An Act of Evil Read online

  There was a three-piece aluminium ladder wedged between the two outbuildings hidden from the road. They glanced at it.

  Taylor said, ‘Might be some prints.’

  ‘I’ll check it,’ the PC said.

  Taylor nodded towards him and then he and Angel made their way back toward the front door.

  Angel frowned, then looked at Taylor. ‘Is it possible that access to the house was through an upstairs window?’

  ‘I dunno, sir,’ Taylor said. Then he looked upwards and pointed at the big casement window on the front elevation of the house facing the road. ‘That’s the room where the man’s body was found. The daughter said that when she arrived this morning both doors were locked. I’ve checked the downstairs windows. They were all closed and locked. I haven’t got round to checking the upstairs windows yet.’

  ‘If access was made by that ladder, maybe there would be marks where the ladder was placed,’ Angel said. ‘You carry on, Don. I’ll have a quick look round.’

  Taylor dashed off into the house.

  Angel looked in the flower border below the window, and found two marks the feet of the ladder had made. Also there were some wallflower bulbs thoughtlessly stamped on and uprooted. He peered eagerly down at the soil and pulled a disagreeable face. There was no chance of detecting a footprint.

  The sound of a car pulling up on Creesforth Road caused Angel to look round. The driver was DS Carter. She parked her car behind his BMW, got out and came rushing down the drive, her hair and skirt flying.

  ‘Got here as soon as I could, sir,’ she said rushing up to him and smiling.

  He didn’t return the smile.

  She was eye-catching, but looking at her, smiling, willing and so unquestionably attractive, irritated him. Her film star figure and face were wasted in the business of being a copper, indeed, could even be a distraction in the harsh business of solving murder cases. He briskly told her the bare facts of the findings and then said, ‘Now do the door to door.’

  ‘When did the assault or murder take place, sir?’

  His eyes opened wide and he glared across at her. ‘I don’t know. That’s the point of the door to door. I’m hoping someone may have seen a ladder up there. Now get on with it.’

  Her mouth dropped open. She breathed in quickly. Her eyes moistened. She turned away and dashed off.

  He saw her face before she turned. He shook his head irritably and stamped into the house.

  The long hall floor and large staircase were covered with white plastic sheeting. The first door on the left was wide open.

  A woman in a summer dress and a lot of make-up was sitting in an easy chair looking at him. She jumped up.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she said, her bright eyes glaring at him.

  Mrs Krill?’ Angel said.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  ‘Please sit down. I am Detective Inspector Angel. I am very sorry that-’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes,’ she said. ‘What’s happening? Has my husband arrived?’

  Angel frowned. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I have to ask you a few questions. I understand that you found your father’s body?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her lip quivering. ‘I should never have left him.’

  ‘Sit down, Mrs Krill. Please.’

  She sat down uneasily. He sat down opposite her.

  ‘He should have been properly looked after...full time. He could have come and lived with us.’

  ‘And what was your father’s full name?’

  ‘Luke Lancelot Redman,’ she said. ‘There was plenty of room. But he wouldn’t move. So stubborn, you know. He expected me to move in here and look after him. But I couldn’t leave my husband - he’s a property developer and builder, you know. He would never have moved in here. My daughter’s at boarding school most of the time. We could have gone back to live in Sheffield at her holiday time, but Cyril wouldn’t hear of it. He needed to be near his business. The trouble is that men are so stubborn, Inspector Angel. Neither of them would compromise. Of course, they simply didn’t get on. They never had, that’s the truth of it. Both self-made men. You know...clash of personalities.’

  Angel smiled gently at her. ‘What is the name and address of the school where your daughter is a pupil, Mrs Krill?’

  ‘Why do you want that? My daughter has nothing to do with this.’

  ‘I am sure that what you say is absolutely correct, Mrs Krill. But we have to check everything, you know.’

  She glared at him before answering. There was a few seconds’ pause before she said, ‘Rosehill Academy, Weeton on the Water, Gloucestershire.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Angel said as he noted it on the back of an envelope he pulled out of his inside pocket. Then he said, ‘So your father lived here on his own?’

