They came to a halt as the light turned red.
And there was Vera.
She was crossing directly in front of them, her arm linked through that of a man Tyler presumed was her new fellow. He was chunky and round-faced, wearing a cloth cap, tweed jacket. Tyler recognized him as one of the tradesmen who delivered bread to the restaurants in the town.
If Tyler could have stuffed himself in the sidecar’s footwell, out of sight, he would have. The red light seemed to take an interminably long time to change, but luckily Vera and the other man were too absorbed in each other to notice him. She looked pretty in a light, flowered summer frock and white hat. He hadn’t seen her look that happy for years, and Tyler felt a mixture of relief and guilt. It had weighed heavily on his conscience that his marriage was so miserable.
The light switched to amber, then to green. With a roar of gears, the motorcycle lurched forward. For once, Tyler was glad Constable Mortimer was a maniacal driver. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Vera glancing over her shoulder, but they shot off and he didn’t have to acknowledge her.
Constable Mortimer guided the motorcycle into the driveway of the hospital and came to a halt. Tyler undid the latch of the sidecar and started to extricate himself.
“I don’t know how long I will be. They probably have a canteen inside. Get yourself a cup of tea while you wait.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He left her to manoeuvre the motorcycle into a parking space beside the hospital ambulance. The place was deserted, no patients or visitors that he could see. There was nobody at the reception desk; a handwritten sign proclaimed, BACK IN TEN MINUTES. He headed for the basement, where the morgue was located.
He went down the stairs, uncarpeted as they’d been since the turn of the century. The hospital had begun life as the county poorhouse and there was no concession to comfort. The large, cold room seemed empty at first. Then he realized with a start that Dr. Murnaghan was lying on one of the gurneys.
“Doctor?”
Murnaghan lifted a languid hand. “I’m just taking a rest, Tom.”
He sat up slowly, his face pale and shiny with perspiration.
“I’ve still got an infernal headache,” he said.
“Shouldn’t you see somebody?” Tyler asked.
Murnaghan grimaced. “Nothing you can do for a concussion except take it easy. I’ll be all right in a couple of days.”
He swung his legs cautiously over the edge of the gurney. He was wearing a colourful Fair Isle jersey against the chill.
He got to his feet and stood for a moment, swaying slightly.
“I’m just waiting for the room to stop spinning,” he said. “All right. Good. Now then.”
He went over to one of the recesses where the bodies were kept in special compartments.
“What did you find that was so disturbing?”
Murnaghan held up his finger. “Patience. Let me have my moment of drama.”
There were three stretchers in the recess, all with ominous-looking mounds beneath the sheets.
“Let’s start with the female,” said Murnaghan. “I’ve done some of the preliminary. I’ll have to run a few more tests, but basically she was a healthy, well-nourished individual at the time of her death.”
He pulled back the sheet on the closest gurney. “There was a significant amount of phenobarbitone in her stomach. Your intuition was right, Tom. I found traces of the drug in the cocoa.”
“You say a significant amount? Was it a lethal dose?”
“No. She would just have woken up the next day feeling very groggy. But the drug takes effect quickly and I’d say she’d have been almost comatose when she inhaled the chloroform.”
“I wonder if she took the barbiturate thinking it would do the trick, then did the chloroform to make sure.”
Murnaghan shook his head. “Very unlikely, I’d say. She was a nurse. She knew what constituted a lethal dose. She also knew the body fights against what it sees as foreign intrusions. She would know that there was a possibility she would vomit and, even more likely, that she would tear off the mask unless restrained.”
“Maybe she took the drug to keep herself calm?”
“Or maybe somebody else doped her nightcap for that very reason.”
“You’re thinking she was murdered?”
“That’s the way I’m leaning. Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I needed to go through the possibilities with you.”
“Besides, you know as well as I do, the cases of suicides who don’t leave notes are few and far between. They all want to tell the world what’s on their minds. Forgive me, I can’t take it anymore, and they leave behind a crushing weight of guilt and sorrow on the backs of the unfortunate people who cared about them.”
