Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “What’s your name luv?” asked Collins.

  “Anne.” Collins could detect the hint of a Welsh accent in her shaky voice.

  “Anne, has your husband ever done this before?” continued Longbridge.

  “Not without telling me.”

  “I understand you’ve tried to contact the lady that was with him last night? Would that be Vera Fable?”

  “Yes.”

  Longbridge looked knowingly at Collins and took a deep breath: “It er... it’s my duty to have to inform you that we believe your husband was shot dead in the early hours of this morning...I’m very sorry.” A freezing silence descended in the room; Anne’s face was ashen. After a short pause, Longbridge continued: “I know this is very difficult for you now, but we must ask you some questions... It will help us catch the man who did this.” “Did... Did he suffer?” she asked, tears welling in her eyes.

  “We don’t believe so, no... Do you know why your husband and Miss Fable would have been in the Guildford area?”

  “Guildford?” enquired Anne in puzzlement, “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “I’m afraid so, yes.” assured Collins. There was a long pause while Anne digested this information.

  “They don’t go to the Guildford area.” she eventually informed them. Children’s voices could be heard whispering behind the closed door. “What will I tell them?” she implored.

  “Tony, could you distract the little ones, please?”

  “Certainly, sir.” DS Collins opened the door and knelt down to the children’s level: “Who are you?” asked Lindsey, who was the eldest. “I’m a policeman.” said Collins blithely; “I want to see mummy.” continued Lindsey. “She’s rather busy right now; why don’t you go back upstairs and play and then she’ll come and see you in a little while, yeah?” he suggested sensitively. Anne had to hold back the urge to burst into tears. Lindsey nodded and the two children ran back upstairs laughing.

  “This will be very difficult.” started Longbridge, “We could arrange for a WPC to visit you – to give you support. Do you have any family that you can call on?”

  “My brother lives in Uxbridge.”

  “You might want to let him know what’s happened... If you give us his details, we could contact him for you.” “It’s okay, I’ll ring him.” she insisted.

  “Mrs Mason, I’m sorry to have to press you at this time, but we urgently need to catch this man, so any information you can provide that might help us do that, is essential.”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “Would you like me to make a cup of tea?” asked Collins in a compassionate tone.

  “Please.” spluttered Anne. Collins left the room to explore the Mason’s kitchen.

  “Anne, I need to know the details of the car he was driving last night.”

  “It’s a Singer... Gazelle. It’s only six months old.”

  “Can you tell me the number plate and colour, please?”

  “Green – dark green. I think the number plate is KGV... 88C.”

  “Any distinguishing marks?”

  “It’s got an AA badge at the back.”

  “Do you know where your husband intended to go last night?”

  “Not exactly; but local: he’s in rallying club – Vera’s his navigator.” she revealed with an undertone of annoyance, “Oh, there’s a sticker in the back window with the club insignia.” “That’s very helpful, Anne.” encouraged Longbridge.

  “What’s the name of the club?”

  “Maidenhead Auto Club.”

  “Do you know the address?”

  “It’s in town; I’ve never been there.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband, or Miss Fable?”

  “No.” she answered a tad defensively, “He’s very popular.” she added; Longbridge noted a hint of resentment in her bloodshot eyes. “When can I see him?”

  “I’ll make arrangements for you to visit the mortuary. We will need someone to make a formal identification... How long have you been married, Mrs Mason?” “Ten years.” she sniffed.

  “What can you tell us about Miss Fable?”

  “She’s young.” observed Anne, unable to hide her bitterness.

  “You’re quite young yourself, Mrs Mason.” adduced Longbridge.

  “Younger than me.” she clarified.

  “How old are you Mrs Mason, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “How old is your husband?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “What was your husband’s profession, Mrs Mason?”

  “He’s... A sales manager... At Alcott’s timber merchants. They export all over the world.” she said proudly.

  “And where are they?”

  “In Maidenhead... Off Ockwell’s Road. It’s not far from here – that’s why we bought this house.” “Is that where Miss Fable works?” asked Longbridge astutely.

