The Hoxley Killer

by Holly Greenfield

  After her death Gregor had quickly learned to fend for both himself and his sister. They’d struggled even harder to extract a living from the land during the seven years before they’d left that harsh life behind, trading it for the only slightly easier but infinitely more interesting life of the circus…

  Gregor brought his thoughts back to the present. He longed for the war to start, for at this moment in time the prospect of his own death did not trouble him. Indeed, so dark was his current mood that he actively welcomed it.

  Rose saw that he was crying, and so moved to sit beside him. She tentatively reached out a gnarled hand and placed it on his shoulder, and was surprised when he did not angrily shrug it off but instead let it remain. She felt him deriving considerable comfort from her touch.

  She knew then that his spirit had not died along with his sister.

  And she knew then that there would be vengeance.

  2

  Facing a mirror, Teddy Bowyer combed his fair hair back from his forehead. Satisfied with his appearance, he turned his attention away from himself and onto the twelve men sat in his living room.

  These men were the uneasy disciples of a leader who’d finally gone too far. They nervously smoked Woodbines, and seemed to find looking at their teacups to be far more appealing than meeting Bowyer’s gaze.

  ‘Well, it’s tragic, ain’t it?’ asked Bowyer, in a jovial tone that suggested it was anything but tragic. His usually cold grey eyes now danced with amusement. He’d yet to actually confess to the fatal beating of his young, foreign girlfriend, and as one his men fervently hoped that he wouldn’t do so now.

  The members of the Rawley Street Boys were dressed in identical dark suits; they shared the narrow eyes and the mean mouths that turned many a man’s bowels to water when they entered a public house. Nearly all bore the scars of battle, ranging from slight nicks to the jagged rent that ran across the unappointed second-in-command’s face, Alan Norris. Norris’s nickname was rather descriptive: ‘Chiving’ Al suggested his love of using a taped-down razor to carve his opponents’ faces to ribbons.

  Teddy Bowyer did not initially appear as fearsome as any of the men who he commanded, being both rather small in height as well as stature. This he compensated for by walking and talking with as much swagger and emphasis as he could muster, although his real gift of leadership lay in his uncanny ability to judge the strengths and weaknesses of other men, and to deal with these accordingly. More basically he’d an utter, almost psychotic disregard for his own safety, and through sheer bravado had beaten opponents who’d previously seemed all but invincible.

  But Teddy Bowyer had finally gone too far: this was the unspoken but mutual consensus of his men. Bowyer sensed this, his senses as they were perpetually attuned to recognising a potential mutiny; he realised that he’d have to stamp out this rebellion before it even began.

  Bowyer had summoned his men to his house half an hour before, informing them that Lenche had died shortly before at the hospital while remaining cagey as to exactly what had caused her death.

  But all the men had come to the same conclusion: they knew that he’d taken to knocking Lenche about with increasing ferocity as his interest in her had waned. It wasn’t the first person whose death had been caused by Bowyer’s fists, but it was the first woman. The Rawley Street Boys knew what was required: they were to act as Teddy Bowyer’s alibi when the copper who plagued their every move inevitably came calling.

  ‘Someone talk!’ roared Bowyer suddenly, causing one of the men to spill most of his tea onto the expensive white carpet. He gazed fearfully at the gang leader but Bowyer appeared not to notice, being too involved with the present situation to worry about anything else rendered trivial in comparison.

  ‘Chiving’ Al cleared his throat nervously, his eyes clear with worry.

  ‘People…’ he said hesitantly, ‘people won’t like this, Teddy.’

  ‘People will bloody like what I tell them!’ Bowyer shouted, with all the venom he could muster.

  Then he forced himself to become calm – and as he continued speaking in a more reasonable tone he looked around the room, forcing each man in turn to meet his gaze, his eyes imploring.

  ‘I didn’t mean it, she was a good girl. But it happened, she got dolly…’

  He felt with great pleasure the suspense and fear in the room increasing with his pause; then he finished: ‘No one saw me ditch her.’

