However, unfortunate though this is, there is another matter which I must bring to your attention. A young female resistance fighter has been found murdered in one of our safe houses. She had been raped and stabbed in the head and body.
McRae was known to have consorted with the woman in question though she is believed to have spurned his advances. He had an assignation with her on the day of the murder and was seen to leave the safe house shortly before the woman’s body was found.
I was notified of this at midnight on the same evening by the Maquis member who found the girl and who claimed to have seen McRae slipping away. Understandably the Maquis member was outraged and demanded immediate action. I went to McRae’s lodgings and confronted him. I found him sitting in his room drinking brandy.
Clothes were drying in front of the fire. It had not been raining. I accused him of the murder and he denied it. He claimed he had fallen and got his clothes muddy. He had washed them off. I had no further proof against his denial and resolved to leave the matter till the morning when I could interrogate the witness again.
Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately in some respects – during the night, the Gestapo raided his house and McRae was rounded up. My suspicions are that the Maquis informed on McRae as an easy way of achieving swift justice. In subsequent days, though the anger among the Maquis has been considerable there is an acceptance that McRae has paid for his crimes. Given what we still have to achieve here, I am letting the matter rest.
In the circumstances I am recommending no further action from SOE in this matter. It could tarnish the image of SOE and divert us from the main job. We do not have conclusive proof, and the main suspect, Captain Daniel McRae is captive, presumed dead.
Signed
Major Philip Anthony Caldwell There was a scrawled note: Recommendation accepted. No further action. It was signed Colonel Gubbins.
I read and re-read the memo in a daze. Suddenly all my foul dreams crystallised into the one terrible truth. I had killed a woman. It was why I couldn’t remember, wouldn’t remember. It was why I was obsessed by the murders here in London. It was why they wouldn’t let me have Caldwell’s address. I wanted to scream. I toyed with my screwdriver and wondered if I could kill myself by driving it into my heart. Or open my veins and let them find me drained and dead clutching the evidence of my guilt. I switched off the torch and there, in the darkened filing room, I let great sobs shake me apart.
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 cafй 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 wai
ted 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 clenche
d.
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.
His big right hook hit me in the guts and I went down on the bed in wheezing agony. I couldn’t call out. He pulled me up again. I was retching and coughing, fighting for air. This time I held my hands in front of my face, my elbows tucked in. They didn’t help much. He was going for the body mainly. Not wanting to leave too many marks. A real pro. I tried to protect my kidneys and stomach.
His fists broke through or smashed numbingly on my arms.
I felt a rib go and in that moment, felt something else snap. I found my lungs and began a scream that was anger, pain, hate all rolled into one. It made him draw back. Wilson was the school bully that I’d taken enough from. I hit him with my right and he was so surprised that he fell back. I flung myself at him.
My arms were flailing, striking at his head and big chest, pummelling away so that he stumbled back against the door.
I could see blood from his mouth. Then a great roar erupted from him and he let loose. I stood no chance. I went down and he began kicking me. I tried to shield my face. I rolled into a ball. The jackboots smashed into me, into my head, my back my legs, my balls. I was screaming and screaming. Like before… like before…
I heard the door clang and voices a long way off. There was a lot of shouting. I couldn’t hear. My ears were filled with blood…
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