The Hoxley Killer
1
Only the bruises on the young woman’s face suggested why she was lying in a hospital bed, so tranquil and composed was her appearance otherwise. The doctor who was stood beside her, however, feared that the internal damage she’d sustained from the brutal assault was far worse than the superficial, outward marks on her body.
The doctor failed to mention this to the man who was stood on the opposite side of the bed – a man who had closely-cropped black hair, a boxer’s nose and a powerful physique.
The doctor was aware that this man was with the circus, which was due to have its opening show this very evening. The man had informed the doctor of this half an hour before, in heavily accented English, having first stated that the young woman was his sister. Since then he’d stood in silence, maintaining a silent vigil without any visible sign of emotion.
The young woman had also been part of the circus until almost a year before, when she’d fallen in love with an apparently respectable and well-mannered man in his early twenties. This man had impressed her brother with both his manners and obvious infatuation for his sister...
By covering his face with his large hands, Gregor Hristov attempted to conceal his suddenly overwhelming, mixed sensations of grief and anger from the doctor. He was by now all too aware that this well-mannered young man was in fact a gangster notorious both in this area and London as a whole. He was by now all too aware that this well-mannered man had been systematically abusing his sister while he’d been touring with the circus, culminating in the assault that had put her in hospital for the first time…
And the last.
Gregor knew that his sister was dying; he’d seen this information clearly displayed on the doctor’s face when he’d made his terse introduction earlier.
Lenche Hristov coughed, blood spraying from her mouth and staining the starched white pillow and sheets. Her body began to convulse and the doctor called for a nurse. Two answered his shout, one escorting Gregor kindly but firmly away from the bed as the other drew the curtains around it.
As the nurse and Gregor moved towards the wide doors at the end of the ward they opened. A portly, smartly-dressed man in his early fifties entered.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a Miss Hristov,’ he told the nurse who was still gripping Gregor’s arm. She motioned with her head to the curtained-off bed.
‘The doctor is with her – I’m afraid that she is very ill,’ she replied.
In spite of his concern for his sister’s welfare, Gregor still looked keenly at this man, trying to ascertain just who he was – just what his visit could mean. Some instinct informed him that this man was nothing to do with Lenche’s boyfriend, for he returned Gregor’s searching stare with no trace of either hostility or fear.
When the portly man spoke again it was to both the nurse and Gregor.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mundy, Hoxley CID. I came to see how Miss Hristov is, to perhaps ask her a few questions, but I realise now that this is an impossibility.’
Mundy had an authoritative voice, his words clipped and precise. Despite the portly appearance, which normally afforded a person an air of affability, he looked stern, with severely cut, receding grey hair and cold, piercing blue eyes. His nose was large, and when he spoke he had a habit of looking at a person along it like a gun-sight with his face slightly raised, in an entirely subconscious attempt to compensate for his lack of height.
‘You can talk to me – I’m her brother,’ Gregor stated, his voice deep and rich with the words rolling out in the same even tone.
‘I’ve reason to believe that your sister was the victim of a physical assault. At the moment we have no firm evidence suggesting anyone in particular as the culprit, but I…’
The detective’s voice faltered as something primeval burned in Gregor’s eyes, his hairy hands bunching into fists at his sides.
‘I know who did it.’
Trying hard not to swallow due to a sudden but not unreasonable attack of nerves, Mundy reflected that this powerfully built man did indeed look as though he could take on Teddy Bowyer and the rest of the Rawley Street Boys on his own.
There was no doubt in Mundy’s mind that Bowyer was responsible for the girl’s condition, not that anyone locally would dare snitch on him. The young criminal and his mates could do practically what they liked when they liked in broad daylight in the town centre and no one ever saw a thing.
Which made the likelihood of finally bringing him to justice – something of a crusade for Mundy these last few years – highly unlikely.
Mundy spoke slowly, trying to make his voice carry a sincerity he did not feel.
‘Mr Hristov, I assure you that I will do my utmost to discover who did this.’
He did not have to look at Gregor to realise that his declaration had sounded hopelessly ineffectual, tinged with a hopelessness he just could not conceal. Once again the young gang leader was going to get away with it, and furthermore laugh in Mundy’s face as he’d done too many times before. Mundy fervently hoped that Gregor wouldn’t attempt to extract his own revenge – the last thing he needed was an open war between the circus and the vicious Rawley Street Boys.
His thoughts stopped as the commotion behind the curtained-off bed suddenly ceased, filling the ward with an eerie silence. The doctor appeared and walked towards the small group stood by the doors, causing Gregor to give an almost inaudible groan.
‘Mr Hristov – I’m so sorry. Everything was done that could have been done, but the internal injuries were just too severe…’
Nodding tightly at the doctor’s words, Gregor then turned and walked quickly through the two wide doors that led out of the ward, away from this place of death. After a few seconds’ hesitation Mundy followed.
Beyond the doors there was a staircase, and Mundy saw Gregor on the flight below. Mundy took the stairs two at a time, already starting to sweat. He’d been far too long behind a desk to cope with this sudden burst of physical activity.
