 
## Title Page

# Killing Satisfaction

### By

### Jason De'Ath

Text copyright © 2017 Jason De'Ath

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

## DISCLAIMER

All characters and events, (as well as specific establishments and some geographic locations,) are **entirely fictitious** , though consistent with the period. Any resemblance to persons (alive or dead) or specific places (past or present) is **purely coincidental** , though some locations - in a general sense, for the sake of realism - are genuine, e.g. London districts & English counties; some towns, villages, streets/roads, etc.

Every effort has been made to ensure historical authenticity as much as is reasonably possible; where this was not possible or was otherwise undesirable (for a variety of reasons), along with many background details, the intention was to at least be representative of the period.
Contents

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

PART TWO

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART THREE

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

PART FOUR

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

PART FIVE

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

## PART ONE

## The Crime

##  Chapter One

## (30 July 1965)

**Cherrydean** was a sleepy Buckinghamshire village bordering the ever-burgeoning metropolis of Greater London. It was a perfect place for an adulterous couple to partake of their libidinous frolics. Gregg Mason had parked his _Mk 5_ _Singer Gazelle_ inside the entrance to a wheat field, which being imminently due for harvest, effectively shielded the car from view – only the rear was visible from the road; in the evening half-light, its' dark racing-green colour providing excellent camouflage, as it was effectively hidden by the greenery of the hawthorn hedgerow on either side of the field entrance. His paramour was Vera Fable, a twenty-two year old director's secretary at _Alcott & Sons Timber Merchants_ in Maidenhead, where Mason was the Sales Manager. Their 14-month affair was gently smouldering, despite being an open-secret; but Anne Mason was well accustomed to her husband's infidelities and begrudgingly tolerated them. Gregg and Vera were supposedly rallying partners associated with a local club of enthusiasts – Vera acting as navigator. Together they often volunteered to plan and organise events for the club: a blatant charade that seemed to work for all concerned. Anne Mason had no interest in cars, so Gregg was free to pursue his passion unencumbered by marital obligations; meanwhile the Mason's two children remained oblivious, although Anne was increasingly aware that they were growing up.

Gregg was ten years older than Vera, his rugged good looks and seductive charm having had their inevitable effect upon the impressionable young secretary, while he could not resist the obvious and elegant attributes of a slender, pretty redhead. They quickly engaged in an intense relationship, but Mason maintained his loyalty to his family, reluctant to abandon them for fear that Anne would descend into a suicidal depression, as she had once before. The Mason marriage was under a constant tension, but had somehow attained a stable equilibrium state. However, unknown to Gregg, Anne had approached Vera on several occasions in a paranoid-driven bid to alleviate her fear of an impending divorce; it was a perpetual burden, yet she could not imagine a life without her recalcitrant husband. It was a case of grinning and bearing it.

Mason and Fable were in the midst of a heated amorous embrace, when they were interrupted by a metallic tapping noise on the driver's side window. Initially startled, they parted and sat up; motionless they stare at each other in bewilderment – then the tapping resumed, slightly louder this time. As the windows were now all steamed-up, it wasn't possible to see who was outside; they assumed it was the farmer who owned the field, so Gregg wound down the window: the barrel of a .38 Enfield service revolver greeted his curiosity. Gregg recoiled in shock and panic: "Shit...! What do you want?"

"Just give us the keys. I'm a desperate man – this is a stick-up." was the gunman's gruff reply spoken in a distinct East London accent. Gregg did as he was ordered, then grabbed Vera's hand protectively: she was petrified.

The gunman climbed into the back seat of the _Singer_ and pointed the weapon at Mason's head: "Don't turn 'round!" he snapped, as Vera and Gregg instinctively did so. In that brief moment in the darkness they could only determine that the gunman was wearing a handkerchief (cowboy fashion) to hide his identity.

"What do you want?" asked Gregg tentatively.

"We can give you money." suggested Vera, hopeful that this was his motive.

"'Ow much you got?" he enquired inquisitorially.

The terrified couple hastily gathered together the small amount of money they had with them – though Vera bravely kept some back, hiding it down the side of the seat – and (without turning) offered it over to the gunman. He snatched it from Mason's hand and began counting it up.

"Jus' over five nicker... Do f'r a start." he commented. There then followed a tense silent pause: the gunman seemed to be contemplating his next move. Vera squeezed Gregg's hand tightly and stared anxiously into his eyes. The gunman diffused the moment by coughing.

"'And over y'u' watches." he commanded: they immediately complied. After examining these for a minute or so, his tone suddenly changed to a more conciliatory one.

"So, you two a couple, then?" he asked somewhat provocatively with a slight smirk. They were initially stumped as to how to reply to this unexpected question, frantically searching each other's faces for guidance. Vera eventually stuttered a little unconvincingly: "We're just friends."

"Friends...? Right." was the gunman's sarcastic response, "Is that what they call it now'days?" "Look – what do you want from us?" implored Vera.

"Shut up. Just do what I say and you'll be alright."

"Why don't you take the car and go?" suggested Gregg desperately.

"I'm too tired t'drive. I'm on the run y'u see. I 'aven't slept for two days... Got wet frew las' night."

Vera impetuously turned fully around to address the gunman. She could see he was quite well dressed, certainly not wet, and he did not have the appearance of someone who had slept rough; his dark hair was neatly swept back, his pale complexion punctuated by his piercing blue eyes.

"I said don' look 'round!" he snapped angrily.

"Just tell us what you want – please." Vera pleaded.

"I jus' wanna rest. Don't push me – I might lose it." he said menacingly.

Vera braced herself, while Gregg comforted her by gently stroking her arm. The gunman just sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity; then suddenly he demanded: "Drive furver int' the field" and tossed the keys into Gregg's lap. Gregg retrieved the keys which had fallen into the foot well; he reluctantly turned the key in the ignition and the car juddered to a start.

"Y'u didn' choke it." the gunman commented irritably. Gregg drove slowly into the dense well-developed forest of wheat, accompanied by the sound of crumpling stalks and the scuffing of the plants against the car's paintwork; the wheat was almost as high as the roof of the Singer. To Vera it seemed like they were descending into a forbidding underworld from which they may never return. About fifty feet into the field, the gunman ordered Mason to stop and turn the engine off.

"We'll jus' sit 'ere f'r a bit." he stated. "So, what d'you two do f'r a livin', then?" "I'm a secretary." Vera replied in a prickly manner.

"What about you?" the gunman prompted Gregg.

"I'm the manager in the sales department."

"So is she y'ur secretary?" the gunman asked suggestively.

"No." the couple replied curtly in unison.

"Oooh – raw nerve." laughed the gunman; "You two gettin' married?" he continued.

"Why would you ask that?" Vera enquired uncomfortably.

"Jus' makin' conversation, darlin'; no need t'get y'u knickers in a twist... I a'n't married niver." "Did you say you'd escaped from prison?" asked Gregg.

"Yeah, tha's right. I was doin' a five stretch. I've done the lot I 'ave." "The lot? What does that mean?" Vera asked apprehensively.

"It's t'do wiv prison time... I a'n't killed no one or nufin'... Well, not yet." he said with a snigger.

"Are the police after you?" Gregg continued to quiz.

"What d'y'u fink? Course they are." he answered peevishly, then unnervingly continued: "I like me gun – makes me feel like Gregory Peck: y'u know, in ' _Ow The West Was Won_...? 'Ave y'u seen it?"

This remark perplexed the frightened couple, but they decided to engage him in conversation.

"I think I did see that." answered Gregg.

"That Debbie Reynolds is a tasty tart... You look a bit like Debbie Reynolds." observed the gunman, momentarily leaning in towards Vera.

"I wouldn't call _her_ a tart." Gregg interceded.

"Who?" replied the gunman facetiously.

"Debbie Reynolds." countered Gregg sharply.

"No. Y'u' right. She's a lady." the gunman conceded.

"Do you like Westerns?" enquired Vera in an effort to steer the conversation away from women.

"Yeah – love 'em. ' _Igh Noon_ : tha's me fav'rit'."

"That's an old one." noted Gregg.

"Gary Cooper: great actor - me boy'ood 'ero... D'y'u like Gary Cooper?" "Can't say I've seen many of his films." said Gregg.

"What's y'u names then?" the gunman asked obliquely.

"Er... I'm Gregg...and this is Vera." Gregg responded hesitantly.

"Wha's y'u' favourite film, Vera?" asked the gunman in a strangely familiar tone.

This question initially stumped Vera, who was not much of a movie buff. After an uncomfortable pause, she suddenly remembered one: " _Lawrence of Arabia_."

"I saw that... Bit borin'. What about you, Gregg?"

"The last film I saw was _Goldfinger_."

"James Bond; 007; Licence t' kill. I'd like t'be a spy..."

Sensing that the conversation was about to drift into uncomfortable territory again, Vera quickly interrupted:

"Shouldn't you be making your escape – if the police are after you?" "I told y'u, I'm tired. Anyway, they a'n't gonna find us 'ere, are they?" "I could drive you some where, if you like." suggested Gregg.

"I dunno – not yet."

"What did you get five years for?" asked Vera tentatively.

"'Ousebreakin'... I do posh 'ouses; expensive jewellery mainly... Been in an' out o' prison all me life. I 'ad a tough child'ood – see? My dad use t'beat me when I was little – wiv a belt. Every day, pretty much. Sometimes, they locked me in the cellar... in the dark. It was cold, too. I was scared o' the spiders. Y'u shouldn't do that to a kid..." "That's really awful." sympathised Vera.

"I 'ad t' fend for meself. Tha's 'ow y'u survive – nickin' stuff. Trouble is, sometimes y'u get caught... Prison a'n't so bad, though. Made a lot o' friends in nick."

"So why did you escape, then?" sniped Vera disparagingly. Gregg glared at her with a fearful subtle shake of the head. Vera bit her tongue, immediately realising she may be antagonising a psychopath with a gun; she gave Gregg a sheepish glance.

"What?" said the gunman quizzically; he was slightly taken aback by this, but didn't really understand, so chose to ignore it. A deafening silence followed, lasting several minutes. Gregg and Vera braced themselves.

"Y'u got kids, then?" the gunman inexplicably asked out of the blue.

"Why would you ask that?" replied Vera incredulously.

"Well, 'ave y'u?" he contended.

"I have." interjected Gregg, "Two: a boy and a girl."

"'Ow old?"

"Erm, six and eight."

"Nice. I like kids... So, y'u married, then?" the gunman asked, addressing Gregg.

"Yes... Twelve years."

"Does y'u' wife know about 'er, then?" the gunman quipped.

"We're just friends." insisted Vera.

"Oh, yeah. Jus' friends; yeah, right." commented the gunman in a deliberately unconvincing manner. He continued:

"So, what a' y'u two doin' parked in a dark road in the middle o' nowhere?"

The question momentarily confounded them: they frantically searched each other's eyes, before simultaneously remembering the cover story, causing them to both blurt out their response in tandem.

"We're planning a rally."

"Been practicing that 'ave y'u." smirked the gunman sarcastically; another deafening silence followed. The gunman then chose to break the tension himself: "You in a club or somefink, then?" "Yes, 'The Maidenhead Auto Club'." said Gregg with unmistakeable relief.

"I like cars. This yours is it?" enquired the gunman.

"Yes. Got it last year." Gregg replied.

"What engine is it?" continued the gunman.

"Er, sixteen-hundred."

"Mmmm, thought so."

"What's your name?" asked Vera abruptly.

"What...? Name...? Mister Brown, okay?" the gunman asserted somewhat unconvincingly.

"Is that what we should call you?" she pressed him.

"Don' call me anyfink. I a'n't stupid y'u know."

"Sorry, I just thought we should..."

Gregg expediently intervened: "He's right. We don't need to know his name." Another tense silence permeated the oppressive ambience of the time capsule that the interior of the car had become.

"Can I open the window?" entreated Vera.

"Yeah. Okay. But don' try anyfink." conceded the gunman reluctantly.

A fresh countryside breeze flowed comfortingly through the car: it immediately seemed to flush out the bad atmosphere, both literally and figuratively.

"Good idea." congratulated the gunman, "It was gettin' stuffy in 'ere."

"It's a lovely evening." Vera forgetfully observed, before scolding herself internally.

"Women!" scoffed the gunman. There was a pause and then he unexpectedly said: "I feel 'ungry. I fink I might get some food... I'll 'ave t'tie y'u up."

"What? Why?" beseeched Vera distraughtly.

"I'm gonna be drivin' ar'n' I?" he sniped.

"Why don't I drive you?" proposed Gregg in alarm.

"No!" insisted the gunman, "I don' trust y'u. Wha's in the boot?" "Nothing much – why?" Gregg replied in confusion.

"I need somefink to tie y'u up. Got any rope?"

"There is a tow rope."

"Le's get it. Get out the car; both o' y'u, and no funny business."

The gunman stepped out first. Gregg and Vera apprehensively emerged from the vehicle; Vera struggling with the door, having to push against the chest-high wheat. Fighting their way through the semi-flattened plant at the sides of the car, they made their way to the boot, where the gunman was waiting. It was now quite dark, but the moon was providing some illumination. For the first time, the abductees were able to get some impression of the physical stature of the man holding the gun: he was smartly dressed – certainly not dishevelled – in a dark blue suit; his shoes were a quality make. He was of an average build and Vera could judge that he was about 5ft 7in tall, (slightly taller than her, slightly shorter than Gregg). She also noted that he was wearing black leather gloves.

"Open it." demanded the gunman. Gregg did as instructed, revealing a near empty boot space, with a blanket folded in half and spread over the boot floor, and a tow-rope folded-up on one side: "I'll use that on _you_." he stated as he lifted his head to stare coldly at Vera.

" _You_ get in the boot." he ordered Gregg. Gregg was far from keen to comply and Vera was now decidedly concerned for their welfare.

"You can't do that, it'll kill him." she pleaded.

"Why will it?" countered the gunman. Vera had to think quickly.

"There's a hole in the exhaust: the fumes will suffocate him."

The gunman appeared slightly flummoxed by this. Vera just prayed that he believed her, and cared enough not to go ahead anyway. He glanced at the boot, then Vera, then Gregg, then back at the boot; pondering for a while, he eventually conceded: "Okay. You drive." he said handing the keys to Gregg.

Gregg's foreboding was instantly and visibly abated, as was Vera's. They all clambered back into the car.

"Don't put the lights on, yet." asserted the gunman, as Gregg started the car.

"But I can't see anything." Gregg pointed out disconcertedly.

"Jus' drive straight back. I'll tell y'u when t'stop." directed the gunman.

Eventually, Gregg managed to manoeuvre the car out of the field and turned it to face the road, then asked: "Can I put the lights on, now?"

"Yes, you'd better."

"Which way do you want to go?"

"Wha's right?"

"I think either way will lead on to the A4. Left is quickest." advised Gregg rather pointedly.

"Which way is Windsor?" added the gunman.

"You have to go right, then bear right at the next turn; that takes us on to the race track road, over the river, and joins with the A308... That takes you straight into Windsor." answered Vera knowledgeably.

"Okay. Go right and 'ead f'r Windsor." said the gunman; leaning forward, he placed his hand on Gregg's shoulder and continued: "Drive slow. Don' do anyfink to attract attention...I'll be watchin'."

##  Chapter Two

**As** they drove along the A308 on the outskirts of Windsor, Vera desperately pondered the gunman's likely motives: it did not help her nerves. Gregg, meanwhile, was considering what options there were to unarm their kidnapper: he concluded the best policy would be to attract attention to their plight and hope someone would contact the police. Before long they were approaching a major junction.

"We're already in Windsor. Where do you want to go?" asked Gregg as he slowed behind a lorry.

"Well, I don' wanna see the Queen." quipped the gunman. After looking around and noting the road sign ahead, he continued: "Jus' keep on the '308 and 'ead f'r Staines."

They continued for several miles in silence. An unbearable tension was building, when – yet again – the gunman quite inexplicably had a change of mood and asked them: "Do y'u like music?" "Sorry?" said Vera, nonplussed.

"Why don' y'u put the radio on?" he firmly suggested. Vera did as requested and following some random tuning, managed to find Elvis Presley singing _Suspicion_ , which did not feel inappropriate under the circumstances.

"Yeah, I like this one." commented the gunman – Vera audibly sighed – "Wha's a matter: don' y'u like Elvis?" he enquired in an oddly light-hearted manner.

"I love Elvis." said Vera dispassionately. It seemed like the gunman was trying to turn this nightmare into some sort of jolly road-trip.

"What about _The Beatles_? You girls all like them – don' y'u? They got a film out, y'u know?" "Yes – I heard that." was Vera's disinterested reply.

" _Rolling Stones_ – they're good... I can' get no...satisfaction, cos I try and I try... Can' get no...." the gunman started singing to himself, albeit extremely badly; then suddenly broke off to shout: "Slow down! Y'u' goin' too fast!"

"Sorry." murmured Gregg. Gregg had been considering various driving tactics that might draw attention, but it clearly wasn't going to be that easy, as the gunman was evidently quite alert.

"Really gets int'y'u 'ead that song, don' it?" continued the gunman.

"Can't say I've heard that one." said Gregg slightly mystified.

"Nah. It's not out yet." explained the gunman, which served only to confuse them further, as they were not familiar with pirate radio stations.

"I prefer _The Righteous Brothers_ – that sort of thing." commented Vera, once more attempting to move the conversation in a more wholesome direction.

The gunman returned to singing under his breath what can only be described as a personalised medley version of _The Stones'_ (latterly) classic track. While he was enjoying watching the twinkling of the street lights in the distance, immersed in his little tune, Vera starting mouthing to Gregg; this quickly became a loud whisper – the gunman now seemed too distracted to notice, or perhaps care.

"What are we going to do?" Vera remonstrated, implying that Gregg should have a ready formulated plan.

"I don't know. We need to find somewhere that sells food..."

"At this time...? Tell him we're running out of petrol."

"Right. Good idea." agreed Gregg: there was a bound to be a petrol station somewhere soon. After a few minutes, Gregg coughed loudly; after getting no response, he turned off the radio: "Er, Mr Brown...? Mr Brown?" "Yeah – what?" he replied irritably.

"Do you know where you want to go? Only we're getting low on fuel."

"Okay. Stop at the next garage. No funny stuff, though." came his rather nonchalant reply.

Not long after this exchange they entered Staines, crossing the River Colne over Staines Bridge, before bearing right into the High street. It was now about 10.30 PM. Staines was not exactly a hive of activity on a Friday night, but there was a small _Esso_ garage still open for business. Gregg pulled onto the forecourt and drew up beside the second of the two petrol pumps. The gunman shoved two pound notes into Greggs face, saying: "E'ya: get five gallons, an' don' try anyfink." The middle-aged garage attendant casually approached the car; Gregg wound down his window. "What can I do y'u for, sir?" asked the attendant.

"...Er, five gallons of premium...please." instructed Gregg a little hesitantly; he was tempted to raise the alarm, but didn't quite have the nerve.

As the attendant started filling the car, Vera surreptitiously nudged Gregg in an effort to prompt some action or other, but Gregg was still too hesitant to do anything overt for fear that the gunman would shoot them _and_ the garage attendant. Unfortunately, there was no one else about the street at that particular moment, so he decided to bide his time. Gregg paid the attendant, who was quick to present the change before Gregg could wind-up the window in a vain attempt to provoke suspicion.

"Ere y'u'r – don't forget y'u change." said the attendant dropping the coins into Greggs palm through the nearly closed window. The attendant had remained completely oblivious of the circumstances affecting the occupants of the _Singer_. Gregg had no choice but to continue the journey and so re-joined the High Street road, heading toward the City. Gregg gave the change to Vera: she passed it back to the gunman, who somewhat creepily stroked her hand as he took the money. However, this had conveniently distracted the gunman, whom Gregg believed may have lost track of their direction of travel; he figured that the city was a preferable destination to that of the route into the relatively unpopulated Surrey countryside. They were now on the A30 heading towards the London Borough of Hounslow; passing through the quiet suburb of Ashford and behind the vast swathes of concrete that constituted London Airport, there was little of interest other than the city lights, which seemed to pacify the gunman, lulling him into a hypnotic daze.

Eventually the A30 became the A4 and civilisation begun to return, albeit predominantly in the form of residential housing, as they entered Osterley, heading into Brentford. At this point the gunman suddenly awoke from his dream state as another car overtook them and signalled for them to pull over: Gregg had deliberately left his indicator on for some considerable distance, in addition to speeding up and slowing down – this had finally got someone's attention.

"What the fuck's 'e want?" snapped the gunman angrily as Gregg pulled over and stopped behind the other vehicle.

"I don't know." replied Gregg nervously.

"Right, jus' act normal. Watch what y'u say or I'll shoot the lot o' y'u."

The ominous threat hung heavily over Gregg and Vera as the driver of the other vehicle approached them.

"Did you know your indicator's been on for the last mile or so?" asked a plumpish young man with blond hair as Gregg wound down the window. The man had a bewildered smile beaming from his chubby face.

"Jus' get rid of 'im." ordered the gunman vehemently.

Gregg stuck his head out of the window and smiled back, saying: "No I didn't. Thanks." "You okay, then?" the man asked circumspectly.

"Yes. Thank you." Gregg replied. This seemed to placate him and he returned to his vehicle, quickly pulling away.

"Wha's the idea? I'm gonna be watchin' from now on." The gunman said in an ominous tone, "Le's find somewhere f'r food." then curiously added, "I fink there's a chippy jus' up the road."

Sure enough, a few hundred yards further on was the imaginatively named _Fred's Chip Shop_ and it was still open. "Pull in 'ere" instructed the gunman pointing at the lay-by in front of the shop. Gregg and Vera now realised that the gunman hadn't been quite as inattentive in respect of their travel route as they had previously assumed, and he clearly had some familiarity with this part of Outer-London. As they pulled-up level with the shop doorway, they wondered how the gunman would play this one – there might be an opportunity to escape. The traffic on the M4 thundered just above them as they sat in the surreal half-gloom below the fly-over. Vera noticed a sign in the window of the chip shop which stated 'Last Fish Orders 11PM'; the shop was empty of customers and it was near to closing time.

"Right, this is 'ow this one's gonna go: give us the keys." ordered the gunman – Gregg promptly handed back the keys – "Val can stay in the car..."

"My name's Vera." interrupted Vera, slightly perturbed.

"Eh...? Oh, right, yeah – Vera. You stay in the car. Don' try anyfink funny." compelled the gunman, then clutching Gregg on the shoulder continued: "You and me will go in. Don't look at me. Any funny stuff an' I starts shootin'."

As the two men climbed out of the car, both on the driver's side, Vera considered the significance of the fact that the gunman had removed the handkerchief hiding his face, and although neither Vera nor Gregg were able to look at his face full on, Gregg would certainly have the opportunity to form a reasonable impression of his features in the bright light of the shop; moreover, the woman in the shop would have a perfect view of the gunman. It occurred to her that their chances of surviving this bizarre episode may have diminished. But, she could not bring herself to run, thereby abandoning Gregg and quite possibly getting some or all of them shot, including the completely unwitting lady serving in the shop.

The two men approached the counter, the gunman hiding the gun under his jacket. Gregg restrained himself from glancing at the gunman, keeping his eyes down; he was feeling pretty drained by now and looked decidedly sallow. He hoped that Vera would make a run for it and then he would try to disarm the gunman, but she was sat motionless, staring ahead. There wasn't likely to be any support from the stony-faced woman behind the counter, either, as she was middleaged and overweight; worse still, she was an Italian who could only speak pigeon-English.

"Large chips." said the gunman tapping a coin on the counter. The woman looked up at the clock – it was just after 11 PM – then she sniffed and conceded to his order. "Close, open?" she asked in thick Italian accent and glanced at the pile of newspapers behind the counter.

"Eh...? Oh, open; an' put plenty o' vinegar on."

The lady finished adding salt then took two sheets of newspaper to use for the outer wrapping, before presenting the chips to the gunman; she looked at Gregg, half expecting another order, but Gregg kept his eyes fixed on the marble counter.

"Shilling." she stated holding out her hand and glaring at the gunman. The gunman slapped the coin in her hand, clumsily grasping the chips with his free hand and barged Gregg towards the door: they left the shop. The woman promptly locked-up.

Back in the car, the gunman sounded extremely ravenous as he gorged on his chips. "Mmm, lovely these. Want one?" he asked, shoving the bag in front of Vera: "No thanks." she replied haughtily; "Dunno what y'u missin'" he scoffed and then offered them to Gregg, who also declined.

The couple continually glanced at each other, both desperately seeking a solution to their deepening crisis, while the gunman happily gobbled chips, making repugnant slobbering noises, much to Vera's disgust. The gunman handed back the keys.

"Le's go." he demanded; "Do y'u know Kew Gardens?" he asked with a burp.

"Yes, I think so." replied Gregg confidently.

"Right, tha's the way I wan' y'u t'go."

Gregg pulled-out into the traffic behind a no. 65 bus. They then followed this bus past some ageing gas works, a giant white gasometer building rising out of the darkness like an enormous alien spacecraft; this was shortly followed by the obsolete, yet still imposing Victorian masterpiece of the Waterworks' standpipe tower, before turning right onto Kew Bridge. From the view over the Thames (illuminated by the bridge lights) the gasometer was again visible on the right hand side, but this was not in Vera's line of vision, as she aimlessly watched a small boat pass under the bridge. Soon they were passing though Kew Green, past St. Anne's Church and continuing along the A307 and the walled boundary of the botanic gardens. Towards the end of this stretch, the gunman threw the screwed-up chip wrappings out of the window, which caused the driver behind to flash his lights and furiously beep his horn. The hapless couple momentarily hoped this might provoke something helpful to them; unfortunately, the car turned off soon after. About 100 yards further on was a row of shops (on the left hand side,) with a lay-by.

"Pull in 'ere." the gunman abruptly ordered. Gregg deliberately swerved and braked hard into the lay-by, which caused the car behind to flash his lights. They sat there, with the engine running for several minutes, while the gunman perused the shop fronts. Outside of a newsagents' he spotted a cigarette machine.

"Do y'u smoke?" the gunman asked non-specifically.

"Um? Sometimes." answered Vera.

"Did you want some cigarettes?" asked Gregg.

"Ave y'u got some?" enquired the gunman hopefully.

"Well, no. We don't smoke in the car." replied Gregg, which confused the gunman.

"Right...? I think there's a machine over there... I'll give y'u some money and _you_ go get the fags." he instructed, tapping Vera on the shoulder.

"Oh, okay." she said, a glimmer of hope for an escape flickering across her eyes.

"Don' run, or y'u' boyfrien's dead." he reminded her in anticipation of the possibility. Her heart immediately sunk.

While at the cigarette dispenser, Vera seriously did ponder running, but she just couldn't bring herself to leave Gregg to his probable death. So, she did as she was told and returned to the car with a packet of ten _Kensitas_.

"Okay, keep goin'." he prompted Gregg; "Give us the cigarette lighter." he added. Puffs of smoke wafted over their heads; then the gunman started coughing and hurriedly unwound the window to chuck the newly lit cigarette out into the road: orange cinders sparkled in the darkness. The gunman then enquired: "What gear you in?" "Sorry...? Um, third." answered Gregg hesitantly.

"Watch out, there's some road works up 'ere."

As they cleared the bend, sure enough there were some road works. Soon after this, they passed Richmond railway station. They had now been trapped inside the _Singer_ for about two hours.

"Don't go over the bridge." insisted the gunman, referring to Richmond Bridge. So Gregg continued through Richmond, by-passing the bridge, following the A307 road parallel to the river which headed toward Petersham. Before entering Petersham, they passed through the wooded area of Petersham Common. There was no lay-by along this road, so when the gunman decided he wanted them to pull over about half way along the wooded stretch, he told Gregg to pull onto the grass verge. The road wasn't busy, but there was still a steady (albeit sporadic) flow of traffic. They sat there in silence, as though waiting for something, but after about two minutes the gunman decided to continue on.

Once past Petersham they were heading into Kingston, but in between they passed by Richmond Golf Club, which backed onto Richmond Park – this constituted a huge area of both open and wooded parkland. Along this stretch of the A307 there was a substantial lay-by, which they initially drove past. Worryingly, the gunman's interest was sufficiently piqued by this discovery that he forced them to make a U-turn and return to it.

"Park 'ere an' turn the engine off." directed the gunman. Gregg and Vera sat rigid with fear; they both imagined that this could be their last moments on Earth. Then the gunman said: "I need a piss. This'll 'ave to do... Give us the keys... Right, me 'n' y'u boyfriend are gonna go f'r short walk." he started, addressing Vera, "You stay 'ere, an' remember: if y'u a'n't 'ere when we get back, 'e's dead." he convincingly informed her.

Both of the couple were unsure as to what the gunman's intentions really were: it could have just been a ruse to make their execution easier – or perhaps worse. Vera waited, staring straight ahead; she was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Previously unimaginable scenes of horror played out in her mind. She instinctively went to look at her watch, but the gunman had taken that right at the start of the abduction. It seemed as though they were taking forever; Gregg could already be dead: maybe she should just make a run for it, or flag down a passing vehicle. But what if the gunman did just want to relieve himself – such an action could get them both killed for nothing? She was just on the verge of opening her door, when the drivers' door opened. She prepared herself for the worst and expecting the gunman to get in beside her, was immediately overcome with relief when she realised that is was Gregg – still in one piece. She audibly gasped and let out an emotional laugh of joy. Then, just for a second, she allowed herself to hope that Gregg had overcome the gunman, but the moment was all too brief, as she heard the rear door open and smelt the gunman's aftershave.

"Phew!" exclaimed the gunman merrily, "I certainly needed _that_." there was a brief pause and then he asked: "D'you wanna go...? Cora?"

Vera was somewhat dumbstruck by this remark, partly due to being called 'Cora' and partly due to being asked if she would like to "go". After a few seconds she coughed-up a reply: "On my own?"

"Yeah, course... Jus' don' run off or anyfink, otherwise...y'u know what." the gunman replied rather casually.

After sitting in that car for well over two hours, she knew that she would be crazy to refuse; after all, there was no knowing how much longer this would continue for. She accepted the opportunity. Once Vera had left the vehicle, the gunman leant forward to engage with Gregg: "Lovely girl." he observed.

"Yes. Yes she is. Look, why don't you just leave her here and I'll drive you wherever you want... What do you say?" petitioned Gregg.

"Dunno about that. She'll jus' get the ol' bill."

"Sorry? Oh right." said Gregg somewhat deflated, "Look, what do you want from us? You're scaring the hell out of

Vera. Why not just tie us up and leave us here?"

"Could do. But I'm tired: I need y'u t'drive."

"I'm pretty tired myself, to be honest." asserted Gregg.

"Yeah, but y'u' got Cora to help y'u."

"It's Vera."

"You what?"

"Her name is Vera."

"Yeah, well, she better come back, f'r your sake." the gunman reminded him a little resentfully. He clearly did not appreciate being corrected.

"I'm sure she will." assured Gregg, then internally berated himself for that moment of selfishness.

"Y'u' wife know about 'er, then?" sneered the gunman.

"I don't think I know what you mean." lied Gregg defensively.

"Don't give me that bollocks." scoffed the gunman, but Gregg chose not rise to it. "Don' get me wrong – I don' blame y'u." he graciously added, "I mean: no 'arm is there?"

"I wish you'd just tell us what you want." remarked Gregg reproachfully.

"Nufink. I don' wan' nufink... Relax." was the gunman's unhelpful response. Gregg abandoned his vain attempt to reason with the gunman and resigned himself to the necessity of enduring this lunatic's continued whims in the hope that sooner or later an opportunity to extricate them would present itself or, that the gunman would weary of his little game and finally free them. They waited silently, Gregg with considerable agitation, the gunman with growing impatience. "She's takin' 'er time." he eventually moaned. At that moment emergency sirens were heard and flashing blue lights approached them rapidly. Gregg sat up excitedly. The gunman instantly froze; then he quickly recomposed himself as an ambulance passed by. A few seconds later, Vera returned to the vehicle.

"Feelin' bett'r luv?" the gunman whimsically enquired.

"Yes, thank you." she replied contemptuously.

"Don' forget oo's got the gun, darlin'." he reprimanded in an impassive tone. "'Ow's the petrol situation?" he continued, addressing Gregg.

Gregg turned the key in the ignition to switch on the electrics – there was about a quarter of a tank: "We'll need to get more, soon." he informed the gunman.

"Onward Jeeves." the gunman commanded in a poorly improvised upper-class accent.

##  Chapter Three

**The** gunman managed to direct them around the outskirts of Kingston and then on to the A3, heading for Guildford. This route ran through a low population area of mainly open countryside, with a smattering of parks, woodlands and non-arable farm land. This road was now fairly quiet in both directions, and very dark. They had taken on more fuel at Esher Services, where the attendant had been as inattentive as the previous one had; the only other vehicle they had crossed paths with at that stop was an oil tanker, and that had been leaving just as they arrived. It was as though fate were conspiring to perpetuate this terrible ordeal, providing little real chance of a reprieve from the inevitability of some sort of bloodshed. The gunman had been largely silent – apart from intermittently barking directions – for over half an hour; Vera suspected that he was drifting in and out of sleep. She nudged Gregg and having got his attention, mouthed: "I think he's asleep." "Are you sure?" whispered Gregg; Vera glanced around quickly.

"He's dozing." she affirmed; "Where the hell do you think he's taking us?"

"I haven't a clue. I can't figure out what this is all about. It all seems a bit pointless... Do you think he _could_ be an escaped prisoner?"

"He looks a bit too well dressed." noted Vera observantly.

"Why did he say that, then?"

"I think he's trying to scare us..."

"But, why?" queried Gregg. Neither of them could answer that one.

"Why don't you just crash the car?" she suggested.

"Are you crazy?" Gregg protested, "I've only had it six months."

"It's only a car, Gregg. Not much use if you're dead." she bluntly pointed out.

"Not at this speed: we might not survive anyway."

"There might be a chance when we get to Guildford."

"May be. I'll think about it. We need to be in a residential area; no good out here."

"Yes, that's why I'm saying, wait until Guildford... Shhh! I think he's stirring."

The gunman lapsed out of his sleepy state and entered a more lucid period. Having yawned a few times and gathered his thoughts, he searched the blackness for some indication of their current location.

"Where the hell are we?" he eventually asked, slightly disconcerted.

"Still on the A3." Gregg informed him.

"How far to Guildford?"

"About ten miles or so, I think." estimated Gregg.

"Okay. What were you two talkin' about?"

"I was just saying we will soon be in Guildford." offered Vera, thinking quickly.

"Right. Okay. Put the radio back on."

Vera turned the radio back on, but it was now out of tune; she was now having trouble picking up a clear signal, until a voice speaking German broke through the ether.

"That'll do. It could be Luxemburg."

The Byrd's 'Mr Tambourine Man' soon filled the void within the car. Despite its cheery tone, there was something unnervingly pertinent about many of the lyrics in this song; the circumstantial coincidences sent a shiver up Vera's spine. She had a deepening sense of portent, as though this story were already written into history, impossible to deviate from; and now they were gradually descending into their inexorable oblivion. This was further confirmed when they approached Guildford and the gunman instructed Gregg to stay on the A3, effectively by-passing the historic county town. A few miles past the town, they came to the Milford roundabout, where the gunman directed them to turn right onto the B3001. About two miles along this road they entered the small village of Felstave. There was a smattering of 18th century cottages, but little else. There was however a turning down a single track road which was signposted only as 'Wood'. As they drove down this bumpy road sandwiched between hedgerows in the pitch black, Vera truly believed they were entering the depths of Hell. After about half a mile, the track opened out a bit, with a clearing on the left hand side of what was an ominously spooky wooded area.

"Stop here." said the gunman in a confident tone; "Turn the radio off." he further instructed, "I want some quiet to fink."

Think what, though? Vera grabbed Gregg's hand: the foreboding was unbearable. They both felt nauseous, hardly able to catch their breath.

"I like it here." the gunman obliquely stated.

"What are you...? What are you going to do?" Vera asked apprehensively, her lips trembling.

"I might 'ave a kip." came the gunman's glib response. The panic-stricken couple were all too aware that they had allowed this madman to lead them into a literal dead-end. There would be no escape from this miserable god-forsaken destination.

"I'll 'ave to tie y'u bofe up." noted the gunman casually.

"Are you going to kill us." snivelled Vera.

"I wasn't plannin' to. Wha's in y'u bag?" he asked referring to a shopping bag (which she had had at her feet throughout the journey).

"Nothing much." she replied hesitantly.

"'And it back, then." the gunman ordered in a quiet, yet persuasive tone. Vera took a deep breath then lifted the bag up and between Gregg and herself, at which point Gregg grabbed the bag and directed it toward the gunman. Two shots rang out. The bag dropped harmlessly between the front seats. The distinctive smell of gun powder floated wistfully in the air. Gregg's shocked expression froze into Vera's mind; blood began to ooze from the right side of his chest and he slumped forward against the steering wheel. Vera screamed: "You bastard! You've killed him!"

"Shullup...!" the gunman screamed back, "I need to fink." A deeply sombre silence overtook the scene inside the car. Vera could smell the blood, as it was so profusely draining from Gregg's lifeless body. She began to quietly weep.

"Are y'u sure 'e's dead?" the gunman challenged optimistically.

"Yes!" she ear-piercingly screamed, "He's not breathing; he's not moving... So much blood." "Sorry – it was an accident..."

"Sorry! – sorry! You've bloody killed him!"

"'E scared me; 'e moved too quick."

"You've got the fucking gun: why would you be scared?" she shouted angrily, turning to face the man with the gun, before abruptly turning back in a flood of tears.

"Don't cry luv... It was an accident." reasoned the gunman seemingly in need of absolution.

Vera continued to cry, but in her head her mind was racing. She reckoned that whether or not Gregg's death was an accident, her life was now imminently in danger. She would need to persuade this stupid man that she was not a threat, if she wanted to live. She would need to overcome her trepidation and repulsion, and ingratiate herself with him. Meanwhile, the gunman was contemplating Vera's womanly wiles: she was wearing a gold coloured two-piece dress, with a tie collar; it was knee-length, with short sleeves revealing the freckled flesh of her arms and her slender legs. The material was a manmade rayon/acetate, which clung tantalisingly to her supple figure.

"You won't hurt me, will you?" she beseeched him in a deliberately weak and feminine manner: she hoped to appeal to his ego as well as his animal instincts. "I don't really know what you look like – I couldn't identify you... I know you didn't mean to kill Gregg; I'll tell them it was an accident. You've treated us well, otherwise." she convincingly appealed, not daring to turn around.

"I didn't wanna kill anyone." agreed the gunman, grasping at this potential allusion of forgiveness.

"You like me – don't you?"

"Yeah, course; y'u' lovely... I like red'eads."

Vera's stomach physically cringed; her heart was racing and her mouth dry as sandpaper. She just couldn't quite bring herself to hand herself over on a platter. The gunman sensed her difficulty and made a helpful suggestion: "Why don' y'u get in the back with me. We can 'ave a nice friendly chat, then." As much as her body resisted, her mind forced her to overcome and, after a short pause, she stepped out of the car and approached the rear door. It felt to her like opening the cage to starving lion and sticking one's head in – but that's exactly what she did. The gunman shuffled back a little and patted the seat in an inviting manner; she was utterly filled with dread, but she got in anyway. For a few seconds she sat rigid, not wanting to look at him; she could feel his breath on her hair. Suddenly she relaxed and went into survival mode: turning her gaze into the darkness she could see that he was fairly young, not much older than her; in better circumstances, she might have found him vaguely attractive. His deep blue eyes sliced into her soul like white-hot lasers.

"Now, tha's a bit more cosy, a'n't it?" he said in an insouciant manner, seemingly unaffected by the dead body of

Gregg Mason, laying just feet away. Vera faked a smile and asked: "What should I call you?" "Call me Alf. Now, give us a kiss." he seductively prompted...

