Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  Killing Satisfaction

  By

  Jason De’Ath

  Copyright

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  First Edition (March 2016)

  [Nota bene: The content of this book has been previously published under the title ‘The Monster Of Marsholm Wood’]

  Printed by CreateSpace, An Amazon.com Company

  Available on Kindle and other devices.

  Editor

  A.N. Cheale

  Cover Image Acknowledgements

  A.N. Cheale & Pixabay (geralt; kropekk_pl)

  DISCLAIMER

  All characters and events, (as well as specific establishments and some geographic locations,) are entirely fictitious, though consistent with the period. Any resemblance to persons (alive or dead) or specific places (past or present) is purely coincidental, though some locations - in a general sense, for the sake of realism - are genuine, e.g. London districts & English counties; some towns, villages, streets/roads, etc.

  Every effort has been made to ensure historical authenticity as much as is reasonably possible; where this was not possible or was otherwise undesirable (for a variety of reasons), along with many background details, the intention was to at least be representative of the period.

  Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  PART TWO

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  PART FIVE

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  PART ONE

  The Crime

  Chapter One

  (30 July 1965)

  Cherrydean was a sleepy Buckinghamshire village bordering the ever-burgeoning metropolis of Greater London. It was a perfect place for an adulterous couple to partake of their libidinous frolics. Gregg Mason had parked his Mk 5 Singer Gazelle inside the entrance to a wheat field, which being imminently due for harvest, effectively shielded the car from view – only the rear was visible from the road; in the evening half-light, its’ dark racing-green colour providing excellent camouflage, as it was effectively hidden by the greenery of the hawthorn hedgerow on either side of the field entrance. His paramour was Vera Fable, a twenty-two year old director’s secretary at Alcott & Sons Timber Merchants in Maidenhead, where Mason was the Sales Manager. Their 14-month affair was gently smouldering, despite being an open-secret; but Anne Mason was well accustomed to her husband’s infidelities and begrudgingly tolerated them. Gregg and Vera were supposedly rallying partners associated with a local club of enthusiasts – Vera acting as navigator. Together they often volunteered to plan and organise events for the club: a blatant charade that seemed to work for all concerned. Anne Mason had no interest in cars, so Gregg was free to pursue his passion unencumbered by marital obligations; meanwhile the Mason’s two children remained oblivious, although Anne was increasingly aware that they were growing up.

  Gregg was ten years older than Vera, his rugged good looks and seductive charm having had their inevitable effect upon the impressionable young secretary, while he could not resist the obvious and elegant attributes of a slender, pretty redhead. They quickly engaged in an intense relationship, but Mason maintained his loyalty to his family, reluctant to abandon them for fear that Anne would descend into a suicidal depression, as she had once before. The Mason marriage was under a constant tension, but had somehow attained a stable equilibrium state. However, unknown to Gregg, Anne had approached Vera on several occasions in a paranoid-driven bid to alleviate her fear of an impending divorce; it was a perpetual burden, yet she could not imagine a life without her recalcitrant husband. It was a case of grinning and bearing it.

  Mason and Fable were in the midst of a heated amorous embrace, when they were interrupted by a metallic tapping noise on the driver’s side window. Initially startled, they parted and sat up; motionless they stare at each other in bewilderment – then the tapping resumed, slightly louder this time. As the windows were now all steamed-up, it wasn’t possible to see who was outside; they assumed it was the farmer who owned the field, so Gregg wound down the window: the barrel of a .38 Enfield service revolver greeted his curiosity. Gregg recoiled in shock and panic: “Shit...! What do you want?”

  “Just give us the keys. I’m a desperate man – this is a stick-up.” was the gunman’s gruff reply spoken in a distinct East London accent. Gregg did as he was ordered, then grabbed Vera’s hand protectively: she was petrified.

  The gunman climbed into the back seat of the Singer and pointed the weapon at Mason’s head: “Don’t turn ‘round!” he snapped, as Vera and Gregg instinctively did so. In that brief moment in the darkness they could only determine that the gunman was wearing a handkerchief (cowboy fashion) to hide his identity.

  “What do you want?” asked Gregg tentatively.

  “We can give you money.” suggested Vera, hopeful that this was his motive.

  “‘Ow much you got?” he enquired inquisitorially.

  The terrified couple hastily gathered together the small amount of money they had with them – though Vera bravely kept some back, hiding it down the side of the seat – and (without turning) offered it over to the gunman. He snatched it from Mason’s hand and began counting it up.

  “Jus’ over five nicker... Do f’r a start.” he commented. There then followed a tense silent pause: the gunman seemed to be contemplating his next move. Vera squeezed Gregg’s hand tightly and stared anxiously into his eyes. The gunman diffused the moment by coughing.

  “‘And over y’u’ watches.” he commanded: they immediately complied. After examining these for a minute or so, his tone suddenly changed to a more conciliatory one.

