The Lazarus Secrets (8 page)

Audrey put her hand in her husband's. They looked unbearably sad. “It does help,” she said finally, “to know you've got him, we wouldn't want it to happen to another child or another family.”

“Yes, I know,” said Darrington “and I'm sorry to have intruded on your evening, but I thought it better you should know immediately before anything gets into the papers.”

“Thank you, we appreciate that,” said Andrew and their composure and politeness tore into Darrington, somehow it would be more bearable if they behaved badly or cursed the man who had taken their daughter from them. The children giggled at the television and grateful for the distraction the adults turned to look at them.

“We try to go on as usual for their sakes,” said Audrey, “but it's not easy.”

“It can't be,” said Darrington, “but if it means anything to you, I personally think you've done extremely well — nobody could have coped better.”

She smiled at him, “You have four children yourself, Chief Inspector. I remember you telling me when Sally was missing, two boys and two girls the same as us.”

“Yes, of course, they're all grown up now and two have children of their own, but I can't imagine life without any one of them.” He wanted to be on his way, to leave them to their suppressed pain and anguish, he had no further business with them. “I must go now,” he continued. “It will probably be some time yet before the case comes to court. There's always a backlog after the Christmas holidays, but I'll see you're kept informed of the dates, etcetera.”

It was snowing heavily outside and turning back to say goodnight as he approached his car, Darrington wondered if he should wish them Happy New Year or if that was inappropriate, but the Wilsons' standing at their modest doorstep solved his dilemma, “Happy New Year,” they called in unison. They were holding hands and leaning slightly toward one another. Tragedies such as they had suffered were known to slash relationships to pieces as couples sought to apportion blame or took differing paths seeking reasons for their devastation, but the Wilsons seemed to have found strength in one another and it pleased Darrington.

“And to you too,” he called back as he got into the car. He wanted to be with Sarah to explain why he had spoilt her day and hadn't congratulated David and, of course, tell her that he, Detective Chief Inspector Max Darrington, had single-handedly cracked the worst crime of the year. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he leaned toward the small semi-circle of clear windscreen provided by the wipers and drove as fast as the slithering wheels would allow. Meeting the Wilsons again had disturbed him and he felt breathless and slightly nauseous. He tried to inhale and exhale regularly to quell it.

The last year had been a nightmare for the Wilsons and for him, they had lost their precious daughter and he had witnessed their intolerable grief and promised to bring the perpetrator to justice. Teams of police officers scoured the area determined to apprehend the monster who had defiled and murdered the young child. Working impossible hours without complaint, they carried out door-to-door enquiries. They interviewed dozens of people seen in the vicinity of the Common and the owners of cars seen passing, returning to the station exhausted to face mountains of paperwork relating to their enquiries.

Every lead turned to nothing and every suspect, including Ivor James Calway, had an alibi. A young man, thought to be him, was seen on the Common, but he had also been seen in a shopping centre at the other side of town at almost the same time. When pushed, the 75-year-old witness, the Reverend Phillips, admitted he didn't know Ivor well but had recognised him by his blue jeans and longish, dark hair, apparently unaware such attire was almost mandatory for young men of his age.

Darrington had interviewed Calway himself and believed him, especially as he had a witness. Young Averill Platt particularly remembered Ivor being in the shop. She knew him from school and thought him ever so good looking and was obviously flattered by his attention. She remembered he had asked what she was doing on New Year's Eve, the casual conversation now recognisable as part of a devious deception. Averill Platt was extraordinarily plain, a thin, shapeless girl with acne and lank hair that seemed to stick to her head, but she had repeated Calway's words almost verbatim. He had made sure she was an excellent witness and the only slight discrepancy had been timing. A difference of minutes but witnesses tended to be inaccurate with time, watches were fast or slow or routine things happened earlier or later than normal. Perhaps the Reverend Phillips had got it wrong, although he was adamant about the time, but Calway could not have been in the two places at once. It was another dead end until, watching Calway's jubilant sprint to glory, Darrington knew he could have run the distance in those minutes and that he had killed Sally Wilson.

