by M J Porter
The scars of air raids marked the area as well, evident in the ruins of houses. Had nowhere escaped the German bombs?
“Do you know anything about the case?” He asked, keen to distract himself from the current problems, but Higham was already shaking her head.
“Before my time, sir. Sorry. I’d never even heard of it until they asked me to come and get you and explained why you were interested. Such a shame. Poor boy. They said you might have something similar?”
“Potentially yes, I’ve no idea until I examine the file.”
Her forehead wrinkled in consternation.
“Then how did you know about it?”
“A sister of our murder victim saw the anniversary article in your local newspaper.”
“Ah, okay. That makes more sense. No one could work out why you suddenly called.”
Abruptly, she stamped on the brakes, and the colossal car lurched to a stop.
“Here it is, nothing pretty about the building, but it’s serviceable, and at least, we get some sun through the windows.”
“You hop inside. I think the Superintendent is waiting for you. I’ll just park the car.”
“Thank you,” Sam offered, opening the door and looking at the building. He couldn’t have hopped inside, but he appreciated the sentiment.
Although he could see what Higham meant about the windows, it was little different to his police station. The double doors were glass as well, and even now, a warm glow suffused the desk behind which he could see the curious gaze of another young police officer.
“You must be the Chief Inspector from Erdington, Mason, was it?”
The young face was welcoming enough, and at least he was expected. That always made these sorts of things go far more smoothly.
“I’m Constable Hughes. Come on through.”
Higham opened the desk hatch to allow him entry, and Sam followed the constable's shining boots. The man walked with a slight limp, and Sam deduced that accounted for the fact he wasn’t away, fighting on one of the many active fronts of the war effort. It had become the norm to look for the disability in those who remained. For those with an obvious infirmity, it was somewhat more straightforward than those who carried it unseen. Far better to walk with a limp or carry a burn to the face than appear whole.
“Here you go.” And Hughes tapped on the door and showed him into a pleasant office, where an older man wallowed behind his desk. Although a large beard and moustache covered the lower half of his long face, he was entirely bald.
Keen eyes looked up and then nodded to dismiss Hughes.
“Can you bring us some tea, please,” and then the man turned to Sam.
“You must be Chief Inspector Mason. Welcome to Weston. I’m Superintendent Hatly. I’ve had the old case notes found. I tell you, it was a bit of a bugger. Our storage area needs a good sorting out. Someone’s managed to get the alphabet inside out and upside down.” Hatly laughed as he spoke, the sound cheerful despite the complaint.
Sam shrugged out of his coat and folded it carefully over the back of the wooden chair. The chair legs scrapped on the tiled floor as he sat, and he winced at the discordant sound. But Hatly didn’t even seem to notice. Perhaps it was a regular occurrence. Hatly’s hands rested on a bulky paper file, and to the side, Sam could see a box, festooned with cobwebs and grime. It seemed apparent that this was the rest of the file.
“Now, it says here that Allan was the man in charge. He retired some years ago. A funny fellow. Picky some days and others, almost not seeming to care at all. It’s reflected in his case notes, that’s for sure.”
The tea arrived, and Sam almost smiled to see the dark shade of it. It seemed they liked their tea strong here. Or maybe it was just the lot of the young to over stew everything. There was no finesse. His wife would disapprove.
“Did you ever work with him?” Sam asked Hatly while the biscuits were distributed, and he sipped the steaming brew.
Sam couldn’t help leaning forward to try and get a look at the case file, but Hatly held it open in such a way that he could see little but the yellowed edges of old paper, the scent of dust permeating the air.
“No, I came here six years ago, and he’d been gone for a while, but, well, the others liked to moan about him. Not an easy chap to work for, so they say. I’d have sorted him out, quick time, but he and the superintendent were golfing friends, so it never happened.”
“Now, I have no problem in handing this over to you, none at all, but can you tell me about your case?”
“Young boy, seven, Robert McFarlane. Found dead close to Erdington church hall. The body didn’t look as though it had been touched, but he’d certainly been placed there and drowned elsewhere. We never found where he’d actually been killed. There was some suspicion it might have been the school teacher, but it wasn’t. I was young and new to the job when it happened. My chief inspector was a meticulous man. I’ve found his notebook. The fact the crime was never solved tormented him, and he routinely tried to have the case reopened, but he died without ever discovering the perpetrator.”
Hatly was nodding along.
“And why do you think it might be related?”
“The age of the child and the way he was discovered. It was the victim’s sister who brought me the article from the Weston Mercury. I feel I owe it to the family to see if there’s anything relevant.”
“Um, well. I don’t know. But, anyway, you’re welcome to hunt through the case notes, see if there’s anything that stands out for you. I’d like to see the nasty business solved. It’s not good to have an unsolved murder on our books. That damn newspaper reminds everyone every year, and I get a flurry of complaints and requests to look into it, and even people coming forward, even now, who think they might recall something. But it’s been nearly two decades. I don’t hold out much hope for you. The damn brute’s got away with it. I don’t like it. Not at all.”
Sam nodded.
“I feel the same. I resent the feeling that something’s unsettled. What can you tell me about the family?”
