by Stan Mason
‘I’m positive you’re coming,’ snapped the senior police officer curtly. ‘If it’s not there, your head will be on the line. There’s no doubt about that. I’ll have you for wasting police time.’
‘That’s exactly the attitude Tom Pritchard told me you’d take,’ stated Hunter angrily.
‘Who’s Tom Pritchard?’
‘Never mind!’ muttered Hunter irately. ‘Let’s get to the boat and find the body.’
They progressed to the quayside and waited for the police launch to arrive. Then they climbed aboard and headed for the island. The sea was choppy that day with the waves rising and falling at higher levels than usual. Subsequently, it took them over fifteen minutes to reach it and they searched vainly for no body could be found among the numerous rocks that skirted the island.
Watson stared at the architect tiredly intending to wreak his full revenge for wasting his time and that of his colleagues. He was just about to order a return to the mainland when Hunter had an idea.
‘I think it must be on the other side,’ predicted the architect eventually, realising that the fisherman would have hidden the body away from public visibility. Consequently, the launch was piloted to the other side of the island where the police soon discovered a decayed body wedged firmly between the rocks. It reeked with an ugly stench as a body-bag was brought to take away the remains.
‘Horrible!’ muttered Watson, screwing up his face at the awful stench. ‘I don’t think anyone will be able to recognise the woman’s identity except for the pathologist. They do it through the teeth and DNA.’
‘She was the first one to be murdered,’ claimed the architect.
‘The first one that we know of,’ countered the policeman. ‘We have a serial killer on our hands. Who knows how many bodies we’ll turn up in the end.’
The police launch, having completed its task, made its way back through the choppy sea to dock at the quayside.
‘I don’t know where you get your information from, Hunter,’ Watson commented, after they had returned to the police station, ‘but it’s right on the button.’
‘You’ll be horrified when I tell you,’ revealed the architect with a smile on his face. ‘I got it from a medium.’
The senior police officer reflected the situation briefly. ‘Maybe I should warm to them in the future... when things get really tight.’
‘I think you should,’ retorted Hunter with an element of amusement in his voice. ‘In that way you might solve more crimes.’
The remark didn’t go down well with Watson who said his farewell and departed quickly.
Hunter was elevated by the result. He had left the police far behind with his enquiries to prove that, when all was said and done, he was a supreme private investigator. However, despite priding himself with the personal accolade, it didn’t bring him any nearer to finding the identity of the killers. Once again, he had been sidelined by a medium even though the result had been positive. It was yet further fuel to the fire that caused him to burn with ambition. He recognised that if he continued to hunt for clues with such fervour, he would do more damage to his mind than that inflicted by his dead wife.
***
During the afternoon, the architect sat in Ellen’s apartment while she was teaching at school and poured himself a dry martini after lunch allowing all the information he had uncovered to run smoothly through his mind. Eventually, he recalled the details provided by Ellen of the two senior pupils at the school who had seen Amy Chester’s body on the beach on the night she was murdered. They had hurried away from the scene not wishing to tell the police, or anyone else for that matter, that they had seen the body. There had to be a reason for their reluctance to inform the authorities of their discovery or even to telephone for an ambulance. Surely the latter was the action of practically every human-being who noted someone in dire distress! He assumed that the two young people were in love with each other and didn’t want anyone, especially their parents, to know about their relationship. Alternatively, they were old enough to perpetrate the crime, leaving Amy’s body on the beach and walking away from it. Ellen had told him that they were fifteen and sixteen years olds respectively. It was more likely that they were almost sixteen and seventeen. Well age wasn’t a factor in the case. It was possible for the two senior pupils from Lampshire Secondary School to be involved. Hunter needed to find out the truth for himself.
After school, he took Ellen to the little cafe where they were served tea. He felt extremely awkward at having to put the question to his partner but he felt he had no alternative.
‘I wonder...’ he began tentatively, tailing off hesitantly before continuing..
‘Come on!’ she urged strongly. ‘Spit it out. If there’s something awful you want to say, don’t spare my feelings. I can take it.’
He screwed up his face and then started out again. ‘I know I shouldn’t ask you this,’ he went on. ‘It’s very delicate and I’m sure you’ll answer in the negative. It’s a theory I’ve been developing and I’ll accept your answer whatever it is.’
‘For Heaven’s sake!’ she reproached with an element of anger in her voice. ‘Tell me what it is you want!’
‘Promise me you won’t get upset because it’s only a theory,’ he forwarded fearfully.
‘Are you going to say it or not?’ she snapped becoming even angrier at his hesitation.
He swallowed hard and ventured forward. ‘There were two pupils from the school who saw Amy’s body on the beach before anyone else saw it.’
‘Yes,’ snapped Ellen when Hunter stopped again. ‘What of it?’
‘Age has no connection in the case, you know that,’ he went on nervously. ‘Is it possible that those two students were responsible for the murders?’
She burst out laughing. ‘Are you serious, Jeff,’ she responded hurtfully. ‘I think your mind has turned to mash. How can you ask me a question like that? These are two senior pupils at the school who probably didn’t want anyone to know they were out together. They walked along the beach holding hands... two young teenagers in love.’
