Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  ‘But you can’t be sure?’

  ‘I couldn’t. Not with the first. But I’ve had three more to examine since then, and every one has exactly the same bruise on the exterior of the left nostril, and every one has a fractured septum. That makes me sure. Again I say it can’t be coincidence. It must be deliberate.’

  ‘Ritual?’ said Green.

  Swaine nodded. ‘And that’s only the first bit of symbolism I’ve got for you. You asked me a minute or two ago if I’d seen those poor bitches in their graves.’ He raised his empty glass to attract Shirl’s attention, and said, without looking at them: ‘I did. All four. It was pathetic, I tell you. Bloody pathetic. Here, come on. You’re in on this round.’

  ‘My turn,’ said Masters. ‘But it’s my last. I’ve not had a subtotal gastrectomy like you. Too much alcohol takes its toll.’

  Swaine grinned. ‘You’re as sober as I am, and that’s saying something. You give me the impression of being needle sharp. Not one of the types that’ll close his eyes to facts just to keep his nose clean. Thank you, Shirl. Just put it there, my dear. On the beer mat.’

  As soon as Shirl had gone, Masters said: ‘What was it about the graves that you noticed? More features common to all?’

  Swaine said: ‘If you were going to bury a body—presumably in a hurry—what sort of hole would you dig?’ ‘A slit trench,’ Green said without hesitation.

  ‘So would I and, I suspect, so would most other people. For one thing it’s the easiest way to get down deep with the least amount of labour. But our friend obviously wasn’t interested in depth—and so he obviously wasn’t concerned in hiding his handiwork beyond hope of early discovery. He dug relatively shallow saucer-shaped depressions.’

  ‘That shows he’s a nut,’ said Green.

  ‘It does. But he’s not a loony. He’s a methodical nut. The nose business proves that, and one must suppose he had—to him—an adequate reason for doing it. And he had a reason for digging circular graves. He laid his victims out with their arms and legs stretched wide like that Da Vinci drawing of a man in a circle. Why he wanted to do that, I can’t guess. But he did it.’

  ‘More symbolism or ritual,’ Masters said. ‘It’s interesting to hear, but I wonder how useful it’s going to be in helping us to find this joker? Don’t misunderstand me, Doctor. I’m not doubting the value of your facts and deductions. I’m simply thinking how ill-equipped men such as Green and myself are to deal with—what? A psychotic murderer, I suppose you’d call him?’

  ‘Deal with? You won’t have to deal with him. You’ve only got to catch him; and then some poor bastard of a psychiatrist will have to try and deal with him for the next twenty or thirty years.’

  ‘So I’ve only got to catch him. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I know your job’s as large a slice of tough titty as it would be most men’s misfortune to meet in twice a lifetime. But if you’re successful it’s over and done with in a limited time. If you fail, you’re withdrawn. Either way you’re out of it fairly soon. But criminal psychiatry is a life sentence for the doctor as well as for the murderer.’

  ‘It sounds as if you’re interested in that particular field.’

  ‘I am. But I’m restraining my interest. As yet, it’s easier to research in psychiatry than to treat cases. What I mean is, it’s easier to formulate apparently successful theories than to get successes in practice. And you know what? I’ve analysed myself and come to the conclusion that I’m a type that likes successes to spur me on. If I had to spend years slogging away without visible or measurable success I’d need psychiatry myself. That’s not to say I won’t in any case, some day, but the trick-cyclist who puts me to sleep’s going to hear some ripe stories.’

  Masters thought that in spite of his alleged ability to drink as much as he liked without becoming intoxicated, Swaine was becoming less staccato, more smoothly mellow, than he had been on arrival. The Chief Inspector had taken a liking for the little man; his lisp, his constant flow of invective, and the gestures he used to punctuate the conversation. He wondered whether he should ask Hill to drive the doctor home, or whether this would be taken as indicating a disbelief in his drink-assimilating powers. The matter was settled for him. Shirl called time. By now the customers in the Sundowner had shrunk to a handful. Swaine got to his feet and said: ‘Knowing I was about to consort with the police tonight, I took care to come by taxi. It should be calling back for me about now.’ He took a neatly tooled card case from his pocket and handed a card to Masters. ‘My address. I expect we’ll be meeting again, won’t we? Call or phone any time. I’ll be glad to hear what progress you make.’

