by Thomas Brown
‘Give me the exact details and I’ll be down there within the hour,’ he said sourly.
* * *
The remains of Sally Hopkins were covered with a large grey blanket and part of the road had been cordoned off. Llewellyn stepped forward and raised the blanket, allowing the thin beam of his torch travel over the grisly corpse.
‘Very nasty, eh, sir?’ said Sunderland, standing close to him.
Llewellyn grunted a reply. ‘Do we know what’s been taken? The organs?’
‘The pathologist says that her heart and liver have gone and part of the thigh. He says he’ll have a better idea when he examines the body back at the Yard.’
Llewellyn dropped the blanket. ‘Well, get her back there, then. There’s little use her being here.’
‘Right, sir.’
Llewellyn was about to turn away when something caught his attention. The beam of his torch fell on something that glittered in the gloom at the far side of the blanket, in the shadows over by the wall. He stepped forward, bent down and picked it up. Holding it close to his face, he saw that it was a silver cigarette case.’
‘Very interesting,’ he said slowly, his eyes widening with surprise.
‘Do you think it was dropped by the killer, sir?’ asked Sunderland.
‘I’m not sure, but what makes it interesting – fascinating even – is that it has a name engraved on it.’
‘Not Northcote?’
‘No. Not Northcote. The name is Francis Sexton.’
* * *
While Inspector David Llewellyn was examining the cigarette case of Dr Francis Sexton, the man himself was preparing for his great vanishing act. After wallowing sometime in despair, following the discovery that his prisoner Northcote had escaped, the section in his brain that dealt with self preservation and survival had suddenly kicked in. He realised that his only course of action now was to disappear. Go somewhere in the country – maybe Devon where he had spent many childhood holidays. He had to become someone else in an out-of-the-way place, where neither the authorities nor Northcote could find him. With this vague and desperate plan in mind, he was quickly packing a bag with essentials, including a few small valuable items which he could sell to help him get by, along with the fifty pounds he had taken from his wall safe.
With a great strength of will, he was not allowing his mind to dwell on his old life which he now had to leave behind. If he was to survive – and indeed it was a matter of survival – he realised that he must forget all that and accept the new and unpleasant, drastic circumstances in which he found himself.
Clutching his case, he headed for the hallway and retrieved his hat and coat. Once he had donned these, he couldn’t resist stepping back into the living room to cast a final eye over his home.
It was then that it struck him. He just couldn’t depart like this. Walk out and leave all this behind intact. It wasn’t just the fact that he was turning his back on the comfort and security of his home but, in a more practical sense, he couldn’t leave the house like the Marie Celeste, like a ghost home, still keeping the signs of recent habitation: discarded newspapers, crumpled sheets, half empty gin bottles. And more importantly he couldn’t leave the cellar: the room where Northcote had been kept prisoner for prying eyes and expert analysts. That would really give the game away. That canny Welsh policeman would very quickly put two and two together and make a sparkling four.
Although he was aware that he was tired, his brain frayed at the edges and his thinking processes ragged and shaky, he also knew that the idea that came to him now was the right one.
He would torch the house.
Burn it to the ground.
The flames would expunge, purge any evidence useful to the police. With a smile he realised that the added bonus of this idea would be that they might think that he had perished in the flames. It would be a sound assumption to make. Then he really would be off the hook. They might search for a body, but he knew that the war had taught the police to cut corners. There were too many burnt out buildings and missing corpses to cope with efficiently. Whatever, setting fire to the place would certainly buy him time.
Inspired by this notion, he dropped his case and headed outside to the garage where he kept a spare can of petrol. That would ensure the flames would be all-devouring.
He chuckled to himself as he unlocked the garage door and swung it open. So focussed was he in his task, that he failed to see a bulky shadow by the gate. Dragging a metal canister from a shelf at the rear of the garage, Sexton returned to the house, followed at a distance by the shadow.
