The Lazarus Secrets

by Beryl Coverdale

  At lunchtime he left the archives as usual but rather than making for the café he went to a nearby pub where Douglas was waiting for him. “Hello Max, I was so sorry to hear about Alexander. I liked the old boy.”

  Max nodded and said curtly, “Did you find anything out?”

  “Yes, good news on both counts,” he handed a small notebook to Max. “I’ve found the current address and telephone number of the witness who saw someone in uniform coming out of the building where Claudine lived. It’s fortunate he had such an unusual name. There aren’t many Sebastian Penhelligans around but he still lives in London. The second one wasn’t so easy, but I got it eventually. Norma Hammond, or Norma Gordon as she is now, surfaced in Brighton after the war, she married a chap called Bruce Gordon. She’s a widow now, but my sources confirm she still lives at the same address and that’s it, I’ve completely used up all the favours owed me, and then some.”

  Max stared intently at the names and addresses in the notebook, the information could provide the answers he needed but also dreaded. “Thanks, Douglas, once again I’m in your debt. Perhaps if I ring Penhelligan and ask him about the uniform that would be a start and then we could drive down to Brighton to interview Norma Gordon. I won’t ring her first. We don’t want her to disappear again but if we can persuade her to tell us who she saw, and why she changed her story, maybe we can track him down. He might still be alive. If he was a serving police officer, he would have been fairly young when all this happened. If Norma Gordon can identify him, perhaps we can get him to admit to all the killings and I’ll know for certain that I didn’t kill Claudine.”

  Douglas held up his hands. “Now hold on a minute Max, that’s definitely not part of your brief. You’re employed to write a report and possibly give recommendations. Remember you’re on light duties and that doesn’t include scouring the countryside for a serial killer. We could end up in serious trouble here, I’m retired remember and not supposed to know anything about this and you’ve broken every rule in the book so far. Your career and both our pension prospects could be on the line if we get caught. This is just not like you!”

  Max sounded desperate, “Everything’s changed since I found out about Claudine. Believe me Douglas, I wish to God I hadn’t asked to see those damned red files, I wish I’d just skimmed over the surface, produced a report that pleased everyone and resumed my duties and my life, but I didn’t and now I have to keep going. I have to know whether or not I killed Claudine.”

  Douglas leaned forward and spoke quietly and earnestly, “And if you did? What are you going to do if you find out that almost 30 years ago, while severely traumatised, you killed a worthless woman who was betraying you?”

  Max didn’t answer.

  “Are you going to destroy all you have now? Because it won’t only be your life Max but the lives of everyone around you — your children and Sarah. And what about your mother and Charles? Can they take a blow like this at their age and so soon after Alexander’s death? Just think about these things before you go blundering into something that could have disastrous consequences.”

  “I hear what you’re saying Douglas, but I can’t help it, I must know the truth.”

  Douglas sat back and spoke quietly but forcefully, “And what is the truth about those days my friend? How many people do you suppose you killed while you were in the navy? I assume you did attack enemy ships full of sailors, there was a war on Max and people killed and got killed.”

  “It’s not the same; this was murder!” Max suddenly stood up. “If you don’t want to get involved that’s okay Douglas, I understand. Thanks for what you’ve done so far. I’m extremely grateful and I’ll deal with it from now on. This information will be a great help and no-one will ever know where I got it from. I promise.”

  Douglas stood up, “I have to go now Max, my advice as a friend and an ex-policeman is to let sleeping dogs lie, but if, as you say, you can’t you might need some help and in that case I’m in this with you.”

  Darrington returned to the archives and told Miss Bevis he intended to leave early but would be back the next day. Miss Bevis watched him in his office as he used the telephone and thought he looked worried or angry or both, he was certainly not his usual self.

  Unaware of being observed, Darrington called the number Douglas had given him for Sebastian Penhelligan, but it was his wife who answered and said he was away for a few days. He gave her a number for him to call and then as an afterthought explained he was a policeman looking into an old case and did she remember her husband being interviewed at the end of the war about seeing a man leaving a building in London during an air-raid.

  Mrs Penhelligan remembered all right and spent a full ten minutes explaining how her brave husband had risked life and limb in the very worst air-raid to rescue Grandma. He tried to politely interrupt but in the end let the story run its course then asked if she knew anything about the man seen running from the building. To his dismay, she confirmed he was in a naval uniform and assumed it was a Royal Navy uniform.

  Next he called Sarah. Trying to sound casual, he said he would be very late home as Douglas had asked him for help on a case and they were going to discuss it over dinner in Winchester.

  “Max, we’re going to Top Cottage for dinner tonight,” Sarah said impatiently. “You promised your mother you would go. It’s to do with Alexander’s bequests and she wants the whole family to be there.”

  He pulled a face, he had forgotten all about his mother’s plans to distribute Alexander’s belongings to the family. She and Charles had arranged a family dinner where they would hand over the appropriate items and he had indeed promised to be there.

  “I’d forgotten Sarah, I’m sorry but I’ve arranged to meet Douglas, he’s really in a bit of a mess and I can’t let him down. Give Mother my apologies will you. I’m sure she doesn’t need me there, she and Charles seemed to have everything well organised.”

