by Rennie Airth
Remembering his own words now, he glanced at Madden, who was standing beside him, with Billy Styles at his elbow. Before leaving Midhurst he had requested, and received, from his former partner an explicit undertaking not to involve himself in the police operation that was about to get under way.
‘You needn’t be concerned, Angus.’ Madden had been amused. ‘It’s the last thing I want. Just show me this man in handcuffs. That’s all I ask.’
Reassured, but unwilling to leave anything to chance, Sinclair had found a moment to take the younger man aside. ‘You’re to stay with Mr Madden at all times,’ he’d warned Billy. ‘He’s not to put himself at risk. Do I make myself clear?’
Coming downstairs from Braddock’s office, the chief inspector had found his old colleague waiting in the CID room with the detectives already gathered there. Word of how Lang’s address had been acquired had already spread among them, but seemingly unaware of the glances being cast his way, Madden had been standing with folded arms in front of the poster of the wanted man, his gaze fixed on the eerily white face with its staring eyes.
Realizing that only a direct order on his part would prevent him from accompanying them, Sinclair had taken the next best option and suggested they go together in Madden’s car, taking Braddock and Styles with them. Travelling at the tail of the convoy, they had driven west out of the town, following signs to Petersfield, but soon turned south onto a minor road that led down a valley overlooked by a long wooded ridge. The address provided by the library’s records had not been difficult to locate. Shown as a mere track on the Ordnance map, Pit Lane, as the name suggested, had once led to a chalk quarry, now abandoned. It was at the edge of the Downs, no more than a mile from the hamlet of Elsted.
‘One of my blokes thinks he knows that cottage.’ Braddock had leaned over from the back seat to mutter in Sinclair’s ear. ‘He’s got a girl in Elsted. They walked past it once. She told him it belonged to some old lady who’d had to move into a home and was up for rent. That was six months ago.’
‘Why wasn’t it on the estate agents’ lists?’ Sinclair had wondered.
‘Can’t say for sure, but she might have advertised privately, in a newspaper. What’s this now?’
The inspector had frowned as the cars ahead of them drew to a halt; there seemed to be a hold-up. He was about to get out to investigate when the convoy moved on again and they saw that there were road works in progress. A group of men wielding picks and shovels were standing aside while one of their number waved the cars through. They had stared at the police uniforms visible through the windows.
A mile further on the cars had slowed once more, this time to turn off the paved surface onto a narrow rutted track, unmarked apart from a white signpost on which the name ‘Downsview’ appeared, accompanied by an arrow. It led over a saddle in the ridge, on the far side of which a cottage could be seen situated a little way down the slope. Brick-built, in the style of the region, it looked out over a wide expanse of rolling pastureland towards the distant Downs, whose green rounded crests were hidden by mist and low-hanging cloud.
The cars had pulled up short of the house, at the edge of the tree line, and Sinclair had climbed out with Braddock to study the situation. At once they had noticed a trickle of smoke coming from the chimney on the tiled roof. Sinclair had given orders for the men to get out and gather at the edge of the trees. As they were doing so a light had come on in the kitchen at the back of the cottage and the figure of a man had been glimpsed through the window.
‘We’ll enter from both sides, front and back.’ At a nod from Sinclair, Braddock had issued the necessary orders to his men. ‘No talking until this is over. Not a word - is that clear? When I blow my whistle, move! And you needn’t bother to knock. Just get in there and grab him.’
Watching now as the men below moved silently into place, Sinclair felt a quickening of his pulse. A sideways glance at Madden showed him to be equally tense, gazing down, narrow-eyed. The men at the back of the house were already in position; the rest, led by Braddock, were padding along the side of the cottage, heads bowed. Reaching the corner of the hedge, they turned right and disappeared.
‘This is it, then...’ The chief inspector found himself suddenly short of breath. ‘Shall we move a little closer?’
Deliberately, without haste, they walked down the grassy slope to where Sergeant Cole and two of the detectives were concealed behind the shed at the rear of the house. The sergeant was peering around the corner. Hearing their footsteps he looked back, eyes bright with anticipation.
