River of Darkness

But the last two hours had shown him he couldn't wait. His need demanded urgent satisfaction. Even tonight would not have been too soon.

He put down his glasses and lit a cigarette, deliberately allowing his body to cool.

The following weekend Mrs Aylward would take the train to London on Saturday morning. He had already been informed of her plans. She would go from there to visit friends in Gloucestershire, returning only the following Tuesday. He would have the whole weekend free, and Monday, too, if he chose.

Pike drew deeply on his cigarette. In a moment his mind was made up.

He had one more thing to do.

Extinguishing his cigarette, he rose and started down the hill, slipping between the trees, catlike in the sureness of his footing, a shadow among the shadows. At the bottom he left the treeline and joined the path that led through the water-meadow, walking silently between the ponds where the moon hung motionless on the dark surface of the water.

When he reached the garden gate he stopped and went down on his haunches. He could hear their voices. The silvery notes of a woman's laugh came to him on the still night air. He thought of her white throat.

He began to whistle. Softly, almost inaudibly at first. Then a little louder. He went on that way, the grating tuneless air growing in volume all the time.

He was rewarded after a minute by the sound of a yelp coming from the direction of the lawn. Then almost at once he heard another noise in which whining, panting and scurrying movement were all mingled, and the dog burst into view on the pathway ahead of him, skidding around the corner from the yew alley, heavy ears flapping.

Growling a challenge, it ran towards the figure crouched behind rhe barred gate.

It was after midnight when he returned to Rudd's Cross, switching off the stuttering engine of his motorcycle when he was still some distance from the cottage. It had given trouble on the ride back, the carburettor needed cleaning. He pushed the machine for the last hundred yards along the puddle-strewn dirt track up to the shed.

Once inside, he wasted no time, not bothering to light the paraffin lamp, locating the dust cloth by feel in the pitch darkness and flinging it over the motorcycle.

He was anxious to get home as soon as possible.

A long drive lay ahead of him the following day — Mrs Aylward had a client in Lewes.

Before leaving he cast a glance at the darkened windows of the cottage. He hadn't forgotten the old woman's strange behaviour. Something was troubling her. He must find out what it was.

He would come early next Saturday. There was much to do.

Grim-faced, Sinclair strode along the carpeted corridor with Madden at his elbow. 'So Ferris thinks my days are numbered — did you see that piece in Friday's Express? "Is it time for a change?" I wonder, does he know something we don't?'

A breakdown in the Underground had delayed the chief inspector's arrival at the Yard by half an hour.

He had paused in his office only long enough to empty the contents of his briefcase on to his desk, secure the cumulative file from the drawer where it resided and signal Madden to accompany him.

'Let's leave that till later, John,' he said, when the inspector began to tell him about an idea he had.

'Let's get this over with first.'

Glancing at his colleague's face, Sinclair was pleased to see him looking rested and alert. He allowed himself to wonder whether a visit to Highfield had figured among Madden's weekend activities.

'"Informed circles at the Yard,"' he quoted, as he led the way into the anteroom to Bennett's office.

'That's what Ferris calls his source. Do you think the chief super will have the grace to blush this morning?'

In the event, they had no opportunity to find out.

Bennett was alone in his office. The deputy, dressed in funereal black, stood by the window, hands on hips, gazing out at the morning traffic on the river. He turned when they entered.

'Good morning, gentlemen.' He ushered them to their usual chairs at the polished oak table. Their way led past his desk where a copy of Friday's Daily Express was ostentatiously displayed. 'We're on our own this morning.' Bennett sat down facing them. His brown eyes were expressionless. 'Mr Sampson has another appointment.'

Sinclair opened his file. Without haste he began to leaf through the typewritten pages. His neat, contained figure showed no sign of strain or anxiety.

'As you know, sir, we were hoping these wartime killings in Belgium would provide us with information that would assist us in our current inquiries.'

The chief inspector raised flint-coloured eyes from the file and looked squarely at Bennett. 'I'm afraid thus far they've proved a blind alley.'

'I'm sorry to hear that.' Bennett shifted slightly in his chair. 'None of these men fits the bill, then?'

'Mr Madden and I have interviewed two of the four survivors of B Company. Neither was our man. The third, Marlow, is in hospital and the fourth, Samuel Patterson, has been traced by the Norwich police. He's working on a farm near Aylsham. His movements are accounted for.'

'Yet these men — and their comrades who were killed — were the only ones Captain Miller questioned?'

'According to the records, yes.'

'And we know he closed the case.' Bennett frowned.

'Then logic suggests he believed one of those killed in battle was the guilty man. That's been your assumption — am I right, Chief Inspector?'

'Yes, sir.'

'But you thought he could have been mistaken?

That it might have been one of these four?'

'That possibility was in my mind.' Sinclair nodded.

'But now I've had second thoughts.'

'Oh?' The deputy sat forward.

'I've been struck by the fact that none of these men — none of those who survived — was questioned again after they came out of the line. That doesn't make sense. I've looked at the verbal records of the interrogations carefully. Miller bore down hard on them. It's plain he thought they were hiding something. Even if he believed the guilty man among them was dead he would have had the others in again. He wouldn't have let it go at that.'

Bennett's brow knotted. 'Then the murderer wasn't from B Company after all. Miller must have decided it was someone else.'

'So it would seem,' Sinclair agreed.

'But without that memorandum, we're not likely to discover who.'

'Correct.'

Bennett sighed. He looked away. 'Is there anything else, Chief Inspector?'

'Only this, sir.' Sinclair dipped into the file. Selecting a paper, he pulled it out and held it up before him. 'I sent a telegram to the Brussels Surete last week asking them to check their records for us. I was hoping they might have a copy of Miller's report. They don't.'

His eye met Bennett's over the top of the sheet of paper. 'In fact, according to their records the case is still open.'

'What?' The deputy sat up straight in astonishment.

'I don't understand. What does that mean?'

'Well, for one thing, the British military authorities never informed the Belgian civilian police that the case was closed.'

The two men looked at each other. Perhaps five seconds elapsed. Then Bennett's eyes narrowed. Sinclair, who had a high opinion of the deputy's quickness of mind, saw the realization dawn.

'That damned memorandum! It's not lost, is it?

They just won't give it to us!'

Sinclair made a slight gesture of dissent. 'Not necessarily, sir. It may well be lost. Now.'

'You mean someone deliberately got rid of it. But we don't know who, or when?'

'That seems likely.'

'The killer himself?'

Sinclair shook his head. 'I doubt that. Unless he was an MP, and even then…' He slipped the paper back into the file. 'I spoke to Colonel Jenkins on Friday and asked him to put us in touch with Miller's commanding officer during the war. It's possible he may remember something of the case. Incidentally, Jenkins said they're still hunting for the memorandum at the War Office depot. I've no reason to disbelieve him. There could be a variety of reasons why someone in September 1917 decided it would be better to destroy that piece of paper, particularly if they thought the guilty party was dead. It was a brutal crime and the victims were civilians. No need to point a finger at the armed forces, they might have thought. Let the dead bury the dead.'