An Act of Evil (14 page)

“
Accomplice possibly. Perhaps an unwitting one who just agreed to post a letter for him? Sergeant Neale’s still checking his story but as far as I understand there’s nothing so far to positively exclude him as a suspect.”

Madden
remained silent for a moment then pressed a switch on the intercom on his desk and asked for Inspector Barratt to come in. By the time the Inspector had joined them, he had marshalled his thoughts.

“
I want all those principally concerned to be interviewed again,” he said. “See if they can remember anything else. I want Neale’s report on Sinclair’s movements while in Britain as soon as possible and a full report on fingerprints on that envelope. I take it we have the secretary’s and the postman’s. And check anything you find connecting it to the Islington sorting office with anything found on the package sent to the Dean. Even without the postmark that may confirm it also came from there. That will be all.”

After
they returned to the incident room, Inspector Barratt told Jackson to return to Punt Yard to talk to Maltravers and the others again.

“
I’m afraid this investigation is proving somewhat irregular,” said Jackson, as he turned to go. “It’s not to Mr Madden’s liking.”

“
No it’s not, sergeant. And he doesn’t like having me in charge of this room either. Mr Madden just does not like senior women police officers but I was the only one available when this thing began. However,” she looked up at him from her desk, “Mr Madden likes lack of results even less so we’d all better get on with it.”

Patiently
Maltravers and the rest went over their statements again, desperately trying to remember details of inconsequential conversations and casual events, small incidents and gestures, but nothing seemed to emerge.

“
When will you know if it’s definitely Diana’s hair?” Maltravers asked.

“
When we find something in her flat,” said Jackson. “The chances are there’ll be something on her pillow or somewhere.”

“
And there’s a possible link with Sinclair?”

“
It may just be a coincidence that he happens to have a flat in Islington but in our business coincidences are not just shrugged off. Until something removes him definitely from the picture we’re keeping an eye on him. At the moment, things keep happening to push him further into our line of vision.”

Maltravers
gently changed his position to relieve the ache that was starting to creep down his leg. Jackson noticed the movement.

“
What’s happened to you?”

“
Oh, just a fleeting contact with a collapsing cathedral. It’s much better today.” He was interrupted by the phone ringing next to him. He picked it up, listened for a moment then said, “Yes, he’s here. Hang on.” He proffered the receiver to Jackson. “It’s for you. Inspector Barratt.”

Jackson
listened for several seconds then said, “Good God, where the hell have they been?” He listened again, then asked for an address which he wrote in his notebook. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He rang off.

“
Where the hell have who been?” asked Maltravers.

“
The couple that Powell stayed with in Vercaster a week ago on Saturday. They’ve just rung the station.”

“
What
? Why haven’t they been in touch before?”

“
Been on holiday apparently. We all assumed that Powell probably camped somewhere when he was down here, particularly when nobody said he had stayed with them. We checked the hotels and boarding houses but there are dozens of places in Vercaster that do bed and breakfast unofficially during the tourist season.” He consulted his notebook. “Do you know Acacia Street? It doesn’t matter, I’ve got a map in the car. Stay where you are, I’ll let myself out.”

*

Acacia Street reminded Jackson of Sebastopol Terrace except that the houses had the added benefit of small front gardens. It was exactly the sort of drab, anonymous area that would appeal to Powell. As he unlatched the gate of number nineteen the curtain shifted slightly at the window and the front door was opened as he approached it.

“
Mrs Dunn? Sergeant Jackson, Vercaster CID.”

“
Come in please. Here in the front room.” He followed the sun-tanned woman with the excessively precise hair-style through to the room where the first thing that caught his eye was an enormous imitation sombrero hooked over the back of a dining-chair.

“
I understand that Mr Arthur Powell stayed here a week ago Saturday,” he said formally.

“
Yes, he did. Here, sit yourself down. My husband’s just upstairs but he’ll be down in a minute. I didn’t know what to think when I saw it in the paper. I mean, the man’s a murderer isn’t he?” Mrs Dunn seemed concerned that her own reputation would suffer from having had such a person beneath her roof.

“
We just want him for questioning at the moment. I think it will be best if we start at the beginning. When did he arrive?”

Mrs
Dunn settled and composed herself. Her narrative was refreshingly succinct.

“
He arrived on the Saturday lunchtime — about half past twelve,” she said. “At first I said we couldn’t put him up because we were going away the next morning but he said it would only be for the one night and…well, he was such a pleasant person so I agreed. He was hardly in the house. He went out in the afternoon to look round the cathedral. I said he could watch television with us in the evening but he said he was going to a performance at the Chapter House. He assured me he would not be late and I said it would be all right as long as it was before eleven. And on Sunday morning he left.”

“
And you knew nothing about what happened afterwards?”

“
Not a thing. We flew to Benidorm on the Sunday lunchtime and only got back last night. It was only when I managed to have a look at the
Times
this morning that I saw his face. So of course I rang your people at once.”

Jackson
was thrown for a moment by the newspaper reference then realised she was talking about the
Vercaster
Times
; it had not struck him as the sort of household in which the better known variety would be found.

“
Did you have any conversation with him?”

“
Very little. He was very polite and quiet — just the sort of person we prefer. But we really had hardly any time to talk.”

