The Blood-Dimmed Tide (22 page)

Before that point had been reached, however, and on the resumption of the meeting following the break called by Bennett, the inspector had been given a detailed summary of the current police investigations into the murders at Bognor Regis and Brookham. Primed by Bennett, and under his watchful eye, Sinclair had led his German colleague by stages through the history of the inquiry in Britain, from the discovery of the first body in Surrey to the slow-dawning realization that what they were dealing with was no common sex killing.

‘We didn’t know what we were faced with until the second corpse was uncovered near the coast, in Sussex. Up till then the search had been concentrated on finding this tramp. I’m afraid the Surrey police were led astray.’

‘What made you get in touch with Vienna, if I may ask? Did you have some reason to think this man might have been abroad?’

The question was an obvious one, but since an honest answer would have meant revealing details of the suspected murder at Henley three years before, Sinclair had been forced to take refuge behind a smokescreen.

‘No specific reason. But it seemed to us this murderer might well have killed before. There was a finished quality to his crimes: the battering of the faces, the fact that he brought a hammer with him to carry out the job. No record of such a criminal existed in this country, so we thought to look elsewhere.’ Glancing at Bennett as he produced this farrago of lies and half-truths, the chief inspector was gratified to see that his superior at least had the grace to blush.

Probst, meanwhile, had been paying close attention. ‘It may interest you to hear what one of our leading forensic psychiatrists has to say about these cases,’ he remarked. ‘A Professor Hartmann of the Friedrich Wilhelm University, in Berlin. He believes that while the killer’s sexual desires may have been the original motive for these crimes, the need to assault his victims’ bodies afterwards has now become the dominant element of his psychosis, hence the increasingly elaborate ritual he brings to the destruction of their faces.’

Remembering the similar, prophetic judgement he had heard from the lips of Franz Weiss only a few weeks earlier, Sinclair grimaced, but stayed silent.

At five o’clock, Bennett called a halt, and as the chimes of Big Ben sounded faintly, drifting down through the foggy darkness from Westminster, their visitor addressed them for the last time, making an appeal which at least one among his audience found affecting, even if it did not assuage the guilt he felt, but merely added to it. Angus Sinclair took no satisfaction from the knowledge that he and his colleagues had been successful in keeping their darkest suspicions from the kriminalinspektor.

‘My superiors have asked me to stress the importance they attach to resolving this case as soon as possible. Quite aside from the human tragedy involved, they believe it contains dangers of which we should all be aware. These are the “special circumstances” to which Herr Nebe referred in his telegram to you, Sir Wilfred. Although we don’t yet know the identity of this man we are seeking, it’s likely he is either German or English. Which, is not important. What matters, we believe, is that crimes of such brutality committed by a national of one country against the children of another are liable to be seen in the worst light, and given the recent shared history of our two nations there may be those, in both countries, who will seek to make the most of an appalling situation. We on our part are most anxious to avoid any such development and I am authorized to offer Scotland Yard the full cooperation of both the Prussian and Bavarian authorities in bringing this man to justice.’

Probst fell silent. But it was clear from his manner that he had not yet finished speaking and the others waited patiently while the Berlin inspector sat with eyes downcast, assembling his thoughts. When he looked up, Sinclair was struck by the intensity of his gaze.

‘My ability to speak English is the main reason I was chosen for this mission. But certain of my colleagues, aware that I share their sympathies, were anxious for me to convey the full extent of our concern over this case.’ He paused once more, conscious of his listeners’ heightened interest. Bennett was staring at him with a fixed look.

‘That said, I must make it clear that I have no authority to discuss the matter I now wish to raise, so that what I say must be regarded as a personal opinion unsanctioned by my superiors. I have already touched on conditions in Germany. No doubt you are aware of how unstable our political scene has been since the end of the war. It has not improved in recent weeks. Neither I nor anyone else can tell you what government my country will have three months from now, except to say that it may well be directed by a party whose leaders are without principle.’

‘I take it you mean the Nazis?’ Bennett put the question, and the other nodded.

