The Postbox Murders

by Edmund Glasby

  “Hang on though, Sam. If he did it about quarter to eleven he might get a clear twenty minutes or so.” Frank warmed to his theory. “Everyone who’s going to the pub has already got there by then and by that point none of us would be likely to leave until they were shutting up.”

  Montrose felt a wave of excitement ripple through him. He had been struggling with this problem all day as it had seemed such an audacious act. Until this idea of Frank’s, he had wondered whether the murderer was purposefully taking chances, perhaps actually wanting to be discovered or whether the adrenaline of the danger was part of the attraction of such a public means of disposal.

  If, however, the murderer had scouted out The Dead Duck on previous evenings and noticed this window of opportunity then it was not so dangerous after all. It still took nerve of course, there could have been kids out messing around late, but it was more of a calculated risk.

  The conversation then veered off on to a different subject and after a few minutes listening to a diatribe about the conditions at Frank’s workplace, Montrose rose unobtrusively and wandered through to the only other room in the public house. Investing with a second half-pint, he found a discarded newspaper and a slightly sticky bench to sit on.

  Opening out the paper, he pretended to read and let his ears start to pick out individual voices among the hubbub. Over the next twenty or so minutes, he heard that Jenkins had finished his shift as usual at six o’clock in the evening that day and had never made it home.

  A woman chatting to her friend was sure of this as she had been enjoying the late sunshine in her garden and the now dead taxi driver would have walked past her house as he always did. Apparently Jenkins was also a little deaf. A fact which Montrose had sometimes suspected in their own personal dealings. That could have made it easier for the murderer to attack him. From the details that had been released by the police, he knew that they suspected a very quiet stretch of road, a lane almost, was the place where Jenkins had been attacked.

  Montrose suddenly felt he had heard enough. He quietly slipped out of The Dead Duck, glanced briefly at the infamous pillar box and walked to where he had left his vehicle. It had been a fruitful evening and he had not needed to use his ‘Ray Smith’ business cards.

  His mind turned towards the funeral of Jenkins, whenever it might be. It would be perfectly appropriate for him to attend it. After all he had known the deceased, however slightly and, if challenged, could explain about the clocks that were still in his possession, although he would prefer not to mention these as he was rather hoping that they may be overlooked by the deceased’s next of kin. He was particularly taken by a small, mid-Victorian carriage clock that would make a very good addition to his own collection.

  Whistling softly to himself and wondering if his good black suit was still in the back of his wardrobe, he drove home.

  CHAPTER 5

  A week had gone by since the discovery of the latest victims and there had still been no significant breakthroughs in apprehending the murderer.

  Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke came out of a long meeting to see Orton waiting by the door to his office.

  “Well, how did it go?” enquired the forensic scientist.

  “Not without a few hitches but otherwise okay. Seems that the high-ups have agreed to deploy more regional detectives to the case so hopefully we won’t be so thinly spread. They also agreed to assign more constables to patrol and there’s going to be increased numbers of unmarked cars doing the rounds as well. Even if we can’t catch this bastard before he strikes again – on the second or third of next month if he sticks to his routine – then we have to make it nigh on impossible for him to get away with it.”

  Holbrooke’s eyes were drawn to the wanted poster which Craven had helped create and which was pinned to a notice board. It looked more like a caricature than a real person – a joke image – yet it was the best they had to go on at the present. There was also the name of the bogus investigator – ‘Ray Smith’ – which had cropped up on several occasions in the course of the investigations. Subsequent checks had failed to associate him with any known investigatory body or newspaper yet his presence had been noted at both Thelford and Long Gallop and this fact alone interested those searching for the murderer.

  “It’ll be a tall order keeping an eye on every postbox in the county,” said Orton, stating the obvious. “A very tall order. There must be several hundred of them.” He followed the other into his office.

  “Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” replied Holbrooke angrily. He paced over to the large map of the area, studying the pinpointed crime scenes – or rather the locations where victims had been found. What Orton said was true. There were well over a hundred villages scattered throughout the area, each with their own pillar box. To his surprise, there were also pillar boxes set in the middle of nowhere. In addition, after the discovery of Jenkins, it appeared that the murderer was no longer confining himself to purely rural areas. He was striking indiscriminately; almost at leisure and that made him far more dangerous and unpredictable. “Let’s just hope that we have three week’s respite before he kills again.” He went to his desk and sank down in his chair.

  Orton poured himself a coffee. “We could always see about closing down all the postboxes. Starve him of repositories for his body storage.”

  “That was raised as a course of action but it’s a non-starter. Not only would it have a profound effect on the postal service, it would also play right into the murderer’s hands. It could be that that is exactly what he wants. At least that’s how some of the others see it. Personally I think they’re fools but as I value my job I didn’t argue with them. I’d say if this were to go on then things might change but as it is they’re not prepared to take such drastic measures.”

  “Hmm. I figured that would be the case,” said Orton. “So, as far as we’re concerned it’s back to square one. We have to hope that some new piece of evidence comes to light in the interim.”

