Truth Dare Kill (23 page)

I am paralysed with horror and grief. I don’t know what to do. I want to run. I want to hold her, give her succour. She is beyond hurting, but the bayonet goes on desecrating her. I want to remove this filthy intrusion. I lean over and gently take hold of the slippery hilt. I grip it firmly and tug. It gives, and jolts her poor limbs. It releases a fresh gout of blood. There is a foul smell from her ravished body. I pull out the vile weapon. I push her thighs together and flip the corner of the bedspread over her. I walk over to the sink and drop the bayonet in it, and begin running cold water. My bloodied hands are sticky and I have to scrub at them to get them clean.

That’s how they find me. Even as the cries in German echo through the house and their boots rush through the hall and on to the stairs, I know I’ve been set up.

I turn and wait for them.

In the Kirk I wept for me. Here in this whore’s palace, I lay grieving for her.

Eventually I eased myself up and got my feet on the floor. I wiped my face and looked around. It was a little bare room with cheap Chinese prints on the wall and some red satin throws on the bed and over the one chair.

I felt drugged and stiff, like I’d swum the Channel then got roaring drunk. Or vice versa. But I couldn’t think of anything I’d done that was so meritorious.

My watch said three fifteen and I assumed that was am. But it was too light. I peeked out the one curtain to check; full daylight ransacked the room. I got here about four pm. Had I slept for nearly twenty-four hours?

The door creaked. I looked up and saw Mary’s dark fringe peeping round. I was naked but too tired to pull the covers round me. Besides, she and Colette had handled every inch of me in the bath. I don’t recall any erotic charge out of the event, just the soothing balm of warm water and gentle hands, like a child again. I wonder if I hurt Colette’s feelings?

“So you not dead, Danny.” Mary came fully into the room.

“Unless this is heaven, Mary.”

She laughed. “Just back room. You sleep whole day. Now, you put clothes on and come eat. Plan next things.” She pointed at my suit and shirt hanging in smooth clean drapes on a hanger behind the door. I did as I was told. The clothes were fresh and perfectly pressed. Chinese laundry. I found my way through the labyrinth to Mary’s front room.

While Mary made more tea I kept going over my new recollection. It felt true. If only I could prove it. I stared at the mountain of newsprint she’d dragged out yesterday to check my tale. Headlines shrieked of murder most foul, starting just after I left the hospital and arrived back in London. But then a thought struck me. I cursed myself for not thinking of this sooner.

“Mary! Have you got a piece of paper and a pencil?”

I explained, and we began scrabbling among the papers until I could get the dates straight for all five murders. I knew that at least some of my fugues corresponded with a killing. Though in truth, my episodes had been so frequent it was hard not to. I jotted down the figures. Once a month I did have an alibi, and a prominent psychiatrist who would confirm where I was on each occasion. The trouble was the dates varied; they were roughly around the middle of the month but it depended on Doc Thompson’s schedule and what they wanted to inflict on me. The normal visit – talks and examination – took two days. Electrocution took a week out of my life.

I didn’t have my diary with me, but I had an idea. It was a long shot and it might prove nothing. But it was a worth a phone call to Thompson’s secretary. My one big risk was if the national press had picked up my photo and the accusations in the London papers. It was four thirty and I might just catch her before she clocked off. I used Mary’s phone in the hall. I could hear the two operators trying to put me through.

“Good afternoon. Doctor Thompson’s office. How can I help you?”

“Elspeth? This is Danny McRae. I have a query about my appointments.” Mary was eavesdropping so close I could smell her sweet breath; she was always dipping into a little bowl and chewing some cumin seeds.

No hesitation. “Hello, Mr McRae. I thought we’d confirmed next month’s?”

“It’s not about the next one, Elspeth. It’s about the earlier ones. I’m trying to check some dates. It’s to help with my memory. A little exercise for the Doctor.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“It’s a pain, I know, but could you give me the dates of my appointments since

”

I looked down at my pencil jottings. “

August last year.”

“Hmm. Can I call you back with this, Mr McRae? I need to check through the diary and I’m rather busy at present.” She didn’t like being rushed. Elspeth had her methods and her routine.

