The Lazarus Secrets (25 page)

Max looked a bit guilty, “And then I nearly ruined the whole set up, going off and spilling the beans to the very person you were hunting!”

Rothwell nodded and grumbled, “Yes, you did! It never occurred to me that you would go off on a tangent and do some investigating of your own. You were supposed to be recuperating. We had no idea you'd been married to Claudine Duvall or if she really was one of Hood's victims, which of course she was.” He went on speaking quickly not giving Max a chance to dispute the fact, “but you do understand Max, because of your friendship with Hood, I was unable to warn you. We managed to have someone drop a hint about you working on the case to Hood and to the other chap, then moved our team and you into the archives and waited. They were a good team, young Fiona is a new recruit to our department but I think she acquitted herself well in view of her inexperience. I'm taking for granted there's nothing in the outrageous suggestions made by Hood about you and her.”

“Absolutely not,” said Darrington realising Alice Bevis must have told him and wondering what else he knew. “I'm old enough to be her father.”

“That never stopped any man,” Rothwell retorted bluntly, “but I'm glad to hear it. She
is
far too young for you, we don't want you having another heart attack,” he smirked. “Matt Houseman was there in case of any rough stuff but, of course, he was out of the picture very quickly. Hood got in through the security door when Fiona arrived for work. He must have been hiding somewhere and when Alice activated the door, he rushed her and shot Matt when he tried to stop him. Thank God for Alice otherwise we would have ended up in a pile of bodies on the floor, you labelled a homicidal suicide and the real culprit still on the loose.”

“Well, they had me fooled.” Darrington decided not to admit he had sensed a conspiracy from the beginning, “Particularly Alice, I gather you two are old friends.”

Rothwell's face took on an unusual softness, “Yes. They don't come any braver than Alice. We worked together in intelligence during the war when we were undercover in Europe for months. Of course, no-one remembers it now, but that's when you discover what people are really made of and you become uncommonly close. It's a most terrifying ordeal, apart from other agents, whom you must trust with your life, you are completely alone in a violently hostile environment where the consequences of failure are worse than death. Not many of us survived.”

Darrington watched him as he stared into space and sat perfectly still in a thoughtful almost painful silence. In Rothwell today the untrained eye might see only the archetypical soft product of easy living with a predictably successful career nurtured by the old boy network, but in fact he had high intelligence, animal cunning and a steel hard character. Darrington tried to imagine him as a lean, fit young agent nervous and frightened, on the run perhaps hungry and shabby, clinging desperately to the equally young and frightened Alice Bevis. It was a difficult picture to conjure up in a man renowned for expensive clothes, perfect haircuts and manicured fingernails, and whose whole demeanour smacked of taste, authority and money.

“We all carry something from those days, Sir.”

Rothwell bounced back, ‘Yes, indeed we do, but meeting Alice more than made up for the bad times. Her fiancé was one of the first agents sent out into the field. A fine man, he was captured and died in rather horrifying circumstances and I'm afraid her mission was one of calm and calculated revenge but it served the cause well. She has a chest full of medals and stayed on with the department in peacetime. In fact, it was Alice who wrote the first report on the murders. She always argued the killer was very close to the authorities, she used to say she could almost hear him breathing nearby, but I'm afraid no-one wanted to know and her report never saw the light of day and it was replaced by a whitewashed version. That's why I roped her in when this disastrous affair raised its head again. We might be getting older and, of course, we don't see so much of each other these days, but neither of us has lost our wits yet so it seemed appropriate.”

“So what happens now?” asked Darrington. “The press will have a field day when they get on to this.”

“No, they won't,” Rothwell snapped, “because they're not going to hear about it. You'll finish your report, I'll submit it to the Minister and inform him that during the course of your investigation you came up with a suspect who when faced with his crimes committed suicide, after which no doubt, the Minister's office will issue a press statement.” He grinned his nastiest grin, “In a way it was suicide, anyone who points a gun at Alice Bevis must have a death wish, but that's the end of it. Nothing further is to be made public and after a couple of weeks leave, which presumably you'll spend trying to put your marriage back together, we want you back at your old job. We need to keep you occupied and not tempted to go off on any more unauthorised ventures.”