‘Mr Hristov!’ he shouted.
Giving no indication that he’d heard his name being called, Gregor neither looked round nor slowed his pace.
Succeeding in catching up with him, Mundy said breathlessly, ‘Mr Hristov, please – I’m so sorry about your sister. Will you leave this to me; I will find whoever did this.’
Gregor stopped walking and stared at the diminutive, portly detective, who attempted to return a powerful and authoritative look while struggling to get back his breath.
The foreign man’s toneless answer reverberated throughout the stairwell –
‘Your words mean nothing. She is dead.’
For a few moments his eyes grew moist as he remembered… At twenty-seven he’d been nine years older than Lenche, looking after her as they’d fought to exist in their native Bulgaria… The circus had offered an escape from a grinding, joyless life and so they’d gratefully joined. Lenche had cared for the horses while Gregor had proved himself useful in helping to keep the circus on the road.
Gregor had been concerned when his sister had asked for his permission to remain in Hoxley the previous year. Ivan’s Circus had been about to leave town and continue with its European tour.
But the plausible young Bowyer had allayed Gregor’s doubts and fears – he would find Lenche a good job, look out for her and introduce her to another group of friends so that she did not feel too lonely in a strange country. He would also handle the official formalities, and upon seeing the pleading look in Lenche’s eyes Gregor had been unable to refuse – the young couple were so obviously in love. He’d sent the occasional letter during the year he’d been away, but the complete lack of return mail had not unduly concerned him.
No one in his family had ever been great letter writers.
Returning to England, Gregor’s quiet excitement at seeing his sister again had increased the closer the circus had got to Hoxley, as it worked its way down from Scotland and through the North.
And then had come the revelation.
Lenche’s best friend, Marie, who was of the same age and who also helped to groom and feed the horses, had sought Gregor’s company one evening, no longer able to keep her secret.
Just before the circus had left Hoxley that previous time she’d gone for a walk in the town – to think, to try to make sense of the conflicting emotions that came with leaving her best friend behind with a man who was so charming, rich – and handsome.
Marie had then become aware that she was being followed by a thin woman with raven-black hair who continually looked about her, as though fearing that she was being followed herself.
Catching up with Marie, she gave a quick and concise warning –
‘For the love of God, you must not allow your friend to stay with that man Bowyer! He is evil, a killer, and he will destroy her!’
With that the thin woman crossed herself, and furtively looking round once more hurried away. Marie, who could not decide whether the woman was genuinely concerned or simply raving mad, imparted the message to her infatuated best friend later that evening.
Lenche lost her temper, accusing the girl of lying – of being jealous of her happiness. This caused an ugly wound in their friendship that had still not healed when the circus left Hoxley the next day, leaving Lenche Hristova behind with the killer.
Gregor could have throttled Marie when he heard this, although she was by now almost out of her mind with worry and regret that she hadn’t said anything sooner. Outwardly he appeared sceptical and he reassured her – Lenche would be fine; the woman’s words were madness. But inwardly a sense of foreboding chilled his heart.
Whereas before he remembered Teddy Bowyer’s cheerful, honest face, he now clearly saw hate and violence. The solemn words and promises had been fork-tongued lies. The six weeks it had taken to reach Hoxley had been a feverish nightmare for Gregor, but not once did he consider leaving the circus to travel ahead. His complete loyalty to it denied any impulsive behaviour – it had become something more than just a second family.
It was Marie who saw an ambulance collect Lenche’s battered body, even before Gregor had had a chance to look for her when the circus finally reached Hoxley. And it was Marie who ascertained from the gathered crowd that Lenche had been badly beaten by some… one…
The crowd’s furtive whispers were loaded with insinuations they would never have dared say out loud – insinuations regarding the swaggering young man with whom Lenche had thought she’d found happiness…
…The memories finished: Gregor again became aware of his surroundings and the portly man stood in front of him.
‘I’ll be all right, now,’ Gregor said, turning to walk away. The detective lightly gripped one of his arms and he turned sharply back round, sudden anger blazing in his eyes.
Mundy met the fearsome gaze directly, and with evident sincerity said softly, ‘I’m truly sorry.’
Gregor looked surprised, as though he was not used to receiving sympathy. The detective’s hand fell away from his arm. As he walked towards an exit from the hospital he mouthed a word. It had no easy meaning in English, but approximately translated poleka meant be quiet, reveal nothing – be a man. It was more a word of rough self-comfort than anything else.
The route to the green where the circus was setting up took Gregor through run-down streets and slums, a boy squealing happily inside a wooden barrel as his friends pushed it across the cobbles.
A man suddenly obstructed Gregor’s path, attempting to sell him a newspaper. Not by a fraction did Gregor slow his pace, and as he barged roughly past he knocked the sweating paper-vendor to the floor. Gregor was deaf to the shouted insults coming from behind him, as the vendor angrily collected the scattered copies of The Herald and replaced the cloth cap that had fallen from his head.
