The Blood-Dimmed Tide jm-2

by Rennie Airth

  ‘This man had been noted by several of our voluntary witnesses who had eaten lunch at a roadside hotel near Nuremberg. He was reckoned to be in his forties, and had sat alone at a table in a corner reading a book while he ate. Neither the waitress who served him nor our other witnesses were able to give a satisfactory description of him. This wasn’t surprising, however. Unusual features are sometimes remembered: a large nose, say, or a scar. But unless we have particular reason to look at a person we generally form only an impression of him… yes? And the impression of all was that there was nothing out of the ordinary about this man’s appearance. He had sat with his head lowered, reading his book. Even the waitress didn’t remember meeting his glance. He ordered, ate quickly, paid and left. Our attempts to obtain some sort of picture of his face, using the services of an artist, failed completely. Some of the witnesses were unable to offer any suggestions; others produced images that differed so much, one from another, they were quite useless for practical purposes.

  ‘One thing only about him seemed unusual… noteworthy.’ Grimacing, Probst nodded to himself. ‘It hardly counted as a clue. It was too vague… too imprecise. And we only returned to it later, after we’d received word from the international commission about your inquiry. It was something the waitress said in her original deposition.’ Probst paused. He looked at them keenly. ‘Asked where this man might have come from – whether she’d recognized any regional accent in his voice – she said she had not. “He didn’t seem to be from anywhere.” That was her exact reply, translated from the German. We asked our Bavarian colleagues to question her again, and this time she was a little more specific.’

  The atmosphere around the table had grown tense. Alerted by a new note in the inspector’s voice, Bennett leaned forward in his chair, his gaze fixed on the German detective’s face. Probst had paused once more, perhaps to underline the importance of what he was about to say. Now he continued.

  ‘She said she wondered if he was German at all.’

  ‘She meant he was a foreigner?’ Sinclair found his tongue before the others. A glance at Bennett showed him sitting sphinx-like. Holly, beside him, scowled.

  ‘Perhaps, though she didn’t say so. Not in so many words. The man’s German was faultless, you see – at least to her ears. No, we’re back with impressions. She just had a feeling he wasn’t one of us.’ The inspector shook his head regretfully. ‘Earlier, as I say, we hadn’t given much importance to this aspect of her evidence. After all, she seemed so unsure herself. But after news of your inquiry reached us, we had cause to think again.’

  Probst removed his pince-nez. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze finally coming to rest on the assistant commissioner.

  ‘It’s our belief the newspaper campaign we launched caused this man to flee Germany, Sir Wilfred. No murders of the kind we’ve been discussing have been reported in my country for the past six months. In the meantime, however, it would appear he has become active here. Remembering what the waitress in that hotel had to say, and given that he chose to come to this country, rather than another, I submit there is a question we must all ask ourselves: Could this man we are seeking be English?’

  Bennett leaned back in his chair, the gold links of his watch chain glittering against his dark waistcoat. As the afternoon wore on and the gloom of the foggy day outside deepened, the lights in the assistant commissioner’s office had grown brighter. He stifled a yawn.

  ‘This has been a long day, and we all have much to reflect on. I don’t know about you, but I’d welcome a good night’s sleep. I suggest we meet again in my office tomorrow morning so that we can lay the groundwork of our future cooperation, before Inspector Probst returns to Berlin.’

  Sinclair was relieved to hear Bennett’s words. For some time now he’d sat silent, puffing at his pipe, reluctant to take any further part in what he increasingly viewed as a charade. Earlier, there had been a break in the proceedings; the interval had been proposed by Sir Wilfred on the ground that there were one or two unrelated, urgent matters awaiting his attention that couldn’t be delayed, a pretext so transparent, at least to Sinclair’s eyes, that he’d wondered whether Probst, too, had seen through it.

  But the Berlin inspector had accompanied him without comment to a nearby waiting room reserved for important visitors. His choice of refreshment, offered by Sinclair, had proved to be afternoon tea – ‘in the English manner’, as he put it, with a glint of humour in his blue eyes.

