Truth Dare kill

SIXTEEN

The next day, good and early, I got out my sole remaining screwdriver and my hammer. The screwdriver was fine and thin and it didn’t take much bashing on the edge of the iron stove to knock up a snake-ended pick. It wasn’t the quality of my bike-spoke versions but it would have to do.

I dug out my oldest clothes: a tough jacket of Harris tweed that still smelled of my father, corduroy trousers, boots and a good flat cap. I put them on over vest, shirt and a sleeveless pullover my mother had knitted. When I got out of hospital she’d sent down a cardboard box full of my old stuff, on the mail train that stops at Kilpatrick on its way south from Glasgow.

I inspected myself in my mirror. I looked like a poacher. The pick went into my breast pocket along with a good clasp knife with enough gadgets to earn me a dozen scout’s badges. I washed out a big hip flask and filled it with water, turfed out my gas mask from its canvas shoulder bag and replaced it with the flask. A pack of fags, matches and some Spam sandwiches went in alongside.

Lastly I rolled up my plastic mac and stuffed it into the bag. This lot would see me right if I had to hole up for twenty-four hours.

I kept hoping to hear Val’s cheery voice before I left. Truth is I’d have liked her blessing. Maybe she’d had second thoughts about me. Or maybe – and I kept wondering this – she was married and couldn’t get away. It would explain a lot.

There was one thing I needed but didn’t have. I knew where to get it, though: a little army surplus shop at Camberwell Green.

“Bird watching then, guv?”

“Tanks,” I replied, twisting the screw on a pair of binoculars and aiming out the dusty window across the road.

“None of my business, I know.”

It wasn’t. I paid for the bins and found space in my gas mask case, and made for the tube.

If you walk up Hampstead Hill and into the trees on the edge of the Heath, you can circle round and get yourself to a vantage point on the wooded hill above Willow Road. From there to Liza’s house was a distance of about four hundred yards. There are enough shrubs and tree trunks, even in their denuded winter state, to provide cover. I found a spot down from the path where I had angled but unobstructed views of the Caldwell house and the whole area either side of her front gate. I didn’t need the binoculars to maintain my broad sweep.

The weather was cold and damp, but at least it wasn’t snowing. Real winter was forecast, but mainly for Scotland and the north of England. With luck it would steer clear of us. I piled dead leaves under my plastic mac and settled down to wait. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for; visitors to Mrs Caldwell?

Tony Caldwell himself in some fanciful resurrection? In truth I was following the habits I’d adopted as a private detective; stake out the target and watch, watch and note, wait for them to do something that convicts them. But what could Mrs Caldwell be guilty of?

It was a quiet street, even by the standards of the suburbs. Hardly a soul went by and cars were as rare as a winter tan. I felt the woods gently embrace me. A blackbird echoed through the bare trees and a dog barked from some distance away. The stillness infected me, and reminded me of long walks with my dad in the sounding woods above Dundonald Castle, a bus ride from Kilpatrick. We’d leave my mother laying out the old plaid and setting out the hard-boiled eggs, the meat-paste sandwiches and the vacuum flask with lemonade. And we’d go off into the woods and learn the names of trees and birds.

I raised my glasses and watched a man go by with a dog, talking to it as if he expected an answer. Then a couple who looked like they’d done all their talking years ago; then a weary old woman. I watched their closed faces and wondered about their lives. I trained my sights on the house to see if there was movement behind the net curtains. Nothing. And no smoke from her chimney. Had she gone away for a few days? By mid-afternoon I was stiff and cold and increasingly convinced this bird had flown. Then suddenly her door opened. Liza Caldwell stepped out in coat and hat. She had a little wicker shopping trolley which she carried down the short run of steps. She trundled off down the street.

An hour later she was back, and I could see she really had been shopping. She had to haul her basket up behind her, straining on each step. Soon afterwards lights went on in some windows and finally the street lights did too. I rose, aching and chilled. My ribs felt as though they’d been put through my mother’s mangle. I shook my mac and began the trek home, looking forward to warming up in front of a fire with a glass of whisky in my hand.

