Shrine to Murder Read online

  Angel nearly smiled. He blew out a short breath of self-satisfaction. ‘So that’s thirteen witnesses to the alibi?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One usually suffices,’ Angel said.

  Crisp suddenly said, ‘You said it wasn’t him, sir, when we all thought it was. How did you know that?’

  ‘I didn’t know, lad. But whoever it was, was totally expressionless throughout. He approached the pile of sheets coolly enough, which, from his point of view was exactly as he should have done. Then before making the snatch, I would have expected him to handle the sheet, make sure it would slide of the pile without snagging on anything or causing any disturbance to the display, then I would have expected him to have looked casually around to see who or what might have been observing him, perhaps smiling to put anyone near to him at their ease, but he didn’t. He didn’t observe any of these natural precautions. He simply made the snatch, shoved the sheet under his coat and made off. And his facial expression remained the same throughout. There was no facial movement whatever. There was not even a flicker of exhilaration at having succeeded or fear at the possibility of being caught. Nothing.’

  Crisp had listened attentively to Angel. Now his mouth was slightly open and his eyes fixed on him. He nodded slightly several times. ‘So, what’s your conclusion then, sir?’

  ‘Well, the thief looked like Lamb. But it wasn’t Lamb.’

  Crisp looked down and shook his head in disbelief. ‘It looked just like him. Everybody said it was Lamb.’

  Angel shrugged.

  ‘They say everybody has a doppelganger, sir,’ Crisp said. ‘Maybe that’s what it was.’

  Angel pursed his lips then said, ‘That would require a triple helping of coincidence, lad, and I don’t believe in that.’

  The phone rang. Angel snatched it up. It was Ahmed.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. DS Taylor says he expects the van to be hoisted out of the water early this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And there’s an envelope for you from Wetherby,’ Ahmed said.

  ‘Wetherby?’ Angel’s heart missed a beat. ‘Well bring it straight through. Don’t waste a second.’

  He slammed down the phone and turned to Crisp. ‘The result of the DNA from the lab.’

  Crisp’s eyebrows went up.

  Angel reached into his desk drawer for the old penknife he kept open and used for opening the post. He sat there poised, knife in hand, ready for the report.

  Ahmed knocked, dashed into the office, handed the envelope to Angel and then went back to the door, closed it and stood with his back to it.

  Angel slit open the envelope and read the report in a few seconds. His forehead dropped down as he read it again and then handed it to Crisp. Angel’s eyes moved almost imperceptibly as he considered the consequences of the information.

  Crisp read the report and lowered it back on to the desk.

  There was a silence.

  Ahmed looked from one to the other then back to Angel and said, ‘May I ask what it says, sir?’

  Angel slowly ran his hand through his hair then said, ‘It essentially says that the DNA sample indicates genes of a female with oriental heredity, lad.’

  Ahmed’s jaw dropped. ‘Margaret Ireland?’ he said.

  Crisp said, ‘Does that mean that if Margaret Ireland’s great, great, grandfather or grandmother was from China or Thailand or somewhere like that, then we’ve got her.’

  ‘Not by itself, no. Her DNA would need to be an identical match to the sample hairs found on the back of Luke Redman’s hand.’

  ‘That’s soon checked, sir.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased. ‘It would take another week.’

  The phone rang. Angel glared at it, snatched it up and said, ‘Angel.’

  It was Harker.

  ‘Come up here. It’s urgent,’ he said and replaced the phone. It clicked annoyingly in Angel’s ear. Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth. The last place in the world he wanted to be at that moment was in Harker’s office.

  ‘That’s the Super. Wait here. I don’t expect to be long.’

  Angel stormed up the corridor, his face the same as he’d looked when he’d first smelled Strangeways fish pie.

  He knocked on the door and went in.

  Harker was at his desk, which was crowded by four piles of papers and files. He was removing the white stick inhaler from his nostril. He raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Now then. What about it? Have you had a result from Wetherby? Who is it? That man from the Coop, Kenneth Lamb?’

