Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “How could you be sure?”

  “Because it never was.” Anne covered her face with her hands for a moment, “Look, to me she was just another one of Gregg’s conquests; but his loyalty was always to me and the kids... Despite... Despite everything, I know he loved me and I loved him; he wouldn’t have left me.”

  “Okay, Anne. I’m sorry I have to rake up all this stuff, but I need to know who I can trust... I believe you, Anne. Now I can focus on your husbands’ murderer. You understand?”

  “Yes. You’re just doing your job... And I know you’re going to catch him.”

  “DC Cartwright will take your statement regarding your movements on the 30th and 31st of July this year...” “But Maidstone police already have all that.” she pointed out disconcertedly.

  “Yes, but we like to have our own statements at the Yard.” he explained deceptively, “It won’t take long, then we’ll have you back home with your children.” he added in an effort to placate her.

  Ackroyd returned to his office fairly satisfied that Anne was not involved in any way with her husband’s murder. He wrote a note and pinned it to his reminders board behind his desk, it read: ‘Interview Ewan Williams’.

  Late that afternoon, the case took yet another unexpected turn, when he received a phone call from none other than Arthur Jameson, himself.

  “Hello? Is that Mr Ackroyd?”

  “Yes, I am Detective Superintendent Ackroyd.” he asserted in a bid to establish his authority.

  “This is the man you’re lookin’ for. I’m Arfur; Arfur Jameson.”

  “Where are you Arthur?”

  “I can’t tell y’u that Mr Ackroyd. I just wanted to let y’u know I didn’ do it – I a’n’t no murderer; and I a’n’t a rapist eiver. I wouldn’ do that Mr Ackroyd.”

  “If you’re innocent, Arthur, the best thing you can do is to turn yourself in.”

  “Fing is, wiv my record, they’ll jus’ pin it on me. I know ‘ow it works, sir. It’s results that counts.”

  “I promise you, Arthur, you will be treated fairly. You can trust me.”

  “I wanna, sir. But I can’t do no more time.”

  “Arthur, listen to me: if you’re innocent you have nothing to fear.”

  “No one’ll believe me, Mr Ackroyd. I can’t prove my alibi, see. No one wants t’ ‘elp me.”

  “If you have an alibi, we can check that.”

  “They won’t ‘elp, sir, tha’s the trouble.”

  “Who? Who won’t help you?”

  “My... associates. They’re criminals y’u see, sir. They don’ wanna get involved.”

  “Well, maybe we can persuade them.”

  “They’d kill me, sir. I got t’ go.” The phone went dead. Ackroyd immediately dialled the switchboard, who were tracing the call. They were only able to say that the call originated in the Charing Cross area. Ackroyd did at least know now that his suspect was in London, and that he was rattled.

  Chapter Seventeen

  (21 & 23 August 1965)

  The weekend had been both an interesting and intriguing adventure for Anne mason: she had taken a trip that included a visit to her brother’s antiques shop, which was on Ealing Broadway, with her new “friend”, Detective Sergeant Collins of Guildford CID – or Tony, as she knew him. Collins had been attracted to Anne Mason from the first moment he met her and had kept in contact with her – purely out of professional concern, of course. He supposed that as he was no longer directly involved in the investigation into Gregg’s murder, he was sufficiently distanced from the enquiry to be able to fraternize with her, contrary to normal police policy. Ackroyd would certainly not have approved of that assertion. So it was that on the Saturday [21 August 1965] Collins had accompanied Anne on her shopping trip in Ealing, incorporating a visit and lunch with her brother. Her mum and brother had encouraged this little outing and were (seemingly) comfortable about her consorting with another man so soon after Gregg’s atrocious death, on the basis that it would distract her away from morbid thoughts. But, what had started out that afternoon as a pleasant social engagement, suddenly developed into an extraordinary pantomime of events, initiated by a bizarre coincidence.

