‘Agreed. Whereas, if the killer was someone else, someone who picked her up off the road in his car, then the implication becomes quite different.’
The chief inspector took some moments to assure himself he had understood his former partner correctly. He didn’t like the direction their conversation was taking. ‘You’re wondering – if it was someone else – why he should have had a hammer with him at all. Supposing that’s the case, what does it signify to you?’
‘That the assault on her face was planned.’ Madden spoke quietly, but his voice had grown tense, and the chief inspector, feeling a sudden chill, glanced at him sharply. ‘It was what he had in mind all along.’
Sinclair removed a handkerchief from his lapel pocket and dabbed at his perspiring brow. The crowd on the green was beginning to converge on the judges’ table, spreading in their direction, and instinctively he moved a little closer to Madden, lowering his voice.
‘I want to be clear about this. You’re suggesting he was following a pattern? That he’s done this sort of thing before?’
Madden nodded mutely.
‘But surely, if that’s the case, it would have come to our notice. A crime of that kind?’ The chief inspector scowled in turn. His companion shrugged.
‘I can’t explain that. But don’t forget, he tried to hide Alice Bridger’s body. If it hadn’t been for the accident of him choosing a tramps’ hideout to commit the murder in we might be searching for her still.’
‘So you think he might have killed elsewhere without our knowing it…’ Sinclair brooded on the thought. ‘Children do go missing, it’s true.’
Madden saw that his argument was gaining ground. He pressed harder. ‘The Surrey police can’t be expected to pursue a theory of this kind. The tramp’s the obvious suspect; they have to keep looking for him. But it’s different with the Yard. They can afford to take a broader view.’
‘Which is why you urged Boyce to ring us? Yes, I see now.’
An island of stillness in the shifting throng around them, the two men stood silent while Sinclair ruminated. Above the hum of country voices, the sudden wail of a baby sounded a summons. The chief inspector came to himself with a grunt.
‘You make a good case, John. I won’t say I’m persuaded. Not yet. But half-persuaded…? Yes… possibly.’ He caught the other’s eye. ‘I’ll certainly look into the matter. You can rest assured.’
The smile of relief on Madden’s face was testimony to a burden shed, and the chief inspector warmed to it. Helen’s words came back to him and he acknowledged the truth of them. Among the many reasons he had for regretting the departure of his old colleague had been the depth of commitment Madden had brought to his work, an impulse born of the sense of obligation he seemed to feel towards others; those whose lives touched his.
It was a rare quality among policemen: a rare quality anywhere.
8
At ten o’clock on the Friday following, by prior appointment, Sinclair presented himself at the office of Sir Wilfred Bennett, assistant commissioner, crime, whose responsibilities at Scotland Yard included overall direction of the Criminal Investigation Department. Burdened as he was with questions of policy and administration, Bennett wouldn’t normally have dealt with the matter which the chief inspector wished to raise. But the absence of his own deputy, who had recently undergone an operation to remove his gall bladder, and who was now enjoying an extended period of convalescence following a brush with peritonitis, had dangled an opportunity before the assistant commissioner which he’d been unable to resist.
‘This is quite like old times, Chief Inspector.’
Sir Wilfred had kept the same suite of rooms at the Yard for more than a decade. His office overlooked the tree-lined Embankment and the Thames. In the past he and Sinclair had met there frequently, and Bennett retained a nostalgia for those days when, as deputy to the then assistant commissioner, he’d been more involved in the day-today running of the CID. Promotion had brought him a knighthood and entry into the upper ranks of the Metropolitan Police, but he wondered sometimes if he had not lost more than he’d gained.
‘I’ve asked Chief Superintendent Holly to join us. I think it would be a kindness. He told me recently that since being “moved upstairs”, as he put it, he’d felt left out of things, a sentiment with which I sympathize.’ Sir Wilfred caught Sinclair’s eye and they shared a wry smile.
‘Isn’t Arthur still on holiday, sir?’
‘He got back yesterday. But he won’t have had a chance to look at the file yet, so I suggest you start by taking us through it.’
The assistant commissioner directed Sinclair to the polished oak table by the windows where he was in the habit of conducting his business conferences: gatherings which these days seemed to involve only tortuous bureaucratic wrangling. As they sat down facing each other, Sir Wilfred observed, not without a pang, his visitor’s clear grey eyes and air of alertness. Despite having turned sixty, Angus Sinclair looked like a man who still had an appetite for his work.
There was a knock on the door and the chief superintendent entered. He was a heavy-set man in his mid-fifties, blunt-featured and sporting a suntan.
‘Good morning, Holly. Welcome back.’ Bennett rose and shook his hand. ‘I trust you had a good holiday.’
‘Thank you, sir. The weather was excellent. I always say there’s no place quite like the Scilly Isles at this time of year.’ The chief super’s soft burr betrayed his rural origins. For years now the Met had done much of its recruiting in the West Country, considering native-born Londoners too fly and streetwise, too clever by half to be suitable for training as policemen. Sturdy country men with open, malleable minds, on the other hand, were regarded as ideal material, and Chief Superintendent Holly was a prime example of the breed.
‘My word, Arthur, you’ve put on weight.’ Sinclair eyed his colleague askance. ‘I shall have to speak to Ethel. We must get you on a diet.’
Holly blushed. He was now the senior superintendent on the force and nominally Sinclair’s superior. But he could never forget that he had once worked under the chief inspector; had felt the sting of his sometimes acid tongue and striven to earn his approval. It was several years now since Angus Sinclair had declined any further promotion, letting it be known that he was satisfied with the rank of chief inspector. There were five such officers on the Yard’s strength and they had something of the cachet of specialists, being held in reserve to handle the most difficult and challenging investigations. Holly was relieved that Sinclair chose to call him by his first name and knew from bitter experience that when the chief inspector wished to correct him he would address him as ‘sir’.
‘So you went down to Guildford last Sunday, did you?’ Bennett had waited until they were all settled before speaking. Pale of face, with dark, thinning hair, he had a quick, decisive manner that mirrored the mind behind it. ‘I hope you trod carefully, Chief Inspector.’
‘As though on eggshells, sir.’ Sinclair opened his file. ‘Jim Boyce is an old friend. We agreed to treat my visit as unofficial.’
‘I can sleep easy, then, can I? I won’t open the newspaper tomorrow and read that Scotland Yard detectives have been prowling the Home Counties uninvited.’ Bennett spoke with a smile. He’d developed a warm regard over the years for the dapper chief inspector. They had not only cooperated on cases in the past, they were also allies in a broader sense, having laboured, each in his own sphere, to bring the institution for which they worked into the modern world, a task which Sir Wilfred had been known to compare with trying to move a reluctant mule.
Sinclair made no comment, merely lifting an eyebrow in response. It so happened that the file he was holding, with its sheaf of neatly typed pages, was the fruit of an initiative which he and the assistant commissioner had jointly pursued some years previously. Scotland Yard now boasted a registry where civilian staff compiled dossiers of cases from material supplied by detectives, sparing the latter this time-consuming chore.