And now, satisfied that the law would be looking for him in the Worcester area, he was on his way into Bristol for the second last leg of his journey. He had the fireworks, all he needed now was the key, and that was at Sentinel Street.
Turning into the narrow road, he braked sharply and stopped at the kerbside. A cop outside Gerry’s old house. Not only a cop, but Croft, too, and the black detective from Scarbeck.
31
Therapy by hypnotism.
It wasn’t something I’d ever thought of before Julius told me of his old master’s work, but Freud had been using hypnotism for regression (something which was banned on stage) after studying with Charcot in the 19th century. He later abandoned hypnotism as he developed his theories of psychoanalysis.
In the late 1950s there were a good number of practitioners up and down the country, but only one or two in the Bristol area, and at first I thought it was because the hypnotherapist needed medical training. It was Julius who did a spot of research at our local library and learned, much to my astonishment, that not only did a person not need medical qualifications, he didn’t need qualifications at all. He didn’t need any training.
As interest in my stage performances waned, bookings dwindled, so we set up a practice in one of the downstairs rooms of our house. I had a brass plate made for the front door, and Georgina would act as my ‘receptionist’. This was useful since it put women clients at their ease.
I had qualms when I first set out on this venture, and yet it turned out to be a gold mine. My thin knowledge of human psychology was no barrier to my work. Most of my clients were women, most came to see me because of their ‘nerves’ (a popular theme at that time) and they were easy to persuade. They were even easier to ‘cure’. Straightforward induction and simple relaxation suggestions produced almost instant results and sent them away happy. In some instances, it did so much more.
Take for example, the case of Mrs C from Weston-super-Mare, the young alluring wife of a property millionaire, a man who, quite obligingly, spent a lot of time on the continent buying and selling land. When I tell you this woman was spectacular, I mean spectacular. Shapely legs, a large bust and a pinched little waist. I guessed that some of it was due to a corset, but I was wrong, as I discovered the first time I got her in the altogether.
It was fairly easy to arrange, too. I tested her for the Deep Secret when she first came to see me, and it worked. She slipped into that state which I called deep, but which Julius insisted on referring to by its technical name, somnambulism, and I conditioned her to invite me to her place, a veritable mansion on the outskirts of Weston-super-Mare. The next week when she called, she did exactly that, insisting that it was unfair of me to expect her to travel all the way to Bristol. This was a woman used to getting her own way. I told her I would have to increase my fees from five to ten pounds per session, but money was no object to her. Especially after I had persuaded her under hypnosis that it was not.
I introduced Julius as my chauffeur, a role he was happy to fulfil considering the sport we had in the hour we were with her. I had some concerns regarding her servants (servants if you please). If they were to come in and disturb us while we were with her, we could be in serious trouble. A confident touch of her arm and Julius’s magic word, combarus, and we ordered her to deal with the matter. She gave her servants strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed during the sessions.
Fuck her? If we fucked her once, we must have fucked her half a dozen times, and then we took twenty pounds from her, in addition to the ten pounds for the hypnotherapy. We also left her with orders that when we telephoned, and gave her the command ‘meetusat’, she would get her chauffeur to drive her to a rooming house we knew in Portishead. Not far from the docks, it was a place the local whores used to entertain the sailors. The kind of place they didn’t ask questions as long as you paid the two pounds for the room.
The therapy game was a real gold mine, and we enjoyed the kind of income we’d had when I was at my theatrical heights. And the sex we got out of it was incredible. Those women could be made to be really hot when we wanted. And it wasn’t just the English women. I had Chinese, Asians and blacks. The Asians were supposed to be really hot to please their men, and so it proved. Whatever we wanted, they’d do it.
We were doing well during that summer of 1962, but trouble was brooding over the horizon.
Young Gerald was seven years old at the time, and he was an unruly little brat. Wilful, disobedient, his mother was almost at the end of her tether with him. Worse than that, he was leading Billy astray. I couldn’t understand where he got it from, either, but then, of course, it never occurred to me that I might not be his father.