Eyes riveted on his prey, he had slowly and determinedly approached. Laughing and chattering, Calway looked up and saw him coming and knew why, his shoulders slumped and his eyes closed momentarily.

“Well done!” David Darrington shook Ivor's hand, unwittingly coming between his father and his quarry, “you must have run like the wind.”

Calway smiled briefly, “Yes, unfortunately I did.”

A cheer heralded the arrival of more runners and David jumped aside to avoid them, but Calway remained motionless staring at the stony face of his nemesis. Pushed and jostled he didn't move, his arms hung limply at his side the energy sapped from his body, his worst nightmare was about to begin.

“You know don't you?” he said as Darrington stood menacingly in front of him.

“Yes,” said Darrington, “I know.”

Chapter Seven

The wheels of the car churned up the fresh snow leaving deep tyre tracks along the road through the village and up to the garage door. Such deep snow was unusual in Hampshire, but it was still dropping heavily from the dark sky. The slightest breath of wind caused the large, round flakes to dance around in the glow of the streetlights before whirling gently to the ground muffling every sound and making the village green look bigger and the houses around it smaller. Max closed the garage door and looked about. There wasn't a soul to be seen, but here and there a friendly glow penetrated curtained windows and twinkling Christmas tree lights flashed colours onto the white ground. He looked at his watch, it was after eight. Yet again, he was late but Sarah would forgive him, she always did. Thank God he had her to come home to.

After the hustle and bustle of a family Christmas they always made a point of celebrating his birthday on New Year's Eve with a quiet dinner at home, just the two of them. Later they would stroll across the green to the midnight church service and meet up with the rest of the family. It had become a treasured ritual and they refused all other invitations in favour of the peace and tranquillity of their own home and company.

Max looked in through the bay window of the house as he carefully made his way through the deep snow to the front door. The Christmas tree in the corner and flames from a large crackling fire lit the otherwise darkened room and exuded warmth making the cold outside seem more intense. In the small, glass porch at the door, he fumbled around in the dark hanging up his wet coat and hat and removing his sodden shoes and socks. The porch door opened into a large, circular hallway from which a broad staircase led to the upper level of the house and all the downstairs rooms ran from the inviting entrance behind the front door.

Expecting to find only Sarah, Max, carrying his shoes and socks in his hand, stood back in amazement. The whole family was gathered on the staircase. The lights were off and in complete silence they held lighted candles, even his grandchildren sitting in a row on the bottom step. He could neither speak nor move. Barefoot and gaping he stood perfectly still as they began to sing
Happy Birthday
. They were all there, his mother, his uncles his children and grandchildren, his cousin Clive and his family.

No-one seemed to know what to do next. “Why don't you say thank you, Grandpa?” asked five-year-old Christian and the spell was broken. Everyone moved at once and like some adored celebrity Max found himself shaking hands, kissing cheeks and hugging children and to his absolute delight, purposely hidden behind the others, he found his daughter, Jane, who was supposed to be in Berlin.

At last he fell into Sarah's arms. “How did you manage to keep this a secret?”

“Well, it wasn't easy, there are cars hidden all over the village, everyone helped and I was going give you hint about it all this afternoon so you'd be just a little bit prepared, but you disappeared. I was beginning to worry when you were late. As it is Ruby's in the kitchen wringing her hands so we'd better sit down for dinner. That is when you've put on some dry socks and shoes.”

The superb dinner could have been totally unpalatable and it wouldn't have mattered to Max. Nothing could spoil the moment, everything and everyone he cared about was within a hand's grasp. The grandchildren were excited and amusing, enjoying being part of the adult world rather than packed off to bed early. Ruby Rudge, who had become a sort of treasured family mascot had, as usual, slaved laboriously in the kitchen with the assistance of her niece Gloria, to produce the most scrumptious meal.

“How's your mother these days, Ruby?” Alexander asked.

