The Blood-Dimmed Tide (30 page)

His first assumption was that the fellow must have walked up Wood Way, noticed the gap in the hedge and decided to see where it led. It was something that happened with ramblers often enough. They used the footpath to get to and from the Downs and occasionally strayed onto the farm.

But soon it became clear that the man hadn’t got there by accident. Not judging by the interest he was taking in the yard. The first thing he did was go over to a tap that stood against the wall by the back door and turn it on, apparently to check that it was working. Next, he crossed the cobbles to inspect the stalls, walking quickly, disappearing from sight for several minutes as he went inside them.

Watching from above, it occurred to Sam that the bloke must have heard the farm was for sale and had come to look it over. In fact, he was just wondering whether he ought to wander down there and offer his assistance – give him Mr Cuthbertson’s name, say – when something happened that drove any notion of a friendly gesture out of his mind.

Moments before, the man had turned his attention to the barn. Finding the doors bolted, he’d begun to fiddle with the padlock, weighing it in the palm of his hand and peering at it closely. Now, under Sam’s disbelieving gaze, he took what looked like a penknife from his jacket pocket and began to pick at it.

‘Oi!’ Not sure even if he was within earshot, Sam gave vent to his outrage. ‘That’s enough of that! Come on, old girl-’

Without waiting for Sal to join him, he marched off down the slope, intending to have a word with the intruder. Ask him what he thought he was up to. Yes, and tell him to keep his paws off other people’s property. But once he’d descended from the ridge he lost sight of the tweed-suited figure, and by the time he reached the yard – it had taken him only a few minutes – the bird had flown. The cobbled space stood empty.

‘Blast!’ Sam looked about him in frustration. He noticed that the gate to the walled kitchen garden was open. Apparently the man had left the same way he’d come.

Pausing only to check that the padlock was secure, he went after him, hastening through the garden and the orchard beyond, then slipping out through the hedge onto Wood Way.

Disappointment awaited him there. He’d hoped to find his quarry close by. Instead he saw that the fellow had already put some distance between them. He was up near the top of the path, approaching the crest of the ridge, walking with long, swinging strides, going like the clappers.

‘Oi! You!’

Sam yelled after him again, but with no more effect than before. Either the bloke hadn’t heard him, or he chose not to look round.

‘Go on, then. Hop it!’

Bellowing his frustration, he was distracted just then by the sight of another figure on the path, ahead of the man, which he recognized. It was Nell. Unmistakable in her white school hat and navy blue gymslip, she’d just come over the ridge from the road on the other side, where the bus dropped her. As Sam watched, the two of them passed one another without stopping. A few moments later the man disappeared from sight over the brow of the hill.

Nell, meanwhile, was drawing closer, breaking into a trot as she came to the steeper part of the downslope, waving to them.

‘Hullo, Mr Watkin… hullo, Sally.’

Breathless, her cheeks apple-pink, the girl arrived at the spot where they were standing and at once collapsed in a heap on the ground. Sally’s whines of welcome were rewarded with a hug. Sam watched them, smiling.

‘You look done in,’ he remarked.

‘I am. I almost missed the bus.’ Nell spoke between gasps. ‘I had to chase it for ages. I’ve still got a stitch.’ She clutched her side. ‘We were rehearsing for the Christmas pageant. I’m going to be one of the wise men. I have to wear a beard and moustache. Mummy and Daddy’ll die laughing.’

He waited until she had caught her breath. Then he asked, ‘That bloke you passed on the path-’

‘The one you were shouting at?’ Nell raised her eyes to his. The flush was fading from her cheeks.

‘Have you seen him before? Around here, I mean?’

‘No, I don’t think so… why?’ She brushed the hair from her eyes.

‘I caught him poking about in the farmyard, trying to get into the barn.’

‘He must have a guilty conscience. You should have seen the look he gave me.’ She giggled.

‘Look? What look?’ The words brought a scowl to Sam’s face.

‘Oh, you know… just a look.’ Nell had noticed his reaction. ‘It was nothing… really.’ She shifted on her bare knees, turning to Sal, who’d been busy for the past few moments sniffing at her school satchel. ‘Now what makes you think I’ve got anything for you?’ she asked sternly.