I repeated the pattern the next day. She was a creature of habit, our Liza. What did she do all day alone in the house? I would have kept up the vigil for the rest of the week except for the headache that started to come down on me as I travelled back to my flat. Maybe sitting in the cold with my eyes screwed up, peering down at the little house set something off.

I took to bed as the clamps came down. I think I got up a couple of times to be sick. Once I found myself in coat and pyjamas in the entrance hall, not sure if I was just going out or coming in. Sleepwalking of some sort. Then the blackness floored me for a full day and another night. I woke shivering and sick, my bedclothes in a damp tangle.

There were fresh scrawls in my jotter, but they told me nothing new about my condition or where I’d been. I was so sickened by the whole damn business I tore the page out and used it to help start a fire. In the flames I saw old horrors, old beatings in the camp and nearly picked up the phone to see if the Doc would take me back and blast some current through my brain and expunge these sordid memories for good and ever.

I needed another day lying doggo in my flat before I felt fit enough to tackle another watch.

Same routine, same result: nothing. It was on the fourth morning – not counting the two I missed – that my severely tested patience and sore ribs were rewarded.

A big car drew up. A Riley. A man was driving. He got out, opened the passenger door and handed a lady out. I would have known that car, that walk, and that turn of a blonde head anywhere. What the hell was Kate Graveney doing visiting her lover’s widow? Condolences?

I raised my glasses and trained them on the door as it opened. Liza smiled. I could see a welcome word or two being given and then Kate stepped inside. From their expressions and actions, this wasn’t a courtesy call by a woman finally acknowledging her lover’s death and come to pay her respects. They’d met before.

They might, if you simply read the faces and knew nothing about their relationship, be good friends.

Kate visited for thirty-five minutes. Again, the show at the door was too cosy for the situation. Unless I was hopelessly misjudging their nature. They could have met recently, recognising – in their shared bereavement – a kindred spirit, and become pals in that pragmatic supportive way of women. Somehow I doubted it, and I had to find out what was going on.

Liza’s day picked up its usual flow; that is, she disappeared behind her curtains until 3 o’clock. It was a big house, but how much housework could a person get through in a day? I watched her totter off with her wheelie. If she stuck to her routine, I had roughly an hour before she returned from her errands. I flicked off the leaves and dirt and made myself as presentable as I could. This would take strong nerves. I made my way down to East Heath Road and walked back up and into Willow Road.

I strolled smartly in through her gate to the comparative safety of her porch.

If anyone had been peeping through the net curtains of the neighbouring houses, they would have seen a man marching straight-backed along the road, open and easy, and then seeking entry at Mrs Caldwell’s. Had I met anyone coming along the street I would simply have tipped my cap, said good day and kept walking.

I studied the door. I’d watched her come out, pull the door to, lock the top Yale, and use a bigger key on the simple bolt below. I pulled out my penknife and flicked open the corkscrew gadget. I slotted it into the big bolt keyhole and felt for the single pin. Got it! I twisted and forced it back. I put the knife away and took out my little bent screwdriver and slid it into the Yale.

I began scrubbing. But it wasn’t as fine an instrument as my old pick. I felt some of the pins give but I couldn’t quite get the driver. I took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off my hands. This was taking longer than I’d hoped. Worse, I could hear the steady sound of a man’s footsteps heading my way. I had seconds to open the door and get out of sight, or withdraw now and pretend to have knocked and to be waiting for an answer.

I gave it a little more force and a couple of rubs back and forth and a twist and it gave. I pushed the door open. I just had time – I thought – to slip in and close the door gently behind me before the man could see me. I waited with my heart throbbing, listening for the footsteps to stop and come to the door.

People were nosy and protective in the suburbs. If he knew who lived here, he’d want to find out who the strange man was.

The footsteps kept going and I slumped against the door till my racing pulse slowed. I could hear the blood thudding in my ears. It struck me that this breaking and entering was beginning to become a habit. A bit of a career change for a former copper. And if they caught me this time, I was for the high jump.

