by Sarah Flint
The door to the front room was open. He’d take a look before he made his way upstairs; see if there was anything worth taking. Once again, the fragrances of the room hit him: Brylcreem, leather, polish, the smell of testosterone, of the military, sending his senses reeling. His eyes ranged across the furniture, taking in the glass inlayed cabinet and the photos, before coming to rest on the military medals. He knew immediately that before he left the house he would have them. He was owed them. They should be his. He had earned the right to recognition, fighting in the Falklands before he’d been unceremoniously dispatched, given a dishonourable discharge, and all because he had dared to fall in love with a man. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair.
Reaching forward, he turned the key to the cabinet, watching as the glass door swung ajar, hanging open on its hinges, its catch against the wall. The medals were within his reach. He leant forward, moving the boxes to the edge of the shelf, ready for collection on his way out, before standing and bringing his heels together as if standing to attention.
His mouth curled up into a grin as he swivelled on his feet and walked slowly towards the stairs. Yes, tonight he would claim exactly what he was owed. This time he would not be dissuaded from taking them. He might still sit and talk, because this was what the old man had offered, but, on the other hand, he might not talk at all.
*
Hunter was shouting out commands on the radio as Charlie made for the front door. A gap on the coat hooks in the hallway showed where the Parka was likely to have hung, and a space in the shoe rack below showed where the men’s size nine Nike Downshifter trainers were likely to have stood. Everything fitted with Skinner being responsible for the series of burglaries – and everything now pointed to his next venue.
With any luck, Skinner would still be conducting reconnaissance. No one dared voice the other conceivable option. It was unthinkable.
Charlie jumped into the car, revving the engine and slewing it as close to the front garden of Skinner’s address as possible. Paul jumped into the back seat, closely followed by Hunter, the ease of access to the rear making their getaway quicker than if he’d gone for the front. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard as Hunter slammed the door and confirmed they were on their way. It was two minutes to three.
Naz and Sabira were sprinting for their car too, as were other officers, the need for everyone to attend the new venue overriding the interest in Skinner’s den. With the exception of two designated officers to stay with the crime scene, absolutely everybody was now hurtling towards George Cosgrove’s address.
As Charlie watched the neon blue lights peel away from Skinner’s house and move as one behind her, she hoped against hope that they wouldn’t be too late.
*
The man was in the house. George knew as much from feeling it in his bones than actually hearing him. Goose bumps were prickling all over his body. He had the phone now, ready. It was tucked under his pillow, with his finger on the button and the emergency number 999 keyed in ready. All he had to do was press enter, when he was sure it was the right man, and the call would go through.
A floorboard creaked on the stairs. The man was getting closer. A second floorboard squeaked right outside his bedroom door. He could almost hear the man’s breath. The handle on the bedroom door moved slightly, taking the tension from the man’s hand. Then it was turning, slowly, silently to its fullest extent, the catch being held inside its housing. The door opened and a dark shape stepped into the gap.
The shape was grotesque, its face hidden behind a skeleton mask, grinning dementedly towards him.
George opened his eyes fully, all pretence at sleep now gone.
‘Hello, George,’ a voice said from behind the mask. ‘I believe you wanted to speak to me.’
George stared up at the man as he stood to his full height. The intruder was tall, or at least a fair bit taller than he, and looked stocky in his thick coat. Florence must have been petrified at his sight. He was without doubt the enemy who had taken his friend’s life.
‘I wanted you to do the right thing,’ he replied, trying to keep his voice steady while also pressing the button on the phone. He might not be able to explain right then to the switchboard what was happening, but he had been assured by Amy that, having especially had the phone registered to him, the police would trace his call and come. ‘I wanted you to hand yourself in, like a man.’
‘Only cowards surrender,’ the man sneered, his voice cold. ‘And I am not a coward.’
‘Yet you prey on old people?’ George pulled himself up to a sitting position, one hand out, the other still held under the covers where the phone now lay.
The accusation hung in the air between them. ‘I do not prey on old people. I talk to them. They deserve respect. I try to help them. I have always tried to help them, especially those with histories in the military.’
‘You show them no respect.’ George spat out the words, suddenly enraged at the man’s lies. ‘You break into their houses and you take away the last scraps of dignity that they possess.’ He tried to be calm, but the thought of Florence facing this man – this monster – on her own sucked all the composure from his body. ‘You murdered my best friend.’ He could feel his voice breaking at the memory. ‘You took away her peace and tranquillity; you stole the last few years of her life from her and her daughter – and her friends. You are a disgrace.’
He turned away from the man, swallowing hard, waiting for the man’s retort, but when he glanced back, he was surprised to see the man removing his mask.
‘I’m not a disgrace,’ the man said, stepping towards him. ‘I’m not a disgrace. Tell me I am not a disgrace.’ With each repetition, the volume of his voice was raised, until he was almost shouting. ‘I am an honourable man. I am not dishonourable. They told me I was dishonourable once, but I wasn’t. They threw me out of the army when all I wanted to do was serve.’ The man took another step towards him, his eyes now starting to glaze over, his bulky form towering over him.
