Not My Blood djs-10 Page 28

  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.”

  The 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.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “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.”

  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.

  Bentink smiled and sank down into his leather Bauhaus chair, sleek and powerful as the man himself. “Sandilands, you must let me pass you the number of an excellent alienist in London. Your mental confusion is becoming an embarrassment to all. These are charges that, in their seriousness, would be alarming were they not so ridiculous. I am a medical man. Of some distinction, I might add. I have sworn my Hippocratic oath, and I abide by it. I do not torture children. And what on earth makes you suppose I would soil my hands by contact with gypsies?” He turned a look of quizzical appeal on the constables. “Local men, I see. Men who understand our local problems. They come into daily conflict with these people. Worthless, illiterate, law-breaking rogues, they’ll tell you if you ask.”

  In his arrogance he had gone too far.

  The sergeant inflated his impressive chest and spoke up. “Sir. They may be gypsies. But they’re our gypsies as long as they’re on our patch. A child is a child. And they’ve been going missing. Six so far. As we know of. We’re going to find out where they are, what’s happened to them, and chuck the book at the unhuman what’s responsible. This is England, sir, and we won’t have it.”

  Suddenly Bentink had had enough. He got to his feet. “What have you done with my telephone? I am about to ring the Minister for Reform. Sir James will enlighten you as to the way we handle things in England. Gentlemen-if any here deserve that appellation-prepare to have your arses kicked.”

  “When you get him,” Joe said, handing him the instrument, “tell him the police have, on celluloid, yards and yards of filmed evidence of you and your henchmen tormenting, in illegal experiments, kidnapped children. You, sir, though masked throughout the proceedings, are identifiable by a ring of particularly flamboyant style. A ring I observe you are even now wearing. Sergeant, may I ask you to look closely and note this ring? It might be a good idea to bag and label it before it disappears.”

  When this awkward procedure was completed Joe asked: “Now, would you like me to put on a showing of the filmic material in question for these other gentlemen of the law? We could go along to your viewing room. Or would you prefer your brother-in-law to be present at the premier performance?”

  Joe was struck by a thought that the overpowering presence of Bentink had put from his mind: the man, sinking back into his chair, had no idea that his Lethal Chamber had been invaded. He’d been shocked out of his complacency to hear that Joe knew of the films. “Good Lord! Your men are still locked up where I left them-in your killing room. They’ve been there since yesterday afternoon when we helped ourselves to the evidence. Oh, well, if they haven’t made use of the facilities and done each other in yet, they may be in just the right mood to spill whatever beans they have relating to you and your grisly operations.”

  He turned to give an order to the sergeant. “Go with Miss Joliffe, she knows the way. But don’t let her near the thugs-she’d do them irreparable damage. Pick up four lusty blokes to accompany you and two pairs of cuffs. Leave one officer with me, will you?”

  Left alone with Sandilands, Gosling and one policeman, Bentink maintained a truculent silence. Not overly concerned. Joe decided to annoy him. “Constable, I think we’ll take the precaution of cuffing this one as well. He won’t outrun us, but the waiting pressmen will expect it. They’ve screwed in their flashbulbs, and they’re re
ady for a show.”

  At this, Bentink raised a terrible face suffused with rage and hatred. Joe prepared to weather a frenzied outburst. But the voice, when it came, was controlled. He spoke with quiet force: “For the last time, I tell you, Sandilands: I have had nothing to do with your missing boys. I beg you to use your skills and resources to establish that. I am not a common criminal. Do you imagine I would involve myself with the offspring of Englishmen of quality? Men of breeding and background? Men of value to society like you, like me? Look elsewhere. And do it quickly before the world discovers what a fool you are.”

  Joe reminded himself that the monster Caliban had at times spoken the most persuasive verse, conjuring up sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

  He stopped his ears and held out the handcuffs.

  “Ring, Sir?” Gosling muttered to Joe as they accompanied Bentink out into the sunlight. “What was all that about? He had one on this morning, but I can’t say I noticed one on the film.”

  “I could have sworn I saw one,” Joe said vaguely. “Ah, well-he seemed to think we did.”

  CHAPTER 29

  With two recent burials revealed already in the old cemetery, one or two incriminating pieces of evidence taken away in bags from the incinerator, and the remainder of the film cases in the capable hands of the Sussex force, Joe decided they could beat a retreat. Superintendent Crawshaw was too energetically busy, too preoccupied with his plethora of evidence to argue when they said they were leaving. Joe realised that, despite his London input, this had become a local case. The children were, as the sergeant had heartily said, ‘on our patch.’ They would be avenged.