Faust glanced about at the young faces. He’d been there long enough to recognize most of them. Lance Corporal Pym, with his steady grey-eyed stare, stood over the rifles on the table as if to protect them. Tall wiry Norris with his bruised face had wanted to be brave but hadn’t managed it. Carmichael at the radio, unconcerned even by Tanyon’s promise, his haircut as bad as ever and ragged beneath his canted earphones. The switchboard operator from yesterday afternoon, Glover, whose guileless green eyes seemed made for smiling. Ellington with his shorn bullet head and parted lips, uncertainty driving out his usual dreamy expression. And Peckham, who’d proven himself stout enough to unload the hospital wall from the lorry’s cab. The other two he didn’t know yet, although he assumed the chesty youngster with complacent brown eyes and weathered skin who planted his back against the closed door was Whiteside. The other, presumably Reynolds since he stood near the phone, was a lanky thin-faced kid with a slack mouth and small close-set eyes who seemed content to hang in the background behind Bruckmann, letting others make the decisions and take the blame.
They all met his glance and most returned a hard stare. Ice seeped from his guts into his chest and abdomen, leaving him hot and shivering and cold, like on a battlefield. Maybe he should grab one of the rifles for self-defense. No, they’d be all over him if he went for a weapon. Besides, he still didn’t know if they were loaded.
Tanyon picked up one of the rifles from the table, not the one with the bent barrel. “Lieutenant, what did you learn from Mr. Wainwright?”
“Grace Alcock.” Bruckmann visibly swallowed. “Her mother found her in her bedroom, butchered.”
The room seemed to swim around him. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
What looked like a seaful of skeptical faces swiveled from the sergeant to him. But Tanyon, their centerpiece, braced the rifle butt atop the table and leaned on it. “I know.”
They all turned back to the sergeant. Faust blinked and found air. But again, he didn’t know what to say.
Bruckmann crossed his arms. “All right, sergeant. We’re listening.”
“You didn’t have time.” Tanyon spoke to Faust, as if they were alone in the room. “You weren’t in Pamela Alcock’s chicken runs for more than a few moments. Then you rolled back over her wall and took off across Jerome Owen’s turnip field on the other side of the road. I saw you run into the Dark all the way over there. And I know you didn’t cross the road again.”
“You couldn’t see the whole road, sergeant,” Norris said. “You can’t know that.”
“From the top of the rise I could see enough of it. Nobody crossed.”
If he’d tried to force a way through Tanyon atop the rise — worse, if he’d succeeded —
“Besides, we caught you outside Bowdon and you had to run most of the way to get there in less than three hours. If you’d taken the time to butcher someone first, you wouldn’t have made it so far. Unless there are two homicidal maniacs running around, you aren’t it.” Tanyon paused and nodded down toward Stoner’s office. “They’ll figure it out sooner or later.”
The hard stares were fading into uncertainty, even Bruckmann’s. Faust found more air and started panting, as if he’d run across another field. If he’d grabbed for a weapon —
Tanyon glanced at the rifle in his hand, then meaningfully at him. “You expecting the worst?”
He looked away. Norris and Peckham sniggered. But Pym huffed as if insulted. Bruckmann remained silent, arms still crossed.
“You’ll find Mr. Stoner’s not like that. He doesn’t allow physical stuff, at least not generally. There are only certain situations where he’ll turn a blind eye.”
His breath caught again. “For example?”
Tanyon fingered the rifle. “You’ll have to learn from experience.”
This time Whiteside and Carmichael joined the snickers.
Faust glanced at Bruckmann; an officer shouldn’t allow threats of physical violence. But the lieutenant didn’t react, which meant he was on his own.
Sods.
“So what’s the game, sergeant?”
“Take off the sling,” Tanyon said.
Well, it was true he could fight better without it. He tugged his arm free and slid the white cloth over his head. “Would you actually use a rifle on an unarmed and injured man?”
“After you smacked one of my boys silly and made me look a fool? Your boots.”
He blinked. “What about them?”
