by Rennie Airth
It was a large concession on the chief super’s part, but one that failed to register with his companion. Sinclair’s thoughts, not without trepidation, were already on the call that he and Sir Wilfred Bennett would be making at the Foreign Office that afternoon.
‘Chief Inspector… come in.’ Bennett gestured to a chair in front of his desk and Sinclair sat down, curious to know why he’d been summoned. Their meeting with Vane had been set for three o’clock and he’d been expecting to meet his superior down in the lobby fifteen minutes before the hour so that they could make the short trip to Whitehall together. Instead, he had received a message saying the assistant commissioner wanted to see him before they set out. It was now a quarter past two.
‘I’ve something to say to you…’ Bennett rose. Gesturing to Sinclair to remain seated, he went from his desk over to the windows by the conference table, where he stood, hands on hips, looking out into the grey November day. ‘I realize you feel I’ve been unnecessarily obstructive where Philip Vane is concerned… no, there’s no need to deny it.’ He waved away the instinctive protest that came to the chief inspector’s lips.
‘Your attitude was quite understandable. I should have felt the same in your position. But there are issues at stake here of which you’re unaware and on which, up to now, I’ve not felt in a position to enlighten you.’ He looked directly at Sinclair. ‘However, the situation has changed. Since we’re to speak to Vane together, it’s necessary that you should know what I know… or at any rate suspect.’ He bit his lip. ‘But this must remain between us, and that includes the chief superintendent. I’ve told him I don’t want to overwhelm Vane with numbers – that a deputation of three from the Yard might seem like an attempt to cow him. But in fact I have another reason, and I can only hope he hasn’t taken offence.’
Sinclair smiled. ‘Arthur’s not given to taking offence, sir. The word equable might have been coined to fit him.’
‘How very true…’ Sir Wilfred’s smile eased the tension between them for a moment. Turning from the window, he came back to his desk and sat down. ‘Not everything one learns in government comes through official channels, Chief Inspector. Some things are not written down, or even communicated directly. One picks them up from hints dropped in conversation. Do you follow me?’
‘Up to a point, sir.’ Sinclair sat still.
‘As I think I mentioned, I’ve met Philip Vane on a few occasions. I’ve also heard his name mentioned… in some unexpected quarters. Naturally, I was curious, and I asked questions…’ He shrugged. ‘Answers were not forthcoming. But hints were dropped…’ Bennett cleared his throat.
‘My reluctance to see him dragged into this inquiry doesn’t stem only from a desire to avoid any scandal,’ he said. ‘I can’t give you chapter and verse, Chief Inspector. I can only tell you what I strongly suspect: that Vane’s job at the Foreign Office is not what it seems. In reality I believe he’s a senior intelligence officer.’
19
‘Mr Vane will see you now.’
The young man rose from behind his desk in the anteroom and went to an inner door. The very epitome of diplomatic tact, he had apologized gracefully to Bennett and Sinclair when they’d arrived for the austere conditions of his tiny office. Taking their hats and coats, he’d invited them, again with an apology, to sit down in two straight-backed chairs of civil service issue while he reported their presence to his superior.
It was the first time the chief inspector had set foot in the Foreign and Colonial Office and his impressions thus far had been fleeting. The marble-floored entrance below had been imposing enough, as were the uniformed commissionaires who received them. But once their identities had been established and the purpose of their visit determined, a clerk had been summoned to escort them upstairs to the second floor. There, a series of corridors, thinly carpeted, and on which their footsteps echoed dully, had led to an unmarked door where their guide had paused, knocked softly and then ushered them inside.
During the few minutes they’d had to wait before being admitted to Vane’s presence Sinclair had had the leisure to go over in his mind the tangled trail that had brought them to this encounter. Bennett’s last-minute revelation of Vane’s likely true occupation hadn’t materially altered the situation, at least as far as he was concerned, though he could well understand the consternation it might arouse in other government circles.
