Truth Dare Kill (18 page)

” I didn’t want to go on. This was surely losing her. I looked away.

“Possible to what?”

I brought my eyes back round to hers. “Possible to get a taste for it. To do it again, and again. The last killing was a couple of days ago. When I had an episode. It fits, Val. It all fits.”

My voice was flat but my head was bursting with the pressure. She said nothing.

She searched my eyes like she was looking for signs of the criminal in me. She shoved her hair behind her ears. I wanted to breathe her hair.

“I don’t believe it, Danny McRae. That isn’t you. Do you hear me? It isn’t you.”

I cupped my hands and sunk my face into them. “But what if it is? What if you’re sitting here with a madman who’s lost a year of his life? A psychopath who has blackouts and can’t remember what he does during them? What if, Val?!”

For a moment her eyes flickered then she shook her head. “You didn’t do it.”

Her certainty steadied me. Amazed me. “How do I prove it?”

“You’re the detective, Danny.” Her face broke into a grin. “You’ll find a way.

And I thought you were going to check out Miss Toffee-nose?”

“Kate Graveney? I haven’t told you, have I?”

The thought of the tangled little web that Kate, Liza and Tony had spun fired up the professional in me. Even in the darkest times, if I have a plan, an objective, something to drag myself towards, I can carry on. I got up – a bit woozy – and fished in my jacket. I came back and showed Val the photo.

“That’s her. That’s Miss Toffee-nose.”

“Pretty. In an obvious sort of way. And definitely, that nose is made of the finest toffee. How did you get it?” She examined the back.

I told her about my stalking of Liza Caldwell. I hesitated about telling her about breaking into the house, but she seemed ready to take on as much of my mad world as I could give her. I told her about the albums and the photos of Tony and Liza.

“They’re related, aren’t they?!” She was excited, enthralled by the mystery. She was kneeling in front of me, her dark eyes glinting like oil, her thin face lit up.

“That’s what I reckon. But there’s no resemblance.”

“Cousins or something. They’ve made it up. To keep you away. To stop you finding Tony. He could be alive. Oh, you must find out!” She was bouncing up and down on her knees like a puppy. I wished I had her suppleness.

“Calm down. I will. I’ll go see Kate and ask her to her face what’s going on.

All right?”

She was beaming. She sprung to her feet. “I’ll make us a cuppa. Do you know where she lives?”

I thought I knew. Kate hadn’t told me where she lived, just her phone number. It was in Chelsea but the operator refused to give me the address behind the number despite my pleas. But assuming Catriona and Kate were one and the same, her address as next of kin was in Tony Caldwell’s file. I used to pride myself on my memory, something that really helped when I was in the Force. Even now it could still come up trumps.

SEVENTEEN

Of course, I thought – as I wandered down the elegant Chelsea street the next afternoon – the address could be as fake as the marriage between Tony Caldwell and Liza. But somehow I thought not. Onslow Square was the right sort of stamping ground for a girl like Kate Graveney. I imagined the square was especially beautiful in summer, with the trees shading and defending the central private park, and the tall Georgian house fronts gazing down snootily at plebs like me. Most of the buildings were terraced and single-fronted – a door and one massive bay window. But here and there came a break in the pattern and a house stood clear of its neighbours by taking up twice the width.

Kate’s house – the one I thought was hers – was one of those. I walked past, then studied it from behind a parked automobile. There were one or two other cars around, big ones, expensive ones, but no Riley; then I saw the garage doors to the left of the flight of steps going up to the front door. The house was four storeys high and fronted by tall columns. It was painted white and had the girth of a good-sized hotel. It was as far removed from our two-room tenement flat in Kilpatrick as Buckingham Palace itself.

It was growing dark and the street lamps were coming on, shedding pale light over the scene. If I stood around any longer I’d be noticed. The last thing I needed was a local bobby checking me over. Lights began to come on inside, revealing tall ceilings and the occasional figure moving through the rooms. I gathered my jangling nerves and my well-honed inferiority complex, and walked towards the front door.

I stood for a long moment on the top stair, gazing at the heavy brass knocker.

