Unlikely Killer

by Ricki Thomas

  Krein knew what they were doing, and he desperately wanted to pretend the past few months hadn’t happened, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of injustice off. He politely received the glass of bubbly from his grinning daughter, and sipped it slowly. But the chattering television, the insensitive laughter, the irrelevant family life, he could feel the tension rising throughout his shoulders and neck. There was a fine line between leaving the room quietly, or blowing with rage. He chose the former, and his family’s Champagne lost its sparkle.

  The kitchen was warm from the recent cooking, the aroma of slow cooked meat and creamed vegetables tempted a growl from his gut. He snatched the bottle of cheap brandy Linda used in recipes from the larder and poured a greedy glass, wincing at the harshness as it hit his tongue. More followed, and before long, the alcohol having heightened his concern, he couldn’t live with himself one more minute if he didn’t offload his worries. He searched through his mobile, Jaswinder had given him her home number for emergencies whilst he was in London. He’d not deleted it.

  “Jaswinder, it’s Krein.”

  The second lasted too long, he wandered jealously what he had interrupted. “What?”

  “Please don’t be mad, I need to talk, I have to, or I’ll go mad.” He wanted a response, he wanted her kind voice, but he got silence. “Callum Bates. He didn’t do it.”

  “Don’t be so silly. Are you drunk?”

  The assumption, albeit true, triggered his anger. Jaswinder Kumar could ignite him so easily, sexually and emotionally. He tried to control himself, but it was too late, his mouth was already spurting. “Yes, I’ve had a fucking drink, is that a fucking crime! Jaswinder, I’m telling you straight, that boy is innocent.”

  He was grateful to hear the softness return to her voice. “Look, Krein, an investigation that’s been incredibly tough for you has come to an end, you’ve spent so many months living it, breathing it, that you feel unable to let it go. It’ll pass, Krein, it’ll pass. Have a good drink tonight, have a good cry if you can. Just get it out of your system.”

  Krein stood up, he was aware he was shouting. “Jaswinder, you’re not listening. Who knew the killer the best? Jack Weston, Elaine Baylis, they spent time with him, and neither of them identified him in the parade.”

  Linda came through, concerned about the noise, the neighbours, while Mary, fed up with her father’s behaviour, grabbed a jacket and left the house, intent on staying with a friend. Linda mouthed at her husband. “Shhh, quieten down, it’s past eleven.” Krein turned away from her, she could feel an argument brewing.

  Jaswinder had considered his words carefully, and a flicker of doubt struck her unexpectedly. “Krein, the judge is very experienced, he knows what he’s doing.” Krein could hear a strange noise in the background, he couldn’t place it. Maybe Jaswinder had a cat. “I have to go.” The line went dead.

  Krein ended his call, and turned to his insulted wife. “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me, damn it! They’ve got the wrong man, can’t they just open their bloody eyes and see he’s innocent.”

  The argument was fully brewed. “For crying out loud, David. I’ve seen the news, I’ve read the papers. He’s obviously the one you were after. Why can’t you just stop bringing your work home, let us be a family for once. Mary’s already gone off in a huff because of your behaviour, and I’m tempted to! You’ve got your life out of perspective, you’re driving your family away, and all for what? A killer who’s already been caught!”

  Krein glared at Linda, his eyes blackened with fury. Without removing his stare, he lifted the cheap, bitter brandy, and slugged it down, determined not to show his distaste for her pleasure. His gaze not moving until he was out of the room, he thudded angrily up the stairs.

  Linda slept on the sofa that night. For the first time in twenty five years of marriage, she felt unable to sleep in the same bed as her husband.

  Friday 22nd August

  Callum sat on the uncomfortable bed inside the remand centre cell that had been his home for the last three and a half weeks. As the days had passed he’d been feeling more and more depressed. He was in this place, which he had to admit was better than the little he could remember of the streets of London, for three murders that he had no recollection of at all.

