And from the basement in the house in the park? Say about
twelve hours, she thought.
So he had not rushed out just before she and Charmian drove
out. He had probably been gone before and had this amount of
time to plan to kill Victoria Janus.
If she was right, it altered the picture of when and how Janus
had been killed. They knew when she had received a telephone
call and gone off, because the two lookalike actors had told them. What they did not know now was how long the Horseman had
been getting ready for this killing.
Dolly returned to the bedroom. On a table by the bed there was
a pad of paper and a Bible.
Her eyebrows shot up. A Bible of all books. She picked it up
and a piece of paper fluttered out.
At first glance, it looked blank, but as she studied it she saw
deep indentations. She held it up to the light. Here and there she
could make out a word.
You hate
What you are?
Kill … kill.
Professional … or was it professionals?
And then: A … s … c … p …
No, she couldn’t make out much.
But it might be important.
To her, the words read like a letter to someone on the subject of hate and killing.
Charmian held the paper up and studied the marks. ‘Seem to be what you say … I will have to get the forensic boys to lay on the right treatment, we better not try ourselves. Good work.’
‘Hope it helps.’
Forensic work was never fast and one day and then another passed. The search for the other missing women and for the Horseman went on.
Superintendent Hallows looked more and more gloomy. He met with Charmian almost every day. Inspector Chance was in charge of the day to day house calls, checks of cars, interviews with passers-by and all the lookalikes with names on the files. None of these refused to be interviewed, any publicity being better than none, so they talked to the press as well. No one had anything of interest to say. Victoria Janus had employed them, not particularly generously, but she paid up on time, which not all did, and she was good for a laugh. No, they didn’t know any more about her. She had some crazy ideas but work was work.
Dolly Barstow and George Rewley got on with other duties.
‘Any news?’ Dolly asked on the third day.
Charmian shook her head, pushing a file of papers on the case away from her.
‘Anything from Forensics?’ she asked hopefully.
‘No, except the pathologist, Phil Eden at Forest Lane Hospital said he was a nifty man with a knife.’
‘We know that.’
‘Wonder if he ever had any medical training?’ Charmian made a note. ‘Might be worth finding out.’
‘There’s the letter,’ said Dolly, still hopeful.
‘It’s all we’ve got. No sign of him. He’s got some other hideaway. Rat down a hole.’ There was bitterness in her voice.
‘How did he know Janus?’
‘No idea. It’s part of the general mystery. No evidence of how or when. No one has come forward to say they were seen together.’
‘They wouldn’t, would they? Not if they are the Cheasey lot.’
Charmian said slowly: ‘We may have it wrong. There is no real evidence that he knew her.’
There was silence from Dolly, till she said:
‘Why kill her then?’
‘God knows.’
Chapter Twelve
One day, two days, three days, and four.
And still no sign of the Horseman.
‘Times like this I hate the human race,’ said Charmian to her husband who was home, and cooking dinner. He was getting to be a good cook, which was lucky because Charmian, never really a great hand in the kitchen (before she married she lived on the best of M & S and still thought this not a bad idea) was getting worse.
‘You’re getting to be a good housewife,’ she said, watching him at the chopping board with his special knife – Sabatier, and very large and strong. She herself had been used to grabbing any knife that came handy but she recognized style in a cook when she saw it.
‘If I live long enough.’ He was stirring the rich, red sauce.
‘You will, I might not.’
‘Oh come on, love. You’re just low because you haven’t found the Horseman. You’ll flush him out.’
‘How many more is he going to kill before we do?’ God help us. If you choose to, if you are there. All the big IFs. ‘Two missing women still to find as well.’
Humphrey did not answer, unwilling to break up this euphoric moment when the sauce came exactly right. He continued stirring. ‘I didn’t put any garlic in.’ This was a lie, but she wouldn’t find out until tomorrow and with luck not even then.
‘Good.’ Still hang dog.
He came up, put his arm round her shoulders and hugged her. ‘This isn’t like you.’
‘It’s a bad time. SRADIC isn’t doing too well either.’ She frowned. ‘Under pressure there too.’
‘Things do go up and down, you know that.’
‘Mostly down at the moment.’
He gave a loving look. She always seemed indestructible, this clever wife, that was her public face, but he knew she wasn’t. For a moment he felt remorseful about the garlic, too late though now, there it was bubbling away in the sauce.
‘Why don’t you resign … we could travel. Go to my place in Scotland. Walk, shoot a few grouse.’
That was a mistake.
‘I’ve had enough of sudden death.’
‘Not quite the same thing.’
‘No, sorry.’ She moved away. ‘Better give the sauce a stir, I think it’s burning. Or it might be the garlic.’
‘You smelled it.’
‘Of course I did. Besides, I know when you’re lying.’
He laughed. ‘You are a detective then. So isn’t there anything that gives you hope?’
‘Life in general or the case?’
‘Both, I suppose.’
‘As to the murders … yes, the trace of a document, possibly a letter, in a Bible in Davy’s house. Dolly Barstow found it. I am waiting to see what they have brought up. It might help.’
