Had it not been for the tragic death of a 21-year-old girl, the next case read like a French farce. In the early hours of 1 March, 1941 a policeman chasing a burglar actually fell over the body of Louise Sinclair in St James Park. Examination of the crime scene revealed the girl had not died in the park, the body dumped there after death. There had been a raid the night before and she had sustained the same horrific injuries as the other victims.
The name Louise Sinclair was not uncommon, but that of her father, the Right Honourable Jerome Sinclair rang loud bells for Darrington. As a highly placed Member of Parliament during the war years, he had an impeccable record and often appeared in the press photographed with his adoring wife, beautiful daughter and handsome son. It was that same handsome son who, when interviewed by the police over the death of his sister, had broken down and tearfully revealed yet another prominent name â General Sir William Janesford, whose mistress she had been. The parents of the dead girl were completely unaware of the liaison, even though the general was a lifelong friend, a family man and military hero.
Faced with the evidence the general admitted finding his young mistress dead in his London apartment in the early hours of the morning. He panicked and with the assistance of his adjutant dumped her body in the park to avoid a scandal and disillusionment of the general public at a time when morale was already low.
Darrington wondered, not for the first time, what reasons would be given for suppressing the truth about the immoral, sometimes criminal behaviour of the upper echelons if the public suddenly declared no interest whatsoever in their private lives. Knowledge of the general's licentious association with a girl less than half his age and his unlawful disposal of her body might well have shocked the populace, but they would have recovered unlike his career, his marriage or his standing in the community.
Sir Jerome Sinclair had lost his daughter in dreadful circumstances but appeared acquiescent in shrouding the truth to protect her reputation. Assurances were given that every effort would be made to apprehend the killer then she too passed into history as yet another air-raid casualty. Again the motive appeared to be sex but with those involved having a great deal more to lose.
Darrington closed the file and casually moved on to the next one and flinched back taking in a short, sharp breath. The name
Claudine Duvall
jumped out at him.
How could Claudine's name be there in front of him in a red file? In spite of being alone he looked around furtively before quickly rifling through the papers. There was no mistake. The report identified Claudine Edith Duvall as the daughter of a widowed French diplomat and although it was not absolutely certain she was a victim of the serial killer, or indeed had been murdered, there were suspicious circumstances. Her body was found after an air-raid, but on the 10 May, 1941 not at the end of a month like the previous victims and other details did not quite fit. On closer inspection, the red line around her throat, which led to speculation she had been murdered, proved to be the mark of a chain roughly wrenched from her neck. Unlike the other victims, she had actually died as a result of injuries to her head and face caused either by being repeatedly struck with a building brick or by falling masonry. A post-mortem revealed sexual intercourse had taken place just prior to her death and marks and bruises on the body indicated possible rape.
“No! It wasn't rape! That's how she and her French lover performed,” Darrington hissed the words bitterly. Eyes riveted on the file, only his mind moved, racing around dealing with one shock after another. How did he know it wasn't rape? How did he know about the French lover? The truth forced its way brutally into his reluctant reasoning. Because he was there! He must have been. Closing his eyes, he quite clearly saw the image of Claudine astride her lover. Still partly clothed they were on the floor in the lounge of the flat and beside them lay the jacket of a French Naval Officer.
A light flashed above the heavy door and he closed the file quickly. “It's five-thirty Chief Inspector,” said Miss Bevis as she entered the room.
“Thank you, I'll be with you in a moment.”
Breathing heavily and feeling sick Darrington made his way through the rows of shelves to the reception area Miss Bevis at his heels. “I do hope you're not overdoing things, Chief Inspector,” she said as they walked, “you look very tired.”
“I'm fine,” he said over his shoulder, “just a bit of a headache. Perhaps it's the air-conditioning. I worked longer than I intended. Good night, have a nice weekend.” He walked quickly without looking back, not wishing to face the perceptive Alice Bevis while carrying a red file in his briefcase.
