by Neil Watson
He had no idea that he might be stirring up a dangerous hornet’s nest.
***
For the past thirty-five years, Marc Ozborn’s antisocial behaviour hadn’t much improved. In fact, if anything, as he approached his 68th birthday, it had become worse. He’d just about managed to scrape a minuscule living over time with a number of manual jobs here, bar work there, and social benefits in-between that enabled him to occasionally pay his rent on time. But more often than not, the prospect of eviction was never far away.
The 1980s trailer had since been replaced with a newer model with upgraded insulation, thanks to a local government scheme, but it was still parked in unpleasant surroundings. Of course, in Ozborn’s eyes, his situation was always someone else’s fault. If he didn’t spend such a large proportion of his money on Coors, Jim Beams, Marlboros, weed and cocaine, he’d be able to vastly improve his living standards, but that thought never crossed his mind.
In one particular area he never had any difficulties. Because of his undoubted rugged and handsome looks, deep voice and trim body, he always found it easy to get laid. Women found him incredibly attractive, initially at least. Even prostitutes offered their services for free, dreaming that this man might be ‘the one’ who could lead them to more fulfilled and meaningful lives. But as soon as women grew familiar with his slovenly, unreliable and violent behaviour, they tired of him and let go. Those women, who thought they might tame him, were always disappointed.
The high turnover of relationships didn’t bother Ozborn too much—he simply moved onto the next ‘victim’ prepared to suffer his verbal, emotional, and sometimes, physical abuse. In his eyes, women were there for his pleasure only, and he couldn’t see the point in showing any care or warmth in return. Usually, the breakups occurred after a couple of months, but sometimes only weeks, days, or often they were just one-night stands.
One common denominator in his relationships with women was that they ended acrimoniously. Of course, in his mind’s eye, the arguments that preceded the break-ups were always instigated by his lady-friends—never himself. Fortunately for most of the women, they were able to let go, move on and eventually forget. Unfortunately, two of them couldn’t, because they were no longer alive. Even more unfortunately for Ozborn, the second of ‘his’ women who’d died, this time of natural causes, had been bringing up their baby daughter, Coldplay.
Just over five years ago, the mother of Coldplay, thirty years Ozborn’s junior, had proudly announced to her hero that she was pregnant with their baby, convinced that conception occurred while the British band’s ‘Fix You’ had been playing. Fatherhood was the last thing that Ozborn wanted. While they’d been making love on the floor in front of her log fire, she’d been convinced that he was ‘the one’ she’d been waiting all her life for, whereas he merely saw her as a way to gratify his needs, and maybe he’d enjoy a few good home-cooked meals along the way. One day after her jubilant revelation had sunk in, he went out of her front door on the pretext of buying some cigarettes, and disappeared. She never saw him again.
Tragically, three years and two months after Coldplay had been born, her mother contracted septicaemia. At two in the afternoon she complained of a throbbing feeling in her left arm, and 90 minutes later she fainted, and died in hospital only one day later. During the days leading up to the funeral, all efforts made by Coldplay’s rather elegant aunt Melody Goddard and her husband Stephen to track down and make contact with the child’s father had been in vain—and Coldplay went on to be lovingly brought up by the couple as the child that they had never been able to have themselves. Melody, a psychologist who had a passion for good clothes, was a kind and devoted substitute mother to the little girl. She also adored her tiny dog, Blaise-Pascal. Often, Melody could be seen around her home neighbourhood carrying Blaise-Pascal in a small leather handbag, with the creature’s head just barely peeking out of the top.
On the few occasions he was sober, Ozborn occasionally recognised he ought to take responsibility for looking after his daughter, some at least. But those feelings never lasted long. In his darkest moments, deep down he was ashamed of himself and his life, but mostly he refused to admit those sentiments to himself or the outside world—especially not to Coldplay and her adopted parents. So he blanked his emotions, and any thoughts of his daughter had been locked away. Instead of facing up to his demons, he filtered his guilt and mixed-up feelings through a temper that was liable to flare up at the slightest provocation.