  Anne clutched Tony’s hand as they emerged from Ewan Williams’ antique shop, having earlier enjoyed a sumptuous meal at Sorrentino’s Restaurant; for the first time for many years, she felt young and that life could be an exciting, enjoyable experience, instead of one of drudgery, disappointment and distress. As they wandered along the shop fronts, the freedom of the sixties engulfed Anne from every direction: fashion, music, entertainment, technology, luxury and sexual emancipation, were all within her grasp. Then something caught her eye; it was a fleeting glimpse that made her turn and desperately search the faces of the hordes of people thronging the streets; an inexplicable sense of foreboding overcame her.

  “Tony...? Tony? I think, I think I saw him.” she stuttered, tugging at Tony’s arm.

  “What? Saw who?”

  “Him - the murderer!”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Over there: he came out of that shop, there – the florists.” she insisted pointing across the busy road to a flower shop.

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “I don’t know - I just know!” she shouted, now shaking and becoming increasingly disturbed. Tony scanned the crowds, but could see no one who fitted the description. “It was him, Tony, I swear. I just know.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “I’m not sure; it was just a flash, but I know it was him.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s get you back to Ewan’s and I’ll speak to the people in the florists – okay?”

  Once Anne was safely locked inside Ewan’s shop and under his protection, DS Collins snapped into detective mode. He hastily crossed the road, nearly causing an accident, intent on staying on the trail before it went stone cold. He entered the flower shop and approached the counter, where a young woman was serving. Collins waved his warrant card: “Did a man just leave your shop?” he enquired.

  “Sorry? What, just now?”

  “Well, a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh, yes – yes, there was this guy...”

  “Did he buy anything?”

  “Yes. He ordered some flowers for a Mrs Jameson in Ilford.” she said consulting the order book.

  Collins wrote down the address: “Do you have phone I could use?” he asked anxiously.

  “Um, yes, in the back.” answered the girl; she lifted the opening in the counter and allowed him through, directing him to the telephone in the office at the back of the shop. Collins rang his inspector at Guildford station, who by chance was on duty that day.

  “Sir, it’s Collins. Look, this is a bit strange, but you know the Marsholm case, well I think the gunman has just visited a florist in Ealing high street.”

  “You’re kidding?” quizzed Longbridge.

  “No sir – straight up. I’ve just checked the order book and he sent some flowers to his mother, I think. It’s definitely him gov’...”

  “Okay, Tony. You stay on the scene and have a look ‘round for him, just in case. I’ll contact the Met’ boys – best to let them handle it.”

  The report of Saturday’s debacle in Ealing was sitting on Ackroyd’s desk when he arrived on the Monday morning. The Ealing police had converged on Ealing Broadway en masse and conducted a thorough door to door enquiry of all the shops in the general vicinity – it had caused quite a stir, but it was all to no avail: with the exception of the Florists, no one else had been aware of Jameson’s presence and there was not a single witness; even the girl in the florists had little to offer, as she hadn’t paid much attention to the man ordering flowers for his mother; nor, fortunately for DS Collins, did she recall much about the detective – such as, his name – who had first spoken to her. Consequently, there was something of an internal enquiry into how such a large and costly police contingent could have been justified and who exactly the source of its init
iation was. There were a lot of red faces and inevitable closing of ranks. However, it had told Ackroyd that Jameson was clearly still in London and sufficiently relaxed to be wandering around the streets in broad daylight. The note that had been intended to be attached to the flowers had been intercepted: it was in Jameson’s own hand writing, which could prove to be useful evidence; its content was also of considerable interest – it read: ‘Deer Mum, Pleese keep faiff in me, yor lovin son, Arthur’. Either Jameson was innocent, or in denial. Whichever was the case, Ackroyd surmised that he was probably not going to get an easy confession from Jameson and therefore, there was not going to be a nice simple closure to the case, even when they did capture him. But, that was not to be the last of the days’ revelations.

  Today Ackroyd had made arrangements for Vera to be brought to the Yard to be formally interviewed; it had been organised for 3 PM. That morning, though, Ackroyd had called his investigative team together to bring everyone up to date as to the current status of the enquiry; Detective Chief Superintendant Allsop was present.

