by M J Porter
“Beatrice said the teacher there was either Thomas Roberts or Robert Thomas. She’s going to find out from the school. He was in post for years. But, she said that there was often a second teacher. She’ll ring when she knows the answer.”
“Ah,” O’Rourke piped up. “She’s already rung. Here,” and she stood and handed him a piece of paper with five names on them.
“So, it was Thomas Roberts then,” Sam stated, casting his eyes down the other four names. None of them was Stuart McDougall.
“So it’s a non-starter,” Hamish admitted.
“Maybe not. We just don’t know, not yet. I think it’s worth pursuing, even as we work on the drawings. We’ll ask everywhere else as well. I’ll get Williams to make the calls tomorrow because the schools will be shut by now,” Sam stated, looking at his watch.
“So, the drawings?” Hamish prompted.
“If you’re sure you don’t mind,” Sam stated. “It might not be pleasant, O’Rourke’s right to be cautious.”
“Not that I spend my time drawing crime scenes, but I know I can do it. Who shall we start with?”
“Let’s start with your victim. You know that case the best, so while you work from the information we have, I can read back through the report, and then we can add the missing details.”
“That’s fine with me. I’ll need some plain paper and some decent pencils,” Hamish confirmed. “Oh, and that pie was amazing,” he offered. “I’ll be going back there tomorrow,” he chuckled to himself as he arranged his drawing space in the way he liked it.
Sam was fascinated by people who could draw. He couldn’t even make a stick man without it looking wobbly.
Silence filled the room, other than for Hamish’s pencils sketching out the body as it had been found. Sam turned to find the victim’s name, Esme McDonald, in the case files, and then he kept reading. The case notes read as dry as always. It was always challenging to distil the emotions of a murder to stark facts, and yet, it was a skill that Hamish’s father had worked hard to develop. The lack of emotion made it feel like he read about nothing more than a list of military commands.
“April 4th 1919, called to school playing fields behind the old high school. Body discovered at 7.04 am by a dog walker, a Mrs Elsie Stone, and immediately reported to Sergeant Green. Inspector McTavish responded, alongside Inspector Dougall. Suspicion of murder confirmed by Dr Jones, who later diagnosed death by drowning.”
Of course, Sam had been told that by Hamish when he’d first called, but now he looked for more facts.
“Victim was wearing a long dark blue skirt, and beneath it, a long red sock, pulled up tight to her knee. She also wore a pale blue shirt. On her feet, she wore black training shoes that showed no scuff marks. The body seemed to have been cleaned, and there was no sign of injury.”
“Dr Jones’ examination showed that there was dirt beneath the nails on her right hand, while her left hand was tightly clenched. There were no signs of sexual assault, although there were bruises at the top of her arms, suspected to have formed after death when being moved to the place of discovery. A hockey ball was found some distance away. No doubt it had been left behind after a match.”
Sam stopped reading at this, his mouth opening in surprise. How had he missed this? How had they missed the connection between the long socks and the clothes worn for playing hockey? He shook his head at the missed opportunity.
“An extensive search of the site also uncovered an abandoned handkerchief, embroidered with the initials, SM. It was determined that this had been left by a member of the public, perhaps even the physical education teacher from the high school named Capt. Stuart McDougall, although it was kept as evidence.”
Sam sighed again. It seemed to him that too much had been dismissed with little thought. Had they even determined where Stuart McDougall had been while the girl had been missing? He wanted to turn and flick through the interviews that had occurred after, but for now, his focus needed to remain on what had been found at the time. He made a note to check if an alibi had ever been confirmed for Stuart McDougall as he examined the photographs and drawings that accompanied the terse report.
He was surprised to note that the hockey ball’s location and that of the handkerchief had been indicated on what seemed to be a plan of the area. It wasn’t so much a drawing as a blank sheet of paper with the locations noted on it. He tugged on his lower lip as he gazed at it. After all, it had been a playing field. That wasn’t much detail. Not at all.
Still, Sam struggled to determine how the body had been moved there without anyone noticing. It wasn’t as though it had been an obscured place. In fact, it seemed to be in the open. Undoubtedly, the murderer must have taken a significant risk to leave the body there. Why not just leave it hidden somewhere? It would have been much less risky.
Perhaps, Sam considered, the murderer had wanted the body to be found? Had he been arrogant enough to think he’d not be caught?
“What do you think?” Hamish roused him from his thoughts, sliding the drawing towards him. All of a sudden, the dry words sprang to life thanks to the drawing. He could even see what Esme had truly looked like, but his eyes alighted on something he’d not seen before.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the drawing.
“It’s on the photograph, see, it’s here,” and Hamish riffled through the pages he’d been looking at and then held it up.
“But what is it?” Sam persisted.
“It has initials on it. I’m assuming it’s a cufflink or something.”
“Can you make out the initials?”
“It looks to me like it says, SM.”
“SM again. Surely it can’t be,” but Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps it was.
“We really need to see if he had an alibi. I’m going to do that now. But the image is fantastic, much clearer than reading the words and looking at the few photographs there are.”
