JM01 - River of Darkness

by Rennie Airth

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Troy,” he said curtly. A fresh idea had just occurred to him and he hastened to put it into words. “You just lie there. After I’ve spoken to Grail I’ll make you a cup of tea and bring it up. I can see this is upsetting you. You must stay here and rest.”

  He’d been nerving himself all morning to remove the mugs in the cabinet from under her nose, under her nearsightless gaze, but this was an unlooked-for piece of good fortune. (“You’re a lucky devil!” He grinned, remembering.) Already he was breathing easier. As he turned towards the door he caught sight of his reflection in the dressing-table mirror: his solid figure, on the verge of being overweight, bulged at the waist-line. He drew in his stomach.

  “Just leave Grail to me,” he said.

  He hurried down the stairs, out through the kitchen and into the garden.

  He would do it!

  The certainty had come to him as he stood beside the bed and looked down at her helpless figure.

  He had found the courage after all!

  Impatient now to bring matters to a conclusion—Grail must be sent on his way without further delay—he strode across the small square of lawn and rapped sharply on the shed door.

  “Mr. Grail?”

  Without waiting for a response, he pushed open the door and went inside. A wave of heat enveloped him. The dark interior was lit by a paraffin lamp, which burned brightly on an upturned box in one corner of the room. A man, naked to the waist, was bending down, arranging the folds of a dun-coloured dust cloth over some large, irregularly shaped object in the middle of the shed. Biggs had a fleeting impression he’d been taken by surprise. Then all thoughts were driven from his mind by the sight of the half-clad figure as it rose and turned towards him. The muscular torso, scarred in several places, was shiny with sweat. A high, rank odour like the smell from an animal’s cage assailed his nostrils.

  “Grail?”

  Harold waited for some response from the man, who said nothing. He noticed a metallic object lying on a work-table at the end of the shed. It looked like a piece of machinery, or a motor part. Tools lay beside it.

  “Now what’s all this?” Biggs put his hands on his hips. “I take it you got my letter. You’re supposed to be moving out of here today.”

  He found to his consternation that he couldn’t look the man in the face. The single glance he had given him had revealed a close-cropped head and lips drawn down in a thin line. But it was the eyes. They were brown and flat and when Biggs had sought to meet them with his own, to impress his irritation and impatience on this half-dressed ruffian, he had had to look away almost at once. There was something inhuman in his gaze, Harold thought with alarm. The image of an animal came into his mind again. A carnivore. He was forced to move, to ease the cramp that all at once invaded his limbs, and without any conscious intention he walked forward, further into the shed towards the menacing figure of Grail who nevertheless, surprisingly, made way for him, moving to one side and then a little around so that Harold now stood beside the covered object and Grail was closer to the door.

  “Well?”

  The word sprang unbidden to Harold’s lips. He spoke because he could not remain silent in the midst of the greater silence that radiated like a force from the other man.

  “You’re meant to be leaving here,” he repeated helplessly. “Moving out. Don’t you understand?”

  Grail’s only response was to move again. Harold saw with mounting panic that his way out of the shed was now blocked.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  He didn’t want to know, but he couldn’t still his tongue. When he moved himself it was with an involuntary lurch, his cramped leg muscles jerking in a sudden spasm. His foot, dragging along the cement floor, caught in a fold of the dust cloth. Distractedly, he tried to work it free, kicking out in desperation, tugging at the cloth, which gradually worked loose from the object it was covering.

  When he saw what was revealed beneath it Harold went deathly pale. He stared in horror at the handlebars of the motorcycle—the machine was still half covered by the cloth—and the red pointed nose of the sidecar. At that same instant he recalled, with an emotion akin to grief, the article he had read in the newspaper the previous Saturday.

  He looked up into the flat brown eyes. He couldn’t hide his knowledge from them, he was too afraid. And now he found his own gaze held fast by the lifeless stare. A warm stream of urine ran down his leg inside his plus-fours.