  ‘Didn’t I just say that? Yes, he lived in this massive four-bedroomed house for more than forty years. My mother died three years ago. I thought he would move then. I begged him to move to be near us...so that I could more easily keep an eye on him, but no. At one point, Cyril half agreed to build a bungalow on some land next to our house in Sheffield. So that Dad would have been in an independent unit virtually at the bottom of our garden. That would have been handy. I could have popped in each day. Of course, dad wouldn’t hear of it.’

  ‘What brought you here this morning?’

  ‘Isn’t it reasonable that I would want to see my own father, Inspector?’

  ‘Of course it is, I simply wondered if he had called you or something like that?’

  ‘No. He would never have called me. He was craftier than that. If he needed a button sewing on, for instance, he would phone me and ask me if I knew a good tailor. Then I’d ask him why and he’d say it didn’t matter, but eventually he’d let me wheedle out of him that a button had come off his shirt. Then I’d get in my car in Sheffield and come over here to sew the button on. He knew I wouldn’t let him go out looking unkempt.’

  ‘Have you any brothers or sisters, Mrs Krill?’

  ‘There’s just me, Inspector.’

  ‘Did he have a housekeeper or a daily or any domestic help?’

  ‘He did have. Several. Well, more than several, but he couldn’t keep them. He was too pernickety and too critical. And he was downright rude to them, as well. He thought he was living in the days of Dickens. He was also very house-proud. Even though he was eighty-two, he did the housework himself. Look round. Everything is spotless and in its place. I have a fulltime housekeeper but I swear this house is cleaner and tidier than mine.’

  Angel glanced round the room and he had to agree that everything that had a smooth surface glistened and reflected back at him, it was also noticeably tidy and uncluttered. ‘Did he have any friends, or worse, any enemies? Have you any idea why anyone would want to kill him?’

  ‘Certainly not. He was Mr Charm himself to everyone except Cyril and me. You never heard a bad word said about him. You have to remember, Inspector, that he lived in this town all his life. He worked at the Northern Bank for forty-three years. He worked his way up from clerk to branch manager and then on to local group manager. He may have upset one or two people in all that time but not sufficient to give them a reason to...to...’

  She had seemed to have been in control, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to use the word ‘murder’.

  ‘There must have been somebody,’ Angel said quickly. ‘What were his interests?’

  Mrs Krill frowned. ‘He hadn’t any. He was fond of gardening. He enjoyed the house.’

  ‘No hobbies or sports?’

  ‘No. He had plenty of interests in his younger days. Football. Photography. Am-dram. Golf. He was into all sorts of clubs and activities in his younger days, but as he got older he lost interest and then my mother was ill. He spent more time with her and his outside interests were neglected.’

  ‘Did he have any money troubles?’

  ‘Certainly not. He was well off, I understand. He was always talking about his portfolio of shares, which were
coming to me...that I had nothing to worry about...and then there’s this house.’

  ‘You are the sole beneficiary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was the sound of a doorbell. Angel glanced towards the door to the hall. He thought it was the front door.

  Mrs Krill looked anxious.

  ‘When did you last see your father alive?’ he said.

  ‘Friday afternoon. I came to see that he was all right and to tell him that I was going down to Gloucestershire to visit my daughter. You see, my husband was going to be away at the Solar Heating and Power Exhibition in London. So I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to take a break. If I had thought that this was going to happen, of course, I would never have gone.’

  A PC peered into the drawing room, looked at Angel and said, ‘Excuse me. There’s a Mr Krill, sir. Says he’s looking for his wife.’

  ‘That’s all right, constable. This is Mrs Krill.’

  ‘In here, sir,’ the PC said. ‘This is the inspector.’

  He stood back to allow a man to enter and then he went out.

  A man in an expensively sculptured suit saw his wife, went over to her, took hold of her outstretched arms, gave her a quick kiss and said, ‘Oh darling. Are you all right?’