  Sarah put down the phone and stood looking at it for a moment. She knew her husband inside out. She had seen him at his worst and his best, at his strongest and his most vulnerable but now he had lied to her. She could hear it in his voice and she felt sick. There were other things, she had refused to pick at them, to make something out of nothing, but they remained in her mind. The day Alexander had taken ill she had rung Winchester Police Station, but they said he wasn’t working there but when she told him he offered no explanation and wrote down a number where he could be reached. They had dashed to the hospital and she hadn’t raised the matter again. Around the same time she had met Douglas Hood while shopping in Southampton and they had chatted about Max and how well he was recovering. He had mentioned meeting him in a café in Winchester with a young woman. Although he and Max were long-standing friends, Sarah had never quite trusted Douglas and thought she saw something of a knowing smirk on his face as he casually informed on her husband. Again she had refused to play the jealous wife especially after making a fool of herself over Claudine’s photograph but something was happening to Max and he was keeping it from her.

  Chapter Twenty

  They arrived in Brighton in the late afternoon, having driven most of the journey in silence. Max was deep in thought about the difficult, possibly destructive interview ahead, but Douglas was kept quiet by the speed at which they travelled, clinging to the edge of the passenger seat he frequently closed his eyes as they sped along the narrow, high hedged roads.

  Number 50 Northlands Terrace was the last in a row of large, solidly built houses. Its heavy outer door stood open revealing a tiny vestibule and a stained glass inner door that was shut. To the right of the door, long bay windows looked out onto small, square front garden surrounded by a low stone wall. The sandstone brickwork of the house, which may once have been light and attractive, was now dark and mossy in contrast to the gleaming paintwork on the doors and window frames.

  Max parked the car around the corner in a road running parallel to the narrow back garden which was enclosed by a slatte
d wooden fence. The well-kept lawn was divided by a concrete footpath along one side of which washing billowed from a clothesline.

  “It looks like rain,” said Douglas, “her washing’s going to get wet.”

  Focused totally on the task ahead, Max ignored him. “How are we going to play this? We have to go carefully, we don’t want to frighten her off again.”

  “She’s hardly likely to go on the run now,” said Douglas, “even being generous she’s middle-aged, but perhaps you’re right the two of us might seem intimidating. I’ll wait here while you talk to her. Just try to convince her she isn’t in any danger. She’ll probably have read the newspaper article so you can say you’ve been assigned to look into the matter.”

  Darrington was surprised when the glass door opened in answer to his ring on the door bell. If this was Norman Hammond, or Norma Gordon, she was not what he had expected. Momentarily he had forgotten he was investigating events that happened so many years ago and while he hadn’t anticipated a scanty clad dancing girl, the sombre looking matron bore no relation to his vision of the flighty, streetwise girl of war-torn London.

  “Yes?” she asked briskly holding the door wide open.

  Darrington ascertained she was Norma Gordon and taking out his warrant card explained why he was there but she showed no emotion or reaction. Tall and stout she wore a floral printed crossover apron over a plain, dark green dress. Her tidy hair pinned at the nape of her neck was blonde but going grey and he guessed her to be in her mid to late fifties. Only her totally unblemished and unmade up complexion gave any hint of the glamorous woman she must once have been.

  Moving back into the hallway she spoke with resignation, “I suppose you’d better come in.”

  The sleek glitz of the sixties had in no way ventured across the doorstep of the immaculate home. The walls were papered with tiny rosebuds set between neat gold lines, the perfect paintwork was cream gloss and the furniture heavy and highly polished. It was a house someone constantly maintained but not one that welcomed intrusion.

  “What is it you want?” Norma Gordon kept Darrington standing in the hallway and did not offer to take him any further into the house.

  “I’m looking into events that took place in London in 1940 to 1941 during the Blitz, you may have seen the recent newspaper article about girls who were murdered at that time.” She didn’t react other than to clasp her strong hands together across her ample midriff and sniff with an air of indifference. Darrington felt like an unsuccessful door-to-door salesman, “I believe you were a witness in the case of a girl called Rona McLean with whom you shared a flat. That’s true isn’t it? You were formerly Miss Norma Hammond.”

  “Can I see your identification again?” The request took Darrington by surprise and when he handed over his warrant card, she studied it carefully, “Were you a policeman during the War?”

  “I was a special constable in the last two years of the war.”

  “In London?”

  “No, in Southampton.”

  She handed back the warrant card apparently satisfied he was who he said he was. “You’d better come through to the dining room, I’ve just made some tea.”

  In the small room at the back of the house, they sat opposite one another at a table beside a sash window that looked out onto the back garden and she poured tea from a heavy brown teapot. Darrington was, for once grateful for the drink and not partaking out of politeness.

  “I really can’t believe this has come up again after all these years. How did you find me?” Norma Gordon asked.

  “It’s not too difficult these days. A friend of mine is an investigator and he helped, but I want to stress Mrs Gordon I’m not here to cause you any trouble. I need information off the record.”

