“You were still in shock from your ordeal at sea and it was one hell of a raid and if the cross was so important to you, why would you throw it away?” Douglas reasoned. “I take it you haven't got it now.”
Max shook his head, “No. I only have the one I kept. What exactly did I say to you when you found me?”
“You kept asking me to take you to Haslar Hospital to see a doctor. I forget his name now, but the raid was still going on so I took you to a shelter and cleaned you up a bit and when it was over I almost carried you to the car and drove you to Portsmouth. I had to dump you in the back seat, you were in real bad way and it took a long time just to get out of London.”
“What was I wearing?”
“You were in uniform. You would be if you travelled by train if you remember it was easier and cheaper for servicemen, but it was in a right mess it was covered in ⦔
“Covered in what?” Max demanded sharply. Douglas lowered his head but didn't answer. “Covered in what?”
“In dust and blood. I thought you were injured, but you weren't. I washed your hands in the shelter and it came off. Later, while you were in hospital, I had your uniform cleaned and took it back to the hospital for you a couple of days later.”
Max closed his eyes, he could feel Douglas rubbing the ice-cold water from the tap in the air-raid shelter onto his hands as in the background people were singing.
Roll Out The Barrel
. He said suddenly opening his eyes, “In the air-raid shelter people were singing
Roll Out The Barrel
I remember that.” He concentrated, trying to squeeze more information from his tightly closed memory.
Douglas leaned closer to him, “Max what does it matter now? It's a lifetime ago. I know she was your wife, but she was a tart, betraying you while you were suffering the torments of hell, so let it be. Let the past stay in the past where it belongs, I guarantee I won't tell, nobody knows I was in London that night.”
Max turned to look at him. “Why were you there?” he asked suddenly, “and why did you tell everyone I was found in Portsmouth?”
Douglas looked uncomfortable. “I was looking for my wife. She'd left me and gone to live in London too. You weren't the only one with marital problems at that time. I found out where she was living and I went to find her to try and get her to come back to me. I used a police car and pinched the petrol so I didn't want to admit where I found you. I couldn't find my wife and I was trying to get back to the car during the raid when I stumbled across you. You understand Max. I didn't think I'd ever see you again or that it was important where you were found. I just wanted to help you without getting myself into trouble. There had been a raid on Portsmouth as well so I just said I found you there.”
“Did you ever find your wife?”
“No, but she got what she deserved in the end. She was killed by a V2 in 1944 but by then I didn't care, just as you shouldn't care about this.”
“I can't let it go Douglas,” Max stared into space, “I was so smug when I arrested Ivor Calway and the case will come to court shortly. How can I self-righteously stand there and give evidence against him if there's the slightest chance I've done the same thing?”
“For God's sake Max! He raped and murdered a child, you can't seriously put yourself in the same category as that pig. Anyway you don't know for certain you did kill Claudine.”
“No but I must find out and I need your help to track down some of these witnesses. I know they may all be dead by now, but I need to find out and I can't go around checking old records. Rothwell would be certain to get to hear of it if I did, but you could do it Douglas. You're no longer in the force and you have friends and contacts everywhere. They know that you work freelance so if anyone notices what you are doing they'll just assume it's a private job.”
Douglas shook his head slowly. “Well, I can't say I approve. Actually, I think it's a bloody stupid idea. The âpowers that be' don't expect you to find anything in those files. In fact, they will be thoroughly embarrassed if you do. The only reason you're beavering away in the archives is so that, if asked any awkward questions, some government minister can say quite truthfully that he can't comment while the matter is under investigation, suggesting a whole team of people scouring through records of the past in the interests of justice, not a lone chief inspector on light duties.”
“But you will help?”
Douglas sighed. “Of course I will. Where do you want me to start?”
Chapter Seventeen
Alexander opened his eyes slowly and took in the unfamiliar surroundings. He tried to lift his head, but a hammering pain prevented him.
