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.'
