Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  At about 5.30 am the sun squinted over the horizon, its light splintering through the thick mass of tree trunks and scattering through the canopy. Vera’s body was moist with dew; a moth had settled on her face. As the volume of the dawn chorus gradually intensified, a chill morning breeze fluttered the leaves. The gunman had left Vera for dead, but he had made a grave error of judgement, because by an incredible chance of fate, she had miraculously survived. Now her nose began to twitch, as consciousness languidly returned, along with the awful realisation of her predicament. She warily pulled herself into a sitting position and surveyed the surroundings. It took several minutes for her to comprehend what had happened and that she had survived, albeit very seriously injured. Her body, still in a state of shock, had generated a euphoric condition, which enabled her to drag herself through the foliage, to emerge into the clearing where Gregg’s body lay – it was now about 6 AM – whereupon she crawled over to her dead lover, flinging her arms around him before blacking out. Ten minutes later she was awoken by the sensation of a wet ‘hair drier’ on her face: it was the tongue and breath of a large Labrador dog. In the distance she could just make out a woman calling: “Marmaduke! Marmaduke! Don’t lick that dead deer; you know what happened last time you did that.” Marmaduke responded by barking spasmodically. As the woman drew closer, she realised that what her disobedient dog was licking was no deer, but two human beings covered in blood.

  “Oh gosh!” she exclaimed, “Whatever... What has happened here?” She then broke into a sprint, anxious to help these poor souls. “My dear, whatever happened to you?” she enquired, appalled by what she was witnessing. Vera managed to whisper: “He killed him... Brown... He said... His eyes...”

  “Don’t try to speak my dear.” said the woman compassionately. “Just hang on – I’ll get help. Marmaduke: stay!” At which point, Vera passed out again.

  PART TWO

  The Investigation

  Chapter Four

  (31 July 1965)

  Sergeant Ewhurst answered the phone at Godalming Police Station that bright morning, but his sunny demeanour was quickly extinguished when the middle-aged lady at the other end told him what she had discovered in Marsholm Wood.

  “Slow down madam, please. Let me get this straight: someone has been shot, you say?”

  “Yes, yes, come quickly, and bring an ambulance – it’s very urgent. She’s in a terrible state.”

  “Who is, madam?”

  “I don’t know her name. You must get to Marsholm Wood now!”

  “Yes, of course madam. Where is that exactly?”

  “Felstave.”

  “Right. Can you look after the victim until we arrive?”

  “Yes, yes: just hurry.” The phone went dead. Sergeant Ewhurst was slightly stunned for a moment: this was not the usual Saturday morning fair. Snapping out of his perturbation, he hastily rang for an ambulance, then called for the duty constable: “John...! John! Get your arse down here!”

  Constable Anderson, whom had only been in the force for six months, was dreamily drinking a cup of tea in the back office, with his feet up. The unexpected urgency of the Sergeant’s shout caused him to jump, spilling his tea down his leg.

  “Shit.” he groaned; “Coming Serg’!” he replied, hurriedly using paper intended for taking statements to mop-up the mess on his leg. Jogging over to the Sergeant’s desk, he said: “What’s up Serg’?”

  “You won’t believe this, but we’ve got a possible attempted murder on our hands. Ring Bob and Reg, and get everyone down to Marsholm Wood – you know where that is?”

  “No Serg’.”

  “Felstave. Oh, and ring the inspector at Guildford: let him know what’s happening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to be taking the station van straight down there... Get your skates on!” he ordered as he exited the station.

  By the time Sgt Ewhurst arrived at the scene it was close on 7.15 AM; the ambulance still had not arrived. As Ewhurst pulled into the clearing in Marsholm Wood, he noted a heap covered by a blood-impregnated sheet [courtesy of Mrs Pomfrey-Jones] and, sitting not far away from this mysterious object, an extremely dishevelled looking young woman, with blood on her face and in her unkempt hair. Mrs Alice Pomfrey-Jones – the lady with the dog – had wrapped the miserable girl in her (formerly best) mink coat. Alice intercepted the sergeant before he reached Vera.

