Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Friday 20th June

  Shaking out the excess water, Paul wrapped the fleece around his head to soak up the rest as he had no towel. The light in the train station toilets was dim, and the air was dense with the smell of faeces and urine. A few men came and went, they took no notice of him. Paul rubbed at his head for a short while, then stuffed the damp fleece into the holdall, leaving his newly dyed, vibrant black hair moist. He glanced at the cracked mirror, pleased to see the latest transformation, and positioned some cheap, dark rimmed, reading glasses on his nose. His appearance was significantly different, and he could relax slightly, the chances of being spotted lessened.

  Paul needed to find somewhere to stay, somewhere remote to reduce the chances of anybody recognising him. His likeness was on the front page of every newspaper this morning, so he really needed to be careful now. Grabbing his bag, Paul marched from the loos, and away from Leicester Station.

  Elaine casually chucked the newspaper onto the reception desk, she’d have to go through the handover with Sarah before she could read the latest affairs. Sarah was leaving for Spain that afternoon and she was eager to finish work early, buying plenty of time to get to Gatwick. She updated Elaine with a quick summary of all the residents, and hastily left the building, her goodbyes met with have funs.

  Having made a welcome mug of sweet tea, Elaine sighed as she settled into the chair. The home was neat and tidy, the patients behaving, and she decided that whilst the day was uneventful, she might as well read for a while. She unfolded the paper, and dropped it on seeing Paul’s face staring at her. The hair in the photofit was shorter and darker, but the face was just almost identical. Reading the headline, nausea threatened, and the more she studied the article, the higher the bile rose. She’d always thought it odd that he’d never returned to see Maud, after all, he wouldn’t know she was dead, but now she could see that the situation was far more sinister. Elaine rushed to the bathroom, spilling her breakfast into the toilet until the retching finally subsided.

  It felt like hours to Elaine, waiting for the police to arrive, but in reality it was only minutes. The telephone call had immediately been logged onto the Holmes System, even though her statement had not been taken, which showed how seriously Sussex Police force were taking the matter. DI MacIntyre and DS Wilson, pleased to be involved in the dramatic nationwide hunt, found Elaine to be a helpful and succinct witness. Having detailed the events of nearly a month before, fully aware that her job may be in jeopardy for her failure to adhere to the rules, she read through the statement, initialled corrections to the anomalies, and signed her name confidently.

  After speaking to detectives in the incident room at New Scotland Yard for advice, MacIntyre requested the address of Maud Blessing’s daughter, Julia Anton. The body would need to be exhumed for an autopsy as foul play was now suspected.

  Within minutes the Black Museum Bunch had discovered a past murder in Eastbourne, on the same date, the victim being the same age as Maud Blessing. There was controlled pandemonium on the first floor of the Metropolitan Police headquarters.

  Julia Anton stood by the door, her pinched face severe as always, she stared at MacIntyre after he’d introduced himself, unspeaking. “Mrs Anton, we need to speak to you about some developments that have arisen regarding the death of your mother, Mrs Maud Blessing.”

  Julia moved back to allow the detectives entry to her modest, semi-detached home. They all sat in the lounge, Julia listening intently as she discovered the possibility that her mother had been poisoned, murdered. She soaked in the details of how the potential killer had been allowed access by the incompetence of a member of staff at the nursing home. Her diligence surprised MacIntyre, but nowhere near as much as the apparent lack of emotion.

  “So, Mrs Anton, may we please have your permission to exhume your mother’s body?”

  “I’m sorry but no. Mother was cremated.” Julia stated, simply.

  And later, Julia stated just as simply to the manager of The Ridings Nursing Home, “I want her fired.”

  Elaine, a competent nurse with an excellent track record collected her belongings, resolved tears spilling down her cheeks. For her entire life she’d been intrigued by Alzheimers, her grandfather having died from the illness, and she’d loved the residents individually for their inner beauty. It was possible she would never work in this field again now, and it was all her own stupid, naïve fault. She left the building, hopeless.

  Krein sat at his desk with the report he’d printed from the Holmes System in front of him. Maud Blessing, eighty-five years old, had died in Eastbourne on the twenty seventh of May. Foul play had not been suspected at the time, and the body had been released for burial without an autopsy.

  Julia Bradnum, aged eighty five, had died in Eastbourne on the twenty seventh of May, nineteen fifty-two. Initially foul play had not been suspected, but her body was later exhumed. The cause of death was never found as the body had decomposed too much, but it wasn’t cerebral haemorrhage as stated on the death certificate. Later, her doctor, John Bodkin-Adams, who was the sole beneficiary in her will, was arrested on suspicion of murdering Edith Morrell and Gertrude Hullett, the police having also investigated Bradnum’s, and Clara Neil-Miller’s deaths

  Krein sat up straight and gasped when he read the next line. ‘The case went to trial, but John Bodkin-Adams was never convicted for any of the deaths.’

  “Fuck!” He would need a stiff whiskey now, this was too much of a coincidence. He needed to speak with Barry Harner to express this theme in the murders Paul had selected to copy.