  They escorted him up the stairs. He was steady as a rock, but Masters noted that he used the balustrade and that he trod flat-footed on the treads.

  After they had seen Swaine away Masters said to Green: ‘Are you too heavy with beer to talk for half an hour?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Strangulation.’

  Green grimaced. ‘You think of the nicest things at the nicest times. What’s eating you now?’

  Masters said: ‘Hell! It doesn’t matter if your guts have gone sour on you. Get to bed and sleep it off.’

  Green obviously considered this a slur on his capacity for holding his beer. He said: ‘I’m as fit as you are. But you’ve got no evidence to discuss. I heard what the doc said. There’s nothing that can’t wait till morning.’

  ‘I’ve told you. Go to bed.’

  The tactics worked. The more Masters urged him to go, the more he was determined to stay. Green said: ‘If it’s noses you’re worried about, don’t. It happens every day to boxers, rugby players and people who walk into doors. Broken noses are as common as black eyes.’

  ‘So they may be, although I doubt it. If you are going to talk, come to my room.’ Green followed him along the silent, carpeted corridor. As Masters stood aside to let him enter first, Green said: ‘What exactly did Swaine record as the cause of death? Old Bullimore was gassing about them being throttled. To me that means strangulation—squeezing the wind-pipe until they pass out.’

  Masters offered Green the easy chair and took the upright one himself. He began to fill his pipe. ‘In each case Swaine has given the cause of death as asphyxia due to manual strangulation.’

  ‘Definitely manual? Not a cord or a nylon stocking?’

  ‘Manual. That’s why those noses worry me. I’m not too familiar with these cases. In fact I’ve never dealt with manual strangulation before. I expect you have?’

  ‘Two or three times.’

  ‘Then let’s pool our knowledge—your practice and my theory. Would you like to begin?’

  Green lit a Kensitas, leaned back and crossed his legs. Masters thought he was beginning to look old. Not surprising, considering the lateness of the hour, the alcohol he had drunk, and the fact that they had just finished one murder inquiry and had now been pitchforked into another without any break.

  Green said: ‘I can tell you this, for sure, and that is that any strangulation victim fights like the clappers.’

  ‘Even women?’

  ‘They’re usually women. And don’t run away with the idea that women are feeble, even when they’re getting on a bit. I’ve known some of these real old biddies—the ones that keep little shops and the like—scrap like tom-cats when it comes to fighting for their lives. They find hidden reserves of strength. We all do when we’ve got to.’

  ‘Fine. Now what exactly would we hope to find by way of evidence to prove they’ve put up a fight?’

  Green pouted, thinking. ‘Well, my memory’s not too bad . . .’

  ‘You know it’s like a computer. What d’you remember?’

  ‘In every case, the victim struggled like a bastard to pull or force the strangler’s hands from round her neck. Why the hell nobody teaches girls from the age of five upwards to knee an attacker in the crutch or scrape down his shins with a shoe and stamp on the top of his foot, I can’t understand. They’re
sure ways of freeing yourself.’

  ‘We’ll suggest to the education authority that it’s made a compulsory part of the curriculum. Now, what marks were there in your cases?’

  ‘Scratches round the neck—digging in with the nails to get behind the strangler’s fingers.’

  Masters got up, and went to the wash basin and filled his tooth glass with cold water. Sipping it he came back to his chair. ‘What would you say if I told you that Swaine’s reports make no mention of neck scratches?’

  Green thought for a moment. ‘I’d look at the lists of clothing to see if they were all wearing gloves. Come to think of it, they would be, on nights like this, out in the open.’

  Masters said: ‘None of them was wearing gloves when found.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. So it means that the murderer removed them from the victims after death. Right?’

  ‘Must have done. Unless he did put them out before he throttled them.’

  Masters reached for the file and skimmed through the reports. He looked up. ‘There’s not a single instance of stunning and no evidence of drugging—chloroform pads and what-have-you. No burning round the mouths or traceable injection sites.’