  “I think she’s had a dreadful experience.” Alice told the officer and then tactfully pointing out the heap that was Gregg Mason, she added in a low voice: “The young man is dead: he shot him; he also tried to kill the young lady... I think he may have interfered with her.” she whispered.

  The sergeant was slightly overwhelmed by these revelations – it was much worse than he could have anticipated. The sergeant, feeling he needed to speak to Vera alone, asked Alice to give them some privacy; she complied by wandering towards the trees, just out of earshot. Sgt Ewhurst knelt gently down beside Vera.

  “Hello my dear. My name is Sgt Ewhurst, but you can call me Ernie. Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “Not really – I think I’m still in shock.” Vera answered weakly – she was surprisingly coherent for someone with four bullet wounds.

  “Can you briefly tell me what happened to you?”

  “Gregg...was shot dead.” she stated bluntly and somewhat selflessly. Ewhurst looked towards the bloodied sheet covering Gregg’s grisly remains. He decided he should check that the man really was dead: finding him to be stone cold and in a state of rigor mortis, definitively confirmed it. He returned to Vera’s side.

  “Who shot your friend?”

  “I don’t know...He said he was Mr Brown, but I think that was a lie...He told me to call him Alf.”

  “Did he hurt you?” Ewhurst enquired in a compassionate tone. Vera momentarily withdrew, choking away a need to cry out loud; a single tear ran expressively down her cheek. Ewhurst detected the need for extreme sensitivity.

  “Did he shoot you?”

  “Yes. Several times.” she said aggrievedly.

  “Do you know how many times?”

  “Four, I think. I was sure I would die.” At this moment the ambulance siren could be heard in the distance. The Sergeant decided to wait for medical help before subjecting Vera to any more questions, other than asking for her name and that of her dead friend, which caused more than enough trauma in itself – but these were details that he needed to establish.

  When the ambulance finally arrived in the clearing, Vera was immediately whisked off to the Royal Surrey County Hospital in Guildford; Gregg’s body was left in situ, guarded by Marmaduke. Meanwhile, Mrs Pomfrey-Jones was being thoroughly interrogated, in order to collate anything that she had gleaned from the distraught Vera.

  “So, Mrs?”

  “Pomfrey-Jones. Call me Alice.” she replied with upper-class confidence.

  “Okay. Alice, did the young lady give you any information regarding her circumstances?”

  “Well, apparently he was a hitch-hiker...”

  “Who was?”

  “The man that shot them.”

  “I see. So they were in a car?”

  “Yes. He took that.”

  “Did she say what type of car?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t think to ask.”

  “That’s okay...Alice. Did she tell you anything about the man that attacked them?”

  “She said he was fairly average. Oh, she did say he had very striking eyes.”

  Just then another police car arrived – it was PC Anderson and PC Reg Clapshaw (an old timer). They parked behind the sergeant’s van and walked over to where Ewhurst and Alice were standing, noting the bloodied heap with its Labrador sentry.

  “What’s the ‘S.P.’?” asked Reg, “We saw the ambulance pass us up the road?”

  “Looks like we’ve got a maniac on the loose.” Ewhurst turned to direct their attention to Mason’s body, “He’s been dead a while... Did you ring the inspector, John?” “Yes Se
rg’. I think he’s on his way.”

  “So, do we know what happened?” pressed Reg.

  “It seems a couple picked up a hitch-hiker, who then shot them and stole their car. We’re dealing with a dangerous man.”

  “It’s not Biggs is it?” suggested PC Anderson in all seriousness.

  “No, John, I don’t think this is his style. Anyway, I doubt he’s still in the country.” assured Ewhurst; then he remembered Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, who was standing patiently behind him, listening intently: “Oh, this is Mrs Jones, she was first on the scene.”

  “Hello officers. And it’s Pomfrey-Jones, actually.” she clarified.

  “Right. Well would it be possible for PC Clapshaw to accompany you back to your house and take your statement from there?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll make you a cup of tea.” she said with a slightly inappropriate jolliness. “Come on Marmaduke.” At which point Reg realised he was going to have a dog inside his nice clean police car: he just about managed to hide his irritation. “He’s rather young to be a policeman, isn’t he?” she remarked, referring to PC Anderson.

