Shrine to Murder Page 7

  ‘My husband, I suppose. He was in his office…like he is now. Why?’

  ‘Because that was the time a woman in a flower shop, a Mrs Ingrid Underwood, was stabbed to death the same way that your father was killed. And a similar message left on a mirror.’

  ‘Oh, my god,’ she said and slumped down in a chair. ‘What did it say?’

  ‘“IV to go,” which we believe to mean that the murderer intends to kill four more people.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Mrs Krill said.

  ‘Do you know if your father knew Mrs Underwood?’

  ‘Poor woman. I have no idea. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Although he may have.’

  ‘It’s very important. He never spoke of her? Never bought flowers from her? It’s an unusual name.’

  ‘No, Inspector. I can’t recall the name.’

  ‘Can you tell me who formed your father’s circle of friends, relations and acquaintances?’

  ‘That’s not difficult, Inspector. There was only me. He had had a wide range of interests when he was younger and when he was working. And he had tried to maintain them, but I believe his particular circle died off, or moved into nursing or retirement homes or even emigrated to a warmer climate. After my mother died, he lost interest in most things. Lately he only went out of the house to the supermarket, the post office and the doctor’s surgery.’

  ‘What about relatives?’

  ‘They never visited.’

  ‘Neighbours?’

  ‘Oooh yes. The next door neighbour…he used to talk to a lot. She seemed a nice lady…a widow, on her own. Mrs Oxtaby.’

  ‘Mrs Oxtaby?’ Angel said. ‘She’s been seen, but we’ll have another word. Anybody else?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid that was the extent of Dad’s social life these recent days.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. He lifted his eyebrows and looked at Crisp who shook his head very slightly. He turned back to Mrs Krill. ‘Right. Thank you. I’d like to see your husband now.’

  She looked up and said, ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. For now.’

  She picked up the phone, told her husband that the police wanted to see him, then directed the two men down the hall, out through the back door and down a path through a lawn to a bungalow. Krill came out of the building and stood in front of the door as they approached.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘Have you come to tell me who murdered old man Redman, then?’

  Angel said, ‘Do you think we could talk inside, sir?’

  Krill hesitated then moved away from the door and said, ‘You’ll have to make it quick. I haven’t much time.’

  ‘Nor have we,’ Angel said and he passed in front of him, stepped into the bungalow and made for the only room ahead with the door open.

  Crisp followed.

  Krill brought up the rear, closed the door, stepped behind a desk, pointed to chairs facing him and the three men sat down.

  Angel got straight down to business. ‘You went down to London to an exhibition? You stayed there on Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes. What about it?’ Krill said.

  ‘The exhibition organizer said that you went with your wife.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Your wife says that she spent the weekend in the house alone.’

  Krill breathed in quickly and rubbed his chin. ‘The organizer doesn’t know my wife. He’s obviously confused.’

  ‘It wasn’t the organizer who wrote Mr and Mrs Cyril Krill in the visitor’s book, sir. It was you.’

  ‘Did I? Did I really? You have been busy little boys. Slip of the pen, I expect. I had a thousand things on my mind. It’s something you do automatically…it’s of no importance.’

  ‘Normally it may have been of no importance, but on this occasion I need to know where you were overnight.’

  ‘In London.’

  ‘You didn’t return home, where did you stay?’

  ‘I don’t remember now…there are…places.’

  Angel’s jaw muscles hardened. ‘I need to know where you were, sir.’

  Krill glared back at him. ‘I don’t know exactly. There are places where you can drink all night and…relax…and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Where, Mr Krill? For your sake, you may need to know exactly where?’

  Krill shook his head. ‘I was having a drink in a cocktail bar called the Mediterranean on Winter Street, and this girl came in. Very attractive. We got talking. Her name was Marilyn…or Madelaine…or something; anyway she said she knew a great new nightclub just opened, so we went there. It was a small restaurant with singing and dancing. We had a table at the front. We had a few drinks and watched the floor show. I was having a great time. But I don’t remember much after that. I may have been drugged. We went back to her place, I think, or somewhere. I don’t know where it was. I remember waking up, on the Embankment, hanging on to a lamppost, being sick over a grate. I had a raging headache. All the cash had gone from my wallet and my watch had been taken. I still had my credit card and my overnight bag. That’s all I remember.’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Did you pay for anything with your credit card or by cheque?’

