It was a rough cold night. I slept fitfully, continually pulling the tarpaulin tight round me to try to trap body heat. I shivered and tossed till dawn, then got up, ate some bread and tinned corned beef and went for a walk to warm up. I used the bushes like an animal, and with my roughening face and leaf-encrusted clothes I began to feel like one of Pan’s mates.
Occasionally, through the trees or when I stumbled on a path, I’d see other people; men with dogs, or taking shortcuts or simply out for a walk. I fled from them, like a squirrel. But I thanked the gods for the temperate weather; I’d heard Glasgow was under six inches of snow two days ago. The lucky south of England was basking in temperatures well above freezing. It still wasn’t balmy enough to be sleeping in the woods without a tent or fire. I’d have given anything for a hot fish supper.
I returned to my vigil, determined that this was my last day. If I couldn’t break through to get some answers from Liza I’d have to rethink my plans entirely. Maybe go west down to Devon, and lie low for a couple of weeks. But the money was running out; dare I sneak back to my office for my savings book?
I found myself shivering even in the watery sun that filtered through the naked trees. This wasn’t good. The soaking I’d got the other night, the continuing lack of sleep and accumulation of cold and pressure were taking their toll. The Riley was there again today, and the copper still stood sentry. This was beginning to make little sense, and was getting to the point where I couldn’t think straight. Though my body felt cold my head felt feverish. Not good. I needed to get warm. I needed hot food and shelter.
I kept slipping in and out of sleep throughout the day, not sure if I was dreaming and not sure where I was when I woke up. What a stubborn spark flickers inside us, insisting that our petty lives are worth fighting for. At times I thought I was back in the camp, cold and hurting and wishing for death. Whatever I’d remembered two days ago in my fugue was fighting to surface. But I had no notes to trigger the memories. Nor did I want to. I was especially scared of this one for some reason.
As the evening drew in, I dragged myself upright, ate the last of the bread and the canned meat, vowing if I survived, that I’d never eat the damned stuff again. Then I stumbled into the village.
It felt like I was coming down with flu. I spotted a pharmacy and got some Beechams powders. I was in time to get some hot tea and a scone at the café on the high street. I swilled the powder down with the tea. I got pitying looks from the waitress and scowls from the supervisor, so I didn’t stay long. But it gave me a little new energy and my head was clearing. I was good for an hour or two, but where could I lay my shattered body out of the cold? I walked on down the hill; walking up was too much effort. Then I saw it.
The Rosslyn Hill Chapel sits back from the street in its own grounds. Its squat arches look welcoming enough, even to a non-believer. Amid the red brick of the surrounding tall terraces the grey-white stone made the Chapel an invader, a missionary among heathens. The sign said it was built in 1691: before Scotland lost its independence.
I pushed open the door and walked into a warmly lit hall with a great wooden-arched ceiling. Above the entrance floated an organ gallery with tall pipes glittering under the hall lights. Stretching away from me were the pews leading to the altar and pulpit.
It seemed empty but expectant. Candles had been lit and subdued electric lights illumined the stained glass panels on all sides and behind the altar. It was prettier by far than the dour Presbyterian Kirk of St Mungo’s in Kilpatrick, but then so was a Nissen hut. This Chapel felt snug and safe, and I took a seat in the back row under the organ. I laid my head down on my arms and rested on the wooden shelf jutting from the pew in front. I must have nodded off; I jerked awake to the sound of music playing above me. My neck felt broken.
There seemed to be no one else in the church except me and the unseen organist, so I settled back down. The eyes of saints and Mary Magdalene and a tortured Jesus inspected me. I wondered what sort of man they saw. I couldn’t tell them. The last time I was in church was for my dad’s funeral. I’d vowed never to go in one again.
I’d forgotten the power of the sanctified space and its battalions of ghost congregations. I could hear old hymns rising and falling, lauding their god with martial words. Slow marching down the aisle in my Boy’s Brigade uniform, the tall flag held at an angle and straining at my arm. The minister’s cadences echoing through shards of sunlight on a summer day. Only the hard pew keeping me awake through the droning and the exhortations to be good, to be better, to lead us from temptation and to forgive our trespasses. Sitting rigid between my parents as the velvet collection bag clunked round and our envelopes went in.
It was so soothing – the warmth and the music – that I stretched out on the pew. My head felt thick and hot, and black dreams began to crowd in on me, to drag me to my confessional.
I am in her bedroom. Standing over her. She is lying on her bed naked from the waist down. Her thighs are parted and blooded. Between them lies the hilt of a bayonet.
I lean over and take hold of the slippery grip. I clasp it firmly and tug. It gives, and jolts her limbs. It releases a fresh gout of blood. There is a foul smell. I pull out the long blade. I push Lili’s thighs together and flip the corner of the bedspread over her. I walk over to the sink and drop the bayonet in it, and begin running cold water. My bloodied hands are sticky and I have to scrub at them to get them clean.
That’s how they find me. The cries in German echo through the house and their boots rush through the hall and on to the stairs. I turn and wait for them.
