An Act of Evil Read online

  “I feared the suggestion might cause you distress,” he said apologetically. “It’s just that we feel a sense of responsibility and want to…I’m sure you understand.” Maltravers nodded.

  “There’s only one other matter,” the Bishop added. “At the start of our conversation you said there was something odd which — what was your phrase? — triggered it all in your mind.”

  “Oh, my Road to Damascus at the Mystery Plays.” Maltravers gave a curious smile. “It was something you said, Bishop.”

  The Bishop’s eyebrows went up. “Something I said? I remember trying to make some sort of conversation with the Dean because the atmosphere was so painful, but I can recall nothing of significance or even relevance.”

  “You were talking about the ancient craft guilds which traditionally performed the plays. Among others you referred to the Judgement — and that is important — and said it was done by the weavers. Just as the plays were ending, I remembered that the old name for the weavers was the websters.” Maltravers held out his hands in a gesture of comprehension.

  The Bishop shook his head sorrowfully. “His mind must have become very strange indeed to take that for a sign. We must go and find my wife and Miss Davy.”

  The Bishop’s wife was sitting with Tess in the hall, holding her hand comfortingly. Tess went to the Bishop and took his hand, blinking tear-reddened eyes.

  “I’m sorry to react like I did,” she said. “It’s a gesture Augustus and I appreciate very much. Thank you.”

  The Bishop kept her hand in his as they walked to the front door. Maltravers and Tess paused on the step to say goodbye.

  “Whatever dreadful things afflict people,” the Bishop said, “a clergyman can usually find something in the Bible that will bring some manner of comfort.” His wife had gently taken his arm as his eyes turned to look straight into Maltravers’. “I shall pray for you both. And for Diana. And for Matthew.”

  Tess turned and walked down the path to stand by the front gate as the two men regarded each other in silence. Then Maltravers lowered his head slightly.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Tess’s hands were gripping the black wrought-iron top of the gate as he reached her and she was staring at the cathedral opposite.

  “Isn’t it terrible when kindliness can hurt so much?” she said. As they walked back to Punt Yard, the clock in Talbot’s Tower boomed the hour over Vercaster.

  *

  Two weeks later, the remains of Diana Porter were buried within the cathedral cloisters beneath a small, flat, marble stone bearing her name, the year she was born, the year she died and the single word “Actress”. An inquest into the death of Matthew Webster recorded a verdict of suicide while the balance of mind was disturbed. His body was cremated and, at his parents’ request, his ashes scattered on the waters of the River Verta. Three months afterwards, Arthur Powell hanged himself in his flat; the burnt remains of Diana’s pictures were found in the grate. When the cathedral organ was renovated, the Latimer Mercy was found inside, wrapped in newspaper. It is no longer on display. The Vercaster festival was never held again.

  If you enjoyed An Act of Evil by Robert Richardson, you might be interested in Shrine to Murder by Roger Silverwood, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Shrine to Murder by Roger Silverwood

  Chapter One

  14 CREESFORTH ROAD, BROMERSLEY, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, UK 0200 HOURS SUNDAY, 24 MAY 2009

  The sky was as black as fingerprint ink.

  A man in white placed a ladder under the window of a bedroom on the first floor of the detached house. He looked round then climbed rapidly up it. A few moments later he opened the window to its fullest extent and climbed inside.

  The only sound to be heard was the heavy, even breathing from a big man in a large bed. The intruder could just make out the outline of the sleeping figure, on his back with his head on the pillow and covered with blankets up to his chest.

  The man approached the bedside.

  Suddenly the sleeping man’s eyes clicked open.

  The intruder saw the man’s eyes reflect what little light there was. He rushed forward and put a hand across the man’s mouth.

  ‘Quiet,’ he snapped. ‘Not a sound, Redman.’

  The man in the bed saw the glint of a shiny dagger blade in the intruder’s other hand. His eyes shone like a frightened cat in headlights. His pupils travelled from right to left and then back again.

