He located the address on his street map and while he was at it, he re-checked the location of his own house in Disraeli Street. As it happened, the latter was not so very far away from where he was presently staying and with nothing better to do, he decided to take a look at it.
As he walked along, he felt vulnerable and exposed and, not for the first time, his body ached for a cigarette. Since his initial lapse, he was managing to remain strong but the constant strain was beginning to sap his resolve. As he passed a chemist shop, he spotted an advertisement that seemed designed with him in mind. It offered help to those desperate to give up smoking but whose bodies still demanded a regular injection of nicotine. Intrigued, he stopped to read more. The advertisement was for special patches that were placed next to the skin. These delivered a small but regular supply of nicotine but without causing further damage to one’s lungs. Gradually, you were supposed to reduce both the strength and the frequency of these aids until you were completely free of your addiction. The patches seemed dreadfully expensive but desperate to try anything Zachary went in.
On hearing that her customer had not used the patches before, the chemist was very helpful. She had used them successfully herself, she told him, and was keen to show him how to apply them.
‘Why don’t you take your jacket off?’ she said and Zachary was on the point of obeying when he remembered that doing so was bound to reveal the untreated areas of his part-tanned body. Hastily he declined the invitation and paying for his purchase, he hurried from the shop. That had been a narrow escape but at least the incident brought home to him the need not to allow his guard to drop for an instant. He might be a stranger to Croydon but his body was not; many people were bound to know it. Also, being so near his old home, disguise or not, he was in real danger that an old friend or acquaintance might identify him. He needed to exercise caution. Going into that chemist's shop had been stupid he realized. If he’d been a regular visitor, the chemist might well have recognised him, even through his disguise.
Disraeli Street would have been a big disappointment if Zachary had not already made substantial downward adjustments to his expectations. Number 17 was near the middle of the street and he had no need to guess which house it was. It had to be the one around which a group of reporters and photographers were gathered. Even as he watched from the safety of the end of the street, the door of the house opened and a smartly dressed, very attractive woman came out. Zachary put her age between early and mid thirty. As soon as she showed herself, the media scrum gathered around, jostling her and shouting questions. Lifting her head disdainfully and totally ignoring their demands, she slowly pushed her way through them, gradually drawing near to the corner where Zachary stood. He watched her approach with both admiration and pity. If this was his wife, she was not at all the frumpy lump he, incorrectly, had imagined. Instead, she was extremely attractive and interesting looking. It was hard to believe the man he believed himself to be in this dimension had ever been able to attract such a woman so perhaps she was merely a friend of his wife. Strangely, although he had never laid eyes on her before, he instinctively felt drawn to her. At the same time, he was full of sympathy for her and the plight she was in through no fault of her own.
He was still standing on the far side of the road that ran at right angles to Disraeli Street when, still surrounded by baying reporters, she reached the corner diagonally opposite him. She looked like some innocent deer surrounded by yammering hyenas, all desperate for a taste of blood; Zachary had heard about the way the paparazzi hounded celebrities and the relatives of killers and child abusers but the reality of what those photographers and reporters were doing to Jeannie, if that’s who she was, made his flesh crawl. It shocked him to think that anyone would be prepared to do such a soulless job and he wondered at the morality of such people and their editors. At the corner, the woman hesitated, momentarily disoriented by the scrum of people around her. She seemed uncertain about the direction she should take. And that was when her eyes met his.
Initially her glance passed him by but something about him standing there forced her to return her gaze to give him a second look. In that moment, her eyes widened with recognition. It could only be his wife, he thought, but concerned that she might reveal who he was, he only gave a brief nod before turning away. He dared not stay any longer and even though he was not responsible for the poor woman’s predicament, he felt shame even to be related to the perpetrator. How could he ever compensate her for what she must be going through? In that instant he came to his decision. Instead of trying to solve the case himself, he would make contact with the police officer the newspapers claimed was in charge of the investigation. His name, he recalled, was Chief Inspector Connolly.
