A Taste for Blood

by Davies, David Stuart;

  I gave him an abbreviated version of events while over dramatising the tussle I’d had with Malcolm Salter alias Mr Bristow on the top floor of Windsor House in order to disguise my incompetence at allowing him to escape.

  Peter listened eagerly and narrowed his eyes in a sage-like fashion when I had finished. ‘So,’ he said, ‘your problem now is to find out where this Bristow/Salter character has gone to ground.’

  ‘That’s one of them.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  I reached inside my pocket for the sketch but changed my mind. Instead, I slipped out the photograph of Malcolm Salter I’d taken from his room in Windsor House. ‘That’s the chappie,’ I said. ‘Innocent looking cove, isn’t he?’

  Peter’s eyes widened. ‘Who is the other man?’

  I shook my head. ‘A mate of his from the army, I suppose. The name on the back of the snap says he’s Lance Corporal Marshall – no first name.’

  ‘I’ve seen that face before. I am sure of it.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure?’

  Peter nodded emphatically. ‘Yes,’ he said, drawing the word out as he narrowed his eyes. ‘Of course… He’s in my scrapbook.’

  ‘Your scrapbook?’

  ‘Yes, my crime scrapbook.’

  ‘Explain, young master.’

  ‘I keep a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings connected with big crimes. I follow the progress of their investigation – or lack of it – and make notes. It’s good training for when I start as a detective.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ I said without much conviction. ‘So who is this chap,’ I pointed at the Lance Corporal.

  ‘I think he was mixed up with an armed robbery in Chelmsford a couple of months ago. Can’t really remember properly – but it’s in my files.’

  ‘In your scrapbook.’

  Peter’s eyes flashed brightly and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you’d better let me have a look at this scrapbook of yours.’

  * * *

  Later that night, I sat in my office, a small glass of Johnnie Walker in my mitt and Peter’s scrapbook on my desk. I was reading an account of an armed robbery at the Benson Road branch of the Midland Bank in Chelmsford. Two men had entered the small branch just as it was about to close one Wednesday in late February. Once inside, they shut the doors and revealed they were carrying weapons. One had a shotgun, the other a pistol – recognised as an army pistol by the only teller on duty, a Mr Percy Crabtree. Both men wore handkerchiefs across the lower part of their faces to hide their features. The robber who appeared to be the leader – the one that did most of the talking – wore a dark blue felt fedora. There were only three customers in the bank at the time and these were made to stand facing the wall by the thief with the pistol while the other forced the teller to open the safe. Being Wednesday the safe contained the cash for wages of two local factories and the thieves managed to bag over two thousand pounds.

  As they were leaving, one of the customers made a grab for the robber. He was a young lad who was just about to join the army and had a fit of the heroics. He managed to knock Mr Fedora down and snatch the handkerchief from his face. In panic, the other robber shot him, wounding him badly in the thigh. Following this dramatic incident, both men fled with their haul.

  The newspaper account was accompanied by an artist’s impression of the unmasked felon. It was to my way of thinking, as it had been young Peter’s, that the villain was none other than Lance Corporal Marshall. Blimey, I thought, the power of the artist’s pencil had certainly been working in my favour today. So Lance Corporal Marshall was a nasty piece of work and no doubt his accomplice was Mr Bristow alias Malcolm Salter. So that’s why he was hiding out. But where was Marshall and where was the loot? Salter certainly hadn’t got it. He certainly hadn’t been painting the town. Mrs Booth assured me he was hard up, owing her rent.

  Well, in some ways the situation was a little clearer now but the solution was still as far away as ever. With this dismal thought, I headed for bed.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘She was discovered by an ARP Warden on his way home. He usually takes a short cut across the park and found the body lying on the pathway. Apparently she had been killed in the bushes…’

  ‘But the murderer dragged the body out here so that she’d be discovered very soon,’ said David Llewellyn finishing the uniformed sergeant’s sentence for him. He’d been called out of bed early that morning by a telephone call from Deputy Commissioner Bradshaw. ‘It looks like our friend has started his work again, Llewellyn. I reckon you’d better take charge of the business from the start. Get yourself down there pronto.’

