An Act of Evil Read online

  Jackson himself took Maltravers’ statement. No, he had seen nothing suspicious. The Yard had been full of cars when they left for the cathedral, but it obviously would be. Yes, he was positive the hand had not been on the door when they set off. No, there had been no phone calls, no letters.

  “I’d have bloody well told you that,” he snapped.

  “I know. But we need everything for a formal statement. I know I’ve asked you this before, but do you know of any threats that have been made against Miss Porter?”

  Maltravers looked up. “It is Diana’s hand then?”

  “Until we know otherwise, it’s a possibility we have to consider,” Jackson replied evenly.

  Maltravers took out a cigarette, lit it and exhaled the smoke slowly.

  “What you are asking me to accept,” he began quietly, “is that somebody has cut off Diana’s hand and nailed it to the goddamned door!” His voice ended in a near shout. “I don’t want to know that!”

  Jackson remained very quiet for a moment while Maltravers stared at the floor.

  “Do you know of anyone who has made threats against Miss Porter?” he repeated, quietly.

  Maltravers shook his head without looking up again. “No. And I wasn’t shouting at you.”

  “I know that. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything to say.” Jackson got to his feet and held out his hand. “I’ll still try to keep you informed.”

  “Thank you,” said Maltravers and they shook hands. “What happens next?”

  “The hand has been photographed where it was found and taken to the mortuary.” Maltravers winced at the word. “Look,” Jackson continued hastily, “I know this is difficult for you, but obviously fingerprints will produce the answer very quickly. We could find something in Miss Porter’s flat but that will take time. Is there anything here which only she is likely to have touched? Something in her room?”

  Maltravers took him upstairs to Diana’s room where Jackson saw a bedside lamp with a smooth, glazed pottery base. He unplugged it from the wall, put a handkerchief on the edge of the shade and carefully lifted it.

  “Theoretically, this should be perfect,” he said. “It’s unlikely that anyone else touched it after her arrival and I imagine your sister cleaned everything beforehand. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

  Jackson returned to the police station where he was told that Madden was with the police surgeon in the mortuary next door. He found them together, the surgeon a Scot broad in shoulder and accent whose Harris tweed sports jacket smelt as if woven out of tobacco leaf. The hand lay between them on a stainless-steel-topped table.

  “You’ll perceive it’s a woman’s hand,” the surgeon was saying. “It would be a most extraordinary man who kept his fingernails in that condition.” The nails were finely manicured and glistening with a faint silver varnish.

  “Anyway,” the surgeon continued, “if you’re going to argue that some men have funny habits, they don’t get pregnant as well.”

  “Pregnant?” snapped Madden. “How can you tell?”

  “Look here.” The surgeon lifted the hand and pointed to a tiny red dot with fine lines running from it about two millimetres across. “Spider naevus. They appear after about three months.” He turned the hand so they could see the ends of the wrist bones.

  “From the condition of the radius and the ulna, I’d estimate someone in her early to mid-twenties but X-rays might throw more light on that. There’s no pitting of the nails, so she didn’t suffer from psoriasis and, for what it’s worth, she wasn’t a mongol. The palm creases for that are unmistakable.”

  “How was the hand cut off?” asked Madden.

  “Not by a skilled surgeon at any rate. The bones are cut clean through and, if you want a guess, I would suggest a meat cleaver or something similar. It certainly wasn’t sawn off.”

  “Was she alive when it was done?”

  The surgeon shrugged. “That’s difficult. Most of the blood has flowed out, which might indicate that she was alive or it had been done very soon after death, while the blood was still fluid. But the clotting process is reversed after a while by bacterial activity which makes the blood fluid again. I can’t say anything else until I’ve done more tests.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” said Madden. “Before that, we’ll want to take fingerprints though. See to it will you, sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve brought this from the house.” Jackson held up the bedside lamp and explained. Madden grunted with qualified approval.

  “That should save time,” he acknowledged. “Let me know the results immediately.”

  *

  Jackson waited while Higson, his vocabulary reduced to virtual silence by being called from his bed, checked the lamp with prints taken from the hand. After peering intently at the results for a few moments, he looked up.

  “Yes,” he said briefly. “Anything else?”

  Jackson shook his head and Higson packed up without a further word and left. Jackson returned the hand to the mortuary then went back to the police station. As he walked along the corridor to Madden’s office he passed an open door on which a sign saying “Incident Room” had been newly fixed. Inside he could see filing cabinets and telephones being put into place and there was a tangible air of activity emanating from it; William Madden was in his element again.

  In his own office, the Chief Superintendent heard with evident satisfaction that the fingerprints proved it was Diana’s hand; it was not yet a murder but it was a crime of eminently satisfying seriousness.

  “The other line of investigation, of course, is the father of the child,” he said when Jackson had finished. “Mr Maltravers, perhaps?” His silence and narrowed eyes invited Jackson to follow him down an avenue of thought.

  “Mr Maltravers has a girlfriend, sir. Miss Davy. I think his relationship with Miss Porter was a professional one with no more than ordinary friendship.” Jackson was declining to take even the first step. The possibility that Maltravers might be the father of Diana’s child was a link in the chain of Madden’s mind; sex and murder, like love and hate, were common companions.

