The Lazarus Secrets (19 page)

Clarissa laughed gently, “Yes, he was far too old for that car but certainly couldn't afford it when he was young and couldn't resist it when he could afford it. I think that's why he gave it to you. By the way, he has left you his red Jaguar.”

“Sarah will be so pleased,” Max grinned, “she just loves the idea of me and fast cars.”

“What did you think of the service?” Clarissa suddenly asked.

“I thought it appropriate. Clive always manages to make these things personal rather than ritual and he kept it to the point without missing the point. I thought it was good. Didn't you?”

Clarissa hesitated, “Well he certainly captured the spirit of Alexander, but I wondered about ‘sins, however, grievous'. Alexander was no saint and, like all of us, must have committed sins but ‘grievous' seems a bit extreme don't you think? I wonder what he meant by it.”

The possibility of his own grievous sin flashed through Max's mind, “Well who knows what other people have done during their lives; perhaps he needed absolution for something that happened earlier in his life or when he was fighting in the First World War.”

Clarissa stared at him, “I can't believe you said that Max.”

“Mother, I'm sorry that's not what I meant,” he said hastily, “and not what Clive meant either, there's probably some set pattern within a funeral service covering everything. According to faith we are none of us free from sin but I don't suppose Alexander had any hidden mortal sins and let's face it most of what he said and did was out in the open to the horror of many. Anyway, he wouldn't hide anything from you would he?” He hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt.

Clarissa smiled girlishly, “Do you know before he died he told me during the last war he threatened to kill Edwin Scott for taking me out!”

“I don't believe it!” said Max incredulously. “No, no, on second thoughts I do believe it, that's just the sort of thing he would do but it's hardly a grievous sin!”

Chapter Nineteen

Darrington returned to the archives and carefully smuggled the red file back to its rightful place. Miss Bevis offered condolences on his uncle's death and seemed concerned that he had returned to work too soon. He assured her he was fine but once ensconced in the vault and away from her surveillance, he again pored over Claudine's file always coming to the same fearful conclusion.

Like the singing in the air-raid shelter, fragmented moments came back to him but events were blurred and possibly out of sequence. He remembered being in London. He had used the key Claudine had given him and followed her and her lover into the flat and watched them making love on the living room floor but, according to the file, her body was found on the bed in the bedroom and that was where she had died. The memory of their lovemaking was sadistic and cruel, they hit out at one another and tore at clothes and hair then like an erotic dream the memory faded. He remembered the air-raid warning siren blaring in the background and being herded down the staircase amongst a sudden push of people fighting their way out and then being lost and wandering the deserted streets. Smoke, fire and noise were all around him; he thought himself in hell and crouched in a doorway covering his head with his arms. In the past, he had remembered this as being in Portsmouth but since his talk with Douglas he now knew he was in London.

According to Douglas, he had blood on him but wasn't injured, so whose blood was it if not Claudine's? He had clearly seen the cross around her neck but where was it now? Had he killed her, taken it from her and thrown it away after its defilement? Douglas had said he probably wouldn't have done such a thing if the cross meant so much to him, he would have kept it. Perhaps Claudine and the French sailor had moved into the bedroom and their violence had got out of hand and he had killed her and stolen the cross. Perhaps the serial killer had murdered her and taken it as a trophy, or the person who found the body had stolen it, such things happened.

At lunchtime he left the archives as usual but rather than making for the café he went to a nearby pub where Douglas was waiting for him. “Hello Max, I was so sorry to hear about Alexander. I liked the old boy.”

Max nodded and said curtly, “Did you find anything out?”

“Yes, good news on both counts,” he handed a small notebook to Max. “I've found the current address and telephone number of the witness who saw someone in uniform coming out of the building where Claudine lived. It's fortunate he had such an unusual name. There aren't many Sebastian Penhelligans around but he still lives in London. The second one wasn't so easy, but I got it eventually. Norma Hammond, or Norma Gordon as she is now, surfaced in Brighton after the war, she married a chap called Bruce Gordon. She's a widow now, but my sources confirm she still lives at the same address and that's it, I've completely used up all the favours owed me, and then some.”

