The Blood-Dimmed Tide jm-2

by Rennie Airth

  Puzzled afresh, he examined them, looking at first one, then the other, as though the worn soles and scuffed leather might offer up some answer to the riddle he was faced with.

  Had Eddie left in a rush? Sam pictured him tearing off his boots, breaking a lace in the process, hurrying to catch a bus or a train. (Yes, but that still didn’t explain the problem that had bothered him earlier. How could any summons to depart have reached Eddie, isolated as he was at Coyne’s Farm?)

  A feeling of unease was starting to grow in Sam; it was like a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong. The very silence of the barn seemed to hold a secret. It was as though all the little things he had noticed – the mirror, the hay, the lamp – and now the boots, dropped carelessly on the barn floor in a way that seemed at odds with Eddie’s natural tidiness, were clues to some mystery he was yet to unravel.

  Crouched on his haunches, he scanned the semi-darkness around him, seeking some further sign that might bring enlightenment. Wrinkling his nose at the musty smell coming from the dirt-covered floor, he bent lower to peer beneath the washstand and as he did so he heard a faint sound behind him and felt a warmth on the back of his neck.

  With a start he spun round on his heels.

  Sal’s moist black nose was an inch from his. Her pink tongue touched his cheek.

  ‘Gor blimey! Do you want to give me a heart attack, old girl?’ He fondled her head. ‘Creeping up on me like that.’

  Sal wagged her tail, then turned aside to sniff at something on the floor. He watched as she followed whatever scent it was she’d caught across the dusty, hay-strewn surface back into the area where the furniture was stored.

  ‘Well, that’s enough of that.’ Sam rose from his crouched position, groaning with the effort. He took a moment to ease the cramped muscles of his thighs. ‘We won’t find any answers here,’ he remarked after Sal’s disappearing form. ‘It’s best we get over to Oak Green.’

  He was impatient to ring Ada at home to discover whether there’d been any word from Hove yet. To find out if Eddie was there, and if not, whether his sister and mother knew of his whereabouts. He still nursed the hope that this whole business could be resolved in a flash.

  Taking a last look round, he noticed a pitchfork lying on the floor by the back wall and realized it must have been used by Eddie to gather hay for his now-enlarged mattress. The sight of it stirred Sam to look again at the mass of dried grass stalks filling the corner, and to shake his head in bewilderment.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  He spoke the words aloud, then turned to leave, threading a path through the furniture to where the hurdles were stored, whistling for Sal as he went. There was no sign of her when he got there, so he went back, calling her by name.

  ‘Sally! Where are you?’

  Peering around, he caught sight of her then at the side of the barn She was sniffing at something; a long, low object, most likely a chest, covered in canvas like the rest.

  ‘What have you found there? Is that a rat you’re after?’

  He whistled to her again, but she paid no attention, remaining stubbornly where she was, running her nose up and down the length of the chest, until in the end he had go over there and pull her away.

  ‘We can’t hang about here, old girl.’ He tugged at her collar. ‘There’s no time to waste. We have to find Eddie.’

  27

  Sinclair paused at the open door and surveyed the scene before him.

  Close to a score of detectives were crowded into a room that might comfortably have housed half that number. Some had found chairs, but most were either standing or sitting on the edges of desks. In the far corner a space had been cleared and a large-scale map of the town of Midhurst had been propped on an easel. The hum of conversation, loud enough to be heard on the floor above, where Sinclair had just come from, dropped to a murmur as those nearest the door noticed his appearance and that of the officer beside him, a uniformed inspector by the name of Braddock, who was in command of the Midhurst police station.

  ‘Pay attention, everyone.’

  Sinclair’s companion issued the order in a ringing tone, and silence fell.