  “Yes.” replied Anne tetchily, then lifted her head and with a searching stare enquired: “What happened to her?”

  “She’s okay: alive. They’re looking after her in hospital.”

  “Was she shot?”

  “I can’t really discuss the details at this time: it’s very early in the investigation.”

  Collins rescued the moment by returning with a cup of tea for Anne; “I put in milk – I couldn’t find the sugar: hope that’s okay.” he said apologetically handing her the cup.

  “I don’t take sugar. Thank you.” she acknowledged politely.

  “Tony, can you get on to headquarters and give them the description of the car?” Longbridge showed him his notebook and Collins copied down the details into his; he then went out to the car to radio in.

  “Would I be able to visit Vera?” Anne suddenly asked; Longbridge was somewhat nonplussed by this. “Um... Sorry, I didn’t realise you were familiar with Miss Fable?” “We have met... Once.” she stated coldly.

  “Perhaps, in a few days. They won’t even let us see her at the moment.”

  “Is she seriously injured?” Anne finally expressed some concern for Vera.

  “I can’t give any details. She will be in hospital for some time.” explained Longbridge diplomatically.

  Anne sipped her tea with a heavy heart; the ghastly realisation of what had happened was now gradually consuming her. Longbridge decided that he had gleaned enough from the distressed widow for the time being. “We will need you to come down the station to make a formal statement at some point.” “Why?” she challenged, markedly perturbed.

  “It’s just procedure. Quite normal: nothing to be concerned about. We’ll be in touch about arrangements.” He wrote down his personal police phone number: “Here – ring me anytime. Or your local station; just tell them DI Longbridge of the

  Guildford division is the investigating officer... Please accept my deepest condolences, Mrs Mason. I’ll let myself out.”

  As Longbridge walked down the front garden path he heard a muted scream; he paused momentarily and then rejoined Collins in the car. Slumping back into his seat, he briefly closed his eyes, partly through tiredness and partly as a result of the stress of the situation.

  “Well, at least we’re making some progress, now.” stated Collins, “What do you make of Mrs Mason?”

  “Well, I don’t think she did it – if that’s what you mean.”

  “No. She seems genuinely upset – I think.”

  “I reckon Mr Mason was having an affair with Miss Fable, and she knew about it – or suspected, at least.”

  “You think, sir? That’s interesting... Do you think she could have had anything to do with it?”

  “Unlikely... She wants to see the girl, though.” remarked Longbridge, still mystified by that request.

  “Why?”

  “Exactly...Mind you, grief does strange things. She was the last thing he touched; it’s a sort of connection, I suppose.” “May be.” said Collins dubiously.

  “Honestly, Tony: I can’t s
ee her wanting her husband dead.”

  “Probably not.” Collins conceded, though not wholly convinced, “What now?”

  “Apparently the victim worked for a local company; she said the place wasn’t far from here: a timber merchants...”

  Longbridge checked his notes, “Alcott’s.”

  “I suppose we could go back to the local station and get a map.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “Twenty past Three.”

  “Mmm. Place will probably be shut by the time we get there; there’ll only be the weekend staff, anyway.”

  The radio crackled: “Message for DI Longbridge; message for DI Longbridge.”

  “Longbridge, speaking.”

  “They’ve found the car, sir.” said Sergeant Metcalfe.

  “Really? Where?”

  “Fulham, sir. It was reported-in as abandoned at about 6.30 this morning, but the connection wasn’t made until we got the car registration, sir.”

  “Good work. Have we got anyone going down there?”

  “No, sir. The local boys are on it, but we thought you’d want to be first on scene.”

  “Okay. Can you give us the location?”

  “Yes, sir: It’s close to Fulham football ground; the car was dumped at the corner of Stevenage Road and Bishop’s Park

  Road.”

  “That’s near the river, isn’t it?” asked Longbridge addressing Collins.

  “Yeah, I know where Craven Cottage is, sir.” replied Collins; Longbridge looked confused. “That’s Fulham’s ground, sir.” he clarified.

