‘Mr Vane will see you now.’
The young man rose from behind his desk in the anteroom and went to an inner door. The very epitome of diplomatic tact, he had apologized gracefully to Bennett and Sinclair when they’d arrived for the austere conditions of his tiny office. Taking their hats and coats, he’d invited them, again with an apology, to sit down in two straight-backed chairs of civil service issue while he reported their presence to his superior.
It was the first time the chief inspector had set foot in the Foreign and Colonial Office and his impressions thus far had been fleeting. The marble-floored entrance below had been imposing enough, as were the uniformed commissionaires who received them. But once their identities had been established and the purpose of their visit determined, a clerk had been summoned to escort them upstairs to the second floor. There, a series of corridors, thinly carpeted, and on which their footsteps echoed dully, had led to an unmarked door where their guide had paused, knocked softly and then ushered them inside.
During the few minutes they’d had to wait before being admitted to Vane’s presence Sinclair had had the leisure to go over in his mind the tangled trail that had brought them to this encounter. Bennett’s last-minute revelation of Vane’s likely true occupation hadn’t materially altered the situation, at least as far as he was concerned, though he could well understand the consternation it might arouse in other government circles.
His own duty was clear to him. But he was able to extend a degree of silent sympathy to his chief as they sat side by side in silence. The strain of the past few days was clearly stamped on Sir Wilfred’s drawn features and his slight frame seemed bowed by the weight of worry he bore. Sinclair was aware that the assistant commissioner might have done more to avoid being entangled in the interview they were about to conduct, with its consequent threat to his career. His own direct superior, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, had been informed of what was afoot, and, perhaps recognizing a poisoned chalice when he saw one, had taken no steps to intervene. Had Bennett wished to, however, he could have drawn him, and others, into sharing a portion of the risk he now faced. Instead, he’d chosen to grasp the nettle alone, and the chief inspector admired him for it.
Vane’s secretary, if that was what he was, opened the inner door and then stood back to allow the two Scotland Yard officials to enter the office beyond. Looking onto an inner courtyard, it was more spacious than the anteroom, but still modest in size and decorated with a spare elegance that seemed to reflect its occupant, who rose from behind a polished desk, bare of ornament, to receive them.
‘Sir Wilfred… it’s been a while since we last met.’ Philip Vane bowed slightly, but made no move to come around his desk to greet them.
‘How are you, Vane?’ The assistant commissioner kept his tone neutral. ‘May I introduce Chief Inspector Sinclair. He’s a senior officer in the CID.’
Vane’s eyebrows rose a fraction as he gestured towards a matched pair of chairs, which Sinclair was unable to identify as to style or period, beyond recognizing that they had certainly not issued from any government warehouse. The chief inspector’s attention had strayed only momentarily from the figure seated behind the desk, who remained standing until his visitors were seated. Of medium height and sparely built, his thin, aristocratic features had been faithfully reproduced in the magazine picture obtained by the Yard; but what the photographic image failed to convey was the poise and confidence of its subject. He seemed in no hurry as he waited for them to settle and if his expression betrayed mild boredom with the occasion, Sinclair assumed it was no more than a cultivated air. He’d already detected in Philip Vane a certain kind of Englishman, common enough in the upper ranks of society, with whom, thankfully, he had little to do, either in his work or his private life.
‘The CID?’ Vane allowed a hint of curiosity to show on his face. ‘Not Special Branch? Well, you’ve got me wondering, Sir Wilfred.’ He sat back in his chair, surveying them both. ‘What is it you wish to see me about?’
‘One of our current investigations.’ Bennett’s reply came promptly, as though he wished to give himself no time to reconsider. ‘Or rather a series of investigations that are being conducted by the police in this country under the guidance of Scotland Yard. It goes without saying that we wouldn’t be here now if the matter were not a grave one, nor if there was any way of resolving it without approaching you personally. With reluctance, I’ve concluded there is not. In short, we require your assistance.’ He looked directly at Vane. ‘If you’re agreeable, I’ll now ask Chief Inspector Sinclair to explain in more detail.’
‘Chief Inspector?’ Vane turned his hooded gaze on the other man facing him. He appeared quite at ease.
Angus Sinclair opened the file that lay on his knee. Although perfectly familiar with its contents, he liked to have it with him and was not above using it, as he did now, to create an artificial pause while he pretended to sort through some papers. He looked up.