“Take them off.”
Faust paused. If he gave up his boots, it would be harder to escape again. But Tanyon only gave him a moment to think. He cradled the rifle and eased closer, knuckles whitening about the stock.
It wouldn’t be worth the fight, at least not yet. He propped his right boot on the edge of the table, unlacing it left-handed. His fingers fumbled on the knot. They were staring at him again, and he could feel himself reddening as he unlaced the left one.
He kicked off both boots. “Okay, your move.”
“The tunic.”
This time the snickers rippled through all the grinning youngsters, even Pym. His flush deepened. It was one thing to be stripped and searched upon first capture; that was expected; but this, Stoner’s contingency, was public and demeaning. He narrowed his eyes. If he did fight, he’d start with Tanyon. Nobody else mattered.
The sergeant wasn’t smiling. He eased even closer. Another step, and he would be close enough to whip out with the butt of the rifle and catch him in the stomach or across the face. “Unless you’re willing to be finished, don’t even start.”
He unbuttoned his tunic. “I resent this.”
“Now the shirt.”
He peeled it over his head and eased it past the bloody bandage, tossing it, too, on the table. But when Tanyon opened his mouth again, Faust beat him to the punch. “No.”
“Lieutenant, I think your invitation to this party should be just about used up.”
Faust glanced at Bruckmann. An officer shouldn’t permit this. But Bruckmann stood beside Carmichael and the radio, his face expressionless. For a long moment he didn’t move, and the hot blood drained from Faust’s face into his socks. Then the lieutenant tilted his head — them’s the breaks, mate — and Whiteside closed the door behind him.
Tanyon’s expression hadn’t altered. This, he knew, was his last chance. To fight or not to fight? If he did, the swinging rifle would take less than a second to put him retching on the floor. He’d be stripped by force and thrown into the cell. Would the additional misery be worth it to make the point?
“I’ve got my orders.” Tanyon’s voice was quiet. “We’re going to follow them. Do you have to do everything the hard way?”
He stripped, cold with rage. “Sods.”
“That your insult of choice?”
“What do you think?”
“I think I’ve got a few of my own.”
He threw his trousers on the table and stood in the midst of the grinning kids in his shorts and undervest.
“In the cell,” Tanyon said.
No way he’d admit defeat. He grabbed his tunic, yanked his cigarettes and matches from the breast pocket, and jerked his sling from beneath the pile of clothing. He paused long enough to glare back then stalked into the cell. Tanyon closed it behind him and the lock snapped.
“Blankets on the cot if you get cold,” Tanyon said. “Set the cot on fire and you sleep on the floor.”
“There are words for people like you and laws against wearing such an ugly face.”
Tanyon grunted. “Ellington, run this uniform down to Sally and see if she has time to clean it.”
“Do you expect to earn Brownie points?” His hands shook so hard he snapped the first match. He threw it on the floor and tried again.
“You also have to police your area.”
“Not for your dear old mama.”
“Cripes, you’ve got a mouth on you.” Tanyon threw the rifle he held to Norris. “Clean that and put it away. Whiteside, hand me the
duty roster. Since our schedule’s all shot to criminy,” he added over his shoulder, “for some reason I won’t name, I’ll have to sort out who’s actually on duty and who’s not.”
At least he’d accomplished something. “Get used to it.” He inhaled hard and welcomed the nicotine surging into his system. They’d all beaten him — Kettering, Jennifer, Stoner, Bruckmann, Tanyon.
Revenge would have to be explicitly juicy to make up for this.
Chapter Thirty
the same afternoon
Pamela Alcock’s chicken farm
Hackney smelled death, and another tiny piece of his heart died within him.
It was always the same. Whenever he witnessed the horrors which could be inflicted upon the human anatomy, whenever he considered the possibility it could have been his own sweet wife lying there, or one of his sons, or the cleaning lady down the street, or the greengrocer next block over — whenever he smelled death, he became a little sadder.