  “John, you stay on guard here and wait for the inspector. I’m going back to the station to call the coroner.” informed

  Ewhurst, before hesitating and adding: “You’ll be okay – yeah?”

  “Of course, sir. I’m a policeman.” replied PC Anderson with a wry smile, though it was a false bravado, having never seen a dead body before, or been involved in a serious crime case.

  “No laughing matter, Constable.” reminded the sergeant sternly.

  “No sir.” conceded Anderson. One look at the bloody mess on the ground was enough to make the gravity of the situation plain to the young PC.

  “Oh, by the way,” Ewhurst called to PC Anderson, “Where is Sergeant Knox?” [Bob Knox was the duty desk sergeant at the Goldalming station].

  “We couldn’t rouse him, sir.”

  “I see.” said Ewhurst knowingly. Sgt Knox was known to like a beer or ten on a Friday night.

  Roselea Cottage was a lovely 18th century thatched cottage with slightly greying whitewashed walls. It fronted onto Felstave High Street; at the back was a neatly laid out country garden. Mrs Pomfrey-Jones led PC Clapshaw into her quaint little kitchen and offered him a chair at the large solid oak table. She placed the kettle on the 1930’s aga stove and then placed a bowl of water on the floor for Marmaduke.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without him.” she said stroking the Labradors’ head, “Not since my husband died. He was a colonel, you know.” she explained proudly.

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs Jones.”

  “It’s... Call me Alice.”

  “Alice: I seem to have mislaid my notebook – do you have anything I can write your statement on?”

  “Oh, um... I’ll look in my husband’s study.” She shuffled off, returning a few minutes later with a wad of headed paper.

  “Will this do?”

  “Yes. Thanks – that’s great... So, what did the young woman tell you about what happened?”

  “She said a man got in to their car and threatened them with a gun... Then he made them drive for hours, all over the place, by all accounts...”

  “Did she say where they picked this man up?” he interrupted.

  “Cherry something. Near Maidenhead, I think she said.”

  “Do you know what time this was?”

  “Yesterday evening. She didn’t say exactly.”

  “Could she describe him?”

  “She said he was pretty average... Piercing eyes, though; dark hair... Do you take sugar?” “Er, yes, thanks – two, please... And.” “Milk?” she interrupted.

  “Yes – thanks. How was he dressed?”

  “Ah, smart she said – a suit. He said he was an escaped prisoner, but wouldn’t he be wearing arrows?” She chuckled.

  “Escaped prisoner?” The name ‘Ronald Biggs’ flashed through the constable’s mind, but he quickly dismissed it. [Biggs was one of the Great Train Robbers who had escaped from Wandsworth Prison a few weeks earlier.] “Anything else?” he pressed.

  “She was very distressed. I think he may have taken a liberty with her.” she said with her quintessentially old-fashioned form of tact.

  “I see.” The sergeant contemplated this for a moment.

  “I think she said he had brown eyes.” she suddenly added as she poured hot water into the Victorian china teapot.

  “We’ve never had a murder in Felstave.” she added.

  “I’ve been in the force thirty-two years and I’ve never come across anything like this before.”

  “That poor man...” she started and then her gaze drifted thoughtfully to the view through the Georgian leaded window.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs Jones, we’ll catch him soon enough.” the sergeant assured her.

  “I do hope so.” she said clutching at the cross around her neck.

  “Is the tea ready?” he asked distractingly.

  “Oh, yes: a cup of tea – that’s what we need.”

  Inspector George Ash was in charge of the uniform section at Guildford Police Station under the station’s overall senior officer, Chief Inspector Lionel Macintosh. Ash drove a rather flash Ford Zephyr 6 police vehicle, in a somewhat pertinent black finish. As he approached the clearing, the silhouette of PC Anderson stood superhero-like over the dead body, with the scattered sunlight producing a stunning back-illumination. It was now 7.40 AM: there was still a crisp chill to the air. Ash stepped out of his car, still unaware of the extent of the crime he was now entangled with. In his 20 years in the force, he had investigated six deaths, but nothing quite like this.

  “Good morning, Constable.” he greeted Anderson as he removed his cap.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I was under the impression a woman had been shot?”

  “Yes sir: she’s been taken to the Royal in Guildford.”

