by Jason De'Ath
“Maida Vale?” interrupted Ackroyd with intrigue.
“Yes?” Holliday looked slightly bewildered at Ackroyd’s emphasis.
“Okay – go on.”
“I was staying at the Verona Hotel; I arrived there at about 11 PM.”
Ackroyd surveyed this slightly creepy character: he certainly bore a resemblance to the identikit of the gunman, but his eyes were a hazel colour; also he was well spoken, albeit with a mildly “common” undertone. Nonetheless, witnesses have been known to get important details wrong, so he decided – as this was the only suspect currently in sight – to press on with the interview.
“And where were you earlier in the evening?”
“Well, here and there... I went to the cinema at about eight.”
“Where was this?”
“The Odeon in, er, Canonbury Road, I think it is.”
“That’s the road that follows on from the intersection at the bottom of Holloway Road.” explained the Inspector, for the benefit of Ackroyd.
“Was this until eleven?” quizzed Ackroyd.
“No, I came out of there at about ten.”
“What was the film?”
“The Knack...and How to Get It. I missed most of the ‘b’-flick – I don’t even know what it was called.”
“Where did you go between leaving there and going to the hotel?”
“Nowhere in particular: I just wandered around; I had a coffee in a cafe.”
“Can anyone verify your arrival at the Verona Hotel at 11 PM?”
“Oh, yes. The manager had his wife book me in.”
“When did you leave the Verona?”
“Next morning: about 8.30.”
“Okay. Thank you Mr Holliday, that’ll be all for now.” said Ackroyd and stood to leave the room.
“Can I go now?” asked Holliday.
“Er, no, actually, I need to speak to you about something else, first.” instructed the Inspector in a serious tone. He then followed Ackroyd into the corridor: “I want to question him in connection with the Battersea attack – he fits Mrs Renfrew’s description.”
“I wouldn’t say he was ‘mean’ looking?” commented Ackroyd doubtfully.
“I might be one of those ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ types, sir.” explained the Inspector.
“Well, let me know if anything comes of that.” requested Ackroyd, “I will check out his alibi at the Verona Hotel.”
A constable drove Ackroyd to The Alexandra Hotel to re-join DS Cambridge, who was busy taking statements from several of the guests. According to them, Holliday arrived there on the Sunday evening and had been locked in his room virtually the whole time since, not even venturing out at mealtimes; guests had been complaining about hearing someone constantly pacing up and down their room, with sporadic banging and crashing noises emanating therein. All of which was highly suspicious behaviour, particularly in view of the timing. Holliday had given his home address in the hotel record book as 55 Wallington Road, New Cross (South London). Ackroyd and Cambridge decided to pay a visit to that address, next.
Wallington Road was a fairly respectable collection of 1920’s semi-detached homes, with mainly lower-middle class residents. Number 55 appeared well maintained externally, with a small neatly trimmed hedge hiding the basement level of the property. Cambridge tapped the ornate lions-head knocker purposefully. After a few moments they could discern the footsteps of someone coming down a staircase; the door opened slowly to a crack and white-haired woman in her sixties peered out nervously.
“Mrs Holliday?” enquired Cambridge.
“Whooo?” was the befuddled reply.
“We are policemen, madam. Are you Mrs Holliday?” Ackroyd elaborated.
“Policemen...?” She opened the door a little wider, revealing a rather wizened looking old lady.
“Yes. Is there a Mrs Holliday at this residence?” reiterated Cambridge.
“Nooo. I’m Mrs Pederson.”
“I see. Do you know a John Holliday, at all?” persevered Cambridge.
“Nooo. Should I?”
“Don’t be alarmed Mrs Pederson. A man calling himself John Holliday has given this address as his place of residence.” added Ackroyd.
“I don’t know anyone called Holliday.” she responded, slightly agitated.
“Does anyone else live at this house, Mrs Pederson?” continued Cambridge.
“Well, not all the time.”
“Who else stays here?” pressed Ackroyd gently.
“Well, my son sometimes stays here.”
“And what is his name?”
