The Blood-Dimmed Tide jm-2

by Rennie Airth

  For the life of him he couldn’t think of an explanation.

  One thing was certain, though. He was going to keep an eye out for this bloke in future. Ask Eddie to do the same. And if either of them caught him sniffing around Coyne’s Farm again, they’d give him his marching orders.

  In triplicate.

  Just tell him to bugger off.

  21

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, John. I doubt we’ll ever lay hands on him. Even supposing he’s still in England, where do we begin? He has no friends, or family, no occupation we’d recognize as such and no ties to any part of the country. His way of life’s a mystery. As far as the average British copper is concerned, he might as well be from another planet.’

  Angus Sinclair had barely allowed Madden time to greet him and to take his hat before launching into a catalogue of complaints and self-criticism.

  ‘I’ve just spent the morning telling a group of overworked policemen I’ve every confidence a well-organized search will uncover Lang’s whereabouts, when I think nothing of the sort.’

  The chief inspector had driven to Highfield from Guildford, where a conference of senior detectives from the Surrey and Sussex constabularies had been convened at his request. He hadn’t planned on seeing Madden when he’d set out from London earlier that day, but as the morning wore on and his dissatisfaction with what he was doing mounted, the temptation to call on his old friend and colleague – the thought of finding at least one sympathetic ear into which to pour his troubles – had become irresistible. A telephone call to the farm had resulted in an invitation to lunch, a proposal Sinclair had been doubly pleased to accept when he’d learned that Helen would not be with them.

  ‘She’s gone over to Chiddingfold to take surgery for a friend.’

  The chief inspector had no illusions as to how Madden’s wife would react to any fresh attempt on his part to further involve her husband in the inquiry. Furthermore, he wanted to be able to speak freely, something he could not have done if Helen had been present. As it was, his frankness caused even Madden to express some uneasiness on his behalf.

  ‘Should you be telling me all this, Angus? Doesn’t it fall within the Defence of the Realm Act?’

  ‘Damn the realm, damn the act and damn British Intelligence, whoever they may be!’ Fortified by a stiff whisky, Sinclair’s tongue had grown ever freer. ‘Thanks to certain individuals who will never be held to account for it, a cold-blooded murderer was turned loose on society years ago and has enjoyed the protection of this country’s secret service ever since. Those men knew he was a killer and chose to ignore the fact. If he happens to be arrested abroad, all hell will break loose and we may see some chickens coming home to roost. I pray I may be spared to witness that day.’

  The chief inspector’s mood had already been soured earlier that week on receipt, from Philip Vane, of the information he’d promised to extract from Gaston Lang’s confidential file. Rich though it proved to be in details, it had left Sinclair with the feeling that he’d been handed a bar of soap too slippery to hold on to. Vane had given him a list of the countries Lang had worked in, the dates he’d been in each and whatever aliases he might have used on the various assignments.

  ‘It’s like a travel guide to central Europe,’ Sinclair had remarked to Bennett and Holly when they went to review progress in the investigation. ‘What a busy fellow our Mr Lang has been. No doubt he gave value for money. By their lights, at least. But there’s nothing here to show what sort of man he is. It’s an empty shell. Where are his habit… his foibles?’

  ‘Austria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, the Balkans… hmmm.’ The assistant commissioner had browsed through the list. ‘What do you mean to do with this?’ he’d asked Sinclair.

  ‘For a start I’ll get in touch with the police in these countries to see if they have any record of unsolved crimes similiar to ours. They’ll already have received our earlier request through the international commission, but I’ll make the point that he may have been active for years. Then I’ll send that list of aliases to the commission along with Lang’s physical description and photograph with a request for them to be broadcast. I mean to spread a net for him all over Europe and beyond. The more people we have looking for this man, the better. The German police should be informed separately; they’re entitled to know what we’re doing.’

  ‘Yes, but have a care, Chief Inspector.’ Bennett’s fears had resurfaced. ‘I’ve an idea Vane’s sticking his neck out, giving us this sort of information. On no account must we reveal Lang’s connection with our intelligence people. We gave him our word, remember.’

