Myriad of Corridors

by Stan Mason

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Hunter told him fervently. There was no point in shilly-shallying around any more. He had to bite the bullet. ‘Let’s meet at the King’s Head in Dulwich tomorrow at eight o’clock. No policemen... just the two of us.’

  ‘Okay,’ came the swift reply and the line went dead immediately.

  The architect was extremely unhappy at the state of affairs. After all the arrangements that had been made, the killer was still at large and there were no further clues to hand. The fact that Lizabeth McBeth had telephoned him was of no consequence for she was unable to offer him the address or telephone number of her half-brother.

  The following evening, Hunter made his way to the King’s Head in Dulwich. He sat at a table with a glass of beer, sipping at it gently as he waited for the killer to appear. At ten minutes past eight, his mobile telephone rang.

  ‘Was I right in trusting you?’ asked the killer, laughing at the other end of the line. ‘I can’t see any policeman around.’

  ‘You are going to meet me, aren’t you?’ pressed the architect becoming angry at being messed about.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ came the reply. ‘In two months time I’ll be resting on a sun-lounger on the shores of the Mediterranean, either in France or Spain or Morocco, or perhaps somewhere else. I’m getting rather tired of the killing spree. It’s time I settled down.’

  ‘If only you could,’ snapped Hunter sharply. ‘I think you’ll go on killing until you’re eventually caught. You’re going to make a mistake somewhere along the line, my friend. If I, an ordinary architect, can get so close to you just think what a professional would do.’

  ‘And where are the police going to get that professional person from?’ The killer was beginning to taunt him again much to the architect’s displeasure. ‘It’s like someone saying that a task could be carried out by a boy of six years of age... if only they could find him.’ He burst into laughter at his own joke.

  The call ended suddenly as though the killer considered that there might be a tap on the line in which case he might be traced by location. Hunter was extremely upset that the meeting hadn’t taken place. Worst still, he realised that the killer had no intention of seeing him in person. So why had he contacted his half-sister, Lizabeth McBeth, to set it up. Perhaps, after the first debacle, he mistrusted the architect so much that he felt like playing him like a fish on an angler’s line. It was a penance for calling the police on the first occasion. Now the killer would never trust him again.

  Hunter decided to contact Meredith and he visited him to press him for any information he might have discovered. Although the reporter was not indebted to him to have to provide any details he had discovered, the architect felt that the agreement between them was still in place. The problem was that the reporter was always sniffing out a story regardless of any arrangement he had made with the architect. Consequently, Hunter made his way to the offices of the local newspaper to seek out the man. After all, a little time had passed since the two of them had met and the architect had charged him to undertake a line of research which would also be very advantageous to the reporter in the long run.

  The room was tiny and extremely smoke-ridden causing Hunter to wonder how the reporter could work under such conditions. Meredith was seated in a swivel chair. His feet were up on his desk, which was littered with random sheets of paper and files. He had a lighted cigarette dangling from his mouth which had a long ash, and he was talking to someone on the telephone. When he saw the architect, he ended the conversation abruptly and placed his feet down on the floor.

  ‘Take a pew, my friend,’ he said easily, turning his attention to the caller as he replaced the telephone receiver into its socket. ‘I’ve got news for you. I’ve been digging into Dorothy McBeth’s past and you’ll be pleased to know I’ve come up with some goodies.’ His hand went to his pocket and he withdrew a small bottle of whisky. Undoing the top deftly, he took along swig.

  ‘Anything you’ve found will be helpful,’ uttered Hunter, looking forward to some interesting information.

  Meredith picked up a manila file at the edge of the desk and opened it. ‘Dorothy McBeth died at the age of fifty-four. She was raped and strangled. She had three children, Peter, Sally and Timony. I’m not sure whether they all had the same father because she put herself around, if you know what I mean.’

  The architect took a pen and notepad from his pocket and started to write notes on the information provided. ‘There’s another element in the case. Their father had an illicit affair with another woman and a child was born, namely Lizabeth McBeth, who stayed with her mother. Anyhow, you go on!’ he urged with interest.

  ‘She lived with a number of different men after her husband, a scaffolder, was killed when falling from a building, and eventually she gave up her children to be fostered. Peter and Sally were kept together but Timony, the youngest, was farmed out to another family. When he reached the age of seventeen, Timony went down to Vernon Beach, stripped off his clothes, and walked out into the sea. His body was found two days later.’

  ‘That fits in with my theory, Meredith,’ explained Hunter. ‘The rape and killing was carried out by a man and a woman. Now we’re absolutely certain they were brother and sister.’

  ‘Are you certain you can arrive at that conclusion?’ asked the reporter. He was eager to establish facts for a story but what Hunter was telling him could be the scoop of the century.

  ‘I know that because the killer rang me and virtually confirmed that information,’ replied the architect, putting the pieces of the jigsaw together in his mind. ‘What you’re saying is that it’s revenge by a son and daughter because their mother abandoned them at an early age. The siblings probably killed their mother for failing them, especially for Timony, the youngest son. The reason why they leave the bodies on the beach is that it’s the same place where Timony walked out into the sea to drown himself.’