  ‘Listen to me, Redman,’ the man in white said. ‘You’ve done very well for yourself these past twenty years. Made yourself a nice little packet. This place here and your villa in Spain. Two sons both doing well. Both married. Given you three healthy grandchildren.’

  Redman’s arms came out of the bedclothes and grabbed hold of the intruder’s wrist.

  ‘No you don’t. It’s payback time, now,’ the intruder said, then he brought the dagger down and stabbed Redman in the chest.

  The old man cried out. His heart exploded. Hot blood spurted out over his neck and chest. His eyes centred on the ceiling and stayed there for two seconds; then his eyes closed and his limbs loosened for the last time.

  The intruder looked down at the bed, his eyes glowing like cinders. A volcano raged in his chest. His breathing was noisy, his head as light as a champagne bubble. He stared down at the body and smiled. After a few moments, he withdrew the dagger and wiped it on the bedclothes.

  *

  DI ANGEL’S OFFICE, BROMERSLEY POLICE STATION, SOUTH YORKSHIRE, UK 0830 HOURS TUESDAY, 26 MAY, 2009

  ‘Come in,’ Angel called.

  It was Police Constable Ahmed Ahaz.

  ‘Any signs of that new sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Ahmed said.

  Angel sniffed.

  A new sergeant was due. The appointment had been made to replace the irreplaceable Ron Gawber, the much missed man who had been Angel’s sergeant for ten years and had recently left Bromersley force for a position in Lyme Bay. The move had come about because his wife wanted to be near her father since her mother had died of cancer just before the previous Christmas. Their two sons had both left home to attend further education. There was a vacancy in the local police force down there so Ron Gawber applied for the post and had got it.

  Angel wasn’t at all pleased, but he knew Gawber’s wife was as masterful as his own wife, Mary. But in his case, he was absolutely certain in his own mind that he wouldn’t move away from Bromersley until he was retiring age, whatever scheme Mary concocted.

  Anyway, Ron Gawber’s replacement was due that morning.

  ‘His name is Carter,’ Angel said. ‘Show him in as soon as he arrives.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Ahmed said and went out.

  Angel reached for the mornings post still untouched on his desk.

  The phone rang.

  He looked at it and frowned then snatched it up. It was a young constable on reception. ‘There’s DS Carter arrived here, sir. Asking for you.’

  Angel looked at his watch. ‘About time. Have somebody show the new DS to my office, lad. And make it quick.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Right, sir.’

  He replaced the phone.

  He stood up, turned round and looked in the mirror. He adjusted his tie. Then ran a hand over his hair. It wasn’t necessary, but he wanted to look his best. He expected his plainclothes staff always to look smart even though they were not in a formal uniform. There were no jeans and T-shirts with slogans (unless the staff were under cover and it was absolutely necessary) on his team. After all, first impressions and all that. He wanted the new man to understand that he was joining a smart, hard-working, no-nonsense, tightly run investigative team dedicated to fighting crime and committed especially to solving murder cases. He had already missed the presence of Ron Gawber. Carter was going to have one hell of a job to come up to his standard of police work, comradeship and perhaps, most of all, dependability.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angel turned to face the do
or.

  ‘Come in.’

  The door opened, a uniformed constable put his nose in and said, ‘DS Carter, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, lad,’ Angel said.

  ‘There you are, Sarge,’ the constable said. Then he pushed open the office door and dashed off up the corridor.

  As the door swung open, it revealed a pretty brunette in a dark suit and white blouse.

  ‘DS Carter reporting for duty, sir,’ she said sweetly with a smile.

  Angel’s jaw dropped. His face went as white as the padre’s knees.

  After a moment, Carter said, ‘May I come in, sir?’

  Angel blinked and said, ‘Yes.’

  She closed the door and went up to his desk.

  ‘I’m afraid there must be some mistake,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ she said, eyebrows raised.

  He screwed up his eyes. ‘Well, you’re a woman,’ he said.

  ‘You noticed, sir,’ she said with a smile.