“Lie still Alexander, I'll get the doctor.” Clarissa moved away. He hadn't noticed her sitting beside him and he wanted her to come back, but his mouth was so dry he couldn't speak.
Gradually he began to remember, his legs buckling beneath him, strength draining from him as he collapsed, Charles picking him up from the floor, helping him to a chair, pain, coughing, blood, not being able to breath and Clarissa crying. Max was there and then the doctor, then sleep and vague recollections of being moved and then nothing.
“Good morning, Mr Darrington.” The young man in the white coat took hold of his wrist and looked at his watch. “You look a bit better than you did last night. How do you feel?”
“How the bloody hell do you think?” He pointed to a glass of water on his bedside table and Clarissa held the glass to his mouth and he put his hands around hers. “Sorry Clarissa, I didn't see you there,” he rasped.
“Don't say sorry to me,” she rebuked gently, “apologise to the doctor, he spent the whole night looking after you.”
He nodded at the doctor who laughed. “Glad to see you're your old self Mr Darrington.”
The next time he woke up Clarissa and the doctor had gone and Charles was sitting at the bedside. “I've been warned not to ask how you're feeling so I won't.”
Alexander was glad to see him. He had things to say to him, things to ask him. It had to be Charles, they were bound together by events no-one else could remember and always told one another the unadulterated truth.
“Is this it then Charles? Is this the end?”
Charles nodded slowly and hesitantly as if realising for the first time it was indeed the end of his old friend. They met as enemies long ago but the bond that had grown between them was incredibly strong. It was like losing a part of himself and although his face remained impassive his insides turned with grief and regret.
Alexander stared ahead, the ravages of death were evident in his shrunken face and only his eyes remained sharp and bright. “I want to thank you Charles for the things you did for my mother and me. I owe you a great debt, you made such a difference to our lives.”
“Nonsense,” Charles rebuked. “You owe me nothing. I was in your debt for looking after Clarissa and you paid any outstanding account to me long ago with your hard work and devotion to the family.”
Alexander managed a weary smile. “Well, you know me, I never forget a good turn nor forgive a bad one, but it's been a pleasure Charles. I lost my brother on the day I met you but you filled the gap and you should know it.”
Unable to adequately respond, Charles hung his head. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Alexander nodded slowly, “I should like to die at home and not in this awful place. I know it will be hard on you and Clarissa, but I'm quite certain it won't be for long. Hospitals are fearful places to me. I hope you understand.”
“Yes, of course, I'll arrange it and we'll manage. We'll get a nurse in to help, but you must remember Alexander the world has changed. No-one is going to hurt you here, they do nothing but good.”
A week later Alexander dozed fitfully in his own bed at Top Cottage.
“Are you asleep Uncle Alex?”
He recognised Carol's voice but kept his eyes closed, even at this eleventh hour he couldn't resist teasing her. “Well, I was but I'm not now woman!”
“You weren't asleep at all, you're just trying to make me feel sorry for you. It's so nice to see you home again.” Carol Longfield kissed him on the forehead and took hold of his hand. Like the rest of his body it was thin and bony, nothing like when she had first met him when she was just a child. Back then, his strength, both mental and physical, gave him a presence impossible to ignore. Many people were afraid of his brusque manner, but she had always felt safe with him, even now on his deathbed she believed he would rise up and protect her if needed.
He opened his eyes, “Oh! It's you Carol, I thought it was that dragon of a nurse. Have you seen her? I mean to say you would think they could get someone a bit prettier for a dying man, just suppose that is the last face I see on this earth!”
Carol laughed, “Uncle Alex, you really are the most dreadful man I ever met. People can't help the way they look, you don't look so chipper yourself just now, and even I look better than you in spite of my flat face.”
“Who said you had a flat face? It certainly wasn't me.”
The playful banter stopped when he paled and moaned and grasped Carol's hand tightly. “All right Uncle Alex I'm here. Are you in pain? Do you want me to get the nurse?”