  ‘Nightclubs and bars only take cash. They took all of mine.’

  Angel shook his head. Unless the girl could be traced and her evidence accepted, there was no alibi there. ‘What about yesterday morning between 8.40 and 9.00?’

  ‘I was here. Working in this office, why?’

  Angel noted that that at least was in accord with his wife’s reply, unless she was covering for him. He must move on.

  ‘A woman was murdered. A florist. Mrs Ingrid Underwood. Did you know her? Please think about the name before you answer.’

  ‘Ingrid Underwood? Never heard of her.’

  Angel wondered whether to believe him. Time was short. ‘You didn’t get along with your father-in-law. Did you?’

  Krill looked surprised. He didn’t answer straightaway. He thought about it a few moments then said, ‘Luke Redman was all right. I didn’t really have anything to do with him latterly. In fact, I haven’t seen him for ages…not since his wife’s funeral. That was three years ago. My wife visited him three or four times a week, and ran about after him, and put up with his moods and tantrums. She played the perfect daughter to the end. I didn’t mind that she did that. I didn’t attempt to stop her.’

  ‘Was he a good father-in-law? Did he help you when you were young? Financially?’

  ‘He got us a mortgage at a lower than average interest rate through the Northern Bank.’

  That would have been a help, Angel thought.

  Then Krill said, ‘The day I married Kathleen, he said he would always be happy to consider any loan secured by bricks and mortar at a better than competitive rate. I thought that was the least he could have done for his daughter and son-in-law. Anyway, in 2004, I approached him with a proposal. It took him a couple of days to give me a quote. It was good. His branch of the Northern Bank loaned me a million and a quarter to enable me to buy a five-bedroomed house with three acres of land and outline planning permission for two detached houses.’

  Angel nodded. That sounded good.

  The corners of Krill’s mouth turned down. ‘Then four months later, when the houses were half built and I hadn’t made a sale of either of them, he foreclosed. He was concerned that the Northern Bank wouldn’t get their money back. I had four days in which to get refinanced.’

  ‘You got out all right?’ Angel said.

  ‘In the end, yes. It was touch and go for a while. Of course, the emergency refinancing cost a pretty penny and took the profit off the deal. So thereafter, I vowed to give Luke Redman a very wide berth.’

  ‘How’s the property developing business now?’

  ‘Patchy,’ Krill said. ‘I do all right,’ he added.

  ‘A reliable little birdie told me that you were experiencing serious financial difficulties.’

  ‘If I knew the name of your reliable little birdie I would s
ue it for slander.’

  Chapter Seven

  Angel considered that he could not make any more progress with Cyril Krill. He ended the interview and he and Crisp returned to the car.

  When Crisp had negotiated the Ford through the Sheffield city centre and was on the Bromersley Road, Angel said, ‘You know, Luke Redman must have left a tidy sum to his daughter, and some of it will no doubt trickle down to Cyril Krill, so it wouldn’t be difficult to construct a motive for his murder of the old man. And if Krill cannot find a believable witness to support his whereabouts on the night of the murder, we may also have him for opportunity. He could easily have left London by car or train in the evening, committed the murder and returned to London overnight.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If you could make it stick, all you would need is the means.’

  ‘Hmm. But what about the murder of Ingrid Underwood? Kathleen Krill says they were together in the house at the time.’

  ‘She could be covering for him if they were in this together.’

  ‘Yes. But there’s no motive we know of, and we still don’t have the means.’

  ‘That’s true, sir. Shouldn’t we search the house?’

  ‘We should,’ Angel said pursing his lips. ‘But we do not have the time. Even if we searched Krill’s house, if he was guilty, I think he would be too smart to leave a dagger about the place.’

  ‘Or a blood-soaked cloak or blanket or sheet.’

