“So that eldest boy, Jules, isn't Max Darrington's present wife's son, I didn't know that? I mean, I don't know him really but I've seen him here when he's been visiting with his family,” said Jessie, “dark good looking chap.”
“That's him,” said Annie. She was enjoying having the upper hand and knowing so much more than Jessie and went on happily imparting her knowledge. “He's not Sarah's son, and Heather, the eldest girl, who's married to the man who owns the village garage, she isn't Max Darrington's. The two of them, Max and Sarah, were both widowed during the war and they each had a young child. They met on the village green just there,” Annie pointed towards the centre of the village, “on VE night it was, apparently Sarah was staying with a friend who lived around here and they all came to the party on the green.”
“What's VE stand for then?” Gloria interrupted again.
Annie turned to glare at her granddaughter, “âVictory in Europe'. It was the 8
th
of May, 1945, the day the Second World War finished. Didn't they teach you no history at that school you went to,” she demanded angrily. “All that suffering, rationing, bombing and people dying every day and you don't even know what âVE Day' means.”
For a moment, Gloria looked embarrassed and then a smile crossed her face, “Oh! Yes,” she said. “I remember hearing about the VE night party on the green. That was the night when great-grandma had too much to drink and did
Knees Up Mother Brown
with the vicar and showed her red flannel knickers to the whole village!”
This was too much for Annie, her face flushed as she turned on Gloria who was laughing loudly, “How dare you our Gloria! That's just not funny! And it's not true! The very idea!” She paused and composed herself, “Well, I suppose everyone was a bit merry that night with us winning the war and everything, and anyway her knickers was white not red and to this very day I blame the vicar for encouraging her, you'd expect a man of the cloth to behave a bit better and I told him so, and it's time you ⦔
Trying not to laugh Jessie put her hand to her mouth and Gloria got to her feet. “Okay, okay Grannie, I know it's time I was going home. I'll leave you to fill Jessie in with all the gory details of the folks from Top Cottage and great grannie's flannel knickers.” She kissed her grandmother on the cheek and went on her way along the footpath still laughing.
Annie called after her, “And you mind what I said about going out alone our Gloria,” but if Gloria heard she didn't reply. Annie turned back to Jessie, “Now where was I before that cheeky monkey interrupted, she's a good girl really but just a bit too full of herself at the moment. Oh, yes! Max and Sarah, they married right after the war and bought that house on the green, it was in a right state then but over the years they did it up bit by bit and they had twins of their own, that's Jane and David but they all grew up together just like real brothers and sisters, no doubt about that.”
“Well, it's certainly a lovely house now,” Jessie commented, “but what happened to the first wife?” She was learning more about the village during her afternoon tea with Annie than she had in the last two years and was thinking what a mine of information her neighbour was.
“Killed in an air-raid in London,” said Annie shaking her head sadly. “And young Max nearly died too, lost at sea they thought when the ship he was on was torpedoed. I can tell you they were all in a panic but Mrs Darrington was so very brave, of course, she had her brother and his wife, and Mr Darrington her brother-in-law to support her. She and that Alexander Darrington were very close, so close that at one time the vicar's wife, that Margaret Donaldson, thought they were, you know, co-habiting!” Annie chuckled, “I knew that weren't right, of course, that Margaret Donaldson was always getting the wrong end of the stick. If you ask me it was Dr Scott who was keen on Mrs Darrington, went out together once or twice they did to concerts, but nothing came of it.”
The sun moved across the cottage roof and feeling a chill in the air, Jessie pulled her cardigan closer but didn't want to stop Annie while she was in full flow. “I thought you said Mr Petersen wasn't married?”
“Oh! Yes,” said Annie chuckling again, “I missed that bit. That Barbara Longfield who came to the New Year's Eve party with her son, well her and Charles, they got back together and he married her. Turns out that boy of hers, young Clive, was his all along, but she'd married a Mr Longfield and went to America then when he died she came back to England. As I often say Jessie things are not always how they seem!” She was enjoying Jessie's amazement. “They all lived at Top Cottage until after the war, Mrs Darrington had a right houseful with the baby an' all but she seemed to thrive on it.