‘I know,’ he said weakly, ‘but the killers are a man and a woman. Maybe those students know a thing or two more.’
‘How could they have taken the body to the beach. Neither of them has a licence to drive... not that they could have got hold of a vehicle anyway. You’re talking nonsense! Absolute nonsense!’
He thought about her comment for a moment and nodded. ‘Do you think you could point them out to me when they come out of school tomorrow?’
She dug her heels in at his suggestion. ‘No way,’ she muttered angrily. ‘You’re not to involve them for any reason whatsoever. Do you hear me? I think this case is getting on top of you. You need to start thinking straight!’
He drew in his horns and sat back in his seat sipping his tea. Why couldn’t a sixteen year old teenager rape and strangle a young woman especially with the help of another person? It wasn’t nonsense at all!
Ellen failed to speak to him for quite some time after their heated conversation and he mused that she was extremely annoyed with him. Therefore it was surprise when she suddenly conceded her position to favour his plea.
‘There’s a school play tomorrow,’ she informed him. ‘It’s Beauty and the Beast. The main characters in it are the two pupils you want to interview. You can come and see them on the stage if you wish but nothing more. If you insist on pursuing this line of enquiry you’ll need to get permission from their parents. Is that understood.’
He nodded his consent. ‘I’ll come along to see the play,’ he told her quietly. ‘I’m sure the matter will end there.’
‘I’m not being difficult,’ she went on with a softer tone in her voice, ‘but we’re talking of two young teenagers. You can’t go barging into their lives talking to them about murder.’
‘I understand,’ he
said equally quietly. ‘I’m truly sorry I brought it up.’ He shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. ‘Please accept my apologies for putting you on the line.’
‘You do realise that they told the priest and no one else except me,’ she advanced, with a frown appearing on her face. ‘Your request places a lot of responsibility on my shoulders.’
He accepted her decision and the matter ended there.
Hunter went to the school the following morning to watch the play. Indeed, the two main characters were the boy and girl he wished to interview. However, after watching them act for the best part of an hour on the school stage, he realised that they could have had nothing to do with the murders. They were simply a young boy and girl who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time on the night of Amy’s death. The architect knew that he would have to make it up to Ellen but he wasn’t certain how much the penance would cost him... but cost him it would!
***
Hunter went directly to his lap-top computer to write the story of the new development. He had promised Meredith that they would share the results of the case as they came to light but the architect was so full of information that he found it necessary to get it out of his system. After he had finished writing it, he would present it to the reporter to fill in the gaps but he felt primed at the present time and nothing would allow him to change his mind. He logged on and began writing.
BODY FOUND ON LOPSIDE ISLAND
A new development occurred on Friday when a medium at a seance contacted the spirit of one of the dead women raped, strangled and left on Vernon Beach. The instigator of the seance, Jeff Hunter, a private investigator, followed up the lead which led to a police launch being piloted to Lopside Island. There they found the body of Elspeth Dainty, a woman who had been missing for seven months. Her throat had been cut and the body was in a severe state of decomposition.
It was a tremendous lead,’ commented Mr. Hunter, after the body was brought back for examination by a pathologist, ‘and it’s quite clear that the police are looking for a serial killer. There have been two murders with the same modus operandi, namely Amy Chester and Inge Carlson, a Swedish student, now there’s another one in the loop. There are further clues to follow-up and it’s hoped the killer will be caught in the not too distant future.’ Roger Watson, the policeman in charge of the case, said ‘blah, blah blah...’ Miss Dainty was blah years old and was reported missing on blah. The investigation is on-going.
He sat back checking the story, considering that Meredith would be highly pleased. Taking his lap-top with him, he drove directly to the newspaper office and presented it to the reporter.
Here you are,’ he said proudly. ‘Front page news!’
Meredith stared at him bleakly before glancing at the text. ‘Front page news, eh?’ His tone verged on rudeness. ‘First an architect, then a private investigator, now a journalist,’ he commented sarcastically. ‘When will it end?’
‘Don’t take it the wrong way,’ retorted Hunter, sad that his efforts were being taken so lightly. ‘I’m the one with all the facts. The story’s yours. I don’t want my name on the by-line.’
‘Well thank heavens for that,’ remarked the reporter with a tinge of anger in his voice. ‘At this rate you’ll soon be taking over the world.’
‘I can delete this,’ uttered Hunter irately, pausing with his finger over the delete button on the lap-top.
The reporter moved forward to prevent him from doing so. ‘No ... it’s all right. I’ll take it from here.’ He plugged the machine into his own equipment and transferred the text accordingly sitting down heavily in his chair. ‘Why didn’t you ring Watson and get his comments?’ he asked tiredly, running a hand over his face. ‘You done everything else.’
‘I had to leave something for you to do,’ smiled the architect with an element of amusement in his voice. ‘I don’t know Elspeth Dainty’s age or the date she was reported missing. You’ll have to fill in those blanks as well.’