  ‘Okay,’ uttered Meredith thoughtfully. ‘So if it was a revenge killing... matricide... the murder of their mother for neglect to her children... why haven’t I been able to pick up anyone in this half of Britain by the name of McBeth?’

  There was a short pause before the architect forwarded his theory. ‘Because they adopted the name of their foster parents, or maybe they’re using another name. It isn’t difficult to change your name. Anyone can do it.’

  ‘Fancy a son raping and killing his own mother!’ uttered the reporter. ‘It’s pretty hard to swallow.’

  ‘You know the theory of the Oedipus Complex from Greek mythology where the son killed the father and bedded the mother. It’s in all the psychology books.’

  ‘Well we have the motive and we know the background,’ related Meredith, ‘now where’s my story? You see, I can’t tie up anything until they’re caught.’

  ‘We’re getting closer,’ declared Hunter positively. ‘I can feel it in my bones. We’re now looking for a brother and sister who carried out these crimes.’

  ‘You’ve been doing that for some time,’ complained the reporter sadly.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get them.’

  Meredith shook his head sadly. ‘That’s all very well but I’m employed by a newspaper to print a story.’ He paused to think for a moment. ‘I can understand the motive of revenge but why rape the woman?’ he went on. ‘And why kill strangers who had nothing to do with their earlier life? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It’s the criminal mind which has something to do with the abortions,’ stated Hunter blandly. ‘They first killed their mother. Then, probably on the anniversary of her death, they killed Elizabeth Dainty. The rape was either part of an ongoing Oedipus Complex or a means of creating new life to replace Timony. Who can gent into the mind of a psychopath. He killed those women out of blind revenge.’

  ‘You’re still certain a brother and sister were involved. How can two people feel exactly
the same way about killing innocent women? That’s what gets me!’

  Hunter screwed up his face and pouted his lips. ‘One will influence the other from an early age until anger fosters in the mind. Eventually, there becomes an overpowering desire to take revenge and kill. Then it went a stage further and they went on a killing spree at random. There can be no other explanation. Furthermore, they’ll go on killing until they’re caught.’

  ‘What a sad way to live,’ uttered the reporter miserably. ‘It means they have no kind of personal life at all.’

  ‘It’s because they’re both insane after all the hatred they built up inside them over the years. The question is how do we find them?’ Hunter recognised the hopelessness of the matter. He had come so far in the investigation but now the wheels had stopped turning.

  ‘What about the police,’ returned Meredith unhappily. ‘How far have they got now?’

  ‘Huh... my opinion of the police force is that they couldn’t run a party in a brewery,’ snarled Hunter tiredly. ‘Unless the public or an informer offers them information they haven’t got a clue. And when they get something important they don’t know what to do with it.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to agree with you,’ declared the reporter dolefully. ‘I’ve had years of experience dealing with them. With all their computers and Panda cars they have to rely not on brilliant detection but on direct information from the public. Woefully, there are no Morses, Poirots, Miss Marples or Frosts in the force. Those characters reign in the imagination of writers for television programmes.’

  ‘So we were right to decide to go it alone... to find the killers together so that I can get rid of Ruth’s spirit and you have a real scoop that you can sell to the national newspapers for a handsome profit.’

  ‘Yes, I think we made the right decision,’ concurred Meredith happily.

  Meredith returned his attention to the bottle of whisky and took a long swig as Hunter left the office with far more information than he had expected. He was certain that Meredith would be successful in his enquiries leading to the identity of the brother and sister involved in the heinous murders. The investigation had now restarted to become an obsession with the architect and he yearned to achieve a breakthrough to rid it from his mind and to release him from the haunting of his dead wife. Indeed, it was to come quickly and easily on the following day, although he was unaware of the trend of the development at the time.

  The same evening, he dined with Ellie in her apartment, having cooked an excellent Italian meal, when the telephone rang. Ellen answered the call which was relatively short in its content, returning to the dining table with a smile on her face.

  ‘Fancy going to a football match tomorrow?’ she asked pleasantly, staring into Hunter’s eyes hopefully.

  ‘Football,’ he muttered slowly. ‘My game’s rugby. I don’t care too much for cissies kicking the ball about a field at random. I prefer a much rougher, more exciting, game. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve a cousin who plays centre forward for Warterford United. He’s left two stand tickets at the gate for us for the match tomorrow against Jellington Rovers. He does that occasionally especially when he thinks he’s in form. Anyway, it’s the first match of the season and he’d like us to come along and watch him.’

  ‘Well I suppose we could go,’ agreed the architect, leaning across the table to take her hand. ‘I don’t mind watching two teams of cissies when I’m sitting next to you and holding your hand.’ He kissed her fingers gently like a nobleman in a film production.

  ‘That’s very romantic of you, darling,’ she returned happily. ‘It’ll help take your mind off the case.’

  ‘Take my mind off Ruth’s ghost, you mean,’ he said sharply, teasing her.

