“I'll see what can be done, Chief Inspector.”
Her tone was terse and dismissive, but Darrington smiled and spoke pleasantly. “Thank you so much for your help Miss Bevis and I'm now off to lunch. I'll be back in about an hour as usual.”
As he left by the narrow staircase, Alice Bevis dialled an extra-long telephone number from memory and asked to speak to Chief Superintendent Rothwell.
*
Winchester was at its best. As in centuries past and no doubt for centuries to come, sun streaming from a cloudless, blue sky warmed the solid Norman walls and archways and Darrington felt a surge of wellbeing to be part of it. On a short stroll along the banks of the river Itchen he stopped to gaze at the cathedral in all its majesty, humbled by the infinitesimal span of his own existence in comparison to the enduring resilience of such rich history.
Juggling a demanding job with the responsibilities of a marriage and a family hadn't allowed him much time for contemplation but now he saw, smelled and wondered at these tangible witnesses to the past sturdily prevailing despite neglect, pollution and indifference, and revelled in their salience. He took off his jacket and carried it across his shoulder, the anger and uneasiness that had been agitating him in the fluorescent-lit bunker ebbing away into the warmth of the glorious sunlit day.
Fiona was sitting at his usual table in the tearoom under the disapproving gaze of the waitress, who after taking his order went off without her usual courteous enquiries as to his health and chit-chat about the state of the weather.
“I was hoping you'd be here today,” said Fiona.
“It's always nice to see you Fiona and you're looking happier than when we last met in here.”
She laughed, “Yes, well that's because I am happier. After our talk I had a long think about the situation with Matt and I decided you were absolutely right, he was making excuses for not leaving his wife. He really has no intention of actually doing it, so I've given him the push, and it's over for good.” As usual she talked loudly and the other customers either listened surreptitiously or looked on disapprovingly.
“Well, I think you did the right thing, Fiona,” said Darrington lowering his voice in the vain hope that she might do the same.
She bit into a huge doughnut and icing sugar settled on her upper lip and the end of her nose, “As of today, I'm fancy-free and naughty with it.” Her voice was deliberately louder giving rise to more disparaging looks and causing him to laugh in spite of his embarrassment.
“How long have you and Matt worked together?” he asked. Still uncertain of those around him he was unable to resist quizzing.
“Oh, Matt and I have known each other for about twelve months.”
“And Miss Bevis?” he enquired casually, “I suppose she's been there since the archives opened?”
“No.” Fiona demolished the last of the cake and wiped her fingers with a napkin. “There was a Mr Bellwood in charge when Matt and I first started, in fact, Alice started working there just before you did. Mr Bellwood left suddenly, of course, he was a very elderly chap but we didn't get to know whether he was sick or had retired and Alice turned up shortly afterwards.”
As Darrington suspected, Alice Bevis was there to keep an eye on him and Fiona had cleverly skirted his question about how long she and Matt had actually been working at the archives.
“Max Darrington!” Douglas Hood was standing beside the table and smiling down on him.
Darrington stood up and warmly shook the hand of his old friend and mentor whom he had not seen for many weeks. “Douglas what a nice surprise.”
Douglas looked quizzically at Fiona, who patted her lips with a napkin. Darrington made the introductions and asked Douglas to join them, but Fiona stood up and grabbed her large handbag from the spare seat. “I must fly now Max see you later.”
“Well, you're obviously feeling better,” said Douglas as through the front window of the cafe, they watched the long legged girl cross the street. “Is this something I should keep quiet about?”
“That, my friend, is a colleague,” said Max. “The world is changing Douglas, very confusing for old duffers like you and me, but what brings you to Winchester?”
“Oh, just a job. As you know, since I retired I've been doing private enquiry work and as I still have contacts in the force. I sometimes manage to pull in a few favours, but I know I can rely on you not to breathe a word about that. I heard you were in Winchester and thought you'd be at the local nick but when you weren't, I thought I must have got it wrong so I popped in here for a coffee before driving back home and found you having a
tête-à -tête
with a young dolly bird. So, where exactly are you working?”
Darrington hesitated. Was it appropriate to confide in an old and trusted friend who was also a retired police officer? “I'm working with records,” he said screwing up his nose, “very boring, collating statistics for a government department but hopefully I'll soon get back to my own job and, believe me, I can't wait.”
Douglas accepted the explanation and ordered coffee and for the next half-hour they caught up with news about the family, the police force and the trial of Ivor James Calway scheduled to start in a few weeks.
“Such a brilliant piece of detection, Max. I felt so proud of you and have to admit I went about telling everyone it was me who got you into the police force all those years ago, sharing the glory you know.”
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 1945 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.