The Handshaker (5 page)

What was The Handshaker’s game? Why had he indicated The Heidelberg Case? Was it a threat or merely the dissemination of information? If the former, why would he threaten Croft? If the latter, why would he write to Croft?

Of all the questions he asked himself, he could answer only the final one, and when he applied that answer, the same conclusion he had reached over breakfast, things began to make sense. All he needed now was the two police officers to return.

As if on some unheard cue, the door opened and the two entered, Millie taking her seat opposite Croft, while the man removed his overcoat and cloth cap, before sitting alongside her. He took out a pen and notebook, opened it at clean page and began to write, giving Croft time to study him.

Under six feet, a squat and powerful individual in his fifties, his face looked lean, drawn, lived in, and the sharp blue eyes were rimmed red. Fatigue, Croft guessed. He re-appraised the man’s age as late forties, not mid-fifties, but the frown of worry would lead anyone to conclude he was much older. When the newcomer first entered the room, Croft had registered a pair of sensible, brown brogues that were spattered with mud, as if they had just trodden the patchy grass of Scarbeck Point.

“This, Mr Croft,” said Millie, “is Superintendent Ernest Shannon, Head of Scarbeck CID.”

Croft gave the man a brief nod of greeting.

“Right, Mr Croft, we’re about to start the recorders,” said Shannon. “Inspector Matthews and I will identify ourselves and I will then ask you to state your name and address for the purposes of the recording. All right?”

Again Croft nodded and Millie started the recordings, allowing Shannon to identify himself first, before she did likewise. When they were done, Shannon nodded at Croft.

“My name is Felix Croft, address, Oaklands, Allington Lane, Allington village, near Scarbeck.”

“You came into the station of your own free will?” Shannon asked.

“I came to the station because I had received a curious letter that I believed warranted police attention,” Croft corrected him.

“Please answer the question, Mr Croft,” Shannon insisted. “You came to the station of your own free will?”

Croft shrugged. “I did.”

Shannon was satisfied. “And you have been advised of your right to have your legal advisor present, and you have waived that right?”

“I have
reserved
the right,” Croft was pleased with his ability to meet them head on, a stark contrast to the near-panic of his earlier exchanges with Millie. As if to reinforce his confidence, he went on, “if the tide turns against me, I may insist on my solicitor being called.”

Shannon reached into the top drawer of the interview table, took out two pairs of forensic gloves and put a pair on, passing the other to Millie. With his hands protected, he picked up the enveloped, popped it, and allowed the single sheet of A4 paper to fall out. He unfolded it, read it, and passed it Millie.

With a gleam of inquisitiveness in his eyes, he addressed Croft. “Two sets of dates?”

Croft nodded. “The first dates may mean nothing to you but they speak volumes to me, which is why I brought the letter here. And I must say, after what your inspector has just told me, I think I was right to do so.”

“I see.” Shannon appeared to ignore most of Croft’s words when he asked, “You’re a historian, are you, specialising in pre-war Germany?”

“No. I’m a hypnotist and paranormal researcher and I head the parapsychology research unit at University of North West England.” Croft pointed to the note, and as he did so, he noticed that his hand was rock steady. Better. More like the
real
Felix Croft. “The Heidelberg reference indicates a crime with paranormal overtones. One that I happen to specialise in. It’s known simply as The Heidelberg Case, and it occurred to me that the writer of this note, who Inspector Matthews believes may be The Handshaker, is hinting that a similar crime has been taking place here in Scarbeck for the last two years.”

“Does he?” With every response Shannon sounded more and more sceptical.

The superintendent left a silence hanging in the air, clearly placing the ball in Croft’s court, and Croft wondered what he was supposed to say next. The alarm he had felt on learning that the note could have been from The Handshaker returned, but now it was mixed with fresh insecurity. He tried to place himself in Shannon’s position to see how he would react to the situation, but he found it impossible. All that ran through his mind was a spurious triangle between himself, one of his pet research projects and a serial killer. He wished now that he had read the press reports of The Handshaker crimes more closely, learned something of the man’s methodology. At least it might have given him an insight into the motive behind sending this disturbing note.

Facing him, the police waited for more. Shannon rested his forearms on the table, Millie leaned back in her chair. The pressure of their silence began to take its toll upon him. He felt a desperate urge to say something, but he did not know what.

A memory flashed into his mind. After leaving university with a comparatively useless degree in English, he had moved into teacher training and during one session, the tutor had pointed out that the simplest way of retaining control in a classroom situation was to ask questions. Well, if it worked in the classroom, it may be just as effective here.

“So what are you going to do about it?” he demanded.

“What do you want us to do?”

Shannon had obviously learned the same lesson.

“Something,” Croft admitted. “Investigate. Isn’t that what you get paid for?”

“It is and we do,” the superintendent assured him, “and right now, Mr Croft, I’m up to my neck in crimes. I always am, but I’m also saddled with a serial nutter determined, so it seems, to carry on hanging as many women as he can. I don’t have time for has-been celebrities seeking to reinvent themselves on the back of this rubbish.” Shannon gestured angrily at the envelope and its meagre contents.

Croft felt his colour rising. “Reinvent myself? What are you talking about?” Light dawned somewhere in his brain, and the full import of Shannon’s outburst struck him. “Oh, I understand. You think I wrote that note myself. Ms Matthews has told you that I own a manual typewriter and you think I produced it, then turned up here worried and flustered so that I could hype my public persona again.”

“It’s a possibility,” Shannon admitted, “and much more likely than The Handshaker writing to you.”

“Well, why don’t you get that off to your forensic department and have them give it the once over?” Croft invited. “Then you’re welcome to check out my Remington typewriter and satisfy yourself that I did not write it.”

