Return

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘… who was stabbed to death in Florence, Alabama, on 6 April 1951,’ Powell reminded them, resuming the narrative. ‘At that time Jethro Morrison was serving a sentence for the theft of war materiel. He was the boss of a protection gang Nolan employed to keep him safe: he was King Rat of the jail, running all the rackets. Nolan’s murder was one of two that could never be proved against Morrison, through lack of evidence. This morning Goodfellow admitted Morrison did it, for Nolan’s $5,000 bankroll—’

  ‘This is absurd: doesn’t make any logical sense,’ protested Beddows before Powell, in turn, cut him off.

  ‘Marcus Carr, then a lieutenant-colonel, was the chairman of the military tribunal that imposed the life sentence on Nolan. Gene Johnson was the son of Major Patrick Johnson, an investigator attached to the US Army Provost Marshal’s office. He made the case against Nolan.’

  There was stunned, uncomprehending silence. Clarence Gale said, ‘Dead men don’t come back from the grave.’

  ‘There’s scientific evidence that Myron Nolan has,’ said Powell.

  ‘Absurd,’ repeated Beddows. ‘Totally absurd.’

  None liked to be beaten – to have to admit total bewilderment – and the conference continued uneasily, everyone ill at ease. It was Amy who broached the suggestion of the supernatural, although it wasn’t the word she used. She talked of ‘something unknown, strange’, to be immediately confronted by Clarence Gale and Barry Westmore’s insistence that there had to be a logical explanation. Beddows at once saw the signpost and followed the Director, suggesting everything would become clear when an omission or oversight in the analysis was realized. Westmore replied, indignantly, that there was no fault with any analysis and Powell said he looked forward to getting Beddows’s assessment the following day, after the division chief had independently studied the case files. There was a virtual repetition of the Pittsburgh photo laboratory discussion that extended to cosmetic surgery face change until Westmore said that while it was technically possible synthetically to copy fingerprints it had never, to his knowledge, been achieved successfully outside the lab and that those in Johnson’s cab and the Carr apartment were unquestionably genuine. And there was no evidence of plastic surgery.

  ‘One thing’s obvious,’ said Gale. ‘We can’t risk going public until we do understand. We would be ridiculed.’

  ‘Facts are facts,’ protested Westmore, mildly.

  ‘And they remain limited to the five of us in this room until I order otherwise,’ said Gale. It wasn’t going to do his Washington career any good whatsoever if the merest whisper of this cockamamy story leaked out before he had a complete handle on it.

  ‘One of those facts is that all three victims, in some way or another, are provably linked to Myron Nolan’s imprisonment.’ Powell looked to Amy. ‘You got the names of others?’

  ‘Some, not all,’ she said at once. ‘Like I said, the records aren’t complete. After fifty years I don’t know how many are still alive, how many dead. Obviously I won’t stop looking.’

  Powell went back to the Director, glad to be able to bypass Beddows. ‘Shouldn’t we consider the security of any who are still alive?’

  It was a decision the man – a trained judge who liked incontrovertible evidence making incontrovertible sense – didn’t want to make. Avoiding it, Gale said, ‘Let’s find names and locations.’

  That evening Powell received two telephone calls at his Crystal City apartment, directly after watching the main evening news, horrified at how he’d appeared.

  Beth said excitedly, ‘I just saw you on television, with a man they said was a gangster. You looked terrific. Some of my friends saw you, too!’

  Amy said, ‘I thought you looked just like Eliot Ness.’

  ‘He was untouchable,’ Powell pointed out. ‘I thought I looked like someone in the pocket of a big time gang leader.’

  ‘That too,’ she agreed, unhelpfully. There was a pause. ‘No luck with names and addresses. I’m going home.’

