Night of the Twelfth

by Michael Gilbert

  Copyright & Information

  The Night Of The Twelfth

  First published in 1976

  © Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1976-2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  0755105230 9780755105236 Print

  0755131975 9780755131976 Kindle

  0755132343 9780755132348 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel ‘Death in Captivity’ in 1952.

  After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.

  HRF Keating stated that ‘Smallbone Deceased’ was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published. “The plot,” wrote Keating, “is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings.” It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.

  Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London: “I always take a latish train to work,” he explained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”. After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for ‘The Daily Telegraph’, as well as editing ‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’.

  Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.

  Introductory

  Alas, regardless of their doom,

  The little victims play.

  No sense have they of ills to come

  Nor care beyond today:

  Yet see how all around ’em wait

  The ministers of human fate

  And black Misfortune’s baleful train.

  Ah, show them where in ambush stand

  To seize their prey the murtherous band

  Ah, tell them, they are men!

  T Gray

  Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College

  1

  ‘Virtually, then,’ said Constable Parks, ‘all you know is that Ted went out about two o’clock and hasn’t come home.’

  He didn’t say it unkindly. He had children of his own, and he knew exactly how Mrs Lister was feeling.

  ‘I didn’t worry, not at first. He’s ten, and big for his age. He’s often out by himself. But when it got dark–’

  That was the dividing line. Whilst it was still daylight, the child might be late, but there were a lot of reasons for delay. But when it got dark these comfortable arguments were no longer convincing. The black moment had come and you had to face it.

  ‘I’ll use your telephone,’ said Parks, ‘and have a word with Petersfield. Quicker that way.’

  He said, ‘I’m speaking from No. 6 Averley Road, Haydock Wood, Sergeant. The householder is Mrs Lister. Her boy’s gone missing. Name of Ted. Aged about ten–’ Mrs Lister said something – ‘Nearly eleven. Wearing a green school blazer with a red lion’s head crest, corduroy trousers, grey socks and gym-shoes. No cap. Light hair. He went out to watch a cricket match at Tolhurst Green. He hadn’t got a bicycle. He was on foot. Normally he’d always be home for his supper at eight. What I was going to do, I was going to see if I could find one or two of the people who were playing in the match. See if they noticed the boy–’

  To Mrs Lister he said, ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll find him for you.’

  As he said it he realized that it wasn’t very sensible to say, “Don’t worry”, but what else could you say?

  Des Maybury’s plans for seducing Rosie Moritz were going ahead smoothly. The early part of the evening had been spent at No. 2 Jubilee Cottages, where Rosie’s mother lived with her father-in-law, old Mr Moritz. Des and Rosie had the sort of appetites appropriate to a boy of nineteen and a girl of sixteen and they had done justice to a good meal. Then they had watched television. After that came the suggestion of a walk down to the Three Horseshoes in the village.

  At this point Rosie’s eyes had flickered towards her mother, but she had got the green light, and they had set out together companionably, arm-in-arm. It was a lovely evening in early June and just beginning to get dusk. On the stretch of dusty road which separated Jubilee Cottages from Brading Village a few cars had bowled past them, but all their thoughts were on each other.

  When they got to the Three Horseshoes, Des was provoked to find that Rosie’s grandfather was still there. He was eighty, was nearly deaf, and walked very slowly with the aid of a rubber-tipped stick. He should have been on his way back to Jubilee Cottages by now. It was over half a mile and would take him half an hour. And there he was, stuck down in the corner, with a full pint in front of him, nattering to one of his cronies. Stupid old bugger. Of course he spotted them as soon as they came in. He might be deaf but there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

  Des ordered a lager and lime juice for Rosie and a pint of bitter for himself, and took the drinks into the corner farthest away from the old man. The room filled up steadily. Des stuck to beer, but managed to switch Rosie on to gin and lime.

  At ten o’clock Mr Moritz rose to his feet, said good night to the landlord, winked at Des, and pottered out into the night.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Rosie. ‘He was counting every drink I had. It’ll all go straight back to Mum.’

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bsp; ‘Might be run over by a car before he gets there,’ said Des hopefully. ‘There was a girl knocked off her bicycle only last month.’

  ‘You’re awful.’

  ‘Time for one more.’

  ‘I don’t think I ought,’ said Rosie. ‘I shan’t be able to walk home.’