  ‘Hmm. Finding the link between old man Redman and the florist is our best defence against a third victim. And, as a matter of urgency, when we get back, I want you to visit the supermarket, the post office, the doctor’s surgery and Mrs Oxtaby’s and see if you can dig up a connection between the two.’

  Angel’s mobile rang. It was Scrivens.

  ‘I saw Ronnie Striker and his mother, sir. He said he put the sandwich in his pocket in the sandwich shop. He said that he ran all the way home with it still in his pocket. He didn’t realize he had brought it home until he took his coat off. He ate it later. It would have gone dry. His mother said she would happily pay for it, if necessary.’

  Angel nodded. ‘And what about the shop doorbell?’

  ‘It’s electric, sir,’ Scrivens said. ‘It rings immediately the door is opened but stops as it is pushed further open. It also rings again as the door is almost closed until it is completely shut.’

  ‘So it is entirely consistent with Striker’s evidence, that when he returned from the sandwich shop, the door was propped open with a brick?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Angel wasn’t surprised, but it had needed clarifying. ‘And when the murderer left the scene, he must have removed the brick to permit the door to close, because that’s how the old lady, Mrs Jubb had found it.’

  ‘Looks like it, sir.’

  ‘Right. Now there’s another little job for you. I want you to find out if Ingrid Underwood banks, or has ever banked, at the Northern Bank.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Angel closed his phone and dropped it into his pocket. Soon afterwards, he saw the road speed restriction signs and the boundary sign showing they were on the outskirts of Bromersley.

  ‘Drop me off at Luke Redman’s house,’ Angel said.

  Three minutes later, Crisp turned the Ford left on to Creesforth Road and up to the front gate of number 14.

  As Angel got out of the car, he said, ‘Ta, lad. Now crack on with those inquiries. And don’t mess about. At this very moment I expect the murderer is almost certainly planning or even executing a third murder.’

  The thought made Crisp sigh, and his eyes glowed for a moment. ‘Right, sir,’ he said as he released the handbrake and drove away.

  Angel opened the gate and walked down the drive. The policeman was standing at the door. He threw up a salute.

  ‘Good morning,’ Angel said. ‘Anybody inside?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s all very quiet.’

  Angel nodded and walked into the hall. He made straight to the study where Luke Redman had a hundred or more framed photographs on the walls illustrating the many activities he had been involved in over a long and busy life. Each picture was carefully, neatly captioned in giving names, date, place and occasion. Angel found the photographs fascinating because some were clearly taken when Redman was only an infant. He looked at one particular one. He thought it was the oldest there. Young Luke was standing against a broken-down fence in a small backyard in short trousers with three bewhiskered men in dark suit trousers held up with leather braces, spotless white shirts without collars and heavy shoes or boots standing behind him. The caption read, ‘Dad, Grandad, Great Grandad and me. 113 Railway Terrace, Ratton, Bromersley, 1931’.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He knew that Ratton had been and still was a deprived area of Bromersley. It was supposed to have been overrun with rats, hence the name. Nobody liked to admit that they originated from there or that they lived there.

  He moved along passing the gallery of photographs depicting Luke Redman’s history and he glanced at them again. The pictures seemed endless. He lingered over the formal photographs showing Redman taking part in local stage productions of The Gondoliers, Nero, The Importance of Being Ernest. It was just at that point that Angel went back to the photograph of Nero. He peered at it carefully. It was a photograph of the cast and production team. Three men were in formal evening dress. The other eighteen men and women were in stage costumes comprising Roman toga-type robes and sandals. One of the younger men was wearing a headpiece made from laurel leaves. He read the caption. ‘Nero. Entire cast, director, stage manager and prompt (guide on back of photograph). Dress rehearsal. Victorian Theatre, May 1989.’

  Angel suddenly became aware of a thumping sensation under his shirt. He could hear the beat in his ears. His face was hot.

