The Lazarus Secrets

by Beryl Coverdale

Darrington laughed, he liked Douglas very much and had done since their first meeting on that ill-fated night during the war. He couldn’t even remember where he was or why he was cowering in a shop doorway as fires and noise raged around him but Douglas, then a complete stranger, had found him and dragged, and almost carried him to a shelter until the bombing stopped, not an easy task for such a slightly built chap. What happened after that was just a blur. He woke up in Haslar Hospital and in the years since he and Douglas had become good friends.

  “So Max what sort of statistics are you collating?” asked Douglas as he drained the last of his coffee. “It all sounds a bit mysterious. I do hope they aren’t going to reduce our pensions because we’re living too long or something like that.”

  “Nothing so interesting,” Max laughed and looked at his wrist watch, “but I’m afraid that speaking of work, I should get back to it.” He stood up and stretched out his hand. “Call and see us soon, Douglas. We don’t see nearly enough of you these days. By the way who told you I was in Winchester?”

  “David,” said Douglas quickly. “I met him in Southampton tearing up the roads on his new motorbike and he said you were working in Winchester, something to do with archives.”

  Max smiled. “Yes, that motorbike has caused Sarah a few sleepless nights I can tell you.”

  They parted amicably, but Darrington strode back to the office oblivious to the surroundings that had enthralled him earlier, he had told David he was working in Winchester but made no mention of archives. Even Sarah assumed he was working at the police station and he had done nothing to enlighten her but obviously someone else knew and Douglas had lied about who told him. Deep in thought, he entered the archives unaware that he was being observed.

  “Chief Superintendent Rothwell is on the line for you,” Miss Bevis’s voice was icy.

  Darrington went into his office and picked up the phone. After pleasantries, regarding his health, family and suitability of his office, Rothwell finally got down to the reason for his call. “You want to see the red files?”

  “Yes, I’ve made a request through Miss Bevis. Is that a problem?”

  The normally articulate Chief Superintendent stumbled, “Well no. Not a problem. Not exactly. It’s just we would have preferred you to make your report without accessing them.” Darrington remained silent. “However, the decision must be yours. If you feel it necessary then, of course, we shall accommodate you but I’d have thought the green files would be sufficient for your needs and that you would be anxious to wrap things up there and get back to your old job.”

  Darrington knew he was being told not to access the red files, to go no further with his brief but unless the order was spelt out he was not biting. Rothwell was a master at saying one thing while simultaneously threatening another, but Darrington too was an old hand at the game. He refused to leave himself open to blame in the future for not investigating more thoroughly. Any such condemnation would, of course, be tempered with a sympathetic reference to his health. On the other hand, Rothwell dangled the carrot of his old job. To return to it he would need his support and this was an opportunity to get the wily wheeler-dealer on his side.

  “Well, I’m afraid there are one or two points requiring clarification, sir, and I believe I can only address these with the red files.” In the end, he chose not to break the habits of a lifetime by compromising in his own best interests, “So if you wouldn’t mind.”

  The line went dead and the next day he was given access to the red files.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alice Bevis sat bolt upright in her chair at the reception desk, her body language oozing disapproval, spectacles pushed firmly back and the nicotine teeth trapped tightly behind pursed lips. “Chief Inspector Darrington I need your signature on the paperwork for access to the red files.”

  “The Official Secrets Act!” he said in surprise as he looked down at the document she had pushed towards him. “Is that really necessary? I’m a senior police officer with many years service and I’m asking to see police files.”

  “Red files come under the jurisdiction of the Intelligence Services,” she snapped. “If you will please sign here.” She tapped her finger on the line at the bottom of the page.

  Darrington signed.

  “Come this way,” she said placing the document in a file on her desk. He wondered if it was a file on him and if it would be red or green. Following her through the rows of shelving he noticed there was no sign of Matt or Fiona.

  At the rear wall, Miss Bevis slid back a small panel in the wall and dialled a combination number on what appeared to be a safe and a totally concealed heavy door swung silently open. She led him into a room the existence of which he had been completely unaware. Fluorescent lighting flickered on automatically and there was a faint sweep of fresh air as a ventilation system kicked into operation.

  “You’ll have noticed Mr Houseman and Miss Derbyshire are not here today.”

  Darrington nodded. “Yes, I had noticed.”

  “That’s for security reasons. They don’t have high enough clearance to even be aware of this room.” She led the way passed a desk and rows of shelving filled with files to an unmarked filing cabinet against the rear wall. Again she used a combination number and opened a deep drawer. “Everything relating to the case is in here you may look at anything you wish, but please use the desk over there as red files must not be removed from this room. I’m afraid I must lock you in but should you require anything lift the receiver on the red telephone to speak to me at reception on the direct line.”

  Darrington was still inspecting the amazing set up when the heavy door swept silently closed. “Thank you Miss Bevis,” he called, but if she heard him she did not answer.

  Sitting down at the desk, Darrington opened the first of the red files which, in comparison to the green files, were tidy and clean and the papers within were clipped together in chronological order. He supposed they had been made up to house the more sensitive documents. The files on Paula James and Rona McLean contained copies of information already on the green files and he flicked through them to ascertain the reasons for such high security.

