‘Very well, thank you.’ Though she talked posh, she had no airs at all and during the course of the summer Sam had found himself beguiled by her simple manner and the openness with which she talked to him whenever they met. Truth to tell, she reminded him of his own Rosie, who was a year younger, and fair to Nell’s dark, but had the same eager expression in her eyes. The look young girls got when they were on the brink of womanhood.
Thanks to her lack of shyness, he already knew all about her – and her family. They had moved from Midhurst to Oak Green three years before, Nell had told him, but her father continued to work in the town as a chartered accountant and drove her to school every morning. Up until this year her mother had always fetched her in the afternoons. But since turning thirteen – Nell was the youngest of the Ramsays’ three children, her two brothers being at university – she’d been deemed old enough to make the journey on her own.
‘I was saving up a biscuit in case we met, Sally. But I’m not sure I ought to give it to you now. You’re getting so fat.’
At the word ‘biscuit’ Sal’s ears had pricked, and now, as though under the spell of her moist brown eyes, Nell reached blindly into her satchel and brought out a ginger snap, which was quickly disposed of. Sam could only shake his head and sigh. Greediest dog on earth.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to dash today.’ Nell searched for her things on the ground. ‘Aunt Edith’s coming to tea and Mummy doesn’t want me to be late.’ She planted a kiss on the silky head beside hers and stood up. ‘Goodbye, Mr Watkin. Goodbye, Sally.’
Grinning, Sam waved a farewell to her and then watched as she went hurrying off down the path, hoisting her satchel onto her shoulders and clutching at her hat. He turned to leave, but had to pause once more, finding Sally firmly planted on her haunches behind him, busy scratching behind one ear. Or trying to. It was a struggle to reach the awkward spot these days and she was putting all her effort into the task.
‘Come on, old girl. I’ll do that for you.’
But though he gave her a good scratch, it failed to produce the desired result, and as soon as he’d finished she went back to what she’d been doing before, leaving Sam no option but to wait until she was ready to move on.
He glanced down the path again and saw that Nell was well along it, approaching the fork that would take her to Oak Green.
Then he noticed something else. The bloke he’d spotted earlier, up on the ridge opposite, across the valley. The one with the fieldglasses. He was still there.
Sam had taken him for a birdwatcher. There were plenty of them around, particularly in the summer, and it was easy to spot them. They were forever scanning the heavens, sometimes making notes of what they saw. But whatever this bloke was looking at now, it wasn’t a bird. He had his binoculars trained on the valley below him, which was strange, Sam thought, since there was nothing there to see. Nothing of interest.
Unless it was the sight of Nell’s figure hurrying across the open field away from the path towards the red roofs of Oak Green, her white hat bobbing up and down like a flower carried on a stream.
15
‘Vane? Philip Vane?’ Bennett stared at the chief inspector with incredulity. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly, sir. Do you know him?’ The photograph which Sinclair had just withdrawn from his file remained in his hand.
Bennett gestured impatiently for it and he handed him the glossy print. Procured from a magazine archive, it was a studio portrait of a man in his forties with narrow, well-bred features composed in an expression of boredom. Elegant in evening dress, he wore the ribbon of some decoration about his neck. The assistant commissioner stared at the picture for a moment, then nodded.
‘That’s Vane,’ he acknowledged. ‘We’ve met several times.’ He looked at the chief inspector, then glanced at Holly, who was sitting beside him. The dull autumn light coming through the windows of his office gave a leaden tinge to their faces. ‘Have either of you any idea who he is?’ he asked in a neutral tone.
‘Never heard of him, sir.’
While Holly’s reply had been prompt, Sinclair took his time responding. Warned by their superior’s manner, he chose his words carefully. ‘I’m aware that he works at the Foreign Office,’ he said. In fact, he was a good deal better informed than that about the individual in question, but seeing the look in Bennett’s eye, he realized it might be wise if he kept this intelligence to himself, at least for the time being.
‘Oh, there’s a little more to him than that, you know.’ Bennett’s tone was silky, but the chief inspector did not fail to catch the warning note in it. ‘Vane’s a specialist in European affairs, quite a senior figure.’
Sinclair contrived to look impressed.
‘He lunches at the palace, what’s more. Did you know that?’
‘I did not, sir.’ In the circumstances, the lie seemed permissable.
‘Yes, and he shoots at Sandringham.’ Bennett’s gaze was penetrating.
‘My word!’ Holly whistled. ‘Is this the chappie with the car, then?’
Bennett ignored him. He kept his gaze on Sinclair’s face. The chief inspector had come to this meeting, arranged at his request, in a state of some tension. Now he spoke bluntly.
‘With respect, sir, the question here is not whether Philip Vane is well regarded at the Foreign Office – I’m sure he is – nor even if he’s on the palace’s guest list. The issue’s a simple one. Is he, or is he not a murderer?’
Bennett drew in his breath sharply and the chief inspector braced himself for the explosion he could see was coming. Having spent half a lifetime working on the fringes of Whitehall, he knew only too well what effect even a whiff of scandal could have on those in high office. But he’d been surprised all the same by the sharpness of his superior’s reaction and for an uneasy moment he wondered if there was even more at stake here than he’d supposed.
Bennett, meanwhile, was struggling to retain his poise. He spoke in a controlled tone. ‘Apart from the fact that he owns a motor car of this make, have you any reason to think he might be?’
‘Sir, all I have at the moment is information-’
‘Can you really think a man like Philip Vane guilty of such bestial crimes?’ The assistant commissioner interrupted him, staring. ‘In all honesty now, Chief Inspector?’
‘Why, I have no opinion one way or the other.’ Sinclair took care to appear scandalized by the suggestion. He saw he’d stumbled into a minefield. ‘What I must emphasize, though, is there’s every likelihood the man we’re seeking has an unusual background. Otherwise we’d have caught him by now. And no one can be excluded simply because of his position. His class…’
Franz Weiss’s words on the subject had returned to the chief inspector’s mind while he was speaking.
‘That said, all I’m interested in at present are facts. Let me tell you what I’ve learned.’ He’d already opened the file on his knee and he continued before Bennett could interrupt him again. ‘Vane purchased a Mercedes-Benz of the relevant model in June, 1929 – you’ ll recall the Henley child disappeared in July of that year. In October he was posted to the British Embassy in Berlin where he remained until July of this year, when he was recalled to London.’ Sinclair looked up. ‘We’ve been puzzled by the long gap between the earlier case and the Bognor Regis murder, which occurred in late July, and we’ve discussed the possibility that the killer might have been abroad during that time.’ He lowered his eyes again. ‘Oh, by the way, the reason he bought a Mercedes rather than a British-made car was precisely because he was going to Germany. He apparently thought it would be easier to get the vehicle serviced and repaired there.’
Silence fell in the office. Holly looked at them both. The assistant commissioner had turned pale. When he spoke, the anger in his voice seemed barely in check. ‘Have you been making inquiries about Vane among his colleagues and friends, Chief Inspector?’
‘Good heavens, no. He’s a public servant, sir. This is all a matter of record.’ Sinclair tapped the file on his knee. ‘As is his purchase of that motor car.’
‘And his reasons, his personal reasons, for buying a German-made machine? Were those on the record?’
‘Gossip, sir. Common knowledge.’ Sinclair retained his composure. ‘His name was on the list the Mercedes people sent us. It’s the only one we haven’t checked. In the normal course, I would probably have spoken to him
