River of Darkness

11

The door to the adjoining office opened and Hollingsworth and Styles entered. Chief Inspector Sinclair, immaculate in grey pinstripe and pearl tie-pin, sat behind his desk. The windows at his back, which so often during the long summer had sparkled diamond bright in the sunshine, were flecked with rain. Lightning streaked the black sky above Kennington. He motioned the two men to come closer. 'No doubt you've heard the rumours that I'm to be replaced as head of this investigation. I'm sorry to have to tell you they're true. I'm due to see the assistant commissioner in a few minutes. It's my understanding he'll hand the inquiry over to Chief Superintendent Sampson.'

Hollingsworth muttered some words.

'Sergeant?' Sinclair raised an eyebrow.

'Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir.'

'I want to take this opportunity to thank you both for the work you've put in. Long hours, with little to show for it, you may think. But I assure you that's not the case. I've no doubt that the information gathered in this file will eventually lead to the arrest and, I hope, conviction of the man we've been seeking.' He patted the thick buff folder lying on the desk in front of him.

'As to the future, neither Inspector Madden nor myself expects to play any further part in this inquiry.

Chief Superintendent Sampson will be putting together his own team and I think it likely he'll want to include you both, given your familiarity with the history and details of the case. I know you'll offer him the same loyalty and devotion to a difficult job you have always given me, and for which I thank you now.'

The chief inspector stood up and held out his hand to Hollingsworth, who shook it. Styles followed suit.

'You'll be informed shortly of any change in your assignments. That will be all.'

The two men returned to the side office, shutting the door behind them. Sinclair resumed his seat and took out his pipe. He glanced at Madden, who had listened in silence at his desk. 'Well, John?'

'I think it's a damned shame.'

'An opinion not shared by Mrs Sinclair, who is pleased at the thought of my spending more time at home. She comforts me with the assurance that I need not fear to find myself less usefully employed in the future. Only the area of my activities will change. Are you familiar with the term "mulching"?'

The grin that came to Madden's face reminded the chief inspector that there was at least one satisfaction he could take from the weeks of labour they had shared. His pleasure at seeing his partner more like his old self had been heightened for a brief time when it seemed likely that Madden's suggestion that they track down Captain Miller's clerk would bear dividends.

Against all odds the War Office had been able to supply them, without delay, with the identity of the driver of Miller's staff car. The names of both men had been on the casualty report.

Corporal Alfred Tozer had survived the blast that killed his superior and in due course had been invalided back to a hospital in Eastbourne where medical records retained since the war gave an address for him in Bethnal Green.

Madden had sped there in a taxi with Hollingsworth only to discover that while it remained Tozer's residence — he lived with his sister and her husband, the three of them running a newsagent's and tobacconist's business together — he was absent from home.

'On a walking holiday? In North Wales?' The chief inspector had raised his eyes to the ceiling in disbelief.

'He's a rambler, sir. It's how he spends his holiday every year, according to his sister. He visits different parts of the country.'

'How admirable! We must recommend him to the tourist board. So we still don't know whether he was Miller's regular clerk, or even if he has any special knowledge of that case?'

Madden shook his head.

Clutching at straws, Sinclair had telephoned the police in Bangor and asked them to pass the word along to sub-stations in the district to be on the lookout for Tozer. He was to be asked to get in touch with Scotland Yard at once. The same message had been left with his sister, who was not expecting him back before the weekend.

'I'll put a note in the file, but I don't see the chief superintendent stirring himself to chase up any ideas we put forward.'

Their last chance to advance the investigation came that morning with a further message from the War Office regarding Miller's wartime commanding officer in the Military Police. A Colonel Strachan, he was now retired and living in a village in Scotland so remote that even the chief inspector had never heard of it.

The Yard's switchboard had spent most of the morning wrestling with exchanges up and down the country. Sinclair was out of the office when they finally made contact with the colonel, and it was Madden who spoke to him.

'He says he recalls the case and knows it was closed,' he told the chief inspector on his return. 'But he can't remember the name of the man Miller identified as the murderer. He was killed in battle, though. He remembers that much.'

'And how did Miller know it was him?'

'He can't remember that, either.'

'My, my…' The chief inspector scratched his head.

'Remind me not to retire too early, John. It seems to have a damaging effect on the brain cells. What did you make of it?'

Madden frowned. 'It's hard to be sure over a longdistance line. His voice was very faint. But I'd say he wasn't bending over backwards to be helpful.'

'Nobbled?' Sinclair inserted a pipe-cleaner into the stem of his briar. He squinted at Madden.

'Possibly. But not by the War Office. He seemed genuinely surprised to get my call. If it was done at all it was done at the time, just as we suspect.'

'But not on his initiative?'

'I'm sure not. He was a military policeman. He'd have been breaking the law. No, the order must have come from higher up.'

'From headquarters?'

The inspector shrugged.

'I see a man.' Sinclair extracted his pipe-cleaner and blew through the stem. 'A general, perhaps. Or an overweight colonel with a scarlet hat band and lapel tabs. He's sitting in his office — it's in a chateau, by the way. He's just had a good dinner. The front is a long way off.'

'You're talking about a staff officer.' Madden scowled.

'Am I? Well, this one has a file in front of him.'

Sinclair examined the pipe-cleaner. 'A ticklish matter.

It's the investigator's memorandum that bothers him.

"No," he says, removing it and tossing it aside.' The chief inspector matched words to action, dropping the pipe-cleaner into the wastepaper basket beside him.

' "No, I don't think we'll have that."' He looked at his pipe. 'I wonder what the problem was. Perhaps he didn't want the name of the murderer made public.

Perhaps it would have been an embarrassment to someone.' He shrugged. 'Anyway, since the man in question was dead it didn't really matter. Justice had been served.' Sinclair put his pipe in his pocket. 'Yes, I'd like to meet that staff officer. I really would.'

He glanced at his watch. 'Time I was on my way.'

He rose, collecting the file from his desk. 'They're welcome to this.' He hefted the bulky folder. 'I shan't give Sampson the satisfaction of watching me squirm.

The convicted felon made a dignified exit. After all, it's only a job, as the bishop said to the actress He started to move around his desk, then halted.

With a sudden sharp gesture he slammed the file down. 'No, by God, it's not!'

Madden started in surprise. The chief inspector stared through the window at the rainswept morning.

He spoke in a low, angry tone: 'Somewhere out there is a man bent on murder. It's only a matter of time before he acts. Somewhere there's a woman, a whole family, perhaps, who stand in peril. And now I'm being asked to place this investigation — and the lives of these people, whoever they are — in the hands of a… nincompoopY He snatched up the file, and at the same moment his eye fell on Billy Styles, who was standing in the open doorway to the adjoining office with two cups of tea in his hands. He stared at Sinclair in horror.

'You didn't hear me say that, Constable. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir.' The young man quailed.

'Absolutely clear?'

Billy could only nod.

With a glance at Madden, the chief inspector strode out of the office.

An hour later Sinclair completed his summing up of the inquiry to date. He'd been surprised when the assistant commissioner requested it. He had expected the proceedings to be brief, and to be confined to an expression of thanks from Sir George for his weeks of toil, followed by a brisk handover of the file to Chief Superintendent Sampson, who sat beside Parkhurst at the polished oak table with the air of a vulture perched on a branch.

The table was a twin of the one that graced Bennett's office. In other respects the assistant commissioner's rooms were more elaborately furnished. A thick pile carpet covered the floor and the walls were hung with landscapes of the green English countryside.

Two windows, overlooking the Embankment, framed a wide mahogany desk behind which hung a large photograph of Sir George with his namesake, King George V. The blurred outlines of a horse walking in the background suggested a racecourse as the likely setting for the picture. Parkhurst, in morning dress, stood with his head slightly bowed and turned attentively towards the monarch, who wore a glazed expression.

The chief inspector sat on his own. Parkhurst faced him across the table, with Sampson on one side of him and Bennett on the other. The assistant commissioner was in his late fifties. His fleshy cheeks were marked by a network of livid veins. While Sinclair was speaking his glance had wandered about the room, as though unable to settle on anything, in contrast to Sampson, beside him, whose small dark eyes never left the chief inspector's face. Bennett sat apart from both of them, his chair drawn away as though deliberately distancing himself. The deputy's face showed no emotion.

'Allow me to underline the importance I attribute to this recent aspect of the investigation, sir.'

Given the opportunity to explain himself, the chief inspector had abandoned his original intention of washing his hands of the whole business as quickly as possible. He was now enjoying the process of drawing it out, watching Sampson twitch with impatience, observing Sir George trying to screw up his resolve to put an end to the meeting. He would say what he had to say, and be damned! 'It's my belief — and Inspector Madden's — that the man who killed those people in Belgium in 1917 is the same man we're looking for now. The devil of it is we haven't been able to pin down his identity. But we will… or, rather, we would have, I'm sure.' Sinclair paused briefly. 'Sir, I cannot urge strongly enough that this line of inquiry should not be abandoned and that we should keep pressing the War Office to provide a name.'

Parkhurst stirred restlessly in his chair. 'All the same, Chief Inspector, you will admit there's no necessary connection between those killings and the ones at Melling Lodge. When all is said and done, you're well in the realm of speculation.'

'Indeed, I am, sir.' Sinclair nodded vigorously. 'But speculation is what this case has forced on us. And speaking of necessary connections, this has been our main problem. I firmly believe there was no personal connection whatsoever between the murderer and the people at Melling Lodge, other than the one that existed in his mind, and which we've been trying to unravel.'

Sampson clicked his tongue with irritation. 'Now come on, Angus, we've heard all this before. You've had your run. Right from the start you've insisted this man was no ordinary criminal. There was plenty of evidence to suggest he broke into that house with the intention of robbing it. What happened next was tragic. Terrible. But trying to turn a violent and possibly deranged man into some kind of…' He made a gesture of distaste. '… some kind of twisted force of evil isn't going to help us catch him.

'You say he killed that woman in Kent, Mrs Reynolds.

But you don't know that. Granted, there are some superficial similarities between the two crimes.

But what you've done is make an assumption because it fits your theory. The same applies to this business in Belgium four years ago. Now you've got him committing a whole string of murders and you've been warning us for weeks he's going to strike again. When, may I ask?'

The chief superintendent ran his hand lightly over his brilliantined hair. He leaned forward. 'What's needed here — what's been needed from the start — is the application of normal police procedures. Nothing glamorous and new-fangled. No trying to see into the mind of the criminal, thinking somehow you can read his thoughts. Just good old-fashioned police work.

Plenty of sweat, plenty of shoe leather. That's the way to proceed.'

Sinclair had listened to him with an expression of rapt attention. Now he spoke. 'What did you have in mind, sir?'

Sampson sat back. 'I should have thought that was obvious,' he said. 'What do we know about this man?

Not a lot, I grant you. But we do know one thing. He owns a motorbike. And he uses it. Now, I realize you've gone through that list of recent purchasers provided by Harley-Davidson. But for heaven's sake, man! What about registrations?'

'Motorcycle registrations?' The chief inspector seemed taken aback by the notion. 'Yes, I saw a piece about that in the Express the other day. Ferris, was it?

He seemed to have the same idea. I wonder where he got it?'

Sampson turned brick red.

'As a matter of fact, sir, it's something I've considered and discarded.' Sinclair turned his attention back to the assistant commissioner. 'Do you know how many motorcycles are registered in the south of England?

Close to a hundred and fifty thousand. Even setting aside the enormous burden a procedure like the one Mr Sampson is suggesting would place on the various authorities, I had to wonder what it would achieve. Armed with only the rough physical details we possess — a large man with dark brown hair and a moustache he may or may not have shaved off by now — police officials would presumably have to interview each and every one of these licence holders to see if they approximate the description. And then the thought occurred to me — what guarantee do we have that his vehicle is legally registered? Or that he doesn't keep it hidden somewhere, only using it when he needs to? It's true, this man in many ways is an enigma to us. But whatever else, we know he's not a complete blockhead.' Unlike some others the chief inspector could mention.

Sampson stared at him angrily. His face showed open dislike. 'All right, Sinclair. I think we've heard enough.'

Parkhurst cleared his throat. 'Yes, I believe it's time to-' He broke off at the sound of a loud knock and turned his head towards the door, which had opened.

Madden stood framed in the doorway. He held a piece of paper in his hand. A secretary hovered behind his tall figure, making nervous gestures.

'Sorry to interrupt you, sir. It's something urgent.'

'Madden, is it?' Irritation sharpened the assistant commissioner's peremptory tone. 'Can't it wait, man?'

'No, sir. I'm afraid it can't.'

Madden's long legs propelled him across the carpet in a few strides. He went to Sinclair's side and handed him the piece of paper he was carrying. He bent and whispered in the chief inspector's ear. Sinclair gave a slight start. His face lit up. 'Sir, I must ask for this meeting to be suspended.' He rose abruptly.

'What?' Parkhurst gaped at him.

'Now, just a minute-!' Sampson began.

'We're on to him!' Sinclair held up the piece of paper. 'This is our man.'

' You've found him?' Parkhurst demanded.

'Not yet, sir. But we have his name.' The chief inspector's eye was bright. 'What's more we'll have a photograph of him before the day's out.'

'A photograph!'

'Courtesy of the War Office. He was in the Army, just as we thought. Sir, I must urge you to let me get moving on this. Any delay could be dangerous.' Sinclair gathered his file. He stood poised to go.

'Well, I don't know…' The assistant commissioner's watery gaze circled the room. Sampson tried to catch his eye.

'May / say something, sir?' Bennett spoke for the first time. 'Chief Inspector Sinclair has handled this inquiry from the outset. He's familiar with every aspect of it. If there's any possibility of a quick arrest, I think we should let him proceed. As he said, delay's the last thing we want to risk at this moment.'

'Sir… sir…?' Sampson plucked at Sir George's arm. 'We shouldn't be rushed into this.'

'Not now, Chief Superintendent!' Parkhurst snapped with impatience. His glance came to rest on Sinclair.

'Very well, Chief Inspector. Get on with it. But this matter is not concluded — do I make myself clear?'

'Quite clear, sir.'

'And you will keep me informed.'

Sinclair was already moving towards the door, with Madden at his heels. As he reached it, Bennett called out, 'By the way, what is his name?'

The chief inspector checked. He glanced at the piece of paper in his hand and looked up. 'Pike,' he said crisply. 'Sergeant Major Amos Pike.'

'Are we sure about the photograph, John? You're certain the War Office have one?'

'They must have, sir. Colonel Jenkins is chasing it up now. Tozer will explain.'

The two men hastened up the stairs from the first floor and along the uncarpeted corridor to Sinclair's office.

'My God, we'd better be right about this,' the chief inspector muttered. 'Otherwise you and I may be forced to seek refuge in distant parts. In my case, Timbuktu may not be far enough!'

He threw open the door of his office and they went in. Sergeant Hollingsworth sat behind Madden's desk with an open pad before him. Styles stood at his shoulder, while a third man was seated in a chair opposite. Lean and suntanned, with close-cut fair hair, he wore a well-pressed brown suit and a patterned red tie.

'This is Mr Tozer,' Madden said. 'Mr Tozer — Chief Inspector Sinclair.'

