Masters and Green Series Box Set

by Douglas Clark

  Green said: ‘I see they’ve all got an Elsan Hall.’ At the end of each garden was a tiny hut. Brant said: ‘D’you know, I thought they were tool sheds,’ and laughed at himself.

  Masters said to Garner: ‘Do you happen to know where the graves are?’

  Garner was in civilian clothes. He was wearing a belted mackintosh and gumboots. His head was bare, and the remains of his skimpy grey hair were blowing in the wind, straggling over his bald patch and his ears. He had high colouring, underlined by a pallor still remaining from his recent illness. But his eyes were bright and smiling. He said: ‘They’ve all got hessian screens round, sir. But the wind could have blown them over.’

  ‘Was there no guard out here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In a Panda car stationed just where we are now until eight o’clock. Superintendent Bullimore asked me to tell you he couldn’t spare the car any more. But the exact places where the bodies were lying are marked by two sticks. White at the head and black at the foot.’

  ‘Right,’ Masters said. ‘Are we ready? There should be one grave between the dunes and the water line. That should be easy to find, so we’ll start there.’

  The hessian was wet and soggy. The four corner poles of the screen had all bent inwards under the weight and the force of the wind. The grave was still there, and in spite of it being sand, there was water in the bottom. Masters gingerly moved the screen and went inside. He said to Green: ‘What d’you think? Three feet deep?’

  ‘Hardly. What’s been dug out has been piled round the sides. It’s got flattened a bit, but I wouldn’t put it at much more than two feet.’

  ‘And six feet across?’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘How long would it take to dig?’

  ‘It’s amazing how fast you can go in this sort of stuff when you’re in a hurry. I suppose he had a shovel? Yes, he must have had. In my day I reckon I could have done it in less than twenty minutes.’

  ‘You should know. Alamein and all that.’ He opened the big scale map. ‘Now, here’s the cross marking this one. How do we know it’s right? Measure from the nearest bungalow, I suppose.’

  Surprisingly, Green took over. He said: ‘We’ll have to do a resection. I’ll have the compass first.’

  Hill handed over the heavy prismatic. Green said: ‘The trouble with these big plans is they don’t cover enough space to get really decent rays.’

  ‘This is all Greek to me.’

  Green said: ‘Never mind. You’ll learn. Now, is that sewage outfall tower marked? Right. All metal out of the way?’ He put the compass to his eye and took the bearing of the conical lattice tower standing out of the water a mile away. He murmured: ‘Two nine seven. Take away a hundred and eighty. Gives us a hundred and seventeen. Make a note of that, somebody.’

  Brant scribbled the figure down. Green said: ‘Now I want something as near at right angles as possible to get a good, clean cut.’ He pointed back along the track the car had used. He said: ‘What’s that low, brick building yonder?’

  Garner said: ‘The Golf Club, sir.’

  ‘Is it on the map?’

  Masters said: ‘It’s here.’ He was trying to follow Green’s manœuvres. Up to now he hadn’t succeeded. Green took another shot with the compass. ‘Two four eight,’ he said. ‘Take off a hundred and eighty. Gives us sixty-eight. Got that?’

  Brant nodded.

  Green took the map from Masters and the protractor from Hill. He said: ‘I need a table. We’ll have to go back to the car and use the bonnet.’

  While the others held down the map corners, Green drew lines at the back bearings he had given Brant from the sewage tower and the Golf Club House. They crossed almost at right angles an eighth of an inch away from Bullimore’s original cross. He turned to Masters. ‘Six inches to a mile. That means an inch is roughly three hundred yards. An eighth of an inch would be what? Between thirty-five and forty yards? That’s about how far out the first grave is.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘No. But I can test by taking a third ray and getting a triangle of error if you like.’ Green was enjoying himself. Masters wondered where he had learned this particular skill. Green gave him the answer without being asked. He said: ‘Of course, when we did survey in the Gunners we used directors, and they’re more accurate than compasses. But I put the magnetic deflection on, so I shouldn’t be more than half a degree out in my bearings.’

