The barman took his money and made note of his order.
“That was pretty grim what happened here this morning, wasn’t it?” Montrose said, his elbows resting on the bar.
The barman shook his head. “Dreadful. Absolutely dreadful. I knew the victim. Poor bugger used to come in here two or three nights a week. Nice man.”
“My condolences.” Montrose took a sip of beer. “I don’t understand what kind of monster would do such a thing. It’s beyond evil if you ask me.”
“I couldn’t agree more with you. Now if you’ll excuse me …” The barman went to serve another customer. After a few minutes, he returned.
“I’ve lived in Long Gallop for over thirty years and I’ve never known anything like it. The police have tried to assure everyone that there’s nothing to be unduly worried about, but come on, who’s going to rest easily in their beds tonight knowing that there’s a maniac on the loose? Why, everyone’s been advised to go home in pairs and I know I’ll be going to bed with a baseball bat under my pillow.”
“I didn’t realise things had got so – ”
“Evening, Ken. A pint of your finest and a double whisky when you’re ready,” called out a stocky gentleman in a loud, plummy voice. He was dressed in a Barbour jacket, a cloth cap and checked trousers and he shouldered his way to the bar with a certain arrogance as though he owned the place.
Montrose threw the man an unfriendly glance. From his attire and mannerisms he was without doubt one of the landed gentry. All he was missing was a shotgun cradled under one arm and a brace of dead pheasants in his hand.
“Coming right up, Mr. Caldwell,” said the barman. He busied himself pouring the drinks.
“What a day this has been,” commented the newcomer. “If I live to be a hundred I doubt whether I’ll forget it.”
“I assume you’re referring to the murder?” Montrose asked.
“Indeed I am. A terrible business.” The man extended his hand. “Hugh Caldwell.”
Montrose returned the gesture. “Ray Smith. I work for The Oxford Investigator,” he said, using one of his many pseudonyms and fictitious employers. He pulled a wallet from a coat pocket and whisked out a card which he flashed briefly before the other’s eyes. “I take it you’re a local?”
“That I am. Born and bred here. And I can tell you something – this was not, I repeat, not, done by anyone from Long Gallop.” There was a flicker in Caldwell’s eyes. This was something about which he was clearly adamant.
The barman, who was listening in to the conversation, was not convinced. He shook his head. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Caldwell. I think there’s a lot more goes on in this village than anyone really knows about.”
“Nonsense,” snorted Caldwell. “I know nearly everyone in the village.”
“Yeah, nearly everyone. But it’s those you don’t know that are the ones you’ve got to look out for. Take those people who live down by where the old garages uses to be. They’re a weird bunch if you ask me.”
“The Darwins?”
“No, they’re all right. It’s their neighbours I’m on about. I don’t know their names but you always see him wearing that dark suit and he’s always on the move, come day or night.”
“I think he’s a doctor in London,” Caldwell responded. “I’ve seen him cycling to Baxholme to get the train.”
“Doctor, my arse! There’s something downright odd about him if you ask me.”
“I’m sure the police will get round to questioning everyone they suspect of involvement,” said Montrose. He turned to face Caldwell. “I’m about to have some supper. I don’t suppose you’d care to join me?”
“I’ve already eaten but I’ll gladly sit at your table,” Caldwell answered.
When they had taken their places, Montrose began the conversation by asking: “Do you have any ideas as to who might have done this, and why?”
“None whatsoever. It’s a complete mystery.” Caldwell finished his whisky. “As you can no doubt imagine there are all sorts of colourful rumours flying around the village and some are already levelling blame at those they don’t get on with. It’s like how it was in Medieval times when the peasants accused their neighbours of witchcraft. I suppose people are becoming paranoid. But I’m positive that this was done by a stranger.”
“Anything you can tell me about the victim?”
“Pinky? There isn’t much to tell. He used to spend his days doing odd-jobs around the village. A bit of painting and decorating or some gardening for some of the older villagers. Salt of the earth. Nobody ever had a bad word to say about him. Sometimes he’d go away and we wouldn’t see him for weeks. God alone knows where he went.”
Montrose turned his attention to the main door, aware that a huge, broad-shouldered man with a massive grey beard had stomped into the public house, his eyes wide and staring.
“Evening, Badger,” the barman cried, raising a hand in greeting.
“Bloody hell!” the bearded man rumbled, his voice gravelly. “Have you heard the latest? They’ve found another one over in Thelford. Same thing – a butchered body inside a postbox! Bloody world’s gone mad, I say.” He turned to the barman and bellowed for a beer.
CHAPTER 2
Second Body Discovered in Postbox!
Late yesterday afternoon a second severely mutilated naked body was found crammed into the postbox at Thelford, South Oxfordshire, less than ten miles from where the first gruesome find was made. The remains of the first victim, who has been named locally as Mr. Peter ‘Pinky’ Whelps, were discovered by a member of the public. Police have not as yet disclosed the identity of the second victim however there are fears that a serial killer is at large and Detective Chief Inspector James Holbrooke of Thames Valley Police has asked all members of the public to be extra vigilant and to report anything suspicious to their local police station immediately.
