Season of Darkness

by Maureen Jennings

  “She was killed approximately one hour before a quarter to seven, when her body was discovered. It wasn’t light yet and it can be really dark in the lanes. The car was probably driving quite fast, which would suggest the driver was familiar with the roads.”

  “Not necessarily. Because he hit her, it might mean he was not familiar with the roads. We can’t even assume the vehicle was travelling at a high speed. Even a tractor colliding with a human frame can inflict a lot of damage.”

  “Maybe it was even pursuing her.”

  “You certainly do have a good imagination, Eager. Why would the car be pursuing her?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps she’d had a quarrel with somebody.”

  “Hmm, you have a point. Her boyfriend couldn’t get it up and things turned ugly. Nothing like disappointment in sex to kindle unpleasantness.” Tyler bit his lip. “So far we have got piss all that’s definite. And that brings us to the really big question. Did whoever who knocked her down get out of the car, go over to her, and shoot her? With a German Luger no less; a gun that Elsie probably stole from a girl at the hostel. If so, why?”

  Eagleton answered. “To keep her quiet. So she couldn’t tell on them.”

  “Right. And what if, as you so cleverly say, she was trying to get away? They catch up with her, boom. Deliberately knock her down then finish off the job with a gun.”

  “I think that’s the best bet yet, sir.”

  “But the why of it is hanging out there like an old pisser’s shirt. Unless we go for the furious lover angle.”

  “There is another possibility, sir.”

  “Spit it out, Eager.”

  “What if the vehicle hit her by accident? The road’s treacherous, they’re driving too fast. All of a sudden, there’s a girl in the road. They can’t stop in time, boom. They knock her over. They don’t know they’ve hit somebody so they drive on …”

  “Maybe.”

  “What if they did know then, but they panicked and just continued on driving? Then along comes the Luger man and he shoots Miss Bates as she lies there helplessly.”

  “Two people involved then?”

  “Yes, sir. But they don’t necessarily know each other.”

  Collis stopped scribbling and said timidly, “What if there were three people, sir? One who hit her, one who shot her, and one who put her up against the tree?”

  “Do these three people know each other, by any chance?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Collis primly.

  Tyler looked at him. “I did tell you to say anything, didn’t I? Even if it is right stupid.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “No no, lad, I don’t want to shut you up. We do have to introduce some common sense, however. The likelihood of three different people wandering around in the wee hours before dawn in exactly the same place is really stretching it. If there was more than one person involved, they must have been accomplices.” He pressed his thumbs into the corners of his eyes. “This is bringing my bloody headache back. Let’s leave all the speculation for a minute. Can we add to our ‘certain’ column? … We do know the girl had sexual relations shortly before she died, and even that could be a range of four to five hours. The sex was most likely consensual according to the doctor. Another thing for the ‘certain’ side; she had money hidden in her dungarees, two pounds to be exact. Why’d she see the need to hide it? In addition, she also had a heart drawn on her behind in indelible pencil. Not necessarily having anything to do with her being killed, or everything to do with it. Where are we so far, Eager?”

  “I think we’re still in the dark, sir.”

  “And that is the only sure thing to date. The problem is that at the moment we don’t have the foggiest as to why she was shot in the first place, never mind why she was moved and laid out like that.”

  Both constables stared blankly back at him. He sighed. “Thank you, lads. Now before you swim off, there’s something else I should tell you. Elsie’s best friend seems to have disappeared.”

  He filled them in on what had occurred.

  “Do you think she’s befallen the same fate?” asked Collis.

  Tyler’s eyebrows shot up. “What on earth have you been reading? Your mother’s weekly magazine? Never mind, I know what you mean. If she doesn’t show up soon, we’re going to treat her as a missing person. Now off with you. The storm seems to be passing but don’t stand under any trees. Remember what I said. We don’t have any replacements.”

  The two constables trotted off and Tyler swallowed down his now tepid tea. For a minute, he studied the blackboard. Bloody hell, trying to sift through all this was like trying to read a foreign language. It might make sense to somebody, but it certainly didn’t to him.

  26.

  Otto Schreyer ushered his last patient out the back door of his office, trying to conceal his irritation that Frau Katz had once again contrived to linger past her hour. She always managed to introduce an important dream five minutes before her time was up. He knew he had to confront her with this behaviour, which was unconsciously intended to make him annoyed with her, but he knew she’d be wounded and then he’d have to deal with that. He sighed. He probably had a counter-transference toward the lonely widow that he ought to bring up at his next supervisory session.

  “Gute nacht.”

  “Gute nacht, Herr Doktor.”

  He locked the door behind her, picked up his jacket and hat from the coat tree, and walked over to the other door. All analysts’ offices were set up so that a patient could enter by one door and exit by another and not run the risk of being seen by the other patients. He opened the entry door and was almost nose to nose with a man in a long leather coat.

  “Ah, thank goodness I caught you, Doctor. My name is Bosen. I am from the Security police, and I would like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

  Otto did mind. He had been looking forward to going to his bowling club for a game and a beer. However, there was something about the man that was intimidating. Otto made a show of consulting his watch.

