by Stan Mason
‘She was raped, beaten and strangled. Until her killer is found she cannot go forward. Nor can I. You must find the person who killed her. Only then will she be released and I can then move on. Until that time, I shall continue to come back to you.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked the architect in a puzzled fashion.
‘You have to find her killer!’ The apparition of his dead wife seemed to be irritated that he didn’t understand her demands.
‘I have to find her killer?’ repeated Hunter mystified.
At that moment, the vision of his dead wife faded and disappeared leaving him puzzled at her command. He stared at the spot where she had been standing but nothing was evident of the visitation. It was as though she had never been there at all in which case he believed that he might have dreamt it all along. How could he possibly undertake the task she asked of him? He was an architect not a private detective. How could he find out who killed Amy Chester, whoever she was when she had been alive? It would be easier to find the Holy Grail! Obviously the police had known about the case but they had failed to discover the murderer. If they couldn’t find the perpetrator with the multitude of police at their command, what chance did he have? Worst still, if he failed, as he was likely to, it appeared that Ruth would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life. And what then? Would she still haunt him in the after-life? He couldn’t understand why his dead wife’s progress to the next world had been prevented by another spirit. But then he couldn’t possibly know the workings of the next world... not until he got there himself.
He reflected on the matter in depth wondering whether he should take the request seriously. After a great deal of thought, he realised that in order to act as a private investigator he would either have to ask his employer for more compassionate leave or quit his job altogether. How could he possibly tell anyone the reason for his actions? They would think he had lost his mind and tell him that he needed urgent medical treatment or that he needed to endure a number of sessions with a psychiatrist. Indeed, when he considered the details, he felt very much that way himself. He dwelt on the issue for quite some time, reluctant to make a final decision. Eventually, however, he approached his employer to enable him to engage on his new adventure and managed to convince his boss to allow him to take the three weeks’ holiday allotted to him for the years ahead immediately. Whether that would be sufficient time for him to know whether he succeeded or failed was beyond his comprehension. However, the way was now clear for him to start on the trail. With his life suddenly turned upside down, he paused to reflect what needed to be done. What would a private investigator do? How would he start the ball rolling? Although he had ignored the news and never read daily newspapers, he recalled vaguely that Amy Chester’s death had been published widely and she had obviously been on the police files so, initially, he needed to go to the library to examine the microfilm of the newspapers that published the story. The information on the woman and other details would be a useful place to begin his quest.
At the local library, he examined the microfilm of the published material, taking notes as he did so on a large notepad. If he expected to find many details of the case, other than the lurid sensationalism published, he was to be sadly disappointed. Only one other name was mentioned. It was that of her ex-boyfriend, but there were no addresses... no additional details that might assist him. The newspapers engaged in a great deal of print about the police and their activities, plus comments by a number of people involved in the case but none of it was helpful to him to find Amy’s killer. He closed the notepad having written practically nothing except Amy’s name and that of her ex-boyfriend and he left the library with an element of frustration. If his investigation was going to produce such little information he was never going to find Amy’s killer. However, he knew that it was only the beginning. There would be many avenues to explore before he could think of giving up.
His next port of call was a confrontation with the police. Thinking negatively, he presumed that they would be unwilling for a stranger to start stirring up a mess of pottage on a case they had failed to resolve. With that in mind, he boldly strode into the local police station and asked point-blank to see the police file on Amy Chester. The Desk Sergeant stared at him oddly, using his computer to bring up the details.
‘She was raped, beaten and strangled,’ stated the policeman looking at Hunter suspiciously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘May I see the file?’ requested the architect.
‘See the file?’ The request stunned the Desk Sergeant. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ retorted Hunter.
‘May I ask your name, sir,’ continued the policeman politely.
‘Jeff Hunter. I’m a private investigator.’
There was a pause as the policeman stared at him strangely. ‘Amy Chester was killed four months ago,’ he went on. ‘Why are you interested in the case? Do you have further evidence?’
‘If I could just see the file...’
The Desk Sergeant interrupted him as he repeated the question. ‘Do you have further evidence?’
‘I think I have,’ lied Hunter, desperate to progress his demand.
‘Then you should talk to DI Watson!’ interrupted the policeman sharply. ‘He was in charge of the case.’
‘Roger Watson,’ forwarded Hunter with delight. ‘I know him. I was the architect who built this station. I discussed the plans with him at the time.’
‘I see,’ retorted the Desk Sergeant. ‘You were an architect then. Now you’re a private investigator!’ He stared at the visitor suspiciously.
‘Just for the time being,’ commented Hunter realising that he had been caught out. ‘It’s of vital importance that I find Amy Chester’s killer.’
The policeman stared at him strangely. ‘Now why would you want to do that after we used most of the police force to investigate the matter fully and been found wanting?’
Hunter’s face puckered up as he felt his boldness drifting away. ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Try me!’ came the swift response.
‘I think I’d rather talk to Roger Watson.’
