Shrine to Murder Read online

  ‘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.

  The young man looked up. ‘I do,’ Ronnie said. ‘I start at 8.30, but I always get there by 8.20. She makes me go early.’

  `Well, I don’t want you to be late, that’s all,’ she said. ‘It’s the early bird that catches the worm. You should be grateful.’

  Angel sniffed. ‘What happened this morning?’

  ‘The usual,’ Ronnie said. ‘I got there about twenty past eight and sat on the step and waited.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Ingrid came and opened up, like always, and I put my bike in the back, took the shutters down, put the kettle on like I always do.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘She gave me two pounds and twenty-five pence and sent me out to The Lunch Box to get her a sandwich. It’s just round the corner.’

  ‘Does she always do that?’

  ‘Only when she doesn’t bring her own.’

  Angel pursed his lips. He hadn’t heard of the place. ‘How long did it take you to fetch the sandwich, Ronnie?’

  ‘I ran there and back, but she had to make them up specially - prawn and tomato.’

  ‘Five minutes? Ten minutes?’

  ‘Ten minutes, I expect. I was as quick as I could run.’

  Mrs Striker said, ‘It wouldn’t be long. He always runs everywhere, don’t you Ronnie?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Angel said. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I went straight through the front shop into the back room,’ Ronnie said. ‘The shop door was propped open with a brick.’

  ‘Was it usually propped open like that?’

  ‘Yes. In the summer and good weather. I usually prop it

  open.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  Ronnie’s face turned from a grey colour to a sweaty red.

  His eyes looked straight ahead but he didn’t seem to be looking at anything. He didn’t speak.

  ‘Yes, Ronnie?’ Angel said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Ingrid was on the floor by the table and Jesus was kneeling down in a red cloud praying over her.’

  Angel’s jaw dropped.

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘It was amazing.’

  ‘Yes, Ronnie, then what happened?’

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t be watching. It was a private moment. He was giving her the last rites so I knew she must be dying. I didn’t want to see that. I came out and I ran back home.’

  ‘That’s right, Inspector,’ Mrs Striker said. ‘He arrived home at about nine o’clock. He was in a state, poor lad.’

  Angel rubbed his neck and chin. ‘What did Jesus look like, Ronnie.’

  He stared at Angel for a moment then smiled knowingly.

  ‘Everybody knows what Jesus looks like.’

  ‘Ronn
ie!’ Mrs Striker said. ‘Don’t be rude. Tell the inspector exactly what you told me.’

  ‘I’m not being rude. Well, he wore…like a long white robe. And sandals.’

  ‘Anything else? Anything on his head?’

  ‘He had long hair.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Brown, I think. It was dark, anyway.’

  ‘Did he have a halo?’

  The pupils of Ronnie’s eyes slid to the left and then the right. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said.

  ‘Does that mean no, Ronnie?’

  ‘I can’t remember, Inspector.’

  ‘Did he have a beard?’

  ‘I didn’t see his face, but I expect so. He would have, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him. You saw him. Are you sure it was Jesus, Ronnie? Could it have been a saint or somebody else?’

  ‘No. It was Jesus. He held a star in his hand. It shone so brightly I had to close my eyes.’

  ‘A star?’ Angel shook his head. This was getting out of hand. ‘What sort of a star?’

  Ronnie frowned. ‘I don’t know. I think he was polishing it on his cloak.’

  ‘What colour was it, Ronnie?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was bright. It blinded you. It was wonderful.’

  ‘Was it silver?’

  Ronnie nodded.

  ‘And what were you wearing at the time?’ Angel said.

  ‘My jeans, T-shirt and trainers.’

  ‘I shall want to borrow those, Ronnie.’

  He looked at his mother.

  ‘Yes. Yes. That’s all right.’ Mrs Striker said. ‘The inspector can borrow them.’

  Ronnie pulled a face. ‘I shall want my trainers, Mother.’

