by M J Porter
“Perhaps.” Sam picked up one of the magazines, which seemed to mirror the way Anthony McGovern had been discovered and squinted between the advertisement and Hamish’s drawing.
“It’s just uncanny,” he commented.
“It certainly is, but it gives you something to pursue. The artist must know something. They really must.”
“Yes, but why only now?” Sam had been looking at the dates of the magazines. None of them was older than 1938.
“I can’t answer that,” Annie smiled, sitting back and stretching her back, hands on the base of her spine.
“Oh, the dinner,” she exclaimed. ‘It’ll be cold.”
“We can warm it in the oven,” Sam muttered, moving to pick up another of the magazines.
“I’ll do it then,” she huffed, but good-naturedly, stooping to plant a kiss on the top of his head as she walked beyond him. He caught her hand.
“Thank you,” and he planted a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “Thank you.”
“It was easy,” she giggled and wandered away from him.
It had been easy. He couldn’t deny that. He turned one of the magazines to the front, noting the date. It read 1943, only this year. He picked up another. It read 1943 as well. But the next was 1942, and in fact, a few of them read 1942.
“Come on,” Sam’s wife called to him.
“Coming,” he replied quickly. “I’ll just tidy them away.”
“Do that in a bit. Come on. I don’t want it getting cold again.”
He nodded to himself as he staggered to his feet, the old wound choosing that moment to make itself known.
In the morning, he’d be visiting the library on Mason Street and Orphanage Road, leafing through more copies of the Picture Post. And then, well then, he could begin the hunt for the killer, as opposed to the search for more victims.
He would solve this. Sam vowed it there and then.
Chapter 10
O’Rourke looked at him in disbelief, her mouth open in shock, while he repeatedly nodded.
“I know it sounds mad, but look, and look.” He’d left a message at the station for her to come and join him at the library. The librarian had helped him quickly find all of the recent Picture Posts, and he was busy cross-referencing the ones he’d been able to check last night with the ones the library had. Already, he’d found another mirror image, this one of young Robert.
He’d breathed heavily on finding the familiar face looking at him. The school cap on the advertisement had been different, but the stance, the shorts, the long socks. It had all been far too familiar.
“I don’t believe it?” O’Rourke said, her brown eyes wide as she glanced from the drawing to the advertisement, comprehension evident in the resigned set of her downturned lips. Sam was pleased she’d seen the connection as quickly as his wife had.
“Me neither, but it’s there. Well, it’s there so far. I just need to track down the other three, and then I’m taking this to Smythe.”
“But what does it mean?”
“It’s too much of a coincidence to ignore. If we find the other three, well, even if we don’t, I’m still taking it to Smythe. We’ll pursue the lead. We’ll certainly find out where the images came from for the advertisements. It’ll mean a trip to the Picture Post and probably interviews with their advertising executives.” Sam realised he was speaking too fast, but he was excited. He could feel the thrill of the end of the chase coursing through his body. It had been a long time since he’d felt this enthusiastic about something.
“It’s just. Well, it’s preposterous. Where is the Picture Post based?”
“London, I believe, and I agree with you. But help me. Let’s see if it gets more bizarre.”
Together they flicked through the pile of weekly issued magazines, hunting down the brightly coloured adverts. They sat opposite one another at the central table in the library, the ornate building at odds with the task at hand. Sam was aware that the bespectacled librarian kept coming to check on him, but other than the two of them, the library was deserted at such an early hour on a Tuesday morning.
Yet, they didn’t find another advertisement that mirrored one of the drawings, not throughout the issues for 1943, even though they flicked through all the ones that Annie had been missing from her collection then back to the 1942 issues.
The librarian brought them two mugs of tea, gently steaming, and a plate with four biscuits precisely placed upon it.
“Thank you,” Sam acknowledged. “You didn’t need to, but I appreciate it, all the same.”
She smiled at them. Sam knew Elsie was curious about what they were doing, but he didn’t want to tell her too much, and neither would she ask. He’d just informed her it was something to do with a case they were working on when he’d beaten her to the door that morning. Head bowed, hunting for the keys in her bag, she’d startled on looking up to see him blocking her way.
Sam had smiled, hoping he didn’t look too crazed, aware his cheeks had been red from trying to run to the library, despite his infirmity, heedless of the icy patches on the pavement and roadway. There’d been few enough people around, the children already in school, only a few parents making their way to the shops or just out for a stroll. It was too bleak to linger.
“Do you have the issues for 1941?” he asked her now, for the dual purpose of having her move away and because he was genuinely curious.
“Yes, I’ll get them for you,” Elise answered, a slight edge to her voice, as though understanding his intentions. Perhaps she’d hoped that the tea and biscuits would allow her entry into the fervent activity taking place in the middle of her library.
Sam sat back. “This is painful,” he admitted, as Elsie turned aside. He rubbed his tired eyes, unaware of just how long he’d been at the task.
“And I can’t believe how I’ve missed all these stories about celebrities. Did you know this about Maureen O’Hara?”
“I didn’t, but I also did. My wife tends to tell me what I need to know, and even though I don’t think I’m listening, I somehow absorb it.”
