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.
