by Rennie Airth
Time had dulled the pain of that summer morning more than a decade past when an urgent summons from Will Stackpole had brought her, the village doctor, speeding through those same gates to confront the unimaginable reality of a household brutally slain; her dearest friend among the victims. When she drove by now it was of her husband she was thinking.
Yet the two were inextricably linked. It was the subsequent police investigation that had brought them together, and although the love that had flowered between them had drawn a line under Madden’s tortured past, their future together had been dearly purchased. The case, one of the bloodiest in the Yard’s annals, had come close to costing him his life.
7
Feeling out of place in his town clothes – he was clad in a grey pinstriped suit and homburg – Chief Inspector Angus Sinclair paused at the edge of the green to take in the scene before him. Quite close to where he stood a cloth banner erected on poles bore the words HIGHFIELD FLOWER AND VEGETABLE SHOW in bold capitals, and beyond it, the broad stretch of grass ringed with cottages was filled with stalls, where the fruits of a long summer were on display.
Vegetables piled high in baskets – beans, peas, potatoes, carrots – rubbed shoulders with swollen marrows, while beside them there were tables overflowing with bunches of late roses and chrysanthemums. Pumpkins, apples, pears, blackberries, nuts, brown speckled eggs – there seemed no end to the variety of items arrayed for inspection and the avenues between the stands were thronged with villagers dressed in their Sunday best.
Searching the crowd, the chief inspector’s eye lit on a tall, elegant figure wearing a cream-coloured linen dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat standing beside a table stacked with preserves. He gave a grunt of appreciation. A widower now for several years, Angus Sinclair considered Helen Madden to be the best-looking woman of his acquaintance, and it always gave him particular pleasure to see her.
The long tresses she had worn when he first knew her, the fashion of the time, and a legacy of girlhood, perhaps, had long since vanished, but the chief inspector found consolation in the slender white neck their disappearance had revealed. His spirits, dampened earlier that morning by the pathologist’s report and accompanying photographs he’d been obliged to examine at Guildford police station, rose at the sight of her.
But his relief was shortlived. Aware of his approach, Helen put down the jar of honey she was holding.
‘I was wondering when you’d appear, Angus.’
Taken by surprise – he’d expected a friendly greeting at the very least – Sinclair stood abashed.
‘It’s that poor child’s murder, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here.’
Struck speechless, the chief inspector sought refuge in action. Bending beneath the brim of Helen’s straw hat, he planted a firm kiss on her cheek. The jasmine scent she’d always favoured was a reminder of happier occasions.
‘I’ll admit I’ve been at Guildford all morning, talking to Jim Boyce about it.’
‘And now you want to see John. Angus, you’re not to drag him into this. I won’t allow it.’ Her dark blue eyes offered no concession.
‘Drag him in! It was John who found the child’s body, for heaven’s sake.’ Sinclair broke off. The subject was a delicate one between them. He continued in a different tone. ‘My dear, I must speak to him. Surely you see that.’
The smile he tendered her was conciliatory. But in truth it was no more than a gesture. Though he had never doubted the strength of Helen’s feelings for her husband, he had equally never forgiven her for the part she had played in persuading the man she loved to give up his job with the police and start a new life with her. It still rankled with the chief inspector that an officer as talented as his former colleague should have quit the force, and fond as he was of Madden’s wife, he could never quite bring himself to absolve her of responsibility for this loss to the public weal.
‘Oh, very well. I see I’ve no choice in the matter.’
Relenting, she returned his kiss. In spite of their differences, they were firm friends.
‘He’s here somewhere. Probably over in that tent.’ She pointed towards a tan-coloured marquee topped with flags near the back of the green. ‘John’s had to stand in as chairman of the prize-giving committee this year. It ought to be Lord Stratton’s job, but he’s managed to come down with gout, rather cunningly.’ She paused. ‘Do stay for lunch, Angus. We don’t see nearly enough of you.’
