Authors: Barbara Cleverly
Flashes of white light and unintelligible symbols followed on the screen, and suddenly the film had started. Eerily silent. Harsh black and white with little grey. Breath was drawn in audibly as a scene they recognised appeared on the screen.
The white room at St. Raphael clinic came up. Overlying it along the bottom, a strip of numbers gave the date and time. A fortnight previously, Joe calculated. The clock in the background behind the operating couch was given close focus. Twelve noon confirmed the time given. It seemed important to the filmmaker. Without a break, a physician entered.
Joe peered eagerly at the gowned figure, seeking an identity, trying to turn it into Bentink, but the cap and mask hid the features. Physicians still lagged behind police forensic staff when it came to the wearing of protective gloves, Joe had noticed. The hands on view and the eyes were those of a middle-aged man, but that was as much as he could make out. The white clothing against the white walls gave him an insubstantial, ghostlike appearance.
The doctor was escorting a child. A boy. He was wearing a white hospital smock and looking anxious. Dark hair, dark eyes, unknown to the audience. A second surgeon, similarly attired, appeared and, one on either side of the table, they caught and fixed the boy’s arms to the sides. Wires were produced, and these were applied to the child’s temples.
To Joe’s horror, the boy began to twitch and writhe and try to free himself. It was a moment before he realised that the boy had entered into an epileptic fit. The fit started at five minutes after 12:00, and the film was interrupted at 12:10.
A blip in the film indicated that a splicing had occurred. A second scene with the strap ‘London’ and the same date and time appeared. The same layout but a different room. A clock gave the same time. A second boy, so like the first they must have been
identical twins, came in, and the procedure was repeated. But on this second boy, no wires were applied. He lay looking uncomfortable and scared as the minutes crawled by. At 12:07, the twitching began. Though not as intense as the first boy’s, it seemed to be a mirror image.
It was Joe who leapt to his feet and snapped out a command to a very willing Gosling to switch the bloody thing off.
Dorcas ran to put on the lights, and they sat, in a huddled group, shaking with anger and distress.
Finally: “Will someone please tell me what we’ve just seen?” Joe gritted out the words.
With an effort at calm, Dorcas tried. “An experiment. Those were identical twins. Very valuable to Bentink’s research. I’d say they are the rarest of the rare—a pair of epileptic twins. He was trying to show that they are so closely linked by their genetic make-up that inducing a fit in one of them by the application of an electric current will produce a reciprocal and simultaneous reaction in the twin separated by fifty miles.”
Joe deliberately damped down emotion. “Could it possibly have been faked?”
Dorcas took her time in replying. “Not the exploitation. But the results? Yes. I can see how he could have arrived at this demonstration. And, Joe, I believe that’s what it is. The fact that it’s filmed—it gives the experiment the aura of a stage illusionist’s trickery. But the pain and the terror, they are real. One, at least, of those boys may not have survived. And God knows what further horrors are on the other reels. There were ten altogether.”
“Who are these boys, I’m wondering? Patients?”
“No. They are—were—gypsies.”
“Dark, I agree, but how can you be certain?” Joe thought he already knew the answer but waited for her confirmation.
“It may be silent, but I could read the lips of the first boy. He was calling out in Romany. For his mother.”
She could do no more. Dorcas covered her face with her hands, and her shoulders began to heave uncontrollably. It was Gosling who flung both arms about her with a cry of concern and murmured into her hair. Joe was swiftly at her side with a large handkerchief, and from somewhere Martin summoned up a glass of tepid water.
Martin’s down-to-earth voice brought a measure of calm. “I can get a print of the lad’s face off that, no problem. Take it to the encampments and show it around. Then the East Sussex boys can move in and do their job.” He was on his feet ready for action. “I’ll have that bloody place turned inside out and dug up. I’ll string the bugger up! I’ll kick him till he squeals! Bloody toff! Why does he think he can treat those lads like animals? Gypsies? Worth less than nothing to him. Would he do the same stuff to a kid of his own class? Applying electric currents like that—it can kill.”
