Saxon

by Stuart Davies

  ‘Right then, Commander. Or can I call you Comm for short?’

  ‘You can call me Paul, I wasn’t christened Commander either.’

  Ercott took his glasses off again, and polished them. He squinted at Saxon. ‘Right, Paul, what I need from you at this stage are the names of everyone you have come into contact with regarding this case.’ He looked through the bottom of the glasses and then put them back on. ‘And details, as many details as possible about those people. For instance, have any of them changed their names either through marriage or by deed poll? I need to know where they live and where they lived for the last five years at least. Is there the slightest chance that their paths have crossed before? Is this quite clear, Paul? It’s very important that you follow my instructions to the letter otherwise we will all be wasting our time.’ He pressed his fingers together, almost as if he were praying.

  ‘I will need to see photos of the crime scene…And, by the way, how were the locations left after the murders?’

  ‘Extremely tidy, except for the last one, I found that very strange,’ Saxon said with Parker nodding in agreement.

  ‘Yes, but what did the “tidy” tell you, Paul? Did it say clinically tidy or just average tidy?’ Ercott sat leaning on his knuckles looking intense.

  Saxon paused. ‘I would say clinically clean and tidy.’ He looked across at his colleague. ‘Would you agree with that, Parker?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’d say it was spooky how clean and tidy. Too bloody tidy. Up to the last murders at Anvil Wood House, that is.’ Parker was relieved to be included in the conversation at last.

  Ercott stood up and wandered around the room with his head back so that he could focus through the bottom of his glasses. He scanned the shelves of books as he went.

  ‘Oh I can’t find the damn thing, I’m sure Hettie comes in here and moves things about when I’m not here,’ he mumbled in an irritated tone. ‘Ah, wait, got it.’ With a swipe, he grabbed a heavily read book and flicked through the pages.

  ‘If it is the same person committing these crimes then his MO is obviously changing, which is unusual to say the least. Most serial killers have a set pattern that they stick to religiously and if one of these killers becomes active, you realise this phenomenon is quite rare don’t you, gentlemen? Of course you do, silly me, you are policemen after all. Maybe in this country, we will only come across two or three serials every couple of years. But due to the predictability of their actions and your detection talents, they can usually be caught.’

  He held up the book with his thumb marking the spot with the elusive information.

  ‘A colleague, or rather should I say, ex-colleague, he’s dead now, wrote this book in the fifties. Very ahead of his time, had some radical ideas and wasn’t afraid to speak up. In those days, very brave, very brave indeed. Anyway, as I was saying, he worked with the police on several occasions. Some of the more forward-thinking high-ranking officers realised that if, as they called them then, “a homicidal maniac”, was on the loose, then maybe someone who understood the workings of their minds may be able to help catch them. The author’s name was Alan Gittings. Poor chap had ginger hair, and we called him Ginger Git. Never mind though, he’s probably forgiven us by now.’

  Saxon was hoping that Ercott would hurry up a bit and come to a conclusion, but Parker was completely entranced like a small boy in awe of a favourite teacher. Ercott was striding around the room in full lecture mode, although totally unaware of it.

  ‘The point I’m making, gentlemen, is that Gittings came across one particular killer during his long and varied career. It was, I think in 1958; yes it was indeed ‘58.’

  He spoke slowly as he checked it out.

  ‘This murderer, a charming fellow by all accounts, by the name of Clive Williams, a bit grand, thought highly of himself, a journalist apparently. After first killing three ladies of the night, by strangulation, Williams changed his MO and suddenly started to stab his victims. For a serial killer this does not come easy. They have set routines where they feel safe because in their minds they have practised over and over the events that will happen during their attack. They meticulously plan for all eventualities, including, for example, their escape route. Back to Williams, after two knife killings he decided to try smashing the skulls of his victims with a hammer. Only one – thank goodness. He was caught because he dropped his hammer after running away from his last attempted murder.

