Authors: Rennie Airth
Later that same day the chief inspector paid a second visit to Bennett’s office, taking Billy with him and bringing a sheaf of typewritten reports compiled by the various detectives in the course of the day. The sketchy accounts of Ash’s life in London obtained earlier had been amplified by means of extended interviews with his landlady in Wandsworth, a widow named Mrs Fairweather, and the office manager of the company he’d worked for, an old-established firm called Beddoes and Watson. In addition enquiries had been made with the Home Office in the hope that a passport might have been issued to Ash at some time in the past. This proved to be the case. Records showed that he had applied for and received a travel document in the summer of 1919, but that the passport had never been renewed thereafter.
‘So he did come home after the war, but didn’t take the trouble to visit his mother,’ Sinclair had observed. ‘He must have set out on his travels after that. But there’s no record of a Raymond Ash returning here in 1940. It would certainly have been noted if his passport had expired. So he must have done what we supposed – got some French fisherman to ferry him across the Channel and not bothered to inform the authorities.’
On a more positive note, the Home Office had been able to supply Scotland Yard with a copy of the photograph affixed to Ash’s original passport, and this had been sent up to the photographic department.
‘We’re distributing copies of this to all police stations in London for a start,’ the chief inspector said after he’d shown one of the prints to Bennett. ‘Then we’ll extend it nationwide. He could be anywhere. But what we have to decide is whether to issue it to the press as well. As you can see, he was in his early twenties when it was taken. I dare say he’s changed somewhat.’
The assistant commissioner had gazed for a full minute in apparent fascination at the face portrayed in the grainy print. As Sinclair had said, the features were those of a young man, but beyond that there was little to remark in them. Raymond Ash’s dark hair was cut short and neatly combed on either side of a straight parting. His brow in the snapshot was pale, as were his slightly sunken cheeks. He had been snapped with his head raised a fraction – perhaps the photographer had told him to look up just then – with the result that the lids of his dark eyes were lowered, giving him a wary look.
‘Is there any reason we shouldn’t publish it?’ Bennett had asked.
‘Well, if it’s not a good likeness of him now it won’t help with the search. What it will do is alert him. Even if we make no reference to Wapping, just say we want to speak to this man, he’ll know we’re after him.’
‘But judging by what you said this morning, he seems to know that already,’ Bennett had pointed out.
‘True …’
The chief inspector had glanced at Billy, who was seated by his side.
‘What’s your opinion, Inspector?’
‘I think we should use it, sir.’ Having had time to think about what he was going to say, Billy replied at once. Even if he’s changed, there must be some resemblance. We’ll show it to Mrs Fairweather and to Ash’s fire-watching team and at his place of work and see what they say. Grace could get cracking on that right away.’
‘Do it then.’ With a glance at Bennett, Sinclair had given his consent.
The assistant commissioner had wanted to know what else had been discovered in the course of the day, and Billy had responded with a brief summary of all they had learned.
‘Basically, it’s what we expected, sir. He was a lone wolf. Didn’t mix with others. No friends. Mrs Fairweather told me he never had visitors. She lived on the ground floor, below his flat. He’d come and go pretty well to a fixed pattern. Off to work in the mornings and then back at night. Not always at the same time. It would depend on where his work had taken him during the day. We know from the office manager at Beddoes and Watson, a bloke called Badham, that his routes were all in an area south of London. In Kent and Sussex and Surrey. He’d visit customers they had or hoped to get in various towns, taking samples with him. Pens, pencils, paper clips, what have you. That’s what he would have had in his sample case, the one Florrie Desmoulins said he was carrying. The day Rosa Nowak was murdered he was visiting a firm down in Guildford. Badham checked it for us. The train Rosa caught would have stopped there. Ash spotted her either on the train, or later when they got to Waterloo.’
‘He’d obviously decided to lie low during the war and he’d found a job that suited him.’ Sinclair had let his younger colleague speak uninterrupted before offering his own view. ‘ was on his own all day. He didn’t have to mix with others. He’s not at ease in company. That seems to be the lesson of his years in Amsterdam and it was no different here. I wonder what he did about women, though. You might put out a query, Inspector. Ask the various divisions to check with the ladies on their books, particularly the ones who cater to deviant tastes. We know what his are and one or more of them may be able to help us with a lead.’
