‘What make of car are you talking about?’ Vane spoke in a dead voice. His eyes were fixed on the chief inspector.
‘A Mercedes-Benz saloon.’
‘You’re aware that I own one, of course?’ He remained expressionless.
Sinclair nodded.
‘Purchased in the same period we’re discussing, too.’ Vane put a hand to his chin. His glance hadn’t wavered. ‘And on that basis alone, you feel justified in considering me a suspect? In questioning me? Please, Sir Wilfred…’ He held up his hand as Bennett made to speak. ‘Let the chief inspector answer.’
‘No, Mr Vane. Not on that basis alone.’ Cool as he hoped he might sound, Sinclair was aware of the sudden increase in tension between them; it was almost palpable now. And despite the deep well of experience he had to draw on in confrontations of this kind, it was all he could do to maintain a calm exterior. ‘From the moment these crimes came to our attention – I mean both the earlier and the more recent ones – we’ve been puzzled by the long gap in time separating them. Only lately have we acquired information that might possibly explain this. I emphasize the word possibly. Inquiries of this kind are largely a matter of eliminating suspects. That’s what we’re trying to do here.’ Just for a moment the chief inspector’s nerve had failed him, but Vane gave him no credit for this fractional retreat; nor respite.
‘Forgive me if I express some doubts on that score, Mr Sinclair. I think you came here with quite another object in mind. But you were saying – indicating, at any rate – that you had further reason to regard me with suspicion. Pray tell me what it is?’ His manner had become glacial.
‘By all means.’ Angered by his own momentary weakness, Sinclair met the other man’s icy gaze without flinching. ‘Following inquiries abroad, we have now been informed that a series of murders similar to the ones I’ve described are currently under investigation by the German police. These crimes fit into a very precise span of time: the first occurred in December 1929, and the sixth and last in April of this year. We are aware that you were posted to the British Embassy in Berlin during that period. Indeed, the coincidence is striking, at least from our point of view. You went to Berlin in October of 1929, did you not? And returned to England in early summer this year?’
So complete was the silence that followed his words, the chief inspector was able to pick up the whirr of a pigeon’s wings in the courtyard outside. Vane’s eyes remained fixed on him. But his gaze had turned glassy. Aware that the man had suffered some kind of shock, Sinclair waited for him to speak. He’d already formed the opinion that Philip Vane was not an individual who would break easily; nevertheless, his response, when it came finally, proved to be a disappointment.
‘What is it you wish to ask me, Chief Inspector?’ Apart from moistening his lips, he appeared calm. ‘Specifically, I mean?’
‘Initially, I should like you to account for your movements on two separate days this summer. July the twenty-seventh and the eighth of September.’
Vane nodded as though the request was a perfectly normal one. ‘Those, I take it, would be the days on which the two most recent murders were committed?’ He spoke in a toneless voice and Sinclair could read nothing in his face.
‘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 appearance of calm himself. ‘As far as the police are concerned, this is a murder case, pure and simple. No connection with intelligence work would be admitted by the prosecution, I’m sure, and if the defence tried to drag it in, there’s always the resort of in camera proceedings. Of course, I can’t speak for what might happen if the killer were brought to trial abroad.’
‘Then let’s do our utmost to see if we can prevent that.’ Bennett’s tone was dry. ‘Please continue.’ He nodded to Vane, who squared the file on the desktop before him, as though ordering his thoughts.
‘I’ll start by giving you some background,’ he said. ‘Of necessity, this must be limited to what I believe you need to know. I assume it comes as no surprise to either of you that the Foreign Office should be involved in intelligence gathering. Traditionally, this has always been so, even now when a secret service exists in departmental form. I was earmarked for this work a while back and in recent years Germany has become my special area of responsibility.’ He paused, as though picking his words with care.
‘There are various sides to intelligence gathering, but I’m referring now to just one of them: a category of persons whom we use to acquire certain kinds of information and to carry out particular assignments. Agents, in short-or spies, if you prefer – professionals who are expert in the field of espionage and employed for that purpose. The British services have at their disposal a number of such men – and women. They’re engaged mainly to carry out functions of a questionable nature that no diplomat or other government official could afford to be associated with.’
Again he paused, this time to raise his eyes to theirs.
‘I regret to have to tell you that the man you’re seeking is one of these.’
‘An agent employed by this country?’ Sinclair wanted to be clear on the point. Vane nodded.
‘Would you give me his name?’ Seeing the other hesitate, the chief inspector spoke quickly. ‘I warn you now you have no right under any law to withhold it.’