Ahmed said, ‘As one of them is the murderer, sir, and we’re warning him, he’ll know that we are warning everybody else, won’t he?’
‘I know it is bizarre, Ahmed, but that’s the way it has to be. Our priority is to stop the murderer, whoever he is, from murdering anybody else,’ Angel said. ‘Now let’s press on with it. Seconds may be precious. The list is twenty years old, and there aren’t any addresses, so it may not be straightforward.’
There were mutters of general understanding and uneasiness.
Angel handed out the lists. ‘I’ll take the top three. Crisp take the next four, Carter the next four, then Ted Scrivens four, then Ahmed, the last four. That’s nineteen. That’s the lot. All right?’
There were mutters of, ‘Yes, sir,’ as they rushed for the door.
‘And no fighting over the phone book,’ he called out, ‘there’s more than one copy in the station.’
*
By six o’clock that afternoon, the team had discovered that fifteen of the remaining nineteen on the photograph had died naturally over the past twenty years. The identity and location of each death (mostly Bromersley General Hospital) had been confirmed by the Births, Deaths and Marriages office in Bromersley Town Hall. That left only four persons, three men and one woman, still alive.
DS Crisp had discovered that Tom Franks was one of the men and was working at Cheapo’s supermarket. He was manager of the fruit and vegetable section. It was a name on Crisp’s list so he had made a beeline straight to the supermarket and persuaded him to come back to the station to help the police with their inquiries.
It was 7.15 p.m. when Crisp showed him into Interview Room No. 1, where Angel was waiting for him.
‘Come in, Mr Franks. Sorry to drag you away from your work.’
He was a chubby, sweaty man who seemed confused by the unusual situation he seemed to be in.
Crisp closed the door.
‘Please sit down. Has the sergeant told you why we want you here?’
‘That I might be in danger. Something to do with that Nero play that I was in years back.’
‘Exactly twenty years ago, Mr Franks.’
‘Really? Twenty years is it? I thought it was a bit of a coincidence that Lance Redman and Ingrid Underwood…I saw it in The Chronicle…who both had leading parts in the play, should have been murdered this week. I had been thinking about it. It brought it all back to me. The tragedy of it all.’
‘Tragedy? What tragedy?’
‘The death of young Malcolm Malloy. Nice lad. Destined for big things. Another Richard Burton. Malcolm was the worst injured in the fire. He was so badly burned he eventually died in the burns unit.’
Angel rubbed his chin. ‘Really. A fire? What happened?’
‘The play only ran for the one night. There was a fire on the stage. It was Malcolm’s fault. But it was an accident. He was badly burned.’
Angel frowned. ‘Anybody else injured?’
‘Several, but nothing serious.’
‘Do you think his death has any bearing on the deaths of Lance Redman and Ingrid Underwood? And posed a threat to the rest of the cast? We were hopeful that you might throw some light on their deaths. You see, somebody is deliberately, systematically, intending to eliminate all the people who had been connected with that play.’
Franks frowned and looked into Angel’s eyes. He said nothing.
‘Have you any idea who it is and why?’ Angel said.
‘No. No idea. Why would anybody want to do that?’
‘Is there any significance in the order that they were murdered, Lancelot Redman first and then Ingrid Underwood?’
‘Not unless it’s age. Lancelot would have been the oldest member of the Bromersley Players, I think. He played Seneca, a sort of wise man who advised Nero. But no. Ingrid would not have been the second oldest. I think she played one of Nero’s sisters…or it could have been Messalina. I can’t remember all the names now.’
‘The thing is, Mr Franks, you are in grave danger. You are one of only four people from the production of that play who is still alive. The murderer knows that, and he has indicated that he intends to murder all four.’
‘I don’t understand. How do you know all this?’
‘That is something I need, at this stage, to keep confidential.’
‘Oh? Yes. Well, that’s quite…alarming, Inspector.’
‘That’s why I want you here in protective custody.’
