by Jason De'Ath
“Have you been able to give any more thought to what happened? Any little detail could prove critical.”
“Yes, I have... I made some notes.” Vera leant over to the cupboard unit beside the bed, where she had a notebook.
“At some point we will need you to make a full statement at Scotland Yard, and we will need to go over everything in fine detail. It may take several hours – but only when you’re ready.”
“Soon, I hope: I want to get it over with. Are you any closer to catching him?”
“There are some promising developments. We hope to be able to organise an identity parade for you, sometime soon.”
“Good... Good. Right then, I made some notes, if you’re ready?”
“Yes – fire away.”
“I remembered that he kept saying ‘fink’ and he used the word ‘kip’. I don’t think he was a proper smoker, because he nearly choked to death on those Kensitas – and I think he chucked the packet out of the window after the first one... I think he was familiar with Kew Gardens, as well as Staines. I think he knew where he was going when he took us out towards Guildford...”
“Did you stop anywhere on the A3 for petrol, after Esher?”
“I don’t think we stopped anywhere, after that. My memory’s still a bit hazy on that part of the journey.” “Okay – don’t worry. Carry on.”
“He smelt of cheap aftershave... He couldn’t have slept rough like he said – or escaped from prison.”
“Are you confident you would know him if you saw him again?”
“Yes... Yes, I think so. I won’t forget those eyes.” “Definitely blue?” enquired Ackroyd searchingly.
“Oh yes: blue.” she affirmed.
“Not blue-grey or hazel?”
“No, I don’t think so. Definitely not hazel.”
“Do you think the poor light could have caused a false colour?”
“I don’t know. I just know they looked blue.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yes, he hardly swore at all. That surprised me, considering...”
“Considering what?”
“Considering how rough he came across. I don’t think he was all that intelligent.”
“Could that have been an act?”
“I suppose it’s possible... It would have been a very clever act.” she concluded earnestly.
“You said he asked you to explain how the car worked? Do you think he knew how to drive?”
“I think that was just a distraction... He said some things that made me think he did know about cars, and he was going to drive it himself right from the start – that’s what he said, anyway. Of course, he didn’t, until he drove away.” “You didn’t actually see him drive off, though?”
“No, but I heard the screeching. He took off fast, I would say... Oh, he said something about a Rolling Stones song: I hadn’t ever heard it, but he said it wasn’t out, yet? How could he have heard it, if it wasn’t out?”
“Hmmm, I’m not sure. Do you think he could be connected to the record industry?”
“I didn’t get that impression.”
“He kept trying to make small talk at the beginning. It was really odd. Later, though, he just seemed to tire of it – went into a daze... He did ask some odd questions. He seemed interested in our relationship – me and Gregg.”
“What was your relationship?”
Vera paused and took a deep breath: “Well, we were good friends.”
“Is that all? I have to ask, Vera, because in court this could come up.”
“Why? What does that have to do with it?”
“A defence lawyer may try to discredit you; they can play some dirty tricks. You need to be ready for that.” “We were...close.”
“I see. Is that something that the gunman seemed to be aware of?”
“I think he just assumed. I think he just fancied me.”
“Okay. Where did you go before you parked in the field?”
“We were at a pub; just up the road a bit: The Bowman Arms in Tapton. We had a drink in there. I think we were there about half an hour or so – no more than an hour.”
“So, what was the purpose of parking in that field entrance?”
“We were planning a route for a rally – we wanted to look at the map.”
“Thing is, we didn’t find a map in the vehicle?”
Vera shrugged off the implication: “He must have taken it... Or thrown it away... May be he got his fingerprints on it.” she added with inspiration.
“Yes – that’s possible. We didn’t find your purse or the shopping bag – neither were left in the car. It was empty, I’m afraid.”
“He took all our money, anyway. Oh, but I hid some under the seat!” she remembered excitedly.
“We didn’t find that.”
“Oh. He must have found it, then. Have you found my watch?”
