The Loophole

by Vera Morris

  ‘Mr Thomas Coltman?’ Revie bawled.

  Coltman’s arms dropped to his side, the peg tumbled from his mouth.

  ‘Yes. What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Revie. I have a warrant to search your house and any outbuildings. Please accompany me inside.’

  Coltman shook his head. ‘No, you can’t do that. Why? What do you think I’ve done?’

  ‘Come along, sir,’ Cottam said, moving to his side and placing a hand on his arm. Coltman flinched and jerked his arm away.

  Revie turned to the PC. ‘Bag the washing.’

  ‘All of it, sir?’

  ‘Yes, pegs as well.’

  Coltman pointed at Frank. ‘What’s he doing here? He works at the camp, I’ve seen him. He’s a gardener.’

  ‘Mr Diamond is helping us with our enquiries,’ Revie prevaricated. ‘Come along, Mr Coltman, do as you’re told, or I’ll have to arrest you.’

  ‘Arrest me? Why? What’s this about?’

  The man was agitated, body quivering, skin glistening with sweat, and his face as pale as the underbelly of a fish. His shoulders slumped and he allowed himself to be taken towards his house by Cottam. Could this be the man who’d abducted two girls? Possibly the killer of Bert Wiles and Belinda Tweedie? It was hard to imagine. Frank followed them into the house.

  ‘Sit down.’ Revie pointed to a solitary kitchen chair. Coltman slumped into it, put his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands.

  Revie looked at Frank, a questioning look, as though to say, ‘Really? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Mr Coltman, where were you last night, between seven and midnight?’

  Coltman slowly raised his head and stared at Revie. His lips moved but no words were spoken.

  Revie pointed to the cupboard. ‘Cottam, search in there.’ He put on cotton gloves and pulled the table drawer open, obviously wanting to be the one who found the scalpels, if they were still there. Revie smiled. They were. He removed them and laid them out on the table top. ‘Mr Coltman, are these yours?’

  Coltman looked at him, his eyes full of pain. He stared at the scalpels and looked up at Revie again. ‘Yes, of course they’re mine, whose else could they be?’

  Good question. Revie glowered at him; he didn’t seem to like the answer.

  ‘Just answer the question, Mr Coltman, I’ll do the asking. What do you use them for?’

  Coltman shiftily glanced from side to side.

  Revie leant towards him, obviously scenting blood. ‘Scalpels are used for cutting, Mr Coltman. Who or what did you cut with these scalpels?’

  Frank had never seen Revie at work on a suspect before -he was good, certainly frightening; he wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end.

  ‘What do you mean who did I cut?’ Coltman shrilled. ‘I only use them for cutting holes in cardboard, for cutting out pictures. What are you suggesting? Are you saying I killed Bert Wiles?’

  Revie screwed up his face so all his features seemed to coalesce. ‘Why do you say that, Mr Coltman. Are you saying Mr Wiles was cut up?’

  Coltman was becoming hysterical. ‘It’s gossip. Someone at the camp said he’d been sliced up, like the Teddy boys used to slash people.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘I don’t know, I can’t remember.’

  Revie removed an envelope from the drawer, opened it and tipped its contents onto the table. ‘What are all these pieces of wire for, Mr Coltman. What did you do with them?’

  Coltman looked at Cottam, who was waving a hand, trying to get Revie’s attention. When he saw what Cottam was holding, he sprang up from the chair and darted towards him. ‘Put that down. Don’t touch her. She isn’t finished.’

  Revie grabbed him and forced him back into his seat. ‘Sit still or I’ll put you in handcuffs.’

  Coltman’s body went rigid. ‘No, don’t do that. Don’t tie me up.’

  Revie turned to Cottam. ‘What is it? What doesn’t Mr Coltman want us to see?’