When the rape was over, Vera felt physically sick, completely degraded, diminished to the level of a common prostitute. She hugged herself for comfort. "Put y'u clothes on." he callously told her as he got out of the vehicle.

Outside she found the gunman standing next to the open driver's door pondering what to do with Gregg's corpse. He looked at her a little disdainfully: she sensed that she had depreciated in his estimation and that remaining passive had in fact lost her some respect, rather than gaining her the empathy she had anticipated.

"I'm gonna need y'ur 'elp." he informed her dispassionately, "Pull 'im out of the car." Vera stared in disbelief and bewilderment. However, her emotions were now so numb that nothing would be likely to upset her. "I can't get blood on me cloves." he explained. Vera simply acquiesced: she was of fairly slight build and certainly not accustomed to heavy lifting, but somehow she summoned the strength to haul Gregg's dead weight out of the car. "Did I see a blanket in the boot?" he asked.

"Yes. Do you want it?"

"Yeah. Get it will y'u." He was starting to treat her like an accomplice. She did as requested, thinking that it was to cover Gregg's body, lying as it was in an undignified heap.

"What y'u doin'?" he complained.

"Oh, I thought..." she started as she was about to throw the blanket over Gregg.

"No, no. I need it to cover the seat; so I don' get blood on me... Better find somefink to mop up first, though." Quickly realising that there wasn't anything around or in the car that could be used, he told her to take off her top. "We'll use that." he said, actually meaning her; "Go on then" he added. Vera complied, painfully aware that he was right behind her, possibly waiting to shoot her. When finished, she flung the blood soaked top on the floor in disgust. For a moment they just stood there somewhat self-consciously.

"Show me 'ow this car works." solicited the gunman. Vera hesitated, such a need struck her as rather implausible, given that he was originally proposing to the drive the car himself and, therefore, must surely already have a reasonable understanding of how to drive this car. But it was an innocent enough request, so she cautiously pointed out the location of the controls and explained how the gears worked. Having completed this task she emerged from the car to be confronted by the gunman who was standing right in front of her, about six inches away. She suddenly had an inexplicable apprehension come over her and she instinctively knew that he intended to murder her. In an instantaneous realization of her predicament she thrust her knee deep and hard into the gunman's gusset, inducing an excruciating testicular pain: he dropped to the floor in shock and sheer agony. Vera immediately kicked off her heels and ran, like a deer pursued by a wolf, into the pitch dark woodland. The moon was providing shards of ghostly fluorescence intermittently into the deep gloom of the wood, but she could not see where she was placing her feet, nor did she have the time to care. Consequently, she tripped over undergrowth and dead vegetation on numerous occasions, injuring every part of her body, as she frantically fled for her life.

The gunman gradually gathered himself after several minutes of eye-watering discomfort, not to mention a severe blow to his macho pride. "Bitch" he muttered under his breath. Though he had seen where she entered the wood and could hear her rustling bushes as she ran, as well as her yelping in torment every time she had a tumble, he could not pinpoint her location. So, in a frenzied attempt to prevent her escape, he began shooting indiscriminately in the general direction of the noises. Four shots echoed into the abyss and then he reloaded. No longer able to hear anything other than a distant Barn Owl, he ventured further into the wood, using the streams of moonlight as guidance. Looking all around, he thought he could discern the sound of gasping – he homed-in on it.

Vera was suffering diabolical sensations: in addition to her various cuts, scratches and bruises, she had now had a bullet wound to her left thigh. Having more or less collapsed to the ground, she just lay struggling for breath, determinedly suppressing her torturous collection of pains. Distressingly she could hear the gunman slowly but surely getting closer.

Eventually, she could contain the agony no more, letting out the tiniest squeak of anguish: it was enough to allow the gunman to fix her position.

"That weren't very nice." he complained staring down at her prostate body. "I was gonna let y'u go. But I can't now." He cocked the weapon, adding: "Sorry." Three shots were fired, two to the chest area and one to the head, all at standing range. In the deadly silence that followed, the gunman kicked Vera's legs to convince himself that he had finally finished her off. Satisfied, he walked purposefully back to the car, where he promptly drove away at speed, throwing up dirt and debris, some of which settled back down on top of Gregg's corpse. The prophetic eerie hoot of a Tawny Owl reverberated in the still night air.

At about 5.30 am the sun squinted over the horizon, its light splintering through the thick mass of tree trunks and scattering through the canopy. Vera's body was moist with dew; a moth had settled on her face. As the volume of the dawn chorus gradually intensified, a chill morning breeze fluttered the leaves. The gunman had left Vera for dead, but he had made a grave error of judgement, because by an incredible chance of fate, she had miraculously survived. Now her nose began to twitch, as consciousness languidly returned, along with the awful realisation of her predicament. She warily pulled herself into a sitting position and surveyed the surroundings. It took several minutes for her to comprehend what had happened and that she had survived, albeit very seriously injured. Her body, still in a state of shock, had generated a euphoric condition, which enabled her to drag herself through the foliage, to emerge into the clearing where Gregg's body lay – it was now about 6 AM – whereupon she crawled over to her dead lover, flinging her arms around him before blacking out. Ten minutes later she was awoken by the sensation of a wet 'hair drier' on her face: it was the tongue and breath of a large Labrador dog. In the distance she could just make out a woman calling: "Marmaduke! Marmaduke! Don't lick that dead deer; you know what happened last time you did that." Marmaduke responded by barking spasmodically. As the woman drew closer, she realised that what her disobedient dog was licking was no deer, but two human beings covered in blood.

"Oh gosh!" she exclaimed, "Whatever... What has happened here?" She then broke into a sprint, anxious to help these poor souls. "My dear, whatever happened to you?" she enquired, appalled by what she was witnessing. Vera managed to whisper: "He killed him... Brown... He said... His eyes..."

"Don't try to speak my dear." said the woman compassionately. "Just hang on – I'll get help. Marmaduke: stay!" At which point, Vera passed out again.

## PART TWO

## The Investigation

##  Chapter Four

## (31 July 1965)

**Sergeant** Ewhurst answered the phone at Godalming Police Station that bright morning, but his sunny demeanour was quickly extinguished when the middle-aged lady at the other end told him what she had discovered in Marsholm Wood.

"Slow down madam, please. Let me get this straight: someone has been shot, you say?"

"Yes, yes, come quickly, and bring an ambulance – it's very urgent. She's in a terrible state."

"Who is, madam?"

"I don't know her name. You must get to Marsholm Wood _now_!"

"Yes, of course madam. Where is that exactly?"

"Felstave."

"Right. Can you look after the victim until we arrive?"

"Yes, yes: just hurry." The phone went dead. Sergeant Ewhurst was slightly stunned for a moment: this was not the usual Saturday morning fair. Snapping out of his perturbation, he hastily rang for an ambulance, then called for the duty constable: "John...! John! Get your arse down here!"

Constable Anderson, whom had only been in the force for six months, was dreamily drinking a cup of tea in the back office, with his feet up. The unexpected urgency of the Sergeant's shout caused him to jump, spilling his tea down his leg.

"Shit." he groaned; "Coming Serg'!" he replied, hurriedly using paper intended for taking statements to mop-up the mess on his leg. Jogging over to the Sergeant's desk, he said: "What's up Serg'?"

"You won't believe this, but we've got a possible attempted murder on our hands. Ring Bob and Reg, and get everyone down to Marsholm Wood – you know where that is?"

"No Serg'."

"Felstave. Oh, and ring the inspector at Guildford: let him know what's happening."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm going to be taking the station van straight down there... Get your skates on!" he ordered as he exited the station.

By the time Sgt Ewhurst arrived at the scene it was close on 7.15 AM; the ambulance still had not arrived. As Ewhurst pulled into the clearing in Marsholm Wood, he noted a heap covered by a blood-impregnated sheet [courtesy of Mrs Pomfrey-Jones] and, sitting not far away from this mysterious object, an extremely dishevelled looking young woman, with blood on her face and in her unkempt hair. Mrs Alice Pomfrey-Jones – the lady with the dog – had wrapped the miserable girl in her (formerly best) mink coat. Alice intercepted the sergeant before he reached Vera.

"I think she's had a dreadful experience." Alice told the officer and then tactfully pointing out the heap that was Gregg Mason, she added in a low voice: "The young man is dead: he shot him; he also tried to kill the young lady... I think he may have _interfered_ with her." she whispered.

The sergeant was slightly overwhelmed by these revelations – it was much worse than he could have anticipated. The sergeant, feeling he needed to speak to Vera alone, asked Alice to give them some privacy; she complied by wandering towards the trees, just out of earshot. Sgt Ewhurst knelt gently down beside Vera.

"Hello my dear. My name is Sgt Ewhurst, but you can call me Ernie. Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Not really – I think I'm still in shock." Vera answered weakly – she was surprisingly coherent for someone with four bullet wounds.

"Can you briefly tell me what happened to you?"

"Gregg...was shot dead." she stated bluntly and somewhat selflessly. Ewhurst looked towards the bloodied sheet covering Gregg's grisly remains. He decided he should check that the man really was dead: finding him to be stone cold and in a state of rigor mortis, definitively confirmed it. He returned to Vera's side.

"Who shot your friend?"

"I don't know...He said he was Mr Brown, but I think that was a lie...He told me to call him Alf."

"Did he hurt you?" Ewhurst enquired in a compassionate tone. Vera momentarily withdrew, choking away a need to cry out loud; a single tear ran expressively down her cheek. Ewhurst detected the need for extreme sensitivity.

"Did he shoot you?"

"Yes. Several times." she said aggrievedly.

"Do you know how many times?"

"Four, I think. I was sure I would die." At this moment the ambulance siren could be heard in the distance. The Sergeant decided to wait for medical help before subjecting Vera to any more questions, other than asking for her name and that of her dead friend, which caused more than enough trauma in itself – but these were details that he needed to establish.

When the ambulance finally arrived in the clearing, Vera was immediately whisked off to the Royal Surrey County Hospital in Guildford; Gregg's body was left in situ, guarded by Marmaduke. Meanwhile, Mrs Pomfrey-Jones was being thoroughly interrogated, in order to collate anything that she had gleaned from the distraught Vera.

"So, Mrs?"

"Pomfrey-Jones. Call me Alice." she replied with upper-class confidence.

"Okay. Alice, did the young lady give you any information regarding her circumstances?"

"Well, apparently he was a hitch-hiker..."

"Who was?"

"The man that shot them."

"I see. So they were in a car?"

"Yes. He took that."

"Did she say what type of car?"

"Sorry. Didn't think to ask."

"That's okay...Alice. Did she tell you anything about the man that attacked them?"

"She said he was fairly average. Oh, she did say he had very striking eyes."

Just then another police car arrived – it was PC Anderson and PC Reg Clapshaw (an old timer). They parked behind the sergeant's van and walked over to where Ewhurst and Alice were standing, noting the bloodied heap with its Labrador sentry.

"What's the 'S.P.'?" asked Reg, "We saw the ambulance pass us up the road?"

"Looks like we've got a maniac on the loose." Ewhurst turned to direct their attention to Mason's body, "He's been dead a while... Did you ring the inspector, John?" "Yes Serg'. I think he's on his way."

"So, do we know what happened?" pressed Reg.

"It seems a couple picked up a hitch-hiker, who then shot them and stole their car. We're dealing with a dangerous man."

"It's not Biggs is it?" suggested PC Anderson in all seriousness.

"No, John, I don't think this is his style. Anyway, I doubt he's still in the country." assured Ewhurst; then he remembered Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, who was standing patiently behind him, listening intently: "Oh, this is Mrs Jones, she was first on the scene."

"Hello officers. And it's Pomfrey-Jones, actually." she clarified.

"Right. Well would it be possible for PC Clapshaw to accompany you back to your house and take your statement from there?"

"Yes, of course. I'll make you a cup of tea." she said with a slightly inappropriate jolliness. "Come on Marmaduke." At which point Reg realised he was going to have a dog inside his nice clean police car: he just about managed to hide his irritation. "He's rather young to be a policeman, isn't he?" she remarked, referring to PC Anderson.

"John, you stay on guard here and wait for the inspector. I'm going back to the station to call the coroner." informed

Ewhurst, before hesitating and adding: "You'll be okay – yeah?"

"Of course, sir. I'm a policeman." replied PC Anderson with a wry smile, though it was a false bravado, having never seen a dead body before, or been involved in a serious crime case.

"No laughing matter, Constable." reminded the sergeant sternly.

"No sir." conceded Anderson. One look at the bloody mess on the ground was enough to make the gravity of the situation plain to the young PC.

"Oh, by the way," Ewhurst called to PC Anderson, "Where is Sergeant Knox?" [Bob Knox was the duty desk sergeant at the Goldalming station].

"We couldn't rouse him, sir."

"I see." said Ewhurst knowingly. Sgt Knox was known to like a beer or ten on a Friday night.

Roselea Cottage was a lovely 18th century thatched cottage with slightly greying whitewashed walls. It fronted onto Felstave High Street; at the back was a neatly laid out country garden. Mrs Pomfrey-Jones led PC Clapshaw into her quaint little kitchen and offered him a chair at the large solid oak table. She placed the kettle on the 1930's aga stove and then placed a bowl of water on the floor for Marmaduke.

"I don't know what I'd do without him." she said stroking the Labradors' head, "Not since my husband died. He was a colonel, you know." she explained proudly.

"You have a lovely home, Mrs Jones."

"It's... Call me Alice."

"Alice: I seem to have mislaid my notebook – do you have anything I can write your statement on?"

"Oh, um... I'll look in my husband's study." She shuffled off, returning a few minutes later with a wad of headed paper.

"Will this do?"

"Yes. Thanks – that's great... So, what did the young woman tell you about what happened?"

"She said a man got in to their car and threatened them with a gun... Then he made them drive for hours, all over the place, by all accounts..."

"Did she say where they picked this man up?" he interrupted.

"Cherry something. Near Maidenhead, I think she said."

"Do you know what time this was?"

"Yesterday evening. She didn't say exactly."

"Could she describe him?"

"She said he was pretty average... Piercing eyes, though; dark hair... Do you take sugar?" "Er, yes, thanks – two, please... And." "Milk?" she interrupted.

"Yes – thanks. How was he dressed?"

"Ah, smart she said – a suit. He said he was an escaped prisoner, but wouldn't he be wearing arrows?" She chuckled.

"Escaped prisoner?" The name 'Ronald Biggs' flashed through the constable's mind, but he quickly dismissed it. [Biggs was one of the Great Train Robbers who had escaped from Wandsworth Prison a few weeks earlier.] "Anything else?" he pressed.

"She was very distressed. I think he may have taken a liberty with her." she said with her quintessentially old-fashioned form of tact.

"I see." The sergeant contemplated this for a moment.

"I think she said he had brown eyes." she suddenly added as she poured hot water into the Victorian china teapot.

"We've never had a murder in Felstave." she added.

"I've been in the force thirty-two years and I've never come across anything like this before."

"That poor man..." she started and then her gaze drifted thoughtfully to the view through the Georgian leaded window.

"Don't worry, Mrs Jones, we'll catch him soon enough." the sergeant assured her.

"I do hope so." she said clutching at the cross around her neck.

"Is the tea ready?" he asked distractingly.

"Oh, yes: a cup of tea – that's what we need."

Inspector George Ash was in charge of the uniform section at Guildford Police Station under the station's overall senior officer, Chief Inspector Lionel Macintosh. Ash drove a rather flash _Ford Zephyr 6_ police vehicle, in a somewhat pertinent black finish. As he approached the clearing, the silhouette of PC Anderson stood superhero-like over the dead body, with the scattered sunlight producing a stunning back-illumination. It was now 7.40 AM: there was still a crisp chill to the air. Ash stepped out of his car, still unaware of the extent of the crime he was now entangled with. In his 20 years in the force, he had investigated six deaths, but nothing quite like this.

"Good morning, Constable." he greeted Anderson as he removed his cap.

"Good morning, sir."

"I was under the impression a woman had been shot?"

"Yes sir: she's been taken to the Royal in Guildford."

"So, what do we have here?" asked Inspector Ash surveying the sheeted bloody mound, still a little perplexed.

"A dead man, sir: he's been shot."

"How long ago?" enquired Ash carefully lifting the sheet to reveal Gregg's deceased expression.

"Quite a while, sir."

"Where's Sgt Ewhurst?"

"He went back to the station to notify the coroner, sir."

"Right; I'll get some of my boys over to relieve you."

"Thank you sir."

"Any witnesses, do you know?"

"Only the lady that found them, sir."

"And where is she?"

"Sgt Clapshaw escorted her back to her home; he's interviewing her there."

"Any idea where that would be?"

"No, sir. In the village. His car should be parked outside."

"Okay. Good work, son."

"Thank you sir." replied PC Anderson, unsure of what he was being praised for exactly.

Ash returned to his car and immediately got on the radio to the Guildford Station. "Deirdre, this is Inspector Ash; I need to speak to Sgt Metcalfe, urgently." As the Inspector waited for Metcalfe to get on the radio, he pondered the situation. It was not a good year for British home security: Biggs had escaped only weeks earlier; children had been mysteriously disappearing in the Manchester area, and boxer Freddie Mills had been found shot dead in Soho, only days earlier. He instinctively considered the possible connection to these other major crimes, but only as a matter of due diligence, rather than with any serious regard.

"Yes, sir." responded Sgt Metcalfe, panting slightly.

"Ah, good, Nobby. We've got a nasty one on our hands here: a murder and an attempted murder..."

"Bloody hell."

"Yes, bloody hell, indeed. Get two of your lot down to Marsholm Wood – that's in Felstave – pronto; there's a dead body. There's a local bobby on watch, but he'll need relieving. I haven't got any details, yet..."

"Shall I call the coroner?"

"No, no: that's already in hand. Also, get someone down to the Royal in Guildford: the second victim has been taken there – it's a woman, by the way..."

"A woman?"

"Yes. And get onto CID."

"Will do, sir."

"I'm going to see the woman who found them this morning; apparently she lives in the village – a local sergeant is taking her statement. I'll see you later."

When Inspector Ash arrived at Mrs Pomfrey-Jones', PC Clapshaw was having a biscuit and there was a convivial atmosphere. Alice let the inspector in without even bothering to ask anything. When the constable realised it was the inspector, he rapidly brushed the crumbs off his lap and stood up.

"Good morning, sir." he greeted Ash, trying not to appear like he had got a bit too comfortable.

"Morning, Constable."

"Er, this is Mrs Jones – she was first on the scene, sir."

"Good morning officer. It's Pomfrey-Jones, actually; but, call me Alice." "Indeed." said Ash, slightly exasperated by Clapshaw's misinformation. "The lady has kindly written everything down, sir." said Clapshaw handing a piece of headed note paper to the officer – and of course, omitted that getting Alice to do his work for him had been his idea.

"I'd best take that." informed Ash.

"We will need to take a formal statement down the station at some point, madam. Can I rely on you to arrange that, Constable?" he asked with a hint of suspicion that Clapshaw was a bit lackadaisical.

"Of course, sir."

"I hope this hasn't been too distressing for you, madam? Please let us know if you think of anything else." Ash then turned to address Clapshaw directly: "Join your colleague at the crime scene. My boys will be down to relieve you A.S.A.P... And send me a copy of your report." "Yes, sir."

"He seems nice." Alice blandly commented as the inspector left the cottage.

## Chapter Five

**As** that day wore on, so Felstave became more and more overrun with police – and the media – the high street had never been so busy. Guildford CID had now taken charge of the case, led by Detective Inspector Graham Longbridge and ably assisted by Detective Sergeant Anthony Collins. They were eagerly awaiting the arrival of Dr Forsyth, the Surrey County Coroner – Felstave being just outside of the Guildford Borough Coroner's jurisdiction. Dogs had already been brought in and discovered the trail left by Vera through the wood; they had also found a spent cartridge case, but not much else. The detectives were leaning against their squad car having a smoke, when they spotted Dr Forsyth's two-tone _MG Magnette_ creeping gingerly up the country lane toward them.

"This'll be him, Tony." said DI Longbridge nudging his sergeant. The car very slowly drew up to them, stopping inches from their car's bumper. A tall thin man emerged, late fifties, with a somewhat gaunt expression on his face.

"Who's in charge?" he barked.

"That'll be me." informed Longbridge; he reached out his hand to greet the erstwhile doctor, "DI Longbridge. And this is DS Collins." The doctor initially ignored him, casting his gaze upon the sheeted body; then as though suddenly cognizant, finally shook the inspector's hand with a brief glance.

"Do we know how long the body's been here?" the doctor enquired.

"Since early morning, I believe." said Longbridge, following the doctor over to where Gregg's corpse lay. Collins stubbed out his cigarette and duly followed suit.

"Who put this sheet on the body." the doctor asked testily.

"Um?" Longbridge looked at Collins for help, but none was forthcoming. "I don't actually know. We only arrived an hour ago."

"I'll have to remove it." he said in a grumbly tone.

"You're the boss." Longbridge pointed out demonstratively. Forsyth gave him a fleeting look of contempt, before getting down to work.

"This bloke's a barrel of fun." whispered Collins in an aside; "Have you met him before?" "No. Usually sends one of his minions. We're honoured today." "Feels like it." quipped Collins.

"I don't think he gets out much." contributed Longbridge to the mockery; "What did you do with that cartridge case?" he added, more professionally.

"Here." Collins produced a small evidence-bag from his pocket.

The coroner's examination of the body took about ten minutes. When finished, he stood up and turned around to find the two detectives standing back by their car having another cigarette and a joke. This time Collins noticed him approaching and nudged Longbridge: they both promptly stubbed out their cigarettes.

"I would say, given the state of riga and body temperature, that this man has been dead about 10 – 12 hours. Two bullet wounds to the chest area – large calibre; one has probably penetrated the heart – probably died instantly. I would have expected more blood, though..."

"I don't know that he was killed on that spot, but we've not had chance to interview the girl, yet." advised Longbridge. "Ahhh that explains the bloody dress top I found at his feet. Was she badly injured?" "Shot several times, we believe." said Collins.

"Okay. Well, we can certainly say that he's dead. I'll issue a death certificate and arrange for the body to be taken to the mortuary. I'll get the post mortem organised for later today. Oh, and I'll get a photographer down – don't move the body..."

"We found this cartridge case in the woods. We think it came from the murder weapon. We've got men currently combing the ground to try to recover a bullet, or any more cases." said Longbridge passing the evidence bag to the coroner.

"Yes that looks like a large calibre; some sort of pistol." Forsyth quickly deduced, then returned the bag. "Is there a telephone I can use?"

"The village pub is being used as a base: they have one there – it's a bit of a cupboard." "Did you come across any identification." asked Collins.

"It's a bloody mess. Best leave it to the pathologist." advised Forsyth.

"Fair enough." conceded Collins gladly.

"I don't know what the country's coming to." Forsyth complained walking back to his car.

"I think we'll visit my old mate, Ernie Ewhurst." said Longbridge as he watched Forsyth depart. He and Ewhurst had been colleagues during their early days in the force, until their careers diverged. "Then we'll go to the hospital. We really need to speak to the girl."

"Right, gov' – shall I drive?"

"Yeah, go on then." granted Longbridge. He then called to Det. Constable Jenkinson (who was standing at the edge of the wood chatting to a uniformed constable): "We're going – I'll leave you in charge." Jenkinson gave the thumbs-up in recognition.

The Godalming Police Station was now running much as usual, having handed over the murder case to the Guildford division. Sgt Knox was now on duty, while Clapshaw and Anderson were out on patrol. Longbridge and Collins wandered into the station waving their warrant cards.

"Your boss in?" Longbridge asked Knox.

"Yes sir. He's in his office."

The inspector knocked on the office door, which was slightly ajar and the two detectives walked in. Ewhurst was typing his report; he glanced up disconcertedly. Immediately recognising his old friend Longbridge, he stood up and directed them to sit on the chairs in front of his desk. "Graham – it's been a while."

"About six years." reminded Longbridge. "This is DS Collins. I think you know why we're here." "Sadly, I do."

"We've not made much progress, yet. I understand you spoke to the girl?"

"Yes. She was in a bit of a state. I couldn't really press her; then the ambulance whipped her off to hospital." "Yeah, we're just on our way over there."

"A local woman found her at about 6.30 this morning... Mrs Pomfrey-Jones." he added checking his notebook.

"Has she been interviewed?"

"Yes. PC Clapshaw took her statement. He's out on patrol until one; should be back anytime. I'm just doing my report, actually... It's not that helpful, I'm afraid, sir."

"Early days, Ernie. We need to get this bastard quick, though."

"Can I get you a coffee?"

"That'd be great." replied Longbridge.

"Likewise Sergeant?" Ewhurst asked Collins.

"Yes. Thank you."

They walked through to the back office, where they kept an electric kettle and various beverages. Collins made himself comfortable at the small Formica table and lit a cigarette. Longbridge took the opportunity to use the toilet.

Ewhurst switched on the kettle: "What's your first name, detective." he asked Collins.

"Oh, sorry: Tony." Replied Collins offering his hand; Ewhurst shook it and smiled purposively and said: "You know they will take this case off you, don't you?"

"Do you think so?"

"They'll probably put one of their top bod's on it. We get the milk, they get the cream." Ewhurst complained from bitter experience.

"Well, it's only a job, eh?" countered Collins dryly.

Ewhurst sighed. "You married?"

"I was."

"The job was it?"

"No. The plumber, actually." They both laughed.

"That's one of the reason's I took this job: better hours." explained Ewhurst.

"You got kids?" enquired Collins.

"Just the one: eighteen in a few weeks. Going to college."

"Not Police College, I hope."

"Definitely not. Art College; joining the bohemian mob."

"What's this?" interrupted Longbridge nosily as he sat at the table.

Ewhurst started to make the coffee: "My daughter: she's going to be an art student." he stated dispassionately. "Oh dear." retorted Longbridge. At this point PC Clapshaw entered the room.

"Are we having a party?" sniped Clapshaw.

"DI Longbridge and DS Collins." introduced Ewhurst.

"Ah. Sorry sir." said Clapshaw sheepishly.

"I believe you have a statement for me, Constable?" prompted Longbridge.

"Statement...? Oh, the murder case. I gave it to the uniformed inspector: Inspector Ash."

"I see. Do we have any names?"

"I think the female victim's name is Vera. The killer may be called Alf Brown – but that's probably made up."

"What about the dead man?"

"Sorry, didn't get that, sir."

"Looks like we _really_ do need to speak to the victim – and urgently." remarked Longbridge, addressing Collins specifically. The detectives both took a few quick sips of their coffee and got up from the table; then Ewhurst remembered he had noted the names of the victims. He wrote them down for them and they swiftly left the station.

When they reached the hospital in Guildford it was approaching 1.15 PM. It was apparent that the word had got out, as there were several reporters loitering around the main entrance, who eyed-up the two detectives with suspicion, but chose not to bother them. At the reception desk, a large woman in her thirties was on duty; she initially ignored them, until they started waving their warrant cards in her face.

"Oh! What can I do for you?" she asked in slight alarm.

"I believe that a woman was admitted this morning with gunshot injuries..." said Longbridge.

"Ah, that one. Yes – let me get Dr Grier." The receptionist picked up the phone: "Hello – Dr Grier...? There are some policemen that want to speak to you..." She replaced the phone and turned back to the officers: "He's on his way down."

"Thank you." said Longbridge. The two detectives waited pensively. Eventually they heard footsteps approaching from the adjacent corridor and a young handsome man appeared through the swing doors, wearing a white coat and stethoscope.

"Dr Grier?" Longbridge enquired.

"Yes. What I can do for you two gentlemen?" He was very well spoken.

"DI Longbridge and this is DS Collins, Guildford Division. You have a young woman with gunshot injuries, admitted this morning?"

"Yes, yes. One of your constables is guarding her room. We have her under sedation: you won't be able to speak to her today."

"What's her condition?" asked Collins with concern.

"She has a great many minor injuries: cuts, bruises and such... You best come to my office." said the doctor, recognising the need for discretion. The officers followed him along a disinfectant scented corridor and into a small office, which had a window onto an enclosed garden. They all took a chair and sat in a huddle, as though discussing a state secret. "As you know, she has been shot several times; she's lost a fair amount of blood – we're currently transfusing her." "Can you give us some details of her injuries, please, doctor." Collins asked exploratively.

"Yes, of course. She has sustained a bullet wound to the left thigh – the bullet is lodged in her muscle, near the bone; we intend to operate later today. Amazingly, the bullet missed the major arteries, but there is some fragmentation. She was also shot twice in the chest area, but incredibly one bullet deflected off her breast bone and back out; the other passed straight through without hitting any organs or arteries. If that wasn't enough of a miracle, she was also received a shot to the head, which was essentially superficial: it grazed the skull and did not enter the brain cavity. Her guardian angel was certainly looking out for her, today." he exclaimed.

"Not quite well enough, though." commented Longbridge rather disparagingly. Grier acknowledged the point with a concessionary gesture.

"When do you think we'll be able to speak to her?" pressed Collins.

"She really needs a few days rest, before I can allow that."

"It is rather urgent." insisted Longbridge, "There's a maniac running around out there and we haven't a clue where to start looking..."

"Of course, I do appreciate the importance, but my patient's immediate welfare is my primary concern... I promise I will let you speak with her just as soon as is reasonably possible." "Any evidence of sexual assault?" continued Longbridge.

"I'm afraid so, yes."

"Can we have her clothing, please – it's evidence."

"Yes, we realised you would want that. We've put it all in bag in her room... I'll get someone to bring it down." "Where is she being kept, by the way?"

"She's in a private room off Ward 6... I can't allow you to disturb her at this time."

"No, that's fine. We appreciate your time, doctor." Longbridge assented. "We'll wait in reception for the clothes."

Longbridge and Collins walked soberly back to the reception desk and waited. "The press are going to have a field day with this." Collins noted with a tinge of animosity.

"Hmm. You're not wrong, Tony." Longbridge concurred, "Let's try to avoid those two out front... This is frustrating:

we don't even have a description of the car, let alone the murderer. He could be anywhere by now... Let's get back to the station and hope something new's come up. We'll have to extract that statement from Ash, too."

When they returned to their office at Guildford Police Station they discovered a note left on Longbridge's desk to the effect that there had been a phone call from a woman relating to her husband having not returned home overnight, and he was apparently with a female work colleague who had also gone missing. It wasn't local, though: it was a message from Berkshire Constabulary.

"What's that, sir?" asked Collins inquisitively as Longbridge perused the note.

"It's from the Berkshire squad. They obviously think it may be connected."

"News travels fast."

"Yeah. See if you can find the number of their headquarters."

It was quickly established that this was indeed the same couple that had been shot. This was a critical lead as they could now get a description of the car.

"Looks like we're off to Maidenhead." informed Longbridge putting down the phone to the Berkshire Constabulary's headquarters in Sulhamstead.

"Maidenhead?" queried Collins, rather mystified.

"The missing persons report originated from the Maidenhead area."

"What the hell were they doing in Felstave?" continued Collins in puzzlement.

"More to the point, why did they end up in Felstave?" added Longbridge.

DS Collins swung the maroon coloured 2.5 litre _Jaguar Mk2_ into the car park of Maidenhead Police Station. Longbridge stepped out of the vehicle and straightened his tie; he never liked visiting stations in different divisions and he had not been to Maidenhead station before. The two detectives approached the reception desk with a degree of guardedness.

"And what can I do for you two gentlemen?" asked the duty sergeant, instinctively recognising the demeanour of plain clothes policemen. They showed their warrant cards.

"We're investigating a double shooting down Guildford way. We think the victims may have come from this neck of the woods." explained Longbridge.

"I see, sir. And what makes you think that?"

"I got a message saying a man and woman had been reported missing overnight. We think it could be connected."

"Okay, sir. I'll get the inspector. Do you want sit in the interview room?" "Sure." said Collins, "Couldn't rustle up a cup of tea, could you? Milk and sugar." "Er – I'll see what I can do." replied the sergeant hesitantly.

"Where's the lav'?" asked Longbridge.

"Again!" exclaimed Collins.

"Shut up: or I'll get you to make the tea." threatened Longbridge.

Collins made himself at home in the interview room, immediately lighting a cigarette. A few minutes later a uniformed inspector entered the room. Collins stood up and acknowledged him with a sharp "Sir." "Where's your governor?" asked Inspector Jessop.

"He's just gone for a...He's just gone to the toilet, sir."

"Is this about the murder we heard about?"

"Yes, sir."

"Terrible business."

"Certainly is, sir."

Longbridge entered the room and introduced himself. "I believe you've had a missing persons report this morning: a man and woman in a car?"

"So I understand." replied Jessop, "One of our constables had the foresight to report it to your division."

"Could we have the address, please? It's rather urgent that we speak with this person."

A constable entered the room with two cups of tea. "Superb." Collins proclaimed and then coughed disquietedly, noticing that Inspector Jessop seemed a little dismayed by this behaviour.

"Old school." whispered Longbridge when Jessop left the room.

"Nice tea." announced Collins sipping his.

It was gone 2.50 PM by the time they left Maidenhead station to make the short drive to an address in the Cox Green area of the town, on the western outskirts. The _Jaguar_ stopped outside 16 Fern Drive, a 3-bedroom semi-detached house of relatively new build.

"This is the bit I hate." admitted Longbridge.

"Yes, sir: how to screw-up someone's day – and some." said Collins in agreement.

Longbridge reluctantly rang the doorbell. They could hear children laughing and screaming playfully in an upstairs bedroom; this did not make the job any easier.

## Chapter Six

**The** door opened revealing a handsome looking woman in her late twenties; Collins found her to be instantly alluring, with her neatly bobbed blonde hair, her blue-green eyes, and she still had a surprisingly lithe figure for a mother of two. She instantly froze on seeing the two detectives; the colour drained from her face as they introduced themselves.

"May we come in, Mrs Mason?" asked Longbridge softly, displaying his warrant card. She said nothing and stepped aside, her gaze fixed on the floor. They followed her into the living room; Collins shut the door.

"You best sit down Mrs Mason." advised Longbridge. She slowly lowered herself onto an armchair; tightly clenching her hands together; she nervously raised her gaze to the level of the detectives, who had sat on the 3-seater sofa. "I understand your husband didn't return home last night?" Longbridge delicately established. "No." she replied timidly.

"What's your name luv?" asked Collins.

"Anne." Collins could detect the hint of a Welsh accent in her shaky voice.

"Anne, has your husband ever done this before?" continued Longbridge.

"Not without telling me."

"I understand you've tried to contact the lady that was with him last night? Would that be Vera Fable?"

"Yes."

Longbridge looked knowingly at Collins and took a deep breath: "It er... it's my duty to have to inform you that we believe your husband was shot dead in the early hours of this morning...I'm very sorry." A freezing silence descended in the room; Anne's face was ashen. After a short pause, Longbridge continued: "I know this is very difficult for you now, but we must ask you some questions... It will help us catch the man who did this." "Did... Did he suffer?" she asked, tears welling in her eyes.

"We don't believe so, no... Do you know why your husband and Miss Fable would have been in the Guildford area?"

"Guildford?" enquired Anne in puzzlement, "Are you sure it's him?"

"I'm afraid so, yes." assured Collins. There was a long pause while Anne digested this information.

"They don't go to the Guildford area." she eventually informed them. Children's voices could be heard whispering behind the closed door. "What will I tell _them_?" she implored.

"Tony, could you distract the little ones, please?"

"Certainly, sir." DS Collins opened the door and knelt down to the children's level: "Who are you?" asked Lindsey, who was the eldest. "I'm a policeman." said Collins blithely; "I want to see mummy." continued Lindsey. "She's rather busy right now; why don't you go back upstairs and play and then she'll come and see you in a little while, yeah?" he suggested sensitively. Anne had to hold back the urge to burst into tears. Lindsey nodded and the two children ran back upstairs laughing.

"This will be very difficult." started Longbridge, "We could arrange for a WPC to visit you – to give you support. Do you have any family that you can call on?"

"My brother lives in Uxbridge."

"You might want to let him know what's happened... If you give us his details, we could contact him for you." "It's okay, I'll ring him." she insisted.

"Mrs Mason, I'm sorry to have to press you at this time, but we urgently need to catch this man, so any information you can provide that might help us do that, is essential."

"Yes, I understand."

"Would you like me to make a cup of tea?" asked Collins in a compassionate tone.

"Please." spluttered Anne. Collins left the room to explore the Mason's kitchen.

"Anne, I need to know the details of the car he was driving last night."

"It's a _Singer_... _Gazelle_. It's only six months old."

"Can you tell me the number plate and colour, please?"

"Green – _dark_ green. I think the number plate is KGV... 88C."

"Any distinguishing marks?"

"It's got an AA badge at the back."

"Do you know where your husband intended to go last night?"

"Not exactly; but local: he's in rallying club – Vera's his navigator." she revealed with an undertone of annoyance, "Oh, there's a sticker in the back window with the club insignia." "That's very helpful, Anne." encouraged Longbridge.

"What's the name of the club?"

"Maidenhead Auto Club."

"Do you know the address?"

"It's in town; I've never been there."

"Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt your husband, or Miss Fable?"

"No." she answered a tad defensively, "He's very popular." she added; Longbridge noted a hint of resentment in her bloodshot eyes. "When can I see him?"

"I'll make arrangements for you to visit the mortuary. We will need someone to make a formal identification... How long have you been married, Mrs Mason?" "Ten years." she sniffed.

"What can you tell us about Miss Fable?"

"She's young." observed Anne, unable to hide her bitterness.

"You're quite young yourself, Mrs Mason." adduced Longbridge.

"Younger than me." she clarified.

"How old are you Mrs Mason, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Twenty-nine."

"How old is your husband?"

"Thirty-two."

"What was your husband's profession, Mrs Mason?"

"He's... A sales manager... At Alcott's timber merchants. They export all over the world." she said proudly.

"And where are they?"

"In Maidenhead... Off Ockwell's Road. It's not far from here – that's why we bought this house." "Is that where Miss Fable works?" asked Longbridge astutely.

"Yes." replied Anne tetchily, then lifted her head and with a searching stare enquired: "What happened to her?"

"She's okay: alive. They're looking after her in hospital."

"Was she shot?"

"I can't really discuss the details at this time: it's very early in the investigation."

Collins rescued the moment by returning with a cup of tea for Anne; "I put in milk – I couldn't find the sugar: hope that's okay." he said apologetically handing her the cup.

"I don't take sugar. Thank you." she acknowledged politely.

"Tony, can you get on to headquarters and give them the description of the car?" Longbridge showed him his notebook and Collins copied down the details into his; he then went out to the car to radio in.

"Would I be able to visit Vera?" Anne suddenly asked; Longbridge was somewhat nonplussed by this. "Um... Sorry, I didn't realise you were familiar with Miss Fable?" "We have met... Once." she stated coldly.

"Perhaps, in a few days. They won't even let _us_ see her at the moment."

"Is she seriously injured?" Anne finally expressed some concern for Vera.

"I can't give any details. She will be in hospital for some time." explained Longbridge diplomatically.

Anne sipped her tea with a heavy heart; the ghastly realisation of what had happened was now gradually consuming her. Longbridge decided that he had gleaned enough from the distressed widow for the time being. "We will need you to come down the station to make a formal statement at some point." "Why?" she challenged, markedly perturbed.

"It's just procedure. Quite normal: nothing to be concerned about. We'll be in touch about arrangements." He wrote down his personal police phone number: "Here – ring me anytime. Or your local station; just tell them DI Longbridge of the

Guildford division is the investigating officer... Please accept my deepest condolences, Mrs Mason. I'll let myself out."

As Longbridge walked down the front garden path he heard a muted scream; he paused momentarily and then rejoined Collins in the car. Slumping back into his seat, he briefly closed his eyes, partly through tiredness and partly as a result of the stress of the situation.

"Well, at least we're making some progress, now." stated Collins, "What do you make of Mrs Mason?"

"Well, I don't think she did it – if that's what you mean."

"No. She seems genuinely upset – I think."

