The Postbox Murders

by Edmund Glasby

  “There’s no evidence except the bodies themselves and they don’t tell us much. All you can give me is that the killer’s likely to be a man! The individual murders really don’t seem to be personal so that’s put a whole lot of suspects out of the equation – all the ‘who benefits’ stuff just doesn’t apply here.”

  “I take it you’ve looked at all the victims from that point of view?”

  “Of course I have,” Holbrooke answered tetchily. “Every possible culprit either has a really good alibi or had no reason to kill the victim at all. I was hopeful about that brother of Jason Bennet’s for a while. He narrowly escaped a custodial sentence for GBH when he was a youngster. However, he was bidding on some farm equipment in Aylesbury all that day and a barn filled with farmers can testify to it.”

  “There is one thing that might give you some hope,” Orton said.

  “Well, I’m a long time off retirement, so it can’t be that!”

  Orton ignored the joke. “Our killer is starting to make mistakes. He nearly got spotted by young Walker when he left Mr. King half-out of the postbox and this one,” he pointed at Jenkins’ corpse, “nearly got away from him. I’d say that all the luck was on his side to begin with but it may be starting to change. If he stops now I wouldn’t be surprised if we never get him but if he has the compulsion to carry on killing, which I suspect he has, then his luck’s going to run out sometime.”

  “So what you’re saying is that by the time we reach the twentieth or so corpse we should get him! Bloody Hell, Stan!” Holbrooke exclaimed. “I can’t just sit and wait!”

  “Go back to your investigations then, James, and I sincerely hope that you get him before the second of June. If not, I think I’ll have another jigsaw job on my slab before this is all over.”

  *

  There was a stiffness in Montrose’s body when he got up that morning and, swinging his legs out of bed, he felt an acute ache in his ribs. He had not slept well and he had a vague memory of having gone downstairs during the night for a glass of milk. Perhaps he had inadvertently stumbled against the edge of a cupboard or something. Lifting his pyjama top, he winced at the ugly-looking bruise just below his left nipple. It looked and felt as though someone had given him a right hook.

  He took some painkillers then made himself some breakfast and settled down to watch the news.

  His aches and pains were instantly forgotten upon hearing that a fourth body had been found unceremoniously dumped inside a pillar box.

  There was a pattern developing, of that he was certain. Just as before – two murders on the same day. What was more, both had been found on the same date – exactly one month apart. The third day of April and the third day of May.

  Montrose consulted his diary on the off chance there was anything special about the dates – full moon, special saint’s days, public holidays. Nothing.

  Of course he had no direct way of knowing, short of somehow gaining access to the official police medical reports, whether those dates matched the actual time of death. The news bulletins had given little away; so for all he knew the deposited bodies could have been several days old prior to their unusual interment. However, he suspected that was not the case. In all likelihood they had been killed on the second and deposited the day after.

  For the rest of the morning, he busied himself in his workshop. There were several more clocks that needed fixing and he was getting behind, such was his preoccupation with the ongoing murder case.

  At half-past eleven, he stopped what he was doing, went downstairs and prepared himself a quick lunch. He then settled down to watch the news. It was during the course of the bulletin that the name of the latest victim was revealed. Peter Jenkins.

  Montrose stared at the screen, mouth agape; his sausage, pronged on his fork, halfway towards his mouth. He had known this man – a taxi driver from the notorious Ryfield Estate.

  Despite his rather mundane profession, Jenkins had also been an avid collector of antique carriage clocks.

  Montrose had done some work for him over the years. In fact, he thought he had one or two of Jenkins’ clocks upstairs still waiting to be stripped down and taken apart, prior to reassembly.

  Stripped down and taken apart.

  Mentally, he likened one of his deconstructed clocks to how the unfortunate Jenkins must now look. The internal workings; the cogs, springs, sprockets, hands, levers, pendulums, dials and all were red and splotchy – bloody organs.

  He tried to clear his mind. Such thoughts were most unhealthy.

  Obscenely, a thick dollop of tomato ketchup blobbed from his sausage and fell on to his plate. He put his fork down, unable to finish his meal. Clearly the identification of the victim had some deep effect on him for he sat there, gazing absently at the remains of his lunch for a good five minutes before regaining some measure of lucidity.

  What he needed was a plan of action.

  Perhaps if he waited till after the police had completed their bit of snooping he could go and do some investigation of his own.

  That idea had just flashed through his mind when a second thought struck him, one that disturbed him profoundly.

  It was highly probable that, having ascertained the identity of the latest victim, the police would follow the trail of Jenkins’ contacts to wherever they might lead. One strand of his past acquaintances led to a certain clock repairer. Any police detective worth his salt would be able to trace that.

  Montrose sprang from his seat and dashed to the lounge window. Aware that his hand was shaking, he peeled back a section of curtain and peered out, half-expecting to see shadowy figures edging around the rear of the house as others prepared to batter down the door and storm inside.

  Fortunately for him there was no one there.

  *

  It was approaching three o’clock in the afternoon and Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke was busily going through some paperwork when there came a firm knock on the door to his office. “Enter,” he said, looking up from his desk.

  Inspector Jackson walked in.