Sal’s response was to wag her tail vigorously.

‘You don’t imagine for one moment there’s a b-i-s-c-u-i-t in there, do you?’

The spelt-out word was greeted by a bark of encouragement.

‘Oh, all right, I admit it. I do have just the tiniest piece of gingerbread still.’

Sam watched as the tidbit was produced – and disposed of. The frown hadn’t left his face.

‘Oh, Sally…! You might at least pretend to chew it.’ Nell shook her head in feigned despair. She began to collect her things. ‘It’s been so nice having Mr Noyes come over after work.’ She looked up. ‘Bess absolutely dotes on him. Daddy came and sat with us in the kitchen the other evening. He never talks about the war, you know, but the two of them began to tell each other stories, things that had happened to them, and I just sat there, quiet as a mouse, listening. Mr Noyes says his job will be over by Christmas and then he’ll go back to Hove. I don’t know what Bess will do when he leaves.’

‘Eddie’s going to miss you all.’ Sam helped her to her feet and adjusted her satchel. ‘He told me so himself.’

‘Did he? Well, we’ll miss him, too. Won’t we, Sally?’ She bent to bestow her customary kiss on the dog’s head. ‘I do hope he won’t just disappear when his job ends, that he’ll come back and see us sometime. Goodbye, Mr Watkin.’ She favoured him with her mother’s smile.

‘Goodbye, love.’

He watched as she went off, waiting until he had seen her take the fork to Oak Green. Then he turned and, with Sally at his side, started up the path, heading back to the van.

‘Gave her a look, did he?’ Sam was still fretting over what Nell had told him. He didn’t like the sound of it. Any more than he did the scene he had witnessed earlier. ‘Just what was he doing, poking about in the yard? What’s his business there, do you reckon, eh, Sal?’

For the life of him he couldn’t think of an explanation.

One thing was certain, though. He was going to keep an eye out for this bloke in future. Ask Eddie to do the same. And if either of them caught him sniffing around Coyne’s Farm again, they’d give him his marching orders.

In triplicate.

Just tell him to bugger off.

‘I’ll be honest with you, John. I doubt we’ll ever lay hands on him. Even supposing he’s still in England, where do we begin? He has no friends, or family, no occupation we’d recognize as such and no ties to any part of the country. His way of life’s a mystery. As far as the average British copper is concerned, he might as well be from another planet.’

Angus Sinclair had barely allowed Madden time to greet him and to take his hat before launching into a catalogue of complaints and self-criticism.

‘I’ve just spent the morning telling a group of overworked policemen I’ve every confidence a well-organized search will uncover Lang’s whereabouts, when I think nothing of the sort.’

The chief inspector had driven to Highfield from Guildford, where a conference of senior detectives from the Surrey and Sussex constabularies had been convened at his request. He hadn’t planned on seeing Madden when he’d set out from London earlier that day, but as the morning wore on and his dissatisfaction with what he was doing mounted, the temptation to call on his old friend and colleague – the thought of finding at least one sympathetic ear into which to pour his troubles – had become irresistible. A telephone call to the farm had resulted in an invitation to lunch, a proposal Sinclair had been doubly pleased to accept when he’d learned that Helen would not be with them.

‘She’s gone over to Chiddingfold to take surgery for a friend.’

The chief inspector had no illusions as to how Madden’s wife would react to any fresh attempt on his part to further involve her husband in the inquiry. Furthermore, he wanted to be able to speak freely, something he could not have done if Helen had been present. As it was, his frankness caused even Madden to express some uneasiness on his behalf.

‘Should you be telling me all this, Angus? Doesn’t it fall within the Defence of the Realm Act?’

‘Damn the realm, damn the act and damn British Intelligence, whoever they may be!’ Fortified by a stiff whisky, Sinclair’s tongue had grown ever freer. ‘Thanks to certain individuals who will never be held to account for it, a cold-blooded murderer was turned loose on society years ago and has enjoyed the protection of this country’s secret service ever since. Those men knew he was a killer and chose to ignore the fact. If he happens to be arrested abroad, all hell will break loose and we may see some chickens coming home to roost. I pray I may be spared to witness that day.’

