Truth Dare Kill (13 page)

Slowly I got control. I dried my face on my shirtsleeve. I hadn’t realised I’d been keeping so much locked up inside. The image that haunted my worst nightmares – me standing with bloody hands and bloody weapon – must be a memory.

But why? What had brought out the beast in me? Anger, jealousy, betrayal? I tried to recapture the days running up to this dark one, but nothing came. Just some vague shots of leafy gardens and a path running through it, and drinking in a café with a round man called Gregor. I could see his beaming face and huge moustache. It was clear too that Caldwell had been in France with me, but I couldn’t “see” him. He must have been doing the rounds of his agents.

Tantalising shreds of memory floated by; was that his face?

I picked up the second envelope and hefted it. The news couldn’t get worse. I ripped it open. It was another memo from Caldwell, about a year further on: MemorandumStaff in Confidence

To:Colonel Sir Collin Gubbins, Executive Head SOE

From:Major PA Caldwell

Date:14 July 1945

Subject:Captain Daniel McRae

Sir,

At your request, following the surprising news of the survival and return to England of Captain Daniel McRae, I have visited Moresley Hospital to establish his condition and to consider what action if any to take.

I saw both McRae and the senior psychiatrist, Doctor Richard Thompson. The latter’s report is attached separately but the gist of it is as follows.

First, McRae was in very poor health when he was brought to the hospital in May.

He was suffering from malnutrition and multiple injuries, the most significant of which was to his head. Either at the time of his capture or in subsequent captivity, McRae’s head was struck with great force. His skull was fractured in three places and a piece of bone was dislodged and penetrated his brain.

He has undergone various operations and now has a metal plate in his skull.

There is a large scar running across his head and down half his face. He is nevertheless in surprisingly good physical health. His body has healed and he is taking exercise.

However I found McRae in poor mental condition. He is undergoing Electro-convulsive Shock Therapy (EST), a ghastly business. He did not recognise me and it appears he has no recollection of events for most of the last year.

His last clear memories are just before being sent to France.

The prognosis from Doctor Thompson is poor. Such a major injury may have serious and long term personality effects. As well as memory lapses which may or may not be permanent, McRae is likely to suffer from personality disorders including delusions and paranoia. He is due to be released next month as there is little more that can be done physically. However Doctor Thompson will bring him in for monthly reviews and possible further EST to make sure McRae is coping with his infirmity.

Once more my recommendation is that we let lie the accusation of murder in Avignon. There is no evidence and it would only serve to rake matters up. It would only damage the fine record and high public regard for the SOE if this matter were made public.

There is however a possibility that McRae will come calling at SOE offices. He is already asking about his missing months. I would therefore further recommend that our stance should be to tell McRae nothing. We should not feed his delusions or paranoia. Specifically, there should be no information given out that enables him to pester former colleagues such as myself. There is every likelihood, according to his doctor, that McRae may blame me and his former colleagues for what happened to him.

Signed

Major PA Caldwell

The memo had the Colonel’s signature and comments approving both recommendations.

Words blazed out at me; delusions, paranoia, infirmity! How would I know what was real and what wasn’t? How was I to live with myself knowing I was a murderer? I looked at my hands in the faint light from my torch. They were shaking. Were they capable of killing? What does it feel like to have innocent blood on them? I’ve always liked women: too much? Would I have killed one just to get my way? I’d given Sandra a slap but she’d deserved it; I think she even liked it. Some women do. Was it an accident, a bit of rough stuff that got out of hand? What would happen if I did remember the killing?

I was a wreck and the people who sent me down this path were treating me like a pariah, a mad dog. Or was this the paranoia talking? If you’re mad, how do you know? Caldwell seemed to have saved my skin, though. I could hardly blame him for wanting to steer clear of me.

I suddenly felt the walls of this cellar pressing in on me. I needed air, light.

I needed to run. Needed to talk to Valerie. Could I confess this to her? What the hell would she say? Should I go to the police and tell all? What should I do?!

I got to my feet, feeling hollow and sick. I put the file back. Should I take the reports out or leave them? Destroy the evidence? Who else would ever know?