  Harold saw the face of his Mother—she had died in the last year of the war. Other images flocked to his mind. He saw the girl he had picked up in the high street, Jimmy Pullman leaning on the bar in the Bunch of Grapes, Mr. Wolverton’s freckled scalp, the cat’s eyes glowing at the top of the stairs . . . His life sped by like the frames of a hand-cranked cinematograph in a penny arcade.

  And all the while he stared into Grail’s eyes.

  At the last, like a drowning man clutching at a spar, he put his hand in his pocket and felt for his key ring and his good-luck shilling.

  It brought him no comfort in his agony. Even as he ran his thumb frantically back and forth along the milled edge, Grail moved towards him and he knew then, with the finality of death, that his luck had run out.

  12

  The chief inspector spoke: “This is a photograph of the man in question. Amos Pike. We hope to have a better impression of him available within the next few days, but for now we’d be grateful if your newspapers would publish this picture in a prominent position. When you do so, please make it clear that he is not to be approached by any member of the public for any reason, but that the police should be informed of his whereabouts without delay.”

  Sinclair paused. His gaze swept over the assembled reporters, two dozen of them, who were seated down both sides of a long table in one of the Yard’s conference rooms. He was sitting at the head himself, with Madden on one side of him and Bennett on the other. Earlier, Sinclair had wryly suggested to the deputy assistant commissioner that he absent himself from the gathering. “My head’s on the block here, sir. No need for yours to join it.”

  “Do you believe this is the man we’re seeking?”

  “I do.”

  “Then in that case I’ll take the chance.” Bennett produced a wintry smile.

  “I would like to add something to what I’ve just said. It’s most unlikely Pike is living under his own name.”

  “Why would that be?” The lanky figure of Ferris looked up from his notebook at the far end of the table.

  Regarding the man with dislike, which he took care to conceal, Sinclair drew what satisfaction he could from the reflection that today was Saturday and Ferris’s newspaper, a daily, would have to wait until Monday before coming to grips with the story. The Sundays would have the first bite of it.

  “Pike was reported killed in the war. We have reason to believe he survived it.”

  “What reason? Can you tell us?”

  “No,” the chief inspector said bluntly, aware that he had none, that he was acting purely on supposition. An admission he was not about to share with the likes of Reg Ferris.

  The delay in summoning the press had been caused by the time it had taken the War Office to lay its hands on a photograph of the sergeant major. Thursday afternoon and Friday morning had passed without word or sign, causing Sinclair to mutter darkly about hidden hands at work within the military.

  “By God, if they try to cover this up again I’ll take it to the newspapers. See if I don’t!”

  Finally, midway through Friday afternoon, the photographs arrived. It was not the usual booted and khaki-clad courier who brought them, but Colonel Jenkins himself, full of apologies and explaining that many wartime pictures remained uncatalogued and it had taken until now to unearth Pike’s.

  “In fact, we have two, but one’s not much use.”

  He laid them on Sinclair’s desk. The chief inspector groaned. “I might have guessed . . .”

  In one of the prints the well-k
nown figure of Fields Marshal Haig was receiving the salute of a soldier—presumably Pike—who stood before him. The raised arm with the hand touching the cap covered all but a small portion of the man’s face.

  In the second picture the field marshal leaned forward to pin a decoration on the tunic of the soldier whose full profile had been caught by the camera. But even this was of limited value. The combination of the cap’s peak, pulled down low over the eyes, and an old-fashioned gravy-dipper moustache that hid the mouth, reduced Pike’s identifiable features to a short nose and a prominent thrusting chin.

  After his momentary disappointment, the chief inspector had swung into action. Styles was dispatched with the second print to the Yard’s photographic laboratory, which had been standing by since Thursday, with instructions to reproduce copies of the photograph, shorn of the field marshal’s figure, in large numbers.

  Meanwhile, Sinclair commandeered a police artist and sent him, together with Hollingsworth, to see Alfred Tozer in Bethnal Green.

  “I should have thought of it while he was here,” the chief inspector castigated himself. “I put too much faith in what the War Office would produce.”

