Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Hello... Morning sir.” Longbridge mouthed to Collins that is was Macintosh.

  “Have you typed those reports?” thundered DCI Macintosh. “Yes sir.”

  “Good – get up to my office a-sap. We don’t need Collins.” Macintosh ordered somewhat ominously.

  “Bloody hell.” complained Longbridge impersonally.

  “What does he want?” Collins asked with apprehension.

  Longbridge produced a deep heavy sigh: “He wants our reports; something’s up, though.”

  Inspector Longbridge knocked on the DCI’s office door; he could hear a jocular conversation taking place. Even more concerning was when Macintosh addressed him as ‘Graham’ on entering the room – that was a first. His attention was instantly drawn to the other plain-clothes officer who was sitting cosily at the side of Macintosh’s desk, something reserved only for more senior officers.

  “This is Detective Superintendent Ackroyd, from Scotland Yard.” stated Macintosh in noticeably smug tone.

  “Good morning sir.” acknowledged Longbridge.

  “Sit down Graham, sit down.” continued Macintosh in an uncommonly friendly manner.

  “Thank you, sir.” Longbridge gritted his teeth and reluctantly sat down.

  “The Superintendent will be assuming full control of the Marsholm murder case... I see you have kindly brought your reports for the Super’.” Longbridge handed the reports to DSupt Ackroyd.

  “Sorry to steal your thunder, Inspector, but this case has been given top priority.” said Ackroyd taking the reports.

  “I’m afraid it crosses too many divisional boundaries to be handled by us.” added Macintosh.

  “Commissioner Melrose-Laroche personally appointed me. [This was in fact entirely untrue, but intended to soften the blow]. The top-brass are desperate to wrap this one up quickly, what with Biggs on the loose; their worried the publicity will undermine the authority of the force. We can’t have people thinking they can just do whatever they like and get away with it. It’s already all over the papers like a rash.” explained Ackroyd.

  “Yes, I’ve seen that, sir.”

  “You’re not strictly off the case, because, frankly, everyone’s on this case. But I will need you to relinquish any evidence to my team.”

  “Yes, sir... Er, I have the victims’ clothes in the boot of my car, sir. I haven’t had a chance to process them, yet.”

  “I’ll take those now: we need to get them to the forensics boys as soon as possible. I shall be going there later... I believe you spoke to the dead victim’s wife, yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s all in my report.”

  “The post-mortem was conducted last night. No surprises, but they did recover two bullets... I’ll catch this bugger if it’s the last thing I ever do.” pronounced Ackroyd confidently.

  “I hope you do sir.” affirmed Longbridge.

  “Well, thank you for your invaluable contribution to the case, Graham; you can return to your usual duties, now.” instructed Macintosh with typical pomposity, “Do the necessary paperwork for the transfer of the clothes evidence before you go home.” he added as Longbridge stood to leave the room; he returned to his office.

  “So, what was that all about?” asked Collins.

  “We’re off the case... They’ve got one of the top boys from Scotland Yard on it. The worst part was Macintosh pretending to be civil. The bastard was really enjoying it.”

  DSupt Ackroyd placed the evidence bag containing Vera’s clothes into the boot of his black Wolseley 6/110 Mk II, which rather unusually had automatic transmission. He decided that he needed to visit Mrs Mason himself, primarily to introduce himself as the lead detective on the case.

  Ackroyd had had a fairly distinguished career, having joined the Metropolitan Police in 1934 as an ordinary constable, walking the beat in Chiswick, West London. During WWII he became a renowned bomber pilot and received the DFC. When the war ended, he re-joined the force, appropriately within a unit of the Specialist Crime & Operations Section, known as the ‘Flying Squad’ and had been involved in a number of high profile investigations over the years, including the recent Great Train Robbery, (of which Ronald Biggs had been a member of the gang responsible). To assist him, he was allowed to make his own choice of Detective Sergeant Edward Cambridge, an officer of some repute; he had been passed over for promotion a number of times due to a few indiscretions, but was much loved by his fellow officers, to whom he was affectionately known as ‘Teddy’. As well as being the Superintendent’s dog’s body, he would also organise the small team of detective constables that were assigned specifically to the case.

  He arrived at Anne Mason’s home at around 11.30 AM, noting that an impressively flash MGB Roadster with lightblue paint-work, was parked on the drive. His suspicions were at once aroused: he wondered if she had a boyfriend. Having taken down the registration details of the vehicle, he knocked emphatically on the glass of the front door. A tall well-built man answered the door; he was in his mid-thirties, good-looking and very self-assured, yet was slightly taken aback at the sight of Ackroyd.

  “Good morning, sir. Detective Superintendent Ackroyd.” he announced, presenting his warrant card. “This is the correct address for Mrs Anne Mason?”

  “Oh, yes; yes, of course... You’d better come in.”

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “I’m Anne’s brother: Ewan; Ewan Williams.” They entered the living-room, “Anne, a detective to see you.”

  Anne instinctively stood up in expectation of more bad news; she appeared disorientated and had clearly been crying, as her mascara was smudged onto her face.