‘I wish I could, my dear.’ The chief inspector recognized the olive branch he was being offered and declined with regret. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve an engagement in London. I have to get back.’
‘Then you must come down and spend a weekend with us. I’ll write and let you know when.’
Her smile brought momentary relief to Sinclair. But then her expression changed and she grew serious again.
‘You may think I’m making too much of this, but I know John. He won’t turn his back on it now. He feels involved, and that worries me. I can’t explain why, but I feel threatened. I know you have to speak to him, but don’t let it go further than that, I beg you.’
She looked at him directly, and not for the first time the chief inspector felt the effect of her personality, that particular combination of physical beauty and firmness of will against which he felt powerless. But just as he was about to reply – he wanted to reassure her – they were interrupted.
‘Excuse me, sir… Mr Sinclair?’
Angus Sinclair’s grizzled eyebrows shot up in mock astonishment. He peered down at the eager young face that had materialized in front of them.
‘Robert Madden? Is it you?’ Despite his forty years on the force, the chief inspector retained the precise accents of his Aberdeen upbringing. ‘I can scarcely believe my eyes. You were six inches shorter the last time we met. How are you, my boy?’
They shook hands solemnly.
‘Have you come about the murder, sir?’ Despite a peeling nose and one scabbed knee, Madden’s son managed to convey the earnestness of his inquiry. His frown, the near image of his father‘s, brought a wistful smile to Sinclair’s lips. He and his wife had been childless, to their sorrow. ‘It was Daddy who found the body, you know?’
‘I’m aware of that.’ The chief inspector looked grave.
‘The police are looking for a tramp.’
‘I see you’re well informed.’
‘Is Daddy going to help you catch him?’ The boy’s hopeful expression faded when he saw Sinclair shake his head.
‘Scotland Yard’s not involved, Robert. The Surrey police are in charge. I just happened to be passing…’ He caught Helen’s eye. ‘But since I’m here, I would like a brief word with your father. Do you happen to know where he is?’
‘You must have put a bee in Jim Boyce’s bonnet. He rang me on Friday in a lather, right after the inquest. I couldn’t get down to Guildford till today, but he came into the office to show me the file. On a Sunday, too!’
‘I felt they’d made up their minds too quickly about the tramp. I wanted him to think again.’ Madden scowled.
Led by his guide, Sinclair had come on his quarry outside the marquee standing beside a table laden with silver cups and other trophies. The chief inspector had paused for a moment to digest the spectacle of his erstwhile partner, dressed in serviceable tweeds, a soft hat and thick-soled shoes, deep in conversation with a party of similarly attired worthies of both sexes. Catching Madden’s eye, he had winked.
‘I’ve just spotted a pumpkin of outstanding merit,’ he’d confided as they shook hands. ‘Would you like me to point it out to you?’
‘What are you doing here, Angus?’ Grinning, Madden had declined the bait. ‘Is it the Brookham murder? Don’t tell me the Yard’s been called in already.’
‘No, we’re not involved. Not as yet. Surrey are handling it. But there are one or two points I’d like to discuss with you. I’ve cleared it with higher authority.’
‘You needed the Yard’s permission?’ Madden was mildl
y surprised.
‘I was referring to your better half.’ Sinclair chortled at his own joke. ‘Forgive me. I couldn’t resist that. I ran into Helen a moment ago, and she spoke her mind, as always. Robert was with her. My word, he’s a fine-looking boy.’
The delight that shone on Madden’s face when he heard these words was reward enough for the chief inspector, who could remember a time when his old friend’s eyes had born a permanently haunted look; when it had seemed that the legacy of the war and the sufferings he’d endured in the trenches would pursue him to the grave.
‘How can I help you, Angus? You say you’ve seen the file?’