‘No sign of him.’ He spoke in a whisper. ‘But the light’s still on inside.’
At that moment the silence was split by the single piercing blast from a police whistle. Cole reacted like a greyhound loosed from the traps.
‘Come on!’ he cried, springing forward.
‘Less than an hour ago - you’re certain of that, are you, Mr Meadows?’
Telephone in hand, Sinclair directed his question towards the rumpled figure on the settee. Receiving a nod in reply, he spoke into the receiver, ‘He hasn’t had time to get anywhere, Arthur. Not to the channel ports, certainly, nor to Southampton. But I want them all alerted ... Yes, I’m aware it was done earlier today. But this is a specific warning. We know he’s on his way. And I want it spread wider. Bristol. Liverpool. Anywhere he might take passage from.’
The chief inspector paused to listen, biting his lip as he did so, and then peering at Madden, who was standing with folded arms by the fireplace, a frown etched on his brow. Beside him, Billy Styles knelt on the hearth: he was carefully sifting through the ashes in the still smoking grate, though with little expectation of finding anything. No trace of their quarry, no single piece of physical evidence that could be tied to Gaston Lang, had been discovered so far: not in the sitting room, where they were, nor anywhere else in the house, which still echoed to the tramp of detectives’ feet. All they knew for sure was that Lang himself had been there not an hour before. And now he was gone.
‘Yes, a Mr Henry Meadows...’ Sinclair had begun speaking again. He glanced at the man on the settee, who, in the middle of trying to tuck in his shirt, half rose, as though answering to his name. ‘He works for a solicitor in Midhurst called Bainbridge. The owner of the cottage is a client of Bainbridge’s and he dealt with the lease. It was advertised in a local newspaper. Lang, or De Beer, as they knew him, called at the office unannounced - this was in early August - and made an offer. Apparently Bainbridge wasn’t keen on the business - Lang had no references - but after he made a cash offer and agreed to a deposit he let him take it. On Friday Lang rang up and announced he was leaving. Although he was paid up to the end of the year, he didn’t ask for any money back. But Bainbridge thought he’d better send out one of his clerks just the same to do an inventory. Meadows says they were supposed to go through it together, but Lang told him when he got here that he was leaving right away and he’d have to do it on his own. My guess is we missed him by half an hour, no more.’
The bitterness of the pill he’d had to swallow showed in the chief inspector’s tense expression. Angry and thwarted, he’d needed all the self-control he could muster to deal with the hapless Meadows, who, shocked by the sudden eruption of detectives into the cottage and the rough handling he’d received, had proved to be a witness of limited value.
‘This car he left in - what make was it?’ Almost before the clerk had recovered his senses, Sinclair had begun pressing him. ‘What model?’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I really couldn’t say ...
Fair-haired, and tending towards plumpness, Meadows had been helped to the settee and given a glass of water, but neither had settled his nerves. Discovered in the sitting room by the detectives who’d burst in at the front, he’d been thrown to the floor and pinned there for several seconds, and although it was soon realized he was not their man, the experience had rendered him all but speechless for precious minutes, leaving the chief inspector to pace the sitting room whi
le he waited.
‘I’ve never owned a car, you see. I get about on a bike ...’
Still gasping, Meadows had paused to fumble with his tie, pulled askew in the struggle, and only belatedly become aware of the glare he was receiving from Sinclair.
‘It was black, though ... the car, I mean. Mr De Beer had taken it out of the garage. He was putting his trunk in it when I arrived, pushing it up on the back seat.’
‘His trunk, you say ... can you describe it? Size ... colour ... anything?’
Meadows’ fleshy face had turned redder. Near tears, he’d stared back at his tormentor.
‘It might have been brown, sir, but I’m not certain. It was just a trunk ...’
Sinclair had already imparted this information to Chief Superintendent Holly in London, asking that it be passed on to the authorities at the ports, including customs officers. ‘The car’s obviously a four-door sedan, not that that helps much.’
