by Jason De'Ath
“What about England for the World Cup, next year?”
“I reckon it’s got to be worth a few bob, at least. Let’s face it, if we can’t win it at home, where can we?”
“Well, as long as we don’t meet Brazil, again, we’ve got a chance, I suppose.”
“Do you think you could blag some tickets, if England make the final?”
“Now, now, sir, whatever are you suggesting? But I’ll see what I can do.” retorted Cambridge with a sly smile.
“Did you read Richardson’s report?” asked Ackroyd returning to more serious matters.
“Yeah. Not easy reading. Doesn’t tell us anything helpful, does it?”
“Only that it confirms he wore gloves throughout... I don’t get this creep: on the one hand he’s clever, then on the other, he comes across as an idiot. Thing is, as much as I’d like to put Pederson in the frame, he just doesn’t quite fit.” “May be he’s even cleverer than you think.” suggested Cambridge.
Ackroyd had a quiet afternoon in his office and was in danger of nodding off when the phone rang: it was a detective sergeant at the Golders Green police station.
“Hello. Is that Detective Superintendent Ackroyd?”
“Yes...”
“Good afternoon, sir. We’ve had a report of another attack: in Hoop Lane, just up the road from the station. We thought you might be interested. A woman... Mrs Hemmings: answered a knock at her front door, only to find no one there. When she went back in the house, a man had entered the property from the rear – back door not locked, apparently. This one had a stocking over his head. He threatened her with a gun and said he was the Marsholm Monster, before hitting her in the face; fortunately, her husband was upstairs and heard the commotion. When the husband appeared he took flight.
Mr Hemmings chased him, but he escaped into the adjacent graveyard...” “Is Mrs Hemmings still at the station?” asked Ackroyd anxiously.
“Yes sir.”
“What time did the attack take place?”
“About three o’clock...” answered the detective sergeant; Ackroyd looked at the clock: it was just after 5 pm.
“I want to assemble an identity parade as soon as possible; there’s a suspect out on bail I would like to get in a lineup for Mrs Hemmings. Do you think you could organise that?”
“I’m sure we could. Who is the suspect?”
“Alfred Pederson. I’ll have him picked up and brought down to Golders Green.”
Ackroyd and Cambridge swiftly made their way to the Deptford bail hostel, where Pederson was staying under supervision. Needless to say, he was none too impressed when the two detectives turned up and insisted that he attend another identity parade; he agreed, but this time on the proviso that his solicitor – the duty solicitor previously assigned to him – was present prior to the line-up taking place. On the car journey, Pederson pleaded his innocence.
“How the hell could I be in Golders Green at three, when I was in Deptford all day?” Freddy submitted vehemently. “So you say, Freddy.” stated Ackroyd blandly.
“It’s only quarter to six, now.” complained Freddy.
“That’s plenty of time.”
“I’ve not been out of my room; check with the attendant.”
“We already have.”
“I’m not bloody Superman!” cited Freddy angrily.
“Super what?”
“Oh: nothin’.” Freddy snapped in frustration, “You lot ‘ave got it in for me.” he moaned.
“Now, don’t lose your cool, Freddy.” said Ackroyd provocatively, noting Freddy’s slip into semi-cockney.
Pederson muttered some obscenities under his breath, which though inaudible were still apparent in their venom.
“And you a student of theology.” mocked Ackroyd, “What would your mother think?”
At Golders Green Police Station everything was set-up for the identity parade – again, mostly police officers were being used. Mrs Hemmings and her husband were collected and brought to the station, but there was a delay while they all waited for Pederson’s solicitor. It was nearly 8 PM before the proceedings got under way. They had managed to muster eleven volunteers for the line-up – Freddy chose to be number 9 on this occasion.
“Okay Mrs Hemmings – are you ready for this?” asked Inspector White, who was in charge at Golders Green.
“Yes, I think so.” she replied timidly; her husband comforted her.
