Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t bullshit, Jameson. You’re a murderer and a rapist. A sick bastard.”

  “Look, I don’ know what y’u’ on about. You’ve got the wrong person.”

  “No. No you’re the one; it couldn’t be anyone else.”

  “Look, I didn’t rape that girl...they set me up; those cartridge cases were planted by the police.” “No.”

  “I swear I never left them there.” Arthur was adamant.

  “I know you didn’t...Because I did.” Ewan shockingly revealed. Arthur turned to face the gun: “You? Who are y’u?” “Your nemesis.” Ewan replied obscurely.

  “My what?”

  “Your angel of darkness, come to claim your rancid soul, you thick bastard.”

  “So, what, y’u gonna kill me?”

  “Isn’t that what you deserve?”

  “Wouldn’ that make you a murderer?” Arthur reasonably discerned.

  “No...There’s a world of difference between me and you: you are a sick murderer...I am an executioner.”

  A loud report rang out and Arthur stepped back, shot in the chest at almost point-blank range. As he staggered backward, two more shots were fired into his chest, causing him to collapse to the ground on to his back; amazingly, he was still alive. Ewan stepped forward and leant over Arthur’s prostate body, pointing the gun at his forehead at close range.

  “And another big difference between us: I don’t fuck up killing someone.” Three more shots rang out. Ewan dropped the gun onto Arthur’s bloody, and now, very dead body.

  Shortly after, the police arrived from the station just down the road, but Ewan had already managed to escape and was already wending his way home. What they found was a mystifying scene of carnage; the brutal killing of an old man. By morning, the crime had taken on a whole new context, when the significance of the person who had been killed became understood. Of course, Joanne became the immediate suspect, but she had a cast iron alibi, with six people accounting for her whereabouts at the crucial time. Given the infamy of the dead man, the police did experience a degree of pressure to catch what was presumed to be a vigilante; but they had nothing whatsoever to go on. The gun was untraceable – a WW2 antique with the serial number filed of – and had no discernible fingerprints; even the bullets were identified as WW2 issue. Ewan did come under the spotlight, but his wife gave him an unshakeable alibi, and they had a hard time believing that a 75 year old man would have taken it upon himself to kill his cheating brother-in-law’s murderer, over 40 years after the event; it was a theory that seemed to have little substance and was not pursued.

  The case file of the Marsholm Monster could finally be closed once and for all, and everyone was happy to leave it that way.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  (30 -31 July 1965)

  Arthur pulled the Jaguar into the car park at the back of the Bowman Arms public house in Tapton at just after 9 PM; spotting Dickie’s Ford, he drew-up alongside it and switched off the engine. After making a good survey of the car park area, to assure himself no one else was around, he got out of the Jaguar and stealthily got into the front passenger seat of Dickie’s Ford.

  “Y’u made it, then?” commented Dickie sarcastically.

  “Yeah. There’s plenty o’ time ‘n’t there?” Arthur countered antagonistically.

  “What the ‘ell happened?” Dickie continued to dig.

  “Nuffink; things didn’ go t’plan, tha’s all.” Arthur explained aggrievedly, adding: “I got ‘ere, didn’ I?” “Yeah, okay, I s’pose...”

  At this point, Arthur realised that there was someone sitting in the back of the car and he immediately turned his head to see who it was: “Oo the ‘ell’s this?” he asked a little perturbed.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry Arfur; you a’n’t met ‘ave y’u? This is Freddy.”

  “‘Ello.” said Alfred Pederson in a benevolent tone and offering his hand. Arthur chose not to shake it.

  “It’s alright, Arfur, ‘e is in on this.” explained Dickie, “Freddy’s done some good work f’r us...’E’s been doin’ all the reccyin’. ‘E’s been tailin’ ‘em f’r weeks.” Arthur took another glance at Freddy, this time with a more amicable look in his eyes. “Oh yeah, an’ ‘e’s got y’u a gun.”

  Freddy handed over the Enfield revolver: “It was my dad’s. I’ve removed the serial number – it can’t be traced.” Arthur held the gun in his hand and stare at in wonderment. “Be careful, it’s loaded.”

  “What?” exclaimed Dickie with alarm, “What the fuck for?”

  “Just in case...In case ‘e needs to prove it’s real.” Freddy rationalised and then handed over a whole box of ammunition.