Caldwell was dead and the Colonel would never talk. What about Major Cassells; did he read these, or stop at the warning note? I pulled the file out again and tore out the two envelopes and stuffed them in my pocket.

I began heading to the door when I passed the C files. A thought struck me. I looked for his file and found it. I held Major Tony Caldwell’s personal papers in my hands. I tucked it on to my left forearm, opened to the first page and shone my torch on it. I just had time to read the first few lines when the Registry door bashed open and lights flooded the basement.

“All right, Mr McRae, come on out! We know you’re in here!”

Shit! Old Stan wasn’t so slow after all. He must have waited for me to leave, or spoken to Major Cassells, for the next voice was his.

“Daniel? Daniel McRae? We know what you’re doing here. It’s no good. Come on out, man.”

I dug into my pocket and pulled out the two envelopes. I slid them into Caldwell’s file and put it back in its place, then tiptoed down the aisle away from the door. I turned left and headed further in. I didn’t want them to find me next to Caldwell’s papers.

“Daniel, we have the police with us and I am armed. It will go easier with you if you give up now.”

I was far enough away. I stepped out of the alley of files, my eyes screwed up against the lights. Stan and Cassells were standing at the door. Cassells held a service revolver aimed directly at my chest. A policeman stood behind them.

“Seems like you were well trained, Captain,” said Cassells.

“Not well enough,” I replied. I didn’t put my hands up. It seemed silly, and I didn’t expect Cassells to shoot me. I didn’t care much either. I walked towards them. Stan looked uncomfortable when I got close.

“Sorry, Stan. Hope I haven’t got you into trouble?”

He averted his eyes.

“Far from it, Daniel,” said Cassells. “Stan here alerted me an hour ago that you’d come in and hadn’t come out.”

“What now, Gerald?” I asked. He didn’t like the first name this time.

“’Fraid we’ve got the police involved. Still a very secure area, this. You’ll have to go with the constable here. I believe there’s a car waiting outside.”

The copper nodded and stood forward. “I’m sorry, sir, I have to put these on.”

He held out a pair of handcuffs. I could feel the weight of the law piling above my head, ready to crush me. Why shouldn’t it? I held out my hands and felt the cold steel settle round my wrists.

The squad car took me round to the station in Marylebone. They booked me, fingerprinted me, took away my coat, jacket, tie, belt and shoelaces and led me to a cell. It was a routine I was familiar with, god help me. So were the cells.

About eight by six, with one bed and a sink. The window was sealed shut. The door was a block of green-painted metal with a window hatch and a thinner food hatch like a letter box.

I sat on the hard bunk and pulled my knees up. Justice seemed to have caught up with me. I kept thinking about my dad and what he would have said to see me like this. If he’d known what I’d done. I corrected myself; what I’d been accused of.

Innocent till proven. It’s amazing how the mind works in self preservation. I was already in denial, angry even, at not being able to defend myself. There were many possible answers to what had taken place in France. Why blame me?

Could I live with the doubt? Why not? I was living with holes and visions and dislocations from reality every day.

More than ever, I regretted not talking to Tony Caldwell. I wanted to question him about that night. Find out exactly what he’d seen and what had been said.

Then I remembered his file, his personal file. I’d only had time to scan the cover page, the page with name, rank, unit, next of kin details and such like.

It was very peculiar. I expected to see Mrs Liza Caldwell of Willow Road, Hampstead as next of kin. No matter what you were getting up to on the side, you’d put your wife down as next of kin, wouldn’t you?

Then why had he given an address in Chelsea and a next of kin by the name of Mrs Catriona Caldwell?

THIRTEEN

My mind cantered round all the new information trying to make sense of it, put it in order. But there was no sense to it. The only reality was that the cell was cold and the bed hard. I pulled the coarse blanket round me but blessed sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed and writhed and kept waiting for the headache to begin; all the ingredients were there for falling into one of my episodes.

Mercifully I must have dozed, because I was startled from wild dreams when the metal window slid open and an all too familiar voice boomed into the cell.