  Hundreds of sightings were reported on the Incident Hotline during the morning, apparently Paul had been seen in Scotland, Wales, London, Portsmouth, Leicestershire, Manchester and East Anglia, to name a few. All in one day. Jurisdiction stated that every report had to be followed up, but the London sightings interested the police the most, as they knew he had been living in, or around, London for the past couple of weeks. Unfortunately, none of the calls led anywhere.

  Until twelve thirty in the afternoon. The detective who took the call immediately contacted Leicestershire Constabulary requesting they interview Mrs Brenda Taylor, who had called from DH Edwards Pharmacy.

  Brenda was adamant that the man she had served that morning was the same person as the man in the photofit. He had purchased a lady’s permanent hair dye, and, although she couldn’t recall what colour it had been, the electronic till confirmed that it was a black colouring. She stated he’d remained silent during the cash transaction. He’d been wearing a pair of baggy, pale combat trousers, a black, hooded fleece with a logo on the chest, but she couldn’t recall what the logo was. He was young, nice looking, in fact all the things they already knew.

  This interview, coupled with a few sightings reported in Leicester city centre, convinced the police that Leicester was probably where Paul was hiding. The Black Museum Bunch had already found a past murder near to Leicester, and the anniversary was just over two weeks away.

  Barry Harner replaced the receiver, he took the prints from his desk and strolled next door to Spencer. He waved the papers in front of Spencer’s face, and laid them on the desk. “I’m not the only one whose gut feeling is that this case will be next recreation. I’ve pointed it out to you before.”

  Spencer scanned the document, reading aloud to drive the words into his memory. “On the fifth July, nineteen nineteen, Bella Wright, aged twenty one, was shot in the head whilst cycling along the Burton-Overy Road in the small village of Stretton, near Leicester. She had been either followed or companioned, the distinction wasn’t made, by a young man on a green bicycle for the last couple of hours of her life, he was later found to be a Mr Ronald Light. He was taken to trial, but was not convicted for her murder.”

  Spencer ruffled through a pile of printed emails, he pulled out the one from Krein that had waited for him first thing in the morning. “You mean Krein suspects this one too?”

  Harner nodded. “He’s pointed out that in t
he original investigations of all the recreations, including Maud Blessing’s, nobody was ever convicted for the killing. I think he’s on to something.”

  “It’s a great theory for a bloody country bumpkin. He emailed me last night asking if I’d go and see Jack Weston about the possibility of him selling Paul a gun.”

  “Come on, mate, don’t give him shit. He’s been on this case since day one, he’s really determined. He’s even spoken to a criminal psychologist who says his hunch is feasible.” Harner had spoken to Krein on several occasions, he liked the man, and respected his persistence and dedication.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just when I’m working on a case, I don’t like being told my job by outsiders.”

  “He’s not an outsider, mate.”

  Krein needled Spencer, he couldn’t put a finger on why. Maybe it was because the investigation was centralised now, and Krein refused to butt out. He shrugged, concentrating on the page before him. “Well, if Paul intends to recreate this murder, we’ve got fifteen days. I’ll have a word with my Guv’nor, see if we can set up an undercover operation in Leicester. As long as the sightings continue there, I can’t see much opposition to the idea.”

  Harner smiled, Spencer wasn’t usually the type to accept someone else’s gut feelings, he was an arrogant man, albeit an excellent detective.

  Paul settled himself in the wooden chair, a hot mug of tea steaming beside him on the formica covered table. The blended smells of grease, bacon, eggs, sausages and toast wafted heavily throughout the small café, and his hungry stomach growled in anticipation of the fry-up he was awaiting. He’d chosen this seat specifically for the unused socket in the wall, and he plugged the lead of his organiser in to recharge the battery whilst he updated his notes and familiarised himself with his next duty.

  The waitress smiled seductively as she brought the heavily laden plate over, Paul was aware that the ladies found him attractive, even more so in his latest disguise, maybe the glasses made him look distinguished. He’d not found a place to stay, and he didn’t want to waste too much cash, so while the hot spell held out, he intended to sleep outside. He would find a park, sleep behind the bushes somewhere inconspicuous. No one need know, and if they did, he could just shoot them, God wouldn’t mind an extra body.

  Tuesday 24th June

  That extra body just happened to be a copycat murder, one he hadn’t expected to do: but with the heavy onslaught of police activity in Leicester, Paul knew he needed to put the police off his trail, and he’d headed to Essex by train that day after a couple of hours research in the library.

  The thrill Paul felt as the latest life-robbed body fell was almost sexual: he smiled as he hastily retraced his steps along the dirt path under the twinkling glow of the moon. He needed to get away quickly, this was a residential area and he’d not realised how loud a gun firing would be. Although it was late at night, any of the locals may be reporting the sound to the police.

  Mary Goodey lay in her bed, unable to sleep, regardless of having taken two Temazepam sleeping tablets. She was worried, the noise had been so loud. After checking the time, she rolled over, tugging a pillow over her head. Her and her bloody imagination, she really had to stop being so dramatic, the silly trait had already caused her husband to leave. It was just a car backfiring.