The coroner conveyed such feeling that Tyler wondered if he was speaking from personal experience.
Murnaghan gazed at the dead woman. “I don’t think she had an easy life growing up in such a poor family as she did, but she was always so optimistic and cheerful. I suppose you’d call her a sunny person. I expected she’d marry some sturdy farmer’s son and have lots of children, but she didn’t. She became a nun. Pity really. And now it’s come to this.”
Again he made the gesture of wiping his forehead, but Tyler thought it might be a way of disguising the fact that his eyes had filled with tears.
“All right, let’s move on. I’m saving the best till last. First come and look at this.” He pulled Jock’s flaccid arm from under the sheet and rotated it so that the inner arm was uppermost. “Can you see the marks?”
The tracks left by the needle injections were hard to discern against the discoloration of the skin, but Tyler could make them out.
“What is it? Morphine?”
“Years of use I’d say. Given the state of his lungs and the extent of his scars, I’m not surprised. He was probably in constant pain from that early gas poisoning.”
“Do you think it was prescribed for him?”
“Most likely. It was in his system. That also might account for his not hearing his killer creep up on him. He’d be in a pretty deep sleep.”
He pulled back the sheet completely, exposing McHattie’s face. The skin was grey, the blood at his shattered temple dark brown; the empty eye sockets had turned black.
Dr. Murnaghan took a magnifying glass from a nearby shelf and handed it to Tyler.
“Get ready for this, Tom. Take a close look at the wound.”
Tyler did so.
Murnaghan plonked himself down in the chair by the wall.
Tyler straightened up. “Okay.”
The coroner held up his forefinger. “Before you say anything, take a look at the boy.”
Tyler uncovered Ben’s body. He was accustomed to the appearance of death, the way it erased the etchings of time, but it was hard to gaze at the masklike face of such a child. Ben looked about six years old. He studied the blasted forehead.
“Well? What do you see?” asked Murnaghan.
“There are actually two bullet entries, one right on top of the other.”
“Exactly. What at first appeared to be one wound with a large-calibre bullet is in fact two.”
“Jock’s wound is the same.”
“Quite so. Both of them were killed the same way. The gun was a .22-calibre. All firings were placed with utter accuracy. I tell you, Tom, I’ve never come across anything quite like it.”
Tyler sighed. “I have. I wish I could say I hadn’t.”
“And?”
“It’s known as the double tap.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means our killer has been trained as a commando.”
45.
MURNAGHAN WAS LEANING FORWARD, HIS HANDS ON his knees. Tyler waited and finally the coroner looked up at him.
“Sorry, a bit of a spell for a minute. Where were we? Right. You said the wounds indicated the work of a commando. Aren’t they special troops that Mr. Churchill commis
sioned? Men of the hunter class, he called them. Got the term from his own hijinks against the Boers.”
“That’s them.”
“Dangerous stuff to play around with,” said Murnaghan ambiguously. “What the heck is a trained killer doing wandering around a convalescent hospital full of the maimed and the destroyed? They couldn’t possibly be considered combatants.”
“I don’t have the foggiest. Not yet. But there’s no mistaking that method of killing. Last year, the Shropshire chief constable sent some of us senior officers to attend a special course concerning what was called the Auxiliary Units. All very hush-hush and ultra top secret.”
Murnaghan held up his finger. “Hold on, Tom. Get me a drink of water, there’s a good chap. You can use that beaker on the shelf. It’s clean.”
Tyler did so and the coroner sipped some water gratefully.
“Would you rather I tell you all this at a later time?” Tyler asked. “Maybe you should get some rest.”
“Absolutely not. Go ahead.”
“We were sent up to the Lake District for a week.” Tyler grimaced. “Glorious views, terrible digs. Before the war it was a youth hostel. Even the Spartans would have complained, never mind us old geezers. However, we knew we had to be prepared if England were invaded.”