  ‘Apparently not, sir. The sample has female genes. It could possibly be Margaret Ireland if she has oriental blood in her genes. The lab needs a sample to be positive.’

  ‘Margaret Ireland? A woman?’ He looked straight ahead over the desk at the wall opposite. He was thinking. After a few moments, he shook his head and then said, ‘Well, are you going to charge her?’

  ‘It’s difficult, sir.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you think it’s her?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s difficult to argue with science, but I thought that climbing up a ladder, thrusting a dagger into at least one man - admittedly a man in his eighties - then later, into a woman, a quite healthy, strong woman, had to be the work of an athletic man.’

  ‘Well, by the look of the food bill I’ve had from the safe house, she eats more than a wing of Wakefield Prison, so don’t let her femininity fool you. Have you discovered a motive yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Huh. You are in a mess, aren’t you?’ Harker said with a smile.

  Angel noticed with surprise that he had smiled. It was very unusual. He hardly ever smiled. It was said round the station that every time Harker smiled, a donkey died.

  ‘Better not let your reporters on the tabloids know,’ Harker said. ‘I expect they’d love to pull you down a peg or two and spoil your record of always getting your man.’

  Harker was really enjoying himself, and Angel knew it. There was nothing Angel wanted to say that he could say so he had to stand there and take it.

  ‘If you’ve finished with me, sir, I’d like to get back.’

  Harker said, ‘I gave you until today and now your time is up.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You can’t continue to use the cells and the safe house as warehousing for potential victims. I told you that.’

  ‘They are also suspects, sir.’

  ‘You can’t have a pile of suspects. For god’s sake, arrest one of them and send the other two home.’

  Angel pulled a face. He was in a vice and he didn’t like it.

  There were no options left open to him. ‘Give me until six o’clock, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Five minutes to five. I will be going home at five o’clock and I will want to know who will still be getting free board and lodging before I go.’

  *

  Angel ran all the way down the green corridor back to his office. He opened the door to find DS Crisp and Ahmed still waiting for him.

  He looked straight at Crisp and said, ‘Trevor, nip up to the safe house, 11 Beechfield Walk, and bring Margaret Ireland and WPC Baverstock back here. Make it quick. And be careful.’

  Crisp blinked, then said, ‘Are you arresting her, sir?’

  ‘Not yet. Now buzz off. Time’s precious,’ he said opening the desk drawer.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Crisp said and was gone.

  Out of the drawer, he took out a pad of printed forms and a pen and began to fill it in very rapidly. He glanced up at Ahmed. ‘This is a request for a search warrant. It’s very urgent.’ He signed it, folded it, put it in an envelope and handed it to him.

  ‘Take that straight to Doctor Suliman. I’ll phone Transport and organize a lift for you. It will pick you up at the front of the station ASAP. Wait for the Doctor to sign it, then take bring it straight back to me. All right?’

  Ahmed nodded, ‘Right, sir.’

  *

  An hour later, An
gel was in Interview Room number 2 sitting next to Trevor Crisp and opposite Margaret Ireland and her solicitor, Samuel Shallow. The red light was on and the recording tape running. Angel had already made the opening statement about the time and who was present and so on.

  ‘I don’t know what this is about, Inspector,’ Margaret Ireland said. ‘I don’t know why I need a solicitor. I thought I was in that police house for my safety. That’s what I was told…to protect me from a murderer. Now you are treating me like a…a criminal.’

  ‘Not at all. And I’m sorry you may think that this is the case. On the contrary, I still believe that you are in great danger and I want to do everything to keep you alive.’

  She shuffled uncomfortably and put her top lip briefly over her bottom lip. ‘Now you’re frightening me,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t intend to. I have a series of questions to put to you that I hope will assist us to find the murderer. I hope that you will not be offended by them. Firstly, I need to know where you were on Saturday night, 23 May, through to Sunday morning, the 24.’

  ‘I was at home, of course.’

  ‘You were there all night,’ he said, ‘on your own.’

  Her eyes flashed angrily. ‘Of course I was. I live on my own. I’ve lived on my own for years. You make living on your own, sound…sound almost indecent.’