‘The investigations Sir Wilfred referred to concern a series of brutal murders committed in this country over the past few years. The first took place in 1929. A further two have occurred more recently, during the past summer. The victims were all young girls, children, either just in their teens or younger. They were raped and strangled. A common element in each of these crimes was a post-mortem assault carried out by the killer on his victims’ faces. In the two most recent attacks he battered them to pulp.’
The chief inspector had kept what he thought were the most telling words till last, and he was disappointed to see no trace of a reaction from his listener.
‘Continue.’ Vane shifted slightly in his chair.
‘It’s the first of these killings I want to discuss with you. It took place in July 1929, but because the victim’s body was thrown into the Thames and not recovered until recently, it has only just been recognized that a crime occurred. Nevertheless, we’ve been able to determine with some certainty what happened that day. Briefly, a twelve-year-old girl was picked up by the murderer and taken in his car to the scene of the crime, which was a nudists’ club called Waltham Manor, just outside Henley, in Oxfordshire. Despite the lapse in time, we’ve also been able to identify the make of car which the killer used. By good fortune – ours, at any rate – it turns out to have been a foreign-made machine, rare enough on our roads, and we’ve succeeded in pinning it down to a model that only went on sale in this country in the spring of that year. The list of those who purchased such a car in that period is short and we’ve had no trouble tracing them.’
‘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.’
‘No, it’s not that. You don’t understand.’ Vane shook his head. ‘Of course I’ll give you his name. But which? He’s gone by so many. To us he’s known as Wahl, Emil Wahl; that’s how he appears in this file.’ He tapped the folder before him. ‘But his real name is Gaston Lang. That’s what he was christened.’
‘Lang, you say?’ Sinclair opened his notebook. As he reached for the pen in his pocket, he saw Vane shake his head.
‘Write it down if you wish, Chief Inspector, but it’ll do you no good. Of all the names Lang might be using now, I can assure you it’s the one he’ll never go by again.’
‘He’d been working for us for many years by the time I met him-that was in the summer of 1929. But his association with our intelligence branch goes back to the war, and it’s important you know how this came about.’
Vane eyed his two listeners.
‘At that time British intelligence had an outstanding agent working for them, a Swiss called Ernst Hoffmann. He was based in Geneva and through him and his various contacts and sub-agents we were able to obtain an extraordinary amount of valuable information from inside Germany. Lang was his secretary.’
Vane frowned.
‘We knew little about him. Apparently he grew up in an orphanage. Nevertheless, in spite of what could only have been the most limited schooling, he’d managed to catch the eye of Ernst Hoffmann and by the time our people got to know him he’d mastered several languages as well as other skills which his employer must have deemed necessary for his education.’
His raised eyebrow hinted at a meaning not apparent in his words.
‘Hoffmann was an art dealer, by the way: it was a genuine business, and he used it as a cover for his other activities. He was already working for us before the war and during that period he used Lang as a courier and go-between to keep contact with his agents in Germany.
‘So he was well-placed to help us when war broke out, but in 1917 he died – quite unexpectedly, he had a heart attack while sitting in a cafe – and Lang was left to take over his work. With gratifying results, at least as far as our people were concerned. Hoffman’s death had thrown them into a panic and they were only too pleased to discover that this young man was able to carry on in his place, and just as effectively.
‘However, about a year later, in the spring of 1918, he turned up without warning in France and made his way to the British sector of the front, in the north, where he reported to our intelligence branch. He had a curious tale to tell. He said he’d been identified as a British operative by German counter-intelligence agents in Switzerland who had succeeded in falsely incriminating him with the Swiss police. He’d only narrowly escaped arrest and had managed to slip across the border clandestinely into France.’
‘Incriminating him?’ Sinclair seized on the word. ‘As a spy, do you mean?’
Vane shook his head. ‘He was being sought for murder. The victim was a young girl.’
‘Good lord!’ Bennett couldn’t contain his astonishment.
Beside him, the chief inspector’s eyes had narrowed. ‘And they believed him? These so-called intelligence officials?’
Vane shrugged. ‘It would have been difficult, if not impossible, to check the truth of his story. The world of agents, of spies, is a murky one at best. It wouldn’t have been the first time one of them had been discredited in this manner. And the war was still going on, remember. He told them more. He said there’d been an attempt made on his life engineered by these same Germans in conjunction with two Swiss detectives who were in their pay. After a struggle he’d managed to escape, leaving one of the detectives dead. Stabbed. He carries a knife.’
‘So now there were two murder charges against him.’ Sinclair could hardly trust himself to speak.