The man rose and offered his hand to Sinclair who shook it. A white ridge of scar tissue showed on his face, running from the corner of one eye to below his cheekbone.

'I'm delighted to meet you, Mr Tozer. I take it our message reached you?'

'Yes, sir. Last night when I got home.' He spoke with a marked Cockney accent.

'Your sister wasn't expecting you till the weekend.'

'I came back early, sir. It's been raining for three days in North Wales. When Milly gave me your message I thought I'd come down here in person. I always wanted to see the inside of Scotland Yard. Fact is, I was hoping to work here one day.' He displayed a crooked grin.

'Were you, now?'

The chief inspector shifted Tozer's chair so that it was facing his own desk. Hollingsworth had risen, but Sinclair waved him down.

'Stay there, Sergeant. We'll need a note of this.' To Styles, he said, 'Bring in a chair for Mr Madden, Constable. And then you might fetch Mr Tozer a cup of tea.'

He waited until Madden was seated in a chair alongside his desk.

'You were saying you'd hoped to be a policeman?'

'That's right, sir. I reckoned I was cut out for police work, especially after the time I spent with Captain Miller. But when I came to after our car was hit by that shell I found I had a flipper missing.' He grinned and held up his left arm, displaying the shirt pinned back under his jacket sleeve, covering the stump of his wrist. 'Well, bang went my hopes of joining the Met!'

The chief inspector inclined his head. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Now, about this name you've given us.

Pike. You're sure that's right?'

'I am,' Tozer replied, without hesitation. 'Like I was saying to the Inspector, I remember the whole business clearly. It's not something you'd be likely to forget.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Do you mind my asking, sir — but why do you want to know about it now?'

'I don't mind your asking, Mr Tozer.' A smile touched the chief inspector's lips. 'But I'd be obliged for the moment if you'd answer our questions. We're somewhat pressed for time.'

Madden interrupted, 'I came for you as soon as I got Pike's name, sir, and after I'd rung Colonel Jenkins at the War Office. But I dare say you'd like to hear it from the beginning 'Would you do that, Mr Tozer?' Sinclair turned to him. 'Start with the crime scene, please. Captain Miller was assigned to the case, I assume. Did you work with him regularly?'

'Yes, I did, sir. The captain always used me as his clerk. We seemed to hit it off.'

'And how long had you worked together?'

'Going on six months. From the beginning of 1917.

That's when I got posted to the investigation branch.

Happiest day of my life, you might say.' Tozer looked up and saw Styles with a cup of tea standing beside him. 'Just put it down, would you, son?'

He displayed his stump with a grin and the constable reddened. He placed the cup and saucer on the chief inspector's desk.

'Your happiest day, Mr Tozer?'

'Yes, sir. I was sent to France in early 1916, so I was there for the Somme, and afterwards.'

'You took part in the battles?'

'Oh, no, sir.' Tozer dropped his blue eyes. 'No, we were posted down the line. The men would go up to the forward trenches, but we had to wait in case any of them turned back. Sometimes they'd lose their nerve, and it was our job to pick them up. No more than boys many of them were… but they called them deserters just the same.' He lifted his gaze. 'They used to look at us, the Tommies, as they went by, up to the front. I'd never seen hate like that in anyone's eyes before…"

He fell silent. No one spoke. He shifted his gaze from the chief inspector to Madden. "I reckon you know what I'm talking about, sir.'

Madden moved his head a fraction. 'It's in the past now, Mr Tozer,' he said gently. 'Best to put it from your mind.'

'Thank you, sir. I try to.'

Sinclair let a few moments pass. Then he spoke again: 'So you joined the Special Investigation Branch?'

'Yes, sir…' Tozer gathered himself. 'Well, not as such — the branch wasn't formed until after the war — but the Military Police were already detailing squads to do investigative work and I got myself posted to one which was attached to a provost company stationed at Poperinge. That's where I met Captain Miller. We were working on another case — a theft of goods in the railyards — when he got the order to drop everything and go directly to St Martens.'

'That was the village closest to the farm, was it not?' Sinclair shifted in his chair. 'How far away was the military camp?'

'Only a couple of miles. It was an area they used a lot for rest camps. Troops coming out of the line would spend about a week there before going back up.

This particular battalion — it was from the South Notts Regiment — had been there four or five days.'

'From the file it seems that the soldiers were regarded as the only suspects. Why was that?'

Tozer tugged his earlobe. 'Well, for one thing, there weren't that many civilians around. The war had pretty well cleaned them out. A few of the farms were still being worked and there were people in the village.

But the Belgian police and gendarmerie had been at work before we got there, checking on their own citizens. They reckoned they could account for all of them. And then there were the bodies, sir. Well, three of them. The husband and the two sons. They'd been bayoneted, no doubt about that. Expert job, too. One thrust each.'

Sinclair glanced at Madden.

'So Miller took over? It became a British investigation?'

'Not entirely, sir. The victims were civilians. But the Belgians had asked for our assistance and it was understood Captain Miller would handle everything on the military side and keep the Belgian authorities informed.'

'The woman who was killed, the farmer's wife, where did you find her body? Describe the scene, if you will.'

Tozer reached forward for his cup of tea. He took a sip and then replaced the cup on its saucer. He licked his lips. 'She was in the bedroom upstairs, lying across the bed with her skirt and drawers ripped off. Her throat had been cut.'

'The assumption, Captain Miller's assumption, was that she had been raped?' The chief inspector put it in the form of a question.

'Oh, yes, sir. In fact, when he read the Belgian pathologist's report he asked him to go back and reexamine the body. He thought he must be wrong. But the pathologist confirmed there was no trace of seminal fluid and no sign of forcible entry.'

'So the captain was surprised?'

'He was. And not just by that. One of the things he noted, you may have seen it in the file, was the difference between the upstairs and the down. In the kitchen, where the men's bodies were found, you might have wondered how it could have happened.

There wasn't a plate broken, just one chair overturned, as I recall. They must have been killed in a matter of seconds. Upstairs was a different story. She'd put up a fight. The mirror was smashed and the curtains torn off one of the windows.' He shook his head regretfully.

'Strong, fine-looking woman she was. Lovely fair hair.

Lollondays, they called her in the district.'

'What was that?' Sinclair prompted him.

Tozer blushed. 'That's as close as I can get to it, sir.

It's a French word, means the Dutchwoman. She came from Holland. Spoke a few words of English, we were told. She was a favourite with the lads when they came out of the line. I don't mean she…' He flushed again.

'More like a mother, if you take my meaning. She'd cook for them at the farm, lay on omelettes and fried potatoes and the like. Well, she charged, of course, but the men liked to go there from camp.

'This lot from the battalion — fifteen men from B Company — they'd been there earlier, that same week, and they'd booked again to come back that night. We had no trouble getting their names. They owned up straight away. Said they'd gone there and come back in a group.'

'But Captain Miller didn't believe them?'

Tozer pursed his lips, frowning, 'it wasn't like that exactly. See, those lads were the obvious suspects. Or, anyway, the first ones that came to hand. And the captain knew, any time a Tommy found himself face to face with a redcap he'd play deaf and dumb. Like I said, they hated us. So he went at them hard. He reckoned if they'd done it together, one of them would crack. And if they hadn't, if it was just a few of them who were involved, the others were likely to know about it and he'd get at the truth that way. But after he'd had the last one in I remember him saying he didn't think it was them.'

'He'd dismissed them as suspects?' Sinclair was surprised.

'Oh, no, sir. He meant to question them again. But they were off that night, heading back to the front.'

'He didn't try to hold them?'

'Nothing to hold them on. But it didn't matter.

They weren't going anywhere. Just back to the salient.'

The chief inspector looked at Madden questioningly.

'Passchendaele, sir. That's where the battle was fought. Near Ypres.'

'It was just a few square miles of mud and craters,'

Tozer explained. 'You crossed over the canal and you were there. Death's Land, the Tommies called it. All there was was mud and corpses. They didn't expect to come back.'

Sinclair stared at his blotter. He was silent for several seconds. 'In this case, seven did,' he said finally.

'Of the fifteen. But Captain Miller didn't interview them again, as far as I can gather.'

Tozer's eyes widened. 'Only seven… I didn't know … I'm sorry…' He glanced at Madden again and sighed. 'No, sir, the captain never asked to see them again. By that time he was on a different track.'

'That's what we thought.' Sinclair sat forward.

'That's what I want to know about.'

Tozer took another sip of tea. He had gone a little pale, Billy Styles thought, watching from his place beside Sergeant Hollingsworth. 'The day after the battalion left, Captain Miller got a message from Poperinge. They were holding a deserter there. He was up for court martial. He claimed he had information about the murders at the farmhouse.'

'What was his name?'

Tozer searched his memory. 'Duckman…? No, Duckham. William Duckham. He was from the same battalion as those fifteen lads, but a different company.'

'Did Captain Miller interview him?'

'Yes, he did. At the detention barracks at Poperinge.'

'Were you present?'

'I was.' Tozer touched the scar on his cheek. 'The lad — Duckham — was in a bad way. He hadn't been with the battalion long. Only gone into the line once, but that was enough and when they came out he'd made a run for it. Poor boy. He was shaking all over, couldn't stop himself. Maybe he thought it would help his case if he told us what he knew 'Which was?'

'Duckham told the captain he'd got as far as the farm and then holed up in the barn, which was a little way from the main house. Found a spot in the loft behind some hay and lay there during the day. At night he'd come down and forage for food. He couldn't get himself to move any further, he said. He just lay there-'

Tozer broke off to reach for his tea-cup. The chief inspector controlled his impatience.

'The night it happened he heard the men from B Company arrive and leave, though he didn't see them.

He was lying low. But after they'd gone he crawled out from behind the hay and was about to climb down the ladder when the barn door opened and someone came in. Duckham heard him moving about down below, but it wasn't till the man switched on a torch that he saw who it was.'

'Pike?' Sinclair asked, in a low voice.

Tozer nodded. 'Duckham knew him by sight. He wasn't in his company, but everyone in the battalion knew Pike. There was a joke that went round, or so he told us. No one in B Company gave a damn about Jerry. It was Pike they were scared of.'

'He was sergeant major of B Company?'

'That's right. Quite a hero in his way. I'll tell you about that in a moment.' Tozer emptied his tea-cup.

'Duckham had his head over the edge of the loft, and since he didn't dare stir he saw everything. He said Pike had a rifle and knapsack with him and the first thing he did was fix a bayonet to the rifle. Then he opened the knapsack and took out-' He broke off, shaking his head. 'You won't credit this, sir, I know the captain had a hard time believing it, but according to Duckham what he did next was put on a gas mask.'

Sinclair expelled his breath in a soundless sigh. His eyes met Madden's. Tozer looked from one to the other. He seemed to be expecting more of a reaction from them.

'Go on, Mr Tozer.'

'When he'd done that he stood still for a few moments. Sort of growling, Duckham said. Making these noises behind the mask. Next thing he was out of the barn door and Duckham heard a whistle. Just one long blast. He said before he'd even had time to crawl back behind the hay he heard the woman screaming. Then nothing more. He lay where he was and about ten minutes later Pike came back into the barn. Or he assumed it was him, because he didn't budge. After a minute he heard the barn door being shut, but he stayed where he was for another half-hour until he was sure there was no one about. Then he climbed down and went over to the house. When he found the bodies downstairs he just grabbed whatever food he could and ran for it. He was picked up two days later outside Poperinge.'

The door behind Tozer opened suddenly and Bennett put his head inside. His quick glance took in the scene.

'I won't bother you now, Chief Inspector. Fill me in as soon as you can, please.'

He shut the door.

'Well!' Sinclair sat back. 'So Miller knew it was Pike he was after. What did he do next?'

Tozer's eyes crinkled. 'He didn't exactly know, sir.

All this had come from a man who was up for a court martial. He might have had something against the sergeant major. He might have been spinning a yarn, hoping to save his own skin. Word had got around about the killings.'

'Miller said that?'

'Yes, sir, he talked to me about it. He liked to do that. Think aloud. He wanted to question Pike first. So he made inquiries and he found out the battalion had crossed the canal the night before. That meant they'd be in the line for anything up to a week. If it had been a matter of a day or two he might have waited until they came out. But he felt it was too long, the case was too serious. So we went after them.'

'You crossed into the salient?' The chief inspector showed surprise.

'Oh, no, sir! Thank God!' Tozer shut his eyes as if in prayer. 'The battalion command post was this side of the canal, but that was bad enough. No end of shells falling all around. I thought we were going to cop it for sure. But the captain was a real terrier.

Once he'd got his teeth into something he wouldn't let go. There was an officer called Crane in command there, a major.' Tozer nodded, as though in recollection.

'Copped it himself a week later, we heard. Anyway, when Captain Miller said he wanted Pike sent back, Crane flat refused. Said the battalion was heavily engaged and the sergeant major was one of his best men. Now he couldn't do that, you know, refuse.

Not in that situation. Not if he was a general. Captain Miller had the authority. But he took the major aside and explained how things stood. He said he didn't want Pike's name associated with the crime if the charge wasn't true. Which it would be if he had to issue an arrest order. He wanted Pike to have a chance to clear himself. Well, after he'd put it like that, Crane had to agree and he sent a runner up the line straight away with orders for Pike to be sent back.'

'I take it he never appeared.' The chief inspector eased some stiffness from his shoulder. His gaze remained fixed on Tozer's face.

'No, he didn't, sir. We waited there in the command post all night. The runner came back next morning. He'd reached B Company and found that all the officers were dead or wounded. Pike was alive, so he passed on the major's order directly to him.'

'Do you know how that was phrased?' Madden broke his long silence. 'Was there any mention of the Military Police wanting to talk to him?'

'No, there wasn't. I know that for a fact. Captain Miller was with the major when he spoke to the runner.'

'But he'd seen you, hadn't he? The runner, I mean.

A pair of redcaps.'

'I reckon so. Mr Miller thought the same thing. He said he must have told Pike. It was the only explanation.'

'For what?' This time it was Sinclair who spoke.

'After the runner had delivered his message he left to return. There wasn't any trench line as such. The troops were dug in in craters. Pike was sharing one with two other men — neither was from the lot we'd questioned, by the way. They both said the same thing later. Right after the runner left, Pike vanished.' "Vanished?'

'He crawled out of the crater and they never saw him again.'

'You mean he headed back to his own lines?'

Madden asked.

'No, that was it.' Tozer shook his head hard. 'He went forward, in the direction of the enemy. They both said the same thing. It was the last anyone ever saw of him. Till they found his body.'

'His body?' The chief inspector sat bolt upright. Madden was frowning.

Tozer looked from one to the other.

'Didn't you know he was dead? I thought…' He broke off and stared at them. 'Cor! You didn't think he was still alive, did you?' And then, as the truth suddenly dawned on him, 'Christ! It's Melling Lodge!'

In the hush that followed his exclamation the squeak of Sergeant Hollingsworth's pen was clearly audible. The two detectives looked at each other. It was Sinclair who spoke: 'What makes you say that, Mr Tozer?'

'Because… because that's what I thought when I read about it first. I mean it reminded me of St Martens. A lot of people murdered in a house. I saw somewhere the lady had her throat cut. But I didn't think… I never thought it was PikeY The chief inspector made a small adjustment in his position. He rested his forearms on the desk.

