Truth Dare Kill (3 page)

bulldozed away.” She lit another cigarette. I let the silence settle to see what else she’d come out with.

“I was fine. I kept telling them that. A bit of a shock but otherwise absolutely fine. I stayed in hospital overnight. Called Mummy to tell her what had happened – well, some of it – and not to worry. Next day she came round and whisked me off to Surrey, and that’s it. I left messages at his club telling them what had happened – not everything, you understand. And one time I called and they said someone had been in to collect his things from his locker. So

” She shrugged.

“Anyway, I keep thinking I’m going to hear from Phil any day now. You know, that he’ll just ring up and say sorry, old girl, got hit on the head and wandered off or something. But nothing. Last week I even went back to the flat – the one we borrowed so we could meet. But it was cleared. I mean just a big hole where the house had been.”

“Did you report this?”

“Just the bare bones

sorry

to his club. And not the bit about the fight and Phil falling. It didn’t seem

relevant somehow. And I couldn’t very well call his wife and ask if she’d retrieved the body of her husband from the flat, could I? Even if I knew where she lived. That’s why I’m here. I want you to find out what’s happened to him and let me know. Do you see?” She took a deep pull on her cigarette and eased back in her chair uncrossing and re-crossing her legs.

“I mean I wasn’t in love with him. Especially when I found out about his domestic arrangements. But I do think I ought to find out. One way or the other.

Don’t you?”

I wasn’t sure. It all sounded too unlikely and messy. But I gave myself a mental kick in the pants; mess was my business now. And I might just get a decent bit of cash out of this. God knew I could do with it. I had no other clients; maybe they’d all made new year resolutions to be nice to each other. Thankfully it wouldn’t last. Human nature guaranteed my business would pick up before January was out. But that left me a short-term cash flow problem and some difficult choices between eating, smoking and drinking. Good job I wasn’t a big eater.

“My god!” she cried as the lights went out.

This never happened to Marlowe. “Sorry. Don’t move.” I scrambled to my feet, dug into my desk and found the tin. I took out a couple of bob, and walked smartly out the door to the meter on the wall. I stuffed a shilling in and then another, swearing all the time under my breath. The lights came back on and I strolled back to my desk as nonchalantly as was possible in the circumstances. I sat down and steepled my hands.

“Now, where were we?” I tried to smile even though the perspiration was beading my spine. I needed this work and here I was looking like a rank amateur down on his luck.

She looked shocked, as if I’d just asked her to take her clothes off. Then amusement filled her eyes. I preferred shock.

“Do you think you can help? I can pay you in advance,” she said in the caring way of the rich for the poor. Her accent was beginning to wear down my very recent infatuation with her grey eyes. Though we Scots consider ourselves amused onlookers to the English class system, it doesn’t mean we can’t spot when we’re being talked down to. But this was no time to stand on my dignity.

“My rates are twenty pounds a week plus expenses. And – as you suggest – I prefer in advance.”

She didn’t flinch, even at twice my normal rates. She wrinkled her fine forehead, reached into her bag and tugged out four large notes from a splendid fold of white fivers. She handed them over. I should have gone higher. But I had a client. A paying client. Maybe my luck was turning, a good omen for the new year. I tried not to grab the money, and coolly slid my drawer open and dropped the notes in it, as though fivers went in there every day. I decided she’d earned some professional attention.

“Let’s start with some details.” My hand went back in the drawer again and dug out a pad of paper and a pen; the good fountain pen the “office” had given me to mark my return, and my hasty departure.

“What’s Phil’s full name?”

She looked coolly at me for a second. “Philip Anthony Caldwell. Major.”

My pen stopped, frozen over my pristine pad. “Did you say Caldwell? Philip Anthony Caldwell?” My scar was throbbing and hot.

“Yes. They said you might know him.” She wanted to see my reaction.

“They?”

“64 Baker Street.”

Head office of the Special Operations Executive. They’d told her more than they seemed ready to tell me. I played for time to get over my shock.

“Maybe. Can you describe Major Caldwell to me?”

She did, and in my mind’s eye the sketchy figure took on three dimensions and emerged clearly as Major Tony Caldwell. I met him two years ago. Clever Tony, Tony with the affected smile, and the knowing eyes, who wouldn’t take no for an answer. The man who might have the key to the locked door of my mind. The man I’d been searching for, ever since they let me out of the loony bin.