CHAPTER 25
(THURSDAY, 18TH JANUARY, 2018)
Waterbed Experience
T he bundled-up copy of the Indianapolis Daily Times was hurled over to the Dickinson’s house by the boy on his delivery round. Oliver was already dressed, breakfasted and eagerly waiting for its arrival. He’d been told by Sam that the newspaper usually came at around half-past eight each morning, and sure enough, today it did. Had Ursula managed to get the ad to appear in the Terre Haute and the Indianapolis editions like she said she would?
Spreading the newspaper on the dining table, Oliver eagerly turned each page as he stood over it, and let out a small gasp. There it was, what he’d been looking for, about mid-way through! A whole half-page dedicated to the Bike Radio Murder of 1981, including some clippings of old headlines and a grainy photograph of Yushi Yakamoto being led away by policemen either side of him, next to text outlining the main details of the case. As Oliver pulled up a chair, as if being seated would help him to concentrate on the article’s contents more thoroughly, he yelled to Sam in excitement. Sam was almost as excited as he was, and she quickly stopped what she was doing and came over to join him as he read out loud the accompanying appeal.
“WHERE WERE YOU IN 1981? DO YOU REMEMBER THE BIKE RADIO MURDER CASE?
This newspaper invites anyone who recalls this notorious crime that took place in Paris, Illinois, to get in touch with our sensational new BRITISH investigative reporter, ‘YOUNG SHERLOCK’ aka Oliver Markland. You can follow Oliver’s progress exclusively every day in our new featured serial, as he attempts to get to the bottom of WHAT REALLY HAPPENED. Call 555-468-8474 or email NOW, in confidence, to [email protected]”
“Wow! Sensational, eh? You’re famous already, Oliver, and you’ve only been here five minutes!” said Sam, proudly. Oliver couldn’t hide his expression of delight at how Ursula had obviously pulled out all the stops to get something printed so quickly. He was more used to the less dynamic and slower approach of the East Anglian Chronicle. Checking the system, he tried calling the 555 number from the Dickinson’s house-line. Instantly, his own mobile phone rang. So Ursula had also managed to get the redirection set up. Very impressive, he thought. He then tried sending a blank test-email from his iPhone, and immediately it popped up in his Inbox. So she’d got that organised as well. Fantastic!
Oliver was now ready to begin his role as Young Sherlock for the Indianapolis and Terre Haute newspapers, and he crossed his fingers that he’d soon get some leads. Meanwhile, wanting to get a first-hand impression of the location where the victim had been found, he looked up the address from the files and checked on Google Maps to see how long it should take him to get to Paris. “Do you want to come along? It could be fun,” he asked Sam.
She apologised that she was unable to accompany him on this occasion, as much as she’d have liked to. “Next time, perhaps,” she said.
***
When Oliver pulled up at his Paris destination, he unclipped his iPhone from the car’s windscreen holder, turned off the satnav map, then shuffled out of the silver Hyundai, stretched his body and took a good look around. So, finally, here he was, at the house he’d read so much about, where Sandy Beach’s body had been discovered by a neighbour. This was the house in which Yushi Yakamoto had supposedly killed Beach, using a handlebar radio to hit her with. He wondered how much it had changed during the past 35 years or so. What were the new owners like? How did they feel about living in a place where someone had met their death? Olive
r’s mind began wandering as usual. Being such a keen cyclist himself, he wanted to disbelieve the recorded facts. He wanted to believe that someone else was guilty of such a crime.
It suddenly struck him that he’d never in his life been to the scene of a crime, any crime, let alone a murder. Of course, Oliver didn’t believe in ghosts, but nevertheless, even on this cold January day of bright sunshine and blue skies, standing in front of this seemingly empty house, he sensed a kind of eeriness. He told himself not to be so stupid, and courageously decided to knock at the door. The front drive in front of the garage was full of gravel but with hundreds of weeds growing among the stones, the lawn was unkempt, and there were dead tufts of grass in-between the cracks of the paving slabs. The fence around the side of the house had one panel missing, and another had almost fallen down, only being held up by one remaining nail that was about to give way any day. The two front windows had old grey curtains pulled to, so it wasn’t possible to see inside, and as he walked up to the front door, one of the steps creaked and cracked under his weight. He pressed the doorbell, without hearing a ring or chime in response, he banged the knocker, waiting at least a minute before knocking again, more loudly this time.