I woke sobbing in the darkened church. The organist had long gone and moonlight spilled through the stained glass panels. Mary Magdalene looked down on me, her face blank and pitiless. Jesus strained at his nails and called for release. None came. None ever comes. I let the tears flow down my face until I could weep no more. Lili… the girl had a name. The girl whose body I assaulted was called Lili. I got up and stumbled down the centre aisle and up on to the dais where the altar stood.
There was a big bible resting open on the lectern. It was too dark to make out all the words. But I didn’t need much light. It was the Beatitudes, Matthew Chapter 5. I had to learn the whole text by heart to earn my badge for bible studies. The familiar litany sprung up: Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Thanks, Lord. I’ll take comfort from that next time Wilson beats me up.
Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you and persecute you and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely…
And there standing in that holy place, facing the congregation of St Mungo’s Kirk, with my father and mother in the front row proud to burst, I laughed out loud. I laughed until it choked me and sent me back down on my knees in the moonlight. A good joke, God. Now you can stop. Now you can fuck off and wreck someone else’s life. I get the message. You’re the boss. I’m sorry about playing three-card brag in the Kirk at the school assembly; I’m sorry about kissing that Catholic lassie… Well, you know what I have to be sorry about, Lord. Just let’s call it quits now, OK?
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. Killing myself would be exactly what Caldwell wanted. “A kindness,” he’d said. “Put you out of this pain. Like a mad dog.” I let his words roll through me, eating me. I punched the tiles till my fist hurt.
But then I held my breath. He said he saw me coming out of Lili’s home. That he confronted me back at my safe house. His SOE report talked about me being shopped by the Maquis after they found out about the killing. That wasn’t my dream. The Germans found me. Did it matter? It was only variations in horror. Either way, I murdered her. Yet the last dogged, pig-headed bit of me demanded the final truth. Like arguing over whether the Titanic hit an iceberg or a rock. Yet I clung to this discrepancy like a Sanskrit scholar gnawing away at an eroded inscription. Either I was mad or he was lying. Where there was ambiguity, there was work for an obsessive private eye. Marlowe never gave up. I crawled to my feet.
T
here was a big clock above the altar. It was just after three. Behind the altar was a door which led to some back rooms. I found a toilet and a kitchen, and made myself some tea. In another room was a couch and chairs. I bedded down on the couch but lay sleepless – I thought – till the dawn, pushing the memories around, trying to lift the haze that surrounded the time before the killing. Trying to see if there was a reason for what I’d done.
I must have slept, for I woke stiff and full of dread, but not immediately knowing why. Then it flooded back to me. But was it a dream or a memory? It was back to the big question: what was truth and what was false?
I gazed at my reflection in the mirror in the toilet and wished I could find a razor. A three-day stubble on a red head looks plain dirty. I found a small knife for peeling potatoes in one drawer and tested it on my skin. It might as well have been a spoon. I pocketed it anyway. At least I could wash my face and comb my hair. I rinsed my mouth as best I could.
With my hat pulled down and my coat collar up I was Cagney on the run. I lit my first cigarette of the day, coughed like a TB victim, and left the church by a side door. It was drizzling again. The easy thing would be to aim for the tube station and vanish into the city. So I took the next turning and headed towards Willow Road. It was time to confront Liza Caldwell.
NINETEEN
Willow Road was empty of police, grey Rileys and passers-by. It was now or never. A down-at-heel character like me couldn’t hang around for very long before someone started phoning the police. I had no idea if she was home. All I could do was try a frontal assault.
I walked determinedly from my cover among the trees, along the street and straight up her front path. I stood on her top step, knocked and waited. A voice called out from within.
“Who is it?”
“Police, madam. Just a quick word, if you please.” I tried to hide my Scots accent; it came out more Welsh than English, but it seemed to work. I listened to her heels on the tiled floor and turned my back on her just as the door opened.
“Yes, officer?”
I turned swiftly and before she could call out I pushed past her, slammed the door and slapped my hand over her mouth.
“Promise me you won’t scream and I won’t hurt you. Nod if you agree.” I felt her head tilt twice. I let her mouth go, but my grip slipped to her throat.
“Now, Liza. We’re going into the kitchen and we’re going to chat about you and Tony Caldwell. OK?” She nodded again. I pushed her through in front of me. I made her sit in a chair and dragged a stool over beside her. Fear had paralysed her; she gripped the arms of the chair as if she’d fall off. Her legs were twisted round each other. Her eyes said I was about to stab her to death. Which I guess was exactly what she thought if she believed Caldwell.
“I just want some information. I told you, I’m not going to hurt you.”
She found a voice. A shrill one. “The same way you didn’t hurt all those poor women! What you did to them!”
“Liza, I’m not going to be able to convince you one way or the other about that. All I want is to find out the truth. I need some answers. No matter how unwelcome.”
She looked completely unconvinced. “What do you want?”
“What’s Tony Caldwell’s relationship to you?”
She studied me for a while, like I was a bug under a microscope. “He’s my brother.”
“Why don’t you look like each other?” Seeing her like this, close up, was to confirm the complete lack of family resemblance.
A strange look came over her face, as though she was holding back a sneer. I suddenly caught the likeness. “We’re only half related. We had the same mother but different fathers.”
