by Stan Mason
‘What are we talking about for a sum of that magnitude?’ she continued curtly. When aroused to anger, she had the fortitude of her mother... The Lady Dowager.
‘Okay, I’ll put my cards on the table,’ related Duncan seriously. ‘I was at the scene when that woman, Sophie Taffler, collapsed in the street. I took some photographs of the two paramedics who picked her up and put her into the vehicle. I didn’t think anything of it at the time but when I examined the photographs carefully, I noticed some discrepancies. Firstly, the male paramedic was wearing the wrong kind of shoes and his trousers seemed too smart. Then I saw he had a white shirt and a tie. That was odd too. The woman was wearing white trainers and the vehicle was definitely not an ambulance. Later on, I was doing some research in the library when I came across the article written about you so I thought if I brought the pictures along we might do a deal.’
‘May we see the photographs?’ asked Hunter.
The American shifted his position in the armchair and smiled uneasily as though knowing that once he showed the photographs to Hunter and Ellen he would ruin his chances of making any money on them. ‘What price are we going to put on them?’ he ventured abruptly. His attitude changed sharply when it came down to the money side of the bargain.
‘If it’s the kind of photographs I think they are, I’ll pay you five hundred pounds,’ intervened Ellen, much to the surprise of her partner.
‘That’s all very well,’ countered the American quickly, ‘but what if you look at them and then renege on the contract.’
‘We’ll soon sort that out,’ uttered Ellen curtly. She left the room to go directly to the bedroom and opened a safe built into the wall at the back of her wardrobe. Removing a bundle of money, she closed the safe, and returned to the lounge. ‘Here’s your money,’ she said, throwing the bundle into the lap of the American. ‘Now let’s see the photographs!’
Duncan placed the notes in the inside pocket of his raincoat without bothering to count them before opening the briefcase and removing two large photographs. ‘I’ve had them enlarged for maximum effect,’ he told Hunter, passing them across to the architect.
Hunter took them eagerly and examined the pictures, as Ellen came across to look over his shoulder. Each photograph had been taken from a different angle showing a man and woman in paramedic jackets lifting up the body of Sophie Taffler into the vehicle. Their faces could be seen clearly and, indeed, the man wore very smart leather shoes while the woman was wearing white trainers. Another thing that stood out like a sore thumb was the vehicle which was a large white van and not an ambulance. Duncan had been correct in his assumption. It was quite clear that the man and woman were not paramedics. Better still, he had been at the right place at the right time armed with a camera.
‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ continued the American, standing up, preparing to leave. ‘I tell you what I’ll do. As you’re such good sports, I’ll throw in the negatives as well.’ He delved into his executive briefcase, removed the negatives, and handed them to Hunter. ‘I hope it helps you to solve the crime. There are some real bad people out there.’
‘And there are others who take money from people without licence,’ groaned Hunter with a tinge of anger in his voice.
Ellen led the American to the door and showed him out before returning to the lounge.
‘You didn’t have to give him the money,’ related the architect, sad that he had been unable to provide the capital required himself.
‘It was always going to be worth it... to see the faces of those killers,’ she responded directly. ‘I couldn’t let him go and not show us the photographs.’
He felt inclined to agree with her and studied the pictures more carefully under a magnifying glass. ‘ You can see their faces very clearly but I’m really disappointed in one thing.’
‘What’s that?’ she asked, looking over his shoulder to try to determine the reason for his disappointment.
‘The number plate of the vehicle,’ he went on. ‘The camera was pointed at an angle so that it’s practically impossible to read it. The first two letters are ‘ST’ but the rest of it’s hidden.’ He looked up to face his partner. ‘I remember a film called ‘Northside 777’ where a man who didn’t commit a murder was sent to jail for it. James Stewart sprang him through a photograph which showed a newsboy in the background. He arranged for the newspaper being held by the boy to be enlarged hundreds of time to produce the date.’ He looked down at one of the photographs again. ‘Unfortunately, the angle at which the American pointed the camera doesn’t allow us to do that.’
‘Well at least you’ve got something worth while,’ she countered, touching his cheek lovingly.
‘At a cost,’ he grumbled. ‘I hate being pressed for money by people who don’t deserve it.’
‘Oh he deserved it all right,’ she chided with disagreement. ‘At last you have the faces of the two killers. That in itself was worth five hundred pounds. What are you going to do with the evidence now that you’ve got it?’
He thought for a moment to allow a number of ideas to cross his mind. ‘I’m going to contact Meredith,’ he said slowly. ‘He’ll print one of these in the local newspaper asking the public to come forward if they know either of these ‘paramedics’. We’ll force them out into the open by showing their faces to the world.’
‘A good idea,’ she added as he continued to view the photograph. ‘Well what are you waiting for? Don’t just sit there! Contact him right away!’
Hunter sprang into action at the words of his partner and he telephoned Meredith, asking to meet him urgently. The photographs could split the case wide open. The architect smiled to himself when he thought what Watson, the senior police officer, would say when the newspaper published the story with the photograph. But that would be after it was published!