'You say his body was found. What do you mean, exactly? Did you see it yourself?'

'Oh, no, sir. It didn't happen like that. Did it, sir?'

He appealed to Madden.

'Sometimes there was a lull in the fighting,' Madden explained. 'Both sides would hold off firing and allow the wounded to be collected. Bodies would be picked up at the same time. Otherwise they would lie there.'

'Take Passchendaele now,' Tozer amplified. 'More than forty thousand bodies were never found. I read it in a newspaper. Forty thousand! That was the mud, you see.'

'But Pike's was, you say,' the chief inspector reminded him. 'Why? What makes you so sure?'

'It was reported found. About a week later, when Captain Miller was writing up the case. It was listed among the bodies brought back.'

Madden spoke again: 'If we're right about this, sir, what it means is they found a body with Pike's identity disc tucked into the puttees or fixed to the braces. Also his pay book, I imagine. And, if he wanted to be thorough, his tunic with his rank and his regimental badges on it. That would certainly have been enough to establish his identity. Do you agree, Mr Tozer?'

The other man nodded.

'There's no reason why anyone from his own battalion should have seen it. In any case, they would have been out of the line by the time it was brought back.'

Sinclair chewed his lip. 'Let's be clear in our minds about this. Granted, he could have switched identities with some body he found on the battlefield. But how could he have got back himself?'

'He might have faked a wound,' Madden suggested.

'Not the easiest thing, I imagine.'

Tozer put up his hand. 'I've just remembered, sir. I saw Pike's service record — the captain had it. Just before all this happened he'd been in hospital at Boulogne. Concussion, it was. Now that could have been useful.'

'Useful?'

'It's not an easy thing for the doctors to be sure about. There were those that tried to fake it. Men who had it were sent back for observation. Pike would have known that.'

'Sent back to Boulogne?'

'Or Eetaps. Once he was there he could have slipped out of the hospital. It was a dodge deserters tried.'

Sinclair directed a questioning glance at Madden.

The inspector shrugged.

'It's quite possible, sir. Of course, he would still have had the problem of getting back to England. But it could be done, provided he had the nerve.'

'Oh, he had nerve all right!' Tozer interjected.

'Yes, I want to hear about that.' Sinclair turned back to him. 'Go on with your story.'

Tozer was silent, collecting his thoughts. Then he resumed: 'We waited there at the command post all day and in the evening a report came back that Pike was missing. One of the officers from another company was among the walking wounded and he told the major what the two men had said, that Pike had left the crater without a word and gone forward. Captain Miller put two and two together. He reckoned Pike was his man and that he'd decided to end it on the battlefield rather than face a charge of murder. So we left and went back to Poperinge, and the captain sat down to write his report. While he was doing that we heard about the body being recovered. Captain Miller put it all in his report. He wrote a memorandum to go with the file, saying he believed Pike was the killer and giving his reasons and recommending the case should be marked closed. He was just finishing it when he got a message from the assistant provost marshal — Colonel Strachan — to send the file up to staff headquarters. The brass hats wanted to see it.'

'The General Staff?'

'Someone there had asked for it — we never found out who.' Tozer shrugged. 'Captain Miller sent the file off, and then a week later he was called in by Colonel Strachan. He came back hopping mad. He said they were going to bury the whole thing.'

'His investigation?'

'No, just his findings about Pike. The case was to be closed as far as the Army was concerned and the file sent to the provost marshal. But the captain's memorandum was removed. The Belgian police weren't to be informed of his findings.'

Sinclair sat back in astonishment. 'Could they do that?'

'In the Army} In wartime!' Tozer scoffed. 'You were just told to get on with it.' He touched the scar on his cheek again, running his fingers lightly over the ridged flesh. 'Captain Miller was given the full story later. Someone at headquarters thought he ought to know the truth. I mentioned about Pike being a hero.

Fact was, he'd won the Military Medal in 1916 and then he won it again the following year. Destroyed a German machine-gun post single-handed. So he was due the bar and since Field Marshal Haig was making a tour of the front around that time, handing out medals, they included Pike in one of the ceremonies.

That was just before he got concussed, so it would only have been a month or two before the murders.

There was a nice snap of the two of them taken by an Army photographer.' Tozer's grin took on a cynical twist. 'It appeared in some of the London papers.

"Field Marshal Decorates Hero."'

'And two months later it's "Field Marshal Hobnobs With Mass Murderer."' Sinclair scratched his nose.

'Yes, I can see how that might have concentrated a few minds.'

'There'd already been reports about the killings in the French newspapers. If they got hold of Pike's name from the Belgian police it wouldn't be long before the facts were out. So they made up a story about a gang of deserters being suspected and there being a big hunt under way for them.' Tozer looked scornful.

'Whoever it was talked to the captain said that since Pike was dead justice had been served and the whole business was best forgotten.'

'And how did Miller feel about that?'

'Hopping mad!' Tozer's eyes flashed. 'He said it was a disgrace.'

'Was that the end of it?' Sinclair asked.

'Pretty well. The captain swore an affidavit for the court martial at Poperinge saying Duckham had been of great assistance to him, but it didn't do any good.

They shot him just the same. He didn't forget about Pike. It was always on his mind. Almost the last thing I remember him saying before we got hit by that shell was how he wasn't going to let it rest. He was going to take it up with someone.'

Tozer fell silent. He stared at the floor.

Sinclair coughed. 'It's my impression you served under a fine officer, Mr Tozer.'

'I did that, sir.' The blue eyes lifted.

'And I deeply regret the injury you suffered. I think the force is the poorer for it.'

Tozer made a quick bobbing motion with his head.

The chief inspector got to his feet and Tozer followed suit. They shook hands.

'We may need to get in touch with you again. But in the meantime I'd be grateful if you'd keep this to yourself. We'll get Pike's photograph into the newspapers, but we need to be careful what appears in print.'

'Don't worry, sir. I won't breathe a word.'

He shook hands with Madden and nodded to the other two men.

'Constable Styles will see you out.' Sinclair sat down. 'And thank you again.'

Tozer had his hand on the doorknob when he checked and turned to face them. 'There's one more thing I'd like to say, sir…'

'Go ahead.' The chief inspector looked up.

'When you catch up with him, with Pike, you'll watch yourself, won't you?'

'Indeed we will,' Sinclair replied. 'And thank you for the warning. But why do you say that?'

'I forgot to tell you before, I should have mentioned it. We met him, the captain and me.'

'No, by God, you didn't mention it.' Sinclair was on his feet again.

'Only we didn't know, of course. Not then Tozer bit his lip. 'It was when the captain was interrogating those men from B Company. Pike was the man who marched them in.'

'The company sergeant major. Of course! What about him, Mr Tozer?'

'Well, the funny thing is we talked about him afterwards, Captain Miller and me.' Tozer frowned.

'The captain was just saying he didn't think it was any of the lads he'd questioned, and then he laughed and said: "But did you get a look at that sergeant major? Now if he'd been in the line-up…" And I knew just what he meant, because I'd had the same feeling myself. As soon as Pike walked in, I thought:

Now there's a killer! Eyes like stones.'

Pike was able to keep to his schedule that Saturday morning. Mrs Aylward had caught the nine-twenty train to Waterloo, as planned, confirming with her last words to the household staff her intention of returning the following Tuesday. He had the weekend free, and although his employer had asked him to attend to some outdoor tasks on Monday he had no intention of obeying her wishes. He knew that neither the maid, Ethel Bridgewater, nor Mrs Rowley, the cook, would report his absence to their mistress. They took care not to cross him.

It was ten minutes past eleven by his hunter — the watch was engraved with his father's initials and had been his parting gift to him — when he opened the wooden gate in the back fence and stepped into Mrs Troy's garden.

Already his excitement was stirring, throbbing in the pit of his stomach like a deep, slow pulse. He was impatient to be on his way. But he'd been troubled by the memory of the old woman's distress on his last visit. He regretted having departed in haste then without first determining its cause. Unease had plagued him all week.

Now he walked past the shed and went directly to the kitchen door, entering without knocking as he always did. He deposited the parcel of food he had brought on the kitchen table and continued soft-footed through into the narrow hallway. The door to the front parlour was open. He paused on the threshold and looked in.

She was in her customary chair by the window with the tortoiseshell cat on her lap. The knitted shawl she favoured was draped about her shoulders and a plaid blanket covered her knees. The day was cloudy, the air cool and autumnal. Pike shifted on his feet, making a small sound. He didn't want to startle her.

'Mr Biggs…?' She turned eagerly.

'No, it's me,' Pike said gruffly. 'Grail.'

His words had an astonishing effect on her. She started in shock and clutched involuntarily at the cat, which she had been stroking. It let out a yowl of surprise and sprang from her lap. Her eyes stared blindly at him.

'What's the matter, Mrs Troy?' He seldom used her name.

Her mouth opened and shut. She seemed unable to speak.

'Are you sick? Can I get you something?' He had never made such an offer before.

'No…' At last she managed to produce a word.

'No, thank you Pike checked an impulse to approach nearer. He saw that she was terrified, but couldn't think why. He was accustomed to causing fear in others. In the past he had reduced men bigger and stronger than he to white-faced silence with a single look. They had sensed the menace he presented, terrible in its stillness. But he had never by word or action sought to intimidate her. The word 'irony' was not in his vocabulary, but he would have appreciated its significance in this instance. She was the one person who had nothing to fear from him. Her physical well-being was almost as precious to him as his own. He lived in perpetual anxiety that she might die suddenly, ending his occupation of the shed, bringing havoc to his enterprises.

The situation was beyond him. In the whole of his bleak existence he had never learned how to coax or comfort. He could no more have led her gently, by degrees, to the point of revelation than he could have soothed a sick child. He saw only that it was his presence that disturbed her and he acted accordingly, turning on his heel and leaving the room.

But his mind was in turmoil as he paused briefly in the kitchen to put away the food he had brought.

Mr BiggsP

Pike had never heard the name before.

He walked quickly across the small patch of lawn to the shed and unsnapped the heavy padlock. Daylight flooded the dark interior as he flung open the door and at once he noticed the white envelope lying on the cement floor at his feet.

Harold Biggs paused in the shadow of the hawthorn hedge to dry the sweat on his forehead. He was thankful that the days were growing cooler. If he was perspiring heavily it was only partly due to the two mile walk from Knowlton to Rudd's Cross. His nervousness had been increasing all morning.

'You're going out there again?' Jimmy Pullman had professed disbelief when Biggs announced his plans for that Saturday in the Bunch of Grapes. 'You should tell old Wolverton to go hopping sideways. What's the old girl's problem, anyway? What's it you're supposed to be doing for her?'

Biggs had been vague in his reply. Some minor legal business, he implied. He didn't tell Jimmy either that Mr Wolverton had given him the whole day off in recognition of his spontaneous offer to return once more to Rudd's Cross in order to deal with the Grail situation.

The thought of the tankards in Mrs Troy's silver cabinet had weighed on Harold's mind all week. Even now, as he approached her cottage through the stubbled fields, he didn't know whether, in the end, he would have the nerve to act on his plan.

But he'd come prepared. He had brought his briefcase, a bulky, old-fashioned article with clumsy straps which he wanted to change for the sleeker, more modern versions now on sale. Today, though, he was glad of its size. The mugs would fit inside it comfortably.

He knocked on the front door of the cottage and then waited patiently, remembering how long it had taken her to get to the door on his last visit. After a full minute he knocked again. There was no response from within.

Biggs walked around the cottage to the kitchen door. As he pushed it open he heard a subdued tapping coming from the direction of the garden shed behind him. The green wooden door was shut, but the padlock had been removed. He could hear someone moving about inside.

So Grail had come, and presumably was getting his things together preparatory to moving out.

Harold felt his stomach tighten. It was all going according to plan. Once Grail had departed, no doubt angry and resentful at having been turfed out at such short notice, he could remove the tankards from the cabinet, safe in the knowledge that their disappearance, if it was noted at all, would be laid to the other man's account.

But he still didn't know if he had the courage to do it…

Harold took a deep, calming breath. He went into the kitchen, calling out in a low voice as he did so, 'Mrs Troy, are you there? It's Mr Biggs from Folkestone…"

Again there was no reply.

Removing his checked cap, he laid it on the kitchen table alongside his briefcase. Then he went through to the hallway and looked into the parlour. The chair by the window was empty. His glance shifted automatically to the glass-fronted cabinet on the opposite side of the room. The tankards were where he had left them.

Biggs was nonplussed. He couldn't conceive of the old woman having left the house for any reason, particularly in view of their appointment. He had formed a picture of her life in which she was confined to the cottage. It was hard to imagine her even stepping into the garden.

A doorway on the opposite side of the hall stood ajar, giving a glimpse of a dining-table and chairs.

Just past it a narrow stairway led to the upper floor.

Harold paused at the foot of this. He had detected the glow of two eyes in the darkness at the top of the carpeted stairs, and as his own grew accustomed to the gloom he made out the shape of a cat. He remembered the animal from his earlier visit. It sat there with paws folded looking down at him.

'Mrs Troy?' he called up the stairs.

After a moment's hesitation he climbed to the upper landing, stepping over the cat, which made no move to get out of his way. Two doors stood ajar. A third was shut. He knocked on that and heard a voice respond faintly from within. Harold opened the door and saw Mrs Troy's figure stretched out on a bed, half sitting, half lying, propped against a bank of pillows. She wore the same dark bombazine skirt as before and her upper body was wrapped in a plaid blanket. The curtains had been three-quarters drawn on the window overlooking the back garden and the dull light entering the room left the corners in shadow.

'I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?' Harold hesitated on the threshold. He saw her face turning from side to side, like a plant seeking the sunlight. He recalled the clouded milky gaze. 'It's me… Mr Biggs, from Folkestone.'

'Oh, Mr Biggs!" The words were accompanied by a gasp of relief. 'I wasn't sure you'd come.'

'I said I would.' He spoke resentfully, as though he had been misjudged.

'He's here…' Her agitated whisper barely reached his ears. 'Mr Grail 'Yes, I know. I heard him in the shed. I'll just slip down now and have a word with him. See that everything's in order.'

'Mr Biggs…' Now a note of anxiety had come into her voice. She held out her hand to him from the bed. He pretended not to see it. He had come here on business. He didn't want this human contact between them. But her hand remained there between them and in the end he had to come forward and take it in his.

'Be carefulY 'Why? What do you mean?' He recoiled from her clutching fingers.

'Just ask him to go nicely… Tell him I'm sorry, it can't be helped Nicely! Harold stoked his rising temper. The thought of what he planned to do — of the advantage he meant to take of this frail old creature — made him dislike her all the more. He withdrew his hand from hers.

'Don't worry, Mrs Troy,' he said curtly. A fresh idea had just occurred to him and he hastened to put it into words. 'You just lie there. After I've spoken to Grail I'll make you a cup of tea and bring it up. I can see this is upsetting you. You must stay here and rest.'