His own duty was clear to him. But he was able to extend a degree of silent sympathy to his chief as they sat side by side in silence. The strain of the past few days was clearly stamped on Sir Wilfred’s drawn features and his slight frame seemed bowed by the weight of worry he bore. Sinclair was aware that the assistant commissioner might have done more to avoid being entangled in the interview they were about to conduct, with its consequent threat to his career. His own direct superior, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, had been informed of what was afoot, and, perhaps recognizing a poisoned chalice when he saw one, had taken no steps to intervene. Had Bennett wished to, however, he could have drawn him, and others, into sharing a portion of the risk he now faced. Instead, he’d chosen to grasp the nettle alone, and the chief inspector admired him for it.
Vane’s secretary, if that was what he was, opened the inner door and then stood back to allow the two Scotland Yard officials to enter the office beyond. Looking onto an inner courtyard, it was more spacious than the anteroom, but still modest in size and decorated with a spare elegance that seemed to reflect its occupant, who rose from behind a polished desk, bare of ornament, to receive them.
‘Sir Wilfred… it’s been a while since we last met.’ Philip Vane bowed slightly, but made no move to come around his desk to greet them.
‘How are you, Vane?’ The assistant commissioner kept his tone neutral. ‘May I introduce Chief Inspector Sinclair. He’s a senior officer in the CID.’
Vane’s eyebrows rose a fraction as he gestured towards a matched pair of chairs, which Sinclair was unable to identify as to style or period, beyond recognizing that they had certainly not issued from any government warehouse. The chief inspector’s attention had strayed only momentarily from the figure seated behind the desk, who remained standing until his visitors were seated. Of medium height and sparely built, his thin, aristocratic features had been faithfully reproduced in the magazine picture obtained by the Yard; but what the photographic image failed to convey was the poise and confidence of its subject. He seemed in no hurry as he waited for them to settle and if his expression betrayed mild boredom with the occasion, Sinclair assumed it was no more than a cultivated air. He’d already detected in Philip Vane a certain kind of Englishman, common enough in the upper ranks of society, with whom, thankfully, he had little to do, either in his work or his private life.
‘The CID?’ Vane allowed a hint of curiosity to show on his face. ‘Not Special Branch? Well, you’ve got me wondering, Sir Wilfred.’ He sat back in his chair, surveying them both. ‘What is it you wish to see me about?’
‘One of our current investigations.’ Bennett’s reply came promptly, as though he wished to give himself no time to reconsider. ‘Or rather a series of investigations that are being conducted by the police in this country under the guidance of Scotland Yard. It goes without saying that we wouldn’t be here now if the matter were not a grave one, nor if there was any way of resolving it without approaching you personally. With reluctance, I’ve concluded there is not. In short, we require your assistance.’ He looked directly at Vane. ‘If you’re agreeable, I’ll now ask Chief Inspector Sinclair to explain in more detail.’
‘Chief Inspector?’ Vane turned his hooded gaze on the other man facing him. He appeared quite at ease.
Angus Sinclair opened the file that lay on his knee. Although perfectly familiar with its contents, he liked to have it with him and was not above using it, as he did now, to create an artificial pause while he pretended to sort through some papers. He looked up.
‘The investigations Sir Wilfred referred to co
ncern a series of brutal murders committed in this country over the past few years. The first took place in 1929. A further two have occurred more recently, during the past summer. The victims were all young girls, children, either just in their teens or younger. They were raped and strangled. A common element in each of these crimes was a post-mortem assault carried out by the killer on his victims’ faces. In the two most recent attacks he battered them to pulp.’
The chief inspector had kept what he thought were the most telling words till last, and he was disappointed to see no trace of a reaction from his listener.
‘Continue.’ Vane shifted slightly in his chair.
