Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Did he look anything like Mr Holliday?”

  “Yeah; yeah ‘e did a bit, I s’pose.”

  “Is it possible that you mixed them up when recalling them booking-in – and leaving?”

  “Yeah; yeah, now I come t’fink about it, yeah I did mix ‘em up, yeah.”

  “In that case, Mr Jacobsen, Mrs Jacobsen, I need you to make new statements. Someone will collect you in the morning and take you down the Yard – okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever y’u say Mr Ackroyd.” answered Derick compliantly.

  The detectives’ next stop was the Verona Hotel, where they arrived just before 7 PM. The Sanchez couple were busy serving evening meals to five guests. The Verona had certainly seen better days, but had once been quite a swish affair. The dining room was quite large, with ornate plaster coving and 1940’s style vinyl wallpaper, adorned with a somewhat garish floral pattern – albeit now quite faded, and of tatty appearance in places. The furniture had also once had a stylish quality, but now appeared worn, chipped and uncared for – greying white table cloths covered most of the blemishes.

  Ackroyd managed to catch the eye of Mrs Sanchez as she scurried around. The detectives waited patiently outside the dining room doors until Mrs Sanchez finished serving one of the guests. As on previous occasions, she greeted Ackroyd with a bewildered expression.

  “Mrs Sanchez, I need to ask you some more questions about your guests: do you recall a man who booked-in as ‘A. Johnson’ on the 29th July – he was in Room 26?” “No, no – I never see him.” she replied.

  “What about Mr Sanchez?”

  “I no think so. The Jacobsens deal with him.”

  “Okay. We will need to take the guest book ledger as evidence...”

  “I get it.” she said submissively and hurriedly shuffled off to the reception desk. She returned with the book and handed it to Ackroyd.

  “Where is Mr Storrington?” asked Cambridge.

  “He not here in evenings. Only come sometimes.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Sanchez. We will need you to make a further statement in due course. You won’t be leaving the country or anything, will you?” enquired Ackroyd semi-seriously.

  “No, no.” she stated emphatically shaking her head and laughing.

  Ackroyd turned to Cambridge with a recognizably thoughtful expression upon his wearied face, saying: “First thing tomorrow morning, we’ll pay Mr and Mrs Jameson a little visit.”

  The Jameson’s lived at 16 South Park Lane, a three-bedroom Victorian terraced property, which faced onto South Park. As the detectives drew up in their black Wolseley saloon, a few curtains twitched, while a group of scruffy children loitered by the park railings about ten yards away: one intimidatingly bounced a football as he wandered into the road, glaring knowingly at the two detectives as they stepped from their car.

  “Looks like a welcoming committee.” noted Ackroyd disdainfully. Cambridge winked at them, his large imposing frame enough to deter any cocky remarks. Teddy knocked on the door with his usual forcefulness, repeating the demand several times, until attention was finally provoked.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t knock the blimin’ door of its ‘inges!” complained Pat Jameson as she reached to open the door, only to be completely disarmed by the sight of the two well-dressed detectives, who she immediately identified as police; she stepped back in fear of what might be their purpose.

  “No need for alarm, madam.” assured DS Cambridge. The detectives displayed their warrant cards. “Mrs Patricia

  Jameson?”

  “Yes. What’s happened?”

  “We just need to speak with you in regards to your son, Arthur.” explained Ackroyd.

  “Is he okay?” she asked clutching at her chest.

  “We couldn’t say, Mrs Jameson; we’re trying to trace his whereabouts.”

  “Oh, I see. You’d better come in.”

  The living room had the distinct smell of an ashtray; they were evidently heavy smokers. Pat guided them to sit on the sofa. “May I get you some tea?” she asked, slightly pretentiously, masking her North London accent.

  “That would be grand.” responded Cambridge.

  While Pat clattered around in the kitchen, the detectives took the opportunity to look around the room, particularly at the family photographs on the mantel above the fireplace and in the display cabinet in the corner. Despite the uninviting smell, the room was quite nicely furnished and tastefully decorated. They even had a television.

  Pat returned with a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, a pot of milk and a bowl of sugar. It was all remarkably civilised – not really what they had expected. “How do like your tea?” she asked politely. Once they were all settled with their little blue flower patterned cups and saucers, and individual spoons, Ackroyd began the questioning: “So, Mrs Jameson...”

  “Call me Pat.”