  Cottam placed it on the table out of Coltman’s reach. It was the bottom half of a cardboard box. Revie’s eyebrows shot up and he swiftly turned his glance to Coltman, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  Frank moved forwards so he could see what was inside the box. The interior was intricate, created with care and some artistry. In the centre was a picture of a pretty darkhaired girl, who smiled knowingly. It looked like part of an advert for something feminine: shampoo, lipstick or possibly underwear, as she was scantily clad in a pink slip. Round her, glued to the box were seemingly hundreds of tiny snail sea-shells, the grey outer covering removed or worn away by the sea, revealing pearl-like nacre. They formed whirls and loops, leaves and flowers. It resembled the boxes fishermen used to make for their sweethearts as love tokens. Round the edge of the box neat holes had been cut, ready to receive something.

  ‘You two,’ Revie pointed to Cottam and the PC, ‘search the rest of the house. If you find anything of interest, leave it there, and come back and report to me. In the meantime, perhaps Mr Coltman would like to tell me about this.’ He tapped the box. ‘Who’s this pretty woman supposed to be?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Coltman wailed. ‘I wanted to make her safe. That’s all I wanted to do, make her safe.’ He buried his head in his hands, sobs racking his body. He sounded as though his guts were being twisted into knots, his cries wretched and full of despair.

  ‘Sir!’ Cottam called.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Photograph.’

  ‘Bring it here.’

  Cottam returned and passed it to Revie. ‘It was in the front room.’

  Revie flashed it at Frank and nodded. It was as Laurel described, a photo of Audrey Coltman; the resemblance to the missing girls was obvious.

  Revie looked at Frank, put an index finger on his temple and whirled it round several times. He had to agree, Coltman was seriously disturbed. Did the picture of the girl in the box have anything to do with the missing women? Was Coltman acting out a scenario of taking a girl and putting her somewhere?

  ‘Sir! I think you ought to look at these.’ It was Cottam’s voice from upstairs.

  Coltman didn’t look up, his grief was not lessening.

  ‘Come on down.’

  Feet clattered on the staircase.

  ‘Watch him.’ He pointed to Coltman. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Front bedroom, sir.’

  Revie jerked his thumb at Frank. ‘You, come with me.’

  Where they going to find more bodies? From Cottam’s face he didn’t think so, but his eyes were sparkling, it must be a significant find.

  It was a steep flight of stairs, covered with a red runner held down with brass stair rods; the carpet looked and probably was, pre-war. The constable was waiting for them at the top and pointed towards the bedroom at the front of the house. Frank remembered when he’d joined the police, the excitement of his first serious crime scene, and the elation when praised by the detective in charge for his observations; it had made him determined to become a detective. He hoped whatever he was going to see would help to solve the case of the missing girls.

  The bedroom was spacious, running the length of the house, the furniture old and dark, but clean; a half-open window brought in smells of the sea. The constable moved to a large mahogany wardrobe, its doors open; he was almost quivering with excitement, like a greyhound waiting to come out of the traps. The right hand-side of the wardrobe was full of hanging clothes, from which came a smell of mothballs. He pointed to the left side of the wardrobe where there were a series of shelves. The shelves were stacked with boxes of various sizes.

  ‘Detective Cottam took one down to look at, sir, but he used gloves and put it back where it came from.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Revie carefully took a box from the top of a pile and moved to the window to get a clearer look. ‘Bloody hell, Diamond, look at this.’

  He was right behind Revie, and had a good view of what
was in the box. Like the one downstairs, it was the bottom part of a cardboard box, it looked like half of a chocolate box you bought a girlfriend, in exchange, you hoped, for a passionate evening.

  Revie tilted the box and he got a view of the contents. The top was covered with a grill of fine wires, like the wires in the envelope downstairs, and below this another picture of a beautiful girl smiled up at him, surrounded not by shells, but crushed coloured foil, probably from sweet wrappers; they formed a kaleidoscope of jewel colours shimmering in the sunlight.

  Revie laid the box on the sagging bed and turned back to the wardrobe. He took down another box: much the same as the first, this time she was surrounded by silver paper cut into tiny flowers, each with a boss of golden stamens. The work must have taken hours. Again, she was caged. To keep her safe? To stop her escaping?