Billy had also been able to tell them about a further avenue of information that was being pursued. Earlier that day he had telephoned the War Office with a request for information about Raymond Ash’s military career, and been told by an official in the records department that a man of that name had served with the West Kent Regiment from March 1916 until the end of the Great War.
‘I got Lofty to ring the regimental headquarters for more information and we struck lucky,’ he told his two superiors. ‘ of the officers at the depot, a major, actually remembers Ash. He was his commanding officer for a short spell in 1917 before he got wounded and sent home.’
‘And he can remember one soldier in particular after all these years?’ Sinclair had been impressed.
‘He remembers Ash all right.’ Billy had looked grim. ‘According to Lofty he reacted to the name at once. Asked what had become of him, “What’s he been up to now?” were his actual words, and when Lofty asked him why he had put it like that, he said Ash had been a bad lot. “A cold-hearted devil” was how he described him. He said he knew almost for a fact that he’d murdered three German prisoners.’
‘He what—?’ Bennett had been shocked into silence.
‘He said although it happened after he’d been invalided home, he’d got the details later from the bloke who succeeded him as Ash’s company commander. It was near the end of the war and the Allied side had made an advance and captured some German trenches. Ash was detailed to take these three prisoners back to his own lines, but when he got there he reported they’d tried to escape and he’d had to shoot them. His commanding officer didn’t believe him and he tried to have him court-martialled. But they couldn’t get the evidence they needed. While he was supposed to be bringing the fellows back, the Jerry artillery got going again, and what with the shelling no one could say for sure what happened. Lofty asked why he thought Ash had done it, killed those men, and this major said he’d put the same question to the officer who told him the story, and this bloke had said most likely for convenience’s sake.’
‘Convenience …?’ Bennett had found it difficult to comprehend what he was hearing.
‘He reckoned Ash couldn’t be bothered bringing the men back through the shellfire. It was easier to shoot them.’
Billy had closed his file.
‘One last thing, sir. Cook asked what sort of soldier Ash had been, and this major said he was the sort you didn’t want in your company. Not a troublemaker, but someone the other men didn’t like. A cat who walked by himself, was how he put it, but there was one thing he was good for; something he even seemed to enjoy.’
‘And that was … ?’
Billy had shrugged.
‘Seems he was always ready to volunteer whenever there was a night raid into no-man’s-land. A party would slip out of the trench and crawl across to the German lines. The idea was to spy out their positions and take a prisoner if they could. Sometimes they had to deal with sentries, and that’s where Ash came in. It was his speciality; he could do it quicker and quieter than anyone else. And he always did it the same way.’
Billy saw the question in Bennett’s eyes.
‘Yes, always with a garrotte.’
Recalling now the look of distaste that had appeared on his superior’s face at that moment, Sinclair prepared to rise.
‘So here’s where we stand, sir, if the commissioner should ask. We’re still checking hotels and boarding houses in the capital and the same process will be extended to the rest of the country shortly.’
‘You’re looking for a “Raymond Ash”, are you?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And if he’s changed his name? Got himself a new identity card?’
‘Then there’s still this photograph of him which will appear in the national press tomorrow morning. Some of the people we’ve shown it to say there is a resemblance to Ash as he is now. But only a resemblance. Whether anyone else could pick him out from it only time will tell. We must just hope someone spots him.’
The chief inspector got slowly to his feet. His earlier, halfjocular remark to the effect that he was getting too old for the demands that a major police investigation made both in time and energy were starting to sound hollow in his own ears.
‘But if it would help to pacify the commissioner, you might explain to him some of the difficulties we’re facing. Normally a criminal like Ash would be tracked down through his associates. But it seems he has none. He’s a cat who walks by himself, as that army officer so picturesquely put it, and all places are alike to him. He’ll adapt to his new circumstances. Change his name; change his appearance. He’s done it before. That’s why he’s never been caught. But he’s still in a trap and as long as the war goes on he can’t escape it – he can’t leave the country – and there are all sorts of tripwires that exist now, thanks to the emergency regulations.’
