An Act of Evil Read online

  Chapter Nine

  As THEY RETURNED south, they heard the news on the car radio. Melissa, her face drawn with shock, told them the details when they reached Punt Yard.

  “It arrived in the second post,” she said. “Just a small brown cardboard box addressed to the Dean.”

  “Was there any message?” Maltravers asked.

  “No. It was just the hand. Apparently it was posted somewhere in London yesterday but the postmark is so smudged it’s impossible to tell where. The police have got it now of course.” Melissa suddenly threw her arms around her brother. “Oh, Augustus, this is so awful!” She began to weep. “The Dean’s wife came round. She was so kind and you know what she’s usually like. They want you to go and see them as soon as you can. The phone’s never stopped with people saying all the right things and…and Michael’s been on. And the Bishop. And the bloody Press. Augustus, they’ve got to find this dreadful man!”

  Maltravers clung tightly to his strong, calm, capable, level-headed sister, broken and battered by the terror that had invaded her orderly and certain world.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re back now. I’ll take any more phone calls. Why don’t you go down to Sussex?”

  Melissa shook her head through her sobs. “No. It’s better now you’re both back and there’s still the festival. I’m still being British however much it hurts. Stupid isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s stupid. But the alternatives are stupider.” He paused and frowned. “Stupider? Is there such a word? You know what I mean.”

  *

  With excessive fastidiousness, Madden lifted the cardboard box with his fingertips, even though it had already been examined for prints. One end bore the remains of a label showing that it had originally been used for packing bars of chocolates. Inside there was a dark-brown stain where blood had seeped into it. The gummed label bearing the Dean’s name and address was typed.

  “Sort of thing they have in supermarket stockrooms,” he observed.

  “Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “Although they’re not difficult for anyone to get hold of.”

  “And five sets of fingerprints.”

  “Yes. We’ve eliminated the Dean, of course, and Higson is at the Vercaster sorting office collecting prints from the postman and sorting clerks. The trouble is that it’s impossible to say which office it went through in London at the moment. The lab’s doing its best with the postmark but it looks fairly hopeless. What is certain is that we can’t find Powell’s prints on it. The best bet will be the saliva tests on the stamp and the label.”

  “Do we have saliva records of Powell?”

  “No. But when we get him we’ll be able to prove if he sent it.” Madden raised an eyebrow. “If? Do we have any real alternatives?”

  “There is this man Sinclair we now know about. We’re still waiting to hear from Los Angeles.”

  “Long shot, sergeant. Very long.” Madden was not to be diverted into investigating remote possibilities when Powell was fitting so exactly into the sort of pattern he liked best. “Any news about Powell?”

  “We’ve had reports back from sightings in Borrowdale and the Peak District but they’re negative. And there’s still no trace of him having left the country.”

  “And still no reports of Miss Porter being treated for her injuries?” Jackson shook his head and a spasm of dissatisfaction tweaked across Madden’s face; what was otherwise emerging as a very satisfactory investigation was hourly becoming closer to murder but still could not be neatly classified as such. He found that an annoying shortcoming as he contemplated the fugitive Powell trapped in a closing police net.

  “And how’s our Mr Maltravers?” he inquired mildly.

  The unexpected polite and irrelevant question sounded instant alarm bells in Jackson’s mind. Madden had dismissed his initial suspicions of Maltravers once Powell had appeared in the case and it was totally out of character for Madden to take any interest in him now.

  “I haven’t seen him today,” he answered cautiously.

  “Really? Where’s he been?” There was the slightest suggestion of a cutting edge beneath the question this time and Jackson suddenly knew he was being led into dangerous ground.

  “He told me he was spending the day in London, sir.”

  “And did he?”

  “I presume so.”

  “You presume so. I see.” Madden picked up the cardboard box and handed it back to Jackson. “If the lab have finished with that, have it labelled and filed. Thank you, sergeant.” Jackson, aware he was caught in the coils of something he was ignorant about, but unable to make any comment, picked it up and turned to go as Madden started to read some of the papers on his desk.

  “And I want Mr Maltravers — and Miss Davy — in this office within the next half hour,” Madden added without looking up. Jackson turned back to ask a question but thought better of it.

  He returned the box to the incident room and phoned Punt Yard from an empty office where he could not be overheard.

  “What the hell have you been up to?” he demanded.

  “Up to? What do you mean?”

  “Madden wants to see you and Miss Davy immediately and he’s playing games with me. He knows something I don’t. Were you in London today?”

  “Oh, that’s what it is. Sorry. We went to Belsthwaite.”

  “You went to Belsthwaite.” Jackson’s voice was full of disappointment and resignation. “Do me one favour will you? Both of you come over here. Now. I’ve been giving you all the consideration I can and I’d like you to get me out of this.”

  They arrived at the police station within ten minutes and Jackson, without a word, took them through to Madden who was pedantically correct.

  “I received a phone call at,” he consulted his notepad, “fourteen seventeen hours today from the police authorities in Belsthwaite. They allege that two people fitting your descriptions and giving your names were making inquiries within their area of authority. These inquiries were in connection with a Mr Arthur Powell who, as you are fully aware, is the subject of an official police investigation in connection with the disappearance of Miss Diana Porter. Were these persons yourselves?”