  ‘See you in the morning,’ Powell said. It wasn’t until he’d replaced the receiver that he wondered if she hadn’t expected him to say something different. At once he remembered Amy Halliday’s insistence on no personal relationships, and wondered why the doubt had occurred to him after he had assured her he felt the same way. Perhaps it was because he didn’t feel that way any more: he didn’t think he ever had.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nothing was as he remembered it, which was hardly surprising after more than half a century, but he was still disappointed. The last time he’d been through Surrey and Sussex and Hampshire it had been difficult to find a blade of grass in the churned landscape left by the tanks and the armour and transporters and the troops already invading Normandy to make it safe for him to follow to pursue the unbelievable opportunities of war. Now, apart from some small towns he mostly thought ugly, the countryside was green and placid, cows grazing as they were supposed to according to postcards, and in two villages through which he drove church bells were ringing.

  He stopped at the second, close to Cuckfield, to buy newspapers and because the pub looked inviting, but that was disappointing too, thatched and red brick outside, light-fluttering fruit machines and canned Muzak inside. He considered driving on but he wanted to read about himself and his left hand was still sore from where the bitch had caught him with her razor before he’d got it away from her – the same hand that the fucking cats had scratched – and importantly the place was clean, actually smelling of polish and disinfectant.

  He took a half-pint of what the barman assured him to be their strongest beer and settled in the corner seat furthest from the bar, to read. The feeling, he supposed, was pride. He hadn’t made every front page – just most of the tabloids – but the headlines were big on the inside pages: words like monster and Dracula and even, predictably, Jack the Ripper, although he didn’t like the quote from the unnamed police spokesman describing him as a homicidal maniac. He was curious at the police insistence that there were some important clues. The British media coverage was much more hysterical than that in America. But then, he reflected, England was a much smaller country. And America was far more accustomed to multiple killings. It was only the fact that Carr had been a general that had finally got the story into the New York Times and the Washington Post on the day he’d left.

  He put the newspapers aside, feeling fresh disappointment as well as pride. Good, but not the sensation he wanted. Too small: at a distance. No-one in the bar was looking at him, terrified of him, in awe of him. The interest was too casual, a barmaid and one man gazing right through him as if he didn’t exist. That had to change: change dramatically.

  He’d positioned himself as far away as possible from the fruit machines, and the Muzak wasn’t as intrusive as he’d first thought so he decided upon another drink and at the bar impulsively chose a ploughman’s lunch after learning what it was from the man who was served ahead of him.

  Disappointing or not, he was still glad he’d allowed himself the nostalgic detour. He felt relaxed after the two killings, in no hurry. First he’d followed the most direct route to find the widow of Major Walter Hibbs. According to the map that came with the hire car the hamlet, just outside Midhurst, would be about thirty miles away: an hour and a half’s drive. Midhurst would be the place in which to base himself while he checked out the Hibbs house after more than a year, to make sure everything was as he remembered: that his preparation for this killing remained as foolproof as the others before it.

  A sprightly busybody of a woman, he recalled, chairperson of this, chairperson of that, well-born if fading British gentility taking its natural place of command in the scheme of things, following in the footsteps of her bastard, bristle-moustached husband.

  Taylor guessed it would take two days, to be sure. But it could no longer if necessary. As long as it took: all the time in the world, this and every other world. His decision after the first visit was to do it in the evening. Wait for her to return b
usily home from whatever parish function she’d been performing, make the rehearsed, seemingly half-awkward approach (‘my father was stationed around here during the war: think he might even have known your husband. The name is Hibbs, isn’t it?’) to gain her confidence and then take the very necessary satisfaction, chip chop, chip chop.

  His mind still upon the detour he’d allowed himself, Taylor suddenly wondered about extending it. He still had retribution to exact in America, so he couldn’t finally decide about settling there or back here in England. Again, no hurry. But why not cross to France, as he’d done as Myron Nolan in 1944: take the route he’d taken behind Patton’s army, through the same towns, maybe even into Belgium? It would be different there now, like it was different here now. No more eager amateurs willing to do whatever he wanted, two at a time, three at a time, for nylons or coffee or butter. Anything. Hi, Joe, whadya know. Got a present for me, Joe? You got a present for me I got a present for you, Joe. He smiled at the reminiscence. Definitely an idea. Another experiment, another new experience.