“No, no, stay here with me, there's nothing she can do and I can't think of anyone I'd rather be with but please Carol, promise me you won't let Julia come again, we've said our goodbyes and I don't want her to see me like this.”
Carol blinked back tears, “No I won't, I'll tell her you're too ill to see her at the moment.”
“You're a fine woman and that Clive is a lucky man to have you, and in spite of being so flat faced when you were a youngster, I have always thought that you were rather a beautiful woman.”
She smiled at the pain-ridden face, “Thank you Uncle Alex, I know I'm no great beauty but every woman should be told she is at least once in her life.”
Clive came into the room and sat beside his wife, “How's the patient?” he asked.
“He's fine,” said Carol as lightly as she could manage, “in fact, if you had come into the room a few minutes earlier, you would've heard him making advances toward me.”
“Lies, all lies,” gasped Alexander, “now be off with you woman I want to speak to the vicar alone.”
“Surely, not a last minute conversion!” she said standing up.
“Not bloody likely.”
While Carol sat on the staircase and sobbed quietly, Clive bowed his head and prayed silently for his favourite non-believer.
Alexander studied him closely. Eyes closed and head bowed he looked very like Charles when he was young. “You'll need to pray a lot harder than that for an old sinner like me Vicar,” he chuckled and began coughing violently
Clive helped him to sit up and gently patted his back, “I was praying for your comfort, not your soul.”
Alexander suddenly grasped at his arm, “Do you believe in the redemption of the wicked if they confess their sins? Even a non-believer such as me.”
“Most certainly,” Clive answered confidently. “Uncle Alex, God gives us life, God takes it from us but he believes in us and forgives us our trespasses. If you want to make your peace with God or whatever you believe in then I'm happy to help. Nothing you can say will make any difference to how I feel about you, but you may feel better just unburdening yourself.”
“You should wait until you hear what I have to say before you make such a statement Clive, but there are things, things someone should know about just for the record and I trust you, you're a good man, even though you always manage to put your collar on back to front.”
Clive bent his head and began the prayer of confession, “Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, Maker of all things, Judge of all men,”
“No, no, no!” Alexander waved his hand wearily, “I make my confession to you here and now, I don't want the mumbo jumbo, just listen to what I have to say.”
Clive shook his head and smiled, “All right Uncle Alex, you go ahead.”
“I killed someone deliberately. In the First War, I killed an officer. Not one of the enemy but one of our own.”
His eyes nervously sought those of his confessor and for the first time since their meeting when he was a boy, Clive saw something akin to fear lurking there. “It's all right, whatever it is just say the words,” he said calmly.
*
The smell of cordite and damp soil pervaded the chilly air. Shells whistled passed thumping into the earth in front of or behind the trench throwing up mud and shrapnel. Foggy smoke drifted along the narrow space in wispy clouds and shrieking bullets ricocheted off the rear wall. Against the front wall, a dozen khaki-clad figures huddled motionless almost indistinguishable from the mud.
A whistle blew and a young officer ran crouching behind them as their pale faces peeled from the muddy wall and their eyes stared in disbelief. No-one moved and the officer ran to and fro yelling loudly, his face red and his voice trembling. Slowly they began to stir, pulling feet from the mud, preparing to die again and then the sobbing began.
He was an older soldier at the far end of the trench, he threw his rifle to the ground and kicked at it with his muddy boots as though fending off a mad dog. The others watched with a mixture of indifference and pity as the sobs turned to screaming. The soldier crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head from side to side like a child in a tantrum.
Drawing his pistol, the officer ran towards him yelling and yelling into his face. He dragged the demented man to his feet, forcing the rifle into his hands and pushing him toward the ladder. A single shot rang out and the officer dropped dead before he hit the wet, muddy ground. The screaming stopped. The noise of battle raged on, but the occupants of the trench were silent, all eyes turned to the sergeant, who lowered his rifle and turned back to the muddy wall.