At ten o’clock on the Friday following, by prior appointment, Sinclair presented himself at the office of Sir Wilfred Bennett, assistant commissioner, crime, whose responsibilities at Scotland Yard included overall direction of the Criminal Investigation Department. Burdened as he was with questions of policy and administration, Bennett wouldn’t normally have dealt with the matter which the chief inspector wished to raise. But the absence of his own deputy, who had recently undergone an operation to remove his gall bladder, and who was now enjoying an extended period of convalescence following a brush with peritonitis, had dangled an opportunity before the assistant commissioner which he’d been unable to resist.
‘This is quite like old times, Chief Inspector.’
Sir Wilfred had kept the same suite of rooms at the Yard for more than a decade. His office overlooked the tree-lined Embankment and the Thames. In the past he and Sinclair had met there frequently, and Bennett retained a nostalgia for those days when, as deputy to the then assistant commissioner, he’d been more involved in the day-today running of the CID. Promotion had brought him a knighthood and entry into the upper ranks of the Metropolitan Police, but he wondered sometimes if he had not lost more than he’d gained.
‘I’ve asked Chief Superintendent Holly to join us. I think it would be a kindness. He told me recently that since being “moved upstairs”, as he put it, he’d felt left out of things, a sentiment with which I sympathize.’ Sir Wilfred caught Sinclair’s eye and they shared a wry smile.
‘Isn’t Arthur still on holiday, sir?’
‘He got back yesterday. But he won’t have had a chance to look at the file yet, so I suggest you start by taking us through it.’
The assistant commissioner directed Sinclair to the polished oak table by the windows where he was in the habit of conducting his business conferences: gatherings which these days seemed to involve only tortuous bureaucratic wrangling. As they sat down facing each other, Sir Wilfred observed, not without a pang, his visitor’s clear grey eyes and air of alertness. Despite having turned sixty, Angus Sinclair looked like a man who still had an appetite for his work.
There was a knock on the door and the chief superintendent entered. He was a heavy-set man in his mid- fifties, blunt-featured and sporting a suntan.
‘Good morning, Holly. Welcome back.’ Bennett rose and shook his hand. ‘I trust you had a good holiday.’
‘Thank you, sir. The weather was excellent. I always say there’s no place quite like the Scilly Isles at this time of year.’ The chief super’s soft burr betrayed his rural origins. For years now the Met had done much of its recruiting in the West Country, considering native-born Londoners too fly and streetwise, too clever by half to be suitable for training as policemen. Sturdy country men with open, malleable minds, on the other hand, were regarded as ideal material, and Chief Superintendent Holly was a prime example of the breed.
‘My word, Arthur, you’ve put on weight.’ Sinclair eyed his colleague askance. ‘I shall have to speak to Ethel. We must get you on a diet.’
Holly blushed. He was now the senior superintendent on the force and nominally Sinclair’s superior. But he could never forget that he had once worked under the chief inspector; had felt the sting of his sometimes acid tongue and striven to earn his approval. It was several years now since Angus Sinclair had declined any further promotion, letting it be known that he was satisfied with the rank of chief inspector. There were five such officers on the Yard’s strength and they had something of the cachet of specialists, being held in reserve to handle the most difficult and challenging investigations. Holly was relieved that Sinclair chose to call him by his first name and knew from bitter experience that when the chief inspector wished to correct him he would address him as ‘sir’.
‘So you went down to Guildford last Sunday, did you?’ Bennett had waited until they were all settled before speaking. Pale of face, with dark, thinning hair, he had a quick, decisive manner that mirrored the mind behind it. ‘I hope you trod carefully, Chief Inspector.’
‘As though on eggshells, sir.’ Sinclair opened his file. ‘Jim Boyce is an old friend. We agreed to treat my visit as unofficial.’
‘I can sleep easy, then, can I? I won’t open the newspaper tomorrow and read that Scotland Yard detectives have been prowling the Home Counties uninvited.’ Bennett spoke with a smile. He’d developed a warm regard over the years for the dapper chief inspector. They had not only cooperated on cases in the past, they were also allies in a broader sense, having laboured, each in his own sphere, to bring the institution for which they worked into the modern world, a task which Sir Wilfred had been known to compare with trying to move a reluctant mule.