  And pronto, with the aid of a police driver, he had got himself down to Camden and the little park where the poor girl, Doreen Maberley, had been found.

  ‘I still don’t understand why he dumped the body out here where anyone could find her?’ the sergeant was musing.

  ‘To show off his handiwork, I suppose.’

  ‘Handiwork is right. Poor girl: it looks like Jack the Ripper got at her. All her insides have been interfered with,’ said the sergeant, having great difficulty in keeping his breakfast down.

  ‘You’ve searched the area, I presume.’

  ‘With a fine tooth comb, sir. I got two of my lads on it as soon as it was light. They’ve been over the ground half a dozen times. Nothing. Not even any shoe imprints. He’s left the murder scene as clean as a whistle.’

  Llewellyn knelt down by the corpse and examined it closely. ‘He’s taken the heart, liver and cut out her tongue.’

  ‘What sort of man would do such a thing? He must be raving mad.’

  ‘Mad, certainly. But not raving. He has a cunning intelli-gence with nerves of steel.’

  ‘Blimey, sounds as though you know the blighter’.

  Llewellyn sighed but said nothing.

  Leaving the body in the capable hands of the pathologist from the Yard, the inspector departed the scene, taking in lungfuls of fresh air as he left the park. He couldn’t remember feeling as depressed as he did now. The bastard he’d nailed all those years ago, the bastard he hoped would feel the hangman’s noose around his neck, was free and had killed again. Killed? Well, it wasn’t quite as simple as that. He had ripped and torn the flesh of a young girl to satisfy his appetite for flesh and blood. This wasn’t just murder, it was mutilation and, God forbid, cannibalism. He shuddered at the thought of it.

  And now his task was to find him, and find him fast before he was able to carry out another of his gruesome crimes. How on earth was he going to do that? He paused and lit a cigarette before climbing into the police car.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ enquired the driver, revving the engine. ‘To the Yard, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Llewellyn wearily. ‘Priors Court, off the Tottenham Court Road.’

  * * *

  He felt good. He had hunted, killed and now he had dined on his spoils. He washed down the last of his bloody titbits with a glass of water – nothing stronger than water so as not to interfere with the taste – and sat back with a sigh of great satisfaction. He wiped his mouth and grinned. The whole experience had been as wonderful as he had anticipated. All that was left was to read an account in the press of his glorious escapade. Maybe in the evening edition. Certainly in the next day’s nationals.

  He lit a cigarette and puffed contentedly. It would be good to show the newspaper reports to Northcote: another twist of the knife, aggravating the wound. Idly, he thought of his prisoner as he blew smoke rings on the air. There he was in that dark chamber below, lying on his rank bed unable to do anything but sleep and regret. In the few days he had been incarcerated in the cellar, he had regressed into a child-like moronic state. Sexton was convinced this was the result of the shock he had suffered by having his dream of freedom so brutally snatched away from him and being tethered like an animal in a dank cell. Well, in reality, Northcote had fulfilled his usefulness. There was no real point in keeping the beast alive for much longer. H
e would only become a nuisance, like an ill pet one had to attend to on a daily basis.

  As soon as Sexton was able to have the final pleasure of showing Northcote the newspaper story about the girl he’d killed and boast how tasty she had been, as soon as he was able to witness the wild rash emotions that this would raise within his captive, he would have done with the fellow.

  And then he would snack off him.

  FOURTEEN

  It was just before noon when I arrived back at my office following my morning labours and found a note pushed under my door. It was from David Llewellyn. It read: ‘Would really appreciate a chat. Can you make The Guardsman at one o’clock? DL’

  The Guardsman was a pub not far from Scotland Yard where David and I often met up to sup a few pints and moan about our respective investigations. I was intrigued and indeed thirsty, so I did a quick about face and headed off in the direction of that particular watering hole.