“I’m going to continue then and go on to the Weston case. Already we’ve noticed something we hadn’t seen before.” Hamish’s voice thrummed with excitement, and Sam nodded absentmindedly, flicking through the case file.
He was convinced it couldn’t be so simple, but he needed to check all the same.
The report was reasonably thick and filled with officially filled in forms. It was unfortunate that the black ink on the typed words had begun to fade and that there was a slightly unpleasant damp smell emanating from it as well.
Sam pulled a lamp closer to his head. It was difficult to read the words in the glow from the single overhead bulb, but at least there was a table lamp. With it angled just right, Sam returned to the beginning of the file, carefully reading each and every title before dismissing them as not what he was after, just now. It might be an old file, and it might not be one he was acquainted with, but it felt familiar and ordered, all the same. While they’d not managed to find the perpetrator twenty-four years ago, he couldn’t fault the logical way that the Chief Inspector had gone about investigating the murder.
“Ah,” Sam didn’t even realise he spoke aloud. “Here it is,” he continued to talk, despite the fact no one was listening. Hamish was engrossed in the Weston file, his own lamp hanging over the table where he’d pulled a chair so that he could sketch as he went. O’Rourke was equally engrossed in her research.
He read to himself.
“Witness statement from Captain Stuart McDougall of 7 Union Street, Inverness. Given on 6th April 1919 at 3 pm.
On 2nd April, the witness confirmed his whereabouts at school during the day, and the headteacher confirmed this. After school, he returned immediately home and spent the evening with his wife, Mrs Stuart McDougall. His wife confirmed this.
On 3rd April, the witness was again at school, and in the afternoon, attended an after-school football match with his team. He then returned home at 5 pm, and his wife returned at 6 pm.
On 4th April, the witness had yet to arrive at school when the body was discovered, but his wife
confirmed he awoke at 7 am and was with her until 8.30 am when news of what had happened was relayed to him.”
Sam felt his lips twist in consternation. While he was aware that wives would occasionally give false alibi, he thought she wouldn’t have done so for a murder. So, yes, he had an alibi for the days between the victim’s disappearance and discovery, the missing person’s report had been with the initial report. Esme had been reported missing by her grandmother at 2 pm on the 2nd April. She’d not arrived at school, and her absence had been noted when she’d not returned home for her lunch.
Sam felt that pursuing the matter would be a waste of his time. It just didn’t seem to fit.
But, who else was there with the initials SM?
“Have you found any cufflinks in the Weston case?” he called across to Hamish.
Hamish startled at the first words spoken in the room for some time.
“No, no cufflinks, and nothing out of place either. The site seems free from potential evidence.”
Sam absorbed the news. It couldn’t be that simple; he just knew it.
“Well, I think we should call it a day,” he announced. “But we can start again in the morning. But you don’t have to if you have plans,” he directed this at both of them, aware, after all, that it was a Saturday, but they both shook their heads, even as they stood and stretched out cramped limbs.
“I’ll be back for eight am,” Sam confirmed. “Just get in when you can, and if you change your mind, that’s not a problem.”
As he spoke, Sam was pulling his coat on, aware that the room had become steadily cooler throughout the afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow, he’d have to pull one of the portable heaters inside from the main office. His fingers were almost numb.
“Good night,” he called to Hamish and O’Rourke. But with every step he took on the way home, he thought of the long-dead children. He needed to find a connection. He needed to solve the conundrum and only then would he feel able to think of anything else.
Chapter 9
Every part of him ached. Slumping into his chair, Sam’s eyes were arrested by a thin strip of paper on the table, just out of reach of his wife’s hand, turned upside down.
His eyes flashed from her shadowed face to the instantly recognisable telegram paper. Sam felt his chest freeze, and he struggled to draw in oxygen. No, he wanted to scream, no, no, no.
“Read it first,” her voice tried to tell him something, but Sam couldn’t decipher what it was.
Hands shaking, he held the typed paper up to the light, wishing he didn’t have to read the words, but knowing he needed to, all the same.
“I regret to inform you that your son John Mason was injured on 3rd January 1944. He will be returned home when his injuries permit travel.”
Sam shuddered. Not dead, thank goodness. Not dead.
“But what are his injuries?” he demanded to know. Annie shook her head, as though expecting the question.
“It doesn’t say, and there’s no point in speculating. Let’s be grateful he yet lives.” Sam nodded, reaching across to grip her hand. She allowed him to do so, and together they sat in silence. For once, his thoughts were distracted from the case.
Eventually, Annie stood, but he stayed where he was, eyes focused on nothing.
“What are those?” His wife leaned over him as she placed his dinner before him. He barely even noticed.
“Sketches of the victims and how they were found.” Sam had been driven to carry the images home with him. Hamish had drawn all ten now, including the latest reported to Sam in response to the alert; an Ivy Reynolds, found in Exeter in June 1925.
Sam almost dreaded every time he was called to the telephone for fear it would be another unsolved case.
“Well, the artist made them look as though they’re merely sleeping. What skill he must have.” It seemed Annie was keen to be distracted from their news. He allowed himself to be returned to the here and now.
“Yes, even though the boys and girls all have their eyes closed, they still look more lifelike than any of the photographs that we have from the crimes scenes.”
