Not My Blood

CHAPTER 28

“They’ll be there mob-handed and in position by nine. Best I can do,” had been the result of Martin’s calls to the chief constable of the Sussex Police. “It is a Sunday. Still, there’s a squad of a dozen officers glad of the overtime. Four hounds promised and possibly the old man himself will turn up after morning service. Good luck with it. You’re to liaise with the superintendent you’ll find there.”

And here they were, some minutes before the appointed hour, liaising. Superintendent Crawshaw and his men had listened intently to Joe’s briefing, dismay, incredulity and resolve flitting, one after the other, across their stolid features.

“So, you want us to get busy with the dogs straight up, in the cemetery, sir?” the sergeant asked doubtfully.

“Yes. We’re not tiptoeing in. We have the warrants. There shouldn’t be much in the way of patients arriving-it being a Sunday-but any members of the public arriving for appointments are welcome to witness the police presence. It’s surprising what a degree of panic a few bloodhounds can stir up when they’re observed, nose to the sward in a graveyard! Get the men to yell and the dogs to howl. Put on a blood-chilling performance.”

“Sir, there’s a couple of journalists hanging about. Do you want me to …?”

“No, Super. They’re here at my invitation. Give ’em free rein to roam. When you’ve organised the dogs I’d like one of your officers-make it two, hard men-to arrest Matron when she sticks her nose out to question the noise and isolate her from the remainder of the activities. Charge: aiding and abetting a felony. Vague enough for the moment.”

Crawshaw pursed his lips but called forwards two officers and gave instructions.

“Apart from that extraction, Super, the rest of the hospital is to go about its usual business. I won’t be held responsible for affecting the normal medical procedures. Now, we’ll execute the plans as discussed, shall we? I’ll take three of your men and go with Mr. Gosling and Miss Joliffe to confront the director. When we’re ready to arrest him and his medical staff, I’ll put them in your hands. There may also be two London roughs, the muscle he uses.”

“Glad we brought the big van, sir.”

They waited until a squawking, spluttering Matron had been whisked away. Then they set off down Joe’s remembered route to Bentink’s office.

He burst without knocking into an empty room. Joe swallowed his disappointment and made use of the opportunity to order the constables to remove and log the contents of the desk, including diaries and appointment books. He was running an eye over the filing cabinets when a cool voice spoke from the open door.

“Back so soon, Sandilands? And you bring your minions with you? Would you kindly ask them to release my staff? I could do with a cup of coffee. Start behaving yourself, and I’ll get one for you. I’ve just got back down from town with a headache, and I find my hospital being turned into a funfair by the Keystone Kops. There must be an explanation. Are you filming this? Should I smile for the cameras?”

The men stood back and looked uncomfortable. Joe wasn’t surprised. Bentink without his white medical coat was even more impressive. At ease in his dove-grey Sunday morning Savile Row suit, he strolled into the disturbed space that had been his office, put his furled umbrella in its stand and his hat on a hook, and took command.

“You can save your coffee for the Chief Constable, Bentink. He will be joining us in time to wave you farewell as you are taken from here in the police van to Tunbridge Wells jail, where you will answer the charges we have against you.”

“Charges? What have you in mind?”

“Kidnapping, torture and murder of minors. Children. Children pilfered from local gypsy families. In addition, you will, while our guest, help us with inquiries we are currently pursuing into the disappearances of certain pupils from a school or schools in the county of Sussex.”

Bentink gave a theatrical shudder. “Really, Sandilands! Being a policeman is having a terrible effect on your powers of expression. Stop mangling the English language, man!”

The men looked up mutinously. Keystone Kops? Minions and manglers of the language? This didn’t go down well with Sussex men. The sergeant took a menacing step closer to Joe in support. Joe was glad to note the instinctive response.

Bentink smiled and sank down into his leather Bauhaus chair, sleek and powerful as the man himself. “Sandilands, you must let me pass you the number of an excellent alienist in London. Your mental confusion is becoming an embarrassment to all. These are charges that, in their seriousness, would be alarming were they not so ridiculous. I am a medical man. Of some distinction, I might add. I have sworn my Hippocratic oath, and I abide by it. I do not torture children. And what on earth makes you suppose I would soil my hands by contact with gypsies?” He turned a look of quizzical appeal on the constables. “Local men, I see. Men who understand our local problems. They come into daily conflict with these people. Worthless, illiterate, law-breaking rogues, they’ll tell you if you ask.”

In his arrogance he had gone too far.

The sergeant inflated his impressive chest and spoke up. “Sir. They may be gypsies. But they’re our gypsies as long as they’re on our patch. A child is a child. And they’ve been going missing. Six so far. As we know of. We’re going to find out where they are, what’s happened to them, and chuck the book at the unhuman what’s responsible. This is England, sir, and we won’t have it.”

Suddenly Bentink had had enough. He got to his feet. “What have you done with my telephone? I am about to ring the Minister for Reform. Sir James will enlighten you as to the way we handle things in England. Gentlemen-if any here deserve that appellation-prepare to have your arses kicked.”

“When you get him,” Joe said, handing him the instrument, “tell him the police have, on celluloid, yards and yards of filmed evidence of you and your henchmen tormenting, in illegal experiments, kidnapped children. You, sir, though masked throughout the proceedings, are identifiable by a ring of particularly flamboyant style. A ring I observe you are even now wearing. Sergeant, may I ask you to look closely and note this ring? It might be a good idea to bag and label it before it disappears.”

When this awkward procedure was completed Joe asked: “Now, would you like me to put on a showing of the filmic material in question for these other gentlemen of the law? We could go along to your viewing room. Or would you prefer your brother-in-law to be present at the premier performance?”

Joe was struck by a thought that the overpowering presence of Bentink had put from his mind: the man, sinking back into his chair, had no idea that his Lethal Chamber had been invaded. He’d been shocked out of his complacency to hear that Joe knew of the films. “Good Lord! Your men are still locked up where I left them-in your killing room. They’ve been there since yesterday afternoon when we helped ourselves to the evidence. Oh, well, if they haven’t made use of the facilities and done each other in yet, they may be in just the right mood to spill whatever beans they have relating to you and your grisly operations.”

He turned to give an order to the sergeant. “Go with Miss Joliffe, she knows the way. But don’t let her near the thugs-she’d do them irreparable damage. Pick up four lusty blokes to accompany you and two pairs of cuffs. Leave one officer with me, will you?”

Left alone with Sandilands, Gosling and one policeman, Bentink maintained a truculent silence. Not overly concerned. Joe decided to annoy him. “Constable, I think we’ll take the precaution of cuffing this one as well. He won’t outrun us, but the waiting pressmen will expect it. They’ve screwed in their flashbulbs, and they’re ready for a show.”

At this, Bentink raised a terrible face suffused with rage and hatred. Joe prepared to weather a frenzied outburst. But the voice, when it came, was controlled. He spoke with quiet force: “For the last time, I tell you, Sandilands: I have had nothing to do with your missing boys. I beg you to use your skills and resources to establish that. I am not a common criminal. Do you imagine I would involve myself with the offspring of Englishmen of quality? Men of breeding and background? Men of value to society like you, like me? Look elsewhere. And do it quickly before the world discovers what a fool you are.”

Joe reminded himself that the monster Caliban had at times spoken the most persuasive verse, conjuring up sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

He stopped his ears and held out the handcuffs.

“Ring, Sir?” Gosling muttered to Joe as they accompanied Bentink out into the sunlight. “What was all that about? He had one on this morning, but I can’t say I noticed one on the film.”

“I could have sworn I saw one,” Joe said vaguely. “Ah, well-he seemed to think we did.”