  As I pounded the dusty streets of the capital, I thought over what I had learned that morning. I had taken myself down to the War Office and made contact with an ex-client of mine, Bobby Driscol, a good-looking lad with a club foot who had been wrongly accused of being involved in a dog doping scam at White City greyhound track a few years back. I had managed to prove his innocence and as a result he’d been grateful ever since and always eager to do me a favour. He was only too happy to dig out some details for me concerning Private Malcolm Salter and his oppo Lance Corporal Marshall. In a sense, most of what I learned only confirmed what I had surmised, but it was reassuring to know I was on the right track. The two men had served with the London Regiment – but had not served for too long. The two had gone AWOL shortly after enlisting. They had joined that invisible platoon of deserters that somehow had blended back into civilian life without a trace. It always puzzled me how these men could manage to do that so effortlessly and, indeed, without conscience. They were selfishly turning their back on their country and its plight when they were needed most. I was sure that in the main it wasn’t just a matter of cowardice; these blighters wanted to be free of the regimented restraints that the life in the forces brought.

  Anyway, we now knew for certain that Annie’s son did not die in battle. This was a lie; this was her secret, which she no doubt manufactured for respectability’s sake. It would hurt her too much to admit that her son was a deserter. And, it would seem that the prodigal had returned home and was kipping down in her spare room. I was convinced that this secret was tied up with her murder. However, I found it hard to contemplate that her son was responsible for her death, but I couldn’t discount it completely for I had encountered stranger and crueller things in my career.

  I had never known The Guardsman be less than buzzing with business at lunchtime and today was no exception. As I opened the door to the saloon bar, I was met with a barrage of noise and raucous conversation from the crowd within: office workers snatching a quick dinner break, old folk whiling away their time, waiting for the war to end, soldiers, sailors and airmen on leave, along with some uniformed Yanks and various shady looking types, all enveloped in a fine mist of cigarette smoke and a web of chatter. And one other: a burly blonde-haired Welsh police inspector hunched on his usual stool at the end of the bar.

  I was early for our one o’clock appointment, so he must have been much earlier. His stiff posture and sour expression indicated that he was not a happy man. Squeezing my way through the throng, I slipped onto the stool beside him and gave him a cheery grin.

  ‘At last,’ he said grumpily.

  ‘I’m early.’

  ‘Two more pints, Arthur,’ he called the barman, who was in the middle of serving two plump ladies. Arthur nodded.’ Wait yer turn,’ he called with a grin.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you wanted to see me. I can tell by your expression it’s not to tell me you’ve come up on the pools.’

  ‘Too bloody true. It’s bloody Ralph Northcote.’

  The name rang a tiny bell in my memory, but not loud enough to bring the fellow to mind. My expression obviously conveyed my lack of comprehension.

  ‘It was my first big case back in ’35. He’d been killing girls, this Northcote. Killing them and then eating their flesh.’

  I shuddered. Now the bell rang louder. I remembered the case. It was before I’d joined the force, before I’d lost an eye and before I knew David, but it was very big in the papers.

  ‘What about him – this Northcote?’

  ‘He’s escaped and murdered again.’

  ‘Crikey. Escaped?’

  ‘From the nut house.’ David ruffled his hair in frustration. ‘The bastard should have been strung up and then this wouldn’t have happened. All that work I did to get his conviction and then the bloody powers that be deemed he wasn’t of sound mind. Course he wasn’t of sound mind: he was a bloody murderer who ate his victims.’

  The pints arrived and I paid for them. ‘Have a gulp of this and try to calm down.’

  David did as he was told. He devoured half the glass almost in one go. ‘I had to talk to someone about it and I knew you’d understand more than any other,’ he said, at length, wiping the froth away from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  David gave me a weary smile.

  ‘Go on,’ I said, ‘give me the whole sad story.’

  And he did – from Northcote’s capture, arrest and conviction up to that very morning when he’d been examining the mutilated body of a young girl who had been savaged in exactly the same way as Northcote’s other victims.

  ‘It’s his work all right. The devil’s resumed where he left off.’