"I reckon Mr Mason was having an affair with Miss Fable, and she knew about it – or suspected, at least."

"You think, sir? That's interesting... Do you think she could have had anything to do with it?"

"Unlikely... She wants to see the girl, though." remarked Longbridge, still mystified by that request.

"Why?"

"Exactly...Mind you, grief does strange things. She was the last thing he touched; it's a sort of connection, I suppose." "May be." said Collins dubiously.

"Honestly, Tony: I can't see her wanting her husband dead."

"Probably not." Collins conceded, though not wholly convinced, "What now?"

"Apparently the victim worked for a local company; she said the place wasn't far from here: a timber merchants..."

Longbridge checked his notes, "Alcott's."

"I suppose we could go back to the local station and get a map."

"What's the time?"

"Twenty past Three."

"Mmm. Place will probably be shut by the time we get there; there'll only be the weekend staff, anyway."

The radio crackled: "Message for DI Longbridge; message for DI Longbridge."

"Longbridge, speaking."

"They've found the car, sir." said Sergeant Metcalfe.

"Really? Where?"

"Fulham, sir. It was reported-in as abandoned at about 6.30 this morning, but the connection wasn't made until we got the car registration, sir."

"Good work. Have we got anyone going down there?"

"No, sir. The local boys are on it, but we thought you'd want to be first on scene."

"Okay. Can you give us the location?"

"Yes, sir: It's close to Fulham football ground; the car was dumped at the corner of Stevenage Road and Bishop's Park

Road."

"That's near the river, isn't it?" asked Longbridge addressing Collins.

"Yeah, I know where Craven Cottage is, sir." replied Collins; Longbridge looked confused. "That's Fulham's ground, sir." he clarified.

"Ah. How long to get _there_?"

"A good hour, I'd say."

"Right: better make haste, then, Sergeant." ordered Longbridge. Collins started the car.

They approached the abandoned _Singer_ from Stevenage Road, passing the Craven Cottage football ground – fortunately, Fulham were playing away, so it was relatively quiet, apart from the police cordon at the end of the road. DS Collins parked a few yards from the road block. They flashed their warrant cards to the constable guarding the road, who let them through. Several plain clothes officers from the Hammersmith Borough division were loitering near to the tapedoff car. As they drew closer, they could see that one of the uniformed officers was high ranking – he intercepted them.

"Chief Superintendent Wilkinson." he announced.

"Afternoon, sir. DI Longbridge – and this is DS Collins – Guildford division." "I hear we have a maniac on the loose." noted Wilkinson.

"Yes, sir; it would seem so." concurred Longbridge.

"What do you know?" the superintendent asked sharply: he was in no mood for inter-divisional politics.

Longbridge hesitated, but decided not to withhold anything: "We have a man shot dead and attempted murder of a woman, following abduction by a probable hitch-hiker. It appears this may have started near Maidenhead, but it ended on our patch, a few miles from Godalming."

"Okay. You can liaise with DI Garland. Full cooperation, please." insisted Wilkinson.

"Yes sir." assured Longbridge. The superintendent walked to his car and left. Longbridge and Collins converged with the two Metropolitan Police detectives. After exchanging pleasantries, they all went to examine the Singer.

"Any prints?" asked Collins.

"Hundreds." admitted Garland a little despondently. "There's a bloodied blanket on the driver's seat; I reckon the perpetrator may have got blood on his clothes. The dash' and front seats have some specks of blood on them...Looks like the driver had a few collisions, too." Garland pointed out damage to the front and back of the vehicle and a few deep scratches to the front nearside panel. "We don't think the car had been here that long before our constable reported it – the engine was still warm. We've started questioning the locals, but so far, nothing. He probably escaped through the park." Garland gestured to Bishop's Park, which was immediately adjacent to the location of the car. "He probably took the path along the river, then around or through the grounds of Fulham palace; then disappeared into the Fulham, Putney or Wandsworth areas."

"Any weapon found, or ammunition?" asked Longbridge hopefully.

"Sorry, nothing so far." Garland empathetically informed him.

"Well, let us know if anything turns up. We're based at the Guildford Station." "You might have your work cut out with this one." remarked Garland.

"We've been half way round Greater London, already." sniffed Longbridge wearily. He and Collins returned to their car, where they both lit a cigarette.

"I'm bloody starvin'." complained Collins.

"I could do with a pint." added Longbridge. "What do you make of all this?"

"I don't know: it's all a bit odd, if you ask me."

"I've never come across a case like this."

"I don't think anyone has, sir." sympathised Collins.

"Why would he drive them all the way down to bloody Felstave, then come all this way back into London? It doesn't make much sense."

"Psycho's rarely make sense, sir. Maybe his dead mother told him to do it." joked Collins, making reference to the Alfred Hitchcock film 'Psycho'.

"Perhaps we should get Hitchcock in as an adviser." quipped Longbridge.

"I'm sure it will make more sense when we speak to the girl."

"I bloody hope so." stated Longbridge dejectedly. "We may as well get back to the Station, Tony. We'll look for a pub on the way home tonight. Can you last that long?"

"Guess I'll have to, sir."

By the time they got back to Guildford Police Station it was 6 PM, whereupon they were immediately told to report to Chief Inspector Macintosh, the overall station controller.

"Great. What does he want?" moaned Longbridge. The Chief Inspector had a tendency to interfere and not in a helpful way; he and Longbridge had some acrimonious history. The two detectives grudgingly made their way up a flight of stairs to where the Chief's office was located. His secretary had long gone home, so Longbridge knocked on the door.

"Come in!" bellowed Macintosh in his public school educated over-authoritative tone. Longbridge took a deep breath and opened the door. Macintosh was a large man with a huge beard: he seemed to have modelled himself on the caricatured image of British character actor James Robertson Justice. "Ah, Longbridge, where have you been?" "Working the case, sir. We've just got back from Fulham." pointed out Longbridge with exasperation.

"I didn't realise there was a match on." remarked Macintosh with his typical sarcastic attitude, intended to belittle;

"And what did you learn, Inspector?"

"Not a great deal, sir. It's a perplexing case."

"A day well spent, then?"

"We have spoken to the dead man's wife, sir. We're starting to construct a picture of events, but until we can speak to Miss Fable, we're just poking around in the dark, sir."

"And when will that be?"

"We hope by Monday. She's in a bad way, sir."

"Well, while you've been gadding about in your shiny _Jaguar_ , Inspector Ash has released a statement to the local and national press; a description of the attacker will appear in the Sunday papers." Macintosh always favoured the uniformed division.

"Description, sir?" quizzed Longbridge taken aback. He and Collins just looked at each other in bewilderment.

"Yes, Longbridge. The young lady gave details to a local woman before the ambulance arrived."

"Is this the statement Inspector Ash took from the local PC?"

"It's Inspector Ash's statement, Longbridge. I suggest you get some rest. I want you both in here early tomorrow typing up your reports. I want them on my desk a-sap." "Sir." agreed Longbridge resentfully.

"Right. Get out." said Macintosh bluntly.

The two detectives walked back to their car somewhat dejectedly. As usual Macintosh had managed to dampen any optimism that Longbridge had constructed for himself.

"I dread to think what the papers will say tomorrow... I'm surprised he didn't insist we stay tonight to do those reports – miserable git." groaned the inspector.

"Are we going to have that pint, then?" asked Collins expectantly. "Damn bloody right we are, and a nice juicy steak and kidney pie..." "Mash and liquor?" added Collins suggestively.

"Ahh, now you're talking."

## Chapter Seven

## (1 August 1965)

**Inspector** Graham Longbridge was awakened by his alarm clock at 7 AM; he summoned consciousness, hindered by a mild hangover. After a quick coffee, a biscuit and some aspirin, he dressed and headed out from his one-bedroom flat above a solicitor's office, on a side road off Guildford High Street. He had lived there for the last two years following his divorce from his second wife; it was conveniently located near a public house. Walking into the high street, he lit a cigarette; it was short distance to the nearest newsagent. Wandering drowsily into the shop, he casually approached the newspaper rack. What greeted him was an array of similar headlines throughout all of the Sunday national papers:

Miracle of Marsholm Wood

Mayhem in Marsholm

Murder in Marsholm Wood

The Marsholm Maniac

And a number of other variations, but the one that eventually became synonymous with the crime was the one provided by the Sunday Mirror: _The Monster of Marsholm Wood_. Longbridge stared in astonishment; a sense of uneasiness descended upon him: this case was going to be a national event. A police description of the wanted man had been included: 'Average build and height, about 25 – 30, staring brown eyes; speaks with an East End accent; may be going by the name of Alf Brown; last seen in the Fulham area.' Despite the vagueness of this description, Longbridge was still quite surprised by the amount of detail; he could only assume that Vera had imparted rather more to Mrs Pomfrey-Jones than she had indicated to him, which she had later recalled when making her statement. It was also clear that information had been acquired from the Metropolitan Police. He bought the paper and then rushed back to his flat to get his car keys, before driving around to DS Collins' place: another rather sad one-bedroom flat in a small block at the other end of town. They were both equally introspective on the short journey to the station. On arrival they promptly began typing up their reports for the previous days' activities. At about 9.15 AM, while they were having a cigarette break and contemplating the potential direction of the investigation, the phone rang – it was the internal line.

"Hello... Morning sir." Longbridge mouthed to Collins that is was Macintosh.

"Have you typed those reports?" thundered DCI Macintosh. "Yes sir."

"Good – get up to my office a-sap. We don't need Collins." Macintosh ordered somewhat ominously.

"Bloody hell." complained Longbridge impersonally.

"What does _he_ want?" Collins asked with apprehension.

Longbridge produced a deep heavy sigh: "He wants our reports; something's up, though."

Inspector Longbridge knocked on the DCI's office door; he could hear a jocular conversation taking place. Even more concerning was when Macintosh addressed him as 'Graham' on entering the room – that was a first. His attention was instantly drawn to the other plain-clothes officer who was sitting cosily at the side of Macintosh's desk, something reserved only for more senior officers.

"This is Detective Superintendent Ackroyd, from Scotland Yard." stated Macintosh in noticeably smug tone.

"Good morning sir." acknowledged Longbridge.

"Sit down Graham, sit down." continued Macintosh in an uncommonly friendly manner.

"Thank you, sir." Longbridge gritted his teeth and reluctantly sat down.

"The Superintendent will be assuming full control of the Marsholm murder case... I see you have kindly brought your reports for the Super'." Longbridge handed the reports to DSupt Ackroyd.

"Sorry to steal your thunder, Inspector, but this case has been given top priority." said Ackroyd taking the reports.

"I'm afraid it crosses too many divisional boundaries to be handled by us." added Macintosh.

"Commissioner Melrose-Laroche personally appointed me. [This was in fact entirely untrue, but intended to soften the blow]. The top-brass are desperate to wrap this one up quickly, what with Biggs on the loose; their worried the publicity will undermine the authority of the force. We can't have people thinking they can just do whatever they like and get away with it. It's already all over the papers like a rash." explained Ackroyd.

"Yes, I've seen that, sir."

"You're not strictly off the case, because, frankly, _everyone's_ on this case. But I will need you to relinquish any evidence to my team."

"Yes, sir... Er, I have the victims' clothes in the boot of my car, sir. I haven't had a chance to process them, yet."

"I'll take those now: we need to get them to the forensics boys as soon as possible. I shall be going there later... I believe you spoke to the dead victim's wife, yesterday?"

"Yes, sir. It's all in my report."

"The post-mortem was conducted last night. No surprises, but they did recover two bullets... I'll catch this bugger if it's the last thing I ever do." pronounced Ackroyd confidently.

"I hope you do sir." affirmed Longbridge.

"Well, thank you for your invaluable contribution to the case, Graham; you can return to your usual duties, now." instructed Macintosh with typical pomposity, "Do the necessary paperwork for the transfer of the clothes evidence before you go home." he added as Longbridge stood to leave the room; he returned to his office.

"So, what was that all about?" asked Collins.

"We're off the case... They've got one of the top boys from Scotland Yard on it. The worst part was Macintosh pretending to be civil. The bastard was really enjoying it."

DSupt Ackroyd placed the evidence bag containing Vera's clothes into the boot of his black _Wolseley 6/110 Mk II_ , which rather unusually had automatic transmission. He decided that he needed to visit Mrs Mason himself, primarily to introduce himself as the lead detective on the case.

Ackroyd had had a fairly distinguished career, having joined the Metropolitan Police in 1934 as an ordinary constable, walking the beat in Chiswick, West London. During WWII he became a renowned bomber pilot and received the DFC. When the war ended, he re-joined the force, appropriately within a unit of the Specialist Crime & Operations Section, known as the 'Flying Squad' and had been involved in a number of high profile investigations over the years, including the recent Great Train Robbery, (of which Ronald Biggs had been a member of the gang responsible). To assist him, he was allowed to make his own choice of Detective Sergeant Edward Cambridge, an officer of some repute; he had been passed over for promotion a number of times due to a few indiscretions, but was much loved by his fellow officers, to whom he was affectionately known as 'Teddy'. As well as being the Superintendent's dog's body, he would also organise the small team of detective constables that were assigned specifically to the case.

He arrived at Anne Mason's home at around 11.30 AM, noting that an impressively flash _MGB Roadster_ with lightblue paint-work, was parked on the drive. His suspicions were at once aroused: he wondered if she had a boyfriend. Having taken down the registration details of the vehicle, he knocked emphatically on the glass of the front door. A tall well-built man answered the door; he was in his mid-thirties, good-looking and very self-assured, yet was slightly taken aback at the sight of Ackroyd.

"Good morning, sir. Detective Superintendent Ackroyd." he announced, presenting his warrant card. "This is the correct address for Mrs Anne Mason?"

"Oh, yes; yes, of course... You'd better come in."

"May I ask who you are?"

"I'm Anne's brother: Ewan; Ewan Williams." They entered the living-room, "Anne, a detective to see you."

Anne instinctively stood up in expectation of more bad news; she appeared disorientated and had clearly been crying, as her mascara was smudged onto her face.

"Please don't get up Mrs Mason. There's nothing to be concerned about: this is just a routine visit. I wanted to introduce myself: Detective Superintendent Ackroyd, Metropolitan Police. [He showed her his warrant card] The case of your husband's murder has been reassigned to me – I thought you should know. I understand that officers from the

Guildford division visited you yesterday, but I shall be your first line of contact from now on." "Is there any news about Vera?" she enquired with genuine concern.

"I believe she is recovering remarkably well." replied Ackroyd discreetly.

"When can I visit her?" she asked again, assuming Ackroyd was aware of her previous request; however, Ackroyd was as dumbfounded as the other detectives had been. "Well..." he started, "Perhaps in a few days. I will have to ask Miss Fable whether she is amenable to that. I hope to see her later today." Ackroyd paused while Ewan sat down. "I have Inspector Longbridge's report of his interview; that was of course just a preliminary interview. We have to ask a number of pertinent questions as a matter of routine, and you will need to make a formal statement at the station: that's Scotland Yard; my office will be in touch about that in due course. We can arrange transport should you require it."

Anne listened intently, while her brother sat next to her, comforting her by holding and stroking her hand. Ackroyd continued: "I realise this is a very difficult time for you, Mrs Mason. But I want you to know that I intend to catch this man, and I will have whatever resources I need to do that. You can expect some unwanted attention from the press: they feed like rats on this sort of thing. Be careful what you say; probably best to say nothing. You might want to appoint a solicitor..." "Why?" she interrupted with a puzzled expression.

"Simply for your own protection. You might need some legal advice in regard to certain issues that may arise – I don't want to worry you by pre-empting; it would just be a wise precaution. I also have to ask you to make a formal identification of your husband's body. That should have occurred before the post-mortem, but there were unfortunately some communication failures – please accept my apology. One of my team will contact you later today to arrange that; they will take you to the mortuary and then bring you home. If you want to bring your brother, that wouldn't be a problem. Do you feel able to do that?"

"I suppose." she replied with some anguish. Her brother reassured her: "I'll come with you – don't worry."

"Thank you for your time, Mrs Mason; Mr...?"

"Williams."

"Yes, of course. I'll leave you in peace, but as I said, someone will be in touch regards the identification. Do you have a phone?" Anne nodded, "May I have the number, please?" Anne duly provided it, writing it on a piece of scented note paper.

"Please accept my condolences for your loss, Mrs Mason. Be assured, we _will_ catch this man." said DSupt Ackroyd assuredly. Ewan quietly showed him out.

After radioing-in Anne Mason's details, he sat in his car and pondered the notion that Mrs Mason might be involved in the death of her husband, but it certainly wasn't a serious consideration at this stage of the enquiry. Following this, Roger returned home in time to have dinner with his long-suffering wife, Eleanor, at 1 PM. They owned a large house near Finsbury Park (North London), which was perfect for when their grandchildren visited – and for their 4 year old St. Bernard dog, Alfred.

As Roger cut into his roast beef, his wife (Eleanor) stared at him across the Jentique dining table. She knew that look of burden that overcame his disposition when faced with a particularly difficult or unpleasant case – it had made him prematurely grey. She poured the Pinot Noir burgundy into his beautifully cut D'arques Longchamp crystal wine glass: the blood-red liquid swirled and foamed as it sloshed around its gentle curves.

"Another one of _those_ is it?" she knowingly enquired, "Don't let it take you over darling – please." she implored, albeit futilely.

"You read the paper?" he asked rhetorically.

"Yes. _The Marsholm M_ o _nster_ , or something – is that what their calling him?"

"I've no idea. But we need to catch this lunatic; there's going to be a lot of public pressure on this one." "Well, you usually do." she reminded him consolingly.

In the late afternoon, Ackroyd visited the Scotland Yard Forensics Laboratory in order to deliver Vera's clothes for analysis. While at the Scotland Yard headquarters he learned that Vera was to be transferred to the Royal Northern Hospital in Holloway Road, North London, that evening, principally to make her more accessible to the investigation now being coordinated from Scotland Yard. Apparently she was recovering exceptionally quickly – she really was the 'Miracle of Marsholm Wood'. However, she would need to remain in medical care for some time to come. Ackroyd, keen to kick-start his investigation, was anxious to interview her sooner rather than later. They were now getting some reports from the public of sightings of the vehicle as a result of the description of the car released to the media – there was an intense public interest and everyone wanted to help; unfortunately, that meant they would get swamped with false leads. He knew that Vera's first-hand account was the only truly reliable or useful source of information, so the quicker he acquired _that_ the better, especially as the doctor's were indicating that she was highly responsive and eager to speak to the police. He managed to secure an interview with her arranged for late that evening.

Ackroyd arrived at the Royal Northern at just after 9 pm. The media had not got wind of this move as yet, so all was quiet. The main entrance was closed and in darkness, so he went to the A & E reception desk; after a lengthy wait, a nurse came down to escort him to the private room on the 2nd floor. A uniformed constable was guarding the room, from which a senior doctor (in age and authority) emerged to apprise the detective of Vera's condition.

"Superintendent Ackroyd?"

"Yes. How is she?"

"She had an operation to remove the bullet from her thigh yesterday evening; however, they were not able to recover all of the fragments – there is some concern of potential infection; we are obviously monitoring the situation. I've given her a mild sedative and some pain relief, to keep her comfortable and relaxed. She is ready to speak to you, but can I ask you to please keep it as short as possible." The doctor opened the door to the room and introduced Vera to Ackroyd, before leaving them to talk privately. Her head was partially bandaged and there were a few superficial scratches on her face, but otherwise she looked surprisingly well.

"Hello Vera. I hear you have been incredibly brave, but you need to _keep_ strong. I know it may be difficult right now, but the sooner I get the information I need, the sooner we can catch this man...Firstly can you give me a physical description of the man?"

"Yes. He was about five foot seven tall; average build. Well dressed. He had a dark blue suit with a waistcoat...plain.

Grey tie with a white stripe... Nice shoes: expensive, I'd say – black..."

"What sort of age?"

"Young... A little older than me – 25?"

"Did you get a good look at his face?"

"Yes and no. It was very dark. But I think I would know him; especially those eyes."

"What about the eyes?"

"Piercing; blue... Quite pale skinned – like me."

"What colour hair?"

"Oh, dark... Sometimes, if the light caught it, it looked lighter."

"We will round-up a few likely suspects and arrange a parade – are you are up to that?" "Yes." Vera answered emphatically.

"Did he have any accent?"

"Cockney, I'd say. He kept saying things like 'fink'."

"Okay. Did he say anything about himself: a name or...?"

"Brown. Alf Brown. But I think he was making that up. I don't know I believe anything he said."

"Well, sometimes people let slip genuine details, even when they're lying."

"Can I think about that?"

"Yes, of course. The description is the critical thing, right now. But anything could be important." "Why do you think he did it?"

"I wish I knew. Sometimes people – criminals – don't know why they do things, themselves: it's a compulsion."

"We thought he was just going to rob us to start with."

"Did he take any valuables from you?"

"Some money. I hid some down the side of the car seat... He took our watches... He said he had escaped from prison." "Escaped from prison?" echoed Ackroyd incredulously.

"I don't think that was true, though: he was wearing a smart suit, and he was wearing aftershave!"

"I'm not aware of any escapees locally, and I doubt it would be Mr Biggs." commented Ackroyd thoughtfully, "Too

old, for a start."

"I've seen pictures of him – it wasn't him. He gave the impression he'd just escaped, anyway."

"What time did this all start, and where?"

"We were parked in the entrance to a field at about 9.30, in River Lane – that's in Cherrydean..."

"Cherrydean?" exclaimed Ackroyd.

"Yes. It's just outside Maidenhead."

"And how did you end up in Marsholm Wood?"

"We were driving for hours."

"I see. What route did you take?"

"All over the place. He made Gregg drive into London first, but then took us out through Richmond and Kingston. Then we were on the A3 for about an hour, I'd guess, before reaching Guildford. But he didn't want to go into Guildford; we thought that might be a chance for us to do something, but he kept us going into the country."

"What happened when you got to the wood?" Vera fell silent and became slightly withdrawn.

Ackroyd sensed this was going to be difficult, but he needed to ascertain the facts; he would have to be gently persuasive: "Vera...Do you know why he wanted to go to that location?"

"No, not... Well, he said he needed to sleep. He said that right at the start, though."

"I see. How was he going to do that without your escaping?"

"He said he had to tie us both up. He knew there was some rope in the boot, but I guess he wanted something else as well. He told me to pass back my shopping bag... That's, that's when it happened... He said it was an accident, but Gregg never had a chance."

"So, this is just after you got to the wood?"

"Yes. He just shot him. He was trying to hand the bag back to him. That's all."

"I'm sorry to ask, but did Gregg die immediately?"

"Yes... The look on his face... He never stood a chance." Vera began to weep. Ackroyd gave her a few minutes to compose herself.

"Why did he chase you into the wood, Vera?" "He raped me." she abruptly revealed.

"I'm sorry, Vera. I know this is hard. Was this in the car, or outside?"

"In the car. He told me to get in the back with him."

"What happened after that?"

"He made me help him move Gregg's body out of the car and clean up the blood. Then I put the blanket over the seat: he said he didn't want to get blood on his clothes."

"He started asking me how the car worked, which I thought was strange. He was just standing there leering at me. I thought: he's going to kill me now; so, I kneed him in... You know? The groin."

"Then what happened?"

"He went down and I just ran hell for leather. I couldn't see a thing; I fell over loads of times. Then I heard him coming, so I panicked. He just kept shooting – thankfully they missed me. But then I felt a sharp pain in my thigh and fell flat on my back. I just lay still, hoping he wouldn't find me... But he did. Then he shot me again. I don't know how I survived that."

"The important thing is, you did, and now you can help catch this man, before he hurts anyone else." "Did you find the car?"

"Yes, that has been recovered. We're trying to match fingerprints, but..."

"Don't bother."

"Why not?"

"He was wearing gloves all the time... Even when...You know."

"You're sure he never took them off?"

"Yes, I think so."

The doctor re-entered the room: "If you have enough to be going on with, detective, I would like Miss Fable to get some sleep now. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow – late morning?"

"Yes, I think I have enough to make a start... Keep thinking, Vera: I know you desperately want to forget, but I need you to remember as much as possible." Vera nodded. "I'll be back tomorrow – about eleven, if that's okay with you both?" Vera and the doctor accorded, "It's been an honour to meet you Miss Fable." said Ackroyd with sincerity as he left the room.

## Chapter Eight

## (2 August 1965)

**Monday** morning was a hectic affair for DSupt Ackroyd: he had been in the station since 6 AM preparing a press release giving more details of the case and, most importantly, a new description of the assailant to replace the slightly erroneous original given in the Sunday papers. He also had to prepare for an 8.30 AM briefing with his investigation team. DS Cambridge had arrived at 7 AM to assist him. Cambridge was a large man, 6 foot 2 inches and well-built; but despite his imposing image, he was archetypical nice guy – do anything for anyone. The men had nothing but respect for him, but looking the way he did and having the name of Edward meant that he was inevitably known as 'Teddy' by everyone, a title he had lived with all his life. He towered over the diminutive Ackroyd, making for an excellent body-guard for the Superintendent.

At 8.30 AM the men assembled in the briefing room: it was the usual rowdy affair, until DS Cambridge settled them all down ready for Ackroyd.

"Good morning, men." started Ackroyd, "As you all know we've got ourselves a big case on our hands and there's pressure from the top to get it solved quick. Remember: if I get flak from the Chief, you lot will get flak from me. For those of you who haven't read the papers, I've prepared an overview of the case so far – it's on the board over there. I suggest you all read it before you go out today. This is the new description of the perpetrator." Ackroyd pointed to the blackboard. "You should all make a note of that." Ackroyd gave them a minute to digest this. "Okay boys: what we have on our hands is a joker who kills in cold-blood, rapes an innocent girl and then chases her down in a wood like an animal, where he tries to shoot her dead – thankfully, he failed. I shall be returning to the hospital later to continue my interview with Miss Fable; I think she's got a lot more for us, yet. But, right now, we need to get out there and round up any likely candidates. I'd like to sort out some identity parades as soon as possible – they'll probably have to be done at the hospital. The car is being gone over with a fine tooth-comb, but this guy was shrewd enough to wear gloves, so we're unlikely to get any prints. I believe we've already had some reports of sightings of the vehicle – we need to interview those witnesses, as soon as possible. From what Miss Fable has told me so far, they had quite a journey through parts of outer London before they headed out to Guildford; I'm guessing, but they must have stopped for petrol at some point. We can start making enquiries at garages along the likely route. Forensics have started their bit. From the spent cartridge cases and bullets recovered, they've ascertained that he used a .38 calibre hand gun, so that's another line of enquiry. Teddy has organised the duty roster for today, so I'll leave him to get you lot to work." At which point he handed over to DS Cambridge: "Constable Alger, I want you to put together some mug-shots for Miss Fable to look through..." "Be in my office at eleven-thirty: you'll be coming to the hospital with me." added Ackroyd.

At about 10 AM, Ackroyd got some disturbing news: a man had rung the hospital in Guildford that morning and threatened to "finish off" Vera; though he was obviously unaware of her move to London, they decided to double the watch on her room at the Royal Northern. Following a meeting with Detective Chief Superintendent Allsop, Ackroyd's immediate superior, he and DC Alger drove to the hospital to recommence interviewing Vera. Meanwhile, another important development had arisen in Camberwell (South London): a bus company worker had reported the discovery of a gun wrapped in a handkerchief, along with a stash of ammunition, behind the back seat of a 36A bus.

Vera's condition was stable, although doctors were still concerned about the tiny bullet fragments still lodged in her thigh. But she was in good spirits, all things considered. She was expecting a visit from her parents that afternoon – who had been unable to visit earlier, as they lived in Portsmouth and had no transport of their own. The detectives arrived at her room a little later than planned, having had to make enquiries regarding any strange phone calls to the hospital or strange men hanging around; fortunately, there hadn't been any reported. Ackroyd also instructed the medical staff to ensure that Vera did not get access to any newspapers.

"Good morning, Vera. This is Detective Constable Alger." – the DC interjected with a salutary "Ma'am" – "The constable will be taking the notes, today. We've brought some mug-shots for you to look through." continued Ackroyd taking the file from Alger and passing it over to Vera: "Take your time, Vera." While she perused this array of likely lads, a nurse came in and gave Ackroyd a message – it related to the discovery of the gun on the bus, which had now been identified as a .38 calibre Enfield revolver. Ackroyd mulled over this for a moment, before returning to speak to Vera: "So, Vera, any of those faces familiar?" he asked.

"No. I don't think so." she said thoughtfully.

"Okay. Don't worry, it's still early days. We may have found the gun that was used: that could give us a big lead... I'd like to go over what happened Friday night, again; this time, I want to start at the beginning and go through every detail that you can recall. The more information we have, the better chance of identifying a suspect." "That's okay. I'm ready." she proclaimed with an air of resolve.

"So, let's go back to the beginning: you and Gregg were sitting in the entrance to a field... What happened next?"

"We heard this tapping on the window. We thought it might be the farmer; the windows were misted, so we couldn't see who it was. It was getting quite dark by then, too... Gregg wound down the window and this gun was pushed into his face. We didn't know what to think; we assumed it must be a robbery... Then he took the keys and got in the back of the car. He said he was 'a desperate man'; that he'd escaped from prison and had been sleeping rough. But I don't think that was true, because later he made us get out of the car – I could see he was smartly dressed..."

"Okay. So, he's in the back of the car giving you some spiel, what then?"

"Gregg offered him money; we assumed that's what he wanted. He seemed a bit surprised, like it was a bonus."

"I see: you don't think that his real motive was robbery?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't say what he wanted... Oh, he did take our watches."

"That could be useful. Can you give us a description of the two watches?"

"Mine was an Omega with a plain round face." She gestured to indicate the size, "It had a sort of braided bracelet – it was 9 carat gold."

"Quite valuable, then?" "Well, it wasn't cheap."

"Any inscription?"

Vera hesitated: "It was a birthday gift, from a friend... On the back it said 'To my beloved Vera'."

"That's great, Vera. We can put the word out; see if surfaces on the black market. What about Gregg's watch?"

"I'm not sure. I don't think it was anything special. Plain face; blue leather strap – that's it, really."

"Okay. So, he took the watches – then what?"

"It was strange: he was quite threatening to start with, but then his tone changed; he started being chatty – friendlylike. It was weird; it was like he just wanted to have a chat."

"Can you recall any details of what he said?"

"He said he felt like a cowboy with his gun; he had a hanky over his mouth and nose, like a cowboy... Started going on about films; he said he thought I looked like Debbie Reynolds in 'How the west was won' – that was after he'd called her a 'tasty tart'. Oh, before that, he did ask some odd questions about me and Gregg."

"Like what?"

"Were we married, and things like that... He said he'd 'done the lot'; I don't know what he meant by that. Something to with prison?"

"That's an old lag's expression; it means he's been through all of the various prison phases – it's unusual, actually: we can look into that." informed Ackroyd.

"I can't remember much about that bit. He made Gregg drive further into the field after a while. That was frightening. Then he started being chatty, again. He was talking about films, again... No wait, that didn't start until we were in the field..."

"Take your time, Vera."

"He was asking about the car... It was all a bit creepy. I felt very uncomfortable; he kept making these subtle sexual references... After a while he said he wanted to drive and that he needed to tie us up; then he made us get out of the car – in the middle of that field... Oh, just before that, I asked him his name – or it might have been a bit earlier? Anyway, he said to call him 'Mr Brown'. It sounded made up..."

"What happened when you got out of the car?"

"He made Gregg open the boot. We had a tow rope in there: he said he could use that to tie _me_ up. He wanted to put Gregg in the boot, but I managed to convince him that the exhaust was leaking and that it would kill him... He changed his mind and said Gregg could drive."

When Ackroyd heard this, he gave DC Alger a puzzled look: it seemed that the gunman didn't want to risk killing Gregg at that stage, so evidently could not have been contemplating murder.

"Okay, then what?" prompted Ackroyd.

"We asked where he wanted to go... He asked which way was Windsor and said to go that way. Oh, I remember now, he said he wanted to get something to eat. I don't know if had anywhere in mind at that point." "Do you think he was familiar with Windsor?" enquired Ackroyd.

"I don't know, really? Gregg told him we needed petrol soon, so he told us to go to Staines and find the next garage. He told me to put the radio on; then he started chatting about music. He was singing a Rolling Stones song – but I don't know it. He said it wasn't out, yet? I didn't get that... Anyway, we stopped at an _Esso_ garage in Staines High Street..."

"That's useful." interjected Ackroyd, "Do you think the attendant would have seen the gunman?"

"I'm not sure."

"What time was this?"

"I'm not sure, but I'd guess around 10.30, or so... After we left that garage, Gregg deliberately left an indicator on – to attract attention. It worked, too; but it didn't help us."

"What happened there?"

"A car flagged us down and this youngish guy got out, but he didn't come right over – I think he was a bit scared."

"Why?"

"I don't know. But he drove off."

"Can you describe the vehicle?"

"I think it was an old Ford; it might have been a green colour."

"Did you get the registration?"

"No. It was old though."

"Could you describe the driver?"

"Bit chubby; fair hair. I couldn't really see him that well."

"Okay – it's something. Then what?"

"We went to a chip shop."

"A chip shop?" exclaimed Ackroyd, slightly shocked.

"Yes, it's called 'Fred's'; it's right next to the M4 flyover. I know it was around 11 PM, because last fish orders were at

11 PM and the woman locked up after they left the shop."

"Sorry: they?"

"Gregg and the gunman. He told me to stay in the car... I thought about running, but I was worried that he might shoot

Gregg and the woman in the shop."

"He did take off the hanky, when they went in the shop, I presume?" asked Ackroyd quizzically. "Oh yes, I meant to say: Gregg must have got a reasonable look at him then." "And so would the lady in the shop." noted Ackroyd, a little excited.

"Yes, she must have... When they got back in the car, he just sat and ate his chips for a while. He kept changing his tune: one minute friendly, the next threatening... Then he told Gregg to head for Kew Gardens."

"He seems to be at least vaguely familiar with the area." commented Ackroyd abstractly, addressing DC Alger.

"Yes. He seemed to know the chip shop was there." Vera added supportively.

"So, you drove to Kew Gardens?"

"Well, past it, yes... We followed the number 65 bus... Somewhere along that road he made us stop outside some shops – they were closed, but there was a cigarette machine."

"A cigarette machine? Did he buy cigarettes?"

"He made me get them. I thought about making a run for it, but I didn't want to leave Gregg on his own." "No. I imagine it was difficult: you couldn't have known what he was going to do." comforted Ackroyd.

"I don't think _he_ knew what he was going to do." she reasoned. "I still don't know what it was really about... I think he was interested in me from the start, though." she presumptively added.

"What did he do with these cigarettes? We didn't find any stubs in the car or..."

"I don't think he was a smoker, really." Vera interrupted. "He started coughing almost immediately, then threw it out the window... A car bibbed us."

"Where was this?"

"Heading towards Richmond. No wait, that was earlier: when he through the chips out." "What was earlier?"

"The car that bibbed us... When we reached Richmond train station there were some road works – he told us they would be there."

"That suggests recent knowledge of Richmond." commented Ackroyd, thinking out loud.

"Then we headed towards Kingston... No wait – we stopped a bit before that. Before Richmond, he made us double back and park on the verge... I think it was a golf course."

"Where was this?"

"Just after Kew, I think. We sat there for a bit; then he told us to carry on... No, hang on: I'm getting confused, now."

"That's okay, Vera. Just take your time." Ackroyd, sensing Vera was tiring, told DC Alger to get them some tea. When the constable had left the room, Ackroyd engaged Vera in non-interrogative conversation: "I understand your parents are visiting later."

"Yes." said Vera cheerfully, "They live in Portsmouth; they don't have a car, you see."

"Ah... I take it you don't see them much, then?"

"No, not much... Things like this make you appreciate the people in your life; especially your mum and dad... Do you have children, Superintendent?"

"Yes, and grandchildren." he answered buoyantly, "We have them all 'round the house once a month. It's a bit of a mad-house, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

"No. Sounds lovely." Vera said with sincerity. "I'd like to have a family – one day."

"Well, I'm sure you will... I believe Gregg had children." he postured in a slightly probing manner – it was instinct.

"Yes." responded Vera; she appeared a little uncomfortable with this line of enquiry.

"Sorry – you probably never met them." he delved further.

"No. No I didn't meet his family." was her noticeably dismissive reply.

"Oh, by the way," remembered Ackroyd, "Mrs Mason has asked if she can visit you."

"Oh, really?" Vera didn't seem completely shocked by this and yet seemed to be questioning her motives.

"Would you be happy for us to arrange that?"

"Yeah: if it makes her happy." she agreed flatly. Ackroyd was definitely detecting some tension between these two women.

"Have you ever met before?"

"Once or twice." she said rather deceitfully.

"You've both suffered a mutual loss." he said in a conciliatory tone, while simultaneously intimating a relationship parallel. Vera chose not to react to Ackroyd's provocation. He decided to steer away from this subject, not wanting to antagonize Vera, who after all, was an innocent victim – _and_ he needed her cooperation.

"I believe you both worked at Alcott's timber merchants?" asked Ackroyd changing tack.

"Yes. We didn't work together, though." she said defensively, "I'm the Commercial Director's secretary."

"Ah-hu. Gregg was the Sales Manager, I believe?" "Yes. We just had a mutual interest in rallying."

"Really? I've never thought of that as lady's thing." Ackroyd commented, partly in condescension and partly in dubiety.

"It is the 1960's." Vera rebuked; "Women are even allowed to vote, nowadays." she added sarcastically. Ackroyd smiled wryly – she was clearly a feisty young woman with a modern outlook.

"Indeed." agreed Ackroyd eventually, "So, can you think of anyone at work that might want to harm you or Gregg?"

"No... I'd never seen him before."

"No, no, of course not; we just have to explore all angles, you understand? No altercations with anyone in recent times?"

"No. Nothing."

"You're part of a motor club – is that right?"

"Yes: Maidenhead Auto Club."

"Anyone there that might have an axe to grind?"

"No, everyone was friendly. It's just for fun, anyway."

"Mmm, sometimes people start taking things a bit too seriously – that can cause trouble." he elaborated, and not without a hint of irony. Vera just stared at him, somewhat mystified.

"Okay. So, there was no one who would want to harm either of you – that makes this a random attack. He could do this again... We're hoping to arrange some identity parades for you, with a few likely suspects who fit the description. Would you be comfortable to do that, yet – we could set it up here, at the hospital?"

"Yes. I want him caught – believe me."

"I know you do, Vera... So, did you grow up in Portsmouth?" "Yes, all my life, until I went to secretarial college at seventeen." "What, in London, or...?" he enquired, a little sceptically.

"Yes. Portsmouth isn't all that exciting." she helpfully explained.

"No, I guess not. It's a different world to when I was growing up, and not all for the better." he stated thoughtfully.

"I don't know how you do your job: having to deal with all those unpleasant characters."

"I enjoy seeing them sweat in the dock. I particularly enjoy watching them go down."

"I used to enjoy watching 'Dixon of Dock Green' and 'Z-Cars', but they've kind of lost their charm, now." "Don't believe everything you see on television." remarked Ackroyd cynically.

## Chapter Nine

## (2 August 1965)

**Detective** Constable Alger returned to Vera's hospital room carrying a tray containing three cups of milky tea and a bowl of sugar cubes.

"Ah! Excellent, Constable." praised Ackroyd. Once they were all settled with their drinks suitably sugared, Ackroyd recommenced his questioning: "So, Vera, let's go back to when you were passing Kew Gardens – what happened next?"

"Yes, I remember, now: just after we passed the end of the Kew wall, we passed through a wooded area – he made us pull on to the verge there. He just sat there for a while, not saying anything; then he told Gregg to carry on driving... Then, a little after that, we passed what I think was a golf course. He made us turn around to pull into the lay-by. We were petrified at this point, but it turned out he just needed to relieve himself!" Vera laughed remembering the sense of thankfulness she had felt at that moment, "He took Gregg with him and left me in the car..." "He left you alone?" remarked Ackroyd incredulously.