  “I’ve assembled a team which I’ve appointed to chase up all the personal details of the four victims. It’s just possible that there’s a connection that we’ve somehow overlooked, some vital clue that links them all together. I think it’s unlikely and I’m still going on the supposition that they were all unfortunate victims of an opportunistic psychopath, more so after Craven’s account.

  “A pity he never got a good look at that registration plate. Still, we’ve narrowed down the field somewhat and I’ve arranged for the traffic department to chase up all owners of white vans.”

  “And don’t forget we’ve got some tyre marks.” Orton took a sip from his plastic cup. “It’s not my field but was anything mentioned about the psychology of the individual we’re looking for?”

  Holbrooke nodded. “As far as trying to put together some kind of profile on the murderer, Winters reckons that we’re looking for a psychopathic loner in his early to mid-thirties. Someone relatively fit and probably involved in manual labour of some sort. A farmhand or a factory worker perhaps. Someone with an interest or a fascination or an obsession even with taking things apart.

  “As to why he’s doing this, well that might be due to a desire for power which would be lacking from his mundane, day-to-day existence. Then again it could well be a bid for recognition by an individual who feels unnoticed and unappreciated.”

  “Why postboxes?”

  “Winter seems to think that it could be down to the colour – red, obviously and its link with blood. He also thinks that there may be an intrinsic desire or need on the part of the murderer to ‘contain’ the victim. In some ways he likened it to a form of alternative burial although I’m not sure I agree with him there. It was also suggested that the murderer may be putting the victims in postboxes as a means of mentally distancing himself from the actual crime.”

  Orton’s brow furrowed and he looked confused.

  “Another of Winter’s theories. He said that when someone posts something they do so in the knowledg
e that it is going to be sent elsewhere. And that once it’s been posted, a letter or a parcel, for example, it’s then out of the sender’s hands. It becomes something which they can disassociate themselves from.” Holbrooke shrugged his shoulders.

  “Personally I think it’s just the actions of a complete and utter nutcase who is doing this purely for the shock value. We’ve not been able to find any other recorded instance of bodies in postboxes. It’s a first.”

  *

  Fastidiously, Montrose peered through his fixed magnifying glass and, like some complex, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, skilfully pieced the tiny components of the turn of the century Waltham Traveller pocket watch back together. It took him well over an hour to do so, during which time he never once looked up or lost concentration so absorbed was he in his work. His attention to every minute detail was uncanny.

  Eventually, satisfied that it was now complete, he delicately closed the nickel case and brought it up to his eye, examining the outer surface for any scratches or signs of wear that would need touching up. He then raised it to his ear, listening attentively to the pulse of its mechanical heart; the steady, constant ticking. He felt a sense of elation born of the success of restoring life to that which had been dead which for a moment made him feel like Mary Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein. Returning the mended pocket watch to the drawer from which he had taken it, he then left his workshop and went downstairs for a quick bite to eat.

  He sat watching the news on his television whilst he ate his beans on toast. There was the now daily updates regarding ‘The Postbox Killer’ but nothing new. The police had released an image of the suspect but it was clear that the individual had been heavily disguised.

  Still, they had narrowed it down to a white male, probably in his mid-thirties and who spoke with a local accent. He was also using a white van as a means of transportation. The item had ended by warning members of the public to be especially vigilant when using rural lanes and byways and to be wary of strangers.

  Once the news bulletin was over, Montrose switched the television off. He sat, staring at the blank screen, wondering for a moment why the police had not informed the public of the fact that the murderer would not, in all likelihood, strike again until the second of next month. Was it so that they could root out and distinguish any copycat killing that may occur in the interim? It seemed unlikely but not altogether unprecedented. He knew that from his intensive study of the subject.

  So the question was – what was he going to do now? There were still several lines of enquiry open to him and he had already made some inroads in mapping out all of the pillar box locations in a ten mile radius; details of which he had pinned to the map in his workshop.

  He knew from an obituary piece in the local newspaper that Jenkins’ funeral was to be held at St. Mary’s Church on the Ryfield Estate at three o’clock that very afternoon. That left him with a few hours to kill which he did so by going through some of his research books to see if he could learn anything that might be of relevance.

  There was much to digest but little of real significance apart from one glaring item which he cursed himself for overlooking and which set him all a jitter. That was the documented phenomenon of killers turning up at the funerals of those whom they had slain. There were several recorded incidents.

  Could it be that the murderer would be someone amongst the mourners? It was a slim possibility which he had to cling to. Of course, the police could well be aware of this too and it was likely that they would be there … and, if so, could it not be that they would view him suspiciously? At least he had a valid reason to be there but it would be prudent to remain inconspicuous as well as to keep an active level of vigilance for the killer.

  At half-past two precisely, he got in his vehicle and drove to the cemetery where he parked in the layby outside. There were over three dozen funeral goers there; men dressed in dark suits and women looking equally sombre in their attire. Old friends greeted one another with downcast gestures as a white-haired priest passed among them, sharing his condolences. People then began to drift into the church from which solemn organ music was drifting out.

