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 immedi
ately.
By the time they got back, Madden had received a full report on Powell. The attack had been on a neighbour’s sixteen-year-old daughter when he was living with his parents in a mining village near Swansea. He had given himself up and made a full confession, claiming that he had only used the knife to frighten her and had cut her in the neck when she started screaming. He had been jailed for six months during which he was a model prisoner and had undergone psychiatric treatment. The psychiatrist’s report told of a markedly introverted character with difficulties over relationships with women. His father was a miner who had been pensioned off after contracting pneumoconiosis. This had caused the family financial difficulties resulting in his mother becoming a hostess at a Swansea nightclub, supplementing her income by casual prostitution. But the report noted that she had remained loyal to her husband, who had colluded with her activities, and the truth had been kept from the boy Arthur. Only when the psychiatrist had pushed him towards acknowledging what had been happening did he show any hostility, totally rejecting the suggestion about his mother as offensive and ridiculous. So extreme had his rejection been that the report concluded he had known the truth but refused to accept it. He had never married and there was no evidence that he was homosexual. Since that experience, Powell had apparently gone totally within himself, taking various unskilled jobs in different parts of Britain, always merging with the background and leaving no trace when he moved on. He had allowed nobody to come close to him.
There was one other development before Jackson and Neale reached Vercaster. The Belsthwaite police obtained a picture of Arthur Powell taken at the retirement of the previous supermarket manager and wired it down to the Vercaster incident room. Madden was examining it when they reported to his office.
“On the extreme left,” he said and handed the photograph to them.
It showed an overweight, totally bald man in the centre, smiling ridiculously and holding an automatic tea-maker in a most unnatural pose, surrounded by about a dozen men and women in supermarket uniforms. Powell was standing towards the back, somehow giving the impression that he would have preferred not to be in the picture. Jackson looked at the face closely: pinched, narrow, furtive, expressionless amid smiles. Mentally he tried to stop selecting the adjectives which would fit the suspicions, but it remained a face which created a sense of unease. And there was something familiar about it.
“Copies are being issued in time for this evening’s main television news,” Madden continued. “In the meantime, take one round to Punt Yard and see if anyone there recognises him.”
“Yes, sir.” Jackson paused and looked at the picture again, frowning. “It’s just that …I think I know him…I think…” He shook his head.
“Know him?” snapped Madden.
“I’ve got the feeling I’ve seen him. In Vercaster. But I can’t remember where.”
“Take it to Punt Yard,” said Madden. “Perhaps it will come back to you.” There was the slightest edge in his voice indicating that he expected it to.
The recollection remained frustratingly elusive as Jackson drove to Punt Yard and he sat in the car outside the house for several minutes vainly chasing it, an image in the corners of his memory. Maltravers suddenly appeared by the car door.
“I saw you through the window,” he said as Jackson stepped out. “Have you found him?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Jackson. “But I’ve got a picture I want you all to look at. I’ll explain inside.”
They listened in silence to Jackson’s news, then he handed them the photograph without indicating which one was Powell. “Just tell me if there’s anyone you recognise,” he said.
“Him.” Maltravers and Melissa spoke instantly and together and then looked at each other in surprise.
Jackson stood up and took the picture back. “Which one are you referring to, Mrs Cowan? The man on the left. Mr Maltravers? The man on the left. Very well. Mrs Cowan, when and where have you seen him?”
“He was at the reception after Diana’s performance. Don’t you remember Augustus, I said he was staring in a funny way? But you didn’t see him! He’d gone when you turned round. How do you recognise him?”
“Because I saw him the following day,” replied Maltravers. “He was the chap staring at the house when we set off for the Dean’s garden party. But you weren’t with me then so you didn’t see him.”
“Are you both positive?” asked Jackson. They nodded their heads. “Very well, so Arthur Powell was in Vercaster on Saturday evening…” He stopped and snapped his fingers. “And that’s where I saw him! In the Refectory! I’m sorry but I deliberately hadn’t told you I thought I had seen him somewhere. And you say he was still here on Sunday afternoon.”
“And now he’s disappeared,” said Maltravers. “Just like Diana.”
For a moment all five of them were silent, reflecting on the implications of what had emerged.
“May I use your telephone, Canon?” said Jackson. “I want to speak to Mr Madden. Thank you.”
Jackson could mentally see Madden making his precise notes as he related what had happened.
“Did you notice anything strange about his behaviour in the Refectory?” Madden asked when he had finished.