‘Good. And what about life in general?’
Charmian began to laugh. ‘Perhaps it isn’t such a bad old life, after all. Shall we talk about it after dinner? And I hope you love the smell of garlic.’
‘I won’t notice it, I shah have eaten it too. We shall both smell of it.’
Is garlic an aphrodisiac? Charmian thought dreamily, later on. Perhaps that’s why the Italians love it so. It seems to be good for almost everything else.
Certainly life seemed better and the menacing figure of the Horseman receded. She yawned, turned over and went to sleep.
The Horseman was not so far away after all. He had not travelled a long way. He was in rising ground, above the river at Runnymede. It was the sort of place that was natural to him since there were horses in a field nearby. None actually in his small protected spot where the earth seemed to have natural ramparts. Or were they man-made? The past is the past and does not give away all its secrets.
He did not have this field entirely to himself but he was tucked away safely. There was a belt of trees, then a swathe of bushes, it was a private place, protected from the noise and sweep of traffic on the road beyond.
Of course, you could be disturbed there, woken from your sleep. But not the Horseman. Not yet.
Charmian was in better mood the following morning and Dolly Barstow was in a worse one: she had slept badly.
She got up, yawned, and made herself some coffee. Food didn’t seem to have much appeal.
Perhaps she was pregnant … no, no, bad joke. She couldn’t be, could she?
She went into the bathroom to clean her teeth, she stared at her face in the looking glass. That is not the face
of a pregnant woman. Say it isn’t.
Coffee restored her mood somewhat, but also forced her to face her own problems. Was she wise to stay in SRADIC? She liked working with Charmian Daniels but it was Charmian’s show and if Dolly wanted promotion, another step up the ladder, then maybe she should look elsewhere.
There was also the rumour that SRADIC itself might be scrapped. She might hint at this rumour to Charmian, but she would certainly discuss it openly with George Rewley, who always had the latest information.
But she could not stop herself thinking about the case, the real source of her anxiety.
Because Charmian had not talked about Victoria Janus, other than providing a name and a few dates, and seemed reluctant to do so, Dolly had put together a biography of this strange character for herself. She had contacted a friend in the North Midland Force where Deerham Hills was situated, the first home of Janus and where Charmian Daniels had then been a detective constable on her way up, to get the details. Photocopies of local newspapers had been sent. It appeared that the trial had not figured except in a small way in the national press, which was surprising.
The child of comfortably placed but not rich parents, she had early on changed her name from Mary Ansell. She had gone to drama school where she called herself Maria Benson. Whether she was a good pupil or not was unclear but she had won no prizes at the St James School of Drama in Piccadilly.
She had been joined there by a cousin, and together with another young woman they became a trio of friends.
Well, Victoria Janus, as she later became, always claimed they were friends, and that it was in a mock fight (but with real weapons!), a rehearsal for a play they were writing, that the other two were mortally wounded.
The jury believed her.
So she must have been a good actress, thought Dolly cynically. After the trial, she did not return to the drama school, but as she packed up her bag to depart, she was reported to have said: ‘It was a kind of Russian roulette, it could have been me that died.’
Make what you like of that, Dolly thought.
After the death of her cousin, a trust fund devolved upon Janus who thus became rich.
So there was a motive, thought Dolly, but too late to point it out now, and after all, Janus was now the victim.
Perhaps I would have liked her if I had got to know her, she thought, after all her lookalikes for crime readers was a jolly idea. A good joke which she clearly enjoyed herself without much caring if anyone else did. And it did give employment in a very competitive profession.
Had she chosen a few living crime writers, then it would have given publicity to them in another crowded profession.
Too late now, the lady herself was a statistic. The Russian roulette had been played out in the end, at another time, and in another way she had lost the game.
After a slice of toast with honey, Dolly departed for work in better spirits; checking over her recent sexual life, she became convinced that she could not be pregnant unless by immaculate conception.
At work, she settled down cheerfully to clearing matters of routine. Charmian had a secretary but Dolly did her own typing and filing. And she liked to get things on her computer for extra security.
Where George Rewley was she did not know, but he did disappear, usually reappearing with a good excuse. Dolly had a private joke that he had a mad wife whom he must visit on occasion. She knew this was rubbish because his wife was dead, but it a was a fantasy that suited his sad, thoughtful face. He was a good bloke and a first-rate colleague but his private life was his own. He may not even have one.
As Charmian’s voice was heard in the outer office, the fax next to Dolly’s desk was rolling out the transcript of the writing on the sheet sent to Forensics.
When Charmian entered the room, Dolly, standing studying what was coming through, nodded to her to join her. They stood together, reading silently.
Dear Friend,
I will send this letter in spite of your prohibition because
the police are breathing down my neck and you ought to
know. Is it your doing? I call you Friend, although you hate
the name and do not truly deserve it. Not to me, not any
man. Have you betrayed me?
What are you? I know you read my mind, and know it might have to be kill or be killed. I am a professional.
