Shrine to Murder (6 page)

The
shop door opened and a small man in whites came out. He had a white plastic carrying case hanging from his shoulder. He saw Angel and pulled down his mask.

Angel
dashed across to him. ‘Mac?’

The
pathologist turned up his nose then said, ‘Not nice, Michael. Not nice at all. Dead woman, middle aged I should think. Stabbed in the aorta.’

Angel
blinked. Mac looked at him knowingly. It was the same injury that killed Luke Redman. ‘Is the weapon there?’

‘
No. And she’s not been dead long.’

‘
Any other wounds?’

‘
Not that I could see. There is blood everywhere. It’s a real mess.’

Angel
rubbed his chin. ‘Anything to help
me
?’

`Yeah,
’ Mac said heavily. ‘There’s another message for you on the mirror in there.’

Angel
’s heart missed a beat. His fists tightened.

‘
What’s it say, Mac?’

‘
It says, “IV to go”.’

Angel
lifted his head. ‘Of course, Roman numerals,’ he said. ‘The “V” in the first message at Redman’s was for five. It’s a warning that there are to be four more victims?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Oh no.’

‘
Aye, Michael,’ Mac said. ‘There’s no other interpretation that comes to mind.’

The
muscles on Angel’s face tightened. ‘It’s a boast…a claim…a statement of intent, from the murderer.’

Mac
nodded.

Chapter Four

Two hours later, at a quarter past two, Angel came out of the grisly flower preparation room, through the shop and outside into the fresh air. He was followed by Taylor, still in his whites.

‘
I want every bit of greenery on the premises saved,’ Angel said, as he peeled the rubber gloves off and handed them to Taylor. ‘Doesn’t matter how small, how damaged, how lifeless, how insignificant it might be.’

‘
Right, sir,’ Taylor said.

‘
And that mirror, Ron. I suppose it will unscrew from the wall.’

‘
Leave it with me, sir.’

‘
And there’ll be Ingrid Underwood’s house to go through. The address is 22 Park Road.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll not get there today.’

‘
No, sir. Sometime tomorrow morning, I should think.’

‘
Right, Don, there’s nothing more here for the time being,’ he said. ‘Tell Mac I said it was OK to move the body when he’s ready.’

‘
Right, sir,’ Taylor said, and he turned back into the shop.

Angel
stood on the pavement and took a few deep breaths. He was glad to be outside and away from scene. It had been an unpleasant business examining the site. The woman’s lifeless white face, the wound, the excessive quantity of blood…and the MO of the murderer of Ingrid Underwood appeared to be significantly the same as that of the murderer of Luke Redman.

He
sighed. There was a lot to do and few hands to do it. He pulled out his mobile and tapped in Ahmed’s number.

‘
Ahmed, I told you to get DS Crisp to report at this scene of crime urgently.’

Ahmed
blinked several times. ‘I couldn’t get a reply from him, sir. I tried several times. His phone appeared to be switched off.’

Angel
’s grip on the mobile tightened. ‘It’s always switched off. Has DS Carter brought anybody into the station, to interview or anything?’

‘
No sir. I haven’t seen her.’

‘
Right, lad. I am leaving the flower shop now. If either of them turns up or contacts you, tell them to contact me on my mobile immediately.’

He
closed the phone, rammed it in his pocket and got into the BMW. He was angry that he hadn’t heard from either of his sergeants. Crisp had always been a bit of a maverick and liable to put himself out of contact for short periods. Angel had told him about it times without number. But he made up for it by almost always coming up with the goods. Angel was surprised at his own patience with the man. However, he was in no mood to allow any slack to the new woman, Carter. If she thought she could sweet talk him with a pretty smile and a whiff of ‘Evening in Paris’, she had another thing coming.

He
turned into Church Street. He was looking for the home of Ronnie Striker. He was pleased to see ahead of him Ron Gawber’s car, now Carter’s car, parked right opposite the Church gates. He pulled up behind it and looked along the terrace of ten houses. He chose the nearest house with the freshly scoured, whitened step and the cleanest front door and knocked on it. It was opened by Carter.