  ‘Rest assured, sir, I won’t cross that line. Though, as to words given and received, I doubt that Vane and his brethren set much store by them, except as a means to deceive others.’ Sinclair’s lips twitched in distaste. ‘And we will have to offer Berlin some indication of a source for what we tell them. I suggest we attribute it to criminal informants. After all, it’s not that far from the truth.’

  ‘Come now… aren’t you being too severe?’ Bennett eyed him. ‘God knows I’m not defending the way Lang was handled by our intelligence service originally. But their priorities are different from ours. And their problems quite particular. Let’s be grateful we don’t have to deal with them. You heard what Vane said: there’s no playing by the rules any longer.’

  ‘So they would have us believe.’ Sinclair’s tone was cool. ‘I beg to differ.’

  Sir Wilfred sighed. He glanced across at Arthur Holly, expecting by custom to receive some support from that quarter, but recognizing at once the vanity of his hopes. The chief superintendent had been informed of the substance of their meeting with Vane. He had listened in silence to Sinclair’s account of the interview. Only at the conclusion had he given his view.

  ‘I’ve always thought accountability was the basis of public service, sir.’ Rumbling with disapproval, the chief super had addressed his remarks to Bennett. ‘We’re given a certain authority, and in return we have to answer for how we exercise it. I see no sign of that here. These men seem to think they can bend the law to suit their own purposes.’

  In desperation, the assistant commissioner had changed the subject. ‘Coming closer to home, Chief Inspector, what can be done in this country? I take it you’re organizing a a search here?’

  ‘Yes, but not with much conviction. The last murder was early in September, so it’s been more than two months since we heard from him, if I can put it that way.’ Sinclair winced at his own choice of words. ‘It’s likely he’s already left the country. But we can’t be sure of that, and we have to act on the assumption he’s still here, until proved otherwise. I don’t believe that photograph will be of much use. If he’s on the run, as Vane thinks, it’s odds on he’s changed his appearance. But I’m circulating it to the police nationally, along with his description and a list of the names he’s used in the past. And I’ll have the ports watched, of course.’

  ‘What about the press? Can we use them?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, sir. Not in this case. It would be like opening Pandora’s box. There’s no telling what might come out. And from a purely practical point of view, it won’t do us a blind bit of good. Publishing Lang’s photograph and description in the newspapers would simply alert him to the fact that we’re on his trail – something he can’t be sure of yet. Remember, this is a man who’s lived in the shadows all his life. No one knows better how to cover his tracks. I want to keep the hunt for him confined to the police for as long as possible. And I want to concentrate our search in the counties where Lang’s been active. There’s a chance he may have been staying somewhere in the Surrey/Sussex area. John Madden, for one, thinks so.’

  ‘Madden, again?’ Bennett brightened at the familiar name. ‘What’s he had to say on the subject?’

  ‘A good deal, as it happens.’ Sinclair’s frown, which he’d worn all morning, lifted for a moment, and the smile that took its place showed a hint of self-congratulation. Hi
s ploy of sending Billy Styles to talk to his old mentor had yielded one worthwhile result, at least. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but John’s made a valuable observation. He believes Lang must have explored the countryside around Brookham pretty thoroughly prior to the murder. How else could he have known where to take the girl? He didn’t stumble on that spot by chance. If he’s had time to wander about, it suggests he might have been living in the general area. In a hotel or boarding house, perhaps. That’s where we’ll start. It’s a job for the county police forces. I’ve got a meeting of detectives from Surrey and Sussex fixed for tomorrow.’

  It was this gathering in Guildford that had darkened Sinclair’s mood that morning and sent him in search of Madden. The knowledge that he was being less than frank with colleagues sat ill with the chief inspector and he made no secret of his displeasure.

  ‘They must have known I wasn’t telling them all I knew. At the very least, they must have wondered where I’d acquired all this information about Lang’s travels abroad.’