  The past month had given him plenty of time to think, and he rooted his memory time and again for a hint of remembrance. He must have been the killer, he was identified by enough witnesses, but he couldn’t understand what part of his psyche had been triggered to commit such terrible crimes. Maybe there was a killer instinct at the back of every human’s mind? Maybe he had always wanted to kill, but society had restrained him. He wished he could remember more of the past two months, having stormed out after a heated argument with his step-father, a row he could clearly remember, and descended onto the dark and lonely streets of London.

  Callum’s solicitor had reassured him that the case would be chucked out of court, if it got that far at all. First he’d had diminished responsibility due to the brain tumour, and also the paltry evidence the police had was sketchy. However, that was no consolation to Callum. As far as he was concerned he was a filthy murderer, and the crimes were extremely violent, a trait he hadn’t believed existed in him. He deserved to be locked away. And anyway, even if he was set free, public feelings were running so high, he would still be targeted by vigilante groups, he would be a hunted dog. All cried out, the tear pool exhausted, Callum lay on his bed, trying to find a way to forgive himself.

  Theresa Francis and her boyfriend of ten months, Joe Allisson, were regulars at the Old Station Inn just outside Burnham, in Berkshire. Theresa lived with her parents in the small village of Eton Wick, but she spent most weekends at Joe’s flat on the western outskirts of Slough. It wasn’t the nearest pub to either of them, but Joe had been drinking there since he was a teenager, and they had a lot of friends there.

  This Friday had been particularly good fun, the crowd had been on top form, and even though Joe and Theresa left the pub well before closing time, they were still laughing. Arm in arm, Theresa tipsy and swaying slightly, they strolled towards Joe’s red, much enhanced Golf GTi. He unlocked the driver’s door and slipped in, feeding the key into the ignition. He released the lock for Theresa to get in, pushing the door open a little.

  Joe could see her standing outside, but she made no move to climb in. “Come on, then.” He grunted, fiddling with the stereo. She remained motionless, the door open beside her. Eventually Joe leaned across to see what was holding her up. “Fuck!”

  Theresa’s eyes were wide, fear emanating. A man behind her held a gun to her head. Slowly, he reached through the open door and unlocked the back. Slamming the front with his foot, he shoved Theresa onto the rug protected rear seat, and, keeping the gun level, threw his bag in, and climbed in beside her.

  “Drive.” His voice was dull, quiet, yet the threatening tone boomed.

  Joe’s hands were trembling, he fumbled, trying to start the engine, and soon guided the car to the entrance of the car park. “Right.” He followed the instruction without hesitation, the road was clear and dark, except for the receding lights of the Old Station Inn. As if heading towards Theresa’s home in Eton Wick along the isolated country lane, as they so often did, the familiar routine was altered with his next direction. “Left.” They trundled onto a cornfield at Dorney Reach, not far from the pub. The car bumped over the uneven ground, the suspension creaking, until they were sufficiently far enough from the road for the man to feel comfortable.

  “Stop now. We stay here until I tell you to move.” Regretfully, Joe killed the engine, his mind whirring with thoughts of escape. “You. Get in the front, next to him.” Theresa clambered over the back of the passenger seat, squeezing past the headrest awkwardly, and slipped down. The move was silent, fear controlling the whimpering that threatened. By the gear stick Joe’s fingers rooted until he felt her hand, he grasped it tightly, his love consoling her. The move went unheeded by the gunman.


  “Your name is Michael.” He stated blandly as he directed the gun at Joe’s head. “And yours is Valerie.” Theresa could see him from the corner of her eye, the gun was now pointing at her head. She shivered, goose-bumps appearing over her body.

  Did he correct him, or would that be a bad move. Joe was unsure. “No, mate, I’m Joe, she’s Theresa,”

  His rage formed in a guttural growl, the soft voice rising, the words spitting. “Tonight, and for the rest of your life, you will be Michael. Michael Gregston. How old are you?”

  The coldness of the voice sent a shudder through him. “Twenty six, mate.”

  “The girl?”

  Theresa shivered again, her bottom lip quivering with threatening tears. Joe answered for her. “Eighteen.”

  “You’re both the wrong ages, but you’ll just have to do.” And the stillness fell like a heavy blanket.