  She snorted, “Yes, off the record for how long? This friend of yours was he a policeman?”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t in London during the War either and I trust him completely,” Max assured her.

  She was cautious, suspicious and intelligent. Such characteristics had enabled her to successfully flee from danger and quietly make a new life for herself. To persuade her to jeopardise that security Darrington knew he would need to gain her trust. The mental picture he had compiled of her was that of a tough, hard-faced young woman with little integrity but now, face-to-face, he instinctively felt the stoically resilient woman, who looked directly at him when she spoke, could be believed.

  “Mrs Gordon there’s no reason why you should trust me, particularly as I’m a policeman. I’ve read the file and I know why you disappeared but I need your help not only as a policeman but personally. I knew one of the young women who was murdered, I thought she was killed in an air-raid but now I believe she might have been a victim of the same person who killed Rona McLean. I shouldn’t be here talking to you and if you report me I’ll be in all sorts of trouble but I’m desperate to get to the truth. I’ve trusted you with this information and ask you to trust me.”

  It was Norma Gordon’s turn to weigh up the stranger who asked so much of her. He was a big man with power, but no bully, his eyes were sharp and could probably be menacing but at the moment they looked only troubled. He sat back rather than crowding her and he was asking not threatening. She was afraid of the situation, not him. Since the newspaper article had come out she had been waiting for someone to knock on the door and had prayed the face she would encounter would be that of a stranger and not the fearful countenance etched in her memory.

  “I have to trust someone I suppose,” she said eventually her large, capable hands cupping the sides of the teapot as if to keep them warm. “You see my husband died a few months ago; in fact, his funeral was the day the article about the murders was in the newspaper. I always trusted him to know what the right thing to do was but now he’s gone and I’m alone.”

  Darrington lowered his eyes. The right thing for him to do would be to leave the poor grieving woman in peace not drag up the nightmares of her past, but his own needs pushed him on. “Thank you, Mrs Gordon, if you could tell me about your relationship with Rona McLean and what happened on the night she died.”

  At age 17 Norman Hammond ran away from home and put out of her mind forever her strictly religious mother and drunken father. As far as she knew, her disappearance was not reported to the police by her mother, who would assume the wrath of God had swooped down to punish one so wicked, or by her father who would probably not notice her absence until payday.

  For the next few years she worked in clubs and striptease joints in London’s red light district, living at one time with a pimp who often lashed out at her and forced her to work the streets when he needed money. When he was given a lengthy prison sentence for stabbing another girl, Norma took the opportunity to move on to another part of London and made a promise to herself never to be at the beck and call of anyone else as long as she lived.

  Working at the Golden Garden Club during the war she made as much from tips as she did in wages for cavorting before the noisy, lustful audience. She never again worked the streets but occasionally entertained men in the seedy flat where she lived and if they were generous enough to reward her with money or gifts, took them without flinching.

  At the time of Rona’s murder she was involved with a rich, inadequate patron of the Golden Garden Club and regularly using the bedroom she and Rona were supposed to share, to elicit from him as many expensive gifts as possible.

  “I lived an immoral life at that time,” she said sadly and looked away from Darrington’s face. “I was hard and cruel and when Rona moved into the flat I gave no thought to the poor girl. She was so young, lost and innocent and I completely ignored her, in fact, I did worse, I made her life a misery perhaps because she reminded me of what I’d once been.”

  “I understand,” said Darrington anxious, not to censure.

  “No,” she said staring grimly at him, “I doubt you do, but no matter.”

  She went over the events leading up to the dancers being expelled from the air-r
aid shelter and he believed her when she described how they had begged not to be turned out into the raging bombardment but the respectable mothers and wives had bodily ejected them while their menfolk looked on without sympathy.

  An office building ripped apart by a bomb crashed down into the street sending the screaming girls scattering in all directions. Knowing her way around, Norma was the first to reach the flat where she found her pathetic Romeo waiting in the doorway.

  In her bedroom, she cried and sulked over her damaged coat, being placated and obliging only when her impatient lover coughed up the price of a new one. She snatched the money with no word of thanks knowing humiliation and degradation were what he was there for and anxious to get it over with.

  Later, as Norma saw her guest out of the flat, a power cut had plunged the place into darkness. At first she hadn’t noticed Rona huddled on the sofa but her impatience with the girl softened when she saw how scared she was and when the all-clear sounded she went down to the ground-floor flat to borrow candles leaving the door to the flat unlocked.

  Darrington looked away as Norma dabbed a tissue at the tears springing from her eyes. “You can’t imagine the shock, Chief Inspector. That poor girl, she was ever so pretty you know, dark and small with huge, lovely blue eyes but when I lit that candle and saw the mess he’d made of her, she looked like some sort of hideous monster and there was blood everywhere.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head as if trying to rid it of the memory.

  “But before that on the staircase when you were coming back to the flat, you saw him,” Darrington insisted gently.

  For the first time, Norma Gordon looked frightened and nodded as if afraid to acknowledge the fact out loud. She fidgeted nervously with the corner of a lace tablecloth that sat in the centre of the table, “I can’t tell you,” she suddenly blurted out, “I can’t, I’m still scared.”