I edged into the house along the hall. To the right was the best room that I’d been taken into; to the left a smaller room – her day room it looked like – with a scullery leading off. There was a door leading from the scullery into the garden. The grate was warm and the fire had been banked with dross to keep going till she got back. A pile of knitting lay by a footstool in front of a high-backed chair. A similar chair sat opposite. A wireless stood on a display cabinet containing china and glass. I put my hand on the wireless; it was still warm, the dial set for the Home Service. I wondered if she liked Dorsey too. A small dining table with four chairs tucked under it pressed itself against the wall. A carpet covered most of the lino.

The mantelpiece held a baroque clock that ticked too loudly for its size. On either side of it were photos; they showed Liza and an older woman from different periods in their lives. But there was no mistaking their relationship: mother and daughter had the same eyes and nervous smile as though they weren’t sure about being seen together or doing something as vain as having their photo taken.

I moved back into the hall. I knew what the best room was like so I took the stairs and found myself on the first landing with three doors leading off. One was the bathroom. The other two were bedrooms each with a single bed. And here was the funny thing. One had the air of disuse; not dirty or thick in dust, just a lack of any daily human presence. Everything was too neat, as though it was waiting for someone to return. On the bedroom table lay a set of hairbrush, comb and hand mirror, all in good tortoise-shell. It was a woman’s room but long unused. Her mother’s?

The second bedroom was clearly Liza’s. It too had a dressing room table and mirror and cupboards. A dressing gown was hung neatly behind the door and a pair of slippers were discarded beneath the bed. Also a single bed. I got down on my knees and examined the carpet. There were no marks of a double bed, a matrimonial bed, or even of a second single. No sign of a man about the house.

I climbed to the top landing. It had the feel of an area long abandoned. The layout was similar to the first. The bathroom was desolate and cold. I shivered and tried the next. It was empty except for a big trunk and some packing cases.

The third room was locked. It took me ten seconds to pick it; I was getting my touch back. I opened it, stepped into darkness and switched on the light.

The room was lush velvet and satins, reds and purples. A double bed dominated the space. It was covered by a heavy wine-red counterpane and matching plump pillows. The floor was carpeted wall to wall in a deep soft pile. Heavy curtains to match the bedding blocked the daylight. There was a basin and a sideboard on which tall candles had melted and spilled. In the top drawer of the sideboard, laid out carefully like a trousseau, were layers of fine black silk with red ribbons. For the first time I felt an intruder and wished myself out of there.

I locked the door and crept back downstairs and into the best room. It sat, mausoleum-like, in darkness. I flicked on the light and saw that the chairs and settee had been covered in a white cloth. The table had a leather mat over its surface. The piano too had a white sheet. The curtains would have been drawn to keep the light out and save the carpet. But nothing had fundamentally changed.

Then I wondered where the photos were of Tony in uniform and Tony and Liza.

They’d both stood on the piano. Maybe Liza put them away to save them from the light? They weren’t in any of the other rooms.

I walked over to the chest of drawers and began to pull them out one by one. In the second, on top of a slim photo album, I found the missing pictures. But the black edging had been removed.

I started to flick through the album. There were no wedding photos; perhaps they were bound separately? Then, on a page all by themselves were three photos of Kate Graveney. One was hand-tinted and she smiled out at me in a way I could only dream about. Without thinking what I was doing, I unpicked it from its corners and slipped it into my inside pocket. Every soldier needs a pin-up.

I kept turning the pages and found myself time-travelling. There were no captions, just dates under some of them. Tony and Liza grew steadily younger; they were children and sometimes they were with Liza’s mother and twice with a man whom I assumed was the father. But of whom? I’d heard of childhood sweethearts getting married but this was carrying it too far.

I glanced at my watch and saw with a jolt that my hour was almost up. Sometimes she took less. I slammed the album shut and slipped out of the room, casting it back into impenetrable dark. I got as far as the door when I heard the footsteps coming up the path. I froze; my heart stopped. I began stepping backwards away from the door. Footsteps climbed the stairs. I saw the shadow of a head and shoulders through the frosted glass. I would make a run for it out the back. I prayed the scullery door had its key in it.

I’d reached the end of the hall when the letterbox crashed and I heard the sound of envelopes hitting the floor.