Sinclair made no comment, merely lifting an eyebrow in response. It so happened that the file he was holding, with its sheaf of neatly typed pages, was the fruit of an initiative which he and the assistant commissioner had jointly pursued some years previously. Scotland Yard now boasted a registry where civilian staff compiled dossiers of cases from material supplied by detectives, sparing the latter this time-consuming chore.
‘Guildford?’ Arthur Holly frowned. ‘That rings a bell. Wasn’t there a child murdered in the district recently? I seem to remember reading something about it in the newspaper.’
‘Yes, a young girl. She was raped and strangled. It happened while you were away.’ Bennett settled himself in his chair. ‘The chief inspector drew my attention to it. There are aspects of the murder which he feels can’t be ignored.’ He gestured to Sinclair, inviting him to continue.
‘It was the nature of the crime, Arthur, as well as the circumstances.’ Sinclair addressed his remarks to his colleague. ‘The injuries inflicted on the child’s body after death were unusually severe. Her face was destroyed, demolished in fact. After due consideration, the pathologist determined that the killer used a hammer for this purpose, a stonemason’s tool, to judge by measurements taken of the imprint.’
‘My God!’ The shock showed on Holly’s face. ‘I’ve not heard of that before.’
‘Among the various conclusions one might draw from such an act, the most disturbing to me is that the assault appears to have been planned in advance. If he had a hammer with him, he must have intended to use it. It’s one of the reasons why I believe this crime merits our attention. There may be more to it than meets the eye.’
Silence followed his words. After a moment’s pause, the chief inspector continued, ‘For the present, all I can tell you is that the Surrey police are actively searching for a tramp in connection with the assault, a man whose travelling name is Beezy. He was known to have been in the wood where the girl’s body was found round about the time she was killed. His description has been circulated in Surrey and the surrounding counties, and to the Metropolitan Police, as well.’
‘What do we know about him?’ Holly asked.
‘A fair amount.’ Sinclair drew a page from his file. ‘I received this information from Guildford yesterday. His real name is Harold Beal. He’s a Londoner by origin and once had a job as an insurance clerk. Twelve years ago his wife died suddenly. He began to drink heavily, lost his job and finally took to the road. He’s been a tramp ever since, and, like many of them, a man of habit. Until this year he used to spend his summers in Kent, working on farms there, returning to London for the winter. He’s been found drunk and disorderly a number of times and has one other conviction on his record. Last year he was convicted in a Canterbury magistrate’s court of indecent exposure.’
‘Was he, now?’ Holly sat up. ‘What do you make of that?’ And when Sinclair failed to respond at once. ‘It’s a pointer, isn’t it?’
‘It could be. But I’m not sure.’ The chief inspector eased a muscle in his back. ‘Petty sexual offenders are ten a penny, after all. Between unbuttoning your flies in public and what was done to that poor girl, there’s a vast distance. An enormous leap.’
‘True. But they all start somewhere.’ The chief superintendent pursued his point. ‘Look at the record of any serious offender, Angus, and chances are you’ll find he was once a peeping Tom, or something of the kind.’
‘I accept that.’ Sinclair nodded. ‘But let me tell you a little more about Beal’s case. A Canterbury schoolmistress alleged that he exposed himself on a public road while she was walking by with a crocodile of schoolgirls. Beal said in court that he was simply relieving himself and hadn’t been aware of their approach. He claimed to be hard of hearing, which seems borne out by the court record. He kept asking for questions to be repeated. On the face of it, I’d say it was a charge that should never have been brought, but the magistrate found him guilty and sentenced him to two months’ imprisonment. It’s there on the record.’ The chief inspector tapped the file with his forefinger. ‘I don’t dismiss it, Arthur.’ He caught the chief super’s eye.
‘Perhaps that’s why Beezy chose to come to Surrey this year instead of going to Kent,’ Bennett remarked dryly. ‘Wherever he is now he must wish he hadn’t. What does Boyce think? Does he believe this tramp is their man?’
