by Rennie Airth
Billy put out his cigarette. He thought about what she had told him. ‘What happened to Jimmy?’ he asked.
Doris Jenner rolled her eyes. ‘He wrote me a letter full of excuses and said he didn’t know when he’d be able to get down again. I made some inquiries and found out he was married. I don’t know how he’d managed to pull the wool over his wife’s eyes for so long, coming down to the club every weekend, but I never saw him again.’
The door opened and the young man from reception put his head in. ‘Your constable’s here,’ he said.
‘Tell him I’ll be out in a minute.’ Billy kept his eyes on Doris Jenner. He waited until the door had shut, then he spoke to her. ‘You mentioned a car, not Jimmy’s, another one. Can you tell me more about that?’
‘What?’ She blinked. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You thought you’d seen his car, you said, when you were waiting. But it was someone else’s...’
‘Yes?’ She stared at him. Her glance hardened. ‘Are you being a copper now?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m being a copper.’ He met her gaze.
‘Is this about Jimmy? Is he in trouble?’
Billy shook his head. ‘No, it’s about the car. That’s all I’m interested in.’ He paused. ‘You see, you said before that Jimmy had a fancy car. “You couldn’t mistake it,” you said. But you did. Does that mean you hadn’t seen another like it before that day?’
Flushing, she stared out of the window. Her lips had thinned to a hard line. ‘If you came here to ask questions, you should have said so.’
‘I didn’t. It was hearing your story.’
‘I thought we were being friendly.’ She wouldn’t look at him.
Billy sought for a way to heal the breach between them. ‘Let me tell you what this is about, Doris.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s to do with that young girl, Susan Barlow.’
She turned to face him then, a deep flush still mantling her features, but with a glance that was less hostile. ‘I don’t see how,’ she said.
‘I need to know if a stranger came and parked his car here that day. Please, try and think back. Tell me exactly what you saw.’
Doris Jenner swallowed. She seemed to be in two minds as to whether or not to respond to his question. But then she shrugged. ‘I was sitting at reception, as I said, and I saw what I thought was Jimmy’s car drive into the parking area, so I waited, expecting him to come through the door, but he never did. I couldn’t understand why - it’s the only way into the club - so I went outside and looked for his car and saw what I thought was it parked away down the other end under a tree. I still thought it was Jimmy’s. You’re right - I hadn’t seen another like it - not at the club, nor anywhere else.’
‘What make of car was it?’
‘Don’t know. Can’t help you there. It was foreign, that’s all I remember.’
‘Foreign? Are you sure of that?’
She nodded. ‘Jimmy was proud as punch of it. Said there weren’t many like it on the road. It had lovely leather upholstery.’ She laughed cynically. ‘Do you know what it smelled of to me? Money.’
‘To go back, you saw this car parked at the far end of the lot... ?’
‘Yes, but there was no sign of Jimmy. I wondered if he’d gone into the gardens, though I couldn’t think why. They weren’t kept up even in those days. Anyway, in the end I walked down to have a closer look at the car, to make sure it was his.’
Billy shifted slightly in his chair.
‘Well, it wasn’t.’ She shrugged.
‘How did you know that? Was it a different colour?’
‘No, that was it.’ She waved a hand impatiently. ‘That’s how I made a mistake in the first place. It looked just like Jimmy’s. Dark blue. But when I got closer I saw they were different. It was the upholstery. Jimmy’s was light brown. This one’s was blue. Dark blue, like the chassis.’
‘Did you wonder about the driver at all?’
She seemed puzzled by his question.
‘Why he never came through reception?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean.’ She shook her head. ‘No, I never gave it a thought. I only had one thing on my mind... Jimmy!’ She rolled her eyes again.
‘So you looked inside the car?’
‘Did I?’ Her good humour had returned, along with her crooked grin.
‘You saw the upholstery. You must have noticed if there was anything lying on the seats.’