  Behind him, was a lanky, sandy-haired man of about thirty. He was scruffy, unkempt and unshaven, his clothes casual and unwashed. It would not be at all surprising to discover that the man had tattoos and a pierced belly button. There was a gaunt look to him, like that of a half-dead rock star.

  “Sir, we may have an important development. This is Mr. Edgar Craven. He’s got some important information regarding ‘The Postbox Killer’,” Jackson announced.

  Holbrooke’s eyes lit up. “Really?” He gestured to a chair. “Come in Mr. Craven and take a seat.”

  Craven stood there for a moment as though he was now having second thoughts about coming here in the first place. With reluctant steps, he made for the empty chair and sat down. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the killer.” There was fear in his voice.

  Holbrooke’s eyes flickered to his Inspector.

  “He nearly got me. I’m lucky I’m not lying chopped up in a postbox waiting for someone to find.” Craven was on edge, fidgeting all the time, his eyes roving around the office as though expecting something malign to spring out of a filing cabinet. “The bastard tried to pull me into his van. It must have been him. I’m sure of it.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?” said Holbrooke. “Where exactly did this all take place … and when?”

  “It was as I was coming along the farm track on the outskirts of Maples Green. I’d been out fishing on the canal, you see.”

  “When was this?” Holbrooke asked.

  “Yesterday evening, about seven.”

  “Okay.” Holbrooke nodded. “Go on.”

  “As I said, I was coming along the track heading for home when suddenly I was aware of something behind me. I turned and saw a small white van creeping its way very slowly in my direction. At first I thought it was just one of the farm labourers heading for a pint or two after having done their shift but I couldn’t understand why it was hanging back all the time.
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br />   “I started to walk faster. The van speeded up. It was as though whoever was driving it wanted to keep a good eye on me. After a few minutes, I stopped to tie a shoe lace and I waved him on, signalling to him that I’d stand aside so that he could pass by.”

  Craven paused, his eyes falling on the coffee-making machine in the corner of the room. “Can I have a drink? My throat’s very dry.”

  “Sure.” Holbrooke signalled to his Inspector. “Tyrone, get him a coffee, would you?”

  Jackson dutifully went over and fetched Craven a drink. It came in a plastic cup and had the constituency, and some said the taste, of tar.

  Nevertheless, Craven took a gulp. He placed the cup on the desk.

  “Slowly the van came closer. In then pulled level and the driver’s window was wound down.” He stopped and took a second lengthy drink from the steaming cup.

  Holbrooke figured that the man must have a throat made from asbestos. He sat up in his chair. “And then?”

  “There was this really weird-looking man. I mean, if you think I’m odd-looking you should have seen this guy. It was pretty obvious he was wearing some sort of disguise which looked as though it had just been put on; a false moustache and a black curly wig. He might have been wearing make-up as well. You know, that powder women sometimes pat their faces with. All he was missing was the red lipstick.

  “I did a double-take and nearly fell into the ditch at the side of the road. That was when he leaned right out of the window and asked me if I could give him directions to Oxford.”

  “To Oxford?” Holbrooke repeated lamely. He was now begin to think that there was something wrong with his informant. He did not appear or sound the full shilling although for the time being he was prepared to hear him out; to put the other’s strange account down to a claimed encounter with the prime suspect.

  “Yes. I told him he was going in the wrong direction and that he would be better off heading to Thelford and then going north until he reached the main road. He just nodded. He then said if I’d be on for getting in and showing him the quickest route. I thought not bloody likely. I’ve seen some freaks in my time having been to Stonehenge and numerous music festivals but this guy put them all in the shade. He said he’d give me a fiver for any inconvenience caused but I said I had to be getting back.”

  “How did he respond to that?” asked Holbrooke. Despite considering himself to be a good judge of character, he was still unable to reach a decision as to whether to believe this man or not. If he were to judge solely on the other’s appearance he would be forced to conclude that it was all a load of codswallop.

  “He went nuts! He threw the door open and reached out for me as if to try and grab me and pull me in. It was then that I saw his face proper. His eyes were soulless, black almost. I pulled back further and fell in the ditch. Suddenly the madman was back in his seat. He slammed the van door shut and sped off, kicking up a huge cloud of dust. That was when I saw a second van coming along from behind. This time it was one of the farmworkers. Normally I don’t get on with them but by Christ was I happy to see him.”

  “What about his accent?”

  “No different from mine. Local, without doubt.”

  So it was not anyone particularly cultured or educated, thought Holbrooke, judgementally, to himself. “Any reason why you didn’t report this incident yesterday?”

  “I considered it. However, at first I thought it was just some loony who was high on drink or drugs. Then, after learning of the two murders this morning on the news and the public appeal for help in finding the murderer I thought I’d better report it.”

  “You’ve done the right thing. Now let’s go over the details.” Holbrooke reached for a pad of paper and picked up a pen. “Tyrone, get me a detailed map of the area, will you so that Mr. Craven can show us the exact location where this happened.”

  Jackson unfolded a map he had taken from a drawer.

  Craven pointed to the location. “I’d say it was about here.”

  “Did you get the vehicle’s registration?” Holbrooke asked hopefully.

