inspector’s tone remained cool. Although he’d made an effort to moderate the sharpness of his manner, his anger remained unabated. To his way of thinking, it was a sorry tale they’d been treated to.
‘Apart from the fact that he speaks English with an accent, none. He’d be easy to miss in a crowd. Up close, though, it’s a different matter. That curious quality I spoke of – a sort of lifelessness – it’s unsettling.’
On the crucial question of Lang’s likely whereabouts, Vane could offer only cautious advice.
‘It’s been three months since he disappeared. What his intentions were is anyone’s guess. Almost the only thing of any value I can tell you is that he’s probably changed his name. He won’t be Emil Wahl any longer. He’ll be busy covering his tracks.’
‘Can you be sure of that?’ Bennett had questioned the assertion. ‘As I understand it, the German police haven’t actually identified the man they’re after. And there’s been nothing in our press to connect the two sets of cases.’
‘Perhaps not. But his actions tell a different story. You’ve only to look at the care he took to make us believe he was returning to the Continent. Isn’t that the reaction of a man who in his own mind at least is already on the run and trying to throw any pursuers off the scent?’ Vane frowned. ‘That said, other aspects of his behaviour seem quite irrational. I’m thinking of those two murders he committed after he got here. They go against all reason. Surely he must have been aware of the danger of drawing attention to himself?’ He had glanced at Sinclair as he spoke, perhaps hoping for enlightenment, but the chief inspector’s only response had been to repeat the question he’d put earlier.
‘What interests me is why he chose to remain here. Why not go?’
It appeared Vane had been pondering the same riddle. At all events he’d replied without hesitation. ‘If you want my opinion – and it’s no more than that – it’s because he’d already made up his mind not to return to Europe under any circumstances. That’s where he could expect to be found if any large-scale search for him was launched. His stamping ground, if you like. It was safer for him to remain in England, at least in the short term.’
‘The short term?’
‘Yes, he wouldn’t stay here for long – at least, that’s my guess. It’s not a country he’d feel at home in. Given his situation as he sees it, he’d be bound to look further afield for a place of refuge. Somewhere his face isn’t known. On another continent, perhaps. And he’s had ample time to make whatever preparations he might have thought necessary.’ With a sigh, Vane shook his head. ‘I can only repeat what I said earlier. I fear we’re too late.’
The chief inspector had grunted at his words. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m inclined to agree with you,’ he said. ‘But that’s not an assumption I can make at this stage.’
Now he gestured with the snapshot he was holding.
‘I’ll take this with me, if I may. I want to circulate it, along with a description of Lang.’
‘Please do. And I promise to comb through this file for any information that might be of use to you.’ Vane tapped his folder again. He watched as the chief inspector tucked the photograph in among his papers. Bennett had already risen to his feet.
‘I shall have to inform my colleagues of this meeting.’ Vane rose himself. ‘I’d better warn you now, they won’t take kindly to what I have to tell them. The thought that Lang might be brought to trial in open court will start all sorts of alarm bells ringing. Some may even reach your ears. I do urge you again to tread carefully in this matter.’
He had addressed his last remark to Sinclair, who had not yet got to his feet. Too late he saw his mistake. The chief inspector’s face had hardened.
‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Vane. I’ve no sympathy whatever for your colleagues, or their anxieties. It does occur to me, though, that they might feel differently if they were given some idea of what this investigation will involve. I take it Lang’s supporters are among them?’ He looked up.
Vane nodded.
‘Including those who protected him originally? The ones who shielded him from the Swiss police years ago?’ Sinclair’s glance had grown cold.
‘Some of them – yes.’
‘Good. Then you might start by telling them that sexual criminals of Lang’s type are every policeman’s nightmare. They kill at random, you see, individually their victims mean nothing to them, and this absence of any link makes them among the hardest to track down. All they seek is opportunity.’
The chief inspector closed his file.
‘It’s a fact men like him appear to act from compulsion – a psychologist would certainly tell you so – they can’t stop themselves, which may account for those irrational aspects of Lang’s behaviour you mentioned. As time goes by, whatever inhibitions they feel, even those prompted by caution, seem to grow weaker, with the result that intervals between attacks tend to shorten.’
Sinclair rose to his feet. He began to button his coat.
‘I’m sure your colleagues will feel concern when you point out to them that more than two months have passed since that child was murdered at Brookham, a long time as these things go, and that wherever Lang is now, here or abroad, the chances are he’ll be looking for a fresh victim.’
The chief inspector paused. His listener had turned pale.
‘Unfortunately, you’ll also have to tell them there’s nothing I, or anyone else, can do about that. Except pray he hasn’t found her already.’
20
The weather had cleared at last – it it had been raining for several days – and after a bite of lunch in Midhurst Sam Watkin drove out to Hobday’s Farm, near Rogate, to see how the roof he’d fixed was holding up. He’d done the work himself in the end, resetting the chimney and replacing the smashed tiles. He’d also patched up the floor below with a couple of new bricks and was pleased to find the inside bone dry.
‘Do you see that, Sal? I reckon I could hire myself out. Repairs and decorations.’
They had paused only long enough to admire his handiwork. Once he was sure all was well, Sam had climbed back into his van. He had another errand to run, one that had nothing to do with his job, but was every bit as important. At least that was Ada’s opinion.
‘Now be sure and pass by Coyne’s Farm, Sam. I want Eddie to have this extra blanket. The nights are getting colder. I’ve wrapped up a pork pie for him, too, and a bit of cheese and a bar of soap, if he needs one. You see he gets them.’
Though it was a Wednesday, and not one of the days he usually went to Coyne’s Farm – those were Tuesdays and Thursdays – Sam didn’t mind going out of his way. His plans for making Eddie’s life a little brighter had succeeded beyond his best hopes. There was something about his old wartime pal – dignity, perhaps, the way he held himself in spite of hardship – that appealed to women; to their motherly side. (Or so Sam reckoned.) It had certainly worked with Ada. And she wasn’t the only one.
The day after their encounter he’d picked up Eddie at the roadworks and brought him home to supper, as he’d promised. On the way over he’d given him the good news about the empty barn at Coyne’s Farm and how Mr Cuthbertson had agreed to let him sleep there if he liked.
‘Could I really, Sam?’ Eddie’s face had lit up like a boy’s and Sam had realized then how much he must have hated having to bunk down in that cramped shed with the other men.
Next day he’d collected him again after work and taken him up the path that led over the ridge to the farm. He’d shown him the gap in the hedge that gave onto the orchard and the walled kitchen garden. Beyond lay the farmyard where the barn stood. Sam had unlocked the double doors.
‘Here-you keep this.’ He’d tossed Eddie the key to the padlock. ‘It’s a spare. Be sure and lock the doors each morning when you go to work. I told Mr Cuthbertson you’d keep an eye on the place.’
On his way from Rogate now he paused at the roadworks long enough to tell Eddie about his mission and to say he’d leave the stuff Ada had sent for him at the barn.
‘It’s kind of her, Sam, but she shouldn’t. I’ve got all I need now. And more, thanks to you. Can’t you tell her?’ Though he was dirty and sweating – he’d been working with a pick at the side of the road, lifting stones – Eddie’s
