The middle-aged blonde receptionist signed them in.
“Just one change to the booking,” he said as he handed over his credit card. “Instead of two singles, make it a twin.”
The woman eyed them suspiciously.
“We’re working closely together, but we don’t sleep together,” Millie lied.
“The police ordered two singles,” the receptionist argued.
“Ms Matthews is the police,” Croft argued, “and your local bobbies don’t have to crack a complex code. Now, please, billet us together. I promise I won’t tell the hotel inspectors.”
Ten minutes later, after asking for sandwiches and coffee to be delivered to their room, they sat at an ageing table in the window, overlooking the harbour, each with several copies of the printout, and began work.
It took many hours, painstakingly checking all series of letters in all directions, but at 9.30 in the evening, with the sun setting beyond the windows, street and building lights illuminating the harbour for the evening revellers, Croft stared grimly at the seven most significant words he had garnered from the puzzle.
“Graham Burke murdered Julius Reiniger nineteen seventy.”
***
“It’s silly,” Millie cried. “That’s nothing to do with hypnotism. It can’t be The Deep Secret.”
Croft shook his head. “No. It makes perfect sense. It is The Deep Secret… at least it’s The Deep Secret which Zepelli hid in this manuscript.” He checked the coffeepot, found it cold and, instead, moved to a small occasional table by the bathroom, where he switched on the kettle and prepared two cups of tea.
Waiting for it to boil, he mentally prepared his explanation for Millie. The day had been strenuous and draining, both physically and mentally and, coupled to the week, emotionally. He could still feel the cuts and bruises from his encounter with the tarmac of Sentinel Street, but with the solution to this complex puzzle, he understood so much, and his problems drifted into the background. He had a deeper insight into the true nature of Zepelli and, with that, his respect for the man, which had been eroded by his willingness to subjugate and corrupt others, regained a little ground.
When the tea was made, he rejoined Millie at the table.
“Think about what we’ve read over the last couple of days,” he said. “Zepelli was corrupt in many ways. He stole from men and women, he used women for his own pleasure, in much the same way Franz Walter had in Heidelberg. But Zepelli was more like Reiniger. Neither of them were vicious men, neither of them actually enjoyed causing pain. They wanted wealth and pleasure. Walter was different. He was completely amoral. He thought nothing of murdering his victims. Gerry Burke was like that, too, only he did not think nothing of killing. He actively enjoyed committing murder. He got off on it. Zepelli recognised that. If you recall, he even tried to beat it out of the boy, but he couldn’t. It was too deeply ingrained.”
“If this is right, Zepelli committed murder,” Millie retorted aggressively. “And based on what we read, he probably roped his son in to help cover it up by burying Reiniger in the back yard at Sentinel Street.”
“Because he loved his son,” Croft said simply.
Millie gaped.
“Remember what we read. Gerry told his father that Julius was, quote, shagging mother, unquote. Zepelli didn’t believe it, but he would have checked up. Let’s imagine, for one minute, that he learned it was the truth. Would it be enough to start a fight between the two men? Probably. Would it be enough for Zepelli to beat Julius’s brains in? After so many years of friendship, I doubt it. It would be enough to start an argument, possibly a fight, but I don’t think it would have pushed Zepelli into a murderous rage.”
Millie pointed to the puzzle. “He admits he killed Julius.”
Croft shook his head.
“Then who did?” Millie demanded.
“Gerry. And Zepelli knew it. He gives us enough hints. Think, Millie: what man who truly loved his son, would leave him to face a life sentence for murder? We’ll never know for sure, but my guess is that Zepelli saw a way in which he could help his son, if the body of Julius Reiniger should ever be discovered. Zepelli was on borrowed time. Angina. He knew he would not survive the ten years he had been sentenced to. So he confessed to it in the shape of a word search. In prison he began to write this manuscript, and he told Gerry that it held the key to The Deep Secret. Again I’m guessing, but he figured if Gerry had something to distract him – cracking the code, for instance – those sadistic urges which had seen one or two animals and people killed, and which killed Julius, would eventually go away. And Zepelli also knew that it would take intelligence to break the code. The intelligence to interpret his use of the word, ‘space’, the way you interpreted it.”