  “What the fuck!” Dickie was beside himself, “What’s ‘e need that lot for? It’s a stick-up not a fuckin’ firing squad.”

  “I just brought the lot...Bullets aren’t much use without a gun.” reasoned Freddy. Arthur was mesmerised by the power he now held in his hand, which slightly unnerved Dickie. However his attention was distracted by the appearance of Gregg Mason and Vera Fable exiting the rear of the pub to access their vehicle, which was parked on the opposite side of the car park. The couple were too engrossed in each other to even notice the men sitting in the Ford and it was far too dark to make out any detail, anyway. The group of conspirators froze and tried to hide their faces (albeit somewhat pointlessly) until the couple had driven off.

  “Right, we got t’go in a minute.” informed Dickie; “Arfur...Watch what y’u doin’ wiv that fing, we don’ want any accidents.” Dickie then handed Arthur some gloves. “Put these on, we don’ wan’ this comin’ back to us – and don’t take ‘em off, no matter what.” he insisted.

  “Here.” said Freddy handing Arthur a handkerchief, “Wipe it down with that before you put your gloves on.”

  “Okay...Just a minute.” started Arthur and produced a small bottle from his inside pocket, “I’ll put this on firs’.” The powerful smell of aftershave filled the air as Arthur sloshed it out with an eager exorbitance. “Jesus! What y’u doin’?” complained Dickie, “Y’u goin’ on a stick-up, not a fuckin’ date.” “There’s a bird a’n’t there?” noted Arthur for justification.

  “Soh!” Dickie continued to protest, “F’r fuck’s sake, clean the gun and le’s get on.” “What about the Jag’?” queried Arthur.

  “Oh yeah. Best not leave it ‘ere.” acknowledged Dickie, “Well, Freddy don’ need to come wiv us, so ‘e can take it an’ dump it somewhere.”

  “Is it nicked, then?” enquired Freddy rather stupidly.

  “Is it nicked? I’m workin’ wiv a couple o’ bird brains ‘ere.” lamented Dickie, “Of course it’s fuckin’ nicked.” “What I mean is,” started Freddy, desperate to redeem himself, “I can’t hot wire.” “Ah, good point.” noted Dickie.

  “It’s okay, the keys are in it – they never learn.” chuckled Arthur.

  “Fuck me.” Dickie exclaimed, “Now that is stupid.” whereupon they all laughed. “Okay boys, we need t’get serious now...”

  “One thing.” interrupted Freddy, “Where shall I dump the car?”

  “Anywhere, jus’ not near us – alright?” advised Dickie with exasperation.

  “Fair enough, but I also need somewhere to stay tonight.” Freddy added.

  “Y’u’re given me a fuckin’ ‘eadache.” groaned Dickie holding his head in despair.

  “It’s okay,” reassured Arthur, “I know a good place in Maida Vale: the Verona. It’s a shit’ole, but the geezer runnin’ the place looks more bent than we are.” They all had a chuckle at that one. “You should get a room alright, ‘cause they’ve got this big one wiv free beds in it. I don’ fink it gets used much.”

  “Excellent. Tha’s all sorted, then.” asserted Dickie optimistically.

  “Oh, okay. Where is it exactly?”

  “Lanark Street. I think there’s a tube station jus’ ‘roun’ the corner; near a big sports field.” “Okay – I’ll find it.” said Freddy, much to D
ickie’s relief.

  “Right; are we all sorted now, ‘cause we need to get on, or we’ll miss our chance?” impressed Dickie, whose patience was almost exhausted. Freddy got out of the Ford and into the Jaguar, driving off with a bit of a kangaroo:

  “Oh shit: ‘e can’ even bleedin’ drive.” Dickie groaned.

  “Where d’y’u find ‘im?” asked Arthur with a note of sarcasm.

  “I’ve known ‘im f’r years. ‘E’s got brains; ‘e’s useful sometimes. ‘E’s also got some dangerous frien’s.” “Y’u’ sure we can trust ‘im?”

  “As much as I trust anyone.” assured Dickie, slightly unreassuringly.

  Dickie drove them to Cherrydean and made a slow pass down River Lane, to check that the Singer was parked where they had expected it to be. He then stopped a hundred yards up the road, around a bend, out of sight. “Right, y’u know what t’do: jus’ give ‘em a bloody good scare and then nick their car – right?” “Yeah, yeah. I got it.” said Arthur getting out of the car.