  “Good morning gentlemen. I thought this would be a good time to refresh everyone with the ongoing state of affairs. As you all know, Arthur Jameson is now our primary target; what some of you won’t be aware of is that he contacted me late on Friday by phone, from somewhere in the Charing Cross area. He’s claiming innocence and doesn’t seem keen to come in. This morning I had a report that he had visited a florist in Ealing on Saturday, to send flowers to his mother – something he likes to do from time to time. So, it’s possible that he’s hiding out somewhere in North West London, so this where we should focus our attention at this stage. We need to get out there and shake a few trees, see what falls out. I know you’ve all worked flat out following every lead under the sun, but now we need redouble our efforts, because we’re getting close. This is a repeat offender, who knows the system. However, he’s obviously still pretty complacent, even if he is getting rattled – and that will be his undoing.

  He may have adopted a disguise of some sort, so don’t be too reliant on the general description. We have a face; we know he’s about five-seven with distinctive blue eyes and average build. He may have changed his dress, hair colour and style. We need to find out who his associates are and lean on them; find any excuse to get them in for questioning. A new mug shot photo will be appearing in the papers soon, which hopefully will bring in some more leads; Teddy will get you a copy of it, if you haven’t got one.

  Later today I shall be interviewing Miss Fable to obtain a full and complete account of the crime; her medical condition has been improving enough for her to leave hospital, soon – we’ll obviously need to keep a guard on her, wherever she decides to stay.

  We have all the bare bones of a case to convict this character, we just need to catch him and flesh out the details. A nice straightforward identification from Miss Fable would go a long way...” he finally noted with a somewhat caustic overtone, recalling the previous line-up shenanigans. A shallow titter rippled throughout the room, “Okay, men: let’s hit the streets running.” he added as way of dismissal.

  “Let me know as soon as you catch this miscreant.” pronounced DCSupt Allsop, “The Chief Constable wants this one rapped up, pronto.”

  “Yes, sir.” acknowledged Ackroyd barely able to hide his annoyance.

  Once Allsop had left and was out of earshot, Ackroyd took DS Cambridge to one side: “We need to pull out all the stops – I’ve got the bloody Chief on my back, now.”

  “Probably writhing about that business on Saturday, sir.” commented Teddy.

  “Mmm, I’d like to know who lit that firework, myself.” empathised Ackroyd.

  As Ackroyd made his way back to his office, a uniformed Sergeant approached him looking a little disconcerted.

  “Sir: I tried ringing your office, but got no answer...”

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “There’s a dodgy looking villain, if ever I saw one, at the front desk, asking to speak to you, and only you, sir.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “Paris, Dickie Paris, sir.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. Said he’d only speak to you, sir.”

  “Better bring him up, then, Sergeant.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Ackroyd contemplatively doodled as he waited in his office for the mysterious Dickie Paris to be delivered to him. The sergeant knocked on the door and peered in tentatively when Ackroyd acknowledged their arrival.

  “Shall I bring him in, sir.” asked the sergeant uncertainly.

  “Yeah, yeah, bring him in.” Ackroyd instructed casually.

  A rather stout man entered: Richard Paris was a one-time middle-weight boxer, who was now well past his prime; balding and craggy-faced, with tattoos on his hands, he wasn’t the type of individual one would wish to meet in a dark alley, even if he was now getting too old, too overweight and too unfit to be much trouble to anyone. However, the less obvious truth was that he was now a spent force, a man well past his prime and in declining health – he just didn’t have the stomach for violence anymore; maybe he had taken too many knocks to the head, because he had lost his bottle, which wasn’t an easy thing to come to terms with for a lifelong hard-bastard.

  “Would you like me to stay?” the sergeant asked, slightly concerned for Ackroyd’s safety; but, the Superintendant was more than familiar with the rougher end of the villainous scale of thuggery; despite his small frame, he could handle himself, having trained in self-defence during his service with the RAF, and Ackroyd kept himself fit.

  Paris sat down in an archetypically over-confident manner and folded his arms, displaying the brashness of a hardened ex-convict, completely unfazed by any form of authority. “You Ackroyd, then?” he asked disrespectfully.