He bought a pen, a pad of cheap writing paper and some envelopes on his way back to his lodgings and, locking himself in his room, he began composing his letter. He could hear Olivera in the kitchen below singing to her children while the smell of her cooking filled the little house. It was a delicious smell, which reminded Zachary that he, too, was hungry.
The difficulty of anyone except the police managing to identify who might benefit from the death of the elderly couple had already occurred to him. For someone lacking the contacts or the inside knowledge necessary for such an investigation, and who, incidentally, was already on the run from the police, there was no hope whatsoever. His best bet was to provide the police with whatever help he could give them while continuing to remain hidden. The one thing he could not do was reveal to them what had really happened to him. That would surely mark him down as a dangerous lunatic who was as guilty as sin. He would have to be cleverer than that. He sat for a few moments sucking the end of his pen, thinking how best to tackle his problem. Of one thing he was certain; it would be foolish to reveal any doubt he might have about his actual culpability. He also had to make sure the police realized the importance of looking in directions other than his. So, with the homely smell of Olivera’s cooking titillating his taste buds and the gentle sound of her singing in his ears, he began.
Dear Chief Inspector Connolly,
I gather from the various press cuttings I have read that you are in charge of the investigation into the deaths of Victor and Ethel Prentice. If this is no longer the case, would you please pass this note on to whoever now is in charge. Whoever it is, I write to try to convince you that I did not kill Mr and Mrs Prentice. I admit I borrowed and then lost the money paid by them to me for the purchase of an insurance policy; but it was never my intention to steal that money. Unfortunately, at the time, I was in a difficult financial predicament and I was desperate to lay my hands on some ready money. When Mr Prentice made that cheque out to me, I could not believe my good luck. But you must believe me when I say it was my intention only to borrow the money for a short time. Unfortunately, I did something stupid and lost it all. I assure you, however, I did not kill those two unfortunate people and it is my intention to repay the money back in full as soon as I am able.
When the Prentices were killed I was already on the run from the police as well as from someone else to whom I owe money; a person you do not want to fall foul of. I ran because I was badly frightened and was in hiding in a rented room up in Manchester when the old people were killed. I’m sorry I can’t remember the name of the place nor exactly where it was, which I know sounds suspicious, but please believe me; it is the truth.
The thing is, I know I’m innocent of the killings and, if I’m innocent, that means someone else killed the Prentices. You know a lot more about the twin murders than I do and you are in a far better position to investigate what really happened. All I know is, I didn’t do it. Also, from what I’ve read, it doesn’t sound as if an opportunistic burglar killed them, either. In which case, perhaps you should start looking at the motives of people nearer home. Who knows, you might find someone who has already benefited by the old people’s deaths.
I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to waste your time concentrating
all your effort on me. I realize you only have my word that I had nothing to do with the killings and I know you won’t stop looking for me until you’ve caught me, but please keep an eye on the bigger picture as well because that way you might catch the real killer or killers.
Yours sincerely
Zachary Storie
After signing and sealing the letter, Zachary addressed it to Chief Inspector Derek Connolly. Later, that same afternoon, he caught the Thames Link train to Bedford where he posted his letter. He was taking no chances.
‘You can tell our colleagues up in Edinburgh to stand down,’ Connolly said to his assistant, Sergeant Roy Fitzpatrick.
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’ve just received a letter from our man.’
‘You don’t mean Storie, do you?’ Fitzpatrick sounded surprised.
‘None other.’ Connolly waved Zak’s letter as he spoke.
‘Well, where is he and what’s he got to say for himself?’
‘The letter is postmarked Bedford but he could be anywhere down here. He could even be back here in Croydon, though why he’d want to do that, I can’t think. There’s no way he’s going to get near his wife while she’s got the press sitting on her doorstep and as far as we know, he hasn’t rung her since that one time when we almost caught him.’