‘Thank you very much,’ retorted Meredith with a touch of irony before changing his attitude. ‘No, I mean it. Your heart’s in the right place.’ He inhaled deeply and then rose from his chair. ‘Let’s get out of here and go for a drink.’
They left the building and sauntered down the road to a nearby inn. Hunter bought two pints of ale and they sat at a table some distance from the bar.
‘When are they going to catch this bastard,’ muttered the reporter after sipping his ale. ‘You know he’s going to strike again and again until they get him. He’s a psychopath! Let me go back to a moment in history about a man named Herman Webster Mudgett. He was hanged in 1895 for murdering one woman but in actual fact he killed almost two hundred of them. The trouble with such lunatics is that they don’t know when to stop. You’ve got to do something soon to catch him.’
‘I’m doing my best, pal,’ related Hunter sadly. ‘There are so many clues, so many suspects, yet not one of them is right for the crime. I thought I’d got him with Antonio Perera but he was too educated, too smart, to be the one. Tom Houghton was in the frame but he was too weak. Mervyn Jones was the most likely but he had a solid alibi. Then there was Duggie Prince ... the wizard of dance... who couldn’t kill a herring. Where does one look next?’
‘Perhaps if you go back to your mediums, they might produce something more solid,’ suggested the reporter.
‘They already have,’ confirmed the architect. ‘The last one told me about the yellow boat. That’s how I found out about the body at Lopside Island. By the way, you’re not to mention the yellow boat in the article. I shouldn’t have told you about it. There’s so much the mediums and psychics have told me but nothing is tangible. Yes... I have clues but none of them lead me to the killer.’
‘Turn every situation on its head,’ said Meredith, taking a long swig of his ale. ‘Make the impossible become possible.’
‘And how the hell do I do that?’ snapped Hunter tiredly. ‘I’ve tried to fathom out something material only to come up with zilch.’
‘You have to get into the mind of the killer.’ The reporter stood up suddenly and he went to the bar to order two double whiskies. The architect watched him go sombrely. It was all very well for Meredith to make such high-flown suggestions but how did one get into a killer’s mind. Honest people acted honestly. It was only the criminals who thought in such devious ways and committed heinous acts against other people.
Meredith returned with the two glasses, sitting down to drink one of them in one gulp. Then he slowly sipped the other one. ‘You don’t get much for your money these days at the bar,’ he complained bitterly.
‘What does a killer think like?’ ventured the architect, willing to consider any options.
‘He’s unhappy, miserable, probably because of something evil that happened to him in his early life. His mother or father might have left him at an early age. He may have been beaten badly by his father. Perhaps there was no love given to him by his parents. Maybe they both died and he was fostered out to strangers. Or they may have got divorced when he was young which left him in the care of only one parent.’
‘Well that’s a pretty comprehensive range of options,’ exclaimed Hunter feeling sorry for anyone who had to suffer any of those situations. ‘Which one do I select?’
‘The felon turns to crime at an early age. Possibly for revenge or because he can’t hold down a job. It’s easy to commit a crime at first and then it becomes a habit depending on what sort of act he commits. After a while he becomes blase about his actions and then he begins to make mistakes.’
‘That’s quite some profile,’ declared the architect, taking in every word the man had told him.
‘Oh, that’s only the beginning,’ returned Meredith becoming slightly drunk as he sipped more whisky.’ I could go on and on.’
‘You’re right,’ stated Hunter staring dir
ectly at the man. ‘I must somehow get into the mind of the killer.’
With that thought in mind, he left the Meredith at the inn. The reporter was obviously going to get stone drunk as he usually did most evenings. No doubt, there would be someone behind the bar who knew him well to carry him home when the inn closed. The reporter was quite right. He had been conducting the investigation like an amateur, interviewing suspects with only one aim in mind... to find the killer quickly. Now was the time to settle down and act in a more professional manner. He now knew why Watson had not wanted him involved in the early stages. In the light of what Meredith had told him, he could hardly blame the police officer. The next day would be one of new actions, new developments and a more advanced means of continuing the case. In future, his mind would encompass the thoughts of the killer!
***
Sophie Taffler walked out of Cameron Buildings at Charing Cross into the bright sunlight of a brilliant summer’s day. She had been born in London but her parents had emigrated to Tel Aviv in Israel when she was three years old. Now she was twenty-two with the primary objective of managing her father’s business in the city of London. Some years earlier, he had started his own company in Israel, jumping on the electronics bandwagon when it first blossomed. As time passed, the business improved and then it faced a stampede as orders poured in from the United States and Europe. Eventually, it progressed so well that Chaim Taffler decided to open an office in London as a platform to market his products worldwide.
Sophie had been brought up in Israel. Her employment within her father’s business had been interrupted on her induction into the Israeli army at the age of eighteen where she spent two years learning how to defend and attack. Before she went into the army, she joined her father in the factory in Tel Aviv, elevating herself from the duties of a clerk, then becoming a secretary, followed by a long session in marketing. After her demobilisation from the army, she became a sub-manager before being promoted to a full-blown manager in her own right. Now, as the most experienced person in the business, she had been sent into the country where she had been born to develop it worldwide using all her marketing skills.