‘But I make no biased accusation against them. This is a statement of fact. They boast of it. What others might regard as human decency they see as a weakness to be exploited. I cannot say how a police authority run by such men would deal with a situation of the kind we have been discussing. But one thing is certain: much will change in Germany if they come to power, and both I and the people for whom I speak want to stress how urgent we believe it is that this terrible case should be brought to a conclusion before such changes can overtake us.’

He looked at each of them in turn.

‘Let us do all in our power to identify this man, and to arrest him and bring him to justice,’ he pleaded with them. ‘And let us do it soon.

‘What do you think, Daddy? Have we got a chance?’

‘Better than that, I hope.’ Madden slowed at the sight of a gang of workmen who were resurfacing the road ahead. The trip to Guildford took less than twenty minutes now, compared with the half hour it had needed when he first came to Highfield. ‘We’ve a good team, I think.’

‘Yes, but if we can’t get Bradman out!’

The gloomy thought reduced them both to silence, a rare event on their journeys together. Madden drove his son to school in Guildford every morning, and already he regretted the day, still mercifully two years off, when Rob would leave to become a boarder at a public school in Hampshire.

‘He’ll probably be better than ever, playing at home,’ the boy predicted pessimistically. They were discussing the prospects of the MCC cricket team on its forthcoming tour of Australia. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to listen to commentaries on the wireless?’

‘I don’t know. It’s a long way off. And there’s the difference in time. You’ll be asleep when they’re playing.’

‘That might be just as well.’ Rob caught his father’s eye and giggled. Madden grinned in sympathy. He’d noticed that his son’s jokes were beginning to take on a grown-up flavour.

‘What’s happening about these murders, Daddy?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘I read in the paper the police think they were done by the same man. Why haven’t the police arrested anyone yet?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Doesn’t Mr Sinclair tell you anything?’

‘Why should he? I’m not a policeman any more.’

Robert Madden’s sigh was laden with reproach. How his father could voluntarily have abandoned the profession of detective – and a Scotland Yard sleuth, at that – to dwindle into a mere farmer was a mystery greater than any, and the fact that most of his school-friends agreed with him came as no consolation. Some had even hazarded the view that his parent must be mildly touched.

‘Why don’t you ask Ted Stackpole?’ Madden suggested, referring to the Highfield constable’s son. ‘He may know something.’

‘He doesn’t. He says the Surrey police are still looking for that tramp.’

‘Well, there you are, then.’

Aware that he’d not been entirely straightforward with his son, Madden drove back to Highfield deep in thought. Despite what he’d said he’d been hoping to hear from Sinclair, to learn whether any progress had been made in the case.

He continued to be gnawed by anxiety, a deep-seated unease that dated from the moment he had come on the corpse of Alice Bridger and seen her shattered face. The image had stayed in his mind and was linked with earlier memories of the war and the horrors he had witnessed then. Though he knew the feeling was irrational, it seemed to him that with the child’s murder and disfigurement a door had been opened once more into the world of savagery and barbarism which bitter experience had taught him lay just outside the frail fabric that bound ordered society.

Try as he might he could not shake free of his fears and increasingly he found the quiet rhythms of his life – rhythms dearly bought and cherished – disturbed by unanswered questions, and by the thought of the killer who still walked free.

More distracted than usual that morning – with the autumn ploughing at hand, he wanted to clear up the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk – he was late getting away from the farm and returned to the house for lunch to find Mary, their maid, impatiently awaiting his arrival in the hall.

‘Mrs Beck would like to see you, sir.’

‘See me?’ Madden was nonplussed. The household staff were Helen’s business. However, she had driven up to London that morning on a shopping expedition and would not be back until late afternoon.

‘Yes, sir. She’s waiting for you now.’ Mary Morris’s brown eyes bore a suspiciously innocent look. Her smothered smile hinted that there was mischief afoot.

Alerted, Madden made his way to the kitchen where he discovered their cook standing before the back door with folded arms, as though to bar it. She wore a defiant expression.

‘There’s a person says he wants to see you, sir.’

‘A person, Mrs Beck?’ Madden deposited the parcel of butter and eggs he’d brought from the farm on the kitchen table. ‘Who is he?’