  He returned to the grave and took a shot at a church tower, nearly four miles away, and just inside the bounds of the map. He had some difficulty in seeing, with one eye closed, and the other squinting through the hair-line slit. The tower was the same grey as the sky behind it, and it was some minutes—after resting his arm twice—before he was satisfied where the three lines on the map crossed. Green said: ‘Make a dot in the middle of that, and you’ll be bang on.’

  Masters said: ‘So Bullimore was about thirty yards out. Not bad for by guess and by God.’

  Green said, amiably enough for him: ‘Not bad at all. But I bet he wasn’t so hot on the others. This was easy. Right on the shore line. He could only make a mistake east and west. The north-south line was fixed for him.’

  ‘Can we plot the others?’

  ‘We can. But why the hell should we? What’s the use of knowing to within a yard where they were dumped?’

  ‘Can you tell me why the murderer lugged his victims’ bodies in all directions before burying them? Say he came by car. He would be obliged to park where our wagon is now. Yet the graves he dug are dotted about. Why not put them all together? As close to the car as possible? And save transporting dead weight over soft sand—which is difficult to walk on at the best of times.’

  Green replied: ‘How d’you know they were dead when they arrived? He could have walked them off into the dunes and killed them where they stopped. They just didn’t happen to go in the same direction each time.’

  Masters could see the force of this argument, and agreed that Green had every possibility of being right. ‘But,’ he said, ‘remember Swaine’s theory last night. Symbolism. I can’t ignore the fact that the same thread runs right through every one of the murderer’s actions. I’ve looked at this plan, with Bullimore’s crosses on it, and I can see no rhyme nor reason in the dispersal of the bodies. And nobody has found the fifth victim. For all we know she could be miles from here. May well be, if your theory is right. And yet, if that were so, it would be the first inconsistency, wouldn’t it? So, on the off chance that it will help us, let’s plot the others carefully.’

  ‘O.K. You’re the boss. Come on, lads. We’ll need the fifty foot this time.’ Hill held it out. A long tape in a brown leather cover, big as a tea plate, and an inch deep.

  ‘Can I leave it to you?’ said Masters.

  Green nodded, and said to Garner: ‘We’re going clockwise round to finish up here again. I want you to go to the next grave. Here, see. South-east. About two hundred yards away. When you get there, stand right beside it and hold up a white handkerchief. If I can see it, we’ll be O.K. If not, you’ll have to tie it on the end of one of the sticks round the grave and hold it up. Right? Off you go then.’

  Green turned to Masters. ‘This may take a long time. If they’re not intervisible, we’ll have to do dog legs round obstacles.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Plot intermediate points by bearing and distance. And I don’t like that much. Apart from the time it’ll take I’m liable to get up to half a degree error in every bearing as I told you.’

  ‘Can you judge how inaccurate it will be when you’ve finished?’

  Green lit a Kensitas. ‘I can tell you now. It’ll be bloody inaccurate. But I’m going to close on this first grave at the end, so we’ll be able to see exactly. Then, to iron out the error, I could go round again, anti-clockwise, and see what comes up.’

  Masters said: ‘Do your best. If I can be of help I’ll be nosing round. Give me a shout.’ He waited a few minutes to fill his pipe and to w
atch Green dispose his forces. After a bit of to-ing and fro-ing by Brant, carrying messages to Garner to get the handkerchief higher, Green was able to take a direct bearing to the second grave. Then followed the business of measuring by Brant and Hill. Green was taking great care to see that their fifty feet of tape were always in the direct line between himself and the handkerchief. He controlled them by a series of arm signals. Right arm outstretched—move to the right. Arm slapped down, stop. Left arm up—move gently to the left. Stop. Mark the spot. Measure the next fifty feet. Masters could see that the exercise would take some time. With his pipe burning well in the wind, he turned to the bungalows and trudged over the sand towards them.

