by Jason De'Ath
Almost exactly 41 years after the murder of Gregg Mason and the diabolical attack on Vera Fable, all of the original investigative team were either dead or long retired. DSupt Ackroyd had of course retired immediately after the court case in 1966, and having enjoyed 25 years of peaceful pursuits, died in his sleep in 1991; sadly his wife had preceded him by 10 years, but he always had his family around for comfort and support. DS Cambridge had a somewhat premature death at the age of 56 from a heart attack, undoubtedly the result of many years’ hard drinking. DC Alger left the force in 1970 to pursue a new career as a chartered accountant, retiring to live in Eastbourne. DC Pawson went on to become DI Pawson (rather late in his career), retiring in 1981. DI Longbridge, the original investigating officer, died in 1969 as the result of a car accident while on duty, in pursuit of a van involved in a post office robbery. DS Anthony Collins resigned from the police force on 22nd of January 1966, after a severe dressing down by Chief Inspector Macintosh and the threat of possible demotion. He effectively sacrificed his career for the love of Anne Mason; they married in May of 1967, had two children of their own after starting a new life in Leicester, where Tony established his own private investigation business. When Tony retired in 1992, Anne’s son, Paul, took over the business, while they relocated to their villa in Spain, where they remain to this day. Anne’s brother, Ewan, continued to run his antiques shop until 1999, finally retiring to Harpenden in Hertfordshire where he continues to live with his second wife.
Vera Fable never married, became a florist and lived out a quiet life in the Hampshire market town of Fareham, (close to her parents in Portsmouth,) until her untimely death in 1979 following a hit and run accident; the driver was never traced. Several months earlier, she had begun a collaboration with John Leggett in what was his final attempt to bring the case to the public attention: he died of cancer 2 years later.
Miles Norcroft went on to lead a successful career at the bar, eventually becoming a High Court judge. He also divorced and remarried to his junior, Fiona Letheridge. Retiring in 1992, he died shortly after from pulmonary fibrosis. Oliver Carmichael, the defeated prosecution barrister, decided to conclude his legal career as a circuit judge soon after the trial. What he lacked in success, he made up for in longevity, living until the grand old age of 99. Robi Parmer, Norcroft’s dependable Private Investigator, immigrated to Australia in 1974, where he had considerable success with his detective agency based in Adelaide.
Derick Jacobsen was murdered by another inmate at Walton prison (Liverpool) in 1971 whilst serving a 6 year sentence for blackmail; Linda Maccawley (aka Jacobsen) disappeared in 1972 and was never seen or heard of again. Police informant Eric Whittely, was destined to enter the Witness Protection Program in 1973 when a gangster he had helped to get sent down, put out a contract on his life – whereupon he disappeared into obscurity.
Alfred Pederson led a somewhat clandestine existence, appearing to be financially comfortable without any obvious means of income. Leggett had investigated him extensively in the years after the trial, but could never establish anything particularly incriminating, although he had imparted some curious tales to a number of reporters during the late 1960’s in which he implicated himself as responsible for a murder; but he had always kept it sufficiently vague that no one had ever dared to take it seriously enough to publish anything; the police remained completely disinterested. However, Leggett did uncover some financial irregularities in respect to several of Pederson’s bank accounts – large deposits that could not be explained. Having illegally obtained this information and unable to trace it to its source, he was never in a position to report his findings to the police. Pederson subsequently immigrated to France in 1972 and lived out a solitary existence in a small chateau close to Challans [in western France] until his death in 1978, when he apparently fell down a 30 foot well on his property.
Denise Deneo was never able to recover either her personal or business reputation; consequently, she sold up in 1968 and effectively retired to a caravan park in Ramsgate, where she died in 1995 of an untreated kidney infection – alone and penniless. Three months after her funeral, her caravan mysteriously burned to the ground, destroying what little was left of her legacy.
