The Blood-Dimmed Tide (25 page)

‘So you think we should tell Probst about it?’ Sir Wilfred no longer seemed so opposed to the notion. ‘Very well. At least it will keep our German colleagues occupied. You realize this whole business may come to a head this afternoon?’ He shot a piercing glance at Sinclair.

‘Only too well, sir. But in the meantime we should continue conducting the investigation in a normal way. The Surrey police have been informed of Beezy’s revelations – Madden rang them first. They’re putting the Sussex force in the picture and will see to it that the Dorset police retrieve the tramp’s body. It’s only right we should tell the Germans about it, as well.’

The concession wrung from the assistant commissioner had made Sinclair’s final meeting with the Berlin policeman more agreeable than those that had preceded it, when he’d had to guard against giving any indication that Scotland Yard had any information about the case it was not prepared to divulge. Indeed, once or twice, detecting what he thought might be humour in the inspector’s cool, unrevealing glance, he’d wondered whether Probst had guessed as much. If he’d been surprised by the unusually detailed accounts offered him of the investigations currently under way – a case of over-egging the pudding in the chief inspector’s jaundiced view – he’ d contrived not to show it.

‘That is most interesting. The connections with our own case are multiplying. I feel we are drawing closer to our man.’ Probst had listened raptly to what Sinclair had had to tell him. ‘And just who is this John Madden?’

‘A former colleague. A fine detective. He took it into his head to become a farmer, though. More’s the pity. Connections, you said. What did you have in mind, exactly?’

‘Our witness’s account of the man removing his shirt seems to be borne out here. Perhaps this is also part of his ritual. The battering he gives his victims’ faces would be bound to produce a spray of blood. He’s fastidious, perhaps. Or just practical.’

‘The birthmark – if it’s a birthmark – could be on his face.’

‘Not if he’s the man who was seen eating lunch in that roadside hotel. A mark like that would certainly have been recalled by at least some of the witnesses. No, it suggests a blood-coloured stain on his body to me.’ Probst had risen from his chair in front of Sinclair’s desk and was pacing up and down. ‘He is washing the blood off his arms and chest – that’s where most of it would fall. The blood comes off, but the birthmark remains. The tramp could hardly have had a clear view. He must have been in hiding…’

‘Yes, it’s established he was deaf, so it’s likely he didn’t hear the murderer approaching until he was almost on him. He’d have had to find what cover he could in the undergrowth.’ Sinclair was catching some of his visitor’s enthusiasm for the hunt. ‘And then there’s the question of the stream…’

‘Ah, yes… the stream.’ Probst paused in his pacing to cast an eye on the chief inspector. ‘He chooses these places with care, it seems, and there’s always water nearby. He’s quite cold-blooded in his approach, no matter how frenzied he may become later. This is a man of unusual self-control.’ The inspector brooded. ‘Is this a way we can track him down, do you think?’

‘By his birthmark, you mean? If he has one.’ It had taken Sinclair a moment to catch up with the other’s train of thought. ‘Difficult, I should say.’

‘Yes…’ Probst examined his own proposition, frowning. ‘After all, who does a man take his clothes off for? His wife or mistress, certainly. But we doubt this killer has either.’

An image of Philip Vane’s thin, mask-like features came into the chief inspector’s mind at that moment. His discreet inquiries, which had not ceased during the days they’d had to wait to secure their interview with him, had revealed that the man was a bachelor. Recollection of this fact now caused an involuntary spasm to cross his face. It went unnoticed. Probst was still wrestling with the question he’d raised.

‘His doctor, perhaps?’

They got no further in their speculations. Glancing at his watch, Sinclair saw that it was time to leave and five minutes later they were joined in the lobby downstairs by Arthur Holly, who had indicated his desire to accompany them to the station.

At Victoria, the chief super disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a selection of newspapers and a bar of chocolate which he pressed on their visitor.

‘Something for the journey, Inspector.’ He seemed intent on making up for any shortcomings in his earlier behaviour towards their guest. ‘It’s been a pleasure to have you with us.’

He ushered Probst aboard the train and waved a last goodbye to him through the carriage window.

‘Quite an impressive fellow, I thought.’ Holly watched as the train pulled out of the station, sealing his words with a quiet rumble of approval. ‘For a foreigner, that is.’