  “So, what do we have here?” asked Inspector Ash surveying the sheeted bloody mound, still a little perplexed.

  “A dead man, sir: he’s been shot.”

  “How long ago?” enquired Ash carefully lifting the sheet to reveal Gregg’s deceased expression.

  “Quite a while, sir.”

  “Where’s Sgt Ewhurst?”

  “He went back to the station to notify the coroner, sir.”

  “Right; I’ll get some of my boys over to relieve you.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “Any witnesses, do you know?”

  “Only the lady that found them, sir.”

  “And where is she?”

  “Sgt Clapshaw escorted her back to her home; he’s interviewing her there.”

  “Any idea where that would be?”

  “No, sir. In the village. His car should be parked outside.”

  “Okay. Good work, son.”

  “Thank you sir.” replied PC Anderson, unsure of what he was being praised for exactly.

  Ash returned to his car and immediately got on the radio to the Guildford Station. “Deirdre, this is Inspector Ash; I need to speak to Sgt Metcalfe, urgently.” As the Inspector waited for Metcalfe to get on the radio, he pondered the situation. It was not a good year for British home security: Biggs had escaped only weeks earlier; children had been mysteriously disappearing in the Manchester area, and boxer Freddie Mills had been found shot dead in Soho, only days earlier. He instinctively considered the possible connection to these other major crimes, but only as a matter of due diligence, rather than with any serious regard.

  “Yes, sir.” responded Sgt Metcalfe, panting slightly.

  “Ah, good, Nobby. We’ve got a nasty one on our hands here: a murder and an attempted murder...”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Yes, bloody hell, indeed. Get two of your lot down to Marsholm Wood – that’s in Felstave – pronto; there’s a dead body. There’s a local bobby on watch, but he’ll need relieving. I haven’t got any details, yet...”

  “Shall I call the
coroner?”

  “No, no: that’s already in hand. Also, get someone down to the Royal in Guildford: the second victim has been taken there – it’s a woman, by the way...”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes. And get onto CID.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “I’m going to see the woman who found them this morning; apparently she lives in the village – a local sergeant is taking her statement. I’ll see you later.”

  When Inspector Ash arrived at Mrs Pomfrey-Jones’, PC Clapshaw was having a biscuit and there was a convivial atmosphere. Alice let the inspector in without even bothering to ask anything. When the constable realised it was the inspector, he rapidly brushed the crumbs off his lap and stood up.

  “Good morning, sir.” he greeted Ash, trying not to appear like he had got a bit too comfortable.

  “Morning, Constable.”

  “Er, this is Mrs Jones – she was first on the scene, sir.”

  “Good morning officer. It’s Pomfrey-Jones, actually; but, call me Alice.” “Indeed.” said Ash, slightly exasperated by Clapshaw’s misinformation. “The lady has kindly written everything down, sir.” said Clapshaw handing a piece of headed note paper to the officer – and of course, omitted that getting Alice to do his work for him had been his idea.

  “I’d best take that.” informed Ash.

  “We will need to take a formal statement down the station at some point, madam. Can I rely on you to arrange that, Constable?” he asked with a hint of suspicion that Clapshaw was a bit lackadaisical.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I hope this hasn’t been too distressing for you, madam? Please let us know if you think of anything else.” Ash then turned to address Clapshaw directly: “Join your colleague at the crime scene. My boys will be down to relieve you A.S.A.P... And send me a copy of your report.” “Yes, sir.”

  “He seems nice.” Alice blandly commented as the inspector left the cottage.

  Chapter Five

  As that day wore on, so Felstave became more and more overrun with police – and the media – the high street had never been so busy. Guildford CID had now taken charge of the case, led by Detective Inspector Graham Longbridge and ably assisted by Detective Sergeant Anthony Collins. They were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Dr Forsyth, the Surrey County Coroner – Felstave being just outside of the Guildford Borough Coroner’s jurisdiction. Dogs had already been brought in and discovered the trail left by Vera through the wood; they had also found a spent cartridge case, but not much else. The detectives were leaning against their squad car having a smoke, when they spotted Dr Forsyth’s two-tone MG Magnette creeping gingerly up the country lane toward them.