He'd been nerving himself all morning to remove the mugs in the cabinet from under her nose, under her near-sightless gaze, but this was an unlooked for piece of good fortune. {'You're a lucky devil!' He grinned, remembering.) Already he was breathing easier. As he turned towards the door he caught sight of his reflection in the dressing-table mirror: his solid figure, on the verge of being overweight, bulged at the waistline. He drew in his stomach.

'Just leave Grail to me,' he said.

He hurried down the stairs, out through the kitchen and into the garden.

He would do it!

The certainty had come to him as he stood beside the bed and looked down at her helpless figure.

He had found the courage after all!

Impatient now to bring matters to a conclusion Grail must be sent on his way without further delay he strode across the small square of lawn and rapped sharply on the shed door.

'Mr Grail?'

Without waiting for a response, he pushed open the door and went inside. A wave of heat enveloped him.

The dark interior was lit by a paraffin lamp, which burned brightly on an upturned box in one corner of the room. A man, naked to the waist, was bending down, arranging the folds of a dun-coloured dust cloth over some large, irregularly shaped object in the middle of the shed. Biggs had a fleeting impression he'd been taken by surprise. Then all thoughts were driven from his mind by the sight of the half-clad figure as it rose and turned towards him. The muscular torso, scarred in several places, was shiny with sweat.

A high, rank odour like the smell from an animal's cage assailed his nostrils.

'Grail?'

Harold waited for some response from the man, who said nothing. He noticed a metallic object lying on a work-table at the end of the shed. It looked like a piece of machinery, or a motor part. Tools lay beside it.

'Now what's all this?' Biggs put his hands on his hips. 'I take it you got my letter. You're supposed to be moving out of here today.'

He found to his consternation that he couldn't look the man in the face. The single glance he had given him had revealed a close-cropped head and lips drawn down in a thin line. But it was the eyes. They were brown and flat and when Biggs had sought to meet them with his own, to impress his irritation and impatience on this half-dressed ruffian, he had had to look away almost at once. There was something inhuman in his gaze, Harold thought with alarm. The image of an animal came into his mind again. A carnivore. He was forced to move, to ease the cramp that all at once invaded his limbs, and without any conscious intention he walked forward, further into the shed towards the menacing figure of Grail who nevertheless, surprisingly, made way for him, moving to one side and then a little around so that Harold now stood beside the covered object and Grail was closer to the door.

'Well?'

The word sprang unbidden to Harold's lips. He spoke because he could not remain silent in the midst of the greater silence that radiated like a force from the other man.

'You're meant to be leaving here,' he repeated helplessly. 'Moving out. Don't you understand?'

Grail's only response was to move again. Harold saw with mounting panic that his way out of the shed was now blocked.

'What are you doing here, anyway?'

He didn't want to know, but he couldn't still his tongue. When he moved himself it was with an involuntary lurch, his cramped leg muscles jerking in a sudden spasm. His foot, dragging along the cement floor, caught in a fold of the dust cloth. Distractedly, he tried to work it free, kicking out in desperation, tugging at the cloth, which gradually worked loose from the object it was covering.

When he saw what was revealed beneath it Harold went deathly pale. He stared in horror at the handlebars of the motorcycle — the machine was still half covered by the cloth — and the red pointed nose of the sidecar. At that same instant he recalled, with an emotion akin to grief, the article he had read in the newspaper the previous Friday.

He looked up into the flat brown eyes. He couldn't hide his knowledge from them, he was too afraid. And now he found his own gaze held fast by the lifeless stare. A warm stream of urine ran down his leg inside his plus-fours.

Harold saw the face of his mother — she had died in the last year of the war. Other images flocked to his mind. He saw the girl he had picked up in the high street, Jimmy Pullman leaning on the bar in the Bunch of Grapes, Mr Wolverton's freckled scalp, the cat's eyes glowing at the top of the stairs… His life sped by like the frames of a hand-cranked cinematograph in a penny arcade.

And all the while he stared into Grail's eyes.

At the last, like a drowning man clutching at a spar, he put his hand in his pocket and felt for his key ring and his good-luck shilling.

It brought him no comfort in his agony. Even as he ran his thumb frantically back and forth along the milled edge, Grail moved towards him and he knew then, with the finality of death, that his luck had run out.

The chief inspector spoke: 'This is a photograph of the man in question. Amos Pike. We hope to have a better impression of him available within the next few days, but for now we'd be grateful if your newspapers would publish this picture in a prominent position. When you do so, please make it clear that he is not to be approached by any member of the public for any reason, but that the police should be informed of his whereabouts without delay.'

Sinclair paused. His gaze swept over the assembled reporters, two dozen of them, who were seated down both sides of a long table in one of the Yard's conference rooms. He was sitting at the head himself, with Madden on one side of him and Bennett on the other. Earlier, Sinclair had wryly suggested to the deputy assistant commissioner that he absent himself from the gathering. 'My head's on the block here, sir.

No need for yours to join it.'

'Do you believe this is the man we're seeking?'

'I do.'

'Then in that case I'll take the chance.' Bennett produced a wintry smile.

'I would like to add something to what I've just said. It's most unlikely Pike is living under his own name.'

'Why would that be?' The lanky figure of Ferris looked up from his notebook at the far end of the table.

Regarding the man with dislike, which he took care to conceal, Sinclair drew what satisfaction he could from the reflection that today was Saturday and Ferris's newspaper, a daily, would have to wait until Monday before coming to grips with the story. The Sundays would have the first bite of it.

'Pike was reported killed in the war. We have reason to believe he survived it.'

'What reason? Can you tell us?" 'No,' the chief inspector said bluntly, aware that he had none, that he was acting purely on supposition.

An admission he was not about to share with the likes of Reg Ferris.

The delay in summoning the press had been caused by the time it had taken the War Office to lay its hands on a photograph of the sergeant major. Thursday afternoon and Friday morning had passed without word or sign, causing Sinclair to mutter darkly about hidden hands at work within the military.

'By God, if they try to cover this up again I'll take it to the newspapers. See if I don't!'

Finally, midway through Friday afternoon, the photographs arrived. It was not the usual booted and khaki-clad courier who brought them, but Colonel Jenkins himself, full of apologies and explaining that many wartime pictures remained uncatalogued and it had taken until now to unearth Pike's.

'In fact, we have two, but one's not much use.'

He laid them on Sinclair's desk. The chief inspector groaned. 'I might have guessed…"

In one of the prints the well-known figure of Field Marshal Haig was receiving the salute of a soldier presumably Pike — who stood before him. The raised arm with the hand touching the cap covered all but a small portion of the man's face.

In the second picture the field marshal leaned forward to pin a decoration on the tunic of the soldier whose full profile had been caught by the camera. But even this was of limited value. The combination of the cap's peak, pulled down low over the eyes, and an old fashioned gravy-dipper moustache that hid the mouth, reduced Pike's identifiable features to a short nose and a prominent thrusting chin.

After his momentary disappointment, the chief inspector had swung into action. Styles was dispatched with the second print to the Yard's photographic laboratory, which had been standing by since Thursday, with instructions to reproduce copies of the photograph, shorn of the field marshal's figure, in large numbers.

Meanwhile, Sinclair commandeered a police artist and sent him, together with Hollingsworth, to see Alfred Tozer in Bethnal Green.

'I should have thought of it while he was here,' the chief inspector castigated himself. 'I put too much faith in what the War Office would produce.'

We've also got those survivors from B Company,'

Madden reminded him. 'Dawkins and Hardy. They'll remember Pike all right.'

'I'd rather stick with Tozer for the time being,'

Sinclair maintained. 'He was trained as a policeman and he's got the instincts of a copper. "Eyes like stones." Let's get a sketch from him first, then we can test it on those others.'

Colonel Jenkins, listening to them, asked, 'Then Pike's the man Captain Miller believed was the killer?

The one he wrote about in that lost memorandum.'

Sinclair regarded the slight, erect figure sitting ramrod-straight on a chair before him. The colonel's manner had altered since their first meeting. Gone was the edge of impatience, verging on rudeness, which he'd displayed then. Now he seemed disposed to be agreeable. It cut no ice with the chief inspector.

'Not lost. Deliberately destroyed by an officer serving on the General Staff,' he said coldly. 'We have all the facts.'

The colonel was at a loss for words.

'Don't be concerned, I'm not instituting an inquiry.

For the present,' Sinclair added.

'That should give them a few sleepless nights,' he confided to Madden after Jenkins had departed. 'Do you know? I'm beginning to understand why you felt the way you did about that lot. We might have caught up with Pike by now if we'd had Miller's report from the outset. If he kills again, then whoever destroyed it will bear part of the blame. And may he rot in hell!'

The chief inspector was questioned by the journalists about Pike's background.

'He enlisted in the Army in 1906, giving his age as eighteen, though he may have been younger. From that point on he was a professional soldier. In due course he reached the rank of sergeant major and distinguished himself during the war. He was decorated twice for gallantry.'

'But before that?' one of the reporters asked. 'What about his family? His parents?'

'His parents are dead.' The slight hesitation in Sinclair's reply passed unnoticed. 'The Nottingham police are making further inquiries on our behalf.'

'He comes from there?'

'From Nottingham? No, from somewhere in the district, I believe. We're still seeking information in that regard.'

The chief inspector had advised Bennett and Madden in advance that he planned to be less than frank on the subject of Pike's past history. 'Let them dig it up for themselves. The longer we can keep this from turning into a shocker, the better. I've asked the Notts police not to be unduly helpful and I only hope they manage to delay things a little.'

Sinclair's own request for information had brought a reply the previous day from the Nottinghamshire force which had shocked him. Pike's father had been hanged in 1903 for the murder of his wife. 'They're sending me the file, but it sounds like a clear-cut case.

He confessed to the murder in open court.'

'Did he…?' Madden hardly dared to ask.

Sinclair nodded bleakly. 'Yes, he cut her throat.'

Bennett, too, was shaken by the discovery. 'My God! His lawyer will have a field day!'

The chief inspector glanced at Madden beside him.

'Yes, and I dare say your Viennese friend would have had something to say on the subject.'

'What Viennese friend might that be?' Bennett inquired innocently, and had the rare satisfaction of seeing Angus Sinclair turn scarlet with embarrassment.

'Or shouldn't I ask?'

Before the press conference ended Ferris held up his hand once more. 'I'd like to ask Mr Bennett a question.

We understood Chief Superintendent Sampson was going to take over direction of this investigation. Has there been any change in plans?'

'We?' Bennett appeared baffled. 'I do recall reading something to that effect in your journal, Mr Ferris, but nowhere else.' He waited until the laughter had died down. 'As you see, Chief Inspector Sinclair is still at the helm and likely to remain so. He has the full confidence of both the assistant commissioner and myself.'

'But what about Mr Sampson?' Ferris persisted. 'I don't see him here today. Hasn't he been advising on this inquiry?'

'The chief superintendent is indisposed.' Bennett's tone was bland. 'But we hope to have the benefit of his expert assistance again before long.'

'Severe indigestion,' Sinclair confided to Madden, when they returned to his office. 'His wife rang in this morning. Comes of having your nose out of joint, I'm told.'

He leaned back in his chair, hands laced behind his head. 'All we can do now is wait. His picture will be in the Sundays. Pray God someone recognizes him.

And pray God this is the last weekend we have to sit through waiting for the phone to ring.'

His glance moved from Madden, who was at his desk, to Hollingsworth and Styles, who stood facing him, awaiting orders.

'Well? Have we forgotten anything? Is there something more we can do?'

Madden shifted in his chair.

'Yes, John?'

'I was thinking, sir — that batch of photographs we're sending down to Highfield. Why don't I take them? I know most of the villagers and I could help Constable Stackpole to get them spread around.'

Sinclair frowned. It was the only way he could keep a straight face. 'I could send one of the others. I hate to impose this on you, John.'

'I don't mind, sir.'

'Well, if you're sure…'

A little while later, after the door had shut behind Madden's departing figure, Hollingsworth and Styles in their cubby-hole were startled to hear the sound of humming coming from the adjoining office. The song was an old one and they were both familiar with the words which presently reached them, carried on the chief inspector's surprisingly tuneful tenor: 'Taking one consideration with another, A policeman's lot is not a happy one…'

Billy Styles nudged the sergeant. 'Hark at the guv'nor. He's gone mad as a maggot.'

'None of that lip, Constable,' Hollingsworth growled, though he was more than half inclined to agree.

The canvass OF Highfield residents brought little result. Although they walked the village from end to end knocking on doors, only one household yielded a positive response, and as Stackpole remarked, you had to wonder if May Birney wasn't overstretching her imagination.

'You think she might be trying too hard?' Madden asked. 'Because she was right about the whistle?'

The constable had been at the station to meet him and together they had put up copies of the poster in the ticket hall and waiting-room. Frowning, Stackpole had stared hard at the heavily moustached face. 'I know I haven't seen him, sir. At least, not that I recognize.'

As they walked into the village he told the inspector he had a message for him from Dr Blackwell.

Madden had rung the house from London but failed to reach her.

'She asked if you could pass by her surgery later.

She's had to go to Guildford. They had some typhoid cases brought into the hospital there and they needed help.' Stackpole smiled under his helmet. 'You're looking well, if I may say so, sir.'

'Am I, Will? I can't think why. We've been working like the devil.'

The Birney family lived above their store in the main street. Neither parent had recognized the face on the poster, but May, pink-cheeked from having been caught in the middle of washing her bobbed brown hair, looked hard at it for ten seconds and then said, 'I've seen him before.'

'Now, don't be hasty, girl.' Mr Birney rubbed his bald spot anxiously. 'You don't want to mislead the inspector.'

'The moustache was different.'

'He had a moustache?' Madden sat forward in the chintz-covered armchair. 'You're sure of that?'

'Yes, sir. But not as big as this one. But I'm positive it's the same man. I remember the chin.'

'So you saw him from the side, in profile?'

May Birney nodded.

'Try and picture him without the cap,' the inspector suggested, but she shook her head at once.

'No, he was wearing a cap. That's how I remember him.'

'What sort of cap?'

She didn't know. She couldn't recall. 'Just a cap. It was pulled down low over his eyes, like in the picture.'

'It can't be a military cap,' Madden remarked later, when they paused on the village green to confer. The autumn afternoon was drawing in. Lights were starting to come on in the cottages flanking the grass triangle.

'If there's one place we won't find Pike it's in the Army.'

'There's lots of other kinds, sir. Charabanc drivers, chauffeurs, delivery-men. They all wear caps of one sort or another. And what if it was just an ordinary cloth cap? Most of us have got one of those.'

'Whatever he was wearing, I think she saw him.

Talk to her again, Will.'

Madden had noticed the red two-seater parked in front of one of the cottages across the green. Stackpole had seen it, too. 'There's Dr Blackwell now. You'll find her in her surgery, sir. She rents rooms from old Granny Palmer. I'll leave some posters in the pub and the church hall as I go by.'

The doctor's waiting-room was empty. The inner door stood ajar. He paused on the threshold.

She was sitting behind a desk writing in a notebook, her brow creased in a frown of concentration.

Lamplight gave a glow to her fair skin and he could see the fine golden hairs on her forearms where she had rolled back the sleeves of her white blouse.

'Is that you, John?'

When she looked up and saw it was him, she rose and came straight into his arms. He kissed her. She stood back to study his face. He had always felt she had the power to see into him.