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ Angel said.

  Ronnie looked down at the black polished leather shoes and stamped on the floor several times. ‘I can’t get round in these shoes. I told you. They’re too heavy. I can’t run in them.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Mrs Striker said. ‘The inspector needs to examine your clothes. Let’s have no more argument about it.’

  Ronnie wriggled irritably in the chair then went back to looking at his fingers.

  Angel licked his lips. He wanted to finish this interview quickly.

  ‘We’re nearly done, Ronnie. Just two more questions, then you can have a look at the handcuffs.’

  Ronnie looked up.

  Angel nodded reassuringly.

  Ronnie began to peel bits of loose skin from around his fingernails.

  ‘You said this all happened in a cloud…a red cloud?’Angel said.

  Ronnie looked up again. His eyes glazed over. Then he said, ‘Yes, Inspector. It was all round the Lord everywhere. It was wonderful.’

  Angel pursed his lips. ‘And what colour red was it?’

  Ronnie screwed up his face. ‘Just red. Ordinary red.’

  Angel said. ‘There are lots of reds.’

  Ronnie shook his head.

  Angel then opened the desk drawer and rummaged around. He found an old stick of sealing-wax. ‘That’s one red,’ he said. ‘Was the cloud that colour?’

  Ronnie put his hand to his chin and rubbed it.

  Angel pointed to the tiles on the office floor. ‘Those tiles. There’s another red.’

  Ronnie looked down at the floor, and shook his head.

  Deep in the drawer, Angel found a typewriter ribbon he had had for years. It was unused. He hadn’t had the heart to throw it away.

  ‘What about that?’

  Ronnie looked from one to the other, his lips, nose and forehead twitching uncertainly.

  Angel said: ‘Just a minute.’

  Then he quickly rattled through the morass of pens, pencils and paperclips and other stuff in the drawer and found an unopened packet of white blotting-paper which he opened and put on the desk top. Then he took out a very old razor blade and slammed the drawer shut. The blade was blunt from years of sharpening pencils and other jobs he had found to do with it, and was far from hygienic, but he made a slight cut on the little finger of his left hand, squeezed the finger and applied it to the blotting-paper. A small spot of blood quickly spread to the diameter of a pea. He held the paper up to Ronnie and said, ‘Was it that red?’

  Ronnie nodded. ‘Yes, Inspector. That was the red.’

  Chapter Five

  Ronnie Striker hadn’t seemed guilty of any wrong doing, so Angel had sent him and his mother home in a marked car, at least for the time being. He had watched Ronnie jump up and down and clap his hands at the prospect. Angel had also sent a SOCO officer with a sterile bag to collect Ronnie’s jeans, T-shirt and trainers for examination.

  Angel was still puzzling over the extraordinary evidence Ronnie Striker had given him. He had recorded the interview and played the tape back on the miniature personal recording machine he had concealed under a letter on his desk. It could not be used as evidence, but it saved time trying to remember and write down all the fine points of Ronnie Striker’s actual words. It needed some evaluating and understanding.

  He rubbed his chin.

  There were still a few urgent details to be attended to before he could leave for home. He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to five.

  He reached out for the phone. ‘Ahmed, I want you to pass the word that there will be a case meeting in the CID briefing room at 08.30 hours tomorrow morning. I want all the team there.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘And I still haven’t seen DS Crisp, you know.’

  ‘He’s here now, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  Angel felt anger rise in his chest. ‘Well tell him I want him in here.’ He said and he banged the phone on to its cradle.

  A few moments later, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ Angel roared.

  It was Crisp. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  Angel looked up. His jaw muscles tightened. ‘This morning I wanted you. At this time, I am not so sure. Where the hell have you been? You are beginning to show me how easy it is to manage without you.’

  Crisp looked closely into Angel’s face, trying to judge how upset he was. Crisp reckoned he was pretty angry. He had to think quickly.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Been pretty well tied up. Mrs Krill didn’t go to see her daughter, you see. I have been trying to find out exactly where she did go.’