From
upstairs there came the sound of a lavatory being flushed, followed by the sound of someone descending. Then Mr Dunn, a neat and compact little man, entered the room. His wife introduced Jackson.

“
I was just asking if your guest might have said anything that could assist us,” Jackson said.

“
I’ve just been thinking about that,” Dunn replied and Jackson kept his face impassive as the image Dunn’s remark created sprang into his mind. “He asked for directions.”

“
Directions? Where to? When?”

“
When he was leaving. I saw him off and wished him a good journey. He asked which was the best road that would lead him towards Wales.”

“
Wales.” Jackson smiled gratefully at Dunn. “That’s a very useful piece of information, sir. Very useful indeed.”

“
No it’s not. Not now.” Dunn smiled knowingly. “You see I asked him if that’s where he was going and he said just for a few days then he was moving on. And this was just over a week ago. So he won’t be there now.” Having neatly demolished the possibility he had set up, Dunn smiled cheerfully at Jackson and sat down in an armchair by the fireplace.

“
It could still assist us,” said Jackson. “If we can find where he was in Wales we may be able to trace him from there. I just want to radio this information into the police station then I’d like to see the room he used please.”

Mrs
Dunn was waiting in the hall when Jackson returned from the car.

“
It’s exactly as he left it,” she said as they went up the stairs. “I glanced in on the Sunday morning after he’d gone and it was perfectly tidy so I decided to leave it until we came back. Of course I haven’t been in it since I read the papers.”

The
Dunns did not take excessive trouble over their accommodation for visitors. The room was long overdue for decorating and the furniture was at best shabby. Jackson remarked that the bed had been made.

“
He must have done that,” said Mrs Dunn. “Very considerate.”

“
Did he have any luggage?”

“
Just a few things in his sidecar. He only brought his pyjamas and a towel in. I think his tent was in there as well.”

Leaving
room, perhaps, for a body, Jackson reflected.

“
Can this room be locked?”

“
Oh, yes. We always give guests the key then there can be no misunderstandings. You know what I mean.”

“
I must ask you to lock it as we leave and nobody must come in here until my colleagues arrive from the police station. They should be here fairly soon. In the meantime, I’ll need formal statements from you and your husband.”

As
they turned to leave, Jackson glanced swiftly round the room. There was no evidence at all that anybody had ever stayed in it. The anonymous Powell had passed through and, typically, had left no trace of his personality behind.

The
Dunns’ statements added nothing to what they had already told him. Powell had left first thing after breakfast on the Sunday morning and Dunn assumed he had set straight off for Wales.

“
He said nothing about staying in Vercaster for part of the day?” Jackson asked.

“
Not a thing. It’s a fair journey and I suppose he’d want to get going as soon as possible.”

As
Jackson was completing the statements, Higson and other officers arrived to start their investigation of the bedroom. Dunn, who appeared to have something on his mind, followed Jackson to the front gate.

“
I think we’ve behaved quite properly in reporting this as soon as we could,” he said.

“
Indeed. We’re very grateful.” Jackson could feel some motive behind the remark.

“
It’s just that we do return our income tax forms to the Inland Revenue’s satisfaction.” Dunn gave a significant wink. “I’m sure you understand, sergeant.”

Jackson
realised that the fact he might have had a murderer in his house for whom there was a nationwide search following a particularly hideous crime was less important to Dunn than the money he obviously denied the income tax man.

“
I’m investigating a murder, sir,” he replied. “I’ve no interest in anything else.”

*

The lock of hair and the note posted in Islington also brought fresh evidence. To nobody’s surprise, it was Diana’s hair, and one set of fingerprints on the envelope, belonging to someone in the Islington sorting office, was also found on the package containing Diana’s hand which had been sent to the Dean. Saliva tests further showed that both items had been sent by the same person. But there were no available saliva samples from Powell to clinch the matter. The police felt they had taken a significant step forward but until the final pieces fell into place the picture was still maddeningly unclear.

Monday
evening saw the second performance of the Mystery Plays, this time in the Vercaster Players’ own theatre. For Maltravers it was at least another diversion to occupy his mind with something else. The plays went from the Nativity — engagingly performed by a cast of children — through to the Temptation of Christ in the Wilderness. The Shepherds’ Play was a delight, with an hilarious scene in which they became increasingly drunk, pulling an endless collection of ingeniously contrived long-lost local delicacies from their sacks until the stage was littered with scattered offal. The contrast with their wonder and adoration as the angels appeared was effective and moving.

But
once again it was Jeremy Knowles’s Devil who dominated everything, wielding a bloody and vicious sword through the Slaughter of the Innocents, attending the Wedding at Cana as a sly and malevolent guest, peering resentfully round the side of the cave from which the resurrected Lazarus emerged. Christ’s steadfast rejection of his seductive worldly inducements was no more than a temporary setback in his progress towards eventual triumph. He spat his parting words like venom:

Long
in patience, I shall wait

Till
we meet at Hell’s dark gate.

Flamed
and awful, red with blood,

Evil
then shall master Good…

He
stopped with his voice on a rising, uncompleted note, then strode unnecessarily across the stage, losing the sense of direct conflict with Christ.