As 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.’
‘Oh Inspector Angel, you have a mischievous mind. It must be all those criminals you are mixing with. Their wickedness is rubbing off on to you. You compel me to say that I have absolutely nothing to gain from the death of poor, dear, Charles. Nothing at all.’
‘Maybe it was to get back at your ex-wife taking up with him?’
The smile vanished. ‘She was crossed off four years ago, Inspector. February, 2003. The whore departed,’ he declared and the smile returned. ‘That Easter, never did I sing The Easter Hymn by Mascagni better.’
Angel sighed. He rubbed his chin. ‘What about your son? Where is he now?’
‘Ah. You have me there, dear Inspector. We left the reception together at The Feathers at around five o’clock. He brought me here and then I think he may have returned to his flat. These young people … there’s no telling where they are or what they’re up to. Probably now out with a young lady; or in his flat, teaching her to play the harp.’
‘He doesn’t live here any more?’
‘He’s had his own flat for four years now, Inspector. When I threw that bitch out—’
‘I thought she divorced you?’
‘The divorce was … mutual,’ he said. ‘Expensive, but mutual, dear Inspector. When I threw that bitch out, I thought it healthier for Stanley to have a place of his own. She is his mother, after all. I can’t change that, although I wish that I could. I let him create his own establishment so that she could visit him without me tripping up over her and falling into any more of her feminine trickery. Women can be so deceitful, don’t you think, Inspector? They can think up evil and sinfulness so much more easily than straightforward feeble men like us. You must have come across that in your long experience of studying crime, Inspector?’
Angel shook his head. ‘So what’s his address?’ he said.
‘I am sure he would love to see you, but I don’t think he will be at home, right now. You could telephone him.’
‘I may call on him tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow would be good. He will be here all day. You would be sure to catch him.’
‘His address and phone number, please.’
‘Of course. It is Flat 14, Council Close, Potts New Estate. Telephone 223942.’
It was half past eight before Angel reached home that night. Mary wasn’t pleased. He hadn’t managed to eat anything since the lunch they had had together at about twelve, noon.
‘You’ll put yourself on your back if you don’t eat regular meals,’ she said. ‘That’s what gave your father that ulcer.’
‘Yes, well, there wasn’t anywhere … open. It’s Sunday.’
‘You must eat proper meals at regular intervals.’
The roast beef sirloin joint Mary had planned for serving at around 6 p.m. had been left to cool on the work top and covered with a wire-framed linen protector.
‘Would you like a slice of cold beef, Yorkshire pudding and gravy? That’s the best suggestion I can make.’
He nodded thankfully, opened a tin of German beer out of the fridge and settled down at the kitchen table.
‘You know what it’s like,’ he said. ‘It’s strike while the iron’s hot. I like to be where it’s happening. There’s always some little thing that the system doesn’t necessarily include that might point to the murderer.’
‘Hmmm,’ she said sceptically as she poured batter across the bottom of the blisteringly hot pan. ‘And has it worked for you this time?’
He pulled a face. ‘No. Although I might have missed a footprint.’
‘Your scenes of crimes team would have picked that up, wouldn’t they?’
‘Probably. But this was a very unusual footprint. I simply needed to be there.’
Mary closed the oven door. ‘Oh,’ she said, sitting at the table with him.
He sipped the beer. It tasted good.
‘It was a footprint of the murderer,’ he added. ‘When he shot the victim, he was in his bare feet.’
‘Bare feet? Why would the murderer walk about in bare feet? Are you sure it was human?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Why did he take his shoes off then? Was it so that he could creep up behind the victim or something?’
‘I don’t know why. He had no need to. He was in the street … about twenty feet away from the man when he shot him.’
‘Where did he keep his shoes then? In his pockets? You don’t know if he was dressed or not, do you?’
‘No, but I suppose he had trousers on, at least. He wouldn’t get far in Bromersley without them, would he? It was a summer’s day. Sebastopol Terrace was quiet, but he had to get away. It was a cul-de-sac. He would have to get away somehow, either on foot or in a car.’
‘He couldn’t drive a car in bare feet, could he?’
He licked his lips and frowned. ‘Now, there’s a thing.’
‘Are you sure the foot marks belonged to the murderer?’
‘The angle of entry of the bullets into the victim fits, the range fits, there were discarded shell cases on the floor in front of the footprints. Everything says the murderer had no shoes and socks on, but why?’
Mary frowned.
‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘The murdered man was shot in a car and he also had no shoes on. He had socks on, but no shoes. He was smartly dressed. Reid and Taylor worsted, handmade bespoke suit, gold cufflinks, white shirt and tie, but no shoes.’
‘It would be hard to drive in his stocking feet.’
‘Very difficult. Uncomfortable, pressing on the pedals, especially the brake. What would be the point?’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s going to beat me, Mary, this is. It’s crazy.’
‘No it won’t. You’ll solve it,’ she said confidently. She stood up and moved to the sink. ‘You always have done,’ she added.
He shook his head. She’d more faith in him than he had in himself.
‘Wasn’t there a shoe fetish murderer Wakefield way a few years ago?’ she said.
‘Mmmm. It was a very strange case. He raped women then murdered them, then stole their shoes.’
‘Maybe this murderer misses out on the rape, commits the murder and steals the shoes?’
‘Both the murderer and the victim are without shoes. One has socks on, one hasn’t. Doesn’t make sense.’
Mary was standing in front of the oven stirring a small pan of gravy. She suddenly shuddered. ‘It’s awful. And dangerous. That’s what you’ve been doing this afternoon, is it? Looking for a murdering lunatic who murders people in his bare feet. Why don’t you get a proper job? Like a teacher or something? At least it’s decent and … honourable and safe, dealing with children all day.’
Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘We’ve been through this, Mary, many a time. You know it’s a necessary service … to the community. Somebody needs to do it.’
‘Yes, but why you?’ she snapped. ‘It’s dirty. It’s dealing with all sorts of unsavoury people. And it’s downright dangerous!’
He was caught, unable to find a reply.
‘The truth is you enjoy it!’ she added triumphantly.
He couldn’t deny it. He sighed. He unfolded his serviette and then fiddled with his knife and fork.
‘Oh!’ she whooped. ‘Yorkshire pudding’s almost ready. Carve what you want. I’m past it, now. Couldn’t eat a thing.’