  ‘I’ll keep the introductions short. For the benefit of new arrivals, this is Chief Inspector Sinclair from Scotland Yard. He’s in charge of the investigation into the girls’ murders, and it’s at his request that we’ve been conducting a search for this man Lang all over Sussex. According to information received this morning, it now appears likely he’s been living here, in Midhurst, or somewhere nearby. From this moment on, Mr Sinclair will be directing the search, and you’ll take your orders from him. Sir…’

  He turned to the chief inspector.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Braddock.’ Sinclair nodded to him. He walked briskly to the head of the room and took up a position beside the easel. Stuck to the wall behind him was a copy of the poster that had been sent to all police stations. Taken from the grainy snapshot supplied by Philip Vane, it showed a blown-up image of Gaston Lang’s face, the enlargement process lending stark emphasis to the wanted man’s features, deepening his pallor and transforming his eyes, slightly widened, into dark tunnels.

  ‘I’ll try to keep my remarks brief, as well.’ Sinclair faced the assembled detectives. ‘While there’s every reason to think Lang is in the neighbourhood, it’s by no means clear how long he plans to remain. He may in fact already be preparing to depart, and even if he’s not, it won’t be long before the search we’re about to launch will be common knowledge, and he’ll know he’s in danger. So time is of the essence.’

  While he was speaking the door had opened and more men had entered. Keeping a rein on his impatience, the chief inspector waited until the shuffling of feet had subsided. Accompanied by a squad of plain-clothes men, he had arrived himself from Chichester only an hour earlier, his drive across the Downs slowed by the lingering fog. Before leaving he had arranged by telephone with the Sussex chief constable for further reinforcements to be drafted in. Hampered by the same problem that had delayed his journey, they had been arriving in Midhurst in one and twos, summoned from surrounding towns, filling the small police station with the sound of voices and the clatter of shoes on bare wooden floors. Obliged to wait until his forces were assembled, Sinclair had used the time to formulate a plan, which he was about to reveal.

  ‘Since we’ve no clue as to Lang’s exact whereabouts – and since the hotels and boarding houses in Midhurst have already been checked, like others in the county – it’s my intention to search the town itself, to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Details of that in a moment. First, I’ll tell you what we know.’

  Again he was interrupted as the door was pushed open and those just inside forced to make way, with a consequent stirring and shuffling of feet. The chief inspector directed a sharp glance towards the back of the room. His eyes widened in surprise as he caught sight of Madden, who just then was edging his way in behind Billy Styles. Blinking, he went on.

  ‘The man we believe to be Gaston Lang presented himself at the surgery of a doctor named Driscoll here in Midhurst yesterday needing treatment for an injury to his back. He arrived near the end of doctor’s hours, just before midday, explaining that he was a stranger in the region, a foreigner in fact, and was on a walking tour. His complaint, which the doctor examined briefly before dealing with it, was a small wound on his back, quite a nasty cut, which he’d been unable to deal with himself, since it was too awkwardly placed. In the course of their brief, their very brief exchange – the man was not disposed to converse, Driscoll said – he disclosed that he’d suffered the injury when he’d tripped and fallen over backwards onto a pitchfork that happened to be lying behind him.’

  The murmur of disbelief that greeted these words was echoed by the chief inspector’s own raised eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, I had the same reaction. But, curiously, Dr Driscoll says that judging by the appearance of the man’s back, it was probably the truth. There were two distinct brui
ses, and a third where the skin had been pierced, all in a straight line. They could well have been caused by the prongs of a pitchfork. How he came by this injury is not a mystery I intend to dwell on. Suffice to say the wound required cleaning and dressing. Driscoll himself was in a hurry – he had a round of house calls to make – and he left the patient in the care of his nurse with instructions to obtain the necessary details from him and to tell him that he would have to return in three days to have the dressing changed. It was at that point that the story took an interesting turn.’

  Sinclair let his gaze run over the sea of faces before him until he caught Madden’s eye at the back of the room. Taller than anyone else, his old partner stood with folded arms, expressionless.