Montrose read the newspaper article a second time before pouring out his coffee and beginning on his breakfast of kippers and toast. He lived alone in a non-descript two bedroomed house in a small cul-de-sac and despite having been there for nigh on fifteen years, he could not recall having ever spoken with his neighbours. It was not as though he was antisocial; it was just that their paths never really crossed and he felt he had very little in common with them anyway.
Yet, in truth, it was not he who avoided those nearest to him but they who avoided him. For he was seen by others, particularly those with a more judgemental slant, as a bit of an oddball; a recluse who lived a rather secretive life. Which, as far as he was concerned, was all to the good. It enabled him to get on with what he enjoyed doing and, as of yesterday, something with real potential had come his way. As he sat there, finishing off the last of his breakfast, he was already trying to put himself into the mind of the killer, wondering just what kind of being could and, more to the point, would, do something like this.
He was eager to go and see for himself the location where the latest victim had been discovered but he was only too well aware that he had several clocks awaiting repair. One of them was a stunningly ornate Winterhalder and Hofmeier Ting Tang walnut-cased bracket clock which just need a final inspection and polish before he could contact its owner and inform him it was finished. There was still a fair amount of work to do on some of the other clocks but he hoped to have it all done by lunch-time.
*
“So, who have we got here, then?” inquired Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke as Orton and his assistant removed the unshapely black bag from the cold storage morgue locker.
“We believe this individual to be Mr. Jason Bennet.” The forensic scientist offloaded the bag on to an operating table. With a snap, he put on his surgical gloves and then opened the plastic sack.
Holbrooke grimaced and instinctively brought a hand to his mouth. After all it was not pretty. For some reason he was reminded of a scene from Jaws. It was hard, even for him with all of his experience of dead bodies, to believe that this person had been killed by a
nother human being and not a monstrous great white shark. “And … he’s the one that was found in Thelford yesterday evening?
“Yes.
“Any noticeable differences from Mr. Whelps?”
“Nothing.” Orton removed a naked arm which had been severed just below the shoulder. “As you can see the method of removal was fairly crude. The marks on the flesh and the bone would indicate a vicious, downward hacking. It would require a fair amount of strength to chop through the bone. Similarly with the legs.”
“Would something like a cleaver fit the bill?”
“Cleaver … axe. A heavy-bladed weapon.” Orton unwrapped the head and torso from the bag. He smoothed back a patch of lank, brown hair to reveal a bloodied imprint on the side of the skull.
“Exactly the same. A concussive blow to the back of the head.” Holbrooke sighed, his fears that there was a serial killer at large now confirmed. “We’re going to have to establish whether there’s any connection between the victims but I’ve a gut feeling that the killer’s an opportunist.”
“There’s two connections so far; sex and morphology,” noted Orton. “Both victims were men and both were fairly slim, certainly under eleven stones. Height-wise, I think we’re looking at five-six, five-seven at most. Any larger and I think the killer would have struggled getting them inside the postboxes. So as long as you stick to the canteen pies, James, you’ll be safe.”
*
Montrose had listened attentively to the news updates on his small radio as he had stripped down and repaired one of his clocks. He had converted his spare bedroom into a small workshop and it was here that he also kept his fairly large collection of crime books; all detailing the lives and deaths of various notorious murderers.
The latest bulletins added nothing new to the story but he did sense a growing alarm within the wider community; demonstrable in the sense that there had been numerous calls from concerned members of the public to the radio station. Many village schools had been closed as a precautionary measure and the police had warned people living in remote areas to remain vigilant if venturing out after nightfall.
After having briefly consulted his map in order to ascertain the whereabouts and easiest means of getting to Thelford, Montrose got in his vehicle and reversed out of his drive. He reckoned it would take him just under half an hour to get there providing the roads were clear and he did not get stuck behind a tractor as always seemed to be the case whenever he drove out along these narrow, country roads.
Numerous rural villages passed by, many with their own pillar boxes set outside or near their village shops and he could not help but think, with something of a wry grin, that people were now far more cautious whenever they approached them. He pulled into the village shop layby in one such place – Lower Steepleton – and got out of his vehicle.
An elderly grey-haired woman was outside binning some rubbish.
“Good morning,” said Montrose.
“Oh, hello,” the woman greeted casually before going back inside.
Montrose followed her, a bell tinkling as he opened the door.
The shop was like many other little village shops he had been in; neat, orderly and efficiently run. It clearly offered a much needed service to the local inhabitants.
“Anything I can help you with?” asked the woman from behind the counter.
“Yes. Do you by chance have a tape measure?” Montrose asked.
“Why, yes. I think we do.” The shopkeeper went to some shelves at the rear of the shop and returned. “I’m afraid it’s not the metal retractable kind.”
“This will do just fine.” Montrose counted out the money, paid her, took the tape measure and left the shop. Outside, he went up to the pillar box and, with a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching him, began measuring it.
It was sixty inches from top to base and had a circumference of forty-eight inches. Without access to the police reports and going purely on what he had heard on the news, he came to the rationalisation that the bodies had probably been dismembered in order to fit. He doubted whether even a pygmy contortionist could get inside whole.
