Shrine to Murder (18 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Angel made it straight back to his office. He had just settled at his desk when there was a knock at the door. It was Taylor and he was carrying a length of timber. Angel peered at it.

‘
I’ve finished the examination of Angus Peel’s van, sir,’ Taylor said.

‘
That’s great, Don.’

‘
I’m afraid there’s not much that you will want to hear, sir.’

‘
So tell me anyway.’

‘
Well, there aren’t any prints on any of the door handles, the steering wheel, the gear stick, or the ignition key - the obvious places. They’ve been wiped clean or the murderer wore gloves. And I can’t rely on any of the many samples in the mud that had floated on to his clothes, his shoes, his head and his hands. They could have originated from anywhere…they could have been from the van or from mud in the canal.’

‘
I know. I know. Anything else?’

He
raised up the length of rough white timber that had not been planed. It was about 4” long x 4” wide x 1” thick. ‘This is the piece of wood that was used to jam the accelerator. It appears to have been part of a packing crate of some sort. It has part of a word stencilled on it. Three letters only, “ønd”. I think it might be part of a company or an address. The whole word might have been stencilled across a crate, this piece catching only the three letters.’

Angel
nodded. ‘I know what you mean, Don.’

‘
According to my researches, that strange looking “ø” is represented like that in Norway.’

Angel
’s eyes narrowed. ‘Norway?’ Angel said.

‘
I don’t know where it fits in the puzzle, sir. Indeed, it may not have any significance at all, just a piece of timber that was handy for the murderer the time he was planning to dump the van in the canal.’

‘
Thanks Don. Frankly, I have not the remotest idea if it is significant or not. There are no links to Norway that I can think of in this case.’

Taylor
smiled. ‘It’ll come to you in due course, sir.’

‘
You know, Don. I thought this job would get easier as I got older.’

‘
You’ll get there, sir. You always do. They say, like the Mountie, you always get your man.’

‘
This case might be the exception to the rule, Don. I mean, what’s the point of all these murders? I can’t even find a solid reason…explanation. Where’s the motive? We are not dealing with logic. We are not dealing with a human being who wants something tangible like a diamond, an estate, a billion pounds, a lover, a throne or a title. We are dealing with a lunatic, a phantom, a spectre, who wants to annihilate ordinary innocent people who played characters in a disastrous production of a play twenty years ago. But, why? And it’s somebody very close, Don. Somebody who was in the production, who knows what went on then and, perhaps more worrying, somebody who knows what’s happening now.’

‘
Well, is there anything more I can do, sir.’

‘
No, Don. Just keep on doing what you do best.’

Taylor
smiled. ‘Like you, sir.’

Angel
wasn’t smiling. ‘We don’t always get choices in this world.’

‘
No, sir,’ Taylor said and he went out and closed the door.

Angel
thought about the piece of wood, the letter strange letter “ø” and Norway for a few moments, then shrugged and reached out for the phone and tapped in a number. It was to the hospital mortuary. ‘I want to speak to Dr Mac, please.’

‘
You want to know about Angus Peel, Michael?’ Mac said. ‘Well there’s very little to say.’

‘
Anything unusual, Mac. I am not interested in his statistics.’

‘
He was stabbed, as you know. It
was
in the aorta. Same weapon, I would say. Died instantly. He was dead before he hit the water. Nothing you would describe as unusual in this case. What else do you want to know?’

Angel
sighed. ‘Tell me, Mac, in your experience, could a woman have committed all these murders?’

‘
Oh yes. Doesn’t need much strength to stick a sharp instrument into a person’s heart. It takes a bit of knowledge, and it might take a bit of muscle to hold them still while you do it.’

‘
That’s what I thought. Thanks, Mac.’ Angel replaced the phone.

He
blew out a long sigh, then leaned back in the chair and began to massage his chin. There were no breaks in the case anywhere. Everywhere was proving to be a dead end. And there were two obstacles that seemed insurmountable: the two loose hairs on the back of Luke Redman’s hand. They
must
have belonged to the murderer. And the lab report said they belonged to a woman, and a woman with oriental ancestry. There was only one woman, Margaret Ireland, in the case and, although she had no alibi for the times of all three murders, she was as English as he was. Oriental meant that one of the murderer’s forbears, at least one, came from the Far East. That’s literally from the Persian Gulf to Wallace’s Line. That takes in India, Japan, China and then as far as the East Indies. There was no woman in the case, as far as he knew, with those qualifications. It required some thinking about. There was another possibility. Unlikely, but possible. That the hairs had been deliberately planted by the murderer. It would show an understanding of forensic procedure. However, if they had been planted, why weren’t there similar plants on the other victim’s? Well, on Ingrid Underwood’s body anyway. You would have expected
that
. Angel pondered on that a while then returned to believing firmly that the hairs had
not
been planted by the murderer. They were there by chance. They must have been from the murderer. He knew it didn’t make sense but he had wrestled with conundrums like this before. There would be an explanation. It just took time.

Supposing
Lamb or Franks was a woman. That would explain it. He thought about it a few moments. He tried to imagine them in wigs and dresses. It was ridiculous. There was nothing effeminate about either of them. Then he remembered the old adage. If it walks like a duck, and squawks like a duck, it’s a duck.

An
unhappy thought crossed his mind. He remembered that Margaret Ireland would have to be released tomorrow. He couldn’t hold her any longer. If she was innocent, she’d be unprotected against Lamb and Franks, and Angel was helpless to protect her.