Mary Paris grew tired of London life, and keen to disappear, she took her grand-daughter to grow up in the expanding market town of Huntingdon in Cambridgeshire, where she obtained a 2-bedroom council home on the Oxmoor estate in 1969. At that time, Huntingdon had a rapidly growing residential community, taking overspill from all over the country, but particularly from London – so she certainly fitted in. The maisonette in the locally notorious Tamar Street – part of the rabbit warren colloquially known as The Rivers – was no palace, but it served its purpose and the environment was in many ways not unlike the complex of flats she had lived in for so long, before the Marsholm murder turned her family’s life upside down. Mary was a heavy smoker and died of emphysema in 1985, leaving her 19 year old daughter to fend for herself – fortunately she was born of stalwart stock, with an instinctive ability to survive anything life could throw at her. Joanne Paris married the following year and settled into her own new found family life, producing three children in the space of six years. The marriage was never destined to last, though; following various failed relationships, by 2006 she was single and living in a rather nicer part of town in small block of flats with her youngest child, 14 year old Marc [The Rivers had completely disappeared following sweeping redevelopment in the late 1990’s]. Her two eldest children, (17 and 18 year old girls,) had already spread their wings and started their own families. Her life was a relatively simple one, revolving around family, friends and work [local estate agent]. There was however, one other factor that had entered into her life in 1994. She was never told anything about her father or the exact circumstances of her mother’s death, so when Arthur Jameson suddenly appeared from the misty past claiming to be her father, she embraced him with open arms. Arthur was now a pensioner and also living in Huntingdon in bungalow in another part of the town.
Patricia and Ernie Jameson never saw their wayward son again following his trial for an armed robbery; amazingly, they both lived on into their seventies, dying within a week of each other in 1999. Arthur’s siblings lived out largely separate existences, none of them ever seeing him again after 1968.
All things considered, Arthur’s life had eventually developed into a fairly pleasant little subsistence, despite his family disowning him; he might even be mistaken for a harmless old man – but it had been a long time coming. After the Marsholm Murder trial, Arthur gradually lapsed back into his old ways, culminating in his involvement with the Dixon brothers and Joe Hebdon [in April 1967], which lead to an armed bank robbery [with a haul of ca £80,000] that ended in two innocent people being seriously injured and the entire gang being caught two days after the raid. As the getaway driver, Arthur was treated to a slightly lighter sentence than the rest of the gang, but still got 22 years. Initially he found himself back in HMP Wandsworth, but after two rather hapless escape attempts he was sent to HMP Wakefield [in 1975], a high security facility where he spent the rest of his incarceration, being released in October 1990 after having served the full 22 years of his sentence. Soon after release he set about tracking down his long lost daughter, but it took four years to finally locate her and once he did, he committed himself to going straight.
Monday morning of the 21st of August 2006 was much like any other for recently promoted Detective Chief Inspector Michelle Cartwright, who now headed up the Cold Case Squad at New Scotland Yard. It had been a busy year though, with a sudden surge of old case reviews instigated by the repeal of the double jeopardy provision in April 2005, and the team had been strengthened to cope with the demand.
DCI Cartwright leafed through the pages of a statement made twenty years earlier, in relation to a double murder discovered in 1985 – but actually committed at least ten years prior – when two bodies tied together, surfaced in the Thames; it was a
particularly perplexing case. Deep in thought, she did not notice DS Johnson knock on the open door and enter the office; he was clutching an old evidence bag.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you come in, Callum.” noted Michelle with some surprise and a hint of disgruntlement.
“Sorry, ma’am...Um, you know I’m working on that 1964 murder-rape...well, I found this in one of the boxes – I thought you might be interested.” Callum handed the rather dog-eared bag to his superior with a look of anticipation. Michelle gingerly examined the bag and read the identification label: the words ‘Marsholm murder’ immediately caught her attention; she glanced up at Callum with a mixture of excitement and expectation beaming from her face. “I think it must have got misfiled.” he explained.