Arnussen saw it, he knew. He and the sergeant had worked together for over twenty years now, advancing together through the ranks, and he knew Arnussen measured every step his heart retreated. It was different for him. The sergeant never seemed to take death personally. He could look a corpse or a murderer in the eye and never miss a meal or a step. He just smiled his little smile, commented on how life did go on, didn’t it, and kept going himself as if to prove his point.
But Hackney had never learned to let a case go. He couldn’t solve all of them; no one could. And the cases he couldn’t solve remained open, in the files and in his mind, framed photographs of the victims crowded atop the bookcase beside his desk, smiling and watching him through the years. And he remembered all their names and their families’ tear-streaked faces and how they died and where they were buried. And on the anniversaries of their deaths, he visited their graves if he could. And whenever he stood at the graveside of an unsolved homicide victim, another tiny piece of his heart died.
This girl’s bedroom was at the back of the house, casement windows wide open to the cackling chickens in their runs. A soldier stood on the lawn outside, rifle on his shoulder, guarding her death. Kettering had been as good as his word and the crime scene was untouched. Only the poor mother had intruded, stumbling from her daughter’s bedroom in hysteria, and her fingerprints would be there in any case. Kettering assured them he had stopped in horror at the door. It was as close to unspoiled as the police would ever get.
“Not as bad as the other.” Arnussen indicated the mush that had once been a young girl’s chest. “Not as much bruising on the face, either.”
“Still a lot of rage, though. How many times do you think he stabbed her? Twenty, thirty?”
“Something like that.”
Hackney forced himself to examine her nude body, the blood splatters on the headboard, the bruising and overkill, and implant all of it into his memory. The only thing he touched was her dark hair spilling over the pillow. Then he straightened.
“Let’s get a photographer and a fingerprint expert out here. After they’re done, we’ll let the doctor in.”
“Did you see this?” Arnussen pointed with his pencil toward a bit of bloody rag on the floor of the closet.
Hackney fumbled a rubber glove from a pocket and put it on, then picked up the bit of cloth. It was a handkerchief, smeared not spattered, and seemed wet with more than blood. “He cleaned himself afterward.” He held out a hand; Arnussen, prepared and waiting, gave him a small paper bag. Hackney dropped the handkerchief into it and rolled down the top. “It might be local. Let’s see if we can trace it after the lab boys are through with it.”
Arnussen made a note on his ever-present pad.
Hackney scanned the room. A cheaply framed print of Gainsborough’s The Blue Boy was above the headboard, now splattered with gore; feminine undergarments were on the floor, kicked halfway beneath the bed and peeping from beneath the disarranged dust ruffle; a violin in an open case in the corner, stamped into splinters. He gestured. “Do you think we might get a boot- or shoeprint?”
Arnussen made another note. “The weather’s been dry. But we’ll see.”
“Do you think she was alive to see it happen?”
“Gentlemen.”
A tall man stood framed in the doorway with a medical bag in his hand. His grey suit was rumpled as if he’d slept in it.
“Dr. Harris,” he said, not entering. “I’ve read enough Dorothy Sayers and Ellery Queen novels to know what a fingerprint is and how not to leave one. May I come in and see the body in situ?”
Arnussen glanced at Hackney and shrugged. Hackney invited the doctor in with a sweep of his arm.
“Thank you.” Dr. Harris paused at the bedside. “Grace.”
The doctor’s taut words swam in pain that sounded personal. Hackney cocked his head. “Did you know her?”
“A patient.” Dr. Harris, too, touched her dark hair, Hackney noted. “We took out her tonsils when she was twelve and her inflamed appendix last year. A sickly girl, our little Grace. Was,” he added.
“Can you estimate her time of death?” Arnussen said. “Unless you want to excuse yourself for personal involvement.”
Without answering, the doctor set his medical bag on the foot of the bed, well away from the blood spatters, and pulled on surgical gloves. Then he moved her eyelids, touched her cheeks, waggled her jaw. “No rigor yet.” He shifted her slightly and peered at her back. “But lividity’s started.” He glanced up at Hackney. “Do you want me to do a temperature test?”