‘Yeh, and don’t forget the Thames Link goes as far north as Bedford and as far south as Brighton. As you say, he could be anywhere in the area but if you want my guess, I reckon he’s a lot closer to Croydon than he is to Bedford or Brighton,’ Fitzpatrick nodded sagely.
‘You could be right, Roy. It’s a well known fact that people prefer being in the part of the world they know best. Anyway, give McLeish up in Edinburgh a ring and thank him for his cooperation. Tell him we’ve got reason to believe our man’s now back in Croydon.’
With that, Connolly passed Zachary’s letter across to his colleague and sat back while Fitzpatrick read it. When the sergeant finished he looked up and pulled a face.
‘Are you sure this really is from Storie?’
‘Look at the signature. It's a close match to the one on the insurance premium he sold to the Prentices. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. Storie wrote it all right.’
‘Do you believe him?’
‘I don’t want to,’ Connolly said. ‘If he’s telling the truth, it’s just going to complicate matters for us.’
‘I ‘spose so but not half as much as it will if we bring the wrong man to trial.’
‘Yeh; I know. Life’s a bitch. Just when I thought we had a neat, simple situation to sort out, this happens. So, what do you reckon, Roy? Is he telling the truth or not?’
‘Like you, I’m inclined to believe him,’ Fitzpatrick said. ‘I always figured Storie had to be a bit of a nutter to think he could get away with killing the Prentices. I don’t care how desperate you are, killing two decent old people like the Prentices for a miserable ten thousand quid never made any sort of sense to me.’
‘It depends on how desperate you are. People have been killed for a damn sight less. But, as he suggests, it won’t do any harm for us to broaden our enquiry a bit. Dig up what you can on that daughter of theirs, as well as her husband. Find out if they were short of cash. Were they getting worried that the old folk were beginning to spend the daughter’s inheritance? You never know, it might throw up something useful. If nothing else, we get to keep our noses clean,’ he said, grinning at his assistant.
Word soon spread that Storie was back in town and through one of his many contacts in police headquarters, Connor Sinclair got to know the news by late afternoon. Immediately, he contacted Bill Hancock and before nightfall the betting shop owner’s two enforcers were back in town. Only two men knew what Zachary looked like since he’d changed his appearance, and it would have benefited Zachary to know that one of those men lived just around the corner from where he now lodged in West Croydon.
It all started innocently enough. When DS Roy Fitzpatrick spoke to Alec Gormley, the Prentices’ son-in-law, he was just following his usual routine and had no idea what was about to be revealed. If he’d had any suspicions at all, he would have taken plenty of back-up with him. As it was, he was quite shocked by the violence of Gormley’s denial that he might have had anything to do with the deaths of his in-laws. At the time, the two men, together with Mavis, Gormley’s wife, the only child of Victor and Ethel Prentice, were seated in the Gormleys’ modest living room in their equally modest terraced house in Deptford. Fitzpatrick had earlier discovered that Alec was a long-distance lorry driver working for a local road haulage company. He was a big, raw-boned man and when Roy asked him to account for his whereabouts on the night his in-laws were bludgeoned to death, the man half-rose in his seat, a fierce expression on his face. So intimidated did he feel, Roy was concerned he might have to defend himself. Fortunately, but with eyes still smouldering from the implication, Gormley slowly sank back down into his seat.
During the interview, Mavis had sat with her hands tightly clasped in her lap but when Roy asked her husband to account for his movements on the night of the murder she visibly relaxed at the same moment that her husband had displayed his anger.
Alec continued to glower at the detective from under heavy eyebrows. ‘What do you want to know that for? Everyone knows who killed Vic and Eth. It was that dirty little bastard Storie what did ‘em in. Everyone knows that.’
To one side Mavis nodded her head in agreement.
‘That’s right. It had to be him. In any case, Alec wasn’t even here. He was up in Durham making a delivery that night, weren’t you luv?’
‘Why don’t you shut your bloody trap! Nobody’s talking to you,’ her husband positively snarled at her.