There
were times when this job was impossible and this was one of those times. All this science around but none to help him in this case. He was thinking that the murderer deposited Peel’s body in the canal to frustrate SOCO by contaminating any forensic that might have been on his clothes. If so, why wasn’t the murderer worried when he murdered Ingrid Underwood? Sitting so close to her like that he would almost certainly have left a speck, a hair, something. He was wearing a sheet, sandals and a wig.

Then
something hit him like a thunderbolt. A wig! Some women sold their hair for money, particularly Indian women. Witnesses had said that the murderer seen running up and down in early-Roman clothes was wearing a wig. The two loose hairs found on the back of Luke Redman’s hand could have been from the wig the murderer was wearing, which was made from the hair of a woman who was from the orient. That was it! There was the explanation. The DNA result showed genes compatible with a female from the orient. Why didn’t he think of it before? The murderer must still be Kenneth Lamb, Tom Franks or Margaret Ireland. And Lamb and Franks were still at large. Indeed Angel had encouraged the two men to go into hiding. What a farce! Angel closed his eyes. It would be funny if it wasn’t so terrifyingly dangerous. However, he had no actual evidence that any of the last three survivors from the
Nero
production
was
the murderer, and he had pressed his investigations on them as far as Judge’s Rules allowed. And that meant that now he had no more lines of inquiry. That was it.

He
would have to consider other avenues of investigation. He would create new lines of inquiry, because doing something was better than doing nothing! He would go back to the heart of the case.

He
reached out for the phone.

‘
Is that
The
Bromersley
Chronicle
? Can I speak to Mr Jack Hanger, please? This is Detective Inspector Angel, Bromersley police.’

‘
Good morning, Inspector. What can I do for you? How are you getting along with that serial murder case?’

‘
Ah, Mr Hanger. It’s difficult, I must confess. I am looking for some more information. You may remember the man who was severely burned in that theatre production was called Malcolm Malloy.’

‘
Yes, I remember.’

‘C
an you tell me what happened to him? I know that he died. I expect your paper reported his death.’

‘
Just let me load it up. What was the date of that fire again? Do you remember?’

‘
Almost exactly twenty years ago, May 1989. He died shortly afterwards, probably in June.’

‘
Won’t take much finding. What do you want to know exactly?’

‘
All you’ve got, if you don’t mind.’

‘
Pleased to be of help, Inspector.’

There
was a short pause then Hanger said, ‘It’s coming. It’s very slow this morning…here it is. Yes, inspector. It’s a two-inch double-column report on page one bottom right-hand corner.’

‘
Would you read it out to me, please?’

‘
Certainly,’ Hanger said. ‘The headline is, “Bromersley actor dies of burns aged 25”. Then it goes on, “Malcolm Malloy, the promising young actor, died on Monday night. He was severely burned on stage while playing the eponymous
Nero
on the opening night at the Variety Theatre last April. He had been taken by ambulance to Bromersley General, where he was examined and treated for 80% burns. Later he was transferred to the specialist burns unit at Skiptonthorpe Cottage Hospital where he died. The funeral is at St Edward’s Parish Church at 2 p.m. on Friday next, 10 June. Funeral Directors, Jobson Hargreaves.” And that’s all, Inspector.’

‘
Thank you very much, Mr Hanger. Would you be kind enough to print off the piece for me and I’ll arrange for it to be collected?’

‘
Of course. Goodbye.’

Angel
then put a call through to the office of the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages at Bromersley Town Hall.

‘
Detective Inspector Angel of Bromersley police. I am looking into the death of a Malcolm Malloy who died on 24 May 1989. Would you please tell me who reported the death?’

The
information eventually came: ‘The person who reported the death was a Mr Jonathan Parker-Snell.’

‘
Thank you,’ he said and replaced the phone. He vaguely remembered the name. Jonathan Parker-Snell was the man who produced the play twenty years earlier and that he was one of the nineteen who had already died. He was surprised that the report of Malloy’s death to the Registrar had not been made by a family member. He pulled open a desk drawer and took out the local telephone book. With a name like Parker-Snell, he shouldn’t have any difficulty finding a surviving relative, if he had one. There was only one entry and it was a W. Parker-Snell. He dialled the number. After being put through to a telephonist and a secretary, Angel managed to be able to speak to the man. He thought he must be a busy man.

‘
I am making inquiries about the late Jonathan Parker-Snell, sir,’ Angel said.

‘
That was my uncle, Inspector. He died about ten years ago. How can I help?’

‘
Was he interested in the theatre and the production of plays?’

‘
Indeed he was. He had been a professional actor in his younger years, then latterly he coached and produced local amateur plays and light opera. Why?’

‘
I am looking into the history of a Malcolm Malloy, a young actor who was directed by your uncle in a play, and who died following an accidental fire in 1989. Can you help me?’

‘
That was a bit before my time, Inspector, but I remember my uncle told my late father and me something about him.’

‘
It was your uncle who reported his death to the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages. It’s usually a job for the next of kin.’

‘
I don’t think there was any family, Inspector. And I don’t believe Mr Malloy left anything much of value, either. I remember my uncle cleared out his flat, settled his bills and paid for the funeral.’

‘
Do you happen to know where Mr Malloy lived?’

‘
He had a flat on Huddersfield Road, I believe. I don’t know which one.’