  ‘Lang – we’ll call him Lang – had had to take his shirt off to be treated and the doctor had left him in a screened-off area of his office, where he attended to patients, to get dressed, while he himself departed. He’d had no occasion to see Lang from the front since he’d been lying face down for the operation. But his nurse – her name’s Mrs Hall – caught a glimpse of him while he was putting on his shirt and she noticed that he had a large birthmark on the upper part of his chest.’

  The words brought a renewed murmur from his audience.

  ‘As I’m sure all of you know, the man we’re after has just such a mark on him. What you may not have been told is that notices have been sent to all doctors in Surrey and Sussex asking them to be on the lookout for any patients previously not known to them bearing a birthmark. The notices started going out last week. Unfortunately, the one addressed to Dr Driscoll only arrived at his surgery with this morning’s post. It was opened by Mrs Hall – the doctor himself had been called out earlier that morning on an emergency – and she remembered what she’d seen. Since these notices carried a warning that the man being sought was dangerous, she had the good sense to ring the police immediately, rather than wait for the return of her employer. Mr Braddock himself went over to the surgery to see her along with Detective Sergeant Cole, whom all of you know, I’m sure.’

  He nodded to a man standing at the front of the crowd of detectives, and then turned to Braddock, who was at his side.

  ‘Why don’t you go on, Inspector?’

  Braddock cleared his throat. He was in his fifties, balding, but with the quick glance and vigorous air of a younger man.

  ‘It so happens Peter Driscoll is my doctor and I know both him and his nurse well. Mrs Hall was a ward sister at Chichester hospital before she came here. She’s a sensible, clear-headed woman. When we showed her Lang’s photograph she took a good hard look at it and then said it was him, no question about it, though he looked different. He was wearing glasses, she said, and his hair was longer, and combed back in a different style. But she reckoned it was Lang all right.’

  ‘Did he give a name, sir?’ The question came from among the packed audience.

  ‘He did. But not his own. Hendrik De Beer was what he put down on the patient’s form he was asked to fill out. That’sdeand then Beer, like beer, which I dare say you won’t forget’ – the inspector allowed himself a grin – ‘but you’d better write down just the same.’ He paused while a rustle of notebooks ensued. ‘To anticipate the next question,’ he continued. ‘Yes, he gave an address, as well, but that was in Amsterdam. As Mr Sinclair said, he claimed to be a tourist of sorts and told Mrs Hall he’d been staying in the area temporarily, but didn’t say where.’

  He exchanged a glance with Sinclair, who nodded. It was the chief inspector who took up the story.

  ‘I’ve already arranged for the police in Amsterdam to be contacted, but I’m fairly sure we’ll find they haven’t heard of him either and that the address he gave there is a false one. He’s not Dutch, by the way, he passes for Belgian, but I won’t go into his background now, except to remark that he would have been forced to choose a foreign alias while he was here because, although he speaks English fluently, he has an accent. So bear that in mind when you start looking for him, which will be soon.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Another voice came from the crowd. ‘How do we know this name he gave the nurse is the one he’s using here?’

  ‘Good question.’ Sinclair turned that way. ‘As soon as Mr Braddock reported his discovery to me – I happened to be in Chichester this morning – we agreed that the first place to check was the post office. If Lang had been residing for any length of time locally – and we’ve reason to believe he’s been in England for some months – chances are he’s been using the poste restante service to collect any mail that might have been sent to him. It turned out to be a good guess. Sergeant Cole?’

  Sinclair caught the eye of the man standing before him.

  ‘Right you are, sir.’

  Cole, a stocky figure in a mustard-coloured suit, turned around so that he could face his audience. Raising his voice, he addressed the crowded room.

  ‘After Mr Braddock had talked to the chief inspector he sent me off to the post office. Nobody there could recognize this bloke Lang from his picture, not at first, but when I mentioned the name he’d given – De Beer – the clerk at the counter remembered it. And then he took another look at the poster and said, yes, it could have been him, though he looked different. The reason he recalled the name was a, because it was foreign, and, b, because he’d been in three times a week, regular as clockwork, for the past month asking if there was anything for him. Which there wasn’t, not until last Wednesday, when finally something arrived. A small package, the clerk said.’ He glanced at Sinclair, who nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ The chief inspector continued. ‘You’ll understand now why we think this man has been residing locally, rather than just passing through. However, as I said earlier, he may be about to leave. Our reason for thinking so springs from something he said to Mrs Hall. When told he would have to come back to have his dressing changed, he said he’d be unable to do so because he was leaving to return home, but would see to it when he got back to Amsterdam.’

