An Act of Evil (8 page)

“
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 phoned 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.”

He
walked from his office to the incident room itself and crisply reported what he had been told to the officer collating information, then turned irritatedly to an Inspector from the public relations department.

“
What is it?” he snapped.

“
The Press, sir. The conference was due to begin ten minutes ago.”

Madden
made no comment but picked up the latest summary of the situation from the desk in front of him.

“
Five minutes,” he said and, as he rapidly digested the current information which contained nothing of significance except what he already knew about Powell, composed his mind to deal with the Press.

When
he entered the conference room exactly five minutes later he was businesslike but cordial. Ignoring the statement which had been prepared before the information came in about Powell, he outlined the case in spare, clear sentences finishing with the news of what was happening in Belsthwaite.

“
We are seeking a man called Arthur Powell who we have reason to believe may be able to help us with our inquiries,” he said baldly. He did not reveal the address or anything about Powell’s letter to Diana. When it was clear he had finished, a barrage of questions erupted around the room.

“
I will only take questions one at a time,” he said sternly. “The gentleman at the front.”

“
Chief Superintendent, who is this man Powell? What is his connection with Diana Porter?”

“
We’re not certain. We only know that he wrote to her.”

“
What did the letter say?”

“
We can’t reveal that at present.”

Calmly
and methodically, Madden continued to stonewall, producing an amazing series of variations on “No comment”. Personal questions about Diana could not be answered; the Press would have to inquire elsewhere. No (this with the slightest facial flicker of contempt for the questioner) it would not be possible to take a picture of the severed hand. No (this with an air of genuine regret) there were no pictures of Powell at present but these would be supplied as soon as possible if he was not traced. Yes (this with an edge of diffident acknowledgement) he was the officer in charge of the investigation. Madden with two d’s, first name William. No (and this must be clearly understood) he was not conducting a murder inquiry.

“
All we are certain of is that Miss Porter is missing and that she has received a very serious injury. We are very anxious to trace her and have reason to believe Mr Powell may be able to assist us in this. We will, of course, be very grateful for any assistance you can give in the way of publicity. I’m sorry but I can add nothing more at this stage but you will be informed of any significant developments. Thank you for your co-operation.”

The
Press were far from satisfied but Madden’s intention was to use them, not accommodate them. But they had more than enough to go on. The bloody happenings at Punt Yard connected with a beautiful and well-known actress were rich and delectable to the insatiable appetites of the front page and the screen. As knots of gossiping women gathered in Belsthwaite, as Maltravers sat with his growing aches of fear, as Vercaster went about its business, as the machinery of the police rolled relentlessly on, the slick and predictable phrases, occasionally enlivened by an imaginative adjective or dramatic observation, began to gather and form.

“
Police are hunting the butcher who has savagely maimed actress Diana Porter…a city is living in terror after a mangled and mutilated hand was found cruelly nailed to a door in the shadow of its cathedral…there are fears for the life of one of Britain’s most dazzling talents…one terrible question is haunting the police — will Diana’s other hand be found?...people knelt and prayed in Vercaster Cathedral today for a beautiful young woman they had grown to love…Diana Porter is the helpless, terrified prisoner of a monster…London’s theatre world was shattered today by the news that…” With the facts they had at their disposal, the most prosaic of journalistic talents could work wonders.

Maltravers
agreed to speak to the Press on behalf of everyone at Punt Yard, controlling his feelings and keeping his patience even when one reporter asked for the spelling of
Hedda
Gabler
. They pressed him relentlessly about Diana’s pregnancy — which Madden had mentioned — demanding what he knew about her boyfriends. Having convinced them that he was certainly not one, he was unable to offer any suggestions.

“
What about this guy Powell?” one asked.

“
Well he certainly wasn’t a boyfriend. As far as I know, Diana didn’t even know him.” Jackson had passed on specific instructions from Madden that he was to say nothing about Powell beyond the police statement.

“
Did he cut off her hand?”

“
I don’t know. Ask the police.”

“
Come on, we’ve tried that. They’re not saying. Give us a break on this.”

“
They’re not saying because they don’t know!” Maltravers, his patience rapidly vanishing, looked hard at the journalists gathered round the front step of Punt Yard. “I don’t give a damn who cut off Diana’s hand. It’s been done. And I’m more interested in finding her than in who did it. Anybody who cares for Diana just wants her found and given proper medical treatment. We’re grateful for the coverage you’ve given to the fact that she went missing. Now, for God’s sake try to help find her!”

*

In Belsthwaite, Jackson and Neale were coming to the conclusion that they were hunting an invisible man. Powell had worked at the supermarket for three years without making any friends either there or among his neighbours in Sebastopol Terrace. He was quiet, efficient, unambitious and colourless. His flat, when they entered it, was bleak and functional, the furniture belonging to the landlord with little to reveal anything about the tenant’s personality. There were no pictures or posters on the wall, no personal letters from family or friends. There was a collection of paperback books but the mixture of war novels, science fiction and thrillers was the sort that anyone might casually accumulate. There were also two books on health foods. In a drawer Jackson found a collection of large-scale Ordnance Survey maps of Wales and the West Country with dates going back several years written on various remote locations. As he examined them Neale made a grunt of discovery, having reached under the bed and pulled out a cheap plastic suitcase which contained several photograph albums each filled with colour prints, taken with little or no sense of composition, of desolate countryside. Under each one was written a location and a year. Borrowdale, 1973. Exmoor, 1974. Sutherland, 1975. The chronology jumped a couple of years then picked up again without any discernible pattern until Snowdonia the previous summer. They compared the photographs with the annotated maps and found they tallied. All the locations were for remote parts of Britain.

“
Look at this,” Jackson said. He had opened the last album to reveal more photographs, this time of Scandinavia, dated 1976 and 1977, the missing years from the previous albums. “He could be abroad then,” he commented. “Let’s see if there’s a passport anywhere.”

There
was no sign of one nor indeed of any official communications apart from some brief correspondence with the Department of Social Security for a period of illness some six months previously and an envelope containing Powell’s pass book for the Halifax Building Society with just over eleven hundred pounds in the account. The deposits had been a regular ten pounds a week with only major withdrawals of about £200 each July, tying in with the dates of his holidays.

“
He’s two dimensional,” said Jackson. “I always worry with people like this. It makes you wonder what the other dimension is.” As he spoke, that dimension, or at least something suggesting it, was emerging.

Belsthwaite
police had taken Powell’s fingerprints — there was only one set anywhere in the flat — and had checked with criminal records. The result was waiting for Neale and Jackson when they returned to Belsthwaite police station. Twenty years earlier, Arthur Powell had been jailed in his native South Wales for attempted rape with violence and had used a knife on the girl he had attacked. There was also a message from Madden that they were to return to Vercaster immediately.