“Well, well. What do we have here? Mister private detective, former policeman, Daniel McRae, Esquire. There’s nothing worse than a bent copper. A copper who’s gone bad. Well, Danny boy, I knew it was only a matter of time before you ended up in one of our nicks.”

I sat up, fear clenching my guts. What the hell was Wilson doing here? This wasn’t his business. He was CID, a Yard man. The window slid shut and I heard the bolts being drawn. The door opened. Detective Inspector Wilson loomed large against the outside light. He stepped in. He had taken off his coat and jacket.

His braces swelled out in a great curve over his chest and stomach. He was holding something in his hand. I pulled myself into the corner of my bunk, my back against the wall. This wasn’t good, not good at all. I found a voice; it didn’t sound like mine.

“This is a bit off your patch Inspector, isn’t it? I was caught doing some filing, not murdering anybody.” I tried to make it light, keep it from slipping off into something serious.

Wilson turned round. I could see a uniformed officer holding the door. “Bring me a chair and then you can close the door.” The officer came back quickly with a metal chair and placed it just in front of me. He looked at me nervously and raised his eyebrows as if to say there was nothing he could do. But he tried.

“Want me to stay, Inspector?”

“No, you fool. I’m not at risk from this one. Bugger off.”

The door closed and Wilson and I were alone under the bare light bulb. I determined to do nothing, nothing to upset him. Give him no excuse. But I knew from Glasgow that some of these boys needed no excuse.

Wilson dropped into the chair and examined me. He laid something on the concrete floor and I saw that it was my makeshift toolkit. He crossed his big arms. He was one of those men whose body had a thick layer of fat over hard muscle. You see it in Irish navvies; beer bellies and double chins, but capable of pulverising kerbstones with their bare knuckles. Or a man’s head.

“You’re right, Danny boy. This wouldn’t be any of my business. Not normally. But I’ve made you my business. I put the word out that if you were ever picked up, for anything – blowing your nose the wrong way, overdue library book, anything –

they were to call me. They did.”

“Very efficient, Inspector.” Easy, Danny, easy. Don’t shoot your mouth off.

Wilson reached down. He picked up my toolkit. He unwrapped it and placed the items one by one on the edge of the bunk. The torch, screwdriver, penknife, pliers and various bent pins lay there accusingly.

“A bit of filing, eh? More like a regular little burglar’s bag, if you ask me.

Is that what you are, McRae? A little tea-leaf? A copper who’s switched sides?

Turns my stomach, that does.”

“You’ve got it wrong, Inspector. This is how I was trained in the SOE. I needed to see my personal file. I was trying to find out what happened to me. How I got this.” I pointed at my scar, hoping for some sympathy. Like a cow in a slaughterhouse.

“Got it wrong, have I? Calling me a liar, are you?”

Wilson’s face had clouded. Shit. No matter what I said he was going to turn it against me. I wasn’t going to win.

“That’s not what I meant, Inspector. I’m just trying to explain these. That’s all.” I tried smiling.

“You’re going to be difficult, are you? You’re going to make this effing difficult for me?” He suddenly reached out and scooped all the tools on to the floor in a clatter of metal and glass. I heard the torch lens smash.

Terror gripped my bowels. I’d been here before. A concrete cell, pitiless light, helpless in front of a remorseless, vindictive thug. I shook my head desperately. “No. Not all. I’m telling you the truth. I just wanted to know what happened. That’s all.” I could hear my voice rising and breaking. I hated my terror, my cowardice. I could feel the first faint pangs of pain behind my eyes.

Not now, please not now.

“On your feet, McRae!” Wilson had kicked back his chair and was standing above me, his fists clenched.

I cowered in my corner waiting for the jackboots to come in, the metal rods to strike. “I’m fine here, Inspector. I know my rights. You can’t do this. All I’ve done is hang around my old office and look at my own file. I didn’t even break in.”

“No? Then what’s all that then?” He pointed at the sorry pile of tools on the floor.

I had the pillow in front of me. A pathetic shield. He reached out and grabbed my left arm and yanked me up. He tore the pillow from my grip and tossed it behind me. I stood rigid, knowing what was coming and trying to brazen it out. I held his malignant eyes and kept my arms by my side so that he’d have to hit a defenceless man.