George could hear sirens now, sounding from afar. Help was on its way – but he didn’t want help. The intruder was an old soldier and as such they were equals. They could fight man to man. And now he wanted retribution. This huge bear of a man, in his house, was an enemy. He had broken through the safety of his home tonight and he had killed his old, vulnerable friend in the most barbaric way. The man deserved to be punished for what he had done. A man’s home was his castle, wasn’t it? He was fully entitled to protect himself from intruders. Didn’t Tony Martin, the farmer, have the right to protect himself all those years ago, and more recently the pensioner who killed Henry Vincent in the dead of the night?
This man deserved everything he got. Hadn’t Amy Briarly said as much in their discussions, this past week? Self-defence was a valid criminal defence. And prison was not a punishment. These days it was not even a deterrent.
Blue lights were tainting the night sky now and the sound of cars screeching to a halt, men and women’ shouts were getting louder. The world had descended into noise, gunfire from the trenches, explosions ringing in his ears, life and death decisions. The man was still standing towering over him. The front door was being breeched. It was now or never.
Tugging back the bedcover, he pulled out the bayonet that had stayed with him since his army days and lurched forward, plunging it straight towards the man’s heart. With a thud, the sharpened blade tore through the man’s coat, entering his chest and sending him reeling backwards against the wardrobe, before sinking down to the floor, his expression, one of shocked surprise.
The man opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out, save for the gurgling of bright red frothy blood. His eyes stared straight ahead past him, glassy and unseeing.
The sight brought George Cosgrove to his senses, along with the sound of heavy boots pounding up the stairs. There was one last thing that needed to be done before the police crashed through the door.
Reaching beneath the covers for a second tim
e, he pulled out the ceremonial dagger he’d removed from the front room cabinet earlier, unsheathed it and threw the deadly blade, and sheath, towards the man’s open hand.
*
Charlie was the first up the stairs, closely followed by Paul and then Hunter. The only thought running through her brain was whether they would be in time.
The call from George’s phone had only served to confirm the location of where they were needed and made every second of their journey that much more desperate. George had been unable to speak, but muffled shouting and a disturbance could be heard in the background, therefore an ambulance was also now on its way. He was clearly fighting for his life.
Throwing open the bedroom door, the sight that met them was one of carnage. Roy Skinner, a skeleton mask perched precariously on his head, lay bleeding on the floor, with a large bayonet sticking out from his chest and a dagger lying loosely across his hand, its sheath nearby on the floor. George Cosgrove sat hunched up in his bed, the covers pulled up round his chest, staring down at his bleeding attacker. It didn’t take much to work out what had happened.
She went straight to George, while Paul tended to Skinner. The old man appeared uninjured, but his whole body was shaking with emotion.
‘I thought he was going to kill me before you could get here.’ George Cosgrove stared up at her, wide-eyed. ‘He must have taken one of my knives from the cabinet downstairs. He was leaning over me. I thought I was going to die.’
Paramedics were running into the room now, setting to work on Skinner, but it was obvious there was little they could do. Blood still trickled from his mouth, but his heart had stopped pumping so that the amount now coming from his lips was not much more than a dribble.
‘Are you injured at all, George?’ she asked, wrapping a blanket from a nearby chair round his shoulders and urging him to his feet as he shook his head in answer to her question. They’d go to a different room so that the paramedics could continue to work on his attacker out of his sight.
The old man looked more vulnerable than ever, with his hair dishevelled from sleep and a pair of glasses low on his nose. His head was cast down and he turned away from Skinner as he shuffled past in an ageing pair of slippers, pulling his pyjamas and blanket more tightly round his thin body.
As they got to the door, she looked towards Paul questioningly. Paul moved his hand in a cutting motion across his neck and shook his head. Skinner was dead. There was nothing they could do to save him. His murderous spree had been put to an end, not by them, but by an old man lined up to be his next potential victim.
‘Can I speak to Amy?’ George asked as they moved down the stairs and into the lounge. ‘I need to explain what happened and tell her that her mother’s murderer is dead and she can sleep soundly from now on.’
Charlie pulled out her phone and dialled Amy Briarly’s number. Although it was still the early hours of the morning, the woman answered it promptly, almost as if she was expecting a call.
‘I’ll come straight over,’ she said after Charlie explained what had happened. She paused briefly before ending the call. ‘I take it George hasn’t been arrested?’
The thought had entered Charlie’s head fleetingly, but she had discounted it straight away. The old man had been through enough, even though he appeared strangely satisfied with the outcome. Now, looking across at the glass inlayed cabinet, she could see that everything appeared to have happened as George had surmised. The glass door had been unlocked and left hanging open. Several boxes containing his medals had been moved forward as if to be stolen subsequently. But the most damning evidence, confirming George Cosgrove’s account, was the removal of a ceremonial dagger from the lower shelf. She could still see the gap from where it had been taken and the slight outline of dust that had surrounded its prior placement. Roy Skinner had clearly armed himself before going upstairs to confront his elderly prey. Given Skinner’s size, history of violence and the fact that he was armed with a deadly weapon, George Cosgrove would be quite within his rights to defend himself, with whatever means he could. And she had no doubt that Hunter would think the same.
