Shrine to Murder Read online

Angel blew out a length of air. He was searching for a forensically aware murderer, and he didn’t like it.

  Taylor knew he was disappointed. He would have liked to have said something supportive to him, but he couldn’t think of anything appropriate at that time.

  Angel stood there, looking round and rubbing his chin.

  Taylor said, ‘Can I help you with anything, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Photographs, Don. Home snaps. You know the sort of thing. Sometimes helps you to build the picture of the victim.’

  ‘Photographs? There are stacks on the walls of that room up there, sir,’ he said and pointed along the hall to a room at the end. ‘It’s a sort of study.’

  ‘Oh, right, Don. Thank you,’ he said as he walked down the hall.

  Taylor returned upstairs.

  Angel found the room had a big desk in it, a filing cabinet, a couple of chairs, a set of golf clubs, and a TV set with a big screen. The walls were covered with a hundred or more framed photographs of the victim, Redman, in every conceivable role: as husband, father, bank manager, president of the Rotary Club, chairman of the golf club, the cricket team, on holiday in Santiago, St Petersburg, Lucerne, Paris, and so on. There were formal photographs of him taking part in local stage productions of The Gondoliers, Nero, The Importance of Being Ernest, Charley’s Aunt, Ladies In Retirement, Aladdin and lots more. He was there, singing The Messiah with the local choral society at Christmas, enjoying a boat trip on the Flamborian sailing out of Bridlington harbour in the summer, and simply peering at unusual objects being petrified in Mother Shipton’s cave in Knaresborough in the autumn. The photographs seemed endless. Some showed him alone and some with one or two others and in large groups of thirty or more. Each picture was carefully, neatly captioned in meticulous detail giving names, dates, places and occasions.

  Angel was marvelling at the busy life Luke Redman had led when his thoughts were disturbed by the ring of his mobile phone. He dived into his pocket for it. The LCD showed him it was Superintendent Harker. An encounter with his boss was never pleasant, and in anticipation of an unpleasant encounter, Angel’s face assumed the appearance of a man with toothache waiting to see the man from the Inland Revenue.

  ‘I’ve just had a triple nine call,’ Harker said. ‘A dead woman found in the back room of her florist’s shop at 221 Bradford Road.’

  It could hardly be more serious. Angel’s heart began to thump.

  ‘Name given as Ingrid Underwood,’ Harker said. ‘Appears to have been stabbed in the chest. Same place as in that Redman case.’

  Angel’s innards turned a somersault.

  ‘Uniform are in attendance,’ Harker said. ‘I have advised Mac. Can’t raise SOCO.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Angel said. ‘SOCO are with me. I’ll direct them.’

  He pocketed the mobile and made for the hallway. In his head, he heard Harker’s voice again say the words: ‘Appears to have been stabbed in the chest. Same place as in that Redman case.’

  He called up the stairwell to Taylor, gave him the news and the name and address of the shop where the dead body had been reported found, then dashed outside to his car.

  He was at the premises in four minutes.

  The florist’s shop was a very small, commercially well positioned property on the corner of the main Bradford Road and a blocked-off side road called New Street.

  Angel pulled past the shop, round the corner, parked behind Dr Mac’s car and two marked police cars on New Street.

  Two PCs were already rolling out the blue and white DO NOT CROSS tape. Another, PC Brian Donohue, a car patrolman, was speaking to an elderly woman. Angel went up to the two in conversation.

  The PC saw him coming.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Jubb,’ Donohue said and turned to Angel. ‘Dr Mac is inside, sir.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Right, Brian, and who found the body and rang in?’

  ‘This lady, Miss Jubb, sir.’ He turned back to her and said, ‘This is Inspector Angel, he’s in charge of the case.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said. ‘Now then, Miss Jubb, please tell me what happened?’

  SOCO’s van pulled round the corner on to New Street. Donohue went off to assist with the parking of it. Space was at a premium.

  The woman was shaking. Angel took one of her hands. She held it tightly.

  ‘Would you like to sit in my car?’ he said. She didn’t reply but he quickly led her to it. When they were inside and the doors closed, she was much more at ease.

  ‘I was coming for some flowers,’ she said. ‘I come here most Wednesdays about this time.’

  ‘Can you say what time that was, Miss Jubb?’

  ‘About twenty to nine it must have been. Well, I went into the shop. The door was wedged open. Mrs Underwood wasn’t in the front of the shop. Sometimes she’s in the back making up wreaths and displays or whatever. Anyway, I looked at the flowers on display…thinking about what I wanted…while I was waiting. I didn’t mind a minute or two, but after I had waited for about five minutes, I called out to her. There was no reply. I waited another couple of minutes then I went into the back, still calling her name. Then I saw her feet and then her legs on the floor in front of the big table she spreads the flowers out on. I thought she had fallen. I went further inside…then I saw the blood…and I knew.’