I looked at Mary. She raised her already elevated eyebrows. “Yes, please, Elspeth. I’m sorry to trouble you but this is fairly important. So if you could call me today? My number is

” I inspected the phone base. “

Westminster 5191.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Good afternoon, Mr McRae.”

All I could do was sit down and wait. And hope Elspeth didn’t call the police.

She didn’t call that evening and I was beginning to think the worst, waiting for the door to crash down and Wilson to steamroller through. It was a rotten night’s sleep, what with the worry and the noises through the paper-thin walls.

Those girls worked for their money. I was down in Mary’s parlour by seven thirty.

“Mary, I won’t ever be able to thank you for what you’re doing. You could be in big trouble for looking after me.”

She giggled. “I know. You gonna have to use my girls lots in future.” I doubted that. Having listened through the paper walls to the fake sounds of pleasure, I’d probably never use room service here again.

“Why are you doing this, Mary?” It wasn’t as if I was her best customer.

She studied me for a moment. “You no such bad man. You help me before. Now you ask for help, I give it. Bring me luck. Some day you give it back. That how life work.”

The phone rang in the hall. It was nine o’clock. We looked at each other. We dived through the door. She picked it up.

“Yes? Just minute.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It for you.” She handed me the phone.

“Mr McRae? Who was that person?”

“We share a phone in our building, Elspeth. First one there picks it up.”

“Hmm, right. I have your dates for you. Do you have a pencil and paper?”

“Yes, yes. Fire away. Thank you.” Mary handed me the implements.

Elspeth rattled off the dates: when I arrived, when I left. Some were two days, some were six. I thanked her profusely and then sat back afraid to take the next step. Mary didn’t move, just sat with her hands folded in her lap waiting for me to pluck up the courage. Finally I reached over for the list we’d made last night, the list of dates of the murders.

Tick, tick. Nothing, nothing. Yes! Dear god in heaven, a match. In November, while someone – someone else – was slaughtering a young woman, I was safely tucked up in the hospital. I ringed and ringed the date with my pencil till the relief started to ebb away. I stood up and grabbed Mary and lifted her up in the air and hugged her. She squealed in merriment like a young girl. I put her down.

“Thank you, Mary. Thank you.”

“See. I tell you, you a good man.”

“No, Mary. You said I wasn’t such a bad man.”

She shrugged. “All men got bad in them. Some more than others. So now, only two men might got blood on hands.”

She was right. It still hadn’t quite got me off the hook; there was still doubt about Lili’s murder. But I’d have to leave that for the moment. I had Caldwell and Wilson to tackle. If either one was the killer I had to find a way of pinning it on him. I didn’t think dreams would be admissible in evidence.

Both men were dangerous to go after. Caldwell probably had a personal armoury and a strong motivation for seeing me dead. Wilson would tear my head off and ask questions after. And he was surrounded by the system; who would I make an accusation to? For the same reasons I didn’t feel inclined to surrender and ask him to check my alibi. It would prove he’d either planted evidence in a conspiracy with the real murderer or done it himself.

Mary had piled my little set of belongings from my suit and coat on her table.

It amounted to some loose change, my office and flat keys, and the list of questions I had for Kate and Liza. I picked up the crumpled list, smoothed it out on the little table and examined it.

Kate:

Are you also known as Mrs Catriona Caldwell?

What’s your real relationship with Tony Caldwell?

What was really wrong with you in the hospital the night of the bomb?

Why hire me to find out if he was dead? You could have done it yourself.

Liza:

Are you or are you not married to Tony C?

Why don’t you care enough that your husband is dead?

Did he mention the murder to you? What else did he say about me?

Why are you lying to me?

I could cross through most, now I had the answer to the one question I hadn’t posed: Tony Caldwell, alive or dead? He was very much alive, and Kate and Liza were his half-sisters and protecting him. But I still didn’t know why Kate had gone into hospital on November thirtieth. Was it important? Had she faked an injury just to make sure she had an alibi if I checked? Or had something happened to her – coincidentally – at the time of the bomb? It niggled me and I kept coming back to one of my tenets in a murder enquiry: there are no coincidences. I turned to Mary. “Mary, do you know anyone who can make me a business card?”

TWENTY ONE

I swung through the doors of St Thomas’s hospital as if I owned the place.