'You're sleeping better.' The doctor spoke approvingly.

'Have you had any luck with your poster?'

He took one from the manila envelope he was carrying and showed it to her. She glanced at it for a few seconds and then shook her head.

'May Birney thinks she's seen him, but she can't remember where.'

He put his arms around her again. Her neck smelled faintly of jasmine. He could never find the words he wanted.

'Let me finish what I'm doing. I won't be long.' She returned to her chair. 'How soon must you go back?

Can you stay for dinner? Can you spend the night?'

'The night…?' He hadn't expected it. 'I've got nothing with me.'

'Never mind that. I'll find whatever you need. But I warn you, the house is full of relations. Father invited a whole shoal of cousins for the weekend. I can only put you in the old nursery.' She paused. Their eyes met. 'We'll have to be quiet,' she said, smiling. 'Aunt Maud's in the room next door and she's got ears like a bat.'

The joy he felt whenever they were together was tempered by the knowledge of what it would mean to lose her. He knew he would never meet anyone like her again.

She picked up her pen. 'I'm filling in my day-book, my record of patients. I didn't have time this morning.

The hospital in Guildford rang and asked me to go in.'

'Typhoid, Will said.'

'Food poisoning.' She made a wry face and went back to her notebook.

He looked about him. A glass-fronted cabinet held medical books and bandages, rolls of lint and wool, splints and surgical gauze. Behind her a partition divided the room and on the other side was a dispensary with shelves of glass-stoppered bottles. A faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air. He saw that she was watching him.

'This is my life,' she said softly. She coloured and looked down.

Her life?

She had given his back to him.

When he spoke the words seemed to come of their own accord, as if he were simply breathing. 'I love you,' he said.

She looked up, still flushed. 'So you've got a tongue, John Madden…' Her eyes were bright in the lamplight.

It was as though a wave had lifted him and carried him to her side. He was shaking like a leaf.

'My darling, it's all right… Didn't you know…?'

She held him fast in the circle of her arms. He heard a noise somewhere near, but he clung to her.

She was whispering something in his ear.

'What?' He loosened his hold.

'Sir, are you there?' Stackpole's voice sounded loud in the outer room.

'What is it, Will?' He tore himself from her arms.

'Sir, they've found him!' The constable burst in on them. He was red in the face and panting.

'Who?'

'Pike!'

'Where?'

'Ashdown Forest. They're watching him now. At least, they think it's him, that's all I know.' He was breathing hard. 'Guildford have been trying to reach me. Sir, the chief inspector wants you back in London right away…!'

She took him in her car to the station. He wanted time to speak to her. The words that for so long had been dammed up inside him were ready to overflow.

But the whistle of the approaching train sounded as she drew up outside the station.

They kissed in the darkness.

'Promise me you'll take care. Come back as soon as you can.'

Holding her for a moment in his arms he realized with a surge of happiness that the burden of anxiety he'd carried since their first time together had slipped from his shoulders unnoticed.

The fear he'd always had that each meeting might be their last.

Part Four

It may be he shall take my hand

And lead me into his dark land

And close my eyes and quench my breath.

I have a rendezvous with death…

Alan Seeger, 'Rendezvous'

Sinclair rose from behind his desk. He surveyed the men assembled before him. Besides Hollingsworth and Styles they included six uniformed officers — two of them sergeants — all selected for their skill in marksmanship.

'To those of you who have been summoned from your homes to the Yard this evening, I apologize,' he began. 'But as you will see in a moment the matter is extremely grave.'

The door opened and Bennett came in. He was dressed in evening clothes, the gold studs gleaming in his shirt front. Hollingsworth, who was seated at Madden's desk, rose and offered his chair to the deputy assistant commissioner. The others stood grouped in a semi-circle.

'Three days ago a woodcutter named Emmett Hogg fell into a pit in Ashdown Forest. Unfortunately he didn't bother to report it until today, even though rural constables throughout southern England have been spreading the word for some time now that they want to be informed about any fresh digging in forest areas. At our request, I might add.

'Hogg made his report to the village bobby at Stonehill — that's in the Crowborough district — and this afternoon the constable went out to inspect the site, taking a friend with him, a local gamekeeper.

Luckily, as it turned out, because when they got near the keeper spotted some movement in the bushes. The constable — his name's Proudfoot — decided not to approach immediately, another piece of good judgement, and after a while they spotted a man moving about in the area. They were some distance away and the site was in the middle of thick undergrowth. But at a certain moment they got a clear view of him. He was carrying a rifle.'

A murmur went around the group. Sinclair caught Bennett's eye.

'Not a shotgun,' the chief inspector declared emphatically. 'A Lee-Enfield. They saw him clear the breech and check the firing mechanism. Both men are clear on that point.'

He glanced down at his desk.

'Some of you will have seen the photograph we began circulating today of the man we wish to question in connection with the murders at Melling Lodge.

It's possible, even likely, that the individual observed by Proudfoot in Ashdown Forest this afternoon is Amos Pike, the man we're seeking.'

The murmur, this time, was louder.

'In requesting information about any unauthorized excavations we asked the various police authorities to impress on their constables the need to exercise caution.

Proudfoot acted with good sense in not approaching this man. What he did was leave his friend watching from cover while he returned himself to Stonehill and telephoned the central police station at Crowborough. They in turn rang Tunbridge Wells where I'm glad to say the local CID chief thought it worth while to get in touch with me right away.'

Sinclair paused to collect his thoughts.

'The situation now is as follows: Proudfoot has returned to join the keeper and will keep watch on the site for the rest of the night. In the meantime, the Sussex police are putting together a force of uniformed officers, some of whom will be armed. As you will be.

We'll rendezvous with them at first light and surround the area.

'To anticipate your questions, I did consider taking action along these lines tonight, but decided against it. The presence of up to two dozen policemen stumbling around in the woods in darkness seemed to me more likely to alert this man and drive him off than achieve any useful end.

'As a precaution, however, in the event that he might be planning to attack some household tonight, a number of constables were dispatched to Stonehill from Crowborough earlier today. The site of the pit is about three miles from the village and the police will patrol houses in the district all night, making no attempt to hide their presence. After considerable thought, I've decided not to alert the villagers. Anything we say to them will only create panic and add to our difficulties.'

One of the sergeants held up his hand. 'What if he slips away in the meantime, sir?'

Sinclair shook his head. 'That's the one thing I'm not concerned about. Always supposing it is Pike, we believe he's engaged in constructing a military-type dugout in the forest. It's what he did in the woods above Melling Lodge before he attacked the house. He takes his time over building it. Provided he's not disturbed there's no reason to think he won't be back.

And when he does, we'll be waiting for him.

'But let me say straight away — I don't expect him to leave tonight. Tomorrow is Sunday, a day of rest, and I've no doubt he'll want to put it to use.'

The sergeant spoke up again: 'Did Hogg get a good look at the pit, sir? Could he describe it?'

'The answer to both questions is no.' Sinclair's expression was wry. 'It appears Hogg was dead drunk, which may explain why he fell into the hole in the first place. He doesn't seem to have noticed anything, except that it was a hole that wasn't there before.'

The sergeant grunted. 'What time do we move tomorrow, sir?'

'I want you all on duty at a quarter to five. Spend the night here if you wish, or go home. But don't be late. We'll draw weapons from the armoury and proceed to Stonehill by motor-car. The Yard has put two vehicles at our disposal.' The slight ironic emphasis given by the chief inspector to the numeral was noticed only by Bennett. 'I have something further to say to you.'

He paused deliberately and let his gaze settle on each officer in turn. When he spoke again it was in an altered tone.

'I have every intention of arresting Amos Pike, if it is he, and bringing him before the courts. But be under no illusion. This is likely the most dangerous man you will ever be asked to face. His military record was outstanding, but while that may have been of benefit to his country, it's no comfort to us. He's a hardened killer, with no reason not to kill again. Keep that in mind. He may well choose to resist arrest. If he fires on you with his rifle, or refuses to drop it on command, you are to shoot him. If he threatens you with rifle and bayonet, you are to shoot him. You will shoot to kill. I take full responsibility. Is that clear?'

Silence greeted his pronouncement. Then a low mutter came from the semi-circle.

'Very well. That will be all for now. We'll meet tomorrow morning.'

He watched as the men filed out. Styles, at a signal from Hollingsworth, followed the sergeant into the side office and shut the door behind them. Bennett rose. 'Well, Chief Inspector!'

They regarded each other in silence.

'I must call the Sussex chief constable.' The deputy moved towards the door. 'Where's Madden, by the way?'

'He spent the afternoon in Highfield, sir. He rang me from Waterloo half an hour ago. I told him to go home and get some sleep. He'll be here first thing tomorrow.'

Bennett paused at the door. 'Looking better lately, I thought.'

'Sir?'

'Inspector Madden. Less… less hunted, if you take my meaning.'

'Yes, I do, sir,' Sinclair agreed. He smiled for the first time that evening.

Breakfast was late at Croft Manor that Sunday morning. The silver chafing dishes, which were customarily placed on the sideboard punctually at half past eight, had not yet appeared when the three adult members of the Merrick family gathered in the dining room. (The children ate upstairs in the nursery.) Annie McConnell, who was in the habit of casting an eye over the breakfast table when she came downstairs to see that all was in order, sped off to the kitchen to investigate. She returned with some startling news.

'Did you know the village was crawling with policemen last night, sir?' she asked William Merrick, who said he most certainly did not.

'Yes, and more arrived today. Two carloads from London, they say, and a van from Tunbridge Wells.

More than twenty coppers in all.' Annie's eyes were bright with the news. 'And now they've gone off into the forest, the whole pack of them.'

Word had been brought to the house by Rose Allen, one of the maids, and Mrs Dean, the cook, who both lived in the village, a mile away. The excitement there had been the cause of their late arrival and consequent delay in preparing breakfast.

'They're at it now,' Annie assured the family, with a special smile for Mrs Merrick. She was concerned about her mistress, who seemed particularly disconcerted by what she had just heard.

Annie had to wait until after breakfast to discover what the trouble was and then chided herself for not having guessed it in the first place.

'William will just use this as another excuse to put off leaving for Cornwall. First they were going on Friday, then it was Saturday. Now who knows when he'll decide to start?'

They were taking their usual post-breakfast turn in the garden. Annie had ceased to wonder at her mistress's increasing anxiety over the delay in her family's departure on holiday. She sought only to comfort her.

'Now don't go putting ideas into Master William's head,' Annie counselled. The boys had always been 'Master William' and 'Master Tom' to her, long after they had grown up. 'Let him slip along to the village and find out what's going on. Chances are, it's all a great fuss about nothing.'

Earlier William had donned his cap, backed the Lagonda out of the garage and driven into Stonehill to discover, as he put it, 'what the devil this is all about'.

He returned an hour later, in no better mood than when he had left. His wife and mother were waiting in the morning room to hear what he had to tell them.

'It's the most extraordinary business.' William seated himself on the settee beside Charlotte. 'Half a dozen police constables were sent here from Crowborough last night, and the others arrived at dawn, and just as Annie says they all marched off into the forest and haven't been seen since.'

William had obtained the information from an elderly police sergeant from Crowborough, who had been left behind at the village hall to receive and act on any messages sent back. He had professed ignorance of the purpose of the operation, but assured William that, 'Everything's in hand, sir, and there's nothing to worry about.'

From other sources William had learned that word had been put about in the strongest terms that no one was to accompany the police, who had been last seen heading off in the direction of Owl's Green, on the other side of the village, nor attempt to follow in their tracks. Explanations would be made in full in due course.

'The one man who might have told me something was nowhere to be seen,' William Merrick complained bitterly. 'I mean Proudfoot. Apparently he's there with them. According to his wife he was out all night.'

Harriet Merrick listened with sympathy to her son.

He was a man of consequence in the district, a Justice of the Peace. It was clear he felt he should have been consulted. She saw him instinctively rub his withered arm, and almost in the same instant, as though acting on a signal, his wife turned to him, putting her hand on his.

'Don't worry about it, darling. I bet you it turns out to be nothing.'

'Nothing! With twenty policemen tramping about the countryside!' William made his annoyance plain.

'Nothing that'll come to anything, I mean.'

William rose. 'I'm going to ring Richards,' he declared, referring to a magistrate they knew in Crowborough.

'I want to get to the bottom of this.' He went out.

Charlotte looked at her mother-in-law with raised eyebrows. 'Don't worry, I'll get him moving, I promise.'

Mrs Merrick didn't know whether her daughter-in law was aware of her irrational wish to see them all depart. She had done her best to disguise it, restricting herself to repeated admonitions to them not to waste the precious days of their holiday and drawing their attention to reports in the newspaper describing the glorious Indian summer that the west of England was still enjoying. But perhaps Charlotte sensed something more. Harriet Merrick had always meant to be a good mother-in-law, but her resolutions had never been tested. From the start she'd been touched by Charlotte's instinctive understanding of the special burden her son bore — his guilt at having survived the war in which his brother had died was but one manifestation of it. They'd been allies from the first day.

Charlotte ran her hands through her hair. She was thinking of having it bobbed in the prevailing fashion, but both William and his mother had begged her not to.

'I'm going to see to the children's packing,' she announced. 'Then I'll have all the cases brought down.

In the end we'll simply have to leave.'

A few minutes later Annie joined her mistress in the morning room bearing a silver tray on which a bottle, a spoon and a glass rested.

'Time for your medicine, Miss Hattie.'

Mrs Merrick made her customary fuss. 'I don't think it does me the slightest good. And it tastes quite foul.'

'You'll drink it none the less.'

The teaspoon containing a greyish liquid hung poised in the air before Mrs Merrick's mouth. Since she knew from experience it would remain there till Doomsday she opened her lips. 'Disgusting!'

Smiling, Annie handed her the glass of water. 'So you haven't been imagining things, after all.'

Mrs Merrick swallowed. 'What do you mean?'

'Policemen tramping about in the forest. Quite a to-do.'

'Oh, that!' Harriet Merrick dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand. She gazed into Annie's deep green eyes. 'I had such a strange dream last night,' she said softly. 'I was walking in the forest and I saw Tom.

He was in the trees ahead of me and when I called out he turned and beckoned, and I was coming closer and closer, but I couldn't quite reach him, and then I woke up… It'll be four years on Tuesday.'

'I know, my dear.' Annie took her hands.

'And then I lay awake for the rest of the night and all I could think of was how much I wanted William and Charlotte and the children to go away.'

Mrs Merrick removed her glance from her companion's eyes and stared down at their linked hands.

Annie sighed. 'It's a strange one you are. My poor dead mother always said you had the gift. No more than a child you were then. Little Hattie from the big house.'

Mrs Merrick smiled. 'Never mind the gift… What shall we do when they've gone? Let's be wicked. Let's light a fire in the drawing-room and roast potatoes in the ashes, the way we used to.'

'That's wicked, is it?'

'We'll sit in the garden and talk and gossip…'

Harriet Merrick looked into the face of her old friend.

'Oh, Annie, I'm so glad you'll be here with me.'

The green eyes opened wide. 'And where else would I be?'