Max stared intently at the names and addresses in the notebook, the information could provide the answers he needed but also dreaded. “Thanks, Douglas, once again I'm in your debt. Perhaps if I ring Penhelligan and ask him about the uniform that would be a start and then we could drive down to Brighton to interview Norma Gordon. I won't ring her first. We don't want her to disappear again but if we can persuade her to tell us who she saw, and why she changed her story, maybe we can track him down. He might still be alive. If he was a serving police officer, he would have been fairly young when all this happened. If Norma Gordon can identify him, perhaps we can get him to admit to all the killings and I'll know for certain that I didn't kill Claudine.”

Douglas held up his hands. “Now hold on a minute Max, that's definitely not part of your brief. You're employed to write a report and possibly give recommendations. Remember you're on light duties and that doesn't include scouring the countryside for a serial killer. We could end up in serious trouble here, I'm retired remember and not supposed to know anything about this and you've broken every rule in the book so far. Your career and both our pension prospects could be on the line if we get caught. This is just not like you!”

Max sounded desperate, “Everything's changed since I found out about Claudine. Believe me Douglas, I wish to God I hadn't asked to see those damned red files, I wish I'd just skimmed over the surface, produced a report that pleased everyone and resumed my duties and my life, but I didn't and now I have to keep going. I have to know whether or not I killed Claudine.”

Douglas leaned forward and spoke quietly and earnestly, “And if you did? What are you going to do if you find out that almost 30 years ago, while severely traumatised, you killed a worthless woman who was betraying you?”

Max didn't answer.

“Are you going to destroy all you have now? Because it won't only be your life Max but the lives of everyone around you — your children and Sarah. And what about your mother and Charles? Can they take a blow like this at their age and so soon after Alexander's death? Just think about these things before you go blundering into something that could have disastrous consequences.”

“I hear what you're saying Douglas, but I can't help it, I must know the truth.”

Douglas sat back and spoke quietly but forcefully, “And what is the truth about those days my friend? How many people do you suppose you killed while you were in the navy? I assume you did attack enemy ships full of sailors, there was a war on Max and people killed and got killed.”

“It's not the same; this was murder!” Max suddenly stood up. “If you don't want to get involved that's okay Douglas, I understand. Thanks for what you've done so far. I'm extremely grateful and I'll deal with it from now on. This information will be a great help and no-one will ever know where I got it from. I promise.”

Douglas stood up, “I have to go now Max, my advice as a friend and an ex-policeman is to let sleeping dogs lie, but if, as you say, you can't you might need some help and in that case I'm in this with you.”

Darrington returned to the archives and told Miss Bevis he intended to leave early but would be back the next day. Miss Bevis watched him in his office as he used the telephone and thought he looked worried or angry or both, he was certainly not his usual self.

Unaware of being observed, Darrington called the number Douglas had given him for Sebastian Penhelligan, but it was his wife who answered and said he was away for a few days. He gave her a number for him to call and then as an afterthought explained he was a policeman looking into an old case and did she remember her husband being interviewed at the end of the war about seeing a man leaving a building in London during an air-raid.

Mrs Penhelligan remembered all right and spent a full ten minutes explaining how her brave husband had risked life and limb in the very worst air-raid to rescue Grandma. He tried to politely interrupt but in the end let the story run its course then asked if she knew anything about the man seen running from the building. To his dismay, she confirmed he was in a naval uniform and assumed it was a Royal Navy uniform.

Next he called Sarah. Trying to sound casual, he said he would be very late home as Douglas had asked him for help on a case and they were going to discuss it over dinner in Winchester.

“Max, we're going to Top Cottage for dinner tonight,” Sarah said impatiently. “You promised your mother you would go. It's to do with Alexander's bequests and she wants the whole family to be there.”

