The Murder List

by Roger Silverwood

  Angel turned to Donohue and said, ‘There’s nobody here, Sean. We don’t have to whisper anymore. Might as well put the light on. See if it works.’

  Donohue pressed the switch and the light filled the room. Angel looked round, uncomfortable in these surroundings. Then he suddenly realized something.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Robinson isn’t here,’ he said.

  Donohue stared at him.

  ‘There’s only one cauliflower here, because she’s out killing some other poor woman, the fifth on her murder list.’ Mac had said that they were murdered between five and eight a.m. He looked at his watch. It was almost 4.30.

  Angel crossed to the desk and looked at the papers. On the top of the pile was a photograph. His heart began to race. ‘Look at this,’ he said.

  It was apparently a publicity photograph for “Grounds For Divorce”. There were about sixteen pretty girls scantily dressed. Somebody had ringed six of them round their heads. Four of those had red crosses across their faces. The names of the girls were given underneath. He recognized the women who had red crosses over their faces. He read out their names, as they were listed on the photograph.

  ‘Look, Sean,’ he said. ‘There’s Gladys Hemingway, Fay Mitchell, Felicity Oakenshaw and Michele Noble. They’re all dead. The other two are ringed, but not yet crossed out in red … therefore one of them must be her next target.’

  Donohue was looking over Angel’s shoulder.

  ‘What are their names, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Melanie Mackinley and Lorna Bainbridge. But if they married their surnames would have changed.’

  Angel turned the photograph over. ‘Bingo!’ he said. ‘It’s all here. All laid out for us. There’s the full list of the six, with their maiden names, their married names and their addresses.’

  ‘You’ve hit the jackpot, sir.’

  ‘Write this down, Sean, quickly. Melanie Mackinley, now Melanie Hooper of 26 Upper Sheffield Road, Bromersley and Lorna Bainbridge, now Lorna Powell of 17 Wath Road, Bromersley.’

  Angel then checked his watch. It was 4.35 a.m. He waited patiently while Donohue hurriedly entered the names and addresses in his notebook.

  Then suddenly both of them heard a slight noise of someone moving around downstairs.

  They looked at each other. Angel’s heart began to pound. He pointed to a place of concealment behind a stack of boxes. Donohue nodded and took up the position. Angel switched out the light and dodged behind the door which had been wide open. He pushed it to the almost closed position and waited.

  Seconds later the landing light went on and they heard footsteps on the stairs. Then the door was pushed open, and the room light went on. Angel peered through the gap in the door hinge and immediately recognized the prowler. It was DS Carter.

  Angel sighed with relief.

  ‘Come in, Flora,’ he said, stepping out from behind the door. ‘I’d almost forgotten about you.’

  Her eyebrows shot up, she gasped and put a hand on her chest. ‘Oh, sir!’

  Donohue came out from behind the boxes. They looked at each other and nodded.

  Angel said, ‘Listen up, Flora, and you, Sean, time is very short. I believe that the murderer will be at one of these two addresses, but there’s no way of knowing which.’ He looked down at the back of the photograph he was holding and said, ‘If you two will check on Melanie Mackinley – oh, it’s Hooper now – on Upper Sheffield Road. Check that she is safe, and stay with her until after 8 a.m. I’ll take on the other one, Lorna Powell on Wath Road. Neither address is far away. Let’s hope we’re not too late. All right?’

  Both Carter and Donohue’s eyes shone in anticipation of what they had to do. Angel saw this and said, ‘Be very careful. You might meet the very devil incarnate. Somebody who you may already know, who has killed four innocent women in cold blood and who will have no conscience in murdering either or both of you.’

  Carter looked at Angel. His eyes were hard. His chin set firm. She realized he was absolutely in earnest.

  ‘We’ll be careful, sir,’ she said.

  ‘One more thing,’ he appealed to her, ‘I haven’t any handcuffs. Do you think—’

  Flora said, ‘Take mine, sir,’ she said, dipping into the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Sean has a pair on his belt.’