‘You mean, here…locked in a cell?’ He rubbed his face and began to perspire profusely. He wiped his neck with his handkerchief.
‘Well, only locked in with your permission, sir. For your own safety. You can come out anytime provided that you are suitably escorted.’
‘How long for?’
‘Until we find the murderer.’
‘What about my wife and kids?’
‘We have no reason to think that they are in any danger at all. They can visit you, and you can talk to them or anybody else anytime on the phone.’
He nodded, then shrugged. ‘I don’t seem to have much choice. Who are the other three? Where are they?’
‘We are still searching for them. They’ll be afforded the same protection as you.’
Angel looked across at Crisp. The sergeant here will fix you up in a cell for the night, Mr Franks. Anything you need, please liaise with him. All right?’
Franks nodded and blinked several times.
Crisp led him out of the office.
Franks looked as if he’d been battered with a barrister’s briefcase.
Once on his own, Angel rubbed his chin and wondered why he’d stopped smoking. He sat quietly in the swivel chair, pushed it backwards and looked up at the ceiling. He stayed there for a few minutes gazing at the dirty ring mark round the ceiling rose, then suddenly he rocked forward, leaped out of the chair and out of the office.
Chapter Eight
It was eight o’clock that Thursday evening when Angel brought his car to a stop with a squeal of brakes outside The Bromersley Chronicle office. He dashed up to the front doors. They were locked and a sign up said CLOSED. He wasn’t surprised.
He dashed down a ginnel at the side of the old stone building, on to the car park, past a pile of wooden crates containing huge rolls of newsprint, through the rear loading door, through the noisy printing room down a corridor to offices at the end. He found a young woman running along the corridor with some newspaper pages in her hand.
She looked at him in surprise.
‘I am Detective Inspector Angel; can I see Mr Keene urgently, please?’
She pointed towards an open door. It was the editor’s office.
The big man was standing over his desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up. ‘Not often I see you here, Inspector,’ Keene said. ‘Especially at this time of night. What’s up?’
‘I need your help, sir.’
‘Well, I’m a bit pushed just now. It’s publication day tomorrow, you know. But what is it? I always do everything I can to help the police. You know that.’
He nodded. ‘You keep records of back copies of The Chronicle?’
‘Yep. On computer now, Inspector. In the early days, we used to keep the actual newspaper. Everything now brought up to date. The actual paper is photographed. How far back do you want to go?’
‘Twenty years.’
The editor’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘Really? That shouldn’t be difficult.’ He reached out and with great deliberation pressed a button on his desk.
‘I am looking for information about a play that was being performed at the Variety Theatre,’ Angel said.
‘I’ll get my man in to sort it out for you, Inspector. Seeing that it is you, I expect it’s something to do with those other murders we reported last week.’
Angel sniffed. ‘Could be. Could be,’ he said.
The editor smiled knowingly. ‘When you get him, don’t forget us, Inspector. The Chronicle likes to be first with all local news.’
Through the
open door a tall skinny man appeared. He looked across at Angel then at the editor.
The editor stood up. ‘Inspector, this is Jack Hanger. Jack, this is the famous Inspector Angel. Jack keeps the records up to date and is a whiz on the computer. Please look after the Inspector, Jack. He wants to make use of our records, and he’s promised to give us a good story…eventually.’
‘Right, boss,’ Hanger said.
‘Assist him in any way he wants,’ Keene added. ‘I must get on. If you’ll excuse me, Inspector, I have a paper to put to bed.’
He dashed out.
Hanger led the way out of the editor’s grand office to a tiny room with a trestle table covered in newsprint. There was a computer keyboard, a large screen at the far end of the table, and two chairs.
‘I’m proofreader as well as everything else. What is it you want exactly, Inspector?’ Hanger said as he pulled up a chair to the computer and tapped a few keys on the keyboard causing the screen to change.