Things reached a head when he drowned a pup belonging to a family further along the street. We got rid of the dead mutt and, for obvious reasons, I never told the family what had happened to it, but I did question Gerald quite closely on the matter.
“I liked watching it struggle,” he admitted.
32
Croft compared the front of the Hippodrome with memories of the images in Zepelli’s biography. Now a flat-fronted building of white stone, although the front entrance had hardly changed, the iconic tower and globe which had sat above it for half a century, had been demolished and removed in 1964, leaving the building almost lost amongst the businesses around it.
During the drive from Nottingham, he had phoned ahead and booked them into The Quantock Hotel, one of the city’s finest, just a few hundred yards from the Hippodrome. The hotel, well known to Croft, was set into a square of Georgian houses, and enjoyed a serene view over a tiny, tree-decked garden.
“My father always stays here when he’s in Bristol,” he told Millie when they checked in.
“Which is how come you could get a room so easily at the height of the tourist season?”
If she sounded scathing, Croft was able to rise above it. “Coming from a distinguished family does have some benefits, and without wishing to sound snobbish, would you have preferred to spend the night at a motel?”
Millie took in the unashamed luxury around her and shook her head. “No. This’ll do just fine.”
Leaving Croft at the hotel, Millie had driven to Avon and Somerset headquarters on Trinity Street, to introduce herself and give them contact numbers, returning in time for dinner with Croft. Later, over an after dinner glass of Glenmorangie, discussing their work so far, Croft had declared, “Even if we’re no nearer pinning down Harper, certain things are becoming clearer.”
“Such as?”
He sipped on the glass of whisky. “Hammerschlag’s account of the Heidelberg Case was based upon Ludwig Mayer’s original notes. The question is, how did Hammerschlag get hold of them? Earlier in the manuscript, Stokes admitted to Graham Burke that Walter jumped ship to Switzerland and I’ve been thinking about it for the last couple of days. As a member of the Abwehr, he would have had carte blanche to walk into the University of Heidelberg and confiscate whatever files he felt he needed. What price he took Mayer’s case notes and then smuggled them to Hammerschlag, in Switzerland?”
“Considering he was a member of German Intelligence, he wouldn’t have to take the notes, would he?” Millie pointed out. “He could have actually burned them, then told Hammerschlag the tale.”
“Hammerschlag insists he used the notes, but I take your point.”
“But I don’t see what Walter’s aim would be.”
“Self aggrandisement,” Croft argued. “If we knew that he’d used drugs rather than hypnosis – Julius’s hypnotic cocktail, for example – would he want to go down in history as a simple rapist? He would not. So he invented The Deep Secret and sold Hammerschlag the tale.”
Millie cocked her head to one side and pouted judiciously. “Then what did he tell Reiniger, and what did Reiniger say to Graham Burke? In plain English, what is The Deep Secret?”
Croft grinned. “I’ll tell you if and when I crack that code.”
Millie had shrugged
. “All right, then, let’s try another question. Why would Burke send Harper to Sentinel Street? He left Bristol 2005-ish, to move to Scarbeck. When we first interviewed him after his arrest, he told us his mother used the back bedroom at Scarbeck, but we know for a fact she’s buried here in Bristol. She died before he moved north. Their house has probably been sold since then, so what would be the point of Harper coming here? What is he after?”
Croft mirrored the shrug. “I don’t know. But I’m hoping we may find out tomorrow.”
They passed the evening in their shared room with Zepelli’s manuscript.
“Stella’s son, Billy,” Millie said after reading the chapters leading up to Zepelli’s confrontation with his son. “He’s our man, isn’t he?”
“He’s the most likely candidate.” Croft frowned. “Zepelli doesn’t name his mother.”
“It’s Stella,” Millie reminded him. “I just told you.”