  “In any case, sir, even if he were the father, he certainly could not have nailed the hand on the door. He was with three other people when he left the house and for most of the evening I was with him. We all left the cathedral together and I was only a few feet behind him when we discovered the hand. He’s one of quite a number of people who can be ruled out.”

  Madden pondered the point.

  “You’re sure he never left you?” Jackson nodded. “Then…the question is, did whoever nailed that hand to the door choose his moment because he knew they were all out of the house? In which case he either saw them leave…or saw them in the cathedral and left before they did.”

  “Both are possible,” said Jackson. “A great many people left before we did.”

  Madden pinched his nose, then shook his head briskly.

  “A great many holes, sergeant. We’ll need a lot more evidence yet.” The phone on his desk rang. “Right,” he said after listening for a moment, then rang off. “The incident room is ready. Come with me for the initial briefing then I want you to go back to Punt Yard and tell them it is Miss Porter’s hand. And see if they can throw any light on the father of the child. This way.”

  With his customary efficiency, Madden had organised nearly twenty officers in the incident room which was already virtually fully equipped to deal with the anticipated mass of information which would eventually come in. Jackson joined the rest and they sat or stood in a rough semi-circle as Madden spoke.

  “First of all, it has been established that the hand discovered earlier this evening is that of Diana Porter, the actress who disappeared on Sunday,” he began. “Inquiries into her disappearance have yielded nothing so far. As you know, I’ve already ordered checks to be made with all hospitals and doctors in the immediate area to see if they have treated anyone for a severed hand. These inquiries will be extended to
other forces if necessary.

  “At present this is obviously not a murder inquiry but until we find that she has received medical treatment it will be regarded as one, body or no body.” Madden turned to where a hastily blown-up map of the area immediately surrounding the cathedral had been pinned to the wall and pointed to a red sticker.

  “This is where she was last seen in the Dean’s garden at about six o’clock on Sunday afternoon. The hand was discovered on the door of Canon Cowan’s house here, about a hundred yards away. Not a great many people live in the immediate area but there are a lot of tourists passing through it. Every home is to be visited. I want notices put up here, here…and here.” He indicated the entrance from the main road into Punt Yard, the alleyway that ran from the north transept to the city centre shops and a point outside the Chapter House. “People who have been there in the past couple of days may visit again and I want them interviewed. Anything suspicious. Anyone behaving strangely. Anyone even remotely answering Miss Porter’s description. Sergeant Neale has arranged enlargements of the photographs issued to the press when she went missing.

  “I’m detailing officers to make inquiries in London. This woman had a great many friends in the acting profession. I want everything they know. Any threats, professional jealousies. And, most important, boyfriends. She was pregnant.” His tone implied no moral condemnation, although he was known to be puritanical in such matters; in these circumstances, Diana’s pregnancy was nothing more than a line of investigation.

  “Her only known relative is a brother and the police in Bristol will be talking to him.” He looked round the attentive group. “Any questions? Right. Keep in constant touch with this room. Inspector Barratt will be in day-to-day charge. I’ve arranged a press conference for first thing in the morning. I don’t like newspapers but publicity may be of assistance.” Madden’s icy gaze swept his audience again. “Don’t waste time. Follow procedures. I want results.” He turned towards the door. “All leave cancelled,” he added and left the room.

  It was gone midnight when Jackson returned to Punt Yard but there was still a light showing from the living-room window. He spoke briefly to the constable Madden had left stationed outside the house, then rang the bell. While he was waiting for someone to come to the door, he looked at the nail hole above the lock. It was quite shallow; obviously whoever it was had risked only one quick blow to avoid unnecessary noise. Michael opened the door and led him through to where the others were gathered with their shock. His look erased any lingering hopes they had been clinging to.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said. “It is Miss Porter’s hand.”

  Melissa put her face into her hands and began to weep as Tess, her features contorted with controlled grief, slipped her arm around Maltravers.

  “We’re grateful to you for coming to tell us, sergeant,” Michael said quietly. “This must be very difficult for you as well.”

  “Thank you, Canon,” said Jackson. “There is something else as well which we need to know about. Did Miss Porter tell you she was going to have a baby?”

  They stared at him. “How the hell…?” Maltravers began.

  “There was something about the hand which showed it. I can’t remember the word the police surgeon used but it’s definite. Miss Porter never mentioned it?”

  “Not a word,” said Maltravers. “But it does explain her relationship with Rebecca. I never noticed any signs though.”

  “Well, apparently, it might only have been about three months so it would not have been all that visible. But that was a very loose dress she wore at the Chapter House.”

  “Everything she wore was like that,” added Tess.

  “The question is, have you any idea who the father might be?” asked Jackson.

  Tess and Maltravers looked at each other, then both shook their heads.

  “Diana has plenty of boyfriends but none in particular as far as I know,” said Maltravers.

