by Thomas Brown
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to pop back up to his room and have a look around. See if I can find any clues as to where he’ll go next.’
‘I suppose so. It’ll be a while before I have the courage to go back up there myself.’ She reached over and poured herself another measure of brandy.
* * *
It was a bleak room. Being the attic, the outer wall sloped down almost to the floor with a dormer window fixed at its centre, through which the occupant had a fine view of the street below. I noticed an ashtray by the bed containing a stack of tab ends – Capstan Full Strength. Apart from these scorched souvenirs, the mysterious lodger, Mr Bristow, had left behind very few possessions, most of which were scrunched up in a small brown case: underwear, a few shirts, socks and similar items. There was however a small envelope secreted in the lid containing a couple of photographs. One was of Mr Bristow himself in army uniform with another chap, tall, saturnine and decidedly shifty. The other was a studio shot of a lady I recognised. It was Annie Salter. Glancing on the back of the snapshot of Bristow, I saw in neat pencil the words Private Malcolm Salter and Lance Corporal Marshall. Looking at the pictures again I could see the similarity of features shared by Bristow and Annie. For it was clear that Bristow was indeed Annie’s son. And lo and behold, he was alive and kicking, returned from the dead. That was part of Annie’s terrible secret. Her ne’er-do-well son had not been killed at Dunkirk. Now he was on the run, but there was something about his behaviour that told me that he was terribly frightened of someone or something. Involuntarily, I shivered, as I realised that I was wading into deeper and darker waters.
ELEVEN
He tingled with a strange mixture of excitement and confidence. It had been a long process and now he was about to realise his ambition. He had waited in the wings for so long and now he was about to step out into the spotlight – a very dark spotlight. It was his due. He had endured months of waiting patiently while he built up his relationship with Ralph Northcote, cultivating the man’s intimate friendship, slowly and gently persuading him that there was a fully active killing-and-eating life waiting for him outside the drab walls of his prison. ‘Drab walls of his prison’ – this last phrase made him smile. Northcote had a far worse prison now, enduring a mere existence rather than a life. But that was his own fault: he hadn’t been clever or perceptive enough to be suspicious of the all too accommodating Sexton. Greed and self interest alone had governed his actions and blinded him from the truth.
Well, thought Sexton with a sardonic grin, tonight I am going to enhance your bloody and notorious reputation. Tonight I will kill and feast in your name. He waited in the shadows, in a shop doorway near the municipal hall. It was late but he could still hear the strains of the small band playing inside. A jolly dance to cheer up the tired and jaded natives of old war-ravaged London Town. Sexton imagined the scene inside. A group of geriatric musicians in tired and shiny dinner suits on stage churning out a series of old tunes in three-quarter time, the room misted with cigarette smoke and a motley crew of dancers shuffling around the floor, trying desperately to forget the war, the blackout, the bombing, the deaths and their deprived miserable lives. There would be a few servicemen on leave on the hunt for a goodnight kiss and a fumble afterwards; a few grannies and grandads showing off, dancing with annoying panache; and guilty wives having a quick waltz with a stranger while their hubby was away fighting for King and country overseas. Sexton smoked several cigarettes while he waited, waited patiently, enjoying the taste of the tobacco as it mingled with the cold night air. Eventually the music stopped and the dancers began to leave, stepping out into the dark spring night, their voices bright and chatty, carrying some of the pleasure of the evening with them.
A group of four girls bustled by him, giggling and humming one of the dance tunes. Individually, each was ideal for his purposes, but bunched together as they were there was no chance to select just one of them. Others left the hall in dribs and drabs. A couple seemed to be having an argument on the hall steps. He was a loutish youth with greasy hair, wearing a pin-striped suit that was too big for him. She was a plump girl with an explosion of frizzy blonde hair and a stupid face. He was pulling her arm, trying to persuade her to go one way, while she was of a mind to go in the other. Sexton couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the boy was particularly angry, his voice lowered to a vicious staccato rasp. She started to cry and with a snarl he pushed her away from him and turned to go. Now she seemed undecided and took a step in his direction but he had walked off at such speed that he had disappeared into the night.
