Rennie Airth_John Madden 03 Page 6

  drive home. It had been a crime as bloody as any in the

  history of the Yard that had first brought him to Highfield,

  along with Madden, then an inspector, and his memory

  inevitably returned to that day as they drove past the high

  brick wall that hid from view the house where the outrage

  had occurred. Called Melling Lodge, it had lived under a

  curse ever since, or so it seemed to Sinclair. Though leased

  periodically to tenants, and used briefly to house evacuees at

  the start of the Blitz, it had more often stood empty, and the

  chief could seldom pass by the wrought-iron gates and the

  glimpsed garden beyond without a shudder. Today, however,

  the tremor he felt had more to do with the killing that had

  taken place in Bloomsbury two nights since and his concern

  for the effect it might have on the small community of which

  his friends were a part.

  The early darkness of winter was drawing in by the time

  Helen turned into the long driveway lined with lime trees,

  bare of leaves now, but familiar to the chief inspector in all

  seasons, and drew up before the spacious, half-timbered

  house where she and Madden had lived since their marriage

  and which had belonged to her father; and his father before

  him. No lights were showing in the hall, but when they went

  inside they found Madden in the drawing-room with the

  curtains already pulled, kneeling on the hearth adding logs to

  the fire.

  'We’ve had one burning in your room all day, Angus.’ He

  had risen with a smile to greet their guest and shake his hand.

  'Be sure and keep it going or you’ll freeze.’

  As he shed his coat and went closer to the blaze to warm

  his hands, Sinclair had cast a covert glance at his old friend,

  noting with envy his erect bearing and evident vigour. Unlike

  his wife’s clear face, Madden’s weathered features bore ample

  testimony to his age – he was past fifty – and to his past, as

  well, most notably in the shape of a jagged scar on his brow

  near the hairline that served as a reminder to those who knew

  his history of his time in the trenches.

  Tall, and striking as much for his appearance as for his air

  of quiet authority, he was of all the colleagues the chief

  inspector had known during his long career at the Yard the

  most memorable.

  And the one he had valued the most.

  'As I say, there’s no mystery about how she was killed, not

  according to the pathologist. Her neck was broken from

  behind. To be precise, whoever attacked her caught her in a

  headlock and snapped her spinal cord. She never had a chance

  to fight back. But that’s part of the problem.’

  Refreshed by a sip of the whisky his hosts had offered

  him, a precious wartime commodity, Sinclair was ready to go

  on.

  'If the killer had an ulterior motive – rape, for example it

  seems highly unlikely he would have seized hold of her

  that way. It’s true he might have tried to silence her, even

  render her semi-conscious, but not like that, surely. It’s far

  too dangerous.’

  “I agree.’ Helen interrupted him in a quiet voice. The

  crackling of the fire had died down in the last few minutes

  and as the flames diminished, the room, lit by a single table

  lamp, had grown darker. 'That’s why boys are taught not to

  scrag each other when they fight. If he’d wanted to control

  her he’d more likely have squeezed her throat.’

  'Precisely.’ The chief inspector took another sip from his

  glass. 'And that was the pathologist’s first guess. He examined

  the body by torchlight at the scene and guessed she’d been

  strangled. But there’s no doubt now as to what happened. It

  seems the murder was deliberate.’

  Madden grunted, but when Sinclair glanced at him, inviting

  him to speak, he shook his head.

  'No, go on, Angus.’

  Famous in his time at the Yard for his silences, for his

  practice, as Sinclair had once declared, in exasperation, many

  years before, of staying mum while others made fools of

  themselves, Madden’s reversion to old habits left the chief

  inspector with no option but to continue:

  'So with that in mind, we’re faced with the question of

  motive. Why did he kill her? One theory is that he meant to

  rob her – her belongings, what she was carrying, were strewn

  all about – but of what? Not money, surely. But Styles found

  a number of charred matchsticks on and around the body

  indicating he’d been trying to strike a light in the wind: which

  in turn suggests he was looking for something. But there’s no

  way of telling whether he went through her coat pockets, for

  example, or whether he found her wallet, which ended up

  under some corrugated iron and could either have fallen there

  by chance or been tossed away by the killer after he’d

  searched it.’

  'Was there anything in it?’ Madden spoke at last. 'Anything

  of value, I mean?’

  Sinclair shook his head. 'Quite the reverse. It contained

  her identity card and a small amount of money. Nothing

  more. So it’s possible he could have removed something from

  it. But these are all rational questions, and they may be the

  wrong ones to ask. It’s possible we’re dealing with a disturbed

  individual, someone who killed the girl for no reason at all,

  then set about trying to strike a light in order to examine his

  handiwork. But it’s worth pointing out that lunatics of that

  sort usually have a weapon of some kind, often a knife, and

  they seldom attack with their bare hands. At least not in my

  experience.’