Though I’d rehearsed my questions the night before with Val and again today a thousand times, I wasn’t certain that I’d be able to get them out. Hell, I might not even get through the door! I sucked in air, lifted up my hand and gave the knocker a good couple of thwacks. My mind was flipping like a jitterbug. Nothing happened for the longest while, then the door opened and a blaze of light blinded me.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” It was the voice of a young woman, I assumed a maid.

“I’d like to see Miss Graveney. Is she in, please?”

I could now make out the girl’s face. She wore a small white cap and a dark outfit and white gloves. She looked scrubbed and clean and saucy, the sort you’d love to meet for a drink on a Saturday night before going dancing. You knew she’d be a great dancer.

“Is Miss Graveney expecting you, sir?”

Bingo! “I wouldn’t be surprised.” The girl looked puzzled. “Can you just tell her that Daniel McRae is here. She’ll know why.” She might, but would she see me?

“I’ll see if Miss Graveney is taking visitors, sir. It is near supper time.

Perhaps you would like to come in and wait?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The maid curtsied, not something you see too much of around Castlemilk.

“Certainly, sir. Please follow me.”

I stepped inside the portico while the maid closed the outer door. She pushed at the internal doors and I followed her into a soaring hallway floored in black and white diamond-shaped tiles. A number of doors were set in the walls. A sweep of banister rose up either side and reappeared as the rail of a long gallery, high overhead. All it lacked was a pulpit. I could see the minstrels playing at Christmas, or a gang of choir boys. Nice, very nice. My office and bedroom could be tucked into a corner of this cathedral and would still leave room for a good-sized congregation.

The maid was prancing neatly across the ballroom floor. I knew she was a dancer.

I scampered after her. She opened a door and invited me in. I walked past her while she held the door. It was a library.

“I will inform Miss Graveney and see if she will see you. If you would like to take a seat, sir?”

There was a fair choice. It was like one of the good clubs I’d been scared to go into: a big room filled floor to ceiling with more books, and in much better condition, than the whole of the Kilpatrick public library. I wondered if they were as well read. Half a dozen leather armchairs spread themselves comfortably around three low tables, one with newspapers neatly arranged on it. A log fire sputtered in a fireplace where you could have roasted an ox. Maybe they cooked one at Christmas. The lighting was amber, except where standard lamps cast bright cones to read by. A place to sit and muse and watch the flames eating up the logs, and feel smug about your place in the world.

“Shall I take your hat and coat, sir?”

“It’s fine. I’ll just park them beside me.” I didn’t know how long I might be staying but thought it best to have all my kit by me in case of a quick exit.

“Very good, sir.”

I folded my coat and laid it on the table nearest the fire. I placed my hat carefully on top of it. I sank into the huge leather arms of a chair next to the hearth and facing the door. I waited. I waited and wondered how folk got to be this rich. Inherited wealth, passed down from some long gone establishment rogue; a sucker-up to the King maybe, or an adventurer with the East India Company carving up continents. Lending money for trade, plundering the new world, setting up factories and screwing the poor. Nobody got this rich by being nice. Was I jealous? Damn right.

I don’t know how long my reverie lasted but it stopped when the maid opened the door and let the Queen walk in. I got to my feet. It was the first time I’d seen Kate Graveney without an outdoor coat and hat. She wore a dark blue dress cut to mid-calf. Its soft contours confirmed my febrile imaginings about her figure. A double string of pearls sat easily across her bosom, came to a knot and dropped down to her trim waist. She was all poise and grace and languor. Thoroughly at ease in her natural setting, like a big cat on an African plain.

“Thank you, Millie. Get me two scotches, will you? Large ones,” she said.

Millie the maid, was it? I watched her go to a piece of the bookcase and press a panel. A slice of the bookcase opened up revealing a drinks cabinet.

“Every home should have one,” I said indicating the hidden drinks unit but possibly covering Millie too.

“I expect you manage, Mr McRae,” said Kate dryly.

Millie presented our drinks on a silver tray that I took to be the real thing.

Cigarettes were offered from a matching box. After lighting up Kate and me, Millie was dismissed. Kate indicated I should retake my chair and took the one opposite. It looked like she was trying to turn it into a cosy fireside chat.

Not if I could help it.