  ‘Did they ask what his occupation was?’

  ‘They did. I said I couldn’t enlighten them. Still, a man with that many aliases is fairly limited as to professions. I dare say they’ve put two and two together. All I could do was emphasize the police aspect of this business. Our only concern was with catching a murderer, I told them, and I laid stress on how dangerous he was, how different from the type of criminal we normally have to deal with.’

  ‘That concerns you, does it?’

  They had moved from the drawing room into the dining room, where Mrs Beck had served them lunch, and where the dull grey light of the autumn day, flooding through the windows, lay cold on the white tablecloth. Madden had said little up till then.

  ‘A great deal. He carries a knife, and he knows how to use it. Those poor children he butchered aren’t his only victims. He killed a detective years ago and Vane hinted there have been other fatalities in his career. I’m insisting this search is conducted by the plain-clothes branch. I don’t want some village bobby trying to feel his collar. They can start by checking with hotel keepers and landladies, looking for single men who fit the description. If an interview’s deemed necessary, then at least two detectives must be present. And they’re to be on their guard. He’ll kill if he has to, if he feels threatened. He’s done it before.’

  Casting all discretion aside, the chief inspector had then embarked on a detailed account of the visit he and Bennett had paid to the Foreign Office. His discourse took them through lunch and coffee and was still not complete when they wandered outside for some air onto the terrace, to be met by a wave of Scotch mist billowing down from the wooded ridge of Upton Hanger and sweeping up the lawn. Already the orchard at the foot of the garden had vanished, while of the great weeping beech that stood near it, only a few bare branches were visible thrusting up through the curtain of grey.

  ‘So that’s where we stand, John. And I’m damned if I know what to do next.’

  Madden grunted. Unaware of the frosting of white droplets coating his hair and eyebrows, he had stood listening in grim-faced silence.

  ‘So that birthmark Beezy spotted was real. Have you been able to make use of the information?’

  ‘Not really.’ Sinclair shook his head. ‘Since the mark’s on his chest, it’s hidden by his clothing. Still, I’ve decided to take a long shot. We’re having leaflets sent out to all doctors in Surrey and Sussex asking them if they’ve treated any man with a large wine stain recently – not a regular patient, of course – and warning them that he’s dangerous. Helen can show you hers when it arrives, which should be any day.’

  The chief inspector had been hoping his old partner would provide some insight into the problems facing him. But Madden had only one suggestion to offer, and that, by his own admission, ‘the longest of long shots’.

  ‘I was struck by what Vane told you – about Lang being a birdwatcher. It explains something that’s been puzzling me.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Sinclair dabbed at his damp face with a handkerchief.

  ‘I wondered how Lang had come to know about that tramps’ site near Brookham, where he took the girl. He could hardly have stumbled on it by chance. Now I understand. When I went there the next day the woods were full of birdsong. I saw a kingfisher, I remember.’ Madden’s eyes clouded at the memory.

  ‘And you think Lang had been there before?’

  Madden nodded. ‘He must have driven past Capel Wood some time earlier and seen that it was a promising spot. He could easily have explored the stream. When Billy Styles came to see me not long ago we talked about that – about how the killer seemed familiar with the countryside. We wondered if he didn’t have a hobby that took him outdoors.’ He cocked a white eyebrow at his companion. ‘It might be worth following up, Angus.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’ The chief inspector scratched his head.

  ‘I was thinking of the societies – birdwatchers, I mean. There must be several, in both counties. You could get them to canvas their members, see if they’ve noticed any unfamiliar faces in the fields, men fitting the description. It might ring a bell.’

  Sinclair grunted. He seemed less than convinced.

  ‘Well, it’s a possibility, I suppose. And since we’re clutching at straws anyway…’ He caught Madden’s eye and grinned. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll put Styles on to it. He’s been sitting in Guildford twiddling his thumbs.’

  They stood in silence while the mist thickened about them. Then a groan issued from Sinclair’s lips.