  ‘At Miss Adamson’s we always had sandwiches and Madeira cake.’

  The chief inspector had informed the staff canteen accordingly (while mentally wishing their guest luck with the result) and then returned swiftly to Bennett’s office, where he found the assistant commissioner and Holly sunk in despair.

  ‘Six murders, he says! And there may have been more. This is a dreadful business, Chief Inspector.’

  With that observation, at least, Sinclair had no quarrel. But he had a bone to pick with the assistant commissioner all the same.

  ‘With respect, sir, why did you tell him we only have two on our hands? It’s virtually certain the Henley case is connected, and the time factor puts a completely different complexion on the matter.’

  ‘In this instance, “virtually certain” is the operative phrase, Chief Inspector.’ Bennett’s response had been sharp. It was plain he resented the accusing note in Sinclair’s voice. ‘Look, they’ve already guessed the killer might be a British subject. If we tell Probst there was a linked murder in 1929 by a man who then disappeared for three years, during which time a further six killings occurred in Germany, he’s quite likely to ask himself what kind of individual would be in a position to lead such an existence: living first in one country, then in another, and at home in both. And just as likely to come up with an educated guess that he’s a diplomat, or some other accredited person. Until we’re sure about Vane, until we’ve questioned him, I’m not going to allow any hint to surface that the author of these crimes could be a British official.’

  ‘That’s a sensible precaution, Angus.’ Holly had added his weight to the argument. ‘There’s no point in jumping the gun. Just think of the implications!’

  Sinclair had not forgotten them; nor, it seemed, had Probst. And although the German policeman’s point of view, of necessity, differed from theirs, the fears to which he’d finally given expression at the close of the long afternoon were uncomfortably close to those of his British counterparts.

  Before that point had been reached, however, and on the resumption of the meeting following the break called by Bennett, the inspector had been given a detailed summary of the current police investigations into the murders at Bognor Regis and Brookham. Primed by Bennett, and under his watchful eye, Sinclair had led his German colleague by stages through the history of the inquiry in Britain, from the discovery of the first body in Surrey to the slow-dawning realization that what they were dealing with was no common sex killing.

  ‘We didn’t know what we were faced with until the second corpse was uncovered near the coast, in Sussex. Up till then the search had been concentrated on finding this tramp. I’m afraid the Surrey police were led astray.’

  ‘What made you get in touch with Vienna, if I may ask? Did you have some reason to think this man might have been abroad?’

  The question was an obvious one, but since an honest answer would have meant revealing details of the suspected murder at Henley three years before, Sinclair had been forced to take refuge behind a smokescreen.

  ‘No specific reason. But it seemed to us this murderer might well have killed before. There was a finished quality to his crimes: the battering of the faces, the fact that he brought a hammer with him to carry out the job. No record of such a criminal existed in this country, so we thought to look elsewhere.’ Glancing at Bennett as he produced this farrago of lies and half-truths, the chief inspector was gratified to see that his superior at least had the grace to blush.

  Probst, meanwhile, had been payin
g close attention. ‘It may interest you to hear what one of our leading forensic psychiatrists has to say about these cases,’ he remarked. ‘A Professor Hartmann of the Friedrich Wilhelm University, in Berlin. He believes that while the killer’s sexual desires may have been the original motive for these crimes, the need to assault his victims’ bodies afterwards has now become the dominant element of his psychosis, hence the increasingly elaborate ritual he brings to the destruction of their faces.’

  Remembering the similar, prophetic judgement he had heard from the lips of Franz Weiss only a few weeks earlier, Sinclair grimaced, but stayed silent.

  At five o’clock, Bennett called a halt, and as the chimes of Big Ben sounded faintly, drifting down through the foggy darkness from Westminster, their visitor addressed them for the last time, making an appeal which at least one among his audience found affecting, even if it did not assuage the guilt he felt, but merely added to it. Angus Sinclair took no satisfaction from the knowledge that he and his colleagues had been successful in keeping their darkest suspicions from the kriminalinspektor.