  The men looked at each other with great alarm. Before this confession Bowyer’s crime had been unspoken – known, but still unspoken. Now they too were implicated in what, even to their violent nature, was a heinous crime.

  ‘Come on, boys!’ Bowyer said jovially, walking around the two sizeable sofas placed either side of a large mahogany table. He playfully ruffled the hair of one of the younger men, a gesture which nonetheless carried the subtle suggestion of menace and of control.

  ‘We’ve been through worse than this and got through,’ he declared. ‘So supposing that stupid bastard Mundy does comes round – just say we were playing cards like good boys, at about mid-morning, and we’re laughing.’

  As if rebuking this false alibi the doorbell rang, everyone but Bowyer starting. They all knew who it was, as Bowyer dispatched one of the younger gang members to the door.

  The man returned, Detective Sergeant Mundy behind him.

  ‘Don’t get up on my account,’ he said coldly, addressing everyone in the room. ‘I’ve just come about your guv’nor’s girlfriend.’

  Bowyer looked up in mock alarm. ‘Lenche? What about her?’

  Despite his rather reserved and cynical demeanour, Mundy could no longer contain his anger.

  ‘You bloody vicious bastard – I’ll see that you swing for this. She died an hour ago,’ he growled.

  The men looked silently at the floor, ashamed. Lenche had been a pretty, lively girl at the beginning, before Bowyer had turned her into just another gangster’s moll – drab, silent, all the enthusiasm and life beaten out of her.

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  Mundy glared at Bowyer, whose grin was almost audible in the question he’d just asked.

  In reply, Mundy gave a deliberately officious account of events:

  ‘Miss Lenche Hristov was found, severely injured, in Abbot’s Lane. Her injuries were consistent with that of a physical assault and she was taken to St Joseph’s Infirmary, where she later died.’

  With a mirthless smile, Mundy added acidly: ‘And don’t worry, she didn’t regain consciousness to say anything that I could get you on. You may as well know that, though like as not you already do.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it. I liked her, I really did. Ask anyone – we were thick, me and her,’ Bowyer said.

  ‘Where were you between ten a.m. and noon?’ asked Mundy tonelessly.

  ‘That’s easy. Me and the boys were playing cards. Right?’

  The boys in question nodded half-heartedly, and Bowyer’s eyes flashed dangerously as he sensed the threat of rebellion.

  ‘Are you sure about that, chaps?’ asked Mundy with uncharacteristic gentleness. He also sensed the threat of rebellion and so encouraged it: Bowyer was so nearly in his grasp…

  ‘This was a particularly nasty crime, and one that I know – whatever else you do – wasn’t any of your style,’ finished the detective.

  Bowyer opened his mouth to speak but Mundy stopped him by raising a podgy hand. His gaze remained firmly fixed on the men seated around the table, his eyes almost pleading.

  ‘It’s the truth,’ Al said at last, despair at his own weakness clear in his voice.

  Mundy sneered as he faced Bowyer, saying, ‘Stay in the area, son. I’ll see my own way out.’

  As he turned his attention back to the seated men, sarcastic anger curdled his voice –

  ‘Well done, boys. Sleep well tonight, won’t you?’

  None of the men met Mundy’s stare before he turned and walked out.

  Bowyer stood in silence for
a few seconds, a variety of expressions cloaking his sharp-featured face – from anger to what appeared to be suspiciously like fear. Finally he shouted, ‘’Course I’ll stay in the bloody area, it’s my home! I’ve done nothing wrong!’

  The last word carried a note of hysteria, a sign that he was cracking up: he was not as invincible as he’d thought. Looking at his men he attempted a grin.

  ‘See, I told you. Piece of cake. It’ll take more than that poxy sod to bring us down.’

  But Bowyer saw the shudder that ran collectively through the men, a show of revulsion at the word us – this suggestion that they were in the same class as him. He’d killed a beautiful young woman: a woman of whom they’d all been fond, and a woman whom a couple had secretly fancied.

  Bowyer turned his attention back to the mirror and his narcissism.

