‘You’ll be too late to catch them.’
‘No I shan’t,’ said Mr Moritz. ‘You remember what that notice said. Any hour of the day or night.’
It was well after half past nine when he got down to the Three Horseshoes, and it took him some time to organize himself with the necessary money and shut himself away in the little telephone booth outside the saloon. Now that it had come to the point he felt unaccountably nervous.
A polite voice said, ‘Haydock Wood Special Unit. Can I help you?’
‘It’s about that boy who got killed. My name’s Moritz.’ He spelt it.
‘Yes, Mr Moritz.’
‘I was the one who saw the car driving away.’ The voice at the other end sounded suddenly more interested, and said, ‘Would you hold on one moment, sir.’
There was a pause, during which Mr Moritz wondered if he might have to put another coin in, and then a new voice said, ‘Good evening, Mr Moritz. This is Chief Inspector Rew. I gather you’ve something you want to tell us?’
20
Meanwhile, in London, Detective Sergeant Michael Appleyard was chasing a memory. He was a conscientious young man. Otherwise, having been on early duty, he would, by half past four, have been in bed and asleep. Instead he caught a bus at the corner of Gray’s Inn Road and rolled northward in it, up the foothills of London, to Highside.
It was on Highside that he had spent his first four years as a policeman, and on its steep streets and hard pavements had worn out his first two pairs of regulation boots.
His luck was in. Sergeant Milman was still in charge of Forest Row Police Station, and was on duty when he arrived. Milman had always been a friend of his and could be relied on to give him what he wanted without wasting time asking a lot of questions. He was alone in the charge room and that was a help, too.
He said, ‘Hullo, young Mike. How’s the dirty square mile getting along?’
‘Dirtier every day,’ said Appleyard. ‘I brought along a couple of photographs I thought you might find interesting. We took ’em in a raid last week. I’ll have to have them back. They’re exhibits.’
Sergeant Milman whistled appreciatively at the photographs and said, ‘The things they think of!’
‘Athletic, aren’t they?’
‘Double-jointed, I should say. You didn’t come up all this way to complete my sex education, did you?’
‘Not entirely,’ said Appleyard. ‘What I brought up’s another lot of photographs I wanted to show you.’ He spread them on the desk. ‘We’re looking for one of these people.’ He explained what they were after.
Sergeant Milman had been examining the faces curiously. He said, ‘They all look pretty normal to me. Are you telling me one of them’s a what’s-it – a sort of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde? If that’s right, you’re more likely to spot them down in your sink of iniquity. This is a nice clean part of London, remember?’
‘That’s just the point,’ said Appleyard. ‘When I looked at that one, I said, straight away, “Highside. Promotion day”.’
‘Ah,’ said Sergeant Milman. ‘Meaning that you saw it, up here, on the day you made Sergeant?’
‘Right.’
‘Then let’s see what happened that day, shall we? Do you remember the date?’
‘As if I should forget it! August the eighteenth. Three years ago.’
‘I’ll fetch up the book.’
As Appleyard waited, in the familiar surroundings of the Forest Row charge room, every part of it connected in his mind with some episode of his early career, he was conscious of a prickle of anticipation, the radar signal which tells a policeman that he is in sight of an objective. He must be right; he knew he was right.
At first reading the Station Log for August the eighteenth proved a disappointment. None of the people who had come in that day, to ask questions, or to be asked questions, or for any of the plausible and implausible reasons which bring people into police stations, seemed to be remotely connected with the photographs on the desk. But Appleyard was not discouraged. The short, cryptic notes on the page of the book were reconstructing the day for him. The signals were coming through more and more strongly every moment.
Why had he connected it with his own promotion? Because it had been at the precise moment when that wonderful official envelope had arrived, by afternoon messenger, that he had been looking at the photograph.
Not at the original of the photograph, but at a different photograph of the same person.
The fixing of this point represented a long step forward.
He said, ‘Whatever it was, it happened around four o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘We’ve only got one entry at that time. “Report of episode at Salt Lane Hospital”.’
