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!'