  “Dump it somewhere discreet; and don’ take y’u’ fuckin’ gloves off.” Dickie barked, before driving away, leaving Arthur standing in the dark in a deserted country lane. He was now feeling the strain of a long frustrating day and so gulped down two more pills...

  Arthur accelerated hard as he sped away from Marsholm Wood, believing that with both the witnesses dead, he would be safe; however, he still had to explain this bizarre turn of events, which even he didn’t really comprehend, to what would be a very angry Dickie Paris. He retraced the outward journey back to Esher Services, where he got a small amount of fuel (to allow him to get him back to London) and several bottles of Coca-Cola; he then took a slightly different route back from Esher, stopping in a car park at Bushy Park, near Teddington. By this stage, he was feeling incredibly spaced-out and, acutely unwell, albeit a bit non-specifically. He didn’t feel tired, but he was mentally fatigued, so he rested for what seemed like thirty minutes, but was in fact nearly two hours. His ability to drive competently had also been impaired; consequently, he managed to hit several wooden posts just trying to negotiate his way out of the gravel car park. He continued driving fairly erratically for some time, losing his way on several occasions, until somehow he eventually ended up in Fulham, with a near empty tank. Dumping the car at the bottom of Stevenage Road; he bundled all of the things left in the car, plus the watches, into Vera’s bullet holed bag, before making his escape over a fence into the grounds of Bishop’s Park and then Fulham Palace Gardens, following the footpath along the side of the Thames. At some point he found some bricks, which he loaded into the bag and fastened it up, before throwing it into the middle of the river, where it sank without trace. He then followed the path up the side of the river bank, to appear just past Putney Bridge; from there he gradually made his way back to Soho, so as to arrive at his arranged meeting with Dickie at 8 AM.

  The unsuspecting Dickie sat in his car, which was parked a little way up the road from his flat. It was still fairly quiet in that area at that time of morning – just a few children playing in the street. Dickie had drifted into a trance, still half-asleep, when he was rudely awakened by a dishevelled Arthur getting into the front passenger seat.

  “Shit.” exclaimed Dickie, partly in surprise and partly at the state of Arthur. “What the ‘ell ‘appened to you?” Arthur didn’t answer and just shook his head despairingly. “So, is it done?” “Yeah – it’s done.” Arthur’s tone indicated all was not well.

  “Nuffin’ went wrong, did it?”

  Arthur looked extraordinarily sheepish: “Well, they won’t be ‘aving an affair, anymore.” he attested with a feeble smile.

  “What...? What d’y’u mean?” Dickie asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “I, um, sort of...killed ‘em.”

  There followed a stunned silence, while Dickie’s jaw slowly dropped to the floor: “Y’u what?” he scarcely dared to ask.

  “I...I got bit carried away. I dunno what got int’me.”

  “Please tell me y’u jokin’...” Arthur’s subtle shake of the head and the look of guilt in his eyes told the story. “What...What the fuck d’y’u do that for – are you insane?”

  “It was a bit of an accident...” Arthur tried to explain, like a small child to his mother when he’s broken her best piece of china.

  “Bit of an accident? How the fuck do y’u accidently kill two people?”

  “Sorry...There was a bit of a cock-up.” his filthy smirk did not encourage Dickie.

  “Fuck...! Fuckin’ hell...Are you insane?”

  “I did go a bit nuts, actually.”

  “Shittin’ hell....Right...You need to make y’urself scarce f’r a few days – go to Liverpool, or summit...And get a new suit – burn that one...Bollocks!” they both sat there for a moment contemplating their respective navels, “Y’u did wear y’u’ gloves – right?” he suddenly asked in fit of anxiety.

  “Yeaah. I’m still wearin’ ‘em.” Arthur waved his hands in the air to demonstrate.

  “Right, give us the gloves...And that fuckin’ gun.”

  Arthur pulled the revolver out of his pocket carefully by the butt and placed it in Dickie’s sweaty hands; he then took off the gloves and handed those over, too. Dickie immediately emptied the chamber of all the spent cartridges, just in case there were any live ones left and put them in his pocket. Arthur handed him the box of unused bullets:

  “There are some left, then?” he snarled. Arthur remained silent and donned an apologetic expression. “What did y’u do wiv the car?”