Gregor had seen the front-page of the newspaper, with the pictures of marching troops and the headlines ominously exclamation-marked. His ability to read English was significantly worse than his ability to speak it, but that didn’t matter: it was obvious that war would soon be breaking out, and for Gregor it was now a case of the sooner the better.
He would join the army at the first opportunity; he would be a good soldier – strong, loyal and courageous – and maybe the hell of war could blot out his own pain.
He walked past red-bricked shops and houses, outside of which hard-faced women hung laundry that flapped despondently in the light breeze. At the top of the road there was a pub, men in work attire stood outside it, nursing their pints and smoking. They regarded Gregor with sullen suspicion as he walked past, seeing that he was a foreigner, not of the area – but those who met his gaze instantly dropped it.
There was death in his eyes.
The circus came into view ahead. The section of the green that contained it was a hive of activity; the circus-hands swarmed around, no one short of something to do. As Gregor walked onto the sun-hardened earth Marie ran up to him. He looked into the concerned eyes: they were the same colour as his late sister’s and for a moment Marie was Lenche – young, healthy and full of naive optimism concerning life in general...
‘Gregor…’ Marie said tentatively, unable to voice the intended question. She already knew the answer.
‘She is dead,’ Gregor roughly confirmed as he walked past, deaf again to the noise behind him – to the wail of grief issuing from Marie.
Those other people whom Gregor passed solemnly bowed their heads – they’d heard Marie’s shriek – and a few muttered their condolences.
Gregor did not acknowledge them; he confined his dealings with most of these employees to work-related matters. He’d only two acquaintances in the circus who could have been termed friends – Rose, the clairvoyant and palm reader whose trailer the public paid a trifling sum to enter; and Hans, who assisted in setting up and dismantling the circus.
Indeed, Gregor and Hans had once had an act together, until that dreadful time six months previously when they’d got drunk and quarrelled over a card game. This had resulted in a fistfight that had shocked everyone with its brutality; neither man had won, and neither man had spoken to the other since.
Rose the clairvoyant watched as Gregor entered his trailer, the pain more than apparent in his hunched-over gait and the way in which his feet dragged along the ground. She decided to let a little time pass before she entered. She would let Gregor grieve in the only way he was able – in private and alone.
Rose was the only circus person who would dare to enter his trailer unannounced and uninvited, but even she could not guarantee her reception. No man was an island, however, not even Gregor…
Rose knew that he would need someone – and as she thought of the man who’d caused young Lenche to meet such a premature death, the elderly woman’s face grew dark. Such a foul act warranted immediate revenge, although such a decision of course lay only with Gregor…
Inside, Gregor’s trailer was all but bare. A mattress was turned up against the wall, a few well-patched blankets folded neatly beside it. The floor was wooden and worn to a smooth shiny sheen through years of use. Gregor’s few clothes were folded in another corner, kept along with his mattress and blankets well away from the section of roof that was liable to leak in bad weather.
Looking around the wooden-panelled interior, Gregor recalled all the times he’d played card games with his sister inside this same trailer.
She’d often talked with the silly, hopelessly optimistic air of a young woman, alternately irritating and then amusing her brother with her far-fetched and unattainable dreams.
At this time, this now bare cabin had been full of her possessions. Gregor himself disliked owning anything beyond the bare essentials, which were his clothes and a pack of cards.
Sinking down against the wall, away from the mattress, Gregor stared at the opposite side of the trailer for what seemed like hours. Then the door opened, causing Gregor to snarl like a dog as he turned to see who’d dared disturb him at such a time.
But the anger left his eyes when he saw the gypsy.
‘Later,’ he said tersely.
Sympathetically shaking her head, Rose smiled sadly as she looked at him. ‘No Gregor – not later. I will stay here with you now.’
Her voice was coarse from the pipe she’d smoked from perhaps time immemorial; it carried the suggestion of a friend whom it was definitely worth having and the worst enemy it was possible to make.
Gregor rose and crossed the room, dropping the mattress down in a brusque display of hospitality before resuming his original position. He drew comfort from Rose’s presence. She frequently reminded him of his late mother with her lined hands and face, the silvery-grey hair that was almost beautiful with its age, suggesting a lifetime of experience.
His memories of his mother had not dimmed in the fourteen years since her death – how could they have done? She had provided for Gregor and Lenche when her husband had been stabbed to death in a bar brawl, the result of the local brandy that inflamed the tempers of the overworked and poorly-paid men in Plodvik, a small and desolate place sixty kilometres from the capital Sofia.
One accursed night a few of Gregor’s father’s friends had called at the family shack, not looking at the children but taking their mother outside. And then had come the muffled sobbing as the men spoke quickly, softly – trying not to let the children hear that their father was a corpse.
The remainder of the family had carried on as best as they’d been able, scrimping together a living but always dependant on the goodwill and generosity of their neighbours. And in the midst of such grinding poverty, where nothing could be spared, the neighbours’ actions had gone beyond being mere kindness to instead become something almost holy.
When Gregor had been fifteen his mother had started to waste away, her weight quickly plummeting until she was nothing but pain covered with skin. She died on the solitary bed that stood in the corner of the shack the family shared.
The Hoxley Killer Page 1