by Adam Croft
‘Indeed. And I think we need to tread carefully ourselves, Ellis. DI Warner is right.’
‘Christ. I never thought I’d hear you say those words, Kempston. But if we back off, surely the killer’s free and loose.’
‘You mentioned the pattern yourself. Every time someone has some information that might lead to the killer, they end up being the next victim. I don’t know about you, Ellis, but I plan on putting up with many more years in this mortal coil.’
‘What? Do you think you might be next?’
‘Well, I’m certainly the closest person to catching the killer. Judging by his or her past form, I would say I’m probably next in line.’
‘Jesus. So what are you going to do?’ Ellis asked.
‘I’m going to smoke our killer out, Ellis. It seems that the talk of the village has once again been Tollinghill’s downfall. The reverend intimated rather too loudly that he had information which could lead to the killer’s identity, and he wound up dead. Dolores Mickelwhite stormed around the village telling all and sundry that she had seen – well – something, at the scene of the vicar’s murder. Hours later, she’s dead too. I’m going to put the word about that I’ll be at Westerlea House later tonight. Eliza and Andrew Whitehouse are in London until eight o’clock, so I’ll ask everyone to convene at eight-thirty for my arrival at nine. I think we can quite safely assume that our killer will probably be lying in wait for me.’
‘But surely that’s dangerous!’ Ellis exclaimed, almost jumping up from his seat.
‘Ellis, if one never faces danger then one can never succeed. You cannot shoot your enemy without putting your head above the parapet.’
‘No, but that’s completely different to inviting a murderer to try and kill you!’
‘Is it? Is it really? No, I think it’s actually a very good plan. Whoever our killer is, they only strike when someone declares that they know something. So, I’m going to declare that I know something. That way, the killer will put their very own head above the parapet, and I’ll be ready and waiting.’
‘It sounds like a stupid idea to me!’ Ellis replied, trying to keep his voice stern yet as low as possible in order to avoid anyone overhearing their conversation. ‘What if the murderer ends up killing you too?’
‘They won’t. The previous victims had no idea they were about to become victims. All they knew is that they had some clues that might lead to the killer’s identity. They weren’t ready and prepared for what was coming. I, on the other hand, will be.’
30
‘Nice of Eliza Whitehouse to leave you a key, Kempston,’ Ellis Flint said as they unlocked the front door to Westerlea House at seven o’clock that evening.
‘She left everyone a key, Ellis, without even knowing it. If it wasn’t under the doormat, it had to be under the plant pot. Some people seem to enjoy both being a target for burglars and voiding their home insurance in one stupid move.’
The door creaked open and the pair entered. Hardwick purposefully led the way up the grand staircase to the upper landing. The walk seemed longer than usual, with each step feeling like a huge leap into the unknown.
‘Oscar Whitehouse’s bedroom, Ellis. The room in which he was murdered.’
‘I know. We’ve gone over the room with a fine-tooth comb. What’s this all about?’
‘The locked room! One of the staples of a murder mystery, Ellis.’
‘What, so you’re saying you know how the killer got into a room, committed a murder and got back out again, despite the room being locked from the inside?’
‘That little conundrum was never one which baffled me, no. The real question was who and why.’
‘Well, at the moment my question is how?’
‘Oh, quite easily, Ellis. The door wasn’t locked from the inside at all.’
‘Yes it was – the key was in the inside. It landed on the floor when the door was barged open.’
‘Did anyone ever see the key on the inside of the door?’
‘Yes. Major Fulcrupp said Dolores Mickelwhite looked through the keyhole and couldn’t see anything because the key was in there.’
‘Let’s take that one step at a time, Ellis. Dolores Mickelwhite looked through the keyhole and couldn’t see anything. Correct. Because the key was in there? Not necessarily so. Something was in the lock, I grant you. And one might rightly expect it to be a key, but if you look closely,’ Hardwick said, bending down, ‘you’ll see that it’s actually filled with glue.’
‘But the key fell out of the lock and onto the floor!’