***
Hunter met Meredith an hour later at the offices of the newspaper. The reporter examined the photographs and nodded his head positively.
‘These are great,’ he ventured eagerly. ‘I don’t s’pose you have the negatives.’
‘As it happens I do,’ related the architect, passing them over to the reporter.
‘Great!’ exclaimed Meredith jubilantly. ‘I’ll take the story to the editor. I’m sure it’ll be in the next edition. Better still, we can sell it to the national press and make a few bucks for ourselves at the same time. I’m positive they’ll print the photograph with the story on a national scale. After all, it’s a murder enquiry. boyo,’ he exclaimed with delight, ‘I think we’re on our way.’
‘There’s just one fly in the ointment with that plan,’ declared Hunter with an element of concern in his voice. ‘What about Watson? Shouldn’t we tell him before we proceed.’
The reporter screwed up his face with annoyance. ‘He can read all about it in the newspapers,’ came the casual reply. ‘I’m sure he’ll call us when the news gets around.’
Hunter thought about the comment for a short while but decided not to do anything about it. The die was cast and the next morning the national press produced the picture of one of the photographs with a story about the abduction. The caption read:
KILLERS IN ACTION
Following the abduction of Sophie Taffler, the young woman who managed to escape being raped and murdered by the two serial killers sought by the police, a photograph of them was taken by a sightseer at the time of her abduction. The photograph shows that the two abductors were not paramedics by the fact that their vehicle was not an ambulance and their shoes were not those worn by paramedics. The two people are wanted by the police in connection with the murders of Amy Chester and Inge Carlson whose bodies were found on Vernon Beach earlier this year. If anyone knows the identity of either of these two people they should contact Jeff Hunter on 01993 845755.
The architect was filled with pride when he read the short articl
e, especially as he was far ahead of the police in the investigation. Meredith had been right to go it alone and he telephoned him to tell him how delighted he was with the story. The reporter sat at his desk, swigging whisky from a bottle, revelling in his success.
‘I’m A-one with the editor for that photograph,’ he rattled down the telephone line. ‘Top marks, Hunter. Sorry we can’t pay you anything towards the five hundred quid it cost you but the benefits should come through soon. By the way, you realise you’ll be inundated with dozens of crank calls. People can’t resist it. They’ll be many who say they know the names of the people in the photograph even when they don’t.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll field the calls,’ returned the architect with a smile on his face as he ended the conversation with the reporter.
However, the first call he received was from Roger Watson who demanded that he turn up at the police station post-haste with the reporter. They arrived there ten minutes later and were led swiftly into an interview room. Watson entered behind them with fury showing on his face. He held one of the morning newspapers in his hand and waved it in front of the two of them as they sat down.
‘What the hell do you call this?’ he demanded angrily, turning th Meredith. ‘I called your editor who tells me you received this photograph yesterday and sold it on to the national newspapers. What do you think the police are here for?’ He paused in his tirade for just one moment before continuing. ‘I ought to have you arrested for withholding important evidence in a murder case. You should have brought this photograph directly to me.’ He stood up almost unable to control his temper. ‘You two are the utter limit, do you know that? Why didn’t you contact me the moment it came into your hands?’
‘There are two photographs,’ declared Hunter, hoping to deflate the situation as quickly as possible. He reached into the briefcase he had brought with him and produce the second photograph. ‘The great pity is that the registration number of the vehicle is obliterated by the angle. You can see the first two letters ‘ST’ but that’s all there is. Perhaps you can put a trace on it.’
Watson began to simmer down and he stared at the photograph closely. ‘What a pity,’ he retorted. ‘A foot to the side and we’d be able to see that registration number. I’ll get my people to start checking it but I don’t think they’ll have much luck. You should have come to me first with this. I’m surprised at you, Meredith. You’re an experienced reporter. You ought to know better.’ He turned his attention to Hunter. ‘And you... you’ll be flooded with crank calls from all over the country. I hope you realise that.’
‘I’ll handle it,’ claimed the architect confidently.
‘You think you will, do you?’ spat Watson angrily. ‘Well let me tell you that the last time we had something like this, we received over five hundred calls, none of which were relevant. You don’t seem to understand the mentality of people when they’re shown a photograph of suspects with a telephone number printed under it. Everyone becomes a suspect and they think they’re doing their duty to call you. And then there’s the crank calls... people who are psychologically unstable. They want to disrupt the investigation through sheer mischief.’
As he finished, Hunter’s mobile telephone rang and he answered it.
‘The names of those two people are Sutherland and Merton,’ advised the caller, ‘and they live in Dudley in the Midlands. She works as a dental technician and he’s a lathe operator.’
The architect closed down the call quickly and turned to the senior police officer. ‘I see what you mean,’ he told him. ‘That was a sighting of two people who are not involved in the case.’
‘Well it’s too late to go back on it now,’ stated Watson adamantly, shuffling the newspaper in front of Hunter to make his point. ‘You’ll just have to cope as best you can. But, in future, if you have any real evidence like this, bring it to me!’
‘You kept us at bay at our previous meetings,’ complained Meredith, angry at being hauled over the coals.’
