exactly what he’d seen and what had been said.
Then I remembered his file, his personal file. I’d only had time to scan the cover page, the page with name, rank, unit, next of kin details and such like.
It was very peculiar. I expected to see Mrs Liza Caldwell of Willow Road, Hampstead as next of kin. No matter what you were getting up to on the side, you’d put your wife down as next of kin, wouldn’t you?
Then why had he given an address in Chelsea and a next of kin by the name of Mrs Catriona Caldwell?
THIRTEEN
My mind cantered round all the new information trying to make sense of it, put it in order. But there was no sense to it. The only reality was that the cell was cold and the bed hard. I pulled the coarse blanket round me but blessed sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed and writhed and kept waiting for the headache to begin; all the ingredients were there for falling into one of my episodes.
Mercifully I must have dozed, because I was startled from wild dreams when the metal window slid open and an all too familiar voice boomed into the cell.
“Well, well. What do we have here? Mister private detective, former policeman, Daniel McRae, Esquire. There’s nothing worse than a bent copper. A copper who’s gone bad. Well, Danny boy, I knew it was only a matter of time before you ended up in one of our nicks.”
I sat up, fear clenching my guts. What the hell was Wilson doing here? This wasn’t his business. He was CID, a Yard man. The window slid shut and I heard the bolts being drawn. The door opened. Detective Inspector Wilson loomed large against the outside light. He stepped in. He had taken off his coat and jacket.
His braces swelled out in a great curve over his chest and stomach. He was holding something in his hand. I pulled myself into the corner of my bunk, my back against the wall. This wasn’t good, not good at all. I found a voice; it didn’t sound like mine.
“This is a bit off your patch Inspector, isn’t it? I was caught doing some filing, not murdering anybody.” I tried to make it light, keep it from slipping off into something serious.
Wilson turned round. I could see a uniformed officer holding the door. “Bring me a chair and then you can close the door.” The officer came back quickly with a metal chair and placed it just in front of me. He looked at me nervously and raised his eyebrows as if to say there was nothing he could do. But he tried.
“Want me to stay, Inspector?”
“No, you fool. I’m not at risk from this one. Bugger off.”
The door closed and Wilson and I were alone under the bare light bulb. I determined to do nothing, nothing to upset him. Give him no excuse. But I knew from Glasgow that some of these boys needed no excuse.
Wilson dropped into the chair and examined me. He laid something on the concrete floor and I saw that it was my makeshift toolkit. He crossed his big arms. He was one of those men whose body had a thick layer of fat over hard muscle. You see it in Irish navvies; beer bellies and double chins, but capable of pulverising kerbstones with their bare knuckles. Or a man’s head.
“You’re right, Danny boy. This wouldn’t be any of my business. Not normally. But I’ve made you my business. I put the word out that if you were ever picked up, for anything – blowing your nose the wrong way, overdue library book, anything – they were to call me. They did.”
“Very efficient, Inspector.” Easy, Danny, easy. Don’t shoot your mouth off.
Wilson reached down. He picked up my toolkit. He unwrapped it and placed the items one by one on the edge of the bunk. The torch, screwdriver, penknife, pliers and various bent pins lay there accusingly.
“A bit of filing, eh? More like a regular little burglar’s bag, if you ask me.
Is that what you are, McRae? A little tea-leaf? A copper who’s switched sides?
Turns my stomach, that does.”
“You’ve got it wrong, Inspector. This is how I was trained in the SOE. I needed to see my personal file. I was trying to find out what happened to me. How I got this.” I pointed at my scar, hoping for some sympathy. Like a cow in a slaughterhouse.
“Got it wrong, have I? Calling me a liar, are you?”
Wilson’s face had clouded. Shit. No matter what I said he was going to turn it against me. I wasn’t going to win.
“That’s not what I meant, Inspector. I’m just trying to explain these. That’s all.” I tried smiling.
“You’re going to be difficult, are you? You’re going to make this effing difficult for me?” He suddenly reached out and scooped all the tools on to the floor in a clatter of metal and glass. I heard the torch lens smash.
Terror gripped my bowels. I’d been here before. A concrete cell, pitiless light, helpless in front of a remorseless, vindictive thug. I shook my head desperately. “No. Not all. I’m telling you the truth. I just wanted to know what happened. That’s all.” I could hear my voice rising and breaking. I hated my terror, my cowardice. I could feel the first faint pangs of pain behind my eyes.
Not now, please not now.
“On your feet, McRae!” Wilson had kicked back his chair and was standing above me, his fists clenched.
I cowered in my corner waiting for the jackboots to come in, the metal rods to strike. “I’m fine here, Inspector. I know my rights. You can’t do this. All I’ve done is hang around my old office and look at my own file. I didn’t even break in.”
“No? Then what’s all that then?” He pointed at the sorry pile of tools on the floor.
I had the pillow in front of me. A pathetic shield. He reached out and grabbed my left arm and yanked me up. He tore the pillow from my grip and tossed it behind me. I stood rigid, knowing what was coming and trying to brazen it out. I held his malignant eyes and kept my arms by my side so that he’d have to hit a defenceless man.
His big right hook hit me in the guts and I went down on the bed in wheezing agony. I couldn’t call out. He pulled me up again. I was retching and coughing, fighting for air. This time I held my hands in front of my face, my elbows tucked in. They didn’t help much. He was going for the body mainly. Not wanting to leave too many marks. A real pro. I tried to protect my kidneys and stomach.
His fists broke through or smashed numbingly on my arms.
I felt a rib go and in that moment, felt something else snap. I found my lungs and began a scream that was anger, pain, hate all rolled into one. It made him draw back. Wilson was the school bully that I’d taken enough from. I hit him with my right and he was so surprised that he fell back. I flung myself at him.
My arms were flailing, striking at his head and big chest, pummelling away so that he stumbled back against the door.
I could see blood from his mouth. Then a great roar erupted from him and he let loose. I stood no chance. I went down and he began kicking me. I tried to shield my face. I rolled into a ball. The jackboots smashed into me, into my head, my back my legs, my balls. I was screaming and screaming. Like before… like before…
I heard the door clang and voices a long way off. There was a lot of shouting. I couldn’t hear. My ears were filled with blood…
“Thank Christ, he’s moving. I thought the big prick had killed him.”
“He will one day. He’s a bloody animal. He’s gone too bleeding far this time.”
“It wasn’t all one way. Did you see the corker he got?”
I felt hands lifting me, hauling me on to the bed. I hurt everywhere. And then I felt the familiar sickness rising in me, the pain in my head splitting it wide open, and blessed oblivion sweeping down on me…
“Are you awake?” It was a woman’s voice. Irish. I wasn’t sure it was aimed at me. And if it was, I wasn’t sure if I was awake or not. I shifted and found pain shooting through my ribs and head. The rest of me seemed to be in spasm as well.
Then I felt the nausea well up. I opened my eyes, couldn’t see where I was, it was just bright light, too bright.
“Sick, going to be sick,” I got out. Hands got under my head and back and lifted me up and to one side. The pain made me groan. I felt a steel bowl against my cheek and threw up into it. The action drove a knife into my chest and twisted it. I threw up again and fell back on the bed to get away from the pain. There was no