  “I dumped it in Fulham.”

  “Good. Y’u didn’ leave anyfin’ in it, did y’u?”

  “No. Y’u don’ need t’worry about that.” Arthur meekly replied; Dickie was glaring at him intensely.

  “Right, y’u better disappear, now.”

  “Um, can I ‘ave my money?” an expectant Arthur enquired without looking up at Dickie. “Money?”

  “I’m skint.”

  “Right.” conceded Dickie irritably, “‘Ere’s fifty.”

  “I fought it was a ton?”

  “Yeah, a ton t’do the job properly; I doubt I’ll get the uvver ‘alf of the money, now.” Dickie lamented; Arthur recognised that this was not negotiable and shoved the money into an inside pocket. “Right, now fuck off.” ordered Dickie, before getting out of the car.

  Arthur remained for a moment, then getting out, he asked: “Can’ I ‘ave a lift?”

  “No. I don’ wanna be seen wiv you.” snapped Dickie, locking the car and briskly walking off in the direction of home. After a pause, a crestfallen Arthur ambled off to find a bus.

  Dickie returned to his flat for a strong coffee and some hard liquor to steady his nerves. He waited for Mary and Carol to go out (on one of their ‘west end’ shopping trips), before getting the gun out for a thorough clean, before wrapping it in a handkerchief. He decided that he had best warn Freddy, so just before 9 AM he went out to his car, only to find that someone had let down all of the tyres – he suspected Arthur, though it was in fact some local kids. Being as he was under extreme stress, he abandoned the car and caught a bus to Maida Vale – a 36A bus. Remembering what Arthur had told him about hiding things under the upstairs back seat of a bus, he resolved to rid himself of the gun and ammunition sooner rather than later. On arrival in Maida Vale he made swiftly for the Verona Hotel. As he walked down Lanark Street, he spotted Freddy walking in the same direction to him on the other side of the road. Quickly running across the road, dodging several vehicles, he managed to catch up with Freddy.

  “Freddy! Fank God I caught y’u.”

  “What? Dickie? What you doin’ down here – I thought we was meeting later?”

  “Yeah; slight change o’ plan.”

  “Have you got the money, then?”

  “No, and I doubt I’ll get the rest, now.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” Freddy suddenly realised there was gravity to this situation.


  “I hate t’tell y’u this, but Arfur fucked up big time...There was some deaf involved.”

  “What...? How?”

  “You ‘ad to supply a loaded gun, didn’ y’u...” “He shot ‘em?” asked Freddy incredulously.

  “Yes, he shot them – dead.”

  “Both of them!”

  “Yes. Be grateful, or we’d ‘ave a witness to this total fuck-up.”

  Freddy dropped his case and went weak at the knees as a result of the shock: “What happens now?”

  “Now? Nuffin’. We keep well clear of eachuvver, tha’s what.”

  “What about the money?”

  “Right, ‘ere’s fifty. Tha’s it. Sorry, just try an’ forget me an’ everyfin’ about this ‘ole fuckin’ mess.” At which, Dickie ran back across the road and disappeared up the street as fast as he unfit body would allow, leaving Freddy standing there in the middle of the street utterly dumbfounded.

  Dickie had one more meeting that day before he would hide in his flat for the next couple of weeks. That meeting was at 2 PM in Regent’s Park with Ewan Williams. Dickie waited anxiously on the designated bench; when he caught sight of Ewan coming towards him, he could see that the cat was already out of the bag. Ewan sat down next Dickie without saying a word, or even looking directly at him.

  “Is this thing I’ve heard about got anything to do with us?” Ewan eventually enquired with trepidation.

  “Yeah. I’m afraid so...What can I say: the boy’s a loose cannon.”

  “Why the fuck did you use him, then?” Ewan snarled in an infuriated whisper.

  “I didn’ know ‘e would do that. ‘E’s not normally violent.”

  “Is there any chance of this getting back to me?”

  “I don’t fink so: all the evidence ‘as been disposed of.”

  “What about this idiot you enlisted – is ‘e likely to grass if he gets caught?”

  “No, no. Arfur’s solid; ‘e would never grass.”

  “In that case, wouldn’t it be better if he went down for this?”

  “What d’y’u mean?”