The Bockhampton Road Murders

by Pat Herbert

  “Hey, you look done in, mate. Had a heavy night?”

  Jerry looked up from his work. “No, I wouldn’t mind if I had. I got woken up at 2 am by my mad girlfriend telling me to leave the place right away. I’ve tried calling her back ever since, but she doesn’t answer. She’s not at work either. She seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “There’s no accounting for women. Mad as snakes, most of them.” Rob was a man who spoke with some authority on the subject of the fair sex, being already twice married and divorced at the tender age of twenty-six.

  “Beth’s always been so sensible, though. She’s never acted in this way before. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Oh, she’ll be in touch when she’s ready, don’t you worry. But why d’you think she wants you to get out of your house? Does she think it’s haunted or something?”

  Rob had uttered the word Jerry had been skirting around ever since Beth had said it. ‘Haunted’. He didn’t really believe in ghosts, second sight, premonitions and all that other paranormal psychobabble rubbish. The house certainly had a weird atmosphere, though. “She’s just got a bee in her bonnet, that’s all,” said Jerry.

  He tried, on and off, throughout the day to get hold of her, both at work and on her mobile, but drew a blank every time. Her office said they hadn’t heard from her, and all he got when he rang her mobile was her cheerful voice saying: “Hi, you’ve reached Beth Morrison. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you if I like you. Bye.”

  All day he had cursed her every time he heard that voice message. But, by the time he left work, he was beginning to feel more worried than annoyed. As he entered the house, he felt a strange, unpleasant foreboding descend on him, as if someone was walking over his grave. He wanted to turn and run, just the way Beth had done.

  However, he resisted the urge and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. What with all the Beth drama, he’d forgotten to go to Robert Dyas in his lunch hour to pick up a cheap microwave. It would just have to be more toast, he supposed. It was a good job that Garfield’s Architects had a staff canteen, he thought, otherwise he’d starve. While the kettle boiled, he tried Beth once more. This time he didn’t even get her voice message. The phone was dead. She’d let the battery run down, silly cow.

  Drinking his coffee and munching his toast, he was becoming more and more alarmed at the lack of any further communication from her. He couldn’t understand it. He would just have to go round to her house. Maybe she’d lost her phone – that was the most likely explanation. But then why hadn’t she been at work? He made up his mind to pay her a visit right away.

  He was about to leave the house, when he remembered he still had the book she’d lent him. Better return it, he thought. Now where had he left it? Then he remembered – it was in the front room. He’d put it on the mantelpiece so that he would remember to give it back to her next time he saw her.

  As he entered the room, he saw the fireplace, still gleaming and shiny as a new pin. But underneath was a body. A very dead, bloodstained body. It was Beth.

  He rubbed his eyes and looked again. No, there was no mistake, this was not a hallucination. Beth was lying there, completely stone cold dead. She must have been there for some time, as rigor mortis had set in. When he touched her hand, it felt completely stiff and cold. Her skull was all matted blood and smashed bone. She was a horrific sight. He saw the phone clutched in her left hand. There would be hundreds of missed calls from himself on it. No wonder she hadn’t answered.

  His eyes filled with tears. His Beth was dead. But what was she doing here? How had she got in without his knowledge? And what was he going to do now? Call the police, of course. But, wait a minute. He’d bound to be their main suspect; never mind the fact he’d called them in the first place.

  As he dithered, he heard a clatter and saw a cloud of soot fall from the chimney into the grate. The clatter had been caused by the fireside poker. It had blood all over it. The murder weapon! He reached down to touch it but remembered just in time. If his fingerprints were found on it, the real criminal’s would be smudged. He left it where it was, as he punched ‘999’ into his mobile phone and waited.