The writing on the label was quite faded, but Michelle could just make out the name ‘Vera Fable’ and the word
‘underwear’; not normally one for profanity, she exclaimed under her breath: “Oh fuck.”
The wide-eyed DS smiled: “I thought that might make your day, ma’am.”
“Yes...Yes, thank you, Cal’.” she gasped, clutching the bag like a treasured possession. Callum jauntily withdrew from the office to leave his boss to savour her gift from the gods.
The DCI could not get the evidence bag booked into the Forensic Laboratory quick enough and immediately requested a DNA analysis. Her next port of call was DCSupt Lancashire’s office to request prioritisation of the Marsholm Murder case; much to her delight, he did not require a great deal of persuasion. She then returned to the CCS main office with a little skip in her step, summoning DI Crickley to join her in her office as she passed his desk.
“Yes, ma’am...You seem very chipper, if you don’t mind me saying so.” said Bob Crickley closing the door.
“Bob, I’ve got a fantastic old case for you...”
“I’m still up to my neck in the Serpentine Slaying, ma’am.”
“Yes, I know.” she noted dismissively, “I want you to put that on the back burner; I’ve got something special for you.
Do you recall the Marsholm Wood murder in 1965?”
“Er, a bit before my time, ma’am.”
“Yes, before mine, too; most of our cases are, Bob.”
“Yes, I suppose so, ma’am. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well, my dad was a DC back then, under Superintendent Ackroyd...” “A legend, ma’am.” acknowledged Crickley.
“Yes, and that was his last major case – but it was never resolved. My dad thought it pretty sad that Ackroyd had to end his career on that one... The main suspect was an Arthur Jameson. He managed to get acquitted by a majority verdict. Apart from one early suspect, no one else was ever linked to it – it’s still all a bit of mystery, really. Anyway, Jameson is still alive, I think. He did a long stretch for armed robbery not long after: he was released in 1990. We looked into the case in 2000, but all the evidence appeared to have been lost...” she leant down to the bottom draw of her desk and produced a thin file, “I did make some preliminary inquiries: he has a daughter living in some place in Cambridgeshire...Huntingdon. He may be living there now. The daughter’s worth checking out, in any case: Joanne Paris – I don’t know what name she’s using these days, though; I believe she’s been married at least once.”
“Excuse my interruption, ma’am, but what’s changed since 2000?” enquired Crickley, slightly bewildered.
“Yes, I’m glad you asked.” she smiled ingratiatingly, “This morning, DS Johnson found a piece of evidence buried in another case box. It’s the one piece of evidence we need to clinch the case, too. I’m getting the DNA checked ASAP...”
“I see. What do you want me to do in the meantime?”
“Like I say, all the other evidence has been destroyed or lost, but there are still the transcripts from the court case: I want you to obtain those and start going through it – familiarize yourself with it. You can use DS Johnson to do your dirty work.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll get right onto it.” assured Crickley getting up to leave the office.
“Keep me posted, Bob.” called Michelle to Crickley as he left the room. “Will do, ma’am.”
That evening, Michelle Cartwright relaxed with her partner Mike at her Paddington flat. As they tucked into a Chinese takeaway [roast duck chow mein], she could not resist mentioning her gem of a breakthrough in the Marsholm Murder case. Mike was an editor at a major publishing house and as such was very well read; he was therefore familiar with John Leggett’s 1967 book.
“Mike? Have you ever heard of the Marsholm Murder case?” she asked casually.
“Marsholm murder...? Ah, yes, The Monster of Marsholm Wood.” he learnedly declared.
“That’s the one. My dad was involved in that, back in ’65. It never did get resolved; the main suspect was acquitted and the case was buried.”
“Leggett’s book seemed to support his innocence, if I recall correctly.”
“Yes, it did, but he rescinded that some years later; probably when he realised Jameson wasn’t quite so meek and mild as he had been fooled into believing... His book was published before Jameson went down for armed robbery.”