‘Salt Lane Hospital!’
Stronger and stronger.
‘That’s right. It was one of the doctors. He got done for bashing a patient. We didn’t have to do anything about it actually. No criminal proceedings. He just got sacked. I’m not saying there shouldn’t have been. It was a nasty case. But you know what doctors are like. Never get one to give evidence against the other. Talk about the Mafia.’
Appleyard wasn’t really listening. He said, ‘There was a bit in the local paper about it, wasn’t there?’
‘I expect there was.’
‘With a photograph.’
‘You could be right.’
‘That’s where I saw it, then. I’m sure of it. We were talking about that report, and we had the paper on the table at the time.’
‘Easy to check it,’ said Milman. ‘The Gazette will still be open. They’ll turn it up for you.’
At the office of the Highside Gazette, Appleyard explained what he wanted and an untidy young man disappeared into the basement and staggered back with a bulging folder. He said, ‘You’ll find it here. Unless someone’s pinched our file copy and not put it back. They do that sometimes, lazy bastards.’
But the copy of the Highside Gazette for August the eighteenth had not been removed and Appleyard unfolded its pages with hands which he tried to keep steady. It was there, on the centre page. The headline said, “Outrage at Salt Lane Hospital,” and the by-line, “Doctor accused of offences against Patient”. The story was written in the style of qualified indignation which a newspaper employs when they are certain that they are on to a good thing, but not entirely clear how far the law of libel will let them push it. Sergeant Appleyard skipped through it hastily. His eyes were on the photograph. His memory had not deceived him.
He said, ‘I’ll want a copy of this. Several copies. Do you mind if I borrow it?’
‘Help yourself,’ said the young man. ‘What’s it all about? Has Doctor Lamsden got into trouble again?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Appleyard. He folded the newspaper and slipped it into his brief case. ‘I’m just going up to the hospital. Is it the same Superintendent as it was when I was here? A Scotsman, with a beard.’
‘Dr Mackenzie. Yes, I think he’s still there.’
Sergeant Appleyard took a bus up to the Woods and then cut across the grass to the gate on the other side which led to Salt Lane. As he walked, he was debating with himself. One side of him, the trained side, said that the information he had stumbled on was so important that it ought to be passed to the headquarters at Haydock Wood without the smallest delay. The other side, which was the human side, said, “Why not finish it? Give them the whole story. It’s all there. In your pocket.”
In the end he decided to compromise. The time was a quarter to seven. If the Superintendent was in, and would see him, the further short delay would be justified. If not, he would get to the nearest telephone box and pass on the information which he had got.
Salt Lane Hospital stood behind high, spike-topped walls in a secluded corner cut off by Highside Woods on one side and the embanked main-line railway on the other. The guardian on the gate examined Appleyard’s warrant card carefully before he let him through. A short walk up the laurel-lined drive brought the house in
sight. It was a vast Victorian edifice, built for a city merchant. The only odd feature was that, whilst the ground floor windows were apparently unguarded, the windows of the three upper storeys were all barred.
Luck was still running for the Sergeant. Doctor Mackenzie was in, and remembered him.
He said, ‘It was an unpleasant case. One of the most unpleasant that I can remember. And it took me by surprise. We have to be very careful when we recruit staff for a place like this. You’ll understand what I mean, I’m sure.’
Sergeant Appleyard nodded. He was aware of the reason for the high walls, the guarded gate and the bars on the upstairs windows. Salt Lane was one of the three North London Hospitals that specialized in mental cases.
‘Do I take it,’ said Dr Mackenzie, ‘that Charles Lamsden is in trouble again? I confess I’m surprised. I would have gone bail for it that the last experience had been such a shock for him that he’d never lay hand on a patient again. When we managed to avoid bringing a charge, with the full co-operation of the authorities may I add, we stipulated that he should never work with mentally disturbed patients again.’