“Not as yet. We have put the word out to all jewellers, and a few dodgy characters who feed us information about the black market; but, nothing, so far.”
“I can’t really think of anything else at the moment, Mr Ackroyd... I did mention he seemed to like cowboy films, didn’t
I?”
“Yes, I think you did mention that. Unfortunately, lots of people like cowboy films.” observed Ackroyd discouragingly.
“Yes, I suppose so...” agreed Vera reluctantly and then she had a sudden recollection: “Oh! Wait. There was something else: he said that he was locked in a cellar by his parents as a child.”
“Right... Well, you have been very helpful, Vera. When we bring this man to book, these little details could be all important in putting him away. There may not be a death sentence, anymore, but life in prison is no picnic, so there is still some retribution – you can be assured of that.”
“I won’t feel safe until you get him.” she said coldly.
“We will, Vera, we will.” said Ackroyd reassuringly, “We’ve got all our best men on this case, and we will catch him, you have my word.”
Chapter Fourteen
(17 August 1965)
Freddy Pederson was abruptly woken by the landlord of the Black Lion public house in Bromley, (where he had rented a room,) banging repeatedly on the door. Freddy groggily crawled out of his bed to open the door.
“What the fuck’s a matter with you?” asked Freddy irritably.
The landlord shoved a newspaper in his face: “Read that... I couldn’t give a dog’s toss, but I don’ wan’ the fuckin’ law sniffin’ aroun’ my place. You got ‘alf ‘our t’get y’u fuckin’ arse out.”
Freddy scanned through the pages of the newspaper, coming to a disheartening stop at the article on page five entitled ‘Suspect Identified as Marsholm Monster’, with a mug shot photograph of him from 1963. He slumped back onto the bed and stare at the floor in a state of complete demoralisation. After several minutes contemplating his options, he decided that the only recourse was to hand himself in; he decided to go to Scotland Yard and turn himself over to Ackroyd, personally.
The constable at the enquiry desk didn’t recognise Freddy: “How can I help you sir?”
“I’ve come to see detective Ackroyd.”
The constable was slightly baffled by this announcement: “And why would that be sir?” “I’m Freddy Pederson. I believe he wants to speak to me.” stated Freddy casually.
The constable was momentarily stunned by this declaration: “Right... You’re under arrest, in that case.”
Freddy was escorted to an interview room, where he waited apprehensively, the door guarded by a uniformed constable. Ackroyd entered the room accompanied by DC Cartwright; they both quietly sat down at the small table opposite Freddy.
“Well then, Freddy.” started Ackroyd, “This is becoming something of a habit, isn’t it?” “I’m innocent. I had nothing to do with that murder.” insisted Freddy.
“I see. The thing is, Freddy, the Jacobsens have changed their statements: they now say they didn’t actually see you arrive at the hotel
on the Friday night and that you had a key to Room 26; so your alibi has somewhat evaporated.” Ackroyd informed him with a slight hint of satisfaction.
“They’re lying; I never went in Room 26. I stayed in Room 8 and they booked me in just after eleven that night.” “I’ve spoken to your mother...” started Ackroyd.
“Oh Christ!” exclaimed Freddy dejectedly.
“She mentioned that you had got yourself a little earner early that week – do you want to tell us about that?” “Not really.” grunted Freddy bluntly.
“You’re not really helping yourself like that, are you?”
“I want my solicitor.” Freddy complained before sitting back in his chair and staring defiantly at the ceiling, his youthful features beset with school boy-like insolence.
Ackroyd decided to use the time spent waiting for Pederson’s solicitor to organise an identity parade. When Mr Greysmith eventually graced Scotland Yard with his presence, eleven volunteers had been hastily gathered from a local theatre, where they had been in the midst of rehearsals for Shakespeare’s Richard III – providing an ensemble of dodgy looking characters. Mr Greysmith was none too pleased about this latest tactic being imposed upon his client; however, Freddy was surprisingly compliant and agreed to be taken to Guy’s hospital for the line-up, despite his solicitor’s protestations.