“Armed robbery?” exclaimed Mike, slightly taken aback, “Yeah, that doesn’t quite fit with Leggett’s assessment of him... Mind you, the evidence was pretty dubious.”
“Only because the defence made it look like the police had framed him. My dad was on that case and there’s no way that happened.” she empathically asserted.
“No, of course not... But, it was all a bit fishy. I mean, they never really established a motive, did they?”
“Psycho’s don’t need a motive...” she unnecessarily informed him, “Anyway, we’ve got a chance to solve it, at last.” “New evidence?”
“No, no. Very old evidence: the best – DNA... Well, hopefully.”
“If they can extract DNA from 3000 year-old mummies, they can probably get viable samples from just about anything, these days.”
“I do hope so, Mike. I really want this one put to rest... I must remember to ring dad and let him know the good news...”
Chapter Forty-Two
(28 November 2006)
It was a bitter drizzly day; dark and depressing. DS Johnson pulled his grey coloured greatcoat from the back seat of the unmarked Ford Focus and flung it on over his dark grey suit – it wasn’t a particularly good disguise, but he did blend in well with the weather. Bracing himself he embarked on the short walk to the row of bungalows where Jameson’s residence had been traced. The numbering was very unclear and not obviously logical; he spent over ten minutes of wandering up and down and around what was a relatively small block of abodes, because most of the doors had no numbers; also, it was difficult to determine whether it was the front or the back door of many of them. Eventually, he started knocking on doors at random, but to no avail – either everyone was out, or just hiding. Callum was beginning to get a little exasperated, when a middle-aged woman with dark-blond hair appeared behind him and asked in a highly suspicious tone: “Can I ‘elp you?”
“Oh, yes...I’m looking for number twelve Woden Close.”
The woman eyed him with distrust. She was fairly attractive, but her face was distinctly hardened: “Who y’u lookin’ for?” she asked.
Callum hesitated, before overcoming his natural lawman’s reticence to share information with the general public: “Er, a Mr Jameson – do you know him?”
“I might. Who are y’u?” she asked interrogatively.
Again, Callum hesitated, but realised that he needed cooperation and so produced his warrant card: “Police. I need to speak to Mr Jameson in regard to a private matter.”
She approached closer to Callum and indicated that she wanted to inspect his warrant card, which she scrutinized with uncommon caution: “You’re from the Met’?” she noted with some surprise.
“Yes. It’s not a local matter.” he explained, withdrawing the identity card and safely returning it to his inside pocket, “Do you
know which is number twelve, madam?” He was growing tired of the woman’s attitude. “Yes...I know it. Mr Jameson is my dad.” she finally admitted. “Ah, then you must be Joanne Paris?” “Clayton.” she corrected him.
“Sorry...Would that be your married name?”
“Yes...I’m divorced, actually, but...”
“Right...Could you direct me to your father?” Callum glanced around the close and gestured with his hands to indicate his impatience for an answer.
“...Yeah – okay. It’s right here.” She gestured with her head to the bungalow they were standing in front of: one of the few Callum hadn’t tried.
“I assume he’s in?” he enquired wearily.
Joanne’s demeanour suddenly relaxed and she gave the detective a cigarette tarnished smile: “He should be – ‘e’s expecting me.” She knocked forcefully on the large sheet of glass that constituted almost half of the door; Callum winced in expectation of the glass breaking – amazingly it remained steadfast. There was a lengthy pause, followed by Joanne yelling through the letterbox: “Dad, it’s me – are you awake?”
There was a muffled response: “Yeah, alright – I’m comin’.” The door finally opened to reveal a rough looking aged man wearing spectacles. “‘Ello love...W’a’s this geezer want?”
“It’s alright dad, ‘e’s police.”
“Police!” Arthur was decidedly alarmed, “What do they want?” “Er, Mr Jameson, I am DS Johnson; Metropolitan police.” “I a’n’t done nuffin’.” Arthur immediately claimed.