“I’ve asked around and had a look through what we know. It seems they were a good family. The lad was bright; everyone said it. He was one of seven children. I believe the older boys are fighting for our country now, well not the oldest one, they lost him in 1939, but I’m not sure about the girls. No doubt they’re equally doing their bit, nurses, or perhaps working in the munition factories. Both parents are still alive. They carry their grief well, if heavily if such a thing can be done. Very Victorian.”
“He’s buried in the churchyard at St Paul’s. You might want to take a look if you have the time. It’s a monument to the lost soul. A very Victorian monument.”
Hatly seemed determined to press the point, and Sam leaned back in his chair and eyed the older man carefully.
“What are you trying not to tell me?” He asked, determined to find out if he was wasting his time before he began.
For a moment, it appeared as though Hatly wasn’t going to say anything, but then he leaned even further forward and fixed Sam squarely with his penetrating stare.
“It seems that there was some suspicion about the father. He could be violent. The mother said nothing, but others weren’t as restrained.”
“And was there any proof?”
“Nothing and he had an alibi, but the rumours persisted. The monument at the graveyard was always, I believe, an attempt to dispel the whispers. I can’t say it worked. It’s always made me suspicious, but then, I’m suspicious by nature. I think all good coppers are.”
“Well, if it were familial, that would make it very different. Certainly, my victim couldn’t have been killed by his father because the poor man was long dead. But, if you will, I’ll have a good look through. I searched our files yesterday, and I’ve brought my chief inspector’s old notebook because it’s more portable. A clever man. I can’t believe all the detail in here,” and Sam brandished the notebook but kept his hand tightly on it.
One o
f them would have to relinquish their treasures, or this would have been for nothing, and yet Sam felt strangely reticent.
A heavy silence filled the room, and then Hatly reached for his tea and simultaneously thrust the file towards Sam.
“Here you, good man. I’ve set a desk aside for you, in the main room. Go and have a look, and perhaps we could chat in a few hours, if or when you find something or don’t find something. I have to leave at five tonight. What time’s your train?”
“There’s one at six or seven. I’ll see how I get on and thank you.”
Sam stood and pulled the file beneath his arm before turning to step into the larger room behind him. He was aware of eyes watching him, and then Higham appeared to scoop up the dusty, web festooned box as well, as though she’d been waiting to be summoned.
“Sir, I’ve set you up over here,” Higham offered, leading the way towards a far corner, where sunlight streamed through a window set at head height.
“I’ll bring you some more tea and biscuits, and you can crack on with it. Just shout me if you need anything. Oh, and the lavatory is outside and to the left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” Sam offered, but he was already settling himself and turning the dirty cardboard cover of the case notes.
His eyes scanned the case's details, the number, the date, the chief inspector involved, and the details of the crime committed. He nibbled on a biscuit, enjoying the sweetness and trying not to consider his rumbling stomach. He really should have eaten his sandwiches first, but he’d come this far; he wanted an idea of whether he was wasting his time or not.
The next page showed a pencil drawing of the place where the body had been found. He gazed at it, immediately noticing small details that made his heart beat a little faster. Surely, surely, it had to be related? The body had been as carefully placed, or so it seemed. He pulled the box closer to him and stood to riffle through the contents, searching for photographs. He felt sure that if he could see the scene as it had been found, his suspicions, or rather, Rebecca’s, would be justified.
Yet, a cursory exam found no crime scene packet of photographs, and he bit his lip, flicking through the pages of the case file to see if they’d been appended to it. He found no black and white images, but he did find more pencil drawings. He cursed softly. Surely, they’d taken photographs of the scene? But it seemed not. Stifling his frustration, he settled once more, turning to the small drawings and finding the ones that Chief Inspector Fullerton had drawn as well.
Sam’s eyes flashed between the two, and he expelled his pent-up breath. It seemed he’d been too quick to find similarities. The bodies hadn’t even been placed in the same way. Robert had his feet close together, his hands as well, and was slightly bent over. Anthony might well have been posed, but it wasn’t in the same position if he had. His right arm was flung to the side of his body, and both legs had been bent at the knee.
Sam sat back, looking from one to the other, already considering giving up. Only then he thought of something else, and he paged through the report from the Weston police until he found what he wanted.
The words were typed, but haphazardly, as though the paper had kept moving under the impact of the typewriter's heavy keys on the form. For a moment, his eyes seemed to blur, the words making no sense, and then, just like Fullerton’s scrawling script, he managed to make sense of them.
“Young male child found by the Women’s Institute, on Walliscote Road, at 7.03 am by a Mr Harrap out walking his dog, a Dalmatian called Bobby.” Sam smiled at the attention to detail and continued reading.
“Mr Harrap didn’t touch the body. It was apparent the child was dead. Instead, he walked to the police station on Walliscote Grove Road and informed Sergeant Cook of what he’d found. Chief Inspector Allan attended the scene, along with Cook, Smith, McDougal and Singh. On arrival, a body was found. Young, male, evidently dead for some time. Dr Hastings was summoned immediately to examine the corpse.
