The Dark Lady

Table of Contents

Also by Sally Spencer

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Author's Note

Prologue – November 1946

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

THE SALTON KILLINGS

MURDER AT SWANN'S LAKE

DEATH OF A CAVE DWELLER

THE DARK LADY

THE GOLDEN MILE TO MURDER

DEAD ON CUE

DEATH OF AN INNOCENT

THE RED HERRING

THE ENEMY WITHIN

A DEATH LEFT HANGING

THE WITCH MAKER

THE BUTCHER BEYOND

DYING IN THE DARK

STONE KILLER

A LONG TIME DEAD

SINS OF THE FATHERS

DANGEROUS GAMES

DEATH WATCH

A DYING FALL

FATAL QUEST

THE DEAD HAND OF HISTORY

THE RING OF DEATH

ECHOES OF THE DEAD

BACKLASH

LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

First published in Great Britain 2000 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

First published in the USA 2001 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

This eBook edition first published in 2012 by Severn Select an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited.

Copyright © 2000 by Sally Spencer.

The right of Sally Spencer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0051-8 (ePub)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

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This one is for Simon and Abigail, wishing them many years of happy married life together.

I owe a great debt to my websmaster, Luis de Avendano, who has not only created a superb site for me, but is tireless in updating it. And as always, this book would not have been possible without of the resources of The Brunner Library, Northwich, and its helpful staff.

The fictitious company in this book, British Chemical Industries, has its operations based in the same area as the actual company ICI. I should not like the two to be confused. Unlike BCI, ICI has taken a strong lead in environmental matters and – as I know from the experience of relatives and friends – has always treated its employees extremely well.

H
is shoulders hunched, the collar of his jacket turned up as far as it would go and his hands crammed tightly in his pockets, he made his way rapidly down the narrow cobbled street which led to the docks.

The fear, which had begun as the tiniest of grumblings in the pit of his stomach, had been gradually growing as he travelled up to Liverpool, until now it engulfed his whole body. It was not like the fear he had known during the war – a fear that with one slight error of judgement, he would be dead. No, this was much deeper. And more primeval. For the first time in his life, he was about to confront pure evil – and even the idea almost paralysed him.

He turned a corner, and lost what little protection the houses had given him from the chilling breeze which was blowing in from the sea. He shivered. He could have been at home, drinking a milk stout and listening to the BBC Home Service, he told himself bitterly. Instead he was walking towards a rendezvous he had not sought, and was now starting to dread. And why? Because, whatever his own wishes were in the matter, he seemed destined to become nothing more than the instrument of even-handed justice.

He reached the shelter on the sea front, and stepped inside. Half the windows had been broken, making it a far from perfect refuge, but it was still better than nothing. He moved into the corner and lit up a Woodbine. As the acrid smoke curled around his lungs, he turned and gazed towards the docks.

I shouldn't be here, he thought. I've already played my part, and this is none of my business.

Yet even as the words echoed around his head, he did not believe them. There were some things a man
had
to do, if he were ever going to be able to hold his head high again.

It had begun to rain slightly, or perhaps it was only drops of seawater which were spattering against his overcoat. He listened intently for the sounds of another human being, but there was only the lapping of the water and the distant rumble of the last tram making its way clankingly back to the depot.

There was still time to walk away, part of his brain argued. It was not too late. Then he heard the footsteps, and knew that it was too late.

Looking through a broken window, he could see the man he had travelled so far to deal with making his way along the front. And there was no doubt that he was
the
man. The way he moved – cautiously and menacingly, like a wolf on the prowl – was enough to identify him, even in the darkness.

The man hiding in the shelter reached into his pocket and took out a sharp long-bladed knife. He made a stabbing motion, and wondered what it would feel like when, instead of cutting through the air, the knife sank deep into meat and muscle. It wouldn't be long before he knew the answer – just a few more minutes, and it would all be over.

None of the national newspapers had bothered to send a representative to the police briefing, and even the local rags were relying on their stringers, but for newly promoted Detective Sergeant Albert Armstrong this was a high point in his career. He was attending his first press conference, he would soon be investigating his first murder – and he could hardly contain his enthusiasm.