  Sinclair sat back heavily in his chair. He’d already had a

  long day.

  'You asked me earlier, John, if I still thought it was a

  crime of chance, and the answer is, yes, I do, on balance. But

  only on balance. We can’t get away from the fact that the

  act itself was deliberate and that for all we know there may

  have been a motive behind it. A rational motive. We have to

  consider the possibility that she was killed by someone she

  knew.’

  'Oh, no! Surely not.’ The exclamation came from Helen.

  She stared in disbelief at the chief inspector. 'You mean a

  man, don’t you? Someone she was involved with?’

  'As I say, it’s something we have to consider, and it’s

  where I’m hoping you and John can help me. Was there

  anyone here she’d become friendly with? Have you heard

  any gossip? I might add that her aunt, a Mrs Laski, scoffs at

  the notion. But she hadn’t seen her niece for nearly two

  months and wouldn’t necessarily have known of any new

  development in her life.’

  'No, but she knew Rosa, and that was enough.’ Helen’s

  response was immediate. 'You never met her, Angus, but if

  you had you’d understand. It wasn’t just that she kept to

  herself. She simply had no interest in . . . that side of life. In men. It was as though she had taken a vow: as if she was still

  in mo
urning. John . . . ?’ She turned to her husband, and

  Madden nodded in confirmation.

  'We can ask around tomorrow, if you like, Angus, but

  you’ll find it’s a blind alley. Anyway, it’s hard to see some

  man following her up to London from here with the express

  purpose of killing her.’

  “I agree. But I had to put it to you.’

  The sigh that came from the chief inspector’s lips then was

  partly one of relief. He knew better than most the distress a

  murder inquiry brought to any community, and his fear that

  the trail might lead back to Highfield had prompted him

  to ring the station commander at Bow Street that morning to

  inform him that he was going down to the village himself and

  would assess the need, if any, of extending the investigation

  outside the capital. Reassured now, he felt able to relax, and

  to let the wave of tiredness he’d been conscious of for some

  time wash over him. His stifled yawn caught Helen’s eye.

  'You must be exhausted, Angus. And though you haven’t

  mentioned it, I think your toe is bothering you. Why not go

  up to your room and have a rest before dinner.’ She rose

  from the settee. “I have to go out myself. We’ve an epidemic

  of whooping cough in the village, and there are some children

  I must look in on.’

  Mildly put out to discover he’d failed to hide his discomfort

  from his hostess’s all-seeing eye, the chief inspector

  waited until she had left the room. Then he rounded on

  Madden.

  'You’ve been mighty quiet,’ he accused his old colleague.

  'Enough of that. Come on, before I go up, tell me what you

  think. I’ve given you the facts. What do you make of them?’

  Emerging from the depths of his armchair, Madden leaned

  forward. His expression hadn’t changed and the chief inspector

  was unable to gauge his reaction from his eyes, which

  were dark and deep-set.

  'Not much, I’m afraid. Nothing that hasn’t occurred to

  you already. But there is one thing. I’m still not clear in my

  mind what Rosa’s movements were that night. How she came

  to encounter this man. Could you go through them again

  for me?’

  'Willingly.’ The chief inspector put down his glass. 'As

  well as I can, that is. We still don’t know her exact route after

  she reached Waterloo, though it seems likely she came north

  to Tottenham Court Road by the Underground and then

  walked from there. Posters with her photograph are being

  put up along that route. We’re hoping someone will remember

  seeing her. Once she got to Bloomsbury, however, the

  situation becomes much clearer. I think I told you about

  the air-raid warden she bumped into. After they’d exchanged

  a few words, the girl continued down Little Russell Street

  while the warden went the other way, up Museum Street

  towards the British Museum. It seems she was killed within

  seconds of the two of them separating. And no more than

  twenty paces from where they’d been standing. So it looks as

  though she met her murderer coming down Little Russell

  Street. He must have been walking in the opposite direction.’

  'Or following her, surely?’

  Madden’s intervention brought the chief inspector up

  short.

  'Well, yes … I suppose so … technically.’ Sinclair

  frowned. 'But there’s no indication of that. They stood there

  talking for a minute or two and according to the warden

  there was no one else about.’

  Madden sat pondering.

  'Yet you say they bumped into each other in the darkness?’

  he went on after a moment. 'Did she seem to be

  hurrying? Was she nervous, perhaps?’

  'Because she thought someone was following her? John,

  I’ve just said there was no suggestion of that.’ The chief

  inspector’s puzzlement showed on his face. 'It wasn’t only

  that the warden didn’t see anyone. He didn’t hear any

  footsteps either. The Bow Street detectives asked him. Mind

  you, that could be explained by the fact there was a strong

  wind blowing.’