Vane saw the look on his face. ‘Try to understand how the situation must have appeared to our people. The war was being fought as fiercely as ever. No one guessed it would be over in a few months. Lang had brought a great deal of valuable information with him. He was the only person who knew the details of Hoffmann’s network in Germany. The names of his agents. At that particular moment he was of immense value to the Allied cause.’
‘So? What happened?’
‘Lang disappeared. He was never heard of again. Emil Wahl, a citizen of Belgium, appeared in his place.’
‘With all the proper credentials, I suppose?’
Again Vane shrugged. ‘I can only repeat, this was a special situation. These things wouldn’t happen if wars weren’t fought.’
‘No, Mr Vane, I must correct you.’ The chief inspector’s voice was tight with anger. ‘These things wouldn’t happen if certain people did not choose to place themselves above the law. What those men did was condone one crime and commit another. It’s a disgraceful story. Disgraceful, do you hear me?’
Bennett gestured with his hand, trying to calm his colleague. But Vane showed no disposition to take offence. Rather, his rueful shrug seemed a tacit acceptance of the verdict delivered. With a sigh, he went on.
‘At this point I should mention that although Lang had worked for us in a number of European countries, because of this wartime episode – or his version of it – he’d never been posted to Germany. However, after a dozen years the danger of exposing him again to their counter-intelligence section was felt to have diminished, and he himself raised no objection to being sent there.
‘It was decided to bring him to London first, something which had never happened before, but a sign, if you like, of the value that was placed on his services. In certain quarters, at least.’ Vane’s face was expressionless. ‘Our first meeting was at a restaurant with others present and I took the opportunity to fix a second appointment with him. This would be for the briefing he would need before setting off for Berlin. Since I didn’t want him appearing at the Foreign Office, and since I was about to go on holiday anyway, I arranged for us to meet outside London.’
‘Had he been in England long?’ Sinclair had recovered his poise. ‘I’d like to get some idea of his movements.’
‘I gathered he’d been here for several weeks and had visited different parts of the country. He’d wanted a holiday before taking up his assignment. I can’t tell you where he went, but I know he’s a birdwatcher – it’s in his file. He’s something of an expert, I believe. It’s one of the few things we know about him.’
‘Thank you.’ The chief inspector inclined his head. ‘You were saying you’d fixed a second meeting with him?’
Vane nodded. ‘I’d arranged to stay with these friends of mine outside Oxford, and since I was due to travel north myself on the seventh, I’d settled with Lang that we should meet the day before. He’d agreed to take the train up to Oxford and said he planned to spend a night or two at an hotel there before returning to London. I picked him up at the station and took him to a pub in Woodstock where I’d booked a private room for lunch, and where I gave him a detailed briefing.’
He broke off, and sat staring at the desktop in front of him. As the silence grew longer, Sinclair and Bennett exchanged glances. It was a minute or more before the other man looked up. His eyes showed the same unfocussed glaze as before.
‘I won’t pretend I wasn’t curious to know him. Up till then he’d only been a name to me. But I was aware of his reputation and I approached the prospect of our meeting with caution.’ He paused once again. ‘I don’t suppose I need tell you that the qualities required for the kind of work Lang did for us are… quite special. It’s not a profession for the squeamish. But even so, there are limits… or there ought to be.’ Vane tapped the buff folder before him. ‘Unfortunately I can’t show you this. I’d be in breach of the law. But there are things in it you would find shocking. At least I hope so. They certainly were to me. If I were asked to characterize it I would say it was not so much a record of a man without scruple, as one without moral sense. So you’ll understand when I say I had considerable misgivings at the thought of working with him. Nor did this meeting of ours offer much in the way of reassurance.’
He mused for a moment, as though in recollection.
‘It’s not easy to describe the effect he had on me. In many ways he’s quite ordinary. Soft-spoken; almost diffident in manner. And the business side of things went without a hitch. I found him quick to grasp what I was telling him, exceptionally so. Nothing needed to be said twice. But it was as though there was a barrier between us. Something real, but transparent, like a pane of glass. And he was on one side of it and I was on the other and there was no connection between us. No human bond. Thinking about it afterwards, I realized this feeling I had sprang from his glance. His eyes. They were quite dead.’
Vane reflected on what he had said. Then he shrugged.
‘It must have been later, when we were driving into Oxford, that I made some reference to my car. It was new, as you know, and I’d bought it because I thought it would be easy to maintain in Germany and less noticeable than a British-made vehicle would have been. It so happened a minor problem had developed with the gears and I must have expressed some irritation over the fact that I couldn’t now drive up to Scotland the following day, as I’d intended, but would either have to leave it in a garage in Oxford, or find some way of getting it back to London, so that the necessary repairs could be made while I was away.