‘That was because all the previous details came from mediums,’ returned the senior police officer bluntly. ‘They were wisps of information without any evidence or substance. This time someone’s come forward with real evidence and you failed to advise me of it.’
Hunter and Meredith decided that they were duly reproached and they left the police station shortly.
‘He was real mad,’ laughed the reporter, taking another swig at his whisky bottle.
‘I don’t blame him,’ returned the architect with a grin on his face. ‘But he listened to us this time, didn’t he?’
‘I tell you one thing,’ continued Meredith. ‘If we’d shown him the photographs, they would never have been published in the national press. He would have kept them under wraps for the police.’
‘And where would that have got us?’ asked Hunter with an element of amusement in his voice.
‘Absolutely nowhere!’ chuckled the reporter as he went towards his car.
Hunter’s mobile telephone began to ring and he answered the call. It was yet another false dawn. If Watson was correct in his assumption, there would probably be hundreds more by the end of the week. It was only now that the architect realised the problem he faced.
***
Quite unexpectedly, one of the calls that the architect received was from a priest. The cleric told him that he had read the article written in the local newspaper about Hunter taking on the investigation of Amy Chester’s killer and, although he neither knew anything about the case nor had any information that might assist, he willingly offered to undertake an exorcism at the architect’s house to release Ruth’s spirit. Hunter had not thought about exorcism since the death of his wife nor had anyone troubled to mention it to him. Nonetheless, he considered it would be useful to both Ruth’s spirit and himself if she were forced out of his life for ever. He took down the telephone number of the priest and mulled over the situation carefully. Then he contacted Jessica Harrow, the medium who ran the seances, to ask her opinion.
‘I’ve been approached by a priest,’ he told her, holding his breath as he waited for her answer. ‘What do you think about exorcism?’
‘In normal circumstances it often works... but not always. We know very little about the spirit world and its complexities, such as with ghosts, spectres and poltergeists.’
‘But do you think I should get the priest to undertake the exorcism?’ He was becoming as desperate as Ruth’s spirit in deciding what to do.
‘I don’t think it will work,’ came the unwelcome response. ‘You see, Ruth’s spirit is tied up with that of Amy. The strength of the two of them would resist being exorcised... certainly until the killers are caught and punished or when at least one of them dies.’
‘So there’s no way I can get rid of Ruth’s spirit,’ he retorted dismally. ‘If I don’t find the killers shortly, she’ll haunt me for ever!’
‘I can’t answer that directly,’ the medium answered frankly. ‘All I can say is that you may carry out the exorcism to see whether it works, although I doubt it.’
After the telephone call, he tortured himself to determine what to do one way or the other. There was a possibility that if it didn’t work, Ruth might vent her anger on him even though she was halfway in another world. Eventually, when he was unable to come to a definite decision, he turned his attention to Ellen to ask her opinion.
‘What do you think I should do?’ he forwarded delicately knowing her answer even before he had posed the question.
‘Go ahead!’ stated Ellen boldly. She was convinced that anything was worth trying to rid her partner of his attachment to his dead wife. ‘If it works, so much the better. If it doesn’t, you’re no worse off than you are at present.’
‘You don’t mind then,’ he continued.
‘Mind?’ she responded. ‘I’m all for it. You go ahead and make the
arrangements with the priest.
He was still reluctant to advance the situation. Ruth had been his wife and he felt that he really didn’t have the right to expel her from the house in which she had lived. With that thought in mind, he made a final decision and contacted the priest agreeing to the spiritual eviction.
The priest turned up at the house on the appointed day. He was a short man, fairly obese, completely bald, dressed in a black cassock, holding a large cross in one hand and a bible in the other. He was invited to enter the house and the priest, Ellen and Hunter stood together awkwardly in the lounge before he began the service.
‘I’m going to have to exorcise the spirit in every room in the house,’ the priest explained. ‘Otherwise it may linger somewhere unexpected and keep coming back.’
‘That’s okay,’ said the architect solemnly. ‘We have all day. You go ahead.’
The priest started the incantations, waving the cross he held in his hand from side to side and reading a section from the bible. Ellen and Hunter stared at him, watching his every move and listening to all the incantations.
‘Oh unholy spirit in this house,’ began the priest sombrely, ‘leave this room never to return again. Qui venit inomine Domine!’ He continued the invocation in Latin until he came to a halt, nodding to the couple as he ended the prayer.
They continued to the dining room where all seemed to go well and went on into the kitchen until they came to the master bedroom. The temperature had fallen sharply causing the room to become extremely cold. The priest quickly noticed the change and he turned to Hunter with concern.
‘This is the room where her spirit lingers,’ he uttered in low tones as if to hide his discovery from Ruth’s spirit.
‘ You’re telling me, ‘ revealed the architect dolefully. ‘I know it only too well. Her apparition appeared to me more than once at the foot of this bed.’
‘And on the occasion I stayed here,’ cut in Ellen, ‘it seemed as though a poltergeist had come to visit us. The wardrobe started to shake and move and the spirit started to wreck the place.’