  “I am on my way to another appointment.”

  “I won’t keep you.”

  Bosen extended his arm for all the world as if it were his office and he was ushering Otto into it. Otto had no choice but to return to his desk. He sat down again and the visitor took the other chair.

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Doctor, as you are in a hurry. It has come to our attention that this institute, against regulations, has been accepting patients who are non-Aryan, and that some of the analysts themselves are non-Aryan. As you must know, this is against the law.”

  Otto stiffened. “That has nothing to do with me. You must take it up with the director.”

  “Yes, of course, I intend to do so, but it has come to our attention that you yourself are in violation of these laws.”

  “I don’t know to what you are referring,” said Otto, swallowing hard but determined not to be cowed. “I am a pure German. I can show you my papers to prove it.”

  “Ah yes. We have checked that, but you are a junior analyst at the institute, are you not? You are still required to be under supervision.”

  Otto’s heart sank. He had a feeling he knew what was coming next.

  “I am. It is a regulation.”

  “Who is your supervisor?”

  If he’d checked on Otto’s ethnic status, he probably already knew the answer.

  “Dr. Reitman.” He dared a little. “He is also a German, from a well-established family here in Berlin.”

  “But he has only been your supervisor for a short time. Before that it was Dr. Bruno Beck? Who is a Jew.”

  “That’s correct, but Dr. Beck is no longer here. He has emigrated to England.”

  Bosen made a show of fishing out a notebook from his pocket and flipping it open.

  “Ah yes. The Jew was here at the institute until August of 1939. Before that, contrary to the law, he was accepting patients and was a fully functioning membe
r of the institute.”

  “I believe that Dr. Beck was here strictly as a consultant, which was permitted. If he did have patients, they were Jewish only.”

  “I am glad to hear it. However, given this irregularity, I am authorized to examine your papers for the period from January to August of last year.”

  Otto gaped at him. “My papers? What do you mean?”

  “It’s quite simple,” said Bosen with a touch of ice in his voice. “You take notes on your patients, do you not? I want to see them for the period I just mentioned.”

  “But they are confidential. They have nothing to do with what you are investigating.”

  “I am the best judge of that.”

  Otto could feel his heart beating faster. They were alone in the office, the secretaries had left. It was a lovely summer evening and he could hear the sound of children playing outside. He was a young man, naïve and inexperienced in many ways, yet he could sense that he was facing something more malevolent than anything he had yet known. He put his hands palms down on the desk.

  “I’m afraid you will have to speak to the director. I have no authority to show you confidential material.”

  Bosen didn’t reply but glanced around the room. In one corner was a filing cabinet.

  “I quite understand your scruples, Doctor, and I admire you for them. However, the safety of the fatherland supersedes all such petty concerns. Besides, what would I be looking at? The trivial meanderings of neurotic, self-indulgent intellectuals who should be fighting for their country.”

  Stung, Otto replied with more spirit than he’d yet shown. “You’re quite wrong about that. The majority of our patients are women, unhappy women for the most part, and surely they have a right to get to the bottom of their unhappiness? After all, if you had a cancer, you would go for treatment would you not? It is not any different.”

  The other man didn’t answer, but the look he gave Otto was full of contempt. “In fact, it is one such woman that I am particularly interested in.” He glanced at his notebook. “Frau Mueller is her name. She was one of your patients. Do you remember her?”

  Otto felt himself go cold. Of course, he remembered Frau Mueller. She was his first case, and from the beginning there was something about her that had troubled him.

  “Why are you interested in this woman in particular? She was not Jewish. There was nothing illegal in her coming here for analysis.”

  “As I said previously, Doctor, allow me to be the judge of that.” Bosen got to his feet so abruptly that Otto jumped. “You said you had an appointment. Let’s not waste time. Give me the notes. I will give you a receipt, all quite above board, and I will let you go.”

  Otto shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. If my director says it is all right to hand them over I shall do so, but I’m afraid without his authorization I cannot do it.”

  The other man walked over to the window. “You are making things so much more complicated than they need to be, Doctor.” He turned and studied Otto for a few moments. “By the way, as we are talking about confidentiality and you seem to be prepared to defend the principle to the death, were these notes confidential? No little seminar group pored over them, I assume? Just you and Dr. Beck.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does he have copies of your notes?”

  “Yes, he does.”

  Bosen began to pull on his gloves as if he were leaving. Almost abstractly, Otto noted this. A warm summer evening and the man was wearing leather gloves. “One more thing. According to my sources, Frau Mueller sent you some photographs, did she not?”

  “I must object to your question, sir. Whether she did or did not is still within the bounds of confidentiality.”

  “Ah yes. That word again. You weren’t raised a Catholic by any chance, were you Doktor?”

  “No … I don’t see …”

  “I was, and you sound like some of the priests I have known.”

  He reached into his pocket, took out a thin narrow case, and opened it. He removed a syringe, and before Otto could move, before he could comprehend what was happening, Bosen stepped forward and plunged the syringe deep into the artery in the side of his neck.

  27.