(THEN FOLLOW SOME LINES WHICH IT HAS BEEN IMPOSSIBLE TO BRING UP EXCEPT FOR ONE WORD)
Aesculapius
(THIS IS ALL WE HAVE.) Charmian drew back. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘Not much.’
‘A pity so much is lost. I wonder if it was ever sent?’
‘And to whom?’
‘Perhaps to Victoria Janus,’ said Charmian.
‘Before killing her? It hints at it, if she betrayed him.’
‘Yes,’ said Charmian. ‘Maybe. Needs thinking about.’
‘What about Aesculapius?’
‘Yes, that needs thinking about too. The god of healing and medicine, the great doctor.’
‘It doesn’t sound a likely god for the Horseman.’
‘He’s a man of education. Perhaps he was a medical student. A failed one. Or one who never completed his course.’
‘Oh do you think so?’ said Dolly cautiously. She could see what might be coming her way.
‘Could have been … I would like you to check the teaching hospitals’ records. London, at first. If you can track him down it would be a help to finding him.’
Dolly blenched. ‘Surely they don’t keep records on their failures.’
‘He must have been registered, they would have a record. Anyway, it’s all on computers now. Just give them his name and ask them to look.’
‘Take years,’ said Dolly.
‘Go through his books, see if you can pick up a hospital or college name. He might have kept a textbook or two. On surgery,’ she said bleakly.
Dolly departed, muttering under her breath that it was not a task that a detective inspector of some distinction (she allowed herself that) should be asked to do, while knowing that in SRADIC it was; you did what was required.
I might get Rewley to give me a hand, she thought, he’s so much better at this sort of search than I am. He often gets a result where I wouldn’t.
But Rewley did not appear. He had business of his own.
‘Use your mind and not your feet,’ Dolly’s mother had said to her early in her career. Although as a serving police officer who had started in uniform and had to work her way up in spite of a good degree from Bristol University, Dolly had used her feet a great deal, but had never forgotten her mother’s advice.
Accordingly, she went to the Horseman’s house. People did leave spoors, traces, tracks of their past life around them even if they did not know it.
She hoped to find something that would help her find out if the Horseman had ever been a medical student. Whether this was a lead to where he was now, she doubted, but Charmian had asked for this information, and if Dolly could get it, she would.
The whole affair was one big question mark.
The house bore the imprint of thorough police forensic examination; white powder everywhere, furniture disarranged and the bedclothes tipped on the floor. Looking under the bed for the Horseman?
No drugs, or guns, she guessed, or, of course, knives, although somehow she could not see the Horseman sleeping on a bed of knives.
Nor was he one to leave records from the past around. No newspaper cuttings of his previous exploits with the knife. No books on horses … Why did he hate them so? Or were they just gentle, tethered creatures he felt he could attack at will?
Pity he never met a mustang.
She walked down into the sitting room where he had a small desk, with not much in it. She opened the drawers to find some writing paper in one, and an old diary which she flipped open: empty. Two rows of books above the desk, some brightly jacketed novels, others older and more sober looking. Where he kept any bank records
and his chequebook she did not discover. Probably on him, he would need money.
If they waited long enough, they might locate him through a need for cash. So far, nothing had been withdrawn from his bank account and his chequebook had not been used. He must have taken a large float with him.
Or he was living on a friend. Yes, that had to be considered. And no doubt Charmian Daniels, Superintendent Hallows and Sid Chance had thought of it and were checking on his friends.
If he had any.
Come on, Mum, she said to herself. You’ve let me down here, feet would have been better.
‘Now, come on, Dolly,’ distantly she could hear her mother’s voice. ‘Use your mind.’
The Horseman had been educated locally, the same school, although a much younger generation, as Sergeant Tiger Yardley. The school no longer existed; its building with all its records were long gone.
All right, you used your mind, Dolly. The man had a university degree. Brunei University had been mentioned. Had he tried a medical course there?
No, as far as she knew, you could not do a pre-medical course there. That would have to be checked.
Oh damn, she thought, slumping on to the sofa, so it’s back to check the medical schools of the United Kingdom for a failed student, there are no short cuts.
She sat there, looking at the row of books. Dolly, knowing her job, got up and began to flip through them. People did hide things in books. She shook the bright novels, then moved on to the darker books which were biographies, the Oxford History of the Eighteenth Century by Seton Watson, then another book: Gray’s Anatomy, 1970 edition.
Inside, a label: Students’ Library, St Mark’s Hospital, Windsor Road, Feltham.
Of course, a good if little known teaching hospital, linked to the University of South London.
Good old Mum! You came up with the answer.
Charmian, having just had a long conversation with George Rewley, received Dolly’s news with interest.
‘Good, I thought you would come up with something. Get out to the hospital and see what they have to offer. Friends, contacts, addresses. See what you can do.’
Once again, Dolly’s spirits sagged. All such a long time ago. The Horseman would be a forgotten man. Charmian was expecting magic.
Stone Dead Page 18