  ‘You say there are no scratches on the necks. What about bruises? The scratches were usually running down the neck, made by the finger-nails. In a violent struggle, gloved hands would cause bruises where the scratches should be.’

  Masters rubbed the warm bowl of his pipe on the outside of one nostril. It seemed to soothe him. He said: ‘No bruises either. At least not like the ones you suggest.’

  ‘O.K. What marks were there?’

  ‘Bruises in the larynx. Fracture of either the hyoid bone or the thyroid cartilage in every case. They are typical signs of strangulation. That much I do know.’

  ‘This is getting to be funny—or not funny, depending on which way you look at it.’

  Masters, thumbing again through the report said: ‘In two cases there was haemorrhage in the epiglottis, and in one a bruise on the thyroid gland.’ He went on reading the notes. ‘And the other symptoms Swaine’s listed back up his cause of death. They’re classic signs of strangulation, aren’t they? Blue or purple lips and ears; nails changed colour; froth at the mouth; tongue forced outwards?’

  Green nodded. ‘You’ve picked a right one here. The women were all strangled manually. There’s no doubt about that. But there are no signs of struggling in any of the cases. This should mean that the victims were knocked out before strangulation took place. But there aren’t any discernible signs of this, either. So where do we go from here? Oh—and there’s that point about the gloves. Women who could afford them wouldn’t go without on a cold night?’

  ‘We must assume the murderer removed them. Otherwise, at least some of them would have had gloves on. All four without would be an unlikely coincidence; but it makes sense if we attribute it to one of the quirks of this particular character, who seems to set a pattern in everything he does.’

  Green got to his feet. ‘I might have known you’d have found something to make things difficult. You usually do. Now we’ve got to decide when is a strangler not a strangler. I’ll leave you to sleep on it since you thought it up.’

  In bed, Masters lay in a half sleep. Not heavy enough with drink to fall into dreamless slumber, but too tired to concentrate on the problems presented by the day, he hovered in limbo, mind active but wandering. He saw five women whirling, spreadeagled in saucers, then descending like electron microscope visuals of snowflake crystals: all perfect patterns of compass point arms and orbs. But the only face he could recognize was the fifth one. Four were middle-aged and unknown to him. The fifth was young and lovely. As she descended her face remained behind the arms of the snowflake. The shadows of the crystal across her features turned into a grille—a prison grille. It was Joan Parker. The girl he wanted, but whom he had put behind bars. For a moment he was tormented by memory, then a military voice with a lisp said: ‘I’ve seen them all. All those poor bitches.’ He recognized the voice. The tiny doctor . . . the half-pint doctor. Yes, that was it. A half doctor. And what use was a half doctor? Masters decided that a half doctor was no use unless . . . yes! He himself would have to be the other half doctor. That would make a full doctor and give all the answers. Joan Parker appeared again and smiled. An encouraging smile. She floated away behind her snowflake and whirled away in her saucer. He could hear the wind. The high wind. And feared for her safety. He tried to follow her with his eyes, but she went suddenly. The doctor lisped: ‘We’ll work together. Psychotic criminals . . . methodical loonies . . . poor bitches.’

  Masters didn’t hear the church clock strike the next hour.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning the wind had died down and the rain had gone. Masters stood at his bedroom window at half past seven and looked out across the roadway, the gardens and the promenade. The tide was out, and that was as much as he could tell, because darkness still lingered, acting as rearguard to the spell of grey weather, reluctant to let the light come back to a wretched world. But he sensed that he would be able to operate in the open without too much discomfort. The thought cheered him. He turned to the basin and started to lather his face. He shaved automatically, concentrating on the day’s work, so that by the time he was dressed he couldn’t remember using or cleaning his razor. But a glance in the mirror reassured him. When his morning tea arrived—ordered for eight o’clock—he was folding the new suit he had worn for the past few days, to be sent for valeting.

  Green was his usual cheerless self at breakfast. He said: ‘Most pubs serve boneless kippers these days. I’d’ve had boiled eggs if I’d known they weren’t filleted.’

  ‘They don’t smoke ’em these days, you know. They use smoke flavouring,’ Brant said.

  ‘Garn tittle. How’d they get this colour on a two-eyed steak if it wasn’t smoked?’

