JM01 - River of Darkness

by Rennie Airth

“I’m not sure anyone will believe anything Emmett Hogg tells them,” Dr. Fellows remarked. He paused at the bedroom door.

  “Nevertheless, he must report it. And you must make sure he does,” Mrs. Merrick added, pleased for once to be in a position to dictate.

  8

  The door to the adjoining office opened and Hollingsworth and Styles entered. Chief Inspector Sinclair, immaculate in grey pinstripe and pearl tie-pin, sat behind his desk. The windows at his back, which so often during the long summer had sparkled diamond-bright in the sunshine, were flecked with rain. Lightning streaked the black sky above Kennington. He motioned the two men to come closer. “No doubt you’ve heard the rumours that I’m to be replaced as head of this investigation. I’m sorry to have to tell you they’re true. I’m due to see the assistant commissioner in a few minutes. It’s my understanding he’ll hand the inquiry over to Chief Superintendent Sampson.”

  Hollingsworth muttered some words.

  “Sergeant?” Sinclair raised an eyebrow.

  “Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “I want to take this opportunity to thank you both for the work you’ve put in. Long hours, with little to show for it, you may think. But I assure you that’s not the case. I’ve no doubt that the information gathered in this file will eventually lead to the arrest and, I hope, conviction of the man we’ve been seeking.” He patted the thick buff folder lying on the desk in front of him.

  “As to the future, neither Inspector Madden nor myself expects to play any further part in this inquiry. Chief Superintendent Sampson will be putting together his own team and I think it likely he’ll want to include you both, given your familiarity with the history and details of the case. I know you’ll offer him the same loyalty and devotion to a difficult job you have always given me, and for which I thank you now.”

  The chief inspector stood up and held out his hand to Hollingsworth, who shook it. Styles followed suit.

  “You’ll be informed shortly of any change in your assignments. That will be all.”

  The two men returned to the side office, shutting the door behind them. Sinclair resumed his seat and took out his pipe. He glanced at Madden, who had listened in silence at his desk. “Well, John?”

  “I think it’s a damned shame.”

  “An opinion not shared by Mrs. Sinclair, who is pleased at the thought of my spending more time at home. She comforts me with the assurance that I need not fear to find myself less usefully employed in the future. Only the area of my activities will change. Are you familiar with the term ‘mulching’?”

  The grin that came to Madden’s face reminded the chief inspector that there was at least one satisfaction he could take from the weeks of labour they had shared. His pleasure at seeing his partner more like his old self had been heightened for a brief time when it seemed likely that Madden’s suggestion that they track down Captain Miller’s clerk would bear dividends.

  Against all odds the War Office had been able to supply them, without delay, with the identity of the driver of Miller’s staff car. The names of both men had been on the casualty report.

  Corporal Alfred Tozer had survived the blast that killed his superior and in due course had been invalided back to a hospital in Eastbourne where medical records retained since the war gave an address for him in Bethnal Green.

  Madden had sped there in a taxi with Hollingsworth only to discover that while it remained Tozer’s residence—he lived with his sister and her husband, the three of them running a newsagent’s and tobacconist’s business together—he was absent from home.

  “On a walking holiday? In North Wales?” The chief inspector had raised his eyes to the ceiling in disbelief.

  “He’s a rambler, sir. It’s how he spends his holiday every year, according to his sister. He visits different parts of the country.”

  “How admirable! We must recommend him to the tourist board. So we still don’t know whether he was Miller’s regular clerk, or even if he has any special knowledge of that case?”

  Madden shook his head.

  Clutching at straws, Sinclair had telephoned the police in Bangor and asked them to pass the word along to substations in the district to be on the lookout for Tozer. He was to be asked to get in touch with Scotland Yard at once. The same message had been left with his sister, who was not expecting him back before the weekend.

  “I’ll put a note in the file, but I don’t see the chief superintendent stirring himself to chase up any ideas we put forward.”

  Their last chance to advance the investigation came that morning with a further message from the War Office regarding Miller’s wartime commanding officer in the Military Police. A Colonel Strachan, he was now retired and living in a village in Scotland so remote that even the chief inspector had never heard of it.