"Yes, I know. I could have escaped; waved down a car, or something – but he said he'd kill Gregg, if I did... I nearly did make a run for it, but they came back just then. I was too scared for Gregg to take the risk. Then he let me go... You know? But with the same threat."

"He let you get out of the car on your own?"

"Yes. I suppose that was my best chance, but I just couldn't leave Gregg on his own."

"Don't berate yourself, Vera. Under the circumstances, you did the right thing." commended Ackroyd.

"Yes, I suppose. I didn't know he was intending to kill us, anyway. Although..." Vera checked herself.

"Although what?"

"Well, his tone changed quite a lot: sometimes he was really friendly; then he would snap into a more aggressive tone when the slightest thing didn't suit him. I honestly don't know what he was intending. It could have gone either way."

"You couldn't be expected to second guess a lunatic, Vera. What happened next?"

"We carried on. When we reached Richmond train station, he warned us about some road works, like he knew the area. After that I don't remember him saying an awful lot, especially once we got on to the A3. I think he knew where he was going to take us by then. We hoped we'd get a chance to do something in Guildford, but he made us bypass there and continue on the A3. Then he made us turn off at Milford, I think it was... When he took us down that country back-road to the wood, we knew we were in trouble... May be he did just want to sleep, but it never made any sense... I don't know if Gregg was thinking of disarming him, but he didn't give him a chance – he just fired." A tear rolled down Vera's cheek. "Gregg had tried some subtle things to try to get other driver's attention, but no one took much notice. We should have crashed the car, but Gregg didn't want to damage his precious new car..." Vera became introspective. Ackroyd allowed Vera a minute to gather herself.

"What exactly happened when you reached the wood?"

"He wanted to tie us up, like before – so he could sleep. Then he told me to hand over my shopping bag; I'm not sure what he expected to find in there... That's when it happened: Gregg tried to steer the bag back; I don't think he meant to do anything, but _he_ took it as a threat and just fired. It was over in seconds... I had a bit of a go at him – verbally. I realised he would have to kill me after that... Then he made me get in the back with him. It was like a dream... Well, nightmare..." Vera became introspective once more.

"Would you like a WPC to take that part of your statement, Vera? I'm afraid we do need the details: in case there is something important... We can arrange for that to be done later today." Vera nodded gratefully. "Tell us what happened after he attacked you."

"He got out of the car...and told me to get dressed. When I got out, he was standing there looking at Gregg's body – trying to decide what to do. He made me drag him out of the car. Then he asked me to explain how the car worked – which I thought was odd. I still hoped he might let me go, but I just had this terrible feeling that he was about to kill me. So, I kneed him in the privates, really hard. He went down, so I ran for my life... It was so dark in the woods: I couldn't see a thing, really. I fell over several times. Then I heard him coming; then he started shooting. Some of those shots went nowhere near me, so I think he was just guessing; then I was hit in the leg and I fell down on my back. He must have homed in on my cry. Anyway, he found me. He said I shouldn't have hurt him and that now he would have to kill me – but that didn't make sense. Then he shot me in the chest: the first shot really hurt; I didn't really feel the second shot, but I was drowsy; then he fired again and I passed out. He obviously thought I was dead. I must have been partially conscious soon after though, because I heard the car pull away – fast. I don't know how I survived... I must have been laying there for some time – hours. Then I suddenly woke up and realised I was alive. Somehow I managed to drag myself into the clearing and collapsed onto Gregg's body... The next thing I knew, my face was being licked by this big dog."

"Okay, Vera, we'll leave it there for now. You've been incredibly brave; we're all incredibly impressed by you strength, Vera." said Ackroyd comfortingly; DC Alger nodded in agreement. "Before we go, was there anything else about him that stands out in your mind?"

"He couldn't seem to remember my name." she recalled abstractly.

"Okay... I know this is hard, but we will want you to go over all this a few times, just in case there's something you've missed. The Constable here will get your statement typed up and if you're happy with it, you can sign it. But in the meantime, if you think of anything that might be of use, please make a note of it. Okay, Vera?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Can you arrange for a WPC to come down later?" said Ackroyd addressing DC Alger, "Check with the doctors, though." Ackroyd stood up and reached out his hand to Vera; they shook hands. "There has been a possible development, so I'll be getting back to the station. I'll be back tomorrow. Keep strong, Vera." As he and DC Alger were about to leave the room, Vera called out: "I just remembered: we stopped for petrol at Esher Services... Oh, and Superintendent, why are there now _two_ policemen guarding my room?"

"Just a precaution, Vera. We review security all the time." he deceitfully assured her.

Back at Scotland Yard, DS Cambridge related to Ackroyd the facts surrounding the discovery of the gun on the bus. It was the bus company procedure that the ticket collector checks his bus before leaving it in the depot overnight, which included a sweep of the interior for lost property and alike. However, the gun wasn't reported until the morning.

"There's no way that gun got on that bus overnight." insisted Cambridge, "It's all locked up after they do their final checks. I reckon this conductor geezer's lying to cover his arse. In which case, the gun must have got on that bus before it arrived back at the depot on Sunday evening, when that service ended. According to the conductor and the driver, hardly anyone used the bus on Sunday, but it was pretty busy on the Saturday – that's probably when the gun was really dumped."

"Good good. Get this conductor down the station to make a statement and lean on him a bit – see if we can get the truth, eh Teddy?" instructed Ackroyd.

"Yes sir. We also have some witnesses who say they saw the car in Hammersmith and Chiswick in the early hours of

Saturday morning."

"Ah, my old patch." interjected Ackroyd wistfully.

"Yes sir. There are also several separate reports of a suspicious man seen running in the Putney and Wandsworth areas early that morning."

"What area was this bus?"

"It covers Maida Vale to Camberwell, I think."

"That doesn't make much sense..."

"They're working on the ballistics as we speak, sir."

"Okay. Let me know as soon as anything new crops up – I'll be in my office."

DSupt Ackroyd spent the afternoon in his office going over all the information so far collected to create his own picture of events and identify any potential clues. He now had an accurate idea of what had happened, but no real idea why it had happened, or where the perpetrator had originated from. A number of witnesses that had (apparently) seen the car during the abduction hadn't offered anything helpful to the investigation; they still had not been able to locate any of the key witnesses. Sightings of the car on its return to London were all close to where the car was dumped and did not, therefore, shed any light upon the route the gunman took, nor did it help solve the mystery of the time interval between the car leaving Marsholm Wood and ending up in Fulham, which was as much as two hours in excess. At around 4.30 PM, DS Cambridge paid him a visit:

"Okay, sir, two bits of news: the forensics boys reckon the gun found on the bus is the murder weapon; and we've managed to track down the owner of the chip shop – that's not such good news, though: apparently, the woman serving that night went back to Italy this morning." "Shit!" exclaimed Ackroyd.

"Our best witness..." noted Cambridge disappointedly, "Anyway, we got a name: Catarina La Greca. The owner thinks she lives somewhere near Perugia."

"Right. Do we know which airport she used?"

"Heathrow. We don't know the airline."

"Get someone down there to check their records: we need to track this woman down."

"Yes sir. Oh, and one of the witnesses to the car in Fulham thinks he got a look at the driver; he's coming in later to give us a statement."

"Has a WPC been arranged to complete Miss Fable's statement?"

"I think WPC Richardson is visiting her at six. The doctors were being a bit funny... I'll check that's still happening, sir." "Thanks, Teddy."

Just as DS Cambridge was leaving, DC Pawson rushed past him and after apologising, informed Ackroyd that there had been a report of a woman being attacked in Battersea by a gunman fitting their description only an hour ago. Ackroyd leapt into action and drove swiftly to Battersea Police Station to speak with the woman. When he arrived, there was something of a commotion occurring between two women brought in for causing a disturbance; the PC's were struggling to keep them apart. Ackroyd took a wide berth of this little fracas and waved his warrant card to the desk sergeant.

"Afternoon sir. Never a dull moment here, sir." commented the Sergeant with a grin.

"I believe a woman was attacked in the last couple of hours on your patch...?"

"Ah, yes, Mrs Renfrew... Hang on – I'll just get the Inspector, sir."

A few minutes elapsed while Ackroyd waited, during which time he drew some entertainment value from the two scrapping women. Inspector Mullings ushered the Superintendent into a back room, where it was a bit quieter.

"The Sergeant informs me you're interested in this attack on Mrs Renfrew, sir?"

"Yes, I understand it could be connected to the Marsholm murder."

"She was quite shaken up by all accounts; I understand he hit her on the head a few times. They've taken her down to Battersea General for treatment. I have the description she gave, here: about 5ft 8in, dark greasy hair, 25 to 35, mean looking, and smartly dressed."

"She didn't mention his eyes?"

"Doesn't say anything here, sir... Oh, he had a gun...or so she thought; may not have been real – that's what she thinks he hit her with."

"I see. Unlikely to be our boy..." Ackroyd reasoned that as the Marsholm murderer had just disposed of his gun, it was unlikely that he would have done so, if he then needed to obtain another one in order to commit another crime so soon afterwards. "Did he sexually assault her?" he asked, looking for a further connection.

"Not that I'm aware of, sir. We're not too sure what he was after; she managed to fight him off and raise the alarm before she found out. However, the reason we thought there might be a connection was that he told her that he _was_ the 'Marsholm Murderer'."

Ackroyd pondered this for a moment: "Probably just trying to scare her, I'd say. Any other witnesses?"

"Some workmen chased him, but they lost him on Clapham Common, I'm afraid, sir."

"Okay. Can you send me a copy of the full report; and keep me notified of any developments?"

"Certainly, sir."

Ackroyd returned to his car, slightly crestfallen, as there now seemed to be _two_ maniacs on the loose – possibly a would-be copycat. As he drove the short distance back over the river to Scotland Yard, he contemplated his career. There had been a number of high profile cases, including a number of _infamous_ murders, not least of all the recent Great Train Robbery, which had attracted a deal of public and media attention; of course, there were also many less significant cases, as well as a few unsolved. This case had the ring of the infamous about it and he had a disquieting sense of precognition that this one was going to haunt him to his grave. His wife had been badgering him to apply for early retirement, which he would already be eligible for had he not taken time out to fight the Germans; as it was, he would probably be forced to retire within the next year or so, but he was certainly in no mood to do that at this time; in fact, he just couldn't imagine what he would do with himself – the job was his life.

On returning to the office, he found most of the team were still out working the case; DS Cambridge was busy typing up a report. Ackroyd glanced over the case note-board hoping to find some startling new piece of evidence that he had previously overlooked or had been added in his absence, but to no avail.

"Teddy? Fancy a pint?" he casually asked.

"Okay, sir. Give us ten minutes and I'll be with you."

_The Queen's Head_ was just around the corner, but a short walk from Scotland Yard and consequently very popular with Her Majesty's Police Force. Cambridge got the beers, while Ackroyd made himself comfortable at a small table in the corner of the lounge bar.

"So, sir," started Cambridge, "what's your gut-reaction to this one?"

"I don't know, Teddy; I've got a bad feeling about it – I mean, what's the motive for a start off?"

"Hmm, it is an odd one, I have to say."

"Why the hell did he make them drive all over the place and then end up in some place in the middle of nowhere, bloody miles from where they started? Where the hell did he come from in the first place? We're not going to get anywhere trying to understand this one; we just have to pray for a lucky break..."

## Chapter Ten

## (4 August 1965)

**Wednesday** morning brought an interesting development and possibly that lucky break Ackroyd so desperately hoped for: following a press appeal calling for the public to report anyone who had been behaving strangely on the Sunday, and/or subsequently, several guests staying at a hotel in the Holloway Road (North London) had complained about the apparent odd goings-on of one of the other guests over the last couple of days, which had prompted the manager to report the incidents to the police. The previous day had been fraught by setbacks: they had failed to trace the Italian woman from the chip shop and had now had to enlist the services of Interpol to pursue that line of enquiry, while the identity parades that had been arranged for the afternoon were cancelled when the doctors decided that Vera's condition had declined due to an infection, such that she would not be well enough to aid the police any further for the time being, at the very least; fortunately, she had been able to provide an identikit picture of the gunman, earlier on. And, just to complicate matters, a call had been made to the Daily Mail offices by a man claiming to be the Marsholm Murderer, threatening to kill Vera _and_ Anne Mason – they now had a police guard on her home, too. But, with the dawn of this new day had come a fresh promise of much needed progress.

"What's this hotel called, again?" asked Ackroyd as DS Cambridge drove them to the police station in Blackstock Road, Finsbury Park, just a stone's throw from Ackroyd's home.

" _The Alexandra_ , sir."

"I only live 'round the corner from here." Ackroyd commented thoughtfully.

Cambridge dropped the Superintendent off at the station, before continuing on to _The Alexandra Hotel_ to interview the staff and guests. The suspect (calling himself John Holliday) had agreed to be questioned at the local police station and had been waiting about half an hour for Ackroyd to arrive. The station inspector ushered the Superintendent into the interview room where Holliday was impatiently pacing up and down. Inspector Ballantyne introduced Ackroyd and they all sat down at the small table in the middle of the room.

"So, Mr Holliday, thank you for your cooperation; I am investigating a serious crime and I need to ask you one or two questions for elimination purposes... Can you tell me where you were last Friday night – that was the 30th of July?" "I stayed at a Hotel in Maida Vale..."

"Maida Vale?" interrupted Ackroyd with intrigue.

"Yes?" Holliday looked slightly bewildered at Ackroyd's emphasis.

"Okay – go on."

"I was staying at the _Verona Hotel_ ; I arrived there at about 11 PM."

Ackroyd surveyed this slightly creepy character: he certainly bore a resemblance to the identikit of the gunman, but his eyes were a hazel colour; also he was well spoken, albeit with a mildly "common" undertone. Nonetheless, witnesses have been known to get important details wrong, so he decided – as this was the only suspect currently in sight – to press on with the interview.

"And where were you earlier in the evening?"

"Well, here and there... I went to the cinema at about eight."

"Where was this?"

"The Odeon in, er, Canonbury Road, I think it is."

"That's the road that follows on from the intersection at the bottom of Holloway Road." explained the Inspector, for the benefit of Ackroyd.

"Was this until eleven?" quizzed Ackroyd.

"No, I came out of there at about ten."

"What was the film?"

" _The Knack...and How to Get It_. I missed most of the 'b'-flick – I don't even know what it was called."

"Where did you go between leaving there and going to the hotel?"

"Nowhere in particular: I just wandered around; I had a coffee in a cafe."

"Can anyone verify your arrival at the _Verona Hotel_ at 11 PM?"

"Oh, yes. The manager had his wife book me in."

"When did you leave the _Verona_?"

"Next morning: about 8.30."

"Okay. Thank you Mr Holliday, that'll be all for now." said Ackroyd and stood to leave the room.

"Can I go now?" asked Holliday.

"Er, no, actually, I need to speak to you about something else, first." instructed the Inspector in a serious tone. He then followed Ackroyd into the corridor: "I want to question him in connection with the Battersea attack – he fits Mrs Renfrew's description."

"I wouldn't say he was 'mean' looking?" commented Ackroyd doubtfully.

"I might be one of those 'Jekyll and Hyde' types, sir." explained the Inspector.

"Well, let me know if anything comes of that." requested Ackroyd, "I will check out his alibi at the _Verona Hotel_."

A constable drove Ackroyd to _The Alexandra Hotel_ to re-join DS Cambridge, who was busy taking statements from several of the guests. According to them, Holliday arrived there on the Sunday evening and had been locked in his room virtually the whole time since, not even venturing out at mealtimes; guests had been complaining about hearing someone constantly pacing up and down their room, with sporadic banging and crashing noises emanating therein. All of which was highly suspicious behaviour, particularly in view of the timing. Holliday had given his home address in the hotel record book as 55 Wallington Road, New Cross (South London). Ackroyd and Cambridge decided to pay a visit to that address, next.

Wallington Road was a fairly respectable collection of 1920's semi-detached homes, with mainly lower-middle class residents. Number 55 appeared well maintained externally, with a small neatly trimmed hedge hiding the basement level of the property. Cambridge tapped the ornate lions-head knocker purposefully. After a few moments they could discern the footsteps of someone coming down a staircase; the door opened slowly to a crack and white-haired woman in her sixties peered out nervously.

"Mrs Holliday?" enquired Cambridge.

"Whooo?" was the befuddled reply.

"We are policemen, madam. Are you Mrs Holliday?" Ackroyd elaborated.

"Policemen...?" She opened the door a little wider, revealing a rather wizened looking old lady.

"Yes. Is there a Mrs Holliday at this residence?" reiterated Cambridge.

"Nooo. I'm Mrs Pederson."

"I see. Do you know a John Holliday, at all?" persevered Cambridge.

"Nooo. Should I?"

"Don't be alarmed Mrs Pederson. A man calling himself John Holliday has given this address as his place of residence." added Ackroyd.

"I don't know anyone called _Holliday_." she responded, slightly agitated.

"Does anyone else live at this house, Mrs Pederson?" continued Cambridge.

"Well, not all the time."

"Who else stays here?" pressed Ackroyd gently.

"Well, my son sometimes stays here."

"And what is his name?"

"Freddy; Alfred." she replied. Ackroyd smiled in recognition of this random coincidence.

"That would be Alfred Pederson, would it?" asked Cambridge.

"Yes. He's not here now, though."

"When did you last see your son, Mrs Pederson?" enquired Ackroyd with growing curiosity. "Saturday evening, I think... Yes, Saturday: he needed some money; he stayed the night." "What time was this?" continued Ackroyd.

"Early evening – about seven."

"Could you describe your son, please, Mrs Pederson?"

"He's very good looking... About five foot ten; dark hair, always nicely Brylcreemed, like Elvis Presley. Always wears a nice suit and tie."

"Eye colour?"

"Greeny-brown... But sometimes in the evenings they look more of a grey-blue." she said dreamily. This little detail piqued the detectives' interest.

"Well, thank you, Mrs Pederson. You've been very helpful..."

"He's not in any trouble is he?" she demanded somewhat defensively.

"No, no. We're looking for a John Holliday. Thanks for your time." Ackroyd quickly ended the interview. When the detectives got back in the car, they gave each other a searching look – they both sensed that they may be onto something. "Let's get back to Blackstock – see if he's still there." directed Ackroyd.

On their return to the Blackstock Road station they discovered that Inspector Ballantyne had decided to arrest John Holliday in connection with the attack on Mrs Renfrew as he could offer no alibi, having been holed-up at _The_ _Alexandra Hotel_ at the time of that event, and they were now convinced that he was providing a false name. An identity parade was being organised for that evening. The Inspector had Ackroyd and Cambridge immediately brought down to his office on their arrival.

"Ah, Superintendent, sir. Please take a seat; you too, Sergeant." "I understand you've arrested this Holliday chap." noted Ackroyd.

"Yes. He's asked for a solicitor, but we're hoping to keep him long enough to arrange a line-up."

"We think his real name may be Alfred Pederson, probably of no fixed abode. He apparently stays with his mother occasionally in New Cross – and sponges off her."

"He reckons he's a theology, or theosophy student, but hasn't enrolled anywhere, yet." informed Ballantyne.

"He's certainly a suspicious character. Did he give his age?"

"Thirty, he says."

"When did he arrive at _The Alexandra Hotel_?" "Sunday afternoon. What did you find out, sir?" "DS Cambridge?" prompted Ackroyd.

"No one saw him after he checked into his room at 4 PM on the Sunday. Apparently, they did hear him quite a lot, though. A woman who occupied the room next door on the Sunday said it sounded like he was pacing up and down the room for hours after he arrived; then there was occasional banging and crashing. She complained to the hotel manager, who knocked on his door and spoke to him through the door; he was quiet after that until Monday evening, when he started doing the same thing again. The woman got her room changed after that. Other guests had complained about funny noises in the middle of the night, which seemed to come from his room. I think they were considering asking him to leave, even though he'd booked in for the week and paid a deposit. That's when they contacted us."

"This loon could be responsible for both the Marsholm crime and the attack on Mrs Renfrew." stated Ackroyd, "What time do you expect to get this I.D. parade sorted for?"

"Between seven and eight. Do you want to attend, sir?"

"No – I'd like to get home tonight. But can you send a message to the Yard, letting us know the outcome, please."

"Of course, sir."

Ackroyd and Cambridge left Blackstock station with a renewed vigour – things were decidedly looking up. Returning to their car, they set off for the _Verona Hotel_ in Maida Vale.

The _Verona Hotel_ was a bit of rundown back street affair, the sought of place that would be used by the criminal element, elicit lovers, and people with a low budget, no taste and no choice. The detectives entered the slightly grubby foyer; the place seemed dead, but as they approached the reception desk, a middle-aged man of rather shifty appearance suddenly emerged from below the counter: "Yes, gentlemen?" he enquired.

"Afternoon, sir." said Ackroyd waving his warrant card, "Detective Superintendent Ackroyd; and this is DS Cambridge." "So, to what do we owe this pleasure?" said the man sarcastically.

"Are you the manager?"

"Yes."

"Can we have your name, please?" interceded Cambridge.

"Derick Jacobsen... With an 'e'." he added with a smirk.

"Who else works here?"

"Me an' the wife run the place. There's a couple oo do the cleanin'." he answered, now dropping the pretence of being vaguely educated.

"What are their names?" asked Ackroyd slightly exasperated.

"Mr and Mrs Sanchez." "Are they here?"

"Nah, they're in mornin's and evenin's." answered Jacobsen, before coughing up some phlegm into a handkerchief. He then proceeded to light a cigarette; Ackroyd winced.

"Were you here last Friday night?"

"Yep."

"Did you book in a guest late on?"

"Er, le's fink: Friday night... Oh, yeah, there was a bloke oo booked in that night."

"Do you have his name?"

"Yeah, 'ang on, I'll get the book... Right, yeah, Mr 'Olliday." Jacobsen turned the hotel register to show Ackroyd, pointing out the entry. Holliday had given the same New Cross address.

"Did you personally book him in?" enquired Cambridge.

"Er, no, my wife did. I took 'im to the room."

"It says Room 8, here – is that correct?"

"Er, yeah, downstairs."

"Are you usually up that late to book in guests?"

"Yeahhh. We usually goes t'bed about twelve."

"Could you describe this man?"

"About firty-ish. Greased 'air. Tallish... Smart; quite well-spoken."

"Build?"

"Eh?"

"What size was he?" clarified Cambridge.

"Oh, I dunno – average?"

"When did he leave?"

"Next mornin'. Didn't come down for breakfast, so I knocked 'im up. When 'e didn' answer I opened the door wiv the pass key. I caught 'im getting dressed. I fink 'e left about an hour later."

"Okay. I need you and your wife to go down to the local police station and make a full statement in relation to Friday night and Saturday morning in regards to Mr Holliday. Tell them to contact my team at Scotland Yard." instructed Ackroyd. "W'a's y'u name, again?" asked Jacobsen.

"Detective Superintendent Ackroyd."

"Got it." sniffed Jacobsen with another smirk.

DSupt Ackroyd got back in the car and cursed: "Shit – that confirms his alibi. He couldn't possibly have been him in Cherrydean at nine thirty, if he was booking in to this place at eleven." "Unfortunately not, sir." concurred Cambridge.

Ackroyd returned to his office to catch up on any developments from the rest of the team. They had tracked down a petrol pump attendant who seemed to think he had served them at a petrol station in Ripley (just outside Guildford) on the A3 and had managed to provide an identikit picture. There were two problems: one, Vera never mentioned stopping on the A3, and two, the identikit was a little different to the one she had produced. Unfortunately, someone had already sanctioned its release to the press; Ackroyd was livid.

"Teddy, find out who bloody gave the press that identikit, will you?" he demanded, storming into the main office where DS Cambridge was chatting to one of the detective constables on the team.

"Yes sir." affirmed Cambridge. Ackroyd thundered down the corridor, back to his office. DS Cambridge took a deep breath, "I think I'm going to need a mop for this one." he comically remarked to the constable, (in reference to shit hitting the fan).

Ackroyd was thoroughly disgruntled by the day's developments: hope had now transformed into agitation. And the crowning glory of the day was delivered by a phone call from the Royal Northern hospital informing him that Vera's condition was declining and that they were contemplating surgery, possibly amputation. He decided to go home and drown his sorrows in a nice bottle of wine.

Meanwhile, at Blackstock Police Station, they had continued interviewing John Holliday before a solicitor had been allocated. They had now got him to admit that his real name was Alfred Pederson, and it transpired that Pederson had a lengthy record: mostly misdemeanours, but he had served some time in prison for fraud and theft; he had also been arrested a number of times for being drunken and disorderly. Most telling, though, was an arrest for an alleged sexual assault of a 15 year old girl in 1960 – but the case was subsequently thrown out of court. By the time Pederson's solicitor arrived at Blackstock station, it was just in time to attend the identity parade that had been hastily organised. Pederson was surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing; he had a defiant air of confidence. Taking up position 4 of the 10 man lineup [composed mainly of police officers] he stood patiently awaiting Mrs Renfrew, who in contrast was extremely distressed about the prospect of potentially coming face to face again with her attacker. Shaking like a leaf, a constable and a WPC accompanied her on her walk along the line of – in her mind – desperados. They practically had to hold her up, so weak kneed was she. Mrs Renfrew tentatively lifted her head to view the face of subject number 1: she shook her head and continued; the same with numbers 2 and 3. But, when she reached number 4, she immediately lost control and started screaming: "That's him, that's him – that's the one that tried to kill me!" She was quickly bundled out of the room and taken to an interview room to calm down.

"Well, I think that was pretty conclusive." said Inspector Ballantyne smugly to the duty solicitor.

"Hmmph. I should have had a chance to talk with my client before this charade started." the solicitor complained. But it was just bluster, because Pederson was duly charged with the attack on Mrs Renfrew and remanded into custody until a hearing could be arranged.

## Chapter Eleven

## (6 August 1965)

**A** week had now passed since the abduction of Vera Fable and Gregg Mason had begun on that fateful Friday night. Vera's condition was stable, but the doctors were still considering amputation; they had decided she should be moved to Guy's Hospital in Southwark in Central London (South of the river), for specialist attention. Meanwhile, Pederson had been released on bail, pending a trial; and, some papers had run stories relating to the case featuring both identikit images issued by the police; consequently a revised description, along with Vera's original identikit, had been prepared for distribution to the press that morning, intended to supersede any previous information that had been reported.

DSupt Ackroyd had, that morning, received the statements given by the Jacobsens [of the _Verona Hotel_ ] from St. John's Wood Police Station: they were short and sweet, synchronous, and of no help whatsoever to the Superintendent's investigation. The trail was already going cold; they had gathered quite a number of statements from various _supposed_ witnesses, but it was all rather vague, contradictory and generally unhelpful. So much so, in fact, that Ackroyd had now started giving attention to a fraud case he'd been working on previously, which had also run into a dead end. DS Cambridge entered the office with a cup of tea for his boss.

"Oh, cheers, Teddy... Take a seat."

"I hear Pederson got bail." noted Cambridge.

Ackroyd sighed irritably: "You know, I'd swear that misfit's guilty of something... Get someone down to that _Verona Hotel_ to interview the cleaners..." Ackroyd rummaged through the paperwork on his desk, "Ah yes: Sanchez, Mr and Mrs Sanchez. Ring the hotel and find out what times they're there and get someone down there to take their statements; they might have seen something relating to Pederson, and double check the Jacobsen's account, just in case they're getting confused."

"Okay, sir. Can't do any harm."

"Oh, and see you down the _Queen's Head_ at lunchtime."

When DS Cambridge walked into the smoke-filled copper's den of a pub, Ackroyd was already nestled in the corner sipping a scotch and soda; a pint of Guinness was faithfully awaiting Teddy's arrival.

"Did you organise the interviews at the _Verona_?" asked Ackroyd as Cambridge pulled-up a chair.

"DC Cartwright is going over there this evening, sir." Teddy lit a cigarette and offered one to Ackroyd.

"No, ta." said Ackroyd brandishing his already smouldering cigar.

"How's Eleanor, these days, sir?" asked Cambridge politely, referring to Ackroyd's wife who had been diagnosed with haemochromatosis several months earlier.

"Good, good... Angela?" enquired Ackroyd after Teddy's wife.

"Yeah, she's fine. She's talking about going back to work – bored." "Oh, dear: you might have to get your own dinner." quipped Ackroyd.

"Footy season starts soon. I reckon Spurs have got real chance this season. Greaves was excellent last season – Division

One top scorer... Well, _joint_ top scorer..."

"My money's got to be on my beloved West Ham; look at the players we've got: Peter's, Moore, Hurst..."

"What about England for the World Cup, next year?"

"I reckon it's got to be worth a few bob, at least. Let's face it, if we can't win it at home, where can we?"

"Well, as long as we don't meet Brazil, again, we've got a chance, I suppose."

"Do you think you could blag some tickets, if England make the final?"

"Now, now, sir, whatever are you suggesting? But I'll see what I can do." retorted Cambridge with a sly smile.

"Did you read Richardson's report?" asked Ackroyd returning to more serious matters.

"Yeah. Not easy reading. Doesn't tell us anything helpful, does it?"

"Only that it confirms he wore gloves throughout... I don't get this creep: on the one hand he's clever, then on the other, he comes across as an idiot. Thing is, as much as I'd like to put Pederson in the frame, he just doesn't quite fit." "May be he's even cleverer than you think." suggested Cambridge.

Ackroyd had a quiet afternoon in his office and was in danger of nodding off when the phone rang: it was a detective sergeant at the Golders Green police station.

"Hello. Is that Detective Superintendent Ackroyd?"

"Yes..."

"Good afternoon, sir. We've had a report of another attack: in Hoop Lane, just up the road from the station. We thought you might be interested. A woman... Mrs Hemmings: answered a knock at her front door, only to find no one there. When she went back in the house, a man had entered the property from the rear – back door not locked, apparently. This one had a stocking over his head. He threatened her with a gun and said he was the Marsholm Monster, before hitting her in the face; fortunately, her husband was upstairs and heard the commotion. When the husband appeared he took flight.

Mr Hemmings chased him, but he escaped into the adjacent graveyard..." "Is Mrs Hemmings still at the station?" asked Ackroyd anxiously.

"Yes sir."

"What time did the attack take place?"

"About three o'clock..." answered the detective sergeant; Ackroyd looked at the clock: it was just after 5 pm.

"I want to assemble an identity parade as soon as possible; there's a suspect out on bail I would like to get in a lineup for Mrs Hemmings. Do you think you could organise that?"

"I'm sure we could. Who is the suspect?"

"Alfred Pederson. I'll have him picked up and brought down to Golders Green."

Ackroyd and Cambridge swiftly made their way to the Deptford bail hostel, where Pederson was staying under supervision. Needless to say, he was none too impressed when the two detectives turned up and insisted that he attend another identity parade; he agreed, but this time on the proviso that his solicitor – the duty solicitor previously assigned to him – was present prior to the line-up taking place. On the car journey, Pederson pleaded his innocence.

"How the hell could I be in Golders Green at three, when I was in Deptford all day?" Freddy submitted vehemently. "So you say, Freddy." stated Ackroyd blandly.

"It's only quarter to six, now." complained Freddy.

"That's plenty of time."

"I've not been out of my room; check with the attendant."

"We already have."

"I'm not bloody Superman!" cited Freddy angrily.

"Super what?"

"Oh: nothin'." Freddy snapped in frustration, "You lot 'ave got it in for me." he moaned.

"Now, don't lose your cool, Freddy." said Ackroyd provocatively, noting Freddy's slip into semi-cockney.

Pederson muttered some obscenities under his breath, which though inaudible were still apparent in their venom.

"And you a student of theology." mocked Ackroyd, "What would your mother think?"

At Golders Green Police Station everything was set-up for the identity parade – again, mostly police officers were being used. Mrs Hemmings and her husband were collected and brought to the station, but there was a delay while they all waited for Pederson's solicitor. It was nearly 8 PM before the proceedings got under way. They had managed to muster eleven volunteers for the line-up – Freddy chose to be number 9 on this occasion.

"Okay Mrs Hemmings – are you ready for this?" asked Inspector White, who was in charge at Golders Green.

"Yes, I think so." she replied timidly; her husband comforted her.

Freddy looked noticeably uncomfortable as Mrs Hemmings was escorted into the room where the line-up had been assembled. She walked slowly along the line, scrutinizing the face of each man; but, after passing Freddy and the remaining three volunteers, she turned and shook her head, saying: "It's difficult: he was wearing a stocking." After some intense discussion amongst the police officers and reluctant agreement by Freddy's solicitor, they arranged for everyone in the line-up to put a stocking over their head. Not too surprisingly, Mrs Hemmings freaked when initially presented with this very sinister group. After a few minutes, they calmed her down sufficiently for her to recompose herself to face this panoply of meanness. She perused the row of distorted phizogs over three separate passes, but to no avail; they all looked equally villainous and eventually she had to concede that the whole charade was a hopeless cause.

Ackroyd arranged for a constable to take Freddy back to the hostel. On his way out, Freddy gave Ackroyd a derisive wave; "I'd love to punch that smirk off his face." commented Cambridge as he and Ackroyd disdainfully watched. There was more bad news on their return to Scotland Yard: the doctors at Guy's Hospital had made the difficult decision to amputate Vera's left leg above the thigh to prevent further spread of a life-threatening infection; such was their concern, they had scheduled an emergency operation for that Friday evening. However, there was one useful piece of news, albeit only vaguely: coincidentally, samples from Vera's clothes had been sent to the Pathology Laboratory at Guy's Hospital, (where the renowned Professor Keith Simpson was based); from semen found on Vera's underwear, they had managed to determine that the assailant was a 'Group A Secretor' and, therefore, had blood group A. This narrowed down the potential number of suspects to about 35% of the male population, which might not help them identify the perpetrator in the first place, but would at least help establish the guilt (or innocence) of anyone that did become a suspect. Pederson had freely supplied biological samples upon his original arrest and these had now been sent to the laboratory for analysis.

That weekend provided blessed relief from the pressures and frustrations of the 'Marsholm Murder' investigation for DSupt Ackroyd. On Sunday mornings, Roger and his wife attended the morning service at St Mark's Anglican Church, which was a two mile walk from their house; their route taking them through Finsbury Park. It was a glorious summer's morning, with bird song and children's gleeful voices floating on the light breeze as they trekked back home for Sunday dinner with the family.

"This murder case is really starting to get to you, isn't Roger?" noted Eleanor shaking a butterfly from her sleeve.

"We do seem to be chasing our tails." grumbled Roger.

"My heart goes out to that poor girl; she must have been terrified. What kind of person does a thing like that?"

"Unfortunately, they tend to look the same as everyone else. You never really know what someone else is capable of; what sickness they hide within."

Eleanor could sense that Roger was becoming overly melancholic; she determined to direct his thoughts to a more cheerful topic: "Well, it's family day today, so you need to forget about all that and enjoy yourself."

"Yes, a few stiff drinks are in order."

"Not _too_ many." Eleanor playfully rebuked.

"We should come down here later;" suggested Roger, "give Alfred a good run...and the kids." "Mmm – that would be nice." agreed Eleanor.

The Ackroyd's 'Family day' was a boisterous affair, with their three sons, their wives and between them eight young children, six of which were boys. A substantial roast dinner, followed by football and water fights in the garden, were the mainstay of the day, rounded off with a walk in the park and a picnic tea. This was about as far removed from the complex ramifications of daily detective work as one could possibly get, and it was a much needed tonic for DSupt Ackroyd. Sitting on grass in the late afternoon sun, surrounded by giggling children madly running about, (occasionally being chastised by their parents), Roger again contemplated the case of _The Monster of Marsholm Wood_ : one potential suspect, who seemed to constantly slip through their fingers; a number of possibly associated crimes, which just added to perplexity of the case; a myriad of witness statements, most of which were of dubious content or provenance, while the probable best witnesses had evaporated into thin air; the surviving victim too ill to be able to help any further with their enquiries; not a single useful fingerprint in sight; no obvious clues to the motive, and confusion in the press as to the correct identikit image or exact description of the perpetrator, which had certainly not helped public confidence in the investigation; and, on the plus side: a method to statistically limit the number of possible culprits to about half a million – at best. "Alright, dad?" asked Ackroyd's eldest son, David.

"Yeah. Just got a difficult case on at the moment."

"I'm sure you'll crack it – you usually do." encouraged David.

"How's your job going?" asked Ackroyd, not wishing to get embroiled in a conversation about _his_ work.

"Okay, actually. I've just been promoted to Senior Controller."

"Really – does your mum know?"

"No, I only found out Friday. I wasn't going to mention it until I had formal confirmation." "Good pay rise?"

"Yes. Let's put it this way, I think we can look at buying a bigger house – perhaps, up this way."

"Good for you, son. It would certainly be nice to see your three little monkeys more often." They both laughed.

Eleanor, noticing the two men having a slightly furtive dialogue, interrupted them inquisitorially: "And what's all this about, then?"

"David's been promoted." announced Roger.

David became mildly flustered: "I haven't told Liz, yet." he stated in a low voice, instructing them to keep it quiet by gesturing with his hands. David's wife's attention was now drawn to the somewhat clandestine behaviour of the trio, but was distracted by a ball hitting her in the chest, whereupon she took chase of her cheeky five year old daughter, who had mischievously thrown the ball when she wasn't looking. It all made for a very pleasant and happy scene, far flung from the horror of Marsholm Wood endured by Vera Fable on the 31st of July. Unfortunately, Ackroyd could never quite clear his mind completely of the details of the cases he was working on, no matter how convivial the circumstances were.

That night, Ackroyd had a bizarre dream: he was lost deep within a dark and gloomy forest; evil eyes seemed to be watching him from all around; then he was running, but it was as though on a treadmill, unable to make any progress. Out of the darkness of this nightmarish forest there suddenly appeared a small child, innocently crying; as he approached the mysterious child, it suddenly transformed into a demon and leaping up, rushed towards him with gruesomely sharp gnashing teeth. But before it reached him, the sound of two gunshots echoed out; the demon was felled, transforming back into an innocent child – but now dead. Ackroyd awoke suddenly in a hot sweat and shuddered. He stared fondly at his sleeping wife, who had thankfully not been disturbed, letting out a heavy sigh of relief. He was not prone to having dreams related to the crimes he investigated, so this one had particularly disturbed him. If this was how the case was going to affect him, he would now be all the more determined to find a resolution to it, whatever it took.

## Chapter Twelve

## (11 August 1965)

**The** beginning of the second week of the investigation had been something of a mixed bag. Vera was recovering extremely well from her operation, to the extent that the doctors were confident that she would imminently be able to continue aiding the police in their enquiry. Analysis of Pederson's samples had been completed and indicated that he was indeed Type A blood group _and_ a secretor; however, all this established was that he was technically a possible suspect – there was still no evidence to link him to the Marsholm murder and rape. Statements had been obtained from Mr & Mrs Sanchez (of the _Verona Hotel_ ) which effectively corroborated those given by the Jacobsens, which gave Pederson an alibi. Far more galling for Ackroyd (and officers at Blackstock Police Station), was that Pederson had miraculously furnished a 'cast iron' alibi for the time of the attack on Mrs Renfrew, just hours prior to the scheduled pre-trial hearing: three men now definitively identified Pederson as the man they were chatting with outside a betting shop in Blackheath (South London) at precisely the time that Mrs Renfrew claimed to have been attacked in Battersea. Consequently, the case was dropped by the Crown Prosecutors' office, giving Pederson's solicitor grounds to claim compensation for his client. However, Wednesday was about to bring the most dramatic twist in the case, so far.

Ackroyd was in his office musing over the evidence for the umpteenth time, when DS Cambridge entered the office with a stunned expression on his face: "You won't believe this." he said in a strange mixture of glee and surprise.

"Now what?" groaned Ackroyd.

"They've found some cartridge cases at the _Verona Hotel_..."