  “Ah. How long to get there?”

  “A good hour, I’d say.”

  “Right: better make haste, then, Sergeant.” ordered Longbridge. Collins started the car.

  They approached the abandoned Singer from Stevenage Road, passing the Craven Cottage football ground – fortunately, Fulham were playing away, so it was relatively quiet, apart from the police cordon at the end of the road. DS Collins parked a few yards from the road block. They flashed their warrant cards to the constable guarding the road, who let them through. Several plain clothes officers from the Hammersmith Borough division were loitering near to the tapedoff car. As they drew closer, they could see that one of the uniformed officers was high ranking – he intercepted them.

  “Chief Superintendent Wilkinson.” he announced.

  “Afternoon, sir. DI Longbridge – and this is DS Collins – Guildford division.” “I hear we have a maniac on the loose.” noted Wilkinson.

  “Yes, sir; it would seem so.” concurred Longbridge.

  “What do you know?” the superintendent asked sharply: he was in no mood for inter-divisional politics.

  Longbridge hesitated, but decided not to withhold anything: “We have a man shot dead and attempted murder of a woman, following abduction by a probable hitch-hiker. It appears this may have started near Maidenhead, but it ended on our patch, a few miles from Godalming.”

  “Okay. You can liaise with DI Garland. Full cooperation, please.” insisted Wilkinson.

  “Yes sir.” assured Longbridge. The superintendent walked to his car and left. Longbridge and Collins converged with the two Metropolitan Police detectives. After exchanging pleasantries, they all went to examine the Singer.

  “Any prints?” asked Collins.

  “Hundreds.” admitted Garland a little despondently. “There’s a bloodied blanket on the driver’s seat; I reckon the perpetrator may have got blood on his clothes. The dash’ and front seats have some specks of blood on them...Looks like the driver had a few collisions, too.” Garland pointed out damage to the front and back of the vehicle and a few deep scratches to the front nearside panel. “We don’t think the car had been here that long before our constable reported it – the engine was still warm. We’ve started questioning the locals, but so far, nothing. He probably escaped through the park.” Garland gestured to Bishop’s Park, which was immediately adjacent to the location of the car. “He probably took the path along the river, then around or through the grounds of Fulham palace; then disappeared into the Fulham, Putney or Wandsworth areas.”

  “Any weapon found, or ammunition?” asked Longbridge hopefully.

  “Sorry, nothing so far.” Garland empathetically informed him.

  “Well, let us know if anything turns up. We’re based at the Guildford Station.” “You might have your work cut out with this one.” remarked Garland.

  “We’ve been half way round Greater London, already.” sniffed Longbridge wearily. He and Collins returned to their car, where they both lit a cigarette.

  “I’m bloody starvin’.” complained Collins.

  “I could do with a pint.” added Longbridge. “What do you make of all this?”

  “I don’t know: it’s all a bit odd, if you ask me.”

  “I’ve never come across a case like this.”

  “I don’t think anyone has, sir.” sympathised Collins.

  “Why would he drive them all the way down to bloody Felstave, then come all this way back into London? It doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Psycho’s rarely make sense, sir. Maybe his dead mother told him to do it.” joked Collins, making reference to the Alfred Hitchcock film ‘Psycho’.

  “Perhaps we should get Hitchcock in as an adviser.” quipped Longbridge.

  “I’m sure it will make more sense when we speak to the girl.”

  “I bloody hope so.” stated Longbridge dejectedly. “We may as well get back to the Station, Tony. We’ll look for a pub on the way home tonight. Can you last that long?”

  “Guess I’ll have to, sir.”

  By the time they got back to Guildford Police Station it was 6 PM, whereupon they were immediately told to report to Chief Inspector Macintosh, the overall station controller.

