The Blood-Dimmed Tide by Rennie Airth

appetite for his work.
    There was a knock on the door and the chief superintendent entered. He was a heavy-set man in his mid-fifties, blunt-featured and sporting a suntan.
    ‘Good morning, Holly. Welcome back.’ Bennett rose and shook his hand. ‘I trust you had a good holiday.’
    ‘Thank you, sir. The weather was excellent. I always say there’s no place quite like the Scilly Isles at this time of year.’ The chief super’s soft burr betrayed his rural origins. For years now the Met had done much of its recruiting in the West Country, considering native-born Londoners too fly and streetwise, too clever by half to be suitable for training as policemen. Sturdy country men with open, malleable minds, on the other hand, were regarded as ideal material, and Chief Superintendent Holly was a prime example of the breed.
    ‘My word, Arthur, you’ve put on weight.’ Sinclair eyed his colleague askance. ‘I shall have to speak to Ethel. We must get you on a diet.’
    Holly blushed. He was now the senior superintendent on the force and nominally Sinclair’s superior. But he could never forget that he had once worked under the chief inspector; had felt the sting of his sometimes acid tongue and striven to earn his approval. It was several years now since Angus Sinclair had declined any further promotion, letting it be known that he was satisfied with the rank of chief inspector. There were five such officers on the Yard’s strength and they had something of the cachet of specialists, being held in reserve to handle the most difficult and challenging investigations. Holly was relieved that Sinclair chose to call him by his first name and knew from bitter experience that when the chief inspector wished to correct him he would address him as ‘sir’.
    ‘So you went down to Guildford last Sunday, did you?’ Bennett had waited until they were all settled before speaking. Pale of face, with dark, thinning hair, he had a quick, decisive manner that mirrored the mind behind it. ‘I hope you trod carefully, Chief Inspector.’
    ‘As though on eggshells, sir.’ Sinclair opened his file. ‘Jim Boyce is an old friend. We agreed to treat my visit as unofficial.’
    ‘I can sleep easy, then, can I? I won’t open the newspaper tomorrow and read that Scotland Yard detectives have been prowling the Home Counties uninvited.’ Bennett spoke with a smile. He’d developed a warm regard over the years for the dapper chief inspector. They had not only cooperated on cases in the past, they were also allies in a broader sense, having laboured, each in his own sphere, to bring the institution for which they worked into the modern world, a task which Sir Wilfred had been known to compare with trying to move a reluctant mule.
    Sinclair made no comment, merely lifting an eyebrow in response. It so happened that the file he was holding, with its sheaf of neatly typed pages, was the fruit of an initiative which he and the assistant commissioner had jointly pursued some years previously. Scotland Yard now boasted a registry where civilian staff compiled dossiers of cases from material supplied by detectives, sparing the latter this time-consuming chore.
    ‘Guildford?’ Arthur Holly frowned. ‘That rings a bell. Wasn’t there a child murdered in the district recently? I seem to remember reading something about it in the newspaper.’
    ‘Yes, a young girl. She was raped and strangled. It happened while you were away.’ Bennett settled himself in his chair. ‘The chief inspector drew my attention to it. There are aspects of the murder which he feels can’t be ignored.’ He gestured to Sinclair, inviting him to continue.
    ‘It was the nature of the crime, Arthur, as well as the circumstances.’ Sinclair addressed his remarks to his colleague. ‘The injuries inflicted on the child’s body after death were unusually severe. Her face was destroyed, demolished in fact. After due consideration, the pathologist determined that the killer