Skimming through the letter for a second time, he felt sure that Douglas Bennet was the driving force behind it. The phrases were short and forceful, controlled but not at all placatory, just like the man himself.
Not that Holbrooke could blame them for getting angry; they had all lost loved-ones – even Pinky Whelps had turned out to have had an aunt – and they had a point for he was nowhere near an arrest. He and several other recently drafted in detectives had trawled through the information about known criminals in the area and beyond who had concealed bodies but there was no one that fitted the frame and the only two men he could draw a comparison with were still in prison.
The best leads they had were a dodgy photo-fit and a generic white van to look out for. The traffic section would be able to get a list of owners for him but it would be a long one and it was very likely that the killer would either disguise or get rid of the van, now that it had been mentioned publicly.
The uniformed police would have a long job of it, checking out all local owners and it might turn nothing up. Before the news about the van had been released he had sent out officers to the scrap merchants in the area to tell the owners to be on the lookout for anyone trying to offload a van, of any description, but he did not hold out much hope there.
He picked up the report from Constable Walker.
Holbrooke had sent the young policeman to watch the funeral of Jenkins on the off-chance that the killer might turn up to it. Winters had raised this as a possibility and it was at least a positive thing they could do.
The rookie policeman had lurked nearby in an un-marked car and watched the mourners as they entered and left the church but he had not been able to identify anyone. Apparently there were several men who could have been the one he saw on the morning of the third of May but no one who stood out enough to merit further investigation.
Orton had been of no further help either. The killer had left nothing that could identify him on either the bodies or the pillar boxes and must have used gloves at all times. All four men had died several hours before their discovery and he had no doubt that each had been killed on the second day of the month.
That meant that the killer had managed to snatch and murder two people on the same day. He wondered what order it was done in – whether the killer drove around until he had two unconscious or dead victims in the van and then headed back elsewhere in order to cut them up, or if he did them one at a time.
Perhaps the killer actually chopped up the bodies in his van, thus avoiding any chance of incriminating evidence being found at his home, assuming they ever caught up with him that was. The vehicle would probably be stored somewhere separate from the killer’s home in that case to minimise the risk.
Surely when he went out to dispose of the bodies he would have both in the van together, along with a jimmy, and a bolt-cutter, the latter used to cut out the wire cage from the pillar box.
Holbrooke had contacted the Royal Mail and arranged for an empty pillar box to be delivered to the station. He and a couple of his officers had borrowed a jimmy and bolt-cutters to see what was involved in breaking in to it. The door was pretty easy to force open and Constable Forton had clipped through the wires in a few seconds.
They had used a shop mannequin with the limbs removed to replicate the next part and the whole job was completed in less than two minutes. They had stood there, grim-faced, unnerved by how easy it had been.
There was little more he could do until more evidence came to light. His comfortable home and blessedly normal family were only half an hour away and Holbrooke needed a break from his office and the images this case conjured up.
Putting his papers away, he felt a pang of guilt that he was able to leave the mystery alone for a while when four men had needed to be sewn back together again before they could be buried.
CHAPTER 6
The murderous spree of ‘The Postbox Killer’ was the last thing on thirty-nine year old Tom Hedley’s mind as his car crested the hill on the outskirts of Todheath, a small village nestled in the Chilterns. He was travelling back from London where he worked in the diplomatic service and had spent the past few weeks in the Middle East doing things that were best not mentioned in public.
It had just gone two o’clock in the morning and he was keen to get home. There was no traffic on the road at this ungodly hour and that suited him fine.
Shifting gear, he allowed the car to accelerate on the downhill stretch as he approached the village, the bright headlights picking out the darting shapes of rabbits and the occasional squashed hedgehog. It was then that he saw the parked car in the layby. A rotund, balding, bespectacled man with a shabby black suit and an out of place tie was trudging to a pillar box nearby, struggling under the weight of a large sack which was slung over his shoulders. The individual looked up, shock and surprise clearly imprinted all over his chubby face.
Hedley braked suddenly, although he would later testify that he did not know why he did so. After all it was probably just the postman collecting mail but something just did not seem right.
It was only as he got closer that he saw that the jacket the man was wearing was covered in bloodstains, as was the sack he carried.
The man stood there, transfixed in the car headlights, his eyes uncannily wide behind the lenses of his glasses.
Hedley was just as frightened. Encounters like this did not happen during the normal course of things, especially not in this idyllic part of the Chilterns; not even in the slum areas of downtown Beirut and Baghdad – at least not that he was aware of. He had two courses of action.
He could either do the sensible thing and step on the accelerator and get the hell out of there and find a telephone box a safe distance away in order to inform the police or he could play the hero and tackle the stranger. Some inner resolve made him go for the latter option. Unclipping his seatbelt, he threw the car door wide and leapt out.
The man with the sack cursed volubly and dropped his load.
“What the hell are you up to?” asked Hedley. He now stood less than five yards away from the other, close enough to see that the man was trembling.
Mouthing something meaningless, the fat man pulled back. With a series of cumbersome steps, he reached his parked car and fumbled with the driver’s door.