They
looked at each other with surprised expressions.

‘
Oh, sir.’

‘
What are you up to?’ Angel said. ‘Why didn’t you report in?’

She
began to speak, looked behind, then came out on to the pavement and closed the door.

‘
Never mind,’ he said. ‘Is the man Ronnie Striker in there?’

‘
Yes, sir,’ she said quietly.

‘
Has he got an alibi? Did he do it? Why wasn’t he at the flower shop?’

‘
I haven’t actually spoken to him, directly,’ she said.

‘
What do you mean? Have you
seen
him?’

‘
Well, no sir. You see, his mother - ’

Angel
’s patience ran out. ‘I told you to interview
him
. Not his mother. I wanted you to
talk
to him. He might hold vital evidence. He
might
be the killer.’

Carter
’s face went the colour of a judge’s robe. ‘Oh no, sir. He’s not the killer.’

‘
How do you know?’

‘
He has learning difficulties, sir. His mother says he has the mental age of a twelve-year-old.’

Angel
’s eyes flashed. His fists clenched. ‘So what?’ he said.

He
had been about to go into a discourse about children who had committed murder but promptly abandoned it.

‘
Never mind,’ he said. ‘Leave it. I’ll take over here. Go back to Bradford Road, to the florists. Ask around the shops either side and those on the opposite side of the road. See if they saw any comings and goings, deliveries, customers, anybody, entering or leaving the shop between the time Ingrid Underwood arrived, that was about 8.30, this morning and the time the witness found her dead, that was 8.40.’

‘B
ut sir,’ she said through clenched teeth.

Angel
glared at her. ‘Sergeant,’ he said.

She
hesitated for a second then stamped away to her car.

Angel
’s face was as long as the list of disbursements on a barrister’s bill. He turned round, grabbed the door knob of Striker’s house, turned it, pushed it and banged the knocker at the same time. The door opened and he was inside the little house. He glanced round the room. A plump woman in a rocking chair looked up at him. The chair was at the side of a gas fire set in front of a black stove. She had some knitting on her lap. There were four large coloured prints on the walls of Jesus preaching, Mary and the baby Jesus, Jesus on the cross, and the Last Supper. Also there were figures of Jesus, Mary and the major saints under glass domes on the sideboard. Everything was Victorian, bright, clean and shone like the police parade on November 11.

She
looked up as Angel burst into the room.

‘
Oh,’ she said. ‘The police lady gone? Who are you?’

‘
I am Inspector Angel. You will be Mrs Striker? I have to speak to your son, Ronnie, urgently. Is he here?’

‘
In a manner of speaking he’s here, Inspector,’ she said.

‘
Where? I don’t see him.’

‘
He’s on the stairs,’ she said and pointed with a thumb to a door immediately behind her. ‘He’s afraid, Inspector.’

Angel
heard the door click and saw it open a mere quarter of an inch. He realized that Ronnie Striker was probably peeping at him and would be able to hear every word. He looked away.

‘
What’s he afraid of, Mrs Striker,’ Angel said.

‘
He says he saw Jesus this morning.’

Angel
blinked. ‘Oh,’ he said, rubbing his chin. His mind was trying to make connections faster than a Hewlett Packard.

‘
And…do
you
think he saw Jesus, Mrs Striker?’ he said.

‘
He must have done. He always tells the truth, Inspector.’

Angel
nodded thoughtfully.

‘
Well that
would
frighten him,’ he said. ‘It would frighten
me
…but how does he
know
it was Jesus?’

‘
Well, he said he looked like Jesus. I don’t know. But he
knows
his bible. He would
know
whether it was Jesus or no.’

Angel
licked his bottom lip then rubbed his mouth and chin very hard.

‘
That police lady didn’t believe me,’ she added.

‘
Well, not everybody understands.’

‘
She said that something horrible had happened to Ingrid Underwood.’