“Well, there you have it, Martin,” Joe said. “Spielman? Renfrew? Peterkin? All the lost boys we know of? Perhaps those we can only guess at? Have they passed through his pitiless hands? Does he draw a line? From monkeys to sons of ambassadors and statesmen—has he any boundary? I think we should enquire with this ammunition in our knapsacks. A dawn raid, are you thinking? Can you activate a colleague in East Sussex? If we’re going to do this, it must be watertight.”
“Leave all that to me. The force’ll be ready. And we’ll be glad to see you there, assistant commissioner.”
T
HE TELEPHONE WAS
ringing as they approached the equipment room. Gosling sprinted ahead and caught it before it rang off.
“Hold a moment, will you?” he said as they entered. “I’m going to repeat that for interested parties who need to know. The Spielmans are now in Dover. They’re waiting to catch the earliest ferry in the morning.… Not possible to detain them.…
Diplomatic immunity in force. Herr Spielman going to take up an important post in the new Parliament in Berlin. We feared as much. But why Dover? Have you wondered? Surely Harwich to the Hook of Holland is their most direct way to Germany?… Extra baggage arrived? What extra baggage? Describe it, please. Thank you. I’ll let you know. Hold a moment.”
He turned to Joe, ashen-faced. “Well, that explains Dover. They’ve just had a little local delivery. It’s more bad news, I’m afraid, sir. They’ve registered, as well as their many trunks and suitcases that came from London with them, an extra unit. It arrived late this evening by local lorry and is awaiting stowage on the boat when it loads up. It’s a coffin, sir. A child’s coffin.”
Inspector Martin crackled with fury. “Give me the bloody phone!” He snatched the receiver from Gosling. “Now listen here, you, whoever you are! Bloody good work keeping track of these buggers! Well done, lads! And stay up behind them, but—hear this—they are murderers. They’ve had their own son killed, and that’s his corpse in the coffin on the quayside. He was, until two days ago, a pupil at a school on my patch, and I’m investigating his disappearance. Inspector Martin here, Sussex Constabulary.
“You may not feel able to touch these birds, but
I’m
going to ruffle their feathers! I’m going to take a bar to that coffin. Get hold of the shipping details for me, will you? I need to know where it’s come from, who signed for it, and by what route it came.
“Now, Dover. That’s two hours’ drive maximum from here along the coast road. I’m getting my best men and a police pathologist over there. They’ll be there by ten. Just ensure that nobody touches that box or tries to move it even an inch. I’m going to break into it first and answer questions later.”
A few frenzied minutes of dialing later, Martin was through to his own brigade and rapping out orders. “Dr. Soames? He’s a
good man. Is he available? Is he up for a bit of body-snatching? Start him now in your fastest motor. Ring me back here if there’s a problem.”
After more sweating minutes of organisation, Martin faced Joe. “Can I leave the clinic to you and my colleague tomorrow morning? I’m off to Dover. I’m expecting to find in that coffin the body of little Spielman. I’m expecting his death to be fully certified by the correct authorities. He’ll have died of an epileptic fit. Of course. But I’m going to ask Dr. Soames to check everything including the skin under his hair where I’m pretty sure we’ll find traces of electric terminals being applied. After our little film show I think I know where to look.”
“Inspector,” Dorcas spoke hesitantly. “For what it’s worth, I talked to Mrs. Spielman on the telephone when Harald went missing. I don’t think she’s involved. I’m sure she has no idea that her husband’s been up to devilry of this kind.”
“Good. That may be the only ammunition I have. If I can’t arrest him, I shall at least make sure his wife hears the truth. It’s not much, but I shall play it for all it’s worth. I’ll make him squirm!” he finished viciously.
Martin stormed out of the room, whistling up his sergeant and his constable as he went.
“That’s what happens when you rouse one of Lowther’s Lambs!” said Joe. “Formidable enemies! Shouldn’t want to face one myself.”
“Nor me, sir,” Gosling said. “But I’ll tell you who I should like to face up to again, in the changed circumstances. Bentink. If you don’t mind, I’d like to come along tomorrow.”
“I shall be pleased to know you’re there, Gosling. This is not going to be an easy one to crack. Time for—not the fists, but the low cunning, I think. But—and I’m sure we’ll both agree on this—not the place, the time or the situation for Miss Joliffe. Though an evil thought creeps in. I’ll tell you who it
is
just the
right time for! Pass me that phone. I’m going to do something I never thought I’d stoop to!”