  Angel wasn’t in any joking mood. His face was as hard as Dartmoor stone. ‘I was expecting a Detective Sergeant Carter.’

  ‘I am Detective Sergeant Carter, sir,’ she said.

  He shook his head and blew out a noisy breath.

  She lifted her head and said: ‘Thirty-four per cent of all police personnel are women, sir. But I am sure you know that.’

  His eyes opened wide briefly, then he said: ‘Aye? Oh yes? Maybe, but I manage a team who catch the worst kind of criminals, sergeant: homicidal maniacs, murderers, rapists, drug runners and the very worst kind of bully boys. I need one hundred per cent of my team to be strong enough and dedicated enough to get in there and tough it out, no holds barred, whenever there’s need. Don’t you see that, missy?’ then he added heavily, ‘I can’t do with a thirty-four per cent margin.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘I can pull my weight in any situation, sir. And I would point out that my rank is Detective Sergeant. I prefer to be addressed as sergeant. Never missy. If you don’t mind, sir!’

  Angel’s face went scarlet.

  ‘Wait here, Sergeant,’ he growled.

  He crossed the office, went through the door, charged up the green-painted corridor to the top to a door marked: ‘Detective Superintendent Harker.’

  He knocked on it sharply.

  ‘Come in,’ a voice called out. It was followed by a long and loud cough.

  Angel opened the door and was immediately engulfed in a cloud of menthol.

  A bald man with a head the shape of a turnip and with thick ginger eyebrows was seated behind a desk, which was heavily loaded with piles of paper and paper files. He looked up at Angel, sniffed and said, ‘What is it? I am up to my eyes, lad. I am trying to finish the first-quarters stats.’

  Angel blew out a sigh then said, ‘Carter’s arrived, sir. Ron Gawber’s replacement. It turns out she’s a woman.’

  Harker looked up at him. ‘Course she’s a woman. Did you think she was a man in a kilt?’

  Angel wasn’t amused. ‘It’s not right, sir.’

  ‘Not right? You can’t forever dodge having women in your team, you know, Angel. You’re not that special. She comes with an excellent record.’

  ‘I am short staffed enough, sir. You know I can’t send her in against some of the monsters we have to deal with.’

  ‘You might find what she’s short in brawn she makes up for in brains.’

  ‘I wanted a fully qualified, experienced, male sergeant. A man with resolve on his mind and fire in his belly. A man I could confidently send out to bring...to bring Jack the Ripper in, if necessary.’

  ‘Well that’s hard luck, Angel. I’d like a couple of male or female accountants to sort out these figures for me, but the budget won’t stretch to it. You’ve got a perfectly competent detective sergeant, who happens to wear a different sort of underwear, smells of soap and always leaves the lavatory seat down. Those little idiosyncrasies will in no way affect her effectiveness as a police officer, so buzz off and get on with your work and let me get on with mine. There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  Angel stared at him hard, but Harker had turned back to his mound of papers.

  Angel went out of the office and stormed down the corridor.

  ‘Thank you for nothing,’ he muttered.

  He clenched his teeth. His jaw muscles contorted his face.

  He arrived at his office and slammed the door. He positioned himself behind his desk. He looked at the determined face of DS Carter, rubbed his chin, picked up the phone and tapped in a number. It was soon answered.

  ‘Send WPC Leisha Baverstock into my office straightaway,’ he said, then he replaced the phone then looked back across the desk at the young woman and said, ‘Well, Sergeant Carter, I appear to be...stuck with you...on a trial basis. You follow an excellent man who was with me for ten years. We’ll have to see how you measure up.’

  ‘I am sure I’ll never be as good as he was, sir,’ she said, ‘but I’ll do my best.’

  Angel’s eyes flashed back across the desk to meet hers. There seemed to have been a sting of sarcasm in her reply, but her face gave nothing away. He learned something about her that was unusual. She could hold a look into somebody’s eyes at least as long as he could.

  ‘At least he usually was able to be on time,’ Angel said.

  ‘Sorry about that, sir. I did a trial run from home yesterday and it only took twenty-two minutes.’