  ‘His prints were all over it and he was apprehended about a week later. At his trial, Gittings referred to him as a man who changed his personality as he changed his choice of weapon. As his personality changed so did his physical appearance, by that I don’t mean he turned into a werewolf or anything like that. It was his bearing that changed. One personality, the hammer man, was hunched over and almost goblin-like, while the strangler was tall and quite aristocratic.’

  Ercott sat down and looked Saxon in the face.

  ‘Gittings gave him a very trendy cognomen, a “shape shifter”. Have you come across that term?’

  ‘Not sure I have. It sounds like something out of science fiction. So, you’re telling me that you think our killer could be one of these shape shifters?’ Saxon stood up, walked across the room and gazed out at the garden. ‘What you’re saying, if I’ve got this right, is that the killer is going to change tactics so much and so well that unless he screws up, then we haven’t got a chance of catching him?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Paul.’ Ercott began counting off points on the fingers of his left hand. ‘He is more than likely very smart and very controlled. He also seems to have a good knowledge of forensics by the sound of things. Believing that what he is doing is right and everyone else is wrong, he is probably convinced that the rest of the world is evil. This is a way, or should I say a mechanism, to justify his actions.’ Ercott shook his head. ‘I have to say, this man is an awfully disturbed individual,’ he said.

  ‘Well, we’d have to agree with you there, sir,’ said Parker. ‘Going by what we’ve seen, he’s probably the most disturbed criminal I’ve ever come across.’

  Ercott smiled grimly at him. ‘Yes, my lad, but what is even more disturbing is that when you finally catch up with him you will be surprised at his normality.’ He looked back at Saxon. ‘Paul, he could be your young colleague over there. He could be that normal.’ Parker was pleased that he was deemed “normal” enough, by someone who clearly knew was he was talking about, for him to be considered as an example of normality. The urge to preen himself slightly was irresistible, and he smoothed back his hair.

  ‘If you could hear the way he talks to his computer you wouldn’t say that,’ laughed Saxon.

  ‘Oh, very funny.’ Ercott laughed heartily and the sudden effort brought on a choking fit. After the spasmodic coughing, that only men of a certain age are capable of, had finished, he continued. ‘This man would under normal circumstances be a loner, most serial killers are. However, if he is a true shape shifter he may not be the typical run of the mill “catch-me-if-you-can-I’m-a-loner-type-of-serial-killer-come-and-get-me”. I could go on but someone may have to hyphenate this if I’m ever quoted one day,’ he chuckled. ‘One thing I should say to you about this person is that whoever he is there will be certain characteristics that he won’t be able to hide.

  ‘He is almost certainly going to be suffering from paranoia, of which there are several symptoms, like for instance: a tendency to bear grudges persistently, that is – he will never forgive someone if they dare to cross him. An excessive sensitiveness to setbacks and rebuffs. A tendency to experience excessive self-importance, meaning in laymen’s terms that he considers himself to be right in everything, and I mean just that – everything he does in his eyes is perfect. There are about seven recognised symptoms. If he suffers from only three of them, then he is paranoid. The paranoia will make him obsessive about everything he does. It will make him careful.’

  Saxon had expected light to be shed by Ercott. He had hoped for something to hel
p them focus their search. Instead, much as they were receiving an extraordinary amount of relevant and interesting information, the waters were muddying rather than clearing. He couldn’t help but feel slightly despondent and it showed.

  ‘This doesn’t make me feel very optimistic, Roger. Until he leaves some forensic evidence, I’m screwed. He leaves nothing, no prints, no hair, and not much hope. All I can do is wait for him to make a cock-up. Try telling that to the family of his next victim.’ He hung his head.

  Ercott sympathised. ‘Sorry, Paul, I do understand. Not much else I can say at this point. When I’ve studied the photos and read the pathology reports, I may be able to tell you more. What I can tell you, however, is that he will make a mistake – they always do, and when he does, we will be there.’

