Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Okay. So, there was no one who would want to harm either of you – that makes this a random attack. He could do this again... We’re hoping to arrange some identity parades for you, with a few likely suspects who fit the description. Would you be comfortable to do that, yet – we could set it up here, at the hospital?”

  “Yes. I want him caught – believe me.”

  “I know you do, Vera... So, did you grow up in Portsmouth?” “Yes, all my life, until I went to secretarial college at seventeen.” “What, in London, or...?” he enquired, a little sceptically.

  “Yes. Portsmouth isn’t all that exciting.” she helpfully explained.

  “No, I guess not. It’s a different world to when I was growing up, and not all for the better.” he stated thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know how you do your job: having to deal with all those unpleasant characters.”

  “I enjoy seeing them sweat in the dock. I particularly enjoy watching them go down.”

  “I used to enjoy watching ‘Dixon of Dock Green’ and ‘Z-Cars’, but they’ve kind of lost their charm, now.” “Don’t believe everything you see on television.” remarked Ackroyd cynically.

  Chapter Nine

  (2 August 1965)

  Detective Constable Alger returned to Vera’s hospital room carrying a tray containing three cups of milky tea and a bowl of sugar cubes.

  “Ah! Excellent, Constable.” praised Ackroyd. Once they were all settled with their drinks suitably sugared, Ackroyd recommenced his questioning: “So, Vera, let’s go back to when you were passing Kew Gardens – what happened next?”

  “Yes, I remember, now: just after we passed the end of the Kew wall, we passed through a wooded area – he made us pull on to the verge there. He just sat there for a while, not saying anything; then he told Gregg to carry on driving... Then, a little after that, we passed what I think was a golf course. He made us turn around to pull into the lay-by. We were petrified at this point, but it turned out he just needed to relieve himself!” Vera laughed remembering the sense of thankfulness she had felt at that moment, “He took Gregg with him and left me in the car...” “He left you alone?” remarked Ackroyd incredulously.

  “Yes, I know. I could have escaped; waved down a car, or something – but he said he’d kill Gregg, if I did... I nearly did make a run for it, but they came back just then. I was too scared for Gregg to take the risk. Then he let me go... You know? But with the same threat.”

  “He let you get out of the car on your own?”

  “Yes. I suppose that was my best chance, but I just couldn’t leave Gregg on his own.”

  “Don’t berate yourself, Vera. Under the circumstances, you did the right thing.” commended Ackroyd.

  “Yes, I suppose. I didn’t know he was intending to kill us, anyway. Although...” Vera checked herself.

  “Although what?”

  “Well, his tone changed quite a lot: sometimes he was really friendly; then he would snap into a more aggressive tone when the slightest thing didn’t suit him. I honestly don’t know what he was intending. It could have gone either way.”

  “You couldn’t be expected to second guess a lunatic, Vera. What happened next?”

  “We carried on. When we reached Richmond train station, he warned us about some road works, like he knew the area. After that I don’t remember him saying an awful lot, especially once we got on to the A3. I think he knew where he was going to take us by then. We hoped we’d get a chance to do something in Guildford, but he made us bypass there and continue on the A3. Then he made us turn off at Milford, I think it was... When he took us down that country back-road to the wood, we knew we were in trouble... May be he did just want to sleep, but it never made any sense... I don’t know if Gregg was thinking of disarming him, but he didn’t give him a chance – he just fired.” A tear rolled down Vera’s cheek. “Gregg had tried some subtle things to try to get other driver’s attention, but no one took much notice. We should have crashed the car, but Gregg didn’t want to damage his precious new car...” Vera became introspective. Ackroyd allowed Vera a minute to gather herself.

  “What exactly happened when you reached the wood?”

  “He wanted to tie us up, like before – so he could sleep. Then he told me to hand over my shopping bag; I’m not sure what he expected to find in there... That’s when it happened: Gregg tried to steer the bag back; I don’t think he meant to do anything, but he took it as a threat and just fired. It was over in seconds... I had a bit of a go at him – verbally. I realised he would have to kill me after that... Then he made me get in the back with him. It was like a dream... Well, nightmare...” Vera became introspective once more.