“Good morning, Sergeant McRae.” The voice is bright and breezy.

I struggle fully awake and ease myself up on my elbows on the bed. At the foot is an officer, a Major sporting the winged Mercury badge of the Signals Regiment.

“Morning, sir. Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“It’s perfectly all right Sergeant. I should be apologising to you. I’ve disturbed you and you need your rest, nurse tells me.”

“I’m sleeping too much. Catching up they tell me.” The hospital ship from Alexandria took six days to get back to Portsmouth, and Biscay was bloody. I push myself back and up so that I’m sitting, a bit bleary-eyed, but receptive. I presume this is some sort of visiting rota he’s on. To buck up the troops or something. I preferred the kip.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“And Sergeant, do you mind awfully if we drop the rank stuff for a bit? I’m Tony, Tony Caldwell. Can I call you Daniel?”

“Yes of course, sir, I mean Tony. I’m Danny.” He’s not wearing padre duds, nor doctor’s insignia. What’s he after?

“I ’spect you’re wondering who I am and why I’m bothering you?” My eyebrows give him the answer.

“I’m actually doing a spot of recruiting. Not for my regiment.” He points at his shoulder flash. “I’m on secondment to a unit in Whitehall and looking for more talent.”

His accent is hard to place. To my untutored ears it’s just posh English, the accent of officers, the natural enemy of the working class. I inspect the man more closely. About five foot ten I guess, strong-shoulders, open face. Blue eyes and gingery moustache under a nose with a bump in the middle. His hair is lighter than his moustache, more sand in it, and it falls across his forehead in flat lines from a severe side parting.

“How’s the leg, by the way?” He points at the tent covering my lower body.

“Better, thanks. They think they’ve got all the shrapnel out, but I think they took some of me with it.” I try to joke, but I know the bone got pretty smashed up and can’t see how they managed to put it all back together again. Even with the steel pin I was likely to be lopsided. And I’d never play for Scotland now.

“Look, Danny. Fact is you’ve been shot up enough not to have to worry about the war any more. Find a nice desk for you somewhere, eh? Or go back to your old work in Glasgow. Policeman, weren’t you?”

He knows that. But I play along till he tells me what he’s here for. “A sergeant in civvy street and a sergeant in the army. Seems like I’ve found my level.”

“No, you haven’t. Why weren’t you offered a commission? A degree in languages from Glasgow, police background

seems a natural?” There’s a sudden toughness in his eyes.

“Officers lead from the front. And get shot first.” It’s my standard defence. I just feel more comfortable with the lads.

“You’ve got the wrong war.” He smiles. “When you’re fit, we could use a chap like you. With your sort of background. You’ve got pluck and intelligence. And you’d get paid as an officer. Lieutenant. Wartime commission obviously. Like mine.”

“Why should I take a pay cut?” A top sergeant gets paid more than a first lieutenant.

“We might be able to swing Captain.”

Captain Daniel McRae has a ring to it. But no doubt it comes at a price.

“Doing what, Tony?” I can use his name more freely now if we’re to be brother officers. But I’m already feeling a con coming on. You don’t get officers pay for sitting behind a desk.

He leans closer. The ward is heaving with nurses and soldiers. “Heard of an outfit called Special Operations Executive? The SOE? Yes? Well, keep it simple, old chap, we train you and then send you to France or Greece or somewhere Jerry is. Then you link up with the local resistance and mess things up a bit. Blow up bridges, trains, give Jerry a hard time of it. We’re building up a big operation for when we go back. SOE’s role will be to cause havoc behind the lines until the rest of us get through. Absolutely vital stuff. And great fun.”

Fun! This was his idea of fun? It wasn’t mine, thank you very much. At least that had been my first reaction, and my second and third. But Tony Caldwell was a determined character and liked getting his own way. Insisted on it. And, as I was about to learn, to hell with the consequences for anyone else.

