The Postbox Murders

by Edmund Glasby

  He needed to understand the means and more importantly the mentality behind the killer. It would be disastrous if tonight would prove to be the murderer’s last. His luck was bound to run out sometime and considering the numbers arrayed against him …

  Montrose found himself reflecting on whether or not the murderer would adopt a new strategy in order to satiate his homicidal passions. Would he, for example, postpone his campaign of terror to another night, thus breaking his own code, or would he be brave and take a chance?

  If he could somehow pull off a fifth or even a sixth murder then it would be a major coup for him – and an immense catastrophe for the police for it would highlight their ineptitude. It would be some achievement if the killer could do it. Praiseworthy almost.

  The thought that right now, at this very moment in time, the killer could be lying in wait, ready to pounce, thrilled him. It was going to be hard to get to sleep but Montrose decided there was no point in staying up.

  Even if something happened, it would not reach the television news channels or radio stations until tomorrow. Like a child awaiting Christmas Day, the best thing he could do was to go to bed and be ready to act in the morning. He shut up the house, took his radio upstairs and, despite his excitement, was asleep by eleven o’clock.

  *

  It may have been a creaky floorboard that made Montrose wake up a short time after he had fallen asleep; or perhaps an owl hooting nearby but more likely it was an animal instinct that he was no longer alone. Whatever the reason, he opened his eyes and scanned the dark room.

  His blood froze in his veins when he saw the shadowy figure leaning against his bedroom door. Overcoming a momentary paralysis, Montrose spoke. “Who are you?” He tried to say it forcefully but his voice cracked and sounded weak and scared.

  “You tell me,” the man answered, a hint of mockery in his tone.

  Montrose could not see well in the darkened room but he had a horrible certainty that he did know who the stranger must be. He swallowed a lump in his throat and hoped his voice would sound less pathetic this time. “You’re ‘The Postbox Killer’, aren’t you?”

  “Correct, although most people, those who know me better, call me Michael Sutherland.”

  Montrose felt sick at the words. He had been longing to put a name to the killer but not like this. He knew that the prospect of getting out of this alive had just got even more remote as murderers generally only revealed themselves if the listener was not long for this world. His mind was in overdrive, looking for a way out of the nightmare. That made him think for the briefest of moments if this was just a bad dream; a figment of his troubled imagination conjured up by his unhealthy obsession?

  He bit his bottom lip, feeling the pain register, knowing that this was no phantom standing before him.

  “How … how did you find me?” he asked, forcing the words out.

  “It wasn’t difficult. I saw you following me back from the funeral of ‘Number Four’ and I remembered you had been hanging around at ‘Number Three’s’ send-off too. I know Farthingswell like the back of my hand and it was easy to take a side road and end up behind you. I don’t think you looked in your mirror even once, you were so busy looking ahead, trying to find me.

  “Then you hurried home and I began to get interested in Mr. Richard Montrose.” Sutherland turned on a torch, shining it directly in Montrose’s face. “Get dressed. We’re going for a walk.”

  Blinking in the sudden light, Montrose had to fight against the panic that was threatening to overcome him. “You … you must be joking?”

  Sutherland drew a heavy revolver from his jacket. “No joke. Get dressed!” he ordered.

  Reluctantly, Montrose got out of bed and hastily pulled on the clothes he had been wearing during the day, putting the trousers on over his pyjamas. He did not have a weapon of any kind in the house, except for some kitchen knives and he could not think of a way to get to them.

  “Right. Now we’re going downstairs, you first.” Sutherland shone the torch on the floor and gestured with the gun.

  Edging to the bedroom door, Montrose got a better view of the man and saw that he was wearing a rather obvious black wig and fake moustache but he recognised the piercing, dark eyes and prominent cheekbones. There were no lines on his face and he could not have been more than about thirty but his expression was the coldest the horologist had ever seen.

  Despite his fear, he found himself growing curious again. Here he was, actually in the presence of one of the country’s most successful killers. If he was clever enough and very lucky, he might survive the encounter and get the answers he craved.

  They walked down the stairs and towards the back door which Montrose noticed had a neat circle of glass missing from one of its panels. Stepping out of the house, he reflected that it would have been handy if he had left a spade or something in the garden but he always tidied away meticulously.

  Seeing a light on in a neighbour’s bedroom window, he wondered about screaming for help but knew that would only hasten his demise. He expected Sutherland to direct him to the street but was surprised when the other steered him towards the fields at the back of his house. There was a footpath there which he had seldom been along.

  There was a far-off flash of lightning. Distant thunder rumbled ominously.

  “Where are we going?” Montrose asked.

  “Not far.”

  Montrose walked on, slowly, not knowing whether he should try and make a break for it. With luck, he might be able to dash into the thicker shadows that now crowded in around them.

  A light drizzle began to fall, becoming steadily heavier.

  “Any sudden moves and you’re a dead man.”