It was a large concession on the chief super’s part, but one that failed to register with his companion. Sinclair’s thoughts, not without trepidation, were already on the call that he and Sir Wilfred Bennett would be making at the Foreign Office that afternoon.

‘Chief Inspector… come in.’ Bennett gestured to a chair in front of his desk and Sinclair sat down, curious to know why he’d been summoned. Their meeting with Vane had been set for three o’clock and he’d been expecting to meet his superior down in the lobby fifteen minutes before the hour so that they could make the short trip to Whitehall together. Instead, he had received a message saying the assistant commissioner wanted to see him before they set out. It was now a quarter past two.

‘I’ve something to say to you…’ Bennett rose. Gesturing to Sinclair to remain seated, he went from his desk over to the windows by the conference table, where he stood, hands on hips, looking out into the grey November day. ‘I realize you feel I’ve been unnecessarily obstructive where Philip Vane is concerned… no, there’s no need to deny it.’ He waved away the instinctive protest that came to the chief inspector’s lips.

‘Your attitude was quite understandable. I should have felt the same in your position. But there are issues at stake here of which you’re unaware and on which, up to now, I’ve not felt in a position to enlighten you.’ He looked directly at Sinclair. ‘However, the situation has changed. Since we’re to speak to Vane together, it’s necessary that you should know what I know… or at any rate suspect.’ He bit his lip. ‘But this must remain between us, and that includes the chief superintendent. I’ve told him I don’t want to overwhelm Vane with numbers – that a deputation of three from the Yard might seem like an attempt to cow him. But in fact I have another reason, and I can only hope he hasn’t taken offence.’

Sinclair smiled. ‘Arthur’s not given to taking offence, sir. The word equable might have been coined to fit him.’

‘How very true…’ Sir Wilfred’s smile eased the tension between them for a moment. Turning from the window, he came back to his desk and sat down. ‘Not everything one learns in government comes through official channels, Chief Inspector. Some things are not written down, or even communicated directly. One picks them up from hints dropped in conversation. Do you follow me?’

‘Up to a point, sir.’ Sinclair sat still.

‘As I think I mentioned, I’ve met Philip Vane on a few occasions. I’ve also heard his name mentioned… in some unexpected quarters. Naturally, I was curious, and I asked questions…’ He shrugged. ‘Answers were not forthcoming. But hints were dropped…’ Bennett cleared his throat.

‘My reluctance to see him dragged into this inquiry doesn’t stem only from a desire to avoid any scandal,’ he said. ‘I can’t give you chapter and verse, Chief Inspector. I can only tell you what I strongly suspect: that Vane’s job at the Foreign Office is not what it seems. In reality I believe he’s a senior intelligence officer.’

‘Mr Vane will see you now.’

The young man rose from behind his desk in the anteroom and went to an inner door. The very epitome of diplomatic tact, he had apologized gracefully to Bennett and Sinclair when they’d arrived for the austere conditions of his tiny office. Taking their hats and coats, he’d invited them, again with an apology, to sit down in two straight-backed chairs of civil service issue while he reported their presence to his superior.

It was the first time the chief inspector had set foot in the Foreign and Colonial Office and his impressions thus far had been fleeting. The marble-floored entrance below had been imposing enough, as were the uniformed commissionaires who received them. But once their identities had been established and the purpose of their visit determined, a clerk had been summoned to escort them upstairs to the second floor. There, a series of corridors, thinly carpeted, and on which their footsteps echoed dully, had led to an unmarked door where their guide had paused, knocked softly and then ushered them inside.

During the few minutes they’d had to wait before being admitted to Vane’s presence Sinclair had had the leisure to go over in his mind the tangled trail that had brought them to this encounter. Bennett’s last-minute revelation of Vane’s likely true occupation hadn’t materially altered the situation, at least as far as he was concerned, though he could well understand the consternation it might arouse in other government circles.