‘Whatever it was I said, Lang offered to deal with the matter. He said he planned to spend a day or two in the Oxford area, but would willingly drive the car to London for me after that. The worst of it is I so very nearly refused his offer, and for no other reason than that I’d taken such a strong dislike to him. But my reaction seemed out of all proportion, so in the end I let him have it. If only I’d followed my instincts!’
Visibly upset, he stared out of the window where lights could be seen burning in other windows across the courtyard.
‘What happened? Did he pick her up on the road?’ He spoke without looking round.
‘Yes, in Henley. She was running an errand for her mother. The shops were only a mile away.’
With a sigh, Vane turned to face them once more. He seemed paler than before. ‘The car was delivered to my garage in London, as promised. By the time I returned from Scotland, Lang was already in Germany establishing himself. I took up my own posting in Berlin in October. It was more than two years before I saw him again.’
‘Despite the fact you were there all that time?’ Sinclair was incredulous.
‘Yes, but that was by arrangement, you see. It wasn’t intended we should meet. Lang’s assignment was in the area of political intelligence and his orders were to recruit and control agents, to run them, as it were, and to forward their reports to me. Naturally it was important he should have no contact with our embassy in Berlin. My own position was nominally that of a senior attache with responsibilities in the economic field and I made sure our paths didn’t cross. He reported to me in writing.’
‘Did his duties take him to Munich, by any chance?’ Sinclair asked the question.
‘Most certainly.’ Vane hesitated. He bit his lip. ‘Look, there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell you what Lang was doing for us in Germany, provided you remain discreet about it. His specific brief was to cultivate contacts in the Nazi party. It’s something we’ve been slow to get on to. Like others, we’ve tended to dismiss them as rabble. Now it looks as though they may form part of the next government. Or, God forbid, end up running it.
‘Lang was sent to Berlin with the assumed character of a representative of an Austrian textile firm. His job was to insinuate himself into party circles with the aim of identifying individuals who might prove useful to us. It’s a delicate business, one he’d shown himself to be highly skilled at. He had an eye for picking out the kind of people who could either be bought or persuaded to cooperate by other means, not all of them savoury, and which I’ll leave to your imagination.’ Vane grimaced. ‘Suffice to say he was quite ruthless, something we’d taken note of in the past.
‘We’d so arranged it that the firm he was supposed to represent had business ties in Munich and this provided him with an excuse to go there and hang about the beer halls, so as to make his face known.’ He noticed the glance that passed between his visitors. ‘Why? Is that significant?’
‘To us, yes.’ Sinclair nodded. ‘Two of the murders I’ve spoken of took place in the Munich region.’
Vane absorbed the information with a frown. He made no comment. ‘Well, so much for our plans. Now I’ll tell you what occurred. For the first year or so everything ran like clockwork. Lang went about his work with his usual efficiency. In due course he joined the party and having identified various figures whose acquaintance might yield dividends later began to cultivate them. He lent money to several. All was proceeding according to plan. But then, midway through the second year, his work began to fall off. The change was gradual, but quite marked. His reports became irregular – something unheard of, he was methodical to a fault – and when they reached me showed signs of diminishing activity on his part. I remonstrated with him in writing several times, without effect, and was beginning to think a face-to-face meeting between us might be necessary when I received a message from him asking for just that. He wanted to see me urgently.’
Vane made a gesture of weariness. ‘There was little I could do but agree, and so we met at a small hotel in the country, outside Berlin, where he told me he wanted to cut short his assignment and leave Germany. He gave as his reason his growing suspicion that he’d been identified once more as a British agent. He insisted he was in danger and said he could no longer carry on with his work.’
‘When was this?’ Sinclair broke in. ‘Can you be precise?’
‘Early in June of this year. Does that tell you anything?’
‘Yes, the last in the chain of murders occurred in April. The Bavarian authorities got a lead from it and with the Berlin police mounted a campaign to identify the killer. They used the newspapers among other means. Lang must have been aware of that.’ Sinclair paused, curious. ‘What did you make of his behaviour?’ he asked.