Angel sat next to him and said, ‘In May 1989 there was a play performed at the Variety Theatre. It used to be on Barnsley Road. I believe it is now closed down. The play was called Nero. I want to know what you’ve got on it. There would probably be advertisements ahead of it, to sell tickets, and there might have been a write-up about it afterwards.’
Hanger nodded, tapped a few keys and up came a picture of the front page of The Chronicle dated 18 May 1989.
‘Is that it?’ Hanger said.
Angel nodded appreciatively and leaned eagerly forward. It read:
*
VARIETY THEATRE CLOSED FOLLOWING FIRE.
NERO STAR, MALCOLM MALLOY BADLY INJURED.
A fire broke out on the stage during the first night of the Bromersley Players’ production of Nero.
The up-and-coming local star, Malcolm Malloy, 25, was severely burned and rushed by ambulance to Bromersley General.
This production of the play Nero had to be cancelled.
Most of the scenery, the flies and the dressing rooms were damaged. The safety curtain saved the rest of the theatre. None of the 850 audience was affected apart from a small amount of smoke.
The fire started during the last act, which depicted the burning of Rome, as Nero, played by Malloy, ‘fiddled’ while the city burned.
Malloy was later transferred to the specialist burns unit. Several other members of the cast were also treated for minor burns.
Arrangements for the refund of ticket money are already in hand.
In the Variety Theatre’s 110-year history there has never been a fire of this magnitude.
The play’s director, Jonathan Parker-Snell, said, ‘It was a great tragedy that Malcolm Malloy should have been injured. He had had a promising career since leaving RADA, taking several leading roles locally, including the leading role in Romeo And Juliet at the Little Plumm Theatre in Hemingfield, near Barnsley. Also, I am extremely disappointed that the play has to be cancelled, after all the hard work the cast has put into it, but under the circumstances it is unavoidable.’
The fire was thought to have been caused by a faulty oxygen line. To represent the fire scene, metal troughs containing special flammable substances were placed strategically around the stage, concealed by scenery. On cue, these were remotely ignited by the props Manager, Mr Dennis Long. The height and ferocity of the flames of each trough was individually controlled by pumping oxygen into the flame. One of the pump’s valves appeared to have blown open as the character, Nero, played by the star, Malcolm Malloy, who also ventured too close, caught his costume in the flame-producing apparatus. Malloy was unable to free his costume and in the attempt to escape, he pulled the pipe across himself and was very badly burned on the face, chest, arms and stomach. The flames also spread to the scenery. Several of the cast and the stage manager, Charles Catchpole, tried to detach the pipe from Malloy and received minor injuries in the process. Eventually the safety curtain was lowered, the fire department arrived and the fire was quickly extinguished.
*
Angel read the text again. His eyes were glowing, his heart thumping. This was the breakthrough he had been longing for.
He turned to Hanger and said, ‘Can I have a copy of this?’
‘Of course.’
The clerk pressed some keys and a printed copy shot out on to the tray. Angel reached out for it.
‘If there’s anything else you want, Inspector?’
Angel was deep in thought. He looked up. ‘No thank you, Mr Hanger. That’s a big help.’
‘If there’s anything else you need, come straight to me. The boss said I was to help you all I could.’
Angel nodded and, holding on to the print, he ran out of the little office, through the printing room, out of the back door, where vans were being loaded with newspapers, and up the ginnel back to the BMW.
*
Five minutes later, at 20.45 hours, Angel arrived back at the police station.
Ahmed saw him pass the CID office door and he dashed out in the corridor to speak to him. ‘Sir.’
Angel heard him, stopped and turned.
‘DS Crisp has located the Margaret Ireland on his list,’ Ahmed said: ‘She lives on Wakefield Road. And he’s gone out to bring her in.’
Angel’s face brightened. ‘That’s great, lad.’
He rubbed his chin and proceeded towards his office. That meant that there were only two more to find. Then he suddenly stopped, turned back and said, ‘Has he gone on his own?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Angel’s lips tightened back against his teeth simultaneously sucking in air and making a hissing noise. Although he had thought all along that the murders had been executed by a member of the male gender, nevertheless the murderer could have been a woman, and that woman could have been Miss Margaret Ireland.
