TWENTY-FOUR

Tennant stood staring for a moment then he brushed past Mauser, rather abruptly, and hastened into the vicarage’s living room. The vicar and the doctor, who were sitting side-by-side in front of the computer, looked up at him in some surprise.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked Potter.

‘Perfectly, thank you,’ Nick answered. He let his gaze wander to Mauser and he added, ‘Michael called on me unexpectedly and rather late.’

‘The truth is,’ said the German, ‘that I had a desperate need to talk to someone about the relationship between my wife and myself so I rang Dr Rudniski’s surgery but there was no reply. So I decided to call on the vicar instead.’

‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ asked Tennant.

‘First,’ said Kasper, ‘I think you should take a look at this.’ And he called the inspector over to the computer screen.

He and Potter stood staring in blank amazement the minute it was pointed out to them.

‘What an idiot,’ exclaimed Tennant, slapping his head with his hand. ‘I’ve actually looked at this but never saw it.’

‘It’s very easy to miss,’ Nick answered modestly.

‘I don’t know that I would have noticed it until it was shown to me,’ Kasper added.

Tennant sat down and the vicar, without being asked, produced a drink and put it in the inspector’s hand.

Potter asked. ‘Do you want me to do anything about it tonight, sir?’

Tennant shook his head. ‘No, it’s too late. We’ll go and ask questions in the morning. Being logical, this doesn’t prove a thing though. But it’s mighty suspicious.’

Mauser spoke. ‘Do you know there is an ancient proverb which I believe in very much.’

‘What is that?’ said Kasper.

‘It is, “The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceeding small.” When I think of my father – who believed in Hitler as if the man were a god – how he was ground down until eventually he was no more. It has quite convinced me that evil comes back to those who perpetrate it.’

‘So you think the key to these murders was revenge? That this –’ Tennant waved at the computer – ‘proves everything?’

Mauser shook his head. ‘I think it was bloodlust on the part of a diseased mind. And, yes, this proves it to me.’

‘I believe that is what the defence will plead,’ said Potter practically.

‘We’ve got to get the facts first,’ Tennant answered gloomily.

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult now you know who to question.’

Tennant turned to Mauser. ‘Changing the subject. Tell me about your late wife. I’d like to know.’

‘Despite her outward appearance and despite her continual flirtatiousness, she had the kindness of a saint. We met in England after she came to care for my aged mother, who had senile dementia and was very difficult to cope with. I had taken a job as a translator you see – nobody questioned my origins – but it was very hard to look after her and work full time. So I took on an au pair. Then I fell in love with Cheryl and we married. All was well as long as I was able to satisfy her needs.’ He sighed. ‘Later on as I became older and less powerful – you understand me – she took lovers. Because she had need of them. I believe she was a nymphomaniac. But I forgave her because I loved her very much and understood. That is why I used to take those long walks alone, why I went away most weekends. To give her time and space for her own activities. But I do not want to devalue her goodness and kindness to me. I tell you all, gentlemen, she was a truly remarkable woman.’

Tennant thought of the giggling creature who had tried desperately to seduce him in The White Hart and found it almost impossible to equate the two sides of Cheryl Hamilton-Harty’s personality. He said nothing. He was too wrapped up in the discovery that the vicar had made.

Potter spoke up, saying brightly, ‘You obviously have a lot of grieving to do, sir.’

Which Tennant thought was kindness personified when one considered that Potter’s grandfather had been killed by a German in the Second World War.

There was silence for a moment or two broken by Michael Mauser.

‘I suppose it would not be possible to lay a trap for this person and catch them in that way?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Tennant.

‘Simply what I say. Even if you go round in the morning and ask questions, search the house, do whatever, there is still a strong possibility that you will find nothing. That the person concerned could flatly deny everything you say. That delays you, does it not?’

‘What are you suggesting?’ the inspector asked, interested despite himself.

‘Lay a trap. I am perfectly willing to act as the bait. I will go with you to The Great House and make the sort of remarks that will draw the killer out. Then you can lie in waiting and pounce. It is a good idea, is it not?’

‘It’s worth a try, sir,’ said Potter.

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. It’s not orthodox policing but it’s worth a shot.’

