It was not until spring of the following year that Angus Sinclair finally closed the file on Gaston Lang and his many aliases. Despite weeks of patient digging little more had emerged to flesh out the figure whose shadowy past, like the single grainy snapshot supplied to the police by Philip Vane, offered no more than an impression of the man behind the mask.
‘We’ve found out all we ever will about him, sir. I think it’s time to write finis to the case.’
Sinclair had offered his verdict to the assistant commissioner after Bennett had summoned him to his office, along with Chief Superintendent Holly, so that he could inform them of the contents of a letter which he’d received from Berlin.
‘It’s full of assurances… inquiries proceeding, and so forth
… but nothing beyond what they’ve already told us. “Many difficulties have arisen in the course of this investigation and the full truth may never be known.” I think Nebe’s warning us not to hold our breath.’
Bennett passed the letter across his desk to Sinclair who studied it for a moment.
‘Reichskriminaldirektor.’ The syllables tripped lightly off the chief inspector’s tongue. ‘There’s a mouthful for you, Arthur.’ He handed the letter on to the chief super, who was sitting beside him. ‘It seems at least one of our Berlin brethren knows which side his bread is buttered. No surprise there, by the way, sir.’ He addressed himself to Bennett. ‘There’s a good reason why they won’t pursue this matter. I’ve received a letter myself on the same subject. I’ll get to it in a moment. But first, let me sum up what we’ve gathered in the way of information. It’s been accumulating somewhat in my absence.’
The chief inspector had only recently returned from Manchester where he’d been engaged for some time in a complicated case of company fraud.
‘The Swiss police have delved a little deeper into Lang’s background and come up with one rather chilling detail. It certainly made my hair stand on end when I read it.’ Sinclair grimaced. ‘You’ll recall what we learned from them earlier. That he was born a bastard. His mother was a domestic servant in a village not far from Geneva and if she knew who the father of her child was she never said. In any event, she died soon after he was born and Lang was taken in by the village pastor and his wife who gave him their name and raised him as a son along with their own baby daughter.’
‘Yes, I remember.’ Bennett sipped at a cup of tea. He’d had a tray sent in. ‘But later they dispatched him to an orphanage. We wondered why.’
Holly rumbled in accord. ‘They were still making inquiries, as I recall.’
‘Yes, the problem was they’d lost track of the pastor. Lang, of course, his name was. His wife had died and he’d disappeared from the village. More than that: it turned out he was no longer a churchman; he’d left the ministry.’
‘What about his daughter?’ Holly frowned. ‘She must have known something.’
The chief inspector grunted. He was staring into the cup of tea which he held balanced on his knee.
‘That’s part of what I have to tell you.’ He looked up. ‘It’s what the Swiss police learned after they’d tracked down Lang. The pastor, I mean. He was living in another part of Switzerland, in a village in the mountains, near Davos. He’d become a recluse, and at first was unwilling to respond to their questions. In particular, he didn’t wish to hear any mention of the boy: of the child he and his wife had raised.’ Sinclair shrugged. ‘However, by degrees they broke down his resistance and in the end he told them the story.’
The chief inspector paused. He appeared to be choosing his words.
‘It seems clear to me, reading between the lines, that they didn’t understand what it was they had burdened themselves with. The pastor and his wife, I mean. What affliction they had brought into their lives. As the boy grew older they realized he was not like others: that he had neither the desire nor the capacity to make those connections necessary in human society: that he was quite alone in the world and content to be so. But the picture was darker than that. Quite early on they detected a strain of deliberate cruelty in him. He had to be kept away from domestic pets, which he was prone to torture, and also had to be watched when in the company of other small children.’
Sinclair shook his head. ‘This is a theme we’re familiar with. It crops up time and again in cases involving violent offenders, particularly sexual criminals. Childhood experience is sometimes held to account for this sort of extreme anti-social behaviour. But it’s by no means the rule, and would seem to have been absent in this case, where the boy was shown nothing but kindness by his foster parents. Did something happen to him earlier, you may ask – during the months he was with his mother?’ The chief inspector shrugged. ‘I’ve no answer to that. In fact, I’ve no explanation to offer beyond the somewhat chilling observation that as a species we seem to possess a capacity for savagery that defies reason. That these seeds must lie in all of us. And that it’s a lesson history teaches us over and over, and which we never seem to learn.’