Self-belief was everything in what I was about to try to pull off. My confidence was increased by what Mary had managed to do. She’d found me a pair of specs with clear glass in them from a relative of hers in Lisle Street. The thick frames partly hid the scarring round my eyes. Together with the battered briefcase forgotten by a customer in his post-coital bliss or funk, they gave me the studious air I needed.

My plan would be scuppered if I found the same girl manning the reception desk from my first visit and she remembered me. But behind the desk was a large woman with a big laugh. She looked mid-thirties, and was talking and having fun with one of the nurses. I took a deep breath and marched up to her.

“Good morning, young lady. I’m Doctor Ferguson and I’m here to collect the notes on one of my patients.”

“Oh, right, sir. See you later, Alice.” The nurse left, smiling at me as she went.

I slammed my briefcase on the counter, reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a set of cards. I made a show of picking one out – they were all blank except one – and handed it over.

She took it and I knew that she was seeing: Doctor James Ferguson, MD, MSc Edin, Consultant

105 Harley Street

London

Telephone: Marylebone 2131

“Yes, Doctor. And what was it you wanted again?” She handed me back my card.

“I can see that you don’t recognise my name. Were you on duty yesterday?”

“No. This is the start of my shift this week.”

“That would explain it. I phoned up yesterday and asked for the notes on one of my patients. I needed them rather urgently and wanted to speak to the doctor who attended her.”

“I’m so sorry, Doctor. There doesn’t seem to be a message here. What was the name of the patient?”

I put on my exasperated air. I was a busy man and here specially to deal with an urgent matter. “Miss Kate Graveney. She was brought into the hospital on the thirtieth of November last year. This is too bad. I don’t have a lot of time.” I glanced at my watch.

The woman’s chubby face was beginning to take on a flustered glow. “Just a minute sir; perhaps if I looked in our records?”

“Please do. As quick as you like. Thank you.” I smiled encouragingly at her. I watched her begin to pull out drawers and check the files. Sweat was starting to pour down my back. All it would take was a real doctor to pitch up and start asking questions and I was done for.

“Here we are,” she said triumphantly. “Miss Kate Graveney. Address

”

“Onslow Square

yes, yes, I know.”

“Here you are sir.” She handed me a thin brown folder with Kate’s name on the edge, sideways. I flicked it open and had a quick glance, but I wasn’t taking anything in. I just wanted out of there.

“Which doctor was it you wanted to see, sir? I’ll see if he’s around.”

My eyes dropped to the foot of the page of notes. “Doctor Cunningham. Is he on duty?” I prayed and prayed Cunningham was on holiday, on nights or had broken his damn leg.

“I’ll just see.” She turned to her desk and flicked through a clipboard list.

“Thank goodness, yes. Doctor Cunningham is on duty. He’ll be on his ward rounds now, but he won’t be long. If you’d like to take a seat, Doctor, I’ll send someone to find him?”

I glanced again at my watch, and closed the file. “I don’t have time. Look, keep my card. It’s got my phone number on it. Could you ask Doctor Cunningham to phone me as soon as he can?” As I was saying this I was stuffing Kate’s notes into my briefcase. The receptionist was looking a little panicky about it but I was gambling on her not gainsaying a doctor.

“Well, yes. I can quite see. I’m sorry things weren’t arranged as you asked Doctor. I’ll get Doctor Cunningham to call as soon as possible.” She clutched my card like a talisman.

“Please see that you do. What was your name again, young lady? I want to mention it to the doctor when he calls. You’ve been very helpful.”

That did it. She was purring as I walked quickly but calmly out of the waiting hall. I kept walking like a robot across Westminster Bridge, up Whitehall and on through Leicester Square. I didn’t stop till I was knocking on Mary’s door. I collapsed on her sofa. Mary was grinning like a marmoset at the success of my mission. “You nice in glasses. Like teacher. Or lawyer.” “Or conman? Shall we see what we’ve got?”

I opened the case and pulled out the folder. There was a covering note giving details of admission time and date and personal details of the patient such as date of birth and home address. I almost missed it. The date of admission wasn’t the thirtieth of November but the twenty-third. The house blew up a week later.