Millie smiled. “I pointed it out. You interpreted it.”
“You know what I mean. Gerry Burke wasn’t able to think that laterally. I used to sit and talk with him, you know, when he was known as Gerald Humphries. He wasn’t a clever man. Indulgent, soft spoken, good with anagrams as we know, but not into puzzles in general.” Croft shook his head sadly. “I can only imagine his frustration at the puzzle, and that frustration meant that Zepelli’s plan backfired. It made Gerry even angrier, more dangerous. It released the repression in an orgy of murder that’s been going on for the last thirty years.”
“And now it’s left us with a huge headache,” Millie grumbled and drank some tea. “Felix, when you face Prather, if you face him, he wants Walter’s Deep Secret, not Zepelli’s confession to a murder that we haven’t yet confirmed.”
“I’ll deal with that situation when we come to it.”
“All right, so we rack up another body for Gerry Burke.” She dropped her cup back into the saucer with a rattle. “I know you don’t agree with everything we do, but quite honestly, the best thing we can do with Billy Prather is put him down like a mad dog.”
“For once, I think you might be right. I just don’t think it will be that simple.”
Silence fell as each dissolved into their own thoughts. Croft stared at the encroaching night and the people milling around the harbour, asking himself why he could not enjoy the simple life, too.
“Why?” Millie asked suddenly. “Why litter his manuscript with clues like he does, and then, when you boil it all down, it amounts to an admission for a crime you say he never committed.”
Croft shrugged. “Complex thinking… I think. Suppose Gerry had spent years working on that puzzle, suppose he finally cracked it. The shock might just have been enough to wake him up, make him realise what a monster he had been and just how good his father really had been to him. Good enough to take a murder charge for him. He may well have committed suicide.”
“Yes, and it might just have thrown him completely over the top, too.”
“He was completely over the top anyway,” Croft replied. “He must rank as one of the most dangerous men ever. His killing was totally indiscriminate.”
“Billy’s, too. Whatever he’s up to, we’re still playing his game. There’s nothing we can do until he tells us or until the local boys turn up that caravan.” Millie stood. “Come on. I need a drink. If you think I’m really that good, I’ll let you buy me a Bacardi.”
39
Much had happened to change Billy’s plans overnight.
Approaching the North Devon coast and Helecombe via the sometimes narrow and tortuous A399, he had switched on the radio in time for the mid-afternoon local news, only to learn that the police were ahead of him for the second time that day.
“Police have named a man they are seeking in connection with a series of murders in several locations around the country as William Prather. He is described as six feet tall, aged about fifty-five, with thin, greying hair, and a muscular build. He is believed to be making for the Helecombe area of North Devon. He is known to be carrying firearms, and is considered dangerous. Police have issued e-fit pictures of the man based on CCTV images, and they advise members of the pubic not to approach Prather
if they spot him, but to call their nearest police station.”
Surprised by the information the police suddenly had on him, Billy pulled the car into a rough parking area opposite a quarry near the village of Brayford. Although surrounded by the hills on the extreme southwest edge of Exmoor National Park, he could not spend the night here. It was too open, too dangerous. If anyone spotted the car…
And yet, he needed to hold up a little, think things through, plan his next move in the way that Gerry would have done.
Over lunch at the diner, back on the A361, he had realised what he needed to do. If he couldn’t get to Burke’s old boat, Goddess Georgina, he would have to steal another boat. The original plan was effectively scotched now. Helecombe harbour, where Goddess Georgina had been moored these last six or seven years, would be swarming with armed police and, of course, Croft.