‘It’s the first of these killings I want to discuss with you. It took place in July 1929, but because the victim’s body was thrown into the Thames and not recovered until recently, it has only just been recognized that a crime occurred. Nevertheless, we’ve been able to determine with some certainty what happened that day. Briefly, a twelve-year-old girl was picked up by the murderer and taken in his car to the scene of the crime, which was a nudists’ club called Waltham Manor, just outside Henley, in Oxfordshire. Despite the lapse in time, we’ve also been able to identify the make of car which the killer used. By good fortune – ours, at any rate – it turns out to have been a foreign-made machine, rare enough on our roads, and we’ve succeeded in pinning it down to a model that only went on sale in this country in the spring of that year. The list of those who purchased such a car in that period is short and we’ve had no trouble tracing them.’
‘What make of car are you talking about?’ Vane spoke in a dead voice. His eyes were fixed on the chief inspector.
‘A Mercedes-Benz saloon.’
‘You’re aware that I own one, of course?’ He remained expressionless.
Sinclair nodded.
‘Purchased in the same period we’re discussing, too.’ Vane put a hand to his chin. His glance hadn’t wavered. ‘And on that basis alone, you feel justified in considering me a suspect? In questioning me? Please, Sir Wilfred…’ He held up his hand as Bennett made to speak. ‘Let the chief inspector answer.’
‘No, Mr Vane. Not on that basis alone.’ Cool as he hoped he might sound, Sinclair was aware of the sudden increase in tension between them; it was almost palpable now. And despite the deep well of experience he had to draw on in confrontations of this kind, it was all he could do to maintain a calm exterior. ‘From the moment these crimes came to our attention – I mean both the earlier and the more recent ones – we’ve been puzzled by the long gap in time separating them. Only lately have we acquired information that might possibly explain this. I emphasize the word possibly. Inquiries of this kind are largely a matter of eliminating suspects. That’s what we’re trying to do here.’ Just for a moment the chief inspector’s nerve had failed him, but Vane gave him no credit for this fractional retreat; nor respite.
‘Forgive me if I express some doubts on that score, Mr Sinclair. I think you came here with quite another object in mind. But you were saying – indicating, at any rate – that you had further reason to regard me with suspicion. Pray tell me what it is?’ His manner had become glacial.
‘By all means.’ Angered by his own momentary weakness, Sinclair met the other man’s icy gaze without flinching. ‘Following inquiries abroad, we have now been informed that a series of murders similar to the ones I’ve described are currently under investigation by the German police. These crimes fit into a very precise span of time: the first occurred in December 1929, and the sixth and last in April of this year. We are aware that you were posted to the British Embassy in Berlin during that period. Indeed, the coincidence is striking, at least from our point of view. You went to Berlin in October of 1929, did you not? And returned to England in early summer this year?’
So complete was the silence that followed his words, the chief inspector was able to pick up the whirr of a pigeon’s wings in the courtyard outside. Vane’s eyes remained fixed on him. But his gaze had turned glassy. Aware that the man had suffered some kind of shock, Sinclair waited for him to speak. He’d already formed the opinion that Philip Vane was not an individual who would break easily; nevertheless, his response, when it came finally, proved to be a disappointment.
‘What is it you wish to ask me, Chief Inspector?’ Apart from moistening his lips, he appeared calm. ‘Specifically, I mean?’
‘Initially, I should like you to account for your movements on two separate days this summer. July the twenty-seventh and the eighth of September.’
Vane nodded as though the request was a perfectly normal one. ‘Those, I take it, would be the days on which the two most recent murders were committed?’ He spoke in a toneless voice and Sinclair could read nothing in his face.
‘Yes, sir. The first was in Sussex, at Bognor Regis. The second near a small village in Surrey.’
Vane rose abruptly and went from behind his desk to a satinwood library table in the corner of his office where a number of framed photographs stood among piled volumes. From one of these stacks he took a slim book bound in red leather which he brought back with him.
‘The twenty-seventh of July, you say…’ Standing, he riffled through the pages without haste.
‘Yes, sir. And September the eighth.’
As Vane bent his head Sinclair stole a glance at Bennett beside him. The assistant commissioner’s gaze was fixed on the figure at the desk. His slightly widened eyes hinted at the stress he, too, was under.