Clearly she was used to her husband’s coarseness because she continued to stand her ground.
‘But you were, Alec. You told me you were. So tell him. Can’t you see what he’s trying to do?’ she pleaded.
‘I told you to shut up, didn’t I. Why can’t you mind your own business, you stupid cow?’
Fitzpatrick was the silent, shocked witness to this tense and totally unexpected domestic fracas. He was also witness to the sudden realization on Mavis’ part that her husband had not told her the truth when he claimed to be in Durham, hundreds of miles north of Streatham, on the night of the murders.
It had all started a few months earlier when she became alarmed by the sudden profligacy of her parents who, hitherto, had always been so cautious and careful with their money. On the strength of that caution, they had built up a sizeable nest egg, a nest egg that would eventually come to her but which, of late, was rapidly being dissipated before her very eyes. The insurance policy was the last straw. She could hardly believe it when she discovered her father had even made the cheque payable to the insurance agent and not to the insurance company. What she’d suspected for the past year was finally happening; her father was going senile and could no longer be trusted to control his own financial affairs. When she told her husband, a man with a notoriously short fuse, he had been livid with rage. He cursed and called his father-in-law all manner of obscene names and even muttered darkly about someone needing to see to the old pair, which Mavis immediately disregarded as being the ranting of a man who, temporarily, had lost control. After all, she too had often harboured murderous thoughts towards her foolish parents who were so stupidly squandering her future security.
She had immediately got in touch with the Insurance Company who confirmed her worst fears. The money had not been used for its legitimate purpose and the insurance agent had since disappeared. Naturally, and without delay, she reported the matter to the police and all too willingly, she had accepted her husband’s story that he had been away in Durham when her parents were brutally murdered. The police were a different matter; they were bound to check out his story with his employers.
Roy Fitzpatrick could almost see Mavis Gormley working it all out as she sat staring at her husband, who now refused to return
her gaze. If he had lied to her about his whereabouts on the night of the murder, why was that? What did he have to hide?
Finally, she spoke, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
‘You greedy, rotten, swine; you killed them, didn't you? You were afraid there wouldn’t be anything left for you if they carried on spending like they were.’
‘Well I wasn’t the only one,’ Alec shot back at her. ‘You almost wet yourself when that bloke ran off with that last ten thousand quid. I was just protecting what was ours.’
‘You stupid fool! I was just about to get power of attorney over their affairs. My solicitor said it would be easy after that last incident. You didn’t have to go and kill them. They always said you were no good, and they were right. I hate you.’ With that, she burst into floods of tears as Fitzpatrick and her husband looked on in dismay. Fitzpatrick, who had not expected anything quite so dramatic and speedy to occur was at a loss to know what to do. He dared not let Gormley out of his sight, and the man’s wife was so upset there was no knowing what she would do if she were left alone. Luckily, he owned a mobile phone and after telephoning for urgent back-up, he sat quietly with the pair until it arrived. An hour later, Alec Gormley, having been charged with the double murder of his in-laws, was being read his rights.
The local evening newspapers were full of the dramatic new development and the immediate knock-on effect caused the gaggle of reporters who had been waiting outside Jeannie’s front door to disappear as if by magic. The police might still want to question her husband for stealing ten thousand pounds, but there was no story in such a trivial matter.
Zachary could hardly believe his ears when he heard the news on the television that evening. He was amazed that his letter should have had such a dramatic and positive result. In fact, so overcome was he to know he was not a double murderer, he was quite unable to contain the tears of relief that ran down his cheeks. He had been under a tremendous strain these last few days, a strain few, if any, other men had ever before experienced and on discovering he was not a double murderer, he allowed the emotion of the moment to overwhelm him. The rest of the news was a mere blur and he felt almost as if he were sleepwalking. Eventually, however, he came back down to earth, which was when he decided that, even if he were not yet entirely out of the wood, he needed to relax, if only for one evening.
SWITCHED: The man who lost his body but kept his mind. Page 18