  They were depressing. Wooden huts with corrugated iron roofs. Eyeless because the windows were boarded up. Tatty because the paint, mainly green and white, was flaking and faded, sapped of its nature by the salt-laden air and sun. Wooden huts on stilts to keep them clear of the sand. Masters looked more closely at these foundations. Some were of squared timber, but most were large, round, wooden blocks, eighteen inches in diameter and a foot deep. Small flights of two or three wooden steps up to front doors—each with a name reminiscent of fictional suburbia: Crow’s Nest, Dun Roamin, Sandy Nook—on to verandas, where sand had drifted against palings in narrow slopes like wedges of cheese. He walked round the back of the nearest one. Here a gutter had been added to the roof and a downspout leading into a forty-gallon oil drum with a distorted wooden lid. The recent rain had caused it to overflow, and the sand around it was darker and wetter than the rest. There were padlocks on the shutters and the door. He guessed there would be four rooms. One with a fireplace, because a tin chimney with a coolie-hat on top stood up a foot above the roof.

  He looked around. On some bungalows there were television aerials; and one or two had car ports, some tailor made, others constructed of sections of old air raid shelter. But nowhere could he see any article which suggested that for several months in the year hundreds of families lived here and enjoyed themselves. The owners had taken great care to see that the scavengers didn’t get rich at their expense.

  As he moved about, he came across Garner, erecting a banderole for his handkerchief at the third grave. Masters said: ‘I’ve never seen those round wooden things before. What are they?’

  Garner said: ‘Fishing bobbins, sir. They’ve got a hole down the middle like a cotton bobbin. They’re threaded on to a metal foot rope and roll along the sea bed as the trawlers fish. At least they did. They use metal ones now. But those old wooden ones are useful for all sorts of things. I’ve got one at home I use for a chopping block when I’m cutting kindling.’

  Masters thanked him. He looked into the grave. White and black sticks about five feet apart. He walked on to the fourth grave. The same sticks. He stood for a moment. Lit his pipe. Then lined himself up behind the white stick, looking directly over the black one. He could see the distant outskirts of Finstoft. He noted the building in line with his view. He returned to the first grave and repeated the manœuvre. The line of the white and black sticks again picked up the same building. Interested, he trudged round the remaining two graves. The same result. Green by now was on his last lap. As he stood signalling to the sergeants, Masters told him of this new discovery.

  Green said: ‘All lined up, are they?’

  ‘No. They concentrate on the one building.’

  Green slapped his hand to his thigh and made a pushing signal with both hands to tell the sergeants to move on. Then he said: ‘They only appear to concentrate. That building’s so far away that the slightest divergence out of parallel would make the lines miss it. They’re lined up, I reckon.’

  ‘Could you use your compass to tell me in exactly what direction?’

  ‘Nothing easier.’

  Green finished his traverse and again using the bonnet of the car as his table, plotted the various bearings and distances. His work was good. By the time he’d finished he had an irregular rectangle with a grave at each corner, except the first. Here he had a slight gap in the lines and two crosses. He said: ‘We’re as near as dammit right. Not more’n fifteen yards out at any rate. Good enough?’

  ‘Excellent, thank you.’ He looked at the map. It told him nothing. There were Bullimore’s marks and Green’s marks and the resection rays and the traverse box. It was a hotchpotch. Reluctantly he folded it away and said: ‘Now, the alignment of the graves.’

  He plodded round with Green, who took shots over the head and foot sticks as marker posts. Green made notes on his Kensitas packet after each one. As they walked back to the car at the end, he said: ‘Well, as near as I can tell you, the bodies were laid due east and west, with the heads pointing east. Was that what you were expecting?’

  ‘Something of the sort. It doesn’t tell us much, but it definitely corroborates Swaine’s belief that symbolism is involved; and that the one we’re after is a most methodical loony.’