The chief inspector coughed to cover up his embarrassment. He wasn’t sure why he’d said what he’d just said, except that in some way it was related to the talk he had had with Franz Weiss at Highfield, and beyond that to some broader comprehension of which he had not, until that moment, been aware.
‘Forgive me. I’m digressing. To return to the earlier point, the pattern of behaviour I’ve described continued throughout the boy’s childhood, which was marked, in particular, by a growing hostility towards his stepsister. There seemed no reason for this, other than the fact that they were thrown together, and not surprisingly, the girl came in time to return the sentiment, and as she grew older made common cause with the other village children, who seem to have been united in their dislike of the boy. He himself, while still quite young, began to pursue a solitary pattern of life, and having developed an interest in birds took to wandering in the countryside, spending long hours away from home.’
The chief inspector sighed. He eyed his two listeners.
‘One can only pity the parents in their attempts to deal with this catastrophe that had befallen them. No doubt things would have been different these days. They might have been able to seek help from competent medical authorities. But they lived a simple rural existence and Pastor Lang was apparently of a disposition to treat whatever trials came his way as an expression of God’s will; a test of his faith. It seems he was determined to do right by the child. However, a point was reached where the situation became untenable. The boy was twelve and increasingly difficult to control. Perhaps he sensed weakness in his foster parent; a lack of resolution. At all events the Langs decided he would have to go and the pastor arranged for him to be taken in by a church-run institution, an orphanage of sorts, in Geneva. He informed the boy accordingly.
‘“He looked at me with his pale eyes and said nothing.” ’
The change in the chief inspector’s tone caught his listeners off guard.
‘It’s a line from the report the Swiss police sent us. I find it sticks in the memory.’ Sinclair glanced at them both. ‘His departure was set for two weeks hence. He was assured he would return home for holidays at regular intervals. Still he had shown no reaction. A few days before he was due to go his stepsister went missing. A search was organized and her body was found in a gully not far away. It seemed she’d had a fall and broken her neck. There was some damage to her face: her nose had been broken and her features disfigured.’
‘Good God!’ Holly was dumbstruck. ‘And the boy did it? Is that what you’re saying? But why, man, why?’
‘For spite? For pleasure?’ Sinclair shrugged. ‘No one can answer that question, Arthur. No one but Lang. And he took his secrets with him.’
Bennett stared at the blotter on his desk. ‘Was the boy questioned about it?’ he asked. ‘Was he a suspect?’
‘Apparently not. He’d wandered off as he often did earlier and returned to be told the news. Or so he made out. Although the police were called in they concluded it was an accident. The girl appeared to have fallen from a height and to have rolled down the gully. There was no evidence of an assault, sexual or otherwise, and no reports of any strangers being seen in the vicinity.’
‘But his stepfather, this pastor, thought the boy was responsible?’
‘He indicated as much to the police when they tracked him down. Though whether he thought so at the time, I can’t say. Perhaps the realization came to him later. In any case there was no proof. Suffice to say, neither he nor his wife ever saw their stepson again. She died a year later and he left the church soon afterwards. He told the detectives who interviewed him that he’d lost his faith and explained why. He said the boy had been born beyond the reach of God’s mercy and that since such a thing could not be, or not in the world he’d believed in, he could no longer continue with his ministry. He had ceased to pray, except for death.’
Bennett rose and went to the window. The day was showery and he examined the cloud-covered sky outside.
‘What happened to Lang? To the boy, I mean?’
‘He was sent to the orphanage, as planned. Interestingly enough, his record there was unexceptional. He gave no trouble and was marked down as intelligent, but unresponsive. Again, he made no friends, and shortly before his sixteenth birthday he absconded. He walked out of the place and was never seen again. We’ve no way of knowing how he spent the next few years, though it’s likely he lived by his wits. Equally, there’s no clue as to what kind of sexual life he might have had during these years. Perhaps none. Until the murder for which he was sought, which occurred when he was in his twenties, there was no record – in Switzerland, at least – of any similar unresolved crimes. Mind you, he’d been working for Hoffmann for some time, often as a courier, so it’s not to say he didn’t take advantage of his trips abroad. For what it’s worth, I’m inclined to think that in these earlier years, at least, he was able to hold himself in check. The kind of life he’d fallen into was already dangerous enough. He can’t have wanted to add to it. The killing for which the Swiss police sought him may well have been his first. But as I’ve told you, the information we’ve received from the various police forces around Europe is sketchy at best. All we can say for sure is that there are a number of unsolved sexual crimes in the countries we know he’s visited, some of them not dissimilar to the attacks he specialized in.’