  ‘I’ll carry you,’ said Des. He pushed his way to the bar and bought the drinks.

  At Petersfield Police Station, Superintendent Joliffe was organising the hunt. He knew that, when children went missing, speed was the important thing. Members of the Tolhurst Green cricket eleven had been contacted. One or two of them had noticed a boy in a green blazer, and one, who knew him slightly, had spoken to him. This was in the early part of the afternoon, when their side was batting. When they went out to field, after tea, they had somewhat naturally lost sight of him. This meant looking up the visiting team, from Castle Hanbury. It was eleven o’clock by now, and some of them were in bed. When they realised what was wanted, they collected their scattered wits and tried to help. It was from one of them, the wicket-keeper of the Castle Hanbury team, that they got their first hard news. He remembered a boy in the green blazer who had asked him the time. When he was told that it was gone half past seven he had departed hurriedly. ‘Late for his supper, I guess,’ said the wicket-keeper.

  This suggested two lines of investigation. First, a house-to-house enquiry along the road outside the cricket ground, to see if anyone had noticed the boy. ‘If he was in a hurry,’ said Joliffe, ‘ten to one he’d try to pick up a lift as quickly as possible.’ The second line was to beat through the fields and hedges between Tolhurst Green and Haydock Wood. It was two miles of open country, but Constable Parks had very sensibly got hold of a pair of shoes and stockings that Ted had been wearing the day before and dogs had been brought over from the police kennels at Chichester. Most of the Tolhurst Green cricket side had involved themselves in the search as well.

  It was ten to eleven when Des and Rosie left the Three Horseshoes. The night, viewed through a filter of alcohol, was more beautiful than ever. Des’ arm was round Rosie’s waist. She was laughing.

  ‘What’s the joke?’ said Des.

  ‘It seemed funny, being three.’

  ‘Three what?’

  ‘Three horseshoes. Poor old horse. What did they put on his fourth leg?’

  ‘Maybe he was a three-legged horse.’

  This was such a good joke that they stopped to laugh at it. As they went on again, Des’ arm had slid smoothly upwards, and his hand was now cupping Rosie’s right breast. He could feel her excitement.

  The lights of a car swung up behind them, they crowded together on the verge as it went past.

  ‘Look, Rosie,’ said Des. He sounded breathless. ‘There’s something I want to say to you. We can’t talk here. We’ll be run over. Let’s go down here for a moment.’

  It was a cart track. There was a gate at the end of it. As they climbed it he put his hands round the girl to help her down. As his hands went under the jersey she was wearing he felt the warmth of her bare skin. He was sure she was not going to say no.

  It was a field of half-grown corn with a rutted track running along the hedgerow, and dipping to the stream at the bottom. Des knew it well. He had driven one of Farmer Laycock’s tractors along it two days before and had noted it as a useful spot, accessible, but well-hidden from the road.

  He said, ‘Let’s sit down for a bit.’

  ‘Old Laycock wouldn’t half create if he saw us,’ said Rosie. ‘Squashing his corn.’

  They were lying down now, half facing each other, and Des started on the next vital step. Holding Rosie gently round the shoulders with his left arm, he slid his right hand up, under her jersey, and started to unbutton her blouse.

  She said, ‘I thought you had something you wanted to talk about,’ but she didn’t stop him. He got his hand round behind her and unhooked the brassiere. Rosie said, ‘You ought to have brought a rug or something. This ground’s bloody hard.’ She was calmer than he was, but not as calm as she was pretending to be.

  The boy was lying half on top of her now, pressing his mouth down on her, his hands busy on her body, which was trembling. The girl had abandoned pretence and was as hot as he was. In one of the movements they made together she flung her right arm out wildly.

  And screamed.

  Des said, ‘What the hell?’

  She said, ‘Stop it. Stop it.’

  Des said, ‘Don’t be bloody silly. You want it as much as I do.’

  ‘It’s not you. It’s something else. Something I felt. Put your hand. Near mine. I’m not going to touch it again.’

  Cursing to himself, Des stretched out his left hand. It touched something cold. It was a naked human foot.

  The five stations of the West Sussex Constabulary in the Horsham area took it in turns to do night duty. There were arrangements at the other four stations for emergency calls, but only the duty station was actually manned, normally by a sergeant and a constable.