  After the fifth box Revie turned to him. ‘I’m not removing any more, I’ve seen enough. I need to get the photographers and the finger print squad here. This house needs a thorough going over. We need to see if we can find any clues, any sign those girls were here. We may need to rip up a few floorboards, you never know, their bodies might be hidden in the house -or buried in the garden.’ He grimaced. ‘Any ideas how he could be connected with Wiles and Tweedie’s murders? If he’s as barmy as he looks, he may have been on a killing spree.’

  Frank picked up one of the boxes with his gloved hands. ‘It doesn’t add up. The only reason for killing Wiles and Tweedie, if the murderer is sane, is they were a danger to him. They knew or suspected what he’d done. He realised that and he had to get rid of them. The most worrying thing about the two murders is the extreme sadism shown in the killing of Wiles and violence and anger in the murder of Tweedie. I think they were murders of convenience, and they showed us the character of the murderer: a violent and sadistic killer.’

  Revie pursed his lips. ‘Do you think Coltman is the murderer?’

  ‘I’m not sure. You certainly can’t ignore the scalpels and those weird boxes. Also, he’s a loner and his internment and torture as a POW, coupled with the murder of his wife and son, may have warped his mind and turned him into a killer.’

  The PC’s head was moving back and forth as they spoke, his eyes round, his mouth slightly open. Frank turned to him. ‘What do you think, Constable? You said you were a local lad. Do you know Coltman? Have you ever had dealings with him before?’

  There was an intake of breath from Revie. Had he overstepped his brief?

  The constable looked at Revie.

  ‘Go on, lad. If you have something to say spit it out.’ The PC squared his shoulders. ‘I do know Mr Coltman slightly, and I’ve heard quite a bit about him, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Apart from the facts everyone knows, I think you may find what happened last year interesting.’

  Revie pulled a face at Frank.

  ‘A little girl, on holiday with her parents, went missing. After they and local people had searched and couldn’t find her, the landlady of the Jolly Sailor rang us. I came down with my sergeant. I’d only been in the force a few months. As we were getting out of the car we heard cheering. It was Mr Coltman, he’d found the girl in his back garden making mud pies and he’d brought her back. They seemed to have got on very well. Her parents were grateful, they wanted to give him a reward, but he wouldn’t take it. He was overcome with all the fuss and made off as soon as he could.’

  Frank smiled. ‘That’s a lovely story.’

  ‘Doesn’t prove anything,’ Revie harrumphed.

  ‘I’ve not heard anything bad about Mr Coltman, sir. He’s a bit strange, but when you think about what he went through it’s not surprising.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s our murderer?’

  ‘I’m not experienced enough to judge, Inspector Revie. I’m still learning.’

  Frank smiled. The lad would go far. Diplomatic enough to make chief inspector?

  ‘Don’t you brown-nose me, sonny. You’d better join Cottam downstairs.’ The reply was harsh, but he detected a note of admiration in Revie’s voice.

  When the constable had clattered down the stairs Revie pointed to the pile of boxes in the wardrobe. ‘Young Jack-the-Lad might be right, Coltman may be nothing but a poor old codger, crippled by his past, but we haven’t got any other suspects, unless you can tell me different, so I’m taking him to Ipswich for questioning and we’ll give this house a proper going over.’

  Frank nodded. ‘You can’t do anything else. Does this mean I can stay undercover? Will Coltman be safely locked up for a few days?’

  ‘Yes, he won’t be going anywhere until he’s eliminated, if he ever is. If we’ve got the wrong man, the real murderer might feel safe if we have Coltman at the station; he might make a mistake. You, Laurel and Dorothy might pick up gossip at the camp. How’s Dorothy getting on? Is she detective material?’

  Frank pulled a face. ‘She’s beginning to doubt herself, but her sixth sense certainly got her away from a dangerous situation last night.’

  ‘She’s certainly a whiz in the office; she ought to stick to that. I’ve sent off her aspirin bottle and contents. We should have the results in a few days. My, her face will be red if all it contains is cheap white wine.’

  ‘Somehow, I doubt it,’ Frank said.