A door opened nearby and an old man came shuffling out.
Montrose quickly pocketed his tape measure and nonchalantly headed back to his vehicle. He got in and continued his drive to Thelford.
Upon arrival in the village, he saw that there were police incident signs up on the approach to the main street. He parked in the grounds of the village hall and, after checking that he had some fake identification on his person, set off for The Swan public house he had passed on the way in.
Several grizzled, unfriendly-looking faces turned as he went inside and strode up to the bar. There was an atmosphere here that sent a ripple of unease through him; an uneasy sensation as though his every move was being carefully watched. He put it down to the fact that there had been a nasty murder committed here and it was only natural that people would be on edge.
In these small, close-knit communities, where everyone had known everyone else for decades, it stood to reason that the presence of a stranger, a day after something like this, was bound to raise the hackles.
“All right?” greeted the hatchet-faced barman with a brusque nod.
“Good day to you. My name’s Ray Smith. I work for The Oxford Investigator.”
The barman gave a disgruntled sigh. “So you’re another bloody reporter, are you? I thought as much as soon as I saw you come in.”
“I take it there’s been quite a few then?” asked Montrose. He was relieved to see that many of the suspicious gazes were no longer directed at him.
“You could say that.” The barman ran a hand down his unshaven chin. “So what’ll it be?”
Montrose briefly examined the ales on tap. “I’ll have a pint of your best bitter and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.” He had planned on having lunch here but as there were no menus visible he was forced to the conclusion that they did not serve food.
Taking the payment, the barman handed the drink and the bag of crisps to his customer. “If it’s news you’re after you’d be best talking to Wobbler. He’ll be in shortly.”
“Wobbler?” Montrose cocked an eyebrow.
“It were him who found the poor bugger.”
“I see. I assume you’ve had the police crawling all over the place?”
“That we have. There were four police cars parked in the village hall last night and there were two there this morning.”
“I didn’t see any.”
“Well, maybe they’ve gone for lunch,” replied the barman. “And including you there’s been at least a dozen reporters swarming around the place. Asking questions left, right and centre. And I’ll tell you what I told them. Whoever murdered Jason Bennet had better get as far from Thelford as they can. He were in with a bad crowd but they looked after their own from what someone told me. Mark my words, they’ll be hell to pay before this is all over – and I’m talking literally.”
Montrose now had a name for the second victim. “You said he was in with a bad crowd? Would you care to elaborate?” He took a sip from his drink.
The barman looked around furtively. He leaned closer. “Devil worshippers,” he whispered.
Montrose almost spat out his beer. He did not know how to respond. He had expected the other to reveal that the victim had belonged to some drug-running gang or even the local shotgun-club – but Devil worshippers? That was a new one and no mistake.
“You heard me right. It was fairly common knowledge in the village.” The barman lowered his voice even further. There was a scared look in his eyes but at the same time it seemed as though he wanted to tell his account no matter the cost.
“There used to be and I assume still is, a place up in the nearby woods where on moonlit nights they’d all gather. At first folk thought it were just a bit of harmless fun, a bit daft maybe, but nothing to be that concerned with. Then things turned a bit sinister. Cats started disappearing. Dogs too. How long this w
ent on for I couldn’t say but it reached its peak a few years ago when, one night, Ernie Shackleton’s thirteen year old daughter went missing. The whole village mounted a search party. Police dogs and even the helicopter were brought in.
“They never found her but they uncovered a clearing in the woods which had been used for Black Magic. There was an altar atop which were dead cats and all sorts, and – ” The barman paused upon seeing the main door open. “Ah, here’s Wobbler now … and his brother, Spud. I’ll introduce you. Wobbler’s basking somewhat in his new found celebrity status.”
Wobbler was about as rustic an individual as Montrose had ever met. He was a short man, five foot three if that and scruffier and more wizened than William ‘Compo’ Simmonite from the television show Last of the Summer Wine. He was dressed in a pair of torn tweed trousers, a coarse, grey-green jumper that looked as though it had been knitted from pig bristles and a shapeless, sack-like felt hat. His boots were muddy and covered in dry cow dung. His dirty, bespectacled face was as round and as ruddy as a freshly dug beetroot, which, along with his shabby attire, made him look like a scarecrow which had clambered down from its post. He must have been about seventy. The even smaller, bearded man beside him looked older and as equally unkempt.
“What’ll it be, Wobbler? The usual?” asked the barman.
Wobbler nodded.
“Here, let me get these,” said Montrose, reaching for his wallet.
“That’s mighty decent of you, mister,” said Wobbler. There was a beery stench to his breath and it was pretty obvious that he had been drinking prior to entering the public house.
Montrose took out several pound notes and bought a round of drinks for the two disreputable newcomers.
“This man’s another reporter,” said the barman. “I told him that it was you as found the body.” He handed the drinks over.
“That it were,” the rustic acknowledged proudly. He slurped nosily from his beer as did his sibling. Wiping away a moustache of froth, he placed his pint on the bar and began scratching at his ribs. “Horrible, it were. Worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
The Postbox Murders Page 2