  ‘Was the girl’s handbag or purse missing?’ I asked.

  David shook his head, ‘Untouched.’

  ‘So he must be OK for money. Where’s he getting it from? Someone must be hiding him. Providing him with cash, food and shelter.’

  David curled his lip unpleasantly. ‘He caters for himself where food is concerned. But you have a point.’

  ‘Were there any other associates from his past who are likely to sympathise with him – even share his predilections…?’

  ‘Not that I know of. He was a lone wolf.’

  ‘Mmm. I see a brick wall looming ahead.’

  ‘So do I. Why do you think I’m in here drowning my sorrows?’

  ‘It seems to me your best bet is to have a long in-depth conversation with this Dr Sexton chap. If he’s been visiting Northcote on a regular basis, surely he would have learned something that would help. Some indication, some clue as to where he is and what his plans are.’

  ‘I reckon I can guess what his plans are: to kill again and have a fleshy banquet. But, you are right. Sexton seems to be my only hope for the moment.’

  ‘And where there is hope, there is a chink of light.’

  David gave me a tight grin. ‘I knew chatting to you would be good for me. Just telling you about it and expressing my frustration helps. It’s a bit like a confessional.’

  ‘Bless you, my son.’

  David laughed briefly and then he added seriously, ‘I don’t think my colleagues would fully understand what this Northcote business meant to me.’

  I understood. In this respect David and I were alike. Rightly or wrongly, we became personally involved in our cases and cared greatly that we achieved justice and closure. David thought he’d had both with the Northcote affair but that particular rug had been well and truly dragged out from under him.

  David ordered another round. I settled for a half this time. I wasn’t in the mood for boozing. Alcohol sometimes helped me not only to relax, but also enabled my brain to see possibilities and scenarios concerning my investigations that the sober mind couldn’t – but somehow today I just didn’t fancy it. I wanted to keep a clear head.

  ‘So, how are you getting on with your little murders: the Annie Salter and Father Sanderson business,’ said David, looking and sounding more relaxed now that he’d unburdened himself to me and downed a c
ouple of pints. ‘I’m off the case now; the Northcote business has taken priority. So come on, spill the beans.’

  Now it was my turn in the confessional. I told him all I knew so far. I saw no reason not to. I wasn’t going very far with things at the moment. Maybe he could throw me a morsel of hope too.

  When I had finished, my companion gave me a gloomy nod. ‘Difficult,’ he said slowly. ‘That Chelmsford bank job. I know a bit about that. Old Percy Herbert’s been assigned to the case. We know who the leader of the gang is.’

  ‘Well it’s Lance Corporal Marshall.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not his real name. Some of the boys at the Yard recognised him from that artist’s impression in the paper. It’s Bruce Horsefield. He did time before the war.’

  I dragged out the photograph from my wallet with Salter and his mate. ‘Is this him?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s the boy. He worked himself up from street mugging to robbing a jeweller’s shop in ’36. Got four years for that. Then he disappeared. Obviously he changed his name but not the colour of his spots. I reckon he’s a real wrong ‘un.’

  ‘And is Inspector Herbert anywhere near catching him?’

  David grinned. ‘Is he heck. Old Herbert has trouble catching a cold. I reckon Horsefield could run rings around him.’

  ‘I suppose he’s tried Horsefield’s old haunts.’

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t really know. I only pick up bits of info in the canteen but I do know that Percy ain’t making any progress.’

  ‘Somehow that does not cheer me.’

  David chewed his lip. ‘I suppose I could let you have a copy of Horsefield’s file. You might see something in there that Percy hasn’t.’

  ‘It might help.’

  ‘I shouldn’t, of course. It’s strictly against the rules, you understand.’

  ‘I understand.’

  He gave me a quick wink. ‘I’ll get a copy to you by tonight.’

  No more was said on the matter and we sat for a while in silence, two weary detectives with unpleasant loads on our shoulders, deep in our separate tunnels with no light flickering at the end. Just darkness.