The Postbox Murders

by Edmund Glasby

  *

  The small church at Longstock was almost overflowing with mourners attending the funeral of Matthew King. He had been a popular schoolteacher and the area in front of the altar was covered with floral tributes from his school as well as those of family and friends.

  From his vantage point in a raised gallery at the back of the church, overlooking the nave, Montrose watched, unprepared for the raw emotions he could see among the mourners.

  He had struggled with the decision to go to the funeral for days. On the one hand, he was worried that his presence at both this and Jenkins’ send-off would be noted by the police.

  On the other, he had a theory he wanted to test out. He could not get the mysterious, long-coated man out of his mind. In the few days that had followed the burial of Jenkins, Montrose had brooded over the possibility that he had seen the murderer and had failed to act. The frustration had built up until the pressure of it was too great – he had to go to King’s funeral.

  It had been lucky that King’s funeral had taken longer to organise than Jenkins as Montrose had needed the time to work on a disguise for himself. His normal image was fairly smart but not too formal – dark trousers, a shirt and a corduroy jacket most days. For the previous funeral he had worn his good black suit and, he felt, blended in well with the other mourners. He had also been able to say he had a right to be there. This time was different. He had no connection with the deceased, no valid one anyway, and he had gone to some trouble to look unlike himself.

  A visit to a pawnbrokers shop in Oxford had furnished him with a slightly threadbare pair of black trousers and a dark jacket that had seen better days and was rather too big for him. He had even wondered briefly about dying his sandy hair dark or wearing a hat but decided that both would look too noticeable so he chose to stop shaving instead. His hair had always grown fast and after just five days he had enough stubble to make a passable beard. It was the best he could do to alter his appearance while still seeming normal and it gave him a small amount of reassurance.

  After the coffin was carried into the church the service started and, to Montrose’s satisfaction, no one else had thought to sit upstairs. From his vantage point, he scanned the crowd below, paying scant attention to the funeral itself other than to stand, sit and kneel when everyone else did. He had placed himself in a corner to be out of the priest’s line of sight but this unfortunately had left a section of the church hidden from him.

  His eyes going up and down the pews, he identified the immediate family very easily and King’s close friends seemed to be in the first few rows. He could not spot anyone who looked like the mysterious figure from Jenkin’s funeral but it was entirely possible that he was downstairs at the back of the church.

  The more he thought about this, the more agitated he became. The gallery which had seemed such a good choice at first was useless if it shielded his quarry from him. There was also a very real chance that a few mourners would slip away in the minutes between the service and the burial.

  Finally, moving as cautiously as he could, he edged away from his seat and stole silently down the stairs. These ended right at the back of the church and slightly to one side. Leaning back against the wall, he could see the last pews that had been hidden to him.

  His heart lurched and began to race as he spotted a familiar figure sitting a few feet away. It was definitely the same man he had seen at Jenkins’ funeral, the one who had been making notes or sketches. There had to be a connection. He was convinced it had to be either an undercover policeman or the killer himself.

  The congregation suddenly rose as a final hymn began. At any moment the coffin would be carried out to the graveyard and Montrose would be stuck, waiting for the pallbearers to leave.

  He quickly sidled out of the door, intending to find a good place outside to watch proceedings. To his dismay, there was a young man positioned by the lych gate, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the church.

  Montrose hastily pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes, hoping the watcher would assume he had been overcome with grief. The young man might as well have been wearing his constable’s uniform, it was so obvious that he was a policeman. He stood out like a sore thumb.

  Torn between the urge to flee and his desire to follow his number one suspect, Montrose dithered. As he waited uncertainly, the mourners appeared, following the coffin out of the church. He hung back, trying to look respectful while keeping watch for his suspect and was relieved that no one gave him a second glance.

  As the last stragglers exited the church, he received another shock. A tall, well-built man was among them. A man he had last seen in the woods around Thelford carrying a shotgun. Pulling back further into the shadows, he watched Doulas Bennet join the other mourners in their short walk to the grave of Matthew King.

  What the hell was he doing here? Montrose felt himself start to panic. Fear was bubbling up inside him, threatening to take over. Had he totally misjudged Bennet? Could he actually be the anonymous killer, covering up fratricide by creating a series of murders? It was fantastical, bizarre – but could it be true? It would be an ingenious way of doing things if it was. To mask one crucial murder in a cauldron of others.

  Just as Montrose was about to turn and run, to get away from the whole lot of them, he caught sight of someone else he recognised. He squinted a little, trying to be sure. Yes, it was the sister of Peter Jenkins and she was now turning to speak with Bennet. So that was the connection.

  He almost laughed with relief as the pieces fell into place. The families of the victims must have made contact with each other, either for solidarity or to put pressure on the police. There was nothing mysterious about their appearance at King’s funeral. His heart slowed down to a more normal rate as the horrifying possibility that his instincts had been wrong about ‘The Postbox Killer’ dissipated.

