‘Yes, sir. The first was in Sussex, at Bognor Regis. The second near a small village in Surrey.’
Vane rose abruptly and went from behind his desk to a satinwood library table in the corner of his office where a number of framed photographs stood among piled volumes. From one of these stacks he took a slim book bound in red leather which he brought back with him.
‘The twenty-seventh of July, you say…’ Standing, he riffled through the pages without haste.
‘Yes, sir. And September the eighth.’
As Vane bent his head Sinclair stole a glance at Bennett beside him. The assistant commissioner’s gaze was fixed on the figure at the desk. His slightly widened eyes hinted at the stress he, too, was under.
‘The twenty-seventh was a Saturday, I see. I stayed in town that weekend, which is unusual. I had some work to do, I recall now. I’ve no engagements listed. In all likelihood I spent the day at my flat – it’s in the Albany, though I dare say you know that – and dined at my club. To anticipate your question, Chief Inspector, dinner apart, no, I don’t believe my movements can be confirmed by anyone. I would have given my man the weekend off. I always do when I stay in town.’
There was a pause as Vane flipped through the pages. Sinclair continued to observe him, narrow-eyed. He still couldn’t read the man. But he felt increasingly that he was playing a game, performing some kind of charade.
‘September the eighth was a Sunday. I spent that weekend with friends in Hampshire, this side of Winchester. I can give you their names if you like. Surrey, you said… where the other murder was committed… not that far away, then. And I left before lunch on the Sunday to drive back to London.’ Vane shut the diary and sat down. ‘Hardly an alibi, is it?’
He might have seemed unconcerned – he’d continued to speak in a flat voice throughout – were it not for his finger which began to tap on the desktop in front of him. To the chief inspector it signalled anxiety. Yet he had the curious impression that he and Bennett had become irrelevant to whatever was going on in Vane’s mind. Indeed, from the way his eyes strayed to the window just then he appeared to have forgotten their presence. The light in the courtyard outside was fading.
‘The murder you were telling me about earlier – the one that took place near Henley – can you give me a date for that?’ He spoke in a drawling voice, his tone bordering on the insolent. But his eyes, when he turned their way again, told a different story, the fixity of his stare reflecting some inner turmoil still under tight control.
‘Yes, of course, sir. But I wouldn’t ask you here and now to account for your movements so long in the past.’ It had just occurred to the chief inspector that what the other man had been doing these past few minutes was playing for time.
Vane shook his head impatiently. ‘The date, man.’
The change in his manner was startling; Sinclair’s eyebrows went up in surprise. ‘The eighth of July,’ he replied, after a pause.
Vane slid his hand beneath the rim of his desk and a bell sounded faintly in the outer office. The door opened behind them.
‘Peter, would you find my personal diary for 1929 and bring it in, please.’ Not troubling to look up, he sat staring at his desk and they waited in silence until the young man from outside appeared with an identical book bound in red leather which he laid in front of his superior.
‘Thank you. That will be all.’
Before the door shut Vane had the book open and the other two watched while he found the page he wanted. He sat staring at it for a long time. Sinclair glanced at Bennett again and caught his eye. When he turned back Vane’s head was still bent over the page, but now he was nodding, as though in confirmation of something he already suspected. He flicked through a few more pages, going backwards and forwards in the diary. Again he nodded.
‘The girl was killed on the eighth, you say. The day before that I travelled from Oxford to Birmingham to stay with friends before continuing on to Scotland, where I spent the rest of July and the first week of August. Naturally, all that can be confirmed.’ He shut the book.
Struck speechless by the revelation, Sinclair sat blinking. It was several moments before he could find his voice. ‘You were in the Oxford area then?’ He could think of nothing else to say.
‘Yes, on holiday. I was a guest of Sir Robert Hancock and his wife at their place near Woodstock. He’s a colleague of mine. You’re welcome to check my story with him.’ Vane’s tone had altered. To the surprise of the other two, he’d shed his hostile manner. But as though to confuse them still further, he showed no sign of relief at having cleared himself. If anything, the indications of anxiety he’d displayed earlier had intensified. His finger had resumed its rapid tattoo on the desk in front of him. Eyeing him closely, the chief inspector sensed indecision behind his strange behaviour.
‘I don’t mean to question your word, sir, but did you travel to Birmingham, and to Scotland, in your car?’
For the first time Vane seemed to find difficulty in formulating a reply. ‘No, Chief Inspector,’ he answered finally. ‘I did not. I went by train.’
‘You left it garaged in London?’
The question hung in the air between them until it became clear, for whatever reason, that Vane was not going to respond to it. His gaze had turned inwards, and once again the chief inspector felt that his thoughts were elsewhere.
Bennett stirred, breaking his long silence. ‘These questions must be answered,’ he insisted.
Still Vane said nothing, and it was clear to Sinclair that something extra would be needed to shatter the wall of obduracy they were faced by. When he spoke again, it was in a sharpened tone, his crisp consonants lending stark emphasis to the words he chose.
‘Sir, the investigation we’re engaged in is unique in my experience. This man has killed nine children. Nine that we know of. He was described to me by a man who should know as a monster. Scarcely human. I see no reason to question this judgement. I only ask you to consider what’s at stake. If there’s anything you can tell us – any small fact-’
‘Chief Inspector! I beg you!’
Vane’s anguished cry caught Sinclair off balance, and he stared back dumbstruck. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
‘There’s no need to go on. I see what’s at stake. But the situation’s not what you think. I’m not protecting anyone. I want to help you, believe me, but I fear we’re too late.’
The folder, dun coloured, was marked across one corner with a broad red stripe. Vane had placed the file on his desk a few moments before, and the chief inspector’s eye hadn’t strayed from it since. Earlier, he had watched him retrieve it from a safe housed in a teak cupboard at the back of his office, using a key selected from a ring that was attached to a metal watch chain he wore. Some minutes had passed since his outburst, but although he’d quickly regained control of himself, apologizing to them both, he was unable to disguise the effects of the strong emotion he’d just experienced, which showed itself in his pallor and the jerkiness of his movements. At the same time, his attitude towards them had changed. Gone was the air of cold superiority to which the chief inspector had taken such exception when they first arrived. Anxiety marked his behaviour now and he seemed more human.
‘We’ve only met socially, haven’t we, Sir Wilfred?’ Vane glanced up from the file, at which he’d been staring. ‘I wonder if you’re aware of the particular position I fill here at the Foreign Office?’
‘Aware… no. At least, not officially.’ Bennett allowed himself a slight smile. His relief a few minutes earlier on realizing this was not the man they were seeking after all had been noted by the chief inspector, who’d been seeking for some image with which to enshrine the glow of revelation emanating from his superior’s pale, but no longer stricken countenance: St Paul’s encounter on the road to Damascus sprang to mind. ‘But I admit to having been curious about you, Vane. I’ve made some inquiries – and received guarded answers. I told Mr Sinclair earlier today that I believed you were engaged in intelligence work.’
‘Did you, indeed?’ Vane’s elegantly raised eyebrow was a mark of his returning poise. ‘Well, that clears the air, at any rate.’ He looked at them both. ‘We’re all senior officials accustomed to the need for discretion. But I must stress that much of what I’m about to tell you is for your ears and these walls only, and in the event of it becoming public would almost certainly be denied. More to the point, none of it may be used in any future case for the prosecution. Do you foresee a problem there?’
Bennett seemed unsure. He glanced inquiringly at the chief inspector.
‘None that I can think of,’ Sinclair replied. With the climactic moment approaching, he strove to maintain an