  Finally. “I’m supposed to ask you about your sex life. He did.” Theresa and Joe sneaked a glance at each other, neither of them knew what this was leading to, but the conversation ceased, and their tense hands gradually relaxed. Silence floated through the car, apart from the quiet breathing that covered the windows with condensation.

  An hour passed, no words were uttered. Aware that the man was constantly aiming the gun at their heads, moving from one to the other, they remained as motionless as possible. Just once Joe noticed the gun lower, he could hear the man was distracted and fiddling with something in the back. He wandered whether he should run, but the destructive range of the gun deterred him.

  “God speaks to me. Does he speak to you?” The eerie, lonely lull was shattered by the monotonous tone.

  Joe hesitated. Would his answer determine his fate? He opted for the truth. “No, he never has.”

  “You want to know why?” There was an uncommon kindness now coming through, the man seemed proud. “It’s because I’m the chosen one. And you two have been chosen for me through God. Michael Gregston and Valerie Storie, part two.”

  Valerie Storie? Valerie Storie? Joe racked his brain, he knew that name from somewhere. What was the significance? How did he know the name? The news? Had he heard it on the news? His thought processes were leading somewhere, the vague recollection coming to the fore, bit by bit. And there it was. James Hanratty. The A6 murders. “Oh shit.” The comment was under his breath, barely there, but the sentiment was critical. It had all come back to him. Now he knew the direction of their captivation, his fear heightened. He gripped Theresa’s hand tightly, and felt a false bravado. Talking was possibly the only way out now. “You aren’t Hanratty you know. You do know that, don’t you, mate?”

  The man laughed. It wasn’t evil, it wasn’t threatening. More a chuckle, a childlike tinkle. Joe’s clenched hand didn’t relax. “Of course I’m not Hanratty, they hanged him. But it wasn’t him who did it, you know. It was Peter Alphon, he confessed right after they hanged Hanratty, but he was never taken to court for it, or locked away.”

  Reading about true crime had been a long time hobby of Joe’s, resulting in more than a layman’s knowledge of the more infamous cases. In two thousand and two, like many people, he followed the news closely when the Hanratty case was re-opened. “No, mate. They got Hanratty on his DNA now, it’s been proven it was him, and he was right to be hanged.” Theresa glared at Joe, scared he was going to make the situation worse, he mouthed ‘it’s okay’ to her.

  He wasn’t angry, simply dismissive. “The DNA was contaminated. The evidence wasn’t kept separate in nineteen sixty one. It was Alphon. And today, I’m Alphon.”

  It was as if a light had switched on inside Joe’s head. A gripping fear rose through his body as he realised Theresa and he were in far graver danger than he had believed. Callum Bates may be in remand for the Kopycat killings, but he was an innocent man. The man sitting behind them, intermittently shifting a gun between their heads, a gun that had killed at least three people, was the most feared man in Britain currently. Joe had run out of words. Another hour passed.

  The silence had lulled Theresa into a false sense of security, her eyes had closed and the alcohol had eased her into a dream. “It’s been long enough.” Her eyes sprang open, the forgotten fear returned. “Go towards London. Get on the M4.”

  Joe started the engine, reversing slowly along the track his tyres had trodden through the cornfield, and retraced his way towards the Old Station Inn. The pub was asleep now, the windows dark, the car park empty. Theresa glanced left dismally as they passed their place of joy, and soon the car reached a junction with the A4, the spine of Slough.

  Joe was on auto-pilot, the route familiar as he took it every day to work in Hounslow, yet the lack of traffic was unusual as he followed the roads to the motorway. Most of the Friday night congestion had dissipated, the hoards of City workers having scattered to their homes for the weekend. Boy racers shot by at high speed, their manhood enhanced by the acceleration, their street-cred elevated by the thudding beats that rattled their cars. Joe would normally have been racing alongside them, his car fitted with spoilers and body kits and lights and treble bass speakers, but tonight he drove considerately, ignoring the flashing and horns which would normally have fired the competition. The extensive, dirty, industrial Slough passed unremarkably to the left, Cippenham merging into Chalvey, into Upton, into Langley, into Colnbrook.