  His eyes quickly scanned the photograph of the people in early Roman dress. He soon picked out the unmistakable features of Luke Redman and then feverishly began to look for Ingrid Underwood. There were two women it could have been. There was a beautiful woman who would have been aged about thirty. Then he was certain. One of them looked exactly, certainly, undoubtedly, positively like Ingrid Underwood.

  His blood ran cold. His heart was pumping 180 or more to the minute.

  There were too many indicators for him to be mistaken. It was all there. White togas, sandals, laurel leaves, Luke Redman and Ingrid Underwood.

  He unhooked the photograph from the wall. He nearly dropped it. His fingers were like jelly. He placed it on Redman’s desk. And looked at it again. He wanted to be absolutely sure.

  There were twenty-one people on the photograph, two of them were dead and four had been condemned to death.

  What about the other fifteen? Why were four more chosen to be murdered? And which four were they? If he knew that, he could warn them against the murderer. One of nineteen was probably the murderer. The photograph was dated May 1989. It was the twenty-year anniversary. Maybe something that happened twenty years ago was the cause of the murders.

  He turned the photograph over. The back of the frame was neatly and efficiently sealed with lengths of brown paper sticky tape. He took out his pearl-handled fruit knife, stabbed it into the paper, peeled some of it away, removed the plywood back, took out the photograph and a piece of tracing paper the same size as the photograph which had outline drawings of each person’s head and shoulders with their name neatly printed on it. He read them all quickly to see if he recognized any of the names. Luke Redman and Ingrid Underwood were the only two he knew. The muscles round his mouth tightened. He blew out air, pulled out his mobile and quickly tapped in a number. It was soon answered by Ahmed.

  ‘I want you to get DS Crisp, DS Carter, DC Scrivens and yourself in my office ASAP for a case conference,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there in about seven minutes. Also, I want you to put this next part of this phone call on to record, to save time. All right?’

  ‘It is already recording, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  Angel blinked. He was sur
prised. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, I have a list of nineteen people’s names, and four of them are at risk of being murdered at any moment, so we have to find them very quickly. I want you to tap them into that computer of yours and print it out smartish. All right? I’m going to read them out. Are you ready?’

  ‘Go ahead, sir.’

  *

  Angel arrived back at the station six minutes later. He rushed past the cells and charged up the green corridor into the CID room. Ahmed was standing by the computer printer near the door. A sheet of A4 paper shot out on to the tray. He leaned forward and picked it up.

  Angel snatched it from him. ‘This the list?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Print six more, and bring them through,’ he said. ‘Anybody arrived?’

  ‘Flora Carter, and Ted Scrivens are in your -’

  Angel interrupted him. ‘Just a minute, lad. Who told you that you could call Detective Sergeant Carter by her first name?’

  Ahmed looked up innocently. ‘She doesn’t mind, sir,’ he said.

  Angel’s lips tightened. ‘She may not mind, lad. But I do. In my hearing, you refer to her as DS Carter or Sergeant Carter. All right?’

  Ahmed stared at Angel with his mouth open. He wanted to reply, but he couldn’t.

  ‘Now, I was asking you,’ Angel said, ‘where is everybody?’

  ‘DS Carter and DC Scrivens are in your office, sir, and DS Crisp is on his way.’

  Angel grunted and dashed out looking down the list.

  Crisp arrived at the office as Angel opened the door. Ahmed followed on seconds later with more copies which he handed to Angel.

  When they were assembled, Angel told them about finding the photograph and how he believed it all fitted together. He then showed them the photograph.

  ‘There are twenty-one people in total,’ he said. ‘We know that two of them are dead so we need to find the remaining nineteen to warn them that there is a possibility that they might be one of the four we know the murderer intends to kill.’

  Carter said, ‘Isn’t it possible, sir, that the murderer is one of the nineteen?’

  ‘I think it is almost certain that he is, Sergeant, so I want you to be very careful when you are interviewing any of them by yourselves, on their turf. Better to get them to come to the station, if it’s practical. We will send a car, if there’s one available. Specifically at this moment, our job is to save lives. There are five of us, so for speed I propose that we divide the nineteen among us, that’s only three or four each. Any questions?’