The chief inspector broke off to place his cup of tea, untasted, on the desk before him. Bennett remained by the window. But he had turned to listen.
‘It’s tempting to believe that his fixation with facial assaults harks back to the murder of his stepsister, and I’ve no doubt a psychologist would make much of it. The increasing ferocity of these episodes over the course of time suggests they were gaining a hold on him. Certainly he took more risks. If he hadn’t stopped to attack that child near Midhurst last November, he might have escaped. My God! Just imagine him wandering about America! The sheer size of it. Would we ever have caught him, I wonder?’
Holly growled his agreement. A frown had settled on the chief super’s face as he’d listened.
Bennett returned to his desk. ‘You said you’d received a letter, Chief Inspector. I gather it has some bearing on the German attitude to this investigation?’
‘Yes, I have it with me.’ Sinclair took an envelope from his pocket and removed several handwritten pages from it. He spread them on his knee. ‘It’s from Inspector Probst – I’m sure you remember him. He wants all the facts about this case to be made known. That’s why he’s written to me. It’s a letter I’d rather not place in the file. There’s no telling what kind of relations we’ll end up having with the new order in Berlin once the dust’s settled over there – though for my part, I hope they’re minimal – but I wouldn’t like to think it might fall into the wrong hands one day.’
‘I see…’ Bennett’s eyes had narrowed. ‘But isn’t he taking a risk writing to you behind his superior’s backs?’
‘A risk, I’m sure. But he’s not with the police any longer, so it isn’t a question of him disobeying orders. He resigned as soon as the Nazis took over at the end of January. “As a policeman one cannot serve criminals: it is a contradiction in terms.”’ Chuckling, Sinclair read from one of the pages. ‘He doesn’t pull his punches, does he? Of course, he wouldn’t have lasted in the job. One of the first things the Nazis did when they took over was purge the police. He’s amusing on that score, too. Well, perhaps “amusing” is not quite the right word…’
The chief inspector squinted at the sheet of paper he was holding.
‘“Goering came in person to the Alexanderplatz and shook many hands.”’ He quoted from the page. ‘“They say he’s good company; jovial; the war hero with the common touch. I looked into his eyes and saw a natural-born killer. How well I know the type.”’
Sinclair laid the sheet of paper back on his knee.
‘But with regard to the Lang investigation, Probst said they’d continued with it up to the time the government changed hands. Inquiring into his background, that is. Whether or not they guessed that he was an agent he doesn’t say. But he describes his past as “murky” and says he was not what he seemed to be: in other words the representative of an Austrian textile firm. In tracing his movements between Berlin and Munich they also discovered his Nazi connections, and it was at this point, or very soon afterwards, that the inquiry was brought to a halt. Whether Nebe acted on his own initiative, or was spoken to, isn’t clear. But he seems to have known which way the wind was blowing. Probst says the investigation is no longer being actively pursued; nor will it be.’
There was silence while Bennett absorbed what he’d been told.
‘Of course, he joined the party, didn’t he? Vane told us that.’
‘Indeed he did, sir.’
‘And the last thing the Nazis would want is for their reputations to be tarred by a case like this only months after they’ve taken power.’
‘I’m sure that thought occurred to them.’
‘So even if they do discover some link to our intelligence service it’s unlikely they’d want to air it. Mud sticks, after all.’
‘Quite. And there’s no prospect of anything more coming out at this end, is there? Lang’s background remains a mystery as far as our press is concerned. My impression is they’ve given up digging. I think your friends in Whitehall can sleep easy.’
‘My friends, Chief Inspector?’ Bennett favoured him with a stony glance.
‘A slip of the tongue, sir.’
Sinclair had derived some amusement from the minuet he had just performed with his superior. Not so Holly, who cleared his throat loudly.
