‘Not that Bow Street have been idle, mind you. A description of the man our lady of the streets so kindly supplied has been posted at all tube stations between Waterloo and Tottenham Court Road, together with a photograph of Rosa, but no one’s come forward yet.’
Madden absorbed the information in silence. He’d taken the call in his study and was seated at the desk.
‘Cook also tried to get an artist’s sketch of this man with Florrie’s help. She did her best. She’s a willing witness. But it was too dark outside the tube station to make out his features clearly and they couldn’t come up with an image that satisfied her. So he’s going to have her look at some faces instead: pictures of past offenders, men with a record of violence against women, rapists included. Anyone who fits the general description and isn’t currently inside. They’re expecting her at Bow Street this afternoon. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.’
Madden searched his memory.
‘What about Rosa’s diary?’ he asked. ‘Has anyone looked at it yet?’
‘Cook has spoken to Mrs Laski. Apparently the girl kept one for years and there are several volumes among the possessions she’d left at the flat for safe keeping. They go back some time. Mrs Laski has promised to look through them, though I gather she doesn’t fancy the task.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘They’re not about Rosa’s daily life as such, or so she says. They’re more a record of her thoughts and feelings, and Mrs Laski believes they deal particularly with the guilt she apparently felt at being the only one of her family to have survived. Poor child. Well, at least that pain is over for her.’
The chief inspector heaved another sigh.
‘This is one of those cases I’ve come to dread, John. It seems unconnected to anything. All we know for certain is this man was after Rosa for some reason. But did he kill her on the spur of the moment, or had he learned she was coming up to London? Was he lying in wait for her?’
‘My guess is the first,’ Madden replied, after a moment’s thought. ‘I don’t think he was prepared. He was on some business of his own; he had a briefcase with him. I think he spotted her on the tube, or at Waterloo. And it sounds as if he was taken by surprise: he was chasing after her, acting in haste …’ He broke off and there was silence between them. Sinclair waited a few moments, then spoke:
‘What is it, John? What’s on your mind?’
‘I’ve just had a thought … a strange one.’
‘Yes …?’
‘If this man was so anxious to kill Rosa — if her death was a matter of such urgency to him — why hasn’t he been looking for her? A young Polish girl … she wouldn’t have been hard to find. He could have gone to a private enquiry agency. The Polish community would have been a good place to start. Why hasn’t anyone been asking questions?’
His words brought a grunt of surprise from his listener. Some moments passed before the chief inspector responded.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, finally. ‘But if he had, I think we’d know about it. Her aunt would have told us, or that farmer she worked for in Norfolk. You’d probably be aware of it yourself.’
‘Quite … but don’t you see — if he
‘Go on.’
Assuming for a moment there was some earlier encounter between them, it must have happened abroad. In Poland — or France, when Rosa was there. Mind you, that would push the whole thing so far back in time …’
Madden fell silent. He could hear the rustle of papers and the mutter of another voice on the line.
‘Well, it’s something to think about, anyway.’ Having waited to see if his old partner had any more to add, Sinclair spoke again. But let’s see what today brings, shall we? What Florrie makes of our rogues’ gallery. She may spot a face she recognizes. We’re due some luck.’
With little to occupy him at the farm — the seasonal lull in work came as a welcome break — Madden spent the morning at home attending to odd jobs before walking in to Highfield after lunch and then making his way to Stratton Hall, on the outskirts of the village. A great-house since Tudor times, it was presently being used as a convalescent home for servicemen, but its owner, Lord Stratton, now in his late eighties, and a lifelong friend of Helen’s, still lived there in a wing of the rambling edifice, and both she and Madden made a practice of calling on the old gentleman at least once a week so as to keep him up to date with news from the village and the wider world outside.
Crossing the great forecourt in front of the house, Madden was hailed by a uniformed figure who had just climbed out of a khaki-coloured staff car.
‘Hello, John! What brings you to my lair?’
Although he was the commanding officer at Stratton Hall, with the rank of colonel, Brian Chadwick retained many of the attitudes of the country GP he’d once been, and on arriving at Highfield two years earlier had quickly formed a friendship with Helen which had later been extended to her husband.
‘Come to see his nibs, have you?’
He joined Madden and they walked on together across the cobbles.
‘By the way, have they caught the man yet?’
‘Which man, Brian?’
‘The one who killed that girl who was working for you?’
‘Not yet.’
Madden glanced at his companion. The expression on Chadwick’s face suggested there might be a reason for his question beyond simple curiosity.
‘I ask because one of my young chaps is concerned. Well, not concerned, exactly. Upset, rather.’ The colonel struggled with his vocabulary. He read a report on the inquest in
‘Got on to you? Isn’t he here?’
‘No, in Oxford.’ Chadwick frowned. On the short side, and thickset, he was constantly bemoaning the size of his waistline. Helen had told him, in all seriousness, doctor to doctor, that he should put himself on a diet and have his blood pressure checked regularly unless he wanted his chronic shortness of breath to develop into something more sinister. We sent him to a hospital there that specializes in plastic surgery. He had facial burns. Perhaps you’ve seen him around. A young pilot officer. Tyson’s his name.’
Madden shook his head.
‘He was shot down over the Channel and picked up. But his plane caught fire before he could bale out, hence the burns. He had other wounds, too, but they’ve healed and he was recuperating here before having his face seen to.’
Chadwick paused for a much-needed breather.
‘But why was he so concerned?’ Madden asked, his curiosity piqued. ‘Did he know her?’
‘Oh, no. Nothing like that.’ Chadwick dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. But he’d heard her play at the concert we had here — he’s musical — and he actually spoke to her the day she went up to London. He was on his way to Oxford himself. They were in the same compartment. But you can ask him about it yourself, if you like. He’ll be here in a few days.’
‘He’s coming back, is he?’ Madden asked.
Chadwick nodded. ‘He’s already had the operation. But he’ll need to convalesce for a while. Then it’ll be hey- ho and off to the wars again. Unless, by some miracle, the whole ghastly business is over by then.’
They parted, Chadwick going to his office in what had once been the butler’s pantry, Madden heading for the wing where Lord Stratton had his apartments. His way took him through the great entrance hall. Hung with armorial shields when he’d first known it a quarter of a century before, the panelled walls now sported felt-backed boards thick with typed notices, while the maids and footmen of an earlier era had been replaced by white-veiled nurses. Passing through the dimly lit hall, he recalled the concert that had taken place there recently, remembering, with a stab of pain, the slight, dark-haired figure of Rosa Nowak as she bent over the piano keys, her expression rapt, the sorrow that dwelt in her eyes banished; for a few minutes at least.
The anger he had felt on hearing of the girl’s death had not abated. But mixed with it was another emotion