“Bottoms up, McRae.” She raised her glass. I did too. We sipped warily. “Now, what can I do for you? I don’t owe you any more money, do I?” She was all innocence and condescension.

I felt my resolution and my carefully prepared questions melting in the heat of her gaze. Some women were made to be viewed by firelight. It turned her blonde hair to silver and cast shadows that accentuated her neat nose and strong cheekbones. Her skin was carved marble. I took a bigger swig and felt the whisky bite my throat and burn my insides with resolution.

“I was well paid, Miss Graveney. Maybe too well. I want to know why you’ve been conducting this charade?”

She raised the pale curves of her eyebrows. “Charade?” She took a deep pull on her cigarette.

“The faked death of Major Philip Anthony Caldwell.”

She didn’t blink. She was good. She knew I knew, and had it all prepared. “Why, Mr McRae, what a lurid imagination you have. But even if it were true, I’m sure you’re such a good detective that you could tell me, mmm?”

Sarcastic bitch. My anger grew at the way these people were making a jackass of me.

“OK, Miss Graveney. Here’s what I think. I think Tony Caldwell is alive and that you tried to deceive me about his death. I don’t know how you contrived the bombed-out flat; that seems a step too far just to convince me Tony was dead. I do know that Liza Caldwell and Tony are not man and wife, or if they are, it’s another charade, possibly protecting you. How am I doing so far?”

She blew out a plume of smoke. “But why on earth would we want to do such a thing? I mean why bother?” Her tone made it sound like she meant why would someone like her bother for a worm like me.

“Because I was snooping around, trying to fill in the gaps from this.” I indicated my head wound. “And you’ve got something to hide, Catriona.”

She snorted and tried to look offended, an easy role for her. But she didn’t deny the name. “What could I possibly want to hide from you?”

“Your marriage to Caldwell?”

She laughed. It seemed genuine. “Don’t be silly.”

I was beginning to get really pissed off. “An affair, then?” I accused desperately.

She shook her head. “Mr McRae, I’m sure in your

circle, affairs are simply the stuff of scandal. But with us

” she shrugged and her glance round the sumptuous room couldn’t make her superiority any clearer. Her voice dropped to a sarcastic whisper. “And anyway, you can’t have a proper affair if you’re not married.”

I wanted to hit her. “Then what’s all this about, for god’s sake, if it’s all so beneath you!”

I had an instant’s warning. The creak of a door and a footstep on the wooden floor behind me.

“I’ll tell you why, McRae. Or may I still call you Danny?”

That cool voice, that smooth, tough voice that sent me on my way to France, pulled me to my feet in a heartbeat. He ambled into the room from a doorway behind me.

Tony Caldwell hadn’t changed much. Still slim, about the same height as me, slicked-back sandy hair and neat moustache. The difference was in the eyes; once calculating they now looked cunning, older and more tired. Too many late nights?

I got my bags by lying awake and staring at the ceiling in the hours before dawn. What was keeping him up? He was smiling in that special mocking way of his; he used it to poke fun at me and the other agents during training if we got something wrong.

“You look well for a corpse,” I said.

“And you look fine, Danny. Much better than when I last saw you. Thought you mightn’t make it, you know. Pretty beat up.” He walked over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out the Scotch. “Top up, anyone?”

“Why, Tony? Why all this

contrivance? What are you hiding?”

Tony filled his tumbler, walked over and stood behind Kate’s chair, an elegant pose for the family album. But whose family?

“We’ve got nothing to hide, old man. It’s you we were hiding from.” He smiled in what he thought was a sympathetic manner.

“Dear god, Tony, what were you afraid of from me?”

His voice was sweet and sickly. “You’re not well, old man. I mean really not well. Damn shame. I mean not your fault. But you came back in terrible shape and the quacks who know about such stuff said you were a bit – how shall we put it –

barmy.”

I’d had enough of this. “That’s such shit, Tony! They wouldn’t have let me out if I was mad. I’ve lost some memories, not my marbles!”

He tried to look earnest. It came out patronising. “Danny, you’ve seen my reports and the psychiatrist’s report. He thought you’d be delusional, paranoiac, wanting to blame someone. The likelihood was that you’d blame me. You were too dangerous. Didn’t want you to flare up, don’t you know?”