‘Give me a break, officer.’ Her American accent came from the cinema. ‘It was three years ago.’
Billy lit another cigarette. He seemed to have relaxed himself. ‘Come on, Doris. You can’t fool me. What did you see?’
She laughed. ‘Not that much. There was a man’s hat lying on the passenger seat. I remember that. But I can’t tell you what colour it was, or anything.’
‘How about the back seat?’
She put her head on one side, inspecting him through lowered lashes. ‘Just how important is this, Sergeant Styles?’
‘I don’t know. I’d have to hear it first, wouldn’t I?’ He returned her grin.
‘What if I told you there was a body lying there?’
‘I’d say you had a good imagination as well as a good memory.’
She tossed her head, laughing once more. ‘Well, it wasn’t a body. Just a packet of fruit.’
‘Fruit?’ Billy went very still. She hadn’t noticed.
‘Yes, in a brown paper packet, but the packet had split and the fruit was spilled out on the seat. I can see it lying there now.’ She was smiling, pleased with herself.
‘What sort of fruit?’ Billy asked casually. ‘Can you see that?’
‘Of course I can. I’ve got a good memory, haven’t I?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘They were oranges. Lovely golden oranges...’
12
‘BUT WOULD he really have chosen such a public place to leave his car? In a nudists’ club?’ Chief Superintendent Holly clung to his doubts. ‘Surely he would have been spotted there?’
‘No, that’s just the point, Arthur.’ In effervescent mood, Angus Sinclair was inclined to be forgiving towards his plodding superior, who was proving unusually stubborn that day. ‘The area the club uses is fenced off. You can’t see in or out. The killer could easily have driven into the parking lot with the child, left his car there with the other vehicles and taken her down to the lower part of the gardens, near the river, without being seen. They are, and were then, overgrown and untended, Styles says. The Oxfordshire police are searching the grounds now. It’s been three years, I know, but they might find something.’ The chief inspector switched his gaze to Bennett, who was sitting behind his desk. ‘It was a fine, alert piece of deduction, sir. All Styles had to go on was a hint this girl had dropped during their conversation. A lot of people would have missed it. I’ll be putting his name down for a commendation when this is over.’
‘Yes, yes! And I’ll be happy to approve it.’ Bennett spoke with uncharacteristic sharpness. ‘But all in good time, Chief Inspector. We’ve still a long way to go.’
The assistant commissioner was in a testy mood. He’d been away for two days, chairing a police conference in Manchester, and had only returned to the capital that morning to find Sinclair’s request for an urgent appointment on his desk. Guiltily aware of the mass of paperwork awaiting his attention, Sir Wilfred had summoned the chief inspector and sent a message to Arthur Holly, as well. Much as he wished to keep in touch with the investigation, he was beginning to realize that this piece of self-indulgence on his part meant time stolen from other labours; ones better suited to his lofty station, furthermore.
‘So where do we stand now?’ Bennett drummed his fingertips on the desktop. He had listened with scarcely concealed impatience to the chief inspector’s detailed report. ‘Obviously this car is a crucial lead. A Mercedes-Benz, you say?’
‘Yes, and since it’s foreign-made, there won’t be many of them on the road in this country. What’s more, we know the model!’
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‘How’s that possible?’ Holly asked, with more than a hint of disbelief in his tone. The chief super had recently been placed on a diet by his wife - he’d confessed as much to Sinclair - and the regime seemed to have had a dampening effect on his spirits. ‘I can’t believe this girl told Styles that.’
‘No, but she gave him the name of her old boyfriend,’ Sinclair countered cheerfully.
In contrast to the other two, he was in a capital frame of mind. This sudden break in what had promised to be the most intractable of investigations had come out of the blue. ‘A Mr James Stoddart, of Birmingham, and he’s already been interviewed by the police up there, at my request. He no longer has his car. He had to sell it when his wife threw him out a year ago - it seems she had the money. But, my goodness, does he cherish the memory of it!’ The chief inspector’s chuckle was hard-hearted.