‘No, they heard it fall out of the lock and onto the floor. Or, rather, they thought they heard it.’ Hardwick walked over to the dresser on the right-hand side of the room. ‘When I inspected the room, I found this,’ he said, picking up the brass clothes hook, which lay in the crumpled dressing gown. ‘At first glance, it seems to fit perfectly on the wall here, next to the en-suite bathroom. The screw holes match up perfectly.’
‘So what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Look at the back, Ellis. The hook has sticky pads on the back of it. The papered wall, however, shows no sign of having had an adhesive stuck to it. The wallpaper is spotless. I didn’t notice that small detail at the time and stuck it onto the wall — back onto it, as far as I was concerned. As you can see, it’s already fallen off. Damned infernal sticky pads. You see, this brass hook used to be attached to the wall here — with screws — but has since been moved to the main door. Not wanting to screw holes in such a beautiful wooden door, the Whitehouses instead used the sticky pads to adhere the hook to the back of the door.’
‘So?’ Ellis asked.
‘So, we all know how terrible these little sticky pads are. When I found the brass hook and dressing gown in a heap just below the place where the dressing gown used to hang, it was complete coincidence. The dressing gown had been left there carelessly – probably because the hook that had been stuck to the back of the door with these infernal sticky pads, was now so unreliable. When the door was barged open on Friday evening, it wasn’t the key which hit the floor at all; it was this brass hook.’
‘So it came off the back of the door, hit the floor and skidded into the heaped dressing gown?’
‘Precisely, Ellis.’
‘But that doesn’t change the fact that the door was locked from the inside! The key was found inside the room!’
‘You’re being short-sighted again, Ellis. It’s one of the oldest tricks in the book. The door is, in fact, locked from the outside. Our killer then placed the key on a sheet of newspaper, and pushed it under the door, leaving just enough to hold on to. A quick shake of the newspaper before pulling it back out ensures that the key is on the floor on the inside of the room. Not foolproof, but the sound of the brass hook hitting the floor was certainly a big turn-up for the books in the killer’s eyes.’
‘That’s remarkable. So the killer entered and left through the bedroom door after all?’
‘Indeed. The obvious solution is often the correct one. It’s the human brain that raises these imaginary obstacles and makes it seem as though it’s not possible.’
‘That doesn’t tell us anything about who the killer is, though, Kempston.’
‘On the contrary, Ellis. We’re closer now to our killer than we ever have been.’ Hardwick turned around and left Oscar Whitehouse’s bedroom. He then knocked on the door of one of the locked spare bedrooms. ‘It’s over. You may as well come out now.’
31
By eight-thirty the living room at Westerlea House was again as full as it had been on the previous Friday night. The widowed Eliza Whitehouse, her son Andrew, Harry Greenlaw, Major Fulcrupp, Christos Karagounis and Sandy Baker sat in silence as Hardwick and Flint entered the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen. It would be fair to say that up until an hour or so ago, I did not know for certain the identity of the murderer — or murderers — of Oscar Whitehouse, Reverend Michael Winton or Dolores Mickelwhite. I had my suspicions, bu
t they were suspicions that needed additional confirmation, as I shall explain.’
‘Is there really any need for all this showmanship?’ Andrew Whitehouse asked. ‘We’re not in some second-rate mystery novel! And where are the police? Shouldn’t they be here?’
‘Believe me, this is by far the easiest way to explain to everyone what has happened and who the killer is. And don’t worry — the police aren’t far away at all.’
The silence in the room grew even more poignant as Hardwick continued to explain.
‘During the course of this investigation I visited the General Records Office in Bradstow. When a supposedly dead person is spotted at the scene of a later crime, one certainly has to begin to think outside the box. Although the explanation might seem impossible, there were only ever really a small handful of explanations. One possibility was that Oscar Whitehouse may have had a doppelgänger or sibling, who could easily be mistaken for him. That would explain how he came to be seen at the vicarage days after he had died. My visit to the Records Office showed no evidence of a birth certificate for any sibling whatsoever, which means that that particular theory fell very much on its face,’ Hardwick explained.
