by Pat Herbert
“Yes. That is what happened.” Omar knew he’d wasted his time in coming, but he didn’t really care now. He’d salved his conscience by telling him what he’d seen.
“What I can’t understand is why didn’t you call an ambulance at the time? You might have been able to save her life.”
“Because I could see she was dead. She was beyond help.”
“So, you just left her there and went home and forgot all about it?”
“I know it was wrong, but I was so scared. What I saw was beyond human understanding. All I know is that it wasn’t the boyfriend. If you’ve charged him, he didn’t do it.”
“Okay, so lover boy didn’t do it. The poker did. Is that the theory?”
“It’s the truth.”
Omar left the station some fifteen minutes later, after having signed a witness statement. The look on the detective’s face was enough to tell him he’d made a complete fool of himself. However, they hadn’t locked him up for wasting police time, so that was a positive, at least.
32
It had been many years since Bernard had visited 57 Bockhampton Road. He had hoped, the last time he came, that he would never have cause to visit it again, but here he was standing outside the troubled house once more, trying to pump some life into the rust-encrusted doorbell.
It was eight o’clock on a crisp, early autumn evening, the twilight casting eerie shadows around the unlit house. He assumed the absence of light meant that no one was home but decided to try the knocker to make sure. The noise echoed through the mournful house, followed by an almost unnatural silence.
“Oh well,” he thought, “He’s probably at the pub drowning his sorrows.” As he retraced his steps down the path, however, he heard the creak of an opening door. He turned to see an unkempt, bleary-eyed young man with a few days’ growth of stubble on his face, wearing an egg-stained dressing-gown.
“Hello?” said Jerry Bracegirdle. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, I – ”
Jerry interrupted him. “I don’t know who you are, so if you’ve come to pry, then I’m sorry to disappoint you. I don’t want any visitors at the moment.”
Bernard smiled tentatively at him. “I can understand that. I used to be the local vicar and I’ve just read about your girlfriend’s murder.”
“I told you, I’m not at home to callers....”
“Please, just listen for a moment.” Bernard could understand how he felt and wondered if newspaper reporters had found out where he lived and had been bothering him. More than likely, he thought. “I’m not a reporter or anything like that,” he assured him. “I’ve come to try and help you. You see, I know quite a lot about what’s been going on in this house over the years and I – ”
The young man looked contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry. I apologise for my rudeness.”
“That’s all right,” smiled Bernard now. Jerry reminded him of Henry Freeman, and he liked him already. “I’ve just come to see if there’s anything I can do. I know quite a bit about the history of your house, so I would like to help, if I can.”
Jerry showed Bernard into the kitchen, by-passing the closed door on the right. Bernard knew that room only too well. It was where poor Beth Morrison’s murder had taken place. And all the other murders, come to that.
“Do sit down,” said Jerry pulling out the only chair from under the kitchen table. “Can I get you anything? I’ve got some tea, I think. Or a beer, if you’d prefer?”
“Tea would be most welcome, thank you.”
As Jerry busied himself preparing the tea, Bernard looked around the sparsely furnished kitchen. The sink drainer was piled up with unwashed plates and cups, and the ancient cooker had a thick layer of grease on its hob that looked like even a blow-torch wouldn’t be able to shift.
As if reading his thoughts, Jerry laughed. “Yes, the place is a bit of a mess, I know. But I haven’t been here long, and, well, what with what’s happened, I don’t intend to stay here. I’ve put it back on the market in the meantime, but I don’t really expect to sell it.”
When the rather weak tea was placed before him, Bernard cleared his throat and asked him the obvious question: “Did you kill Beth Morrison?”
It was blunt, but the question had to be asked and got out of the way. Bernard was sure he hadn’t done it, but he had to hear it from Jerry’s own lips.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Forgive me for asking,” said Bernard, “but I just wanted to make sure.”
“Well, now you know.” Jerry looked cross for a moment. “The police have interrogated me thoroughly, as you know from the papers.”
He refilled Bernard’s cup from the ancient teapot he had found discarded in a cupboard. It had a faulty spout and dispensed the tea haphazardly, with most of it missing the cup and ending up in the saucer. Bernard calmly tipped the saucer into the cup. “Thank you,” he smiled.
“I don’t think it’s been reported about the taxi driver, though,” Jerry continued, passing Bernard a piece of kitchen towel to mop up the tea dribbles that had missed both the cup and the saucer. “That’s why you found me at home. I’d probably be still at the nick if he hadn’t shown up.”
“Taxi driver?”
Jerry told Bernard about Omar Kemal. “He came to see me after he’d been to the police and told me what he’d seen.”
“I don’t suppose the police believed him,” said Bernard.
Jerry shrugged. “You can’t really blame them, can you?”
“No.” Bernard knew only too well, from his own experience, how the police felt about what they called ‘fairy stories’.
“Anyway, I can only feel grateful that Mr Kemal came forward.”
“But have you thought that he could have called the emergency services on the spot and saved your girlfriend’s life?”
“Well, yes, I did think of that. But I suppose he thought she was already dead and beyond help.”
