The Postbox Murders

by Edmund Glasby

  “It all sounds a rather lame explanation.”

  “It’s the best I can give.”

  “Have you at any time ever owned a white van?”

  “No,” Montrose answered, filing away that snippet of information. If he played things cleverly who knew what else he could extract unknowingly from his interrogator?

  “Do you have any connection with any of the deceased?”

  “Aside from being a slim, white male I don’t think so.” Montrose knew that he was pushing things and he wondered just how far he could take his sarcasm and whether it was wise to do so. He had read about off-the-record use of violence in these interrogation rooms. He would have to rein his answers in a bit as he did not want to have to limp out of here with a bust lip and several broken ribs.

  “You’re not being very co-operative. One could be forgiven for thinking that you had something to hide.”

  “If that’s what you think.” Montrose shrugged his shoulders.

  “Maybe you don’t realise the seriousness of the situation.”

  “Oh, I understand all right. But you see I have a perfectly good alibi for the date of the first two murders.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, Montrose drew out his diary.

  “Here we are. On both the first and second of April, I was at Birmingham University attending a series of lectures on John Poole’s auxiliary compensation with regard to the eight-day box marine chronometer.” There was an almost tangible element of smugness in his voice.

  Holbrooke and Jackson exchanged confused glances.

  “By profession I’m a horologist. I repair, restore, collect and study clocks and all chronometric devices whatever age, shape or design they come in. From the humble egg-timer to the Great Clock of Westminster. One of the time-pieces used as an illustration in the lectures was my own and I demonstrated it in front of several hundred witnesses. I have a fascination with time, you see. Something which is on my side, but unfortunately, not on yours,” Montrose added knowingly.

  “What makes you say that?” asked Holbrooke.

  “Two reasons.” Perfectly at ease, Montrose sat back and crossed his arms. “One … I have a cast iron alibi and two – you only have a few more days before the killer strikes again.”

  “What makes you think that he will?”

  “Why stop at four? You have a homicidal maniac out there who will keep killing until he’s caught. You know this as well as I do.”

  “Do you have anything that we may consider … useful?” asked Holbrooke, his eyes narrowing as he pulled thoughtfully at his bottom lip. “You realise that it is not in your interest to withhold anything which may lead to the capture of the murderer.”

  “I hope you’re not questioning my civic responsibility, Detective Chief Inspector. I happen to be a perfectly law-abiding member of the public. Yes, I do have an interest in this murderer which you may find unappealing but I’m sure there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people similar to me. You have only to go into any public house anywhere in the county, if not the country, and you will be bombarded with all manner of speculation. It seems everyone wants to be an armchair detective these days.”

  “Be that as it may, your interest in this has gone a little too far for my liking.” Holbrooke scribbled down something on a piece of paper and handed it over to Jackson. On it he had written: apply for a search warrant.

  “So arrest me. Throw me in a police cell. Then, when sometime on the third of June two more bodies are found dismembered in postboxes you can let me out. In the meantime, you can of course come round and search my house. But you won’t find any concealed basements filled with bloodsoaked saws or axes, of that I can assure you,” said Montrose, having already cottoned on to the idea that Holbrooke would want to have a good rummage around his property.

  “What you will find is the home of a law-abiding bachelor. Yes, I freely admit to possessing quite a lot of literature on violent crime and if that offends you I offer no apology. You will also find my workshop wherein I keep and work on my not-insubstantial collection of antique time-telling devices. So you see, Detective Chief Inspector, you have nothing on me. Nothing at all.”

  Holbrooke knew the other had just spoken the truth. The man was odd, creepy almost but that aside, his use of a fake identity was about the only thing he could pin on him at the moment. He would keep hold of him until the alibi had checked out but that would only take a few phone calls.

  In addition, it was questionable whether a search of the Montrose residence was necessary. He was sure that the judge would approve it as all of them were under such pressure to make progress but Montrose had not seemed at all worried by the prospect. It appeared that this lead, which had seemed so promising at the time, would lead to yet another dead end.

  *

  The search warrant was granted after the briefest of delays. The last thing anyone in the justice system wanted was for another opportunity to catch ‘The Postbox Killer’ to slip through their fingers, knowing full well the questions which would be asked if they failed to act.

  Consequently, at around two o’clock in the afternoon, a small team of policemen carried out a thorough search of the house in which the horologist lived.

  Inquisitive neighbours gazed on the proceedings surreptitiously from behind venetian blinds or suddenly decided now was the time to mow the lawn and peer over the fence.

  Montrose himself was there, although he had been told to stay outside in the garden at all times. For the past fifteen minutes, he had been talking quite animatedly to an elderly, affable and slightly avuncular constable who had been instructed to keep an eye on him.