He directed his gaze to the front of the room where his boss, Chief Inspector Harold Phillips, was just taking a cigarette out of the tin he always carried with him. Phillips lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, rubbed the crown of his bald head with his free hand, then turned his attention to the reporters, who already had their notepads open in anticipation.

“I'll give you all the details we've managed to collect so far, lads,” he said in a flat tone which suggested to Armstrong that this whole proceeding was boring him. “The murdered man was found in a shelter near the docks. He'd been stabbed to death. A single thrust to the heart.” He jabbed into the air with his index finger, making even this gesture seem lethargic. “He was in his late twenties, had brown hair and was just over six feet tall. He had no distinguishing marks. His clothes were all of German manufacture, and it's our belief that he may have been a stowaway on a ship which recently docked from Bremerhaven. He had a set of identification papers on him, but on examination, these proved to be fakes.” He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette. “And that, gentlemen, is about as far it goes.”

“What about fingerprints?” one of the reporters asked.

“We've had no luck there,” Chief Inspector Phillips told him. “He's not on Scotland Yard's files, nor on those of the military or civil authorities in Germany. Still, that's hardly surprising – a lot of their records were destroyed in the last few months of the war.”

“Any idea what the motive might be, Chief Inspector?” a second reporter asked.

Phillips shook his head. “No. As far as we can tell, he just stepped off the boat and got himself murdered. Could have been robbery – though he still had his watch and his wallet on him when the body was discovered. Could have been a random act of violence – the docks are a bit of a rough area, as I'm sure you realise yourselves.” He rose to his feet. “That's really all there is for the moment, gentlemen. Thank you for coming.”

“When will you be holding your next press conference?” said the reporter who had asked about motive.

“I've never been one to waste other people's time,” the chief inspector replied, “so I won't be holding another one – at least, not unless there are any developments to report.”

The Shipwrights' Arms was full of the usual lunchtime drinkers, but Sergeant Armstrong managed to find a table in the corner, and while his boss guarded the seats, he got the beer in.

“I'm thinking of taking a few days' leave,” Phillips announced, when Armstrong had sat down.

“Leave, sir?” the sergeant repeated. “Now?”

“Why not now?”

“Well, there's the murder . . .”

“That particular investigation's not going to take much of our time. I'll send a couple of lads down to the docks to see if they can come up with any eyewitnesses – and we both already know they won't – but beyond that there's not a hell of a lot more investigating we can do.”

Armstrong took a deep breath, and tried to infuse his boyish features with a manly seriousness. “With respect, sir, I think there's quite a lot that we could do.”

The chief inspector looked at his sergeant through narrowed eyes. “Oh, is there now? And what more would
you
do if you were in my place, Sergeant Armstrong?”

Was this how the Old Man normally behaved, or was his air of defeatism peculiar to this case? Armstrong wondered. “Well, if we're looking for a lead, we could do worse than start with the man's identification papers,” he suggested.

Phillips rubbed his shiny head again. “You're not thinking clearly, lad. His papers were fakes, so all they'll do is lead us up a blind alley.”

“I don't think so, sir,” Armstrong persisted. “It took an expert to establish they were false . . .”

“So?”

“So it must have taken an expert to produce them in the first place. Now, if we could find that forger, there's a more than fair chance he could tell us what the victim's real identity is. All we have to is to get on to the authorities in Germany and ask them to—”

“They've got enough on their plates, without having to bother their heads with this.”

“Perhaps if I went myself . . .”

Phillips chuckled, but Armstrong didn't get the impression that there was any real amusement behind it.

“Fancy a free holiday on the continent, do you, Sergeant?” the chief inspector asked. “Well, you'd be much better waiting until a case comes up somewhere which hasn't had the hell bombed out of it. Not that the Krauts didn't deserve it, mind you. Did them good to get a taste of their own medicine.”

It wasn't wise to get angry with a superior officer, Armstrong told himself – not even when he's just insulted you.