by Jason De'Ath
“Good morning, Vera.” he said chirpily.
“Oh, hello Mr Ackroyd. I was wondering when you’d be coming back.”
“We have a new suspect. We’re making a statement to the press this morning, giving details...” “You haven’t actually caught him, then?” she remarked with a tinge of disappointment.
“No. But I believe we’re on the right track, now; it’s just a matter of time.”
“I do hope so.”
“Anyway, the point is...” he started, sitting down; Vera perched herself on the edge of the bed, “We have to think about the possibility of building a case for trial, so we will need you to come to the Yard and make another statement – we really will need to go over every detail this time. Are you ready for that?”
“Yes – as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“That’s good. I just have to clear it with the doctors and we’ll make arrangements as soon as.” “By the way, Anne Mason is visiting me tomorrow...” “Is she?” queried Ackroyd.
“I thought it had been cleared by the police.”
“Well, someone forgot to inform me. You’re happy about this are you?”
“Yes, she’s suffered the same loss as me; I suppose she wants to form a united front.” “What time is this?”
“About eleven tomorrow morning.”
“I see... Maidenhead division have been taking care of that side of things.” said Ackroyd thoughtfully, wondering whether he should formally interview Anne Mason sooner rather than later and that he could get her into the Yard while she’s in the area. “Have you met before?”
“A few times.” she replied circumspectly.
“Do I detect a note of acrimony?”
“Why would you think that?” she countered coyly.
“Come on, Vera. We’re both adults; even if there really was nothing going on, people will suspect it. And that could be used against you in court. Be honest – off the record...”
Vera took a deep breath and considered the request for a moment: “Yes, okay: Gregg and I were seeing eachother; she knew that. I don’t think it was the first time. She seemed to put up with it, most of the time; then every so often she’d get all paranoid... A couple of times she came to visit me at home; pleading for me to end it. I told her it wasn’t serious and even I expected it to fizzle out eventually... Perhaps I’m being punished for my indiscretions.”
“With respect, they did have children – did that not bother you?”
“Yes, sometimes. But, like I said, I was never going to steal him – he wouldn’t have left her, anyway. I was just a bit of fun; I never had any illusions about that. It was like that was how their marriage was. But he still loved her, I’m sure; and he wouldn’t have left his kids. I know ‘people’ will pour scorn on it, but if wasn’t me, it would have been someone else. I can’t excuse it; I don’t feel good about it. It just sort of happened.”
There was an awkward silence; Ackroyd decided to change the subject: “Are you intending to return to work, Vera?”
“No... No, I’ve decided to stay with my parents for a while, until I can get my head straight. I don’t think I’ll be going back to Alcott’s.”
“That’s understandable. Probably best to make a complete break with the past.”
“I never dreamed my life would be like this...” she commented mournfully.
“Hey, don’t let this ruin your life, Vera. You’re still young; you can get over this.” assured Ackroyd consolingly, taking her hand in a gesture of comfort.
“I expect so. People get over worse: I mean, there was a war not long ago. Most people seemed to have got over that pretty well.”
“That’s the spirit, Vera. Keep calm and carry on, as they say.” Vera smiled wistfully. “I served in the RAF during the war. Believe me, I lost a lot of good friends... Took a bit of shrapnel here and there – I was lucky, though, I survived; like you Vera: you’re a survivor. It’s up to people like us to make certain that it was worth all the suffering in the end, and come out if it victorious.”
Ackroyd left Vera in a positive mood; her doctors were also very positive about her recovery and were content to allow her to make the trip to Scotland Yard to give what would likely be a lengthy interview. Ackroyd returned to his office and immediately rang the Chief Inspector at Maidenhead Police Station to instruct him to arrange for Anne Mason to be delivered to Scotland Yard following her visit at Guy’s Hospital.
Chapter Sixteen
(20 August 1965)
Vera was experiencing a conflicting mixture of benevolence and agitation towards her meeting with Anne Mason; she apprehensively monitored the clock on the wall of the hospital room, mentally acknowledging each flick of the minute hand as the time languorously counted down to 11 o’clock, and then continued, until at last, at three minutes past there was a flurry of activity outside her room, visible through the glass porthole window of the door. A WPC (from Maidenhead Police Station) opened the door a little and peered in.
“Hello Miss Fable. I’m WPC Jones from Maidenhead Police; Mrs Mason is here to see you. Are you ready?” “Yes. Bring her in, please.” answered Vera graciously.
Anne Mason appeared in the doorway as the WPC moved over to one side, (though, remaining in the room); she was dressed rather sombrely in pale green two-piece dress, which looked a bit too old for her. She had clearly given some thought to her appearance, as this was not her usual modernistic style.
“Hello, Vera...” Anne started, then moving toward Vera, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, put out her hand in act of conciliation, taking Vera’s and affectionately squeezing it, before sitting down. “I wanted to see you sooner, but they wouldn’t let me.”
“Yes, I heard.” responded Vera a little reticently.
“So, how are you – all things considered?”