“Freddy; Alfred.” she replied. Ackroyd smiled in recognition of this random coincidence.
“That would be Alfred Pederson, would it?” asked Cambridge.
“Yes. He’s not here now, though.”
“When did you last see your son, Mrs Pederson?” enquired Ackroyd with growing curiosity. “Saturday evening, I think... Yes, Saturday: he needed some money; he stayed the night.” “What time was this?” continued Ackroyd.
“Early evening – about seven.”
“Could you describe your son, please, Mrs Pederson?”
“He’s very good looking... About five foot ten; dark hair, always nicely Brylcreemed, like Elvis Presley. Always wears a nice suit and tie.”
“Eye colour?”
“Greeny-brown... But sometimes in the evenings they look more of a grey-blue.” she said dreamily. This little detail piqued the detectives’ interest.
“Well, thank you, Mrs Pederson. You’ve been very helpful...”
“He’s not in any trouble is he?” she demanded somewhat defensively.
“No, no. We’re looking for a John Holliday. Thanks for your time.” Ackroyd quickly ended the interview. When the detectives got back in the car, they gave each other a searching look – they both sensed that they may be onto something. “Let’s get back to Blackstock – see if he’s still there.” directed Ackroyd.
On their return to the Blackstock Road station they discovered that Inspector Ballantyne had decided to arrest John Holliday in connection with the attack on Mrs Renfrew as he could offer no alibi, having been holed-up at The Alexandra Hotel at the time of that event, and they were now convinced that he was providing a false name. An identity parade was being organised for that evening. The Inspector had Ackroyd and Cambridge immediately brought down to his office on their arrival.
“Ah, Superintendent, sir. Please take a seat; you too, Sergeant.” “I understand you’ve arrested this Holliday chap.” noted Ackroyd.
“Yes. He’s asked for a solicitor, but we’re hoping to keep him long enough to arrange a line-up.”
“We think his real name may be Alfred Pederson, probably of no fixed abode. He apparently stays with his mother occasionally in New Cross – and sponges off her.”
“He reckons he’s a theology, or theosophy student, but hasn’t enrolled anywhere, yet.” informed Ballantyne.
“He’s certainly a suspicious character. Did he give his age?”
“Thirty, he says.”
“When did he arrive at The Alexandra Hotel?” “Sunday afternoon. What did you find out, sir?” “DS Cambridge?” prompted Ackroyd.
“No one saw him after he checked into his room at 4 PM on the Sunday. Apparently, they did hear him quite a lot, though. A woman who occupied the room next door on the Sunday said it sounded like he was pacing up and down the room for hours after he arrived; then there was occasional banging and crashing. She complained to the hotel manager, who knocked on his door and spoke to him through the door; he was quiet after that until Monday evening, when he started doing the same thing again. The woman got her room changed after that. Other guests had complained about funny noises in the middle of the night, which seemed to come from his room. I think they were considering asking him to leave, even though he’d booked in for the week and paid a deposit. That’s when they contacted us.”
“This loon could be responsible for both the Marsholm crime and the atta
ck on Mrs Renfrew.” stated Ackroyd, “What time do you expect to get this I.D. parade sorted for?”
“Between seven and eight. Do you want to attend, sir?”
“No – I’d like to get home tonight. But can you send a message to the Yard, letting us know the outcome, please.”
“Of course, sir.”
Ackroyd and Cambridge left Blackstock station with a renewed vigour – things were decidedly looking up. Returning to their car, they set off for the Verona Hotel in Maida Vale.
The Verona Hotel was a bit of rundown back street affair, the sought of place that would be used by the criminal element, elicit lovers, and people with a low budget, no taste and no choice. The detectives entered the slightly grubby foyer; the place seemed dead, but as they approached the reception desk, a middle-aged man of rather shifty appearance suddenly emerged from below the counter: “Yes, gentlemen?” he enquired.
“Afternoon, sir.” said Ackroyd waving his warrant card, “Detective Superintendent Ackroyd; and this is DS Cambridge.” “So, to what do we owe this pleasure?” said the man sarcastically.