  The Yard’s switchboard had spent most of the morning wrestling with exchanges up and down the country. Sinclair was out of the office when they finally made contact with the colonel, and it was Madden who spoke to him.

  “He says he recalls the case and knows it was closed,” he told the chief inspector on his return. “But he can’t remember the name of the man Miller identified as the murderer. He was killed in battle, though. He remembers that much.”

  “And how did Miller know it was him?”

  “He can’t remember that, either.”

  “My, my . . .” The chief inspector scratched his head. “Remind me not to retire too early, John. It seems to have a damaging effect on the brain cells. What did you make of it?”

  Madden frowned. “It’s hard to be sure over a long-distance line. His voice was very faint. But I’d say he wasn’t bending over backwards to be helpful.”

  “Nobbled?” Sinclair inserted a pipe-cleaner into the stem of his briar. He squinted at Madden.

  “Possibly. But not by the War Office. He seemed genuinely surprised to get my call. If it was done at all it was done at the time, just as we suspect.”

  “But not on his initiative?”

  “I’m sure not. He was a military policeman. He’d have been breaking the law. No, the order must have come from higher up.”

  “From headquarters?”

  The inspector shrugged.

  “I see a man.” Sinclair extracted his pipe-cleaner and blew through the stem. “A general, perhaps. Or an overweight colonel with a scarlet hat band and lapel tabs. He’s sitting in his office—it’s in a château, by the way. He’s just had a good dinner. The front is a long way off.”

  “You’re talking about a staff officer.” Madden scowled.

  “Am I? Well, this one has a file in front of him.” Sinclair examined the pipe-cleaner. “A ticklish matter. It’s the investigator’s memorandum that bothers him. ‘No,’ he says, removing it and tossing it aside.” The chief inspector matched words to action, dropping the pipe-cleaner into the wastepaper basket beside him. “ ‘No, I don’t think we’ll have that.’ ” He looked at his pipe. “I wonder what the problem was. Perhaps he didn’t want the name of the murderer made public. Perhaps it would have been an embarrassment to someone.” He shrugged. “Anyway, since the man in question was dead it didn’t really matter. Justice had been served.” Sinclair put his pipe in his pocket. “Yes, I’d like to meet that staff officer. I really would.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Time I was on my way.” He rose, collecting the file from his desk. “They’re welcome to this.” He hefted the bulky folder. “I shan’t give Sampson the satisifaction of watching me squirm. The convicted felon made a dignified exit. After all, it’s only a job, as the bishop said to the actress . . .”

  He started to move around his desk, then halted. With a sudden sharp gesture he slammed the file down. “No, by God, it’s not!”

  Madden started in surprise. The chief inspector stared through the window at the rainswept morning. He spoke in a low, angry tone: “Somewhere out there is a man bent on murder. It’s only a matter of time before he acts. Somewhere there’s a woman, a whole family, perhaps,
who stand in peril. And now I’m being asked to place this investigation—and the lives of these people, whoever they are—in the hands of a . . . nincompoop!”

  He snatched up the file, and at the same moment his eye fell on Billy Styles who was standing in the open doorway to the adjoining office with two cups of tea in his hands. He stared at Sinclair in horror.

  “You didn’t hear me say that, Constable. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” The young man quailed.

  “Absolutely clear?”

  Billy could only nod.

  With a glance at Madden, the chief inspector strode out of the office.

  9

  An hour later Sinclair completed his summing-up of the inquiry to date. He’d been surprised when the assistant commissioner requested it. He had expected the proceedings to be brief, and to be confined to an expression of thanks from Sir George for his weeks of toil, followed by a brisk handover of the file to Chief Superintendent Sampson, who sat beside Parkhurst at the polished oak table with the air of a vulture perched on a branch.