“So that's the vicar then who's there at the village church now, the Reverend Longfield?” confirmed Jessie. “Well, I knew he was related to them but because he had a different name I didn't realise he was Mr Petersen's son.”
“Yes, it was a bit of a scandal at the time but with the war on I suppose folk had other things to think about and that Clive grew up to be a lovely chap and his wife, Carol, she was the daughter of the previous vicar the Rev Kenneth Donaldson and his wife Margaret who was always gossiping and getting the facts wrong. Not that Carol is anything like her mother, never has anything unpleasant to say about anyone. She's a right nice girl.” Jessie was thinking what a disappointment that must be for Annie as Annie went on with her story.
“The Petersens were married for a long time, and then she died suddenly, which was a surprise really because she was a good few years younger than him. That must've been just before you came to live here. Ruby and I went to the funeral, of course, us having a connection with the family,” she said importantly, “and my arthritis wasn't so bad then and I could get about a bit easier. The Reverend did a lovely service for his mother and she's buried there in the churchyard. It was very upsetting though and I always think Mr Petersen has had a sadness about him since he lost her.”
Jessie sat back digesting all the information gleaned from her neighbour and then said casually, “Mind you Annie, I still say I'm surprised they let that Max Darrington into the police force after him having been in a mental hospital.”
Annie scowled at her, “Well, he got better. During the war, lots of people had difficulties like that and he'd suffered more than most for such a young man. He's a fine policeman now, everyone says so.” Her tone was angry. She didn't like Jessie, a newcomer to the village, having the nerve to pass an opinion about people she knew well. “The sun's gone in now so if you don't mind giving me a hand I'd like to go inside now.”
Chapter Four
New Year's Eve 1967
The interview was unusually brief. Calway was guilty and aware that Detective Chief Inspector Max Darrington knew he was, having carried his burden for twelve months he was more than ready to lay it down. After a caution and a few preliminary questions, Darrington asked him formally, “Ivor James Calway did you rape and murder Sally Wilson?”
The young man sat forward on his chair, parted his lips and looked forlornly from the female sergeant scribbling in a shorthand notepad to the impassive chief inspector as if they should provide the words, then he slumped back, “Yes.”
“Will you tell me about it?” Darrington asked calmly.
After a brief pause, Calway sat up rigidly and detailed his horrendous crime, while Sergeant Jean Morrison took notes. “On the 26th December last year I was walking across Benchley Common when I saw a young girl about ten years old riding a red bicycle along the pathway. She was crying and calling out the name Ben. She asked if I'd seen a small, white dog. She said she'd put him in the basket on the front of the bicycle to take him for a ride but he'd seen a rabbit and jumped out and run after it. She said she'd been looking for him for a long time. There's a wooded area on the common and she thought he might have gone in there and couldn't find his way out so I said I'd go with her and look for the dog. I had absolutely no intention of harming her, I really didn't.” Calway stopped.
“Go on,” Darrington said quietly but insistently.
“I swear I never intended to hurt her in any way,” Calway begged for understanding but Darrington's face was impassive and the sergeant looked up and glared at him. “I really didn't,” he protested, “but we couldn't find the dog and she started crying again. I knelt down and put my arm around her, to comfort her and I promised to keep on looking; she put her arms around my neck and hugged me. She was smiling. She was so very beautiful, so pure and innocent, there in the woods, it was like a dream. I don't know what happened. We seemed to be in another world. I've always been so lonely and her warm little hands touched my neck it was so sort of wonderful. I don't know what happened,” he repeated.
“Perhaps everything just went black,” sneered the sergeant then nodded an apology to the scowling Darrington. He didn't want the flow interrupted.
Calway continued, “I realised she was crying because I was holding her too tightly, she tried to pull away but I couldn't let her go. She was too perfect, too precious. I just wanted her to stay with me a little longer, but she got frightened and began screaming really loudly. I panicked and put my hand over her mouth and in the struggle we fell to the ground. I fell on top of her. I can't believe I did what I did.”