Concluding that there was no one present, he sheepishly began to walk around the side of the house to the back yard. He’d never done anything like this before, and he knew that technically he was trespassing. But he was a journalist, wasn’t he? And journalists didn’t give up at the first hurdle, did they? Nervously, he arrived at the rear decking. Most of the wooden planks were rotten and split. On its side, beneath a window, was a rusty old barbecue kettle that had seen better days. The gutter and down-pipes had become partially detached from the main wall, and the patio door in front of him was so dirty that it almost looked as if it had been painted black.
Using the palm of his hand, Oliver wiped a section of the glass so that he could peer inside. The sun’s reflection on it was too strong for him to be able to make anything out. He found his hand resting on the handle. Instinctively he pressed it downward—and unbelievably, it wasn’t locked. Feeling scared, and yet also embracing his role as an intrepid reporter, he pushed the door open, stepping cautiously inside, calling out several tentative ‘Hello’s. The calls were met with silence, the dusty kitchen was very dark, with the only light now coming in through the open patio door.
Remembering the many newspaper clippings he’d read, Oliver realised that this was where Sandy Beach had last been seen alive. A shiver went through him. He quietly moved through the kitchen and down the small hallway from where there were three doors leading to a bathroom and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was empty, apart from one double bedframe and rotten mattress. The next, larger, bedroom had more in it. There was a dressing table, a wardrobe with an open door revealing that it was empty, a mirror, table lamp, and some discarded clothes in the corner. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, and a smell of mustiness hung in the air.
A large bed positioned centrally against the rear wall drew Oliver towards it. He prodded it. The surface of the mattress moved in a way unlike any other bed he’d seen. Oliver pressed harder, and he could hear the sound of sloshing water. Could this be one of those waterbeds he’d heard about, he wondered? He’d never actually seen one before, and as his curiosity got the better of him, he sat on the corner of it, his head facing away from the door. It was soft and saggy, and he bounced up and down slightly as the material that held the water in place stretched and moved. All of a sudden, a giant blister appeared on the canvas material, which developed and grew at a frightening speed just to the left of his legs. Within seconds, the blister ruptured, causing a torrent of water to pour out from the gaping hole. The faster the water spilled out, the larger the hole became.
Oliver didn’t have a clue what he should do, and in his blind panic, trying in vain to stem the flow of water with his hand, only making it worse, he failed to notice the old lady standing at the door behind him, a formidable double-barrel shotgun in her hand. The elderly lady cocked the gun’s latch with a loud click, making a sound that Oliver heard but struggled to locate. As he realised that the sound couldn’t have been from the bed itself, he leapt forward from the gallons of water now fast spreading across the floor. As he twisted his body round, he jumped out of his skin at the sight of a shotgun being pointed at his head. He let out such a shout that the lady, frightened out of her own skin, accidentally pulled the trigger just as the cascading water sloshed against her feet with great force. What with that, and the fierce kick of the gun, she lost her balance and fell to the ground. Luckily for both of them, the buckshot missed Oliver, flew through the air, hitting the ceiling light and causing the bulb to explode into thousands of tiny glass pieces, scattering everywhere like rain.
By now, the old lady had dropped the gun, and was floundering around on the floor like a fish, her clothes completely soaked through, as she attempted, without success, to get up. The bed canvas was now a shrivelled up piece of wrinkled material at the bottom of its wooden frame. The water was still flowing out of the room and into the hallway, spreading to every area of the house’s flooring. The words that boomed forth from the larger-than-life lady made Oliver obey her command. “Help me up, young man. Help me up before I drown. What on earth are you doing in here? Who are you? You’re in big trouble!”