  Montrose gulped nervously. It was as though the other had read his mind.

  “We keep going until we get to the gate. We then take a left turn. Follow the path for a couple of hundred yards until you reach the old barn.”

  “Okay.”

  “And like I said. No funny business. Believe me, I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

  Now that they were a sufficient distance away from the houses, Sutherland began to talk more. “No doubt you’re wondering why I haven’t killed you yet.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” replied Montrose, looking back over his shoulder.

  “I’ve found out that you’re not a cop, so why the interest in me and who else knows about me? That’s the important thing. Tell me what I want to know and no harm will come to you. I assure you.”

  Montrose knew that Sutherland’s words lacked sincerity. He was sure that he was being led somewhere quiet and secluded so that the murderer could finish him off. Had he been thinking rationally, he might have fabricated some story that his death or disappearance would result in the immediate revelation of the other’s identity.

  However, with the spectre of imminent death hanging over him he only managed to say: “I’m just interested in murders. That’s all.”

  “Really? So not me in particular?”

  “No.”

  “I’m disappointed,” commented the killer, his words devoid of emotion. “We’re getting near the gate. Turn left.”

  Montrose pushed open the gate and set out along a new path. This one was wider and had at one time or another been a farm track. He had been out here before and knew that it led to a long-abandoned silage barn – a perfect place to kill someone.

  He stumbled several times on the track and tried not to think of himself as a condemned man walking to his death. There seemed no opportunity yet to act but he had so many questions that he could not keep quiet.

  “Why postboxes?” he blurted out. “And the date – the second of the month?”

  “Both William’s suggestions.”

  “William?”

  “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “And why go to these lengths in the first place?” Montrose felt he was pushing his luck, but he had to ask.

  “You’re persistent, aren’t you? Well, y
ou answer a few of my questions and I may answer yours.”

  The rain was falling heavily now and Montrose’s shirt was soaked through. His hair hung damply to his forehead.

  “When the police raided your house, was there anything that would lead them to me?” Sutherland demanded.

  “You saw that?” Montrose asked in surprise.

  “I moved my base of operations over here after I found you. I’d got rid of my van before that anyway so I needed to find somewhere quiet to do my work. The arrival of four police cars, just a stone’s throw away, naturally caught my attention. So, did you write anything down or take any pictures that would lead them to me?”

  Montrose paused, unsure whether to tell the truth or not. Would it help him to lie? He decided that Sutherland was intending to kill him regardless so he might as well be truthful.

  “I’d be surprised if they can make anything of my notes. I didn’t know your name or where you lived and I had no photographs. I didn’t tell them about seeing you at the funerals either.”

  “Why not? They were obviously suspicious of you.”

  “I didn’t want them to find you,” Montrose answered, panting slightly as the strain of the walk, the weather and the situation began to take its toll.

  “And why was that?” Sutherland asked, his voice betraying a hint of confusion. They were coming out into a desolate farmyard and he motioned his prisoner to the metal doors of the barn.

  “I wanted to know all about you for myself, not to tell, just to know.” As he finally explained his motivation to someone, Montrose realised just what had been driving him on. “I didn’t want to catch you, I wanted to see how far you could get and for me to be the only one who knew who you were.”

  Sutherland pushed open the door to the barn and motioned with the gun for his captive to enter. “Stay there,” he ordered and pulled the door shut.

  It was darker inside the barn but Montrose could make out the shape of a car that had been hidden inside. There was a lingering mixture of unsavoury farmyard smells in the air; cow dung, decaying straw, swill long-gone bad.

  Sutherland opened the car door, reached inside and started the engine.

  The headlights were switched on and Montrose blinked, momentarily blinded. Rubbing his eyes, he gasped with horror upon seeing, over to one corner, a pile of bloody sheets.

  Sutherland noticed Montrose’s reaction. “Don’t worry, they’re empty. I’ve already done ‘Number Five’. You’d think people would pay attention to the news but thankfully not everyone does. The cops think they’ve got all the postboxes covered but I know every single one and I slipped past them easily enough.” He stepped away from his car, his gun still pointing unwaveringly at Montrose. He walked closer and regarded him curiously.

  “You wanted to see how many murders I could get away with? Either you’re lying or you’re sicker than I am!” He laughed harshly. “You want to know why postboxes? Well, this is why. Have a look in the car.”

  Keeping his eyes on Sutherland, Montrose warily approached the car. The interior was in shadowy darkness but he could just discern a figure seated in the back seat.

  “Have a closer look.” Sutherland shone his torch over.

  Propped upright in the seat was a rotting corpse dressed in the remnants of a tattered, black funereal suit. The yellowy-green skin was pulled tautly over the skull, the eyes sunken holes.

  “This is William, my brother and the architect of all my crimes,” Sutherland announced.

  Montrose stared in horror at the corpse. Never had he imagined anything like this. This bordered on the exploits of Ed Gein.