“Please.”
He sorted through his bag and produced a rectal thermometer. Hackney turned away, looking out the window at the sentry on the back lawn, now standing at rigid attention. Nearby stood the trim, slender figure of Major Kettering, arms folded across his chest, staring back without blinking.
“Just over ninety-five degrees,” Dr. Harris said, “say about two hours.”
Arnussen wrote it down.
“Thank you, doctor.” Hackney turned from the window and Kettering’s glare. “Where do you want us to send her body after the photographer’s done?”
Dr. Harris hesitated, glancing down. Hackney followed his gaze to the huddled figure sprawled across the bed, her blue eyes glassy and fixed on nothing. Another bit of his heart died.
“The best autopsy facilities are still at Patchbourne hospital, even though part of the building caved in during our last bombing raid. But you know, I’ve done some autopsy and surgical photography myself, and my rig’s outside. Do you want me to — give it a whirl?”
At least he hadn’t said take a stab at it. Hackney glanced at Arnussen and decided his sergeant was thinking the same morbid, absurd thought.
“Why not?” Hackney said. “Are you still driving about? Can you get petrol?”
“Motorbike and a medical allowance.” Dr. Harris pulled off the gloves, dropped them inside out into his bag, and removed it from the bed. “I have a covered sidecar for my various equipment, including my horn.”
Hackney stared at him, eyebrows up.
“I play in the Patchbourne symphony orchestra, such as it is.” Dr. Harris nodded toward the bed. “Grace played second fiddle.”
Hackney glanced, not at her, but at her crushed violin. If he could get the boot’s owner, he didn’t care what his heart did.
While Arnussen directed Dr. Harris’ photography, Hackney escaped from the bedroom into the den. A pudding-shaped woman with the same dark hair, now shot through with grey, moaned and tossed on the creaking sofa. Her eyes drifted open as he watched, then closed as if the weight of her lids was too much to lift. Sedated, apparently, and for the best. Questioning and comforting her was a job for Arnussen, he with his cordoned-off heart and gentle smile for the ladies, he who had deliberately never married and never opened himself up for either the pleasure or the pain.
A group of framed photos clustered atop a doily on a small table. One showed a dark-haired girl playing in the string section of a small orchestra.
Hackney slid it into his coat pocket and let himself out the front door.
Kettering awaited him on the front lawn, arms still folded. “What do you think?” he asked before Hackney got his mouth open.
“I think we have a serious problem.” Hackney glanced about. Most of the soldiers he’d seen on his arrival had vanished, along with all but one of the Bedford trucks. Only a few sentries still formed a perimeter about the chicken farm. “Where did everyone go?”
“I sent most of my men back to our encampment,” Kettering said. “But I can and will produce them whenever you like.”
“Major, how many men were involved in the search for the German officer today?”
Kettering pursed his lips. “There were a half-dozen RAF men, I believe off-duty sentries, no officer, only a lance-corporal in charge. But they were too fagged to be much use so we sent them back to their base before the search began. Leftenant Bruckmann had his sergeant and seven men with him. I brought two companies, each with its own lieutenant and non-coms, and my own sergeant. Say about one hundred fifty, sixty men, all told.”
Hackney winced. To those men he’d have to add the pilots and villagers from the dance on Saturday night and any additional troops and Home Guard units who’d been involved in the first manhunt. The suspect list couldn’t be longer if the investigation took place in downtown Oxford rather than a quiet village. “We’ll need statements from all of them. Then we’ll have to correlate them with alibis from Saturday night.”
Kettering’s intensity faded. “What about Saturday night?”
“This is the second murder, you know.”
“Is it?” Kettering stroked his pencil-thin mustache. “And Saturday night was the first time we looked for the jerry. You know, I spoke with the man and even liked him. Who would have thought it?”
Too many people were going to make such an assumption. “We don’t know he did it and we do have all those other men to account for.”
Kettering stared at him again. “You don’t think the circumstances — ”
Deal with the Devil Page 20