  “Very well. I won’t trouble you further at the moment but if you do find anything about who it might be please let us know. I’m sorry to have had to tell you the worst news. We’ll let you know as soon as anything happens. Goodnight.” Jackson turned to leave the room, then paused. “Oh, just one other thing. The basic facts of what happened tonight are being released to the Press Association. I’m afraid you will find the publicity distressing but it may help us to find Miss Porter, which is the most important thing at the moment. It’s all right, Canon, I’ll let myself out.”

  As they heard the sound of Jackson closing the front door, Melissa lifted her eyes from the handkerchief which she had been crumpling between her fingers on her lap.

  “I know you don’t think much of this sort of thing, Augustus,” she said, “but I’m going upstairs to say some prayers.” She stood up and held out her hand to Michael. “Will you come with me please, darling?” They left the room together.

  “Come and sit down,” Tess said to Maltravers and he sat on the chair by the fireplace while she curled up at his feet holding his hand. For a few minutes he sat impassively then his face suddenly crumpled and he began to cry with a terrible adult intensity. Tess knelt up and put her arms around him, rocking him gently back and forth as tears streamed down her own cheeks.

  In the incident room, Madden’s team had checked with nearly forty hospitals, including most of the London ones. There were no reports of anyone being treated for a severed hand.

  Chapter Seven

  REBECCA WOKE EARLY in the morning and the house was suddenly filled with childish laughter and demands and an unreal edge of normality as Press, television and radio reports exploded their private horror into public awareness. Just before nine o’clock Joe Goldman rang.

  “Gus? I’ve heard. It’s really true?”

  “I’m afraid so. It was too late last night to call you. Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise. How’s Tess? How are you? Hell, what sort of questions are those? Look, can I do anything?”

  “The police will almost certainly want to see you. One thing they’re obviously asking is if anyone ever made any threats against Diana. Do you know of anything?”

  “Possibly. That’s why I’m at the office early. I heard the radio first thing and remembered something and I’ve just been checking it. I think you’d better pass it on to them. You remember that Hedda Gabler business? Diana had a lot of fan mail after that, often asking for signed photographs. Most of the letters came through here. It was all a joke to her of course but she signed the pictures putting silly messages on most of them. I told her it was stupid but she insisted. Anyway one guy wrote back and it was a bit weird so I kept the letter. Listen to this.

  “‘Dear Diana, I have received your signed photograph which I am keeping by my bed with the picture from the newspaper. I look at them both a lot and think a lot of things which I couldn’t tell my mam about.’ So we all know what he’s doing in bed, don’t we? But the next bit is worrying. ‘I keep them with my razor sharp Commando’s knife because they are the things I treasure most.’ See what I mean?”

  “Christ Almighty! Who is this character?”

  “Arthur Powell, twenty-seven Sebastopol Terrace, Belsthwaite. That’s Yorkshire somewhere, isn’t it?”

  “It’s near Halifax. All right, thanks Joe. I’ll tell the police. I’m no detective, but don’t handle that letter any more than you have to. They’ll be checking it for fingerprints.”

  “Gus, did I do the wrong thing?” Anguish suddenly entered Goldman’s voice. “I should maybe have told the police when it arrived. I mean, it was just a nutty letter. I never thought. Maybe if I’d…”

  “Stop it, Joe!” Maltravers interrupted. “You weren’t to know. What’s important is that you kept the letter.”

  “But Gus, Diana’s dead!”

  “We don’t know that. All we know is that she’s been injured. Now just stay at the office and wait for the police to arrive.”

  Goldman’s information was passed to Madden immediately Maltravers p
honed it in. Madden had arranged for a camp-bed to be set up in his office for the occasional and inadequate periods of sleep he took during a major inquiry.

  “You and Neale go to Belsthwaite at once,” he told Jackson. “I’ll contact the police there and have them hold Powell until you arrive. I want him back here at once.”

  As they left, Madden contacted the incident room and ordered a search of police central records for anyone called Arthur Powell and despatched a man to London to collect the letter from Goldman. He then rang the police in Belsthwaite and requested the immediate arrest of Arthur Powell on suspicion of kidnapping and assault occasioning grievous bodily harm.

  “Let me know personally as soon as you have him,” he said. “My men should be there by noon. They’ll take over from there.”

  While the bleak northern thoroughfare of Sebastopol Terrace was suddenly filled with the wail of sirens and the screech of brakes as men leapt out of cars to hammer at a front door, Madden sat and quietly read a report from the Chief Constable on drug abuse in the county, his eyes narrowing at his superior’s thoughts favouring the possible legalisation of cannabis and his mouth making a pout of distaste at the recorded reduction of fines and sentences; for twenty minutes neither Diana Porter nor Arthur Powell entered his mind until the phone rang again with a return call from Belsthwaite. Arthur Powell could not be found.

  Madden made brief notes on his pad as he listened to the flat Yorkshire narrative. Powell was not at home and inquiries at the supermarket where he worked in the stock room revealed that he had gone on holiday the previous Friday. Nobody knew where but it was believed he had gone camping. A description of his motor cycle and sidecar would be sent to Vercaster as soon as possible and further inquiries were being made with neighbours and the supermarket staff.

  “Inform sergeants Jackson and Neale when they arrive,” Madden said. “All further reports to go directly to the incident room. Thank you for your assistance.”