  ‘You know you can be a swine sometimes!’ she countered in mock anger, trying to make him bite back at her.

  ‘You haven’t had time to know the real me, darling,’ he responded with a smile on his face. ‘I can be Gabriel, the archangel, or the Devil himself.’

  She pouted her lips and smiled. ‘As long as you’re just a little Devil,’ she laughed. ‘Now be a darling and pass the salt.’

  He moved from the table towards her and put his arms around her shoulders. ‘You know what?’ he ventured lovingly. ‘I could eat you... even without the salt.’

  She pushed him away and stood up to face him, then they kissed each other, like two young lovers devoted to each other, and the excellent meal on the table was forgotten entirely.

  The next day they travelled to Waterford United’s ground and asked for the tickets which proved to be two central seats in the stands. The ground held eight thousand people but less than two thousand were in attendance as the team had been relegated the year before and was down-graded into a minor league. Eventually, after Hunter had bought hot dogs and popcorn, they found their seats as the two teams strode out boldly on the pitch. The referee tossed a coin and the winning captain chose the end of the pitch he wished to defend. Then the game started in a fairly listless manner, with the Waterford players passing the ball to each other repeatedly to draw out the other side. The architect was less than interested in the play and, when Ellen handed him a pair of binoculars, his eyes sought to magnify the referee, the linesmen, the photographers on the sidelines, some of the spectators, and other people not involved with the game. As he moved the binoculars across the field, he became aware of a man in a black and white uniform standing on his own watching the game. Hunter drifted past him to the linesman and then, after a short pause, he swung the binoculars back to look at the man more closely. There was an insignia on the arm of his sleeve which Hunter recognised instantly. It was the sign of a Maltese Cross. He handed the binoculars back to Ellen and, without delay, rose from his seat to walk hurriedly down the steps to the edge of the field, going immediately to the uniformed man to examine the Maltese Cross at close quarters.

  ‘You’re a St. John’s ambulance man, aren’t you?’ he asked with sudden inspiration flooding his mind.

  ‘You bet,’ replied the man. ‘We take care of the injured players or people on or off the pitch... if there are any that is.’

  The architect suddenly recalled the words of Jessica Harrow, the medium, who told him that Ruth was incessantly talking about injured people. Of course! She was referring to the St. John’s ambulance brigade!

  There was a roar from the crowd as the centre forward for Jellington Rovers broke through to shoot at the goal but he skied the ball high over the bar much to the despair of the visiting crowd.

  ‘Do you have a local headquarters?’ asked Hunter, eager to learn further details on the institution.

  ‘We’re located on the edge of town,’ stated the St. John’s ambulance man.

  ‘How many people are there in your group?’ The architect was becoming more excited as the conversation continued.

  ‘Eight. We’re always on the lookout for more recruits. Are you interested?’

  ‘I could be. What are the names of the people on your staff?’

  The man stared at him strangely. ‘What do you want to know that for?’ he demanded rather curtly, becoming suspicious of the type of questions being asked.

  ‘I might know someone there which would allow me to decide to join you,’ came the reasoned reply.

  The man paused for a moment and then conceded. ‘There’s myself, George Harris, Tony Swale, Jim Probus, Fred Parry, Sid Omer, and Sally and Peter Shakespeare.’

  ‘Just one more question,’ said Hunter making the final kill with his heart thumping in his chest with excitement. ‘How high is your headquarters? How many floors?’

  The man looked at him strangely for a moment. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘I think I’ve been there before. There’s a large Maltese Cross on the wall in the room on the third floor, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes,�
�� replied the man firmly. ‘We don’t use that room very often but there is a large cross on the wall. It was donated by Lord Berlingham when we opened the headquarters.’

  Hunter became overwhelmed by the confirmation. At last! He had cracked the case. He had finally tracked down the killers. Sally and Peter Shakespeare. Of course! Their real name was McBeth. They had changed it to Shakespeare who wrote the play Macbeth.

  ‘I think I know Peter and Sally,’ he lied blatantly, gaining the man’s confidence. ‘When can I see them?’

  ‘There’s a debriefing tomorrow at Headquarters in Abingdon Road at eight o’clock tomorrow evening. Although they’re not on duty today, they’ll both be at the meeting tomorrow. You’re welcome to come along. My name’s Charlie Davis. You can say I invited you.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Charlie,’ Hunter told him, nodding before leaving the man on the sidelines.

  He returned to his seat beside Ellen just as her cousin kicked the ball past the Jellingrton goalkeeper to put Waterford United one goal up against their opponents. The home crowd roared their approval and Ellen stood up and clapped her hands vigorously at her cousin’s success. As the roar died down, she turned to Hunter with a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘Why did you go down to the sidelines?’ she asked innocently.

  The architect’s adrenalin was pumping furiously through his body with excitement. ‘I’ve cracked the case!’ he told her jubilantly. ‘I know the identity of the killers!’

  She stared at him mystified. ‘How did you know that?’ she responded simply.