  

  The police lost no time in carting off Jerry to the local police station. Detective Superintendent Bob Drake and Detective Inspector Indira Patel watched their interviewee with detached, professional interest. The young man sitting before them seemed nervous, but that was natural enough. He had discovered his girlfriend’s dead body in his own house. At least that was what he’d told them. The only bit he’d missed out had been when and why had he killed her. It was always a struggle getting a confession, even from a suspect so obviously guilty as they were convinced Mr Jeremy Bracegirdle was.

  “As I keep saying, I didn’t know she was there. I’d been trying to contact her by phone all day,” Jerry insisted. Beads of sweat were standing on his brow.

  “So, are you saying that you called her mobile while in the kitchen at breakfast, and didn’t hear it ringing in the living room where her body was? The phone was found on her, you know.”

  “Well, obviously I didn’t hear it. If I had, I would have found her body sooner. I was in the kitchen with the door shut – the door’s quite thick, you know. Even if I’d heard a faint ringing, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t have necessarily thought she was on the premises, would I?”

  “Unless you were being particularly clever,” said Drake, drumming his fingers on the table. “You could have known she was there all the time and made the calls to establish you didn’t know what had happened to her or where she was.”

  His second-in-command, a sloe-eyed brunette, took over. She smiled ingratiatingly at Jerry. “Look, sir. We’re only trying to get at the true facts. You say that Miss Morrison called you at two o’clock in the morning, telling you that you were in danger if you stayed in the house any longer and that you should clear out right away. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, I’ve told you.”

  “Right. So, you go back to sleep and then try to call her the next day to find out what she meant?”

  “That’s right. I couldn’t think what else to do. I was at work all day. It was only when I got home that I found her body.”

  “That must have been a shock, Mr Bracegirdle,” said DI Patel.

  “To say the least!”

  “So, you want us to believe that Miss Morrison broke into your house sometime during the early morning hours and promptly got herself murdered downstairs while you slept blissfully on upstairs?” Bob Drake eyed him with distaste.

  “Well, that’s what happened. I’ve no more idea of how she got there than you have.”

  “Did she have a key to your house?” Drake asked.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you explain how she got in, if you didn’t let her in yourself?”

  “I don’t know. I only wish I did,” sighed Jerry.

  

  Reverend Bernard Paltoquet relaxed in his easy chair by the fire. His eyes opened and closed, as he tried to fight off the sleepiness he felt more and more these days. Now an old man in his mid-eighties, his faithful housekeeper, Mrs Harper, had long since left his employ as well as this life. His few wants were now catered for by Mrs Ruddock, a friendly, apple-cheeked woman, moulded along the same lines as dear old Mrs Harper.

  He was jolted into wakefulness by that good lady bringing him his supper tray and evening paper. He had long since retired, but still lived in the same parish, close to the old vicarage where the current incumbent now dwelt. The Reverend Bickerstaffe was a likeable young man and would often visit his predecessor in the evenings for advice and a chat.

  “Thank you, Mrs Ruddock. Those muffins look delicious.” Indeed, they did, piping hot and oozing with butter.

  “So they should. I made them myself,” she told him with a sniff. She was proud of her culinary skills, even though she knew she had a lot to live up to. Mrs Harper’s prowess in that department was legend
ary. “Are you warm enough? Shall I turn the gas fire up?” she asked him, moving swiftly on.

  “No, thank you,” he said, sitting up and tucking his napkin under his chin. “I’m very comfortable.”

  After Mrs Ruddock had returned to her kitchen domain, he picked up the paper and stared at the headline.

  LONDON MAN IN MURDER PROBE

  There was always something of the kind going on these days, he sighed. Murders, rapes, knife attacks, terrorist bombs. Life today wasn’t what it was. He wouldn’t be sad to leave it. Although in fairly good health for a man of his age, he had moments of depression and thoughts of his impending demise were never far away. He put the paper on the table beside him while he stirred his tea. Then his eye caught a word in the text of the article, and he dropped his cup with a clatter and splash. Bockhampton!