*
It was after midnight and Sarah was sleeping soundly when Max retrieved the file from his briefcase and read through it again trying to come to terms with the fact that Claudine may have been murdered and possibly by him. He must have been there to know what he knew but could he really have committed such a monstrous deed on the woman he loved, the mother of his child? The date of her death was the day he had gone missing, he knew that much but the events were so hazy now. One thing remained crystal clear, the death of Leon Bauerman had disrupted his therapy and if it had not he would have had more to confess but what was it he had left unsaid and buried away all these years?
Removing the file from the archives had been a spontaneous act and he wasn't sure why he had done it. Somehow he felt the information belonged to him and he wanted to read it again and to study it more closely. It was unbelievable that he was now investigating his own wife's death and the correct procedure would, of course, be to tell Rothwell and be taken off the case but he had no intention of doing that. He knew about Claudine's French lover and their violent intimacy and he must find out how he knew.
He closed his eyes. The picture of their cruel lovemaking was still there, but he could not be certain if it was a memory of a fact or memory of his imagination running riot more than twenty-five years ago. What had Claudine said in the letter telling him their marriage was over? Although he had read the letter over and over again at the time, he could not now remember the actual words, only the pain they caused. Had she actually mentioned a lover, a Frenchman? The destructive memories were locked away in that dark cellar and he was too afraid to open the trapdoor and face whatever else lurked there.
The file said Claudine's death was only a possible murder and made no reference whatever to the fact she was married. She had apparently used her maiden name and not told anyone about him or Jules. Her father had been informed of her death in an air-raid but not about the subsequent investigation and apparently still knew nothing of her marriage, hence the rather curt note sent to Top Cottage, while he was in hospital, informing him of her death. Bitterness welled within him. She had gone on with her life as if nothing had happened and even her father was unaware he had a grandchild.
“Max! What the hell are you doing?”
Deep in thought he jumped then smiled guiltily at Sarah. “Sorry love, I can't sleep so I'm browsing through these boring files in the hope they'll do the trick.” Closing Claudine's file he rested his large hands on the cover.
“You shouldn't be doing this Max you need to rest.”
“I know but it's the weekend. I'll sleep in tomorrow and I can always take Monday off if I'm tired. You go back to bed, I'll be up soon, I promise.”
He shook his head when Sarah offered to make him some cocoa and when she reluctantly went back to bed, again opened the file. He recognised the address of Claudine's flat where she died and where he had stayed when he went to visit her while on leave. They had a marvellous few days together and certainly on his part, had fallen in love all over again, but Claudine had refused to return to Hampshire to look after Jules. She had begged him to understand that she loved her job in London and hated living in the country. She had promised to visit Jules and before going off on his ill-fated last sea patrol he had asked his mother if she would continue to look after Jules in the meantime.
Claudine was certainly alive when he left but had he returned to the flat when he went missing? Had he travelled to London, murdered her and then made his way to Portsmouth where Douglas Hood found him? When being interviewed by Leon Bauerman he had admitted going back to London and seeing Claudine with another man but not to murdering her. It would have taken a long time to get to London in those days, but his car was found at the railway station and he was missing for thirty-six hours. His mind had very efficiently blocked out that period of time for more than two decades and now refused to fully cooperate. Again he went over the bits he did know or thought he knew. He knew Claudine was not raped but involved in a violent sexual relationship. He had seen them striking out at one another as she sat astride her lover writhing in ecstasy with the cross he had given her still hanging around her neck. But they were in the living room of the house, not in the bedroom where the report said her body was found and where she was murdered.
The cross! He thumbed through the file to the description of her body. She was found lying on the bed naked, her face disfigured, possibly by falling masonry, or possibly by a killer wielding a building brick and tiny slivers of broken glass from the window were embodied in her flesh. She wore gold earrings but no other jewellery, no wedding ring and no silver cross.
Where was the cross? She was wearing it that night. He had kept the one with âX' for Xavier engraved on it and given her the other one, the one with âE' for Eloise. Frantically he read through the notes on the file again. A red line around the victim's neck, which had at first suggested an incision to the throat was later found to be a shallow wound caused by some sort of chain being torn roughly from the body.