Ackroyd sat up with an expression equal in incredulity to Cambridge's: "You're kidding." he stuttered.

"Apparently they found them this morning when they were checking the empty rooms."

"Can they be linked to Pederson?"

"I don't know at this stage. Do you want to go and interview the staff, now?"

"Bloody right, I do." stated Ackroyd excitedly. "This is the break we've been waiting for, Teddy."

When they arrived at the _Verona Hotel_ they found a uniformed sergeant from the St. John's Wood station was in attendance; he had already bagged the cartridge case evidence: "Good morning sir." he greeted DSupt Ackroyd and introduced him to the hotel manager Gordon Storrington, which slightly disoriented Ackroyd. Storrington was a lowerupper class type, down on his luck; he was quite tall, mid-thirties with an eccentric hair style. Shaking Storrington's hand, Ackroyd glanced around looking for Derick Jacobsen: "Hello. You're the manager?" Ackroyd enquired uncertainly.

"Yes. I manage all Mr Mittelmann's hotels." explained Storrington.

"I see; Mr Mittelmann would be the owner, then, would he?"

"Yes – that's right."

"May I ask: where is Mr Jacobsen?"

"Jacobsen? We had to let them go." said Storrington bluntly.

"Ah, right. We were under the impression that Mr Jacobsen was the manager of this hotel?"

"No, no: not at all. I manage the hotel; Mr & Mrs Sanchez look after the place and deal with the customers."

"So, what exactly was the Jacobsen's role?"

"To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Mr Mittelmann must have hired them to help out around the place." clarified Storrington, who was clearly perplexed himself.

"Right? So, why did you let them go?"

"Well, they were a waste of space, frankly. I don't know what they did, really. I had to fire them for stealing some money from a guest."

"Stealing money?" Ackroyd was somewhat bewildered by this revelation.

"Yes. Twenty pounds. I couldn't prove it, but I don't know who else it could have been. Anyway, there was a bit of a row – Mr Jacobsen was a bit aggressive. In the end, I agreed to let them stay one more night and gave them some backpay – though I don't know what for..."

"When was this?"

"I asked them to leave by Sunday lunchtime. I didn't see them again after Saturday evening's exchange."

"Any idea where they went?"

"Not a clue... Mrs Sanchez might know; would you like me to get her?"

"Er, we will want to speak with her, anyway. She's here then, is she?"

"Yes. Upstairs – cleaning."

"Okay. Sergeant, can I have the evidence bag?" The uniformed sergeant handed over the bag containing the two cartridge cases. Ackroyd, with his ample wartime experience was able to determine that they were very likely .38 calibres and therefore could have come from the murder weapon. "Has anyone handled these?" he enquired circumspectly.

"Um, yes: I'm afraid I did." admitted Storrington with an air of guilt.

"Okay. We'll need your fingerprints, and also the Sanchez's. Can you organise that Sergeant?" he instructed to the uniformed officer, "Teddy, can you go and find Mrs Sanchez, please... Mr Storrington, tell me how you came upon these cartridge cases?"

"Well, after dismissing the Jacobsens, I thought we should do a sweep of all the empty rooms; make sure everything was in order, and clean; nothing missing."

"I see. And where did you find them?"

"In Room 26. That's upstairs."

"When was this?"

Storrington hesitated, "Well, Monday, actually... I didn't think much of it until Mrs Sanchez mentioned the police had been 'round investigating that murder; so, I thought: better had report it."

"Where were the cases in the meantime?"

"Um, in the bin in the office."

Ackroyd took a deep disapproving breath and eyed Storrington somewhat scornfully. "A common occurrence is it?" he asked derisively. Storrington said nothing and just looked like a naughty school boy caught having a sneaky smoke behind the bike shed. After letting him sweat for a moment, Ackroyd continued his questioning: "Has that room been occupied recently?"

"No, I don't think so." Storrington retrieved the Hotel Guest Register from the office, "It's a big room, with three beds; guests usually have to share it, otherwise it's too pricey for most... No one's used it for some weeks... Hang on, there's an entry here on the 29th of July." Storrington handed the ledger to Ackroyd. There was an entry pencilled in, which appeared to read 'A. Johnson – 1 night, £2 11s 6d (£1 deposit)'.

"Has anyone used the room since?" probed Ackroyd.

"Not according to the records – no... And before that, there was no one for a week..."

"Where exactly did you find the cases?" asked Ackroyd quizzically whilst scanning the ledger.

"One was on the floor under the armchair; the other was lodged at the back of the chair behind the cushion." "Were they obvious?"

"No, not really. I only looked under the chair because I thought it was damaged... Mrs Sanchez found the one on the chair –" then quickly added: "she didn't touch it, though."

Ackroyd studied the ledger entries for the bookings covering the night of the 30th and 31st of July, noting the one for John Holliday [Pederson] in Room 8 on the 30th. "I think you had better show me these rooms." he concluded.

Inspection of Room 8 revealed little: a single bed, a wooden chair, a chest of draws and a lamp. The hotel was on three levels; Room 8 was the on the first floor – which was effectively the basement, though it actually overlooked a garden at the back. Room 26 was on the top floor and contained two single beds and a double bed; several chests of draws with lamps, a double wardrobe, a large mirror, two wooden chairs and an armchair.

"Are the rooms locked when not in use?" asked Ackroyd.

"Well, they are supposed to be." replied Storrington, "But I wouldn't have relied on the Jacobsens to do anything correctly."

"Was it locked when you checked the room on Monday?"

"Yes... Actually, I'm not sure."

"So, it is possible that anyone could have accessed Room 26 at any time?"

"Yes – I suppose so. That shouldn't happen normally, though."

They returned to the foyer, where Mrs Sanchez and DS Cambridge were now waiting.

"Mrs Sanchez, I presume?" posited Ackroyd, offering to shake her hand; she duly complied. "Where is your husband?"

"He asleep." she answered in a Spanish accent, "We been working split shift since Jacobsen's leave." "What exactly did they do?"

"Help out; clean." replied Mrs Sanchez a little bewildered.

"It's okay Mrs Sanchez, you're not in any trouble. We're just making enquiries into a few of your guests." explained Ackroyd, sensing Mrs Sanchez's unease.

"Yes, I give statement already."

"I know, but we will need to ask you to make another statement." Mrs Sanchez glanced at Storrington momentarily looking for support, "Do you recall a Mr Holliday?" Ackroyd continued.

"Yes. He stay one night."

"Did you actually see him?"

"Yes. In afternoon, about half past two."

"When – on the Friday, or the Saturday?"

"Saturday, when check out."

"So, you never saw him at any time prior to that?"

"No."

Ackroyd looked thoughtfully at Cambridge, realising that the only witnesses that could confirm Pederson's alibi were the extremely dubious Jacobsens and that _he_ could have potentially left the cartridge cases in Room 26 – but of course, there was no evidence that he had ever been in Room 26.

"Teddy, get some of the boys down here to check for fingerprints in Room 26 and search this hotel from top to bottom

– with your blessing, of course, Mr Storrington?"

"Of course, of course – I'm happy to help any way I can."

"We will need to speak with Mr Sanchez, too." added Ackroyd with a pointed glance to Mrs Sanchez: "I wake him." she responded, and scuttled away.

The hotel was subsequently turned upside down in the pursuance of the police search, while Storrington and the Sanchez couple were taken over their accounts several times and their statements taken in relation to the cartridge cases, the Jacobsens and Pederson. It was late in the afternoon before Ackroyd was ready to leave the _Verona Hotel_ armed with a list of other guests who had stayed in the hotel around the 30th/31st July and the addresses they had given; they also had a lead on where the Jacobsen's had gone: apparently, Linda Jacobsen had told Mrs Sanchez that they were going to stay with her sister-in-law in Clerkenwell (Central London), who ran a junk shop in the Clerkenwell Road. It didn't take the detectives very long to track down the shabby little junk shop, with its accommodation above, where the Jacobsens had taken temporary refuge. The owner was Dora Maccawley who was known to the police as an occasional fence. She was not exactly overjoyed at the presence of two Metropolitan Police detectives on her property, but reluctantly showed them to the room where her in-laws were "dossing", as she put it. Cambridge hammered purposefully on the door; Derick Jacobsen opened the door a crack and immediately recognised Ackroyd, whereupon he quickly shut the door again. A commotion was audible from outside, along with a definite hint of profanity; a moment or so later, the door swung open to reveal the Jacobsens standing just inside the door trying hard to appear angelic.

"Evening Mr Jacobsen; Mrs Jacobsen." greeted Ackroyd.

"We've done our statements." protested Derick.

"Yes, I know. May we come in?" requested Ackroyd politely.

"Wha's it about, now?" Derick continued to complain.

"This is a murder enquiry, Mr Jacobsen, we have to be thorough." interjected Cambridge firmly.

"There's been an important development and we need to go over your accounts, again." explained Ackroyd.

Letting the detectives in to the small bedsit, Derick scratched his head, saying: "Fing is, right, me memory's gettin' a bit fuzzy."

"I see." said Ackroyd mistrustfully, "Teddy, can you help Mr Jacobsen with that?" DS Cambridge emerged from behind

Ackroyd, his massive physical presence towering ominously over the rather scrawny Derick Jacobsen; for a moment, the Jacobsens were braced for some sort of violent exhibition of the detective's obvious strength, before he pulled from his pocket two screwed up five pound notes, placing them down on a table beside Mrs Jacobsen. "So, Derick, can you help us out here?"

The Jacobsens were escorted to Scotland Yard to make separate statements: DC Pawson presided over Derick Jacobsen's description of events. As Jacobsen was semi-illiterate, Pawson wrote down the statement for him.

"Yeah, um, finking back, now, me first statement might 'ave been a bit wrong – now I've 'ad a chance to fink about it an' all." started Derick as a way of explaining what he was now about to recall.

"So, then Mr Jacobsen, shall I say you are rescinding your original statement and replacing it with this new one?" "Eh?"

"You want to replace the original statement with a new one." "Yeah – tha's it." Derick confirmed with a sniff.

"Okay, tell me what you remember about Mr Holliday's movements on the 30th and 31st of July this year." instructed Pawson.

It took a few seconds for this to compute, before Jacobsen launched into his account: "There was a phone call early afternoon on the Friday. A geezer callin' 'imself 'Olliday wanted t'book a room for that night. But we didn' 'ave any singles available, so I said 'e could 'ave Room 26, but it'd cost 'im £2 11s 6d unless I got anuver booking for that room – to share, like. But if a single came free, 'e could transfer; so 'e agreed to make a deposit of a quid and pay the rest if necessary... 'E came in about an hour or so later to pay the deposit an' I gave 'im the key to number 26. Then 'e took 'is bag up an' left it in the room; 'e said 'e would be comin' in late, an' if anuver room was free, t'leave a note an' not wait up. Tha's what we did."

"Did another room become available?"

"Yeah: Room 8. Some woman cancelled."

"Do you know what time Mr Holliday booked-in that night?"

"Nah. We went abed about eleven firty. Like I says before, I didn' see 'im 'til about nine the nex' mornin'..."

Linda Jacobsen's statement essentially substantiated Derick's – though mainly due to its' vagueness – and the upshot of this was that a warrant for Alfred Pederson's [aka John Holliday] arrest was issued late that evening, together with a press release to the effect that Freddy was now the prime suspect, and most wanted – as they had not been able to trace him via his mother – which would appear in the morning editions of most of the nationals. Meanwhile, further investigations into the other guests in attendance at the _Verona Hotel_ (during the pertinent period) were continued by Ackroyd's team.

Detective Superintendent Roger Ackroyd went home that night feeling a fairly satisfied man: finally they had something to connect Pederson to the Marsholm Wood murder and rape; the next step would be to conduct an identity parade with Pederson, this time in front of Vera Fable.

## Chapter Thirteen

## (13 August 1965)

**Friday** the 13th for the superstitious is not generally considered to be the most auspicious of days; fortunately, Ackroyd was not prone to such irrationality. The previous day he had attended Gregg Mason's funeral at St. Mary's Church in Marlow (just outside Maidenhead) – Marlow was Gregg's place of birth. It had been a quiet affair: the event had been kept a close secret with the press having not been informed. Vera was not considered well enough to attend, though she was making excellent progress; however, it would be a while yet before an identity parade would be allowed at the hospital.

The cartridge cases discovered at the _Verona Hotel_ had been forensically analysed and confirmed to have come from the murder weapon, (though no identifiable fingerprints could be found). Armed with this evidence and the new statements by the Jacobsens, Alfred Pederson had become public enemy number one, but had yet to surface. In the meantime, the other guests who had been resident at the _Verona_ during the pertinent period were being investigated. Most had now been traced and eliminated from the enquiry; there was one notable exception, that being the guest who had been the occupant of Room 26 (where the cartridge cases were found) on night of the 29th July, the day prior to the inception of the crime. That individual had given his name as 'A. Johnson'; the address given was supposed to be in Harrow, but had proved not to exist. Therefore, this mystery person was of considerable interest to the investigation. The probablyfalse name had not thus far yielded any connection to any known person, so that avenue of enquiry was currently a dead end.

The witness who had been the ESSO garage attendant in Staines had finally been traced, but could not recall noticing anyone sitting in the back of the car. Several witnesses had reported sightings of the _Singer_ on the Saturday morning in the Mortlake and Fulham areas and noted that it was being driven erratically; several of those witnesses had fleeting glances of the driver, enabling them to provide descriptions – these roughly tallied with Vera's. The Italian woman who had been serving in the chip shop had still not been traced: they were beginning to suspect she was an illegal immigrant and may not have even left the country, but had now gone into hiding. The garage attendant at the Esher service station hadn't noticed anything suspicious, so had nothing of use to offer the police. It was still unclear whether they had stopped for petrol anywhere else. In essence, Vera was still the only valuable witness, yet remained frustratingly out of reach, such that they had been unable to glean any further information from her.

In the absence of the prime suspect, Ackroyd decided to bring in Mrs Pederson – Freddy's mother – for an interview, to determine whether she knew anything that might be of use to the enquiry. She was collected by DS Cambridge and brought to Scotland Yard at just after 2 PM. Ackroyd wanted to speak to her himself, first priming her with a nice cup of tea. When she was nicely settled, he began his subtle interrogation.

"Mrs Pederson..." started Ackroyd.

"Josephine – call me Josephine." she sweetly insisted.

"Yes, right, Josephine. I'd like to talk to you about your son, Alfred. You know that we are trying to trace him in connection with the Marsholm murder..."

"Freddy wouldn't do anything like that." she interrupted.

"Well, that's what we need to find out, and I need your help."

"I know he's been in trouble before, but it's just other people getting him into trouble: they're jealous, you see."

"Freddy has convictions for theft, fraud and for causing a public nuisance. He's been to prison a number of times, hasn't he?"

"Horrible people lead him astray; he's too trusting. But he's going to be a priest." "A priest?" challenged Ackroyd, somewhat sceptical.

"He's going to study theology."

"Right, yes, he's mentioned this. Has he actually got a place at a college?"

"Oooh I don't know." she replied uncertainly, "He's very academic, you know. Theology, philosophy, poetry – he's very clever. He's got lots of books."

"How old is Freddy?" asked Ackroyd in an attempt to move the dialogue away from Mrs Pederson's proclivity to adulation of her son.

"He's thirty. The third of March 1935 – such a lovely baby..."

"Where is your husband?"

"Ernst died during the war, Mr Ackroyd." she said solemnly.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Josephine. Was he killed in action?"

"No, he was killed in the blitz."

"I see. Was Freddy close to his father?"

"Oh yes. He misses him terribly. I think that's what made him mix with the wrong crowd."

"I was more of the impression he was a loner. All his convictions are for offences committed alone; no one else has been connected to any of his crimes."

"They lead him on, Mr Ackroyd; then let him carry the can."

"Right... Has Freddy ever had a job?"

"Yes, he was an accounts clerk at Bertram's. I was very proud of that."

"Bertram's? Oh, yes, that's where he defrauded £357 in 1960." stated Ackroyd reading through the notes his team had provided. Mrs Pederson chose to ignore that piece of fact. Ackroyd continued on this tack: "He hasn't worked since that spell in prison, has he?" Mrs Pederson seemed to have closed her ears to the truth about her son, so Ackroyd decided to focus on Freddy's movements at the end of July. "Tell me, Josephine, do you know what Freddy was doing on Thursday the 29th of July?"

"Oh, well, let me think... He came home for tea, I think."

"Did he stay with you that night?"

"No. He went out about eight; he said he was meeting a friend. I didn't see him again until Saturday night. I think something upset him, you know: he was very quiet."

"Saturday night?" enquired Ackroyd, seeking clarification.

"Yes. He stayed that night. He said he needed some money, so I gave him £20, then he left – he hasn't been back, since. He does that, though..."

"When did he leave your house?"

"On the Sunday. He's quite a free spirit, you know."

"Twenty pounds is quite a lot of money, Josephine?"

"I know, but he seemed worried. I thought he might be in trouble with a landlord, or something."

"What do you know about his movements in the week leading up to the 29th of July?"

"I think he might have found some work. I saw him on the Monday and he said something about 'a nice job' he'd been given. Easy money, he said."

"I don't suppose he said what type of job?"

"No. He does like to be secretive." she announced with a laugh.

"Okay, Josephine, thank you for your time. I will need to detain you a little longer, though. One of my constables will take a formal statement regarding what you know of your son's movements between the 26th July and the 1st of August.

Just tell him exactly what you've just told me – okay?"

"Yes, if you say so Mr Ackroyd." she agreed, somewhat oblivious of what all the fuss was about.

Ackroyd found Cambridge in the corridor and took him to one side, so as to avoid any possibility of Mrs Pederson over-hearing him: "Teddy, can you get one of your boys to take Mrs Pederson's statement regarding her son's movements between 26th July and 1st of August... I don't think she's quite living in the real world. Poor woman seems to think Freddy's a repentant fallen angel, or something. Anyway, she did say some interesting things. We need to find him – quick."

"Yes, sir. While you were interviewing Mrs Pederson, we got an anonymous call identifying a possible suspect: the name he gave was Arthur Jameson."

"Doesn't mean anything." said Ackroyd somewhat unconvinced.

"No, but he did say something odd: he said 'he's gone off the rails and lost the plot'. He came across like he knew a lot more."

"Okay, Teddy. Look in to it – find out who this Jameson character is. I don't suppose he said where to find him?"

"Not exactly. But he did say he's _back_ in London."

"Well, I guess that narrows it down a bit!"

Late that afternoon, a doctor from Guy's Hospital rang Ackroyd to tell him that Vera was improving exceptionally well and that they would be happy for him to speak to her again whenever he wanted; he decided to visit her that evening, before going home. When Ackroyd entered the private side-room in which Vera had been placed, she immediately sat up and smiled; she appeared to be genuinely pleased to see him. He pretended not to notice that the bed covers betrayed the loss of her left leg.

"Hello Vera. How are you doing?" asked Ackroyd softly, as he sat down.

"Well, I've been better." she said with a laugh. "I'm glad you're in good spirits, anyway." "Must be the drugs." she quipped.

"The public support for you is absolutely incredible."

"Yes, I know: I've had lots of lovely letters... and flowers."

"Yes, I can see." he exclaimed looking around at the floral diorama, "How are you finding it here at Guy's?" "It's lovely. I just wished I had better reason for being here." she replied wistfully.

"Have you been able to give any more thought to what happened? Any little detail could prove critical."

"Yes, I have... I made some notes." Vera leant over to the cupboard unit beside the bed, where she had a notebook.

"At some point we will need you to make a full statement at Scotland Yard, and we will need to go over everything in fine detail. It may take several hours – but only when you're ready."

"Soon, I hope: I want to get it over with. Are you any closer to catching him?"

"There are some promising developments. We hope to be able to organise an identity parade for you, sometime soon."

"Good... Good. Right then, I made some notes, if you're ready?"

"Yes – fire away."

"I remembered that he kept saying 'fink' and he used the word 'kip'. I don't think he was a proper smoker, because he nearly choked to death on those _Kensitas_ – and I think he chucked the packet out of the window after the first one... I think he was familiar with Kew Gardens, as well as Staines. I think he knew where he was going when he took us out towards Guildford..."

"Did you stop anywhere on the A3 for petrol, after Esher?"

"I don't think we stopped anywhere, after that. My memory's still a bit hazy on that part of the journey." "Okay – don't worry. Carry on."

"He smelt of cheap aftershave... He couldn't have slept rough like he said – or escaped from prison."

"Are you confident you would know him if you saw him again?"

"Yes... Yes, I think so. I won't forget those eyes." "Definitely blue?" enquired Ackroyd searchingly.

"Oh yes: blue." she affirmed.

"Not blue-grey or hazel?"

"No, I don't think so. Definitely not hazel."

"Do you think the poor light could have caused a false colour?"

"I don't know. I just know they looked blue."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Yes, he hardly swore at all. That surprised me, considering..."

"Considering what?"

"Considering how rough he came across. I don't think he was all that intelligent."

"Could that have been an act?"

"I suppose it's possible... It would have been a very clever act." she concluded earnestly.

"You said he asked you to explain how the car worked? Do you think he knew how to drive?"

"I think that was just a distraction... He said some things that made me think he did know about cars, and he was going to drive it himself right from the start – that's what he said, anyway. Of course, he didn't, until he drove away." "You didn't actually see him drive off, though?"

"No, but I heard the screeching. He took off fast, I would say... Oh, he said something about a Rolling Stones song: I hadn't ever heard it, but he said it wasn't out, yet? How could he have heard it, if it wasn't out?"

"Hmmm, I'm not sure. Do you think he could be connected to the record industry?"

"I didn't get _that_ impression."

"He kept trying to make small talk at the beginning. It was really odd. Later, though, he just seemed to tire of it – went into a daze... He did ask some odd questions. He seemed interested in our relationship – me and Gregg."

"What was your relationship?"

Vera paused and took a deep breath: "Well, we were good friends."

"Is that all? I have to ask, Vera, because in court this could come up."

"Why? What does that have to do with it?"

"A defence lawyer may try to discredit you; they can play some dirty tricks. You need to be ready for that." "We were...close."

"I see. Is that something that the gunman seemed to be aware of?"

"I think he just assumed. I think he just fancied me."

"Okay. Where did you go before you parked in the field?"

"We were at a pub; just up the road a bit: _The Bowman Arms_ in Tapton. We had a drink in there. I think we were there about half an hour or so – no more than an hour."

"So, what was the purpose of parking in that field entrance?"

"We were planning a route for a rally – we wanted to look at the map."

"Thing is, we didn't find a map in the vehicle?"

Vera shrugged off the implication: "He must have taken it... Or thrown it away... May be he got his fingerprints on it." she added with inspiration.

"Yes – that's possible. We didn't find your purse or the shopping bag – neither were left in the car. It was empty, I'm afraid."

"He took all our money, anyway. Oh, but I hid some under the seat!" she remembered excitedly.

"We didn't find that."

"Oh. He must have found it, then. Have you found my watch?"

"Not as yet. We have put the word out to all jewellers, and a few dodgy characters who feed us information about the black market; but, nothing, so far."

"I can't really think of anything else at the moment, Mr Ackroyd... I did mention he seemed to like cowboy films, didn't

I?"

"Yes, I think you did mention that. Unfortunately, lots of people like cowboy films." observed Ackroyd discouragingly.

"Yes, I suppose so..." agreed Vera reluctantly and then she had a sudden recollection: "Oh! Wait. There was something else: he said that he was locked in a cellar by his parents as a child."

"Right... Well, you have been very helpful, Vera. When we bring this man to book, these little details could be all important in putting him away. There may not be a death sentence, anymore, but life in prison is no picnic, so there is still some retribution – you can be assured of that."

"I won't feel safe until you get him." she said coldly.

"We will, Vera, we will." said Ackroyd reassuringly, "We've got all our best men on this case, and we will catch him, you have my word."

## Chapter Fourteen

## (17 August 1965)

**Freddy** Pederson was abruptly woken by the landlord of the _Black Lion_ public house in Bromley, (where he had rented a room,) banging repeatedly on the door. Freddy groggily crawled out of his bed to open the door.

"What the fuck's a matter with you?" asked Freddy irritably.

The landlord shoved a newspaper in his face: "Read that... I couldn't give a dog's toss, but I don' wan' the fuckin' law sniffin' aroun' my place. You got 'alf 'our t'get y'u fuckin' arse out."

Freddy scanned through the pages of the newspaper, coming to a disheartening stop at the article on page five entitled 'Suspect Identified as Marsholm Monster', with a mug shot photograph of him from 1963. He slumped back onto the bed and stare at the floor in a state of complete demoralisation. After several minutes contemplating his options, he decided that the only recourse was to hand himself in; he decided to go to Scotland Yard and turn himself over to Ackroyd, personally.

The constable at the enquiry desk didn't recognise Freddy: "How can I help you sir?"

"I've come to see detective Ackroyd."

The constable was slightly baffled by this announcement: "And why would that be sir?" "I'm Freddy Pederson. I believe he wants to speak to me." stated Freddy casually.

The constable was momentarily stunned by this declaration: "Right... You're under arrest, in that case."

Freddy was escorted to an interview room, where he waited apprehensively, the door guarded by a uniformed constable. Ackroyd entered the room accompanied by DC Cartwright; they both quietly sat down at the small table opposite Freddy.

"Well then, Freddy." started Ackroyd, "This is becoming something of a habit, isn't it?" "I'm innocent. I had nothing to do with that murder." insisted Freddy.

"I see. The thing is, Freddy, the Jacobsens have changed their statements: they now say they didn't actually see you arrive at the hotel on the Friday night and that you had a key to Room 26; so your alibi has somewhat evaporated." Ackroyd informed him with a slight hint of satisfaction.

"They're lying; I never went in Room 26. I stayed in Room 8 and they booked me in just after eleven that night." "I've spoken to your mother..." started Ackroyd.

"Oh Christ!" exclaimed Freddy dejectedly.

"She mentioned that you had got yourself a little earner early that week – do you want to tell us about that?" "Not really." grunted Freddy bluntly.

"You're not really helping yourself like that, are you?"

"I want my solicitor." Freddy complained before sitting back in his chair and staring defiantly at the ceiling, his youthful features beset with school boy-like insolence.

Ackroyd decided to use the time spent waiting for Pederson's solicitor to organise an identity parade. When Mr Greysmith eventually graced Scotland Yard with his presence, eleven volunteers had been hastily gathered from a local theatre, where they had been in the midst of rehearsals for Shakespeare's Richard III – providing an ensemble of dodgy looking characters. Mr Greysmith was none too pleased about this latest tactic being imposed upon his client; however, Freddy was surprisingly compliant and agreed to be taken to Guy's hospital for the line-up, despite his solicitor's protestations.

At Guy's, Vera was carefully prepared for the ordeal by a WPC, while Greysmith lurked agitatedly in the background. The WPC steered Vera's wheelchair along the row of suspects; Pederson had chosen to be number 10 of the 12. After several traverses, Vera remained unsure and asked that they should each speak a few words, specifically: "Shut up, I'm trying to think" and to attempt singing "I can't get no satisfaction", which caused some consternation amongst the group of actors, who seemed to be treating it like some sort of audition and overlooking the potential outcome of being the one who was selected. This spectacle gave DC Cartwright some difficulty as he painfully withheld his laughter; even Ackroyd found it hard not to smile as each candidate did their little turn. Adding to the charade was the fact that none of them were familiar with the song. On arriving at Pederson's moment to perform, sniggering amongst the volunteers was becoming audible, which certainly did not enhance the experience for Vera, who was wheeled out of the room following the eleventh performance in a slightly distraught state. As the door closed behind her, the room erupted with unfettered hilarity. Freddy had found this to all be highly amusing, much to Ackroyd's chagrin.

"I'm sorry about that, Vera." apologised Ackroyd, "But we need you to decide whether anyone in the line-up was familiar to you as your assailant."

Vera was clearly uncertain: "I'm really not sure... Could I have one more look – without any speaking, please?" she pleaded. Ackroyd looked ingratiatingly at Greysmith, who threw his arms up in despair, before begrudgingly agreeing and then shaking his head with incredulity. The twelve men were sternly rebuked by the WPC who proceeded to instruct them to remain silent and not to display as much as a glimmer of mirth. Vera made her final pass with a positive air of dignity – this was not a lady to be shaken from her determination for justice.

"Number 3." she announced as she left the room, much to Ackroyd's dismay and Greysmith's delight.

"Bugger." Ackroyd whispered discreetly to DC Cartwright. "Mr Greysmith, your client is free to go." he notified the solicitor, once Vera was out of earshot.

"If you so much as look at my client again without rock solid evidence, I'll be taking legal action against _you_." threatened Greysmith.

"It would be a shame if he had a little accident on his way out of the station." commented Cartwright mischievously.

"Now now, detective, he's just doing his job." reprimanded Ackroyd gently, before adding: "The bastard."

Freddy sauntered gleefully from the police station, while volunteer number 3 underwent routine questioning, much to his shock and supplication of innocence. Fortunately, he had an easily verifiable alibi, having been on stage the night of the crime. Concurrently, Vera was conveyed to Ackroyd's office so that she could be apprised of the outcome of the identity parade. After a few minutes wait with the WPC, and allayed with a cup of tea, Ackroyd entered the room, tactfully waving away the WPC.

"Thank you, again, Vera, for your bravery..." he started.

"Did I pick the right one?" she enquired with a hint of trepidation.

"There is no 'right' one, Vera. If you mean did you pick the man we identified as the suspect – then, no. I don't want you to worry yourself about that, though."

"Who was the man I picked?"

"Just a volunteer... We will of course check him out, but I believe you were mistaken." "Oh. I really wasn't sure." she attempted to explain somewhat unsatisfactorily.

"That's okay, Vera. I understand you're desperate to get this over; but, we must get the _guilty_ man. Next time you're not sure, you can just say so – you don't _have_ to pick someone."

"No. I know. I just... He did look a bit like him... So did number 10, though."

"What?" Ackroyd was disconcerted by this remark; "How much like him?" he pressed.

"Oh, just similar features... He seemed oddly familiar. But the eyes were wrong." she confidently clarified.

Ackroyd sighed with a heavy sigh of relief in the knowledge that he hadn't just released the guilty party; clearing his throat he asked: "You are sure you would recognise him if you saw him again, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes: I won't forget those eyes." she said with categorical certainty, despite having just picked out the wrong man.

The normal working day was coming to a rather disappointing close for DSupt Ackroyd when he received a call from anonymous caller. The voice sounded weak and distant – most likely muffled by a handkerchief over the receiver. "Is that Superintendent Ackroyd?"

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Just listen: I've got information for you about the Marsholm murder. You should look for Arthur Jameson; he uses several aliases: Albert James and Alfie Johnson." The phone went dead. Ackroyd took a few moments to digest this new revelation, before recalling that 'A. Johnson' was the name given in the _Verona Hotel_ ledger as the guest who occupied Room 26 the night prior to the murder. The idea that the cartridge cases could been left at the hotel before the murder had not been given serious consideration, but this had been mainly because the focus of the investigation had been on Pederson, while 'A. Johnson' was an unknown that couldn't be traced. Suddenly everything had changed – Ackroyd called DS Cambridge to his office.

"Ah, Teddy..."

"Yes, sir."

"What did you find out about this Arthur Jameson we were tipped-off about?"

"Er, I put DC Pawson onto that, sir... He's been off sick for a few days – dodgy pork pie from a cafe in Shoreditch. I'll have a look through his desk – see if I can find anything."

Cambridge returned to Ackroyd's office about 15 minutes later, clutching several scraps of paper: "Looks like he's a bit of a naughty boy." he informed Ackroyd, who indicated for him to sit down; "Age: 24; spent most of his adult life inside; more inside than out... Burglary, theft, car theft, driving without a licence... It's a long list, but nothing violent or sexual; no kidnappings. Looks like he recently finished an 18 month stretch in Wandsworth: March this year."

"Any addresses?"

"No fixed abode usually given... Accept for his parents address, in Ilford."

"Is that recent?"

"Looks that way."

"I think we need to visit the Jacobsens, again, first. Have some cash handy – we'll probably need it." instructed Ackroyd resignedly.

The Jacobsens were still holed-up at Linda's sister-in-law's place. Dora Maccawley was even less gracious than she had previously been upon opening the door to the two detectives.

"What _now_!" she complained.

"We just need to speak with the Jacobsens again; are they here?" "Are they 'ere? They're always bleedin' 'ere!" she complained bitterly.

Dora led them up to the stairs to the back room where the Jacobsens were effectively slobbing-out and hammered aggressively on the door, shouting: "Your bleedin' mates from the yard are 'ere, again!" The door opened a crack; Linda peeped out, sighed heavily, then opened the door fully to allow the detectives access. Dora, standing threateningly with her hands on waist sarcastically asked: "Would y'u like some tea 'n' cakes..." and as the door was shut in her face, shouted: "When am I gonna see some bleedin' rent?"

Derick was slumped back in a grotty old armchair (fit only for the dump), smoking a roll-up. Linda sat on the only other seat, a rickety looking wooden kitchen chair. The two detectives stood ominously over them in the cramped space of the makeshift bedsit.

"Mr Jacobsen, we believe you may be able to further assist our enquiry..." said Ackroyd, while Derick looked on indifferently and Linda slurped some gin from a dirty old cup. "Do you recall the guest calling himself 'A. Johnson', that occupied Room 26 on the night of the 29th of July?"

"Bleedin' 'ell. Twen'y nin'f of July...? Mmm, it's a bit 'azy to be 'onest gov'." replied Derick unconvincingly.

Ackroyd gave Cambridge 'the look' which indicated for him to place two five pound notes on the table next to Derick's ashtray. Jacobsen glanced at the money with an unimpressed air, then sniffed and said: "Still a bit grey." Ackroyd took a deep breath, folded his arms and gave Derrick a very stern glare: "Look Derick, unless you want to be on a charge of accessory to murder, I suggest you kick your memory into gear."

Jacobsen was momentarily stunned by this remark and stuttering to regain his composure, grabbed the money off the table; he decided to adopt a more assentive stance: "Well, yeah, actu'lly I do recall that geezer, now." "Could you describe him?"

"I fink so, yeah..."

"Did he look anything like Mr Holliday?"

"Yeah; yeah 'e did a bit, I s'pose."

"Is it possible that you mixed them up when recalling them booking-in – and leaving?"

"Yeah; yeah, now I come t'fink about it, yeah I did mix 'em up, yeah."

"In that case, Mr Jacobsen, Mrs Jacobsen, I need you to make new statements. Someone will collect you in the morning and take you down the Yard – okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Whatever y'u say Mr Ackroyd." answered Derick compliantly.

The detectives' next stop was the _Verona Hotel_ , where they arrived just before 7 PM. The Sanchez couple were busy serving evening meals to five guests. The _Verona_ had certainly seen better days, but had once been quite a swish affair. The dining room was quite large, with ornate plaster coving and 1940's style vinyl wallpaper, adorned with a somewhat garish floral pattern – albeit now quite faded, and of tatty appearance in places. The furniture had also once had a stylish quality, but now appeared worn, chipped and uncared for – greying white table cloths covered most of the blemishes.

Ackroyd managed to catch the eye of Mrs Sanchez as she scurried around. The detectives waited patiently outside the dining room doors until Mrs Sanchez finished serving one of the guests. As on previous occasions, she greeted Ackroyd with a bewildered expression.

"Mrs Sanchez, I need to ask you some more questions about your guests: do you recall a man who booked-in as 'A. Johnson' on the 29th July – he was in Room 26?" "No, no – I never see him." she replied.

"What about Mr Sanchez?"

"I no think so. The Jacobsens deal with him."

"Okay. We will need to take the guest book ledger as evidence..."

"I get it." she said submissively and hurriedly shuffled off to the reception desk. She returned with the book and handed it to Ackroyd.

"Where is Mr Storrington?" asked Cambridge.

"He not here in evenings. Only come sometimes."

"Thank you, Mrs Sanchez. We will need you to make a further statement in due course. You won't be leaving the country or anything, will you?" enquired Ackroyd semi-seriously.

"No, no." she stated emphatically shaking her head and laughing.

Ackroyd turned to Cambridge with a recognizably thoughtful expression upon his wearied face, saying: "First thing tomorrow morning, we'll pay Mr and Mrs Jameson a little visit."

The Jameson's lived at 16 South Park Lane, a three-bedroom Victorian terraced property, which faced onto South Park. As the detectives drew up in their black _Wolseley_ saloon, a few curtains twitched, while a group of scruffy children loitered by the park railings about ten yards away: one intimidatingly bounced a football as he wandered into the road, glaring knowingly at the two detectives as they stepped from their car.

"Looks like a welcoming committee." noted Ackroyd disdainfully. Cambridge winked at them, his large imposing frame enough to deter any cocky remarks. Teddy knocked on the door with his usual forcefulness, repeating the demand several times, until attention was finally provoked.

"Okay, okay. Don't knock the blimin' door of its 'inges!" complained Pat Jameson as she reached to open the door, only to be completely disarmed by the sight of the two well-dressed detectives, who she immediately identified as police; she stepped back in fear of what might be their purpose.

"No need for alarm, madam." assured DS Cambridge. The detectives displayed their warrant cards. "Mrs Patricia

Jameson?"

"Yes. What's happened?"

"We just need to speak with you in regards to your son, Arthur." explained Ackroyd.

"Is he okay?" she asked clutching at her chest.

"We couldn't say, Mrs Jameson; we're trying to trace his whereabouts."

"Oh, I see. You'd better come in."

The living room had the distinct smell of an ashtray; they were evidently heavy smokers. Pat guided them to sit on the sofa. "May I get you some tea?" she asked, slightly pretentiously, masking her North London accent.

"That would be grand." responded Cambridge.

While Pat clattered around in the kitchen, the detectives took the opportunity to look around the room, particularly at the family photographs on the mantel above the fireplace and in the display cabinet in the corner. Despite the uninviting smell, the room was quite nicely furnished and tastefully decorated. They even had a television.

Pat returned with a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, a pot of milk and a bowl of sugar. It was all remarkably civilised – not really what they had expected. "How do like your tea?" she asked politely. Once they were all settled with their little blue flower patterned cups and saucers, and individual spoons, Ackroyd began the questioning: "So, Mrs Jameson..."

"Call me Pat."

"Yes, okay – Pat. We would like to speak to your son in connection with an investigation we are conducting. Do you have any idea where he is?"

"No. We 'aven't seen him since he left in February '63." she said dispassionately, "I do get flowers sent, occasionally." "I see. So, you have no idea where he could be?"

"No, but in London, I think. The flowers I get are always from a London-based florist."

"Any particular one?"

"No. But, mostly West London."

"When was the last time he sent you flowers?"

"Oh, a couple of months ago... May: it was my birthday. That was the first time for a while, actually."

"So, was he living here in February '63?"

"Yes – for about six months."

"Where was he before that?"

"Bramley. He 'ad a job at a ware'ouse in Guildford..."

"Guildford?" repeated Ackroyd with surprise and piqued interest.

"Yes. My 'usband's sister lives in Bramley – so 'e stayed with 'er while 'e 'ad that job."

"Where is your husband, Pat?"

"Working. E's a plumber."

"When will he be home?"

"'E usually gets 'ome for lunch at aroun' twelve firty... Dependin' on jobs."

Ackroyd checked his watch purposefully: it was only 10.15. Following a few slurps of tea, he continued: "Do you have any photos of your son, Mrs Jameson?"

"Yes, but they're quite old." she said pointing to a small portrait on the mantel piece: "That one was when 'e was eighteen."

Ackroyd carefully picked up the frame she had pointed at: "Could we borrow this?" he boldly asked.

"I suppose... What exactly has he done?" she enquired, slightly perturbed.

"I'm sorry to say that we think he may have been involved in a murder." said Ackroyd bluntly.

"Oh my. A murder? I know 'e's a bit of a bad boy – but murder? I can't believe that."