‘That was until this afternoon, when I suddenly recalled a particular piece of information from Oscar Whitehouse’s own birth certificate. His date and place of birth read: “Twentieth May 1957, 3h 30m p.m. Bradstow.”’
‘Excuse me for asking,’ Major Fulcrupp interrupted, ‘but what does his date and place of birth more than fifty-five years ago have to do with who killed him?’
‘Quite a lot, actually,’ Hardwick continued. ‘Not only does it state the date and place of his birth, but it also states the time. An innocent detail quite easily overlooked, I grant you, but what if I were to tell you that birth certificates in England and Wales only ever state the specific time of birth if more than one child was born to the same parents on the same day?’
‘What, you mean twins?’ Sandy Baker asked.
‘Indeed, or triplets, quadruplets, or any other type of multiple birth. That then confirmed to me that Oscar Whitehouse was not an only child at all. However, in the absence of a birth certificate for the sibling, there was very little I could do. Even if a twin had been adopted or somehow moved elsewhere, there’d be a paper trail. So we were left with two possibilities: either the presence of the time on the birth certificate was an error and Oscar Whitehouse was indeed an only child, or somewhere out there there’s a twin without any sort of paper trail. That was something I couldn’t explain. Until tonight, that is.’
Hardwick walked the few short paces to the living room door and turned the knob, the click of the latch reverberating around the stunned room. The lone figure stood solemnly in the doorway, whilst Detective Inspector Rob Warner and Detective Constable Sam Kerrigan loomed behind, each holding on to an arm of the killer.
‘This, ladies and gentlemen, is the man whom Dolores Mickelwhite saw at the scene of the vicar’s murder. The man who introduced himself to me earlier this evening as Malcolm Whitehouse, Oscar’s twin.’
A fusion of gasps and shaking heads played out around the living room as Malcolm’s eyes bore into those of Kempston Hardwick, neither man breaking the stare.
‘Of course, it would be remarkably easy for someone who looks identical to Oscar Whitehouse to wander around the upstairs landing of Westerlea House and go in and out of the master bedroom, arousing absolutely no suspicion whatsoever. He could walk around with ease, committing the crime in his own time without any worry about being seen. As far as anybody else knew, they were looking at Oscar Whitehouse.’
Major Fulcrupp was incredulous. ‘But we saw Oscar that evening! He came downstairs! We even spoke to him, for Christ’s sake!’
‘No, you saw someone come downstairs. Even from a distance, his brother looked slightly different, but then again, that was to be expected with a virus or a fever. A little bit of talcum powder to lighten the complexion, eh, Mrs Whitehouse? One might say he looked rather… ill.’
‘It was twins all along! I knew it! And it was Malcolm Whitehouse I saw on the landing that night; not Oscar!’ Major Fulcrupp exclaimed, somehow seeing fit to take the credit for the solution to the case.
‘Not quite, Major,’ Hardwick said, still not diverting his eyes from those of the killer. ‘Yet again, we all allowed our minds to run away with themselves, taking as fact things which had never actually been confirmed to be so. We were looking for Oscar Whitehouse’s killer when, all along, we should have been looking for Malcolm Whitehouse’s killer. Isn’t that right, Oscar?’
The room fell into stunned silence, save for the sound of Eliza Whitehouse sobbing in the corner. It was only then that the killer’s eyes lost their contact with Hardwick’s, his face softening and his head bowed towards his chest as he began to speak.
‘It’s true. I’m Oscar,’ the man said, his voice straining not to break as he spoke. The room remained silent for a few moments as those who attended waited for him to continue and explain. ‘Eliza and I met in the mid-seventies. We were both eighteen.’ He raised his head to meet the eyes of the sobbing Eliza Whitehouse, a solitary tear running down his cheek as he did so. ‘She was my world. So when I found out that she had been sleeping with my brother–’ The killer snapped his head away from Eliza’s stare and burrowed his chin back into his chest, his face a picture of pain and angst.
‘I never meant to–’ Eliza attempted to speak through sobs and tears.