  “Yes, okay – Pat. We would like to speak to your son in connection with an investigation we are conducting. Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “No. We ‘aven’t seen him since he left in February ‘63.” she said dispassionately, “I do get flowers sent, occasionally.” “I see. So, you have no idea where he could be?”

  “No, but in London, I think. The flowers I get are always from a London-based florist.”

  “Any particular one?”

  “No. But, mostly West London.”

  “When was the last time he sent you flowers?”

  “Oh, a couple of months ago... May: it was my birthday. That was the first time for a while, actually.”

  “So, was he living here in February ‘63?”

  “Yes – for about six months.”

  “Where was he before that?”

  “Bramley. He ‘ad a job at a ware’ouse in Guildford...”

  “Guildford?” repeated Ackroyd with surprise and piqued interest.

  “Yes. My ‘usband’s sister lives in Bramley – so ‘e stayed with ‘er while ‘e ‘ad that job.”

  “Where is your husband, Pat?”

  “Working. E’s a plumber.”

  “When will he be home?”

  “‘E usually gets ‘ome for lunch at aroun’ twelve firty... Dependin’ on jobs.”

  Ackroyd checked his watch purposefully: it was only 10.15. Following a few slurps of tea, he continued: “Do you have any photos of your son, Mrs Jameson?”

  “Yes, but they’re quite old.” she said pointing to a small portrait on the mantel piece: “That one was when ‘e was eighteen.”

  Ackroyd carefully picked up the frame she had pointed at: “Could we borrow this?” he boldly asked.

  “I suppose... What exactly has he done?” she enquired, slightly perturbed.

  “I’m sorry to say that we think he may have been involved in a murder.” said Ackroyd bluntly.

  “Oh my. A murder? I know ‘e’s a bit of a bad boy – but murder? I can’t believe that.”

  “He is just a suspect at this stage. It’s very important that we talk to him, if only to eliminate him from the enquiry.” explained Ackroyd more tactfully.

  “Of course. Yes, ‘e should clear ‘is name.”

  “And you are sure you don’t know of any where he could be?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’ve no idea – really.” she insisted in response to the detectives distrusting stares.

  “You know he’s been in prison a number of times for various crimes: mainly thieving of one kind or another?”

  “Well, yes, but I try not to listen to gossip. ‘E’s always been a bit wayward, I’m afraid; ever since ‘e was a teenager, really. I ‘onestly don’t know why. ‘Is brothers were never like that.” “How many children do you have?” asked DS Cambridge.

  “Three boys; Arthur’s the eldest, and a daughter – she’s the youngest.”

  “I assume they’ve all flown the nest?”

  “Oh yes. They’re all married; got families. I’ve got four grandchildren.” she announced proudly.

  Ackroyd studied t
he black and white photograph of the young Arthur Jameson intently, before asking: “Does your son, Arthur, have blue eyes?”

  “Yes, ‘e does.”

  “Okay, Mrs Jameson. I need to get back to the station. Would you and your husband be willing to come to Scotland Yard this evening to provide some background on your son?” Noting Pat’s apprehension, Ackroyd pointedly added: “It could be important – especially if he’s innocent.”

  “Yes, okay. I can see that. What time?”

  “When would be convenient?”

  “We ‘ave dinner at six.”

  “I’ll send a car to collect you at seven.” stated Ackroyd resolvedly.

  Chapter Fifteen

  (18 August 1965)

  On their return to the station, Ackroyd instructed DS Cambridge to start the process of applying to the court for an arrest warrant to be issued for Arthur Jameson in connection with the Marsholm Wood murder, rape and attempted murder. The photograph supplied by Patricia Jameson may have been a few years out of date, but there was something about that face, despite its youthful innocence; it reminded him a little of Pederson, and Vera indicated that Pederson looked a little like the gunman – this might not be a coincidence. Arthur Jameson was certainly something of a reprobate, but was he capable of such a serious crime?