The Desk Sergeant paused for a moment and then picked up a telephone receiver dialling a single-digit number. ‘Roger... can you come to the front desk. We have an architect-cum-private investigator who say he knows you. He wants to see the file on Amy Chester because he says it’s vital that he finds her killer.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘He’s on his way,’ he said, staring suspiciously at the architect. ‘Please take a seat over there.’
Watson arrived shortly recognising Hunter immediately. They shook hands and he led him into an interview room where the two men sat facing each other.
‘You asked to see the file on Amy Chester,’ he began. ‘Why?’
The architect looked uncomfortable wondering whether to tell the policeman the true story before deciding to come clean. ‘My wife died recently,’ he ventured slowly. ‘A vision of her keeps coming to me saying that she can’t go forward into the next world until Amy Chester’s spirit is released and that won’t happen until her killer is found.’
Watson stared at him for a moment in disbelief. He was ill-prepared for a strange story of the paranormal. There had been many crank calls during his investigation of the case but here was a man who had come to express an incident which was entirely unbelievable.
‘Have you told this story to anyone else?’ he asked wondering how to deal with the matter. The architect shook his head. ‘Well it’s just as well you haven’t. You’ll be locked up as insane if you go round spouting that the vision of your wife keeps coming to you. I hope you realise that.’
‘If I could just see the file,’ pleaded Hunter passionately, ‘I could progress the investigation. The case is still open. I think the public have a right to see police reco
rds, don’t they?’
‘No they don’t,’ came the blunt answer, ‘but as I know you, I’ll let you see it.’ At that moment, Watson felt that he was dealing with a lunatic. The man had clearly lost his mind after his wife’s untimely death and it was his misfortune that he had come to his police station. His main aim was to get rid of him as quickly as possible in the hope that Hunter left the police station and never returned again.
He left the room and came back five minutes later with the file in his hand. The architect removed a pen and notepad from his pocket and wrote down a number of details. He stared at the four photographs in front of him. Three of them showed Amy’s face which had been crushed badly above the left eye. His expression indicated the way he felt about the murder.
‘Awful, isn’t it?’ commented Watson sombrely.
‘How could someone do that to a woman?’ asked the architect, shaking his head slowly before closing the file and passing it back to the policeman.
Watson re-opened the file to look at the photographs. ‘Well,’ he said jokingly, which was totally unwarranted anecdote. ‘I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.’
Hunter was less than amused by the remark and his expression made his feelings clear. ‘Where are Amy’s personal effect?’ he went on, pretending not to have heard the policeman.
‘They were passed back to her mother after forensics had finished with them. Just the normal things. A watch. A necklace, two rings, a diary. I think that was it.’
‘One last question,’ he said finally. ‘What was Amy wearing when she was found?’
The policeman stared at him gloomily. ‘She wore a scarlet blouse which was torn and all the buttons were missing, nothing else. No skirt or panties.’
Hunter grunted as he made brief notes in his notepad thanking Watson for his co-operation. He left the police station and went directly to a cafeteria where he read his notes over a cup of coffee. At least he had more information than he had gathered at the library. He looked down at the notepad. ‘Amy Chester, nineteen years of age. Worked for Hamptons, as a supermarket cashier. Lived at 16, Acacia Terrace. Her mother lived down the same street at number 44. Brown hair, brown eyes, five feet six inches tall, weighing eight stone five ounces. Her ex-boyfriend: Tom Houghton, lived at 77, Oakhill Road. Raped, beaten and strangled. Found practically naked on Vernon Beach.’
At least he now had some key leads although each person mentioned had clearly been well interviewed by the police. Although there must have been suspects, they had not found evidence to prove anyone guilty and it was quite likely that he would suffer the same fate. He screwed up his face with frustration as he viewed the task. Oh, to be like the star television detectives such as Columbo, Jessica Fletcher, Jane Marple, Hercules Poirot and Quincy. They all seemed to make it so simple, finding clues which entrapped murderers in their respective television programmes. As an architect, with no investigative skills, how could he possibly match their powers of detection? Well he couldn’t detract from the quest so he decided to start with the ex-boyfriend and travelled to the man’s home later that evening.
‘Tom Houghton?’ he began, as the young man opened the door at 77 Oakhill Road.
‘Who wants to know?’ the question was fired like a bullet from a gun.
‘My name’s Jeff Hunter,’ replied the architect. ‘I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to you about Amy Chester.’
‘The police already questioned me over and over again,’ replied the young man harshly. ‘I’ve had it with questions! It’s definitely over.’ He went to shut the door but Hunter placed his foot in the doorway to prevent it closing.
‘No it’s not!’ he snapped curtly. ‘It’s not over!’
‘Get your foot out of the door or I’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing!’ snarled Houughton angrily.
‘She can’t get to the other world if I don’t find her killer.’ The words echoed in the silence that followed.
The young man stared at him puzzled by the remark. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said her spirit can’t get to the next world until I find her killer.’
‘Are you saying she spoke with you?’ There question came in a moment of suspense.
‘Not her. My dead wife did. She can’t go forward until Amy Chester’s killer’s found.’