  She paused.

  ‘It was Ingrid Underwood?’ Angel said.

  ‘Yes. It took me a minute to recover then I looked round for Ronnie, the lad who makes the deliveries. He’s usually around. He sits on the step with the shop door open in good weather. He’s always there. Except that today, he wasn’t. That’s unusual, I thought. Very unusual.’

  ‘Perhaps he was out delivering?’

  ‘I saw his bicycle’s in the back room,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t have been.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I only know him as Ronnie. Been here years. He’s not right in the head, you know. Religious mania. That’s what he’s got.’

  Angel blinked. ‘Was Ingrid Underwood married?’

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector. I didn’t know her well. That lad Ronnie doted on her. It wasn’t healthy. Can’t imagine what went wrong. Something burst in his head or something. They say the change of the moon affects them, don’t they?’

  Angel frowned. Her comments disturbed him, but he contained his thoughts. Time was precious. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Well, then I picked up the phone at the end of the bench in there, dialled 999 and reported it. The woman asked me to wait here, which I have done. I’ve told you all I know. Now I’d like to go home.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And thank you very much.’

  Angel called on PC Donohue to take Miss Jubb home in his patrol car. Meanwhile he rang Ahmed’s number on his mobile. As it was ringing out, he watched Taylor and his squad, dressed in fresh white disposable suits begin cautiously to enter the shop.

  ‘Ahmed,’ Angel said into the phone, ‘I am at a murder scene at 221 Bradford Road. I need Trevor Crisp and that new sergeant, DS Carter, here smartly. Find them for me.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  A man in a khaki overall coat came running up to the DO NOT CROSS tape and attempted to lift it up to gain access. A PC saw him and stopped him.

  The man was breathing quickly and his face was red. ‘What’s happening,’ the man said. ‘What are all you police doing here?’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ the PC said.

  ‘I own the bicycle shop across the road opposite. My name’s Carl Young. Who is in charge? Has something happened to Ingrid?’

  Angel came up to him, ‘I’m in charge, sir. Do you know Mrs Underwood?’

  The man’s face was red and his eyes were staring. ‘I certainly do. Known her years. What’s happened to her?’

  ‘Does she have a husband, and has she any family?’

  ‘She said she was married once. He ran off, I think. I don’t know. Got a daughter somewhere. What’s happened to Ingrid?’

  ‘Ther
e is a report of a body of a woman on the premises.’

  ‘Oh, my god. No. Not Ingrid. Oh no.’

  ‘It may be Mrs Underwood. She has not been formally identified.’

  ‘Oh. This is dreadful.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. We are waiting for the doctor’s preliminary report. He’s still in there. What was your relationship to her?’

  ‘Just a good friend,’ he said with a shrug. ‘She’s had this shop here for twenty years, the same time as I’ve had the bike shop over there. We wave to each other, that’s all. I keep Ronnie’s bike running. I would come over to talk to her when I was slack. She came over to talk to me. She could see if any customers came in here from my shop doorway. We used to see each other open our shops on a morning and lock them up at night. A sort of kinship developed. Oh my god, I hope it’s not her.’

  ‘Please try and hang on, Mr Young. Did you see her arrive this morning?’

  ‘Yes. I saw her unlock the shop, and Ronnie began to take the shutters down at about 8.30 as usual. I gave a little wave and she nodded and smiled back.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘22 Park Road. Have you seen that lad, Ronnie? He’s always here. Where’s he gone? He’s here before the shop opens and he leaves after Ingrid’s locked it up. He’s always here except when he’s delivering or on an errand for her. He should be here. I don’t understand it. You know, inspector, he’s not quite right in the head. He should be here now. He never leaves the shop when she’s here, normally. He could have answered all your questions. Typical. The young uns today. When he’s wanted, he’s not to be found. I reckon he’ll know what’s happened. Nobody could have harmed her while Ronnie was here. No one could have got near her. Unless - ’ He suddenly broke off. His eyes moved from left to right, right to left and then back to the centre. ‘Oh no!’ he said. ‘Oh no!’ Then he looked down at the pavement and shook his head.

  ‘Take it steady, Mr Young,’ Angel said. ‘Do you know his full name and where he lives?’

  ‘Ronnie Striker,’ he muttered. ‘He lives with his mother on Church Street. Almost opposite the church gates. I’ll have to get back to my shop.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Young. You’ve been most helpful.’

  He turned away.

  A car Angel recognized turned the corner and drove right up to him. It was DS Carter. He bent down to speak to her through the car window. He told her the essentials of the case and set her off to see if she could find Ronnie Striker on Church Street. She turned the car round and dashed off.

  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.’

  ‘But 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.