‘So you believe that we’ll get him.’ Bennett looked keenly at his colleague. ‘I can tell the commissioner that.’
‘Indeed you can, sir.’ Sinclair nodded to Billy, who had also risen to his feet. ‘But what I can’t say is when.’
21
‘S
O ALL IN ALL
you’re the hero of the hour! I’m surprised they haven’t given you a medal. Or something to hang round your neck.’
Helen directed a fond smile over her shoulder at her husband, who was lying in bed in his pyjamas, propped up by pillows piled against the bedstead. She had not yet joined him and was sitting at her dressing table brushing her thick, still golden hair.
‘Angus was grinding his teeth when I told him. He said he ought to have thought of it himself. That it was time he was put out to pasture. I tried to tell him I wasn’t claiming any credit for what he called my stroke of intuition. That it was only when you mentioned Occam’s Razor that the idea occurred to me.’
‘Perhaps it’s I who should get an award then.’ Helen considered the thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want one. I’m happy enough as it is. Did I tell you Rob said they were giving him a fortnight’s leave and it might last even longer than that?’
‘Yes, my darling, you did.’
‘And they don’t know yet how long the repairs will take?’
‘That, too.’
‘Poor Rob. He was so upset. He asked me if I realized it might be weeks before the
Bristol
was fit for sea again and wasn’t it awful? I tried to sound sympathetic, but I don’t think he believed me.’
Laughing, she turned back to the mirror, but after a few more strokes with the silver-backed hairbrush she set it down.
‘I can’t be bothered this evening.’ She stretched her arms luxuriously, then rose from the low stool she’d been sitting on and went to the window, where she drew the curtains apart a fraction and peered out into the night.
‘It’s still snowing. We’re going to have a white Christmas.’
Madden had returned from London earlier that day to find his wife waiting on the platform at Highfield station for him with a smile and a look in her eyes that had told him what to expect even before she had broken the good news that their son’s ship was back in port.
‘Rob rang from Hull just an hour ago. They had a dreadful time coming home. They collided with one of the merchantmen they were escorting in heavy seas and started shipping water, and for a while it looked as though they might sink. It must have been horrible, but you know Rob. He’s just cross that they’re stuck in port now.’
She had poured out the story into his ear while they embraced one another on the platform.
‘They docked in the early hours of this morning but he wasn’t able to ring us until now. He’ll get away as soon as he can. With any luck he’ll be home the day after tomorrow. On Christmas Eve.’
Madden’s happiness had equalled hers, and in the short time they had spent together while Helen drove him home before leaving to carry on with her afternoon rounds, he had said nothing about his visit to Southwark, feeling his news would keep. It was too late to go to the farm, and on returning to the house he had joined Mary Morris, their maid of many years, in putting the finishing touches to the fir tree that had been installed in the drawing-room in his absence, stringing it with lights and the familiar ornaments brought out of storage each year for display on the drooping green branches. It was a ritual he had come to enjoy, being associated in his mind with past Christmases when his children had been young, and the thought that with any luck this might be the last to take place in time of war had given added meaning to the small ceremony.
Shortly before six Helen had returned, but almost before she had had time to hang up her coat and join them in the drawing-room the doorbell had rung to signal the arrival of the Highfield church choir come to sing carols. It was the group’s habit, established by long precedent, to make the Maddens’ house the final stop on their round, and as soon as the last notes of ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ died away, Helen had hustled them inside out of the snow for the hot drink she always had waiting for them. Wartime rationing had imposed its own stringencies on this pleasant occasion, but in spite of a much diminished cellar she’d been able to offer their guests mulled wine spiced with cloves, and in place of the traditional mince pies – missing that year for lack of the necessary ingredients – a tin of sweet biscuits sent to them by an old comrade-in-arms of her husband’s, a man who had served with Madden in the trenches more than twenty years before and long since emigrated to South Africa.