Freddy looked noticeably uncomfortable as Mrs Hemmings was escorted into the room where the line-up had been assembled. She walked slowly along the line, scrutinizing the face of each man; but, after passing Freddy and the remaining three volunteers, she turned and shook her head, saying: “It’s difficult: he was wearing a stocking.” After some intense discussion amongst the police officers and reluctant agreement by Freddy’s solicitor, they arranged for everyone in the line-up to put a stocking over their head. Not too surprisingly, Mrs Hemmings freaked when initially presented with this very sinister group. After a few minutes, they calmed her down sufficiently for her to recompose herself to face this panoply of meanness. She perused the row of distorted phizogs over three separate passes, but to no avail; they all looked equally villainous and eventually she had to concede that the whole charade was a hopeless cause.
Ackroyd arranged for a constable to take Freddy back to the hostel. On his way out, Freddy gave Ackroyd a derisive wave; “I’d love to punch that smirk off his face.” commented Cambridge as he and Ackroyd disdainfully watched. There was more bad news on their return to Scotland Yard: the doctors at Guy’s Hospital had made the difficult decision to amputate Vera’s left leg above the thigh to prevent further spread of a life-threatening infection; such was their concern, they had scheduled an emergency operation for that Friday evening. However, there was one useful piece of news, albeit only vaguely: coincidentally, samples from Vera’s clothes had been sent to the Pathology Laboratory at Guy’s Hospital, (where the renowned Professor Keith Simpson was based); from semen found on Vera’s underwear, they had managed to determine that the assailant was a ‘Group A Secretor’ and, therefore, had blood group A. This narrowed down the potential number of suspects to about 35% of the male population, which might not help them identify the perpetrator in the first place, but would at least help establish the guilt (or innocence) of anyone that did become a suspect. Pederson had freely supplied biological samples upon his original arrest and these had now been sent to the laboratory for analysis.
That weekend provided blessed relief from the pressures and frustrations of the ‘Marsholm Murder’ investigation for DSupt Ackroyd. On Sunday mornings, Roger and his wife attended the morning service at St Mark’s Anglican Church, which was a two mile walk from their house; their route taking them through Finsbury Park. It was a glorious summer’s morning, with bird song and children’s gleeful voices floating on the light breeze as they trekked back home for Sunday dinner with the family.
“This murder case is really starting to get to you, isn’t Roger?” noted Eleanor shaking a butterfly from her sleeve.
“We do seem to be chasing our tails.” grumbled Roger.
“My heart goes out to that poor girl; she must have been terrified. What kind of person does a thing like that?”
“Unfortunately, they tend to look the same as everyone else. You never really know what someone else is capable of; what sickness they hide within.”
Eleanor could sense that Roger was becoming overly melancholic; she determined to direct his thoughts to a more cheerful topic: “Well, it’s family day today, so you need to forget about all that and enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, a few stiff drinks are in order.”
“Not too many.” Eleanor playfully rebuked.
“We should come down here later;” suggested Roger, “give Alfred a good run...and the kids.” “Mmm – that would be nice.” agreed Eleanor.
The Ackroyd’s ‘Family day’ was a boisterous affair, with their three sons, their wives and between them eight young c
hildren, six of which were boys. A substantial roast dinner, followed by football and water fights in the garden, were the mainstay of the day, rounded off with a walk in the park and a picnic tea. This was about as far removed from the complex ramifications of daily detective work as one could possibly get, and it was a much needed tonic for DSupt Ackroyd. Sitting on grass in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by giggling children madly running about, (occasionally being chastised by their parents), Roger again contemplated the case of The Monster of Marsholm Wood: one potential suspect, who seemed to constantly slip through their fingers; a number of possibly associated crimes, which just added to perplexity of the case; a myriad of witness statements, most of which were of dubious content or provenance, while the probable best witnesses had evaporated into thin air; the surviving victim too ill to be able to help any further with their enquiries; not a single useful fingerprint in sight; no obvious clues to the motive, and confusion in the press as to the correct identikit image or exact description of the perpetrator, which had certainly not helped public confidence in the investigation; and, on the plus side: a method to statistically limit the number of possible culprits to about half a million – at best. “Alright, dad?” asked Ackroyd’s eldest son, David.