O’Rourke laughed at his rueful tone.
“Well, you’re better informed than I am. But what do you think it all means?” And O’Rourke pointed to the pile of magazines, pages open on the custard adverts.
“I can’t say, not until we investigate further.”
“But, do you think it could be the artist, who’s the murderer?” This, she asked in a whisper, having first peered into the corners of the room to ensure no one could overhear.
“Well, I think it must be something like that. But the timing is decidedly odd.”
Elsie returned just as O’Rourke was finishing her tea, and while she glanced between the pair of them, as though realising she’d missed something vital, Elsie widely remained silent. Sam was surprised by her reluctance. He imagined she knew all sorts of things about the local residents. She would probably be an excellent person to speak to if there was ever a severe crime in the vicinity. In fact, she probably knew who the counterfeiter was. He could even inform Jones that he should strike up a conversation with Elsie. She might welcome the company. It must be close to lunchtime, and they were still alone in the vast building.
Evidently, no one else had time to spare for reading, and the building wasn’t quite warm enough to entice those who might be running short on coal and wood for the fire.
“I don’t seem to have them all, but here’s the latter half of the year. It’s quite a new publication. Maybe we didn’t start taking a copy until it proved so successful. Have you finished with these?” Elsie asked, gesturing to what seemed to be discarded piles of the magazines.
Sam hesitated for a moment but then nodded. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t be able to return to the library if it was required, and the adverts in those issues didn’t feature any children, such as the ones for which he was thinking. He couldn’t think they were relevant.
“Thank you,” he muttered, feeling he ought to apologise for the mes
s but biting his tongue to stop the words from escaping. Elsie offered him a half-hearted smile while O’Rourke pulled one of the new magazines towards her. The sound of pages turning once more filled the air. As Elsie closed the open magazines, O’Rourke flipped them open while Sam nibbled on a biscuit. When O’Rourke exclaimed, Sam knew she’d found another one that matched.
“Here,” she said, her cheeks flushed with the joy of discovery as she held out the advertisement and the corresponding drawing that Hamish had produced. It revealed the newest case, Ivy from Exeter, who was pictured riding a horse in the image, face rosy, a black, curved hat on her head, and a selection of coloured rosettes on her riding jacket.
“Keep going,” he urged. “Maybe we can find them all.”
But it was not to be. By the time they left the library, the sky was darkening towards dusk once more. They’d only found a single other instance of drawing and advert being close enough to match that of the oldest victim, Geoffrey, racing forwards with a rugby ball under his arm, wearing long black shorts and a stripy, black and white top.
Elsie had watched them go with a petulant frown. Sam had wanted to apologise again but hadn’t.
“I need to speak to Smythe about all this,” Sam stated, his steps clipped as they erupted onto the roadway at the Wilton Road side of the library. Superintendent Smythe was known for leaving early. He’d not realised how much of the day had passed inside while he and O’Rourke had hunted through the seemingly endless pile of magazines. Sam was amazed by how long it had taken to pore through the issues of the Picture Post. At points, it had felt as though there was a different magazine every day, not just every week.
Almost running, his back twinging with the movement, Sam thudded through the door of the police station, startling a woman at the front desk, talking earnestly to Jones. Her head shot upright, grabbing for her bag as though Sam was about to attempt to steal it.
“Excuse me,” Sam apologised, removing his peaked hat and bustling his way through to the back offices, O’Rourke following behind. They all but collided with Smythe as he was donning his hat and preparing to hook his coat from the coatrack.
Smythe took one look at them with his intelligent gaze. He carefully placed his hat back on the coat stand, dropping a hand from the coat, before moving behind his desk. His eyes remained on them the entire time.
“Tell me?” he demanded to know, without so much as a greeting. It was evident that Smythe had been aware that he and O’Rourke had been inside the library building all day. Sam admired his resolve not to demand answers sooner.
“I’ll show you,” and Sam took the magazine he’d been hiding beneath his coat, the first one his wife had found, showing a young girl playing hockey, along with the drawing Hamish had produced of the case he’d known so well.
Sam placed them one beside the other on the desk in front of the superintendent. O’Rourke carried the other drawings and magazines, Elsie having allowed the library issued ones to be removed from her domain, on strict instructions that they were to be returned in the same condition in which they’d left. She’d painstakingly written out the list of issues as soon as Sam had realised he’d need to remove them.
A flicker of consternation touched Smythe’s face as he looked aghast, and then it cleared.
“Are there others?” Smythe was quick to decipher the intent. O’Rourke quickly laid out the other eight drawings and advertisements, the one drawing already marking the correct pages.
They covered Smythe’s desk, and further as well, O’Rourke forced to place them on the floor because there was nowhere else for them. Smythe examined the items on his desk, his head nodding when he’d satisfied himself of the similarity. Sam held his tongue but then couldn’t, not any longer.
“There are nine so far, but my wife, and the local library, don’t have all of the editions published to date. There might be others in these missing volumes.”
“Yes, yes, I can see why you’re so excited,” Smythe confirmed, even going so far as to kneel on the wooden floor. “We need to get on to this and quickly. What are you going to do next?”