  That afternoon Ackroyd studied the notes gathered on Arthur Jameson’s criminal history. His decline seemed to have begun at eighteen, when he was convicted of stealing a motorcycle; he didn’t have a driving licence or insurance, either. That got him a 12-month probation order. Later that year he got his National Service call-up, but he failed the medical, classified as unfit for service due to his illiteracy. In 1959, his increasing bouts of criminality had resulted in several short prison terms for burglary and theft. Following his release from Walton Prison in Liverpool in January 1960, he next shows up on the radar in London’s Soho district in the July, where he was arrested and later convicted of stealing cars, plus, driving while disqualified, (in addition to not having a licence in the first place). He got 2 years corrective training at Maidstone Prison. On his release in June 1962, the troubled waters of Arthur Jameson’s life apparently stilled, until September 1963, when he was convicted of a string of burglaries and given a surprisingly lenient sentence of 18 months, initially in Strangeways (in Manchester) and completed in Wandsworth Prison. There was an interesting side note relating to his time in Maidstone Prison, during which time he had made several escape attempts and been sent to Camp Hill (on the Isle of Wight) as punishment, where he also tried to escape. He was later transferred back to Maidstone to finish the sentence after a period of good behaviour. What Ackroyd had particularly noted from his spells in Camp Hill and Strangeways, were the medical reports. A doctor at Strangeways had described Jameson as a ‘potential psychopath, with hysterical tendencies’; while a doctor at Camp Hill had gone further and described him as ‘mentally sub-normal, demonstrating psychotic behaviour, with delusions of grandeur’. This was potentially explosive information in Ackroyd’s pursuit of a credible suspect.

  What he also now had were statements from the Jacobsens which were essentially as per their original statements, which attested that it was ‘A. Johnson’ who had arrived at the Verona Hotel at 2 PM on the 29th of July and asked for a single room, but was allocated Room 26 as a provisional measure, for which he left a deposit and was given the key; in the event, no single room came available, so when ‘A. Johnson’ arrived at the hotel late – just as he had warned Derick Jacobsen that afternoon – he had no option but to occupy Room 26 and pay the extra in the morning; the Jacobsens did not witness his arrival and could only say that it was after midnight. Pederson was now confirmed as having booked-in at 11 PM on the 30th July and given Room 8, re-establishing his alibi. However, Derick Jacobsen had added some new important information relating to ‘A. Johnson’s’ departure from the hotel, in that he had booked-out at 9 am, but then returned ten minutes later asking to retrieve a bag from the room – Derrick had given him the key and allowed him to do this unattended; before finally leaving the hotel he had asked for directions to Paddington Station, to which Derrick had suggested catching the No.36 bus from the high street. [The route of the No.36 bus and 36A bus overlapped between West Kilburn and New Cross Gate.] This now provided two tangible connections between Johnson/Jameson and the murder weapon, (even though it didn’t entirely make sense). The Jacobsens’ description of ‘A. Johnson’ compared well with the identikit image provided by Vera and they had agreed that he did bear a good resemblance to ‘A. Johnson’/Jameson. They also agreed that Pederson had a passing similarity to ‘A. Johnson’, but that they were distinctly different and there was no longer any confusion; Linda Maccawley recalled that Pederson had hazel coloured eyes, but could not recall seeing ‘A. Johnson’; Derick on the other hand had no recollection of eye colour, but believed Pederson to be the taller of the two men, who at 5ft 10in did not fit Vera’s description.

  Ackroyd waited impatiently for the Jameson’s to arrive at Scotland Yard. At a quarter to eight, they were ushered into the interview room and provided with cups of tea. When Ackroyd and Cambridge entered the room they were almost overcome by the cigarette smoke, as the Jameson’s were both puffing away like troopers. The detectives decided the best course of action was to join in; they both sat down opposite the Jameson’s and lit their cigarettes.

  “Thank you for coming.” started Ackroyd, “I am Detective Superintendant Ackroyd and this is Detective Sergeant

  Cambridge. Sorry about the lateness, but we are investigating a very serious crime...” “Is it the Marsholm Wood murder?” asked Ernie Jameson.

  “Yes it is, Mr Jameson. We would like to understand the background to your son’s criminal history, so that we can establish a complete picture.”

  “We just want to clear his name.” noted Pat.

  “Of course. The more we know, the better we can gauge what kind of man your son is.”

  “He’s not a murderer or a rapist, I’ll tell y’u that.” insisted Ernie, “The boy doesn’t even smoke or drink, which is miracle growing up in our ‘ouse... You be ‘ard pressed to get a swear word out of ‘im, e’ver – which is rare in this day an’ age.”

  Ackroyd carefully noted these comments, which were more incriminating than vindicating. “That may be, Mr Jameson, but he is a criminal.” he reminded.