Vane shrugged. ‘As regards his being exposed as one of our agents, I was far from convinced. After all, his activities weren’t directed against the state. But something was amiss. He was clearly under strain.’ He hesitated, gnawing at his lip. ‘I won’t pretend I had any sympathy for him. I found him no less alien than before. But I couldn’t discount the possibility that he might be cracking up, and immediately following our meeting I got in touch with London and it was decided we should withdraw him, temporarily at least. He let it be known he’d been called back to Vienna on some pretext and left Berlin.’
‘But came to England?’ The chief inspector was listening closely.
‘Yes, we brought him back here discreetly. We wanted to keep him under our eye until it had been decided what to do next. I took the opportunity to return to London myself. I had my own views on the subject and every intention of airing them.’
‘And where was Lang while all this was going on?’
‘In a clinic near Lewes, in Sussex. It’s a place we have a… connection with. He was told to take it easy for a few weeks. We arranged for him to receive treatment while he was there.’
‘For what, precisely?’
‘The doctors found he was suffering from nervous exhaustion, which came as no surprise. We’d seen other agents react to the pressures of their work in similiar ways. It’s a hazardous profession, after all. But I was more interested in what their psychiatrist had to say, man called Bell. It was clear he was fascinated by Lang. In his very first report he described him as an unusual patient, one whose personality he found disturbing, but difficult to penetrate. Opaque was the word he used.’
‘Was that all he had to say?’ Sinclair frowned.
‘At that stage, yes. And since he didn’t take issue with the more general diagnosis, Lang was treated simply for strain. He was encouraged to relax. On the advice of the doctors we’d provided him with a car and I understand he spent time driving about the countryside.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ The coolness had returned to Sinclair’s manner. ‘Well, I dare say he found occasion to pass by Bognor Regis. One of the two murders I mentioned took place near there, as you may recall.’
Vane’s face stiffened. But he said nothing. After a moment, he continued. ‘In due course we received a full report from the clinic which included Bell’s observations. Though still guarded in his views, what he had to tell us was alarming. He said he had little doubt Lang was suffering from some acute psychological disorder and cautioned us to be wary in our dealings with him.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ Bennett struck his thigh in impatience. ‘Couldn’t he have been more specific?’
‘I certainly thought so. So I rang him up to see if I could discover more, but he merely repeated what he’d said earlier: that Lang was someone we’d do well to keep at arm’s length. I then asked him point blank if he thought he was normal, and he replied that wasn’t a word people in his profession liked to use, and that in any case he didn’t want to make a categorical judgement since the patient in this case had been unwilling to submit to a proper examination.’
Vane smiled grimly. He caught the assistant commissioner’s eye.
‘Having cleared his conscience, however, if that was what he was doing, he then informed me that various aspects of Lang’s behaviour had given him cause for concern, telltale signs he called them, and one more than any other which he termed “a lack of adequate emotional response”, a condition most psychiatrists regarded as being inaccessible to treatment. Extreme detachment from the consequences of one’s actions might be another way of putting it. Those who displayed its symptoms frequently felt no guilt or responsibility for what they did, he said, adding it was one of the classic signs of a psychopathic personality.’
‘I’ll be damned!’ Bennett was bereft of words. Sinclair, on the other hand, seemed unsurprised.
‘And what effect, if any, did that have on your colleagues?’ he asked. ‘Were they taken aback?’
‘It depends what you mean.’ Vane eyed him. ‘Some of us were shocked, certainly. And since I was the person who’d had to deal with him it fell to me to press the case for dispensing with his services. Using Bell’s words as ammunition, I insisted that he was a man we could no longer trust and that it was time to cut our ties with him for good.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I thought I’d made a convincing job of it, but I soon learned better. My arguments cut no ice with those that mattered; nor, it seemed, did the views of some psychiatrist. I was reminded that Lang was one of our best agents with a long record of achievement behind him. As for his flaws of character, they were no more than one might expect from one engaged in so dubious a profession.’
He turned away to stare out of the window. It was some moments before he resumed. In the interim Sinclair and Bennett exchanged glances. But neither felt inclined to speak.
‘I dare say you won’t find it easy to stomach what I’ve told you.’ Vane addressed the darkness outside. ‘You may even wonder how such an individual came to be employed by our intelligence service. I mean, quite apart from the issue of these bestial crimes. I can only answer by giving you the arguments of those who promoted his career in the first place and have championed him ever since. They would say the world was changed by the war in ways the people of this country have yet to grasp. Put simply, it’s grown savage-there’s no playing by the rules any longer – and men like Gaston Lang, and the uses they can be put to, are just a symptom of that change. It’s not a view universally shared, not yet, but one that’s likely to gain favour if present trends continue.’