‘How long has he been gone?’
‘About ten minutes, sir.’
He sighed. ‘Let me know the moment they arrive.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ahmed said. ‘And there’s another man, Kenneth Lamb.’
Angel turned round again. ‘Yes, lad? What about him?’
‘He is on my list. I’ve just tracked him down on the phone, sir. I told him that his life was possibly in danger. He didn’t take it seriously. I asked him to stay where he was, to lock the house up and we would send a car for him. He laughed at the idea and said that he might come here himself when he’d had his tea.’
Angel’s fists tightened. ‘Have you got his address?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Come in the office.’ He reached the desk, picked up the phone and handed it to him. ‘Tell Transport I want a vehicle urgently now to collect you, pick this joker up at his place and bring you both back here smartly. All right?’
Ahmed blinked, took the phone and began tapping in the internal number 4 for Transport.
Scrivens came through the open office door.
Angel looked up. ‘What are you busy with?’
‘Angus Peel, sir.’
‘Ah, the last one.’
`Yes, sir.’
‘Have you found him?’
‘No, sir.’
The team had found out that he worked as a stairlift installer, deliveryman and was assistant manager of a local shop that sold mobility aids to the disabled and old people.
‘He must be somewhere,’ Angel said.
‘He installed a stairlift at a house in Wombwell this afternoon, sir,’ Scrivens said.
‘Have you checked that?’
‘I haven’t, sir, but Flora has. She’s actually -’
Angel said, ‘Just a minute lad. Just a minute. Who is this Flora you’re talking about?’
‘Oh,’ he said. He remembered that Angel would not approve of him referring to the sergeant by her first name.
‘I mean DS Carter, sir.’
‘Aye. That’s better. Carry on. What were you saying?’
‘That DS Carter has been to Wombwell and spoken to the householder.’
Angel s
ighed. ‘Go find her for me.’
Carter appeared at the door. ‘You looking for me, sir?’
‘Aye. Come in. Scrivens was telling me that you’ve been to Wombwell.’
‘Yes, sir. Saw the old lady. Peel fitted a stairlift for her today. Left there about a quarter past five.’
‘Did he seem…all right?’
‘She didn’t think there was anything peculiar about him?’
‘Where was he going? Did she know?’
‘Thought he said he was going home.’
‘What time does the shop close?’
‘Five thirty, sir,’ Carter said. ‘They weren’t expecting him back tonight. Anyway, he wouldn’t have reached it before it closed. The man at the shop gave me Angus Peel’s home address, landline and mobile number. He said he’d phone me if he turned up before they closed. There’s no reply from his mobile or his house phone. I’ve tried it a few times.’
Angel rubbed his chin. He didn’t like it. ‘You’ve been to his house?’ he asked.
‘It’s deserted, sir. I was there about an hour ago. Looked all round it. Nobody answered the doorbell.’
It was this last suspect that worried Angel. ‘I’ll have a look,’ he said. ‘He’s the last one. I can’t leave it like this. He might be the one. Then I’m going home.’
‘I’ll show you where it is, sir,’ Carter said. ‘It’ll save time.’
Angel nodded.
Ahmed said, ‘A patrol car’s picking me up at the front now, sir.’
‘Right, lad. Now be careful.’
Ahmed dashed out of the office.
Angel turned to Scrivens. ‘DS Crisp is bringing in a woman called Margaret Ireland. She’ll be processed and formally admitted into protection. Tell the desk sergeant that I’ve arranged for a place for her at the safe house on Beechfield Walk. She is to be searched and her belongings searched. And she is to be carefully observed. There needs to be two officers in attendance with her, never one only. But I don’t want her to think that we suspect her, but, of course, we do. Just tell her that it’s the system and that we’re just being careful.’
Shrine to Murder Page 8