His own duty was clear to him. But he was able to extend a degree of silent sympathy to his chief as they sat side by side in silence. The strain of the past few days was clearly stamped on Sir Wilfred’s drawn features and his slight frame seemed bowed by the weight of worry he bore. Sinclair was aware that the assistant commissioner might have done more to avoid being entangled in the interview they were about to conduct, with its consequent threat to his career. His own direct superior, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, had been informed of what was afoot, and, perhaps recognizing a poisoned chalice when he saw one, had taken no steps to intervene. Had Bennett wished to, however, he could have drawn him, and others, into sharing a portion of the risk he now faced. Instead, he’d chosen to grasp the nettle alone, and the chief inspector admired him for it.

Vane’s secretary, if that was what he was, opened the inner door and then stood back to allow the two Scotland Yard officials to enter the office beyond. Looking onto an inner courtyard, it was more spacious than the anteroom, but still modest in size and decorated with a spare elegance that seemed to reflect its occupant, who rose from behind a polished desk, bare of ornament, to receive them.

‘Sir Wilfred… it’s been a while since we last met.’ Philip Vane bowed slightly, but made no move to come around his desk to greet them.

‘How are you, Vane?’ The assistant commissioner kept his tone neutral. ‘May I introduce Chief Inspector Sinclair. He’s a senior officer in the CID.’

Vane’s eyebrows rose a fraction as he gestured towards a matched pair of chairs, which Sinclair was unable to identify as to style or period, beyond recognizing that they had certainly not issued from any government warehouse. The chief inspector’s attention had strayed only momentarily from the figure seated behind the desk, who remained standing until his visitors were seated. Of medium height and sparely built, his thin, aristocratic features had been faithfully reproduced in the magazine picture obtained by the Yard; but what the photographic image failed to convey was the poise and confidence of its subject. He seemed in no hurry as he waited for them to settle and if his expression betrayed mild boredom with the occasion, Sinclair assumed it was no more than a cultivated air. He’d already detected in Philip Vane a certain kind of Englishman, common enough in the upper ranks of society, with whom, thankfully, he had little to do, either in his work or his private life.

‘The CID?’ Vane allowed a hint of curiosity to show on his face. ‘Not Special Branch? Well, you’ve got me wondering, Sir Wilfred.’ He sat back in his chair, surveying them both. ‘What is it you wish to see me about?’

‘One of our current investigations.’ Bennett’s reply came promptly, as though he wished to give himself no time to reconsider. ‘Or rather a series of investigations that are being conducted by the police in this country under the guidance of Scotland Yard. It goes without saying that we wouldn’t be here now if the matter were not a grave one, nor if there was any way of resolving it without approaching you personally. With reluctance, I’ve concluded there is not. In short, we require your assistance.’ He looked directly at Vane. ‘If you’re agreeable, I’ll now ask Chief Inspector Sinclair to explain in more detail.’

‘Chief Inspector?’ Vane turned his hooded gaze on the other man facing him. He appeared quite at ease.

Angus Sinclair opened the file that lay on his knee. Although perfectly familiar with its contents, he liked to have it with him and was not above using it, as he did now, to create an artificial pause while he pretended to sort through some papers. He looked up.

‘The investigations Sir Wilfred referred to concern a series of brutal murders committed in this country over the past few years. The first took place in 1929. A further two have occurred more recently, during the past summer. The victims were all young girls, children, either just in their teens or younger. They were raped and strangled. A common element in each of these crimes was a post-mortem assault carried out by the killer on his victims’ faces. In the two most recent attacks he battered them to pulp.’

The chief inspector had kept what he thought were the most telling words till last, and he was disappointed to see no trace of a reaction from his listener.

‘Continue.’ Vane shifted slightly in his chair.

‘It’s the first of these killings I want to discuss with you. It took place in July 1929, but because the victim’s body was thrown into the Thames and not recovered until recently, it has only just been recognized that a crime occurred. Nevertheless, we’ve been able to determine with some certainty what happened that day. Briefly, a twelve-year-old girl was picked up by the murderer and taken in his car to the scene of the crime, which was a nudists’ club called Waltham Manor, just outside Henley, in Oxfordshire. Despite the lapse in time, we’ve also been able to identify the make of car which the killer used. By good fortune – ours, at any rate – it turns out to have been a foreign-made machine, rare enough on our roads, and we’ve succeeded in pinning it down to a model that only went on sale in this country in the spring of that year. The list of those who purchased such a car in that period is short and we’ve had no trouble tracing them.’