  “So you see there are many similarities between how Christie operated and the murders attributed to the Victorian killer, Doctor Thomas Cream. In addition, both had attempted to pin the crime on another. However, it is for something that is reported to have happened during the last few seconds of his life that Cream is perhaps best remembered. Sentenced to hang for the murder of a twenty-seven year old prostitute, he allegedly stood calm and collected at the gallows at Newgate prison. Then, quite suddenly, just as he was about to drop, he is said to have uttered: ‘I am Jack’.”

  “Jack? As in Jack the Ripper?” The police constable asked excitedly, having a passing interest in Ripperology.

  “The one and only.” Montrose heard a crash from inside his house. It sounded as though a shelf full of plates had hit the floor. “I take it I’ll be fully compensated for any damage caused?”

  “Why certainly.”

  “And they know that all the items in my workshop have to be treated very, very carefully? Some of the pieces in there are irreplaceable.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Montrose.” The police constable obviously shared the other’s love of death and those who dealt it, for he immediately returned to their topic of discussion: “Do you think they’ll ever establish who the real Jack the Ripper was? I’ve read a number of stories on the subject. Some reckon he was involved with the Masons and some say he was a member of the Royal Family.”

  “The Masonic connection – ” Montrose winced upon hearing a further crash. “What the hell are they doing in there? Wrecking the place?”

  “As I said, don’t you worry about it. All will be made right as rain before we leave. You have my word on that.”

  “Well they’re certainly taking their time.” Montrose looked at his wristwatch. “Have you any idea how much longer this is going to go on for?”

  “As long as it takes I’m afraid. You should know that with all your expertise on crime. We have to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. Evidence collection, it’s that which forms the backbone to our detection methods.”

  Montrose sighed resignedly. He looked skywards, noting the grey clouds which were beginning to mar the blue sky. The first few spits of rain started to fall on his upturned face.

  “Now then, you were talking about the Masons. I’ve always wondered – ” the police constable stopped on seeing his colleagues ex
it the house, some carrying box files and folders. He turned to Montrose. “Looks like it’s all over.”

  Inspector Jackson was the last to leave. He strode across the lawn towards Montrose.

  “All right, you’re free to go back inside. We’ve taken into our keeping some of your documents as well as your map for further examination. Don’t go anywhere without informing us and in future take my advice and stay well clear of this investigation. Believe me, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of Holbrooke if he gets fired up … or me for that matter. So consider this a warning if you like. Next time we’ll think of something to bang you away for.”

  *

  “It goes without saying that the guy’s a freak,” commented Jackson. “Some of the books he had were stomach churning. I’ve got a few of Orton’s lab rats going through them now but in all honesty I don’t think there’s anything there. Just a macabre obsession.”

  Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke sat behind his desk and took a drink from his coffee cup. “From what you’ve seen do you think it merits some level of surveillance?”

  His face creasing, Jackson thought about it for a moment. “We could, but maybe we’d be better off getting as many bobbies as we can on the beat. You mentioned drafting in some support from the neighbouring forces. Any success there?”

  “Yes. We’ve got two divisions coming in from Bedfordshire and one from Hampshire. In addition all leave has been cancelled. The idea is to make it nigh on impossible for the killer to gain access to any postbox in the area. We can’t cover the whole region and there are bound to be gaps but hopefully it will make the bastard think twice before he strikes again.

  “There’s also going to be news coverage warning the public not to venture out alone unless it is deemed an emergency. Whether people will pay any attention to it I don’t know but it should help.” Holbrooke irritably ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “The truth is that we’re going to have to wait for the killer to mess up again, like he did with Craven. I’ve been wondering if we should actually put out some officers as bait. Set them walking along byways with another man concealed nearby as backup.”

  “It might work, but the resources you’d need for that would be phenomenal.”

  “I’m going to put it to the Chief Superintendent anyway. If we got it right then it would mean stopping this bastard before he kills again, rather than trying to catch him disposing of a body.” Holbrooke was warming to his idea.

  “If we can call in some of the extra officers a day early we could get maybe a dozen teams together; one thin man to be the lure with a beefier one ready to reel the fish in. If the public warning works, then the only available victims will be us.”

  *

  Montrose surveyed his home with annoyance. The police had done a decent job of tidying up after themselves but the evidence of the interference was everywhere. He was punctilious about order and everything from his sofa cushions to his few ornaments were kept in exactly the same position week in, week out. Now it was all different and would take him hours to sort out.

  Walking upstairs to his workshop, he was relieved to see all his precious clocks were safe and had in fact hardly been touched, although his tools had been more thoroughly examined.

  The change to his crime files however was more glaring.

  All of his cuttings about the killings had been taken, as had the copious notes he had made. He cursed under his breath. At least there was nothing incriminating in them that could lead to more questioning.

  He was fortunate that he had not written anything down about his unsuccessful pursuit of the suspect from King’s funeral. It was also extremely lucky that he had been at the Birmingham University Clock Conference in April or he might well have been arrested by now.

