I heard that story often. And that belief grew in me too.
We visited the vicar on numerous occasions. He was partial to game, hare being a favourite of his, although he received a TV once. He often gave me a few pennies and a wink. To my astonishment, Ronnie knew nearly everyone. They cheered his arrival. Backhanders and deals filtered through every office and factory.
I put the murders to the back of my mind. Tears wouldn’t help my predicament. We only made one visit to the family graves in Peterborough. When we arrived, fresh flowers lay on the stone. Ronnie had left instructions and money for them to be placed there regularly.
I existed as Ronnie did; a hand-to-mouth life with brief flashes of danger. He taught me how to shoot and lay traps. We relieved washing lines of their contents when we needed new clothes.
Ronnie instilled in me a desire to keep fit. His twenty-minute exercise regime most mornings also became mine. It stilled my mind. We would run together, sometimes by choice, other times when people chased us.
Gradually, I emerged from the shadow of that terrible night. I read anything from books to the magazines and newspapers we’d find. Mainly to relieve the boredom. Ronnie only needed cigarettes to achieve the same goal. When we were out, I’d notice other young men and women in brightly coloured clothes and striking hairstyles. By contrast, my own clothes reminded me of vagrants I’d seen in London. I also remembered the cinema trips of my youth. I wanted to see movies again and mentioned this to my uncle.
That was when we finally talked. I should have known something was wrong because he’d lost weight when he had few pounds to spare. There were places where he hid his money, and we visited them. He also had a leather bag of jewellery, which he kept behind a panel in the caravan. I asked him if he knew who killed my family. He refused to answer, insisting that they’d still be searching for me. He said I should never trust the police. That was why he removed me from the hospital. Besides, revenge wouldn’t bring my sister back.
It turned out he was quite a few years older than my mother and, even though they were both called Smith, he was only a half-brother. I never really knew who my mother was, and Ronnie didn’t enlighten me.
A little later, he took me out for a drive. He wanted to take deer from one of the royal estates in Norfolk. It was a rare venture because the rich have the best gamekeepers. I think he just hoped to feel the rawness of the hunt one final time. His carelessness on that last day shocked me. His laboured gait betrayed any reassurances of being okay.
He crouched and shot a target from a good distance and gave me a melancholic smile. His lack of urgency surprised me. I stepped from foot to foot as he struggled to rise. A big deer is incredibly heavy. We gutted it on the spot to make it lighter and left the innards for the foxes, but it still took some dragging. It was slow going, made worse by Ronnie’s obvious weakness. Human voices whispered nearby. Ronnie fired in their general direction. My pulse quickened as he’d never done anything like that. He wobbled and lurched as he ran.
It’s strange to think that all those close to me have been killed by guns. The bullet that arrived as we got in the van pierced Ronnie’s back and zipped out the front of his stomach. Must have been a powerful rifle as I later found the bullet embedded in the passenger seat. He managed to pull the door shut, and I drove us away. He’d shot his last deer, but he wouldn’t get to taste it. I headed for the hospital but Ronnie stopped me with a final request. He declared himself ready.
‘Take me home,’ he insisted. The caravan had always been his sanctuary.
‘Come on, Ronnie. They’ll be able to fix you if we go now.’ I didn’t know if that was true, but it had to be worth trying.
He placed his hand on my leg and left it there. I gently covered it with my own, not recalling him deliberately touching me before.
‘I’ve been bleeding.’ He focussed on the distance and swallowed. ‘From the back passage.’
I returned to the campsite and helped him into a deckchair. He pushed me away when I tried to check the wound.
‘Do you want a drink?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Some water, please.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Just quiet.’ His head tilted backwards.
At that point, I decided I had to know and there wouldn’t be another chance to ask him.
‘Who murdered my family?’
He didn’t reply, but his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
‘Come on, Ronnie. Where can I find them?’
His lips remained shut. His breathing slowed, and I assumed the worst. Suddenly, he whispered the words I needed to hear. ‘The Boy’s Head, Oundle Road.’
I sat next to him in silence because that was all he wanted. I thought about the killers, and guessed that if they weren’t in prison then they’d got away with it. A plan hadn’t formed at that point, but I understood the life I lived would expire when Ronnie did. He took an hour to die.
I know Ronnie believed that retribution would not bring my sister back, and he worried that the men were still searching for the only living witness to the crimes.
I disagreed. I was sure they would have forgotten me, but I would always remember them. And the need for revenge consumed me.
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About the Author
Ross Greenwood is the author of six crime thrillers. Before becoming a full-time writer he was most recently a prison officer and so worked everyday with murderers, rapists and thieves for four years. He lives in Peterborough.
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About Boldwood Books
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First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Boldwood Books Ltd.
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Copyright © Ross Greenwood, 202o
Cover Design by Nick Castle Design
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The moral right of Ross Greenwood to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Paperback ISBN 978-1-83889-544-0
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The Soul Killer Page 34