“Better in 'ealth than temper, Mr Darrington,” said Ruby frowning. “She's got the arthritis o'course and that's probably painful but as I say it ain't my fault so don't bark at me about it.”

The children stared at the large, slow speaking woman who managed to serve the food with amazing dexterity, and the adults suppressed smiles. Beneath the table, Clarissa gently kicked Alexander, who looked up in innocence but continued his teasing.

“So she's not up to waltzing these days then. I seem to remember both she and your grandmother could step out in a pretty lively fashion now and again.”

Around the table laughter escaped from those old enough to remember Annie in hat, coat and gloves being waltzed around the room one New Year's Eve by Dr Scott and Annie's mother displaying her long, flannel underwear on VE night at a party on the village green. The children joined in, giggling louder when Ruby gave Alexander a non-too-gentle nudge pushing the sleeve of his dinner jacket into his dinner.

Ruby grinned uncharacteristically showing long gums above small uneven teeth, “Go on with you, Mr Darrington. Them days is well and truly over. Me grannie's dead, o'course, and I don't suppose the doctor would be up to much waltzing these days.”

“Serves you right,” chuckled Clarissa wiping her eyes as Alexander tried to clean his cuff with a napkin. She turned to Max. “How lucky we are Max,” she covered his hand with hers, “there was a time I thought I'd lost you and the family's future, but look at us now.”

Max kissed her hand, “Yes Mother, look at us now. I know how lucky we are.” Clarissa had grown old so gracefully, she stood erect and wore her clothes to perfection and, as always, at her side was Alexander, older and more grumpy but still sharp and watchful.

Charles sat next to his granddaughter, Vanessa, who at fifteen with her hair coiled up on her head, suddenly seemed very much an adult. She was image of Barbara who had passed away two years earlier, and the apple of her grandfather's eye.

It was ironic that Barbara, the youngest of the older generation, should die of a sudden and massive stroke that killed her almost instantly leaving the whole family bereft and Charles with a permanent aura of sadness. He found consolation in memories of his belated but extremely happy marriage and in his son Clive and his boisterous family. Carol had wanted him to move into the vicarage with them, but he chose instead to return to Top Cottage with Clarissa and Alexander, the bonds of the past proving irresistible in his time of despair.

From the far end of the table, Heather blew Max a kiss and made him laugh. She always did. He had adopted her when she was just three years old and never thought of her as anything other than his own flesh and blood and knew Sarah felt the same about Jules. Jules and his sophisticated wife Anna ran a small art gallery in London and moved in very lofty circles but at every opportunity travelled to Oak Hathern where they easily slotted into the less demanding pace of village life.

“I do hope this was a good idea,” said Sarah, “I know you've had a grim day after the arrest of that young man. David tells me he knew him quite well and went training with him once or twice. How on earth did you know it was him that killed the child?”

“I'll tell you later Sarah, it's a bit complicated.”

Above the general chatter David was relating the morning's dramatic events, “I just couldn't believe it, I mean when I saw the old man arresting Calway I thought to myself well, I know he's disappointed I didn't win but crumbs it's only a race, this is a bit extreme carting the guy off to jail!”

The others laughed, but Max couldn't find it in himself to even smile.

“Careful David,” Sarah warned gently, looking at the children.

“Yes,” said Carol, “I think it's time to give Grandpa his presents and then off to bed with you all.”

As his adored grandchildren handed over presents, Max gasped in delight at how clever they had been in choosing exactly the right gift. He kissed little, pink cheeks and held small fingers in his huge hands in gentle gestures that would have amazed subordinates and superiors in police fraternities as well as criminals who had passed through his hands. His stature as ‘Red Max,' the chief inspector with the impeccable record and horrendous temper, served him well and he did nothing to modify the ferocity of his reputation.

With the younger children asleep in various parts of the house and coffee and port circulating, Max raised his glass. “What can I say? My cup runneth over.” It was one of his phrases and they all loved to hear him say it. “But you shouldn't subject an old man like myself to so much excitement. I'm fifty now you know. Is that right mother or do I have a few more moments at forty-nine?”