  She smiled and nodded. He turned to Angel. ‘I hope you’re going to get this madman, Inspector.’

  Angel gave him his best non-committal nod of the head, several times, then said, ‘Have you any idea who might have wanted Mr Redman dead, sir?’

  ‘Not the slightest. He was a great man. He’ll be sadly missed.’

  ‘Your wife suggested that you and he didn’t quite hit it off.’

  The Krills exchanged quick glances.

  Mrs Krill said, ‘I only told Inspector Angel the truth, Cyril.’

  Krill pursed his lips then said, ‘It’s true. He could be very…very difficult.’

  Angel was weighing the answer when Krill said, ‘Inspector Angel? Your name is Inspector Angel? You must be the famous Inspector Michael Angel. The man with the same reputation as the Mounties, that you always get your man? I’ve heard that you have never failed to solve a murder case?’

  Angel was momentarily stumped for words. His ears and cheeks felt hot. He licked his lips.

  ‘I am Inspector Angel, sir,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about that other stuff. I do my job...the best way I know.’

  Krill pulled his head backwards, smiled and turned to his wife. ‘We’ve got the top man, Kathleen.’

  ‘To continue, if you don’t mind,’ Angel said. ‘You were away this weekend?’

  ‘Just two nights, yes. I went to the Solar Heating and Power Exhibition in London, but you surely don’t suspect me?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Angel said. ‘But we check on everyone.’

  Dr Mac, in his white overalls, put his head through the door. He was a small, white-haired Glaswegian. ‘Excuse me. Have you a minute, Michael?’

  Angel rose and went over to him.

  Mac gestured to him to come out into the hall and then he quietly closed the drawing room door.

  ‘I’m ready to move the body,’ Mac said quietly. ‘You’d be wanting to see it afore we do?’

  Angel nodded.

  Mac came up close to his ear and very quietly said, ‘And there’s an...an interesting feature to the case, Michael.’

  Angel blinked. That was unusual. Mac was not a sensationalist.

  ‘Right, Mac,’ Angel said, nodding. ‘I’ll follow you upstairs in a moment.’

  Mac turned away.

  ‘Would you find me some gloves?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll see to it,’ Mac said, calling back over his shoulder.

  Angel returned to the drawing room, asked the Krills if they would mind waiting a few minutes, came out and mounted the stairs, carefully keeping his hands away from the heavily carved ornate handrail, and his feet on the centre line of the white plastic sheeting.

  He could hear the hum of vacuum cleaners still being used in other areas of the house by SOCOs, and hoped they might be accumulating valuable evidence.

  ‘Second door,’ Angel heard the doctor call.

  ‘Right, Mac,’ he bawled and made his way along the oak-lined landing to a large double bedroom.

  He was met at the door by a SOCO who handed him a pair of white plastic gloves. ‘You wanted these, sir.’

  ‘Aye. Ta.’

  He put them on and made his way, keeping to the white plastic floor covering, to the bed nearest the bay window where Mac was waiting for him.

  The body was on the bed, on its back, covered with bedclothes to the waist. All around was the dark-red stain of dried blood: on the bedspread, the pillows, the bedhead.

  Angel peered at the head of the corpse. It flopped back unnaturally across a pile of pillows.

  He had seen hundreds of corpses but it always gave him a chilling feeling in his stomach at first sight. The feeling soon left him as his mind routinely assumed the business of searching for evidence to put the killer behind bars.

  The sparse covering of silver white hair confirmed that the corpse was of an elderly male. The face was a grey-white colour. Eyes closed. The lips a violet shade. The mouth was wide open, showing a row of even teeth.

  He looked up at the doctor.

  ‘What you got then, Mac?’

  ‘A single incision into the aorta, Michael, ensured this man died almost instantly. As you will see, there is an inordinate amount of blood. It would have spurted out under pressure. I think he must have been dead two or three days. I expect the murder was committed on Saturday night/Sunday morning. The weapon was a double-edged sword or dagger that had penetrated about five inches. One stab only, but the weapon was savagely moved around in the wound post-mortem.’