  “Great. What does he want?” moaned Longbridge. The Chief Inspector had a tendency to interfere and not in a helpful way; he and Longbridge had some acrimonious history. The two detectives grudgingly made their way up a flight of stairs to where the Chief’s office was located. His secretary had long gone home, so Longbridge knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” bellowed Macintosh in his public school educated over-authoritative tone. Longbridge took a deep breath and opened the door. Macintosh was a large man with a huge beard: he seemed to have modelled himself on the caricatured image of British character actor James Robertson Justice. “Ah, Longbridge, where have you been?” “Working the case, sir. We’ve just got back from Fulham.” pointed out Longbridge with exasperation.

  “I didn’t realise there was a match on.” remarked Macintosh with his typical sarcastic attitude, intended to belittle;

  “And what did you learn, Inspector?”

  “Not a great deal, sir. It’s a perplexing case.”

  “A day well spent, then?”

  “We have spoken to the dead man’s wife, sir. We’re starting to construct a picture of events, but until we can speak to Miss Fable, we’re just poking around in the dark, sir.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “We hope by Monday. She’s in a bad way, sir.”

  “Well, while you’ve been gadding about in your shiny Jaguar, Inspector Ash has released a statement to the local and national press; a description of the attacker will appear in the Sunday papers.” Macintosh always favoured the uniformed division.

  “Description, sir?” quizzed Longbridge taken aback. He and Collins just looked at each other in bewilderment.

  “Yes, Longbridge. The young lady gave details to a local woman before the ambulance arrived.”

  “Is this the statement Inspector Ash took from the local PC?”

  “It’s Inspector Ash’s statement, Longbridge. I suggest you get some rest. I want you both in here early tomorrow typing up your reports. I want them on my desk a-sap.” “Sir.” agreed Longbridge resentfully.

  “Right. Get out.” said Macintosh bluntly.

  The two detectives walked back to their car somewhat dejectedly. As u
sual Macintosh had managed to dampen any optimism that Longbridge had constructed for himself.

  “I dread to think what the papers will say tomorrow... I’m surprised he didn’t insist we stay tonight to do those reports – miserable git.” groaned the inspector.

  “Are we going to have that pint, then?” asked Collins expectantly. “Damn bloody right we are, and a nice juicy steak and kidney pie...” “Mash and liquor?” added Collins suggestively.

  “Ahh, now you’re talking.”

  Chapter Seven

  (1 August 1965)

  Inspector Graham Longbridge was awakened by his alarm clock at 7 AM; he summoned consciousness, hindered by a mild hangover. After a quick coffee, a biscuit and some aspirin, he dressed and headed out from his one-bedroom flat above a solicitor’s office, on a side road off Guildford High Street. He had lived there for the last two years following his divorce from his second wife; it was conveniently located near a public house. Walking into the high street, he lit a cigarette; it was short distance to the nearest newsagent. Wandering drowsily into the shop, he casually approached the newspaper rack. What greeted him was an array of similar headlines throughout all of the Sunday national papers:

  Miracle of Marsholm Wood

  Mayhem in Marsholm

  Murder in Marsholm Wood

  The Marsholm Maniac

  And a number of other variations, but the one that eventually became synonymous with the crime was the one provided by the Sunday Mirror: The Monster of Marsholm Wood. Longbridge stared in astonishment; a sense of uneasiness descended upon him: this case was going to be a national event. A police description of the wanted man had been included: ‘Average build and height, about 25 – 30, staring brown eyes; speaks with an East End accent; may be going by the name of Alf Brown; last seen in the Fulham area.’ Despite the vagueness of this description, Longbridge was still quite surprised by the amount of detail; he could only assume that Vera had imparted rather more to Mrs Pomfrey-Jones than she had indicated to him, which she had later recalled when making her statement. It was also clear that information had been acquired from the Metropolitan Police. He bought the paper and then rushed back to his flat to get his car keys, before driving around to DS Collins’ place: another rather sad one-bedroom flat in a small block at the other end of town. They were both equally introspective on the short journey to the station. On arrival they promptly began typing up their reports for the previous days’ activities. At about 9.15 AM, while they were having a cigarette break and contemplating the potential direction of the investigation, the phone rang – it was the internal line.