The Postbox Murders

by Edmund Glasby

  He had spent much of the past few weeks visiting many of the neighbouring villages; mapping their pillar boxes as well as frequenting their public houses in order to glean any snippets of relevant information before coming to the decision that he would investigate the Devil Worshipping element connected with the death of Jason Bennet. He had absolutely no belief in anything supernatural but it was undeniable that many killers had been convinced of various outlandish ideas.

  A visit to the main library in Oxford had furnished him with some basic facts about Satanists and the Black Mass which was supposedly a sacrilegious parody of the Catholic Mass. From what he had gathered, most of the source material for such beliefs and practices was actually fictional, owing more to Dennis Wheatley than Lucifer.

  It had rained a little during the night and the forest floor was wet underfoot with water dripping off the trees.

  Montrose flinched as a large droplet fell down the back of his neck, then continued his search. His diligence was rewarded when, damp and bedraggled, he finally found his way to a clearing. In the centre was a large, roughly flat boulder and he could see hardened wax deposits at either end where it looked like large candles might have been placed. Running his hands over the stone, he wondered if it could possibly have been used as a makeshift butcher’s table for hacking off the victims’ limbs.

  There were certainly no obvious bloodstains although he supposed that the rain might have washed them away. Exploring the area surrounding the boulder, he found a few dog ends from cigarettes that could well have been dropped by policemen. The area had undoubtedly been searched by the authorities for he could see that the ground had been trampled by many feet. As there had been nothing about ritual killings in the papers, he thought it likely that the police had considered the Satanism stuff a red herring but he felt he still needed to check it out himself. He took a few photographs from various angles and turned to leave.

  Standing at the edge of the clearing was a man with a shotgun and it was levelled at Montrose.

  “What are you doing here? This is private property,” the man said, his voice controlled and strong.

  “I do beg your pardon,” Montrose replied, thinking furiously. Could this be the killer? His instincts were telling him otherwise but he could be wrong. He paused as he tried to work out which alias would be the best to use.

  While he thought, the shotgun-wielding man said: “Another bloody reporter I’ll bet, trying to make money out of Jason’s death. Well, are you?”

  “Not exactly. I work for The Oxford Investigator. We specialise in highlighting those crimes the police fail to solve or are struggling with.” Seeing the stranger’s face darken further, he added: “We’ve sometimes managed to find the culprit where the authorities have failed.” To his relief this lie had the desired effect. The shotgun was lowered a little.

  “So you’re a kind of private eye?”

  “You could say that. Here’s my card,” Montrose said, trying not to shake as he handed over his ‘Ray Smith’ business card.

  “Ray Smith, eh?” The man examined it for longer than Montrose would have liked, then he passed it back. “All right, but you still shouldn’t be up here without permission. I’m Douglas Bennet, Jason’s brother.”

  “Oh, I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Montrose said, managing to hide his excitement. This could be a stroke of luck if he did not blow it. “Has there been a lot of press interest?” he asked, knowing full well that the family had refused to speak with reporters.

  “I’ve chased off at least seven from the farm and Irene has gone to stay with her brother to get away from them. What exactly is your angle then?”

  “We aren’t a newspaper as such; we publish the facts of unsolved crimes, not the rumours and gossip, so that our readers, some of whom are actually in the force or recently retired from it, can suggest possible avenues of enquiry.” Montrose was warming to his performance, making it up as he went along. “Since I joined the company we’ve helped to throw new light on many cases which have led to the apprehension of several criminals.”

  Bennet looked steadily at Montrose who displayed nothing but earnest sincerity. “Sounds a bit fishy to me but it’s no secret that the police don’t have a clue who killed Jason. At least they’ve the sense to realise that no one who knew him could have done it.”

  His voice wavered a little and his hard expression softened very slightly.

  “There was stupid gossip about Mr. Norton up at the manor house having some kind of grudge against Jason but that’s rubbish. They were friends. Some people tried to stir up resentment against Norton, people with their own grudges.”

  “I’d heard that Mr. Norton had been known to the police, a long time ago,” Montrose ventured. “That he’d served time in prison for murder.”

  “You’ve heard wrong,” Bennet said bluntly. “No doubt you’ve been talking to the Fairbridge brothers.”

  “Would that be Wobbler … and Spud?” Montrose guessed.

  “That’s them! Lying scoundrels, both of them. It’s well known that they’ve borne a grudge against Norton ever since he had Spud sent to court for poaching on his land. As far as this Devil Worshipping nonsense, well that’s just a load of horse dung. Yeah, things went on here but that all died out years ago.”

  “And the girl … the one who vanished?”

  “I suppose you’re talking about Becky Shackleton?”

  “Yes, the barman at The Swan told me – ”

  “Becky got fed up with Thelford and now she works evenings as a barmaid in The Plough over in Thurley,” Bennet interrupted. “So you’ve also been talking to the village’s biggest fibber, Ron Harding. He’s the barman at The Swan.”