“No, I mean he doesn’t give her a surname. And it’s over half a century ago. She’s probably dead and most of those who lived in the area will be, too. The chances of finding anyone alive who knew her, who knew the Burkes, is pretty remote.”
“There is one chance,” Millie said, taking out her mobile and dialling. “Early education. Billy was born around 1956, so he’d have been in the local elementary school from about 1960, 61.”
She spent the next five minutes on the phone giving instructions to the police.
They slept together again, and for Croft, it was the most spectacular sex he could remember in a long time. But shaving the following morning, he had studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, asking himself why it was only sex. Why did he not feel more for Millie? Theirs had been an on-off affair ever since Trish was first locked away in the mental health unit, and initially he had recognised it as a simple need to deal with his libido. Over a year and half on, although their relationship went a little deeper, it remained, primarily, sexual. Why?
Trish, he reminded himself sternly, was gone. Dead only a few days, she had been taken from him a long time ago, with no hope of her ever coming back. Why had he not moved on, devoted more attention to Millie?
Coming to no conclusion, he and Millie enjoyed breakfast in the placid quiet of the dining room, during which Millie received a call from Trinity Street.
Making notes, when she was through, she cut off the phone and smiled at him. “Three boys named William started at the local nursery school between September 1960 and September 1961. Enders, Prather, Scotchley.”
Croft took out his notebook and made a note of the names. Under them, he wrote ‘Harper’.
For a long time he studied them, shaking his head. “I thought our man may have made an anagram of his name, but nothing fits. Prather is nearly there, but… oh. Bloody fool. Of course.”
“Who’s a bloody fool?” Millie demanded, pouring more tea.
“Me.” Croft offered his cup and she refilled it. He continued to work on the letters. At length, he stirred milk into his tea, a look of satisfaction painted across his face. “William Prather. It’s an anagram of William T Harper. I forgot the T when I originally worked through it.”
“You’re sure?”
“As long as the police information is correct.”
Millie jabbed at her phone’s keypad again. “Ernie? It’s Millie,” she said when she was finally connected. “William Prather… we’re practically certain. Born Bristol, circa 1956. If you could run a check and… Yes, I know Bristol could do it, but I prefer it to come from you. At least I know it’ll be accurate and I’ll get it as soon as. And if you could fax it to Avon and Somerset at Trinity Street in Bristol. I’ll be there later in the morning. Okay. Cheers.” She closed the phone. “We should know by the time we’ve had a look at Sentinel Street and got back to Bristol.”
After breakfast, they set out for Sentinel Street, but as they passed St Augustine’s Parade, Croft had instructed her to pull in so he could study the Hippodrome.
And as he looked over the theatre, he found himself wondering how Zepelli would have felt coming home to his favourite theatre after the war years. Was he there during the fire of 1948 which destroyed the stage and almost took out several of the nearby shops and businesses? Croft felt certain that Zepelli would have been there, volunteering his services. In 1948 he had not been corrupted by The Deep Secret.
From the theatre, they negotiated their way out to Easton, a half mile the other side of the city centre, and the Sentinel Street home of the Burkes.
“We could be back in Scarbeck,” Millie commented as she drove along narrow streets lined with bay-windowed, terraced houses.
Croft agreed. Parked cars restricted the available road on either side. The houses were replicas of each other, two storeys high, three and even four-bedroomed, stone bay windows on the lower floor, flat walls above, differing only in the design and colour of their front doors.
A police officer, looking tired and bored, stood outside Number 36. Millie pulled in opposite and, climbing out, showed him her warrant card.
“We were advised you were here, ma’am, sir,” said Constable Ackworth after identifying himself. “Nothing much happening, though.”
“How come you’re here alone after we spoke to your people yesterday?” Millie asked.
“Dunno, ma’am. I just do as I’m told.”
“This is dangerous, Millie,” Croft warned her. “If Prather comes here, people could get hurt.”