The stolen Vauxhall was not fitted with a satnav system, but he did find a small scale map in the glove box. Studying it, he realised instantly where he needed to go: Helemouth. A cove four miles east of Helecombe, just the other side of Combe Martin. Dry and sandy at low tide, when flooded, it was capable of taking everything from dinghies to fishing boats. He remembered it from childhood holidays when the Burkes, Julius and he would visit Devon. There was no village as such, but Helemouth Yacht Club was popular with the local and visiting wannabe sailors.
But suppose the law were waiting for him there, too?
He would just have to chance it, he decided. He would drive up there after dark, and keep his eyes peeled. At the first sign of trouble he would double back and get the hell out.
He couldn’t go far, though. He needed the Deep Secret. His buyer would be getting impatient, and Billy did not like the thought of losing that £100,000. It was enough for him to assume a new identity and get the hell out of the UK, out of Europe, while the police were still looking for him.
In early July, night came only slowly. Moving further up the road, away from the quarry where occasional lorries could be seen pulling in or out, he hid the car in a lane behind a line of trees and bushes which screened it from the main road, and waited for the darkness, It was almost ten thirty when he finally pulled out, and back onto the A399 for the final twelve miles to his destination.
Combe Martin had not changed much since his childhood days, he thought as he drove through. The A399 was still just a narrow street, lined either side with gaily coloured houses and shops, the sandy inlet catering only for the smallest of boats. Quieter than Helemouth, it was tempting, but the craft stranded there by the low tide were no use to him.
Out of Combe Martin, the road remained narrow and twisting, heavily wooded on either side as it climbed steeply up Newberry Hill, and dropped down the other side from a location known as Berrynarbour Top. Once more, it twisted and turned, following the contours of the land, the trees plunging him into a total darkness dispelled only by his headlamps and the occasional light from touring caravan parks here and there.
Soon the road and the vista opened, and he came to Helemouth. Turning off the road to the right, he spun the car into a car park shared by a small holiday park, a couple of bars and a fish ’n’ chip shop.
Killing the engine, he climbed out, locked the car, and dug into the boot, from where he took the pistol from the holdall. He stowed it in his pocket and threw the heavy bag over his shoulder.
He ambled from the car along a tarmac footpath, through a field of touring caravans and tents. He even nodded when a half drunken camper bid him a polite “goodnight”.
Soon, he came to the concrete staithe and landing of the yacht club, littered with boats of various shapes and sizes, a crane standing by to lift them out into the water when they were needed. Dim light shone from within the clubhouse. He checked his watch. 11.15pm. Probably the barman and the commodore tallying up the night’s takings.
The shoreward end of the cove was dry, the tide out, but about to turn judging from the waterline this side of the two hills which stood either side of the sea channel. The nearer boats were still high and dry, and would not move until the flood, which he guessed would be in two to three hours. Every kind of craft was there; small motor boats, large motor boats, yachts for the weekend sailors, small dinghies and boats, and a fishing vessel, easily identified by its sheer size. Billy concentrated on a thirty-six-footer, a motor cruiser a hundred yards from the quay. Her light colours indeterminate in the nightlight, she looked ideal for his purposes.
Following the path down onto the sand, he strode along to her, eyes watchful, taking in everything around him, ensuring he was not observed.
Reaching Marion 34, her anchor buried in the sand, he climbed the ladder someone had obligingly left hanging over the side, and, as he tossed his bag into the rear deckwell, he heard movement from the cabin below.
“I’m telling you, there’s some bastard out there,” he heard an educated male voice say. “Probably some local oik stealing sheets or ropes. Well, he won’t get far.”
A townie, Billy guessed. Sidling to the covered, wooden cockpit, he drew his pistol and waited. He heard the bolt slide back on the cabin half doors. A crowbar appeared, followed by a hand, an arm and a shaven head.
“I’ll have you, you bastard,” growled the cultured voice again. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Billy brought his pistol down on the bared head. The owner collapsed, Billy hurried down into the cabin access, and pushed him back in. Rushing in after the unconscious owner, he found a young, dark haired woman scrabbling at her mobile phone.