  ‘Not at all. It is important that I know the truth, that’s all. Your private life is entirely your own affair.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘I don’t have a private life, as you call it. And the use of the word “affair” in that context is not at all…appropriate.’

  Angel frowned. This wasn’t going well. ‘Let us move on to the morning of Wednesday, 27 May, four days later. Where were you then?’

  ‘Ah. Wednesday,’ she said, then suddenly her face changed. Her eyes darted in various directions before settling on Angel. ‘Why are you asking me where I was?’ she said. ‘What does it matter where I was? Who wants to know? Am I being accused of something? It’s these murders, isn’t it? You must be thinking that I could be this nutcase character who dresses like a Roman 2000 years ago. Me. Of all people. The most ordinary, respectable, quiet woman in Bromersley. You must be mad, stark staring mad.’

  ‘No,’ Angel said. ‘Not at all. I have had to ask several other people the same question. It’s a matter of knowing where everybody significant in the case was at the critical time. It’s a bit like setting out a chess board to find out where all the pieces were at a particular stage in the game, that’s all.’

  Margaret Ireland rubbed her chin for a measured five seconds then said, ‘Very well. I was at home, all Wednesday morning, Inspector. No. Nobody can verify it. Nobody came. Nothing happened. No tradesman delivered anything.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What’s your next question?’ she said quickly.

  ‘The same thing, the following day, Thursday, Miss Ireland. Where were you in the evening between 5 p.m. and 7 p.m.?’

  ‘The same answer. I was at home. Next?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. In a strange sort of way, he was worried for her. ‘Think carefully, I urge you, Miss Ireland. Are you absolutely certain that you saw nobody? Waved at them through the window? Took in a parcel for a neighbour? Paid the milkman? Anything like that?’

  ‘No. No. I don’t think so. Come on, let’s get on with it. What’s your next question?’

  ‘Do you drive a car?’

  Her eyebrows went up. ‘Why on earth would you want to know that? I did drive. I had a beautiful Rover car but, when I retired two years ago, I stopped driving and sold the car. I thought walking would be good for me. And so it has proved to be. Any more questions?’

  ‘Just a few, Miss Ireland. Easy ones. Where were you born?’

  The eyebrows went up again. ‘Good gracious. I was born in Huddersfield. In the maternity hospital there.’

  ‘And your father and mother, are they Huddersfield people?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what’s their address?’

  She gave Angel a sideways glance and said, ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘Please answer the question, Miss Ireland.’

  ‘Why do you want to know where they live?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just routine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you worrying them, Inspector. They’re quiet, respectable folk. They could be quite put out by the presence of burly policemen stamping up their garden path.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss Ireland. It may not be necessary to visit them, but I do need it for my records.’

  She was not all pleased. Her face was as friendly as Dartmoor prison in a thunderstorm. Her slim nostrils quivered in response to her heavy breathing.

  He sat there, looking at her, his pen poised over the brown envelope.

  She ran her hand through her hair and said, ‘If you insist, it is 121 Lumb Lane, Huddersfield.’

  ‘Thank you very much, and there’s just one more thing for now.’

  ‘Anything to get this over with.’

  He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small plastic polythene envelope.

  ‘Could I have two or three hairs straight from your head?’ She stared hard at him, her eyes were as cold as icicles from the prison roof.

  *

  DS Taylor in a loud voice said, ‘Divers, out of the water, please.’

  DS Maroney and DC Cutts of Leeds Police Underwater Team waded to the side of the canal and hoisted themselves on to the bank next to where Angel was standing.

  They removed the nose clips, lifted their goggles, and turned off their oxygen tanks. They greeted Angel, who nodded back.

  ‘Right, Clem, take the tension,’ Taylor called out to the crane driver.

  The big man in the jockey cap positioned a lever and held on to it as he slowly let in the clutch. The slack wires at each corner of the submerged van whipped the surface of the water then straightened out and became taut.

  The crane engine began to groan as it worked to release the van wheels from centuries of mud and junk that had formed the floor of the old canal. As the engine laboured, the crane began to tilt precariously towards the water.