  ‘Go,’ he said: a blunt dismissal.

  The Rawley Street Boys rose silently and trooped gratefully out of the door.

  *

  It was growing dark outside and still Gregor sat, his tears having long since ceased. Rose finally stood up; the evening’s entertainment would soon be commencing, and so she would be needed to fleece the public of a few shillings as they waited to enter the main tent. The circus sympathised with Gregor’s loss, but they could not halt the performance on account of it – it ran on far too tight a budget.

  Rose left without farewell: an unspoken conversation had already passed between herself and Gregor, and so it was only left for her to find the one who could help him avenge his sister’s murder.

  Time passed…

  And the room was nearly pitch black before the door opened again, and Gregor looked slowly round to see who it was who was stood quietly outside, waiting for him to give the invitation to enter.

  *

  The moon was out and the stars were just visible through the smog. Teddy Bowyer breathed deeply, enjoying the celestial view and a cigarette as he stood on the patio outside the living room. It was such a beautiful time, the night, allowing him the tranquillity necessary to formulate his future plans.

  Like most he recognised that war was imminent; but unlike most he welcomed this. It would create a wonderfully lucrative black market situation that could be exploited by someone who had both the brains and the muscle – here he recognised himself – to see it through.

  The fact that the war might well entail conscription did not worry him, for there were several doctors who would be only too happy to give him the necessary documentation excusing him from active service, provided of course that the price was right.

  Bowyer now decided not to extend this privilege to most of the other Rawley Street Boys. The implied threat of rebellion in their actions and words earlier today had been enough to assure him that they needed to go and fight for King and Country, rather than to hang around Hoxley and possibly help put his neck in a noose.

  He picked up a glass of lemonade from a table by his side. Bowyer had tried alcohol once and he’d never touched it again. The loss of control, the way life’s necessary harshness became blunted and comfortable, ambitions lost in a jolly void that left the head aching the next day…

  It was for losers – a category that lately included ‘Chiving’ Al Norris. Al was in a booze-induced sleep in the back room, having drunk himself insensible in a nearby public house. This drinking didn’t affect Al’s pocket; he’d plenty of money, and besides which the fearfully sycophantic landlord would never accept money for the stout he guzzled…

  But Al’s drinking left Bowyer nervous; he couldn’t have a deputy leader who drank to excess, leaving him open to letting things slip that need not be known – for this could ultimately lead to the gallows.

  The animosity and revulsion that Al felt for Bowyer had emerged when he’d come calling at Bowyer’s house an hour or so before, barely able to stand or speak. Bowyer had let him collapse on his sofa, Al fixing him with such a stare as he did so that Bowyer had actually stepped back from the hate obvious in it.

  The consequent verbal ramblings had been all but unintelligible, although one word was clear – Bastard. Bowyer had, not astutely, guessed the word to be directed at himself.

  A cry came from the back room – it appeared that Al was having a bad dream.

  Pisshead.

  Sipping his lemonade, Bowyer took pleasure in the teetotalism that was both his strength and advantage. In fights, especially, it gave him the necessary edge. The opponent who went flying in, brave with alcohol, was a welcome thing: they could be finished quickly and with almost scientific precision.

  Flicking his cigarette into the garden Bowyer yawned, deciding to turn in. He was about to enter the house when he heard footsteps falling heavily on the wooden floor of his hallway.

  He again turned his back to the double-doors that led into the sitting room and stood waiting, a smile stretching his thin lips. From his pocket he produced a knife, a blade springing out as he depressed a button on one side of the handle. Gingerly running his thumb across the blade, Bowyer felt his skin part despite his caution.

  So it had come to this: the big showdown. No doubt the others had played a part in this mutiny, and had elected the biggest man, ‘Chiving’ Al, to carry it out – he’d not been as pissed as he’d pretended, after all.

  Maybe, Bowyer considered, he’d just beat the hell out of Al and slice his face to pieces; or maybe he’d see the job through right to the end. Bowyer almost hoped it wouldn’t be the latter, but he already felt that mood beginning to cloud his mind – nihilistic, primeval violence fogging clear thought.