“Did it cross your mind that he might have killed her himself?”
“No, it didn’t. He would hardly have gone to the police, if he had, would he?”
Bernard let that pass. “Anyway, what I really came to tell you was that I know you didn’t kill her, and I’m also sure the taxi driver didn’t, either. I think the real killer is this house, or rather the evil spirits that are trapped inside this house.”
“You mean you think it’s haunted?”
“I do,” said Bernard. “What I came to give you was this.” He handed Jerry the battered cardboard file he had brought with him. “I’ve made a study of the history of this house from the later Victorian times up to the late sixties. There have been several unexplained murders here, all in front of the living room fireplace.”
Jerry opened the file and began flicking through the pages.
“What I suggest is you read what’s in there, and you’ll see that the murder of your poor Beth follows a similar pattern to the other murders documented in there. I came to see you tonight to tell you I’m determined to put an end to all this killing.”
Jerry looked up from the file. “How are you going to do that?”
“There’s a psychic medium I know. I’m sure she’ll get to the bottom of it. I wanted to call her in when the last murder happened, but I’d lost touch with her then. She was going around the country, giving mass séances and there weren’t any such things as mobile phones then.”
“So, you’re back in touch with her, now?”
“Yes. She sent me a Christmas card out of the blue with her new address on it.” He had been delighted to receive the card from Dorothy Plunkett, shortly after the death of his good friend, Robbie MacTavish. Her renewed presence in his life had given him the comfort he needed at just the right time.
“I’ll be honest, Reverend,” said Jerry, “I don’t really believe in the supernatural…”
“Even after all that’s happened?” Bernard eyed him quizzically. Some people took a lot of convincing.
&nb
sp; “Well, I suppose – well, I’m beginning to change my mind.” Jerry’s smile was infectious.
“So I should think,” Bernard giggled. “Anyway, keep the file as long as you want. If you’re not convinced there’s something evil in this house after reading it, I’ll eat my hat.”
33
Omar drew up outside 57 Bockhampton Road and eyed its unprepossessing exterior with a shiver. It looked even more forbidding in the light of day, having only seen it in the dark on the two previous occasions he’d had cause to visit it. The first time had been to deliver that poor girl to her death, and the second time had been that evening when he had told Jerry about his witness statement.
How could anyone contemplate living in a place like this? he wondered, as he walked up to the front door. It should have been condemned years ago.
“Hello, Omar,” Jerry greeted him. “Good of you to come.”
“Look,” said Omar, “I’d rather not get involved. I told the police all I could. I’m sorry for your loss, but I don’t see how I can really help you.”
“You might be able to. Please, Omar.” There was a pleading look in Jerry’s tired eyes. “I’d very much appreciate it. Won’t you come in and talk to me and my friend, Reverend Paltoquet? We just want to try and get to the bottom of the mystery. You’re the only one who saw what happened.”
Omar was in two minds. He was beginning to regret giving Jerry his card, but he thought he was a genuinely nice man and felt sorry for his situation. And it was only natural, he supposed, that Jerry would want to talk to him some more, being probably the only one who believed in his innocence.
“It was a wicked thing,” said Omar, following Jerry into the house. “A very wicked thing.”
They went straight through to the kitchen, where Bernard was sitting with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits in front of him.
“This is Reverend Paltoquet, Mr Kemal.”
“How do you do?” Omar shook hands with the old gentleman, taking an instant liking to him.
“Hello, Mr Kemal. May I call you Omar?”
“Of course.”
“Tea?” Jerry asked.
“No, thank you. I don’t drink stimulants,” replied Omar, looking around for another chair.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any more chairs,” said Jerry, looking embarrassed. “I’ll fetch a packing case.”
When they were all settled, Bernard asked Omar why he hadn’t called the police or an ambulance at least. Omar repeated what he had said to Jerry and DS Drake: that Beth was already dead, and it wouldn’t have done her any good.
“But it still doesn’t explain why you left and didn’t report the crime to anyone,” Bernard pointed out.
Omar helped himself to a biscuit. “I know. I can’t really explain. I don’t like the police at the best of times. They don’t treat people like me with much respect, you know. As it is, I’m surprised they didn’t arrest me for the murder.”
Bernard nodded sympathetically. “It must be difficult, Omar. But perhaps if you had called them straightaway, a life may have been saved.”
“I’m sure she was dead,” Omar repeated.
He watched Bernard pass a look to Jerry. Didn’t they believe him? Had he been brought here under false pretences? When Jerry had called him, he’d simply asked him to come because he thought he could help. But maybe he suspected him of killing his girlfriend, after all?
“All right, Omar, we believe you,” said Jerry.
“Thank you,” said Omar, relieved.
“So, what we need to do now is find the previous owners. Did Beth say anything to you about them?” Jerry sounded upbeat now.
“The young lady had come back from Spain when I picked her up at Gatwick,” Omar informed him. “I remember she mentioned that she had been to see the people who had sold you the house.”
Jerry nodded. “That makes sense. The estate agent told me the vendors were living in Spain. Only problem is, we don’t know where. It beats me how Beth found them.”