  “So, you two a couple, then?” he asked somewhat provocatively with a slight smirk. They were initially stumped as to how to reply to this unexpected question, frantically searching each other’s faces for guidance. Vera eventually stuttered a little unconvincingly: “We’re just friends.”

  “Friends...? Right.” was the gunman’s sarcastic response, “Is that what they call it now’days?” “Look – what do you want from us?” implored Vera.

  “Shut up. Just do what I say and you’ll be
alright.”

  “Why don’t you take the car and go?” suggested Gregg desperately.

  “I’m too tired t’drive. I’m on the run y’u see. I ‘aven’t slept for two days... Got wet frew las’ night.”

  Vera impetuously turned fully around to address the gunman. She could see he was quite well dressed, certainly not wet, and he did not have the appearance of someone who had slept rough; his dark hair was neatly swept back, his pale complexion punctuated by his piercing blue eyes.

  “I said don’ look ‘round!” he snapped angrily.

  “Just tell us what you want – please.” Vera pleaded.

  “I jus’ wanna rest. Don’t push me – I might lose it.” he said menacingly.

  Vera braced herself, while Gregg comforted her by gently stroking her arm. The gunman just sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity; then suddenly he demanded: “Drive furver int’ the field” and tossed the keys into Gregg’s lap. Gregg retrieved the keys which had fallen into the foot well; he reluctantly turned the key in the ignition and the car juddered to a start.

  “Y’u didn’ choke it.” the gunman commented irritably. Gregg drove slowly into the dense well-developed forest of wheat, accompanied by the sound of crumpling stalks and the scuffing of the plants against the car’s paintwork; the wheat was almost as high as the roof of the Singer. To Vera it seemed like they were descending into a forbidding underworld from which they may never return. About fifty feet into the field, the gunman ordered Mason to stop and turn the engine off.

  “We’ll jus’ sit ‘ere f’r a bit.” he stated. “So, what d’you two do f’r a livin’, then?” “I’m a secretary.” Vera replied in a prickly manner.

  “What about you?” the gunman prompted Gregg.

  “I’m the manager in the sales department.”

  “So is she y’ur secretary?” the gunman asked suggestively.

  “No.” the couple replied curtly in unison.

  “Oooh – raw nerve.” laughed the gunman; “You two gettin’ married?” he continued.

  “Why would you ask that?” Vera enquired uncomfortably.

  “Jus’ makin’ conversation, darlin’; no need t’get y’u knickers in a twist... I a’n’t married niver.” “Did you say you’d escaped from prison?” asked Gregg.

  “Yeah, tha’s right. I was doin’ a five stretch. I’ve done the lot I ‘ave.” “The lot? What does that mean?” Vera asked apprehensively.

  “It’s t’do wiv prison time... I a’n’t killed no one or nufin’... Well, not yet.” he said with a snigger.

  “Are the police after you?” Gregg continued to quiz.

  “What d’y’u fink? Course they are.” he answered peevishly, then unnervingly continued: “I like me gun – makes me feel like Gregory Peck: y’u know, in ‘Ow The West Was Won...? ‘Ave y’u seen it?”

  This remark perplexed the frightened couple, but they decided to engage him in conversation.

  “I think I did see that.” answered Gregg.

  “That Debbie Reynolds is a tasty tart... You look a bit like Debbie Reynolds.” observed the gunman, momentarily leaning in towards Vera.

  “I wouldn’t call her a tart.” Gregg interceded.

  “Who?” replied the gunman facetiously.

  “Debbie Reynolds.” countered Gregg sharply.

  “No. Y’u’ right. She’s a lady.” the gunman conceded.

  “Do you like Westerns?” enquired Vera in an effort to steer the conversation away from women.

  “Yeah – love ‘em. ‘Igh Noon: tha’s me fav’rit’.”

  “That’s an old one.” noted Gregg.

  “Gary Cooper: great actor - me boy’ood ‘ero... D’y’u like Gary Cooper?” “Can’t say I’ve seen many of his films.” said Gregg.

  “What’s y’u names then?” the gunman asked obliquely.

  “Er... I’m Gregg...and this is Vera.” Gregg responded hesitantly.

  “Wha’s y’u’ favourite film, Vera?” asked the gunman in a strangely familiar tone.

  This question initially stumped Vera, who was not much of a movie buff. After an uncomfortable pause, she suddenly remembered one: “Lawrence of Arabia.”

  “I saw that... Bit borin’. What about you, Gregg?”

  “The last film I saw was Goldfinger.”

  “James Bond; 007; Licence t’ kill. I’d like t’be a spy...”

  Sensing that the conversation was about to drift into uncomfortable territory again, Vera quickly interrupted:

  “Shouldn’t you be making your escape – if the police are after you?” “I told y’u, I’m tired. Anyway, they a’n’t gonna find us ‘ere, are they?” “I could drive you some where, if you like.” suggested Gregg.