"He is just a suspect at this stage. It's very important that we talk to him, if only to eliminate him from the enquiry." explained Ackroyd more tactfully.

"Of course. Yes, 'e should clear 'is name."

"And you are sure you don't know of any where he could be?"

"No, I'm sorry. I've no idea – _really_." she insisted in response to the detectives distrusting stares.

"You know he's been in prison a number of times for various crimes: mainly thieving of one kind or another?"

"Well, yes, but I try not to listen to gossip. 'E's always been a bit wayward, I'm afraid; ever since 'e was a teenager, really. I 'onestly don't know why. 'Is brothers were _never_ like that." "How many children do you have?" asked DS Cambridge.

"Three boys; Arthur's the eldest, and a daughter – she's the youngest."

"I assume they've all flown the nest?"

"Oh yes. They're all married; got families. I've got four grandchildren." she announced proudly.

Ackroyd studied the black and white photograph of the young Arthur Jameson intently, before asking: "Does your son, Arthur, have blue eyes?"

"Yes, 'e does."

"Okay, Mrs Jameson. I need to get back to the station. Would you and your husband be willing to come to Scotland Yard this evening to provide some background on your son?" Noting Pat's apprehension, Ackroyd pointedly added: "It could be important – especially if he's innocent."

"Yes, okay. I can see that. What time?"

"When would be convenient?"

"We 'ave dinner at six."

"I'll send a car to collect you at seven." stated Ackroyd resolvedly.

## Chapter Fifteen

## (18 August 1965)

**On** their return to the station, Ackroyd instructed DS Cambridge to start the process of applying to the court for an arrest warrant to be issued for Arthur Jameson in connection with the Marsholm Wood murder, rape and attempted murder. The photograph supplied by Patricia Jameson may have been a few years out of date, but there was something about that face, despite its youthful innocence; it reminded him a little of Pederson, and Vera indicated that Pederson looked a little like the gunman – this might not be a coincidence. Arthur Jameson was certainly something of a reprobate, but was he capable of such a serious crime?

That afternoon Ackroyd studied the notes gathered on Arthur Jameson's criminal history. His decline seemed to have begun at eighteen, when he was convicted of stealing a motorcycle; he didn't have a driving licence or insurance, either. That got him a 12-month probation order. Later that year he got his National Service call-up, but he failed the medical, classified as unfit for service due to his illiteracy. In 1959, his increasing bouts of criminality had resulted in several short prison terms for burglary and theft. Following his release from Walton Prison in Liverpool in January 1960, he next shows up on the radar in London's Soho district in the July, where he was arrested and later convicted of stealing cars, plus, driving while disqualified, (in addition to not having a licence in the first place). He got 2 years corrective training at Maidstone Prison. On his release in June 1962, the troubled waters of Arthur Jameson's life apparently stilled, until September 1963, when he was convicted of a string of burglaries and given a surprisingly lenient sentence of 18 months, initially in Strangeways (in Manchester) and completed in Wandsworth Prison. There was an interesting side note relating to his time in Maidstone Prison, during which time he had made several escape attempts and been sent to Camp Hill (on the Isle of Wight) as punishment, where he also tried to escape. He was later transferred back to Maidstone to finish the sentence after a period of good behaviour. What Ackroyd had particularly noted from his spells in Camp Hill _and_ Strangeways, were the medical reports. A doctor at Strangeways had described Jameson as a 'potential psychopath, with hysterical tendencies'; while a doctor at Camp Hill had gone further and described him as 'mentally sub-normal, demonstrating psychotic behaviour, with delusions of grandeur'. This was potentially explosive information in Ackroyd's pursuit of a credible suspect.

What he also now had were statements from the Jacobsens which were essentially as per their original statements, which attested that it was 'A. Johnson' who had arrived at the _Verona Hotel_ at 2 PM on the 29th of July and asked for a single room, but was allocated Room 26 as a provisional measure, for which he left a deposit and was given the key; in the event, no single room came available, so when 'A. Johnson' arrived at the hotel late – just as he had warned Derick Jacobsen that afternoon – he had no option but to occupy Room 26 and pay the extra in the morning; the Jacobsens did not witness his arrival and could only say that it was after midnight. Pederson was now confirmed as having booked-in at 11 PM on the 30th July and given Room 8, re-establishing his alibi. However, Derick Jacobsen had added some new important information relating to 'A. Johnson's' departure from the hotel, in that he had booked-out at 9 am, but then returned ten minutes later asking to retrieve a bag from the room – Derrick had given him the key and allowed him to do this unattended; before finally leaving the hotel he had asked for directions to Paddington Station, to which Derrick had suggested catching the No.36 bus from the high street. [The route of the No.36 bus and 36A bus overlapped between West Kilburn and New Cross Gate.] This now provided two tangible connections between Johnson/Jameson and the murder weapon, (even though it didn't entirely make sense). The Jacobsens' description of 'A. Johnson' compared well with the identikit image provided by Vera and they had agreed that he did bear a good resemblance to 'A. Johnson'/Jameson. They also agreed that Pederson had a passing similarity to 'A. Johnson', but that they were distinctly different and there was no longer any confusion; Linda Maccawley recalled that Pederson had hazel coloured eyes, but could not recall seeing 'A. Johnson'; Derick on the other hand had no recollection of eye colour, but believed Pederson to be the taller of the two men, who at 5ft 10in did not fit Vera's description.

Ackroyd waited impatiently for the Jameson's to arrive at Scotland Yard. At a quarter to eight, they were ushered into the interview room and provided with cups of tea. When Ackroyd and Cambridge entered the room they were almost overcome by the cigarette smoke, as the Jameson's were both puffing away like troopers. The detectives decided the best course of action was to join in; they both sat down opposite the Jameson's and lit their cigarettes.

"Thank you for coming." started Ackroyd, "I am Detective Superintendant Ackroyd and this is Detective Sergeant

Cambridge. Sorry about the lateness, but we are investigating a very serious crime..." "Is it the Marsholm Wood murder?" asked Ernie Jameson.

"Yes it is, Mr Jameson. We would like to understand the background to your son's criminal history, so that we can establish a complete picture."

"We just want to clear his name." noted Pat.

"Of course. The more we know, the better we can gauge what kind of man your son is."

"He's not a murderer or a rapist, I'll tell y'u that." insisted Ernie, "The boy doesn't even smoke or drink, which is miracle growing up in our 'ouse... You be 'ard pressed to get a swear word out of 'im, e'ver – which is rare in this day an' age."

Ackroyd carefully noted these comments, which were more incriminating than vindicating. "That may be, Mr Jameson, but he is a criminal." he reminded.

"I don't know why – we never brought 'im up that way." commented Pat with an unmistakeable tone of disappointment.

"No. We're law abidin' and 'ard workin'." added Ernie.

"What was Arthur like at school?" asked Cambridge.

"'E wasn't too bad; though at that bloody school in Wembley they tried to have 'im put in a special school – where they send the idiots." complained Pat, "'E wasn't thick, like they were sayin'." "What did he do when he left school?" asked Ackroyd.

"'E got a job wiv the council. I was working in the council's sanitation department as a plumber. I managed to get 'im a job in the refuse department, sorting the refuse..." said Ernie.

"'E 'ated that job." interjected Pat, "Only stuck at it for a few months." "That's after 'e banged 'is 'ead." added Ernie, notably defensive.

"He banged his head?" enquired Ackroyd with curiosity.

"Yeah, it was an accident: 'e fell off his bike. 'E was in 'ospital for a couple o' days." explained Pat.

"'E was knocked out for ten hours." Ernie elaborated, "That weren't the end of it, e'ver. After they let 'im leave 'ospital, 'e was supposed t'go back after a week, but 'e just disappeared all of a sudden, like. Next fing we 'ear 'e's in 'ospital in

Brighton – that was about a munf later. We went down to identify 'im. They found 'im in the street, sparko. They reckoned 'e was 'alf-starved an' sufferin' from the cold. The doctors fought 'e might of 'ad a brain 'emorrhage, so they did this operation on 'is 'ead; but they didn' find nufin'..."

"They said 'e was mentally defective, but I weren't 'avin' that." snarled Pat.

"'E went to stay wiv my sister in Bramley for a couple of weeks, to rest-up, like. Then 'e came back 'ome an' got a job on one of those digger fings in a scrapyard, loading the cars, like. 'E stuck at that for well over two years." "When did he leave that job?" enquired Ackroyd.

"That was early part o' '59." replied Ernie, "They sacked 'im – we don' know why. That's when 'e started gettin' in _real_ trouble wiv the law."

"'E disappeared not long after that, though I think 'is brother, John, was in touch with 'im... Then 'e came back 'ome after spell in prison – that was mid '62. He stayed at 'is aunts' for a few weeks while workin' in a ware'ouse in Guildford. 'E seemed to want t'reform. That's when Ernie set up 'is own plumbin' business; Arthur was go'n' 'o learn the trade wiv 'im." explained Pat while glancing sympathetically at her husband.

"Yeah, I sank everythin' into that for 'im." added Ernie irritably.

"So what happened?" asked DS Cambridge.

"Everyfin' was fine for about five months. Then we went on 'oliday, me an' the wife – Southend. Left 'im in charge.

When we came back, 'e'd scarpered. We a'n't seen 'im since. That was March '63."

"He was sentenced to 18 months in September '63. He was released in March this year." Ackroyd enlightened them. "We wondered why we never 'eard anyfink from 'im. 'E usually sends 'is mum flowers – every so often, like." "Do you know of any girlfriends?" asked Ackroyd.

"Oh, 'e was always seeing some girl or other. Nothin' serious – that I know of." answered Pat.

Ackroyd went home that evening with a growing sense that this time they were onto the right man, now they just had to find him. After an unusually good nights' sleep, he breezed into the office that Thursday morning with an air of confidence. His first task was to prepare a press release identifying Arthur Jameson as the new prime suspect in the 'Marsholm Murder' case. The newspapers would also be supplied with the photo of the eighteen year old Arthur. Once this hit the Thursday evening and Friday morning papers, he could reasonably hope to flush out their wanted man fairly quickly. With that in mind, Ackroyd was already thinking ahead to a possible trial, in respect of which, an in-depth interview with Vera at the Yard was an essential requisite. Therefore, his next task was to visit Vera at Guy's and speak with her doctors. DS Cambridge was assigned the onerous duty of dealing with the media, while Ackroyd drove to the hospital alone. On arriving at Vera's room he was delighted to witness her using crutches to get herself to the toilet, though she was still reliant on her wheelchair for the most part.

"Good morning, Vera." he said chirpily.

"Oh, hello Mr Ackroyd. I was wondering when you'd be coming back."

"We have a new suspect. We're making a statement to the press this morning, giving details..." "You haven't actually caught him, then?" she remarked with a tinge of disappointment.

"No. But I believe we're on the right track, now; it's just a matter of time."

"I do hope so."

"Anyway, the point is..." he started, sitting down; Vera perched herself on the edge of the bed, "We have to think about the possibility of building a case for trial, so we will need you to come to the Yard and make another statement – we really will need to go over every detail this time. Are you ready for that?"

"Yes – as ready as I'll ever be."

"That's good. I just have to clear it with the doctors and we'll make arrangements as soon as." "By the way, Anne Mason is visiting me tomorrow..." "Is she?" queried Ackroyd.

"I thought it had been cleared by the police."

"Well, someone forgot to inform me. You're happy about this are you?"

"Yes, she's suffered the same loss as me; I suppose she wants to form a united front." "What time is this?"

"About eleven tomorrow morning."

"I see... Maidenhead division have been taking care of that side of things." said Ackroyd thoughtfully, wondering whether he should formally interview Anne Mason sooner rather than later and that he could get her into the Yard while she's in the area. "Have you met before?"

"A few times." she replied circumspectly.

"Do I detect a note of acrimony?"

"Why would you think that?" she countered coyly.

"Come on, Vera. We're both adults; even if there really was nothing going on, people will suspect it. And that could be used against you in court. Be honest – off the record..."

Vera took a deep breath and considered the request for a moment: "Yes, okay: Gregg and I were _seeing_ eachother; she knew that. I don't think it was the first time. She seemed to put up with it, most of the time; then every so often she'd get all paranoid... A couple of times she came to visit me at home; pleading for me to end it. I told her it wasn't serious and even I expected it to fizzle out eventually... Perhaps I'm being punished for my indiscretions."

"With respect, they did have children – did that not bother you?"

"Yes, sometimes. But, like I said, I was never going to steal him – he wouldn't have left her, anyway. I was just a bit of fun; I never had any illusions about that. It was like that was how their marriage was. But he still loved her, I'm sure; and he wouldn't have left his kids. I know 'people' will pour scorn on it, but if wasn't me, it would have been someone else. I can't excuse it; I don't feel good about it. It just sort of happened."

There was an awkward silence; Ackroyd decided to change the subject: "Are you intending to return to work, Vera?"

"No... No, I've decided to stay with my parents for a while, until I can get my head straight. I don't think I'll be going back to Alcott's."

"That's understandable. Probably best to make a complete break with the past."

"I never dreamed my life would be like this..." she commented mournfully.

"Hey, don't let this ruin your life, Vera. You're still young; you can get over this." assured Ackroyd consolingly, taking her hand in a gesture of comfort.

"I expect so. People get over worse: I mean, there was a war not long ago. Most people seemed to have got over that pretty well."

"That's the spirit, Vera. Keep calm and carry on, as they say." Vera smiled wistfully. "I served in the RAF during the war. Believe me, I lost a lot of good friends... Took a bit of shrapnel here and there – I was lucky, though, I survived; like you Vera: you're a survivor. It's up to people like us to make certain that it was worth all the suffering in the end, and come out if it victorious."

Ackroyd left Vera in a positive mood; her doctors were also very positive about her recovery and were content to allow her to make the trip to Scotland Yard to give what would likely be a lengthy interview. Ackroyd returned to his office and immediately rang the Chief Inspector at Maidenhead Police Station to instruct him to arrange for Anne Mason to be delivered to Scotland Yard following her visit at Guy's Hospital.

## Chapter Sixteen

## (20 August 1965)

**Vera** was experiencing a conflicting mixture of benevolence and agitation towards her meeting with Anne Mason; she apprehensively monitored the clock on the wall of the hospital room, mentally acknowledging each flick of the minute hand as the time languorously counted down to 11 o'clock, and then continued, until at last, at three minutes past there was a flurry of activity outside her room, visible through the glass porthole window of the door. A WPC (from Maidenhead Police Station) opened the door a little and peered in.

"Hello Miss Fable. I'm WPC Jones from Maidenhead Police; Mrs Mason is here to see you. Are you ready?" "Yes. Bring her in, please." answered Vera graciously.

Anne Mason appeared in the doorway as the WPC moved over to one side, (though, remaining in the room); she was dressed rather sombrely in pale green two-piece dress, which looked a bit too old for her. She had clearly given some thought to her appearance, as this was not her usual modernistic style.

"Hello, Vera..." Anne started, then moving toward Vera, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, put out her hand in act of conciliation, taking Vera's and affectionately squeezing it, before sitting down. "I wanted to see you sooner, but they wouldn't let me."

"Yes, I heard." responded Vera a little reticently.

"So, how are you – all things considered?"

"I'm doing well; I should be able to go home soon." she said somewhat optimistically.

"You won't be on your own, will you?" asked Anne in an effort to show some concern.

"No, I mean to my parents', not home to my flat. I don't think I could be alone – not yet."

"It was a shame you missed the funeral. It was a lovely service... Thanks for the flowers, they were beautiful." "I'm afraid I didn't arrange that: I wasn't in a fit state." clarified Vera a little coldly.

"Oh... Well, I'm sure it's what you would have wanted." proffered Anne out of politeness.

"Yes, I would have wanted to go. I will visit his grave as soon as I can."

"Yes, you must... We haven't got the headstone sorted, yet, though. I'm sure it won't be long, though... You do seem to be recovering incredibly well, I must say. What are your plans for the future?"

"I want to be ready for my day in court. That's all I'm focused on at the moment." "Yes, I read the paper this morning; I see they have a new suspect – looks promising." "They have to catch him first." reminded Vera.

"I'm sure they will, now. He can't hide forever." Anne reassured.

"I hope not."

"Oh, I didn't know what to bring you," Anne declared in an effort to defrost the atmosphere, "so I brought you some perfume." she continued, rummaging in her handbag, then handed a small, but rather luxurious box to Vera, "It's Chanel...

I thought it was something you wouldn't be able to get in here."

Vera took the box, not sure quite how to react: this was an expensive present and a pleasant one, but somehow it just didn't seem appropriate. Nonetheless, she accepted the present with due propriety. "Thank you" being all she could think to say.

"May be I could visit you, again, sometime." suggested Anne.

Vera hesitated to ask 'what for?', but managed to restrain herself. "Well, perhaps if I'm still here in a few weeks." she proposed, hoping that she wouldn't be.

"Yes. Yes that would be...nice. Yes. Well, it's been lovely to see you looking so well." Anne charitably submitted, rising from her chair and smiling ingenuously.

"Thanks for coming." stated Vera, purely out of etiquette.

"No problem. Keep well." advocated Anne as she turned and left the room. Vera sighed with relief.

Meanwhile, Ackroyd had been handed a report relating to a road accident involving a hire car in Ireland. This had happened on the Monday [16th August] and had just flagged up as suspicious because the address given by the driver to the hire company was in London; the driver apparently bore a resemblance to the photo in the Friday morning papers, which had prompted the police to be contacted. The other tantalising detail was that the driver had given his name as 'Alfie Johnson'. Moreover, the address given did actually exist: it was in Westbourne Green, not far from Paddington Station. Ackroyd and Cambridge climbed into the trusty _Wolseley 6/110_ and took a leisurely trip through the bustling London traffic to visit the occupant of No. 4 Senior Street. The car sedately pulled up outside the terraced property – the street was empty and peculiarly quiet, considering its location. Many of the late Victorian houses were noticeably uncared for, but No. 4 seemed to be in good order. Ackroyd pressed the doorbell.

"Hello?" enquired a little old man curiously peering out from the crack he had opened in the doorway.

Ackroyd immediately realised that this was another probable false address: "Hello, sir. We are police officers investigating a road accident – the driver gave this address. May we speak with you?"

The man opened the door a little more. The detectives showed him their warrant cards. "But I don't have a car." he stated somewhat befuddled.

"Do you know anyone by the name of Alfie Johnson?" asked Cambridge.

"Johnson, you say?"

"Yes – does that mean anything?"

"Well, I don't know him..."

"May we come in, sir." pressed Ackroyd.

"Well, Okay." The old man left the door open and wandered off. The detectives followed him into his living room, which was very tidy, though rather Spartan. The old man walked over to the mantle and took an unopened letter that was tucked behind a photo, which he handed to Ackroyd. The letter was addressed to 'A. Johnson'.

"When did you receive this?" asked Ackroyd.

"Yesterday. I don't know anyone called Johnson." he informed them in puzzlement.

"It's okay, Mr?"

"Sorry?"

"Can I ask your name, sir" clarified Ackroyd.

"Oh, yes, Frederick."

"And your surname?"

"Frederick Miller."

"Thank you, Mr Miller." said Ackroyd opening the envelope: it contained an invoice from _McNealy Car Hire_ for the damage to the car that 'A. Johnson' had incurred. Ackroyd handed the invoice to Cambridge, who perused it with an expression of resignation.

"I don't get many letters." confessed Mr Miller with a tinge of sadness.

"We will take this as evidence, Mr Miller." Cambridge informed him.

"Yes, yes, of course... It's not for me, is it?" he acknowledged with a laugh.

"Thank you for your time, Mr Miller. I don't think we'll need to bother you, again." assured Ackroyd.

"Another bloody dead end." affirmed Ackroyd when the detectives got back in the car.

"The bastard's bound to crawl out of the woodwork, sooner or later. We'll get him, sir; someone will grass him up." reassured Cambridge.

"Yeah... Let's get back to the station; hopefully, Mrs Mason will be waiting for us."

Back at the Yard, Mrs Mason had been placed in an interview room and then furnished with a cup of coffee and a biscuit. DC Alger was engaging in an intense conversation with her when Ackroyd entered the room; he immediately gestured to Alger to step outside, making a polite excuse to Anne.

"We're not running a bloody dating agency." scolded Ackroyd.

"No, sir." acknowledged Alger sheepishly.

"Go and get Cartwright." he ordered testily.

Ackroyd re-entered the room and welcomingly offering his hand to greet her, said: "Hello Mrs Mason. Nice to meet you, again. How was your hospital visit?" Ackroyd gently shook her hand and sat down.

"Pleasant... Vera seems to be doing surprisingly well. She seemed to think she might be discharged soon."

"Oh, really? I think that may be a little optimistic." noted Ackroyd.

"Yes, I thought that."

"Well...may I call you Anne?"

"Yes, of course."

"Anne, I will need to ask you some questions – for elimination purposes, and also to get a clearer picture of your husband's circumstances."

"Okay." said Anne, slightly perturbed.

"Before we get into that, how are you bearing up?"

"Okay. I've still not really come to terms with it; I don't think I'll be able to grieve properly until this man is caught." "Yes, well, we're working on it. I can assure you that I won't rest until I have him under arrest _and_ charged." "I know, Mr Ackroyd, I have faith in you." Anne asserted in unanticipated homage.

"That's good to hear, Anne. I won't let you down, I promise you... I do need to ask one or two difficult questions – I hope you'll understand that it is my duty to suspect everyone, until proven otherwise." "I understand." she said courteously.

"Now, what was your relationship like with your husband?"

"Good. We were happy."

"How did you feel about his affairs?"

Anne was plainly startled by the bluntness of this question and decidedly shocked at his apparent knowledge of her private business; she was momentarily rattled, but quickly regained her composure: "I... I accepted it. I knew he wouldn't leave me and the kids. He just used those women to satisfy a need – they never meant anything."

"It must have hurt you, though, Anne... Did you never feel angry towards those women?"

"No... No, I didn't. I felt sorry for them; they would never have him the way I do... Did." Anne was visibly distressed, taking a hanky from her handbag to dab her tears.

"Sorry, Anne. I've no wish to upset you, but I have to ask these questions... Okay, let's move on. On the day your husband was abducted, did he seem his usual self?"

"Yes. Everything was normal."

"What time did he leave home?"

"About 8.15."

"Did you know where he was going?"

"Not exactly... He said he was planning a rally with the other members of that club he's in."

"I see. When did you report him missing?"

"I didn't... I mean, sometimes he came back very late. I went to bed; I didn't know he hadn't come back until I got up in the morning... I checked if he was anywhere he might have gone, but I couldn't get a hold of anyone – that's when I reported it to the police."

"Okay. And you were home all evening?"

"Yes."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"My children." she answered a tad pugnaciously.

"I see. So you spent the evening at home, alone?"

"Yes."

"What was the relationship between your brother and your husband?"

"Amicable."

"They never argued or had a falling out?"

"Not that I am aware of."

"Did they get along, or was it more sufferance?"

"They weren't best buddies – if that's what you mean. They were always civil, though."

"How are your children?"

"They miss their daddy... But otherwise, okay. My mum is staying with me for a while, so they have nanny to spoil them rotten."

"That's good... Do you see your husbands' parents?"

"They live abroad – so: rarely. Last time was the funeral."

Ackroyd sensed some animosity: "How long have they been abroad?"

"They immigrated to New Zealand two years ago."

"Did your husband have any siblings?"

"He has a sister. We never see her, though."

DC Cartwright tapped on the door and entered; "You wanted me, sir?"

"I thought you might like to sit in. This is Mrs Mason."

"Hello ma'am." DC Cartwright sat down; Anne smiled sweetly.

"This is DC Cartwright. We're trying to train him to be a proper policeman." introduced Ackroyd jokily and then he took the opportunity to wrong foot Anne: "How did you get on with Miss Fable?"

Anne turned slightly pale and became momentarily detached; yet again, she quickly regained her self-assurance: "I hardly knew her... But we did meet once. She seemed very pleasant; clever."

"How did you come to know where she lived?" he asked knowing that she had told Maidstone police that she had visited her flat when she was trying to find Gregg on that fateful morning.

"Um...?" This had truly stumped her, "Well, Gregg had a list of members' names and addresses that were at the club..." "What made you think he would be there?"

"I just guessed... He was having an affair with her." she finally admitted somewhat reluctantly.

"How long had you known?"

"Oh, I always knew. I like to know who my competition is." she admitted acerbically.

"Is that how you saw Miss Fable: your competition?"

"Yes and no... Gregg and I had an understanding, of sorts. It was never serious."

"How could you be sure?"

"Because it never was." Anne covered her face with her hands for a moment, "Look, to me she was just another one of Gregg's conquests; but his loyalty was always to me and the kids... Despite... Despite everything, I know he loved me and I loved him; he wouldn't have left me."

"Okay, Anne. I'm sorry I have to rake up all this stuff, but I need to know who I can trust... I believe you, Anne. _Now_ I can focus on your husbands' murderer. You understand?"

"Yes. You're just doing your job... And I know you're going to catch him."

"DC Cartwright will take your statement regarding your movements on the 30th and 31st of July this year..." "But Maidstone police already have all that." she pointed out disconcertedly.

"Yes, but we like to have our own statements at the Yard." he explained deceptively, "It won't take long, then we'll have you back home with your children." he added in an effort to placate her.

Ackroyd returned to his office fairly satisfied that Anne was not involved in any way with her husband's murder. He wrote a note and pinned it to his reminders board behind his desk, it read: 'Interview Ewan Williams'.

Late that afternoon, the case took yet another unexpected turn, when he received a phone call from none other than Arthur Jameson, himself.

"Hello? Is that Mr Ackroyd?"

"Yes, I am Detective Superintendent Ackroyd." he asserted in a bid to establish his authority.

"This is the man you're lookin' for. I'm Arfur; Arfur Jameson."

"Where are you Arthur?"

"I can't tell y'u that Mr Ackroyd. I just wanted to let y'u know I didn' do it – I a'n't no murderer; and I a'n't a rapist eiver. I wouldn' do that Mr Ackroyd."

"If you're innocent, Arthur, the best thing you can do is to turn yourself in."

"Fing is, wiv my record, they'll jus' pin it on me. I know 'ow it works, sir. It's results that counts."

"I promise you, Arthur, you will be treated fairly. You can trust me."

"I wanna, sir. But I can't do no more time."

"Arthur, listen to me: if you're innocent you have nothing to fear."

"No one'll believe me, Mr Ackroyd. I can't prove my alibi, see. No one wants t' 'elp me."

"If you have an alibi, we can check that."

"They won't 'elp, sir, tha's the trouble."

"Who? Who won't help you?"

"My... associates. They're criminals y'u see, sir. They don' wanna get involved."

"Well, maybe we can persuade them."

"They'd kill me, sir. I got t' go." The phone went dead. Ackroyd immediately dialled the switchboard, who were tracing the call. They were only able to say that the call originated in the Charing Cross area. Ackroyd did at least know now that his suspect was in London, and that he was rattled.

## Chapter Seventeen

## (21 & 23 August 1965)

**The** weekend had been both an interesting and intriguing adventure for Anne mason: she had taken a trip that included a visit to her brother's antiques shop, which was on Ealing Broadway, with her new "friend", Detective Sergeant Collins of Guildford CID – or Tony, as she knew him. Collins had been attracted to Anne Mason from the first moment he met her and had kept in contact with her – purely out of professional concern, of course. He supposed that as he was no longer directly involved in the investigation into Gregg's murder, he was sufficiently distanced from the enquiry to be able to fraternize with her, contrary to _normal_ police policy. Ackroyd would certainly not have approved of that assertion. So it was that on the Saturday [21 August 1965] Collins had accompanied Anne on her shopping trip in Ealing, incorporating a visit and lunch with her brother. Her mum and brother had encouraged this little outing and were (seemingly) comfortable about her consorting with another man so soon after Gregg's atrocious death, on the basis that it would distract her away from morbid thoughts. But, what had started out that afternoon as a pleasant social engagement, suddenly developed into an extraordinary pantomime of events, initiated by a bizarre coincidence.

Anne clutched Tony's hand as they emerged from Ewan Williams' antique shop, having earlier enjoyed a sumptuous meal at _Sorrentino's_ Restaurant; for the first time for many years, she felt young and that life could be an exciting, enjoyable experience, instead of one of drudgery, disappointment and distress. As they wandered along the shop fronts, the freedom of the sixties engulfed Anne from every direction: fashion, music, entertainment, technology, luxury and sexual emancipation, were all within her grasp. Then something caught her eye; it was a fleeting glimpse that made her turn and desperately search the faces of the hordes of people thronging the streets; an inexplicable sense of foreboding overcame her.

"Tony...? Tony? I think, I think I saw him." she stuttered, tugging at Tony's arm.

"What? Saw who?"

"Him - the murderer!"

"What? Are you sure?"

"Over there: he came out of that shop, there – the florists." she insisted pointing across the busy road to a flower shop.

"How do you know it was him?"

"I don't know - I just _know_!" she shouted, now shaking and becoming increasingly disturbed. Tony scanned the crowds, but could see no one who fitted the description. "It was him, Tony, I swear. I just know."

"Which way did he go?"

"I'm not sure; it was just a flash, but I know it was him."

"Okay, okay. Let's get you back to Ewan's and I'll speak to the people in the florists – okay?"

Once Anne was safely locked inside Ewan's shop and under his protection, DS Collins snapped into detective mode. He hastily crossed the road, nearly causing an accident, intent on staying on the trail before it went stone cold. He entered the flower shop and approached the counter, where a young woman was serving. Collins waved his warrant card: "Did a man just leave your shop?" he enquired.

"Sorry? What, just now?"

"Well, a few minutes ago."

"Oh, yes – yes, there was this guy..."

"Did he buy anything?"

"Yes. He ordered some flowers for a Mrs Jameson in Ilford." she said consulting the order book.

Collins wrote down the address: "Do you have phone I could use?" he asked anxiously.

"Um, yes, in the back." answered the girl; she lifted the opening in the counter and allowed him through, directing him to the telephone in the office at the back of the shop. Collins rang his inspector at Guildford station, who by chance was on duty that day.

"Sir, it's Collins. Look, this is a bit strange, but you know the Marsholm case, well I think the gunman has just visited a florist in Ealing high street."

"You're kidding?" quizzed Longbridge.

"No sir – straight up. I've just checked the order book and he sent some flowers to his mother, I think. It's definitely him gov'..."

"Okay, Tony. You stay on the scene and have a look 'round for him, just in case. I'll contact the Met' boys – best to let them handle it."

The report of Saturday's debacle in Ealing was sitting on Ackroyd's desk when he arrived on the Monday morning. The Ealing police had converged on Ealing Broadway en masse and conducted a thorough door to door enquiry of all the shops in the general vicinity – it had caused quite a stir, but it was all to no avail: with the exception of the Florists, no one else had been aware of Jameson's presence and there was not a single witness; even the girl in the florists had little to offer, as she hadn't paid much attention to the man ordering flowers for his mother; nor, fortunately for DS Collins, did she recall much about the detective – such as, his name – who had first spoken to her. Consequently, there was something of an internal enquiry into how such a large and costly police contingent could have been justified and who exactly the source of its initiation was. There were a lot of red faces and inevitable closing of ranks. However, it had told Ackroyd that Jameson was clearly still in London and sufficiently relaxed to be wandering around the streets in broad daylight. The note that had been intended to be attached to the flowers had been intercepted: it was in Jameson's own hand writing, which could prove to be useful evidence; its content was also of considerable interest – it read: 'Deer Mum, Pleese keep faiff in me, yor lovin son, Arthur'. Either Jameson was innocent, or in denial. Whichever was the case, Ackroyd surmised that he was probably not going to get an easy confession from Jameson and therefore, there was not going to be a nice simple closure to the case, even when they did capture him. But, that was not to be the last of the days' revelations.

Today Ackroyd had made arrangements for Vera to be brought to the Yard to be formally interviewed; it had been organised for 3 PM. That morning, though, Ackroyd had called his investigative team together to bring everyone up to date as to the current status of the enquiry; Detective Chief Superintendant Allsop was present.

"Good morning gentlemen. I thought this would be a good time to refresh everyone with the ongoing state of affairs. As you all know, Arthur Jameson is now our primary target; what some of you won't be aware of is that he contacted me late on Friday by phone, from somewhere in the Charing Cross area. He's claiming innocence and doesn't seem keen to come in. This morning I had a report that he had visited a florist in Ealing on Saturday, to send flowers to his mother – something he likes to do from time to time. So, it's possible that he's hiding out somewhere in North West London, so this where we should focus our attention at this stage. We need to get out there and shake a few trees, see what falls out. I know you've all worked flat out following every lead under the sun, but now we need redouble our efforts, because we're getting close. This is a repeat offender, who knows the system. However, he's obviously still pretty complacent, even if he is getting rattled – and that will be his undoing.

He may have adopted a disguise of some sort, so don't be too reliant on the general description. We have a face; we know he's about five-seven with distinctive blue eyes and average build. He may have changed his dress, hair colour and style. We need to find out who his associates are and lean on them; find any excuse to get them in for questioning. A new mug shot photo will be appearing in the papers soon, which hopefully will bring in some more leads; Teddy will get you a copy of it, if you haven't got one.

Later today I shall be interviewing Miss Fable to obtain a full and complete account of the crime; her medical condition has been improving enough for her to leave hospital, soon – we'll obviously need to keep a guard on her, wherever she decides to stay.

We have all the bare bones of a case to convict this character, we just need to catch him and flesh out the details. A nice straightforward identification from Miss Fable would go a long way..." he finally noted with a somewhat caustic overtone, recalling the previous line-up shenanigans. A shallow titter rippled throughout the room, "Okay, men: let's hit the streets running." he added as way of dismissal.

"Let me know as soon as you catch this miscreant." pronounced DCSupt Allsop, "The Chief Constable wants this one rapped up, pronto."

"Yes, sir." acknowledged Ackroyd barely able to hide his annoyance.

Once Allsop had left and was out of earshot, Ackroyd took DS Cambridge to one side: "We need to pull out all the stops – I've got the bloody Chief on my back, now."

"Probably writhing about that business on Saturday, sir." commented Teddy.

"Mmm, I'd like to know who lit that firework, myself." empathised Ackroyd.

As Ackroyd made his way back to his office, a uniformed Sergeant approached him looking a little disconcerted.

"Sir: I tried ringing your office, but got no answer..."

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"There's a dodgy looking villain, if ever I saw one, at the front desk, asking to speak to you, and only you, sir."

"Did he give his name?"

"Paris, Dickie Paris, sir."

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"No. Said he'd only speak to you, sir."

"Better bring him up, then, Sergeant."

"Yes sir."

Ackroyd contemplatively doodled as he waited in his office for the mysterious Dickie Paris to be delivered to him. The sergeant knocked on the door and peered in tentatively when Ackroyd acknowledged their arrival.

"Shall I bring him in, sir." asked the sergeant uncertainly.

"Yeah, yeah, bring him in." Ackroyd instructed casually.

A rather stout man entered: Richard Paris was a one-time middle-weight boxer, who was now well past his prime; balding and craggy-faced, with tattoos on his hands, he wasn't the type of individual one would wish to meet in a dark alley, even if he was now getting too old, too overweight and too unfit to be much trouble to anyone. However, the less obvious truth was that he was now a spent force, a man well past his prime and in declining health – he just didn't have the stomach for violence anymore; maybe he had taken too many knocks to the head, because he had lost his bottle, which wasn't an easy thing to come to terms with for a lifelong hard-bastard.

"Would you like me to stay?" the sergeant asked, slightly concerned for Ackroyd's safety; but, the Superintendant was more than familiar with the rougher end of the villainous scale of thuggery; despite his small frame, he could handle himself, having trained in self-defence during his service with the RAF, and Ackroyd kept himself fit.

Paris sat down in an archetypically over-confident manner and folded his arms, displaying the brashness of a hardened ex-convict, completely unfazed by any form of authority. "You Ackroyd, then?" he asked disrespectfully.

"I am Detective Superintendant Ackroyd, yes."

"I got some info' for y'u. To do wiv that Marsholm murder."

Ackroyd sat up: "What do you know about that?"

"I know oo y'ur lookin' for – see, gov'?" "Not really, but go on." retorted Ackroyd.

Paris leant forward in a surreptitious manner: "I know Arfur Jameson, see?"

"So, do you know where we can find him, then?"

"Not exactly. But, maybe I can give y'u the nod when I do."

"So what's in it for you?" challenged Ackroyd, knowing the criminal mentality.

"Nufin' – nufin'. Fing is, right, I might be a bit of an old lag, but that don' mean I'm okay wiv rapin' young girls. I gotta daughter myself... Let's face it, y'u gonna collar 'im sooner or later; but I knows, sooner's better than later – right?"

"Go on."

"Me an Arfur's been mates f'r a few years; 'e stays at my place sometimes. My name's gonna come up, an' I don' want no trouble. What 'e's done, a'n't nufin' t'do wiv me, right? So, maybe I can 'elp y'u case – know what I mean? Jus' turn a blind eye to a few fings – right?"

"What exactly do you have for me?" demanded Ackroyd.

"Look, the boy's gonna ask f'r me 'elp, sometime. 'E's gonna run out o' places to 'ide. When 'e gets in touch, I'll let you know – jus' between us, like – right?"

"Okay. And what else are you offering."

"I'll give evidence f'r the prosecution; tell what I know."

"And what do you know?"

"Nufin' about the murder, but if 'e's ol' mate is on the side o' the prosecution, that a'n't gonna be good for 'e's case,

is it?"

"And what am I supposed to turn a blind eye to?"

"Well, jus' don' dig int'me business too much, like – y'u know?"

"I see. Okay Mr Paris, if you can deliver him to us, before we catch him ourselves, maybe we can help eachother." "Good on y'u, Mr Ackroyd – y'ur a gent'."

"First up, I want a list of anyone he associates with and their addresses – by Wednesday; no later." Demanded Ackroyd sternly, which instantly took the self-satisfied smile off Paris' face.

Vera arrived at the Yard in an unmarked police car driven by DC Pawson. She was now using just crutches to get around for the most part, having become quite adept with them, so had dispensed with the wheelchair on this occasion. She was accompanied by a nurse, who was joined by a WPC in the interview room. Ackroyd decided to conduct the interview, with the just the WPC taking notes; the nurse was entertained in another room, to be called only if needed.

Ackroyd took her through the events of 30th and 31st July methodically, while stopping intermittently to allow Vera to write down her account as they went along, then double-checking the details with the WPC's notes. It was a laborious enterprise taking close to four hours, including occasional tea and toilet breaks. By the finish, Vera was exhausted: she had expended every bit of her energy, determined to get the job done, once and for all. Ackroyd thanked Vera for her patient cooperation and openness. This was likely to be the last time she would require questioning prior to any court case; the only step left, was to identify the culprit. In respect to that, Ackroyd insisted that she stay at the hospital under guard until they could charge someone, presuming that this would be an imminent occurrence.

Ackroyd managed to catch DS Cambridge as he left the Yard to go home: "Teddy! Did you manage to get the dirt on Paris?" he enquired whilst jogging to catch up.

"Ah, yes sir. I put Alger on it; he's still working on it – poor bugger." "Great. It's been an interesting day." declared Ackroyd with a smirk.

"The investigation's certainly starting to gain some momentum."

"I do hope so, Teddy, I do hope so." admitted Ackroyd, "Any word on the street?"

"Nothing so far. He must have some damn good friends..."

"Luckily for us, not all of them; and the longer this goes on, the fewer he'll keep... Maybe we should put up a reward, though."

"The Chief Constable's not great fan of rewards, is he?"

"Well, I've got a day of bloody meetings tomorrow with the brass; if I start getting any real flack, perhaps I'll just have to change his mind."

"I don't know what they expect from us, sometimes, sir." moaned Cambridge.

"Results – that's all their interested in. They forget what it's like to be at the sharp end. I'd swear sometimes they'd settle for anyone being charged, regardless of whether they're guilty, or not..."

