Barbara Cleverly - Not My Blood

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.”

“They’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.”