He asked the operator for a London number and while he waited for the connection, muttered, “What’s the time?… Oh, well, they tell me Fleet Street never sleeps.… Ah! That the
Daily Mirror
? Put your editor on, would you? This is Scotland Yard here.”
And, a moment later, “Let’s be fair! What was the name of that local rag?
Sussex Advertiser
? They reported the news of the gypsy children’s disappearances. They deserve our notice. I’ll issue an invitation to the unmasking.”
“T
hey’ll be there mob-handed and in position by nine. Best I can do,” had been the result of Martin’s calls to the chief constable of the Sussex Police. “It
is
a Sunday. Still, there’s a squad of a dozen officers glad of the overtime. Four hounds promised and possibly the old man himself will turn up after morning service. Good luck with it. You’re to liaise with the superintendent you’ll find there.”
And here they were, some minutes before the appointed hour, liaising. Superintendent Crawshaw and his men had listened intently to Joe’s briefing, dismay, incredulity and resolve flitting, one after the other, across their stolid features.
“So, you want us to get busy with the dogs straight up, in the cemetery, sir?” the sergeant asked doubtfully.
“Yes. We’re not tiptoeing in. We have the warrants. There shouldn’t be much in the way of patients arriving—it being a Sunday—but any members of the public arriving for appointments are welcome to witness the police presence. It’s surprising what a degree of panic a few bloodhounds can stir up when they’re observed, nose to the sward in a graveyard! Get the men to yell and the dogs to howl. Put on a blood-chilling performance.”
“Sir, there’s a couple of journalists hanging about. Do you want me to …?”
“No, Super. They’re here at my invitation. Give ’em free rein to roam. When you’ve organised the dogs I’d like one of your officers—make it two, hard men—to arrest Matron when she sticks her nose out to question the noise and isolate her from the remainder of the activities. Charge: aiding and abetting a felony. Vague enough for the moment.”
Crawshaw pursed his lips but called forwards two officers and gave instructions.
“Apart from that extraction, Super, the rest of the hospital is to go about its usual business. I won’t be held responsible for affecting the normal medical procedures. Now, we’ll execute the plans as discussed, shall we? I’ll take three of your men and go with Mr. Gosling and Miss Joliffe to confront the director. When we’re ready to arrest him and his medical staff, I’ll put them in your hands. There may also be two London roughs, the muscle he uses.”
“Glad we brought the big van, sir.”
They waited until a squawking, spluttering Matron had been whisked away. Then they set off down Joe’s remembered route to Bentink’s office.
He burst without knocking into an empty room. Joe swallowed his disappointment and made use of the opportunity to order the constables to remove and log the contents of the desk, including diaries and appointment books. He was running an eye over the filing cabinets when a cool voice spoke from the open door.
“Back so soon, Sandilands? And you bring your minions with you? Would you kindly ask them to release my staff? I could do with a cup of coffee. Start behaving yourself, and I’ll get one for you. I’ve just got back down from town with a headache, and I find my hospital being turned into a funfair by the Keystone Kops. There must be an explanation. Are you filming this? Should I smile for the cameras?”
The men stood back and looked uncomfortable. Joe wasn’t surprised. Bentink without his white medical coat was even more impressive. At ease in his dove-grey Sunday morning Savile Row suit, he strolled into the disturbed space that had been his office, put his furled umbrella in its stand and his hat on a hook, and took command.
“You can save your coffee for the Chief Constable, Bentink. He will be joining us in time to wave you farewell as you are taken from here in the police van to Tunbridge Wells jail, where you will answer the charges we have against you.”
“Charges? What have you in mind?”
“Kidnapping, torture and murder of minors. Children. Children pilfered from local gypsy families. In addition, you will, while our guest, help us with inquiries we are currently pursuing into the disappearances of certain pupils from a school or schools in the county of Sussex.”
Bentink gave a theatrical shudder. “Really, Sandilands! Being a policeman is having a terrible effect on your powers of expression. Stop mangling the English language, man!”
The men looked up mutinously. Keystone Kops? Minions and manglers of the language? This didn’t go down well with Sussex men. The sergeant took a menacing step closer to Joe in support. Joe was glad to note the instinctive response.