‘Now, it turns out that particular model, the one Stoddart owned, was offered for sale in this country for the first time in 1929. I have that from the Mercedes representatives here - they’re located in Mayfair - along with the details of the car.’ He took a sheet of paper from his file and squinted at it. ‘Six cylinders, two hundred and twenty horsepower, overhead-valve... it can do up to one hundred miles an hour, would you believe? There’s a photograph of it, too.’ He slid a glossy print across the desk to Bennett. ‘I’m having that reproduced and circulated in the Brookham area in case anyone remembers seeing it. Someone with an interest in motor cars. There are always a few of them around, and it’s unusual enough to have been noticed.’
Sir Wilfred had been studying the picture of the sleek, longbonneted saloon. ‘It certainly looks a rather fancy piece of machinery,’ he conceded. ‘Not something for the average motorist, would you say?’
‘Not at the asking price!’ Sinclair smiled wolfishly. ‘It sells for a little over two thousand pounds.’
Holly’s gloom lifted momentarily and he whistled. ‘You’re right, Angus. There can’t be many of them around.’
‘No, and the advantage for us, of course, is that we only have to check purchases made between the spring of 1929, when the car came on the market here, and that summer, when the Barlow child was murdered. The Mercedes people are sending me a list of them this afternoon. It’s not a long one...’ He paused to reflect. ‘Of course, it’s quite possible the man we’re after no longer owns the car he had then. He may be driving something else now. But it makes no difference. If his name’s on that list, we’ll get to him.’
‘Yes, I see. This really is quite extraordinary.’ Bennett was recovering his enthusiasm. ‘If necessary, everyone on that list could be interviewed.’
‘They could,’ Sinclair agreed. ‘But I doubt that’ll be necessary. We can probably eliminate a good number, for one reason or another, right from the start.’
‘How will you approach the others?’ The assistant commissioner was eager now to know more. ‘You haven’t got that much to go on, after all. A car with a packet of oranges in the back... ?’
‘To start with, we’ll simply ask them to account for their movements.’
‘Three years ago?’ Arthur Holly came to life with a growl of disbelief.
‘No, no, sir...’ Sinclair strove to keep a curb on his impatience. He wondered if it really was hunger that was dulling the chief super’s wits that morning. ‘All I’ll want to know initially is where they were and what they were doing on those dates in July and September when the girls were murdered at Bognor Regis and Brookham. If any of them says he can’t remember, well, we’ll have a special word with him.’
Holly rumbled unhappily.
‘What’s the matter, Arthur?’
‘You can’t haul innocent citizens off the street and interrogate them, Angus.’ The chief super set his jaw. ‘Not in this country.’
‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Stung by the remark, Sinclair reddened. ‘But since you’ve raised the question, let’s examine it. To begin with, there’ll be no question of an interrogation until I’m morally sure we’ve found the man we’re after. And while it’s fair to say the information we need to identify him may soon be in our hands, knowing who he is could be one thing, and proving it another. Unless some hard evidence comes our way, we’re going to be faced with a problem of bricks and straw. How to make a case against him. In that event, we may be forced to take the only path left to us, which is interrogation.’
Sinclair directed his gaze at Bennett.
‘These men do crack,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ve seen it before. Hammer away at that front they’ve erected long enough, and sooner or later it splinters—’
‘Yes, quite. But surely that’s a decision we can take later.’ Bennett had become increasingly restive while the chief inspector was speaking. Aware of other, pressing demands on his time, he’d kept glancing at his watch. ‘We must concentrate on what’s to hand. Let’s trace the owner of that car first. Then we can decide what to do next.’ Picking up a pencil, he drew a pile of documents towards him. ‘Will that be all, Chief Inspector?’ He looked down.
‘Not quite, sir.’
Nettled at being cut off so abruptly, Sinclair made no haste about closing up his file. ‘There’s one further step I’d like to take. But I’ll need your authorization.’