  Montrose was temporarily confused. If his new informant was telling the truth – and that in itself was open to question – then it appeared that he had been told nothing but a pack of lies. It dawned on him that there was little more he could do here. “Well thank you for telling me this. I suppose I’d better be going.”

  “If you find out anything get in touch.” It was neither a question or a statement but a demand.

  “Certainly.” Montrose edged back, unwilling to turn his back on the man with the shotgun. During the course of this investigation he had found no one in whom he could trust. For all he knew this man – who claimed to be one of the victim’s brothers – could be just waiting for a chance to club him down. He was reasonably confident that the other would not shoot him as that was not the murderer’s modus operandi but he could knock him out. After that the butchering tools would come out and it would be a pillar box for a grave.

  He pulled back further and then, when he was content that there was enough distance between them, he turned and hurried away.

  *

  It was on the six o’clock evening news that Montrose – along with the rest of the population of the UK – learned that ‘The Postbox Killer’ had struck a third time. The victim this time was identified as thirty-six year old schoolteacher, Matthew King; a married man, father of two from Longstock – a village some six miles from Goddard’s Cross where his dismembered body had been found.

  The details of the murder, as given out on the news bulletin, were sketchy, for the police did not want to openly admit that one of their team had missed the chance of apprehending the killer. Such information would be disastrous for public trust.

  Nevertheless, the news thrilled Montrose for it had given him a new lead to investigate now that he had consigned the Devil Worshipping exploits associated with Jason Bennet to the status of a red herring. He could only hope that the inhabitants of Goddard’s Cross were not as scheming or as fraudulent in what they might disclose as the inhabitants of Thelford.

  Montrose rose from his chair and was about to go over and turn the television channel to a documentary about the Nazi Death Camps when there came a firm rap on his front door. He went to see who it was. Opening the door, he took a rather startled step back upon seeing a policeman.
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  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Yes. Good evening, constable,” Montrose mumbled. For some inexplicable reason he suddenly felt uncomfortable, guilty almost. He swallowed nervously. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “I’m just conducting some door-to-door inquiries. It’s to do with these ‘Postbox Murders’ which have been happening hereabouts. I daresay you’re familiar with them?”

  Montrose nodded. “Yes. A most terrible business.” Over the policeman’s shoulder, he could see a second policeman questioning his neighbours on the other side of the cul-de-sac. All it would take would be for one of these people to voice their disapproval of him, perhaps providing the police with details of what they considered to be his eccentricities and the next thing he knew he would be taken down to the station for an interrogation. With a deep breath, he tried to dismiss this paranoid thought.

  “Indeed,” agreed the police constable. “Well, we’re here this evening just asking if anyone has seen anything, not matter how insignificant it may have seemed at the time that might prove of assistance in capturing this murderer.”

  Montrose shook his head. “Nothing untoward, I’m afraid. It’s all very quiet here. Obviously if I see anything I’ll let you know.”

  “Very good. Sorry for interrupting your evening. Good night.”

  Montrose closed the door and took a deep breath. His pulse was racing as he leant against the back of the door, listening to the sound of the policeman going away. His heart thudded like a caged animal in his ribcage and he felt sick. It was only then he realised that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in one long exhalation and then went back to his living room.

  Were they on to him? Did the police know that he knew they were on to him? It would be just their kind of tactic; to prolong his assumption that they thought him innocent in the hope that by doing so they would expose his involvement in the search for the killer. But he would be damned if he would play out the rope by which they could metaphorically hang him.

  Refute everything. That was the solution. After all they had nothing on him … had they?

  What were his neighbours telling them even now? That he was an oddball who lived alone. That he drove out at strange hours and was rarely seen. That he never greeted them or interacted with them in any way.

  And what if the net was tightening further? After all, the police would have undoubtedly quizzed the village landlords and post office workers, asking if any ‘strangers’ had been seen lurking around; individuals behaving oddly or asking too many unhealthy questions about all of this. Surely his actions were blameless but they could be misconstrued.

  These were deeply uncomfortable thoughts.

  One comforting notion, however, was the realisation that if the police were now having to resort to calling at people’s doors then it stood to reason that they were nowhere closer to unravelling this case. That they possessed more information and hard evidence than he did was undeniable yet, for all that and the resources they commanded it appeared he could still beat them to solving this.

  He went over to his drinks cabinet and poured himself a large measure of brandy. Having now lost interest in the television programme he had been so keen on viewing, Montrose retired to his workshop and study.

  He peered out from his window, spying on the police as they began winding things up. He waited in the darkness, watching as they got into their police car and drove away before switching on the light.

  On one wall he had hung up a large, magnified map of the surrounding area. Long Gallop and Thelford were ringed in red pen. A few scribbled notes were pinned nearby. He searched for a few seconds before finding Goddard’s Cross. This too he circled in red.

  Apart from the fact that all were within a twenty mile geographical spread there seemed to be no obvious pattern emerging – at least none concerning the spatial distribution of the location of the victims.

  He stepped back from the map, wondering briefly how it would look – covered in red rings – if the murderer were to strike time and time again; if his or her killing spree were to go on unchecked. It was possible.

