and the manager, Mr Hobson, answered.

‘What is it now, Widdowson?’ he said irritably.

‘We need a plumber urgently, sir. There’s liquid running from the staff toilet and there’s the most awful smell.’

‘What?’ he said. ‘Well, get the usual ones. The ones we always use. The ones head office has approved.’

‘Right, sir.’

Minutes later, two men with beards in overalls and carrying toolboxes arrived in the bank at the security door and pressed the button.

Widdowson saw them through the window in the security door and opened it two inches.

‘What’s the trouble?’ the older of the two said.

Widdowson peered at them through the crack. ‘You’re not our usual plumber.’

‘No. He can’t come himself, he’s on an emergency job in Mexborough. We work for him. He said it would be all right if we explained. He said that the caller said it was very urgent. The boss can call later this afternoon when he’s finished there. We’ve come off a job at the Town Hall. Of course, if you don’t want us to see to it, we can leave and go back to the job we’re on.’

They turned to leave.

The smell from behind and the sound of running water was in Widdowson’s ears. His stomach turned over and then turned back again. He opened the door wider and called them back.

‘No. I er—’

He swallowed. ‘I’ll have to check with the manager.’

‘Yes, all right, but what exactly is the problem?’ the older man said pressing on the door. ‘Hadn’t you better let us see what it is, while we’re here. It might be getting worse. Oh, what a stink!’

The smell was truly awful.

Widdowson hesitated. His grip on the door relaxed a little.

The two men in boiler suits pushed and they were through it, taking the bank guard with them. The door closed and the lock clicked.

‘You can’t come in here without—’

The leader pulled out a Walther PPK/S and jabbed it in his belly.

Widdowson gasped.

‘Turn round, face the wall and shut up,’ the leader said.

They bolted the door, pulled on rubber gloves and slid ski masks down over their whiskered faces from under their woolly hats.

The leader then turned Widdowson back round to face him, took away his mobile phone and keys, pushed him back against the wall, took an aerosol out of his tool bag, sprayed the front of his coat and trousers with petrol and waved a cigarette lighter at him.

‘Any funny business and this is for you,’ he said quietly. ‘Understand?’

‘Yes. Yes,’ Widdowson jabbered, his voice up an octave.

The man turned him back to face the wall. ‘Don’t move.’

He nodded.

The other robber had meanwhile been throwing hammers at each of the two CCTV cameras positioned high up the wall. He had managed to crash each of the lenses at first lob.

The robbers splashed through the water-covered floor to the open vault.

Suddenly, the bank alarm started. It was a high-pitched bell, so loud that it caused the very floor of the building to vibrate.

Two young male clerks appeared, one out of the vault, one from behind a trolley; they took in the scene with eyebrows raised, mouths wide open.

The gang leader waved the gun at them.

Their hands shot up like Jack-in-the-boxes.

‘Over there. Turn round. Face the wall. If you don’t want to see blood on that nice white paintwork, keep absolutely still.’

The two men stood next to Widdowson, facing the wall.

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.