At Guy’s, Vera was carefully prepared for the ordeal by a WPC, while Greysmith lurked agitatedly in the background. The WPC steered Vera’s wheelchair along the row of suspects; Pederson had chosen to be number 10 of the 12. After several traverses, Vera remained unsure and asked that they should each speak a few words, specifically: “Shut up, I’m trying to think” and to attempt singing “I can’t get no satisfaction”, which caused some consternation amongst the group of actors, who seemed to be treating it like some sort of audition and overlooking the potential outcome of being the one who was selected. This spectacle gave DC Cartwright some difficulty as he painfully withheld his laughter; even Ackroyd found it hard not to smile as each candidate did their little turn. Adding to the charade was the fact that none of them were familiar with the song. On arriving at Pederson’s moment to perform, sniggering amongst the volunteers was becoming audible, which certainly did not enhance the experience for Vera, who was wheeled out of the room following the eleventh performance in a slightly distraught state. As the door closed behind her, the room erupted with unfettered hilarity. Freddy had found this to all be highly amusing, much to Ackroyd’s chagrin.
“I’m sorry about that, Vera.” apologised Ackroyd, “But we need you to decide whether anyone in the line-up was familiar to you as your assailant.”
Vera was clearly uncertain: “I’m really not sure... Could I have one more look – without any speaking, please?” she pleaded. Ackroyd looked ingratiatingly at Greysmith, who threw his arms up in despair, before begrudgingly agreeing and then shaking his head with incredulity. The twelve men were sternly rebuked by the WPC who proceeded to instruct them to remain silent and not to display as much as a glimmer of mirth. Vera made her final pass with a positive air of dignity – this was not a lady to be shaken from her determination for justice.
“Number 3.” she announced as she left the room, much to Ackroyd’s dismay and Greysmith’s delight.
“Bugger.” Ackroyd whispered discreetly to DC Cartwright. “Mr Greysmith, your client is free to go.” he notified the solicitor, once Vera was out of earshot.
“If you so much as look at my client again without rock solid evidence, I’ll be taking legal action against you.” threatened Greysmith.
“It would be a shame if he had a little accident on his way out of the station.” commented Cartwright mischievously.
“Now now, detective, he’s just doing his job.” reprimanded Ackroyd gently, before adding: “The bastard.”
Freddy sauntered gleefully from the police station, while volunteer number 3 underwent routine questioning, much to his shock and supplication of innocence. Fortunately, he had an easily verifiable alibi, having been on stage the night of the crime. Concurrently, Vera was conveyed to Ackroyd’s office so that she could be apprised of the outcome of the identity parade. After a few minutes wait with the WPC, and allayed with a cup of tea, Ackroyd entered the room, tactfully waving away the WPC.
“Thank you, again, Vera, for your bravery...” he started.
“Did I pick the right one?” she enquired with a hint of trepidation.
“There is no ‘right’ one, Vera. If you mean did you pick the man we identified as the suspect – then, no. I don’t want you to worry yourself about that, though.”
“Who was the man I picked?”
“Just a volunteer... We will of course check him out, but I believe you were mistaken.” “Oh. I really wasn’t sure.” she attempted to explain somewhat unsatisfactorily.
“That’s okay, Vera. I understand you‘re desperate to get this over; but, we must get the guilty man. Next time you’re not sure, you can just say so – you don’t have to pick someone.”
“No. I know. I just... He did look a bit like him... So did number 10, though.”
“What?” Ackroyd was disconcerted by this remark; “How much like him?” he pressed.
“Oh, just similar features... He seemed oddly familiar. But the eyes were wrong.” she confidently clarified.
Ackroyd sighed with a heavy sigh of relief in the knowledge that he hadn’t just released the guilty party; clearing his throat he asked: “You are sure you would recognise him if you saw him again, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes: I won’t forget those eyes.” she said with categorical certainty, despite having just picked out the wrong man.