  It didn’t take Taylor as long as he’d expected to get to Midhurst and there was a vacancy at the first hotel he tried, a beamed lopsided place in the main street proud of its coaching inn history prominently displayed in the reception area. He insisted upon inspecting the room before taking it and agreed that he needed a reservation that night for dinner.

  It was still only four o’clock when he approached the tiny village known as Lower Norwood, although not marked as such on his map. He recognized the needle tip of the church spire first, thrusting up from the hills in which it was folded, and then the top field, with its curious cows, of the main farm. Abruptly, at the top of the hill, it was laid out before him, as if for approval: the faraway church, the required pub with a swing and a roundabout for children in the rear garden, and the combined post office and general store. Several of the houses were thatched, none of the roofs new, one badly in need of replacing. Mantua House, the Hibbses home, was grey stone and slate roofed, at the far end, close to the church and set back more than any of the others in larger grounds dominated by huge firs, their bottom branches so low they swept the ground like skirts.

  To Taylor’s left there was a long draw-in, for the twice a day bus. He parked there and momentarily considered taking his satchel before deciding against it, instead locking it securely in the boot with his souvenirs of the killings so far. The cows lost interest and went back to their grass. Whatever new experience he sought in the future, he wouldn’t return as a cow, he decided. Why not as a female, though, he thought, caught by the idea. Something else to think about. Forget cows. Wouldn’t come back as a bull, either. A man putting a tractor away in an open-sided farm building examined him, briefly, but quickly had to concentrate on what he was doing. Two women outside the post office stopped their intense conversation at his approach. One smiled and said ‘Good evening.’ Taylor said ‘Good evening’ back. Quite different from the lunchtime pub: not a lot of strangers came here. What about this pub, coming up on his left? Would it be open? Couldn’t remember, from his last visit. Used it once – no fruit machines or canned music – but at lunchtime again, never this late. It would be the obvious gathering place at night. English tradition. Not the sort of place Mrs Hibbs would go to, though. Not a pub. Below her status. She’d take sherry. Maybe with a dry biscuit. Not for much longer.

  Mantua House seemed different. He wasn’t immediately able to decide how. Bedraggled came to mind, which wasn’t the right word but just as quickly he changed his mind. It was exactly the right word. The last time he’d seen it the house – the creeper and the climbing flowers and the lawn-skirting trees – had been immaculate: freshly washed windows glinting, the garden and its plants trained and orderly. It wasn’t any longer. Now bedraggled tiredness was on the point of becoming positive neglect and the untidiness offended him. He stopped at the gate, gazing anxiously up the weed-dotted drive towards the silent house. Anger took over from the anxiety. Surely the old bitch hadn’t died! Surely he wasn’t going to have to start all over again, find children: he’d be totally cheated if there were no surviving relatives. It had happened, in the past. More than once. Couldn’t stand that – hated that happening. The whole point of exacting retribution was that he always refused to be cheated.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Taylor physically jumped at the question, unable to tell where the voice came from. Then a woman moved into view from behind the privet hedge to his left, pruning shears in hands encased in grimed gardening gloves. It was difficult to guess her age. She could have been anything between thirty and fifty, as bedraggled as the house, in shapeless, mud-smeared trousers, wellington boots and darned sweater. There wasn’t any grey in what he could see of the auburn hair sprouting beneath a rim-curled man’s trilby hat, so maybe she was closer to thirty. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up, shining with perspiration. There was a smear of dirt along the side of her nose.

  ‘I was just admiring the house. Georgian, isn’t it?’ he said, knowing it was.

  ‘I thought you might have been a PG. Didn’t want to greet you like this if you were. That’s why we insist on advance reservations.’ The voice was soft, educated.

  ‘What’s a PG?’

  ‘Paying guest. Recognized you as American, even before you spoke.’ She looked at him, expectantly.