I slumped to the ground and waited for the nausea to pass. I wanted a cigarette, badly, and gave myself a shake. There was no time left. I turned over and crawled to the door. I picked up the two letters and saw they were addressed to Caldwell all right: a Miss Caldwell. I dropped them, got to my feet and opened the door. I listened for a second, heard nothing and walked brazenly out, pulling the door behind me. I couldn’t afford the time to relock the big bolt;

Miss Liza Caldwell would have to believe she forgot to lock it on her way out.

I walked back down Willow Road towards the Heath, in the opposite direction to where she’d be coming from, cut off on to the path and up into the trees, whistling like I’d lost my dog. When I was far enough away I found a log and sat on it and smoked till my hands stopped shaking. I made a very long detour through the woods until I could pick up the High Street.

As the underground rocked me south I sprawled in my seat, emotionally and physically drained. I chain-smoked all the way. I’d gone one step forward and two back. I took out Kate’s photo and stared at the daring eyes looking for answers. I rehearsed what I’d found: people wrote to Liza as Miss. Widows don’t call themselves miss, or if they did, they’d revert to their maiden name.

Tony and Liza had known each other since they were children. They might or might not be married. If they were, it looked like a marriage of convenience to cover up an arrangement between Tony and Kate. But why would they want to hide it? Yet the top floor bedroom – boudoir more like – was furnished for a couple. An intimate couple. Catriona/Kate was named next of kin in Tony’s SOE file, and Kate and Liza were much too pally for women who should have been rivals – even if the man was dead.

And that’s what I kept coming back to: if nothing else was what it seemed, was Major Tony bloody Caldwell really dead?

I picked up a bottle on my way home. I wondered if Val would come by, and had a bit of bread and jam to see me through for a while. Kate’s photo I carefully placed in her file in my drawer.

I turned on the radio and was in time to hear the six o’clock news. I wished I hadn’t. The first item was the discovery of a fourth body in Soho. The killing had taken place in the last three days; it was hard for the police to give an exact time and day, as the victim had lived alone after separation from her husband. She’d taken in callers to make ends meet. At first, because she wasn’t a known prostitute, the police had discounted the connection. But the method of killing was consistent with the other three murders: bloody, brutal, wounds to head and body.

All during the last three days – when I’d been here, incapacitated, but wandering around in my delirium…

Val found me later with the bottle at my feet. It was as good as empty. She made me stick my fingers down my throat until I brought most of it up in the sink. I felt like death, wanted death. All Wilson’s innuendo and Doc Thompson’s guarded analysis, all my own visions of hell, added up to one thing: my blackout two days ago had coincided with the murder of this young woman. I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised to find a pattern of such coincidences stretching back over the three other killings. I was Mr Hyde. Maybe Scotch was my secret potion.

“Why do you do this, Danny?” She pointed at the bottle.

It was a good question. And the usual flip answer “to forget” rang a bit hollow in the circumstances. I had no problems on that score.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do. I can take it. Is it about something you’ve remembered?” Her dark eyes looked huge in the flickering light. She sat in her usual place, hunkered down in front of the flames.

I shook my head. “You know I get these blackouts. I don’t know where I go or what I do during them. I thought I just collapsed. Went to bed. Had bad dreams and came out of it feeling like shit. But I think… I think I sometimes go out.

And it scares me to death!”

She must have seen the terror in my face for she scuttled over and knelt at my feet. She gazed up at me. “I’ve been here once, when, you know, you had a funny turn. And that’s all you did; you went to bed. You were tossing and turning and carrying on, but you weren’t in any state to be out wandering the streets.”

That gave me hope. But I wasn’t convinced, no matter how much I wanted to be.

“Val, Valerie. These murders. The ones in the paper. Wilson came round accusing me of them. He raided my office. He found my clippings – the articles in the newspapers – I don’t know why I keep them. But he found out about the girl who was murdered in France. And he’s putting two and two together. And so am I!”

“But you didn’t! You couldn’t! You’re not like that, Danny!”

“I wish I had your faith! Look, my doctor at the hospital told me that he wasn’t sure who I was. All he saw was the man with the bashed-in brain and that could be affecting my whole personality, making me different from what I was before.

Before France. There’s no saying if I had it in me. He said it was possible for someone to…” 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.