  “Would you like a WPC to take that part of your statement, Vera? I’m afraid we do need the details: in case there is something important... We can arrange for that to be done later today.” Vera nodded gratefully. “Tell us what happened after he attacked you.”

  “He got out of the car...and told me to get dressed. When I got out, he was standing there looking at Gregg’s body – trying to decide what to do. He made me drag him out of the car. Then he asked me to explain how the car worked – which I thought was odd. I still hoped he might let me go, but I just had this terrible feeling that he was about to kill me. So, I kneed him in the privates, really hard. He went down, so I ran for my life... It was so dark in the woods: I couldn’t see a thing, really. I fell over several times. Then I heard him coming; then he started shooting. Some of those shots went nowhere near me, so I think he was just guessing; then I was hit in the leg and I fell down on my back. He must have homed in on my cry. Anyway, he found me. He said I shouldn’t have hurt him and that now he would have to kill me – but that didn’t make sense. Then he shot me in the chest: the first shot really hurt; I didn’t really feel the second shot, but I was drowsy; then he fired again and I passed out. He obviously thought I was dead. I must have been partially conscious soon after though, because I heard the car pull away – fast. I don’t know how I survived... I must have been laying there for some time – hours. Then I suddenly woke up and realised I was alive. Somehow I managed to drag myself into the clearing and collapsed onto Gregg’s body... The next thing I knew, my face was being licked by this big dog.”

  “Okay, Vera, we’ll leave it there for now. You’ve been incredibly brave; we’re all incredibly impressed by you strength, Vera.” said Ackroyd comfortingly; DC Alger nodded in agreement. “Before we go, was there anything else about him that stands out in your mind?”

  “He couldn’t seem to remember my name.” she recalled abstractly.

  “Okay... I know this is hard, but we will want you to go over all this a few times, just in case there’s something you’ve missed. The Constable here will get your statement typed up and if you’re happy with it, you can sign it. But in the meantime, if you think of anything that might be of use, please make a note of it. Okay, Vera?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Can you arrange for a WPC to come down later?” said Ackroyd addressing DC Alger, “Check with the doctors, though.” Ackroyd stood up and reached out his hand to Vera; they shook hands. “There has been a possible development, so I’ll be getting back to the station. I’ll be back tomorrow. Keep strong, Vera.” As he and DC Alger were about to leave the room, Vera called out: “I just remembered: we stopped for petrol at Esher Services... Oh, and Superintendent, why are there now two policemen guarding my room?”

  “Just a precaution, Vera. We review security all the time.” he deceitfully assured her.

  Back at Scotland Yard, DS Cambridge related to Ackroyd the facts surrounding the discovery of the gun on the bus. It was the bus company procedure that the ticket collector checks his bus before leaving it in the depot overnight, which included a sweep of the interior for lost property and alike. However, the gun wasn’t reported until the morning.

  “There’s no way that gun got on that bus overnight.” insisted Cambridge, “It’s all locked up after they do
their final checks. I reckon this conductor geezer’s lying to cover his arse. In which case, the gun must have got on that bus before it arrived back at the depot on Sunday evening, when that service ended. According to the conductor and the driver, hardly anyone used the bus on Sunday, but it was pretty busy on the Saturday – that’s probably when the gun was really dumped.”

  “Good good. Get this conductor down the station to make a statement and lean on him a bit – see if we can get the truth, eh Teddy?” instructed Ackroyd.

  “Yes sir. We also have some witnesses who say they saw the car in Hammersmith and Chiswick in the early hours of

  Saturday morning.”

  “Ah, my old patch.” interjected Ackroyd wistfully.

  “Yes sir. There are also several separate reports of a suspicious man seen running in the Putney and Wandsworth areas early that morning.”

  “What area was this bus?”

  “It covers Maida Vale to Camberwell, I think.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense...”