‘No,’ he hasn’t been arrested,’ she replied. ‘And I would be very surprised if he was.’
36
Violet Nicholson’s bungalow gave up its grisly secret quickly and easily. By the time her killer’s body was being removed from George Cosgrove’s house, police were already inside, combing over the scene, establishing that she too had been a victim of Roy Skinner.
Her body bore all the same signs of violence as had Florence Briarly, but unlike Florence, there had been no relatives or kindly neighbours to find her. She had lain, just as her murderer had left her, pale and stiff in her bed, surrounded only by her memories. It was heart-breaking, but there was no time to be sentimental. Naz and Sabira had been dispatched to oversee what the initial officers had found. Evidence had to be sought, forensics established and the cause of death confirmed. Violet Nicholson might not have had a large family, but there were a few distant relatives to be contacted and informed.
To the team, her murder was as important as Florence Briarly’s and they would be pulling out all the stops to ensure her death was suitably remembered and avenged. Roy Skinner might not now do time for her murder, but they were adamant they would prove his culpability. They could not allow this monster carte blanche to break into her home, terrorise the old woman and strangle her in her own bed, without affording what family she had justice.
To this end, they would be providing both the Crown Prosecution Service and the Coroner sufficient evidence to record a verdict of unlawful killing, and to have Roy Skinner named and convicted of her murder. It was the last thing they could do, but they all knew that they owed it to her.
*
It was mid-morning by the time George Cosgrove left the police station. Tired and weary though he was, he had been adamant that he wished to get his memory of the events of that night set down on paper straight away.
Amy Briarly stayed with him throughout the whole process, both as his friend and advocate, requesting breaks whenever George seemed overwrought and encouraging him gently to continue when his strength returned.
In her role as a criminal defence lawyer, she would allow the police no room to make suggestions that he may have overstepped the mark. Not that Charlie or Hunter, conducting the interview under caution, thought he had. While Charlie was disappointed that they had not arrived a few minutes earlier and been able to affect the arrest of Skinner themselves, she was satisfied that, in this case, justice had been done.
There was no case to answer.
Roy Skinner had been killed in self-defence by a weak and frightened pensioner. He was apparently bayonetted, within a minute or two of entering the bedroom, masked, and in darkness, whilst standing over his victim, with the dagger held in his outstretched hand. Little had been said. The time for talking at length with his victims was over. Even staying hidden behind his mask was no longer a requirement. He wore it only to inflict the greatest possible terror on entry and had lifted it on getting to the bed. He no longer cared that his victims saw him, because he would allow them no chance at identification.
No, it was simple. George, worryingly, but lawfully had with him a bayonet. Skinner had a dagger – and the law allowed a similar level of force to be used against that offered. Skinner had been there to perform an execution – but he had been stabbed, before he himself had the opportunity to kill.
Added to the scene in the bedroom were two other pieces of evidence crucial in confirming the old man’s statement. Firstly, George Cosgrove had tried to summons help before things had got out of hand. He had made the silent 999 call as soon as he’d heard the man in his house, seconds before he entered his bedroom, with no time to explain what was happening. No protracted conversation could be heard on the recording of the call, just muffled shouting, the bedding making the exact words impossible to hear. But it was enough – and both the sounds of the disturbance and its timing
were on record. Police had simply not got there quick enough to help.
Secondly, a sample of fur from Skinner’s Parka hood had been found on the polished floor underneath the glass cabinet. Even though he’d worn gloves at all times, leaving no possibility of DNA or fingerprints on the dagger itself, the presence of the fur showed, without doubt, that Skinner had opened the cabinet, and almost certainly extracted it from its position on the lower shelf.
Charlie was satisfied that George Cosgrove had done only as much as anyone else would have done in his place. Hunter was satisfied that the series of burglaries and murders had been effectively halted, though there was much work yet to be done in identifying every intended, or actual victim. And the general public were satisfied that, on this occasion at least, the murderer had, in effect, been handed a well-deserved death penalty and the vulnerable victim had not been hung out to dry.
When the time came to leave, Amy Briarly had also appeared pleased, smiling as she shook Charlie’s hand and led George away. He would be staying with her family; at least while his own house was still a crime scene, though whether he would ever find any semblance of peace there again was another question.
No, as Charlie bid goodbye to Amy Briarly and George Cosgrove and wandered in to watch the TV screen in the canteen at Lambeth HQ, the mood on the news stations that lunchtime was of a job well done. Roy Skinner’s body would be taken to a nearby pathology lab to await confirmation of the cause of death. Nobody would visit, or cry over him, because the man had no real friends and no living relatives. He would be buried without a headstone, anonymous and despised, and with no kind words or hastily erected shrines of mourning to his memory.