With a glance at his watch now, he brought their conversation to an end.
‘I must ring this fellow Bainbridge, the solicitor in Midhurst, and tell him what’s happened. He may have other information. We’ll be here for a while. I want a forensic team to go through the place. It looks as though Lang’s wiped it clean. But we might find a fingerprint somewhere.’
As he put down the phone, Braddock entered. He’d been to the garage to see if anything had been left there by their quarry. A quick shake of the head told Sinclair his errand had been fruitless.
‘There’s no need for you to stay, Inspector.’ Sinclair reached for his pipe and tobacco. ‘You can take the uniformed officers back if you like. But return the car, if you would. We’ll need it later.’
Meadows stirred unhappily on the settee. ‘What about me, sir? Can I go? I ought to report to Mr Bainbridge.’
‘You can do that in a moment, when I ring him. But I want you here just now. You may remember something useful.’
The chief inspector hadn’t meant his words to sound harsh, but Meadows flushed on hearing them and his misery seemed to increase. Unaware of it, Sinclair caught Madden’s eye and gestured towards the front door, inviting him to step outside into the garden.
‘We had him in our hands, John. And now, by God, we’ve lost him.’ Waiting only for the door to be shut behind them, Sinclair gave vent to his frustration.
‘Don’t assume that, Angus.’ Seeing the distress on his friend’s face, Madden sought to assuage it. ‘They may still get him at one of the ports.’
‘I very much doubt it. He won’t try to leave now. He knows we’re looking for him.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
Sinclair shrugged. ‘You heard what Meadows said. He wouldn’t wait for a moment. He was getting out.’
Eyes cast down, the chief inspector studied the small patch of garden before them. In the dying light of afternoon, grey as lead, the sodden lawn, bordered by shrubs and flower beds, had a dank, unwelcoming look. He’d been fumbling for some minutes with his tobacco pouch, trying to fill his pipe, but as though defeated by this simple task, he abandoned the effort and thrust both back into his pocket.
Madden grunted. ‘So you think he learned about the search going on in Midhurst?’
‘It’s the obvious explanation, isn’t it?’ Sinclair grimaced. ‘The word would have spread fast enough. Perhaps he was there himself, in town. He’s got the luck of the devil, this man.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘He’s been carrying a bottle of chloroform around with him in his pocket since yesterday. Does that mean he had a victim in mind? Or was it just a precaution? Either way, all I can hope is that we’ve scared him off. But I can’t see him walking into any trap now. Not Gaston Lang. He’ll find another place to lie low and wait for the fuss to die down. It’ll be up to someone else to catch him. If they ever do.’
Lifting his gaze he stared out over the hedge towards the distant Downs.
‘I’ve no taste myself for the hangman’s rope. The practice is barbaric. But there’s never been a man I wanted to lay hands on more. Aye, and hoped to see swing. But I doubt we’ll set eyes on him now. We’ve missed our chance, and we won’t get another. He’s gone for good.’
31
SAM TURNED at the gate and whistled.
‘Come along, Sally. Get a move on, old girl.’
The dog hesitated in the lighted doorway, unwilling to leave the warmth of the kitchen. Behind her he could see Bess’s anxious figure. The cook’s pink face, even more flushed than usual from the tears she’d shed, radiated distress like an alarm beacon.
‘You’ll let us know what they say, won’t you, Sam?’ she called out to him.
‘Of course I will, love. What’s more I’ll get them moving. You can tell Mrs Ramsay that, too.’ Sam slapped his thigh. ‘Now that’s enough of that, Sal. Come on!’
It would be dark in less than an hour and he wanted to get over to the barn again while there was still some light to see by.
‘Sally!’
At last she moved, crossing the yard reluctantly, with that shuffling gait which showed her arthritis must be hurting, poor old thing, following him out. With a last wave to Bess he shut the gate behind them and strode off.
Still fuming.