Bernard drained his teacup and rose creakily to his feet. “Let’s go and visit that estate agent of yours, Jerry. That’s where Beth must have got the information from.”
“Yes, I’ll be pleased to see him again. I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Selling me the place when he knew all the time why it was so cheap.”
Omar had been only too happy to drive them to Doggett & Finn’s. As they pulled up, Harry Grimes was looking idly out of the window. He dropped his pen when he saw that among the people getting out of the taxi was the young man to whom he had sold 57 Bockhampton Road.
Barry John-Harrington, finishing a call, looked across at Harry. “Isn’t that the chap we sold that spooky house to?” he asked. “Isn’t he supposed to have done in his girlfriend? Can’t understand why the police haven’t charged him yet.”
“It’s him, all right. And he’s brought some old geezer with him,” said Harry. He watched as Jerry, Bernard and Omar entered the shop, making straight for his desk.
He smiled gingerly at them. “Hello, gentlemen. How can I help you?”
“Hello, Mr Grimes. Remember me?” asked Jerry.
“Yes, of course. How – how are you?”
“As well as can be expected, as the saying goes,” said Jerry, leaning forward and making Harry lean back in his chair as he did so. “Can I introduce you to Reverend Paltoquet? And this,” continued Jerry, “is Mr Omar Kemal.” Omar stepped forward and shook Harry’s hand.
Harry wondered if Jerry had brought these two men along to help duff him up. On the whole, he thought it unlikely, as the little Asian chap didn’t look as if he could knock the skin of a rice pudding and, as for the old vicar, unless he was Arnold Schwarzenegger in disguise, he was hardly any threat, either.
“Can we talk privately, do you think?” Jerry asked him.
“What you have to say can be said in front of my colleagues, here....”
“Very well,” said Jerry. “I’m here about the house you sold me, and these two gentlemen are helping me to solve the mystery of my girlfriend’s murder.”
“I – I don’t quite know how you think I can help with that,” said Harry. “I sold you the property in all good faith. Please leave my shop.”
“Not until I have some answers. So, do you have a private office where we can talk?” Jerry asked again.
“Okay, okay, anything you say,” Harry capitulated. “Barry, I leave you in charge. Call me if there’re any problems. I won’t be long.”
Once inside the office with the door shut, Jerry started to pace the room. “I don’t want to cause any trouble, Mr Grimes, and I know it’s your job to sell property, but I think it would have been helpful to know exactly why the previous owners were willing to let me have their house so cheaply.”
“But I told you – it was because they wanted money quickly for renovations to their Spanish property. Also, it was the condition of the place....”
“And, thirdly, because it was haunted,” Jerry finished for him.
“Now, please, that’s something that I know nothing about. Anyway, it wasn’t my place to deal in mere speculation.”
“Agreed. But I thought, at the time, you were holding something back. The owners had told you about the house’s history, hadn’t they?”
Harry looked at the three men’s faces and shrugged. “Well, they may have mentioned something, but they requested me to keep it to myself.”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” smirked Jerry. His manner relaxed a little, and he sat down. “Look, Mr Grimes, as I said, I’m not here to cause trouble, but I would like to get to the bottom of what’s been going on in my house.”
“But, as I said, I don’t see what you expect me to do,” said Harry. He was beginning to feel a little less threatened now.
“Well, you can give me the address of the previous owners, for a start. You must have given it to my girlfriend?”
“Your girlfriend? The one who was murdered?” Harry asked, p
uzzled.
“Yes. She must have got the information from here. How else would she have known where to find them?”
“I – I didn’t know she had. Anyway, she didn’t get it from me. Wait a minute, let me call Barry.”
He called through to the shop. “Barry, can you come here a minute?”
Barry, on one of his interminable cold calls, put his thumb up, acknowledging Harry’s request, but showing no sign of terminating his call.
“Like now, please,” said Harry impatiently. Barry put his thumb up again and this time made an effort to wind up his call.
When he finally entered the office, four faces turned expectantly towards him. “Barry,” said his boss. “Did you give a young woman the address of the vendors of 57 Bockhampton Road?”
“In Spain, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“She said she was the buyer’s girlfriend, and she wanted the address on his behalf. I thought it was okay to give it to her.”
“You should have asked their permission first,” Harry pointed out.
“Well, I only gave her the address, not the phone number. As it was in Spain I thought it would be all right.”
“Never mind. That’s all,” said Harry, dismissing him.
“No, wait,” said Jerry. “How did she seem to you?”
“In what way?”
“I mean, was she upset, worried, annoyed?”
“A bit of all those, I’d say. Said she needed some answers from the vendors of the property. I thought she meant, like, the condition of it. I thought she had a right to....”
Harry interrupted him angrily. “She had no right! We do not give out our clients’ addresses to all and sundry. You know that full well, Barry.”
Barry didn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed or abashed. “Sure, I know that. But she was very insistent, and I decided to help her.”
Harry glared at his underling, whose days were now well and truly numbered. “Just get out. I’ll talk to you later.”
Barry did as he was told, looking anything but contrite.