  LONDON MAN IN MURDER PROBE

  A young man is being questioned by police following the bizarre murder of his girlfriend in his own house sometime in the early hours of this morning. The man, as yet unnamed, of Bockhampton Road, SW, is said to be shocked by her death, and can throw no light on how the body of his 25-year-old girlfriend, Beth Morrison, got into his own living room while he was allegedly sleeping upstairs.

  It made grim reading for Bernard. The curse had come upon that house once again. Another brutal murder, and they wouldn’t stop until 57 Bockhampton Road had been obliterated from the face of the earth.

  31

  Omar Kemal approached the police station with some trepidation. The desk sergeant looked at him with suspicion, something he was used to. He couldn’t help looking like a terrorist.

  “Good morning, sir. How can we help you?”

  Omar cleared his throat. “Errm, I’d like to see whoever’s in charge of the Beth Morrison murder case, please,” he said.

  “Do you have some information relevant to the case, sir?” The man was scrupulously polite, but Omar could see the mistrust in his eyes.

  “Yes. I need to see whoever’s in charge at once,” Omar asserted. He wasn’t daunted by the desk sergeant’s officious words or manner. Too much water had gone under the bridge for that.

  “Very well. Can I take your name, sir?”

  “Kemal – Omar Kemal.”

  “Right. Wait there, Mr Kemal. I will see if the Inspector’s free.”

  Omar looked around him, taking in the various graphic posters that adorned the walls. It seemed there were many murders and other assorted crimes still unsolved, so he didn’t feel particularly reassured by the police’s apparently poor clear-up rate.

  “Mr Kemal?”

  Omar swung round to see DS Bob Drake bearing down on him.

  “You wanted to see me?” His manner was gruff, and there was no pretence of politeness in his tone.

  “Yes, please, sir. I’ve come about the Beth Morrison murder.”

  “Well, what about it?” Bob Drake stood in front of him. “Did you do it?” He made no move to show him into a private room.

  “Of course not!” Omar exclaimed. “I – I think I’d rather tell you why I’ve come in private.” He looked around as a woman with a fractious child came into the station, followed by two ominous-looking young men who might, or might not, have been with them.

  “Just spit it out. I haven’t got all day.”

  Omar Kemal felt like walking out but stood his ground. “All right, then. I saw the murder.”

  “You saw the murder? What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Well, if you’d let me explain....”

  “Okay, come on. This way.” DS Drake led him into an interview room and closed the door. The room was small and claustrophobic, and Omar almost regretted asking for somewhere private. It could have been a prison cell; it was certainly built along the same lines, with one postage stamp-sized window situated high up in the grey stone wall. He reached inside his collar and wiped the sweat from his neck. It was stiflingly hot, and the smell of stale sweat was making him feel nauseous.

  “Can you please open the window, sir?” he asked timidly.

  Drake tutted as he yanked open the window and sat down at the bare wooden table, beckoning Omar to sit opposite. “Right, let’s have it,” he said, a sarcastic edge to his voice. “Unless you’d like me to adjust the air conditioning – which we don’t have – or would you like me to fetch you some iced lemonade?”

  Omar felt like hitting him now. DS or no DS, he needed to show him some respect. Who did he think he was? “Er, no thank you,” was all he said, however.

  “Okay, let’s get on with it.”

  “I – I know I should have called you straightaway, but I was worried you wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s just that the circumstances of the murder are – very – well, not easily explained.”

  “Look, Mr Kemal, I’ve not got time for ‘Alice in Wonderland’ stories. If you’ve something to tell me, do so. Otherwise – ”

  “I’m a taxi driver and I picked up Miss Morrison from Gatwick on the night of the murder.” Omar decided to gabble out his story quickly before Drake could pass any more sarcastic remarks. “I drove her to 57 Bockhampton Road. I remember the number and everything. I’ve got a good memory, especially when I drive people on nice long journeys.”

  Drake was taking notice at last. “That would be the night before last?”