‘Well, I think it’s a damned disgrace,’ he said bluntly. ‘The whole wretched business. What’s worse is, no one’s going to answer for it.’
In the embarrassed silence that followed, Sinclair returned Probst’s letter to his pocket.
‘And we’ve no cause to congratulate ourselves, either.’ The chief super was working up a head of steam. ‘There’s only one person who comes out of this with any credit: John Madden. I hope you’ll tell him that when you see him next, Angus. And thank him from me.
‘I will, Arthur,’ Sinclair promised him. He looked at his colleague with affection. ‘And sooner than you think. I’m going down to Highfield this weekend.’
A solitary figure was standing on the platform when Sinclair’s train pulled into Highfield. As he stepped from the compartment, the glint of sunlight on golden hair caught his eye. Helen Madden advanced down the platform to greet him.
‘John was planning to meet you himself. But the children insisted on an expedition into the woods. They’ve been cooped up for days with the rain we’ve been having. They’ll come back soaked, I know.’
The showery weather she’d been speaking of had begun to clear at lunchtime and the chief inspector’s train had passed through sunlit fields bright with spring flowers.
‘The house is packed at the moment. I hope you won’t find it too much for you. Franz was so pleased when he heard you were coming down. But you won’t see him till this evening. He’s been in London all day house-hunting.’
The blue woollen dress she was wearing matched the colour of her eyes, Sinclair noted. The pleasure he took in her company had never diminished with the years and he felt a lightening of his step as she linked her arm in his. They went out to where her car was parked.
‘I know you’ve been away, but it seems ages since we last saw you. I’m afraid it took me a while to get over that dreadful business. I needed time to recover.’
She glanced at him. They were driving past the village green.
‘But I’ve thought of you often, and particularly the day we went down to Midhurst. That family… the Ramsays… invited us. Not for the first time, either, poor dears. They wanted to thank John. But I hadn’t felt able to face them before. I thought it would be too upsetting. But it turned out to be a lovely day. Mrs Ramsay had organized a picnic for the children on the Downs and they’d also invited the man who was stabbed, Sam Watkin, and his family. It was his friend whose body was found in the burned out barn later. Eddie was his name. But they’d all known him, it seems, and they talked of him with such affection, particularly the girl, Nell, and her mother. They’d been trying to help him find a proper job – the Ramsays, I mean – and John and I could see how upset they still were by what happened.’
She mused in silence for a few moments.
‘Afterwards we walked up to the farm. The children insisted on seeing it and Nell told them the whole story. Needless to say, they were spellbound. They wanted to hear all the grisly details. It was poor John who couldn’t bear to listen. All he could think of was what might have happened. He knew better than anyone how close it came to ending in tragedy. People who don’t know him think he’s detached and unaffected by things. It’s because of his manner. But he’s not like that at all. He’s quite the opposite.’
She brushed a tear from her eye, then turned towards him, smiling. ‘But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’ She touched his cheek with her hand as she spoke, a simple gesture that brought joy to the heart of the chief inspector, who saw that after all he had been forgiven. ‘That was a month ago, and it was only a few days later that I went to Germany.’
‘Yes, I heard about that from John. He rang me.’ The chief inspector became animated. ‘You brought Dr Weiss and his family back?’
‘I went over to help with the move. It seemed sensible, since I’m the one who speaks German, and I worried that Franz might not be able to manage on his own. You know his wife died?’
‘John told me.’
‘That was soon after Christmas. And something else dreadful had happened. They have two children, a son studying in America, and a daughter called Lotte, who was married to a university lecturer in Berlin, a young man called Josef Stern. He was active in politics, too much so, perhaps, and in the weeks before the Nazis came to power he got involved in a street battle with some brown shirt thugs and was terribly beaten. He never recovered consciousness and died in hospital. So thank heavens I went. They were both distraught, Franz and his daughter, quite unable to cope, and I took care of everything.