  ‘Artificial colouring matter. I know a chap who works in that line. They even export smoke flavour to Norway and Denmark.’

  Green pushed his plate away. He’d made a messy job of his fish. He went on to toast and marmalade. Masters said to Hill: ‘Don’t forget P.C. Garner. He should be arriving fairly soon.’

  Green said: ‘Where’ll he sit in the car?’

  ‘In the back. I thought you and I would walk along the front. The others can take the car round by the road and meet us where the track joins the embankment.’

  ‘It’s all of two miles. We’ll be wasting time.’

  ‘We’ll also be getting to know the area. I want to see where we are. This place is new to me. And the ozone’ll do us good.’

  Masters and Green set out before Garner arrived. For half a mile they walked along made-up road, which came to an end in a turning circle for the buses. After that there was the embankment. A wall, faced on the seaward side with grey limestone rock roughly set in cement, and sloping down at about forty-five degrees to the shore. Here the sand was covered in a ridge of weed with all manner of flotsam sticking up from it. At one spot several whole grapefruit—perhaps jettisoned by some idle ship’s cook—stood out round and yellow. Baulks of timber of all sizes, laced with black-green bladder wrack; small pieces of wood, their ends rounded by the abrasive action of sand and water, and the soft wood worn out from between the heavy grain, lay thrown up by the waves. Rounded knobs of coal; areas of coal slack, washed bright and free of dust. Shells, mostly white, with the dark blue of mussels here and there. Broken bottles, boxes, paper, rag. It was a rubbish dump, but Masters thought it interesting. The harvest of the sea. The contents of gash chutes washed ashore, cleansed by contact with angry water and no longer malodorous. Between this line of debris and the water’s edge was an expanse of wet sand nearly half a mile wide. Sand ridged by the waves into a perfectly symmetrical pattern, with hollows deep enough to hold small elongated pools that glittered like beaten pewter under a floodlight. Green said: ‘What’s happened to the water? They’ve pulled the plug ou
t.’

  Masters said, absently: ‘Spring tides. Very high at full tide, very low at ebbs. We’re now between times.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘At four o’clock yesterday afternoon the tide was full. You get two tides a day on the east coast, at about twelve and a half hour intervals. That means there was another tide this morning that would be full about four thirty. This afternoon it will be full at five. If we’re here many days we’ll find the water up at this time in the morning.’

  Green grunted and said nothing. He walked along whistling at gulls that were wheeling low overhead and making sudden glides down to snatch at debris in the seaweed. Masters was thinking of patterns. Of his conversation with Swaine. Of a half-remembered dream. Of this sand figured like intricately cut glass. All patterns. And he could make nothing of them as yet.

  The top of the embankment was tarmac. Thin enough to show the underlying sand where a pot hole had broken the surface. On the landward side was winter plough. Sandy, but with a pattern still clearly visible and not obliterated by rain and wind. He guessed the two had militated against each other. The rain had bound the soil too strongly for the wind to dislodge. Drainage ditches, without hedges, but with a narrow band of coarse green growth on each bank, cut across the area and drained through a sluice in the embankment to the foreshore. A discoloured torrent that cut a course for itself for twenty yards in the sand and then petered out, spreading in a shallow pool over the ridges.

  They walked in silence for some minutes. The wind was still fresh enough to reveal itself in patterns where there was any grass exposed to it. It could still make the cheeks tingle. The grey day started to brighten in a watery sort of way. Two or three miles out a couple of trawlers were fighting their way into the estuary. The cry of the gulls was raucous but unobtrusive in this great open space.

  Green said: ‘There’s the car.’ He pointed. A track, as yet invisible, and delineated only by the movement of the car, curved round from half a mile inland to meet the embankment. Masters saw a small square notice-board on a pole a quarter of a mile ahead and guessed it indicated the end of the sea wall and the junction with the track. He was right. Inside five minutes they had joined the three in the car. Before them stretched a line of dunes four or five feet high and behind these, the bungalow village, built haphazardly, with no semblance of order. The huts were painted many colours, faced in all directions, were of different sizes and of varying pretentiousness. Each had a wired-in garden area—sand, with the uprights for children’s swings and clothes-line poles standing dotted about.