The Reckoning (13 page)

She giggled. It was lucky Sir Horace wasn't home. He had an intense dislike of trespassers. Once, when a party of ramblers had strayed into the park, she had seen him walk all the way across the garden shaking his stick at them (and barking like mad, Sally was sure).

Tempted to wave to the distant watcher, Sally trod on her
cigarette instead (dutifully picking up the stub, which Sir Horace's eagle eye would certainly have spotted). Turning away, she went back inside. There was still all that morning's dictation to be typed up. Before that, though, she would join Mrs Watts in the kitchen for a sandwich and a good gossip.

Then, sad to say, it would be back to the trenches.

12

I
N THE DAYS WHEN
he had had the ear of the assistant commissioner and been effectively in charge of all criminal investigations, Angus Sinclair had worked from an office on the second floor at Scotland Yard with a view of the Thames and the treelined Embankment, and it was into these same agreeable quarters that Madden was ushered later that week, with Billy in tow, to be greeted by the new incumbent.

‘Ah! John Madden. It's about time you showed your face. What have you got to say for yourself?'

Detective Chief Superintendent Chubb rose with a scowl from behind his desk.

‘Hello, Charlie.' Madden greeted him with a grin. ‘You're looking well.'

‘No, I'm not. I'm in pain. What do you expect? First they yank out my appendix and then, when I come out of hospital, I find some fellow's gone barmy, knocking off people left and right. And somehow
your
name's mixed up in it.'

He pointed an accusing finger.

‘Don't look at me. I'm as baffled as you are.'

‘Baffled? Yes, that's the word.'

Beaming now, the chief super leaned over his desk to shake
hands with his visitor. He gestured to Madden and Billy to take the chairs in front of his desk.

‘It's the word being thrown around these days.' He lowered his bulk carefully into his own seat. ‘Especially by the newspapers, in case you hadn't noticed. Did you see the
Daily Mirror
today?'

‘I'm afraid I did.' Madden was regretful. ‘
Yard clueless.
Not very kind of them, I thought.'

‘I'll tell the editor you said so.' Charlie chuckled. ‘And before we get down to business, what's this I hear about Angus playing detective up in Scotland?' His eyes narrowed. ‘Not toying with the idea of a comeback, is he?'

‘Heaven forbid! He's more interested in his roses.'

Chubb's look was incredulous.

‘It's true,' Madden assured him. ‘He's grown some beauties. And by the way, he sends his warm regards.'

‘Roses . . . warm regards? Don't tell me he's gone soft in the head.' The chief super's tone was wistful. ‘My word, that man made me suffer.'

‘You weren't the only one,' Madden reminded him. ‘I had it worse than you did.'

‘That's because you were his favourite. He used to stand over you.'

‘How well I remember it. But don't worry, Charlie. He's mellowed with age. You wouldn't know him.'

‘Wouldn't I, though?' Chubb's eyes glittered. ‘Look, I don't mind you giving him
my
regards back. But just warn him not to come the King Lear with me, or there'll be ructions. And you can stop grinning, Styles. Count yourself lucky you've only got me to make your life a misery.'

He cleared his throat.

‘Well, what about it, John?' His expression changed. ‘What do you make of this business? I don't like the sound of it. I'd be
happier if I thought this bloke doing the killing was an out-andout loony: that way we'd catch him quicker. But I've a feeling he's not. He may be disturbed, but he still seems to be working to a plan.'

‘I agree.' Madden nodded. He, too, had turned serious. ‘He's too controlled; too careful.'

‘Careful, yes . . . but not above making the odd slip. Now you've probably heard from Styles that the slug recovered at Oxford matches the other two. But did he tell you about the bullet they found near the body?'

‘The black one? Billy said it's most likely a dud.'

‘That's been confirmed by ballistics.' Chubb nodded. ‘What's more, it's got an iron core, same as the others. Our lab didn't know what the colour meant, until someone had the bright idea of ringing Aldershot and getting hold of an ammunition expert. According to him, when the Jerries began producing these iron-cored bullets during the war they painted them black to distinguish them from ordinary ones with copper-coloured jackets. They were used mainly for side-arms; Lugers in fact.'