  More than likely he would come-to repeatedly putting his blade into a man who was already dead, as had happened before. No one would report anything they might hear to the police; it wasn’t the done thing and everyone knew the repercussions of grassing.

  No one in Hoxley wanted, at the very least, a ‘permanent smile’.

  The footsteps came ever closer; and then they were muffled as their owner entered the carpeted living room, where earlier Mundy had attempted to get the Rawley Street Boys to talk. The moon bathed the patio in an eerie, shimmering light. The blade of the knife glinted evilly, shaking slightly as Bowyer felt the half-consciousness creep upon him –

  He screamed as he turned to face something that came straight from the darkest recesses of a nightmare.

  The thing was at least three metres tall and dressed shapelessly in black. The head was hidden by a cowl, the face – was there a face? – a black void within. This was as much as Bowyer saw before the moon tucked behind a cloud and in wild terror he lanced out with his knife, which was immediately knocked from his hand.

  Then there was an agonising pressure around his throat, and as though from far away he heard cartilage and bone cracking in his neck. He uttered a strangled gargle, which died away as there was another cracking sound louder than any before.

  The creature worked methodically, one black-covered – hand? – appearing as though it was gently massaging the neck, so slight was the effort needed to reduce it to a pulp. The other gripped the crown of Bowyer’s head and pulled; it detached from the body with a sucking sound. The creature – with speed surprising for something of its size – moved to one side to avoid the sudden spurt of blood and unceremoniously dropped the body and the head onto the patio.

  The creature avoided the pool of blood that issued from the headless corpse and walked onto the lawn, where it was quickly swallowed by the dark.

  The cigarette that Bowyer had discarded glowed for a short while longer, and then went out.

  3

  Detective Sergeant Mundy grimaced as he swallowed the dregs of his coffee – a reaction to both the coldness of the beverage and the solemn article on the front page of The Herald: Hitler had invaded Poland, and consequently England had declared war on Germany.

  This news had caused the normally bustling police station to become unusually quiet, everyone too concerned with the implication of the war on their own futures to talk about relative trivi
alities.

  A knock came at the door to Mundy’s office, and putting down his newspaper the detective called, ‘Come.’

  The door opened to reveal a Detective Constable who had a wide and good-natured face with little eyes, his expression curiously vacant.

  He waited patiently for Mundy to address him.

  ‘Yes, Briggs?’

  ‘Got some rather surprising news for you, Sergeant.’

  Mundy waited to hear exactly what this ‘surprising news’ was, but after a few moments was obliged to say testily, ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Teddy Bowyer was murdered last night.’

  Mundy sat bolt upright and dropped his empty mug, all gloomy thoughts concerning his cold coffee and the war instantly vanishing.

  ‘What! How?’

  ‘He… something…’

  Mundy’s mouth opened to berate the hesitant constable, who seeing this said quickly, ‘Well, something tore his bloody head off, Sergeant. One of his men, Alan Norris, is in St. Joseph’s Infirmary with a bump on his head. No bad injury but he’s in severe shock or something. Says that whatever cracked him was about three metres tall – woke up and there it was standing over him, before it put him back into nod-land. By all accounts he’d had a good drink, which don’t make him the best of witnesses.’

  Mundy’s thoughts immediately focused on the circus: no matter how much Alan Norris had had to drink there was no way he’d mistake a normal man for such a giant. This being the case, there was only one place that could conceivably have something matching such an impossible description.

  ‘Head torn off, you say Briggs? With the hands?’

  ‘Apparently. Don’t know if this thing had hands – that Norris said something about claws.’

  ‘Did he now? Anything else you can think of regarding this fantastic creature?’

  ‘Well, a few of the scene of crime boys have been at Bowyer’s house this morning, and despite the late summer weather having caused the lawns to go hard they still found footprints which suggest the thing weighed about four-hundred pound. The footprints vanish at the wall that goes around the garden, so I reckon whatever it was jumped over the wall into the street.’