  “We’ve also got those survivors from B Company,” Madden reminded him. “Dawkins and Hardy. They’ll remember Pike all right.”

  “I’d rather stick with Tozer for the time being,” Sinclair maintained. “He was trained as a policeman and he’s got the instincts of a copper. ‘Eyes like stones.’ Let’s get a sketch from him first, then we can test it on those others.”

  Colonel Jenkins, listening to them, asked, “Then Pike’s the man Captain Miller believed was the killer? The one he wrote about in that lost memorandum.”

  Sinclair regarded the slight, erect figure sitting ramrod straight on a chair before him. The colonel’s manner had altered since their first meeting. Gone was the edge of impatience, verging on rudeness, which he’d displayed then. Now he seemed disposed to be agreeable. It cut no ice with the chief inspector.

  “Not lost. Deliberately destroyed by an officer serving on the General Staff,” he said coldly. “We have all the facts.”

  The colonel was at a loss for words.

  “Don’t be concerned, I’m not instituting an inquiry. For the present,” Sinclair added.

  “That should give them a few sleepless nights,” he confided to Madden after Jenkins had departed. “Do you know? I’m beginning to understand why you felt the way you did about that lot. We might have caught up with Pike by now if we’d had Miller’s report from the outset. If he kills again, then whoever destroyed it will bear part of the blame. And may he rot in hell!”

  The chief inspector was questioned by the journalists about Pike’s background.

  “He enlisted in the Army in 1906, giving his age as eighteen, though he may have been younger. From that point on he was a professional soldier. In due course he reached the rank of sergeant major and distinguished himself during the war. He was decorated twice for gallantry.”

  “But before that?” one of the reporters asked. “What about his family? His parents?”

  “His parents are dead.” The slight hesitation in Sinclair’s reply passed unnoticed. “The Nottingham police are making further inquiries on our behalf.”

  “He comes from there?”

  “From Nottingham? No, from somewhere in the district, I believe. We’re still seeking information in that regard.”

  The chief inspector had advised Bennett and Madden in advance that he planned to be less than frank on the subject of Pike’s past history. “Let them dig it up for themselves. The longer we can keep this from turning into a shocker, the better. I’ve asked the Notts police not to be unduly helpful and I only hope they manage to delay things a little.”

  Sinclair’s own request for information had brought a reply the previous day from the Nottinghamshire force which had shocked him. Pike’s father had been hanged in 1903 for the murder of his wife. “They’re sending me the file, but it sounds like a clear-cut case. He confessed to the murder in open court.”

  “Did he . . . ?” Madden hardly dared to ask.

  Sinclair nodded bleakly. “Yes, he cut her throat.”

  Bennett, too, was shaken by the discovery. “My God! His lawyer will have a field day!”

  The chief inspector glanced at Madden beside him. “Yes, and I dare say your Viennese friend would have had something to say on the subject.”

  “What Viennese friend might that be?” Bennett inquired innocently, and had the rare satisfaction of seeing Angus Sinclair turn scarlet with embarrassment. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  Before the press conference ended Ferris held up his hand once more. “I’d like to ask Mr. Bennett a question. We understood Chief Superintendent Sampson was going to take over direction of this investigation. Has there been any change in plans?”

  “We?” Bennett appeared baffled. “I do recall reading something to that effect in your journal, Mr. Ferris, but nowhere else.” He waited until the laughter had died down. “As you see, Chief Inspector Sinclair is still at the helm and likely to remain so. He has the full confidence of both the assistant commissioner and myself.”

  “But what about Mr. Sampson?” Ferris persisted. “I don’t see him here today. Hasn’t he been advising on this inquiry?”

  “The chief superintendent is indisposed.” Bennett’s tone was bland. “But we hope to have the benefit of his expert assistance again before long.”

  “Severe indigestion,” Sinclair confided to Madden, when they returned to his office. “His wife rang in this morning. Comes of having your nose out of joint, I’m told.”