‘The twenty-seventh was a Saturday, I see. I stayed in town that weekend, which is unusual. I had some work to do, I recall now. I’ve no engagements listed. In all likelihood I spent the day at my flat – it’s in the Albany, though I dare say you know that – and dined at my club. To anticipate your question, Chief Inspector, dinner apart, no, I don’t believe my movements can be confirmed by anyone. I would have given my man the weekend off. I always do when I stay in town.’
There was a pause as Vane flipped through the pages. Sinclair continued to observe him, narrow-eyed. He still couldn’t read the man. But he felt increasingly that he was playing a game, performing some kind of charade.
‘September the eighth was a Sunday. I spent that weekend with friends in Hampshire, this side of Winchester. I can give you their names if you like. Surrey, you said… where the other murder was committed… not that far away, then. And I left before lunch on the Sunday to drive back to London.’ Vane shut the diary and sat down. ‘Hardly an alibi, is it?’
He might have seemed unconcerned – he’d continued to speak in a flat voice throughout – were it not for his finger which began to tap on the desktop in front of him. To the chief inspector it signalled anxiety. Yet he had the curious impression that he and Bennett had become irrelevant to whatever was going on in Vane’s mind. Indeed, from the way his eyes strayed to the window just then he appeared to have forgotten their presence. The light in the courtyard outside was fading.
‘The murder you were telling me about earlier – the one that took place near Henley – can you give me a date for that?’ He spoke in a drawling voice, his tone bordering on the insolent. But his eyes, when he turned their way again, told a different story, the fixity of his stare reflecting some inner turmoil still under tight control.
‘Yes, of course, sir. But I wouldn’t ask you here and now to account for your movements so long in the past.’ It had just occurred to the chief inspector that what the other man had been doing these past few minutes was playing for time.
Vane shook his head impatiently. ‘The date, man.’
The change in his manner was startling; Sinclair’s eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘The eighth of July,’ he replied, after a pause.
Vane slid his hand beneath the rim of his desk and a bell sounded faintly in the outer office. The door opened behind them.
‘Peter, would you find my personal diary for 1929 and bring it in, please.’ Not troubling to look up, he sat staring at his desk and they waited in silence until the young man from outside
appeared with an identical book bound in red leather which he laid in front of his superior.
‘Thank you. That will be all.’
Before the door shut Vane had the book open and the other two watched while he found the page he wanted. He sat staring at it for a long time. Sinclair glanced at Bennett again and caught his eye. When he turned back Vane’s head was still bent over the page, but now he was nodding, as though in confirmation of something he already suspected. He flicked through a few more pages, going backwards and forwards in the diary. Again he nodded.
‘The girl was killed on the eighth, you say. The day before that I travelled from Oxford to Birmingham to stay with friends before continuing on to Scotland, where I spent the rest of July and the first week of August. Naturally, all that can be confirmed.’ He shut the book.
Struck speechless by the revelation, Sinclair sat blinking. It was several moments before he could find his voice. ‘You were in the Oxford area then?’ He could think of nothing else to say.
‘Yes, on holiday. I was a guest of Sir Robert Hancock and his wife at their place near Woodstock. He’s a colleague of mine. You’re welcome to check my story with him.’ Vane’s tone had altered. To the surprise of the other two, he’d shed his hostile manner. But as though to confuse them still further, he showed no sign of relief at having cleared himself. If anything, the indications of anxiety he’d displayed earlier had intensified. His finger had resumed its rapid tattoo on the desk in front of him. Eyeing him closely, the chief inspector sensed indecision behind his strange behaviour.
‘I don’t mean to question your word, sir, but did you travel to Birmingham, and to Scotland, in your car?’
For the first time Vane seemed to find difficulty in formulating a reply. ‘No, Chief Inspector,’ he answered finally. ‘I did not. I went by train.’
‘You left it garaged in London?’