by Thomas Brown
Sexton nodded urbanely. ‘I understand. And you think I can help.’
‘Well, I hope so. You have spent quite a lot of time with him. I would have thought that he must have given you some inkling about his plans. You got inside his head… knew how he thought.’
‘I was beginning to understand some of his rationale, but I’m not able to think like him, if that is what you are suggesting.’
‘If not think like him – guess what he might do next. Guess what his plans are.’
‘I doubt it. He is a very cunning man. I must admit that he had me completely fooled. I thought he trusted me – saw in me someone who at least could understand and sympathise with his mania.’
‘Sympathise?’ David could not keep the shock out of his voice.
‘In the scientific sense, of course. It is true that in order to gain his trust I did pretend to empathise with his cravings. In this way he felt safe to confide in me his innermost thoughts.’
‘And…?’ There was a note of irritation in Llewellyn’s voice. He was getting a little tired of Sexton’s mumbo jumbo sophistry. It was as though all this psycho-jargon was a smokescreen. This fellow knew something. Llewellyn had no idea what but he was determined to find out.
‘Well, I learned a fair bit about Northcote’s biography and his early encounters with the tasting of flesh. I began to fathom what triggered off the overwhelming urge to kill and feast.’
David groaned inwardly. The phrase ‘to kill and feast’: it was a conscious, flashy, overly-clever construct which glamorised the subject describing it in a facile way. No doubt, he thought, Sexton will use it as the title for his book.
‘And what was that? What was this trigger?’
‘I believe it was connected with sexual arousal. Instead of the need for sexual intercourse and the physical and mental release that this brings, Northcote transferred this natural desire to…’
‘An urge to kill and feast,’ added David pointedly.
‘Yes.’
‘To learn all this, Northcote must have trusted you.’
‘Yes… to some extent. Not enough to reveal any plans to escape, if that’s what you’re hinting at. Well, that would have been foolish. After all I was his means to freedom. I was certainly kept in the dark about that.’
‘But he must have talked about his desire to get out of that place.’ It was Sunderland who made this observation.
‘Not really. He seemed resigned to his fate. I suppose that fact alone should have alerted me to the notion that he was planning something.’
‘Could you explain what you mean?’ asked David, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘Incarceration, drugs, therapy can never fully quell the innate cravings of a patient like Northcote. The desire is forever there, lurking in the shadows. It may be sedated for a time but it is never eradicated. The fact that Northcote appeared placid and in a state of acceptance should have warned me that he was keeping something back from me.’
‘And you’ve only realised this now?’
‘Since I was coshed on the head in Newfield House, yes.’
David sighed heavily. This was going nowhere and certainly Sexton was making no real effort to help. He was wrapped up in his own esoteric psychobabble world and the practical realities of catching a vicious murderer did not seem to concern him in the slightest. He decided to try a different tack with this obtuse medic.
‘Dr Sexton, if you were me, a policeman trying to trace Ralph Northcote, what would you do?’
Sexton seemed amused by the question and stared into space for some seconds before responding. ‘Do you know, inspector, I really have no idea. As I say, he is a cunning fellow. Do not mistake his mania for overall madness. He has a cool, clever rational mind and he would have no difficulty in becoming invisible in this city. Actually that is something that is quite easy to do these days what with the blackout and so many damaged properties where a fugitive could easily hang out without being detected.’
‘In the course of your chats, did Northcote mention any old colleagues, friends – even enemies?’
The psychiatrist shook his head. ‘His past life was a closed book to him. I don’t suppose he could have made his way to his old house, could he?’
‘It no longer exists. It was pulled down. There’s nothing there now.’
Sexton gave an elegant shrug of his well-tailored shoulders. ‘I’m sorry. I have nothing else to suggest. Northcote is now both the hunter and the hunted: there is no template for such a role. Certainly not one that I could fathom. I am sorry.’
* * *
‘That man is an arrogant, supercilious, irritating, pompous smug twit,’ growled Inspector David Llewellyn as he slumped into the passenger seat. ‘No, I take that back. He’s not a twit. He had no intention of helping us and he made that patently obvious.’
‘Why do you think that is, sir?’ said Sergeant Sunderland turning the key in the ignition and revving the engine.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps he didn’t want to get his hands dirty with police work. Perhaps his sympathies for Northcote were genuine and he’s pleased the bugger’s escaped.’
‘Really!’
‘Well, no not really, I suppose. But during all those visits Northcote must have said something – something however innocent or trivial that could give us some sort of clue as to where he’s hiding out. One thing is for certain, I don’t go along with Sexton’s notion that he’s hiding in some bombed out building. He’s found somewhere much smarter than that. I’m sure of it.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘When he killed that girl, he didn’t touch her purse – he left her money alone which suggests that he has sufficient for his needs. If that is the case, where has the dosh come from? He has secured a supply from somewhere.’
‘Maybe a secret stash that he hid before he was captured.’
‘That’s a bit far fetched. He’s been locked away for eight years. That kind of perspicacity would be remarkable. And then there’s the murder itself. It’s obvious that Northcote used proper medical equipment to cut up and dissect the body. Where’d he get them from?’