  Angel frowned. He pursed his lips. The murder was certainly executed callously, and was likely to have been carried out by a particularly chilling creature, who would have had quantities of blood on his person...his hands and wrists, possibly his arms, certainly on his shirt or coat or T-shirt, and maybe even on his shoes.

  Angel sighed thoughtfully. If only he had a suspect. He could have raced off for a warrant, and if the suspect had been guilty, he would certainly have found DNA in the form of the deceased’s blood somewhere on him or on a garment in his possession. He had been through that exercise many times over recent years. This time, it wasn’t to be that easy.

  ‘Any other injuries, Mac?’ he asked.

  ‘Bruising round the mouth and throat.’

  ‘No doubt to stop him calling out?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Fingers, fingernails, hands. Did he try to defend himself?’

  ‘No. No signs of any retaliation. The murder could have been over in a few seconds.’

  ‘Hmm. Hmm. You said there was something else...an interesting feature?’

  ‘Aye, I did,’ Mac said. He crossed the bedroom floor to a great rosewood dressing table in an alcove at the foot of the other bed. There was a large swivel mirror on the top of it. ‘Look at this,’ he said, and he slightly changed the angle of the mirror.

  Angel watched him. It caught the light. And his attention. He saw large crudely daubed letters in red on the glass.

  ‘The message,’ Mac said, ‘whatever it means, is painted in blood, what I assume to be the victim’s blood. It is a direct message from the killer. I think it says “V to go”.’

  Angel blinked. The back of his hand and arm turned to gooseflesh. He advanced towards the dressing table and read it for himself.

  ‘V to go?’ he said. ‘Yes, but what does it mean?’

  ‘V to go?’ Mac said. ‘V must be short for something or somebody? Like Violet, Vera, Victoria, Victor, Valerie, or Virginia? Virginia or somebody to go where?’

  ‘Is it a place?’ Angel said. ‘To go? What’s that mean?’

  ‘Valhalla. A burial place for a great man?’

  Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Valhalla? I’ll ask the daughter. Is there anything else?’
<
br />   Mac shook his head. ‘Not here. Might be when I get him on the slab.’

  A man in white appeared in the doorway. It was DS Taylor, head of SOCO. ‘Excuse me, sir, there’s a couple of people in the drawing room asking for you. I think they want to leave.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘All right, Don. I’m just going down.’ He pointed at the mirror.

  ‘You seen this?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can’t make any sense of it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘V to go. It’s spooky.’

  Angel wasn’t pleased. He knew it was eerie, but he didn’t enjoy a policeman saying so. ‘Have you any idea what these letters were made with?’

  ‘A smudge of cloth, sir, I should think. It could be achieved by putting a blood-soaked handkerchief, towel or any bit of rag around a finger and making the letters like chalking on a blackboard.’

  He nodded. ‘Are there discarded garments or towels or anything?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I suppose he cleaned himself up in the bathroom?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There’s a trail of drops of blood, presumably from his hands. But he didn’t use a towel. Must have wiped his hands down his own clothes or brought his own towel.’

  ‘Or taken one that was here with him,’ Angel said.

  Taylor looked as if he hadn’t thought of it.

  Angel said: ‘Have you found anything to swab for DNA?’

  ‘No, sir. And he was too smart to leave any prints on the taps, switches or doorknobs.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘We’ve a murderer who is forensically aware.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘The worst kind,’ Angel said, pulling a face.

  ‘It is looking like he came up by ladder through the window in here, sir, committed the murder, wrote that stuff on the mirror, went along to the bathroom to clean up, then returned and went down the ladder to make his exit.’

  ‘So you’ve nothing in the way of fingerprints or footprints?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Angel’s face dropped.

  ‘Anything in the bags?’ he said.

  ‘We haven’t finished, sir, but very little. The house is spotless.’

  ‘In that case, whatever you have sucked up must be pretty interesting?’