  The table was a twin of the one that graced Bennett’s office. In other respects the assistant commissioner’s rooms were more elaborately furnished. A thick pile carpet covered the floor and the walls were hung with landscapes of the green English countryside. Two windows, overlooking the Embankment, framed a wide mahogany desk behind which hung a large photograph of Sir George with his namesake, King George V. The blurred outlines of a horse walking in the background suggested a racecourse as the likely setting for the picture. Parkhurst, in morning dress, stood with his head slightly bowed and turned attentively towards the monarch, who wore a glazed expression.

  The chief inspector sat on his own. Parkhurst faced him across the table, with Sampson on one side of him and Bennett on the other. The assistant commissioner was in his late fifties. His fleshy cheeks were marked by a network of livid veins. While Sinclair was speaking his glance had wandered about the room, as though unable to settle on anything, in contrast to Sampson, beside him, whose small dark eyes never left the chief inspector’s face. Bennett sat apart from both of them, his chair drawn away as though deliberately distancing himself. The deputy’s face showed no emotion.

  “Allow me to underline the importance I attribute to this recent aspect of the investigation, sir.”

  Given the opportunity to explain himself, the chief inspector had abandoned his original intention of washing his hands of the whole business as quickly as possible. He was now enjoying the process of drawing it out, watching Sampson twitch with impatience, observing Sir George trying to screw up his resolve to put an end to the meeting. He would say what he had to say, and be damned!

  “It’s my belief—and Inspector Madden’s—that the man who killed those people in Belgium in 1917 is the same man we’re looking for now. The devil of it is we haven’t been able to pin down his identity. But we will . . . or, rather, we would have, I’m sure.” Sinclair paused briefly. “Sir, I cannot urge strongly enough that this line of inquiry should not be abandoned and that we should keep pressing the War Office to provide a name.”

  Parkhurst stirred restlessly in his chair. “All the same, Chief Inspector, you will admit there’s no necessary connection between those killings and the ones at Melling Lodge. When all is said and done, you’re well in the realm of speculation.”

  “Indeed, I am, sir.” Sinclair nodded vigorously. “But speculation is what this case has forced on us. And speaking of necessary connections, this has been our main problem. I firmly believe there was no personal connection whatsoever between the murderer and the people at Melling Lodge, other than the one that existed in his mind, and which we’ve been trying to unravel.”

  Sampson clicked his tongue with irritation. “Now come on, Angus, we’ve heard all this before. You’ve had your run. Right from the start you’ve insisted this man was no ordinary criminal. There was plenty of evidence to suggest he broke into that house with the intention of robbing it. What happened next was tragic. Terrible. But trying to turn a violent and possibly deranged man into some kind of . . .” He made a gesture of distaste. “. . . some kind of twisted force of evil isn’t going to help us catch him.

  “You say he killed that woman in Kent, Mrs. Reynolds. But you don’t know that. Granted, there are some superficial similarities between the two crimes. But what you’ve done is make an assumption because it fits your theory. The same applies to this business in Belgium four years ago. Now you’ve got him committing a whole string of murders and you’ve been warning us for weeks he’s going to strike again. When, may I ask?”

  The chief superintendent ran his hand lightly over his brilliantined hair. He leaned forward. “What’s needed here—what’s been needed from the start—is the application of normal police procedures. Nothing glamorous and newfangled. No trying to see into the mind of the criminal, thinking somehow you can read his thoughts. Just good old-fashioned police work. Plenty of sweat, plenty of shoe leather. That’s the way to proceed.”

  Sinclair had listened to him with an expression of rapt attention. Now he spoke. “What did you have in mind, sir?”

  Sampson sat back. “I should have thought that was obvious,” he said. “What do we know about this man? Not a lot, I grant you. But we do know one thing. He owns a motorbike. And he uses it. Now, I realize you’ve gone through that list of recent purchasers provided by Harley-Davidson. But for heaven’s sake, man! What about registrations?”

  “Motorcycle registrations?” The chief inspector seemed taken aback by the notion. “Yes, I saw a piece about that in the Express the other day. Ferris, was it? He seemed to have the same idea. I wonder where he got it?”

  Sampson turned brick red.