  It was obvious that the police were getting desperate, searching for a scapegoat and he would not have put it past them to frame him for the murders.

  He looked around his workshop and gratefully patted the case of the clock he had taken to Birmingham. That had been a stroke of luck and no mistake. Sitting down, he wondered if he should take Inspector Jackson’s advice and steer clear of it all. The sound of the various clocks seem to echo his indecision, vacillating between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ with each tick.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday, the second day of June, dawned bright and warm yet, as far as Montrose was concerned, there was a portentous tension in the air; a strange, expectant quality that hovered menacingly over him.

  With some trepidation, he went to his bedroom window and pulled back the curtain. Looking out, he quite suddenly felt nervous, ill at ease. It was as if something terrible was about to happen and there was nothing he or anybody else could do to prevent it.

  There was a momentary twitch of fear along the muscles of his back which prompted him to turn around as though half-expecting to see some dark-coated stranger framed in the doorway or for the door to his wardrobe to slowly swing open revealing some murderous bogeyman. There was no one there, but the flash of his own reflection in a mirror startled him.

  He got dressed and went downstairs to make breakfast, battling not to succumb to the paranoiac sense of dread that threatened to take possession of him.

  Yes, today was the day when the killer would quite probably strike again but why did he have this overwhelming suspicion that he was going to be targeted? It made no sense whatsoever. Why on earth did his troubled mind cling to that possibility? For some reason, he believed there was a certain inevitability that he would be victim number five.

  Was that why he had been so driven in finding the murderer in the first place?

  He felt like screaming. Why was he thinking like this? The odds against him being murdered, chopped up and binned in a pillar box were surely astronomical.

  Besides, he would make damn sure he would stay in tonight. To hell with any idea of going out and stalking the murderer. He would leave that to the police. It was their job after all. Let them sort it out.

  Running the back of his hand over his forehead, he noticed that there was a chill dampness there. Desperately, he clamped his teeth tightly together and forced himself to breathe slowly. He had to get a grip on his senses and start thinking clearly, otherwise he would surely go mad.

  The minutes ticked by slowly as he grappled with his own morbid thoughts and delusions, knowing at the back of his mind that this was something he would never relinquish interest in. Things had gone too far now. Way too far.

  *

  The police presence that began to build up from late morning that day was unprecedented, as a veritable army of uniformed officers took their positions in many of the small rural villages. A few roadblocks were established but after these were found to be nothing but a major inconvenience they were taken down. Now and then a low-flying police helicopter circled overhead.

  By around two o’clock, the temperature had soared.

  Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke was sweating in his office, co-ordinating the reports as they came in. He had managed to put together fourteen, two-man ‘bait’ teams and they had been assigned to back roads across the county. Each were in radio contact with a central hub and so far all was quiet. It was a long shot that one of them would be targeted by the killer, especially in broad daylight, but his superiors had agreed that it was well worth trying.

  The authorities had taken so much criticism over the handling of this investigation that they were desperate to cover their own backs if indeed the killer did strike again.

  Holbrooke tried to imagine what might be going on inside the killer’s head – would he be spooked by the visible police presence and change his tactics, or would he see it as a challenge? The possibility that the murderer would just stop, give up his homicidal urges, was not on the cards. Someone who killed for a reason of personal gain might stop when their aim had been achieved.

  This man had no such motive as far as they could tell. The best the police could come up with was that the killer deriv
ed satisfaction from the murders and with that motivation there seemed no reason why he would not continue. It was at times like this that he remembered the single most important lesson he had ever learned in his training. The fact that the police service only worked because most of society allowed it to.

  The percentage of officers to members of the public was tiny, far too few for it to be possible to ensure the rule of law through force alone. The system relied on the threat of capture more than most people realised. The papers and many of the general public were castigating the police for not having miraculously tracked the killer to his lair, assuming laziness or stupidity was the reason for the delay but it was impossible to interview everyone; to keep everywhere under surveillance.

  If ‘The Postbox Killer’ continued to be careful and clever he might never be caught.

  *

  It was building up to be an excellent night for a murder … or two; a humid, sticky night with thunder creeping up from the south.

  It was a little past ten when Montrose got up from his worn sofa and switched off the television. There had been countless news reports warning people to stay inside if at all possible and renewed pleas for anyone with information to contact the police, but no mention of any further killings that evening. Not that that was of much surprise for the victims tended not to be found until the next day.

  Having now overcome the fear which had gripped him earlier, Montrose’s curiosity was once more aroused. It was almost as if he wanted to be a part of the murders. Neither as an accomplice nor as a direct witness but as one who could appreciate the way in which it was done.

  In this manner, he likened himself to an art lover; one who admired the creation of something which, although not always aesthetically beautiful, required skill and vision and was in some way unique. Which of course made the murderer an artist; one who painted his subjects on a canvas in strokes of blood red.