Free Shrine to Murder by Roger Silverwood Page A

Manchester Road towards the Peak District National Park. Among a stretch of architect designed houses on the right hand side was the house of Cyril and Kathleen Krill.
    Mrs Krill answered the door.
    Angel sensed that they were about as welcome as a gas bill. She showed them into the drawing room.
    After preliminaries, which were kept to a minimum, Angel said, ‘Your husband not here?’
    ‘ Oh yes,’ she said. ‘He’s in his office which is an annexe at the rear of the house. Do you wish me to call him?’ she said reaching for the phone.
    ‘ Not yet,’ he said. ‘I need to know where you were overnight on Saturday night/Sunday morning last and between 8.40 and 9.00 yesterday morning.’
    ‘ I have already told you that I was at my daughter’s school on Saturday night.’
    Angel looked at Crisp.
    Crisp said, ‘The headmistress says that you phoned her on Saturday morning and said that you had a migraine and that -’
    She glared at Angel. ‘You’ve been checking up on me.’
    ‘ Of course,’ Angel said.
    ‘ Do you think I would want to kill my own father?’
    Angel shrugged. ‘I don’t know you, Mrs Krill. I am only a policeman doing a very unpleasant job. Can you simply answer the question?’
    She licked her top lip with the tip of her tongue, thoughtfully. ‘It was true,’ she said. ‘I did have a migraine, so I stayed at home. I was in bed most of the time.’
    Angel blinked, looked at Crisp who was getting ready to speak, held up his hand to stop him and said, ‘Here, in this house alone, the entire weekend?’
    ‘ Yes,’ she said.
    ‘ And I don’t suppose you saw anybody throughout that time.’
    Her lips tightened. ‘You can’t see anything, Inspector, when you have a serious attack. Ask any doctor.’
    Angel sighed. ‘So nobody can vouch for you being here?’
    ‘ No.’
    ‘ Why did you say you went to see your daughter? It would have been perfectly simple to have told the truth.’
    Her eyes darted to the left to the right and back again. ‘Oh for god’s sake, I lied. My husband was there. He thought my migraines had gone. I didn’t want him to think I was still suffering from them. He has enough to worry about just now. It was easier to tell a white lie than to explain.’
    Angel frowned. He wasn’t satisfied, but time was precious. Wherever she was, she hadn’t an alibi for the time of her father’s murder.
    ‘ And where were you yesterday morning?’ he said.
    ‘ I was here. Why?’
    ‘ Can anybody corroborate that?’
    ‘ My husband, I suppose. He was in his office…like he is now. Why?’
    ‘ Because that was the time a woman in a flower shop, a Mrs Ingrid Underwood, was stabbed to death the same way that your father was killed. And a similar message left on a mirror.’
    ‘ Oh, my god,’ she said and slumped down in a chair. ‘What did it say?’
    ‘“ IV to go,” which we believe to mean that the murderer intends to kill four more people.’
    ‘ Good heavens,’ Mrs Krill said.
    ‘ Do you know if your father knew Mrs Underwood?’
    ‘ Poor woman. I have no idea. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Although he may have.’
    ‘ It’s very important. He never spoke of her? Never bought flowers from her? It’s an unusual name.’
    ‘ No, Inspector. I can’t recall the name.’
    ‘ Can you tell me who formed your father’s circle of friends, relations and acquaintances?’
    ‘ That’s not difficult, Inspector. There was only me. He had had a wide range of interests when he was younger and when he was working. And he had tried to maintain them, but I believe his particular circle died off, or moved into nursing or retirement homes or even emigrated to a warmer climate. After my mother died, he lost interest in most things. Lately he only went out of the house to the supermarket, the post office and the doctor’s surgery.’
    ‘ What about relatives?’
    ‘ They never visited.’
    ‘ Neighbours?’
    ‘ Oooh yes. The next door neighbour…he used to talk