The normal working day was coming to a rather disappointing close for DSupt Ackroyd when he received a call from anonymous caller. The voice sounded weak and distant – most likely muffled by a handkerchief over the receiver. “Is that Superintendent Ackroyd?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Just listen: I’ve got information for you about the Marsholm murder. You should look for Arthur Jameson; he uses several aliases: Albert James and Alfie Johnson.” The phone went dead. Ackroyd took a few moments to digest this new revelation, before recalling that ‘A. Johnson’ was the name given in the Verona Hotel ledger as the guest who occupied Room 26 the night prior to the murder. The idea that the cartridge cases could been left at the hotel before the murder had not been given serious consideration, but this had been mainly because the focus of the investigation had been on Pederson, while ‘A. Johnson’ was an unknown that couldn’t be traced. Suddenly everything had changed – Ackroyd called DS Cambridge to his office.
“Ah, Teddy...”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you find out about this Arthur Jameson we were tipped-off about?”
“Er, I put DC Pawson onto that, sir... He’s been off sick for a few days – dodgy pork pie from a cafe in Shoreditch. I’ll have a look through his desk – see if I can find anything.”
Cambridge returned to Ackroyd’s office about 15 minutes later, clutching several scraps of paper: “Looks like he’s a bit of a naughty boy.” he informed Ackroyd, who indicated for him to sit down; “Age: 24; spent most of his adult life inside; more inside than out... Burglary, theft, car theft, driving without a licence... It’s a long list, but nothing violent or sexual; no kidnappings. Looks like he recently finished an 18 month stretch in Wandsworth: March this year.”
“Any addresses?”
“No fixed abode usually given... Accept for his parents address, in Ilford.”
“Is that recent?”
“Looks that way.”
“I think we need to visit the Jacobsens, again, first. Have some cash handy – we’ll probably need it.” instructed Ackroyd resignedly.
The Jacobsens were still holed-up at Linda’s sister-in-law’s place. Dora Maccawley was even less gracious than she had previously been upon opening the door to the two detectives.
“What now!” she complained
.
“We just need to speak with the Jacobsens again; are they here?” “Are they ‘ere? They’re always bleedin’ ‘ere!” she complained bitterly.
Dora led them up to the stairs to the back room where the Jacobsens were effectively slobbing-out and hammered aggressively on the door, shouting: “Your bleedin’ mates from the yard are ‘ere, again!” The door opened a crack; Linda peeped out, sighed heavily, then opened the door fully to allow the detectives access. Dora, standing threateningly with her hands on waist sarcastically asked: “Would y’u like some tea ‘n’ cakes...” and as the door was shut in her face, shouted: “When am I gonna see some bleedin’ rent?”
Derick was slumped back in a grotty old armchair (fit only for the dump), smoking a roll-up. Linda sat on the only other seat, a rickety looking wooden kitchen chair. The two detectives stood ominously over them in the cramped space of the makeshift bedsit.
“Mr Jacobsen, we believe you may be able to further assist our enquiry...” said Ackroyd, while Derick looked on indifferently and Linda slurped some gin from a dirty old cup. “Do you recall the guest calling himself ‘A. Johnson’, that occupied Room 26 on the night of the 29th of July?”
“Bleedin’ ‘ell. Twen’y nin’f of July...? Mmm, it’s a bit ‘azy to be ‘onest gov’.” replied Derick unconvincingly.
Ackroyd gave Cambridge ‘the look’ which indicated for him to place two five pound notes on the table next to Derick’s ashtray. Jacobsen glanced at the money with an unimpressed air, then sniffed and said: “Still a bit grey.” Ackroyd took a deep breath, folded his arms and gave Derrick a very stern glare: “Look Derick, unless you want to be on a charge of accessory to murder, I suggest you kick your memory into gear.”
Jacobsen was momentarily stunned by this remark and stuttering to regain his composure, grabbed the money off the table; he decided to adopt a more assentive stance: “Well, yeah, actu’lly I do recall that geezer, now.” “Could you describe him?”
“I fink so, yeah...”