In the safe Max rummaged through the cardboard box holding the remnants of his navy days, odds and sods he had forgotten all about: badges, his first marriage certificate, Claudine's death certificate, he had obtained a copy when he married again, and the photograph of Claudine. Everything relating to that part of his life was in the box out of his sight, out of his mind and wedged in the corner was a cross, just one. Holding his breath, he turned it over. A pain rippled across his chest, âX' it was Xavier's, he didn't have the other one. Perhaps he hadn't killed her!
The police report stated that half of the building had collapsed and Claudine's body was found in the part still standing. There was a post-mortem because of the injuries to the face and the mark on her neck, but evidence connecting her death to the other victims was inconclusive.
Most of the tenants in the building had gone to the air-raid shelter and saw nothing of Claudine or any visitors but a local man, Sebastian Penhelligan had passed the building during the raid while trying to get his grandmother to safety. They both made statements that they saw a man in naval uniform leaving the building. It didn't help. It could have been him, or the French Naval Officer or the serial killer. He made a note of the man's name and address. No doubt the grandmother would be long dead but if Sebastian Penhelligan had survived he might remember to which navy the uniform belonged.
On Monday morning, he rang Miss Bevis at the archives saying he was unwell and would not be in for the rest of the week. She was uncharacteristically sympathetic. She hoped he would soon be well again and reminded him she had commented on how tired he looked when he left the archives on Friday. He told Sarah he was going to Winchester as usual and then rang Douglas Hood from a call box. They met in a pub in Southampton and Douglas was shocked by his friend's appearance. Just a week ago he had seen him and thought how well he looked, now he looked older, pale and drawn.
“What's the trouble, Max? You sounded a bit anxious on the phone.”
Max trusted Douglas implicitly but confiding in him was against all his principles and, as he had signed the Official Secrets Act, against the law as well. However, he was desperate for answers and depending on those answers his police career might well be over anyway. He asked Douglas the questions Leon Bauerman had put to him all those years ago.
“Douglas, cast your mind back to the night we met in Portsmouth during that air-raid. I was trying to get to Haslar hospital when you found me. Is that right?”
“Of course it is, you know that.”
“I don't know what I know, to be honest, most of it's a blur. I don't know which bits you told me and which bits I actually remember, but I need you to be totally honest. Could I have been in London that night?”
Douglas drew heavily on a cigarette. “Why do you want to know Max?”
“Please just tell me, it's important. I'd been missing for more than twenty-four hours when you found me and I had no idea then and have no idea now where I'd been. Could I have been in London?”
“All right Max yes, you were in London, that's where I found you.”
Max put his head into his hands. “Oh, Christ.”
“Why do you want to know?” Douglas asked again, “it's over twenty-five years ago. What does it matter now?”
“It matters because I think I killed my first wife that night.”
Douglas opened his mouth in surprise as his distraught friend poured out the story of the archives: the red files hidden away in the safe room, the file on Claudine and how he knew some of the details were incorrect and could only have known if he had been there.
Douglas put a hand on his arm. “All right, all right Max don't get worked up or you'll make yourself ill again. It's a long time ago and you're making a hell of a lot of assumptions here. Okay, so you were in London that night but so were thousands of people,” he lowered his voice, “I take it you don't actually remember killing your wife.”
“No, but I know things, things I couldn't know unless I was there. I know I saw her making love to a man and she was wearing the cross I'd given her. I think that hurt the most because there were two and they were an important symbol of fidelity and love to my grandparents and my father and Uncle Alex. They wore them throughout the First World War and they were given to me when I went to war. According to the file, it wasn't on the body and I keep thinking I might have taken it from her and thrown it away after I'd killed her because she'd defiled it, but I can't remember anything else until you found me so frightened I couldn't move. Why was I so traumatised? Was it just the air-raid? Or was it because I'd murdered my wife?”