‘They had a house on the Wannsee, outside Berlin. It’s by the lake and lovely in summer when the trees are in leaf. But we never saw the sun while I was there, just leaden cloud. There’s a wall at the back of the house, and on the day I got there I found a Star of David daubed in yellow on it. I had it removed. The next day it was back, and again I made the gardener wash it off. And so it went on, day after day. I never saw who did it: there wasn’t a soul about. But each morning the star was there again. I finally got the house cleared and the furniture carted away, but I felt dreadful doing it. John and I spent a holiday with the family there two years ago and all I could think of was how happy they had been.’
She fell silent, and they continued through the village, passing the locked gates of Melling Lodge. Soon they were turning into the familiar drive where the lime trees were green with new leaf.
‘Franz is looking for a house in Hampstead. He wants to set up in practice. Lotte will live with him. She has a daughter called Hana, who’s six. Lucy’s taken a great fancy to her. She has such passions for people, my Lucy. Did you know your Billy Styles is one of her favourites?’
They’d arrived at the front door. Helen’s smile had returned.
‘He brought his fiancee down to meet us not long ago. Elsie’s her name. It must have been trying for the poor girl. Being put on parade is never easy. But to make matters worse, Lucy spent the entire day stalking her like a panther, watching her every move. Heaven knows when she’ll pluck up the courage to visit us again.’
Shown to his room, Sinclair returned downstairs ten minutes later to find his hostess sitting in a garden chair on the terrace, from which vantage point all the colours of spring were to be seen in the beds bordering the lawn and the air was sweet with the smell of honeysuckle.
Some movement was visible in a shrubbery near the bottom of garden and presently a man emerged from it pushing a wheelbarrow. The chief inspector peered in that direction. He was about to speak, when Helen gestured, pointing.
‘There they are now.’
Following the direction she indicated, Sinclair caught sight of a pair of darting figures which had appeared, as if by magic, at the very bottom of the garden, flitting through the orchard like sprites, two separate forms that nevertheless seemed joined, since they moved as one.
‘Those are the two girls,’ Helen explained, seeing the chief inspector’s furrowed brow. ‘Lucy’s on the left. I told her about Hana’s father dying and her response has been to keep a firm grip on her. To show her that she’s there and won’t disappear. At least, I think that’s how she reasons.’
They watched as the two figures suddenly veered to one side and set off in pursuit of the man with the wheelbarrow who was disappearing at that moment into another part of the shrubbery and whose movements the chief inspector was following with close attention. His observation was interrupted once again, however, by the appearance of Madden, who came striding out of the orchard just then in the company of a pair of young boys, one of whom Sinclair recognized as his friends’ son.
‘Who’s the other?’ he asked Helen, shading his eyes. The sun was low in the sky; the afternoon light was fading.
‘Will Stackpole’s son, Ted. It means a lot to me that he and Rob are such friends. Will’s someone I love. He was the first boy who ever kissed me.’ She smiled in recollection. ‘I was Lucy’s age, six or seven. He made eyes at me all one summer. I love seeing them together now, the boys. But it makes me anxious. They keep growing older…’
‘Why should that bother you?’
‘Because there’s going to be another war.’
She spoke the words in so natural a tone it was a moment or two before the chief inspector registered what she’d said.
‘Oh, surely not.’ He responded automatically. ‘I mean you can’t be sure… so many things can happen…’ He fell silent. She seemed not to have heard him.
‘I can’t tell you how awful I felt in Berlin.’ Helen’s eyes were on the figures advancing up the lawn. ‘The flags, the uniforms, the strutting. And the never-ending rant. I saw one uniform. It was black. Black from head to toe. The badge on the cap was a death’s head. Can you imagine?’
She held her face in her hands.
‘I knew then…’
He said nothing. Allowing her time to recover, he waved to Madden, who waved back, but then gestured to demonstrate some intention on his part, which presently became clear when he and the boys changed course, directing their steps towards the side of the house where the kitchen lay.
‘They’re going to leave their muddy shoes there. They’ll come in the other way.’
Helen ran her fingers through her hair. Next moment the smile was back on her lips and he saw that something else had caught her eye.
The two little girls had emerged from the shrubbery where they’d been hidden from sight and were running up the lawn, still hand in hand, towards them. The fairer of the two whom he now recognized as Lucy held a bunch of yellow daffodils in her free hand. As they ascended the steps of the terrace, Helen rose to meet them.