  “They’re working on the ballistics as we speak, sir.”

  “Okay. Let me know as soon as anything new crops up – I’ll be in my office.”

  DSupt Ackroyd spent the afternoon in his office going over all the information so far collected to create his own picture of events and identify any potential clues. He now had an accurate idea of what had happened, but no real idea why it had happened, or where the perpetrator had originated from. A number of witnesses that had (apparently) seen the car during the abduction hadn’t offered anything helpful to the investigation; they still had not been able to locate any of the key witnesses. Sightings of the car on its return to London were all close to where the car was dumped and did not, therefore, shed any light upon the route the gunman took, nor did it help solve the mystery of the time interval between the car leaving Marsholm Wood and ending up in Fulham, which was as much as two hours in excess. At around 4.30 PM, DS Cambridge paid him a visit:

  “Okay, sir, two bits of news: the forensics boys reckon the gun found on the bus is the murder weapon; and we’ve managed to track down the owner of the chip shop – that’s not such good news, though: apparently, the woman serving that night went back to Italy this morning.” “Shit!” exclaimed Ackroyd.

  “Our best witness...” noted Cambridge disappointedly, “Anyway, we got a name: Catarina La Greca. The owner thinks she lives somewhere near Perugia.”

  “Right. Do we know which airport she used?”

  “Heathrow. We don’t know the airline.”

  “Get someone down there to check their records: we need to track this woman down.”

  “Yes sir. Oh, and one of the witnesses to the car in Fulham thinks he got a look at the driver; he’s coming in later to give us a statement.”

  “Has a WPC been arranged to complete Miss Fable’s statement?”

  “I think WPC Richardson is visiting her at six. The doctors were being a bit funny... I’ll check that’s still happening, sir.” “Thanks, Teddy.”

  Just as DS Cambridge was leaving, DC Pawson rushed past him and after apologising, informed Ackroyd that there had been a report of a woman being attacked in Battersea by a gunman fitting their description only an hour ago. Ackroyd leapt into action and drove swiftly to Battersea Police Station to speak with the woman. When he arrived, there was something of a commotion occurring between two women brought in for causing a disturbance; the PC’s were struggling to keep them apart. Ackroyd took a wide berth of this little fracas and waved his warrant card to the desk sergeant.

  “Afternoon sir. Never a dull moment here, sir.” commented the Sergeant with a grin.

  “I believe a woman was attacked in the last couple of hours on your patch...?”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs Renfrew... Hang on – I’ll just get the Inspector, sir.”

  A few minutes elapsed while Ackroyd waited, during which time he drew some entertainment value from the two scrapping women. Inspector Mullings ushered the Superintendent into a back room, where it was a bit quieter.

  “The Sergeant informs me you’re interested in this attack on Mrs Renfrew, sir?”

  “Yes, I understand it could be connected to the Marsholm murder.”

  “She was quite shaken up by all accounts; I understand he hit her on the head a few times. They’ve taken her down to Battersea General for treatment. I have the description she gave, here: about 5ft 8in, dark greasy hair, 25 to 35, mean looking, and smartly dressed.”

  “She didn’t mention his eyes?”

  “Doesn’t say anything here, sir... Oh, he had a gun...or so she thought; may not have been real – that’s what she thinks he hit her with.”

  “I see. Unlikely to be our boy...” Ackroyd reasoned that as the Marsholm murderer had just disposed of his gun, it was unlikely that he would have done so, if he then needed to obtain another one in order to commit another crime so soon afterwards. “Did he sexually assault her?” he asked, looking for a further connection.

  “Not that I’m aware of, sir. We’re not too sure what he was after; she managed to fight him off and raise the alarm before she found out. However, the reason we thought there might be a connection was that he told her that he was the ‘Marsholm Murderer’.”

  Ackroyd pondered this for a moment: “Probably just trying to scare her, I’d say. Any other witnesses?”