Sergeant Appleyard said, ‘I ought to have made it plain, doctor, that it isn’t Lamsden we’re really interested in this time. It’s the nurse.’
Dr Mackenzie’s upper lip wrinkled in distaste. He said, ‘Yes. That was the least pleasant aspect of the whole affair. That is to say, if Dr Lamsden’s version is to be believed. It was never proved, you know.’
‘I’ve only got the account in the local paper to go on,’ said Appleyard. ‘It’s a bit sketchy.’
‘It had to be. There’s a law of libel, you know. More’s the pity, I sometimes think. Even now, anything I tell you will have to be in confidence. I don’t mean that you can’t use it if it will help you in – in whatever enquiries you’re now making. But if I were asked to repeat it in public, I should have to decline.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sergeant Appleyard.
He was very grateful to Dr Mackenzie for his co-operation, but his methodical Scottish circumnavigation of the point was consuming precious minutes. It was already nearly a quarter past seven.
‘Dr Lamsden was in charge, under me, of the younger male patients. By which I mean patients between the age of fourteen and thirty. If they are under fourteen we do not admit them. They’re better off at home. He had a male assistant and three nurses to help him. We are badly understaffed, you understand, like all hospitals.’
‘Just like the police,’ said Appleyard.
‘It meant long hours of duty for all concerned. And when staff are overworked it’s not easy for them to show that degree of sympathy and understanding for the patients which, ideally, they should show. There was one patient in particular, a youth of nineteen, who had frequently been reported as being difficult. In an institution like this, “difficult” has a special connotation. It does not mean that he was incontinent or unreliable. That is to be expected. It meant that he seemed to go out of his way to give extra work. Broke things. Spilled all his food on the floor, was truculent when spoken to. That sort of thing.’
‘And Dr Lamsden hit him?’
‘He did more than merely hit him. The evidence is that he beat him, quite systematically.’
‘Didn’t the other patients object?’
‘They didn’t see it. He took him to his own room. It was only when one of the other nurses saw the marks on him, and felt bound to report it, that the facts came out.’
‘When you say one of the other nurses?’
‘I mean, other than the one involved. Dr Lamsden’s story, which frankly I found it a little difficult to believe, was that this nurse had incited him to these acts of cruelty. Indeed, she had done a great deal more than incite him.’ Dr Mackenzie paused, and said, ‘You do realize that this part of the story is entirely unconfirmed.’
‘Yes,’ said Appleyard patiently.
‘He alleged that she had promised him satisfaction – I will be quite explicit, I mean sexual satisfaction – if he would commit these acts of cruelty and allow her to witness them. This was, in fact, the price she was prepared to pay on each occasion.’
Sergeant Appleyard took out the photographs from his brief-case and laid them on Dr Mackenzie’s desk.
‘And that is the nurse?’ he said.
‘That is Nurse Shaw,’ said Dr Mackenzie.
21
As soon as Inspector Rew understood what Appleyard was trying to tell him, he said, ‘Hold it one moment, Sergeant. I must have this on tape. All right. Start again at the beginning and speak slowly.’ At the end he said, ‘So! Well done.’ Then he looked at his watch.
It was twenty minutes to eight.
The first and essential thing was to get hold of Anderson. He knew that he had been at the BBC making final arrangements for the broadcasts, which had started that evening and were to continue at six o’clock and nine o’clock every evening that week.
The obvious places were Broadcasting House, Scotland Yard and Anderson’s flat. Rew tried them, unsuccessfully, and left an urgent message at each.
Next he rang Trenchard House. Lucy Fairfax answered the phone. She said she thought that Mr Manifold was somewhere about and would fetch him. A very long pause ensued, during which Rew looked at his watch again.
In the end it was Lucy who came back to the telephone. She said crossly, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Manifold isn’t here. My husband tells me that he left on his motor bicycle nearly an hour ago.’
‘Have you any idea where he was going?’
‘I think he said he was going over to see Colonel Brabazon.’
‘Did he say when he’d be back?’
‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘He didn’t. And he’s meant to be on duty.’