It did not take a genius to tell that whatever was in the sack was definitely not mail. Hedley’s stomach churned at the sight of the bulging, bloodied bag. Reasonably confident in his ability to tackle the other, he sprinted forward and, arms outstretched, caught the overweight man in a rugby tackle, hauling him to the damp ground.
The man may have been fat but he was also strong. He shrugged off his attacker and scrambled to his feet. With a fleshy hand, he drew a long-bladed knife from a sheath at his belt.
Hedley crawled back on his arms and legs, righting himself several steps away.
The fat man hesitated. It was apparent that he was deliberating on either permanently silencing this witness to his crime or making a getaway. It seemed he had no real desire to fight. He edged back to his car, his flabby backside making contact with the bonnet, his knife held out before him, in a warning to the other to keep his distance.
There was no doubt in Hedley’s mind that he was now face-to-face with the murderer who had gained the dubious epithet of ‘The Postbox Killer’. To think that this porcine-faced, obese, middle-aged nutcase was the cause of so much of the nation’s fear would have been laughable under different circumstances but here and now it was anything but.
“Say anything to the police about me and you’re a dead man. Understand?” Keeping his eyes on Hedley, the killer made to get in his car a second time.
At his feet, obviously dropped by the fat man when he had been initially startled, Hedley saw a crowbar, no doubt the tool required for jemmying open the pillar box. In a fluid motion, he dropped down, picked it up and threw it with all his might. It spun end over end before striking its target full in the face.
The killer yelle
d in agony and dropped his knife. Blood trickled from between the fingers clamped to his gashed forehead.
Hedley lunged forward. Catching the other by a raised trouser leg, he pulled hard. Fabric ripped as he dislodged the man from his car seat.
Screaming, the fat man landed painfully on his backside, his yellow underpants plain for all to see
Hedley waded in with a powerful kick, knowing full well that no court in the land would prosecute him for such violence when directed against this individual. He reached down and pulled the man half-upright by his scruffy tie before smacking him hard in the face with a clenched fist. He rained down another blow, breaking the murderer’s glasses.
“Don’t hurt me,” the man pleaded, raising his arms pathetically. “Please don’t hurt me!”
“You sick son of a bitch!” Hedley raised a fist threateningly, readying himself to drive in another punch. “You’re that bastard who’s killed all those people over in Oxfordshire, aren’t you? I ought to kill you right here and now and just say it was all in self-defence.”
“No … I …”
Hedley was about to launch a further attack when he saw headlights rounding a near curve in the road. Knowing that there was no more fight left in the other, he threw him forcibly to the ground and stepped out into the road in order to flag down the approaching motorist.
*
Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke was in the process of drying himself down, having just stepped out of the shower, when he heard his wife calling him from downstairs. Hastily, he flung on his dressing gown and dashed out of the bathroom onto the landing.
“What is it?” he asked irritably, looking over the banister.
Anne Holbrooke looked up from the hallway, the telephone in her hand. “It’s Inspector Jackson. He sounds quite agitated.”
Holbrooke rushed down the stairs and took the telephone. “Tyrone. How many times have – ?”
“We’ve got him, sir!” Jackson interrupted ecstatically. “‘The Postbox Killer’. He was arrested in the early hours of the morning over in Todheath, a village in the Chilterns. He’s now being held over at the Aylesbury nick.”
“Are you … are you sure?” If this proved to be true then this would be the best piece of news Holbrooke had received that year.
“Without doubt. I’ve just been speaking to DCI Chambers at Aylesbury and from what he told me the individual whom they’ve identified as fifty-seven-year-old Oliver Craddock, was caught red-handed, literally, by a member of the public.”
“Are you saying he was caught in the act? That he was disposing a body at the time he was apprehended?”
“Exactly that. The details are still a bit sketchy and as you’re the lead investigator on this case DCI Chambers would rather converse with you before anything is made public, however it seems that the culprit had a victim all ready to put in the postbox.”
“Anything on this Oliver Craddock?”
“I’ve no details as yet, apart from his age.”
“What about the victim?” With some measure of annoyance, Holbrooke noticed that his wife was listening in to his conversation, one of the reasons he disliked being called at home. He had always tried to keep his work and personal life separate. Still, given the reason for the telephone call, he had a lot to be pleased about.
“Again, no details.”
“Right.” Holbrooke had not had time to put on his wrist watch, so he glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen, seeing that it was approaching seven o’clock. “I’ll be in the office in an hour’s time.”
“DCI Chambers has asked if you can get yourself over to the Aylesbury station. He’s requested that Orton goes as well.”
“Okay. I’ll give Orton a call. Inform Chambers that we should be over there by half-eight, nine at the latest depending on the traffic.” Holbrooke put the telephone down and, taking the stairs two at a time, hurried to his bedroom to get dressed.
*
The interview room was austere, dimly lit and filled with a haze of grey-brown cigarette smoke which hovered around the ceiling.
Holbrooke had been briefed by Detective Chief Inspector Chambers previously to entering and he now sat as the other smoked, waiting for the suspect to be brought forth. There were several details about this enquiry which did not sit comfortably with him – not least that the victim had been a woman; Craddock’s ex-wife, in fact.