  In the case of Paula James, it was not she, but her lover who was of special interest. A language student, Stefan Bronski was the son of a Polish father and a Ukrainian mother and was born and raised the in Ukraine until 1938 when he moved to Warsaw and enrolled at university. When the Germans invaded, he escaped and made his way to England where he wore an Air Force uniform but was, in fact, working for special operations as an undercover agent in Europe. The brief one-page outline described an extremely brave young man fighting the only way he could for the liberation of his homeland but a footnote showed that when the war ended he had been repatriated to the Ukraine and was presumed deceased.

  Darrington hated footnotes containing important information thereby denigrating it to something of no consequence, and this footnote spoke volumes when read in conjunction with the government document also in the file. Stefan Bronski was among thousands of East Europeans repatriated with or without their consent after an agreement between the Soviet and British governments had been signed. There was nothing to indicate whether or not he went willingly but as most of the returnees were thought to have been imprisoned or executed on arrival, Darrington could well understand the British government wanting to keep the details under wraps, hence the Official Secrets Act. The details and repercussions of the agreement, however unpalatable, had nothing to do with the murders and Darrington moved on to Rona McLean’s file where the information was clearly relevant.

  The prime witness Norma Hammond, under threat of being arrested for withholding evidence, made a second statement giving a description of the man on the staircase. She claimed to be petrified of identifying him because although she did not know him she had seen him again later that night in the uniform of a police sergeant. The police tried to contact her again to follow up her statement, but Norma Hammond had disappeared, and in January 194
5 when the first report on the murders was being put together she still could not be traced.

  It was easy to disappear during and shortly after the war when destroyed documents were constantly being replaced but Darrington wondered whether Norma Hammond had, in fact, fled in terror or ended up under a pile of rubble, her throat cut and her face smashed to bits by a building brick.

  Had it not been for the tragic death of a 21-year-old girl, the next case read like a French farce. In the early hours of 1 March, 1941 a policeman chasing a burglar actually fell over the body of Louise Sinclair in St James Park. Examination of the crime scene revealed the girl had not died in the park, the body dumped there after death. There had been a raid the night before and she had sustained the same horrific injuries as the other victims.

  The name Louise Sinclair was not uncommon, but that of her father, the Right Honourable Jerome Sinclair rang loud bells for Darrington. As a highly placed Member of Parliament during the war years, he had an impeccable record and often appeared in the press photographed with his adoring wife, beautiful daughter and handsome son. It was that same handsome son who, when interviewed by the police over the death of his sister, had broken down and tearfully revealed yet another prominent name — General Sir William Janesford, whose mistress she had been. The parents of the dead girl were completely unaware of the liaison, even though the general was a lifelong friend, a family man and military hero.

  Faced with the evidence the general admitted finding his young mistress dead in his London apartment in the early hours of the morning. He panicked and with the assistance of his adjutant dumped her body in the park to avoid a scandal and disillusionment of the general public at a time when morale was already low.

  Darrington wondered, not for the first time, what reasons would be given for suppressing the truth about the immoral, sometimes criminal behaviour of the upper echelons if the public suddenly declared no interest whatsoever in their private lives. Knowledge of the general’s licentious association with a girl less than half his age and his unlawful disposal of her body might well have shocked the populace, but they would have recovered unlike his career, his marriage or his standing in the community.

  Sir Jerome Sinclair had lost his daughter in dreadful circumstances but appeared acquiescent in shrouding the truth to protect her reputation. Assurances were given that every effort would be made to apprehend the killer then she too passed into history as yet another air-raid casualty. Again the motive appeared to be sex but with those involved having a great deal more to lose.

  Darrington closed the file and casually moved on to the next one and flinched back taking in a short, sharp breath. The name Claudine Duvall jumped out at him.

  How could Claudine’s name be there in front of him in a red file? In spite of being alone he looked around furtively before quickly rifling through the papers. There was no mistake. The report identified Claudine Edith Duvall as the daughter of a widowed French diplomat and although it was not absolutely certain she was a victim of the serial killer, or indeed had been murdered, there were suspicious circumstances. Her body was found after an air-raid, but on the 10 May, 1941 not at the end of a month like the previous victims and other details did not quite fit. On closer inspection, the red line around her throat, which led to speculation she had been murdered, proved to be the mark of a chain roughly wrenched from her neck. Unlike the other victims, she had actually died as a result of injuries to her head and face caused either by being repeatedly struck with a building brick or by falling masonry. A post-mortem revealed sexual intercourse had taken place just prior to her death and marks and bruises on the body indicated possible rape.

  “No! It wasn’t rape! That’s how she and her French lover performed,” Darrington hissed the words bitterly. Eyes riveted on the file, only his mind moved, racing around dealing with one shock after another. How did he know it wasn’t rape? How did he know about the French lover? The truth forced its way brutally into his reluctant reasoning. Because he was there! He must have been. Closing his eyes, he quite clearly saw the image of Claudine astride her lover. Still partly clothed they were on the floor in the lounge of the flat and beside them lay the jacket of a French Naval Officer.