  ‘Damn it, it’s not enough. We’ll need more than luck to catch this man. Is there nothing else we can do?’

  The silence which was Madden’s only response seemed to speak louder than words, and to the chief inspector his dark withdrawn gaze was a confirmation of his own worst fears, to which he now gave expression, his voice harsh with anger at the need he felt to say it.

  ‘Must we wait till he kills again?’

  22

  Darkness was falling – it was getting on for five – by the time Eddie Noyes left the site, waving goodbye to the McCarthys, Pat and Jimmy, both from County Mayo, but not related, they said, who’d become special pals of his, and acknowledging the raised hands of some of the others as well.

  It being a Friday, and the end of their working week, the men had taken longer than usual to gather their tools and put things in order before they departed. Eddie’s last duty had been to position the moveable signs at either end of the strip of road they were working on, warning motorists to slow down, that the surface ahead was under repair. Six feet high and set in concrete, they were difficult to manoeuvre, but he had learned the knack of tipping them off centre and then rolling them along until he reached the desired spot.

  It hadn’t been easy for him at first, fitting in. He’d been marked down by the others as an outsider, someone not used to manual labour, and he’d had to prove himself in the early days by taking on some of the hardest and dirtiest jobs – breaking up the old road surface with a sledgehammer, for instance, or mixing and pouring tar – before they’d accepted him as one of them.

  But they were a good set of blokes, a dozen men in all, half of them Irish, and their companionship had reminded Eddie of nothing so much as his time in the ranks. Right down to the foreman, Joe Harrigan, who was a dead ringer for his first sergeant, a black-browed Mick from Donegal, who’d been a right bastard if he was crossed, but had taken care of his men just the same. Dooley had been his name. Jack Dooley. A Jerry mortar shell had done for him at Mons.

  Eddie had joined the crew some months earlier when they were working on a bit of road near Hove, where he lived. Hearing they were looking for labour, he’d pitched up on the off chance and been taken on by Harrigan, who’d left him in no doubt as to what would be expected of him.

  ‘You don’t look to me like you’re up to it,’ he’d said bluntly, a remark Eddie had taken to refer to his small stature – and perhaps to the softness of his hands, which t
he foreman had seized in his own calloused palms and examined critically. ‘But I’ll give you a try. No favours, mind.’

  Having been unable to find steady work since losing his salesman’s job the previous December, he’d been ready to jump at anything that was offered. The burden of providing for his mother and sister, who shared the small house they lived in in Hove, weighed heavily on him, and the fear of failing them was seldom far from his thoughts.

  Continuing along the road, Eddie had reached the point where it was crossed by the path that led over the ridge to Coyne’s Farm. Busy with ramblers during the mild weeks of autumn, it was deserted now that winter was approaching. Looking back, he saw that his workmates had collected their tools and were heading off in a straggling line in the opposite direction, towards the corrugated iron shed a good half mile away which housed Harrigan’s cubbyhole of an office, storage space for their equipment and a few square yards of bare earth where those of the crew who’d chosen to save their money and sleep rough, rather than seek cheap lodgings in the neighbourhood – Eddie had been of their number – would spread their bedrolls for the night.

  It had been these long hours of darkness, loud with the sound of the men’s snoring and their muffled groans, that he’d found hardest to bear. Sleepless in the midst of the closely packed bodies, breathing in the fetid air, he had felt his spirit foundering and it had taken all his resolve to rise each morning and face the new day.

  Even so, when the chance to escape this purgatory had been offered him, he’d hesitated, afraid that the others might resent his good fortune. But he found he’d misjudged them. Laughing, they had watched while Pat McCarthy begged Eddie with a wink to spit in his hand in case his luck was catching. As one man they had urged him to make the most of his windfall.

  At the thought of how his circumstances had changed since Sam Watkin’s unexpected appearance, the grin on Eddie’s face grew wider. (The image of a stone dropping into a stagnant pool came to his mind.) He remembered with delight the moment when the green postal van had drawn up beside him on the road and he’d heard the driver’s jovial greeting.