  “Some workmen chased him, but they lost him on Clapham Common, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “Okay. Can you send me a copy of the full report; and keep me notified of any developments?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Ackroyd returned to his car, slightly crestfallen, as there now seemed to be two maniacs on the loose – possibly a would-be copycat. As he drove the short distance back over the river to Scotland Yard, he contemplated his career. There had been a number of high profile cases, including a number of infamous murders, not least of all the recent Great Train Robbery, which had attracted a deal of public and media attention; of course, there were also many less significant cases, as well as a few unsolved. This case had the ring of the infamous about it and he had a disquieting sense of precognition that this one was going to haunt him to his grave. His wife had been badgering him to apply for early retirement, which he would already be eligible for had he not taken time out to fight the Germans; as it was, he would probably be forced to retire within the next year or so, but he was certainly in no mood to do that at this time; in fact, he just couldn’t imagine what he would do with himself – the job was his life.

  On returning to the office, he found most of the team were still out working the case; DS Cambridge was busy typing up a report. Ackroyd glanced over the case note-board hoping to find some startling new piece of evidence that he had previously overlooked or had been added in his absence, but to no avail.

  “Teddy? Fancy a pint?” he casually asked.

  “Okay, sir. Give us ten minutes and I’ll be with you.”

  The Queen’s Head was just around the corner, but a short walk from Scotland Yard and consequently very popular with Her Majesty’s Police Force. Cambridge got the beers, while Ackroyd made himself comfortable at a small table in the corner of the lounge bar.

  “So, sir,” started Cambridge, “what’s your gut-reaction to this one?”

  “I don’t know, Teddy; I’ve got a bad feeling about it – I mean, what’s the motive for a start off?”

  “Hmm, it is an odd one, I have to say.”

  “Why the hell did he make them drive all over the place and then end up in some place in the middle of nowhere, bloody miles from where they started? Where the hell did he come from in the first place? We’re not going to get anywhere trying to understand this one; we just have to pray for a lucky break...”

  Chapter Ten

  (4 August 1965)

  Wednesday morning brought an interesting development and possibly that lucky break Ackroyd so desperately hoped for: following a press appeal calling for the public to report anyone who had been behaving s
trangely on the Sunday, and/or subsequently, several guests staying at a hotel in the Holloway Road (North London) had complained about the apparent odd goings-on of one of the other guests over the last couple of days, which had prompted the manager to report the incidents to the police. The previous day had been fraught by setbacks: they had failed to trace the Italian woman from the chip shop and had now had to enlist the services of Interpol to pursue that line of enquiry, while the identity parades that had been arranged for the afternoon were cancelled when the doctors decided that Vera’s condition had declined due to an infection, such that she would not be well enough to aid the police any further for the time being, at the very least; fortunately, she had been able to provide an identikit picture of the gunman, earlier on. And, just to complicate matters, a call had been made to the Daily Mail offices by a man claiming to be the Marsholm Murderer, threatening to kill Vera and Anne Mason – they now had a police guard on her home, too. But, with the dawn of this new day had come a fresh promise of much needed progress.

  “What’s this hotel called, again?” asked Ackroyd as DS Cambridge drove them to the police station in Blackstock Road, Finsbury Park, just a stone’s throw from Ackroyd’s home.

  “The Alexandra, sir.”

  “I only live ‘round the corner from here.” Ackroyd commented thoughtfully.

  Cambridge dropped the Superintendent off at the station, before continuing on to The Alexandra Hotel to interview the staff and guests. The suspect (calling himself John Holliday) had agreed to be questioned at the local police station and had been waiting about half an hour for Ackroyd to arrive. The station inspector ushered the Superintendent into the interview room where Holliday was impatiently pacing up and down. Inspector Ballantyne introduced Ackroyd and they all sat down at the small table in the middle of the room.

  “So, Mr Holliday, thank you for your cooperation; I am investigating a serious crime and I need to ask you one or two questions for elimination purposes... Can you tell me where you were last Friday night – that was the 30th of July?” “I stayed at a Hotel in Maida Vale...”