“Not really. It was just that he was one of the few people there who seemed to be on their own, talking to nobody, and that made him catch my eye.”
“Take statements. Establish the times. Report back to me as soon as you return.” Madden rang off abruptly.
The statements were brief, neither Melissa nor Maltravers having taken any great notice of Powell. Maltravers remembered he wore a checked shirt but was vague about the colour.
“And he was staring at this house?” said Jackson.
“Yes, but I expect a lot of people do. It’s Georgian and tourists look at Georgian houses. When Tess said that was probably what he was I didn’t think about it again.”
“If you recall anything else, let us know,” said Jackson and looked perceptively at their concerned faces. “I realise that this is not making things any better for you. Believe me, we’re doing all we can to find Powell but he seems to have a habit of taking his holidays in remote places and if he is hiding somewhere he knows the sort of places to go. But don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
“And Diana?” asked Maltravers quietly.
“I hope we can find her first,” said Jackson. “We still have no reports of her being treated for her injuries but that doesn’t mean it’s not been done.”
“No body, no murder,” Maltravers said cynically.
Tess closed her eyes. “Shut up, Gus,” she said and Jackson felt the vibrations of raw emotions breaking through the surface of their calm.
“I realise the worst thing is not knowing,” he said as he stood up to leave. “Believe me we’ll keep you fully informed. I’ll see to that.”
“Thank you, sergeant,” said Melissa. “We’re very grateful. We’re going to the string quartet concert this evening so that may help to take our minds off things.”
“The festival is still going ahead then?”
“Yes. The Dean came to see us today and wanted to cancel it but my brother insisted we should carry on. Most of our events have completely sold out and, as he said, Diana would want things to continue.” Melissa smiled at Maltravers. “And we think it’s best that we are seen to behave as normally as possible. We’re being…very British. It’s silly, but it’s one way of getting through.”
Decent behaviour was observed in the Chapter House that evening as well, the room tangibly tense, the audience speaking in whispers and averting their eyes away from the group to which they were irresistibly drawn, the musicians sombre, the applause polite but muted. There was another gathering in the Refectory afterwards with strained good manners polluting the air until it had the quality of poisoned jelly. The Dean apologised for the Bishop’s absence.
“He’s taking this very badly,” he explained. “I don’t need to tell you how impressed and
attracted he was by Miss Porter. He asked me to convey his greatest sympathy. My wife and I feel a sense of responsibility as well. Miss Porter was a guest in our home and if we had taken greater notice, then…”
“That’s very kind but quite unnecessary, Dean,” Maltravers interrupted. “There was nothing any of us could have done.”
Affected by the atmosphere, people began leaving early and Maltravers and Tess were preparing to follow them when he felt the sleeve of his jacket plucked. It was Miss Targett.
“Oh, Mr Maltravers,” she began and tears sprang to her eyes as she overcame the obstacle of speech. “This is a very, very wicked thing. Miss Porter was so...” Her kindly little face suddenly shivered into grief and Maltravers swallowed hastily as her emotion caught him.
“Thank you, Miss Targett,” he said. “We do appreciate your feelings.”
“But she was your friend!” Miss Targett’s voice cried with simple anguish. “Such a dear, kind, lovely girl…” She began to sob helplessly and Maltravers and Tess gazed in embarrassment, unable to find anything to do or say in comfort. They were saved by the arrival of Webster, the Succentor, who put his arm round the old lady.
“Come along, Miss Targett,” he said gently. “Let me take you through to the Lady Chapel for a few minutes.” As she turned with childlike obedience, he smiled slightly at Tess and Maltravers to indicate he would handle things and walked away with his arm still about Miss Targett’s shoulders.
“It’s not just us, is it?” said Tess as they watched them go. “There are all sorts of people being hurt by this. The Bishop, Melissa and Michael, Miss Targett. All those people who identify with the famous. Even the Dean’s wife. Dear God, let Diana be found soon.”
Chapter Eight
THE STING OF Miss Targett’s distress and the image of her cheerful and animated face distorted by horror moved restlessly about Maltravers’ mind all through the night. The Dean’s feelings of responsibility added irrational echoes. It was Maltravers who had brought Diana to Vercaster, the archetypal cathedral city where bad things did not happen. The feeling began to grow in him that he could not just allow things to go on without trying to do something. As morning light seeped through the bedroom curtains he lay and stared at them.
The Casebook of Augustus Maltravers Page 9