  “I don’t know why – we never brought ‘im up that way.” commented Pat with an unmistakeable tone of disappointment.

  “No. We’re law abidin’ and ‘ard workin’.” added Ernie.

  “What was Arthur like at school?” asked Cambridge.

  “‘E wasn’t too bad; though at that bloody school in Wembley they tried to have ‘im put in a special school – where they send the idiots.” complained Pat, “‘E wasn’t thick, like they were sayin’.” “What did he do when he left school?” asked Ackroyd.

  “‘E got a job wiv the council. I was working in the council’s sanitation department as a plumber. I managed to get ‘im a job in the refuse department, sorting the refuse...” said Ernie.

  “‘E ‘ated that job.” interjected Pat, “Only stuck at it for a few months.” “That’s after ‘e banged ‘is ‘ead.” added Ernie, notably defensive.

  “He banged his head?” enquired Ackroyd with curiosity.

  “Yeah, it was an accident: ‘e fell off his bike. ‘E was in ‘ospital for a couple o’ days.” explained Pat.

  “‘E was knocked out for ten hours.” Ernie elaborated, “That weren’t the end of it, e’ver. After they let ‘im leave ‘ospital, ‘e was supposed t’go back after a week, but ‘e just disappeared all of a sudden, like. Next fing we ‘ear ‘e’s in ‘ospital in

  Brighton – that was about a munf later. We went down to identify ‘im. They found ‘im in the street, sparko. They reckoned ‘e was ‘alf-starved an’ sufferin’ from the cold. The doctors fought ‘e might of ‘ad a brain ‘emorrhage, so they did this operation on ‘is ‘ead; but they did
n’ find nufin’...”

  “They said ‘e was mentally defective, but I weren’t ‘avin’ that.” snarled Pat.

  “‘E went to stay wiv my sister in Bramley for a couple of weeks, to rest-up, like. Then ‘e came back ‘ome an’ got a job on one of those digger fings in a scrapyard, loading the cars, like. ‘E stuck at that for well over two years.” “When did he leave that job?” enquired Ackroyd.

  “That was early part o’ ‘59.” replied Ernie, “They sacked ‘im – we don’ know why. That’s when ‘e started gettin’ in real trouble wiv the law.”

  “‘E disappeared not long after that, though I think ‘is brother, John, was in touch with ‘im... Then ‘e came back ‘ome after spell in prison – that was mid ’62. He stayed at ‘is aunts’ for a few weeks while workin’ in a ware’ouse in Guildford. ‘E seemed to want t’reform. That’s when Ernie set up ‘is own plumbin’ business; Arthur was go’n’ ‘o learn the trade wiv ‘im.” explained Pat while glancing sympathetically at her husband.

  “Yeah, I sank everythin’ into that for ‘im.” added Ernie irritably.

  “So what happened?” asked DS Cambridge.

  “Everyfin’ was fine for about five months. Then we went on ‘oliday, me an’ the wife – Southend. Left ‘im in charge.

  When we came back, ‘e’d scarpered. We a’n’t seen ‘im since. That was March ’63.”

  “He was sentenced to 18 months in September ’63. He was released in March this year.” Ackroyd enlightened them. “We wondered why we never ‘eard anyfink from ‘im. ‘E usually sends ‘is mum flowers – every so often, like.” “Do you know of any girlfriends?” asked Ackroyd.

  “Oh, ‘e was always seeing some girl or other. Nothin’ serious – that I know of.” answered Pat.

  Ackroyd went home that evening with a growing sense that this time they were onto the right man, now they just had to find him. After an unusually good nights’ sleep, he breezed into the office that Thursday morning with an air of confidence. His first task was to prepare a press release identifying Arthur Jameson as the new prime suspect in the ‘Marsholm Murder’ case. The newspapers would also be supplied with the photo of the eighteen year old Arthur. Once this hit the Thursday evening and Friday morning papers, he could reasonably hope to flush out their wanted man fairly quickly. With that in mind, Ackroyd was already thinking ahead to a possible trial, in respect of which, an in-depth interview with Vera at the Yard was an essential requisite. Therefore, his next task was to visit Vera at Guy’s and speak with her doctors. DS Cambridge was assigned the onerous duty of dealing with the media, while Ackroyd drove to the hospital alone. On arriving at Vera’s room he was delighted to witness her using crutches to get herself to the toilet, though she was still reliant on her wheelchair for the most part.