  Falling back upon his prepared story, Taylor said, ‘I’m staying in Midhurst. Nostalgic trip. My father was briefly stationed here during the war, just before the invasion. He often talked about it.’

  She smiled. Her teeth were very even. ‘My father was a soldier. He fought, too.’

  ‘Was?’ probed Taylor, hopefully.

  ‘He died, ten years ago. Only Mother left now. And she’s not well. Suffered a stroke, six months ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, dutifully. Not as bad as he’d feared. Two for the price of one, without any effort. A bonus, in fact. If the old bitch was here, that is. ‘Must be difficult, running a guest house and caring for a sick mother?’

  ‘There’s a nurse who comes in. Mother’s really no trouble. It’s a tragedy. She was such an active person before it happened. Ran the village.’

  Taylor was glad that they were separated by the gate. She’d smell of sweat. He wondered what she would have done for a bar of soap or a pair of nylons in 1944. She had big tits, under that filthy sweater. ‘I would have thought it was still too much, trying to handle the garden, as well.’

  ‘George – he’s the gardener – does most of it but he’s been ill, too. Things have got a bit behind. I’m trying to do what I can to help.’

  ‘Pity I didn’t know about you before I booked in at Midhurst.’

  ‘Should have read the local guidebook first,’ she said, smiling again. She looked back along the hedge, to the unseen pruning that still had to be done.

  He’d have to come back to discover their routines, make sure he wasn’t surprised by the unexpected arrival of the nurse. ‘I’m going to stay around for a few days, try to find some of the places my father talked about. Maybe I’ll see you again. What is there to see, around this particular village?’

  ‘The church is old. Norman. There are some wonderful walks, across the downs, to some of the other villages. You like walking?’

  He made a doubtful expression. ‘Can’t honestly say I’ve done a great deal.’ Not in this lifetime or the two that preceded it, he thought.

  ‘There’s the guidebook in the village shop,’ she said, pointing over his shoulder. ‘That’ll tell you all there is.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ he said. ‘Good luck with your gardening.’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘I hate it! I get so filthy!’

  He stopped at the shop and bought the local guide, intrigued by her parting remark. Maybe she would have done a lot for a bar of soap.

  There was no dispute about jurisdiction or demands from the Regional Crime Squad to become involved or to co-ordinate, because they didn’t want to
be stuck with it either. Detective Chief Superintendent Henry Basildon, Richmond’s most senior investigator and as such directly responsible to Surrey’s Chief Constable, wished there had been. He would have been very happy – delighted, even – to have dumped the murder and mutilation of Samuel Hargreaves into anyone else’s lap but his own, just as Detective Chief Superintendent Malcolm Townsend would have liked solving the murder and mutilation of a twenty-nine-year-old Shepherd Market whore named Beryl Simpkins to be anyone’s responsibility but his.

  As it was, Surrey’s Chief Constable talked personally with London’s Metropolitan Police Commissioner, who agreed that a joint investigation, headed equally by two such experienced officers, was the most practical, cost-effective and efficient way to handle atrocities dominating every newspaper, radio and television channel. Having two forces involved made it easier for both police chiefs to apportion blame if the killing continued.

  Basildon, who’d hoped the Mets would take it, vehemently said, ‘It’s going to be a fucking albatross around our neck! A right bastard.’

  Townsend, who’d hoped it would become Richmond’s job, equally emphatically said, ‘Madmen! They’re the absolute worst.’

  The mentally deranged, particularly those unable to stop themselves committing horrific crimes attracting the hysterical publicity that these ones already were, did nothing to further or enhance a policeman’s career. There was no logical way to anticipate – and therefore to prevent – the next outrage. When it happened, which it inevitably would, it would stoke even greater sensation and with that sensation would come demands for the ordinary, law-abiding public to be protected. And when they made an arrest, usually more by chance than by deduction, the invariable plea was insanity or diminished responsibility. That left the whole thing to fizzle out like a damp squib, with no shining light, credit or recognition, which for people with ambition, which Basildon had in equal measure to Townsend, made the whole episode a waste of time.