Once back inside the house, Sexton went down into the cellar, unscrewed the top of the canister and began sloshing the petrol around in a liberal fashion before returning to the sitting room. Here he repeated the process, dousing the carpet, the sofa and the curtains. He smiled broadly. He felt there was something satisfying about being an agent of destruction.
Soon the canister was empty and he flung it down and then stood for a moment breathing in the fumes. The aroma was intoxicating and pleasing. Then he heard a slight movement behind him and turning swiftly he saw a figure standing in the doorway. His heart juddered with shock.
It was Ralph Northcote.
‘Trying to destroy the evidence?’ he said quietly.
The sight of Northcote immediately ignited Sexton’s anger. He gave no thought as to how or why the devil came to be standing in his sitting room. Rage exploded within him. He roared with fury and like an automaton moved stiffly towards him, his arms outstretched.
Northcote stayed put. He simply lifted his right arm which held a long sharp knife.
‘Stay,’ he snapped, as one would to a dog. ‘Stay, or I will gouge your eyes out.’
Sexton faltered and then did as he was told.
‘I know it is melodramatic,’ Northcote said quietly, without any emotion, ‘but I have returned for my revenge.’ He gazed about him. ‘And it seems as though you have helped me in my preparations.’
Sexton took a step forward, but Northcote thrust the knife towards him. ‘It would be foolish to come any closer. I cannot tell you how much pleasure it would be for me to cut you up, to hear you cry in agony – the man that tried to deceive me. The man that imprisoned me and treated me like an animal.’
Sexton’s mind sought in vain for some course of action. He knew he could not reason with Northcote. He knew he could not tackle him: one false move and he would feel the blade of that vicious knife on his face. Could he perhaps run? But where to? Northcote was blocking the only viable exit to the outside. If he turned and ran into the kitchen, he knew that the exterior door was locked. By the time he had retrieved the key, the fiend would be upon him. The situation seemed hopeless.
‘Not only will you die tonight,’ Northcote was saying, ‘but your secret will be exposed. The police will know all about you.’
Sexton shook his head. He didn’t know what the fellow was talking about and besides he was only half listening while his eyes darted around the room in search of something he could snatch up and use as a weapon against Northcote. His eyes lit upon a large glass ashtray on the coffee table to his left, just a few feet beyond his reach. He knew he would have to risk it. It was his only chance.
Slowly he stepped backwards and then in a desperate sideways motion he reached out for the ashtray, but Northcote had sensed what was happening and attacked. He lunged forward thrusting the knife at Sexton, who had moved so quickly that the blade only caught him in the arm. With a cry of pain, Sexton stumbled sideways on to the edge of the sofa, where he lost his balance and crashed to the floor.
Northcote stood over him, legs astride like a maniacal colossus and raised the knife, ready for the fatal blow. In wild desperation, Sexton lashed out with his legs, catching Northcote violently in the crotch. With a moan, Northcote doubled up, the knife spinning from his hand. Scrabbling across the floor from his assailant, Sexton reached out for the ashtray once more and brought it crashing down on Northcote’s head
. With a muted grunt, Northcote slithered forward onto his face in an apparent faint.
The light of unstable triumph illuminated Sexton’s eyes as he rose unsteadily to his feet and stood panting over the inert frame of his enemy, the throbbing pain in his shoulder almost forgotten. He was inclined to bring the ashtray down once more on the man’s skull, but he resisted the temptation. The flames would finish the job off more satisfactorily.
He felt in his jacket pocket for his cigarette lighter, wincing as he did so, the pain of his wounded arm reasserting itself. Taking an old newspaper from the magazine rack, he twisted it round into a makeshift torch and lit one end with the lighter. It blossomed into a bright yellow flame. With a satisfied grin, he flung the burning paper onto the petrol soaked hearth rug. It spluttered awhile and for a moment Sexton thought that it would go out, but then with a gentle woomf, tendrils of flame shot across the rug and rose upwards. Within seconds, the hungry fire, with the help of the petrol, reached out beyond the rug to touch the carpet and other items of furniture with its fiery contagion.
