Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

“Mary! Have you got a piece of paper and a pencil?”

I explained, and we began scrabbling among the papers until I could get the dates straight for all five murders. I knew that at least some of my fugues corresponded with a killing. Though in truth, my episodes had been so frequent it was hard not to. I jotted down the figures. Once a month I did have an alibi, and a prominent psychiatrist who would confirm where I was on each occasion. The trouble was the dates varied; they were roughly around the middle of the month but it depended on Doc Thompson’s schedule and what they wanted to inflict on me. The normal visit – talks and examination – took two days. Electrocution took a week out of my life.

I didn’t have my diary with me, but I had an idea. It was a long shot and it might prove nothing. But it was a worth a phone call to Thompson’s secretary. My one big risk was if the national press had picked up my photo and the accusations in the London papers. It was four thirty and I might just catch her before she clocked off. I used Mary’s phone in the hall. I could hear the two operators trying to put me through.

“Good afternoon. Doctor Thompson’s office. How can I help you?”

“Elspeth? This is Danny McRae. I have a query about my appointments.” Mary was eavesdropping so close I could smell her sweet breath; she was always dipping into a little bowl and chewing some cumin seeds.

No hesitation. “Hello, Mr McRae. I thought we’d confirmed next month’s?”

“It’s not about the next one, Elspeth. It’s about the earlier ones. I’m trying to check some dates. It’s to help with my memory. A little exercise for the Doctor.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“It’s a pain, I know, but could you give me the dates of my appointments since…”

I looked down at my pencil jottings. “… August last year.”

“Hmm. Can I call you back with this, Mr McRae? I need to check through the diary and I’m rather busy at present.” She didn’t like being rushed. Elspeth had her methods and her routine.

I looked at Mary. She raised her already elevated eyebrows. “Yes, please, Elspeth. I’m sorry to trouble you but this is fairly important. So if you could call me today? My number is…” I inspected the phone base. “…Westminster 5191.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Good afternoon, Mr McRae.”

All I could do was sit down and wait. And hope Elspeth didn’t call the police.

She didn’t call that evening and I was beginning to think the worst, waiting for the door to crash down and Wilson to steamroller through. It was a rotten night’s sleep, what with the worry and the noises through the paper-thin walls.

Those girls worked for their money. I was down in Mary’s parlour by seven thirty.

“Mary, I won’t ever be able to thank you for what you’re doing. You could be in big trouble for looking after me.”

She giggled. “I know. You gonna have to use my girls lots in future.” I doubted that. Having listened through the paper walls to the fake sounds of pleasure, I’d probably never use room service here again.

“Why are you doing this, Mary?” It wasn’t as if I was her best customer.

She studied me for a moment. “You no such bad man. You help me before. Now you ask for help, I give it. Bring me luck. Some day you give it back. That how life work.”

The phone rang in the hall. It was nine o’clock. We looked at each other. We dived through the door. She picked it up.

“Yes? Just minute.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It for you.” She handed me the phone.

“Mr McRae? Who was that person?”

“We share a phone in our building, Elspeth. First one there picks it up.”

“Hmm, right. I have your dates for you. Do you have a pencil and paper?”

“Yes, yes. Fire away. Thank you.” Mary handed me the implements.

Elspeth rattled off the dates: when I arrived, when I left. Some were two days, some were six. I thanked her profusely and then sat back afraid to take the next step. Mary didn’t move, just sat with her hands folded in her lap waiting for me to pluck up the courage. Finally I reached over for the list we’d made last night, the list of dates of the murders.

Tick, tick. Nothing, nothing. Yes! Dear god in heaven, a match. In November, while someone – someone else – was slaughtering a young woman, I was safely tucked up in the hospital. I ringed and ringed the date with my pencil till the relief started to ebb away. I stood up and grabbed Mary and lifted her up in the air and hugged her. She squealed in merriment like a young girl. I put her down.

“Thank you, Mary. Thank you.”

“See. I tell you, you a good man.”

“No, Mary. You said I wasn’t such a bad man.”

She shrugged. “All men got bad in them. Some more than others. So now, only two men might got blood on hands.”

She was right. It still hadn’t quite got me off the hook; there was still doubt about Lili’s murder. But I’d have to leave that for the moment. I had Caldwell and Wilson to tackle. If either one was the killer I had to find a way of pinning it on him. I didn’t think dreams would be admissible in evidence.

Both men were dangerous to go after. Caldwell probably had a personal armoury and a strong motivation for seeing me dead. Wilson would tear my head off and ask questions after. And he was surrounded by the system; who would I make an accusation to? For the same reasons I didn’t feel inclined to surrender and ask him to check my alibi. It would prove he’d either planted evidence in a conspiracy with the real murderer or done it himself.

Mary had piled my little set of belongings from my suit and coat on her table.

It amounted to some loose change, my office and flat keys, and the list of questions I had for Kate and Liza. I picked up the crumpled list, smoothed it out on the little table and examined it.

Kate:

Are you also known as Mrs Catriona Caldwell?

What’s your real relationship with Tony Caldwell?

What was really wrong with you in the hospital the night of the bomb?

Why hire me to find out if he was dead? You could have done it yourself.

Liza:

Are you or are you not married to Tony C?

Why don’t you care enough that your husband is dead?

Did he mention the murder to you? What else did he say about me?

Why are you lying to me?

I could cross through most, now I had the answer to the one question I hadn’t posed: Tony Caldwell, alive or dead? He was very much alive, and Kate and Liza were his half-sisters and protecting him. But I still didn’t know why Kate had gone into hospital on November thirtieth. Was it important? Had she faked an injury just to make sure she had an alibi if I checked? Or had something happened to her – coincidentally – at the time of the bomb? It niggled me and I kept coming back to one of my tenets in a murder enquiry: there are no coincidences. I turned to Mary. “Mary, do you know anyone who can make me a business card?”

I swung through the doors of St Thomas’s hospital as if I owned the place.

Self-belief was everything in what I was about to try to pull off. My confidence was increased by what Mary had managed to do. She’d found me a pair of specs with clear glass in them from a relative of hers in Lisle Street. The thick frames partly hid the scarring round my eyes. Together with the battered briefcase forgotten by a customer in his post-coital bliss or funk, they gave me the studious air I needed.

My plan would be scuppered if I found the same girl manning the reception desk from my first visit and she remembered me. But behind the desk was a large woman with a big laugh. She looked mid-thirties, and was talking and having fun with one of the nurses. I took a deep breath and marched up to her.