  “Get on the M25, head north, clockwise.”

  Joe, not totally resigned to his fate, but losing hope by the minute, couldn’t resist exhibiting the flaws in Kopycat’s plans. “There was no M25 in nineteen sixty one.”

  “Shut up!” Paul issued a wicked chuckle. “I’m finking!”

  Joe bristled at the comment, Hanratty was reported to have repeated the phrase many times during the abduction and shooting of the original A6 victims.

  Again, the motorway wasn’t too busy, the time was half past twelve, the bulk of the traffic being overnight lorry drivers. The car sailed along raising no suspicions to the plight of the young prisoners held at gunpoint.

  The M25 was an arduous and boring road, the darkened scenery often blocked by raised verges. Occasionally a valley filled with twinkling lights would catch the eye, but the journey seemed eternal. Nobody spoke, until. “You want the M1. It’s junction twenty one.”

  The further they headed north from London, the more of ‘England’s green and pleasant lands’, as promised by Blake’s words set to Parry’s composition, came into view, albeit dulled by the night-time hue. Kopycat directed them through the quiet, brightly lit roads in Luton, and they exited on to the A6, following it for a few miles. In the rear view mirror Joe could see Kopycat looking around, checking the signposts. He almost smiled when he spotted the one he’d read about. “Good, there’s Clophill. There’s a turning just after to a place called Deadman’s Hill, it’s a picnic area, that’ll show on the sign. Go in there and stop. Turn the engine off.” Joe followed the instructions, pulling the car to a standstill and turning the key.

  The engine died, closely followed by the driver. With chilling calmness, Paul held the gun to Joe’s head and shot twice, killing him instantly. Theresa’s screams were hysterical, her hands scrabbling hopelessly for the catch to open the door. Joe’s warm blood trickled down her face, soaking into her clothes, she couldn’t take her eyes from her boyfriend, the man she loved, the man whose brain lined the inside of the car.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” The noise was hurting his head, she was maddening. He flipped the gun round and struck the side of her head with the handle, her blood spilling instantly to blend with Joe’s. The door clicked open and she scrabbled onto the gravel, desperate to preserve her own life now she had accepted Joe’s was over. Paul followed, easily overpowering her, he thrust his hand over her mouth to quell the screams, but she fought wildly, her tiny body kicking and lashing and biting and twisting furiously.

  “Shut up, you bitch! Shut up! Shut up! I don’t understand it. I’m not going to rape you. I’m not supposed to kill you. But I will if you don’t sh
ut up.”

  Paul had Theresa in a stronghold, she couldn’t get away, but her struggling was aggravating him, and her piercing screams pounded at his head. He shoved her onto the ground, covering her with his body to hold her in place, and steadied the gun against her head. Her eyes were wild with fear, and the screaming stopped. “Fuck you!” He shouted as he pulled the trigger. The tenseness in her body relaxed, a trickle of blood ran from her gaping mouth, rolling into her dark bob, colouring it as it and seeped through to the gravel. Paul sighed, relieved. He released his grip, and tended his ankle. The injury ached if he exerted himself too much, it had healed well, but not fully.

  Paul checked Theresa’s pulse, and satisfied she was dead, he limped around the car to drag Joe’s body out. It slumped onto the gravel easily. Paul snatched the rug from the back seat and cleaned the gore from the wheel and seat, throwing it over Joe’s form when he was done. Briefly surveying the scene for the final time, he jumped in the car, fired the engine, and grimaced with the agony from his ankle when he pushed the accelerator down. The car screeched away.

  Amongst the trees the golden retriever tugged eagerly at the lead, she could smell the metallic blood and wanted to investigate, but her owner was rooted to the spot, her hand firmly clasped across her mouth to silence her own screams. Rosemary Green’s heart thudded a speedy rhythm against her ribs, she wanted to run, but her stunned muscles refused to move.

  Suddenly they relented, and she was running, faster than ever before, racing, no idea where, her legs leaping and carrying her far from the horror she’d just witnessed. Her mind was aware that she must contact the police, but her energy, the adrenalin, it carried her further, she was speeding along the road, across the road, heading for safety.