‘I could check if there have been any thefts of such stuff from hospitals or surgeries in the last few days.’
‘Yeah, you do that, but I reckon you’ll get a nil result. My hunch is that our friend Northcote is being harboured, given refuge by some twisted sod who sympathises with him.’
‘Sympathises?’ Sunderland’s voice rose an octave.
‘Yes,’ said David thoughtfully, lighting a cigarette. ‘Sympathises. There’s that word again.’
* * *
Back in his office, Francis Sexton was also smoking and idly watching the smoke spiral fade while his mind lingered over the interview he’d just had with Inspector Llewellyn and his lackey. In retrospect Sexton believed that he had handled it badly. He had been too smooth, too unhelpful. He’d certainly been in control and had effectively deflected each of the policeman’s questions, giving absolutely nothing away but in doing so he had obviously irritated him. That, Sexton knew, had been a foolish thing to do. He really should have thrown Llewellyn a titbit to chew on to send him off on a wild goose chase; a false clue that indicated that he was trying to help the police instead of being apparently indifferent to their investigation.
Now the policemen had gone away, frustrated and annoyed with him. He cursed softly. He had been so pleased with his smooth performance at the time that he had been unaware of the damage he was doing. Had he, by his mannered performance, aroused their suspicions? Surely not. But the thought lingered like a dark cloud.
SEVENTEEN
Before turning in for the night, I’d sat up in bed and read through the file on Bruce Horsefield, the true identity of Lance Corporal Marshall but had learned nothing of any significance. Well, nothing that could give me a lead. It was a familiar scenario: unruly kid developed into a teenage hoodlum, petty crimes and then in 1936 he’d tried his hand at holding u
p a jewellers’ shop. It was an amateurish attempt, albeit with a shooter, and he was chased down the street and caught. He was gaoled for five years but released early in order to join the army to fight for his country. Within months he had deserted and disappeared. He was an only child, brought up by his widowed mother. She was still alive, but claims not to have seen him since he went in the army. Her house had been searched and initially a watch had been put on it to no avail. End of story.
With a heavy sigh, I switched out the lights and then just as my head hit the pillow, a thought came to me. It was nothing to do with Horsefield – well not directly – but it amazed me why I hadn’t thought of it before. I lay in the dark smiling for some time before I slipped into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning I was up bright and early and out on the streets before nine. I had my revolver with me, weighing down the pocket of my raincoat. It is rare that I carry a weapon. I’m not keen on the beasts, especially after what one malfunctioning rifle did to my eye, but in this instance it was a case of forewarned being forearmed. I had worked out in my little brain that Malcolm Salter was not only on the run from the police but also from his partner in crime, Bruce Horsefield. For some reason they had split up, probably some argument over the spoils of the bank robbery and he was desperately trying to lie low so neither Horsefield could find him nor the coppers could feel his collar. He’d kipped out at his mother’s place until her death – that was still a bit of a mystery to me. Then he’d holed up at Mrs Booth’s boarding house, until I turned up on the doorstep and he turned nasty with a pistol. Where might he go next?
Well, I had an idea.
I knocked once more on the shiny knocker of Mrs Frances Coulson’s bijou bungalow. As I did so, the door partially swung open and there was no one on the other side. A little warning voice in my brain went, ‘Oh-oh!’ I knew what it meant. Experience has taught me that when you go to a door you anticipate will be locked but it isn’t, you usually can expect trouble.
I stepped over the threshold and pulled out my gun. ‘Hello,’ I called down the hallway.
There was no reply.
Something was up. Something was very up.
And then I heard it. A faint sound, rather like a groan. There it was again. It was a groan – and it was coming from the sitting room.
Cautiously, I entered the room. The tidy little parlour was in a state of disarray. One of the chairs had been overturned and many of the ornaments were lying haphazardly on the floor. It was obvious that there had been some sort of struggle in here. This deduction was further strengthened when I observed Mrs Frances Coulson stretched out on the couch, her left arm hanging limply to the floor while she clutched a wound to her forehead with her right. Blood veined its way down her pale face making her resemble some kind of bizarre clown. At first she wasn’t aware of my presence. I knelt down beside her and touched her shoulder gently.
‘Mrs Coulson,’ I said softly.
Her eyes rolled open and with a sharp grimace she turned her head in my direction.
‘Who… are you?’
‘It’s Johnny Hawke… the private detective.’
Her eyelids fluttered and then closed. ‘Oh. You.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was attacked. He… came for Malcolm.’
Here voice was raspy and lazy like that of a drunk.
‘Malcolm Salter. He’s been here.’
‘His last refuge. But … he found him. He came for him.’
‘Who?
‘The man. The man that did this to me.’
‘Which man?’
Mrs Coulson’s brow creased with irritation and her eyes flickered open again. ‘Horsefield. He came for the money.’
The money. Like a rusty machine that had just been serviced and well-oiled, suddenly all the cogs slipped into place and began whirring with increased efficiency. Now it all became clear to me. Or most of it, at least.