For a moment, the girl stood unsure what to do, apart from stifle her sobs with a handkerchief. And then with a dejected sigh, she set off in the opposite direction from the boy, moving along the pavement towards where Sexton was hiding. His pulse quickened. She could be the one if he was lucky. He had picked the spot carefully. Two hundred yards further down the road there was a small park where he had planned to could carry out his work undisturbed.
The street was now empty and quiet apart from the click clack of the girl’s heels on the damp pavement. When she had passed by him, Sexton untangled himself from the shadows and began following her at a discreet distance. Caught up with her own emotions the girl had no sense of the dark shape that was slowly but inexorably bearing down on her.
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ he called softly as they reached the open park area.
Instinctively, the girl turned around to observe the silhouette of a tall man carrying a suitcase.
‘Excuse me,’ he said again, as he stepped forward, close to her, so close that she could see his face in the moonlight which filtered through the straggly night clouds. It was pale and strained and the eyes looming behind large spectacles were strange and somehow hypnotic.
‘I wonder if you can help me,’ he said, placing his suitcase at his feet.
The girl did not know how to respond to his request. She just stared at the stranger blankly. He gave her an odd smile and then, before she knew what was happening, he had his gloved hands around her throat. It happened so swiftly that she hadn’t time to cry out. Her eyes widened in terror and her body rippled in panic, briefly as she began to struggle, but his grip on her throat was too strong and she quickly lost consciousness, slumping like a large rag doll against her assailant.
Quickly he dragged her into the bushes and found a space big enough to lay her down. He then retrieved his suitcase. In the cover of the bushes he began to undress the girl. Slowly and methodically he removed all her clothing in order to reveal her naked form. Taking off his gloves, he ran his fingers over her skin, his head buzzing with excitement, his sexual juices flowing. Then he slipped off his overcoat and placed it neatly on the ground some distance away from the body. Underneath he was wearing a protective white smock. With nervous fingers he opened the suitcase, withdrew the instruments and with precise deliberation began the butchering process.
Some fifteen minutes later, the smock now spattered liberally with blood, he had removed the organs and limbs he required and wrapped them in muslin and newspaper which he carefully stowed away with the instruments in the case. He gazed down with satisfaction at the girl’s mutilated body which glistened in the pale light. He dipped his fingers in one of her wounds and then sucked them dry. A little appetiser before the feast that would follow.
As some far away clock chimed the midnight hour, he stepped from the bushes with his suitcase and its grisly contents and with calm deliberation headed for home.
TWELVE
I spent the night at the cinema with Peter. I had befriended this runaway orphan in the early part of the war* and through various incidents and adventures, I seemed to have become his unofficial guardian. He was now looked after by two spinster sisters, Edith and Martha Horner, but I kept a fatherly eye upon him and tried to provide him with the care and guidance I’d lacked as a child. However, I had neglected my duty somewhat in recent weeks, indulging in my grief over the loss of Max. But now I wa
s determined to make amends.
I picked him up early from the Horners’ neat little villa and treated him to fish and chips – a slap up meal, he called it – followed by the best seats at the Odeon, Leicester Square. I knew that apart from my neglect, the lad needed cheering up. His first big romance had crashed into the buffers and the experience had hit him hard. Poor sod. Although he had no biological connection with me, he seemed to have inherited by some weird kind of osmosis a very tender shell where affairs of the heart were concerned. Well, the greasy fish and chips followed by Abbott and Costello’s antics as they ‘Hit the Ice’ along with a tub of ice cream cheered him up considerably and he was a lot chirpier on the way out of the cinema than he had been on his way in.