  He felt so much better in fact that he almost missed the moment when his prime suspect strolled out of the church by a side door he had not noticed before.

  Montrose straightened immediately and glanced towards the plain clothes policeman. The policeman was clearly a bit wet behind the ears and was currently looking in the other direction so he swiftly moved to follow his suspect. He only had a few seconds before the man would be out of sight and sped up to make his way round the graveyard to a second gate that led out on to the street.

  The village of Longstock was quite large and the main street had no less than three public houses as well as a grocers and a butchers.

  The suspect let himself out, with Montrose following at a safe distance. He then headed past the Fleur de Lys and turned down a side road which Montrose knew led to a car park. His own vehicle was parked nearer to the church and he took the risky decision to dash back to it.

  He drove it hurriedly to the Fleur de Lys and pulled in, hoping that the suspect had not yet made it to his own car and got well away.

  A few tense minutes passed but then he saw a brown saloon car pull out from the side road and he was able to see the driver clearly enough to know it was the man he wanted to follow. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles whitening, Montrose pursued the brown car, trying to let a decent gap remain between them.

  They drove out of Longstock and headed west.

  Several times a car got in front of Montrose and he welcomed it as a way to keep a low profile but his hands were getting sweaty on the wheel and his head was starting to ache with the intense concentration of making sure the brown car did not get away from him. To his annoyance, they were reaching the market town of Farthingswell and traffic was building.

  The tortuous one-way system that had recently been introduced was widely disliked and tended to cause tempers to flare. He had seen more than one low-speed collision where drivers had got confused. Sure enough, the town was busy. The brown car was separated from him by two others and he was struggling to keep sight of it and still attend to driving safely.

  A bus slipped in front of him with barely ro
om to spare and he angrily leant on the horn. The driver raised a hand in a brief, insincere apology, leaving Montrose fuming. He flicked his eyes back to the line of traffic, looking for the brown car but it was nowhere to be seen.

  Sweat started to prickle his skin. Try as he might he could not see the car anywhere. The moment of inattention over the bus had cost him the pursuit. He swore volubly and battered a fist down on the steering wheel.

  The line of traffic took him inexorably round the one-way system and he looked wildly in every direction, searching for his quarry but to no avail. In a few minutes, he had done the complete loop and was back where he had entered the town. He had to face it - he had lost the man he suspected to be ‘The Postbox Killer’ and, in his excitement, he had even failed to catch the registration number not that it would have helped him much as he had no means of accessing the police vehicle data bank.

  There was nothing for it but to drive home. His frustration spilled out into his driving and he was lucky not to have been spotted by the police, so erratic was his journey.

  Finally arriving back at his cul-de-sac, he slammed the vehicle door and stormed into the house, never once noticing the brown car that had nosed smoothly into the road a short distance behind him.

  CHAPTER 7

  May was disappearing and June approaching as late Spring melded seamlessly and pleasantly into early Summer. The weather forecasters all predicted it was going to be another hot one although the record temperatures, droughts and heatwaves of two years before were considered most unlikely. Many in the Home Counties were looking forward to the Henley Royal Regatta in just over a month’s time followed by Wimbledon a few weeks after that.

  However, any ideas of a pin-striped blazer and a straw boater, never mind strawberries and cream, were far from Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke’s mind as he entered the large garage and surveyed the rusting, fire-blackened, battered wreck of a van. It looked exactly as he imagined it would when he had been informed of its retrieval a few hours ago. He saw Orton talking to a mechanic in oil-stained blue overalls and walked over to where they were.

  The forensic scientist saw him approaching. “It’s in quite a state, isn’t it? However, I’ve been able to establish a positive link with the tyre impressions found at Goddard’s Cross.”

  Holbrooke nodded and did a perambulation around the burnt-out vehicle, appraising the damage with his own eyes. He did a full circuit. “Where exactly was it found?”

  “In a patch of dense woodland close to Hatchwood Copse, three miles or so from Long Gallop where the first victim was found. There’s a largely overgrown farm track, which I doubt anyone uses any more.

  “As you can see, attempts have been made to set it on fire, to gut it completely. The registration plates have been removed and the vehicle identification number has been rasped off. The killer probably abandoned it shortly after that incident where Craven got away from him. But it’s what’s inside that’s of interest.”

  “Oh?” Holbrooke followed Orton round to the back of the van. “Not another body is it?”

  “No.” With some effort, Orton opened the rear door.

  It was the stink that hit Holbrooke first. He had largely inured himself to the petrol and burnt plastic reek coming from the van but now that it had been opened up the stench became almost unbearable. The windows had not broken in the fire and the fumes had been contained until the first policeman there had prised open the doors.

  The acrid smell made him gag and he stepped back, bringing a hand to his mouth. From where he stood, he could see the sickening red-black stains which discoloured the floor of the van. There were similar unsightly marks on the interior metal surfaces as well.