Orton had only just arrived and was now examining the body in the police morgue downstairs.
“He’s admitted killing his wife but, as can be expected, he’s adamantly protesting his innocence regarding the murders over in your patch.”
Chambers stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. Taking a deep drag, he then blew out a cloud of smoke from his nostrils.
An old school copper if ever there was one, he was no doubt relishing the prospect of claiming all the fame for having apprehended ‘The Postbox Killer’ and whereas Holbrooke was clean shaven and smartly dressed, he was scruffy and sordid. There was also a hardness to his face indicative of someone who was not averse to using a bit of good old-fashioned police brutality in order to get the results he wanted.
“Maybe he’s telling the truth,” suggested Holbrooke. “After all, all the other victims have been men.”
“Telling the truth my arse! He’s got ‘guilty’ stamped all over his – ” Chambers stopped as a door was opened and Craddock was ushered inside by a police constable.
The defendant, his face battered, limped forward and had just taken his seat when a sour-faced man carrying a black folder and a plastic cup of coffee entered the room and, upon noticing that there were no more seats, stood next to him. It was fairly clear that he was Craddock’s lawyer.
Chambers switched on the tape recorder. “Interview taking place on the twenty-third of May at nine twenty-seven. Present are DCI Holbrooke and DCI Chambers. Also present is the suspect’s lawyer, Mark Hedges. State your name, age, address and profession,” he ordered curtly.
Craddock looked at the lawyer who gave him a nod. “Oliver Mark Craddock. Fifty-seven. Ten Beckinsdale Avenue, Great Wootton. Financial adviser.” His words were rattled out and spoken rather mechanically, without variation in tone, inflection or pitch.
“Good. Now then, you were seen by a member of the public in Todheath at or around half-past two this morning carrying a sack in which were founded the dismembered remains of your ex-wife, Gabrielle Craddock. Your intention no doubt was to place her butchered body into the postbox as you’ve done on four other occasions.” Chambers sucked smoke into his lungs.
“Now stop trying to squirm out of it and tell us the bloody truth. We all know that you’re ‘The Postbox Killer’ so stop trying to deny it.”
“I had nothing to do with any of those other murders. I freely confess to – ” Craddock stopped immediately when his lawyer grabbed his shoulder.
“Any kind of man who would chop up his ex-missus is more than capable of having done this on more than one occasion. I know you did it. What I want to know is why you did it. So tell me!” Chambers grinned menacingly.
“I’ve told you all I’m going to say,” said Craddock.
Holbrooke could see the sweat standing out on the man’s heavily-jowled face.
“You’ll tell me everything I want to hear!” snarled Chambers. “We’ve already established that your ex-wife had discovered that you were fiddling with the books. Making a nice little earner for yourself, were you? No doubt you found out and decided to top her.
“I guess it’s only a matter of time before we find out that those other poor buggers had some dirt on you as well. Do yourself a favour and admit that you’re ‘The Postbox Killer’.”
Craddock shifted uncomfortably in his chair as though it were now some kind of Medieval torture device.
“I’m not ‘The Postbox Killer’! You know that as well as I do! You’re just trying to pin this all on me. Okay, I’m going to jail, that’s fair enough, but I’m not doing time for something I did
n’t do.”
“Mr. Craddock, remember what we – ”
With a wave of a fleshy hand, Craddock brushed his lawyer’s intervention aside. He knew that what he had done was indefensible and he had already resigned himself to a very long stretch in prison.
“Yeah, so what if I killed her? The bitch deserved it. She was going around telling everyone just how inadequate I’d been as a husband. On top of all that she also found out that I was cooking the books. At first she was all set for making it known and then she decided to start blackmailing me. I could only take so much.
“I snapped and pushed her down the stairs. Did I mean to kill her? I don’t know, maybe I did. Anyhow, when I found her lying there, her neck broken, I knew I had to do something. I could have tried to make it look like an accident but there was so much bad blood between us that I knew no one would believe that.
“So I came up with the idea of making her death look like one which could be attributed to ‘The Postbox Killer’ in the hope that I’d get away with it.” His confession said, he hung his head low.
Chambers shook his head dismissively and turned, questioningly to Holbrooke. “What do you reckon?”
“Personally, I think he’s telling the truth and what’s more … the real killer is still very much at large,” Holbrooke answered concernedly. “Although, having said that I think I’m going to reserve judgement until I hear from my forensic scientist. So, if you’ll excuse me.” He got up and left the room.
“He did it, I’m sure of it!” Chambers called out, rising from his chair. He followed Holbrooke out into the corridor.
Holbrooke shook his head in disagreement. He was about to say something when he saw Orton coming towards them. “Well?” he said.
“That didn’t take long. There are so many differences from the killer’s modus operandi that I can’t, with any sense of credibility, assign any of this to ‘The Postbox Killer’. For one, the victim is a female – a notable departure. Secondly, the neck is broken as are several bones in the left hand indicative of a fall. Thirdly, the limbs have been sawn off, not hacked. Whoever did this was clearly trying to imitate ‘The Postbox Killer’. It’s as blatant a copycat killing as I’ve ever seen.”
The Postbox Murders Page 7