Of course. “But why does he use the name Caldwell? Was that your father’s name?”
She nodded. “He was brought up by my dad. Here in this house. His real father wouldn’t let him use his name.”
Always half answers. One question leading to another. But before I could ask it, she exploded.
“What does this matter? Why are you doing this? What’s the point?”
“Same as before, Liza. When I first came here. I’m trying to get to the truth about me and a missing period in my life.”
“You know the truth! You killed that poor girl in France and all these other girls. And now you’re going to kill me!”
An illogical response struck me. “The London girls were prostitutes. Why – if I was the killer – would I bother with you?”
“You’re sick, you know that. That’s what you are.” She was crying and angry at the same time. I thought she might throw herself on me. “Tony was right!”
I let her sobs continue until her chest steadied. Her face settled and then changed. Terror was replaced with cunning.
“Why don’t you give yourself up before you hurt anyone else. The doctors will look after you. You won’t hang. They’ll help.”
“Look, if I’m mad you might as well humour me, right? So let me ask you about Tony and Kate Graveney.”
She looked wary suddenly. “What?”
“Are they married?”
“Of course not! Why on earth…?”
“It’s in his file. His army records. She’s next of kin. Mrs Catriona Caldwell.”
Her face melted. I don’t think I’d ever seen a look so despairing.
“Oh Tony, Tony,” she said to herself. She looked up at me. “They’re not married.”
“Then why did he falsify his records? What’s going on, Liza?”
She was shaking her head. “What does it matter? Why should you care?”
“Because you need all the pieces to finish a jigsaw.” The next question would take me a long way. “Who was Tony’s father?”
She snorted and shook her head. I was getting fed up with her stonewalling. The police could reappear any time. I had to force the pace. I got up, fast. I moved behind her and dragged her back into her seat. I pulled out the knife I’d nicked from the kirk and pressed it into her neck. The blade was dull but the point pricked her skin.
“Don’t move,” I warned her. Her skin was roughened where her collar rubbed. She smelt of talcum powder. She was trembling like a hare among hounds. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like me. Which was a good sign, right?
“No more games, Liza. I want answers. Are we clear?” I felt a bastard, but I had to do this. I had to know.
She was sobbing quietly. “Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me. Please don’t.” Her shoulders were shaking so much I pulled the knife back in case I cut her by accident.
“What’s the problem, Liza? It’s a simple question. Who was Tony’s real father?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She dissolved again.
“Tell me!” I hissed in her ear. The more she hedged, the more important it seemed. I pressed the blade down.
“Philip Graveney, Sir Philip bloody Graveney. There! Are you satisfied now?”
I walked round in front of her trying to gather my scattered wits. “So he’s a half-brother to you and to Kate? A bit confusing, I agree. But what’s wrong with that, for god’s sake?”
She gave me a look that suggested I was stupid to even ask that question. I pressed on. I never minded asking the obvious questions. I suddenly missed my police notepad; this scene had exactly that sort of feeling.
“What’s wrong with that, Liza?”
She sniffed and dried her eyes with a handkerchief. “You know. I don’t want to say it.”
I thought of the pair of them so comfortable together in the Chelsea library.
“They’re lovers too, aren’t they?”
She didn’t reply.
“Aren’t they?”
Her face twisted from fear to anger. “And they will go to hell and damnation!”
“I expect so. I don’t know all the rules on incest, but this doesn’t look good.”
She gave me a pitying look but said nothing.
“When did it start?”
She shrugged. “He was just a boy. My da
d – Tony’s step-dad – worked at the Graveney’s. So did my mum. We all lived in the servant quarters there. We’d play in the kitchen. Tony was three years younger than me. Always wanting to see what the master and mistress were doing. Fascinated by the big house and the rooms we used to sneak into when the master and mistress were away. And I suppose he was jealous.”
Liza seemed to be unloosening, almost as though she wanted to get it off her chest. “Did you see much of Kate?”
“Catriona. Oh, yes. Little madam. Had Tony round her little finger even though she was a year younger than him. We used to play together. They didn’t mind that when we were little. But it stopped when Tony began showing an interest in her. She was a pretty little thing. And knew it. You can’t blame him!”
“I’m not.”
“He used to tell me how he loved her and how he’d take her away some day and marry her. Poor Tony.”
“Did you know?”
“Of course not! Not then. Not till Tony did.”
“When did he find out?”
She thought for a bit. “He was thirteen, going on fourteen. I was seventeen when my dad died. Cancer. He said on his death bed that Tony needed to know. Mother told us after.”
I kept my voice soft. “How did you both take it?”
“I wasn’t surprised. There was always something different about the way Dad treated Tony…”
She stalled.
“Like what?”
She took a deep shuddering sigh. “He used to beat him. For the slightest thing. I thought it was because he was the boy, and boys needed more discipline. It wasn’t, was it?”
“How did Tony take it? When he found out?”
“Bad. Very bad. He howled for days. Wouldn’t eat. Called Mum a whore and dad a dirty liar. We had to send him away for a bit till he calmed down.”
Truth Dare Kill Page 16