“Yeah. Just got a difficult case on at the moment.”
“I’m sure you’ll crack it – you usually do.” encouraged David.
“How’s your job going?” asked Ackroyd, not wishing to get embroiled in a conversation about his work.
“Okay, actually. I’ve just been promoted to Senior Controller.”
“Really – does your mum know?”
“No, I only found out Friday. I wasn’t going to mention it until I had formal confirmation.” “Good pay rise?”
“Yes. Let’s put it this way, I think we can look at buying a bigger house – perhaps, up this way.”
“Good for you, son. It would certainly be nice to see your three little monkeys more often.” They both laughed.
Eleanor, noticing the two men having a slightly furtive dialogue, interrupted them inquisitorially: “And what’s all this about, then?”
“David’s been promoted.” announced Roger.
David became mildly flustered: “I haven’t told Liz, yet.” he stated in a low voice, instructing them to keep it quiet by gesturing with his hands. David’s wife’s attention was now drawn to the somewhat clandestine behaviour of the trio, but was distracted by a ball hitting her in the chest, whereupon she took chase of her cheeky five year old daughter, who had mischievously thrown the ball when she wasn’t looking. It all made for a very pleasant and happy scene, far flung from the horror of Marsholm Wood endured by Vera Fable on the 31st of July. Unfortunately, Ackroyd could never quite clear his mind completely of the details of the cases he was working on, no matter how convivial the circumstances were.
That night, Ackroyd had a bizarre dream: he was lost deep within a dark and gloomy forest; evil eyes seemed to be watching him from all around; then he was running, but it was as though on a treadmill, unable to make any progress. Out of the darkness of this nightmarish forest there suddenly appeared a small child, innocently crying; as he approached the mysterious child, it suddenly transformed into a demon and leaping up, rushed towards him with gruesomely sharp gnashing teeth. But before it reached him, the sound of two gunshots echoed out; the demon was felled, transforming back into an innocent child – but now dead. Ackroyd awoke suddenly in a hot sweat and shuddered. He stared fondly at his sleeping wife, who had thankfully not been disturbed, letting out a heavy sigh of relief. He was not prone to having dreams related to the crimes he investigated, so this one had particularly disturbed him. If this was how the case was going to affect him, he would now be all the more determined to find a resolution to it, whatever it took.
Chapter Twelve
(11 August 1965)
The beginning of the second week of the investigation had been something of a mixed bag. Vera was recovering extremely well from her operation, to the extent that the doctors were confident that she would imminently be able to continue aiding the police in their enquiry. Analysis of Pederson’s samples had been completed and indicated that he was indeed Type A blood group and a secretor; however, all this established was that he was technically a possible suspect – there was still no evidence to link him to the Marsholm murder and rape. Statements had been obtained from Mr & Mrs Sanchez (of the Verona Hotel) which effectively corroborated those given by the Jacobsens, which gave Pederson an alibi. Far more galling for Ackroyd (and officers at Blackstock Police Station), was that Pederson had miraculously furnished a ‘cast iron’ alibi for the time of the attack on Mrs Renfrew, just hours prior to the scheduled pre-trial hearing: three men now definitively identified Pederson as the man they were chatting with outside a betting shop in Blackheath (South London) at precisely the time that Mrs Renfrew claimed to have been attacked in Battersea. Consequently, the case was dropped by the Crown Prosecutors’ office, giving Pederson’s solicitor grounds to claim compensation for his client. However, Wednesday was about to bring the most dramatic twist in the case, so far.
Ackroyd was in his office musing over the evidence for the umpteenth time, when DS Cambridge entered the office with a stunned expression on his face: “You won’t believe this.” he said in a strange mixture of glee and surprise.
“Now what?” groaned Ackroyd.
“They’ve found some cartridge cases at the Verona Hotel...”
Ackroyd sat up with an expression equal in incredulity to Cambridge’s: “You’re kidding.” he stuttered.
“Apparently they found them this morning when they were checking the empty rooms.”
“Can they be linked to Pederson?”
“I don’t know at this stage. Do you want to go and interview the staff, now?”