“You raped her?” Darrington said.
Calway put his head down and wept bitterly, “Yes.” For a few moments he covered his face with his hands while his accusers watched in stony silence, then brushing aside the tears, eyes fixed on his long fingers now interlocked in his lap, he continued in a flat unemotional voice. “She didn't move and I thought she was dead. I was horrified. I was going to run away but suddenly she did move. She wasn't dead and she would tell everyone and I was so scared, I didn't know what I was doing. Her eyes opened and she began to scream again so I put my hands on her throat and mouth, just to keep her quiet. She seemed to die instantly.”
“What did you do next?”
“I sat with her for ages just holding her in my arms. I think I was hoping she would come round again, that she wasn't really dead, but I suppose I knew she was. I picked her up, she was as light as a feather, and I put her underneath a thick bush and pushed the bike in beside her and covered her with branches and then I left.”
“Did you see anyone else on the Common?”
Calway was calm almost detached as he described his monstrous actions lucidly and with precision. “I saw the Reverend Phillips in the distance, I used to go to the youth club at his church when I was younger and I thought he might recognise me. He had his head down and I couldn't be sure if he'd seen me. So, I took off across the Common, out of his line of vision and I ran and ran until I was almost home, at the other side of the town. I went into the supermarket and Averill Platt was at the checkout, I knew her from school so I got into a conversation with her. I thought if anyone had seen me on the Common, Averill would say I was in the supermarket around that time. I told her I'd been looking for black shoe polish for ages to give the impression I'd been there for a while.”
Darrington breathed out heavily, that was exactly what had happened. Calway was interviewed at the time of the murder, as someone possibly seen on the Common. He had been most helpful and even with his suspicious policeman's mind Darrington had not regarded him as a serious suspect.
Calway looked relaxed. His confession discharged he was at peace with himself.
They always are
, thought Darrington bitterly,
when they've passed on the horror
.
Known in police and criminal circles as âRed Max' for red his hair and bad temper, Darrington had a tough reputation, but still had not managed to harden himself to crimes involving children. The perpetrators usually ranged from pathetic specimens who had been headed toward the eventual sick conclusion since birth, to the ignorant and unrepentant who, after denying and threatening, pleaded a variety of mitigating circumstances purely to negate their punishment. Either way it was easy to dislike, even hate, such people but not this young man. Ivor James Calway reminded him of his own sons, a fact he found deeply disturbing.
Sergeant Jean Morrison read back the statement in a voice barely concealing outrage. It was usually Darrington who took the role of aggressor while she, totally belying her true nature, coaxed and cajoled suspects to unburden to her and be saved from wrath of the frightening âRed Max'. More often than not the tactic was successful but there were no motherly tones for the child killer.
Calway was formerly charged. Sergeant Morrison handed him two sheets of typed notes, “Is that a true statement as given by you today 31st December, 1967?”
Calway read the statement thoroughly, “Yes, it is.” His voice, like his looks, was pleasant and cultured.
“If you agree it's correct, sign it,” snapped the sergeant.
She snatched the document from him, checked the signature and handed it to Darrington.
It was over. Twelve months to the day when a man walking his dog had found the missing Sally Wilson's body on Benchley Common, Darrington had caught the killer on his day off and virtually in his own backyard.
“They should never have done away with capital punishment, then they could hang that bastard,” the sergeant hissed as she and Darrington left the police station together. She had no trouble hating him.
“Well, that's not for us to decide Jean, we've done our bit and now I'm going home.”
“What about the Wilsons?”
“I'll call and tell them on my way,” said Darrington walking toward his car.
“But it's not on your way.”
Darrington turned and looked back, “I told them their daughter was dead last New Year's Eve, so I should tell them her killer has been arrested. Of course, it will make me late home, yet again, but I'm sure Sarah will understand, at least I hope she will.”