‘
Yes,’ Angel said. ‘We can talk about that later, Mrs Striker. Do you think Ronnie would like a ride in a police car? You could come too, of course. You both could have a look round the police station and I could have a chat with him afterwards, and I’ll show him my handcuffs?’

Her
face brightened. ‘Oooh, I don’t know, Inspector. Sounds…very nice.’

The
stairs door creaked and opened a few inches.

Mrs
Striker heard it. ‘That you, Ronnie?’

A
big man in a smart suit came into the room. His white hair was plastered down tidily and his skin was grey. He came round the back of the chair into Mrs Striker’s vision and stood in front of her. He avoided looking directly at Angel.

‘
Oh, you’ve put your best suit on,’ she said, smiling. ‘You do look smart. Are you feeling better?’

‘
Yes, Mother,’ he said in a voice pitched unusually high.

‘
That’s Inspector Angel, Ronnie. Would you like a ride in a police car?’

He
nodded.

Angel
came forward, put out his hand, smiled and said, ‘How do you do, Ronnie?’

The
man looked at Angel, expressionless.

‘
Shake hands, Ronnie,’ Mrs Striker said. ‘And thank the inspector.’

The
hand felt like a wet haddock.

‘
Thank you, Inspector,’ he said in a forced soprano voice.

Angel
nodded and turned away. He really wanted to get on with crucial questions about the murder. He sighed and dug into his pocket for his mobile.

‘
Can we have the siren on and go at a hundred miles an hour?’ Ronnie asked.

Angel
looked up, closed his eyes momentarily. Then he turned round, smiled and said, ‘Of course you can.’ Then with teeth clenched he ran his hand through his hair.

*

Patrolman PC Donohue showed Mrs Striker and Ronnie Striker into Angel’s office.

Angel
was there with Ahmed, waiting for them.

Ronnie
came into the office, his shining eyes looking here and there and everywhere. Mrs Striker followed much more sedately.

‘
Please sit down,’ Angel said. ‘Did you have a nice spin, Ronnie?’

His
face brightened. ‘Yes thank you, Inspector. We did 70 miles an hour and Brian put the siren on,’ he said looking across at Donohue.

Angel
looked at Donohue.

Donohue
nodded to indicate that everything went well. ‘Thank you, Brian,’ Angel said.

Donohue
went out and closed the door.

On
the desk was a pair of handcuffs. Ronnie spotted them, and reached out. Mrs Striker saw him and tugged at his jacket sleeve to stop him.

Ronnie
frowned, looked across at Angel and said, ‘Can I try the handcuffs on, Inspector?’

Angel
smiled and said, ‘Of course you can, but can you wait until after we’ve had our little chat, Ronnie? It’ll be something to look forward to, won’t it?’

Ronnie
stuck out his bottom lip and sat down heavily on a chair next to his mother.

‘
Don’t be a nuisance, Ronnie,’ Mrs Striker said. ‘All good things come to those who wait.’

Ronnie
looked at her, wrinkled his nose, shuffled on the chair and began to look at his fingers.

Ahmed
pulled out a chair near the door and sat down. Angel looked round and then sat down at his desk.

‘
Now then, Ronnie,’ Angel said. ‘I want to ask you a few questions. It’s important that you tell me the truth. You understand what the truth is, don’t you?’

Ronnie
didn’t reply. He was more interested in his fingernails.

Mrs
Striker jabbed her fingers into his ribs and said, ‘Pay attention to the inspector, Ronnie. Answer him, politely. Come along. Don’t show me up.’

Ronnie
looked up at Angel. ‘I don’t tell lies, Inspector.’

‘
Good. Good,’ Angel said, rubbing his chin. ‘How long had you worked for Mrs Ingrid Underwood?’

‘
I dunno,’ he said. ‘Can’t remember.’

Mrs
Striker glared at him and then looked at Angel and said, ‘Since he left the special school, Inspector. That was twelve years ago.’

‘
So you know her very well. What time did you start work this morning?’

Ronnie
didn’t reply. He looked down at his fingers again.

‘
He doesn’t quite know about time, Inspector,’ Mrs Striker said.