  “I dunno – not yet.”

  “What did you get five years for?” asked Vera tentatively.

  “‘Ousebreakin’... I do posh ‘ouses; expensive jewellery mainly... Been in an’ out o’ prison all me life. I ‘ad a tough child’ood – see? My dad use t’beat me when I was little – wiv a belt. Every day, pretty much. Sometimes, they locked me in the cellar... in the dark. It was cold, too. I was scared o’ the spiders. Y’u shouldn’t do that to a kid...” “That’s really awful.” sympathised Vera.

  “I ‘ad t’ fend for meself. Tha’s ‘ow y’u survive – nickin’ stuff. Trouble is, sometimes y’u get caught... Prison a’n’t so bad, though. Made a lot o’ friends in nick.”

  “So why did you escape, then?” sniped Vera disparagingly. Gregg glared at her with a fearful subtle shake of the head. Vera bit her tongue, immediately realising she may be antagonising a psychopath with a gun; she gave Gregg a sheepish glance.

  “What?” said the gunman quizzically; he was slightly taken aback by this, but didn’t really understand, so chose to ignore it. A deafening silence followed, lasting several minutes. Gregg and Vera braced themselves.

  “Y’u got kids, then?” the gunman inexplicably asked out of the blue.

  “Why would you ask that?” replied Vera incredulously.

  “Well, ‘ave y’u?” he contended.

  “I have.” interjected Gregg, “Two: a boy and a girl.”

  “‘Ow old?”

  “Erm, six and eight.”

  “Nice. I like kids... So, y’u married, then?” the gunman asked, addressing Gregg.

  “Yes... Twelve years.”

  “Does y’u’ wife know about ‘er, then?” the gunman quipped.

  “We’re just friends.” insisted Vera.

  “Oh, yeah. Jus’ friends; yeah, right.” commented the gunman in a deliberately unconvincing manner. He continued:

  “So, what a’ y’u two doin’ parked in a dark road in the middle o’ nowhere?”

  The question momentarily confounded them: they frantically searched each other’s eyes, before simultaneously remembering the cover story, causing them to both blurt out their response in tandem.

  “We’re planning a rally.”

  “Been practicing that ‘ave y’u.” smirked the gunman sarcastically; another deafening silence followed. The gunman then chose to break the tension himself: “You in a club or somefink, then?” “Yes, ‘The Maidenhead Auto Club’.” said Gregg with unmistakeable relief.

  “I like cars. This yours is it?” enquired the gunman.

  “Yes. Got it last year.” Gregg replied.

  “What engine is it?” continued the gunman.

  “Er, sixteen-hundred.”

  “Mmmm, thought so.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Vera abruptly.

  “What...? Name...? Mister Brown, okay?” the gunman asserted somewhat unconvincingly.

  “Is that what we should call you?” she pressed him.

  “Don’ call me anyfink. I a’n’t stupid y’u know.”

  “Sorry, I just thought we should...”

  Gregg expediently intervened: “He’s right. We don’t need to know his name.” Another tense silence permeated the oppressive ambience of the time capsule that the interior of the car ha
d become.

  “Can I open the window?” entreated Vera.

  “Yeah. Okay. But don’ try anyfink.” conceded the gunman reluctantly.

  A fresh countryside breeze flowed comfortingly through the car: it immediately seemed to flush out the bad atmosphere, both literally and figuratively.

  “Good idea.” congratulated the gunman, “It was gettin’ stuffy in ‘ere.”

  “It’s a lovely evening.” Vera forgetfully observed, before scolding herself internally.

  “Women!” scoffed the gunman. There was a pause and then he unexpectedly said: “I feel ‘ungry. I fink I might get some food... I’ll ‘ave t’tie y’u up.”

  “What? Why?” beseeched Vera distraughtly.

  “I’m gonna be drivin’ ar’n’ I?” he sniped.

  “Why don’t I drive you?” proposed Gregg in alarm.

  “No!” insisted the gunman, “I don’ trust y’u. Wha’s in the boot?” “Nothing much – why?” Gregg replied in confusion.

  “I need somefink to tie y’u up. Got any rope?”

  “There is a tow rope.”

  “Le’s get it. Get out the car; both o’ y’u, and no funny business.”

  The gunman stepped out first. Gregg and Vera apprehensively emerged from the vehicle; Vera struggling with the door, having to push against the chest-high wheat. Fighting their way through the semi-flattened plant at the sides of the car, they made their way to the boot, where the gunman was waiting. It was now quite dark, but the moon was providing some illumination. For the first time, the abductees were able to get some impression of the physical stature of the man holding the gun: he was smartly dressed – certainly not dishevelled – in a dark blue suit; his shoes were a quality make. He was of an average build and Vera could judge that he was about 5ft 7in tall, (slightly taller than her, slightly shorter than Gregg). She also noted that he was wearing black leather gloves.