THREE

Kate Graveney walked out with head high and without a backward glance, her uncertainty cast off like an out-of-date ration book. She seemed to have got what she came for. I wondered what it was. I listened to her all the way back down, toes hitting every step. I got up and went round and sat in her chair. It was still warm. I touched the arms where her hands had rested and thought I could feel a faint slick. Her scent hung about me as though her body had left a dent in the air. I sniffed deeply, trying to hang on to her spoor and in trying too hard, lost it, as though she was one of my elusive memories.

Enough. I stood up, pulled my hat and coat off the rack behind the door and made ready to go out into the night. I kicked the new briquette back with my toe so that it would die and I could use it to start the fire in the morning. A last impulse pulled me to the window. I eased the bottom pane up and looked out into the street. I was just in time. Kate Graveney was being handed in to the back seat of a big Riley by a bloke with a flat cap. The car was standing with its engine running, as though petrol rationing only applied to the hoi polloi.

As she bent to enter she turned her head up and looked up at my window, as though expecting to see me. I didn’t withdraw. We should have waved but we didn’t know each other that well. She gave no sign, but got into the car, and I watched it drive off down the street. Its exhaust left a trail of grey smoke on the dank air. I thought I saw her face looking back at me from the rear window, and another head wearing a hat, but I couldn’t be sure.

I closed the window and dug back into my desk drawer to check it hadn’t been an illusion. Sometimes things get blurred. I see things that turn out to be flotsam from my memories. I folded the four very real, very crisp notes and tucked them into my breast pocket. As I was closing the drawer I saw the front page I’d torn from this morning’s Daily Sketch. The rest I’d already quartered and hung in the shared lavatory on the floor below. I made sure I got a paper every day; it was one of the ways I could tell if I’d had a blackout.

The headlines were howling about the third body found in a flat in Soho. A prostitute again. But not a single clue, other than a man sighted going into the building around the time of the murder. Hardly noteworthy, given her occupation.

No fingerprints that matched any found at the other sites, and lord knew how many prints they found.

The body was naked and brutalised. Words like gruesome and sadistic were bandied about. But the details were omitted from this family newspaper: just vague references to a knife wound to the lower body and the head. My detective sergeant’s imagination translated this as genital mutilation and a killing stab through the base of the skull up into the brain. I hoped she got the skull thrust first.

I stuffed the page back in my drawer. I’d file it later. I’ve kept them all from the very first that merited only half a column on an inside page four months ago. Maybe it was getting to know Mama Mary and her girls. Maybe it was the way they’d died. Maybe it was the echo of a recurring dream. But these killings revolted and intrigued me at the same time.

I’d read and re-read the reports. I bought other papers to see if they said anything more, and kept picturing the dead women, naked and bloody, as though I’d been an eye witness. And I couldn’t recall if my dreadful dreams began before or after the first killing. Doc Thompson told me that it was my way of coping with the violence I’d seen in the camp. Violence without reason. Violence for pleasure. Trying to understand how a so-called civilised world could co-exist with such widespread perversion and sadism.

That’s what worried me. I used to think that most of us would rather cut off our right arm than beat a child to death with a rifle butt. That only a handful of warped bastards would set to with a will and enjoy the exercise.

But what if the devil were in all of us? Christ knows they’re still counting the corpses in the thousands of camps across Europe. They’re talking of millions, but I can’t believe that. Who would kill a million people just because they had bigger noses? And it wasn’t just the poor bloody Jews that copped it – as I knew to my personal cost. Every phobia catered for: gypsies, homosexuals, communists, book readers, hunchbacks, noisy neighbours

Nor could you point the finger at the Germans and say it’s something in their blood. We know that Poles and French and Italians – half the Continent – sent women and kids to the camps knowing what would happen. And then there are the Russians. Just don’t start me on the Russians. I even feel sorry for those bloody Berliners.

If our allies could do that, why couldn’t we? Why couldn’t I? Three dead prostitutes in London hardly figured in the scale of horror over there. But it showed that the sickness was here among us too.

Outside, the crowds were getting excited. They were heading to Westminster and Waterloo, and then on to Trafalgar and Piccadilly. I went the other way. I rammed my hat tighter on my head and pulled the coat collar up, as much against the mounting revelry as against the night air. It was just gone eleven by the clock on the tower in Camberwell Green. The cheerful crowds began to thin. I pressed on up Denmark Hill enjoying the gradient and the need to put some effort into my stride.