## Chapter Eighteen

## (25 August 1965)

**It** was a bright summer's day; the morning breeze had an icy edge to it, but the sunlight was already thawing out the night air, with its hint of industry already subtly distilling out. Ackroyd had a strange sense of purpose as he strolled into Scotland Yard that morning – there was a distinctly positive charge to the atmosphere in the team office. Late on the Tuesday evening, the hard-bitten Paris had played ball and supplied a list of names and places Jameson was likely to frequent, which they were now busily analysing.

"What have we got?" enquired Ackroyd leaning over Teddy's shoulder.

"Ah, morning, sir. We've got plenty of locations to check out. Oddly, not a lot of friends listed in the London area; a few in Liverpool – I'll get on to the scouser lads to look into that. One place is of particular interest, though: _La Matrice des Curios_ is an antiques shop in Shepherd's Bush owned by a Denise Deneo – we're checking her out, now; sounds like a good place to fence stolen jewellery and such, and Deneo has a flat above the shop."

"I want you to get a warrant to search that place." instructed Ackroyd – he had a deepening sense of anticipation of breaking this case in the very near future. "What have we got on this Paris clown?"

"Hang on, sir – Alger!" called Teddy to the young constable, who had just got himself a coffee, "Bring the Super' everything you've dug up on Dickie Paris, will y'u?"

"On it, sir." Taking a gulp of coffee, DC Alger began foraging in the filing cabinet behind his desk, moments later handing a bundle of notes to Ackroyd.

Richard Paris had been born Richard Pariseau in Troyes, France in 1911. Following WWI, his father decided to relocate his family in the East End of London; Richard was eight years old and had a "funny" accent, so was bullied relentlessly; he was forced to get tough if he wanted to survive and at the age of twelve, joined a boxing club. By the time he was turning twenty, life had gotten very hard; he was a half-decent boxer, but there was no money to be made in the legitimate sport, so he turned to bare-knuckle boxing to make a living. This was a world of illegal gambling controlled by criminals. Paris quickly rose to be a top fighter, backed by a major criminal gang boss and earned the ring-name 'Lion Fist'. By the time WWII broke out, he was earning big money, but rationing and conscription disrupted many of the organised criminal activities and Paris soon found himself ducking and diving to avoid the draft, rather than fists. But new opportunities presented themselves, courtesy of the Luftwaffe. Like many of his criminal contemporaries, he resorted to burglary and black marketeering. Following the war, times were still hard well into the 1950's and, not getting any younger, he decided to focus his criminal career working as a mob enforcer. By 1960 he broke away from the criminal gangs and after a stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, became an independent black marketeer, bookmaker and all around fence, later finding work as a minder and doorman/bouncer in order to provide more reliable income to support his wife and daughter. He had briefly come into contact with Arthur Jameson while they were both in the Scrubs in 1959, but they didn't cross paths again until late 1962, when Arthur was based in Soho and making a nice living from burglary in the suburbs.

As Ackroyd finished reading the potted history of Richard 'Dickie' Paris, DC Pawson sidled over to him, looking decidedly smug: "Sir, I think I know this name..." he announced, pointing out a name on his list, "She's a prostitute working out of Soho. I reckon she's got to be worth a visit."

"Okay, you and Cartwright can get on that right away, then." directed Ackroyd with a demonstrative sideways nod of the head.

Hopkins Lane was situated near the epicentre of the Soho area where a Victorian factory building had been converted into a seedy collection of bedsits, for the sole use of prostitutes run by a powerful criminal gang. They operated largely untroubled by the police, many of whom were in the pockets of the gang bosses. DC's Pawson and Cartwright had parked their car a couple of streets away, so approached the building entrance on foot from the bottom of the lane, noting a number of the working girls and their punters going in and out.

"We're in the wrong business." commented Cartwright.

"I don't think you'd get much clientele, Tom." quipped Pawson, "You just haven't got the figure, mate." "So, how do you know this particular whore, then?" asked Cartwright in a somewhat unforgiving tone. "When I was in uniform, I worked this area for a time. Most of the force are on the pimp's payroll in this district; they operate more or less freely – you have to tread careful. I brought Molly in one time – she was out in half an hour and I was told to look the other way. I didn't much like it, but what can you do? I'm just a constable and I had DI's telling me not to sniff around certain places. That's one of the reason's I had to get out of that station... Mind you, it worked out pretty well, getting the job at the Yard."

"Someone must have appreciated your due diligence, then." scoffed Cartwright.

"Hard work got me this job. I'm thinking of putting in for the sergeant's exam."

"Let me know if you do, so I can get my transfer in." sneered Cartwright, and not entirely for the sake of mirth.

The detectives entered the building to be met by a couple of heavies; the constables waved their warrant cards and were reluctantly allowed past and directed to Molly's location. There was a peculiar odour permeating the air, which defied obvious identification, but probably contained a mixture of a variety of intoxicating substances (both legal and illegal), bodily fluids and cheap perfume.

Molly had a room on the first floor. Pawson knocked purposefully on the door of Room 14. The door was flung open exposing the half-naked man in the background who was hastily getting dressed. Molly was stark naked. She had been a beautiful girl in her youth, but time and depravity had taken its toll over the last twelve years; still only thirty years old, she remained attractive, though noticeably withering.

"What the fuck's your problem?" she screamed. The detectives contemptuously displayed their identification, "Oh fuck's sake, that's all I need." she groaned as the rather respectable looking man scurried past them.

"Put some clothes on, Molly." complained Pawson. She donned a dressing gown.

"You can't harass me, right: we're all protected." she insisted.

"We're not here to give you trouble, Molly..." explained Pawson.

"Do I know you?" she enquired, unsure how DC Pawson knew her working name.

"We have met before, a few years ago: I arrested you."

"Oh, I thought you might 'ave been a customer." she mocked with a smirk.

Pawson ignored this comment: "We're looking for a man..."

"Wrong building; try the pub 'round the corner. They'll love you." she sneered, referring to a well-known meeting place for gay men.

"You're hilarious. Look Molly, we're not interested in you, we're just looking for information about a very dangerous man." Pawson handed her the mug shot of Jameson, "Do you know him?"

"Dangerous?" she exclaimed, "Yeah, I know 'im. 'E a'n't dangerous." she contended.

"Don't you ever read the papers?" countered DC Cartwright.

"Oo rattled your cage?" she scornfully remarked. The detectives starred at her stubbornly.

"Molly, unless you want us to stay here all day, I suggest you start being a bit more cooperative." Pawson advised.

"Yeah, yeah, all right. Look 'e's a regular, comes once a week – if you know what I mean?" she added with a cheeky grin.

"You should be on stage..." noted Pawson ironically; she concurred with a theatrical flourish. "When did you last see him?" pressed Pawson.

"About a week ago."

"Does he have a regular appointment?" asked Cartwright slightly excited.

"Keep y'u pants on. No; 'e just turns up roughly once a week – okay?" she stated petulantly.

"Did he mention anything about the murder?"

"No. 'E 'as a shag, an' leaves. Now, why don't you two toddle off – unless you want a threesome?"

"Look, Molly, this man may have murdered someone in cold blood. He raped a young woman and tried to kill her... If he comes back, just give us a bell – alright?" Pawson handed her a piece of notebook with his Scotland Yard phone number written on it. "Think of it as paying a debt to society. Do something decent for once in your life." "Yeah, whatever." was her curt response, but she kept the piece of paper.

Back out in the street, Pawson commented to Cartwright: "There's still a heart somewhere under that damaged shell; the little girl that was abused and forced to grow up too quick: _she_ still cares."

"You reckon?" retorted Cartwright cynically, "Well, I think we should get this place staked out."

"Nice idea... Not sure how the locals will take it, though."

Ackroyd had spent a peaceful morning in the office, with the majority of his team combing the streets for the elusive Jameson. But it was Jameson that took the initiative by contacting Ackroyd by phone once more:

"Ello, Mr Ackroyd – it's Arfur, again."

"Hello Arthur. Are you ready to come in?"

"I dunno, Mr Ackroyd, I'm still scared of bein' stitched-up..."

"Look, Arthur, your mother's very concerned for your welfare; why don't you come in for her sake...? I've told her I'll do my best for you. You can trust me Arthur – I promise there will be no stitch-up."

"Fing is, I didn' leave those shells in the 'otel, so they must 'ave been planted. 'Ow can I trust anyone?"

"Who do you think would want to fit you up, Arthur?"

"You lot...the old bill; 'cause I fit the frame, an' y'u need to pin it on someone."

"I promise you I would never plant evidence – that's not the way I do things; you have my word on that." "But everyone finks I did it, don't they?"

"Your mum and dad don't, Arthur... I'm open to hear your story."

"I got an alibi, but I can't prove it."

"Just give us the names and let us do our job, Arthur."

"I can't do that Mr Ackroyd, the place is full o' geli'; they're dangerous men."

"Look, we have tests we can do: they might exonerate you."

"What if someone fiddles wiv the tests t'set me up...? I've jus' seen a copper – I 'ave t'go; I'll try ring later." The phone went dead.

This last display of supplication got Ackroyd thinking that perhaps if he could persuade Pat or Ernie Jameson to make a public appeal for their son to come forward, that might just do the trick. Arthur was obviously running the tightrope and a little nudge might be all that was needed. He decided to drive over to see Mrs Jameson immediately and hope to catch Ernie when he returned home for lunch.

Pat Jameson was grateful for Ackroyd's visit and was keen to cooperate, but didn't think she had the nerve to make the radio appeal Ackroyd was suggesting; however, she thought she could persuade her husband to do it.

"I know my boy's innocent, Mr Ackroyd, 'e's just running scared of doin' more time."

"Do you think he'll listen to his father?" queried Ackroyd, who would have preferred Pat to do the broadcast.

"Yeah, 'e knows 'is dad's only ever looked out for 'is best interests. 'E's always done 'e's best for that boy." she affirmed as she lit a cigarette, offering one to Ackroyd, which he accepted. "I don' 'no' why 'e's been in all this trouble; 'e wasn't a bad kid. I'm sure that bang on the 'ead didn't 'elp. 'E's a good boy really, Mr Ackroyd."

"Well, I'd like to give him the chance to prove that, Mrs Jameson. He's doing nothing for his case by carrying on giving us the run around... If he can prove his innocence, we can move our investigation on and look for another suspect. At the moment, I'm under pressure to get your boy under arrest; that's all the brass are interested in. This situation is doing _no_ _one_ any favours."

There was a clanking of keys at the front door, signalling the return of Ernie Jameson for his lunchtime coffee and jam sandwich. The door could be heard to open; Ernie having noted Ackroyd's car parked outside, headed straight for the living room: "Mr Ackroyd. Is there any news?" he enquired anxiously.

"Arthur has been on the phone to me, again. He sounds like he might be starting to panic. I'm worried what he might do, what with him being so fearful of going to prison."

"What can we do?"

"Well, I was thinking perhaps a radio appeal from yourself might persuade him to give it up. We could get the papers in on it as well, in case he doesn't hear the broadcast."

Pat gave her husband an adjuring look of desperation which instantly compelled Ernie to comply: "Yeah, okay. If you fink that would 'elp, I'll do it. Definite."

"Good man. I'll get it organised with the BBC and let you know the arrangements forthwith."

That evening Ernie's radio broadcast went out on the BBC Home Service and a transcript was provided to all the major newspaper groups for publication the next day. That wasn't to be the end of the day's developments, though: a phone call [traced to the Soho are] by an anonymous female, reported that Jameson had been spotted in the area of Hopkins Lane. It appeared that DC's Pawson and Cartwright may have been just a few hours from crossing paths with their quarry. A less encouraging event, though, was another threat to Vera's life: a phone call made to the hospital, which was untraceable, was made at around noon by a man promising to "do her in as soon as the chance arises". Ackroyd surmised that this was probably a hoax, as it didn't sound like the sort of thing Arthur Jameson would say; nonetheless, it was a concern, particularly if Jameson should turn out to be innocent after all.

However, Ackroyd's next priority was the raid on _La Matrice des Curios_ which was set for early the next morning. The intention was to spring a complete surprise on Denise Deneo, in the hope that either Jameson would be caught holed-up there or, there might at least be some evidence found that would be of use to the enquiry. The team had managed to gather some background information on Miss Deneo, despite her (unexpectedly) not having any criminal record. She was a 39 year old spinster who had inherited her antiques business from her mother. Her father had been seriously injured during the war, but lingered on until he died in 1955, when her mother took over the business. Her mother then chose to run the shop with Denise as her employee, until she died suddenly in 1957. Since then, Denise had been leading a seemingly quiet and blameless life; she appeared to be respectable. So, why was she on Paris' list?

## Chapter Nineteen

## (26 August 1965)

**The** bijou antiques shop in Caxton Lane, Shepherd's Bush was just off the Uxbridge Road, close to Shepherd's Bush Common. At 6 AM in the morning, it was still pretty quiet as Ackroyd drew up in his _Wolseley_ and parked outside the shop front; two additional squad cars parked in the Uxbridge Road adjacent to the shop. They weren't expecting much trouble from Denise Deneo, but there was always the possibility that Jameson was hiding out in her flat, so six burly police officers had accompanied Ackroyd and DS Cambridge – it had not escaped Ackroyd's attention that the location of the antiques shop was in relatively close proximity to the sighting of Jameson in Ealing.

Ackroyd and Cambridge stood outside the shop's entrance and peered into the darkness within: all was quiet. A little further down Caxton Lane was a turning which gave access to the rear of the premises – the three uniformed officers were sent to guard that exit. DS Cambridge hammered on the glass of the door with a determination intended to wake even the most comatose of sleeper. They waited for a few minutes before repeating the exercise. Eventually, a rather bleary-eyed woman, with bleached blond hair wearing a red fleece dressing gown and fluffy slippers could be discerned nervously creeping around in the back of the shop: she was like a deer caught in a car's headlights.

"Miss Deneo? Police... Can you open up, please?" demanded Cambridge. She approached the door gingerly and unbolted the various locks. She opened the door with a look of sheer terror on her face. "Miss Deneo I have a warrant to search your premises – please step aside." Cambridge continued, handing her the warrant document as he entered the shop; just as she was digesting this, Ackroyd took the warrant back and brandished his identification card. "Miss Deneo?" Ackroyd challenged for clarity.

"Yes. What...?" she started.

"Miss Deneo, we have reason to believe that you may be harbouring a fugitive and that your premises may hold evidence pertinent to a murder investigation." stated Ackroyd as the three detective constables accompanying him trudged past her to begin their search.

"What is this? What murder?"

"Are you an acquaintance of an Arthur Jameson, Miss Deneo?"

"Well, yes, I do know an Arthur Jameson. What's this about?"

"Do you read the papers, Miss Deneo?"

"Not if I can help it. What's Arthur supposed to have done?"

"He's suspected of committing murder, among other things. How long have you been a friend of Arthur?"

"A couple of years, I suppose. Murder? I can't believe that."

"Is he on the premises?"

"No. No I haven't seen him...for about a week." "What exactly is your relationship with Jameson?" "We're friendly – that's all." she protested.

"Does he ever stay in your flat?"

"Sometimes, yes. He sleeps on the sofa. What murder?"

"Are you expecting me to believe that you are unaware of the Marsholm Wood murder?"

"Not really; I mean, yes, I'm not really aware of it. I don't read the papers – they're depressing."

"Okay, Miss Deneo, if you say so. I'm afraid we will still need to search your shop and flat. Is there anything you would like to tell me, now, before we tear up the floor boards?"

"What! No! Is this really necessary?"

"Calm down, Miss Deneo – it's just an expression; we don't quite have the authority go that far - yet. Nonetheless, it would be in your interest to be forthright, Miss Deneo."

Denise threw her arms in the air: "Do what y'u like" she conceded angrily.

The search of the premises took over five hours, but revealed nothing of value in connection to Jameson; however, they did discover a few items which they suspected may be stolen goods, which was a good excuse to get Deneo down the

Yard for questioning. Sitting in the interview room, she appeared decidedly uptight: it was unclear whether this was because she had something to hide or just wasn't used to police stations. Ackroyd and Cambridge sat down and gave Deneo an unsettling stare.

"I haven't done anything!" she blurted defensively.

"Well, that's what we're going to decide, depending upon your answers to our questions." informed Ackroyd.

"I want a solicitor." she snapped.

"We can get you a solicitor, but we're not really interested in you, Miss Deneo. What we _are_ interested in is what you can do to help us with our investigation into Arthur Jameson."

Deneo noticeably relaxed upon comprehending her true purpose for the police: "What do you want to know?" she asked acquiescently.

Late that afternoon, Ackroyd was taking a reflective break in his office with cup of coffee containing a measure of malt whiskey – which he kept in the office filing cabinet – when he received a phone call from Dickie Paris:

"Hello? Ackroyd?"

"Yes." responded Ackroyd with slight irritation at Paris' disrespectful tone.

"I've 'ad a visit from our friend. 'E's gettin' scared; 'e 'eard about the raid on the antique shop. 'E wants to meet up – today."

"Right... So, when and where?"

"Do y'u know the billiard 'all in Romily Road?"

"Where's this?"

"Soho."

"Can't say that I do, but I'm sure we'll find it."

"'E wants t'meet outside at eight-firty."

"Right, we'll be there; you best make the meet as planned, otherwise he'll know you grassed. We'll pick up your misses and daughter as well, just in case things go tits up. Don't mess this up." insisted Ackroyd, putting down the receiver before Paris could react.

Ackroyd immediately set about organising the ambush. Three plain-clothes detective constables would loiter in the area and await Jameson's arrival, while four uniformed police officers would be waiting in a Black Maria parked in a yard in Old Compton Street, just around the corner. When Jameson put in his appearance, two of the DC's would arrest him and the other would alert the boys waiting in the van to descend in force, thus ensuring an uneventful containment of their objective.

At precisely 8.30 PM, Dickie Paris entered Romily Road and approached the entrance to the billiard hall, clocking the detectives standing around solicitously at various locations along the street. Paris stopped outside the door and surreptitiously surveyed the surrounding pavements in search of Jameson, but he was nowhere to be seen. Paris waited uncomfortably; ten minutes passed and still there was no sign: they had begun to think that he had been tipped-off or spooked en route, until suddenly Arthur appeared from within the billiard hall, tapping Paris on the shoulder, nearly precipitating his ageing friend to have a heart attack.

"Shit! Arthur!" exclaimed Paris.

"Sshh, keep it down..." complained Arthur, at which moment the DC's closed in.

"I was expectin' y'u to be outside." countered Paris shakily just as DC Pawson grabbed Arthur's arm.

"Arthur Jameson, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder and attempted murder..." announced Pawson putting hand cuffs on Arthur's wrists. Arthur was so shocked that he just meekly submitted; Pawson read him his rights and DC Alger joined his colleague to assist in the determined escorting of their prisoner. Meanwhile, Paris was so stunned by the two consecutive incidences that he stood impassively for several seconds like a disconnected onlooker, before abruptly deciding that he should appear startled and pretend to make a run for it, whereupon he rather unconvincingly allowed two uniformed constables to apprehend him. Jameson was bundled into the police van with three police officers for company, while Paris was marched off to be placed in the waiting unmarked car, used by the detectives.

Sitting in the van, Jameson did not come across as a vicious killer; though a little gruff and clearly rough around the edges, he was otherwise – at least superficially – quite mild mannered. Strangely, he'd dyed his hair a striking reddishbrown colour, which wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

"I'm an innocent man, officer." he pleaded to Pawson.

"Then you've nothing to fear; now you have your chance to prove it." contended Pawson.

"I'm afraid I'm gonna be framed-up f'r this." he continued to argue, but no one was listening. Jameson remained silent for the rest of the journey to Scotland Yard. On arrival he was swiftly transferred to a secure interview room, where he was left under guard for about half an hour; the constable inside the room had been instructed not to converse with the prisoner – a deliberate ploy on the part of Ackroyd, intended to unnerve the suspect. When Ackroyd did eventually show up, (along with DS Cambridge,) Jameson was markedly agitated, immediately jumping to his feet confrontationally. However, the intimidating presence of the three police officers – Cambridge in particular – quickly diminished his indignance.

"Sit down, Arthur." instructed Ackroyd with quiet authority; "Are you still pleading innocence?" he enquired.

"Yes sir: I am." Jameson emphatically replied.

"Would you be willing to provide biological samples for analysis?"

"Sorry, sir, I don' understand."

"Would you be prepared to provide samples of hair, saliva, blood – that sort of thing?"

"Yes sir: I've got nufin' to 'ide. Whatever y'u want."

"And would you be happy to take part in an identity line-up?"

"Yes, whatever y'u want."

"Do you have an alibi for the night of the 30th of July this year?"

"I do sir, but I can't use it."

"Why not?"

"I was in Liverpool, stayin' wiv some frien's that're wanted themselves, sir. They're dangerous men, an' they chucked me out when they saw me, cos they 'eard I was wanted f'r that murder."

"When was this?"

"Las' Sat'rday, sir. I went back to ask 'em if they'd 'elp me, but they didn' wanna know."

"Where were you on Saturday the 31st of July?"

"Still in Liverpool."

"Any witnesses?"

"Only the same people, sir... It's jus'a coincident that business wiv the _Verona_ : I never left them cartridges."

"Do you, or have you ever, owned a gun?"

"No sir. I don' 'ave no use f'r a gun."

"I see that you've dyed your hair, Arthur. Any reason for that?"

"No sir. I dye me 'air a lot."

"Okay. I think, before we continue, we'll have you processed and samples collected. Then we will arrange for the identity parade. Is there anything else you want to say at this stage?"

"I wanna solicit'r."

Meanwhile, in separate interview rooms, Dickie Paris, Mary Paris and Carol Paris were all being questioned and were being highly accommodating. Though their testimony was essentially circumstantial in nature or bordering on hearsay, and not therefore especially damning, most of it was notably detrimental to Jameson's case.

Jameson spent a restless night in the cells at the Yard. His solicitor arrived the next morning at 7 AM and gave him the standard brief, which Arthur had heard so many times before. Then at 9 AM he was notified that the identity parade would take place at 10 AM at the Yard: Ackroyd was pinning everything on this – the case against Jameson hinged upon whether Vera Fable could successfully pick him out of the line-up. Ackroyd was determined that there would be no pantomime antics with singing this time – they would each read two short passages taken from the beginning and end of the abduction statement given by Vera; they were: "I'm a desperate man - this is a stick-up" and "shut up – I'm trying to think". The eleven volunteers making up the line were brought in from a local RAF station and were chosen on the basis that they had some similarity to the identikit image and were of similar proportions to Vera's description. This time it really was going to be organised in a military fashion.

The cell door unlocked and a uniformed sergeant stood in the opening giving Arthur a rather judgmental stare: "Right

– come on lad, it's time." he announced, almost as though he were taking him to the gallows, which of course was the one thing that wasn't likely to happen given that a parliamentary bill to abolish capital punishment had been approved by the Lords just ten days prior to the murder, all but irreversibly sealing the end of the death penalty. Nonetheless, the graveness of the situation still hung heavily over Arthur, who would face a life sentence if convicted.

Arthur met his solicitor [Mr Graham] in a room adjacent to the identity parade room, where he could change clothes if he wished; Mr Graham advised him to do so, as the volunteers were all wearing lighter coloured suits and jackets. However, there was little they could do about the hair colour, which would stand out like a sore thumb. Mr Graham had attempted to insist on everyone wearing some sort of hat, but Ackroyd was having none of that on the basis that the gunman did not wear a hat and that Jameson's hair was so unlike that described for the gunman that it might actually give him an advantage, if anything. There was also nothing that could be done about the fact that only two of the volunteers had blue eyes.

Arthur hesitantly chose number 4 as his position in the line-up and they all took their positions in an orderly manner befitting members of her Majesty's armed forces. Everyone waited sullenly for Vera to be wheeled in by her designated WPC. She was manoeuvred in front of the first man, where she stood up with the aid of crutches; she then proceeded to work her way very slowly along the line, giving each man's face a critical examination. At the end of the first pass, she requested that they read the prepared passages, each in turn. Jameson was becoming noticeably uneasy; a bead of sweat ran from his forehead down the full length of his face to then drip off the end of his slightly pointed chin. They each spoke the passages in somewhat robotic fashion – only Jameson had a manifestly cockney accent. Vera was still wavering, however and requested another pass; Mr Graham made a gesture to Ackroyd to indicate that this would be the last one he would sanction. Vera hobbled along the line once again, stopping for a second in front of Jameson and similarly, volunteer no. 9. At the end she turned to Ackroyd, took a deep breath and stated simply: "Four; number four." Jameson visibly wilted. Outside of the parade room, Vera half collapsed back into her wheelchair, her courage finally failing her. She looked up at

Ackroyd and nodded: "It is him... I'll never forget those eyes – or that aftershave."

Arthur Jameson was subsequently charged with the abduction and murder of Gregg Mason and, the abduction, rape and attempted murder of Vera Fable; whereupon, he was effectively carried by two policemen back to his cell, where he was left to sweat prior to the intense interrogation to come. Sitting within the four walls of the tiny whitewashed cell, he stared aimlessly into the oblivion of his tortured mind. Though no stranger to that environment, the circumstances were something that he had never imagined having to face; life imprisonment was not something he dared to contemplate. His thoughts quickly sought refuge in reminiscences of happier times.

## PART THREE

## Antecedents

##  Chapter Twenty

## (1939 – 4 May 1965)

**Arthur's** father, Ernie Jameson, was working as a plumber for the Water Board when the 2nd World War broke out, which meant he was deemed to be in a reserved occupation and exempt from conscription; he subsequently joined the ARP, which was _almost_ as dangerous as going to the front. He married his long time sweetheart Patricia Stokes on the 4th November 1939, two months after the start of the war; Arthur was born on the 2nd December 1940 at his aunt's house in 25 Union Road, Wembley, where his parents were living at that time. When the V1 rockets started bombarding London in June 1944, Arthur's pregnant mother evacuated with him and his two year old brother to the Surrey countryside.

The immediate post-war period was an anomalistic phase in modern British history, especially for the children of the late forties and early fifties. In London the adventure playgrounds of the time were the bomb sites that littered the city; health and safety was only an embryonic concept, such that children could run free through the debris of devastation, to play their own game of _War_. There was a new sense of freedom, despite the continued rationing and the loss of so many loved ones; the old world was being rebuilt socially and economically and the new world promised a growing emancipation from the rigid order of the past century, ushering in the notion of youth culture which was to develop with exponential vigour in the sixties, and beyond. This was the universe that Arthur Jameson was born into.

But, the rocking 1950's was an austere period; anything seemed possible, yet for most 'anything' was still frustratingly out of reach. Arthur was never satisfied to merely accept what society offered him, not when so much more was available to those prepared to take it. Throughout his school years he was perpetually restless with the restraints of the old world values that still persisted for the greater part, becoming an increasingly rebellious non-conformist, which inevitably brought him into conflict with the establishment. In another life he could have channelled his anger into popular music or an innovative modern art; unfortunately he possessed no particular discernible talent and, being of relatively low intellect, had very poor prospects of succeeding at any legitimate endeavour. Compounded by a lack of basic diligence and an insatiable urge to indulge in the vices of the darker side of life, he was always destined to come into conflict with the rules of society and the laws that governed it. It was also probably not unreasonable to presume that the 'bang on the head' that he had suffered in his youth did nothing to improve his mental constitution.

Prison life provided a diverse range of experience, from a sense of supreme safety to one of extreme vulnerability; there he discovered friendships, useful contacts and new criminal skills, but this was punctuated with periods of great fear, intense social and physical violence, and the constraints of losing one's freedom. The latter made an indelible mark upon Arthur's inner character, as well as his outer persona; prison was no holiday camp, except for the utterly masochistic. However, despite the constant threat of imprisonment, Arthur was driven to partake of the social underworld, believing there was little that he could offer honest society, nor little that it could offer him.

In the March of 1965, Arthur emerged from Wandsworth Prison, a free man once more, determined not to return – but not by going straight. Within a couple of weeks of release, while visiting a club in the East End, he ran into a familiar face in the guise of Richard "Dickie" Paris, who was working as a doorman that night. They quickly renewed their friendship and struck up a sought of criminal alliance, whereby Dickie effectively managed much of Arthur's corrupt activities; as a result, Arthur become (in effect) an honorary member of the Paris family.

Arthur's primary source of income came from burglary, but he supplemented this by acting as a middle man for more high profile criminals wanting to launder money or dispose of stolen goods; or performing the role of their illicit bagman; he also had reputation for being a skilful driver and car thief, both of which were another source of income. However, Arthur didn't hold on to his money for very long, squandering a lot of it on expensive clothes, gifts for "girlfriends", prostitute usage and living out of hotels. But his worst vice was gambling, which he enjoyed through a variety of outlets: casino's (legal and illegal), horse and dog racing, and his greatest folly of illegal poker games. When Arthur wasn't in prison, he lived quite a high life, and when the money dried up, he just resorted to breaking into the affluent homes of the suburbs. Unfortunately, Arthur was not the most intelligent of burglars: he didn't conform to the use of gloves, believing that it looked suspicious if seen wearing them in the street or if stopped by the police; instead he advocated the use of a handkerchief to wipe down any surfaces he happened to touch, except he wasn't particularly adept at it, often leaving a collection of incriminating prints. In fact, the Sussex Constabulary were currently holding fingerprint evidence belonging to Arthur, in relation to an armed robbery conducted that April, where Arthur had supplied the getaway car; but, without a suspect to match them against [Arthur wasn't known for this type of crime], they had been unable to make use of this evidence, thus far. As it was, by May 1965, Arthur was starting to consider abandoning house breaking – it having gotten a little dangerous of late, with several close scrapes involving occupants – and so was now in the market for some other major source of income, possibly including armed robbery.

May the 4th 1965 was a Tuesday: Arthur had managed to persuade Carol Paris to go on a date with him, despite her father warning her to steer well clear of him. Carol was almost like a sister in many respects and they had always hit it off; Carol would regularly cut and dye Arthur's hair, which he liked to vary in a bid to confound any descriptions given by his victims or witnesses. She had resisted Arthur's latest advances for several weeks, knowing full well that he was already dating someone else. But on this occasion, she fancied a night out away from the Paris' suffocating flat and therefore agreed to visit the cinema with Arthur to see the Hammer adventure film 'She', (starring Ursulla Andress, Peter Cushing, Christopher Lee and Bernard Cribbins).

"I'm really keen t'see this film, actu'lly." remarked Carol as the couple approached the entrance to the _Regal_ _Cinema_ (Marble Arch). It had not escaped Arthur's attention that Carol was wearing a very short psychedelic skirt and was ogling her bare legs at that particular moment. "Oi! Are you listenin'?" she complained.

"Yeah, sorry." Arthur acknowledged a little guiltily.

"I was sayin': I'm really lookin' forward to seein' this film."

"Oh, yeah – why's that then?" asked Arthur with a sniff and offered Carol a cigarette.

"Oh ta... Well, I've 'eard it's pretty good. My mate Jean saw it las' week."

"Wha's the support flick?" queried Arthur looking up at the bill board, "Oh right, Mickey Mouse."

"Yeah – be a laugh, won' it?" she noted encouragingly; Arthur lit her cigarette. "Ere, wha's wiv the fags, you don't normally smoke?"

"I'm a social smoker." Arthur explained, "An' I only like _Embassy_."

"Oh, right; that explains why y'u never smoke me dad's _Woodbines_." she inferred with a chuckle.

The queue into the cinema was fairly long; fortunately it was a very mild May evening, despite already being dark.

"The Beatles are number one." commented Carol, "I like that Barron Knights one – right funny..." she continued, but Arthur seemed somewhat distracted, eyeing up a group of girls further up the queue. "Did y'u see Ready Steady Go?" she persevered, "Arfur! Are y'u gonna talk to me or what?" she complained loudly, which, causing Arthur some embarrassment, finally got his attention.

"I a'n't seen that f'r weeks." he replied with a hint of irritation.

"Ere, what 'appened to that junk 'eap of a Morris Oxford you were drivin' the uvver week?" "Crashed it." responded Arthur casually.

"Tut. You an' cars." she remarked jokily, while glancing admiringly at Arthur's facial profile; she'd always thought he was a nice looking and couldn't understand why her father was so against her fraternising with him, apart from the constant string of "girlfriends"; he came across as quite charming and likeable, always smartly dressed, nice aftershave and her father treated him like an adopted son.

"Your mate, Jean? Tha's the one wiv the black bob?"

"Yeah, tha's right. She said she likes you, actu'lly."

"Really?" he noted with interest, "Y'u said she's seen this pic'?"

"Yeah, 'er boyfriend took 'er las' week. She reckons the endin's really good."

"'Ere, I 'eard the Beatles 'ave got a film out this year." recalled Arthur inspirationally: he wasn't feeling overly chatty and consequently struggling to make conversation.

"The Beatles – yeah, I 'eard that. Somefin' to do wiv a new album they're recordin'."

"Dunno nufink about it, I jus' 'eard they was makin' a film."

The queue was moving along quite quickly and they were now one couple from the kiosk.

"You are payin' aren't y'u, Arfur? 'Cause I a'n't got no money." she informed him. Arthur gave her a quizzical stare, which was interrupted by the girl on the kiosk calling to them: "Can I 'elp y'u?" she yelled impatiently. Arthur turned to the girl, winked and grinned cheekily.

"So, shall we go in the back row, then?" Arthur asked Carol, suggestively.

"Arfur: I wanna see this film." she knowingly insisted.

"Got anyfink in the circle?" Arthur asked, addressing the kiosk girl.

When they emerged from the cinema it was after ten o'clock and though still warm for the time of year, was getting a little chilly. Carol pulled her jacket around her; Arthur, spotting the opportunity, put his arm around her shoulders and slyly cuddled up to her on the premise of giving them both some extra warmth.

"What did y'u fink of the film, then, Arfur?" she asked.

"Yeah, not bad... That Ursula Andress is a tasty tart." Arthur remarked gleefully.

"Arsula Undress, more like." sneered Carol whimsically, causing them both to burst out laughing.

"Ere, Carol? Fancy a walk in the park?" suggested Arthur squeezing her a little tighter.

"A'n't it shut at this time o' night?" she shrewdly observed, perfectly aware that this was no obstacle to entry.

"Yeah. We can climb over the fence, though." contended Arthur persuasively. Carol smiled acquiescently; being no innocent, she knew precisely what Arthur had in mind and was in a mood to accede to his affections, having not overly objected to his amorous advances in the cinema, and only then primarily out of public decency.

Hyde Park was but a stone's throw from the _Regal_ _Cinema_ , on the other side of the road, just a short distance along. Not too surprisingly, Carol had some trouble getting over the chest-high railings in her mini-skirt; Arthur was, of course, more than happy to assist her, managing to get his hands just about everywhere. Once past that obstacle they both ran hand in hand, laughing mischievously, across the open grassed area and into the dark seclusion of a wooded section of the park, where Arthur pinned Carol up against a tree.

"We'll miss the bleedin' bus." she half-heartedly complained in a last feigned act of resistance.

"Don' worry, there's a late bus." countered Arthur kissing her red-rouged lips.

Carol contentedly submitted to Arthur's passionate overtures and they were soon engrossed in a heated snogging session, Arthur taking the opportunity to caress Carol's pliant body from top to bottom, as far as his hands could reach. This sensual embrace had continued for about twenty minutes, with Carol thoroughly engrossed in the experience, when she became aware that Arthur had become physically aroused, but she was enjoying herself far too much to want to spoil the moment with modest propriety and therefore allowed the situation to develop quickly out of her control. She was not prone to screaming and did not have the strength to easily counteract Arthur's intense groping, such that as some forceful fumbling in her underwear began, all she could muster was a breathless "No", which was no deterrent to the determined will of a sexually inflamed man; before she knew what was happening, he was inside her and she didn't know whether to scratch his eyes out or accede to the inevitable, it seeming strangely impolite to attack this man that she had been so fond of and who had treated her to a lovely night out; in that few seconds of indecision, the whole act was over and Arthur immediately released her, apparently fully satiated. Carol was momentarily stunned, before coming to her senses and slapping Arthur's face venomously.

"I don't fink I fuckin' agreed to that, did I?" she screamed determinedly. Arthur appeared shocked by her reaction and reeled from the slap, stepping rapidly backward, before tripping up to fall onto his backside in the undergrowth. "Carol?" he implored, to which she marched past him, kicking him in the side as she went and calling him a "bastard".

"Carol? I'm sorry... I thought..." he started, chasing after her.

"Yeah, well y'u thought wrong!" she hollered, shaking away his grasp on her arm, "Just take me 'ome." she ordered, then begun walking briskly toward the park railings; Arthur scuttled rather feebly after her. When she reached the railings she managed to hurl herself over them in a single athletic motion, such was her sheer indignation.

At the bus stop, Carol stood with her arms folded and pulled a face that would scare small children. Arthur attempted to remonstrate with her, but she was not remotely interested in Arthur's pathetic excuses. Thankfully, there was only a short wait for the bus, where she expeditiously took refuge. Arthur took the seat parallel to hers, as she refused to let him sit next to her. She stared fixedly out the window and when the conductor prompted her for the fare, she just pointed at Arthur without even looking. On the bus, Arthur felt somewhat restrained from continuing his supplicating onslaught, only occasionally glancing at Carol and sighing heavily.

It was still a fair walk from the bus stop to the Paris' flat, which was on the edge of the Soho area. Each time Arthur caught her up, Carol would break into a trot to get away from him, and so this continued all the way to corner of the road providing access to the large complex of flats – a 1930's development intended to provide housing for the working classes. At the corner, Carol turned and put up her hand up in a halting motion.

"Y'u don' want me dad to see y'u wiv me, do y'u?" she warned him sternly, meaning that he should not follow her any further. A totally dejected and bewildered Arthur trudged on, eventually hailing a taxi to take him to Denise Deneo's, where he would be assured of a sofa to sleep on for the night.

## Chapter Twenty-One

## (5 May 1965)

**Arthur** awoke with a surge of muscular discomfort from having slept on Denise Deneo's sofa all night; his left arm had gone dead from having laid on it for some time. From the carriage clock on the mantel, Arthur could discern that it was a quarter past ten; Denise had been up since eight o'clock and serving in her shop since nine – she was accustomed to Arthur using her flat as a sort of halfway house when he'd run out of money for hotels, or when he didn't feel sufficiently welcome to be able to impose himself on anyone else. Arthur had struck up a friendship with Denise some years ago, when she was suggested to him by a criminal acquaintance as a fence for disposing of antique objet d'art, which was otherwise difficult to sell on. Denise had adopted him as a surrogate nephew, not being quite old enough to be his mother. Denise was generally a fairly solitary character, but had developed something of an endearment toward Arthur – though there was never any hint of any romantic attachment from either side: Denise was inherently asexual and too old for Arthur's taste, irrespective.

The decor in Denise's flat was somewhat ornate – much as one might expect for an antique collector, with no children or animals: a bit fussy and delicate. Her telephone, therefore, was a wooden candlestick style, which somewhat confused Arthur, who had not previously used the phone in her flat and was only familiar with the modern combined receiver/transmitter handset. After some difficulty, he managed to get through to his partner in crime, Dickie Paris, who unusually for the social enclave in which his residence was located, had a home telephone – something of a must for a criminal entrepreneur.

"'Ello? Dickie?"

"Oo's 'at? Is it Arfur?"

"Yeah. 'Bout later, Dickie..."

"Wha's up mate – I expected you 'ere by now?"

"Nufin'; jus' wondered if y'u could pick us up from Shepherd's Bush?"

"Yeah, s'pose. Where exactly?"

"I'm at Denise's; the antique shop. Y'u know Shepherd Bush Common, right? It's opposite that, off a side road – on the corner."

"Wha's it called?"

"Er, La Mattress, or somefink. It's _some_ French bollocks."

"Okay. I'll find it. About one, okay – I got some other stuff t'do now?"

"Yeah, that'll be good."