  “My guess is that he set it on fire and then left. It’s not a professional job. The fire must have looked impressive but it went out too soon to obliterate all the evidence. A bit of luck for us. We found no tools but I think it’s fairly obvious that this is where he dismembered his victims prior to bagging them and secreting them in the postboxes,” commented Orton who, on the outside at least, appeared unaffected by the grisly, malodorous discovery.

  “As you can see, a fairly copious amount of blood has been spilt inside and I found several marks of a cleaver-type weapon on the floor of the vehicle. It must have been like a slaughterhouse.”

  “Another piece of the puzzle yet we seem no closer to catching the bastard.” Having now seen more than enough, Holbrooke signalled to Orton to close the van door.

  “You realise we only have a few more days before he strikes again. That’s assuming that he sticks to his routine. Still, until he gets himself a new means of transportation, we can hope that this should come as something of a setback. In the interim, I’ll see about – ”

  “Sir!” Inspector Jackson came striding into the garage. “I’ve just received a call from the station. I think we might have an important development.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s to do with that Ray Smith character. You know, the guy’s who’s been turning up asking all sorts of questions here, there and everywhere. You thought it was just an alias and it looks like you were right. A woman who works in the post office at Bagley is pretty certain his real name is Montrose. Richard Montrose.”

  “How does she know that?”

  “Apparently she went to school with him. A bit of a weirdo by all accounts. He fits the bill of a true psycho. He used to live alone with his mother and was always bullied at school. From what she remembers he’d been expelled from his previous school for turning up to a biology lesson with a freshly dissected cat.

  “Anyway, he’d been in her post office, calling himself ‘Ray Smith’ and asking about ‘The Postbox Killer’ a couple of weeks ago. He seemed familiar but it was only when she dug out an old school photo that it all came back to her.”

  Holbrooke nodded. As leads went it was the best he had, for the time being anyway.

  “All right. Find out where he lives and get him down the station. It’s time we had a chat with this Mr. Montrose.”

  *

  Montrose had resigned himself to the fact that there was little more he could do until ‘The Postbox Killer’ struck again.

  He was kept busy, having received several new clocks which needed fixing. Yet his mind was always turning to the events at King’s funeral, only too well aware that he had come so close to successfully trailing the individual he considered to be the prime suspect. It had only been due to a cruel twist of fate that he was not in possession of the murderer’s name and address. As it was, he would just have to remain patient.

  It continued to vex him not knowing just how far along the investigation process the police were. Were they close to making an arrest or were they, like him, having to wait until victims number five and six turned up?

  Nothing was given away in the news bulletins he saw on television or the articles in the tabloids to suggest one thing or another. He wondered whether there had been any copycat killings or missed opportunities, knowing full well that information of that kind would probably not be disclosed to the public.

  There came a loud rap at his front door.

  Montrose went to his study window and looked down. Two policemen stood there. One tall and uniformed, the other plain-clothed and portly. He cursed under his breath. Heart hammering, he made his way down the stairs and opened the door.

  “Mr. Richard Montrose?” asked the detective.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to ask you to come down to the police station. It’s in connection with the spate of recent murders. It appears that you’ve taken quite an interest in them.”

  “I didn’t realise that was against the law,” replied Montrose defensively.

  “There is also the small matter of you assuming a false identity. ‘Mr. Ray Smith’. Now then, if you’ll just get into the car.”

  “So I take it that I’m under arrest. Is that right?” Montrose could see one of his neighbours, who had bent down to retrieve his d
elivered milk bottles, looking furtively in his direction. No doubt they all suspected him of being the murderer now. Well, let them gloat and gossip for a while. He had made preparations for an event such as this.

  *

  The interview room at the Oxford police station was slightly less forbidding than that where the ex-wife murderer, Craddock, had been grilled. Still, it was not the most homely of places.

  Present were Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke, Inspector Jackson and Montrose.

  After Holbrooke had gone through the legal formalities, he got down to the interrogation. “You understand that you’re not being charged with anything hence you have no need to have a lawyer present. You’re merely helping us with our enquiries.”

  Montrose nodded. “I understand.”

  “Very good.” Holbrooke fixed the horologist with a hard stare. “Before I begin asking you where you were on certain dates and at certain times, I was hoping you could tell me why exactly you’ve been carrying out your own investigation into these murders under a false identity.”

  “Curiosity mainly,” answered Montrose tersely yet with some degree of truth.

  “Curiosity? You know what they say about that, don’t you?” Holbrooke sat back in his chair. “What I’m trying to understand, Mr. Montrose, is why a man like you would devote so much of his time and energy to driving around the area asking so many questions. I dare say there’s over a dozen post office workers whom I could call in to successfully identify you.”

  “Well, like I said, curiosity.”

  “And why the made up name? What are you trying to hide?”

  “I’m not trying to hide anything. I just figured that I would be better keeping some level of mystery in case the murderer himself were to latch on to what I was doing. Call it self-preservation if you like. Besides, I’ve always liked the name ‘Ray’. Don’t ask me why.”