‘She actually spoke to you?’
‘I’ve seen her apparition twice recently.’
There was a long pause as Houghton absorbed the information. Then he opened the door widely. ‘You’d better come in,’ he invited rather reluctantly. Hunter entered and found himself in a small lounge. ‘What’s this all about? What do you mean her spirit can’t get to the next world?’
The architect sat down in on old armchair that had seen far better days. He began to explain the vision of his dead wife and told the young man of his quest.
‘Is this some sort of a wind-up?’ challenged Houghton. ‘Did Charlie Furbanks send you?’
‘It’s all true, I assure you. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right,’ continued the architect.
By this time, Houghton was all ears. As a aficionado of the paranormal he was well acquainted with ghosts, apparitions and visions. The fact that his visitor had seen one... on two occasions... and was involving him with his ex-girl friend, was of great interest to him. ‘Go on,’ he concurred swiftly.
‘Tell me about your relationship,’ advanced Hunter.
‘We met at a party. She lived here for five weeks. We had an argument and parted. It’s as simple as that.’
‘It’s never quite that simple,’ related the architect sagely. ‘Did she leave you for someone else?
‘Not to my knowledge. Our argument was over marriage. She wanted to; I didn’t. She kept her apartment while she was with me and went back to it afterwards.’ The interview continued with questions on which places they went to, with whom, what other people were their friends, what Amy told him in private, details of the time her attitude changed, whether anyone had stalked her, and a variety of other information. Hunter took notes on everything the young man told him and rose to leave later with a dozen thoughts going through his mind.
‘Here’s my card,’ he suggested before he left. ‘Call me if anything else comes to mind.’
The young man took the card and asked one final question. ‘I’m clued up on the paranormal,’ he said. ‘Do you think you could include me in your investigation? I’d like to become involved.’
Hunter allowed the idea to run through his mind for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I’d like that. But you’ll have to bear with me for a while. I’m new to this game.’
He left wondering how the police could have been suspicious of the ex-boyfriend when they questioned him. There was no doubt in the architect’s mind that the young man was totally innocent. But there was the assertion that most people who are raped and murdered are known by their killer. That was a point he had to retain in his memory. It was possible that Amy’s killer might have been someone she knew.
***
Hunter returned to his house that evening deep in thought. He had agreed to allow Houghton to join the investigation with him but the last thing he needed was someone else to burden him on his quest. The young man was really only interested in the paranormal developments, caring little for finding Amy’s murderer, therefore in the long run his contribution would not be worth a fig. There was no alternative but to go it alone. He began to place pages of notes on the wall of his study, firstly identifying Amy at the top and then drawing a diagonal line to Houghton on the right-hand side. If he was going to operate professionally he needed to do it in the same style as the police. There wasn’t much to go on at present but, in time, the picture would build up and his efforts would produce evidence that he could see without
reference to the notes in his notepad. He had visited Amy’s ex-boyfriend... next was the turn of her mother. What would she be like... a woman who allowed her daughter to leave home at an early age? What was their relationship? Were they loving... or did they fight? He was determined to find the answers to such questions.
The following morning he went to Amy’s mother’s house but discovered that she wasn’t at home. A nosey neighbour, watching him from behind a net curtain next door, emerged eventually.
‘Looking for Mrs. Chester?’ she asked with interest.
‘I am,’ declared Hunter. He suddenly realised that he might get more out of a neighbour than the woman he had come to see.
‘She works in the Chinese laundry down the road,’ revealed the woman. ‘Comes back at ten past five. Do you want to leave a message?’
‘I wanted to find out some details about her daughter.’ He held his breath for a moment awaiting her response.
‘Amy... the dead girl?’ she paused as he nodded.
‘I’m a private investigator,’ he told her.
‘Oh, well, in that case you’d better come in,’ she invited much to his surprise. ‘I can tell you a few things. What do you want to know?’
He entered the neighbour’s house and sat in a tiny front room which was filled with very modern furniture. She left him for a short while, returning with a tray bearing two teacups, a teapot, a bowl of milk and another one containing sugar.
‘There’s nothing like a good cuppa tea,’ she said smiling broadly. It was quite clear that she was a lonely person who enjoyed having company.
‘May I have your name for my records?’ he asked politely.
‘Of course,’ she replied readily. ‘Alice Prescott.’ She sat down on an chair far too elegant for the room and poured out the tea. ‘What do you want to know, dearie?’ she ventured as she shifted to make herself comfortable.
‘I want to know what kind of relationship Amy had with her mother,’ he began, producing his pen and notepad.
‘They fought like dogs,’ revealed the woman readily. ‘They argued so loudly, you could hear them through the walls. Hammer and tongs I used to think. Hammer and tongs. Her mother couldn’t control her. She was a wild one. Well, just think of it... a young girl of seventeen, her hormones running wild. Her only aim in life was to flirt with men. She didn’t have any hobbies that I knew of. Went clubbing every night. Used to come home tipsy. What does a mother do with a girl like that?’