  ‘What ?’ Angel yelled. ‘Why didn’t you answer your mobile?’

  ‘Didn’t hear it, sir. Perhaps I was in a bad reception area. There are lots of tricky places like that in Sheffield.’

  Angel didn’t believe him but he did want to know about Kathleen Krill. ‘Where was she Saturday night through to Sunday morning?’

  ‘The time of her father’s murder? I don’t know yet, sir.’

  Angel clenched his hands. ‘When you find out, let me know. And when you’re on duty keep that mobile switched on.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir.’

  ‘But before you get back to that, I have a little job for you.’ He told him about the murder of Ingrid Underwood, the day’s events and Ronnie Striker’s unusual story. ‘I simply want you to find the sandwich shop called The Lunch Box, it’s round the corner from 221 Bradford Road. Check out whether the lad is telling the truth, that’s all. Phone me on my mobile anytime tonight. I won’t be getting home for a little while. And I want to see you in the CID briefing room here tomorrow morning at 8.30 sharp.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Crisp dashed off.

  Angel reached out for the phone. He wanted to speak to his opposite number in the uniformed division, Inspector Haydn Asquith before he finished his shift.

  ‘Yes, Michael, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I need high-profile, twenty-four-hour cover on a murdered woman’s house, Haydn. She was murdered in her shop this morning. I haven’t a lead or a motive yet. There’s possibly evidence in the house. SOCO will do a thorough search tomorrow. Understand she has family somewhere, but we haven’t had the opportunity to follow that up. I was
going along there now to see for myself. The address is 22 Park Road.’

  ‘Leave it with me, Michael,’ Asquith said. ‘If anybody’s been there or there’s anything untoward, I’ll get the lad to ring you on your mobile, if you like?’

  Angel thanked him. He closed the phone, put it in his pocket, then he shuffled together the files and correspondence on his desk and shoved them into the middle drawer. He stood up and made for the door. Somebody knocked on it as he pulled it open. It was pretty DS Carter. They were both surprised.

  ‘Find anything out?’ Angel said.

  ‘Nobody noticed anything, sir,’ she said, ‘except the man who has the bicycle shop right opposite, Carl Young.’

  Angel sighed. ‘I’ve already spoken to him at some length.’

  Carter said, ‘He said that Ronnie Striker was already sitting on the shop step when he arrived just before 8.30. He said that Ingrid arrived about a minute after he did.’

  ‘He’s certainly very interested in Ingrid Underwood’s business.’

  ‘I’d say he’s got the hots for her,’ she said with a smile.

  Angel didn’t smile. ‘Aye, but did he see any other activity around the shop?’

  ‘No sir. He said he was busy with a customer just after that.’

  ‘So he didn’t see Ronnie leave to fetch a sandwich, a man dressed like Jesus arrive, Ronnie return then run off, then the man dressed like Jesus leave and Miss Jubb, who found the body, arrive?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  He sniffed. ‘Well, he missed a helluva lot, didn’t he?’

  ‘He said that he saw the marked car arrive at about 8.50.’

  ‘That was pretty observant of him. A blind man on a galloping horse can see a police car half a mile away.’

  Carter didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You asked down the road, didn’t you?’ Angel said. ‘All the shops and offices and any place that had a direct line of sight of Ingrid Underwood’s shop door?’

  ‘Absolutely every one of them, sir.’

  He wasn’t pleased.

  The phone rang. He snatched it up. It was Dr Mac.

  ‘The woman was stabbed in the aorta, Michael. And a vicious wound it is. Made by the same dagger that was used to murder Luke Redman. I am afraid you have a serial killer on your hands.’

  Angel took the news as confirmation of what he had already guessed. ‘Aye,’ he said. The worry is that if my understanding of the messages on the mirrors are to be understood, the murderer has said that there are now four more to die.’