“Bloody right, I do.” stated Ackroyd excitedly. “This is the break we’ve been waiting for, Teddy.”
When they arrived at the Verona Hotel they found a uniformed sergeant from the St. John’s Wood station was in attendance; he had already bagged the cartridge case evidence: “Good morning sir.” he greeted DSupt Ackroyd and introduced him to the hotel manager Gordon Storrington, which slightly disoriented Ackroyd. Storrington was a lowerupper class type, down on his luck; he was quite tall, mid-thirties with an eccentric hair style. Shaking Storrington’s hand, Ackroyd glanced around looking for Derick Jacobsen: “Hello. You’re the manager?” Ackroyd enquired uncertainly.
“Yes. I manage all Mr Mittelmann’s hotels.” explained Storrington.
“I see; Mr Mittelmann would be the owner, then, would he?”
“Yes – that’s right.”
“May I ask: where is Mr Jacobsen?”
“Jacobsen? We had to let them go.” said Storrington bluntly.
“Ah, right. We were under the impression that Mr Jacobsen was the manager of this hotel?”
“No, no: not at all. I manage the hotel; Mr & Mrs Sanchez look after the place and deal with the customers.”
“So, what exactly was the Jacobsen’s role?”
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. Mr Mittelmann must have hired them to help out around the place.” clarified Storrington, who was clearly perplexed himself.
“Right? So, why did you let them go?”
“Well, they were a waste of space, frankly. I don’t know what they did, really. I had to fire them for stealing some money from a guest.”
“Stealing money?” Ackroyd was somewhat bewildered by this revelation.
“Yes. Twenty pounds. I couldn’t prove it, but I don’t know who else it could have been. Anyway, there was a bit of a row – Mr Jacobsen was a bit aggressive. In the end, I agreed to let them stay one more night and gave them some backpay – though I don’t know what for...”
“When was this?”
“I asked them to leave by Sunday lunchtime. I didn’t see them again after Saturday evening’s exchange.”
“Any idea where they went?”
> “Not a clue... Mrs Sanchez might know; would you like me to get her?”
“Er, we will want to speak with her, anyway. She’s here then, is she?”
“Yes. Upstairs – cleaning.”
“Okay. Sergeant, can I have the evidence bag?” The uniformed sergeant handed over the bag containing the two cartridge cases. Ackroyd, with his ample wartime experience was able to determine that they were very likely .38 calibres and therefore could have come from the murder weapon. “Has anyone handled these?” he enquired circumspectly.
“Um, yes: I’m afraid I did.” admitted Storrington with an air of guilt.
“Okay. We’ll need your fingerprints, and also the Sanchez’s. Can you organise that Sergeant?” he instructed to the uniformed officer, “Teddy, can you go and find Mrs Sanchez, please... Mr Storrington, tell me how you came upon these cartridge cases?”
“Well, after dismissing the Jacobsens, I thought we should do a sweep of all the empty rooms; make sure everything was in order, and clean; nothing missing.”
“I see. And where did you find them?”
“In Room 26. That’s upstairs.”
“When was this?”
Storrington hesitated, “Well, Monday, actually... I didn’t think much of it until Mrs Sanchez mentioned the police had been ‘round investigating that murder; so, I thought: better had report it.”
“Where were the cases in the meantime?”
“Um, in the bin in the office.”
Ackroyd took a deep disapproving breath and eyed Storrington somewhat scornfully. “A common occurrence is it?” he asked derisively. Storrington said nothing and just looked like a naughty school boy caught having a sneaky smoke behind the bike shed. After letting him sweat for a moment, Ackroyd continued his questioning: “Has that room been occupied recently?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Storrington retrieved the Hotel Guest Register from the office, “It’s a big room, with three beds; guests usually have to share it, otherwise it’s too pricey for most... No one’s used it for some weeks... Hang on, there’s an entry here on the 29th of July.” Storrington handed the ledger to Ackroyd. There was an entry pencilled in, which appeared to read ‘A. Johnson – 1 night, £2 11s 6d (£1 deposit)’.