“That was our big fear after Dunkirk,” interjected Dr. Murnaghan. “Realistic too. Doesn’t look as if Jerry is going to do it now, but I suppose it is still possible.”
“Let’s hope not, but the big brass wanted us coppers to know what they were planning in the case of invasion.” Tyler paused. “I just have to remind you, doctor, that what I am telling you comes under the Official Secrets Act.”
Murnaghan waved his hand dismissively. “I’m one of the most tight-lipped fellows you can ever hope to meet. Comes with working with corpses for years.”
Tyler didn’t quite see the connection, but he trusted the doctor completely.
“They were forming Auxiliary Units, four or five men strong, whose job would be to act as saboteurs. Like any resistance group in occupied Europe, they were to harass the enemy, create as much trouble as possible, kill if need be. They were being trained the same way they were training the commandos. There was a camp not too far away and they sent over an instructor and a group of said fellows to demonstrate some of their methods. I tell you, doctor, I was impressed by these men. Not to mention what they might be called upon to do,” Tyler said, frowning. “They referred to it as silent killing, or unarmed combat, although they are all handy with a knife.”
“I never did understand that aspect of soldier training,” said Murnaghan. “Nothing prepares you for the real experience. It’s one thing to shove your bayonet into a bag of sand, all jolly and shouting, it’s another to thrust same bayonet through the guts of another living human being. I’m glad I never had to do it.”
Tyler nodded. “They’re all volunteers from other branches of the service. Tremendous esprit de corps. I’ve never seen such fit men. The commando won’t take any pub brawlers or bulging biceps, as they put it. They take only the best. One in seven qualifies. The instructor that led the demos was a tough Scot by the name of Douglas.” Here Tyler drew himself up and puffed out his chest. “ ‘If you’re going to kill your enemy, which is no doot your intention, you have to make bloody sure of it. No puir wee laddie to give away your position because he’s howling on the ground for his mammy. You shoot twice. Bam, bam. Right into the head. Noo possibility of doot.’ That’s the double tap.”
“What was the gun of choice to do the bam, bam?”
“A .22-calibre Colt automatic that could be equipped with a silencer.”
“I’d say that’s what did these shootings, Tom. I’ve put the bullets in that jar for you, by the way.”
Tyler continued. “They particularly emphasized being able to move about stealthily in the dark. ‘Ye should move like you’re a spirit come back from the daid. Not even an owl will blink. You get so close to your enemy you’re like another pair of socks. Then you do your deed. You grasp him like so. His head goes in one direction and his body in the other. One quick snap and Robbie’s your uncle. Ye musnae forget to let him down lightly so his gun dosnae clatter.’ ”
Murnaghan sniffed. “Think of everything, don’t they. Make it sound easy.”
“As easy as killing a pigeon,” Tyler added.
“Ha. The avian. I did examine it, and the neck was twisted. It wasn’t broken because it flew into a window.” The coroner shook his head. “But surely some benighted renegade commando didn’t wander into St. Anne’s?”
“I don’t know. The main camp is way up in the wilds of Scotland.”
“If it is one of them, they’re blown a bit off course, wouldn’t you say?” Murnaghan chewed on his inner lip, then he got unsteadily to his feet. “I’m fading fast. I’ll clean up the corpses and I should be able to release them sometime tomorrow.”
“I’ll inform Sister Rebecca. She’ll know what to do about Sister Ivy’s burial. I assume Mrs. McHattie will claim her husband and son.”
Tyler pulled the sheet back over Ben’s face and helped the doctor to push the gurneys back to the recess.
46.
GIVEN THIS NEW INFORMATION, TYLER KNEW WHO HE had to talk to – and face to face. He said his goodbyes to the pallid doctor and went to get Constable Mortimer. He found her sitting outside by the motorcycle, reading some kind of pamphlet. When she saw him approaching, she quickly stuffed it in her pocket and stood up, offering no explanation. He wondered if she was studying how to permanently silence an enemy in the field, but then thought he was being morbid. It was probably one of those Cooking for Victory books that all the women were reading.