Max squirmed inside, Rothwell would be surreptitiously referring to this matter whenever he needed a lever against him in the future, but he supposed he deserved it.

Rothwell stood up to leave, “You have my permission to tell Sarah the whole story if it will help. I think she can be trusted don't you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you'd better convince her that you can be.”

“And Norman Gordon?” asked Max, sadly.

“Ah yes, the only witness to see Douglas Hood. Well, the poor lady had a heart attack when she fell down the stairs and there's no evidence implicating Hood with the incident. Apparently she lost her husband recently and had been drinking on the night of the accident.”

Darrington looked down, his fingers playing with the edge of the bedsheet. Norma Gordon weighed heavily on his conscience but apart from a whispered accusation from a sick and sedated woman, he also had no proof against Douglas Hood regarding her death.

Alice Bevis returned with coffees for them all and a doctor who gave Darrington the all-clear. It was time to go home — to an empty house.

Rothwell volunteered to drive him but as they left the hospital Matt and Fiona came rushing toward them. Matt's right arm was strapped in heavy bandages against his chest but he offered his left hand to Darrington and Fiona, who carried a large bunch of flowers laughed her loud laugh, “We were coming to visit, we didn't know they'd discharged you.” She handed him the flowers, put her arms around his neck and kissed and hugged him, “I'm so glad you're all right.”

Over her shoulder, Max caught sight of Sarah watching him from the car park. She stood with her back resting against the bonnet of his car, arms folded across her chest and he groaned.

“I think you have yourself a bit of explaining to do,” Rothwell chuckled.

Matt and Fiona went off hand in hand and Max handed the flowers to Alice, “I think you'd better have these.”

Rothwell gallantly kissed Sarah's hand and introduced her to Alice then left Max standing awkwardly beside his sad looking wife.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked quietly.

“Yes, it was only a bang on the head. How did you know where I was?”

Sarah reached up and wiped Fiona's lipstick from his cheek then nodded at Rothwell who was getting into his Mercedes with Alice Bevis. “He tracked me down in London to tell me you'd been injured so I got the first train down this morning. I picked up the car in Winchester and drove down, I was about to come in when I saw you all leaving. I suppose the young blonde is Catherine.”

“No. That's Fiona, she works for Rothwell, Catherine doesn't exist.”

“Well for someone who doesn't exist she does remarkably well on the telephone.”

“That was Norma.” He put a hand to his bandaged head, “Sarah, it's a long story and I'll have to start at the beginning but when we get home, please.”

Rothwell tooted the car horn. He and Alice waved and smiled as they drove out of the car park. “They look cheerful,” said Sarah as she started the car. “I wonder where they're off to.”

“Probably somewhere quiet where they can get into the back seat of the car.”

“Max!” Sarah exclaimed, “What the hell's happened to you? I know you turned fifty and had a heart attack on the same day, but this is not like you. You are normally such a steady, uncomplicated man, but so far you seem to be involved with Catherine, who apparently doesn't exist, Norma and Fiona who looks young enough to be your daughter and now you're having sexual fantasies about Rothwell and some old dear in the back of his car.”

Head in his hands Max couldn't tell if he were laughing or crying, it was just somewhere in between. “Please, Sarah take me home.”

Closing the front door behind them they stood looking at one another, Max pulled Sarah into his arms and smothered her sobs into his chest, “Come on my darling it's over. Let's have a cup of tea and get back to normal — whatever that is in this house.”

Sarah insisted he go to bed and when she brought up a tray of tea he pulled her in with him. They made love with a desperation that sought to bring each of them back from their recent, lonely isolation.

Afterwards they drank the lukewarm tea and lay locked in each other's arms while Max, omitting any reference to Claudine, tried to explain the events of the last few weeks. Sarah was appalled at the things Douglas Hood had done during the war and was prepared to do just a few days ago, had not the courageous Alice stopped him. Max begged her to believe he was not involved with anyone else and his secretive behaviour was all connected with the case.