“I want to visit the magazine headquarters. Search for the final missing image. That would mean a visit to London.” Smythe was already nodding.
“Well, if it has to be, then it must be done. Better to have all the evidence than only some of it.”
But Sam was thinking.
“Unless, of course, the library in Birmingham might have copies. It would certainly be quicker to get to.”
“It would, yes, but if they don’t, then it’s a day wasted. No, hop on the train and get to the heart of the matter. It’ll be best in the long run.”
“I’ll go tomorrow then and take O’Rourke with me.”
“Report to me on Thursday. Let me know how you get on.”
And with that, Sam was dismissed. He turned to go, his lips curling at the thought of another train ride.
Chapter 11
Sam walked through the revolving door; his eyes focused on the building he was entering. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Not at all. The rumble of a passing train, almost overhead, made him flinch, the sound far too much like that of the aircraft of the enemy. He tried not to wince as the more comforting smell of the burning coal followed behind.
“Good day,” the man behind the high desk spoke immediately on seeing them, startling upright at the sight of two police officers, even if they wore less intimidating hats than the usual curved ones. His accent was smooth, although Sam detected the hint of a London drawl beneath it.
The man was no more than twenty-five, blond hair covering his forehead, although Sam detected a scar running deep beneath the hairline. Evidently another injured soldier, sailor or airman.
“Good day. My name’s Chief Inspector Mason. I was hoping to speak to someone about old copies of your magazine, the very first editions, from 1938.”
“Ah, you’ll need to speak to Harry Underhill about that. If you wait here, I’ll go and see if he’s available. Where are you from?” And his scared face wrinkled with consternation.
“Erdington, close to Birmingham,” Sam clarified when the man didn’t recognise the name.
“Right. Just hold on a moment.” And he walked from behind his desk and towards a staircase, to the far side of the room.
He and O’Rourke stood in silence. They’d exhausted their conversation during the train journey, choosing a carriage where they were alone and could talk about the case, even as they’d slipped by the ruin of Coventry. Sam hadn’t been able to stop himself from staring at the devastated city.
Of course, he’d read about the destructive attacks on the fine city, the fire that had destroyed the ancient cathedral, but it had been quite another thing to see it. Everywhere he’d looked, there’d been broken buildings, and that had just been riding through Coventry on the train. He’d spared a thought to all those who’d died, especially the nine constables from the local police.
Sam had thought the attacks on Erdington had been terrifying enough, but there was little of Coventry that remained standing, even now, over a year since the worse attack.
He returned his thoughts to O’Rourke and his conversation. It had felt like a circular argument, but it had reassured Sam to know she shared his thoughts.
“Right, come this way,” the same male voice called from the top of the stairs. “Harry says he can spare you a few minutes.”
The cry made Sam jump, and he startled towards the stairs. Behind him, he could hear O’Rourke removing her coat. He thought he should probably have done the same. It was warm inside, very warm, compared to the icy sharpness of the wind gusting down the enclosed streets.
“It’s just along here,” the voice directed them, Sam’s eyes drawn to the framed photographs lining the walls, or rather, the framed covers of the Picture Post, from the first edition onwards. He vaguely recalled seeing some of the later additions, but not these first ones.
“Sorry,”
he called, on realising he’d come to a stop.
“It’s not a problem. It’s quite impressive,” the receptionist agreed. “Sometimes, I forget how young the publication is. I feel as though this is all I’ve ever done.” There was a pleased resignation to his voice.
With a firm knock, their presence was announced as the heavy wooden door was pushed open. It was a larger door than usual, but once inside, Sam realised why. There was a row of trolleys, all of them just about the same width as the door. He had no idea what they were used for, but clearly, it was important.
“Ah, Chief Inspector Mason, come in, please.” The voice that called to him seemed to emanate from far away, and in fact, Sam could see no one, just a collection of large, wooden bookcases, covered in what looked to be small boxes. Just another storeroom. It was beginning to feel as though he could only solve this case when he’d been in the archive of every building in Great Britain.
“I’m here,” the disembodied voice called again. “Come to the left-hand side.” Sam turned to O’Rourke and quirked an eyebrow at her. She grinned, and he was pleased not to be the only one who found it all a bit strange.
“Ah, there you are,” and a thirty-something man knelt before them, his dark hair standing on end. “I’ve been hunting for a damn photograph that I know is here somewhere, but I’m buggered if I can find it.” His voice was filled with resignation, and Sam wanted to laugh at such consternation.
Standing upright, the younger man’s eyes swept over O’Rourke, the hint of crimson shading his ears. “Oh, apologies, I thought. Well,” and he continued to stutter. “I am sorry,” and he swept O’Rourke a small bow. Sam rolled his eyes at the action, but O’Rourke seemed to appreciate it, even though he’d heard her say much worse without considering her audience.
“They told me you were coming up. I’m Harry Underhill. I’m responsible for the archive and what a brute it’s already turning out to be. I’ve set up a good system, but it’s not quite infallible.” He scratched his head as he spoke, perplexed expression sweeping the room. Sam tried not to wince. While it had the veneer of being organised, he spotted stray photos wedged beneath box lids, while others were peeking from beneath the bottom of the shelving.