  Donohue nodded. ‘Yep. That’s fine, Sarge.’

  Angel pocketed the handcuffs and said, ‘Come on. Let’s go!’

  Angel turned out the room light, then they all scrambled downstairs, out of the house and raced to their respective cars.

  Angel made his way to 17 Wath Road, which was only two or three minutes away.

  Because the roads were empty, the traffic lights conveniently changed to green as the BMW approached so that he soon arrived at his destination.

  Like Fountain Street, Wath Road was made up of one short block of terraced houses. He parked the car at the end of the street and ran up to number 17. He had to obtain access, silently but quickly. He shone the torch on the rear downstairs window, and saw that it had not been tampered with, then he looked at the door. His heart missed a beat. On the door jamb, just above and below the keyhole were damage marks and splintered wood where a crowbar or similar had been used to prise the door open. They were similar to the marks found on the doors of the victims. It was further confirmation that the murderer was in or had recently been in the house.

  Angel’s pulse shot up. His chest was on fire. He tried the door. It opened easily. He went inside and silently closed it. He thought he could hear someone talking. It was a muttered monotone coming from upstairs. He quickly made his way through the kitchen to the stairs. He slowly and quietly began to climb them.

  He could hear a man’s voice. It was saying, ‘…and you were one of the reasons. All my life I’ve had to put up with rejection after rejection by you and others like you. You are the fifth, next to the last of the women I have been able to trace from that disgusting, group sexual display you called dancing. You don’t know how much you fired my desire. I was positively burning up with a craving for you, but when I suggested that I took you out on a date, you laughed at me and looked down on me, as if I was scum. I knew you had been talking to the others about me. I thought I would be able to date you, take you to a smart hotel, wine and dine you then take you to a bed and love you and caress you. We could have had a wonderful sexual relationship. I had, still have, a fantastic body, in terrific shape, and a six pack to be proud of but you just laughed at me, like the others. You’d rather throw yourselves at those overfed, bald, spotty, obnoxious creeps. There I was, helpless, lonely, miserable, suffering rejection and enduring all my unfulfilled desires. And it went on and on.

  ‘As I got older, I realized how much I had missed … not being able to get a girlfriend, never mind a wife. You and your friends made a fool of me. You laughed at me. Now it’s my turn. If you had married me, I would have worshipped you, covered you in flowers. There’s one. It’s a cauliflower. Laugh at that! Hold it on your lap, like a bouquet, Lorna. That’s it. Now, laugh at that! And later, when you come out of church, there will be plenty of confetti and rice. Particularly rice. In fact, you’ll get fed up with rice. You’ll feel all choked up. Yes. There’s another laugh. All choked up. Laugh at that, Lorna!’

  Angel was now on the landing. He could see the light from the open bedroom door. The voice was loud and clear.

  ‘I’ve even written a poem about you, Lorna, so that the cops will know it’s me. Would you like to hear it?’ He waited a second then said, ‘I’ll take that as a yes. It goes like this:

  Lorna Powell ridiculed me many and many and many a time.

  And has to be punished for her wicked crime.

  ‘Clever, isn’t it?’ he continued. ‘And you’re the fifth, Lorna. Just one more to go.’

  Then Angel heard a woman’s voice, obviously that of Lorna Powell, trembling as she said, ‘You’re mad. Raving mad. As mad as a hatter. You need a doctor.’

  Angel heard the man suck in breat
h between his teeth, enraged by what she had said.

  ‘I don’t need a frigging doctor,’ the man said. ‘I just need a fair deal out of this life that you and all your sex have denied me. How could those ugly lumps of so-called men so easily get themselves a woman when I couldn’t? Women must be stupid. I am attractive, well-educated with a fantastic body. They have starved me of sex during my young and middle-aged manhood and given that pleasure to other men. Why do I have to suffer virginity all my life? Why is this? I am almost a living god, yet nobody realizes it. I will cleanse the world eventually of all that is perverted and imperfect. It will happen. I have decreed it. Until then, I have to face a miserable, lonely, celibate life where everyone else experiences the pleasures of sex and love. It is the darkest hell that you have never experienced – but now it is your turn.’