  He leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. “All we can do now is wait. His picture will be in the Sundays. Pray God someone recognizes him. And pray God this is the last weekend we have to sit through waiting for the phone to ring.”

  His glance moved from Madden, who was at his desk, to Hollingsworth and Styles, who stood facing him, awaiting orders.

  “Well? Have we forgotten anything? Is there something more we can do?”

  Madden shifted in his chair.

  “Yes, John?”

  “I was thinking, sir—that batch of photographs we’re sending down to Highfield. Why don’t I take them? I know most of the villagers and I could help Constable Stackpole to get them spread around.”

  Sinclair frowned. It was the only way he could keep a straight face. “I could send one of the others. I hate to impose this on you, John.”

  “I don’t mind, sir.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . .”

  A little while later, after the door had shut behind Madden’s departing figure, Hollingsworth and Styles in their cubby-hole were startled to hear the sound of humming coming from the adjoining office. The song was an old one and they were both familiar with the words which presently reached them, carried on the chief inspector’s surprisingly tuneful tenor: “Taking one consideration with another,

  A policeman’s lot is not a happy one . . .”

  Billy Styles nudged the sergeant. “Hark at the guv’nor. He’s gone mad as a maggot.”

  “None of that lip, Constable,” Hollingsworth growled, though he was more than half inclined to agree.

  13

  The canvass of Highfield residents brought little result. Although they walked the village from end to end knocking on doors, only one household yielded a positive response, and as Stackpole remarked, you had to wonder if May Birney wasn’t overstretching her imagination.

  “You think she might be trying too hard?” Madden asked. “Because she was right about the whistle?”

  The constable had been at the station to meet him and together they had put up copies of the poster in the ticket-hall and waiting-room. Frowning, Stackpole had stared hard at the heavily moustached face. “I know I haven’t seen him. sir. At least, not that I recognize.”

  As they walked into the village he told the inspector he had a message for him from Dr. Blackwell. Madden h
ad rung the house from London but failed to reach her.

  “She asked if you could pass by her surgery later. She’s had to go to Guildford. They had some typhoid cases brought into the hospital there and they needed help.” Stackpole smiled under his helmet. “You’re looking well, if I may say so, sir.”

  “Am I, Will? I can’t think why. We’ve been working like the devil.”

  The Birney family lived above their store in the main street. Neither parent had recognised the face on the poster, but May, pink-cheeked from having been caught in the middle of washing her bobbed brown hair, looked hard at it for ten seconds and then said, “I’ve seen him before.”

  “Now, don’t be hasty, girl.” Mr. Birney rubbed his bald spot anxiously. “You don’t want to mislead the inspector.”

  “The moustache was different.”

  “He had a moustache?” Madden sat forward in the chintz-covered armchair. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, sir. But not as big as this one. But I’m positive it’s the same man. I remember the chin.”

  “So you saw him from the side, in profile?”

  May Birney nodded.

  “Try and picture him without the cap,” the inspector suggested, but she shook her head at once.

  “No, he was wearing a cap. That’s how I remember him.”

  “What sort of cap?”

  She didn’t know. She couldn’t recall. “Just a cap. It was pulled down low over his eyes, like in the picture.”

  “It can’t be a military cap,” Madden remarked later, when they paused on the village green to confer. The autumn afternoon was drawing in. Lights were starting to come on in the cottages flanking the grass triangle. “If there’s one place we won’t find Pike it’s in the Army.”

  “There’s lots of other kinds, sir. Charabanc drivers, chauffeurs, delivery-men. They all wear caps of one sort or another. And what if it was just an ordinary cloth cap? Most of us have got one of those.”

  “Whatever he was wearing, I think she saw him. Talk to her again, Will.”

  Madden had noticed the red two-seater parked in front of one of the cottages across the green. Stackpole had seen it, too. “There’s Dr. Blackwell now. You’ll find her in her surgery, sir. She rents rooms from old Granny Palmer. I’ll leave some posters in the pub and the church hall as I go by.”