  ‘My superiors have asked me to stress the importance they attach to resolving this case as soon as possible. Quite aside from the human tragedy involved, they believe it contains dangers of which we should all be aware. These are the “special circumstances” to which Herr Nebe referred in his telegram to you, Sir Wilfred. Although we don’t yet know the identity of this man we are seeking, it’s likely he is either German or English. Which, is not important. What matters, we believe, is that crimes of such brutality committed by a national of one country against the children of another are liable to be seen in the worst light, and given the recent shared history of our two nations there may be those, in both countries, who will seek to make the most of an appalling situation. We on our part are most anxious to avoid any such development and I am authorized to offer Scotland Yard the full cooperation of both the Prussian and Bavarian authorities in bringing this man to justice.’

  Probst fell silent. But it was clear from his manner that he had not yet finished speaking and the others waited patiently while the Berlin inspector sat with eyes downcast, assembling his thoughts. When he looked up, Sinclair was struck by the intensity of his gaze.

  ‘My ability to speak English is the main reason I was chosen for this mission. But certain of my colleagues, aware that I share their sympathies, were anxious for me to convey the full extent of our concern over this case.’ He paused once more, conscious of his listeners’ heightened interest. Bennett was staring at him with a fixed look.

  ‘That said, I must make it clear that I have no authority to discuss the matter I now wish to raise, so that what I say must be regarded as a personal opinion unsanctioned by my superiors. I have already touched on conditions in Germany. No doubt you are aware of how unstable our political scene has been since the end of the war. It has not improved in recent weeks. Neither I nor anyone else can tell you what government my country will have three months from now, except to say that it may well be directed by a party whose leaders are without principle.’

  ‘I take it you mean the Nazis?’ Bennett put the question, and the other nodded.

  ‘But I make no biased accusation against them. This is a statement of fact. They boast of it. What others might regard as human decency they see as a weakness to be exploited. I cannot say how a police authority run by such men would deal with a situation of the kind we have been discussing. But one thing is certain: much will change in Germany if they come to power, and both I and the people for whom I speak want to stress how urgent we believe it is that this terrible case should be brought to a conclusion before such changes can overtake us.’

  He looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘Let us do all in our power to identify this man, and to arrest him and bring him to justice,’ he pleaded with them. ‘And let us do it soon.

  PART THREE

  17

  ‘What do you think, Daddy? Have we got a chance?’

  ‘Better than that, I hope.’ Madden slowed at the sight of a gang of workmen who were resurfacing the road ahead. The trip to Guildford took less than twenty minutes now, compared with the half hour it had needed when he first came to Highfield. ‘We’ve a good team, I think.’

  ‘Yes, but if we can’t get Bradman out!’

  The gloomy thought reduced them both to silence, a rare event on their journeys together. Madden drove his son to school in Guildford every morning, and already he regretted the day, still mercifully two years off, when Rob would leave to become a boarder at a public school in Hampshire.

  ‘He’ll probably be better than ever, playing at home,’ the boy predicted pessimistically. They were discussing the prospects of the MCC cricket team on its forthcoming tour of Australia. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to listen to commentaries on the wireless?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a long way off. And there’s the difference in time. You’ll be asleep when they’re playing.’

  ‘That might be just as well.’ Rob caught his father’s eye and giggled. Madden grinned in sympathy. He’d noticed that his son’s jokes were beginning to take on a grown-up flavour.

  ‘What’s happening about these murders, Daddy?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘I read in the paper the police think they were done by the same man. Why haven’t the police arrested anyone yet?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Doesn’t Mr Sinclair tell you anything?’

  ‘Why should he? I’m not a policeman any more.’