We found a little café open in Beak Street, and concluded the evening with a cup of tea. As usual Peter was eager to hear about my latest case, but I directed the conversation away from this particular topic. If his romance had hit the
* see the first Johnny One Eye novel, Forests of the Night
buffers, so, it seemed, had my investigations into Annie Salter’s death. It had been a revelation to discover that her son was still alive and had been dossing down with her for a while and that now it seemed he was in hiding. Well, he was officially dead, so the authorities would not take too kindly to him still breathing the civilian air of London when he should be in the army. Circumstances suggested that he may well have killed his mother, but something told me otherwise. I’m no Sherlock Holmes: this wasn’t a deduction – just an instinct. But carrying a shooter – and, indeed using it – clearly indicated that Master Salter was a bit of a villain. A nice fact to establish, but unfortunately the blighter had slipped through my fingers and was somewhere out there in this vast city impersonating a needle in a hay stack. The sudden recollection of this sad fact must have found its way onto my features.
‘What’s up? You look miserable,’ Peter observed, gazing at me over the lip of his mug of tea.
I shrugged. ‘Nothing important,’ I replied, glancing at my watch. ‘Hey, it’s time I was taking you home. It’s school tomorrow.’
Peter frowned. ‘Hey, don’t treat me like a kid. I’m fourteen you know and mature with it.’
I grinned. ‘I’m not. I’ve got a little problem with trying to find someone. It’s niggling me. That’s all.’
‘Tell me about it. I might be able to help. Remember, when I’m fully grown up, I’m going into the detective business too.’
I was about to say, ‘over my dead body’, but thought better of it. I didn’t want to tempt fate. ‘O.K. And then we get you in a taxi and home.’
Peter nodded with enthusiasm.
I gave him an abbreviated version of events while over dramatising the tussle I’d had with Malcolm Salter alias Mr Bristow on the top floor of Windsor House in order to disguise my incompetence at allowing him to escape.
Peter listened eagerly and narrowed his eyes in a sage-like fashion when I had finished. ‘So,’ he said, ‘your problem now is to find out where this Bristow/Salter character has gone to ground.’
‘That’s one of them.’
‘What does he look like?’
I reached inside my pocket for the sketch but changed my mind. Instead, I slipped out the photograph of Malcolm Salter I’d taken from his room in Windsor House. ‘That’s the chappie,’ I said. ‘Innocent looking cove, isn’t he?’
Peter’s eyes widened. ‘Who is the other man?’
I shook my head. ‘A mate of his from the army, I suppose. The name on the back of the snap says he’s Lance Corporal Marshall – no first name.’
‘I’ve seen that face before. I am sure of it.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’
Peter nodded emphatically. ‘Yes,’ he said, drawing the word out as he narrowed his eyes. ‘Of course… He’s in my scrapbook.’
‘Your scrapbook?’
‘Yes, my crime scrapbook.’
‘Explain, young master.’
‘I keep a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings connected with big crimes. I follow the progress of their investigation – or lack of it – and make notes. It’s good training for when I start as a detective.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ I said without much conviction. ‘So who is this chap,’ I pointed at the Lance Corporal.
‘I think he was mixed up with an armed robbery in Chelmsford a couple of months ago. Can’t really remember properly – but it’s in my files.’
‘In your scrapbook.’
Peter’s eyes flashed brightly and nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I think you’d better let me have a look at this scrapbook of yours.’
* * *
Later that night, I sat in my office, a small glass of Johnnie Walker in my mitt and Peter’s scrapbook on my desk. I was reading an account of an armed robbery at the Benson Road branch of the Midland Bank in Chelmsford. Two men had entered the small branch just as it was about to close one Wednesday in late February. Once inside, they shut the doors and revealed they were carrying weapons. One had a shotgun, the other a pistol – recognised as an army pistol by the only teller on duty, a Mr Percy Crabtree. Both men wore handkerchiefs across the lower part of their faces to hide their features. The robber who appeared to be the leader – the one that did most of the talking – wore a dark blue felt fedora. There were only three customers in the bank at the time and these were made to stand facing the wall by the thief with the pistol while the other forced the teller to open the safe. Being Wednesday the safe contained the cash for wages of two local factories and the thieves managed to bag over two thousand pounds.