‘For you, Mummy,’ Lucy declared breathlessly, thrusting the dripping flowers into her grasp. Well spattered with mud, the pair seemed in haste to continue on their headlong course, but Helen checked them.
‘What on earth have you been doing? Just look at poor Hana.’
She spoke a few words of German to the dark-haired child, who replied breathlessly in the same language. Both girls were pawing the terrace in their eagerness to be off.
‘It’s time for your baths.’ Helen turned to her daughter again.
‘Mary’s waiting upstairs. Take Hana with you. And don’t pull her arm off-!’
The warning came too late. Shrieking as one, the two little girls sprang away and as though glued together ran full tilt across the terrace and into the house.
‘Introductions will have to wait, I’m afraid.’
Leaving his hostess to shake the water from the bouquet she’d been given, Sinclair got up from his chair and moved to the edge of the terrace. He peered down into the gloaming. The figure he’d noticed earlier was advancing up the lawn now, pushing the wheelbarrow in front of him. The chief inspector could contain his curiosity no longer.
‘Who on earth is that?’ he asked. ‘And what’s he got on his head?’
‘Can’t you guess?’ Helen answered in a teasing tone. ‘It’s Topper. Surely you remember him.’
‘I’ve not had the pleasure of making his acquaintance. But I recall the name well. Am I not right in thinking he was summoned to give evidence at the inquest in Guildford… and never appeared?’ Sinclair turned to regard his hostess. ‘Harbouring fugitives, are you, Dr Madden?’
Helen smiled. ‘He turned up out of the blue just after Christmas. John set him up in one of the stalls at the farm with plenty of bedding and a stove. Luckily Tom Cooper went down with rheumatism just then. I say luckily, because Topper doesn’t like accepting charity beyond the odd meal. So we’ve turned him into a sort of substitute gardener, and he seems happy doing it.’
She paused. The figure had come to a halt just below the terrace and Sinclair took in the spectacle of the hat with its jaunty pheasant plume.
He watched as Topper removed it and bowed. Helen smiled to him in response.
‘Goodnight, Topper. And thank you the lovely flowers.’
Replacing his hat, he continued on his way without a word, disappearing around the side of the house.
‘John says he’ll pack up his bundle one of these days and move on, but I hope not. I don’t like to think of him wandering around. He’s too old. He needs a home.’ She was looking at the daffodils in her hand and he saw her brush something from her cheek. ‘My hope is he’ll find it hard to leave now. He so loves the children.’
‘The children?’ Sinclair glanced at the flowers she was holding, then at her face, which was turned away. ‘Aye… the children.’
‘Oh, dear…’ She made no pretence now about wiping away the tears which had started from her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Angus. I still haven’t got over that awful business. I lost my nerve for a while, and I’m not sure I’ve got it back. I’m afraid of the future. I see dreadful things ahead. Look what’s happened to poor Franz and his family. How many others will suffer in the same way? Who will help them? It’s as though some terrible dark night is about to descend on us all and I want to protect the people I love and care for, but I don’t know how, or even if I can…’
‘My dear…’ Seeing her distress, the chief inspector put his arm around her and tried to comfort her. ‘It’s because you’re still upset. These wounds take a long time to heal.’
‘Yes, of course…’ She touched his cheek. ‘Dear Angus…’
She collected herself.
‘I must put these in water. Come inside, if you like, or stay and watch the sun go down. I love the way the colours of the trees change as the light dies. John will be here in a moment, but I warn you he’ll be busy. As soon as the girls come down he’ll have to read to them. Lucy’s trying to teach Hana English and she thinks having her listen to The Wind in the Willows will do the trick. I believe Mr Toad is about to set off in his motor car, so the proceedings might get noisy. But come in soon. I want us all to be together.’
He waited until she had gone inside, then turned to look out once more over the deserted garden, his mind full of what she had said. The day was nearly over and only the topmost trees of Upton Hanger still glinted in the dying light. The rest of the long wooded ridge was already plunged in Stygian gloom, and the chief inspector was not disposed to linger. As he stood there a wash of light fell about his feet from the lamps that were being switched on in the drawing room and he heard the high-pitched cries of the children.
Drawn by the thought of the warmth inside and the many dear faces around, he hesitated no longer, turning his back on the end of the day.
And on the dark night that was coming.