  “Yes,” said Maltravers.

  Madden nodded as if to himself. “I see. You are aware I take it that interference with the police in the course of their duties is an offence?”

  “We weren’t interfering. We thought it might possibly help.”

  “We thought it might possibly help.” Madden wrote the remark down as he slowly repeated it. “I see. Do you have any comment to make Miss Davy?” Tess shook her head and Madden leaned back in his chair and regarded them thoughtfully.

  “Despite the impression given by sensational fiction, the investigation of serious crime — of all crime — is a matter for the police,” he said. “We do not seek, we do not require and we do not approve of interference — and that is what this is — by unqualified amateurs. Arthur Powell will be caught by the police and if your meddling today turns out to have caused any delay in this operation it will be noted in the official report on the matter. If it is repeated, the consequences for yourselves will be very serious indeed. That is all.” Having delivered his lecture, Madden sat in silence waiting for them to leave. Jackson, acutely uncomfortable throughout, stiffly saluted Madden and turned to go but Maltravers remained in his chair.

  “First of all, I wish to make it clear that neither Sergeant Jackson nor anyone in your force knew of our intention,” he said. “In fact I deliberately lied to Sergeant Jackson this morning. Secondly, I can see no way in which what we did could be construed as interference. You obviously learned about this after the supermarket manager took a pair of Powell’s sandals to the police in Belsthwaite, which was something I advised him to do. Had we learned anything of value that too would have been reported to your officers. Unless you can prove interference, then we have broken no law.” His eyes, which had remained fixed on Madden’s face, hardened. “So don’t tre
at us like two bloody schoolkids who’ve been caught in the orchard with pockets full of apples! Your official investigation happens to concern the horrendous injuries and possible death by now of a very dear friend of ours and if there is anything I can do that I think might just possibly help to find her I am going to do it and you can stuff your regulations. And until and unless I break the law I am not going to be browbeaten by you or anybody else. Now you can make a note of that and add it to the godammed file you’ve probably opened on me!”

  Jackson’s eyes were closed as though in prayer. Tess sat very upright and calm, her hands clasping her bag. Madden remained impassive. The silence gathered and froze about them.

  “That will be all,” Madden repeated stonily and this time Maltravers stood abruptly then stepped back to let Tess precede him out of the room with Jackson, who silently ushered them into an interview room.

  “All I ask is one favour,” he said. “Don’t do that to me again. I deserve better.”

  “Madden started it, I finished it,” snapped Maltravers.

  “I’m not talking about just now. You lied to me and left me in an impossible position with a man who is my superior and with whom I have to work, whatever you think of him. Being as detached as I can in the circumstances, you were actually right in there. You haven’t broken any law and you almost certainly haven’t interfered with what we’re doing. But I need a professional, working relationship with that man in the interests of solving crime. If you’d told me you were going to Belsthwaite, I’d have understood and I wouldn’t have tried to stop you even if I could. But at least I’d have known and could have acted accordingly.”

  “You’d have told Madden.”

  “Let’s just say I’d have covered myself. All you have achieved today is to make life difficult for me within weeks of joining this force. I don’t care if you and Madden hate each other’s guts but I have my career to think about.” Jackson was biting with anger.

  “Oh, I am his Highness’s dog at Kew,” Maltravers said savagely. “Pray tell me, Sir, whose dog are you?”

  “If you two don’t stop this instant, I am going to start screaming the place down.” Tess’s face was stiff with tension as they instinctively turned to her. Her voice began to break as she continued. “You do realise, don’t you, that while you’re both showing how macho you are, Diana is out there somewhere dying in agony? Christ, you make me sick.” She started to cry angrily.

  Her bitter accusation made them both wince uncomfortably and it was Jackson who began to retrieve the situation. He went over to Tess and took her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re both sorry. Murder — and whatever we say officially that’s how we’re all reacting to this is like any form of violent death, like losing a wife or husband in a car crash. Until you face it, you cannot know what it’s like. It stretches emotions beyond anything else that people have to face and if it happens you just have to hack it as best you can. And nobody goes through it without going out of control at some point.”

  “But you’re not emotional,” said Tess. “You’re a policeman. It’s just part of your job.”

  Jackson smiled sadly. “That’s right. I’m a copper. Collecting clues, following procedures, enforcing the law. I’m not paid to be emotional.” He paused for a moment then continued very quietly. “When I was sixteen years old my kid sister was raped and strangled. There’s another thing about violent death. The scars never go away.”

  Tess swiftly wiped away fresh springing tears with her hand. “Oh, God, you’re a lovely man,” she said. Jackson squeezed her hand and stood up.

  “That’s another thing about detective stories,” he said. “Have you ever noticed that hardly anybody cries? In real life, it’s not just solving murders, it’s people breaking up. Anyway, as you’ve been playing at detectives, did you find anything out?”