  “William was killed before we could carry out his plans but he never let me down. He’s talked to me every day since I brought him back up.”

  “Up?” Montrose managed to croak. Anyone in their right mind would have tried to flee by now, even if it meant taking a bullet in the back, but his fascination was almost as strong as his fear.

  “Six feet up to be precise. He was calling to me for years, telling me to come and get him.” Sutherland looked at his long-dead brother with something akin to reverence. “It took time for me to hear him properly.”

  “You … you said it was William’s idea to use the postboxes?” Montrose asked. The police would have simply dismissed Sutherland as insane but there must have been a reason for the madness to manifest in this extraordinary fashion.

  “Poetic justice, seeing as he never had any other kind,” Sutherland said, his voice cold. “William got knocked down and killed by a van, a postal van, that ran into and over him. He was fifteen and he bled to death on the road. The driver had been speeding. He got off with a pitiful sentence and then vanished.” Sutherland began to pace the floor.

  “For ten years I tried to find the bastard and when I did I ran him over, several times. I knew William would help me then. It all came back to me, all his ideas.” He turned and looked piercingly at Montrose. “You know a lot about crime. So did he. When he was a kid, he wanted to be a detective but by the time he’d grown up, and seen a little more of how bad the world is, his desire changed to becoming the perfect killer.”

  Montrose nodded. “In some ways I can relate to that,” he said. Sutherland was showing less control now and there could be a chance to turn the tables on him. However enthralled he was by the story, and he truly was, he would prefer to end this night alive.

  “It was William’s theory that the reason murderers got caught, was that they had a connection to the victim. If you just picked complete strangers and were clever about it, you could be unstoppable. I’ve proved him right. Four murders so far, two more tonight; one for William, one for me. Which brings me to you, ‘Number Six’.”

  Menacingly, Sutherland began advancing forward. He raised the gun.

  There was nothing else for it. Montrose spun on his heel and made a dash for the exit. He heard a curse and then something hard hit him between the shoulder blades, undoubtedly the gun which he assumed had either jammed or had never been loaded in the first instance. He yanked hard on the metal door, then he was outside.

  A flash of lightning rent the murk asunder. The rain was pouring down now, soaking everything in its miserable deluge.

  Montrose slipped in the mud. Frantically, he scrambled to his feet.

  Sutherland was there, rearing over him. Snarling insanely, he swung down with a hammer, striking Montrose a glancing blow on the shoulder.

  The heavy tool came down a second time.

  Montrose caught the killer’s wrist. With his other hand, he made a grab at Sutherland’s throat. He pushed fiercely as both wrestled to gain control of the blunt weapon, fear lending him strength. Slickly, his fingers slipped up his assailant’s neck, over his jaw, to his face. He made his hand claw-like, digging his nails into the wet flesh and drawing blood.

  With a heave, Sutherland threw Montrose clear but in so doing lost his hold on the hammer. His face was now a rain-soaked mess; muddy and blood smeared. His black wig had been dragged to one side, revealing his cropped, blond hair beneath.

  Retrieving the fallen hammer, Montrose held it threateningly. “Get away from me!” he shouted. A second later a terrific crack of thunder sounded directly overhead. “Get away or so help me, I’ll – ”

  Sutherland leapt forward.

  Montrose swung out. The hammer smote the side of the murderer’s head with a bone-jarring crunch.

  Sutherland staggered back. He shook spasmodically for a moment and then his dark eyes glazed over and his knees buckled beneath him. He gazed pathetically, sightlessly and then fell face-first in the mud, dead.

  For a long moment, Montrose looked down at the body at his feet. He dared not move, not knowing whether Sutherland was only stunned or if he had indeed killed him. Then, as the seconds turned to minutes, and the rain and mud gurgled around the prone man, he knew that he himself was a murderer.

  Yes, it was in self-defence, but he had still intentionally killed another human being. The realisation was not p
articularly unpleasant but he still had the problem of how to get away with it. He stood there, utterly soaked. Then a thought came to him. Everything he needed was in the barn – the tools, the sheet, the car.

  The Aldingham Estate was not too far away and it had a particularly interesting pillar box.

  *

  The thunder of the previous night had cleared the air and June the third promised to be sunny and dry.

  Orton opened the door to the police car which had just pulled in to the layby on the Aldingham Estate, nine miles from Long Gallop where two months earlier ‘The Postbox Killer’ had first gained notoriety. “You’re not going to believe this, James. I thought I’d seen everything but …”

  “What do you – ?” Holbrooke stopped in mid-sentence and, from his car seat, stared disbelievingly at the sight before him.

  The estate was big enough to have rated a double pillar box; one slot for first-class and one for second. The single large door was open and he could see that the left-hand side of the cavity held a naked, dismembered body.

  However, on the right hand-side was a horribly withered, long-dead corpse wearing a thick bushy moustache and a black wig.

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