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“There must be a reason why the arm was sent to you.”
“I get rubbish from all kinds of lunatic. It’s usually just a pathetic plea for attention.”
“Rubbish?”
“You know what I mean.” Johnny reached into the inside pocket of his jacket that hung on the back of the chair. “I received this on Saturday.”
Penterell’s eyes lit up. “It must have been sent by the same person.”
“Indeed. The killer, if that is what he or she is, must be a religious nut. I’ve never heard of St Anastasia or St Basilissa. Have you?”
“No. Perhaps he’s going to work his way through the alphabet: A, B, C . . . You should have produced this straightaway. It corroborates the suggestion that you’re specifically being targeted.”
“I doubt they’ll find any decent prints apart from mine – and yours.”
In his eagerness to see the postcard, the detective had forgotten standard procedure. He flushed and dropped the evidence on to the table.
“I don’t suppose you still have the envelope?”
“No – but it was the same as the one that arrived today. What are you going to do?”
“It’s not up to me – not that I’d tell you, even if it were. Inspector Woodling is in charge of the investigation.” He carefully picked up the postcard by a corner and placed it in the folder, which appeared to contain a single piece of paper.
“Well, I’ll let you know if anything else turns up.”
“Thank you.” Penterell’s drily ironic tone was not lost on Johnny. “And I’ll let you know if you have to make an official statement. In the meantime, I wouldn’t be too worried if I were you.”
“Worried? Why should I be worried?” Johnny hadn’t been worried – but he was now.
“If someone’s trying to gain publicity, they’re not going to chop off your arms – they need you to be able to use a typewriter.”
“That’s good to know.” Johnny grabbed his jacket and made for the door. Before he could turn the knob, Penterell placed a large hand on top of his. Unlike Johnny’s, it was cool and dry.
“You won’t say anything about the postcard will you?”
“No. Why should I? I’d already mucked up any incriminating fingerprints.” Penterell looked relieved.
“Thanks. I’d hate your friend to get the wrong impression of me.”
“Friend?”
“Sergeant Turner.”
So that was why he’d initially been so ingratiating. Although they had never deliberately kept their friendship secret, Matt and Johnny hadn’t shouted it from the rooftops either. Even so, it seemed their connection was common knowledge at Snow Hill. Perhaps that’s why Matt had been so angry. He loathed being put in a compromising position.
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