  I only planned to take one. One was ad I needed. It was a hard decision to make, to take a life,. No, I’m lying, it wasn’t hard at ad. What was the life of a silly girl compared to my loss? I enjoyed the planning and the thought of what I would achieve At last, after so many years, I would have satisfaction.

  I needed an accomplice. That would increase the risk of getting caught, but it would put another layer between me and the police. I decided to sound out Belinda Tweedie.

  I flattered her, made false compliments, deceiving her into believing her own attractiveness. Eventually she invited me to her cottage; we agreed on a secret meeting as she didn’t want anyone to think there was something going on between us.. I made sure no one saw me enter or leaveher home..

  I listened to her and her worries about her rival. I drip fed the idea we could make her disappear.

  ‘She won’t suffer, will she? You won’t harm her? I can’t stand the thought of you hurting her.’

  ‘No, she will wake up in another country. Shell even have all her own clothes. The drug will erase her memory. She’ll be well looked after.’

  Belinda was a silly, squeamish woman, who was overjoyed the rival would disappear. Whether she believed my lies, or talked herself into believing them, I’m not sure,. I didn’t ask. After Bert Wiles death, she became a bag of nerves, although I assured her his death had nothing to do with me, and he’d been smuggling drugs and it was gang related.

  I planned to make her the last victim, she couldn’t be left behind when, after finishing my work, I escaped and made a new life for myself. I didn’t plan to kill her in that manner. His cousin, Miss Piff, was to die before her. I was looking forward to that:. She prides herself on being tough and efficient; I wanted to see how she’d react to the razor. She escaped me. She was too sharp for that stupidbitch Belinda.

  The first one worked perfectly, but I hadn’t known how I’d feel when she woke up and realised what had happened Her eyes were full of fear, her body shook, her skin went a pale green and she urinated, the liquid gushing down her legs and puddling on the floor; the acrid smell was disgusting.

  If she hadn’t done that perhaps I would have finished her quickly, but the sight and smell offended me and I wanted topunishher. I hither her head snapped back and she thrashed at her bonds, muted screams behind the gag.

  I relished it. I hit her again. Harder. I’d never had this feeling before. No, another lie. WhenI was in the forces I had a fore taste, but nowhere as intense. I went drinking with some friends and we got into an argument with some local yobbos. We bumped into one on our way home tobarracks. We beat him up in an alley. I did most of it, the other two held him down. As I punched his head and kicked him in
the balls I got surges of pleasure and excitement I’d never felt before, much more than when I’d shagged a girl. It was his cries of pain and pleading for us to stop, that sent waves of pleasure through my body.

  ‘That’s enough,’ my mate said ‘You’ll kill him.’ He gripped my arms and tried topull me off.

  ‘I swear you’re getting a hard on,’ the other one said. He wasn’t wrong.

  When I’d finished with the first girl, I could have stopped and completed the plan. I’d stolen the ohfect to put near the body; it would lead the police to him. I didn’t need more than one, but a worm in my mind burrowed away at me.

  ‘It would be better with two Two would make the case stronger. Wait until the summer and take another one.’ The thought of having another girl to play with made my juices run. I would have time to plan, to think up different ways to hurther. A second one I would make her last longer, I would refine my techniques. Inch by inch she would approach death. There would be many nights of pleasure.

  When another rival appeared, Belinda needed little persuasion to repeat the process.

  Chapter 18

  Friday, July 2, 1971

  Dorothy was driven to the camp’s office by Stephen Salter; his father had gone ahead, unable to sleep after hearing of Belinda Tweedie’s murder. He’d given up his office to the police as they started to interview the camp staff. She supposed the police would ask what they knew about Belinda and would check alibis for Wednesday evening.

  ‘Are you sure you feel able to work today, Dorothy?’ Stephen asked, as they turned into the camp site. ‘I’m sure I could fill in for you, although...’

  She glanced at his profile. He looked sombre, but composed, the opposite of his father, who was becoming increasingly agitated as the hours went by. She’d found Sam’s behaviour disturbing. Was it worry the murders would be bad for business? Was he genuinely upset by Belinda’s death? Was the rumour he and Belinda had been more than boss and secretary in the past, true? She’d certainly been besotted with him.