  “I tried, but it looked to have been deliberately smeared over with mud.”

  “I see. What about the make of the vehicle?”

  “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about vans or cars for that matter. I don’t drive and I’d have trouble distinguishing a Mini from a Rolls Royce.”

  Holbrooke sighed with mild disappointment. “Okay. What about the driver, the man who attacked you? You said he was in disguise. Do you think, with the help of our police artists, that you could come up with a reasonable likeness?”

  “Maybe. But like I said his features were largely masked by make-up and a false, Groucho Marx moustache. It was his eyes, however. They were filled with madness.”

  *

  Montrose had never had reason to visit the Ryfield Estate before but he knew it had a bad reputation. Whether such was warranted or not he had no means of knowing but it was certainly a place most of the surrounding ‘country-folk’ avoided like the plague if at all possible.

  He found it strange; going almost suddenly from quaint, bucolic hamlets with their thatched-roofed cottages and neat village greens, not to mention their wealthy inhabitants, to the drab conurbation with its grey, charmless and largely uniform houses. The few faces he saw were indicative of the social and economic dichotomy as well; drawn, haggard, drink-addled and dejected. This really was the land of no hope, he thought to himself.

  It took him a good ten minutes of driving around the litter-strewn streets before he reached The Dead Duck, the estate’s only public house.

  Pulling into the car park, he knew he was in the right place on seeing the crowd of teenagers thronged around the pillar box on the other side of the road. It appeared as though the otherwise mundane feature had now been elevated to a macabre place of interest – a ghoulish shrine around which the local reprobates hovered like flies around a corpse.

  Montrose grimaced, knowing it would be unlikely that he would be able to take a closer look whilst they were there. He got out of his vehicle and made sure to lock up. Trying not to draw any undue attention to himself, he walked nonchalantly to the front door of the public house, his nerves tensing a little, not knowing what to expect.

  He stopped outside, a yard or so from the main door. This was a very different kind of establishment from The Fox and Hounds at Long Gallop or The Swan at Thelford. It was more like a working man’s club.

  Feeling more than a little intimidated and decidedly overdressed, Montrose pushed open the door, noting with a start that Jenkins’ face was staring out at him from a poster asking anyone with information about the taxi driver’s last walk home to contact the police.

  It was busy inside and he was hit by the dense fog of acrid cigarette smoke that filled the room. He weaved between groups of rowdy drinkers, making his way to the bar where he hastily ordered a half-pint of bitter and then retired to a small round table in a corner. It was not going to be necessary to start a conversation about the killing for it seemed that everyone was talking about it. All he had to do was sit back, look inconspicuous, sip at his drink and listen.

  “I’m just saying, he could have driven the killer somewhere and spotted something. That’s why he got picked.” A large man with a pendulous beer-belly and impressive sideburns was holding forth to a small group.

  “But what about the others? Did they suss him out? I don’t think so. It’s all just down to bad luck,” commented a weasel-faced man with a flat cap.

  “Yeah, if you’re a skinny bloke in the wrong place at the wrong time it’s chop-chop and into the postbox with you.” The moustachioed speaker was a giant of a man with broad-shoulders.

  One of the man’s companions clearly thought so too. “We know you’re safe enough, Frank. Christ! The killer would have to mince you to make you fit!”

  A short burst of laughter was hurriedly toned down at a warning cough from the barman.

  “Sorry, Tom,” Frank apologised
on behalf of the group.

  “Okay. Just have a bit more respect for the dead would you? I saw what was in that postbox out there and it’s no laughing matter.”

  Montrose cursed silently. The last thing he wanted was for the drinkers to stop talking. He need not have worried though, for as soon as the barman had gone to the other end of the bar the group shuffled a little closer to the window and carried on discussing the vicious murder. He continued to listen in.

  “I spoke to Morton this afternoon and he said that Oz was staggering over for a Jimmy Riddle when he saw those eyes staring out.”

  “Jesus! I bet he had damp trousers after that!”

  “What I want to know is how the hell did the killer draw up, unload a corpse, jimmy open the postbox and shove it in without anyone noticing! You’d think some bugger would’ve seen him. Just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “I reckon he must’ve had someone helping him, keeping watch while he did it.”

  “Do you think he had someone helping him? Two people could do it quicker than one.”

  Montrose pondered that. He had already considered the possibility that the murderer had an accomplice. It was not very likely as most killers of this kind worked alone, but it was something he would not rule out. He tuned back in to the conversation just in time to hear the one he had identified as ‘Frank’ talking about the time frame for the deposition of the body.

  “Mick says he posted some letters just after six o’clock and there was nothing wrong with the postbox then.”

  “Yes, but would you actually notice? I mean, Morton said that the door was wedged shut and it was just seeing the eyes looking out at Oz that gave it away.”

  “According to Mick he felt funny at posting the letters at all and sort of had a peek inside first. Surely he’d have noticed a pair of staring eyes! The body must’ve been put there later on.”

  “So, sometime between six and closing time.” The speaker let out a rush of air and shook his head in disbelief. “Hell’s Teeth! That bloke must have some guts I tell you. Anyone could have seen him.”