‘I told him Malcolm wasn’t here, but he didn’t believe me,’ Mrs Coulson rambled on. ‘So, he hit me. Broke my skull.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ I said without any knowledge or conviction that this would be the case. At least I knew her skull wasn’t broken. She had a bad cut and her dignity had been bruised. ‘Let me get you a glass of water.’
‘A glass of water… yes. Put some gin in it too, would you?’
I reckon she’d survive.
I got her the water – without the gin. I didn’t want to waste precious time searching for booze in the kitchen.
‘Where have Malcolm and Horsefield gone now?’ I asked after helping to prop Mrs Coulson up into a sitting position on the sofa and handing her the glass of water, which she clasped unsteadily with both hands.
She took a gulp from the glass and then turned a puzzled face to me. ‘What did you say?’
‘Malcolm and Horsefield – the man who attacked you – where have they gone?’
At the mention of the attack, Mrs Coulson’s fingers wandered towards the wound again. ‘They’ve gone to get the money, of course.’
‘Where?’ I tried to keep the frustration and eagerness out of my voice, but I feel I failed.
Mrs Coulson looked at me crossly as though I was an idiot. ‘To Victoria Station. Malcolm said that he’d put the money in a left luggage locker for safe keeping.’
‘How long ago did they leave?’
‘How the hell do I know? I’ve been attacked. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, suffering.’ She took another drink. ‘Hey,’ she said, ‘there’s no gin in this.’
As I hurried for the door, I noticed the clock that had been on the mantelpiece lying on the tiled hearth, no doubt where it had fallen during the struggle. The glass face was cracked and the hands had stopped at ten to ten. I glanced at my watch. That was twenty minutes ago. Crikey, I had only just missed them. I reckon they had about a fifteen-minute lead on me.
In a trice I was out of the house and racing up the road in search of a taxi. I felt no guilt in leaving the wounded Mrs Coulson to her own devices. She was a tough old bird and I’m sure that she’d summon up enough strength to get to the gin bottle and comfort herself that way.
Despite the coolness of the morning, I had worked up quite a sweat before I managed to secure a taxi. They were thin on the ground in suburbia.
‘Victoria Station,’ I yelled as I jumped inside.’ As fast as you can. It’s a matter of life and death,’ I added for dramatic effort.
The cabbie gave a brief smile. ‘Yeah, it always is mate,’ he muttered and slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator causing the cab to leap forward and for me to be thrown with some force back into my seat. The fellow had taken me at my word.
As we travelled, I tried to assemble my thoughts and build a clear scenario of this troubled affair. I was making some assumptions certainly, but they were all based on things I knew for certain. Here’s how I read the riddle at that time. Malcolm Salter and Bruce Horsefield – i.e. Lance Corporal Marshall – had absconded from the army and formed a criminal partnership. Horsefield had experience in breaking the law, albeit a fairly unsuccessful one, and probably gave Salter a crash course in the mechanics of stealing. No doubt they carried out a few small robberies and then went for the big time with the bank job in Chelmsford. It seemed to me that it was at this time that Malcolm got greedy and somehow absconded with the loot. Big mistake. Horsefield had form for being a violent beggar and certainly would not take this lightly.
I reckoned that Salter had turned up at his mother’s place intending to hide out there while the heat died down. But Horsefield had tracked him down and he only managed to get away before his old partner came to call, finding the cupboard bare, as it were. Horsefield took it out on the old woman, hanging the poor old soul. Probably it was done partly as revenge and partly as a warning to Salter. He made it look like suicide so the police wouldn’t be suspicious of her death, but he knew Malcolm would know the truth.
Salter went on the run and that’s whe
re I came in, tracking him down to Mrs Booth’s lodging house. Actually, I did him a favour for in giving me the slip, he did the same to Horsefield who was no doubt hot on his heels. As a last resort he went to Auntie Susan for shelter. I didn’t know to what extent she was party to all this, but she certainly wasn’t a whited sepulchre. Now Horsefield’s got him and is dragging him to where he secreted the loot – a left-luggage locker at Victoria Station. I had no doubt that when Horsefield had got his hands on the cash, he would have no compunctions about killing his traitorous partner.
Unless I could get there in time.
And getting there in time was proving a problem.
In the good old days – i.e. before the war – travelling around London was fairly easy. Of course, there were the usual snarl ups on the road at busy spots but, in general, journeys went rather smoothly without any serious delay. And then came the Luftwaffe causing all kinds of havoc: bombed buildings spilling across the thoroughfares, water and gas mains destroyed, rubble and débris blocking roads, craters causing diversions, a whole catalogue of obstructions which hindered the swift and easy passage from place to place.
While my cabbie was driving as fast as he could we did not seem to be making much progress. Once in the city, there were so many detours, down this back street, up that road, to just get a little bit further on the direct route. The only consolation was that Horsefield and Salter would have suffered the same problems. I assumed they had gone by road. If they had taken the underground, the odds on me getting there at the same time or even before them shortened. There were several changes on route and tube trains ran infrequently during the day between rush-hour times.
We jerked to a halt and the cabbie suddenly peeped his horn ferociously. We had got stuck behind a horse and cart, the driver of which seemed oblivious of other road users.