“I’ve got to make one more stop, Constable, then we can call it a day here. Did you get some tea?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I’m quite refreshed.”
“Good. It’s on the way out of town. I’ll direct you.”
He climbed back into the sidecar, a task that didn’t seem to get any easier. Constable Mortimer revved the motorbike into a roar and, with a jerk severe enough to induce whiplash, got to top speed in a split second. They raced out of the hospital grounds and onto the main road, avoiding by the skin of their teeth a flock of sheep wending its innocent way to the other side of the road. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he had to tell her what route to follow, Tyler would have closed his eyes.
“Turn left at the top of the hill and proceed along to the end of the lane, where there is a large building and grounds. Anything you see or hear from this point on must not be talked about. I need hardly remind you that we are at war.”
Although it was officially an army laundry, the Old Rectory was indeed an unlikely looking one. Lorries came and went at strange hours, there were an awful lot of people living in special huts on the grounds, and the entrance gate was guarded by men in army uniform. What you don’t know won’t hurt you was the credo by which people were learning to live these days. The rectory was, in fact, now being used as a radio receiving station and employed dozens of people whose job it was to intercept any messages from occupied Europe and forward them to Bletchley Park for decoding. Two years ago, circumstances had made Tyler acquainted with Mr. Grey, the man in charge of these special operations, the man with a pipeline to MI5, the intelligence-gathering department of the War Office. Grey by name, grey by nature, was how Tyler thought of him, but sometimes he suspected the colourlessness was a kind of camouflage meant to lull people into dismissing him.
As they approached the entrance to the rectory grounds, Mortimer was forced to come to a halt. A wooden barrier prevented them from going any farther. A soldier stepped out of the side lodge.
“What is the nature of your business, sir?” he asked, directing his question at Tyler.
“I’m Detective Inspector Tyler of the Shropshire constabulary. I’d like to speak to Mr. Grey.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but please inform him it’s urge
nt. He knows who I am.”
“May I see your identification, sir?”
Tyler handed it over and the soldier studied it carefully. Nothing perfunctory about this man.
“And yours, Miss?”
She gave him her card.
“Cut your engine and wait here, please.”
Still holding both cards, he went back to the lodge. There was another soldier inside and the first fellow handed over the identity cards and said something Tyler couldn’t hear. The other man picked up a telephone. Mortimer in the meantime was sitting still and quiet. If she was curious about all this heavy security, she didn’t express any of it. After a few moments, the inside man replaced the receiver and handed the cards back to the first soldier, who returned to the motorcycle.
“You can go to Mr. Grey’s office. Do you know where it is?”
“Third floor through third door.”
“That’s it.” The soldier was looking more relaxed. He smiled at Mortimer. “We don’t allow any motorized bikes on the grounds proper, Miss. They tend to make too much noise. You can park it around the corner while you wait.”
She dismounted and Tyler had no choice but to make the usual awkward clamber out of the sidecar.
“I shouldn’t be long.”
Except for some wooden huts at the far side, the inner courtyard of the rectory seemed hardly touched by the war. Trees and flowering bushes surrounded a lush green lawn, not yet commandeered for vegetables. Three or four peacocks strutted around, dragging their gorgeous tails behind them. Two women in summer frocks were sitting on one of the benches lining the edge of the grass, their faces upturned to the sun as if they craved it.
Tyler was walking across to the main building when a door opened and a young man emerged. He was in the formal “uniform” of the civil servant, a grey three-piece suit, close-cropped hair, spectacles. Except for the fact that he was short and a decade or more younger, Tyler thought he might have been looking at Grey’s twin. The man hurried over, his hand outstretched in greeting. Well that was different anyway.
“Inspector, Bill Nesbitt here. I’m afraid Mr. Grey has had to go down to London unexpectedly. I’m his assistant. The guard said your business was urgent. How can I help?”
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