Free Truth Dare Kill by Gordon Ferris

at Trafalgar Square and walked through Admiralty Arch and down the Mall. The Palace was flying the Union flag and looked as if it would be there till Doomsday. God knows how they got away with only one bomb. Unkind folk say it’s because they’re all Germans. You have to admit it’s suspicious. It’s an easy bombing run: follow the Thames upriver until the Houses of Parliament, a smart right, skim over the lake in St James’s Park, and bingo.
    The Parthenon looked like every other club in the West End: ponderous, heavy columns and high windows. The doorway was reached up a short flight of steps.
    Some lights were on inside and sure enough, there was a flunky waiting to pounce. This time I had my story ready.
    “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help?”
    He was way too old for the last war but looked like he’d done his part in the Great one. There’s something about an NCO that you can tell a mile off, especially if you’ve been one. Maybe it’s the suspicious eyes and the slight rocking motion on the balls of the feet.
    “I hope so. My name’s McRae, Captain Daniel McRae.” His head went a bit higher and I swore his arm twitched in the reflex of a salute. “I’m an old friend of Major Anthony Caldwell. He may sign himself Major Philip Caldwell. Is he in?”
    I could see the flunky’s eyes narrow a fraction. But he was good, very good.
    “Caldwell, you say, sir? Major Caldwell? I’ll just check our members list. We had so many new members, many of them temporary during the war.” He walked behind his desk and picked up a big book which he carefully shielded from me. He was lying of course. These chaps know all their members by sight, by name and by inside leg measurement. He continued with the pantomime. I continued to smile.
    At last he looked up. He adopted a carefully placed frown of concentration suggesting he had some delicate information to impart and wasn’t sure how to do it.
    “It would seem, sir, that we did have a Major Caldwell with us. But there is an entry here saying that we can’t divulge details.”
    He savoured divulge, as though he’d only just learned it. “Not even to an old friend? We served together. SOE.”
    It cut no ice. A sympathetic smile grew on his face. “I understand, sir. But I think it’s possibly because you were both with SOE that we have this instruction. If you see?”
    I smiled my “I-quite-understand-but-you-don’t” smile. “Can you even tell me if he’s alive or dead? I know this sounds silly. But it’s been a while.”
    “I’m sorry, sir.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “The instructions are clear. We can’t say anything at all about the Major.” He closed the book and the conversation.
    “Can I leave a message?”
    “By all means, sir. But I can’t say if it will be answered or not. If you see?”
    “May I borrow some paper and a pen, please?”
    I kept it short, just asking Caldwell or his relative or friend to get in touch with me. I left my telephone number. I walked out of the club fully expecting never to hear from anyone, and wondering what other leads I could trace that would earn me Kate Graveney’s up-front fee.
    Three months ago I’d tried his old regiment – the Royal Signals – to see if they had an address. It was my first stop after being stonewalled by the document guardians at the SOE. I spent a whole day on the phone being sent from office to office, clerk to clerk. I finally found a corporal in the Signals records unit who was very helpful but ultimately useless.
    He explained that one or two officers had been commissioned into this regiment simply as a holding arrangement while they went off and did some skulduggery in occupied Europe or at Bletchley Park. These officers never saw the inside of the mess at their nominal regiment, but it gave them a unit against which they could be paid and draw a uniform. There had been a Major Philip Anthony Caldwell associated with the Signals but he’d been demobbed. They had no forwarding address; why didn’t I try SOE?
    I decided to check