  Maltravers shook his head. “No, we didn’t. Oh, the sandals turned up.” He briefly explained what had happened. “But I can’t see they’re going to help you. Look, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you we were going but if we do do anything else — and I meant what I said to Madden — then I promise I’ll let you know. And I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

  “That’s all right. I think we understand each other a little better. Have you been to see the Dean? When I went there this morning I know he was very anxious to talk to you.”

  “We’re going with Melissa after dinner,” said Maltravers.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Coping.” Maltravers pulled a wry face. “Like the rest of us.”

  Jackson escorted them back to the main entrance of the police station, then stopped them as they turned to leave him.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said. “Councillor Hibbert and the anonymous letter. I’m afraid it’s been stamped on by very high authority. The word has come down that it is not to be investigated.”

  “Any reason given?”

  “No. The level of authority is such that it does not have to give reasons. And nobody argues. I still think there might be something in it but I’ve got enough hassle at the moment without sticking my neck out.

  “And of course,” he added, “the Latimer Mercy theft is in no way connected with the investigation into the disappearance of Miss Porter.” He gave them a look of exaggerated innocence. “Very proud of his collection, Councillor Hibbert. Always happy to show it to people, I’m told.”

  Maltravers stared at him. “You’re a bloody funny copper,” he said.

  Jackson returned his stare reproachfully. “Can’t think what you mean. You brought the letter to us and I’m just informing you of the official position. I think you’re entitled to know that. Well, if you’ll forgive me I’ve got a lot to do. Give my compliments to the Dean. Goodnight.”

  *

  The Dean’s wife opened the door to Maltravers, Tess and Melissa, her formidable presence softened by shock and sympathy.

  “How kind of you to come,” she said as they entered the hall. “We have both been most concerned for you. Please come through.”

  They went into the room at the rear of the house where the French windows gave on to the evening garden. The Dean rose as they walked in, kissed Melissa and Tess and shook Maltravers’ hand with both of his and held it for a long moment.

  “I wish I could find words of comfort,” he said. “We are so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry.”

  “We’re very sorry about what happened this morning. In the post.”

  The Dean let go of his hand and made a gesture of dismissal.

  “It was dreadful, of course, but I am much more concerned for Miss Porter. And for yourselves. Please. Sit down. A sherry, perhaps?”

  When the drinks had been distributed, the Dean clearly wished to talk about what had been going through his mind during the day.

  “I cannot understand the actions of this man,” he began. “I have worked from the assumption that he must be in some way mad, but even madness must have some manner of insane logic. Whatever his reasons for abducting Miss Porter, what are his motives for what has happened since? The terrible business of the hand on the door may have been some sort of perverted action against you and Miss Davy, who are Miss Porter’s friends. But I have no connection with Miss Porter at all except for our very brief meetings at the weekend. I’ve been racking my brains to try and find some sort of connection which would link everything together. Perhaps if that can be found it would assist, although quite frankly, I cannot see how. And of course any speculation is meaningless when the most urgent matter is to find Miss Porter. I understand the police are still not treating this matter as a murder inquiry? I’m sorry, that was not a tactful question.”

  “That’s all right, Dean,” said Maltravers. “It’s something that we are having to face. There are no reports that she has been treated for her injuries.”

  As regret and sympathy flowed from the Dean’s silent response to his remark, Maltravers reflected on what he had been saying. Now that the Dean had bee
n directly involved there appeared no sense whatever in what was happening. And if Powell were not caught, would it stop with the Dean? Maltravers shook his mind loose of that dark and threatening alley of his thoughts in which lay all manner of possible evil.

  They stayed for an hour of shared condolence and concern, Maltravers’ mind constantly returning to the contrasting image of the hard neon light, steel desks and ordered efficiency of the police station where the matter which encompassed them in strained and painful politeness was the focal point of ringing telephones, accumulating paperwork and dispassionate routine. The two perceptions of the same reality were irreconcilable.

  “I still have no adequate words of comfort,” the Dean said as they rose to leave. “And I do not think there are any. That’s not the sort of confession senior clergymen should make I’m afraid, but in these circumstances I feel that anything I try to say might sound patronising and hollow. All I can say is that Miss Porter is constantly in our prayers.”

  They thanked their hosts and left, affected by their distress and compassion. As they turned out of the gate from the Dean’s, they heard the chink of glass from the house next door and saw Webster on the front step with two milk bottles in his hand. They waited as he walked down the short path to them.

  “I’m glad I’ve seen you,” he said. “I know about what happened this morning of course and want to express my sympathy. I thought you might like to know that I hold a weekly prayer meeting in my house and tonight we said prayers for Miss Porter. Miss Targett was with us and I think it helped to comfort her.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Targett,” said Tess. “Thank you for what you did in the Chapter House the other evening. I’m afraid there was nothing we could find to say to her.”

  Webster smiled. “There is nothing, however dreadful, that cannot be eased by knowledge of the love of God. I am sure the Dean must have told you that.”

  “Not in so many words,” said Maltravers. “But we are very grateful for all the help people are giving us at the moment.”

  “Is there any news about this man the police are looking for?” Webster asked. He suddenly became aware that he was still holding the milk bottles and looked uncertain what to do with them.