“I’m doing well; I should be able to go home soon.” she said somewhat optimistically.
“You won’t be on your own, will you?” asked Anne in an effort to show some concern.
“No, I mean to my parents’, not home to my flat. I don’t think I could be alone – not yet.”
“It was a shame you missed the funeral. It was a lovely service... Thanks for the flowers, they were beautiful.” “I’m afraid I didn’t arrange that: I wasn’t in a fit state.” clarified Vera a little coldly.
“Oh... Well, I’m sure it’s what you would have wanted.” proffered Anne out of politeness.
“Yes, I would have wanted to go. I will visit his grave as soon as I can.”
“Yes, you must... We haven’t got the headstone sorted, yet, though. I’m sure it won’t be long, though... You do seem to be recovering incredibly well, I must say. What are your plans for the future?”
“I want to be ready for my day in court. That’s all I’m focused on at the moment.” “Yes, I read the paper this morning; I see they have a new suspect – looks promising.” “They have to catch him first.” reminded Vera.
“I’m sure they will, now. He can’t hide forever.” Anne reassured.
“I hope not.”
“Oh, I didn’t know what to bring you,” Anne declared in an effort to defrost the atmosphere, “so I brought you some perfume.” she continued, rummaging in her handbag, then handed a small, but rather luxurious box to Vera, “It’s Chanel...
I thought it was something you wouldn’t be able to get in here.”
Vera took the box, not sure quite how to react: this was an expensive present and a pleasant one, but somehow it just didn’t seem appropriate. Nonetheless, she accepted the present with due propriety. “Thank you” being all she could think to say.
“May be I could visit you, again, sometime.” suggested Anne.
Vera hesitated to ask ‘what for?’, but managed to restrain herself. “Well, perhaps if I’m still here in a few weeks.” she proposed, hoping that she wouldn’t be.
“Yes. Yes that would be...nice. Yes. Well, it’s been lovely to see you looking so well.” Anne charitably submitte
d, rising from her chair and smiling ingenuously.
“Thanks for coming.” stated Vera, purely out of etiquette.
“No problem. Keep well.” advocated Anne as she turned and left the room. Vera sighed with relief.
Meanwhile, Ackroyd had been handed a report relating to a road accident involving a hire car in Ireland. This had happened on the Monday [16th August] and had just flagged up as suspicious because the address given by the driver to the hire company was in London; the driver apparently bore a resemblance to the photo in the Friday morning papers, which had prompted the police to be contacted. The other tantalising detail was that the driver had given his name as ‘Alfie Johnson’. Moreover, the address given did actually exist: it was in Westbourne Green, not far from Paddington Station. Ackroyd and Cambridge climbed into the trusty Wolseley 6/110 and took a leisurely trip through the bustling London traffic to visit the occupant of No. 4 Senior Street. The car sedately pulled up outside the terraced property – the street was empty and peculiarly quiet, considering its location. Many of the late Victorian houses were noticeably uncared for, but No. 4 seemed to be in good order. Ackroyd pressed the doorbell.
“Hello?” enquired a little old man curiously peering out from the crack he had opened in the doorway.
Ackroyd immediately realised that this was another probable false address: “Hello, sir. We are police officers investigating a road accident – the driver gave this address. May we speak with you?”
The man opened the door a little more. The detectives showed him their warrant cards. “But I don’t have a car.” he stated somewhat befuddled.
“Do you know anyone by the name of Alfie Johnson?” asked Cambridge.
“Johnson, you say?”
“Yes – does that mean anything?”
“Well, I don’t know him...”
“May we come in, sir.” pressed Ackroyd.
“Well, Okay.” The old man left the door open and wandered off. The detectives followed him into his living room, which was very tidy, though rather Spartan. The old man walked over to the mantle and took an unopened letter that was tucked behind a photo, which he handed to Ackroyd. The letter was addressed to ‘A. Johnson’.
“When did you receive this?” asked Ackroyd.
“Yesterday. I don’t know anyone called Johnson.” he informed them in puzzlement.
“It’s okay, Mr?”
“Sorry?”
“Can I ask your name, sir” clarified Ackroyd.
“Oh, yes, Frederick.”
“And your surname?”
“Frederick Miller.”
“Thank you, Mr Miller.” said Ackroyd opening the envelope: it contained an invoice from McNealy Car Hire for the damage to the car that ‘A. Johnson’ had incurred. Ackroyd handed the invoice to Cambridge, who perused it with an expression of resignation.
“I don’t get many letters.” confessed Mr Miller with a tinge of sadness.
“We will take this as evidence, Mr Miller.” Cambridge informed him.
“Yes, yes, of course... It’s not for me, is it?” he acknowledged with a laugh.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Miller. I don’t think we’ll need to bother you, again.” assured Ackroyd.
“Another bloody dead end.” affirmed Ackroyd when the detectives got back in the car.
“The bastard’s bound to crawl out of the woodwork, sooner or later. We’ll get him, sir; someone will grass him up.” reassured Cambridge.
