of his agents.
Tantalising shreds of memory floated by; was that his face?
I picked up the second envelope and hefted it. The news couldn’t get worse. I ripped it open. It was another memo from Caldwell, about a year further on:
MemorandumStaff in Confidence
To:Colonel Sir Collin Gubbins, Executive Head SOE From:Major PA Caldwell Date:14 July 1945 Subject:Captain Daniel McRae
Sir,
At your request, following the surprising news of the survival and return to England of Captain Daniel McRae, I have visited Moresley Hospital to establish his condition and to consider what action if any to take.
I saw both McRae and the senior psychiatrist, Doctor Richard Thompson. The latter’s report is attached separately but the gist of it is as follows.
First, McRae was in very poor health when he was brought to the hospital in May.
He was suffering from malnutrition and multiple injuries, the most significant of which was to his head. Either at the time of his capture or in subsequent captivity, McRae’s head was struck with great force. His skull was fractured in three places and a piece of bone was dislodged and penetrated his brain.
He has undergone various operations and now has a metal plate in his skull.
There is a large scar running across his head and down half his face. He is nevertheless in surprisingly good physical health. His body has healed and he is taking exercise.
However I found McRae in poor mental condition. He is undergoing Electro-convulsive Shock Therapy (EST), a ghastly business. He did not recognise me and it appears he has no recollection of events for most of the last year.
His last clear memories are just before being sent to France.
The prognosis from Doctor Thompson is poor. Such a major injury may have serious and long term personality effects. As well as memory lapses which may or may not be permanent, McRae is likely to suffer from personality disorders including delusions and paranoia. He is due to be released next month as there is little more that can be done physically. However Doctor Thompson will bring him in for monthly reviews and possible further EST to make sure McRae is coping with his infirmity.
Once more my recommendation is that we let lie the accusation of murder in Avignon. There is no evidence and it would only serve to rake matters up. It would only damage the fine record and high public regard for the SOE if this matter were made public.
There is however a possibility that McRae will come calling at SOE offices. He is already asking about his missing months. I would therefore further recommend that our stance should be to tell McRae nothing. We should not feed his delusions or paranoia. Specifically, there should be no information given out that enables him to pester former colleagues such as myself. There is every likelihood, according to his doctor, that McRae may blame me and his former colleagues for what happened to him.
Signed
Major PA Caldwell The memo had the Colonel’s signature and comments approving both recommendations.
Words blazed out at me; delusions, paranoia, infirmity! How would I know what was real and what wasn’t? How was I to live with myself knowing I was a murderer? I looked at my hands in the faint light from my torch. They were shaking. Were they capable of killing? What does it feel like to have innocent blood on them? I’ve always liked women: too much? Would I have killed one just to get my way? I’d given Sandra a slap but she’d deserved it; I think she even liked it. Some women do. Was it an accident, a bit of rough stuff that got out of hand? What would happen if I did remember the killing?
I was a wreck and the people who sent me down this path were treating me like a pariah, a mad dog. Or was this the paranoia talking? If you’re mad, how do you know? Caldwell seemed to have saved my skin, though. I could hardly blame him for wanting to steer clear of me.
I suddenly felt the walls of this cellar pressing in on me. I needed air, light.
I needed to run. Needed to talk to Valerie. Could I confess this to her? What the hell would she say? Should I go to the police and tell all? What should I do?!
I got to my feet, feeling hollow and sick. I put the file back. Should I take the reports out or leave them? Destroy the evidence? Who else would ever know?
Caldwell was dead and the Colonel would never talk. What about Major Cassells; did he read these, or stop at the warning note? I pulled the file out again and tore out the two envelopes and stuffed them in my pocket.
I began heading to the door when I passed the C files. A thought struck me. I looked for his file and found it. I held Major Tony Caldwell’s personal papers in my hands. I tucked it on to my left forearm, opened to the first page and shone my torch on it. I just had time to read the first few lines when the Registry door bashed open and lights flooded the basement.
“All right, Mr McRae, come on out! We know you’re in here!”
Shit! Old Stan wasn’t so slow after all. He must have waited for me to leave, or spoken to Major Cassells, for the next voice was his.
“Daniel? Daniel McRae? We know what you’re doing here. It’s no good. Come on out, man.”
I dug into my pocket and pulled out the two envelopes. I slid them into Caldwell’s file and put it back in its place, then tiptoed down the aisle away from the door. I turned left and headed further in. I didn’t want them to find me next to Caldwell’s papers.
“Daniel, we have the police with us and I am armed. It will go easier with you if you give up now.”
I was far enough away. I stepped out of the alley of files, my eyes screwed up against the lights. Stan and Cassells were standing at the door. Cassells held a service revolver aimed directly at my chest. A policeman stood behind them.
“Seems like you were well trained, Captain,” said Cassells.
“Not well enough,” I replied. I didn’t put my hands up. It seemed silly, and I didn’t expect Cassells to shoot me. I didn’t care much either. I walked towards them. Stan looked uncomfortable when I got close.
“Sorry, Stan. Hope I haven’t got you into trouble?”
He averted his eyes.
“Far from it, Daniel,” said Cassells. “Stan here alerted me an hour ago that you’d come in and hadn’t come out.”
“What now, Gerald?” I asked. He didn’t like the first name this time.
“’Fraid we’ve got the police involved. Still a very secure area, this. You’ll have to go with the constable here. I believe there’s a car waiting outside.”
The copper nodded and stood forward. “I’m sorry, sir, I have to put these on.”
He held out a pair of handcuffs. I could feel the weight of the law piling above my head, ready to crush me. Why shouldn’t it? I held out my hands and felt the cold steel settle round my wrists.
The squad car took me round to the station in Marylebone. They booked me, fingerprinted me, took away my coat, jacket, tie, belt and shoelaces and led me to a cell. It was a routine I was familiar with, god help me. So were the cells.
About eight by six, with one bed and a sink. The window was sealed shut. The door was a block of green- painted metal with a window hatch and a thinner food hatch like a letter box.
I sat on the hard bunk and pulled my knees up. Justice seemed to have caught up with me. I kept thinking about my dad and what he would have said to see me like this. If he’d known what I’d done. I corrected myself; what I’d been accused of.
Innocent till proven. It’s amazing how the mind works in self preservation. I was already in denial, angry even, at not being able to defend myself. There were many possible answers to what had taken place in France. Why blame me?
Could I live with the doubt? Why not? I was living with holes and visions and dislocations from reality every day.
More than ever, I regretted not talking to Tony Caldwell. I wanted to question him about that night. Find out