Alerted not only by the words, but by the tone in which they were uttered, the assistant commissioner looked up sharply. ‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘I want to send a telegram to the International Criminal Police Commission in Vienna. I’d like them to check their records for us.’
‘Now, wait a minute!’ Sir Wilfred put down his pencil. ‘The International Commission! What the devil have they got to do with this?’
‘Perhaps nothing, sir.’ The chief inspector carefully folded one well-pressed trouser leg over the other. ‘But we are still faced with the problem of what this man, this killer, who is not a tramp and almost certainly owns a motor car, was doing between the summer of 1929 and the end of last July, when he raped and murdered Marigold Hammond. It’s almost unknown for a sex criminal of this type to remain inactive for so long. We’ve checked prison records of known offenders and come up empty-handed. One other possibility is that this man was abroad during that time. If so, he may well have killed one or more children in some other country. If that is the case, we must obtain that information.’
‘Come now, Chief Inspector...’ Bennett had returned to drumming his fingertips on the desktop. ‘You know as well as I do what our policy towards the commission is. And that’s a government policy, let me remind you. We have as little to do with it as possible.’
‘Nevertheless, we are members of the organization, are we not?’ Sinclair affected an air of puzzlement. ‘It seems a shame not to take advantage of the connection. After all, their international bureau maintains an up-to-date list of known sex criminals in Europe, together with their modus operandi, and keeps track of their movements.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ Bennett snapped. He looked at his wristwatch and winced. ‘The fact of the matter is, the commission’s a creature of the Austrian government. It’s staffed solely by Austrian police officials. There are grounds for believing it operates as an intelligence arm of the Austrian state.’
‘Really?’ The chief inspector appeared taken aback. ‘Strange that none of the other member countries - there must be thirty of them by now - seem to hold that view. But then they don’t enjoy our special advantages, do they, sir?’
‘And what might those be?’ The assistant commissioner’s voice had taken on a dangerous note; his pale cheeks were becoming flushed.
‘Why, that as British policemen we’re privileged to belong to the finest force in the world and have nothing to gain or learn by associating with a pack of foreigners!’
‘That will do!’ Bennett brought his fist down hard on his desk.
‘Angus!’ Arthur Holly wagged a disapproving finger at his colleague. ‘Now calm down, the pair of you,’ he added, for good measure.
Red in the face, Bennett rounded on him. ‘Don’t you tell me to calm down, Chief Superintendent!’
Holly regarded him with an unruffled gaze, and after a moment the assistant commissioner collected himself. Blinking, he sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve not heard any advice from your quarter for a while,’ he remarked spitefully. ‘Haven’t you got an opinion?’
‘Yes, sir, as a matter of fact I have.’ Holly cleared his throat. ‘Normally speaking, if it was a question of turning to a pack of foreigners for help, I’d be the first to vote against it.’ He grinned. ‘But in this instance, I think Angus might have a point. It’s the motor car, isn’t it?’
‘The motor car, Chief Superintendent?’ Bennett eyed him with suspicion.
‘Mobility, sir.’ Holly made his rumbling sound. ‘That’s what I’m talking about. It’s the curse of modern policing. Time was when a safe was cracked or a house robbed, you could put half a dozen names into a hat and be sure one of them was responsible, because they were the ones that lived in your manor. But not any longer. Now that every flash villain has a motor car, there’s no telling where he’ll do his next job.’ He looked at them both. ‘And isn’t that the problem we’re dealing with here? As far as we know this man has killed three girls: one in Oxfordshire, and two down south, but in different counties. So whatever else, he moves around. What’s more he owns a car - we know that, too - and a damned great tourer by the sound of it. Why shouldn’t he have gone abroad for a while? We can’t ignore the possibility.’ He turned to the assistant commissioner. ‘Sir, until we can positively identify him, I feel we should cast our net as widely as we can.’