The morning dragged on. William remained closeted in his study. The household, disrupted by the delay, was at sixes and sevens. Had all gone according to plan, parents and children, with the addition of Miss Bradshaw, the nanny, would have set out at ten o'clock in the Lagonda intending to reach Chichester in time for lunch. (The family's regular attendance at Sunday service had been suspended for once.) There William and Charlotte had arranged to spend the night with a schoolfriend of Charlotte's before leaving early next morning for Penzance. Other arrangements were dependent on these. At Harriet Merrick's insistence the entire household staff had been given the full two weeks off. She and Annie would manage alone, although Mrs Dean would come over from the village now and again to cook a meal for them. The three maids were poised to depart, but until the master had made a final decision everything hung in abeyance.

At a quarter to eleven Charlotte knocked on the study door and went in. Ten minutes later she emerged and hurried straight to the kitchen to deliver instructions before rejoining her mother-in-law in the morning room.

'We're leaving. I've asked Cook to make up a picnic hamper and we'll have lunch on the way to Chichester.

William's ringing the Hartstons now to tell them we won't be there till this afternoon.'

'Dearest Charlotte… you're a genius. How did you manage it?'

'It wasn't that difficult. William had more or less decided himself. He's had no satisfaction telephoning people. No one seems to know what's going on in Ashdown Forest. He's still quite cross, but his attitude now is, "If they don't want to tell me anything they can jolly well deal with it themselves."'

The two women smiled conspiratorially.

'The children will love the idea of a picnic,' their grandmother predicted.

'That's what I thought. I'm going to call them down now.'

She went out and Harriet Merrick was left rejoicing.

Eyes narrowed under the brim of his grey felt hat, Sinclair peered through a screen of leaves at the clump of trees and thick bushes half a mile away. Open pasture lay between the tangle of holly and hawthorn where the chief inspector crouched with Madden on one side of him and Inspector Drummond, a plainclothes detective from the Tunbridge Wells CID, on the other. The expanse of grassland, thinly sprinkled with young oaks, offered no cover and prevented them from approaching any closer to the site of the pit into which Emmett Hogg had fallen.

'It's pretty well surrounded by open land, sir.'

Constable Proudfoot, crouching behind them, answered Sinclair's unspoken question. 'When I came back from Stonehill yesterday evening I made a circuit of the area. Took me a good while — I had to be sure of staying out of sight. That thicket there's like an island. There's no way you can get near it on any side without being seen.'

The village bobby, a stocky young man with cropped fair hair and a peeling nose, had been waiting at Stonehill to guide them through the woods to their present position, a walk of about three miles, he claimed, though to the chief inspector, increasingly anxious as the morning wore on, it seemed longer.

'You've been on your feet a good while, Constable.

Twenty-four hours and more. How are you bearing up?'

'Well enough, sir.' Proudfoot grinned and rubbed his bristly chin. 'I could do with a shave, though.'

The group of policemen had been bent behind the bushes, watching, for twenty minutes when they were rewarded by the sight of movement in the thicket.

'There!' Madden and Proudfoot spoke in the same breath.

Sinclair saw clearly the upper half of a man's body take shape amidst the undergrowth. He had his back to them and he bent down almost at once, then straightened, then bent again as though he were dragging something through the brush.

'I believe he's dark-haired.' Madden spoke quietly.

His eyes were narrowed to slits.

'Well, that's a relief,' the chief inspector said at last.

'At least we know he's still there. Now, let's get back to the others. We must decide what to do next.'

Two minutes later they had retreated into the shadow of the forest and rejoined the squad of uniformed policemen who were sitting under cover in a shallow depression some way in from the edge of the treeline. They numbered twenty-two in all. In addition to the six armed men Sinclair had brought — nine with Madden, Hollingsworth and himself- there were a further six officers bearing arms among the Tunbridge Wells contingent.

Inspector Drummond, too, was armed. He had been waiting for them with his men outside the village hall in Stonehill, a short, black-haired man with ice-blue eyes. He measured his fellow detectives. 'Chief Inspector Smithers sends his regards, sir. He would have come himself, but he said there was no point in two chief inspectors getting in each other's hair. He wishes you the best of luck.'

'My thanks to you both,' Sinclair responded drily.

They had paused in the village only long enough to assemble the men before following Proudfoot into the forest. The handful of villagers who had emerged from their cottages to take in the extraordinary sight of a score of coppers gathering on the green in the dawn light had been told sternly by Proudfoot not to venture on their trail.

Thankful at being able to stretch again after his long spell of crouching, Sinclair asked the constable to draw a rough plan of the thicket and the surrounding terrain. Proudfoot took out his notebook and busied himself for a few minutes. He handed the result to the chief inspector who squinted at it, with Madden and Drummond peering over his shoulder. The rough pencil sketch showed a semi-circle of woods surrounding the thicket and open pastureland. Where the woods ended the constable had marked the terrain down as 'broken country, scattered bushes'. This section included a stretch of water, which he named as Stone Pond.

'That's on the far side of the thicket from where we stand, sir.' Proudfoot indicated what he meant on the drawing. 'No need to worry about the pond — it's as good as a wall. It's the land on either side of it that's our problem. No trees to provide cover, just a few scattered bushes and flat ground.'

'All the same, we'll have to get men over on that side and then have everyone advance at the same time.'

The chief inspector squinted at the sketch. 'Now, this keeper, Hoskins. Where's he, exactly?'

Proudfoot pointed with his pencil.

'This stretch of woods we're in here — it bends around to the left and runs as far as that small hill.'

He tapped the pad. 'I told him to get up on top of there and stay put. If our man leaves the area at least Hoskins will know what direction he takes.'

'But he knows not to interfere?'

'He does, sir.'

'Very well.' Sinclair glanced at Madden. 'John, what do you think? You've had experience of this sort of thing.'

Madden trod on his cigarette. 'If you put armed men in a circle and bring them in to a central point they'll end up shooting each other. Better to concentrate them at three points and have the other officers filling in the gaps. Here — let me show you.'

He took the notepad from Sinclair's hands and borrowed the constable's pencil. The others watched as he drew a rough triangle on top of Proudfoot's plan.

'If we place the armed officers at each angle they'll be shooting towards the opposite base of the triangle, not at each other. If shooting starts, the unarmed men must drop to the ground and stay there until ordered to advance.'

Sinclair studied the combined drawing. 'Yes, I understand,' he said. He looked up. 'Would you see to that, John? The positioning of the men?'

'Yes, sir, of course.' The inspector thought for a moment. 'They'll have to start advancing at an agreed time,' he said. 'There'll be no way we can signal them without giving away our presence. I would suggest four o'clock this afternoon.'

'Good Lord!' Sinclair glanced at his watch. 'That's more than five hours off. Can't we be ready before then?'

'Probably.' Madden shrugged. 'But for some reason these things always take longer than one thinks. Also, the light will be better later. There'll be less glare.'

His glance went to the line of uniformed officers seated nearby in the shade. 'If that man over there is Pike, he'll shoot at us from cover. But he can only be on one side of the thicket at a time. The men must be told to advance quickly if they're unopposed. Once they're in the brush, he loses the advantage of his rifle.

But they must watch for the bayonet then.'

Crouched on his haunches in the dugout, Pike began to lay out his things. From the capacious leather bag he drew his uniform — shirt, breeches, tunic — and placed them on the broad step cut into the rear of the excavation. His neatly rolled puttees were added to the pile. Next came the gas mask.

His movements, measured and unhurried, gave no clue to his mental state, which for many hours had been battered by doubt and indecision. His normally stony emotional structure was fractured by extremes of feeling that produced at almost the same instant a hot flush of impulse towards action and an icy realization of the dangers that hung over him.

Travelling on his motorcycle from Rudd's Cross the day before, he had several times been on the point of turning back and returning to the hamlet. To the garden shed and Mrs Troy's cottage where a situation now existed that required his urgent attention.

But his need drew him on, and in the dark recesses of his soul this seemed to have its own logic. He had no other business than the one he was engaged on. It was the sole aim of his wasted life and, seen from that perspective, even the need to protect himself paled into unimportance.

Nevertheless, his agitation had already produced small but significant changes in his behaviour. He had begun his journey from Rudd's Cross in the usual manner, following a complicated route of back roads and country lanes, avoiding major thoroughfares. But after an hour he had lost patience and, with a recklessness foreign to his nature, had joined the main road, taking the coastal highway to Hastings, then swinging north towards Tunbridge Wells. Bent over the handlebars, and with his cap pulled low over his eyes, he had ridden at a steady thirty miles an hour without incident until he reached a turn-off that took him westwards into Ashdown Forest.

It was late afternoon when he arrived — still daylight — but he strode uncaring through the woods to the site of the dugout, his bag hoisted on his shoulder.

His thoughts were fixed on the hours that lay ahead.

Above all, on the following evening. Everything else was shunted to the back of his mind, to be dealt with later.

On reaching the dense thicket he found the brushwood he had used to camouflage the digging undisturbed except in one corner where some of the branches had fallen into the pit. He examined the spot carefully. Although it seemed likely that wind and rain had shifted them, he spent the next twenty minutes searching the area for any signs of a human intrusion. A footprint. A cigarette stub. He found nothing to arouse his suspicion.

His sleep that night was troubled. For the first time in years an old nightmare returned and he had woken drenched in sweat. The air inside the dugout seemed stifling and he had climbed out and stood motionless in the thick brush listening to the night sounds: the stirring of leaf and branch, the distant cry of an owl.

He remembered nights spent in the woods with his father. The waning moon, close to the end of its cycle, hung low in the eastern sky.

At first light he rose, determined to regain his poise, and settled at once into a routine of small tasks on which he could fasten his mind. He had the whole day to fill.

First he cleared all the brushwood, now yellowed and browning, that he had used to camouflage the dugout, gathering it into a large bundle which he later dragged through the thicket until he was some distance from the site of his digging where he began to distribute it — a piece here, a piece there — to make it seem like casual deadwood. Midway through it occurred to him there was no point in what he was doing. He didn't intend filling in the dugout later, or attempting to hide it, as he had on Upton Hanger.

The police must have found his earlier excavation.

They would know what to look for now. Yet in spite of this he completed the task he had set himself before moving on to another.

Twice during the morning he had paused to scout the surrounding landscape. He had chosen the patch of stunted oaks and dense underbrush because of its featurelessness and lack of any practical use. No one could have any reason for entering it, he reasoned. (None but himself.) Crouched at the fringe of the bushes, he had scanned the woods and stretches of open land encircling the thicket. On the second occasion he had caught a glimpse of a figure moving through the trees. It appeared for only a few seconds and then vanished. He remained with his eyes fixed on the spot for several minutes, but saw nothing more to attract his notice.

At one o'clock he broke off to heat a tin of stew on his spirit stove and brew a mess tin of tea. Then he cleaned and put away his utensils and began to unpack his bag.

Examining the gas mask he frowned at the discovery of a small tear in the canvas hood beside one of the straps. Obsessively tidy, he would have mended it on the spot if he'd had needle and thread with him. The first time he had used a mask, in his attack on the farmhouse in Belgium, he'd worn it simply to hide his identity in case he left survivors. He had blown his whistle to cause confusion. (But it was his own pulses that had been set racing!) At Bentham, in Kent, he had burst into the house bareheaded. It had been a mistake. In the bedroom upstairs, when he dragged the woman from her bath to the bed, she had looked into his eyes. Screaming, she had begged him to stop and Pike had found he could not endure the sensation of having his face uncovered to her gaze.

The shame of it.

He had killed her quickly. Nothing had gone well at Bentham.

Although he could easily have devised a more convenient cover for his face, he recalled the fierce satisfaction of his first assault, when he had worn full military uniform, and soon afterwards he had broken into an Army surplus warehouse in Dover and stolen what he needed, including a gas mask. At Melling Lodge the woman's screams had left him unmoved. It was only the excitement of having her in his arms, crushed beneath him on the bed — excitement which had boiled up and overflowed too soon — that had prevented him from achieving the goal he hoped to attain that night.

The afternoon wore on. The light in the dugout dimmed as the sun declined. Overhead the bright blue autumn sky of the morning had paled. Fleecy clouds shaped like scallops drifted in from the west.

Pike took up his rifle. He had stolen the weapon from a barracks in Caterham when he was working for a construction crew installing a new plumbing system in the camp. For more than two years after his return from France — he'd smuggled himself aboard an empty supply vessel in Boulogne harbour — he had lived hand to mouth, picking up odd jobs, sometimes breaking into houses to steal food and money. It was only after he had obtained his post with Mrs Aylward that the grim purpose he had found for his existence began to take shape in his mind.

He had already checked the firing mechanism — he did it as a matter of course whenever he unpacked the weapon — but from habit he settled down to clean it, drawing pieces of two-by-four through the barrel with a weighted cord, oiling the breech. He checked the magazine to see that it was fully loaded.

When everything else was done he reached into his bag again and brought out a flat leather case, fastened with brass catches, and a whetstone wrapped in shammy. He had saved the honing of his razor until last.

He took it from the padded case. The ivory handle was yellowed with age. The blade glinted blue in the pale sunlight. It had been in his family for three generations. Together with his hunter timepiece it was the only souvenir he had of his father.

Detective Constable Styles walked grim-faced along the woodland path, two paces behind Inspector Drummond who in turn followed in Madden's tracks.

Billy was sulking. He had felt humiliated all morning, ever since he had been barred by Chief Inspector Sinclair from drawing a revolver along with the other men of the Scotland Yard contingent. Billy had stepped up to the grilled counter to sign the book, but at that moment the chief inspector, who was standing nearby talking to Madden, glanced over his shoulder and said to the armoury sergeant, 'That won't be necessary,' giving no further explanation, and leaving Billy little option but to do a smart about-turn and walk away with his face on fire and thoughts of homicide not far from his mind. He had received training in the use of firearms as a uniformed constable and, as far as he knew, had passed the course satisfactorily.

The chief inspector had no right, he reckoned.

It hadn't helped when Hollingsworth, checking his own weapon, had winked at him. 'Don't take on, lad.

The guv'nor knows what he's doing. It's for your own protection.' He grinned. 'And ours.'

Billy hadn't said a word to anyone since, but unfortunately nobody seemed to have noticed. Least of all Madden, beside whom he had been wedged in one of the two cars that had brought the men down from London. The inspector had sat silent throughout the trip, gazing out of the window, lost in thought.

They were walking now in single file through the woods, a line of uniformed policemen strung out behind the three detectives. Madden had chosen a route well away from the treeline, which bent in a slow curve until it met the wooded knoll where the gamekeeper was said to be posted. No longer, though!

Glancing up from the leaf-strewn path Billy spotted a man wearing rough tweeds and carrying a shotgun hurrying towards them. Madden had already seen him and brought the column to a halt.

'Hoskins, sir!' the man called out as he drew near.

'Madden's the name. Is he on the move?'

'No, sir.' The keeper came up beside them. He was in his forties with red, weathered cheeks and a stubbled chin. 'But there's trouble over on the other side, near the pond. You can't see 'em from here but it looks like a troop of Girl Guides. They're settling down by the water.'

'Christ!' The exclamation came from Drummond.