  Sinclair paused. His expression was reflective.

  ‘Now it’s true he might have been lying about his departure, except I can’t see any reason for it. Why not return and have his dressing changed, if that is necessary? There is nothing stopping him, unless he really is going. And then there’s the matter of this item of post he’d been awaiting – with some impatience, it sounds. It looks like his decision to leave may well be connected to its arrival. At all events, I intend to read the situation this way and to assume that we have very little time in which to lay hands on him. Which brings us to the question of means…’

  He looked about him: once again his eye caught Madden’s.

  ‘What we want, of course, is his address, or, failing that, some indication of his movements, where he might have been seen in and around Midhurst during the past few weeks and months. These inquiries have already begun. Three of the four detectives stationed here were sent out earlier, one to take detailed statements from Dr Driscoll and Mrs Hall, the other two to visit local estate agents to inquire about flats or houses let to single men in recent months. Since we know Lang hasn’t been staying in a hotel or boarding house, this is an avenue that must be explored. But it’s only a beginning. We must spread our net wide. In the course of the next few hours you’ll be visiting shops and offices, showing Lang’s photograph and trying out the name De Beer on whoever you meet. It’s important that we cover the town systematically, street by street, and you’ll be assisted in this by Sergeant Cole, who’ll assign each pair of detectives a district to search, and to whom you’ll report, and by members of the uniformed branch, who’ll accompany you. No doubt this will cause some stir, but that can’t be helped. It’s the quickest way to achieve results. And time, as I said before, is of the essence.’

  The chief inspector fell silent. But it was plain from his frown that he had not finished, and after a brief pause he continued, speaking in an altered tone.

  ‘One final word. I’m aware of the feeli
ng most of you have that you’ve not been fully informed: that from the moment this search was launched, both here and in Surrey, questions about this man have remained unanswered. Questions you had every right to ask of your superiors. I can only apologize to you and say that, again for reasons I cannot reveal, this has been unavoidable. However, there’s one point I wish to stress: it concerns the warning all of you already engaged in this operation have received regarding the danger Lang poses. I mean the danger he poses to you.’

  Once again Sinclair paused, allowing time for his words to sink in.

  ‘It may be that in the course of today, one or more of you will encounter this man, or someone who appears to resemble him, and whom you think might be worth questioning. Should this happen – be on your guard.’ The words issued from the chief inspector’s mouth like the crack of a whip, causing several among his audience to start with surprise. ‘Lang isn’t just a sexual killer, nor are these poor children his only victims. He’s a criminal of a kind none of us has encountered before, one who as likely as not will show no surprise if accosted and may even appear to cooperate. Don’t be deceived. He carries a knife, and I can tell you now that he’s used it before, on a detective, too, with fatal consequences. Since arrest for him means a certain death sentence, he’ll stop at nothing to escape capture.’

  The chief inspector’s glance was drawn once more to the back of the room, where Madden was standing with folded arms. It seemed to Sinclair that his old partner nodded.

  ‘So I say once more, and I urge you to remember it. Be warned!’

  The telephone rang and Braddock picked it up. ‘For you, sir.’ Putting the receiver down on the desk in front of him, he rose, leaving his seat free for Sinclair, and came around to sit beside Madden, who just then was busy reading the detailed statements made by Dr Driscoll and his nurse which the detective sent to interview them had delivered earlier. As Sinclair began to speak into the telephone, there was a knock on the door and a constable came in with a tray on which three steaming cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches were balanced. At a nod from his superior he laid the tray on the desk and went out, shutting the door quietly behind him.