  They all got into the car for the journey back to the Estuary. Garner, sitting forward between Masters and Green on the back seat was uncomfortable, not only because of his restricted sitzplatz, but because of his proximity to two men who, as leaders of this particular team, had a countrywide reputation for success in difficult cases. He wondered about them. In spite of the reputation they appeared very ordinary men to him. But different in their attitudes. More professional. No local C.I.D. men had gone out and surveyed the area. And from what he had gathered from the conversation nobody had tumbled to this theory of—what was it?—symbolism? He wondered exactly what was meant by it. Perhaps if he kept his eyes and ears open he’d get to know. Meanwhile he felt more than pleased to be working with leading lights from Scotland Yard, even if it was only as dogsbody. His thoughts were interrupted by Masters who said: ‘Would you like a drink, Constable, before your lunch?’

  ‘Thanks very much, sir.’

  ‘O.K. A quick one and then Sergeant Brant will run you home. It’s twelve now. Can you get back to the Estuary by two?’

  ‘Easily, sir.’

  ‘Right. Here we are.’

  *

  The Sundowner was fairly full. They stood together—a ring of five big men—away from the bar. Green said: ‘Visiting relatives this afternoon?’

  Masters said: ‘That’s right. We’ll split into pairs. I want you, Garner, to act as guide and chauffeur. And please get a list of the telephone numbers of the houses so we can make contact that way if needs be, otherwise, with only one car, some of us could be stranded for a long time.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Garner put his beer mug on a small table. ‘Well, thanks. I’ll be off now if it’s all right with the sergeant.’

  Brant followed him up the stairs.

  Masters said: ‘We’ve read the local reports, but I want us all to forget them. They’re superficial.’

  ‘They struck me like the minutes of a meeting of the old boy network,’ said Green. ‘They’re all old pals round here, so they can’t be objective. When you know a chap socially you can’t question him close enough to bash the acne out of him, can you?’

  ‘Substitute “exact the truth” for what you’ve just said and I’ll agree.’

  ‘We’re slipping, aren’t we, chief?’ Hill said. ‘Been here nearly twenty-four hours and not one suspect.’

  ‘You remember the case we finished two days ago? We ignored the weapon there, because we’d no lead on it. But we managed to arrive by taking a roundabout route. I may be wrong, but here I feel the murderer himself is not as important as his motive. That’s what I want to get at.’

  ‘I know his motive. He’s crackers. Really, seriously mad,’ said Green.

  ‘Maybe. And mental illness alone may drive a man to murder. But what causes his mental illness? That’s my point. I think some powerful emotion motivated a sick man to the point where he could bear to commit five murders. Ritualistically and cunningly. And we’ve got to dig out the reason for that emotion, otherwise we’ve had it. We’re not going to solve this one with fingerpri
nts and breaking an alibi. It’s going to mean some hard slogging and, unless I’m mistaken, some hefty digging into the past.’

  Hill said: ‘And I bet I know who’s got to do most of the digging. Have we time for one more, before Sarn’t Brant gets back?’ Masters declined. ‘We’ll go for lunch. He’ll be with us before we’re served.’

  When they were having their coffee, Masters said: ‘It’s no use setting out with any preconceived ideas of what you’re going to hear. Obviously we want everything we can get that relates to the time each woman disappeared, but I particularly want to know whether we can establish any form of relationship between them or any common factor which links them. It doesn’t matter what it is. But most of all I want to find a common, human contact, because I can see no material reason for these murders, whereas human—probably mental—conflict could account for them. Find out. If we can establish a common denominator our job’s going to be a lot easier than it would be if these five women were all picked at random. But you don’t need me to tell you that. Patterns in crimes help solve them. And in this particular crime there are so many patterns that I’m positive there must be a design in the selection of victims. Let’s find out what it is. We may not get it today, or for a number of days. But gather the pieces, just the same.’

  ‘What about the husbands? Are we concentrating on them to begin with?’ said Brant.

  ‘You’re concentrating on everybody and everything. But chiefly consider that here are five women all of whom have lived in this area for the past forty years. I want a common factor—human if possible. Our job is to find that common factor, and to do it we have to know when it was in existence. So, as I said last night, we have to dig deep. Five women and forty years to play with. It’s a big job.’