“But why go to Douglas Hood? It's not like you to break the rules. You had orders from Rothwell to go to him if you needed help or wanted to interview anyone else. I just don't understand, if you had to confide in someone couldn't it have been me?” she asked sounding a little hurt.

Max resisted the temptation to tell her about Claudine. He wanted to. He needed to unburden to someone, but his misjudgement of Douglas had left him unsure of everyone, even Sarah. Having almost lost her he was not prepared to take any chances. “I don't know,” he said at last.

“You wanted the glory, Max,” she gently admonished. “It had to be you who single-handedly caught the killer. ‘Red Max' wins the day. I'm afraid Douglas Hood was right about that, you didn't give any thought to what might happen to me or to your family if you'd got yourself killed.”

“I'm sorry Sarah. It won't happen again, I swear. Just tell me you're home to stay. One thing I have learned from all this is I can't live without you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Clive Longfield knelt before the altar soaking up the ambience of the ancient Oak Hathern church, the light from the glorious stained-glass windows marking his thick, light brown hair with faded colour. He revelled in the peace of the building, its heavy quiet, its holiness and its musty smell described by Carol as ‘hassocks, cassocks and hymnbooks'. He had first entered its doors as a 12-year-old boy, terrified at the prospect of singing a solo at the midnight service on New Year's Eve but even then its warmth surrounded and comforted him. He had met Carol there, married her there and taken over the parish after the death of her father.

Every morning he spent a few minutes praying for guidance and giving thanks to God for blessing his life so abundantly. The practical side of his nature saw this ritual as contact with head office while spiritually he was uplifted and fulfilled in the presence of his Maker.

Behind him, the heavy oak doors creaked open then closed again and he cut short his devotions and stood up. He bowed to the altar and turned to see his cousin Max sitting forlornly at the back of the church. He rushed to him and sat down. “Max are you all right? Sarah told us you'd been injured, I was going to call and see you today.”

“I'm fine Clive, just a bump on the head but I need to talk to you.”

“Of course Max, but you really don't look well. Are you sure you should be out so soon?”

Max ignored the question, “Answer me something will you Clive? If someone confesses to you that they've committed a crime, I mean a serious crime, not just a sin but something unlawful, would you keep their secret?”

“Why do you want to know?” Clive asked warily.

“Please just answer the question?”

“Max if you want me to tell you something someone has confessed I can't even if it is a criminal offence. It's a sacred trust and priests of all denominations are sworn to keep it. To break it would be a sin and I will not do it.”

“That's what I wanted to hear,” said Max, “I want to tell you something. I don't want anyone else in the family to know — the information could be very destructive to those you and I love.”

Max poured out the story of his ordeal during the War. His disastrous first marriage, his involvement with Douglas Hood, the death of Norma Gordon and why Sarah had walked out on him.

Clive listened without interruption until Max listed the points he felt added up to him being Claudine's killer, then spoke quietly and confidently, “None of this is certain Max. Isn't it what you policemen call circumstantial evidence? Someone else could have been there in Claudine's flat, perhaps Douglas Hood did kill her but refused to admit it. He may have denied it just to torment you. You said yourself he was jealous of you, or it could have been her lover, they obviously had a very violent relationship. In any case, I know you didn't do it.”

Max shook his head, “You think you know I didn't do it Clive because I'm your cousin and you have known me for many years and can't imagine me doing such a thing. My God, I wish I had a pound for every time I've heard that from relatives of the convicted, but if I don't know whether or not I did it, how can you know?”

The normally calm and serene Clive sounded almost alarmed. “You didn't kill Claudine, Max. And as for the death of the poor lady in Brighton, it could have been an accident, she could have fallen down the stairs and even if it wasn't an accident, you didn't kill her either. If you want my advice you'll forget about it. You've been through a dreadful ordeal and faced up to the things you might have done so why not let God be your judge and get on with your life.” Clive's voice had risen and echoed about the church.