  On the night of June 12th, Sergeant Callaghan was in charge. Callaghan was large and experienced, getting on towards retirement and inclined to be lazy. He found night duty particularly irksome. It spanned the hours between ten at night and six in the morning, and fell to his lot once a month. With him on this occasion was Constable Airey, young enough to be his son and inclined to be cocky.

  At 10.45 a message came through on the teletype. It was from the Hampshire Constabulary at Petersfield, and it reported that Edward Lister, aged ten, had been missing from his home at Tolhurst Green since eight o’clock that evening. A full description followed. The message was marked, “For information to other County Forces”. Callaghan filed it.

  At 11.20 there was a diversion. Two youths, who had been drinking all evening, had refused to leave when ordered to do so by the publican and had then become disorderly, were brought in. Callaghan booked the necessary particulars, escorted them to the cells and left them to sleep it off. He envied them. The hands of the clock seemed to have stopped.

  At ten minutes to midnight the telephone rang. It was Constable Toft, from Brading. He reported, in carefully unemotional tones, that a boy had been discovered in a field, about eight hundred yards to the east of Brading Village, on the secondary road from Horsham to Tilgates. The boy was partially undressed. His hands had been tied behind his back, and there was evidence that he had been tortured and then strangled. Toft had ascertained that the boy was dead, but had not disturbed the body.

  Callaghan wrote it all down, in laborious long-hand, told Toft to stand by at Brading Station for further orders, and considered his next move.

  Quite clearly the old man must be informed. He dialled Superintendent Oldham’s number and, after some delay, was answered by a sleepy female voice, which said that dad had gone up to town with mum and ought to be back at any moment.

  Callaghan said. ‘Tell him to ring the Station as soon as he does get back. It’s urgent.’

  Miss Oldham said, between yawns, that she would leave a note on his pillow and rang off.

  What next?

  After some consideration the Sergeant rang Petersfield Police Station. He was put through to Superintendent Joliffe. The Superintendent said, ‘Yes. That sounds like the boy. We’ve already got a lot of information about his earlier movements. I’ll come round myself. Who’s in charge at your end?’

  Callaghan nearly said, “I am,” but discretion stopped him. He said, ‘It’ll be Superintendent Oldham, sir. The rendezvous is Brading Police Station. There’ll be someone there to show you the spot.’

  At ten minutes past twelve the telephone rang again. This time it was Superintendent Oldham. Callaghan had got less than halfway through what he had to tell him when the Superintendent cut him short. He said, ‘Operation Huntsman. Take all routine steps. You will act as communications centre. I am going to Brading. Rendezvous Brading Police Station. First priority, contact the pathologist at Lewes General Hospital. Tell him to meet me at Brading.’
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  Callaghan sat for a few moments staring sourly at the telephone. Operation Huntsman! Communications Centre! They might be in the bloody army. Who did the old man think he was? Bloody General Montgomery? He could ring Lewes. All right. But after that, what did he expect him to do, for God’s sake? A thought occurred to him. There was one step he could take. He went to the door and bellowed. Constable Airey appeared at the double and stood awaiting orders.

  ‘There’s a bit of a flap on,’ said the sergeant. ‘What you’d better do is put the kettle on and make us both a nice cup of tea.’

  Superintendent Oldham reached Brading Police Station at one o’clock and found his opposite number from Petersfield already there. He listened to what Toft had to say, and drove back with him, stopping his car twenty yards short of the cart track. He placed one of his men at the mouth of the track and then drove back to the police station.

  For the moment, there was nothing more that he could do. The orders in cases of this sort were explicit. This was the third case in the last twelve months of a child being kidnapped and tortured. All the cases had occurred in the Home Counties south of London. The County Forces of Kent, Sussex, Surrey and Hampshire had set up a regional squad, based in London, to co-ordinate the search. Oldham had given the code-word “Huntsman” at ten past twelve. The Regional Squad should be on the spot within a very short space of time. Until they arrived the scene of the crime was to be sealed off but left undisturbed. In the previous cases enthusiastic but unskilled investigation had obliterated a lot of possibly valuable evidence.

  The pathologist arrived at two o’clock and sat quietly with the two Superintendents in the small room on the ground floor of Constable Toft’s house which was Brading Police Station.

  At three o’clock Oldham began to fidget. At three fifteen he spoke to Horsham Police Station. Could Sergeant Callaghan again contact the Regional Squad and find out what the hell they were playing at.