His attempt to ring the Midhurst police to see if they had any news of Eddie had ended in fiasco, his call having been answered by a green young copper - at least, that was what he’d sounded like - one who didn’t seem to know what day of the week it was. And when Sam had demanded to speak to someone more senior he’d been told there was no one available just then.
‘They’re all out,’ the bloke had said, reducing Sam to near apoplexy.
‘I’m trying to report a missing person,’ he’d roared down the phone. ‘Someone who might have been hurt in an accident. Don’t you have lists?’
If they did, no one had told the young copper about them, it seemed.
‘I’ll have to ask someone about this,’ he’d said, sounding unsure. ‘If you could just leave your number, sir ...’
‘Never mind. I’ll come in myself.’
Sam had slammed down the phone, then wished he hadn’t. No doubt the young copper was doing his best, but it was a fine thing when police stations were left in the hands of babes and sucklings.
And he still had no news of Eddie.
Sam’s anger had been fuelled partly by fear. In the midst of making the call to the police he’d remembered something from his visit to the barn. It had sent a chill up his spine.
Eddie’s work clothes ... where were they?
He’d found his boots all right, both of them, lying on the barn floor, as though they’d been chucked there. As if Eddie had been in haste to depart somewhere. He recalled that the lace of one had been broken.
But where were his dirty clothes?
He wouldn’t have shed his boots alone, surely. He wouldn’t have set out for Hove, or anywhere else, wearing the same soiled garments he put on every day for work. Sam had seen clean clothes in the wardrobe. But he remembered clearly now that there’d been no sign of the others.
Which didn’t mean they weren’t there somewhere. (At once Sam had sought for reassurance.) Tucked away in a corner, perhaps, or in the small cupboard under the washstand. But it was something he had to find out - for his own peace of mind, if nothing else. Because if the clothes were really missing, then Eddie couldn’t have gone anywhere, which meant something really had happened to him, some accident, and it might have occurred closer at hand than anyone had imagined. In the barn itself, perhaps, or nearby.
Given that the light was fading fast now, he had to get moving, and having ended his phone call abruptly, Sam had hastened back to the kitchen where he’d found that Bess, too, was concerned about the gathering dusk, though for a different reason.
‘It’s time Nell was back.’
She’d been standing by the window, gazing out in the direction of the path that led across the fields from Wood Way.
‘The bus must be late. The days are
so short now ...’
Sam had told her he was leaving, but not why. This was one fear he couldn’t share with her.
‘Did you talk to the police?’ she had asked. When she turned to him he saw she’d been crying. ‘Did they tell you anything?’
He’d shaken his head. ‘Something’s going on at the station - they’ re at sixes and sevens. I’ll have to go there in person. I’ll do it on the way home.’
He could see she was hoping he would stay longer. But he already had his coat on.
‘Don’t worry about Nell,’ he told her as he opened the back door and called to Sally. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for her. I’m going that way.’
He hurried now along the path, glancing up at the grey-shrouded sky and wondering how much longer the daylight would last. He could light one of the oil lamps, if necessary, if he had to make a search, he thought, drawing his coat closer about him. A bit of a wind had got up in the last hour. In time it would blow away the mist and fog, but for the present it only sharpened the biting cold, and Sam was grateful he’d been able to stop at home on his way back from Tillington earlier and collect the coat. It was the same one he’d had all through the war, but better now since Ada had got her hands on it. She’d sewn a good thick lining of padding on the inside and once it was buttoned up, as it was now, it was proof against even the coldest weather.
Sam paused to look back and saw that Sal had already fallen behind.
‘Come on, old girl!’
She was having a bad day - it was the cold, stiffening her joints even more than usual - and she was dealing with it the only way she knew how, by not hurrying.
He walked on, quickening his own pace. He could see the top of Wood Way now, where it came through the trees on the ridge, but there was no sign of Nell yet. He was close to the point where the two paths met, and where a small coppice blocked his view for a few moments. Coming out of it he looked up the path and saw her now, descending from the ridge, her white school hat bobbing up and down, walking fast, half breaking into a run as she approached the spot where the gap in the hedge led to Coyne’s Farm.