Mauser looked round the room and just for a second Tennant had a glimpse of Michael’s autocratic father, the Graf von Weisshausen, issuing orders to his Stormtroopers. But he put this thought on one side.

‘When do you think we should do this?’ he said.

‘Why tomorrow, of course. I feel there is no time to waste.’

‘And in that you are absolutely right.’

Next morning, under the pretext of organizing a village meeting to discuss the situation, Tennant booked the chapel in The Great House. It had once been a place for private prayer when the Elizabethan house had been occupied by a great family, the founder of which had worked in Lombard Street and gained a knighthood by so doing. But it had long since become a room for private parties and in this way the police had managed to lure certain people, who would not normally have attended a public house, into coming.

Tennant and Potter entered the room and ran their eyes over the assembled company. They saw that most people were present. Amongst others were Jack Boggis, Mavis Cox, Ivy Bagshot, Sonia Tate, Giles Fielding, looking very pale and with his throat bandaged up. Poor little Kylie sat next to the Reverend Nick Lawrence, while Dr Kasper Rudniski and the elegant Michael Mauser sat slightly apart from the rest. Roseanna Culpepper sat pointedly alone.

‘Good morning, everyone, it was very good of you to attend at such short notice,’ said Tennant.

‘Why are we here?’ demanded Jack Boggis. ‘And why are you still here, that’s what I want to know?’

Both Tennant and Potter ignored this but Michael Mauser, sounding very authoritarian, said, ‘The police are doing an excellent job, I believe. Why, think, people; there has been no murder for several nights. The killer is obviously frightened out of their wits.’

Jack mumbled ‘Nah-zee’, à la Winston Churchill, but other than for that there was no comment.

Mrs Cox spoke up timidly. ‘What I think Mr Boggis meant was have you charged the man you arrested?’

Roseanna went deadly still as Tennant answered, ‘No.’

Ivy Bagshot put her oar in. ‘Well, is there any likelihood of you doing so?’

Potter answered her. ‘Not really, madam. It seems the man in question has an alibi for some of the killings but we are looking into that carefully.’

‘Well, about time you did something bloody carefully.’ Boggis again. ‘It seems to me that your handling of this case has been a bloody shambles.’

Mauser spoke up again, looking down his long aristocratic nose at Jack as he did so. ‘Well, I can’t agree. What do the rest of you think? Miss Saunters, what is your opinion?’

‘I think it’s all ’orrible and I would like to leave this place tonight. And I would too,’ she added defiantly, ‘if it wasn’t for our gran.’

Sonia Tate spoke up. ‘Well, I agree with Mr Mauser.’ She gave him a lingering smile. ‘By the way, please accept my deepest sympathies on your sad loss.’

There was a buzz of agreement above which Boggis’s voice rose with the single word, ‘Condolences.’

‘The reason why I called you all here,’ said Tennant, ‘is one that we have already touched on. Namely, that the man currently under arrest has not been charged until we have made further enquiries. So I warn you all to remain vigilant and be on your guard. We are far from certain that we have the right man.’

‘Bloody palaver,’ Boggis mouthed, going somewhat red in the face. ‘Do you mean to say you ruined our morning just to tell us that?’

Once again Mauser spoke. ‘As you are so upset, sir, allow me to buy you a drink.’

Boggis’s face changed visibly. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said, looking decidedly more cheerful.

‘Can I join you gentlemen?’ Sonia Tate asked, her voice deep.

Mauser, who was in the act of standing up, rose to his full height and actually clicked his heels. ‘The pleasure will be entirely mine, madam.’

‘What a blooming smoothie,’ Potter whispered to Tennant, who merely winked his eye by way of reply.

The rest went about their business just leaving Jack Boggis, Sonia Tate, Michael Mauser and Ivy Bagshot, who decided to stay for a brief sweet sherry. They were an ill-assorted quartet, made more embarrassing by the fact that Sonia Tate decided to make a pass – mild but for all that still a pass – at Mauser, whom she had hardly seen before.

‘I do feel so sorry for you,’ she said, all eyes. ‘It must be terrible for you up there, all on your own.’

‘I have accepted my neighbour Giles Fielding’s invitation to stay with him. He was wounded, you know, by this killer but fortunately I saved him.’

‘I heard about that. So it was you, was it, who rescued him? How very brave.’

