An Act of Evil by Robert Richardson Page B

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.