Madden had drawn him aside, out of earshot of the crowd milling about in front of the tent, and as he took up his stance, arms folded and head bent, his face masked in the shadow cast by his hat brim, Sinclair was assailed by a painful sense of familiarity, aware all at once of how much he had missed this man’s presence by his side these past years.
‘I’ve studied the various reports and read the interviews taken. Based on what I know so far, I’d have to say the tramp’s the most likely suspect.’
‘So he is,’ Madden agreed. ‘And they have to find him, in any case. He may turn out in the end to be their key witness.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Why, the evidence, of course.’ Madden frowned under his hat brim. ‘It all depends how you read it, Angus. The Surrey police have their version. Wright thinks the tramp picked up the child on the road to Craydon-’
‘Wright-?’
‘The officer in charge. He’s a good detective. Sharp. No fool. He reckons the tramp brought her back to the wood and that after he’d killed her and hidden her body he ran off down the stream, wanting to get away as quickly as possible, dropping his knife and bandana in the confusion.’
‘And?’ Sinclair was listening intently.
‘It holds water, as a theory, up to a point. But there’s another way of interpreting the facts. You see, Beezy, the tramp, ran off in the wrong direction…’
‘The wrong direction – how do you know that?’
‘Because he must have come into the wood originally from the fields. He had an appointment at a camp site by the stream with another tramp called Topper.’
‘A friend of yours, I gather.’ Sinclair nodded.
‘When Beezy fled, it wasn’t back the way he came, it was in the opposite direction, towards Brookham, and that doesn’t make sense, unless you take Wright’s view that he was confused, in a panic, and didn’t know which way he was heading.’
‘Could there be another explanation?’
‘Yes, it’s possible he heard someone moving towards him through the bushes. And from the same direction he’d come himself, from the fields. Since he was expecting Topper to arrive, that shouldn’t have alarmed him. So if he did run off then – and in the other direction – it could well have been because he saw something that frightened him.’
‘A man carrying a young girl in his arms? The killer?’
Madden nodded mutely.
Sinclair let out a sigh. The morning was growing warm. He took off his homburg and fanned his face. ‘What you say is interesting, John. But supposition, just the same.’
‘No more so than Wright’s version. All the evidence is circumstantial.’
‘Yes, but you can’t overlook the fact he’s disappeared. This Beezy. Gone into hiding. That’s not the behaviour of an innocent man.
‘It’s the behaviour of a tramp, Angus. An outcast. I know these men. They’ve no faith in the courts or our system of justice. It’s quite possible he’s afraid of going to the police in case he’s charged with the crime himself. And he wouldn’t be far wrong.’
Sinclair grunted as the shaft went home. ‘Very well. But I’m still at a loss. As I understand it, either way the Surrey police must find this man. That’s not a job for the Yard. Why did you suggest to Boyce that he get in touch with us?’
Madden was slow in responding. He stared at the ground before him. As the silence between them lengthened, Sinclair felt a premonition growing in him. He knew he hadn’t yet discovered the true reason behind the other man’s concern. But he thought the moment might be approaching.
‘You saw the photographs of the girl’s face?’ Madden looked up.
‘What remained of it. The degree of damage inflicted is unique in my experience. I can only imagine the killer was in a frenzy.’
‘Perhaps. But did you note what a thorough job he did?’
‘Thorough?’ Sinclair showed distaste at the word.
‘He set out to obliterate her features. That’s what it looked like. This wasn’t simple abuse of a victim’s body. It was something more. Has it been determined yet what was used in the way of a weapon? I spoke to the pathologist a few days ago and he seemed to think it might have been a hammer.’
‘That’s confirmed now.’ Sinclair nodded. ‘I read it in the file. He was able to take some measurements from holes made in the cranium. He believes a common workman’s tool was used.’ He shot a glance at Madden. ‘There’s no reason why the tramp shouldn’t have had one in his bundle.’
‘Agreed. Whereas, if the killer was someone else, someone who picked her up off the road in his car, then the implication becomes quite different.’