  “As a matter of fact, sir, it’s something I’ve considered and discarded.” Sinclair turned his attention back to the assistant commissioner. “Do you know how many motorcycles are registered in the south of England? Close to a hundred and fifty thousand. Even setting aside the enormous burden a procedure like the one Mr. Sampson is suggesting would place on the various authorities, I had to wonder what it would achieve. Armed with only the rough physical details we possess—a large man with dark brown hair and a moustache he may or may not have shaved off by now—police officials would presumably have to interview each and every one of these licence holders to see if they approximate the description. And then the thought occurred to me—what guarantee do we have that his vehicle is legally registered? Or that he doesn’t keep it hidden somewhere, only using it when he needs to? It’s true, this man in many ways is an enigma to us. But whatever else, we know he’s not a complete blockhead.” Unlike some others the chief inspector could mention.

  Sampson stared at him angrily. His face showed open dislike. “All right, Sinclair. I think we’ve heard enough.”

  Parkhurst cleared his throat. “Yes, I believe it’s time to—” He broke off at the sound of a loud knock and turned his head towards the door, which had opened. Madden stood framed in the doorway. He held a piece of paper in his hand. A secretary hovered behind his tall figure, making nervous gestures.

  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir. It’s something urgent.”

  “Madden, is it?” Irritation sharpened the assistant commissioner’s peremptory tone. “Can’t it wait, man?”

  “No, sir. I’m afraid it can’t.”

  Madden’s long legs propelled him across the carpet in a few strides. He went to Sinclair’s side and handed him the piece of paper he was carrying. He bent and whispered in the chief inspector’s ear. Sinclair gave a slight start. His face lit up. “Sir, I must ask for this meeting to be suspended.” He rose abruptly.

  “What?” Parkhurst gaped at him.

  “Now, just a minute—!” Sampson began.

  “We’re on to him!” Sinclair held up the piece of paper. “This is our man.”

  “You’ve found him?” Parkhurst demanded.

  “Not yet, sir. But we have his name.” The chief inspector’s eye was brigh
t. “What’s more we’ll have a photograph of him before the day’s out.”

  “A photograph?”

  “Courtesy of the War Office. He was in the Army, just as we thought. Sir, I must urge you to let me get moving on this. Any delay could be dangerous.” Sinclair gathered his file. He stood poised to go.

  “Well, I don’t know . . .” The assistant commissioner’s watery gaze circled the room. Sampson tried to catch his eye.

  “May I say something, sir?” Bennett spoke for the first time. “Chief Inspector Sinclair has handled this inquiry from the outset. He’s familiar with every aspect of it. If there’s any possibility of a quick arrest, I think we should let him proceed. As he said, delay’s the last thing we want to risk at this moment.”

  “Si . . . sir . . . ?” Sampson plucked at Sir George’s arm. “We shouldn’t be rushed into this.”

  “Not now, Chief Superintendent!” Parkhurst snapped with impatience. His glance came to rest on Sinclair. “Very well, Chief Inspector. Get on with it. But this matter is not concluded—do I make myself clear?”

  “Quite clear, sir.”

  “And you will keep me informed.”

  Sinclair was already moving towards the door, with Madden at his heels. As he reached it, Bennett called out, “By the way, what is his name?”

  The chief inspector checked. He glanced at the piece of paper in his hand and looked up. “Pike,” he said crisply. “Sergeant Major Amos Pike.”

  10

  Are we sure about the photograph, John? You’re certain the War Office has one?”

  “They must have, sir. Colonel Jenkins is chasing it up now. Tozer will explain.”

  The two men hastened up the stairs from the first floor and along the uncarpeted corridor to Sinclair’s office.

  “My God, we’d better be right about this,” the chief inspector muttered. “Otherwise you and I may be forced to seek refuge in distant parts. In my case, Timbuktu may not be far enough!”

  He threw open the door of his office and they went in. Sergeant Hollingsworth sat behind Madden’s desk with an open pad before him. Styles stood at his shoulder, while a third man was seated in a chair opposite. Lean and sun-tanned, with close-cut fair hair, he wore a well-pressed brown suit and a patterned red tie.