  A light flashed above the heavy door and he closed the file quickly. “It’s five-thirty Chief Inspector,” said Miss Bevis as she entered the room.

  “Thank you, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Breathing heavily and feeling sick Darrington made his way through the rows of shelves to the reception area Miss Bevis at his heels. “I do hope you’re not overdoing things, Chief Inspector,” she said as they walked, “you look very tired.”

  “I’m fine,” he said over his shoulder, “just a bit of a headache. Perhaps it’s the air-conditioning. I worked longer than I intended. Good night, have a nice weekend.” He walked quickly without looking back, not wishing to face the perceptive Alice Bevis while carrying a red file in his briefcase.

  *

  It was after midnight and Sarah was sleeping soundly when Max retrieved the file from his briefcase and read through it again trying to come to terms with the fact that Claudine may have been murdered and possibly by him. He must have been there to know what he knew but could he really have committed such a monstrous deed on the woman he loved, the mother of his child? The date of her death was the day he had gone missing, he knew that much but the events were so hazy now. One thing remained crystal clear, the death of Leon Bauerman had disrupted his therapy and if it had not he would have had more to confess but what was it he had left unsaid and buried away all these years?

  Removing the file from the archives had been a spontaneous act and he wasn’t sure why he had done it. Somehow he felt the information belonged to him and he wanted to read it again and to study it more closely. It was unbelievable that he was now investigating his own wife’s death and the correct procedure would, of course, be to tell Rothwell and be taken off the case but he had no intention of doing that. He knew about Claudine’s French lover and their violent intimacy and he must find out how he knew.

  He closed his eyes. The picture of their cruel lovemaking was still there, but he could not be certain if it was a memory of a fact or memory of his imagination running riot more than twenty-five years ago. What had Claudine said in the letter telling him their marriage was over? Although he had read the letter over and over again at the time, he could not now remember the actual words, only the pain they caused. Had she actually mentioned a lover, a Frenchman? The destructive memories were locked away in that dark cellar and he was too afraid to open the trapdoor and face whatever else lurked there.

  The file said Claudine’s death was only a possible murder and made no reference whatever to the fact she was married. She had apparently used her maiden name and not told anyone about him or Jules. Her father had been informed of her death in an air-raid but not about the subsequent investigation and apparently still knew nothing of her marriage, hence the rather curt note sent to Top Cottage, while he was in hospital, informing him of her death. Bitterness welled within him. She had gone on with her life as if nothing had happened and even her father was unaware he had a grandchild.

  “Max! What the hell are you doing?”

  Deep in thought he jumped then smiled guiltily at Sarah. “Sorry love, I can’t sleep so I’m browsing through these boring files in the hope they’ll do the trick.” Closing Claudine’s file he rested his large hands on the cover.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this Max you need to rest.”

  “I know but it’s the weekend. I’ll sleep in tomorrow and I can always take Monday off if I’m tired. You go back to bed, I’ll be up soon, I promise.”

  He shook his head when Sarah offered to make him some cocoa and when she reluctantly went back to bed, again opened the file. He recognised the address of Claudine’s flat where she died and where he had stayed when he went to visit her while on leave. They had a marvellous few days together and certainly on his part, had fallen in l
ove all over again, but Claudine had refused to return to Hampshire to look after Jules. She had begged him to understand that she loved her job in London and hated living in the country. She had promised to visit Jules and before going off on his ill-fated last sea patrol he had asked his mother if she would continue to look after Jules in the meantime.

  Claudine was certainly alive when he left but had he returned to the flat when he went missing? Had he travelled to London, murdered her and then made his way to Portsmouth where Douglas Hood found him? When being interviewed by Leon Bauerman he had admitted going back to London and seeing Claudine with another man but not to murdering her. It would have taken a long time to get to London in those days, but his car was found at the railway station and he was missing for thirty-six hours. His mind had very efficiently blocked out that period of time for more than two decades and now refused to fully cooperate. Again he went over the bits he did know or thought he knew. He knew Claudine was not raped but involved in a violent sexual relationship. He had seen them striking out at one another as she sat astride her lover writhing in ecstasy with the cross he had given her still hanging around her neck. But they were in the living room of the house, not in the bedroom where the report said her body was found and where she was murdered.

  The cross! He thumbed through the file to the description of her body. She was found lying on the bed naked, her face disfigured, possibly by falling masonry, or possibly by a killer wielding a building brick and tiny slivers of broken glass from the window were embodied in her flesh. She wore gold earrings but no other jewellery, no wedding ring and no silver cross.

  Where was the cross? She was wearing it that night. He had kept the one with ‘X’ for Xavier engraved on it and given her the other one, the one with ‘E’ for Eloise. Frantically he read through the notes on the file again. A red line around the victim’s neck, which had at first suggested an incision to the throat was later found to be a shallow wound caused by some sort of chain being torn roughly from the body.