  “Please don’t get up Mrs Mason. There’s nothing to be concerned about: this is just a routine visit. I wanted to introduce myself: Detective Superintendent Ackroyd, Metropolitan Police. [He showed her his warrant card] The case of your husband’s murder has been reassigned to me – I thought you should know. I understand that officers from the

  Guildford division visited you yesterday, but I shall be your first line of contact from now on.” “Is there any news about Vera?” she enquired with genuine concern.

  “I believe she is recovering remarkably well.” replied Ackroyd discreetly.

  “When can I visit her?” she asked again, assuming Ackroyd was aware of her previous request; however, Ackroyd was as dumbfounded as the other detectives had been. “Well...” he started, “Perhaps in a few days. I will have to ask Miss Fable whether she is amenable to that. I hope to see her later today.” Ackroyd paused while Ewan sat down. “I have Inspector Longbridge’s report of his interview; that was of course just a preliminary interview. We have to ask a number of pertinent questions as a matter of routine, and you will need to make a formal statement at the station: that’s Scotland Yard; my office will be in touch about that in due course. We can arrange transport should you require it.”

  Anne listened intently, while her brother sat next to her, comforting her by holding and stroking her hand. Ackroyd continued: “I realise this is a very difficult time for you, Mrs Mason. But I want you to know that I intend to catch this man, and I will have whatever resources I need to do that. You can expect some unwanted attention from the press: they feed like rats on this sort of thing. Be careful what you say; probably best to say nothing. You might want to appoint a solicitor...” “Why?” she interrupted with a puzzled expression.

  “Simply for your own protection. You might need some legal advice in regard to certain issues that may arise – I don’t want to worry you by pre-empting; it would just be a wise precaution. I also have to ask you to make a formal identification of your husband’s body. That should have occurred before the post-mortem, but there were unfortunately some communication failures – please accept my apology. One of my team will contact you later today to arrange that; they will take you to the mortuary and then bring you home. If you want to bring your brother, that wouldn’t be a problem. Do you feel able to do that?”

  “I suppose.” sh
e replied with some anguish. Her brother reassured her: “I’ll come with you – don’t worry.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs Mason; Mr...?”

  “Williams.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll leave you in peace, but as I said, someone will be in touch regards the identification. Do you have a phone?” Anne nodded, “May I have the number, please?” Anne duly provided it, writing it on a piece of scented note paper.

  “Please accept my condolences for your loss, Mrs Mason. Be assured, we will catch this man.” said DSupt Ackroyd assuredly. Ewan quietly showed him out.

  After radioing-in Anne Mason’s details, he sat in his car and pondered the notion that Mrs Mason might be involved in the death of her husband, but it certainly wasn’t a serious consideration at this stage of the enquiry. Following this, Roger returned home in time to have dinner with his long-suffering wife, Eleanor, at 1 PM. They owned a large house near Finsbury Park (North London), which was perfect for when their grandchildren visited – and for their 4 year old St. Bernard dog, Alfred.

  As Roger cut into his roast beef, his wife (Eleanor) stared at him across the Jentique dining table. She knew that look of burden that overcame his disposition when faced with a particularly difficult or unpleasant case – it had made him prematurely grey. She poured the Pinot Noir burgundy into his beautifully cut D’arques Longchamp crystal wine glass: the blood-red liquid swirled and foamed as it sloshed around its gentle curves.

  “Another one of those is it?” she knowingly enquired, “Don’t let it take you over darling – please.” she implored, albeit futilely.

  “You read the paper?” he asked rhetorically.

  “Yes. The Marsholm Monster, or something – is that what their calling him?”

  “I’ve no idea. But we need to catch this lunatic; there’s going to be a lot of public pressure on this one.” “Well, you usually do.” she reminded him consolingly.

  In the late afternoon, Ackroyd visited the Scotland Yard Forensics Laboratory in order to deliver Vera’s clothes for analysis. While at the Scotland Yard headquarters he learned that Vera was to be transferred to the Royal Northern Hospital in Holloway Road, North London, that evening, principally to make her more accessible to the investigation now being coordinated from Scotland Yard. Apparently she was recovering exceptionally quickly – she really was the ‘Miracle of Marsholm Wood’. However, she would need to remain in medical care for some time to come. Ackroyd, keen to kick-start his investigation, was anxious to interview her sooner rather than later. They were now getting some reports from the public of sightings of the vehicle as a result of the description of the car released to the media – there was an intense public interest and everyone wanted to help; unfortunately, that meant they would get swamped with false leads. He knew that Vera’s first-hand account was the only truly reliable or useful source of information, so the quicker he acquired that the better, especially as the doctor’s were indicating that she was highly responsive and eager to speak to the police. He managed to secure an interview with her arranged for late that evening.

  Ackroyd arrived at the Royal Northern at just after 9 pm. The media had not got wind of this move as yet, so all was quiet. The main entrance was closed and in darkness, so he went to the A & E reception desk; after a lengthy wait, a nurse came down to escort him to the private room on the 2nd floor. A uniformed constable was guarding the room, from which a senior doctor (in age and authority) emerged to apprise the detective of Vera’s condition.