  Wednesday 25th June

  A temporary incident room had been set up in St John’s, the headquarters of the Leicestershire Constabulary, and Operation Bella, as it had been dubbed unofficially, had been launched. Details of Paul’s victims and movements, and the murders they copied, were pinned to notice boards to give some background to the newly drafted detectives in the Leicester force, and Krein, much to Spencer’s disgust, had insisted that he was a part of the operation, alongside five officers from the Metropolitan force. Krein had brought with him a detailed psychological profile of the murderer, and a brief summary for ease of reading, compiled by Jaswinder Kumar. MacReavie had been offered a place in the investigation, but had refused due to an important golf tournament, not that he admitted that to his superiors.

  Once the team of detectives had been briefed on every aspect of the Bella Wright murder, four plain clothed officers were shipped out to the sleepy village of Little Stretton, patrolling discreetly, on the lookout for a man matching Paul’s description, however loosely. On the twenty first of June, the whole operation had been compromised by an eager newspaper’s report on the investigation being relocated to Leicester, but urgent discussions had encouraged the team to stand firm, hoping the leaked details wouldn’t alter the killer’s plans.

  The Burton-Overy road had been examined thoroughly, the exact spot where Bella Wright had taken her final, dying breath was estimated from police records dating back nearly eighty-eight years. Thirty-six bicycle shops over Leicestershire were given strict instructions to inform the police of all bicycle sales, the name and address of each purchaser needed to be taken to eliminate them from enquiries.

  All young women within the Little Stretton area whose age would be twenty one on the anniversary of Bella’s death were located, without their knowledge, in order to track their movements on the fated day, and two female constables were moved into the village, both bicycle riders who claimed to be twenty one to as many people as they could, hoping Paul would target them rather than an innocent member of the public. The team was satisfied that the plans were flawless. Now they had to bide their time until Paul walked into their trap.

  Evelyn Dupont screamed, shocked rather than frightened, she hastily retraced her steps along the footpath, nearly colliding with a red bicycle, the rider braking sharply. Kevin Hammond leapt off the bike, angry at first, but when he noted her expression he was concerned.

  “Body. Girl. Blood.” Evelyn gasped, adrenaline causing goose bumps to emerge on her arms. She pointed along the dusty path, the mud cracked from the lengthy hot spell. Kevin lay his bike down and followed her directions. A few feet further, he saw a heap of clothes, soon realising they were covering a mottled body, and bile rose to his throat. Trembling, his fingers managed to press nine nine nine on his mobile phone.

  Within an hour the area had been cordoned off and Scenes of Crime Officers in paper suits were waiting for the Forensic Medical Examiner and the Home Office Pathologist to examine the body.

  Candice Albrough, heavily pregnant with her unborn son, was unharmed, except for the entry and exit holes of the bullet on either side of her head.

  The killing was automatically fed into the Holmes System, and was quickly picked up by the team in New Scotland Yard. As instructed for any suspicious death whilst the search for Paul was on, the Black Museum Bunch were given the details. They’d only researched murders within the previous hundred years, so it took a while to discover that in eighteen ninety four, a woman named Florence Dennis, unmarried, aged twenty three, and eight months pregnant, had been shot once in the head in the same area on the evening of the twenty fourth of June, her body being found the next day. Although the method of killing was unfamiliar to Paul, the similarities of the latest killing to a past murder immediately led to it being attributed to him.

  Krein sat on the table in Leicester headquarters, his heart weary, and scanned the details of the latest case. He knew Prittlewell having holidayed in Southend on Sea three years before. Now a mainly residential area, it had once been a small village, an ancient settlement that had been mentioned in the Doomsday Book, in Essex. The victim was twenty-three, seven months pregnant, and was believed to have died the night before. Krein shook his head again, slamming the paperwork on the table. Pregnancy could be a link, but that didn’t make sense, because Eduardo Delfini’s murder ruled that theory out.

  Krein folded the document in four and tucked it into his pocket. He needed a beer, maybe that would help him think.

  Paul was exhausted, he’d walked for miles. In the early hours of the morning he’d settled in a small copse within a rape field for a few hours sleep, but had set off again with the sunrise, making his
way back, via north London, to Leicester, using his return ticket.

  Walking, and being a passenger, had given him plenty of time to think. Paul had bought a newspaper the previous Saturday, horrified to see the headlines stating that the police investigation was centring on Stretton, exactly where he planned to be next to recreate Bella Wright’s murder. He’d needed to throw them off the scent, he’d had to find an additional duty well away from Leicester. He’d hurried directly to Leicester Central Library, researching past murders furiously, and eventually found one in Essex that was due three days ahead. The time scale had been short, but it was necessary. He had to get the police off his trail.

  Now that his face was on posters everywhere, Paul had needed to disguise himself further. He quickly realised that if he appeared to be a woman, he was less likely to be recognised, so he’d visited Oxfam for some female clothes, and purchased a black hairpiece, a long pigtail, from Claire’s Accessories. Convincingly dressed as a woman, he had taken the coach to London, then another to Southend on Sea.