He levelled the pistol at her head and she gawped.
“Put it down, girl, or it’ll be last thing you do before you get to the pearly gates.”
40
Boats, Billy decided, had the advantage over cars and even caravans: plenty of rope.
After ensuring the man – whom he later learned was named Ivan Gurney – was definitely unconscious, he ordered Emma, the wife, into the forward bedroom and onto one of the bunks, where he bound her feet and wrists, then secured her to the bed head. Returning to the main cabin, he took more lengths of narrow rope and bound Ivan hand and foot, then gagged him with duct tape, which he found in the tool locker in the cockpit.
In that same locker, he also found a pair of bolt cutters, and a book of tide tables from which he learned that high tide was just before half past two in the morning.
With time to spare, he first took his pleasure of the terrified Emma, and as he dressed, advised her, “You’re lucky. At least you’ve had a shag before you go over the side. That’s more’n your old man’ll get.”
After setting the alarm on her mobile phone, he dozed in the main cabin, waking just before 2.30am. Coming slowly, groggily to his senses, he saw Ivan, still bound, his face bloodied where Billy had pistol whipped him, trying to crawl across the floor, slithering, snakelike on his side towards the cabin exit. Billy leapt from the divan and battered him once more with the forty-five.
Ignoring the muffled cries that came from behind the duct tape, Billy stepped out into the deckwall, and looked around. Helemouth stood in total darkness, the boat bobbing gently on the calm waters, now a few metres deep. He moved to the rear of the boat and hauled on the anchor chain. Pulling the slack in, he found he did not have the strength to dislodge the anchor from the sandy bottom. It was attached to an electric winch, but he did not want to make any more noise than was necessary. Taking the bolt cutters, he sliced the chain apart, then moved forward where he repeated the exercise, cutting through the rope attached to the weight securing the bow.
Returning to the deckwell, he entered the cockpit, and switched on the engine. She chugged and bubbled grumpily under low throttle. With the forward light on, he edged her gently through the shallows, zigzagging to avoid other craft, and between the twin hills guarding the cove.
Binding the wheel to keep her on a straight course, he descended once more to the cabin. He grabbed the ropes securing Ivan, and hauled him into the deckwell.
“Right
, me old china. Time you was getting off.”
His head smeared with dried blood, barely awake, Ivan fought weakly against Billy’s superior strength. Billy remained unimpressed and gave Ivan a final push into the shallow water.
“Oops.” Billy laughed. “Shoulda undone his ropes first.”
It was less than three metres (according to the tide table estimate) but it was deep enough to drown the man, but with the tide turning it was anyone’s guess whether he would float back into Helemouth or out to sea. The latter, Billy guessed. Not that he really cared. Ivan was not important. His wife was.
Navigation was not one of Billy’s skills, but he knew the coastline hereabout fairly well. Keeping the compass hovering around the 290-300 mark he sailed straight out between the two hills until he could see the lights of Helecombe a few miles to his left, and then turned sharp right, keeping his heading between 40 and 60 degree, sailing east towards Combe Martin. It was just after 3.00am and, according to the tide tables, sunrise was 4.52am. He would be beyond Combe Martin by then, beyond the view of anyone from the land, other than those walking along the clifftops.
Even on full throttle the boat travelled only slowly across the flat waters. South, to his right, cliffs towered into the night sky, their outline blocking out the stars. As best as he could judge, he kept the boat a couple of hundred yards from them. Distant memories of childhood holidays reminded him that the sea retreated maybe fifty yards from the cliff base, but there were many rocky outcrops just below the surface, especially treacherous at low water. He trusted to luck that they were not a threat with the tide high, and that he was safely far enough from the shore to avoid them. Gerry’s plan was already in tatters, subject to some necessary emergency rearrangement, and he did not fancy altering it further by having to swim for it from a sinking tub.
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