‘When he does come back,’ said Rew, ‘would you please tell him to ring this number.’ He repeated it, giving Lucy time to write it down.
‘If I am still about when he comes back,’ said Lucy crossly, ‘I will pass on the message.’
‘I’d be much obliged if you would,’ said Rew. ‘It really is extremely important.’
Next he tried Colonel Brabazon, and there he found Manifold. He said, ‘Something has turned up here, Ken. I can’t very well discuss it on the telephone. I’m trying to locate Jock, who seems to have disappeared. As soon as I can get him, he’s bound to want you.’
‘Understood,’ said Manifold. ‘I’d better come right over. I wanted to see him anyway. I’ve got on to something at this end which might be helpful. Be with you in about forty-five minutes.’
It was a quarter to nine when a car drew up in the street outside the Haydock Wood Police Hut, immediately followed by a motor cycle. Anderson and Manifold came into the hut together.
Anderson said, ‘I hear you’ve been chasing me, David. Central found me at my sister’s flat. I was having dinner there. What’s up?’
‘I’d like you to listen to this,’ said Rew.
The quiet voice of Sergeant Appleyard filled the hut. The man who was writing up the night’s log stopped writing. The duty telephonist took off his headset to listen. Everyone listened. Manifold thought, it was like the final movement of a long and complex musical work, the artful arrangement of notes which sums up and explains everything that has gone before.
There was a click as the recording finished, and a moment of silence.
Then Anderson said, ‘What a bitch. What a bloody – awful filthy – bitch. I suppose she caught Ware the same way.’
‘That’s right,’ said Manifold. ‘She started him off torturing animals. I was going to tell you about that. Then, when he was well and truly hooked, it went on with boys. Every time, the same pay off. He satisfied her sadism. She satisfied him with sex. A horrible cold-blooded bargain.’
Anderson said, ‘Our real mistake was over the scientific evidence. Not that it was wrong. We just read it wrong. They said there was no sign of a second person on the scene. Of course there wasn’t. That bitch stayed in the car. She wasn’t interested in doing thin
gs. Her kick was watching them. That’s clear from the evidence of what happened at the hospital.’
‘I imagine that’s how she got away with it on that occasion,’ said Manifold. ‘Her story would be that the doctor ordered her to be there. She took no part in what went on. She was just a spectator. She was as shocked as anyone else, but after all, the doctor was in charge, wasn’t he? She had to do what she was told, didn’t she? The authorities mayn’t have believed her, but they couldn’t prove anything. They got rid of her, but they had to give her a reasonable chit when she went on to the next place. She seems to have behaved herself there.’
Whilst Manifold had been talking, Anderson had been thinking. He said, ‘It was a perfect set up. She’d drive the car. He’d be hiding in the back, A boy who was in a hurry wouldn’t think twice about accepting a lift from a girl by herself. Once the boy was safely in, Ware would grab him, pull him over into the back and tie him up. Then he’d take over driving. He’d be wearing glasses and a white wig in case anyone happened to spot him. She’d be in the back, keeping an eye on the boy.’
‘I imagine that’s how it developed,’ said Manifold. ‘The first case may have been a bit more impromptu. There’s a suggestion in the report that Fenton was mentally retarded. They may have seen him wandering along the road, and picked him up on the spur of the moment. The second and third cases were carefully planned. No doubt about that.’
‘So that’s the truth of the matter,’ said Anderson. A thought occurred to him. ‘What brought you here, Ken? Has there been some development at your end?’
‘Not really a development,’ said Manifold. ‘It was just that I’d come to the same conclusion as Sergeant Appleyard, but by a different route. It was the local bobby talking about the cases of animal maiming. As soon as I tried to fit it into the pattern of the case, I realized that it must be Ware or the girl. Probably both of them.’
‘Why?’
‘Because both the animal maiming cases took place during the school holidays. The rest of the staff would have been miles away. And we knew the Fairfaxes were out of it.’
Night of the Twelfth Page 20