  “I am Detective Superintendant Ackroyd, yes.”

  “I got some info’ for y’u. To do wiv that Marsholm murder.”

  Ackroyd sat up: “What do you know about that?”

  “I know oo y’ur lookin’ for – see, gov’?” “Not really, but go on.” retorted Ackroyd.

  Paris leant forward in a surreptitious manner: “I know Arfur Jameson, see?”

  “So, do you know where we can find him, then?”

  “Not exactly. But, maybe I can give y’u the nod when I do.”

  “So what’s in it for you?” challenged Ackroyd, knowing the criminal mentality.

  “Nufin’ – nufin’. Fing is, right, I might be a bit of an old lag, but that don’ mean I’m okay wiv rapin’ young girls. I gotta daughter myself... Let’s face it, y’u gonna collar ‘im sooner or later; but I knows, sooner’s better than later – right?”

  “Go on.”

  “Me an Arfur’s been mates f’r a few years; ‘e stays at my place sometimes. My name’s gonna come up, an’ I don’ want no trouble. What ‘e’s done, a’n’t nufin’ t’do wiv me, right? So, maybe I can ‘elp y’u case – know what I mean? Jus’ turn a blind eye to a few fings – right?”

  “What exactly do you have for me?” demanded Ackroyd.

  “Look, the boy’s gonna ask f’r me ‘elp, sometime. ‘E’s gonna run out o’ places to ‘ide. When ‘e gets in touch, I’ll let you know – jus’ between us, like – right?”

  “Okay. And what else are you offering.”

  “I’ll give evidence f’r the prosecution; tell what I know.”

  “And what do you know?”

  “Nufin’ about the murder, but if ‘e’s ol’ mate is on the side o’ the prosecution, that a’n’t gonna be good for ‘e’s case,

  is it?”

  “And what am I supposed to turn a blind eye to?”

  “Well, jus’ don’ dig int’me business too much, like – y’u know?”

  “I see. Okay Mr Paris, if you can deliver him to us, before we catch him ourselves, maybe we can help eachother.” “Good on y’u, Mr Ackroyd – y’ur a gent’.”

  “First up, I want a list of anyone he associates with and
their addresses – by Wednesday; no later.” Demanded Ackroyd sternly, which instantly took the self-satisfied smile off Paris’ face.

  Vera arrived at the Yard in an unmarked police car driven by DC Pawson. She was now using just crutches to get around for the most part, having become quite adept with them, so had dispensed with the wheelchair on this occasion. She was accompanied by a nurse, who was joined by a WPC in the interview room. Ackroyd decided to conduct the interview, with the just the WPC taking notes; the nurse was entertained in another room, to be called only if needed.

  Ackroyd took her through the events of 30th and 31st July methodically, while stopping intermittently to allow Vera to write down her account as they went along, then double-checking the details with the WPC’s notes. It was a laborious enterprise taking close to four hours, including occasional tea and toilet breaks. By the finish, Vera was exhausted: she had expended every bit of her energy, determined to get the job done, once and for all. Ackroyd thanked Vera for her patient cooperation and openness. This was likely to be the last time she would require questioning prior to any court case; the only step left, was to identify the culprit. In respect to that, Ackroyd insisted that she stay at the hospital under guard until they could charge someone, presuming that this would be an imminent occurrence.

  Ackroyd managed to catch DS Cambridge as he left the Yard to go home: “Teddy! Did you manage to get the dirt on Paris?” he enquired whilst jogging to catch up.

  “Ah, yes sir. I put Alger on it; he’s still working on it – poor bugger.” “Great. It’s been an interesting day.” declared Ackroyd with a smirk.

  “The investigation’s certainly starting to gain some momentum.”

  “I do hope so, Teddy, I do hope so.” admitted Ackroyd, “Any word on the street?”

  “Nothing so far. He must have some damn good friends...”

  “Luckily for us, not all of them; and the longer this goes on, the fewer he’ll keep... Maybe we should put up a reward, though.”

  “The Chief Constable’s not great fan of rewards, is he?”