“We will get round to that,” Shannon assured him. “In the meantime, give me one good reason why our man should write to you?”

“I can only guess.” Croft lapsed into a sulky silence. During the exchange his confidence had returned once more, and the nagging doubts were dispelled. Now that Shannon had asked the question Croft had been asking himself, the worry, the underlying fear – yes that was the word, fear – had come back. Why
had
The Handshaker written to him? The answer was still the same as it had been at breakfast. It was the only one that made sense.

“Well?”

Shannon’s demand brought Croft back to the reality of his predicament. “I think he wrote to me because I was the only one who would understand the reference. I told you; The Heidelberg Case is one of my specialities.”

It did not go down well. It was thin and although it had to be the truth, it made no more sense now than it had done at 7:30.

He took in the impassive faces of his two interrogators and wondered briefly if they felt the same bewilderment as he, if they, too, wondered which way the investigation should be going.

Millie suddenly scraped her chair back and picked up the note and envelope. “I’d better get this to forensic, boss. We need to know for sure, one way or the other, whether it’s from our man.”

Shannon, too, stood. “Do that. In the meantime, Mr Croft. I will need a swab for DNA analysis and your fingerprints. I’ll send an officer in to deal with them, and have some tea sent in for you.”

Croft resigned himself to defeat. “I have an appointment at ten thirty,” he told them, fishing his mobile phone from his jacket. “Would you mind if I call the client and tell her I’m not going to make it?”

Shannon sat down again. “It’s the only call I can allow you, unless you want your solicitor brought in. After that I’ll need your mobile phone.” He gave a hard, thin smile. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

6

Millie and Shannon returned just before 11 o’clock.

Croft had passed the time trying to concentrate on his crossword but had made little progress. With the answer to 7 down already penned in as
Beethoven,
the answer to 18 across,
7’s 7th (15)
would normally have leapt at him. Beethoven’s 9th was his ultimate, his 8th the penultimate and the 7th was his
antepenultimate
. Today, with thoughts of The Handshaker, of manual typewriters, of The Heidelberg Case constantly disturbing his concentration, it had taken him many minutes to get there.

And always he came back to that same question, the question Shannon had posed a minute or two before he left. Why had The Handshaker written to him?

Of course, there was always the chance that it was not The Handshaker, but someone posing as him. Croft doubted it. Millie had said that the police told no one of The Handshaker notes, nor that they were produced on a manual typewriter. He was convinced that when the police returned they would confirm that the note was genuine.

And that merely underscored the alarm. Why, why, why? Why write to him? Why mention Heidelberg?

Above all was the feeling of helplessness. The police had been seeking this man for two years and if press reports were to be believed, they had made zero progress. With no knowledge or understanding of The Handshaker’s motives Croft felt as if he were a target and that his opponent had him firmly in the crosshairs of his telescopic sight, biding his time before squeezing the trigger.

The officers sat down. Shannon placed photocopies of both the envelope and note on the table. Croft noted that neither of them made to switch on the cassette recorder.

“Right, Mr Croft,” said the superintendent, “early indications are that the note did come from our man.”

Croft did not know whether to feel relieved or more afraid.

“More tests are needed to positively confirm it,” Shannon was going on, “but there appears to be little doubt. You’ll also be glad to hear that your DNA does not match that of The Handshaker’s. You don’t even have the same blood group.”

Croft was not relieved to hear anything of the kind. “I already knew I’m not The Handshaker,” he said. “You’re the one who should be glad. Having cleared me, you’ve avoided possible legal action.”

Shannon refused to be sidetracked. “Yes, well, it nevertheless leaves us with a problem. We’ve been chasing this man for two years now, and as far as we’re aware he has never written to anyone but us.”

Shannon was about to go on, but Croft cut in. “Excuse me. As far as you’re aware?”

“That’s right,” said Shannon. “For all we know he could have written something like this to the newspapers. They may have read it, been unable to make head or tail of it, and put it through the shredder. I have officers chasing up the press and TV right now, to see if they can come up with anything.”

For Croft, the announcement was like the moment when the answer to a cryptic clue suddenly hit him. Like 18 across, it was an answer he could not have seen without solving 7 down. The conclusion leapt into his mind but it would never have occurred to him if Shannon had not admitted they had officers chasing up the press. And like 18 across, once he had the answer, it was obvious. Anyone else
would
have thrown it away, but he, Croft, would understand, and that was exactly what The Handshaker wanted.

“Now I understand,” he said slowly.

The officers exchanged glances. Shannon faced Croft. “Understand what?”

“Why he wrote to me, and what he’s saying.”

“Go on.”

“My idea is speculative and it hinges on Heidelberg,” Croft explained. “I think The Handshaker is hypnotising his victims. I said he wrote to me because he knew I would make the connection to Heidelberg. I think that this note is a way of signing his masterpiece.”

Again Shannon and Millie looked at each other. Millie fidgeted with her pen. “What?”

Croft, much calmer, more in control, concentrated on her. “Have you ever studied The Heidelberg Case?”

“I’ve never even heard of it,” she admitted.

That came as no surprise to Croft. “Most people haven’t,” he said. “It’s very obscure and took place in pre-war Germany. By the time the culprit was caught and jailed, the Nazis were in power. They kept meticulous records on everything as a means of maintaining absolute control, but by 1945 they were burning those records by the ton to cover their war crimes, which probably explains why the trial transcripts have never been found. I first came across the case when I was studying hypnosis, and that was in a book entitled Hypnotism and Crime by Dr Heinze Hammerschlag, a Swiss psychiatrist. I still have a copy of it somewhere.”