“Are you the manager?”
“Yes.”
“Can we have your name, please?” interceded Cambridge.
“Derick Jacobsen... With an ‘e’.” he added with a smirk.
“Who else works here?”
“Me an’ the wife run the place. There’s a couple oo do the cleanin’.” he answered, now dropping the pretence of being vaguely educated.
“What are their names?” asked Ackroyd slightly exasperated.
“Mr and Mrs Sanchez.” “Are they here?”
“Nah, they’re in mornin’s and evenin’s.” answered Jacobsen, before coughing up some phlegm into a handkerchief. He then proceeded to light a cigarette; Ackroyd winced.
“Were you here last Friday night?”
“Yep.”
“Did you book in a guest late on?”
“Er, le’s fink: Friday night... Oh, yeah, there was a bloke oo booked in that night.”
“Do you have his name?”
“Yeah, ‘ang on, I’ll get the book... Right, yeah, Mr ‘Olliday.” Jacobsen turned the hotel register to show Ackroyd, pointing out the entry. Holliday had given the same New Cross address.
“Did you personally book him in?” enquired Cambridge.
“Er, no, my wife did. I took ‘im to the room.”
“It says Room 8, here – is that correct?”
“Er, yeah, downstairs.”
“Are you usually up that late to book in guests?”
“Yeahhh. We usually goes t’bed about twelve.”
“Could you describe this man?”
“About firty-ish. Greased ‘air. Tallish... Smart; quite well-spoken.”
“Build?”
“Eh?”
“What size was he?” clarified Cambridge.
“Oh, I dunno – average?”
“When did he leave?”
“Next mornin’. Didn’t come down for breakfast, so I knocked ‘im up. When ‘e didn’ answer I opened the door wiv the pass key. I caught ‘im getting dressed. I fink ‘e left about an hour later.”
“Okay. I need you and your wife to go down to the local police station and make a full statement in relation to Friday night and Saturday morning in regards to Mr Holliday. Tell them to contact my team at Scotland Yard.” instructed Ackroyd. “W’a’s y’u name, again?” asked Jacobsen.
“Detective Superintendent Ackroyd.”
“Got it.” sniffed Jacobsen with another smirk.
DSupt Ackroyd got back in the car and cursed: “Shit – that confirms his alibi. He couldn’t possibly have been him in Cherrydean at nine thirty, if he was booking in to this place at eleven.” “Unfortunately not, sir.” concurred Cambridge.
Ackroyd returned to his office to catch up on any developments from the rest of the team. They had tracked down a petrol pump attendant who seemed to think he had served them at a petrol station in Ripley (just outside Guildford) on the A3 and had managed to provide an identikit picture. There were two problems: one, Vera never mentioned stopping on the A3, and two, the identikit was a little different to the one she had produced. Unfortunately, someone had already sanctioned its release to the press; Ackroyd was livid.
“Teddy, find out who bloody gave the press that identikit, will you?” he demanded, storming into the main office where DS Cambridge was chatting to one of the detective constables on the team.
“Yes sir.” affirmed Cambridge. Ackroyd thundered down the corridor, back to his office. DS Cambridge took a deep breath, “I think I’m going to need a mop for this one.” he comically remarked to the constable, (in reference to shit hitting the fan).
Ackroyd was thoroughly disgruntled by the day’s developments: hope had now transformed into agitation. And the crowning glory of the day was delivered by a phone call from the Royal Northern hospital informing him that Vera’s condition was declining and that they were contemplating surgery, possibly amputation. He decided to go home and drown his sorrows in a nice bottle of wine.