He studied the house. No different to any other on this street. How was it possible that such horror could have emerged from this nondescript little terraced house in an ordinary English city? It was a pointless question. He might just as well have asked how it could have come to pass at 48 Sussex Crescent, Scarbeck, the address where Gerry Burke had carried out his rapes and murders as The Handshaker, the address where he had tortured Trish for five days and robbed her of her mind.
“Is anyone home now?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” Ackworth replied. “Family of, er, Asians.”
Croft frowned at the unspoken distrust in the announcement. Not exactly racism, but misgivings at the thought that these residents were religiously and culturally different. Prather, he knew, would be much more extreme.
“A target,” he muttered.
“Felix?”
“Asians,” Croft replied. “Remember Rehana Begum? We know that Burke was a racist, and there’s a good chance that Prather is, too. The thought of a Muslim family living in his old house would have driven Burke into a murderous rage. We don’t know that it won’t do the same to Prather. Prather is also armed, and I can’t understand why the local police chief has put a single, unarmed officer on the door.” He smiled ingratiatingly at Ackworth. “No offence, constable.”
“None taken, sir.”
“The lady’s name?” Millie asked.
“Mrs Iqbal, ma’am.”
Croft led the way to the front door and rang the bell. A moment later, it opened and a chubby woman in her middle years, dressed in a brightly coloured sari, answered.
“Inspector Matthews, Mrs Iqbal,” Millie announced showing her warrant card. “This is Mr Croft. A consultant. He’s working with us on our present investigation, I wonder, may we come in a minute?”
Her almond eyes filled with suspicion, Mrs Iqbal nevertheless showed them to a drab living room permeated with the tempting aroma of spices, and offered them tea. Croft and Millie declined.
“Are the police going to be here again all day?” Mrs Iqbal asked at length.
Croft was uncertain of the lady’s ethnic origin, but the twang to her voice told him she had been born and raised in the Bristol area.
“Probably,” Millie replied. “That’s not our concern. “We’re heading up the hunt for the man, not investigating his history in this area.” She glanced at Croft. “Felix?”
“Mrs Iqbal, how long have you owned the house?”
“Six years,” she replied. “The solicitor who dealt with everything told us t
hat this man, Gerald Burke, had lived here with his disabled mother until her death, when he had left the city, leaving instructions to sell.” Suspicion returned to her dark brown eyes. “We paid the asking price. No cheating. We would have been prepared to pay more. We could afford it. My husband is a Social Worker, and I was a teacher at that time.”
Croft smiled encouragingly. “I’m not suggesting there was anything untoward in the deal, but what I do want to know is whether Gerald Burke left anything behind in the house when he went.”
“Well, there were odd sticks of furniture, you know, which we disposed of, and there were some other bits in the cellar. Tools, keys, old paint brushes and so on.”
“Did you keep any of them?” Croft asked.
“Some. They’re still in the cellar,” she admitted. “It’s not like we stole them or anything.”
Croft could still sense the suspicion in her voice and reflected that it was a sad sign of the state of Great Britain. Racism in one form or another still abounded, and the Iqbals were still convinced that any form of authority was seeking to accuse them of something, anything. Parallels with the Nazi Germany in which Reiniger had lived were inevitable.
“May we see the cellar?” Millie asked, bringing him back to reality.
Mrs Iqbal looked nervous. “Your people were down there yesterday, and after what they told us yesterday, I don’t think I want to go there ever again.”
“Just point the way,” Millie suggested with an encouraging smile.
Two minutes later, she and Croft were in a cellar lit only by a single, low wattage bulb. It was a dank and untidy space beneath the house, the walls barren redbrick flecked with old whitewash, the dirty, dusty floor flagged, and an old, rotting bench in one corner, where, as Mrs Iqbal had promised, were rusting tools, old cans of paint, and a bunch of keys.
Croft picked up the keys. “I wonder what these fit.”
“You think…?” Millie left the question unanswered.
He gestured at the bench. “Can you see anything else here that Prather might be interested in?”
The Deep Secret Page 22