Madden thought. He beckoned to Billy. 'I want you to run back the way we came. Tell the chief inspector what Hoskins has told us and say I've ordered you to work your way round till you get to the pond. Stay out of sight as long as you can, but if you have to show yourself take off your hat and jacket and roll up your sleeves. Try to look like someone out for a Sunday-afternoon stroll. Find out who's in charge of those Guides and get them moved away.' Madden thought some more. 'You'll probably have to show your warrant card, so you can say this is a police operation and we require the area to be cleared. Stay there when they've gone. I'll be round later after I've got the men posted on this side. Understood?'

'Yes, sir.' Billy was already on his way. Now he would show them.

Within ten minutes he was back at the shallow bowl where the chief inspector sat in the shade beside Sergeant Hollingsworth smoking his pipe. Half of the uniformed squad remained with him. It was planned that Sinclair would lead one of the armed groups and Drummond and Madden the other two. It was going to take a while to get all the men positioned. Billy explained what the new problem was and how Madden proposed to deal with it.

'I think I know who that lot are.' Constable Proud foot had stayed behind with the chief inspector. 'I'd better go along and have a word with them.'

'Please, sir.' Billy spoke up. 'Mr Madden doesn't want any uniforms spotted.' He hoped he was right.

'He told me if I had to show myself I should take off my jacket and try to look… unofficial.'

'I'm sure you'll manage that all right, Constable.'

The ghost of a smile crossed the chief inspector's lips. Billy was trying to work out exactly what he meant.

'Get along with you, then.'

He took to his heels again. He believed he could work his way round to the pond in twenty minutes, no more, but once the trees gave out he was forced into an ever-widening circle, seeking dead ground out of sight of the thicket, and it was fully half an hour before at last he saw ahead of him the flicker of blue skirted figures and beyond them the glint of sunlight on water.

He was on a well-trodden footpath shielded by a line of laurel bushes, which led directly to the pond.

The bushes gave out well short of the water's edge, but Billy felt the time had come to show himself. He took off his hat and jacket — and, as an afterthought, his collar and tie — transferred his wallet to his hip pocket and then made a bundle of his discarded garments and tucked them under a bush. Rolling up his sleeves he walked rapidly along the path until he reached the end of the line of laurels, where he slowed his pace to a stroll. Hands in pockets he approached the group of Guides, who were busy collecting sticks and brushwood from the ground. He counted up to two dozen. Four of the older girls were kneeling beside a tripod with a kettle hanging from it in readiness for the fire that would be lit beneath. As Billy came up one of them rose.

'Yes, young man? What can I do for you?'

Under her blue felt hat she was revealed as a woman in her mid-fifties with a tight-lipped look that suggested a temper barely under control. Hostile brown eyes examined him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, miss… madam.' He was flustered by the sight of the belted uniform adorned with badges. 'I'm going to have to ask you to leave this area.'

'What did you say?' The woman appeared to levitate before Billy's startled gaze. 'Are you aware this is public land? You have no right whatsoever-'

'No, please-' he interrupted her, 'you don't understand.

I'm a policeman.' Over her right shoulder he could see the stunted trees and tangled brush of the thicket. It was no more than two hundred yards away.

'I don't believe you.' The scornful gaze took in his bare forearms and braces. His collarless shirt. 'You look like a scruff to me.'

Billy reached into his hip pocket for his wallet — and then froze. Something had moved in the thicket.

He caught a glimpse of a man's figure crouching at the fringe of the brush. Sun glinted on metal. He looked again, but like a mirage the figure had vanished.

He moved deliberately, edging around so that his back would be turned to the thicket.

'What are you doing? Why are you moving like that?' The woman's eyes narrowed with suspicion. 'Cynthia! Alison! Come over here.'

She spoke over her shoulder. Two of the girls kneeling by the tripod rose and joined them, standing behind her like bodyguards. They were in their early teens and plainly nervous and unsure of themselves and the situation.

Billy held out his hand, hoping the gesture would not be seen from the thicket, which was now behind him.

'This is my warrant card. Please look at it carefully.'

The woman peered suspiciously at the square of white cardboard as though it might be a scorpion he was offering her. Finally she took it from his hand.

'In that thicket behind me — please don't stare at it — there's an armed man whom we mean to arrest,' he began.

The woman looked up from the card. Her glance went immediately over his shoulder. The two girls were looking in the same direction.

'There are twenty policemen in the woods beyond-'

'I warn you, young man, if you're making this up…!'

Billy was becoming desperate. He wanted to take hold of this old bitch and shake her hard. He wanted to tell her to stop being pig-headed and self-important and listen to what he was saying. But he had had the example of Madden before him for the past two months and he recalled the inspector's words to him at Highfield.

'I assure you I'm not making it up,' he said quietly.

'You've seen my card. I work at Scotland Yard. Some of the policemen over there are armed. It's possible that shots will be fired in the next half-hour. I want you to get these children together and take them away from here immediately.' He stared back at her.

'Please, miss…' One of the girls at her shoulder shuffled nervously.

'Oh, very well!' She thrust Billy's card back at him.

'But I warn you, young man, you haven't heard the last of this!'

She spun round on her heel and put her hand into the patch pocket sewn on to her uniform. In the nick of time Billy saw what was about to happen.

'No, don't!' He grabbed hold of her wrist as she brought the police whistle up to her lips. 'You mustn't use that whistle!'

'Take your hand off me!' Her lips had gone white with rage. 'Did you see that, Cynthia? This officer… this so-called officer manhandled me. I'm going to report him and you will be my witness. Manhandled!' she repeated, seeming to relish the word.

Red-faced with anger himself, Billy said nothing.

He watched as she turned away from him and clapped her hands. 'Girls! Get into line! We're leaving! This man has spoiled our afternoon.'

The blue uniforms gathered. Billy felt the weight of their disapproval. When they had lined up in twos the woman cast a final glare at him.

'Mr Styles,' she said. 'Yes, Mr Styles. I shan't forget that name.'

The Guides marched away down the footpath. Billy was hardly aware of their departure. All his thoughts were focused on the presence in the thicket behind him. He knew he was being watched. A hardened killer… The chief inspector's words came back to him. He remembered what had happened to Madden and Stackpole in the woods above Highfield and he felt an overpowering urge to move. To run!

Instead, he forced himself to stroll up and down the edge of the pond for a few minutes. When he spotted a flat stone on the ground he picked it up and skimmed it across the water's surface. Then another.

His knees were shaking and his mouth had gone dry.

Finally, as though bored with the amusement, he ambled back along the footpath. As he reached the cover of the laurels his knees gave way and he stumbled and fell to the ground. His cigarettes were in his jacket and he wanted one badly. But for a while he simply sat where he was in the shade of the bushes blinking away the sweat that ran down his forehead, waiting for his heartbeat to slow.

He marvelled how the minutes he had just passed had seemed to stretch into years.

William Merrick lifted his head from under the silver bonnet of the Lagonda. His brow was disfigured by a smear of oil. He rubbed his withered arm, massaging the hand that would never do quite what he wanted of it. Shutting his eyes for an instant, he shook his head as though to clear it, then dipped back under the bonnet.

His mother watched from the window of her bedroom in despair. The suitcases, which had been strapped to the wings of the long chassis, had been removed and stood on the gravel driveway. The rest of the luggage, a small mountain of it, was still packed in the dicky. But for how long?

Mrs Merrick looked at her watch. It was nearly half past four.

They had been on the point of leaving — the entire household, Hopley included, had gathered on the doorstep to wave goodbye — when the car's motor had simply died. Mrs Merrick had heard it shudder and cough as William reached up to fit his goggles over his eyes, and the next moment it had fallen silent.

After a couple of attempts to crank it back to life the car was an old model with no self-starter — he had ordered everyone to get out, unbuckled the straps holding the suitcases and lifted up the bonnet.

Charlotte had climbed out of the front seat and the children and their nanny from the back. For a while everyone stood around watching William at work.

Then they had drifted away. Only Harriet Merrick had remained on the doorstep, as though transfixed, disbelieving, until Annie came out to rescue her.

'Now take that look off your face, Miss Hattie,' she said severely, as she led her mistress back into the house. 'Give the poor boy a chance. He'll not get it mended if you stand there watching him.'

She settled Mrs Merrick in her room, where she was left to reflect bitterly on the fact that only six months before they had had a chauffeur — one Dawson — and that during his reign the Lagonda had never given a day's trouble. But Dawson had left to return home to Yorkshire and since then William had felt able to handle the car himself, with occasional help from Hobday, the village mechanic. It had been clear to Mrs Merrick for some time that her son overrated his skill and knowledge in the matter of managing an automobile — there had been a number of embarrassing breakdowns — but she had thought it wiser to hold her tongue. Now she wished she had been less reticent.

Rose and the upstairs maid, Elsie, were packed and ready to leave themselves and they had promised to send Hobday back to Croft Manor as soon as they reached the village. But the only emissary who arrived from Stonehill was the mechanic's twelve-year-old son, who reported that his father had gone to Crowborough for the day and wouldn't be home till nightfall.

So William had laboured on, his tools in their oilskin cover laid out on the ground by his feet.

Meanwhile, Charlotte busied herself rearranging the day. The children had been placated with a picnic in the garden, which their mother and Annie supervised.

Sandwiches were sent out to William. Mrs Merrick remained in her room.

At two o'clock Charlotte rang the Hartstons in Chichester to say they would be arriving later than expected. She added a rider that they might not get there at all that afternoon, in which case they would stop off briefly on their way through the following day.

Mrs Merrick came down at four o'clock to join her daughter-in-law in the drawing-room. Charlotte was still in her travelling clothes, her long fair hair drawn up in a net. Tea was served to them by Agnes, one of the downstairs maids, who had volunteered to stay on an extra day.

Despite her daughter-in-law's sympathetic presence Mrs Merrick found it almost impossible to speak. A feeling of terror had gripped her as she lay on her bed.

The dread, to which she could put no name nor ascribe to any cause, reminded her vividly of the agony of mind that had awoken her on the night of her younger son's death in France four years before. She had tried to tell herself it was the anniversary — now so close that had brought back the memory of the pain she had suffered. But even as her mind accepted the explanation, some other part of her, something deeper and darker, from the very depths of her being, rejected it.

'I'll go and speak to William again.'

As Charlotte prepared to rise they heard footsteps in the hall outside. They went past the door to the cloakroom. After a minute they returned. The door opened and William Merrick put his head in. 'We're getting there,' he said.

He shut the door before either of them could speak.

The two women looked at each other, sharing the same thought. Quite soon it would be too late to leave. They would have to spend the night at Croft Manor.

Harriet Merrick could bear it no longer. Excusing herself, she returned to her room upstairs. For a while she stood at the window watching her son at work beneath the bonnet, hoping to see him turn the crank and hear the engine cough into life.

Then that, too, became unendurable and she went quietly downstairs and out into the garden. The sun lay low in the western sky. Soon the wooded slopes of Shooter's Hill would lose shape and definition and appear only as a dark mass against the dying light.

From the bottom of the garden she heard the children's voices. They must be playing on the croquet lawn, she thought. Hopley touched his hat to her from the shrubbery. Why hadn't he gone? she thought distractedly.

Why were they all still there?

She heard a light footstep on the grass behind her and turned to find Annie approaching with a wrap in her hands. 'There's a chill in the air. Just put this round your shoulders now.'

Mrs Merrick accepted the garment, drawing it tightly about her. Already she felt the cold.

'It'll soon be dark,' she said. 'It won't be long now.'

Pike put on his cap, pulling the rim down to within an inch of his eyeline, using his first and second fingers to measure the distance in a gesture made automatic by the years he had spent in uniform.

He did up the top two buttons of his tunic and then ran his hands lightly over his body from head to foot — cap, tunic, trousers, puttees, boots — in a further involuntary action to which he gave no thought. His rifle stood propped against the side of the dugout.

His gas mask, rolled into a bundle and tied with a piece of cord, lay on the bunk bench beside him. There was nothing further he had to do. Now he could only wait.

Although it was still light outside, the plaited willow roof and the surrounding screen of brush prevented the late-afternoon sun from entering the dugout, and Pike sat unblinking in the near-darkness.

He was waiting for nightfall.

At Melling Lodge he had attacked at sunset. The thick woods of Upton Hanger had covered his approach and he had been able to hide in the bushes by the stream until the moment was ripe. Here in Ashdown Forest more patience was called for. His route to Croft Manor took him through stretches of open country as well as woods and he was too conspicuous a figure in his military dress to risk being seen.

By day at least the forest seemed well populated.

Throughout the afternoon he had made regular sorties out of the dugout to scan the surrounding countryside and he had seen, at different times, ramblers in the distance, a man with a butterfly net and a troop of Girl Guides. None of them had lingered in the area and none, he believed, would still be abroad after dark.

Pike reached down for the stone jar of rum at his feet and lifted it to his lips. As the syrupy liquid slipped down his throat, settling in a warm pool in the pit of his stomach, his thoughts went back to the war years. To the many times he had sat, as he did now, in trench or dugout, waiting to accompany patrols and raids into no man's land, or in the hours leading up to a general attack.

He had not expected to survive the conflict. After his first few times in action he had seen that, for him, death or crippling injury was unlikely to be long delayed. He had been a soldier of almost suicidal bravery. The anguish that dogged his days, repressed and barely acknowledged though it was, had nevertheless driven him to risk his life repeatedly. It would have taken a more reflective man than Amos Pike to have recognized in these acts of desperation the grim aspect of a death wish.

But although struck down several times by bullets and shell fragments he had returned each time to his battalion where he was regarded with awe that quickly shaded into fear among those who came into close contact with him.

His memories flowed back and forth… He saw the bodies of the dead lying in their hundreds and smelled the sickly-sweet stench of corruption… he saw the dead body and smelled the scent of roses… he recalled the warmth of sweet white flesh pressed to his and the pleasure that so soon turned to shame.

And now he could feel the heat stirring in him, the blood flowing in his loins, and without being aware of it he began to move back and forth on his seat, while a sound — half moan, half chant — issued from his lips.

His eyes were shut tight. The black wings of the past beat about him and he saw himself, too, like a bird, rising and soaring free, escaping the prison of his days-!

His movement stopped in a heartbeat — his eyes flicked open.

He had heard a noise outside the dugout.

A rustle in the underbrush?

Or had it come from further off?

He rose, his instincts on a knife edge. Taking hold of his rifle he stepped out from under the cover of the plaited willow and stood motionless in the fading light, barely drawing breath.

Listening…

Billy Styles lit another cigarette. He glanced at his watch. Still twenty minutes to go. He looked along the line of laurels to where Madden was sitting with his back to the bushes facing a group of five uniformed officers, all of them armed, who were seated on the opposite side of the footpath. Billy was with a party of four — sergeant and three constables — none of them carrying revolvers. They were closest to the pond and had been ordered by Madden to advance, keeping the water on their flank.

It was not until nearly four o'clock that Billy had caught his first glimpse of the inspector and the squad of policemen he brought with him. They had followed the same route he had taken, making a wide circle to avoid being seen from the thicket, and then joining the footpath that led to Stone Pond.

Billy had hastened to meet them. He gave Madden a brief account of his difficulties with the Guides and reported his sighting of the figure at the fringe of the thicket.

'Did you see his weapon?' Madden's frown seemed permanently etched on his features.