  'Or because the killer heard him speaking to Rosa and

  stopped.’

  'Around the corner, you mean? In Museum Street? Out

  of sight?’

  Sinclair stared at him, and as he watched, Madden got to

  his feet. The fire had burned down to a bank of smouldering

  embers and he stirred it, adding fresh logs to revive the blaze.

  'Yes, but if he was following her with the intention of

  killing her, doesn’t that suggest it was someone she knew?’

  Sinclair resumed speaking, but this time his companion

  made no reply.

  'And didn’t we agree that the odds were against that?’

  'True . . . But there’s another possibility.’

  Madden put down the poker and straightened, his tall

  figure casting a long shadow across the hearth. He looked

  down at the chief inspector.

  'What if he knew her?” he said.

  'John and I have decided. We’re going up to London for

  the funeral. Do you know when it will be, Angus? Have the

  police released Rosa’s body yet?’

  Helen Madden sat back on her heels. She brushed a strand

  of fair hair from her eyes and regarded Sinclair, who was

  seated on a tombstone. Seeking to fill in time before the chief

  inspector’s train departed, they had stopped at the churchyard,

  where Helen had a task to perform.

  'I’m not certain,’ Sinclair said. 'But I can find out for you.

  In any case, it won’t be long. There’s no reason for it to be

  held back. The pathologist has done his work.’ He reflected

  for a moment. 'If you let me know what train you’re

  catching I’ll send your friend Billy Styles with a police car

  to Waterloo. The funeral will be at Golders Green, I expect.

  He can run you up there and collect Mrs Laski on the way.

  I dare say she’d be grateful for a lift.’

  'That would be kind, Angus.’ She smiled her thanks. 'And

  it means we can take Rosa’s things with us and return them

  to her aunt. I know you looked through them today, but will

  the police in London still want to see them?’

  The chief inspector considered the question. He had been

  watching while his hostess busied herself attending to her

  family’s plot in the moss-walled cemetery, sweeping it free of

  dead leaves and branches and trimming the uncut grass with

  a pair of garden shears. The chore was a necessary one, Helen

  had explained. Highfield had been without a sexton since the

  death of the last incumbent the previous summer, and it was

  unlikely the post would be filled until the war was over.

  Buried side by side in the square plot were her parents and

  grandparents. But not her two brothers. Both casualties of

  the First World War, their bodies lay in cemeteries across the

  Channel, in what had been, until recently, enemy-held territory;

  one in France, the other in Belgium. The spot where

  they might have been interred was occupied by a relatively

  new gravesto
ne, little weathered as yet, and inscribed simply

  with the name 'Topper’ and beneath it the words 'Mourned

  by his many friends’. It marked the final resting place of an

  old tramp whose true name no one had ever discovered but

  who had been deeply attached to Helen and her husband and

  cared for by them in his last years.

  'I’ll have a word with the detective handling the case,’

  Sinclair replied, after an interval. He’d been remembering the

  old vagrant, and Helen’s determination in particular that he

  should not end his days in solitude, abandoned by some path

  or hedgerow. 'But I don’t believe so. There’s a diary among

  her stuff, but it’s in Polish, and the best thing would be for

  Mrs Laski to look through it and see if it contains anything

  unusual.’

  The book in question, leather-bound and inscribed with

  its owner’s name, had been among the effects which the

  chief inspector had examined earlier at Madden’s farm. They

  had gone there in the late morning, and May Burrows, the

  manager’s wife, had shown him up to the room where Rosa

  Nowak had slept. In her thirties now, May had been little

  more than a child herself when Sinclair had first come to

  Highfield. With her that morning had been her daughter,

  Belle, home on a weekend pass from an ATS barracks in

  Southampton, and with a dimpled face and a head of dark

  curls that had reminded the chief inspector of her mother

  twenty years before.

  'Such an easy girl,’ May had told him when she took him

  upstairs. 'Good-hearted, too. No trouble, ever. She’d do

  anything she was asked, and always with a smile. So different

  from the others we had before her.’

  This last had been said with a knowing look and a shake

  of the head, and referred beyond doubt to at least two of the

  three land girls Madden had employed earlier in the war,

  both of whom had contrived to become pregnant during their

  time at Highfield. Of them, and their paramours, two signallers

  from a temporary training camp set up near the village,

  Helen had remarked that it was worse than trying to keep

  foxes out of a henhouse. The third, a wan creature from the

  London suburb of Ealing, had given up her job as a secretary

  to join the Land Army, seduced perhaps by the vision

  displayed by a poster put up early in the war in which a

  smiling girl stood beckoning, a sheaf of golden corn beneath