  Montrose followed, his steps slow and measured, his head bowed slightly in a mock display of respect. He tried to remember the last time he had set foot inside a church and his mind drew a blank until he belatedly realised it had only been a couple of months ago when he had attended his mother’s funeral.

  Finding himself at the rear of the shuffling procession, he looked around for a convenient place to see everyone else and, upon spotting an empty pew at the back of the church, he went to it and sat down.

  The service lasted thirty minutes and Montrose became increasingly uneasy. He had never been religious, although, from an early age, his mother had tried her best to enforce her belief on to him and he found the whole procedure overtly sanctimonious, somewhat dull and tedious.

  Despite trying to keep his mind occupied by scanning those gathered, all he could see from where he sat was the backs of their heads. Two men got up and gave closing speeches and then the coffin was being taken outside by the undertakers.

  Montrose nipped out and skulked around the edge of the church to a place where he could surreptitiously watch those coming out. He was not sure exactly what it was he was looking for but he believed he would know it when he saw it; maybe the uncontrollable twitch of a cheek muscle or the nervous fidgeting of the hands or even the guilty, side to side flickering of the eyes. All tell-tale signs that things were not as innocent as they were being portrayed.

  A cold chill ran down his spine as a sudden thought made him spin round. Was someone even now lurking elsewhere, spying on him? Was the watcher being watched? He gulped nervously. There were rows and rows of headstones, several statues and a few tall marble memorials but no sign of anyone.

  At the edge of the cemetery, a hundred yards or so distant, there was a thick laurel hedge and it was not inconceivable that someone could be concealed within, perhaps staring at him through a pair of binoculars. If so, what conclusion would they reach as to his actions? It was a disturbing thought.

  If it was the police, then it would be only a matter of time before he found himself on the receiving end of some tough questions. And if it was the murderer …

  Taking a firm mental grip on himself, Montrose decided that the best thing to do, given the circumstances, was to join the others while there was still time to do so without drawing undue attention to himself.

  Nodding sadly to an elderly lady who gave him a half-hearted smile, he fell into rank as the mourners filed towards the burial plot.

  Once all had congregated, the priest gave a final eulogy and the coffin was lowered. Some sobbed and one woman wept openly as others fought to maintain a grip on their emotions.

  And then it was over.

  A few lingered, paying their last respects.

  Montrose briefly contemplated whether he had the nerve, not to mention the bare-faced cheek, to go to the wake which, from the snippets of conversation he had heard, was going to be held at The Dead Duck – a decision that struck him as both fitting and a little macabre.

  It was as he was giving this some thought, weighing up the various pros and cons of doing so, that he saw a man whom he had not noticed previously – either inside or exiting the church. He was dressed in a long black coat which was unusual in itself for it was neither cold or rainy and he appeared to be scribbling down something in a pad.

  The mysterious figure completed what he was doing and turned away.

  *

  In the darkness of his room, Montrose lay on his bed gazing up at the ceiling, his mind and body very much awake. Ever since leaving the cemetery that afternoon he had repeatedly gone over in his mind his course of action, ruminating over whether he had done the right thing or not.

  At the time, he had been all up for pursuing the stranger and perhaps confronting him, demanding to know just what the other was up to and yet, in the end, he had decided to get away, t
o make good his own escape on the suspicion that the enigmatic character could well have been a policeman carrying out a surveillance operation.

  Now, he was regretting his choice whilst at the same time torturing his brain with the various ramifications.

  What if the person he had seen was the murderer? Had the chance of identifying him slipped through his fingers? If he had held his nerve, could he now be the only person alive – aside from the killer himself – who could claim to know who the murderer was?

  What if he had stalked the stranger? What would have been the outcome if things had turned ugly? And what had the other been jotting down in his book? Was that just a cover in case he was seen and questioned, enabling him to make out that he was a reporter?

  Or maybe he had been drawing something; capturing a funereal tableau to keep for macabre prosperity. Stranger things had been recorded. Murderers, especially serial killers, were well known to keep ‘trophies’ of their victims – so why not a sketch of their victims being buried?

  The ghoulish, grave-robbing exploits of the likes of Ed Gein aside, burial normally represented the final stage in the murder process. Was there some perverse fascination with a second burial; some facet of the killer’s psyche which harboured some dark obsession with this? Was this linked with the duality aspect – two murders on the second of the month?

  Like a tortured soul, Montrose knew that he would only find peace if he succeeded in solving the mystery of ‘The Postbox Killer’. His mind demanded answers and he knew that when the time came – for he was certain there would be a next time – he would not lose his nerve as he had that afternoon. It would take an inordinate amount of courage and resolve but if that was what was required, then so be it. He would get to the killer before the police did or die trying.

  *

  Detective Chief Inspector Holbrooke was working late and he was feeling very weary. The relatives of all four victims had decided to join forces and had written a pointed letter explaining that, while they understood the difficulty of bringing the killer to justice, they did not believe that the police, and he in particular, were doing all they could to make it happen.