'No, sir. Just something shining, like metal.'

The inspector rubbed the scar on his forehead.

'Remember, if he starts shooting you're to drop to the ground and await orders. That goes for all unarmed men.' He glanced around. 'The rest of you should find what cover you can and return fire. But listen for my orders. Stay alert.'

Billy learned from one of the two sergeants accompanying Madden that their advance on the thicket had been postponed by an hour. It was now set for five o'clock. Part of the delay had been caused by the difficulty of getting the men into position between the wooded knoll where Hoskins had kept watch and the far side of the pond, where the ground was flat and bare of cover. Then, just when Madden had returned to where Sinclair was waiting to lead the rest of the men around to this side of the thicket where Billy was — a party of ramblers had stumbled upon them, upwards of two score the sergeant said, and the police had had their work cut out gathering them together and shepherding them away from the area. As a result, the chief inspector had delayed the start of the operation from four o'clock to five. It could be no later because of fading light.

Madden left them briefly to walk to the end of the row of laurels where he crouched and peered through the bushes. When he returned he divided the party into two groups, telling the men that no whistles would be blown to mark the start of the advance.

'Watch for my signal. It'll be at five o'clock exactly.

We'd better synchronize our watches.'

Madden was speaking to the sergeant in charge of the unarmed squad, but Billy checked his own wristwatch and set it to the inspector's mark. It came to him that his wish to see action — the feeling of resentment he'd always felt at missing the war — might be about to be satisfied. He was pleased to discover he felt no fear, just a faint suggestion of emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

The two parties separated.

Billy sat on the ground with his group in the shade of the laurels. They were all from Tunbridge Wells.

One of the younger constables, a man with something of Billy's own colouring — red hair and freckles — said he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.

'Two dozen coppers to catch one bloke. That's hardly fair odds, if you ask me.'

His sergeant was busy filling his pipe. When he had it lit he responded. 'One bloke and one rifle,' he said. 'That's what all the fuss is about. If he takes it into his head to start shooting, then you and I, Constable Fairweather, will be sitting ducks.'

Billy lit another cigarette. He was annoyed to see his hand was shaking as it held the match.

Billy stared at the dial of his wristwatch. The minute hand was only a fraction off the vertical. He watched as the second hand began its final revolution and then lifted his eyes and glanced down the long row of laurels. He saw Madden rise to his feet.

The inspector peered through a gap in the bushes.

Then he took off his hat and moved it in a sweeping motion above his head. The line of blue-uniformed officers rose on signal. Billy scrambled to his feet and heard the other men around him do the same.

The two parties of policemen broke through the line of bushes and advanced on the thicket, now a darkening mass of greenery in the early-evening light.

Billy saw ahead of him a stretch of empty heath dotted with small bushes and hollows. He heard the sergeant telling the men in an even tone to spread out further to the right, closing the gap between themselves and the edge of the pond.

As they continued to move inwards he glanced to his left and registered, with a slight shock, the sight of the policeman nearest to him among Madden's group walking with his revolver pointed straight ahead. He noted that the inspector, who was advancing a few paces in front of the blue line, was unarmed.

Billy was struck by how clearly he seemed to see everything. It was partly the limpid evening light, which enhanced the outlines of objects, but he felt, too, that his own senses had sharpened to an extraordinary degree. He seemed to see blades of grass, individual and distinct, beneath his feet. When a flock of wood pigeons flew overhead he picked out the white and grey feathers of the swiftly moving bodies and heard the creak of their wings. The sky above had taken on a deep metallic sheen. The air was cool and fresh- Crack!

The sound of the shot brought him up short, and at the same instant he saw the sergeant, on his right, throw up his arms with a cry and fall to the ground.

Crack-crack-crack!

Billy flung himself face down, dimly aware of another sound his ears had registered. It had come and gone without echo and with the swiftness of thought, ripping the air above him like cloth.

Phew-phew-phew!

Half dazed with shock he heard Madden's voice shouting commands. More gunshots sounded, but of a different calibre, and closer at hand, and he realized the armed men were firing back. He turned his head, keeping his cheek pressed to the ground, and saw the sergeant a dozen paces away lying on his side. His face was a ghastly white, the features contorted with pain.

Billy began to crawl towards him. As he got closer he saw that the wounded man was clutching his left leg and tugging at his trousers. His bared shin was bathed in blood.

'Sarge? Are you all right?'

The voice came from beyond the prone figure and Billy caught sight of Fairweather's helmeted head bobbing close to the ground. They reached the sergeant together.

'… bastard shot me… my leg…'

The sergeant's pupils were distended by shock.

The rifle sounded again, but from further away, and this time Billy heard no accompanying whistle in the air above. He rolled over. Madden had risen to one knee. He was scanning the thicket a hundred yards ahead. He signalled to the men to stop shooting. The crackle of revolver fire now came from the far side of the tangled brush. Madden rose suddenly and Billy caught the faint sound of his voice calling to the men around him. 'Come on!'

The inspector began to run towards the thicket, followed by the line of blue-clad officers. Billy glanced at the sergeant. Fairweather was bent over him, loosening his trousers and easing them down over his legs.

His eyes met Billy's. 'Go on, if you like. I'll see to him.'

Billy got to his feet and raced after the receding line. The gunfire had ceased, but he heard the piercing note of a police whistle. As he pounded over the bumpy ground, stumbling in the hidden hollows, he saw Madden vanish into the fringe of the thicket. The sound of shouting reached him. Orders were being bellowed.

Billy plunged into the brush on the heels of a heavy-set constable, who had fallen behind the others.

The shouting was closer now. Then a single rifle shot sounded, followed by a babble of voices. He heard Madden's roar above the rest.

'Hold him! Put him on the ground! Handcuffs!' Billy ploughed his way through the bushes towards the hubbub and came on a seething wall of blue uniforms. He saw Madden and Inspector Drummond crouched beside the figure of a man lying face down in a clearing in the brush. His wrists were handcuffed behind his back. A rifle lay on the ground beside him.

Madden rose to his feet, and at that moment Sinclair appeared, bareheaded, pushing his way through the bushes. He was breathing heavily. Their eyes met. Madden shook his head. He called across the clearing.

'It's not him, sir. It's not Pike.'

'Over here, sir!'

The shout came from Billy's right. A constable with his helmet skewed burst from the tangled undergrowth.

He beckoned urgently to Drummond, who rose and followed him into the brush. A moment later they heard the inspector's stifled exclamation. 'Christ on crutches!'

Madden's long legs took him across the clearing ahead of the chief inspector. Billy hurried along behind them. They came on Drummond, hands on hips, peering down into a deep pit where the constable stood balanced on a stack of wooden boxes with rope handles attached to their ends. He was trying to prise the lid off one of them, but it was nailed shut.

'Those are rifles.' It was Madden who spoke. 'LeeEnfields.

Stolen from a military depot, I should think.'

'Wouldn't you know it!' Drummond shook his head in disgust. He glanced at the chief inspector. 'What do you think, sir? Offhand I'd say we'd caught ourselves a bog-trotter.'

Sinclair said nothing, but his gaze was bleak.

They returned to the clearing. Drummond bent down and rolled the handcuffed man over on his back.

Billy saw an unshaven face topped by thick black curls. The man wore workman's boots and trousers and a torn fisherman's sweater. He looked to be in his early twenties. Drummond jabbed him in the ribs with the toe of his shoe.

'What's your name, then, Paddy?'

The young man gave no sign of having heard the question. He kept his gaze fixed on some imaginary point in the distance.

'They must have left him to mind the store.'

Drummond jabbed him again, harder this time.

Then he looked up and caught Sinclair's eye on him and flushed guiltily.

'Excuse me, sir. I'll be back in a minute.' Madden was on the move almost before Billy realized it, striding through the brush in the direction from which they had come. He scurried after the inspector.

Dusk was falling, but there was still enough light in the sky to see the three uniformed figures toiling across the field towards them, cradling a fourth man in their arms. Billy broke into a trot, trying to keep up with the inspector's long strides.

'You were told to stay down till further orders in the event of shooting, Constable.'

'Yes, sir. I know, sir. I'm sorry, sir.'

The look Madden gave him was unreadable.

As they came up to the others Billy saw that the sergeant's head was lolling on his chest. He was breathing in quick gasps, but he rallied when he saw Madden's face bent over him. 'I'm all right, sir. Took a bullet in the calf. It bled a bit.'

His legs were bare, one of them roughly bandaged with what looked like a pair of bloodstained handkerchiefs tied together. Madden made the men lay him down on the grass. He took the sergeant's trousers and folded them into a rough pillow.

"I want you to stay here, Sergeant. Just lie quietly.

I'm going to have a rough stretcher made out of some branches and then I'll be back for you. Try to relax.

Breathe easy.'

The expression on Madden's face reminded Billy of the day they had gone to Folkestone and he had watched the inspector talking to the one-legged soldier. Dawkins. That was his name.

They rejoined Sinclair in the clearing and Madden put a pair of constables to cutting branches. The chief inspector drew him aside. 'I've decided to leave the rifles where they are. This is Special Branch's business.

I'll have the place watched until they can get their own people down here.'

Madden nodded. 'They hadn't started filling in the hole. Whoever left that stuff may be back with more.'

Sinclair's glance shifted to their handcuffed prisoner.

He was sitting up now, but his gaze remained a blank.

'I've sent a couple of men back to Stonehill with Proudfoot to fetch torches and flares. Let me know as soon as the stretcher's ready.'

He looked up at the sky. Billy, who was standing nearby, followed his glance and saw that the stars were already appearing in the gathering gloom.

The chief inspector sighed.

Hollingsworth came into the clearing. He had Sinclair's hat in his hands and was brushing it off.

'Here it is, sir. I found it.'

'Thank you, Sergeant.'

Sinclair took the hat, but continued to stand bareheaded staring up into the darkness.

'Only two casualties, sir.'

'Two?'

'One of the constables fell and hurt his wrist. Looks like a break. They're seeing to him.'

Sinclair was silent.

'We were lucky, sir.' Hollingsworth tried to console his superior. 'It could have been worse.'

'Could it, Sergeant? Could it?'

To Billy it seemed clear that the chief inspector held a different opinion.

The Stonehill village hall echoed to the voices of a score of policemen. Folding chairs had been handed out from a stack at the rear of the building and most of the men had taken the opportunity to rest. They were sitting in groups with cups of tea in their hands and plates of sandwiches balanced on their knees. The food and drink had been provided by the women of the village at the request of Constable Proudfoot, who was now occupied in keeping at bay the crowd that had been gathering all evening on the green outside.

The stocky constable stood on the steps of the hall swaying on his feet. Billy didn't know how he kept going. He was feeling the effects of exhaustion himself and was sitting with Fairweather and another constable from Tunbridge Wells, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Billy had taken off his shoes and was massaging his toes. The other two watched enviously.

Regulations forbade them to remove any items of uniform without good reason and they doubted that a pair of aching feet would be held to meet the requirement.

The wounded sergeant — Billy had discovered his name was Baines — and the constable with the broken wrist were both on their way to Crowborough in an ambulance, which Proudfoot had summoned when he returned to the village. He had sent the other two men back with flares and torches, which the main party had needed to light their way.

The Stonehill hall, like the church hall at Highfield, boasted a raised dais, and it was there that their prisoner was being held under guard. His wrists were still handcuffed — but in front of him now — and he'd been fed and allowed one of the folding chairs to sit on. He had not yet given up his name, but a letter had been found in his pocket addressed to a Mr Frank O'Leary, care of a hotel in Liverpool.

Both name and address had been passed on to Special Branch by Sinclair, who had settled by the telephone in Proudfoot's cottage as soon as they got back. Three officers from Special Branch were already on their way from Tunbridge Wells, and more would follow from London first thing in the morning. In the meantime, two of the armed contingent from the Sussex police had been left on the wooded knoll overlooking the thicket, keeping watch, while a third officer was standing by to bring back any message from them. Inspector Drummond had volunteered to spend the night at Stonehill until Special Branch arrived to take over.

The chief inspector had rung Bennett at his home and given him a brief report on the unexpected outcome of the operation. The London detachment would be returning home shortly.

All this information had come to Billy courtesy of Sergeant Hollingsworth, who had joined them, pulling up a chair and lighting a cigarette.

'The guv'nor's in a proper bate. There's no use telling him he'll get a pat on the back from Special Branch. He thought he had Pike in his sights. But now?' Hollingsworth shrugged. He glanced at Billy with a grin. "I heard you were playing ducks and drakes over on the pond this afternoon, young Master Styles.'

'What?' Billy reddened.

'That's what the lads posted up on the hillock told us. That Inspector Drummond said you must be barmy.'

Billy set his jaw. If the sergeant thought he was going to try to explain1. Then he remembered what the woman had said — that she was going to lay a complaint against him — and he realized he might have to explain, whether he liked it or not.

On the other side of the room Sinclair put down his cup on the table beside the tea urn. He'd been talking to Drummond. Madden sat near them, bowed over his thoughts. The chief inspector walked towards the doorway at the rear of the hall with Drummond at his heels. Hollingsworth rose and went after them, and Billy followed, trying to tie his shoelaces at the same time. As he came through the doorway on to the steps he saw that Sinclair was speaking to Proudfoot.

"I want you to go home now, Constable, and go to bed. Everything's taken care of. There's nothing more for you to do at present.'

Proudfoot, red-eyed and unshaven, seemed disposed to object. He was shaking his head.

'I'd just like to say that in my estimation you've not put a foot wrong.' The chief inspector regarded him steadily. 'And that's from the time you spotted that man in the brush yesterday and decided to ring Crowborough. I shall include all of that in my report, and more. You may be sure a copy of it will be sent to the chief constable.'

'Thank you, sir, but…' Proudfoot struggled to find the words he wanted to say.

'Go on now, man.' Drummond clapped him on the shoulder. 'You've done more than your share. I'll be here all night and if any crisis develops, well, I'll know where to find you, won't I?'

Billy looked over their heads and saw that the crowd of villagers on the green was thinning. Across the road and on the far side of the turf lights burned in cottage windows. When he glanced at Proudfoot again he saw that the constable's gaze was turned away and was pointing in the other direction, up the street.

Billy looked that way and made out the figure of a man on a bicycle pedalling through the darkness towards them. The light on his bike wobbled as he lifted his hand and waved.

'Who's that?' Sinclair asked, in a tense voice.

'Hobday, sir. He's our local mechanic. Owns a garage.'

The figure was closer now and they heard his voice.

He was shouting something. Billy was suddenly aware of Madden standing at his shoulder.

"… the manor… the manor…' it sounded like to Billy.

The man was pedalling as hard as he could, drawing closer.

A frown creased the chief inspector's brow.

'What's he saying?'

'Something about Croft Manor, I think Proudfoot stumbled down the steps. The others hurried after him. As the bicycle careered down the road he stepped out into the street and held up his hand like a traffic policeman. The rider braked and slid to a halt with his front wheel protruding between the constable's spread legs. He was gasping for breath, half choking.

'… murdered… bodies… all dead This time Billy heard every word clear. As he did the chief inspector's response, softly spoken though it was.

'Dear God!' Sinclair murmured, his voice breaking.

'Dear God!'