Sexton was surprised and pleased at the speed with which the fire was spreading. Already he could feel the searing heat on his face and he knew that he had little time to lose before he left the building. But as he turned to go, he stumbled. Something had caught hold of his ankle.
Someone.
Northcote.
The fiend had roused himself. Sexton tried to wrench himself free of his firm grip but failed. He dropped to the floor, kicking his leg as violently as he could in an attempt to shake his assailant off. All the while the flames were multiplying, growing hungrier and more fierce.
‘Let go, or we’ll both be killed,’ screamed Sexton.
Surprisingly Northcote released his hold, while at the same time, jumping to his feet and scooping up the knife which lay inches away from the devouring flames. Sexton could only see him now as a dark silhouette against the yellow wall of fire.
For a second time Northcote loured over him but Sexton was too slow to react on this occasion. With a snarl of anger, Northcote brought the knife down, straight into Sexton’s right eye and piercing his brain. Sexton opened his mouth to cry out but no sound emerged. His body jiggled for a few seconds like a man on a gibbet and then lay still, a trickle of blood smearing his cheek.
Fixing that pleasing image in his mind, Northcote ran from the burning building out into the enveloping darkness.
TWENTY-SIX
I made my way up the overgrown path of number 23 Commercial Street. It seemed to me that the house had not been occupied for some time. The door was boarded up as were the downstairs windows. However, on closer inspection, I noticed that one of the boards across the window at the left-hand side of the door seemed to be hanging loose. So it proved to be. With just a gentle movement I was able to swing the board to one side, creating a gap big enough for me to gain entry to the house, a feat managed easily as the window pane behind the planking was missing. It lay in shattered shards on the floor inside.
In a trice I was standing in a dark, damp and rank smelling chamber. I lit a match and the decaying room sprang into flickering relief. This had been the sitting room, I guessed, noting the broken down horsehair sofa and a decrepit armchair, the seat of which seemed now to be the home for a family of mice. As the match dimmed, prior to going out, I heard a movement somewhere in the room and then as darkness returned, a bright light shone in my face.
‘Johnny!’ a voice called. It was Peter. I felt a mixture of relief and annoyance.
‘Take that torch out of my eyes, will you?’ I snapped.
‘Sorry,’ he said, lowering the beam.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘I followed Horsefield. I saw him enter the house but now he’s disappeared.’
‘What do you mean disappeared?’
‘I watched him climb through the gap in the boarded up window and come in here just before it got dark but he didn’t come out again, so I came in after him.’
‘You little fool, don’t you know the man is very dangerous? He’s a murderer. He wouldn’t think twice of putting a bullet in you.’
‘I was careful.’
I rolled my eyes in angry derision but, of course, in the darkness Peter could not see disdain.
‘Anyway, I’ve been around the house and looked in all the rooms and he’s not here,’ he continued. ‘He must have left another way, probably out of the back.’
‘Are you sure he’s gone?’
‘Positive.’
‘That’s very odd. What made him come here in the first place if it wasn’t to hide out.’
‘He might come back.’
‘I suppose so, but I reckon that’s unlikely. When you saw him was he limping?’
‘Yes. His left leg, I think.’
‘That’s my handiwork. I wounded the fellow today.’
‘Really!’ In his excitement at this revelation, Peter’s voice rose an octave. ‘How?’
As briefly and succinctly as I could, I gave Peter a recital of my adventures at Victoria Station.’
‘Wow, a real shoot out. That’s terrific.’
‘Not all that terrific. The man got away and with the money after killing his greedy partner and giving me a whopping headache.’
‘So, what’s our plan of action?’
A good question. I pushed my hat back on my head and scratched my forehead. I was puzzled and no ideas were coming to my rescue.
‘Well,’ I said at length. ‘There’s nothing we can do here tonight. Let’s get you home.’