  Lorna Powell screamed. ‘No! No!’

  The shrill note stirred Angel to action, although he had no idea what he was going to do. He dashed into the bedroom.

  He saw what he thought was the back view of a woman with grey hair in a sheepskin coat, sitting on a bed, facing a woman he took to be Lorna Powell in a nightdress in bed. The one with grey hair was holding a knife with a shiny blade at least ten inches long, about to plunge it into Mrs Powell.

  ‘Put that knife down,’ Angel said. ‘I am a policeman.’

  The killer jumped up, turned round and Angel saw a tall, heavily made up man with excesses of blue and black grease-paint around his eyes and carmine on his lips, and a grey wig that had gone askew. Angel blinked with shock at the grotesque sight. He was certain that he knew the face behind the make-up, but he couldn’t put him into context. Then it came to him. It was the bread man who delivered to Grant’s shop!

  ‘You’re Maddison,’ Angel said. ‘So-called friend of Cliff Grant.’

  Angel was furious with himself. It had chiefly been Maddison’s evidence that he had seen a woman with grey hair entering Grant’s shop that had persuaded him that the handwriting expert must be wrong and that the murderer was a woman!

  Maddison’s face was perspiring through the make-up. The corners of his mouth were turned downwards. He bared his teeth like a wild dog. ‘I have no friends, Mr Policeman. Grant was just a pawn in the game.’

  ‘A pawn, friend, call him what you like,’ Angel said. ‘You created fake evidence to fool me into thinking he was the killer.’

  Maddison laughed long and loud. ‘Yes, and you fell for it.’

  Angel wasn’t amused. ‘You even sold him the ring you had stolen from Michelle Pulman and swore him to secrecy,’ he said. ‘He never betrayed that promise, you know.’

  Maddison laughed again. ‘He was so gullible.’

  ‘What had you against him?’

  ‘Everything. I saw him and I hated everything about him. He had the power over women that was due to me as their god. He had only to crook a finger at a woman and she came running towards him. He always seemed to have at least two women chasing him at any given time. But they were chasing the wrong man. They should have been looking at me, and one day soon, they will. But now, Angel, I have to eliminate you.’

  Maddison suddenly lunged at him with the knife, and Angel had to back off. The man stabbed the air again and again but Angel managed to dodge his jabs. At the same time, Angel reached out and attempted to grab the wrist that held the knife. Maddison chased him round the bedroom, attempting to stab him at every opportunity. Eventually Angel managed to catch that wrist with both hands. But with his free hand, Maddison landed some exceedingly heavy blows with his clenched fist at Angel’s temple and on his neck. Angel now had his back against the bedroom wall. Blow after blow rained down on him, until he managed to dodge Maddison’s mightiest blow and his bare knuckles hit the bedroom wall, making a solid noise and causing him to cry out.

  Angel wasn’t sure whether Maddison had broken his wrist, damaged a finger or merely battered his knuckles. In the split second that the killer was coming to terms with the pain, Angel banged the other hand holding the knife on the corner of the wardrobe. Maddison yelled again as the knife fell onto the carpet. He quickly went down for it, Angel powerfully brought up his knee, caught him under the chin, and his teeth met as he sent him flying backwards. The grey wig slid off his head. Maddison staggered backwards towards the wall and as he fell, he hit the back of his head on a radiator which stunned him. He was dazed long enough for Angel to roll him onto his stomach, pull his arms behind his back and snap the handcuffs on his wrists.

  He then turned to Mrs Powell. She was sat up in bed with a floral duvet wrapped tightly round her. She was shaking slightly. Her face was white. He could see that she must have been very beautiful forty years ago.

  Angel looked at her and said, ‘Are you all right?’

  She smiled weakly. ‘I’m fine. You must be that Inspector Angel, the one that always gets his man, like the Mounties.’

  He looked away from her and said, ‘Something like that.’