  Angel looked at the crane driver but he seemed not to be alarmed. The driver held on to the lever and maintained a steady strain.

  The angle of the crane settled, but it shuddered occasionally on the heavy steel framework specially built for it on the far bank of the canal.

  After ten or fifteen minutes, Angel could see the white van under the water drift a little away from the bridge, before it drifted back and the white roof edged unevenly through the surface of the water, causing a slight ripple.

  There were murmurs of rejoicing from the small crowd of police and other observers.

  The water under the bridge became black and ebbed and flowed through the weeds, throwing up lager cans, washing-up liquid bottles, women’s tights, part of an HMV radio casing and other litter not possible to identify.

  Progress was slower than a judge’s summing up. After half an hour, only 10 inches of one corner of the van roof was visible.

  Angel looked at his watch. This was wasting valuable time. His mobile phone rang. It was Ahmed. ‘I’ve got that warrant to search Margaret Ireland’s, sir.’

  ‘Is DS Crisp there?’

  ‘I’ll find him, sir.’

  ‘Go on then, lad. I’ll hold on.’

  Two minutes later Crisp was on the line.

  Angel said, ‘Ah, Trevor, I want you to find DS Carter and take her and Ahmed to Margaret Ireland’s house. Ahmed’s got the warrant. Meet you there.’

  Angel closed the phone, dropping it in his pocket as he made his way down the bank to his car.

  He was soon on Wakefield Road making his way up the hill towards the town centre. Five minutes later, he pulled on to the Willows Estate. He saw Trevor Crisp’s car outside a small semi-detached house. He pulled up behind it, tried the door of the house and found it locked so he rang the doorbe
ll. Ahmed let him in. The team had already started the search. The house was searched methodically and all supposed secret hiding places were checked. Police search teams were well used to finding hiding places. They took down mirrors held in place by screws with cosmetic heads to see if a cavity had been created behind. They removed the sides of the boxed-in bath to see what might be concealed in the space around the bath. They checked for loose floorboards under fitted carpets that had had tacks removed at a corner. All upstairs floors were carefully walked across to check for any sense of a loose floorboard. The stairs were measured on the underside to see if a secret space had been created. Nothing was overlooked.

  DS Carter had been in the dining room looking through the sideboard drawers and had discovered, underneath a surfeit of tablecloths, a large folder inside which was a photograph album and several loose photographs. She opened the folder on the table and was surprised at what she saw.

  She went out to the kitchen and said to Angel. ‘You might want to see these photographs, sir.’

  Angel followed her into the dining room. ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

  Carter turned the pages of photographs of Margaret Ireland taken in her late teens or early twenties. It seems it was a portfolio for a model agency. Some of the photographs showed her wearing only the tiniest bits of lace.

  ‘A bit bold for the 1980s, sir?’ Carter said.

  Angel had to concur, but she looked very beautiful. There was a photograph of her in a skimpy Roman-style dress as the character Aristana, the teenage nymphomaniac in the production of Nero. There was also one of her with Malcolm Malloy. They were in full costume and make-up and had their arms round each other in what purported to be a loving embrace. Angel assumed it would have been a publicity photograph for the play. There was also a rather a more staid photograph of her with Luke Redman. She was on a pseudo-marble seat and he was standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder which Angel thought intended to convey an avuncular relationship. And there was a copy of the same photograph Angel had found on Redman’s study wall of the entire cast and production staff of the play.

  Angel rubbed his chin. At length he said, ‘Thank you. Very interesting. Pack them up and put them back as they were.’

  He returned to the kitchen. He wasn’t certain whether the sight of Margaret Ireland’s photographs would advance his inquiries or not. It highlighted the fact that there were no photographs of any family members or friends in the collection or indeed anywhere in the house. He meandered through the hall into the kitchen where Ahmed was searching. He noticed that the key was in the back door lock so he turned it and went out into the rear garden. It was well kept but there were no signs of recently disturbed earth. He came back inside and locked the door.