Free Murder in Bare Feet by Roger Silverwood Page A

He was carrying a large, tightly stuffed Manila envelope with the word EVIDENCE printed in red across it.
    Angel smiled at his old friend.
    ‘I finished the PM last night,’ Mac said. ‘I still have the report to tidy up and print out, but I wanted to get rid of this money. The mortuary doesnae have a safe, you know.’ He slapped the thick envelope on Angel’s desk.
    Angel frowned. He picked up the envelope. It was certainly bulky. ‘What’s in here?’
    ‘The contents of the victim’s pockets including eight thousand quid in twenties, tenners and fivers.’
    Angel’s eyebrows shot up.
    ‘The money was spread about his pockets,’ Mac continued, ‘so that it wouldn’t stick out too much, I suppose.’
    ‘Is his wallet there?’
    ‘Yes, with more than a hundred quid in it, and there was a parcel of that cash in the same pocket, keeping it company.’
    ‘So our murderer’s motive wasn’t robbery then,’ Angel said. ‘Ta, Mac. What else can you tell me that’s interesting?’
    ‘Nothing much. He was shot in quick succession, I expect … in the head, twice … then once in the arm and once in the chest. A .32 … from between ten and fifty yards. He would have died instantly.’
    ‘Must have used a silencer?’
    Mac nodded. ‘Aye. I’m not much into ballistics, but I know with a modern silencer it would have made less noise than the backfiring of a kid’s motorbike.’
    ‘Hmm. Was it a handgun?’
    ‘I think so. If it was a handgun, it was well aimed. No wide shots. The one in his arm went straight through him and then out through the windscreen.’
    ‘Any prints on the shell cases?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Hmm. What sort of a health was he in.’
    ‘Pretty good fettle. Early signs of cirrhosis. Not much. He must have been taking plenty of water with it. Everything else looked in good order. Looked after himself. Probably a member of a gym. Signs of a deep natural tan wearing off. He probably wintered in a hot climate somewhere. His clothes were of the best. Reid and Taylor worsted suit, silk underwear, monogrammed shirt.’
    Angel smiled. ‘He doesn’t sound like your regular scrap-metal man, does he? Was he into drugs?’
    ‘Not as far as I could see. No needle marks … well, not in the usual places anyway. And no tattoos.’
    He stood up and made for the door. ‘I must go. I’ll email the full PM report to you later today.’
    ‘Well thanks, Mac. Must ask you. Can you possibly understand why a murderer would stand in the street in his bare feet to shoot his victim? I mean, have you any idea at all?’
    ‘I have no idea, Michael. I was thinking about it last night. I have absolutely no idea. I’m a scientist. I deal in facts. My investigations produce specific answers. With me, it’s yes or no. Positive or negative. Black or white. Fortunately, I don’t have those kind of peculiar puzzles to solve. You’re the expert there, sorry.’
    Angel looked at him and frowned.
    Mac went out and closed the door.
    Angel rubbed his chin. He didn’t feel much of an expert. He reached out and tipped the contents of Pleasant’s pockets out of the evidence envelope on to the desk. As well as the big wodge of £8,000 in mixed notes, there were the more usual things: handkerchief, some coins, a soft camel-skin wallet and a five-lever key on its own. He quickly reached out for the key and sighed with satisfaction. He looked at it closely, turned it over, turned it back, there were no marks on it at all. He held one end between finger and thumb, tapped the other end in the palm of his other hand and looked away through the window. It looked as if it might fit the Philip’s safe he had discovered in the scrapyard under the forklift. He put the key in his pocket and amended the inventory on the paper stapled to the envelope. Then he reached out for the wallet. Inside there was £120 in notes, plastic cards from all sorts of organizations, including the AA, the Great Northern Bank, and some other lesser known