“Yeah... Let’s get back to the station; hopefully, Mrs Mason will be waiting for us.”
Back at the Yard, Mrs Mason had been placed in an interview room and then furnished with a cup of coffee and a biscuit. DC Alger was engaging in an intense conversation with her when Ackroyd entered the room; he immediately gestured to Alger to step outside, making a polite excuse to Anne.
“We’re not running a bloody dating agency.” scolded Ackroyd.
“No, sir.” acknowledged Alger sheepishly.
“Go and get Cartwright.” he ordered testily.
Ackroyd re-entered the room and welcomingly offering his hand to greet her, said: “Hello Mrs Mason. Nice to meet you, again. How was your hospital visit?” Ackroyd gently shook her hand and sat down.
“Pleasant... Vera seems to be doing surprisingly well. She seemed to think she might be discharged soon.”
“Oh, really? I think that may be a little optimistic.” noted Ackroyd.
“Yes, I thought that.”
“Well...may I call you Anne?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Anne, I will need to ask you some questions – for elimination purposes, and also to get a clearer picture of your husband’s circumstances.”
“Okay.” said Anne, slightly perturbed.
“Before we get into that, how are you bearing up?”
“Okay. I’ve still not really come to terms with it; I don’t think I’ll be able to grieve properly until this man is caught.” “Yes, well, we’re working on it. I can assure you that I won’t rest until I have him under arrest and charged.” “I know, Mr Ackroyd, I have faith in you.” Anne asserted in unanticipated homage.
“That’s good to hear, Anne. I won’t let you down, I promise you... I do need to ask one or two difficult questions – I hope you’ll understand that it is my duty to suspect everyone, until proven otherwise.” “I understand.” she said courteously.
“Now, what was your relationship like with your husband?”
“Good. We were happy.”
“How did you feel about his affairs?”
Anne was plainly startled by the bluntness of this question and decidedly shocked at his apparent knowledge of her private business; she was momentarily rattled, but quickly regained her composure: “I... I accepted it. I knew he wouldn’t leave me and the kids. He just used those women to satisfy a need – they never meant anything.”
“It must have hurt you, though, Anne... Did you never feel angry towards those women?”
“No... No, I didn’t. I felt sorry for them; they would never have him the way I do... Did.” Anne was visibly distressed, taking a hanky from her handbag to dab her tears.
“Sorry, Anne. I’ve no wish to upset you, but I have to ask these questions... Okay, let’s move on. On the day your husband was abducted, did he seem his usual self?”
“Yes. Everything was normal.”
“What time did he leave home?”
“About 8.15.”
“Did you know where he was going?”
“Not exactly... He said he was planning a rally with the other members of that club he’s in.”
“I see. When did you report him missing?”
“I didn’t... I mean, sometimes he came back very late. I went to bed; I didn’t know he hadn’t come back until I got up in the morning... I checked if he was anywhere he might have gone, but I couldn’t get a hold of anyone – that’s when I reported it to the police.”
“Okay. And you were home all evening?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“My children.” she answered a tad pugnaciously.
“I see. So you spent the evening at home, alone?”
“Yes.”
“What was the relationship between your brother and your husband?”
“Amicable.”
“They never argued or had a falling out?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Did they get along, or was it more sufferance?”
“They weren’t best buddies – if that’s what you mean. They were always civil, though.”
“How are your children?”
“They miss their daddy... But otherwise, okay. My mum is staying with me for a while, so they have nanny to spoil them rotten.”
“That’s good... Do you see your husbands’ parents?”
“They live abroad – so: rarely. Last time was the funeral.”
Ackroyd sensed some animosity: “How long have they been abroad?”
> “They immigrated to New Zealand two years ago.”
“Did your husband have any siblings?”
“He has a sister. We never see her, though.”
DC Cartwright tapped on the door and entered; “You wanted me, sir?”
“I thought you might like to sit in. This is Mrs Mason.”
“Hello ma’am.” DC Cartwright sat down; Anne smiled sweetly.
“This is DC Cartwright. We’re trying to train him to be a proper policeman.” introduced Ackroyd jokily and then he took the opportunity to wrong foot Anne: “How did you get on with Miss Fable?”
Anne turned slightly pale and became momentarily detached; yet again, she quickly regained her self-assurance: “I hardly knew her... But we did meet once. She seemed very pleasant; clever.”
“How did you come to know where she lived?” he asked knowing that she had told Maidstone police that she had visited her flat when she was trying to find Gregg on that fateful morning.
“Um...?” This had truly stumped her, “Well, Gregg had a list of members’ names and addresses that were at the club...” “What made you think he would be there?”
“I just guessed... He was having an affair with her.” she finally admitted somewhat reluctantly.
“How long had you known?”
“Oh, I always knew. I like to know who my competition is.” she admitted acerbically.
“Is that how you saw Miss Fable: your competition?”
“Yes and no... Gregg and I had an understanding, of sorts. It was never serious.”