  He sat on the edge of the bed, swept the hair off his face and took out his mobile. Although his neck and shoulder were considerably painful, he wasn’t about to let Mrs Powell realize the punishment he had taken. He managed to keep his hand from rubbing the area and concentrated on finding the number of the Control Room. He found it and clicked on the button.

  ‘Control Room, DS Clifton.’

  He was relieved when he heard a voice he recognized.

  ‘DI Angel, Bernie. Will you send a car and two men to 17 Wath Road, to collect a prisoner? His name is Percy Maddison. He needs to be charged with the murder of four women, which will then need to be processed.’

  Clifton was delighted. ‘Great stuff, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to that personally.’

  Angel could hear the pleasure in his voice.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Clifton said then added in a concerned voice, ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Of course,’ Angel said quickly.

  ‘Two men and a car will be there within five minutes, sir.’

  Angel checked his watch. It was seven o’clock. ‘Thanks, Bernie. I will wait to hand him over to your men but I won’t be accompanying the prisoner. You don’t need me. Ahmed has all the details of the victims and so on.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Clifton said.

  Then Angel remembered that Ahmed had an appointment with the Chief Constable that morning, and he was worried about it. So he told Clifton, ‘Incidentally, will you tell Ahmed I will be going home … to catch up with some sleep for one thing. I shall be going to the bank, Daniel Ashton’s antique shop, then the card shop next door. But I’ll be in later this morning.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Angel was elated as he drove the car into his garage and then strode out, seemingly weightlessly, down the garden path. He was smiling as he let himself into the house by the back door. Then he began softly to hum, ‘I did it my way,’ as he took off his coat, hung it up in the hall cupboard. He observed that there was no sign anywhere of Mary downstairs. He listened and there was no sound of movement or running water upstairs either. It would suit his plans very well, if she stayed in bed another hour or so.

  He switched the radio on low volume so it wouldn’t wake her, then quickly made some tea in a beaker, loaded a slice of bread in the toaster, and took out the butter dish and the marmalade jar from the cupboard. When he had finished his breakfast, he prepared fresh tea and hot toast and took it up to Mary on a tray. She was delighted but didn’t say anything about their wedding anniversary, so neither did he. He came down the stairs wondering if she had forgotten but then thought that was highly unlikely knowing her as he did. Anyway, he had told her he was going to the station as usual, but first he went down town to the bank, Ashton’s antique shop, the card shop, the florists for some flowers and then went to the police station.

  Everybody smiled at Angel as he went down the corridor. The news about the arrest of Percy Maddison for the serial killer murders had spread very quickly.

  Angel arrived in his office a
nd checked the time. It was 10.20. It was about the time that he expected Ahmed to be coming out of the Chief Constable’s office. He smiled as he thought about it.

  The phone went. He reached out for it. It was Mary.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  She said, ‘Michael, do you realize that this is our wedding anniversary?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course I do. I thought you had forgotten.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you didn’t mention it and you didn’t even kiss me. I should have thought as it is twenty-four years since we walked down the aisle together that you wouldn’t have forgotten.’

  ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten. And it’s twenty-five years, sweetheart, not twenty-four. It’s our silver wedding anniversary.’

  ‘No, Michael. That’s next year. It might seem to be twenty-five to you, darling, but it’s only actually twenty-four… You work it out.’

  Angel did the sum quickly in his head and discovered that she was right.

  ‘Erm … well, however many years it is,’ he said, ‘I still hadn’t forgotten. And I still love you. And I’ll be home early, all being well.’

  Her tone and attitude changed. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘And I still love you, Michael. Look forward to it.’

  They ended the call. He replaced the phone.

  Angel was pleased she had phoned. But he needn’t have worried about that solitaire ring if he had realized he had had another year to save up for it.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Angel thought he knew who it would be and smiled in anticipation. He called out, ‘Come in.’

  It was Ahmed.

  He had a huge smile on his face. He had had his hair cut and was wearing his best suit; a crisp white shirt, blue tie and black shoes so highly polished that you could see your face in them. He strutted into the office and closed the door.