“I know,” was all Oliver was able to say, feeling faint and almost passing out, before pausing and then telling the lady his name. With each word he spoke, the lady became more certain that she could recognise his accent to be English. She could see he was visibly upset and shaken. She also could tell instinctively that no malice had been intended by the British intruder, and although soaking wet, she began to see the funny side to the bizarre situation, and started laughing.
“Come on, give me your hand, you silly man, and pull me up. Then we’d better go next door and dry off, where you can tell me what you’re up to. Come on, I’ve decided I’m not going to shoot you!”
Much to Oliver’s relief, the lady’s bark had turned out to be worse than her bite. After assisting her to her feet, he followed her to the house next door where he sat alone waiting while she went off to change into dry clothes. His own clothes were wet in patches, but not as thoroughly soaked as hers were. Despite the shock of having had a gun pointed at him, he thought he recognised the lady’s face. Putting two and two together, he wondered—could she possibly be the neighbour from the 1981 news reports?
He didn’t have to wait long before she returned to the room. “Well, young man, it’s a good job my beloved late husband Daniel hadn’t caught you snooping around. I don’t think he would have been such a bad shot as me!” she said as seriously as she could, before breaking in to a wry smile. “Okay, now tell me what you were doing.”
For the following twenty minutes, Oliver explained his whole story, and the lady—who confirmed her name was indeed the very Mrs. Hannah Toporofski of the old newspaper articles—remained silent. That was until the point when he described his new role as the Young Sherlock, and she then let out a shrill shriek. “What a brilliant idea!” she exclaimed. “I’m sure I might be able to help you!” She went out of the room, and returned a few minutes later clutching a large scrapbook that she then placed on the table in front of Oliver. “Take a look through this!”
Oliver began turning the pages, expecting to see the same newspaper cuttings that Ursula had already provided him with. But instead, it was full of clippings relating to a man named John Moores. He looked up at Hannah, puzzled.
“That man . . .” began Hannah, “. . . is the reason why that poor cyclist went to meet his maker with a lethal injection at Joliet. I’m convinced of it. I told Moores, as sure as I’m talking to you now, that I’d heard and seen another man at Sandy’s house around the time of her murder. But did he take any notice? Did he heck! He was a racist bigot, and thank God he got his comeuppance. Unfortunately for that boy with a Japanese name, it was too late, in my humble opinion.”<
br />
Oliver really wanted to properly digest the whole contents of the book, but now was not the time—he was still traumatised from the events earlier. He wanted to return to the sanctuary of his temporary home at the Dickinson’s. “Do you think I could borrow this, please?” he asked, half expecting his request to be refused. But Hannah was already hoping that she might be able to step back in the limelight, if the popularity of this ‘Young Sherlock’ character took off in the Terre Haute Daily Times, the newspaper that she read avidly every day. Hannah could see that Oliver might very well be a mere press writer today, but potentially a TV celebrity tomorrow.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up as she realised that this young man could be her passport to a second bout of television ‘stardom’. “Of course, honey, you take it with you now, and bring it back when you return with the TV crew!” she cooed.
“Huh?” asked Oliver, totally confused.
“Never mind,” was Hannah’s reply. Apart from the scrapbook, Oliver kept thinking of the watery mess in every room of the house next door. He asked if he should go and mop it up, or call the owner or someone else. “I am the owner,” Hannah said, before explaining how she’d bought the place from Sandy’s parents two years after her murder. The parents could never get over the fact that their daughter’s life had ended there, and didn’t ever want to revisit the property. Technically, they owned it, but it represented too much sorrow for them. So when Mrs. Toporofski offered to buy it from them for half the market value, they readily accepted. Hannah had every intention of turning the double garage into an antiques emporium—but never got around to it. Year after year went by, until her beloved husband Daniel had sadly passed away, and she knew then that she’d never find enough energy to put the house in order and fulfil that particular dream. And so she let the property go to rack and ruin. Now in her late eighties, she was too tired to care less about whether the floors were wet or dry.