Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

“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 waited 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?

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.