  *

  It had just gone eleven o’clock when Jim Morton and his drinking pal, known only as Oz, left The Dead Duck public house on the fringe of the Ryfield Estate, four miles from Thelford. They were the last to leave and all evening the gossip by the bar had concerned ‘The Postbox Killer’ and the latest victim which had been discovered that morning.

  “Makes you wonder who’s going to be next, don’t it?” slurred Oz. He had been drinking steadily since lunch time and for him the pavement was now more like the surface of a bouncy castle. His mind and vision were swimming

  “The sooner that bugger’s caught the better,” replied Morton.

  “Say … look. There’s the … postbox …” Oz pointed to the object in question which was bathed in the yellow light shone from a nearby lamp post. He hiccoughed and staggered back a step but his friend, who had years of practice in doing so, supported him. “What do you think’s inside?”

  “Come on, Oz. Time for bed.” Morton tried to steer him away but to no avail. He was still relatively sober and he had no real compulsion to go looking for dead bodies. Not that he expected to find any but it was best not to tempt fate too much.

  “Let’s just have a butcher’s.”

  “Can’t we just go?”

  “I just want to take a peek.”

  “A leak more likely,” quipped Morton. “You should have gone before we left.” If he had a pound for the number of times his friend had urinated in public he could have bought The Dead Duck and saved both of them the inconvenience of coming out of an evening.

  “It’s this cold night air.”

  “So it’s nothing to do with the twenty or so pints you’ve drunk today?

  Oz hiccoughed again. “I just want to take a look. There’s no harm in that, surely?”

  “Okay … and then I’ll take you home.”

  “That’s fine. Now come on … I want to make sure that …” Unsteadily, Oz broke free of his friend’s hold and lurched across the road. He began unbuckling his belt and that was when he stumbled on the kerb and fell, arms outstretched, towards the pillar box, embracing it. Immediately, even in his intoxicated state, he reeled back.

  A pair of blood-filled eyes stared out from the darkened letter opening.

  CHAPTER 4

  It was a quarter past six in the morning when Orton whisked back the blue sheet to reveal the dismembered remains of the latest victim which now lay spread out on the operating table in the police morgue. He had been identified as fifty-one year old taxi driver, Peter Jenkins.

  Holbrooke looked on, a grim set to his jaw.

  “Like I told you on the phone, James, there’s a difference,” said Orton. With his pen, he pointed to a series of bruised, blue-black marks around the cadaver’s neck. “He’s been strangled. There’s no sign of a blow to the head. Unlike the others, there are also signs that he may have put up a bit of a struggle. Note the bruised bottom lip and the grazed knuckles on his right hand.”

  “You think he might have landed a punch on his attacker?”

  “Quite probably, for all the good it did him.”

  “What about the removal of the limbs? Is that the same?” Holbrooke was dubious as to whether this slaying could be attributed to the same murderer. It was unusual, though not unprecedented, for the method of killing to become inconsistent.

  “Yes.”

  “So you don’t think it was a copycat?”

  “My conclusion is that, whereas before the killer succeeded in knocking out his – and I say his with some certainty – victim with one blow, I think this time he failed to take his target unawares. There was a scuffle. Maybe the hammer or lead piping was lost, resulting in the killer being forced to use his bare hands. There’s also the coincidence of the date.”

  Holbrooke looked confused.

  “Both pairs of murders were committed sometime on the s
econd of the month. It might just be coincidental but I doubt it.”

  “You know we have to get this bastard soon.” There was a venomous tone to Holbrooke’s voice. “The Chief Superintendent’s breathing down my neck especially after that fiasco with young Constable Walker. How on earth he wasn’t even able to provide us with a decent photo-fit is beyond me. I mean, have you seen it? My five year old daughter could do better. Makes you wonder just what he did at Hendon.” With some level of annoyance, he realised that the forensic scientist appeared to be distracted, his eyes scrutinising the corpse anew. “Are you listening to me?”

  Orton sighed. “Sorry, I just keep thinking that maybe I’ve missed something. Anyway, the time of death is very similar to the others, only a few hours before the discovery of the body which in this case puts it at between noon and about six o’clock yesterday evening.”

  “Which fits with what we know. Jenkins finished his shift at the taxi rank at two in the afternoon and never made it home. He always walked back to his house and the route took him along a couple of quiet roads. I’d guess that he was attacked there, carted into the back of a van or something and that was the end of him.

  “I’ve got my officers out searching the whole route and there’ll be a piece on the evening news asking if anyone saw him on his walk. It’s possible we could turn something up.” Holbrooke stepped back from the body parts and stood with his hands in his pockets, brooding. “Four people dead and we’re not even close to an arrest.”

  “Don’t you have any theories at all?” Orton asked.

  “There are all manner of ideas flying round this bloody station. Just sit in the canteen and you’ll hear them. From the return of Jack the Ripper to a vengeful ex-post office worker. Hell, Stanford who works in the patrol department reckons it might be a disgruntled centenarian who’s telegram from the Queen never arrived in time for her birthday celebrations. To tell you the truth, I don’t know where I’m going with this one.