“Can I look at them?” Annie asked, and he relinquished them to her, rubbing tired eyes.
Hamish had returned to Inverness when they’d made no further progress with the idea that it might have been the teachers. Williams had rung schools, from Glasgow to Exeter and all the others in-between, and no two names had ever been the same. Beatrice from the Weston Mercury had called Sam the following day, but the school hadn’t kept close records on the substitute teachers who’d helped out the principal physical education teacher. Sam had thanked her.
Hamish was going to try and find out what he could from the locals who remembered the murder in Inverness, but Sam already suspected it wouldn’t help. These murders were tied only to the locations because that’s where the bodies had been found. The killer, because that’s how Sam had to think of him now, had merely wanted to spread his victims around, no doubt in the hope of avoiding detection.
The link still eluded him, and he could feel himself beginning to sink into the same sort of moroseness that had infected Chief Inspector Fullerton. And he didn’t want that, yet, the discovery of so many potentially linked cases gnawed at him as soon as he woke in the morning, until he slept at night, and then often in his dreams as well.
He forked his dinner into his mouth, surprised by the delicious taste which forced him from his stupor. Only then did he realise that his wife hadn’t joined him. He looked around the small kitchen and even rocked back on his chair, peering into the open door that led into the sitting room. But she wasn’t there. Anywhere.
“Annie,” he called, even as he chewed.
“Just a moment,” was her response, and he detected a flicker of excitement in her voice, even as he startled because she was sitting on the floor in the sitting room, the fire casting her face into shadows and lightness. Still, it was what she was doing that astounded him even more.
“What is it?” he demanded to know, abandoning his dinner, when he appreciated that she held the pencil drawings in one hand.
“Help me,” she instructed him, without explanation.
“What are you doing?” He crouched beside her.
“Can’t you see? Look,” and when he still gazed at her aghast, noting the colour in her cheeks, she picked up the picture showing the Inverness victim, Esme McDonald, his eyes immediately fastening on the cufflink and hockey ball.
Annie held an accompanying image from the Picture Post magazine she was so fond of reading. Sam looked between the two, forehead furrowed before his mouth dropped open in shock at the similarities. The two drawings could almost be identical if not for the hockey stick in the girl’s hand on the advert and the small bowl of enticing yellow custard gleaming in the bottom right corner. Then he was beside Annie on the floor, pulling the pile of old Picture Post magazines towards him.
“Really?” he demanded to know, but she was vigorously nodding her head, holding the pencil drawing of the Weston victim, Anthony, against yet another image. Sam noted Anthony’s stripy sock, not mentioned on the police report where they’d said he was wearing plain socks, and not one stripy sock, but evident from the images taken by the newspaper photographer.
“It just can’t be?” Sam exclaimed, feeling a flutter of excitement in the pit of his stomach. Somehow, and he had no idea how his wife had found the link that had been bedevilling him.
“And this one,” she exclaimed, again matching a pencil drawing of the Berwick Upon Tweed image of William Smith to one of her magazine advertisements, showing a young lad as though he were about to bowl a ball in a game of cricket, one arm high in the air, legs split beneath him.
“And here, another one,” he pounced on the pair he matched, almost unable to keep his hands from shaking. The Cardiff victim, Gerald Brown, matched the image of a young boy, arms raised, smile on his face, legs far apart, running through a ribbon at the end of a race, wide, white shorts flapping around his skinny leg
s.
“I just don’t understand,” he muttered.
“You don’t need to understand, not yet,” Annie chuckled to him. The room was filled with the crackle of the fire, the smell of the burning wood and coal, with the distinctive scent of the outside that it brought into the house. The only sound was that of the slap of paper against paper, as they both flicked through the magazines, Annie had hoarded looking for the tell-tale bright yellow advertisements for custard.
“Another one,” Annie exclaimed, as she showed him an advert of a young girl dancing, wearing a short white tutu, with ballet shoes snaking up her legs, a smile on her face, one leg held behind her, her arms both held before her face. It was Deidre, from Glasgow, who matched the advert.
“And here, as well,” Sam cried, holding yet another advert of a young girl crouched low, holding a weight above her head in both hands, arm extended, while her legs were crouched, her bottom nearly touching the ground. It couldn’t be more evident that it was young Mary from Watford.
Sam turned to look at the matches they’d made. Of course, not everything was identical. It couldn’t be. The advertisements were mostly brightly coloured, offering only a glimpse of a child, male or female, carrying out some sort of physical activity. And yet, the children's poses were just about identical, although they were all very much alive in the drawings for the custard company.
“I don’t have all my old copies. I’ve been using them for vegetable peelings and starting the fire, and all sorts. But the library will have copies,” Annie exclaimed with disappointment when they’d spooled through the pages of the final magazine in her collection.
“I’ll go first thing in the morning. This. This. I can’t. It just doesn’t make any sense.” Sam couldn’t vocalise his thoughts.
“It doesn’t, not after all this time, I agree. But, well,” and Annie pointed to the magazines she did have which carried an advertisement and for which there was no pencil drawing because there was an advert in every single issue of the Picture Post that Annie did own. “Maybe it means that there are more cases yet.”