‘Then that could very well be the weapon your shooter's using.'

The swiftness of Madden's response caused Chubb's eyebrows to shoot up.

‘Why, necessarily? Those nine-millimetres are standard size.'

‘Because it's odds-on the bullets came with the gun.' Madden explained, ‘Lugers have always been prized souvenirs, Charlie. In my time there was nothing a Tommy liked better than to get his hands on one, and I don't imagine it was any different in the last war. And since as a rule they were taken off dead or captured enemy soldiers, the chances are that they were loaded at the time. In fact it's hard to imagine how else those particular bullets could have found their way to England.'

‘Which suggests we could be looking for an ex-serviceman.' The chief super had taken the point. ‘Some bloke who helped himself to a Luger in the last war.'

‘And someone with experience, too,' Madden pointed out. ‘When I heard about the first shootings from Billy, how the victims had been made to kneel, I wondered if there was an element of ritual in the murders. But the man murdered in Oxford was sitting on a bench, which made it different in one respect, though not in another.'

‘Meaning what, exactly?' Chubb had become a rapt listener.

‘They were all clean kills: one bullet for each in the back of the head, guaranteed to be lethal. To be sure of that, the killer had to have them stationary in front of him, and with his first two victims, kneeling was the best option. You can't move easily in that position. But seated, as the man in Oxford was, worked just as well. All the killer had to do was put the gun to his head.'

‘And what did you deduce from that?'

‘That it's possible the men were simply executed – and in the most practical way. It's obvious the killer knew what he was doing. I'd go further. I'd even hazard a guess that he might have had special training.'

‘Special in what way?' The chief super's face darkened. ‘Are you suggesting he could have been a commando . . . something of that sort?'

‘Your guess is as good as mine. But one of the things you learn in a war, Charlie, is how to kill, and it sounds to me as though this man has either had experience in the art or been taught how to do it most efficiently. And assuming for the moment that he saw action, it's also possible he returned damaged in some way.'

‘Mentally, do you mean?' Chubb scowled.

‘It's only a supposition.' Madden shrugged.

His words brought a rumble from the other man. Chubb's brow knitted in a frown.

‘Look, John, I don't want to drag you into this, particularly as it's not clear yet whether you're involved. The letter Gibson began writing . . . Does it have anything to do with the case? We
still don't know. But if you've got any more ideas, I'd like to hear them. Right now we're treading water: all we have is a description that could fit any number of men. It still looks to me as though the victims were chosen at random. But let's suppose for a moment they weren't – that they were picked for a reason. Have you any thoughts on that?'

He eyed his visitor hopefully. Watching them, Billy saw his old chief put a hand to the scar on his forehead, a sure sign that his mind was engaged with the problem.

‘Well, if the killings weren't casual, then they're probably linked in some way.' Madden spoke after a long pause. ‘But that raises a difficulty that has to do with generations.'

‘Come again.' Chubb blinked.

‘The man who shot Gibson at Lewes – and presumably the other two as well – was younger than his victim. The shepherd who saw him said he walked briskly along the path; that he moved like a young man. Both Gibson and Singleton were in their sixties, Drummond in his late fifties, and while it's possible the killer knew one of them personally, it hardly seems likely he was acquainted with all three, particularly given where they lived and the fact that there was no apparent connection between them. So how did he know them?'

Madden looked at Chubb.

‘I mean, how did he know who to kill?'

‘He might have had their names.' It was Billy who spoke.

‘Their names, yes. But he'd still have to be sure he was killing the right people. We're assuming now that there
was
a reason for the murders. I've been thinking about it, and it struck me that whoever called on Gibson that day might have gone there to determine his identity?'

‘Prior to topping him, you mean?' Chubb sat forward in his chair.