  Saxon arranged a time to have the photos of the crime scenes along with all the other information he had requested sent to Ercott, and they agreed to meet up a couple of days later when the profile was completed. As they made their way down the hall, Hettie appeared and asked them if they would like another cup of coffee before they left. They thanked her but declined the offer.

  Monday, May 20, Brighton Police Station, 3.57PM

  She walked nervously up and down the road outside the police station. Being early was not a situation Gertraud Bishop was particularly familiar with. In fact, she was a notoriously tardy woman under normal circumstances, much to the extreme annoyance of her husband. Today was different. Being late would mean prolonging the agony, so it had been out of the question.

  Mrs Bishop did not like police stations; she found the very idea of them intimidating in the extreme. Four o’clock had approached painfully slowly all day. All weekend, in fact. She had watched the hands of the clock circling inevitably towards her appointment with the police, and it had been one of the longest weekends of her life.

  She would have been willing to see them on Friday afternoon and get it over and done with, but as luck would have it, Angus was not working and had played golf, so he planned to be home relatively early. He had left again on Sunday for a long trip, so she had to reluctantly wait until today.

  One minute to four and Mrs Bishop entered the outer door and had to pause as the duty officer took a brief look at her to see if she was the sort of person he should admit. A second later and she was in, and the constable at the desk informed her that Commander Saxon was not back yet, but expected soon. She was shown to a seat and offered a cup of something from a machine. It was called tea but tasted like nothing she had ever come across before.

  The waiting prolonged her torment further. She endured it with a superficial calmness. The whole situation she found herself in was to her, an intensely private and shy person, pure purgatory. Suddenly without warning, the door flew open and in strode Saxon followed by Parker. The PC caught his eye as he passed and nodded towards Mrs Bishop, who by now was in such a state of anxiety that she was trembling and had given up on the tea-like substance.

  Saxon walked over to her and gently shook her hand.

  ‘Mrs Bishop? I’m Commander Paul Saxon.’ She rose to her feet as he approached.

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting like this,’ he went on. ‘I do appreciate how very difficult this must be for you.’

  She was almost the same height as him. She was elegant and stylish. He was struck by her stunning blue eyes and expensively cut hair. She was beautifully dressed too. She was chic, he thought. Not a word that seemed to be used much these days, but that’s exactly the effect she had on him. Even if she was at a disadvantage right now because of the circumstances, she still exuded it.

  ‘Would you please follow me? We can talk in my office. Much nicer than the interview rooms believe me.’ Mrs Bishop said nothing but followed Saxon. She sat down obediently in front of his desk. Parker sat behind her by the door, and Saxon stood by his chair. A WPC stood by the door.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Mrs Bishop. I will try not to keep you here for too long. I do understand that this is not easy for you, but I do have to ask you some questions regarding your relationship with Barbara Jenner.’

  Mrs Bishop sat bolt upright with her head slightly inclined, unable to make eye contact.

  ‘Thank you, Commander, you are right – I’m not enjoying this at all.’ Her English accent was almost perfect.

  Saxon turned to gaze out of the window, thinking that it might make the situation less stressful for her. ‘First, I would like to get straight to the point, Mrs Bishop, and there is no reason at all for you to feel embarrassed. Were you at one time having a sexual relationship with Barbara Jenner?’

  ‘Yes, Commander, I was. But it was over a year ago, it is all finished now.’ Her breathing became faster and she started to shudder. Saxon saw the signs that the floodgates were about to open and handed her some tissues.

  ‘When you are ready, Mrs Bishop, take your time; I know this is difficult for you. You can leave out the “Commander” bit, it is quite a mouthful’. She calmed down after a minute or so.

  ‘Thank you, you are very understanding, unlike my husband. He was not at all understanding. But I think that not many times it happens that a wife tells her husband that she is leaving him for a woman, is it?’ She looked at him with appealing eyes.

  Saxon remained silent, and she filled the waiting vacuum.

