River of Darkness

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.'