‘Ah, Johnny, we can’t give up now.’
‘Oh, yes we can, partner. We have no leads and even if I had, I certainly wouldn’t be involving you in following them up.’
‘Why not? I found Horsefield, didn’t I?’
I couldn’t argue with that point. Then an idea struck me. ‘When you saw Horsefield, was he carrying a bag, like a small holdall?’
Peter thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I reckon he was. He sort of clutched something to his chest as if he was holding a baby. I suppose it could have been a holdall.’
I grinned. ‘Holding a baby, eh? His bonny baby: two thousand smackeroos in crisp bank notes. So that’s why he came here.’
Peter shook his head in puzzlement. ‘What do you mean?’
‘To stash away the money. A nice little hiding place while the heat is on. This is his neck of the woods. He’d know about this old house. An ideal location to secrete the stolen cash. Safe as old houses.’
‘So it’s here somewhere,’
‘Somewhere. Yes, I reckon it is.’
‘So we’d better search for it.’ Peter was getting really excited now.
‘Whoa,’ I cried. ‘You’ve heard the phrase ‘needle in a haystack’, well that’s the situation we have here. Old house full of various nooks and crannies. Pitch black and a small torch. How on earth are we going to be able to search for a small bag containing some stolen loot?’
Peter gave a heavy sigh. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘I need to contact Inspector Sullivan about this – get him to send a body of men to keep an eye on the house and when it’s daylight give it a thorough search.’
‘And what about Horsefield? Where do you think he’ll be now? What if he comes back tonight?’
‘I don’t think he’ll do that. He needs to rest up… to…’ My mouth stopped working mid-sentence as my brain took over and an idea formed slowly in my mind.
‘What is it, Johnny?’ Peter asked after a brief pause.
‘He’ll need medical treatment – for his leg. The wound needs cleaning and bandaging. He can’t go to a hospital. They’d ask too many questions. So would a doctor. Where would he go for help and a bit of simple nursing?’
‘His mother. He’d go to his mother.’
‘Indeed, he would. She lives in the neighbourhood.’
‘I went there this morning. To her house.’
‘What!’
‘I pretended
I wanted a glass of water. I tried to spy out to see if Horsefield was there – but I got nowhere. She gave me the glass of water but I didn’t get past the front door.’
‘Well our man certainly wasn’t there this morning – he had other fish to fry then… at Victoria Station – but I reckon there’s a strong chance that he’ll be there now.’
‘Ok, let’s go.’
‘Not on your life, Peter. I’m not risking taking you with me. As I’ve told you Horsefield is a very dangerous man. Even more so now that he’s got his loot.’
‘Oh, come on, Johnny. Look, I can help you, I know. All we need to do is establish that Horsefield is at his mother’s and then we can call in the police.’ He reached out his hand squeezed my arm. ‘Come on, Johnny, we can do that together, can’t we?’
TWENTY-SEVEN
In the distance David Llewellyn could see a bright crimson smear illuminating the sky as they turned down the road where Francis Sexton lived.
‘There’s been no bombing tonight, has there, sir?’ asked Sergeant Sunderland as he manoeuvred the car slowly towards the fiery glow.
‘No,’ David replied slowly, as he peered ahead of him and caught sight of a fire engine and the darting silhouettes of firemen. ‘But it looks like our suspect’s house is blazing away nicely.’
Sunderland parked the car some hundred yards from the conflagration and the two men walked slowly towards the burning house. Even from this distance, they could feel the heat of the conflagration blowing towards them in waves. However, the flames were beginning to surrender to the force of the water and a mixture of steam and smoke were beginning to envelope the damaged building like a surreal bank of fog. Llewellyn made his way through a small knot of onlookers and approached one of the firemen who seemed to be in charge.
‘What’s happened here?’ he asked.
The man turned abruptly, his sweaty face tinged red from the reflection of the flames.’ Stand well back, sir. It’s not safe for you.’