  ‘I met Babs two years ago. I had decided to take up riding. You see, my husband is spending a lot of time away and I was bored and needed something to fill up my time. One day I was driving down Hazel Lane and noticed that Anvil Wood Stables was a place where you could have lessons in riding. I stopped and went in and the moment I met Babs I knew she was gay, it was quite obvious really. As for me, I always had a feeling that I had made the wrong choice in life. I should never have got married in the first place.’ She paused for a few seconds and Saxon handed her a few more tissues.

  ‘How long had the relationship progressed before your husband found out – or did you tell him?’ Saxon said with genuine concern. He felt that she was being totally honest and deserved to be treated with respect.

  ‘Three months, I think it was, yes three months. You see, Babs led me on, making me think that she would end her relationship with that Poppy woman. I thought she wanted me to move in with her and that’s when I told him, and of course, he went crazy, smashing up the house and throwing things around and at me. Then when he calmed down he said that he would kill Babs and he called her an “effing bitch”, and that he would sort her out, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Bishop, I think we understand what that means,’ said Saxon, slightly bemused at her coyness. ‘And do you think he is capable of carrying out a threat like that?’ Saxon scented a possible suspect.

  ‘Yes, I think he could. He can be very aggressive and quite boorish sometimes. Angus has a violent temper, with a lot of shouting and breaking up of the furniture, although he has never harmed me in any way whatsoever. It took him many months to really start talking with me again.’

  Saxon was pleased that his gentle approach was producing results. He continued. ‘Why would Barbara Jenner have written the word “BITCH” across your name in her address book?’

  Mrs Bishop looked shocked, and paused for a moment. ‘I was upset when it happened. When we separated, I mean. It was so hard to accept, when I had taken such a risk for her. And I’m ashamed to say that I kept on phoning her and I wrote some unpleasant letters – which I now regret. She threatened to call the police if I didn’t stop. So I stopped.’

  ‘What did you write in these letters?’

  ‘Just that I might tell her friend, Poppy, what had been going on between us, that’s all.’

  ‘And did you?’ Saxon asked.

  ‘What, tell her friend?’ Mrs Bishop seemed surprised. ‘No, of course not. I wouldn’t have dreamt of telling her.’

  ‘Mrs Bishop, what does your husband do, what is his job?’

  ‘He is an airline pilot, a captain. He is based at Gatwick and sometimes he’s away for lo
ng times. All over the world he is flying.’

  Her accent was holding out but the order in which the words came out seemed to be controlled by her stress levels. Saxon asked her to excuse him for a moment while he briefly stepped out of the office. Next door was the operations room and Saxon stuck his head around the door and told one of the PCs to check out Angus Bishop now, and phone him immediately with the details.

  He was hardly back at his desk before the phone rang. Bishop was clean apart from a few old speeding offences and a drunk and disorderly fifteen years ago. It had taken five policemen to get him into the van at the time, and even more to get him from the van to the cells. Saxon put down the phone and turned to Mrs Bishop.

  ‘Where is your husband at this moment, Mrs Bishop?’ Saxon asked her, conversationally.

  She looked at her watch and calculated mentally, the way people do when they are used to operating in different time zones. ‘He’s in New York, but he won’t be back for two weeks; in fact he’s back on the second of June. He’s on a training course.’

  ‘Do you think he is capable of murder, Mrs Bishop?’

  ‘Who knows what people will do when they are upset. I don’t feel that I really know what he could do, I just don’t know.’ She started to lose her self-control again. More tissues. The WPC raised her eyebrows questioningly at Parker. They would be through an entire box of tissues in a minute and she could imagine Mrs Bishop’s solicitor complaining of unreasonable pressure on his client.

  Saxon must have been thinking along the same lines. He decided to end the interview; at least the wavering finger of suspicion had someone to point at.

  ‘Okay, Mrs Bishop. I will be talking to him about this matter when he returns from the States. If he is at all difficult later please ring me.’ He handed her a card with his work and mobile phone numbers. She looked him in the eyes and thanked him. It was a look that lingered. She held his eyes without expression. Then she gave a hint of a smile before she turned and left. The WPC went with her.