  IT WASN’T JUST THE STORM THAT HAD DRIVEN MOST of the internees into the mess tent. The nervousness was palpable. Groups of men huddled together or wandered around the various tables, seeking reassurance, questioning, fearful.

  Dr. Beck had gone to meet with Fordham early that morning and now the men were waiting eagerly for him to return. They went quiet as he entered and walked briskly to the podium. He cleared his throat. “The commandant himself will address us all later this evening, but he assures me that there will be no more searches. He is content that we are not criminals and we are hiding nothing. I reported the incident of a guard pointing his rifle into the compound and he has promised to deal with the young man in question. He also says we will be transferred to better quarters soon. That is to the Isle of Man, for some of us. He will do his best to speed up the tribunal process so that we will not be held longer than is necessary.”

  Some men let out a cheer. The slowness of the tribunals – the only chance they had to plead their cases – was a source of great aggravation.

  “Now I suggest we return to our regular activities,” continued Beck. “I do believe the chess championship will soon be decided, not to mention the football cup.”

  The men began to gradually disperse. Father Glatz and the seminarian approached Beck.

  “How is Herr Hartmann?” asked the priest.

  Howard Silber was nearby and jumped in. “I hope he’s not going to accuse me of being a spy again?”

  “I don’t think so,” answered Beck. “He’s back in the real world today. But his lucidity is tenuous. I wondered if I could leave him your care, Father, while I have my meeting with the policeman.”

  “So that’s why you’re all dressed up,” chuckled Silber. “I thought it had to be for more than just the major.”

  Beck was wearing a neat navy blazer, white duck trousers, and a straw panama.

  “Obviously an important meeting,” said the actor. He brushed some hairs off Beck’s lapel. “You have trimmed your beard for the occasion, I see.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m going to present the inspector with an article I wrote.”

  Silber threw up his hands in mock horror. “Let me guess. The game of chess as a manifestation of the Oedipal conflict. The entire aim is the capture of the king, the queen is all powerful, and the pawns are like children, weak and disposable.”

  “That is not the subject of my article,” said Beck. “However, you make a good point. I have noticed that it is particularly men who are drawn to the game. What does it say of our own Oedipal complex, that Father Glatz and I are both compulsive players? Are we resolved or unresolved?” He smiled a rather professorial smile intended to disarm.

  The priest smiled back good-naturedly. “I was always of the opinion I had grown up with respect and admiration for my father and a normal healthy affection for my mother. Shouldn’t that make me rather bad at chess?”

  “I cannot tell from what you are saying whether or not it is a good thing that I am mediocre at the game,” said Hans Hoeniger. “Do I therefore have a well-balanced personality?” His eyes danced with mischief. Beck came in for a lot of teasing in the camp. Although he was highly respected, many of the internees considered the practice of psychoanalysis perilously close to the art of telling fortunes through the cards or tea leaves.

  Beck wagged his finger at them. “You are both being far too simplistic. Unless I analyze you, I cannot determine all the complexities of your respective personalities.”

  “Remind me not to start,” laughed Hoeniger. “But I am all ears. What is the article you are presenting to the inspector?”

  Beck tapped at his pocket. “I presented this to the London Psychoanalytic Society in thirty-eight. It is entitled ‘The Urge to Confess: an Analysis of the Criminal Mind.’ Gi
ven the recent circumstances, I hope it will be helpful to him.”

  “A provocative title. I would like to read it. Do you have another copy?”

  The professor looked pleased. “I’m afraid this is the only one and it’s an English edition. But I would be happy to present the gist of my argument at the psychology club meeting, if you wish. However, you will have to be content with something a little less polished than I would like. I have not yet been able to obtain my complete files.” He shook his head. “I was arrested quite abruptly and had hardly time to pack anything.”

  “As were so many of us, Herr Doktor,” said Silber. “Fortunately, a dear friend sent me a few books, so I am not totally bereft. Surely there is somebody who would do that for you?”

  “I have sent word to my landlady, but so far she has not replied.”

  “I think everybody would be delighted to hear what you have to say, polished or no,” said Glatz. “Don’t you agree, Herr Silber? Hans?”

  “No good asking me,” said Silber. “I don’t have time for anything except the drama club. I’ve promised to do a version of Henry V before we disband.” He shrugged at their expressions. “If you want to understand the English soul, you have to be familiar with Henry V.” He thrust his fist into the air. “ ‘God for Harry, England and St. George.” ’ With a theatrical swirl he strode off, shouting out, “Gentlemen in England now abed, Shall think themselves accursed they were not here …”

  Father Glatz looked at Beck. “Is the man a genius, do you think?”

  “He thinks he is,” said Hoeniger.

  A football suddenly bounced toward them, almost hitting the professor on the head. A tanned and lithe young man in a singlet and shorts came darting between the tents.

  “Oops, sorry gentlemen.” He grabbed the ball and dashed off again.

  “Bader, you shouldn’t be playing so close to the tents,” Father Glatz shouted after him.

  “There’s another subject worthy of your analysis, Dr. Beck,” said Hoeniger. “The obsession mankind has with trying to get round objects of various sizes into some kind of crevice, also of variable size.”