The chief inspector’s mood had already been soured earlier that week on receipt, from Philip Vane, of the information he’d promised to extract from Gaston Lang’s confidential file. Rich though it proved to be in details, it had left Sinclair with the feeling that he’d been handed a bar of soap too slippery to hold on to. Vane had given him a list of the countries Lang had worked in, the dates he’d been in each and whatever aliases he might have used on the various assignments.

‘It’s like a travel guide to central Europe,’ Sinclair had remarked to Bennett and Holly when they went to review progress in the investigation. ‘What a busy fellow our Mr Lang has been. No doubt he gave value for money. By their lights, at least. But there’s nothing here to show what sort of man he is. It’s an empty shell. Where are his habit… his foibles?’

‘Austria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, the Balkans… hmmm.’ The assistant commissioner had browsed through the list. ‘What do you mean to do with this?’ he’d asked Sinclair.

‘For a start I’ll get in touch with the police in these countries to see if they have any record of unsolved crimes similiar to ours. They’ll already have received our earlier request through the international commission, but I’ll make the point that he may have been active for years. Then I’ll send that list of aliases to the commission along with Lang’s physical description and photograph with a request for them to be broadcast. I mean to spread a net for him all over Europe and beyond. The more people we have looking for this man, the better. The German police should be informed separately; they’re entitled to know what we’re doing.’

‘Yes, but have a care, Chief Inspector.’ Bennett’s fears had resurfaced. ‘I’ve an idea Vane’s sticking his neck out, giving us this sort of information. On no account must we reveal Lang’s connection with our intelligence people. We gave him our word, remember.’

‘Rest assured, sir, I won’t cross that line. Though, as to words given and received, I doubt that Vane and his brethren set much store by them, except as a means to deceive others.’ Sinclair’s lips twitched in distaste. ‘And we will have to offer Berlin some indication of a source for what we tell them. I suggest we attribute it to criminal informants. After all, it’s not that far from the truth.’

‘Come now… aren’t you being too severe?’ Bennett eyed him. ‘God knows I’m not defending the way Lang was handled by our intelligence service originally. But their priorities are different from ours. And their problems quite particular. Let’s be grateful we don’t have to deal with them. You heard what Vane said: there’s no playing by the rules any longer.’

‘So they would have us believe.’ Sinclair’s tone was cool. ‘I beg to differ.’

Sir Wilfred sighed. He glanced across at Arthur Holly, expecting by custom to receive some support from that quarter, but recognizing at once the vanity of his hopes. The chief superintendent had been informed of the substance of their meeting with Vane. He had listened in silence to Sinclair’s account of the interview. Only at the conclusion had he given his view.

‘I’ve always thought accountability was the basis of public service, sir.’ Rumbling with disapproval, the chief super had addressed his remarks to Bennett. ‘We’re given a certain authority, and in return we have to answer for how we exercise it. I see no sign of that here. These men seem to think they can bend the law to suit their own purposes.’

In desperation, the assistant commissioner had changed the subject. ‘Coming closer to home, Chief Inspector, what can be done in this country? I take it you’re organizing a a search here?’

‘Yes, but not with much conviction. The last murder was early in September, so it’s been more than two months since we heard from him, if I can put it that way.’ Sinclair winced at his own choice of words. ‘It’s likely he’s already left the country. But we can’t be sure of that, and we have to act on the assumption he’s still here, until proved otherwise. I don’t believe that photograph will be of much use. If he’s on the run, as Vane thinks, it’s odds on he’s changed his appearance. But I’m circulating it to the police nationally, along with his description and a list of the names he’s used in the past. And I’ll have the ports watched, of course.’

‘What about the press? Can we use them?’

‘No, I don’t think so, sir. Not in this case. It would be like opening Pandora’s box. There’s no telling what might come out. And from a purely practical point of view, it won’t do us a blind bit of good. Publishing Lang’s photograph and description in the newspapers would simply alert him to the fact that we’re on his trail – something he can’t be sure of yet. Remember, this is a man who’s lived in the shadows all his life. No one knows better how to cover his tracks. I want to keep the hunt for him confined to the police for as long as possible. And I want to concentrate our search in the counties where Lang’s been active. There’s a chance he may have been staying somewhere in the Surrey/Sussex area. John Madden, for one, thinks so.’