‘We must all be on our guard with such a dastardly murderer about.’

His rather quaint use of English made the others smile.

‘I tell you,’ said Boggis, gnashing his set, ‘that if I caught the bugger I’d cut his bollocks off – begging your pardon, ladies – but that’s what he deserves in my opinion. Will you have another sherry, Mrs Bagshot?’

‘No, thank you,’ she answered. ‘I must be off. We’ve a WI meeting at two o’clock. Goodbye all.’

‘I hope I didn’t cause offence,’ said Jack, as soon as the woman was out of earshot. ‘Trouble with us Yorkshire folk is we don’t mince our words.’

‘That is obvious,’ said Mauser.

‘Happen,’ said Jack, which clearly meant something to him.

They stayed talking generalities until Mauser finally glanced at his wristwatch.

‘You must excuse me,’ he said, rising and bowing. ‘I promised Giles that I would meet him for lunch and I see that I am already ten minutes late. Farewell.’

‘Not bad for a Nah-zee,’ said Jack, when the door closed behind him.

‘No, I think he’s rather dishy.’

‘Now, now, sweetheart. I hope you’re not forgetting our little arrangement.’

‘Quite honestly, Jack, I’m bored with it. You’re such a fumbler. Do you mind if we call it a day?’

‘Well, I like that! I’ve treated you to meals and all. I think you’re heartless.’

She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Jack. We’ve had some good times but now it’s over.’

‘Just because you fancy that bloody Jerry.’

But Sonia didn’t answer. She stood up, kissed her finger and placed it on his lips, then left the pub in a whiff of perfume.

Darkness came quickly that November evening. The Lakehurst Bonfire Boys and Belles were due to march through the village shortly, joined by all the other local bonfire societies. But this year they had postponed the festivities on police advice. Besides that, many were fearful of strutting their stuff along the High Street with a killer lurking in some nearby alleyway. Regretfully they had reached a decision that unless the murderer were quickly caught there would be no bonfire celebrations this year.

As soon as they were under cover of night, Tennant began moving people about. First of all he placed a couple of plain clothes men in the homes of Michael and Giles, then took the two of them into the safety of the mobile unit. At the same time Potter escorted a woman into the custody of Nick Lawrence and made sure that the vicarage was locked tight against marauders. Then he placed WPC Sally Castle – the one who had found Ceinwen Carruthers’s body – inside the Culpepper’s house and told her to wear plain clothes. He met up with Tennant again in the mobile HQ.

‘All in place, sir.’

‘Good, let’s hope tonight sees some action. If not we’re going to have to do the same thing all over again tomorrow and tomorrow . . .’

‘And tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ answered Potter cheerfully.

‘Shush. Don’t go quoting the Scottish Play this night of all nights.’

‘Very good, sir.’ And Potter gave a smart salute.

‘You’re in a very good humour.’

‘I feel we’re drawing near and I’m panting like a greyhound in the slips.’

‘Stop showing off your Shakespeare and get to work,’ said Tennant, and gave his sergeant an affectionate cuff round the ear.

The Culpepper house was the very first of the Victorian houses that one came to, coming into the village from the north. Remote from the others, it stood at the end of a curving drive and was one of the few houses left in totally private ownership. Approaching it in the darkness of that cold night, Tennant wondered what Richard and Roseanna used all the space for. Standing hidden in the garden he counted at least four big rooms downstairs, plus a kitchen and a large conservatory leading off the drawing room. Upstairs there were another four rooms and up again, situated in the old servants quarters, were several more. Tennant wondered whether Roseanna had had these smaller rooms knocked into one to make a large studio, though with what purpose he had no idea, perhaps to give guests a living area to themselves. The whole place suggested enormous affluence to him and he thought that Roseanna must have made a mint in her heyday.

As he had instructed the blinds had been drawn in the conservatory but outlined against them was the shadow of a woman, sitting in one of the cane chairs and reading. There was the glow of a fire which had been switched on against the coldness of the night. It made a cosy picture and one could easily imagine the great actress, Garbo-face relaxed, beautiful eyes cast down as she immersed herself in a book. In the garden outside, Tennant shivered, and wished that he were the other side of the glass wall, sitting amongst the potted plants and having a drink with the woman within. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was shortly after nine o’clock. Well, he thought, at least it’s not bloody raining.