He pulled a face, he had forgotten all about his mother's plans to distribute Alexander's belongings to the family. She and Charles had arranged a family dinner where they would hand over the appropriate items and he had indeed promised to be there.

“I'd forgotten Sarah, I'm sorry but I've arranged to meet Douglas, he's really in a bit of a mess and I can't let him down. Give Mother my apologies will you. I'm sure she doesn't need me there, she and Charles seemed to have everything well organised.”

Sarah put down the phone and stood looking at it for a moment. She knew her husband inside out. She had seen him at his worst and his best, at his strongest and his most vulnerable but now he had lied to her. She could hear it in his voice and she felt sick. There were other things, she had refused to pick at them, to make something out of nothing, but they remained in her mind. The day Alexander had taken ill she had rung Winchester Police Station, but they said he wasn't working there but when she told him he offered no explanation and wrote down a number where he could be reached. They had dashed to the hospital and she hadn't raised the matter again. Around the same time she had met Douglas Hood while shopping in Southampton and they had chatted about Max and how well he was recovering. He had mentioned meeting him in a café in Winchester with a young woman. Although he and Max were long-standing friends, Sarah had never quite trusted Douglas and thought she saw something of a knowing smirk on his face as he casually informed on her husband. Again she had refused to play the jealous wife especially after making a fool of herself over Claudine's photograph but something was happening to Max and he was keeping it from her.

Chapter Twenty

They arrived in Brighton in the late afternoon, having driven most of the journey in silence. Max was deep in thought about the difficult, possibly destructive interview ahead, but Douglas was kept quiet by the speed at which they travelled, clinging to the edge of the passenger seat he frequently closed his eyes as they sped along the narrow, high hedged roads.

Number 50 Northlands Terrace was the last in a row of large, solidly built houses. Its heavy outer door stood open revealing a tiny vestibule and a stained glass inner door that was shut. To the right of the door, long bay windows looked out onto small, square front garden surrounded by a low stone wall. The sandstone brickwork of the house, which may once have been light and attractive, was now dark and mossy in contrast to the gleaming paintwork on the doors and window frames.

Max parked the car around the corner in a road running parallel to the narrow back garden which was enclosed by a slatted wooden fence. The well-kept lawn was divided by a concrete footpath along one side of which washing billowed from a clothesline.

“It looks like rain,” said Douglas, “her washing's going to get wet.”

Focused totally on the task ahead, Max ignored him. “How are we going to play this? We have to go carefully, we don't want to frighten her off again.”

“She's hardly likely to go on the run now,” said Douglas, “even being generous she's middle-aged, but perhaps you're right the two of us might seem intimidating. I'll wait here while you talk to her. Just try to convince her she isn't in any danger. She'll probably have read the newspaper article so you can say you've been assigned to look into the matter.”

Darrington was surprised when the glass door opened in answer to his ring on the door bell. If this was Norman Hammond, or Norma Gordon, she was not what he had expected. Momentarily he had forgotten he was investigating events that happened so many years ago and while he hadn't anticipated a scanty clad dancing girl, the sombre looking matron bore no relation to his vision of the flighty, streetwise girl of war-torn London.

“Yes?” she asked briskly holding the door wide open.

Darrington ascertained she was Norma Gordon and taking out his warrant card explained why he was there but she showed no emotion or reaction. Tall and stout she wore a floral printed crossover apron over a plain, dark green dress. Her tidy hair pinned at the nape of her neck was blonde but going grey and he guessed her to be in her mid to late fifties. Only her totally unblemished and unmade up complexion gave any hint of the glamorous woman she must once have been.

Moving back into the hallway she spoke with resignation, “I suppose you'd better come in.”

The sleek glitz of the sixties had in no way ventured across the doorstep of the immaculate home. The walls were papered with tiny rosebuds set between neat gold lines, the perfect paintwork was cream gloss and the furniture heavy and highly polished. It was a house someone constantly maintained but not one that welcomed intrusion.