As they were leaving, one of the customers made a grab for the robber. He was a young lad who was just about to join the army and had a fit of the heroics. He managed to knock Mr Fedora down and snatch the handkerchief from his face. In panic, the other robber shot him, wounding him badly in the thigh. Following this dramatic incident, both men fled with their haul.
The newspaper account was accompanied by an artist’s impression of the unmasked felon. It was to my way of thinking, as it had been young Peter’s, that the villain was none other than Lance Corporal Marshall. Blimey, I thought, the power of the artist’s pencil had certainly been working in my favour today. So Lance Corporal Marshall was a nasty piece of work and no doubt his accomplice was Mr Bristow alias Malcolm Salter. So that’s why he was hiding out. But where was Marshall and where was the loot? Salter certainly hadn’t got it. He certainly hadn’t been painting the town. Mrs Booth assured me he was hard up, owing her rent.
Well, in some ways the situation was a little clearer now but the solution was still as far away as ever. With this dismal thought, I headed for bed.
THIRTEEN
‘She was discovered by an ARP Warden on his way home. He usually takes a short cut across the park and found the body lying on the pathway. Apparently she had been killed in the bushes…’
‘But the murderer dragged the body out here so that she’d be discovered very soon,’ said David Llewellyn finishing the uniformed sergeant’s sentence for him. He’d been called out of bed early that morning by a telephone call from Deputy Commissioner Bradshaw. ‘It looks like our friend has started his work again, Llewellyn. I reckon you’d better take charge of the business from the start. Get yourself down there pronto.’
And pronto, with the aid of a police driver, he had got himself down to Camden and the little park where the poor girl, Doreen Maberley, had been found.
‘I still don’t understand why he dumped the body out here where anyone could find her?’ the sergeant was musing.
‘To show off his handiwork, I suppose.’
‘Handiwork is right. Poor girl: it looks like Jack the Ripper got at her. All her insides have been interfered with,’ said the sergeant, having great difficulty in keeping his breakfast down.
‘You’ve searched the area, I presume.’
‘With a fine tooth comb, sir. I got two of my lads on it as soon as it was light. They’ve been over th
e ground half a dozen times. Nothing. Not even any shoe imprints. He’s left the murder scene as clean as a whistle.’
Llewellyn knelt down by the corpse and examined it closely. ‘He’s taken the heart, liver and cut out her tongue.’
‘What sort of man would do such a thing? He must be raving mad.’
‘Mad, certainly. But not raving. He has a cunning intelligence with nerves of steel.’
‘Blimey, sounds as though you know the blighter’.
Llewellyn sighed but said nothing.
Leaving the body in the capable hands of the pathologist from the Yard, the inspector departed the scene, taking in lungfuls of fresh air as he left the park. He couldn’t remember feeling as depressed as he did now. The bastard he’d nailed all those years ago, the bastard he hoped would feel the hangman’s noose around his neck, was free and had killed again. Killed? Well, it wasn’t quite as simple as that. He had ripped and torn the flesh of a young girl to satisfy his appetite for flesh and blood. This wasn’t just murder, it was mutilation and, God forbid, cannibalism. He shuddered at the thought of it.
And now his task was to find him, and find him fast before he was able to carry out another of his gruesome crimes. How on earth was he going to do that? He paused and lit a cigarette before climbing into the police car.
‘Where to, sir?’ enquired the driver, revving the engine. ‘To the Yard, is it?’
‘No,’ said Llewellyn wearily. ‘Priors Court, off the Tottenham Court Road.’
* * *
He felt good. He had hunted, killed and now he had dined on his spoils. He washed down the last of his bloody titbits with a glass of water – nothing stronger than water so as not to interfere with the taste – and sat back with a sigh of great satisfaction. He wiped his mouth and grinned. The whole experience had been as wonderful as he had anticipated. All that was left was to read an account in the press of his glorious escapade. Maybe in the evening edition. Certainly in the next day’s nationals.