He turned to face them again.
‘Where were we…? Yes, Lang’s future. Well, that was quickly settled. It was decided to send him back to Berlin. His claim to have been unmasked as a British agent had been found to be groundless. We’d been able to obtain independent confirmation of that. Accordingly, he was summoned to London, reminded that he had an obligation to us and instructed to return to Germany without delay and resume his assignment.’
‘And how did he respond? Did he accept the decision?’
‘He seemed to. He raised no objection, at any rate. But watching him, I was reminded of our meeting at Woodstock and it struck me more strongly than ever that I had no idea who he really was or what was going on in his mind.’
Vane pondered his own words. He shook his head.
‘However, it appeared that matters had been settled. Lang returned to Lewes to pack and prepare for his departure. We were expecting to receive confirmation of his travel plans. Instead, two days later, what amounted to a letter of resignation reached us through the post. He said he’d reviewed his position and decided he could no longer continue in our employment. He was returning to Brussels – that’s where he was based – and would leave the car we’d provided him with at a garage in Dover. Where, incidentally, it was recovered later. Inquiries made at the ferry ticket office revealed that a man answering his description had booked a cross-channel passage the day before.’
‘Was that all? Are you telling me no attempt was made to stop him, or bring him back?’ Sinclair was disbelieving.
Vane shrugged. ‘Whatever hold we might have thought we had on him, there was little we could do, in fact. You can only lead a horse to water, after all. We couldn’t force him to work for us. And there was another consideration. Lang knew a good deal about our intelligence activities; the last thing we wanted to do was antagonize him. All in all, it was thought better to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘So you had no further contact with him?’
‘None whatsoever, though we’ve tried to get in touch with him. We mean to continue with the German operation and there are aspects of it that need clarifying. But there’s been no sign of him in Brussels – or anywhere else on the Continent where we might have expected to catch up with him.’
‘Hardly surprising, given that it’s clear he remained in England.’ The chief inspector made no effort to hide his chagrin. ‘This man has made fools of you, Mr Vane. You and your confounded colleagues. Do you see what he’s done? He got you to spirit him out of Germany, leaving no trace behind. That’s twice you’ve saved his miserable skin.’
‘I’m only too aware of that, Chief Inspector.’ Vane held his accuser’s gaze without flinching. But his remorse was plain.
‘I need some dates from you, sir.’ Sinclair sought to keep a rein on his temper. ‘When did he enter the clinic, and how long was he there?’
‘He arrived from Germany towards the end of June and disappeared in the middle of August.’
‘The Bognor Regis killing occurred in late July, when he was still a patient, then. But the Brookham murder was in September, long after he was supposed to have gone home. Why did he choose to stay in this country? Can you tell me that? And more important – where do I look for him now? How do I find this man?’
Vane sat back with a sigh. The strain of the long afternoon showed in his pale features. Across the desk, Bennett glanced at his watch. For the past few minutes the assistant commissioner had been trying to attract his companion’s attention – he wanted to bring the meeting to a close – but Sinclair’s gaze remained fixed on the photograph which Vane had taken from his folder a short while back and handed to them.
An ordinary snapshot, it showed a man clad in a black coat and homburg, standing before some anonymous backdrop – the wall of a building, perhaps. As though caught off guard, his eyes had widened slightly at the moment the photograph was taken, appearing like two black holes in the white of his clean-shaven face. Otherwise expressionless, Gaston Lang stared back at the camera.
‘That’s the only one we have of him, I’m afraid.’ Vane had been apologetic in making his offering. ‘As you can see, he wasn’t expecting it. He’s not a man who likes to have his picture taken.’
He had added a description of their quarry which the chief inspector had noted down.
‘He’s in his early forties, of average height, lean and fit. Wiry. He struck me as being stronger than he looks. But his appearance is nondescript: brown hair, brown eyes and with no scars or other identifying marks.’
‘What about a birthmark?’ Sinclair spoke bluntly. ‘We understand he might have one. He was seen half-naked by a witness to one of his murders.’
‘I don’t know about that…’ Vane frowned. ‘But wait a minute… he must have had a full medical examination at the clinic. We insisted on it.’
He opened his file and sorted through the contents.
‘Yes, here it is…’ He picked out a sheet of paper and studied it. ‘Well, I never… you’re quite right. It’s on his upper chest. A large haemangioma.’
He glanced up at Sinclair, nodding.
‘What else? Can you think of anything out of the ordinary? Any peculiarities he possesses?’ The chief 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.’