‘I didn’t take his name, sir.’ Cook’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

‘Where is he?’

‘Outside, in the yard.’

Tossing her head in a gesture of disdain, she moved away from the door, and Madden went past her to open it. One glance at the shabby figure sitting slumped on an upturned barrel by the kitchen garden gate, and all was made clear to him. Over the years, and at the insistence of her employers, Mrs Beck had come to accept the occasional presence of tramps and vagrants in her kitchen. But she drew the line at gypsies!

‘Hullo, Joe.’ Smiling a greeting, Madden stepped out into the yard, and as he did so, Goram looked up. ‘What brings you back to Highfield?’

‘Beezy, you say? Are you sure? Is it him?’

‘Ah, well, that’s the trouble, sir.’ Goram rubbed his bristly chin. ‘I can’t be sure.’

They sat facing each other across the kitchen table, the remains of a veal and ham pie and an array of empty cider bottles between them. Two hard days on the road had put an edge on Joe Goram’s appetite.

‘We’re camped in Dorset, sir, t’other side of Blandford. I managed to get one or two lifts on the way, but mostly I’ve had to walk.’ He’d told Madden this while they were still outside, in the yard, and it was plain to see from the leaves and twigs clinging to the gypsy’s twill trousers and the grass stains smearing his grimy, collarless shirt that he’d been sleeping rough. Madden had brought him out a cake of soap and a towel to clean up with.

‘We’ll go inside in a moment and have something to eat. You look done in.’

His words had caused the gypsy’s scowl to lift for a moment as his face split in a gap-toothed grin. ‘I reckon I’d better stay where I am, sir. That missus won’t have me in her kitchen, I can tell you.’

‘Oh, yes, she will.’

Madden’s brave words had soon been put to the test. It had taken all of the ten minutes Joe had needed to make himself presentable before Cora Beck could be convinced of the seriousness of her employer’s suggestion and persuaded to lay the kitchen table for two. That done, she had taken leave of the scene, with an injured air, asserting that there was a mountain of ironing awaiting her attention in the laundry.

Goram had already indicated that he bore news and Madden had asked why he hadn’t telephoned the information to him.

‘Can’t say I’ve ever done that, sir.’ Joe had scratched his head. ‘Used the telephone like. Never had cause to. No, I thought I’d better come myself.’

He’d got a lift into Highfield that morning, he said.

‘I looked in at Dr Madden’s rooms, but she weren’t there.’

‘She drove up to London early today.’ Madden had seated his guest at the table. Seeing Joe eye his knife and fork warily, he had swiftly cut their pie into pieces and picked one up himself in his fingers. ‘Do you need to see her, Joe? Are you unwell?’

‘Oh, no, sir, I’m fine.’ The gypsy flushed. ‘It were something else. I had a message for her from Topper.’

‘Topper?’ Madden’s eyebrows rose at the name. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘Aye, just three nights ago. We were sitting round the fire and he walked in out of the dark. I didn’t know it were him at first.’ Joe chuckled. ‘He weren’t wearing his hat.’

‘Did he know you were camped there?’

‘Must have, sir. It’s the same place we stop at every year. There’s a farmer there lets us use his field. Anyway, old Topper asked if I could get a message to Dr Madden for him.’

‘What message?’

Goram’s face darkened. ‘He made me promise I’d keep it a secret,’ he muttered. ‘But I reckon I can tell you, sir. He said to say there was someone with him who was sick and needed help. Mortal sick was how he put it.’

‘And you reckon that could be Beezy?’ Madden leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

‘Well, like I say, I can’t be sure…’ The gypsy grimaced. ‘But it could be, couldn’t it?’ He eyed Madden anxiously. ‘What do you think, sir?’

‘I think you’re right. It’s him. I had a feeling they’d got together again. What did Topper say, exactly?’

‘That as soon as Doctor Madden came over I was to send one of my boys to Boar’s Hill. That’s where Topper is now. It’s not far.’ The gypsy’s scowl grew deeper. ‘He was that sure she’d come.’