‘I couldn’t bear it,’ the killer interrupted loudly, raising his head once more. ‘I couldn’t possibly stay. I had a complete and utter breakdown. My head was in all sorts of places and I just didn’t know what to do. All I knew is that I had to get out of Bradstow as quickly as I possibly could. I didn’t even bother to pack a bag. I just went with the clothes on my back. I hitch-hiked down to Portsmouth and stowed away on the ferry to Cherbourg — the Viking Victory. I’ll never forget that name as long as I live. For a few fleeting moments I felt like a Viking myself; going to explore the New World in my own illegal way. I never had a passport. I managed to travel the six-hundred or so miles all the way to Aubagne, through a combination of walking, hitch-hiking and trains paid for by working menial jobs. It took me about a week and a half.’
‘Aubagne?’ Major Fulcrupp asked, recognising the significance of the place. ‘You mean to say you joined the French Foreign Legion?’
‘Yes. I spent five years in the Légion étrangère, after which they provide you with a new identity and passport. In those days, they could also destroy your old identity and would deny your existence, if you requested it. It used to happen more than you’d think. It wasn’t exactly what I expected it all to be, but then again all I wanted was a new start. I didn’t want to be Oscar Whitehouse any more. That life and that name had been sullied. I just wanted to start again. I didn’t see much action, other than at Kolwezi, in Zaïre, but that only lasted a matter of hours.’
‘Absolutely ridiculous battle, that,’ Major Fulcrupp saw fit to add.
‘I spent the rest of my time in the colonies and on peacekeeping missions in Chad. A bit of time in Algeria and Côte d’Ivoire, otherwise it was just a case of ticking off the days until I could leave and begin my new life under my new identity. I was told my new name the moment I arrived at the Legion. After five years of perfect service I was given full French citizenship.’
‘We thought you were dead!’ Eliza Whitehouse exclaimed.
‘To all intents and purposes, I was. I killed off my old life there and then. It was you who kept Oscar Whitehouse alive, Eliza, not me.’
‘So what,’ Sandy said. ‘You just decided that Malcolm would suddenly take on Oscar’s identity? How on Earth could that possibly ever work?’
‘It seemed like the easiest thing to do at the time. Malcolm had a juvenile criminal record. Just a stupid thing, really… a boys’ prank gone wrong.’
‘What sort of boys’ prank, Mrs Whitehouse?’ Hardwick asked.
‘I
don’t know the details. He was out with a couple of friends one afternoon and they were playing with some matches in the stairwell of a block of flats. Next thing they knew, the whole complex was ablaze. It sounds daft, but it was on his record.
‘By the time Oscar disappeared, the boys had no family left – their parents died a couple of years before and the boys had lived alone since the age of seventeen. They were practically identical in every way, so it wouldn’t have been difficult to say that Malcolm was Oscar and that Malcolm had gone to live elsewhere. Not that the boys really spoke to many people locally, anyway. They were both loners from a young age. In the end, we decided that all we really needed to do was leave Bradstow and start again. We never kept in touch with anyone from there after we moved to Tollinghill. After thirty-something years, I suppose people forgot we ever existed.’
‘But what about the birth certificates? Why was there only one?’ Sandy asked.
‘Because Eliza and Malcolm weren’t the only ones who had the idea of an identity swap,’ the real Oscar Whitehouse said. ‘In five years with the Legion, I built up an exemplary record and ensured I became one of their best recruits. When I requested that all traces of my old identity be destroyed, they did just that. That had been my plan all along. That was why I told the Legion my former identity was Malcolm Whitehouse. I wanted to see him erased from the face of the Earth for what he did to me, and, on paper, he was. To this day I don’t know how, but they even managed to ensure that Malcolm Whitehouse had never officially existed in the UK.’
‘Which made it a whole lot easier for the real Malcolm to live under the assumed identity of Oscar in the UK, quite confident in the fact that his real identity could never be discovered,’ Hardwick said, with his eyes firmly on the killer. ‘But it wasn’t the romantic happily-ever-after ending you hoped it would be, was it, Eliza?’
