River of Darkness jm-1

by Rennie Airth

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 new-fangled. 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 bright. '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 / 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.'

  'Sir… 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.'

  'Are we sure about the photograph, John? You're certain the War Office have 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 suntanned, with close-cut fair hair, he wore a well-pressed brown suit and a patterned red tie.

  'This is Mr Tozer,' Madden said. 'Mr Tozer — Chief Inspector Sinclair.'

  The man rose and offered his hand to Sinclair who shook it. A white ridge of scar tissue showed on his face, running from the corner of one eye to below his cheekbone.

  'I'm delighted to meet you, Mr Tozer. I take it our message reached you?'

  'Yes, sir. Last night when I got home.' He spoke with a marked Cockney accent.

  'Your sister wasn't expecting you till the weekend.'

  'I came back early, sir. It's been raining for three days in North Wales. When Milly gave me your message I thought I'd come down here in person. I always wanted to see the inside of Scotland Yard. Fact is, I was hoping to work here one day.' He displayed a crooked grin.

  'Were you, now?'

  The chief inspector shifted Tozer's chair so that it was facing his own desk. Hollingsworth had risen, but Sinclair waved him down.

  'Stay there, Sergeant. We'll need a note of this.' To Styles, he said, 'Bring in a chair for Mr Madden, Constable. And then you might fetch Mr Tozer a cup of tea.'

  He waited until Madden was seated in a chair alongside his desk.

  'You were saying you'd hoped to be a policeman?'

  'That's right, sir. I reckoned I was cut out for police work, especially after the time I spent with Captain Miller. But when I came to after our car was hit by that shell I found I had a flipper missing.' He grinned and held up his left arm, displaying the shirt pinned back under his jacket sleeve, covering the stump of his wrist. 'Well, bang went my hopes of joining the Met!'

&nbs
p; The chief inspector inclined his head. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Now, about this name you've given us.

  Pike. You're sure that's right?'

  'I am,' Tozer replied, without hesitation. 'Like I was saying to the Inspector, I remember the whole business clearly. It's not something you'd be likely to forget.'

  His eyes narrowed. 'Do you mind my asking, sir — but why do you want to know about it now?'

  'I don't mind your asking, Mr Tozer.' A smile touched the chief inspector's lips. 'But I'd be obliged for the moment if you'd answer our questions. We're somewhat pressed for time.'

  Madden interrupted, 'I came for you as soon as I got Pike's name, sir, and after I'd rung Colonel Jenkins at the War Office. But I dare say you'd like to hear it from the beginning 'Would you do that, Mr Tozer?' Sinclair turned to him. 'Start with the crime scene, please. Captain Miller was assigned to the case, I assume. Did you work with him regularly?'

  'Yes, I did, sir. The captain always used me as his clerk. We seemed to hit it off.'

  'And how long had you worked together?'

  'Going on six months. From the beginning of 1917.

  That's when I got posted to the investigation branch.

  Happiest day of my life, you might say.' Tozer looked up and saw Styles with a cup of tea standing beside him. 'Just put it down, would you, son?'

  He displayed his stump with a grin and the constable reddened. He placed the cup and saucer on the chief inspector's desk.

  'Your happiest day, Mr Tozer?'

  'Yes, sir. I was sent to France in early 1916, so I was there for the Somme, and afterwards.'

  'You took part in the battles?'

  'Oh, no, sir.' Tozer dropped his blue eyes. 'No, we were posted down the line. The men would go up to the forward trenches, but we had to wait in case any of them turned back. Sometimes they'd lose their nerve, and it was our job to pick them up. No more than boys many of them were… but they called them deserters just the same.' He lifted his gaze. 'They used to look at us, the Tommies, as they went by, up to the front. I'd never seen hate like that in anyone's eyes before…"

  He fell silent. No one spoke. He shifted his gaze from the chief inspector to Madden. "I reckon you know what I'm talking about, sir.'

  Madden moved his head a fraction. 'It's in the past now, Mr Tozer,' he said gently. 'Best to put it from your mind.'

  'Thank you, sir. I try to.'

  Sinclair let a few moments pass. Then he spoke again: 'So you joined the Special Investigation Branch?'

  'Yes, sir…' Tozer gathered himself. 'Well, not as such — the branch wasn't formed until after the war — but the Military Police were already detailing squads to do investigative work and I got myself posted to one which was attached to a provost company stationed at Poperinge. That's where I met Captain Miller. We were working on another case — a theft of goods in the railyards — when he got the order to drop everything and go directly to St Martens.'

  'That was the village closest to the farm, was it not?' Sinclair shifted in his chair. 'How far away was the military camp?'

  'Only a couple of miles. It was an area they used a lot for rest camps. Troops coming out of the line would spend about a week there before going back up.

  This particular battalion — it was from the South Notts Regiment — had been there four or five days.'

  'From the file it seems that the soldiers were regarded as the only suspects. Why was that?'

  Tozer tugged his earlobe. 'Well, for one thing, there weren't that many civilians around. The war had pretty well cleaned them out. A few of the farms were still being worked and there were people in the village.

  But the Belgian police and gendarmerie had been at work before we got there, checking on their own citizens. They reckoned they could account for all of them. And then there were the bodies, sir. Well, three of them. The husband and the two sons. They'd been bayoneted, no doubt about that. Expert job, too. One thrust each.'

  Sinclair glanced at Madden.

  'So Miller took over? It became a British investigation?'