  ‘That was Sunday.’

  ‘This morning, the traffic was horrendous, sir. And there were hold-ups at every traffic light.’

  ‘It’s Monday. Leave home earlier.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  WPC Leisha Baverstock came in. Up to that point, she had been regarded as the station beauty. There might be a feeling of competition now that another good-looking woman had arrived at the station.

  ‘Ah, WPC Baverstock,’ Angel said. ‘This is DS Carter. Replacement for Ron Gawber.’

  The two women looked at each other and exchanged smiles.

  Angel added: ‘Show her round the station. Introduce her to Inspector Asquith. Answer any questions. Make her feel...at home.’

  It was Carter’s turn to give Angel a quizzical look.

  He stared back at her in surprise.

  The two women went out. His eyes followed Carter’s every move. He was still staring at the door after it had closed.

  It took him a little time to settle down and accept that he now had a women sergeant on his team and that he would have to get used to it.

  It was about an hour later that he had read and approved Friday’s reports, and read and shredded two anonymous letters from cranks. He was beginning to investigate the heavy brown envelope from the Home Office entitled The Proliferation of Graffiti in the Rural Community which included a letter, a pamphlet of 148 pages justifying its necessity, explaining how a census was to be taken, four blank forms in different colours to be completed, and a prepaid return envelope to ‘Art in the Community’, Inverstolly University, Aberflamburyloch, Wales. He was wondering what was the quickest, easiest and best way of disposing of the stuff when the phone rang.

  He eagerly stuffed the bumph back into the envelope, and reached out for the phone. From the cough, he knew immediately that it was the superintendent.

  ‘There’s been a triple nine. Woman reports she found a dead man by the name of Redman. Appears to have been assaulted in his bed. Uniform say it looks like murder. Informant’s name is Krill. Address is 14 Creesforth Road.’

  Angel’s heart began thumping.

  ‘Right, sir,’ he said and rang off. Then he quickly tapped in another number.

  It was soon answered.

  ‘PC Ahaz. How may I help you?’

  ‘Ahmed, find DS Crisp and DS Carter and tell them I’m on a triple nine, suspected murder at 14 Creesforth Road. Got that?’

  When Angel said ‘murder’, it sent a shiver down Ahmed’s spine. He wondered if he really was in the right job. He
desperately wanted to be a detective on murder cases like Inspector Angel but he was always so easily unnerved.

  ‘Right, sir,’ he stammered.

  Chapter Two

  Angel had no difficulty finding the house. Blue lights flashed silently from the tops of two high-visibility police Range Rovers, which were parked bumper to bumper in front of Dr Mac’s car and SOCO’s white van on the drive at the front of the house. A uniformed constable stood wearing out the front doorstep and trying to look as if he was serving some useful purpose.

  Angel parked his BMW on Creesforth Road, and noticed the lace curtains in the front bay window of the house next door move almost imperceptibly as he walked through the drive gate and dodged under the DO NOT CROSS - POLICE LINE tape.

  The constable threw up a salute. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  DS Donald Taylor, head of SOCO was coming out of the house to the van carrying a white transit case. He was dressed in the white allover suit, boots and elasticized head covering.

  They met on the front door step.

  ‘Ah, Don. What we got?’

  Taylor pulled down the linen mask. ‘Good morning, sir. Elderly man, dead in bed, covered in blood. Looks like he’s been stabbed. Been there a while. Nothing appears to be stolen. Method of access not known. The man, a widower, lived here on his own. We’ve cleared the drawing room; his daughter, a Mrs Kathleen Krill, is in there. Wife of Cyril Krill, the property developer, who lives in Sheffield. He’s coming over. She found him forty minutes ago. That’s about it.’

  Angel nodded. ‘Dr Mac working on the body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another constable in white overalls came from round the back of the house. He saw Taylor and Angel and called, ‘There’s a ladder been left between the garage and what looks like the summer house, sir.’

  Taylor and Angel followed him round on fancy cobblestones to the side of the house.