  Robert Madden’s sigh was laden with reproach. How his father could voluntarily have abandoned the profession of detective – and a Scotland Yard sleuth, at that – to dwindle into a mere farmer was a mystery greater than any, and the fact that most of his school-friends agreed with him came as no consolation. Some had even hazarded the view that his parent must be mildly touched.

  ‘Why don’t you ask Ted Stackpole?’ Madden suggested, referring to the Highfield constable’s son. ‘He may know something.’

  ‘He doesn’t. He says the Surrey police are still looking for that tramp.’

  ‘Well, there you are, then.’

  Aware that he’d not been entirely straightforward with his son, Madden drove back to Highfield deep in thought. Despite what he’d said he’d been hoping to hear from Sinclair, to learn whether any progress had been made in the case.

  He continued to be gnawed by anxiety, a deep-seated unease that dated from the moment he had come on the corpse of Alice Bridger and seen her shattered face. The image had stayed in his mind and was linked with earlier memories of the war and the horrors he had witnessed then. Though he knew the feeling was irrational, it seemed to him that with the child’s murder and disfigurement a door had been opened once more into the world of savagery and barbarism which bitter experience had taught him lay just outside the frail fabric that bound ordered society.

  Try as he might he could not shake free of his fears and increasingly he found the quiet rhythms of his life – rhythms dearly bought and cherished – disturbed by unanswered questions, and by the thought of the killer who still walked free.

  More distracted than usual that morning – with the autumn ploughing at hand, he wanted to clear up the paperwork that had accumulated on his desk – he was late getting away from the farm and returned to the house for lunch to find Mary, their maid, impatiently awaiting his arrival in the hall.

  ‘Mrs Beck would like to see you, sir.’

  ‘See me?’ Madden was nonplussed. The household staff were Helen’s business. However, she had driven up to London that morning on a shopping expedition and would not be back until late afternoon.

  ‘Yes, sir. She’s waiting for you now.’ Mary Morris’s brown eyes bore a suspiciously innocent look. Her smothered smile hinted that there was mischief afoot.

  Alerted, Madden made his way to the kitchen where he discovered their cook standing before the back door with folded arms, as though to bar i
t. She wore a defiant expression.

  ‘There’s a person says he wants to see you, sir.’

  ‘A person, Mrs Beck?’ Madden deposited the parcel of butter and eggs he’d brought from the farm on the kitchen table. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I didn’t take his name, sir.’ Cook’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Outside, in the yard.’

  Tossing her head in a gesture of disdain, she moved away from the door, and Madden went past her to open it. One glance at the shabby figure sitting slumped on an upturned barrel by the kitchen garden gate, and all was made clear to him. Over the years, and at the insistence of her employers, Mrs Beck had come to accept the occasional presence of tramps and vagrants in her kitchen. But she drew the line at gypsies!

  ‘Hullo, Joe.’ Smiling a greeting, Madden stepped out into the yard, and as he did so, Goram looked up. ‘What brings you back to Highfield?’

  ‘Beezy, you say? Are you sure? Is it him?’

  ‘Ah, well, that’s the trouble, sir.’ Goram rubbed his bristly chin. ‘I can’t be sure.’

  They sat facing each other across the kitchen table, the remains of a veal and ham pie and an array of empty cider bottles between them. Two hard days on the road had put an edge on Joe Goram’s appetite.

  ‘We’re camped in Dorset, sir, t’other side of Blandford. I managed to get one or two lifts on the way, but mostly I’ve had to walk.’ He’d told Madden this while they were still outside, in the yard, and it was plain to see from the leaves and twigs clinging to the gypsy’s twill trousers and the grass stains smearing his grimy, collarless shirt that he’d been sleeping rough. Madden had brought him out a cake of soap and a towel to clean up with.

  ‘We’ll go inside in a moment and have something to eat. You look done in.’

  His words had caused the gypsy’s scowl to lift for a moment as his face split in a gap-toothed grin. ‘I reckon I’d better stay where I am, sir. That missus won’t have me in her kitchen, I can tell you.’