  'Not entirely, sir. The victims were civilians. But the Belgians had asked for our assistance and it was understood Captain Miller would handle everything on the military side and keep the Belgian authorities informed.'

  'The woman who was killed, the farmer's wife, where did you find her body? Describe the scene, if you will.'

  Tozer reached forward for his cup of tea. He took a sip and then replaced the cup on its saucer. He licked his lips. 'She was in the bedroom upstairs, lying across the bed with her skirt and drawers ripped off. Her throat had been cut.'

  'The assumption, Captain Miller's assumption, was that she had been raped?' The chief inspector put it in the form of a question.

  'Oh, yes, sir. In fact, when he read the Belgian pathologist's report he asked him to go back and reexamine the body. He thought he must be wrong. But the pathologist confirmed there was no trace of seminal fluid and no sign of forcible entry.'

  'So the captain was surprised?'

  'He was. And not just by that. One of the things he noted, you may have seen it in the file, was the difference between the upstairs and the down. In the kitchen, where the men's bodies were found, you might have wondered how it could have happened.

  There wasn't a plate broken, just one chair overturned, as I recall. They must have been killed in a matter of seconds. Upstairs was a different story. She'd put up a fight. The mirror was smashed and the curtains torn off one of the windows.' He shook his head regretfully.

  'Strong, fine-looking woman she was. Lovely fair hair.

  Lollondays, they called her in the district.'

  'What was that?' Sinclair prompted him.

  Tozer blushed. 'That's as close as I can get to it, sir.

  It's a French word, means the Dutchwoman. She came from Holland. Spoke a few words of English, we were told. She was a favourite with the lads when they came out of the line. I don't mean she…' He flushed again.

  'More like a mother, if you take my meaning. She'd cook for them at the farm, lay on omelettes and fried potatoes and the like. Well, she charged, of course, but the men liked to go there from camp.

  'This lot from the battalion — fifteen men from B Company — they'd been there earlier, that same week, and they'd booked again to come back that night. We had no trouble getting their names. They owned up straight away. Said they'd gone there and come back in a group.'

  'But Captain Miller didn't believe them?'

  Tozer pursed his lips, frowning, 'it wasn't like that exactly. See, those lads were the obvious suspects. Or, anyway, the first ones that came to hand. And the captain knew, any time a Tommy found himself face to face with a redcap he'd play deaf and dumb. Like I said, they hated us. So he went at them hard. He reckoned if they'd done it together, one of them would crack. And if they hadn't, if it was just a few of them who were involved, the others were likely to know about it and he'd get at the truth that way. But after he'd had the last one in I remember him saying he didn't think it was them.'

  'He'd dismissed them as suspects?' Sinclair was surprised.

  'Oh, no, sir. He meant to question them again. But they were off that night, heading back to the front.'

  'He didn't try to hold them?'

  'Nothing to hold them on. But it didn't matter.

  They weren't going anywhere. Just back to the salient.'

  The chief inspector looked at Madden questioningly.

  'Passchendaele, sir. That's where the battle was fought. Near Ypres.'

  'It was just a few square miles of mud and craters,'

  Tozer explained. 'You crossed over the canal and you were there. Death's Land, the Tommies called it. All there was was mud and corpses. They didn't expect to come back.'

  Sinclair stared at his blotter. He was silent for several seconds. 'In this case, seven did,' he said finally.

  'Of the fifteen. But Captain Miller didn't interview them again, as far as I can gather.'

  Tozer's e
yes widened. 'Only seven… I didn't know … I'm sorry…' He glanced at Madden again and sighed. 'No, sir, the captain never asked to see them again. By that time he was on a different track.'

  'That's what we thought.' Sinclair sat forward.

  'That's what I want to know about.'

  Tozer took another sip of tea. He had gone a little pale, Billy Styles thought, watching from his place beside Sergeant Hollingsworth. 'The day after the battalion left, Captain Miller got a message from Poperinge. They were holding a deserter there. He was up for court martial. He claimed he had information about the murders at the farmhouse.'

  'What was his name?'

  Tozer searched his memory. 'Duckman…? No, Duckham. William Duckham. He was from the same battalion as those fifteen lads, but a different company.'

  'Did Captain Miller interview him?'

  'Yes, he did. At the detention barracks at Poperinge.'

  'Were you present?'

  'I was.' Tozer touched the scar on his cheek. 'The lad — Duckham — was in a bad way. He hadn't been with the battalion long. Only gone into the line once, but that was enough and when they came out he'd made a run for it. Poor boy. He was shaking all over, couldn't stop himself. Maybe he thought it would help his case if he told us what he knew 'Which was?'

  'Duckham told the captain he'd got as far as the farm and then holed up in the barn, which was a little way from the main house. Found a spot in the loft behind some hay and lay there during the day. At night he'd come down and forage for food. He couldn't get himself to move any further, he said. He just lay there-'

  Tozer broke off to reach for his tea-cup. The chief inspector controlled his impatience.

  'The night it happened he heard the men from B Company arrive and leave, though he didn't see them.

  He was lying low. But after they'd gone he crawled out from behind the hay and was about to climb down the ladder when the barn door opened and someone came in. Duckham heard him moving about down below, but it wasn't till the man switched on a torch that he saw who it was.'

  'Pike?' Sinclair asked, in a low voice.

  Tozer nodded. 'Duckham knew him by sight. He wasn't in his company, but everyone in the battalion knew Pike. There was a joke that went round, or so he told us. No one in B Company gave a damn about Jerry. It was Pike they were scared of.'