The body was fully clothed, clean and tidy, in what seemed to be school uniform, stripy socks, knitted blue jumper, white shirt, and a blue tie. Black shoes were on the feet, and they showed no scuff marks. There was no sign of violence on the body.
Dr Hastings arrived promptly and examined the body but was unable to determine the cause of death at that time. Detailed drawings were made, and measurements were taken. The body was promptly removed and taken to the morgue for further examination.
Allan instigated a full search of the scene, and unable to find any identifying marks on the body, could not inform the deceased youngster's family at that time. No one had been reported missing in recent days; records were checked.
The child measured four foot four inches long.
Cook and Smith door knocked local inhabitants for any information they might have. See their reports for details of who they spoke to and the information offered.
It had been a cold night, the first frost on the ground, and an ambient temperature of thirty seven degrees Fahrenheit as a point of note. There were no footprints or tyre tracks to show how the body had been transported.”
Sam was nodding as he read. It all sounded too familiar. He quickly scanned the rest of the brief report, looking for details from the mortuary examination. The fact the body was clean and tidy made him sure the two murders must be related, but he wanted to know if there had been any signs of violence on the boy, especially under his nails, or if they’d been clean, like Robert’s.
But, for all he examined the case file more than once, he could not find the report that Dr Hastings must have prepared for the police and the coroner.
He stood again and pulled the discarded box closer to him. Perhaps, the report had come loose. As he did so, his eyes fastened on a tightly wrapped packet, and he felt it.
It seemed they’d not taken photographs, but they had kept the victim’s clothes, if not his shoes, for there was no sign of them. Sam unravelled a knitted blue jumper, a white shirt, and a blue tie, smelling damp. They told him nothing, and so he refolded them and moved to place them back in the box. As he did so, Sam spotted a pile of papers, rolled with age and yellowing. The smell of dust and old paper assaulted his nostrils as he unfurled them, using both hands to hold them flat on the table
Not the mortuary report, but instead details on the mother's statement of her son’s disappearance. He looked at the time of the report and realised that even as they were finding her son’s body, Mrs McGovern was reporting Anthony as missing to the desk sergeant.
How easy it was sometimes to forget the human element of such terrible crimes.
Sam knew a moment of sorrow for her as he read the description of when she’d last seen her son and the clothes he’d been wearing, which mirrored those detailed in Allan’s report, and which he’d just seen.
He read on, curious as to how her son could already have been lying dead when she was only just informing the police.
Sam scanned the page, picking out the pertinent details. He was last seen on 3rd October 1926 walking to school along Windwhistle Road, alone. He’d been running late, and his older brothers had already left without him because they didn’t want the wrath of the schoolmaster. Mrs McGovern had offered to walk with her son, the mile to school, but he’d said he was happy to go alone, and Mrs McGovern had let him because she was feeling unwell herself.
It was obvious that Mrs McGovern blamed herself, but it wasn’t that which intrigued Sam, but rather why two additional days had gone by without her reporting her child missing.
There didn’t seem to be any reason for it, and he tried to read between the lines. She’d cited an illness; perhaps it had kept her in bed for those two days? But he remembered what Hatly had said about the father. Maybe it hadn’t been an illness at all. The thought consumed him. Could she have been suffering her husband’s ill-temper while her son was missing and ultimately murdered? It was far from a pleasant scenario.
Sam returned to the typed report and found the page which listed the det
ails of the body being identified by Mr McGovern. There was no description of the man’s appearance, yet Sam could envision him as stooped and greyed by the task assigned to him. Perhaps he’d believed it some sort of retribution for his fists. Or maybe he’d not considered it at all. Sam shook his head, dismissed his idle wonderings and delved deeper into the case file.
The rest of the details were just a comprehensive account of the murder investigation. As with Robert McFarlane, the chief inspector had initially suspected the schoolmaster, and then the leader of the local cubs’ group, and someone who assisted at the Sunday school, but they’d all been able to explain their whereabouts for those crucial few days of Anthony’s disappearance. Not that Sam couldn’t see through some of the alibis; after all, it had been days, not just hours that the boy had been missing, but he could also appreciate why Allan had dismissed them.
And then the case had gone quiet, with nothing but the report of the coroner’s hearing added to the file. Sam smiled to see the haphazard typing on the coroner’s report, just as bad as that on the initial investigation. They’d needed some new typewriters.
After that, there were only sporadic entries throughout the beginning of the following year, until a year to the date of the body being found, the file had been marked as archived with an official stamp. Sam sighed as he closed the back of the case file. It was more a hunch than anything else, and yet, he couldn’t help but think there was a connection between the two murders.
Higham caught his eye as he glanced around the room.
“Alright, Sir?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you. Well, yes, but also no. There’s something here, I know there is, but I can’t quite say more than that. It’s similar, and yet, perhaps I just see a connection where there isn’t one.”
“Would you like to see the place the boy was found?” she asked, almost hopefully. And he nodded.
“Yes, I think I would. For the time being, can you have the case file returned to the stores? I’ve written down the pertinent details, and I’m going to ask my Superintendent if I can send out the information again, as we did all those years ago. I might be completely wrong, but if the murderer struck somewhere else, maybe it wasn’t an isolated occurrence. It’s got to be worth the effort.”