The chief inspector took some moments to assure himself he had understood his former partner correctly. He didn’t like the direction their conversation was taking. ‘You’re wondering – if it was someone else – why he should have had a hammer with him at all. Supposing that’s the case, what does it signify to you?’
‘That the assault on her face was planned.’ Madden spoke quietly, but his voice had grown tense, and the chief inspector, feeling a sudden chill, glanced at him sharply. ‘It was what he had in mind all along.’
Sinclair removed a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and dabbed at his perspiring brow. The crowd on the green was beginning to converge on the judges’ table, spreading in their direction, and instinctively he moved a little closer to Madden, lowering his voice.
‘I want to be clear about this. You’re suggesting he was following a pattern? That he’s done this sort of thing before?’
Madden nodded mutely.
‘But surely, if that’s the case, it would have come to our notice. A crime of that kind?’ The chief inspector scowled in turn. His companion shrugged.
‘I can’t explain that. But don’t forget, he tried to hide Alice Bridger’s body. If it hadn’t been for the accident of him choosing a tramps’ hideout to commit the murder in we might be searching for her still.’
‘So you think he might have killed elsewhere without our knowing it…’ Sinclair brooded on the thought. ‘Children do go missing, it’s true.’
Madden saw that his argument was gaining ground. He pressed harder. ‘The Surrey police can’t be expected to pursue a theory of this kind. The tramp’s the obvious suspect; they have to keep looking for him. But it’s different with the Yard. They can afford to take a broader view.’
‘Which is why you urged Boyce to ring us? Yes, I see now.’
An island of stillness in the shifting throng around them, the two men stood silent while Sinclair ruminated. Above the hum of country voices, the sudden wail of a baby sounded a summons. The chief inspector came to himself with a grunt.
‘You make a good case, John. I won’t say I’m persuaded. Not yet. But half-persuaded…? Yes… possibly.’ He caught the other’s eye. ‘I’ll certainly look into the matter. You can rest assured.’
The smile of relief on Madden’s face was testimony to a burden shed, and the chief inspector warmed to it. Helen’s words came back to him and he acknowledged the truth of them. Among the many reasons he had for regretting the departure of his old colleague had been the depth of commitment Madden had brought to his work, an impulse born of the sense of obligation he seemed to feel towards others; those whose lives touched his.
It was a rare quality among policemen: a rare
quality anywhere.
8
At ten o’clock on the Friday following, by prior appointment, Sinclair presented himself at the office of Sir Wilfred Bennett, assistant commissioner, crime, whose responsibilities at Scotland Yard included overall direction of the Criminal Investigation Department. Burdened as he was with questions of policy and administration, Bennett wouldn’t normally have dealt with the matter which the chief inspector wished to raise. But the absence of his own deputy, who had recently undergone an operation to remove his gall bladder, and who was now enjoying an extended period of convalescence following a brush with peritonitis, had dangled an opportunity before the assistant commissioner which he’d been unable to resist.
‘This is quite like old times, Chief Inspector.’
Sir Wilfred had kept the same suite of rooms at the Yard for more than a decade. His office overlooked the tree-lined Embankment and the Thames. In the past he and Sinclair had met there frequently, and Bennett retained a nostalgia for those days when, as deputy to the then assistant commissioner, he’d been more involved in the day-today running of the CID. Promotion had brought him a knighthood and entry into the upper ranks of the Metropolitan Police, but he wondered sometimes if he had not lost more than he’d gained.
‘I’ve asked Chief Superintendent Holly to join us. I think it would be a kindness. He told me recently that since being “moved upstairs”, as he put it, he’d felt left out of things, a sentiment with which I sympathize.’ Sir Wilfred caught Sinclair’s eye and they shared a wry smile.
‘Isn’t Arthur still on holiday, sir?’
‘He got back yesterday. But he won’t have had a chance to look at the file yet, so I suggest you start by taking us through it.’