Meanwhile, at Blackstock Police Station, they had continued interviewing John Holliday before a solicitor had been allocated. They had now got him to admit that his real name was Alfred Pederson, and it transpired that Pederson had a lengthy record: mostly misdemeanours, but he had served some time in prison for fraud and theft; he had also been arrested a number of times for being drunken and disorderly. Most telling, though, was an arrest for an alleged sexual assault of a 15 year old girl in 1960 – but the case was subsequently thrown out of court. By the time Pederson’s solicitor arrived at Blackstock station, it was just in time to attend the identity parade that had been hastily organised. Pederson was surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing; he had a defiant air of confidence. Taking up position 4 of the 10 man lineup [composed mainly of police officers] he stood patiently awaiting Mrs Renfrew, who in contrast was extremely distressed about the prospect of potentially coming face to face again with her attacker. Shaking like a leaf, a constable and a WPC accompanied her on her walk along the line of – in her mind – desperados. They practically had to hold her up, so weak kneed was she. Mrs Renfrew tentatively lifted her head to view the face of subject number 1: she shook her head and continued; the same with numbers 2 and 3. But, when she reached number 4, she immediately lost control and started screaming: “That’s him, that’s him – that’s the one that tried to kill me!” She was quickly bundled out of the room and taken to an interview room to calm down.
“Well, I think that was pretty conclusive.” said Inspector Ballantyne smugly to the duty solicitor.
“Hmmph. I should have had a chance to talk with my client before this charade started.” the solicitor complained. But it was just bluster, because Pederson was duly charged with the attack on Mrs Renfrew and remanded into custody until a hearing could be arranged.
Chapter Eleven
(6 August 1965)
A week had now passed since the abduction of Vera Fable and Gregg Mason had begun on that fateful Friday night. Vera’s condition was stable, but the doctors were still considering amputation; they had decided she should be moved to Guy’s Hospital in Southwark in Central London (South of the river), for specialist attention. Meanwhile, Pederson had been released on bail, pending a trial; and, some papers had run stories relating to the case featuring both identikit images issued by the police; consequently a revised description, along with Vera’s original identikit, had been prepared for distribution to the press that morning, intended to supersede any previous information that had been reported.
DSupt Ackroyd had, that morning, received the statements given by the Jacobsens [of the Verona Hotel] from St. John’s Wood Police Station: they were short and sweet, synchronous, and of no help whatsoever to the Superintendent’s investigation. The trail was already going cold; they had gathered quite a number of statements from various supposed witnesses, but it was all rather vague, contradictory and generally unhelpful. So much
so, in fact, that Ackroyd had now started giving attention to a fraud case he’d been working on previously, which had also run into a dead end. DS Cambridge entered the office with a cup of tea for his boss.
“Oh, cheers, Teddy... Take a seat.”
“I hear Pederson got bail.” noted Cambridge.
Ackroyd sighed irritably: “You know, I’d swear that misfit’s guilty of something... Get someone down to that Verona Hotel to interview the cleaners...” Ackroyd rummaged through the paperwork on his desk, “Ah yes: Sanchez, Mr and Mrs Sanchez. Ring the hotel and find out what times they’re there and get someone down there to take their statements; they might have seen something relating to Pederson, and double check the Jacobsen’s account, just in case they’re getting confused.”
“Okay, sir. Can’t do any harm.”
“Oh, and see you down the Queen’s Head at lunchtime.”
When DS Cambridge walked into the smoke-filled copper’s den of a pub, Ackroyd was already nestled in the corner sipping a scotch and soda; a pint of Guinness was faithfully awaiting Teddy’s arrival.
“Did you organise the interviews at the Verona?” asked Ackroyd as Cambridge pulled-up a chair.
“DC Cartwright is going over there this evening, sir.” Teddy lit a cigarette and offered one to Ackroyd.
“No, ta.” said Ackroyd brandishing his already smouldering cigar.
“How’s Eleanor, these days, sir?” asked Cambridge politely, referring to Ackroyd’s wife who had been diagnosed with haemochromatosis several months earlier.
“Good, good... Angela?” enquired Ackroyd after Teddy’s wife.
“Yeah, she’s fine. She’s talking about going back to work – bored.” “Oh, dear: you might have to get your own dinner.” quipped Ackroyd.
“Footy season starts soon. I reckon Spurs have got real chance this season. Greaves was excellent last season – Division
One top scorer... Well, joint top scorer...”
“My money’s got to be on my beloved West Ham; look at the players we’ve got: Peter’s, Moore, Hurst...”