Potter glanced at the clock on the wall of the mobile unit and saw that it was half past nine. His two guests, Michael Mauser and Giles Fielding, were sitting as comfortably as possible, conversing quietly over a cup of tea. Mauser, wisely, had brought a hip flask which he was offering to Giles, who took a deep swig.

‘Thanks, me old mush.’ He glanced at the sergeant. ‘Any chance of sending out for some beer?’

‘It’s a bit awkward, Mr Fielding. I’ve only got uniform on duty. It’ll cause quite a stir if one of them goes to the pub.’

‘There’s the offy, Sarg.’

‘Same difference. Look, I tell you what. I’ll go across myself but I’ve got to be quick. What is it you want?’

Mauser spoke up. ‘I think the occasion calls for some good claret.’ He fished in his pocket and produced a twenty pound note. ‘Will this be enough?’

‘More than. I’m afraid we haven’t got much in the way of glasses but I’m sure you won’t mind that.’

‘I’ll drink out of a bucket,’ said Giles, and they all laughed.

‘OK. I’ll leave you in the capable hands of our desk sergeant. Won’t be long.’ And Potter ran across the road and into The Great House.

At ten o’clock Tennant was almost dying of the cold. In fact he was swinging his arms across his body to keep warm, when suddenly he stiffened. Scything through the air came the sound of a bicycle, quite distinctly. The inspector crouched low and listened, heard the cycle slow down and the rider dismount. Then he heard it being leant against the hedge as someone, walking very lightly, came in through the open gates and began to approach the house.

Potter was served quickly as there were few people in the pub that evening. Crossing the road with the bottle of claret clutched firmly in his hand he made his way back into the unit. Looking round he saw that Giles was in deep discussion with the desk sergeant but that of Michael Mauser there was no sign.

‘Where’s Mr Mauser?’ he asked abruptly.

‘Popped out to get a breath of air, sir. You must have passed him.’

‘No, I didn’t see him. How long ago was this?’

‘About five minutes.’

Potter sped outside, plonking the wine down before he did so. The High Street was deserted and still except for one or two solitary figures making their way home.

‘Christ almighty!’ the sergeant exclaimed. ‘Where the hell has he gone?’

Like one in a trance Tennant watched silently as a figure dressed in white protective clothing made its way across the front lawn and round the conservatory. He knew that on the far side of the glasshouse was a door leading into the back garden, a door which had been deliberately left unlocked. He watched, almost spellbound, as he saw the shadow of the seated figure rise and turn to the doorway. Only then was he released from his catalepsy and he sprinted forward towards the conservatory.

Potter stood uncertainly, swaying from foot to foot. He knew that he should not have allowed Mauser to slip through the net but he had given into their request for something stronger to drink and like a fool he had been tricked. He raced up the steps and into the mobile unit. He looked accusingly at Giles.

‘Were you part of the plot?’ he barked.

The man stared at him open-mouthed. ‘What plot?’ he said, his Sussex accent never more pronounced.

Potter dashed out again and started to run, full pelt, down the High Street.

From inside the glasshouse there came a loud scream just as Tennant threw open the door. The white-clad figure stood over Sally who had been knocked back into the chair and was fighting tooth-and-nail as she was slowly being strangled with a piece of cord. Tennant gave a huge leap across the space but even as he did so a shot rang out and he froze as the figure clutched its chest where a huge red patch was forming, stark and obscene against the whiteness of its clothing.

He turned back towards the door and saw there the tall and grand figure of Michael Mauser, who smiled at him.

‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ he said, and raised the gun to his head.

Potter had never run so fast in his life and panting for breath arrived at the door of the conservatory.

He saw the policewoman, gasping almost as much as he was, dragging the air back into her lungs. He saw Tennant, holding the dying Michael Mauser in his arms. He saw the dead body of someone clad in white lying on the floor. He steadied his breathing and knelt down beside it, removing the mask that covered the lower part of the face. Then he looked at Tennant.

There was silence in the conservatory and there was death in the conservatory, and the silence remained unbroken until policemen rushed in from every angle.

It was only then that Potter said to Tennant, ‘It’s Sonia Tate, sir.’

And Tennant answered, ‘Amen.’