  “That’s right. It was about two-fifteen in the morning when we arrived at the house. She had been telling me about her visit to Spain, and I asked her if she had had a good holiday. She told me that she hadn’t been on holiday but had gone to see some people who had sold their house to her boyfriend. They’re living in Spain now apparently.”

  “Do I need to hear what you chatted about?” Bob Drake drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “What I need to hear is how you witnessed the crime.”

  “Yes, well, I’m coming to that. As we got chatting I noticed she seemed very agitated and she kept checking the signal on her mobile. Apparently, she was having trouble with it. I asked her if she wanted to use mine, but then she was able to call out on hers...”

  “Again, Mr Kemal, the relevance?”

  “Please, let me tell the story in my own way. It has a bearing on the crime, I assure you.”

  “Hmm!” was Drake’s only response.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, I overheard her talk to someone, telling that person he or she must get out of the house immediately. She seemed very worried, as if something in the house was very dangerous. I drew up outside number 57 Bockhampton Road....”

  “What time did you say that was?”

  “About two-fifteen, I think. Anyway, she made to get out of the cab, but something made her stop. She looked very scared. I asked her if she wanted me to go in with her, but she said no, she would be fine. However, I didn’t drive off. I decided to wait to make sure she got safely inside the house. She rang the bell a couple of times, but it obviously wasn’t working. Then she pushed at the front door and I saw it open. It was either unlocked or someone inside had opened it for her. She disappeared inside so I decided she must be okay. But something made me stay.”

  “Why did you do that?” Drake leaned towards him, his grey eyes boring into Omar’s brown ones.

  “Well, it was what she had said in the cab. About the house. She told me that she didn’t like the atmosphere in the house and that her boyfriend had bought it and she wasn’t very happy about it. I thought that was who she was on the phone to. Anyway, I thought she might be in some kind of danger.”

  “As it turned out, you were dead right, mate.” Drake looked at him grimly. “So, what did you do then?”

  “Well, I waited for about ten minutes and, as she hadn’t appeared, I thought I’d just make sure she was all right. I thought she’d be with her boyfriend, and I didn’t want to intrude myself, but I just wanted to be sure. Well, I got out of the cab and walked up the path. The door opened as I got up to it – almost like those automatic doors they have in supermar
kets. It was weird. I nearly turned and ran, but I thought about the girl and decided to go in. It was very cold inside there, but I could see an almost luminous glow from under the door on the immediate right. I went towards the light and pushed the door wide open. It was the fireplace, glowing in the dark. I’d never seen anything like it.” Omar stopped and gulped. “Could I have a drink of water, please?”

  Omar Kemal wiped the sweat from his forehead, as Drake went in search of the required refreshment. He wasn’t being sarcastic anymore, the little cab driver thought grimly. Just wait until he hears the worst bit, then there’d be trouble. He just didn’t know how the policeman would take it. But it was the truth, that’s all he could say. It was up to him how he dealt with it.

  Drake returned with a bottle of water and a steaming mug of coffee. Sitting back down, he took a swig of his coffee.

  “Okay. Let’s hear the rest of it.”

  Omar gulped down his water and wiped his forehead again. “What I’m about to tell you won’t make any sense. You won’t believe me, I know.”

  “Let me be the judge of that, Mr Kemal.”

  “Okay. What I saw was the girl by the fireplace. She was staring at it, obviously wondering what was making it glow like that. Then this poker just lifted itself up from the grate and smashed down on her head. The poker still swung over her head and then smashed down on her again. I was too scared to go up to her in case I got hit too.”

  “You’re right, Mr Kemal. I don’t believe you.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I didn’t come sooner. But I saw in the paper that her boyfriend was being questioned about the murder, so I wanted to let you know he had nothing to do with it. He wasn’t anywhere near.”

  “Mr Kemal, do you really expect me to believe that a low-flying poker was responsible for killing Beth Morrison while her boyfriend was asleep upstairs?”