‘Exactly. Now it's clear that Gibson wasn't threatened. Otherwise he would have rung the police afterwards. But whatever
was said was enough to make him sit down and start writing that letter to the commissioner. It's only an idea, but what if he'd just been asked some awkward questions – the kind he didn't want to answer; or perhaps dealing with something he didn't want dragged up? The reason I say that is because in the end he decided
not
to finish the letter, not to send it, and that sounds to me like the act of a man who has just had second thoughts. Mind you, that assumes that the caller was also his killer, and that Gibson's murder wasn't done on the spur of the moment: that it was carefully planned.'

He waited for his listeners' reaction.

‘The doctor up in Scotland didn't have an unexpected visitor, and neither did Singleton, as far as we know.' Again it was Billy who spoke.

‘No, but Drummond saw some patients, holidaymakers, who weren't on his list. Have the names of the men been checked?'

Billy nodded. ‘They've all been cleared. There's no reason to think any of them is the person we're looking for.'

Madden's grunt signalled his disappointment. He sat brooding. Looking up, he caught Chubb's eye.

‘Well, I've only got one other suggestion, Charlie, but I imagine it's something you've already thought of.'

‘And what might that be?' The chief super lifted an eyebrow.

‘I've no idea what's behind these killings, but if they're not random, I've got a feeling the answer must lie in the past. Although these men seem not to have known each other, logic suggests their paths must have crossed at some point.'

‘You're thinking about the war, aren't you?' Chubb grunted. He had been listening intently. ‘The First World War, that is. We did wonder about that, Styles and I, but we couldn't see any obvious connection.'

‘Perhaps not, but it still seems to me to be the only event in recent history that could have brought them together, bearing in mind that they lived far apart and had different lives.' Madden
frowned. ‘And they were all the right age to have served, remember.'

Billy stirred. ‘Singleton was in it – that's for certain. I saw a photograph of him taken in the trenches. And we found one of Ozzie Gibson in uniform at Lewes. Do you remember, sir? You saw the badge on his cap and said he must have been a supply officer.'

Madden nodded.

‘But Drummond doesn't seem to fit the pattern.' Billy scratched his head. ‘He was a doctor. Surely he wouldn't have been called up.'

‘No, but he could easily have served in the Medical Corps. If you think this is worth following up, ask the RAMC to check their records. You need to find out if there was a moment when those three were in the same place at the same time; or even in the same general area.'

Chubb had listened to them in silence. Now he spoke.

‘But hang on – this bloke who's been doing the killing, he's a lot younger. Like you said, he's a different generation. How could he be caught up in something that happened – if it happened at all – more than thirty years ago? Tell me that.'

‘I only wish I could, Charlie.' Madden rose to his feet with a sigh. ‘But I'm afraid I can't. Not without a crystal ball.'

‘A crystal ball! I knew there was something I needed. Get on to it, Styles.'

Conscious that he'd started a wild hare running with no certainty of where it might lead, Madden left the Yard in a taxi that took him north through drab streets where the buildings, unpainted for many years, rubbed shoulders with bomb sites: craters that had once been home to cellars or basements, but were now empty pits.

Though the sight called to mind the bombs that had rained
on the capital only a few years before, it was not of the war just past that he was thinking as they drove by Regent's Park, but of the one fought earlier in the century in which he had played a part. The idea he'd put forward had been in his mind for some days, but he'd been slow to advance it, given the lack of supporting evidence, and he wondered now if he wouldn't have done better to have held his tongue. Precious time might be wasted on what could prove to be a fruitless search of old records; the trail of the killer – already cold – might vanish altogether.

However, the suggestion had been made and it was too late now to take it back. Meantime he had other business to attend to. He had come up to town in response to an appeal from Helen's aunt, Maud Collingwood, a perennial survivor, now in her nineties (but as fit as a flea, according to her niece), who dwelt in a house in St John's Wood from which she refused to move, and where she continued to flourish safe in the knowledge that help was at hand should she need it. Her latest request, conveyed by telephone the week before, had been for Madden to get himself up to London as soon as possible in order to clean out the gutters of her house before the winter rains set in.