  “Superintendent Ackroyd?”

  “Yes. How is she?”

  “She had an operation to remove the bullet from her thigh yesterday evening; however, they were not able to recover all of the fragments – there is some concern of potential infection; we are obviously monitoring the situation. I’ve given her a mild sedative and some pain relief, to keep her comfortable and relaxed. She is ready to speak to you, but can I ask you to please keep it as short as possible.” The doctor opened the door to the room and introduced Vera to Ackroyd, before leaving them to talk privately. Her head was partially bandaged and there were a few superficial scratches on her face, but otherwise she looked surprisingly well.

  “Hello Vera. I hear you have been incredibly brave, but you need to keep strong. I know it may be difficult right now, but the sooner I get the information I need, the sooner we can catch this man...Firstly can you give me a physical description of the man?”

  “Yes. He was about five foot seven tall; average build. Well dressed. He had a dark blue suit with a waistcoat...plain.

  Grey tie with a white stripe... Nice shoes: expensive, I’d say – black...”

  “What sort of age?”

  “Young... A little older than me – 25?”

  “Did you get a good look at his face?”

  “Yes and no. It was very dark. But I think I would know him; especially those eyes.”

  “What about the eyes?”

  “Piercing; blue... Quite pale skinned – like me.”

  “What colour hair?”

  “Oh, dark... Sometimes, if the light caught it, it looked lighter.”

  “We will round-up a few likely suspects and arrange a parade – are you are up to that?” “Yes.” Vera answered emphatically.

  “Did he have any accent?”

  “Cockney, I’d say. He kept saying things like ‘fink’.”

  “Okay. Did he say anything about himself: a name or...?”

  “Brown. Alf Brown. But I think he was making that up. I don’t know I believe anything he said.”

  “Well, sometimes people let slip genuine details, even when they’re lying.”

  “Can I think about that?”

  “Yes, of course. The description is the critical thing, right now. But anything could be important.” “Why do you think he did it?”

  “I wish I knew. Sometimes people – criminals – don’t know why they do things, themselves: it’s a compulsion.”

  “We thought he was just going to rob us to start with.”

  “Did he take any valuables from you?”

  “Some money. I hid some down the side of the car seat... He took our watches... He said he had escaped from prison.” “Escaped from prison?” echoed Ackroyd incredulously.

  “I don’t think that was true, though: he was wearing a smart suit, and he was wearing aftershave!”

  “I’m not aware of any escapees locally, and I doubt it would be Mr Biggs.” commented Ackroyd thoughtfully, “Too

  old, for a start.”

  “I’ve seen pictures of him – it wasn’t him. He gave the impression he’d just escaped, anyway.”

  “What time did this all start, and where?”

  “We were parked in the entrance to a field at about 9.30, in River Lane – that’s in Cherrydean...”

  “Cherrydean?” exclaimed Ackroyd.

  “Yes. It’s just outside Maidenhead.”

  “And how did you end up in Marsholm Wood?”

  “We were driving for hours.”

  “I see. What route did you take?”

  “All over the place. He made Gregg drive into London first, but then took us out through Richmond and Kingston. Then we were on the A3 for about an hour, I’d guess, before reaching Guildford. But he didn’t want to go into Guildford; we thought that might be a chance for us to do something, but he kept us going into the country.”

  “What happened when you got to the wood?” Vera fell silent and became slightly withdrawn.

  Ackroyd sensed this was going to be difficult, but he needed to ascertain the facts; he would have to be gently persuasive: “Vera...Do you know why he wanted to go to that location?”

  “No, not... Well, he said he needed to sleep. He said that right at the start, though.”

  “I see. How was he going to do that without your escaping?”

  “He said he had to tie us both up. He knew there was some rope in the boot, but I guess he wanted something else as well. He told me to pass back my shopping bag..
. That’s, that’s when it happened... He said it was an accident, but Gregg never had a chance.”

  “So, this is just after you got to the wood?”

  “Yes. He just shot him. He was trying to hand the bag back to him. That’s all.”

  “I’m sorry to ask, but did Gregg die immediately?”

  “Yes... The look on his face... He never stood a chance.” Vera began to weep. Ackroyd gave her a few minutes to compose herself.

  “Why did he chase you into the wood, Vera?” “He raped me.” she abruptly revealed.

  “I’m sorry, Vera. I know this is hard. Was this in the car, or outside?”

  “In the car. He told me to get in the back with him.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “He made me help him move Gregg’s body out of the car and clean up the blood. Then I put the blanket over the seat: he said he didn’t want to get blood on his clothes.”

  “He started asking me how the car worked, which I thought was strange. He was just standing there leering at me. I thought: he’s going to kill me now; so, I kneed him in... You know? The groin.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He went down and I just ran hell for leather. I couldn’t see a thing; I fell over loads of times. Then I heard him coming, so I panicked. He just kept shooting – thankfully they missed me. But then I felt a sharp pain in my thigh and fell flat on my back. I just lay still, hoping he wouldn’t find me... But he did. Then he shot me again. I don’t know how I survived that.”