"See y'u later." ended Dickie, immediately putting down the phone.

Arthur had hoped to gain some reassurance of Dickie's mood from the call, (as well as a free ride,) but the short conversation hadn't told him anything meaningful in relation to whether he might be in trouble with Dickie over Carol, and so he had to assume that he was probably safe based on Dickie's general tone.

For the remainder of the morning Arthur aimlessly lolled around Denise's flat, listening to the radio, until at 12.30 PM,

Denise shut-up shop for lunch and returned; she was slightly surprised to find he was still there. Although she did trust him (for the most part), she wasn't too keen on his hanging around on his own for long periods, just in case he did get itchy fingers.

"Still here, then?" she commented in mock surprise, "Nothing on today?" she continued in an attempt to gently ascertain what his intentions were.

"Yeaah: I'm gettin' picked up at one." he informed her.

"What ar'y'u up to?" asked Denise entering the kitchen area, which was adjoined to the living room by a bead partition.

"Dickie's pickin' me up...Y'u know Dickie?"

"Yes. You have mentioned him once or twice." she acknowledged with an ironic chuckle.

"Yeah, 'e's me oppo."

"What's his surname?" she enquired, not for the first time.

"Paris, y'know: like in France?"

"Yes, I had heard of a Paris in France." said Denise with a fond smile – in many ways, Arthur was like a child to her, especially intellectually; "So, where you off to? Naughty business?" she proffered, referring to criminal activities.

"Yes an' no... We go an' play snooker an' billiards down the billiard 'all in Rom'ly Road on a Wednesday – do a bit o' business, as well."

"Where's that, Soho?"

"Yeah... 'Ear, talking of naughty business: I 'ad a bit o' naughty business meself las' night." announced Arthur with a smirk.

"Pardon?" choked Denise a little taken aback: she was not one for sex-talk and Arthur didn't normally make sexual references in conversation with her.

"Took out this girl, Carol. She was gaggin' for it; couldn' take 'er 'ands off us." Arthur continued, while Denise looked on somewhat embarrassed; "Yeah, she didn' 'old back, if y'u know what I mean?" he added to labour the point. This revelation, was in its' mendacious distortion, Arthur's desperate way of convincing himself that he had done nothing wrong and thereby justify his own actions to himself. Meanwhile, Denise was mortified, equally desperate to circumvent this (in her mind, sordid) subject matter.

"I've never played snooker." she casually remarked in an effort to gloss over Arthur's boasting.

"What...? Oh, right, snooker." mumbled Arthur, somewhat disorientated by Denise's misdirection.

"Do you want a sandwich – I'm having one?" she enquired, confounding Arthur even further.

"Eh...? Yeah... What sort?"

"Cheese...? Or I have some jam? Strawberry."

"Yeah, okay." Arthur replied, still slightly perturbed, but not one to refuse a free meal.

"Which do you want?"

"Um, cheese...please."

"Tea?" Denise added, having now completely distracted him away from the unsavoury element of the conversation.

"Yeah, ta." agreed the mollified Arthur.

Denise prepared their lunch in a somewhat vacant conversational atmosphere, much to her relief. However, Arthur seemed to be in a mood to unnerve his host, as she was soon to discover. As they began eating their sandwiches, a mischievous glint blaze-up in Arthur's piercing eyes.

"Did I tell y'u I got a gun?" he blurted.

"Pardon?" replied Denise, yet again dumbfounded.

"A Berretta." he nonchalantly explained while chomping on a sandwich. "A gun? Really? What for?" she asked searchingly. "Yeah, well, it's gettin' a bit dangerous out there." "Out where?" she asked uneasily.

"When I go out on the stick... I keep runnin' in t'trouble."

"What do y'u mean?"

"Well, the uvver week, I was in this 'ouse in Roe'ampton and, well I fought it was empty, y'u know, but this bloke jus' came out 'o nowhere; we 'ad a bit of a scrap an' all."

"Right. Well, you need to be more careful. You don't want to be using a gun, though – someone might get killed." "Yeah, rather them than me, though, eh?" Arthur rationalized.

"Well, what I mean is, just be more careful where you break in." she clarified, now becoming dismayed.

"It's alright – I a'n't got no bullets." Arthur reassured, sensing her disquiet.

"Where do you keep this gun?"

"I got it hidden, at Dickie's. I put it in a bag an' 'id it be'ind some pink towels. They never use them pink towels at the back of the airin' cupboard – they're brand new; been there ages, though."

"A bit risky: they could find it."

"May be. But I gotta put it somewhere, in case I get stopped."

Denise was now beginning to doubt whether this latest revelation was in fact true after all, as it didn't entirely make sense: she was aware that Arthur was prone to telling the odd tall story, just for effect, so she wasn't sure whether to take this one seriously or not. Denise decided to change the conversation yet again.

"So, you any good at snooker? You've never mentioned it before?"

"Not really. Dickie jus' likes the billiard club f'r talkin' business – away from the family like...an' big ears." "Oh, right – den of thieves, is it?" asked Denise light-heartedly, albeit somewhat rhetorically.

"Den o' fieves, yeah – good one." laughed Arthur.

The conversation lapsed for a minute, while Denise searched her mind for a new subject; in desperation, she resorted to recalling the news stories she had heard on the radio: "I hear the Americans have sent troops into Dominica. You'd think they had enough on their plate with Vietnam, wouldn't you?"

"Dunno – don' take much notice o' the news. I'm only int'rested in the pop' music."

"Right, yeah; probably best – the news is depressing." she concluded defeatedly. "Sandwich okay?" she eventually asked in a bid to break the silence.

"Yeah – ta... 'Ear, did y'u sell that little ballerina ornament I left wiv y'u a few weeks ago?" Arthur enquired in a recollective flash, hoping to get some money.

"I had to pass it on to another dealer." she answered cautiously.

"Was it valuable, though?"

"Er, I think it might get ten pounds from the right buyer; but I'll have to share that with my dealer-friend."

"Y'u couldn't give us a couple o' quid, could y'u? We can call it quits..."

"Could you take thirty bob?" suggested Denise feeling a little pressured.

"Yeah, okay." Arthur agreed, conceding surprisingly easily.

"Oh – great!" accorded Denise cheerfully and then disappeared into her bedroom to procure the money from one of a number of hidden money boxes. A few minutes after Denise had paid Arthur – who had gleefully counted up the coins – a feint knocking could be heard, which they immediately presumed to be Dickie having arrived to collect Arthur.

"That sounds like me oppo." remarked Arthur getting up.

"I've never met Dickie; I'll come down with you." she insisted; Arthur wasn't overly keen, but couldn't justifiably refuse her. Dickie was still banging on the shop door when the two of them emerged from a door in the back room. Denise opened the door and greeted Dickie before Arthur could intervene.

"Hello. Dickie, I assume?" she asked politely and offered her hand.

"'Ello. Denise, I assume? I've 'eard a lot about y'u." Dickie responded gruffly, briefly shaking her hand.

"Right: we off then?" enquired Arthur forcing himself past Denise, who had partially blocked the doorway, and ushering Dickie away in a strangely covetous manner; he evidently didn't want Denise and Dickie striking up any kind of potential association.

In the car [a cherry-red 2-door _Ford Consul Cortina GT_ ], Arthur was a trifle nervous, still unsure whether Carol may have complained about him to her father; Dickie quickly sensed Arthur's unease: "Wha's up wiv you?" he quizzed.

"Nufin'; nufin'. You alright?"

"Yeaaah. Why wouldn't I be?" snapped Dickie with a tone of suspicion.

"Nufin'. You asked me, so..." Arthur explained rather unconvincingly; however, Dickie implicitly trusted Arthur, so did not pursue this line of enquiry.

"So, that's Denise, then." stated Dickie moving on the conversation.

"Oh, yeah. She's a good mate." noted Arthur with a hint of relief, on the assumption that Dickie must be ignorant of the liaison with Carol, or he would probably have started interrogating him.

"A useful fence?" Dickie rhetorically concurred.

"Yeah. Jus' got some money for an ornament off 'er, as it 'appens."

"So, what were y'u up to las' night?" asked Dickie innocently, though still managing to put a chill up Arthur's spine.

"Er, I stayed at Denise's..."

"Yeah...? My Carol went out las' night; came back in a right crabby mood; bloody women." complained Dickie in a discernibly abstract manner; but Arthur was still slightly concerned that Dickie might be casually fishing for a Freudian slip. "Couldn't get a word out of 'er, this mornin'. Usually, she's goin' ten t'the dozen about some ol' shit or uver; can't normally get a fuckin' word in edge ways." he continued to whinge, "S'pose, I should be grateful t'get some bleedin' peace f'r a change... Eh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, know what y'mean." agreed Arthur with a laugh, and not without some relief. "So, who we meetin' today?" he asked, feeling a degree more relaxed now.

"What, the Dixon bruvvers? Yeah, Jack an' 'Arry. They've jus' done a ten stretch for robbery wiv violence; they're lookin' t'do a post office job, or may be a security van. They're gonna need a couple o'decent cars – tha's where you come in."

"What, a Jag' or somefink?"

"Yeah, summit like that."

"When d'they need 'em?"

"Not yet..." Dickie broke off to abuse a cyclist: "Get out o' the fuckin' way, y'u fuckin' wanker!" he hollered, while beeping his car's horn – the cyclist subsequently ran into the kerb and fell off his bike onto the pavement, much to Dickie and Arthur's amusement.

"You were sayin'?" asked Arthur when they had exhausted their malicious roars of laughter.

"Yeah... What was I sayin'?"

"'Bout these cars?"

"Right, yeah. No, not yet. The job's still in the plannin' stage."

"I've been finkin' 'bout changin' me direction – know what I mean?"

"No, what?"

"I wanna get int'somefink wiv more money in it; I'm fed up wiv goin' out on the stick... I'm finkin' of gettin' a gun." "A gun?" snapped Dickie with some alarm, "You sure y'u wanna get int'that side of fings?" "Yeaah – why not?" queried Arthur a little naively.

"Cos y'u get anuver fuckin' ten years jus' f'r carryin'." exclaimed Dickie.

"Better not get caught then, eh? D'y'u know where I can get one?"

"The bruvvers can probably 'elp y'u out there. What sort o' gun?"

"Jus' a small one – I don' wanna a bleedin' shotgun or nufin'!"

"Right. Wha's it for though?"

"Dunno, yet." answered Arthur somewhat indifferently.

"Got it all worked out, then?" sneered Dickie, but the comment just passed Arthur by. Dickie's main concern was that Arthur might be intending to branch out on his own, something that the protective Dickie was reluctant to encourage, and guns were just not his thing, having always relied on his fists. Arthur, now somewhat distracted, turned on the car radio and tuned it to Radio London – The Rolling Stones' _The Last Time_ was playing.

"I like this one." commented Arthur impersonally, prompting a blunt "You what?" from Dickie; "I said: I like this one – Rollin' Stones." Arthur elucidated.

"Oh, right – Rollin' Stones." acknowledged Dickie, "I prefer the big bands, meself." "What, jazz? Tha's old 'at, that is." teased Arthur with a derisory snigger.

"Proper music's what y'u mean." insisted Dickie.

"I s'pose Lord Rockin'ham's alright." cited Arthur in an attempt to appease Dickie.

"Lord fuckin' Rockin'ham? That a'n't big band. I'm talkin' about Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey..." "Tommy Dorsey? 'E's dead!"

"You'll be fuckin' dead in a minute." joked Dickie.

"Jazz is dead." added Arthur defiantly.

"Where d'y'u fink y'u bleedin' rock'n'roll music comes from? It's jus' jazz wiv 'lectric guitars."

"Yeah, I s'pose." conceded Arthur, reluctant to continue this particular line of banter, "Rollin' Stones are good, though."

"If y'u want a fuckin' 'eadache." retorted Dickie scornfully.

"Y'u gettin' old and square, Dickie."

"Better than deaf."

"Y'u what?" responded Arthur mirthfully.

"I said: it's better than... Oh, funny. Cheeky bugger." chided Dickie with a grin and they both laughed boisterously.

Meanwhile, DJ Tony Windsor introduced the next record to play: _The Clapping Song_ by Shirley Ellis, which did not go down any better with Dickie, who promptly turned the radio off.

"Dickie!" complained Arthur, "Wha'd'y'u do that for?"

"My car; my radio." Dickie firmly informed Arthur, who then resorted to leering out of the car window in an effort to search out any young women who might be walking the streets as they passed along their way, wolf-whistling when he saw one that he particularly approved of.

## Chapter Twenty-Two

## (22 May 1965)

**Saturday** morning was a good time for Arthur to take advantage of Carol's hairdressing skills; though still frosty, her mood had now thawed sufficiently for her to agree to dye his hair – for a price. Arthur sat on a chair in the middle of the Paris' kitchen, a large towel wrapped around his upper body, while Carol begun the process of preparing his hair. Dickie was wandering around with a mug of tea, half-naked and displaying his impressive collection of tattoos, like some sort of demonstrator for the local parlour – as a child, Carol had often referred to her father as 'Picture-Man': to her he had been every bit the superhero, sporting a powerfully muscular physique; a physique that was now sadly starting to sag in places. Mary Paris was sitting by the window behind a small folding table, curlers in her hair, reading the Sun newspaper and smoking a Piccadilly cigarette, the ash having remained attached for a preposterous length of time – such that it was now drooping under the weight – while she had become engrossed in an article about a British girl murdered in the United States. The wireless was tuned to Radio Caroline: the popular _Garry Kemp Show_ was on air. Carol normally liked to listen to the _Sound of 65_ programme at mid-day, which was effectively a showcase for the UK Top 50 singles chart, but had put the radio on early to accompany her hair dyeing activities. However, Mike Allen's Saturday morning section was about to interrupt the schedule for about 45 minutes.

"Oh, it's Mike Allen – I a'n't keen on 'im. Turn it off will y'u dad?" directed Carol: Dickie was more than happy to comply; Arthur was disgruntled, but prudent enough not to complain, particularly as Carol had started combing the black dye into his hair.

"Give us the race pages." said Dickie demandingly as he sat at the kitchen table, pen readied for the Saturday ritual of selecting the four horses for his weekly sixpence each-way Yankee. Mary dutifully handed them over, the ash from her cigarette dropping onto her lap as she did.

"So, what d'y'u reckon for number one this week?" Arthur asked Carol tentatively: she had hardly said a word to him for the last couple of weeks or so.

"I dunno... Beatles?" she answered curtly.

"Noh – that's on its' way down." Arthur asserted irritably. "I dunno... Marianne Faithfull?" "Noh." asserted Arthur again.

"Well, I like that one." she affirmed.

"Yeah, okay, but it a'n't gonna make number one – is it?" contested Arthur.

"Okay; Dave Berry?" she suggested with a little smirk.

"What? Dave Berry?" queried Arthur, somewhat confused as his latest single had been on its way down the chart for a while and never got higher than number 5.

"Yeah, ' _Little Fings'_... They've been goin' _up_ a bit lately." she quipped making a thinly veiled reference to Dave Berry's single _Little Things_. The joke took a while to sink in, but when it did, Arthur abruptly looked up at Carol with an expression of bemusement combined with concern. The comment ruffled his feathers for a moment.

"What about Sandie Shaw's new one?" proffered Arthur, once he had regained his composure.

" _Long Live Love_? – not a hope." she stated dismissively – but she wasn't referring to the song, but rather she was giving Arthur a covert message.

"What about the 'Clappin' Song'?" offered Arthur, who was still not quite getting the gist of Carol's satirical sentiments and consequently played gormlessly into her abusive verbal game.

"Yeaaah, I reckon _clap_ might be on its way up." she dryly concurred. This was pushing the limits of subtle innuendo, causing a slight momentary questioning to pass across her father's mind. Meanwhile, Arthur wasn't quite sure whether this was an intended put down or not, so pressed on with this nascent glimmer of a conversation.

"It's a bit of a novelty, that one, though, a'n't it?" he eventually decided, mainly to contradict Carol's probably [in his mind] implied insult.

"It certainly is." she remarked and nearly choked on her own laughter.

At this point Dickie started to get a tad perturbed: "What the fuck are you on about, girl?" he blurted, spitting tea back into his cup.

"Don't worry about it dad: y'ur too old t'get the 'ang of hip gassin'." she answered sarcastically.

"I a'n't that fuckin' old." complained Dickie and returned to studying the form, a tiny bit affronted.

"Yeah, what are y'u on about?" challenged Arthur, now becoming increasingly aware of (and dismayed by) Carol's surreptitious taunts.

"Nothin'. We're talkin' about the hit parade a'n't we?" she cheekily purported.

"Right..." agreed Arthur, now thoroughly bewildered.

"What about Cliff?" Carol cunningly proposed, making reference to Cliff Richard's latest single; while Arthur considered this, she added with calculated emphasis: "You know: 'The Minute _You're_ Gone'."

Arthur gave her another bemused look: "No. I don't think that's likely." he stated rather coldly.

"Right: that's it. Give it 'alf 'our, then wash it." she instructed him indifferently, then putting the comb in the sink, she threw the remaining dye product into the bin, washed her hands and silently marched away to her bedroom, where she promptly locked the door.

"Am I missin' somefin' 'ere?" enquired Dickie suspiciously.

"What?" replied Arthur, feigning ignorance. Dickie eyed him with dubiety for a second, but wasn't sufficiently perceptive to the situation to pursue the matter.

By the time Arthur was ready to accompany Dickie for his Saturday lunchtime drink down _The Red Bull_ , it was nearly half past twelve:

"Come on Arfur." complained Dickie – the first race of his Yankee was due to start at 1.15 PM – "I'll be too bleedin' late for the bookies at this rate." Dickie's bookmaker was only about a hundred yards from _The Red Bull_ , so they actually had ample time.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'." replied Arthur as he quickly slipped on his suit jacket, "It a'n't that far, anyway." he cited, feeling unduly pressured to leave before he had completed his personal grooming. As they passed Carol's room, Arthur knocked on the door and optimistically called: "Do y'u wanna come down the pub, Carol?"

Following a distinctly pregnant pause, Carol responded with: "Nah...I'm goin' out wiv me boyfriend at two", which was untrue and purely intended to dissuade Arthur from any further pestering.

"I didn't know Carol 'ad a new boyfriend." queried Arthur as he and Dickie walked down the concrete stairwell.

"She 'as a dif'rent boyfriend more often than I change me bleedin' socks." alleged Dickie.

After a few seconds pause and some intense contemplation, Arthur countered with a gleeful smirk: "What – never?" "You're a funny boy; a funny boy." scoffed Dickie while giving Arthur a paternal pat on the back.

When they arrived at _The Red Bull_ , it was fairly busy and typically rowdy; Dickie was a regular and new more or less everyone on a first name basis – strangers were not generally welcome without a regular for a chaperone. "What y'u 'avin', y'ur usual?" asked Dickie as they squeezed into a gap along the bar.

"Yeah: shandy – cheers." Arthur concurred.

Dickie caught the barman's eye: "'Ello Dickie. Usual?" Dickie indicated to the affirmative with a slight nod of the head, before saying: "And 'alf a shandy for the boy, George." The barman gave him a perplexed look, saying sarcastically: "Ill is 'e?" Dickie grinned, responding with: "'E's a bit of a light-weight." "Wha's that?" quizzed Arthur, slightly offended.

"They're used to real men in 'ere, boy." mocked Dickie and slapped him on the back to reassure him.

"Yeah, well, I don' drink do I?" said Arthur defensively.

"Ah, it's Arfur, 'n'it?" asked the barman with vague recognition; Arthur nodded in acknowledgement, "Look it this way," the barman continued, "most of these geezers'll be dead before they're sixty." and placed Dickie's pint of mild on the bar in front of them.

"Fanks mate." said Dickie, referring ironically to the comment.

The barman made Arthur's shandy, which ended up being more like a bitter-tops: "There y'u go, son – live long." he said with a wry smile.

"Cheers." replied Arthur, still a little affronted. Dickie slapped the exact money into the hand off the barman and said tauntingly: "Get y'u'self one."

Arthur sipped his "shandy" and was not overly impressed, it being stronger than he liked. Dickie surveyed the faces in the busy pub, before turning back to Arthur and saying: "Don't let that bovver y'u, son. George is a fuckin' diamond; we go back twen'y years... 'Ere, there's a bloke over in the corner y'u might know from nick."

Arthur took a quick peek at a group of three men: one looked to be in his early thirties and was chatting to the other two, who appeared a bit older. None of them rang any bells with Arthur. Dickie called to the younger one: "Hey! Joe... Joe – come and join us." Immediately recognising Dickie, Joe broke of his conversation with the other two men and after quickly shaking hands with each of them, strode over to join Dickie and Arthur. Joe briefly gave Dickie a manly embrace, saying:

"'Ow are y'u, me old mucker."

"Good. This is Arfur." introduced Dickie, and then addressing Arthur, said: "This is Joe. We met in Strangeways a few years ago."

Shaking hands with Joe, Arthur enquired: "'Ave we met?" "Don't fink so, mate." Joe replied studying Arthur's face.

"Joe's done a few blags wiv the Dixon bruvvers." explained Dickie, which produced some admiration in Arthur. "Y'u ju's got out?" Dickie asked Joe.

"Yeah, 'bout a week ago. Eight-monf stretch."

"Arfur 'ere's a good mate o' mine; good wheels-man." said Dickie informatively.

"Good one." noted Joe.

"So, got anyfin' on the burner, or jus' chancin' y'u arm?" enquired Dickie, always on the lookout for a potential new criminal associate to broker for.

"Dunno, yet. But between us, there might be a big'on' on the cards." said Joe in a secretive manner, adding: "I can't say no more."

This revelation tantalised Arthur: "If y'u need a driver, I might be int'rested." "Bear y'u in mind, mate; bear y'u in mind." Joe assured.

"What were y'u in for?" enquired Arthur, already sensing an affinity with Joe.

"Possession." replied Joe with an air of annoyance, "Yeah, they couldn't pin the robbery on me, but they caught me with the stuff on me. Bloody nearly got away wiv it, too. Fuckin' copper nicked me when I got off the tube at Blackfriars.

The bastard 'ad followed me and I 'ad nowhere to stash the goods." "Should'o got on a bus." asserted Arthur a little abstrusely.

"Bus? Why's that, then?" asked the baffled Joe; Dickie looked on, equally mystified. "At the back of most buses, upstairs – y'u know, the backseat – there's like a space be'ind, underneaf the seat. It's a good place to 'ide stuff." "Ah, right – good one. I'll keep _that_ one in me pocket." noted Joe, mildly impressed.

"Oo was y'u mates?" enquired Dickie, addressing Joe.

"Oh, them. Jus' some contacts..." Joe winked furtively and reached into his jacket pocket for a small paper packet, "Bennies." he explained, referring to tablets of benzadrine [an amphetamine].

"Not fuckin' drugs!" exclaimed Dickie, highly dismayed, "Do y'u 'ead in they will. I've known blokes go nuts on them fings."

"Give me a buzz. 'Elp keep y'u goin', know what I mean?" insisted Joe, who was a keen exponent of the drug.

"Don' let George see y'u wiv 'em – fuck!" warned Dickie. Joe quickly snuck the packet away in his pocket. Dickie continued his complaint: "If the fuckin' law catch y'u wiv them fings, you'll be _well_ fucked." This effectively soured the reunion and Joe, shortly making his excuses, left the pub.

"Y'u pissed 'im off." noted Arthur.

"Yeah, well, y'u don' wanna get in t'drugs, son." advised Dickie.

"Is there a game on t'morro'?" enquired Arthur [in reference to an illegal poker game] to distract Dickie from his enmity.

"What – at Ron's?" queried Dickie, still bristling slightly. "Yeah." Arthur replied in a flippant tone.

"Dunno. I a'n't seen Ron lately to ask 'im." stated a remote Dickie while looking around the pub, "Let's sit over there." he added indicating to a table by the exit where a couple were already sitting. They approached and pulling out the spare chairs, Dickie acknowledged the couple: "Alright Mike; Jean?" The couple graciously smiled and nodded, effectively giving Dickie and Arthur permission to sit down at their table (not that they had much choice), before returning to their private conversation.

"Seen any decent films, lately." asked Dickie, knowing that Arthur was a regular cinema goer.

"Er, yeah, I went t'see that 'She' recently."

"Wha's that about then?"

"Dunno, really, but there's a tasty tart in it – Ursula somefink."

"A foreign bird, eh? It weren't one o' those dirty movies, was it?"

"Nah. Bernerd Cribbins was in it!"

"Fuck. A blue movie with Cribbins – now _that_ I go to see!" gibed Dickie.

"It weren't no dirty movie. But y'u do get to see quite a lot of this tart, though." "Nice is she?"

"Nice tits." noted Arthur informatively.

"You dirty sod." taunted Dickie, which provoked them both into filthy laughter. As they calmed down, Dickie suddenly asked investigatively: "So, oo did y'u see that wiv, then?" "Er, just a mate." replied Arthur hesitantly.

"Well, next time y'u goin' t'see a dirty movie, let me know an' I'll come wiv y'u."

"It weren't a dirty movie, Dickie, 'onestly." Arthur assured him jovially, though slightly unnerved.

"It was bleedin' 'Gone wiv the wind' in my day – what a load a shit. Then it was all fuckin' propaganda films durin' the war. Mind you, we did 'ave Will 'Ay. Now, there's a funny bloke."

"Will 'Ay... Yeah, I like Will 'Ay; an' Laurel an' 'Ardy."

"Oh yeah – can't beat Laurel an' 'Ardy." affirmed Dickie. A short silence followed as they both contemplated a few comedy moments and smiled to themselves. Then Dickie abruptly asked: "You still seein' that bird – wha's 'er name?" "Linda?" suggested Arthur.

"Nah, not the prozzer. I mean that nice bird from Paddin'ton."

"Oh, y'u mean Marion... Yeah, we go out from time to time." "You should stick wiv that one: settle down." "What marriage?" objected Arthur.

"Why not? Y'u could do a lot worse. Y'u can't be a fuckin' gig-olo all y'u life."

"A what?"

"A gig-olo."

"Wha's that?"

"You know: a Casanova type... Puttin' it about. Y'u should settle down; 'ave a family." "I a'n't that old." complained Arthur.

"All the decent birds'll be gone, if y'u don' 'urry up." cautioned Dickie.

"Bollocks...! Anyway, Marion's not that int'rested – y'u know?"

"What, not int'rested in marriage? Y'u kiddin' me."

"Noh! Not flippin' marriage... You know: sex."

"Ohh, I see. Y'u wanna taste the fruit before y'u commit." laughed Dickie.

"Exactly." Arthur concurred.

"You youngsters: bleedin' sex is all y'u fink about. I tell y'u this, anyone gets my Carol up the duff an' I'll fuckin murder 'em." said Dickie ominously, albeit somewhat hypocritically; Arthur shrunk back into his seat and prayed.

## Chapter Twenty-Three

## (18 October 1965)

**The** pre-trial hearing was designated to be heard at Guildford Magistrates Court, beginning on the 11th October 1965. Arthur Jameson had appointed Nigel Robeson as his solicitor, who was familiar with Arthur, having represented him on a previous occasion. Just as DI Longbridge had suspected, the case had attracted considerable media attention and become something of a cause celebre, due to Arthur's inexorable tenacity in maintaining his innocence and the apparent weakness of the case against him; many suspected that he had been framed, either by the police (desperate to close the case) or by the criminal fraternity (to protect the real perpetrator). Consequently, the case had attracted a number of vociferous supporters who were vehemently campaigning for the release or acquittal of Jameson. But more importantly for Arthur, it had piqued the interest of a young, up and coming, extremely ambitious barrister (Miles Norcroft), who believed he could use this case to further his reputation and career as a defence lawyer, to the extent that he was volunteering to act for Jameson at _legal aid_ rates. However, Norcroft was too exalted to appear before the magistrate's bench, so it was Robeson who was entrusted with the responsibility of defending Arthur at the initial hearing, as it was a near certainty that the case would be referred for trial at the Central Criminal Court (the _Old Bailey_ ).

Week two of the Guildford hearing brought Mary and Carol Paris to court to give their evidence. Dickie had already been called during the first week as a more significant witness, although his evidence had little to bolster the prosecution case; but, his mere presence was damaging enough to Arthur from the perspective of his character defence, as it never reflects well on a defendant when their supposed best friends are acting for the prosecution; this included Denise Deneo, who was also called to court the same day as the Paris women. They had never met, but both parties were vaguely aware of one another through conversation with Arthur. Strictly speaking, witnesses are not supposed to communicate with one another about an ongoing case, but Denise spotted the Paris women waiting to be called – she having already given her evidence – and when Mary made a trip to the toilet, she could not resist the opportunity to introduce herself; she was also keen to discuss some nagging misgivings she had in regard to Arthur's innocence [she was principally working with the prosecution for purposes of self-preservation], and it had not escaped her notice that Carol was obviously pregnant.

Mary emerged from a cubicle to be confronted by a nervous Denise tentatively approaching her; she began washing her hands.

"Hello... Are you Mary? Mary Paris?" Denise enquired in a hushed voice. Mary was initially a little shocked that this stranger new her name and concerned that she might be a journalist, or worse.

"Yeah, Why? Who are you?"

"My name is Denise, Denise Deneo. I'm a friend of Arthur Jameson. I don't know whether he ever mentioned me?"

"Oh, Denise - yes he did; you had me worried there for a moment." replied Mary, notably relieved, "Are y'u giving evidence?"

"Yes. Well, I already have; not that I've been much value to them."

"Which side?"

"The prosecution. I don't know if he's guilty or not, I'm just doing what I've been told by the police."

"Same 'ere. I can't believe 'e would have done that, but y'u just don't know do y'u?"

"Thing is, he told me he had a gun a few weeks before it happened." revealed Denise who had developed a genuine ambivalence toward Arthur. "He told me he had it stashed at your place."

"Noh! Are y'u sure about that?" exclaimed Mary with growing alarm.

"He told me he'd it hidden behind some pink towels in your airing cupboard."

Mary's face turned ashen, because Denise could not possibly have known about the pink towels unless Arthur had told her, and she could not imagine that Denise, being such a close and fondly spoken of friend in Arthur, would make up such a damning story. Mary leant back on the sink for support, her legs wobbling: "My god," she started, "we've been an' 'ad madman in our 'ouse. 'E might of done somefin' to our daughter." she agitatedly speculated, "We treated 'im like family." she admitted with dismay.

Denise comforted Mary with a gentle rub of her arm: "Don't beat yourself up – you couldn't have known. He had me fooled." Then she recalled more of the conversation with Arthur in May when he divulged the information regarding the gun, the same conversation where he spoke of a sexual liaison with a girl called Carol. "Is that your daughter outside, waiting?"

"Yes, Carol."

"I couldn't help noticing that she's in the family way." noted Denise searchingly.

"Yes – nearly six months." stated Mary unsuspectingly; this detail provoked Denise to make a mental calculation, the result of which caused her to shudder – she could not hide her anxiety. "What is it?" challenged Mary, the undesirable possibility starting to dawn upon her; "You don' fink...? Oh, no. She's refused to talk about who the farver might be. What did 'e tell you?" she entreated.

"I don't know; I could be wrong... But he did mention something about a Carol, once." "Oh shit. No wonder she's been so tight-lipped." concluded Mary, albeit a tad prematurely.

"It might not be." proffered Denise, now desperately back-peddling, "It was probably another Carol. Oh, god – I'm sorry: I shouldn't have said anything."

"No. No, it's okay – I need t'know. I fink deep down, I've suspected it all along. I just didn' wanna believe it."

At this delicate moment, a court typist entered the toilet and eyed the two women suspiciously: they both pretended not to know each other, Mary quickly leaving and Denise needlessly washing her hands in a guilty subterfuge, before also hastily departing, both the toilet and the building.

Mary sat back down next to her pregnant daughter with a terrible look of forlorn. Carol hadn't even noticed Denise, being as she was absorbed in a women's magazine article. When she looked up to check it was her mother who had sat down beside her, she was immediately aware of her distress: "Wha's the matter, mum?" she enquired with concern. "I just met someone...in the lav'."

"What d'y'u mean?" quizzed Carol slightly alarmed.

"Do y'u remember Arfur talkin' about a friend – a woman; antique dealer?"

"Er, possibly – why?"

"Well, I just met 'er in the lav'y."

"Really? What did she say?" asked Carol with growing apprehension.

"Somefin' about Arfur..." started Mary turning to Carol and grabbing her hands, "Tell me the truth, Carol: is Arfur the farver?" Carol was momentarily stunned by this suggestion and stared hauntingly into the oblivion of her tormented mind. "I 'ave to know, Carol." pressed Mary.

"Promise y'u won't tell dad." Carol eventually murmured.

"I won't, darlin' – I promise. 'E's got enough worry already; I a'n't gonna add to that." assured Mary tightening her grip on her daughter's hands.

"Okay... Yes, Arfur is...the father." she reluctantly admitted. "It was a one off, mum – he forced 'imself on me." Tears begun to run down Carols face.

"Oh god. Why didn' y'u say anyfin'?"

"'Cause dad would 'ave killed 'im." she asserted tearfully.

"So, 'e is a rapist." said Mary sorrowfully.

"I dunno. It wasn't really rape. It jus' got out of 'and, mum. It happened so quick, I couldn't stop 'im." pleaded Carol in a bid to reassure _herself_ as much as her mother.

"Don't ever blame y'urself, love. None of us guessed what 'e was capable of." "Do y'u really fink 'e killed that poor bloke?" ventured Carol fretfully.

"I dunno, but I fink we underestimated 'im." concluded Mary with a bizarre sense of shame, a nerve twitching in her chin.

In the court building on the same day as Denise and the Paris women, was DS Collins, who was keeping an eye on the proceedings on behalf of the embodiment of his romantic aspirations, Anne Mason. Although the public remained understandably sympathetic towards Anne (and Vera), there had been a distinct shift of public support toward Jameson, which was concerning for those wishing for a swift and permanent conviction. Collins had no direct involvement in the judicial process, although there was always a possibility that he could be called as a witness for the prosecution. Nonetheless, he was able to use his position to ascertain insider information relating to the case, and like all the police involved, was determined to ensure that Jameson would be indicted to stand trial and, that any conviction would stick and not be overturned at appeal. Tony walked past the snivelling Paris women, unaware of their identities and therefore did not pay any attention to their apparent distress. Who he did notice, though, was DC Alger coming out of one of interview rooms, where he had been discussing some minor details of the case with junior members of the prosecution team. Tony recognised him from a previous occasion when Alger had been accompanying DSupt Ackroyd, who had given evidence the previous week. Tony strolled over to the unsuspecting Alger, who was on his way to the public gallery, having been assigned the task of overseeing the court proceedings that week and reporting back to DSupt Ackroyd; Tony flashed his warrant card and engaged DC Alger in conversation.

"How are y'u?" asked Tony in a tone of feigned spontaneity; Alger did not immediately recognise him. "DS Collins – Guildford division. We met briefly last week." Tony explained to the mildly bemused Alger.

"Er, yeah: you were one of the original investigation team." recalled Alger.

"That's right – yeah. So, how's it going?"

"Well, we're confident it'll go to trial, but I think we may have our work cut out with Norcroft acting for Jameson."

"Yes, I heard that. Do you think Norcroft is as good as he thinks he is?"

"I couldn't say, but we could do without it. Our witnesses aren't helping as much as we'd like – there's two of them over there." indicated Alger with a subtle gesture of the eyes.

"Who are they?" quizzed Tony.

"So-called friends of Jameson... They're not looking too happy are they? We already had some histrionics from one of our other female witnesses, today. That's sort of thing isn't helping our case much, I can tell y'u. It makes it look they've been coerced. Any hint of that and Norcroft will rip holes in their testimony."

"Any word on Jameson's state of mind?"

"I think he's been buoyed by Norcroft's involvement. I believe he's having a psychological assessment done this week." "The bloody papers are having a field day with this, aren't they?" observed Tony.

"Not 'alf. _And_ there's too many bloody do-gooders jumping on Jameson's band wagon; that soddin' Leggett fella is a right thorn in our sides, I can tell you...

"Who's that, the telegraph journo'?"

"Yeah, that's right. He's been stirring up a hornet's nest of trouble; criticising the police investigation and making out that Jameson's being framed, with underworld help."

"That's bull'. Where does he get this stuff from? Obviously been listening to Jameson's old mum too much; quite why she thinks he's so sweet and innocent, I don't know."

"Exactly." agreed Alger, "But I suppose that's a mum's job, isn't it – painting pretty pictures of their child? We shouldn't expect any different – I just wish people'd stop listening to that cods wallop... Anyway, got to go: another witness is due to give evidence in a few minutes; I need to make sure I get a seat, otherwise the boss'll have me knackers for garters."

"Okay mate; I've got to go myself. See y'u around." said Tony with a laugh and gave DC Alger an ingratiating pat on the back.

Tony returned to his office at Guildford police station. DI Longbridge was on annual leave, so Tony was effectively in charge of the day-to-day running of the CID section in his absence. The office was empty, so Tony took the opportunity to ring Anne Mason.

"Hello, Anne; it's Tony."

"Oh, 'ello!"

"I've been at the hearing today."

"Yes, you said you were going to. Anything interesting?"

"Well, they seem confident he will be put to trial, but he's landed himself with some fancy young barrister, who's looking to make a name for himself."

"Oh, dear. That's bad, is it?"

"Well, it could make it tougher to make the prosecution stick, for sure. But, we just have to wait and see. Some of the witnesses aren't being all that helpful, either; that won't help the case." "He will be convicted, won't he?" asked Anne with concern.

"To be honest, it could be touch and go. It's all down to the jury, which is largely potluck, quite honestly. We don't know who the judge will be, yet – that can make a difference."

"What am I going to do, if he gets off?"

"Let's not think about that; there's a way to go, yet, Anne – you don't want to be worrying yourself about it... How are the kids, by the way?"

"Okay. No tears today. Do you want to come over later – for dinner?"

"Er, yeah, okay – that'd be great. What time?"

"About six thirty – is that okay?"

"Yeah – it's pretty quiet here and the gov' is on holiday this week."

"Shall I see you later, then?"

"Yes. I look forward to it. See y'u later."

Anne said "Bye" before putting the phone down; she returned to the lounge, where her brother Ewan was sitting drinking a mug of coffee.

"Who was that?" enquired Ewan protectively.

"My policeman friend." she stated thoughtfully.

"What did he want?"

"Nothing. He was just updating me on the state of the hearing."

"Is it wise to get too close to him – if the press got hold of it...?"

"He likes me, and he makes me feel safe. For all we know, that lunatic's still out there: a threat was made on my life, too." she reminded him.

"What makes you think the killer _isn't_ Jameson?"

"Nothing. I'm just saying, what if it wasn't him... I don't think the case against him is entirely water-tight, you know." "Is that what Tony told you?"

"Not exactly. But we shouldn't assume that that it's all cut and dried."

"He is the bloke you thought you spotted coming out of the florists, isn't he?" said Ewan rhetorically.

"I know. It probably _is_ him. But he's not been found guilty, yet, has he?" "Let's hope he is, and that's the end of it."

As expected, at the end of that November, the case was transferred to Court No.6 of the Central Criminal Court [Old Bailey], with Sir Archibald Ravensdale QC as the presiding judge and Oliver Carmichael QC acting as the Prosecuting Barrister – both with considerable experience of murder cases. The trial was set to convene on the 4th January 1966.

## PART FOUR

## Trial and Tribulation

##  Chapter Twenty-Four

## (December 1965 – 4 January 1966)

**The** Christmas period for the Jameson household did not bring much comfort or joy, with Arthur's trial looming large on the calendrical horizon. However, Arthur's family remained intransigent in their belief in his innocence and that he would ultimately be fully exonerated. They had secured the support of the acclaimed journalist and author, John Leggett, who had made it his purpose in life to vindicate Arthur Jameson, while simultaneously exposing a corrupt and incompetent police force. There was a small, yet forceful, ground swell of support building before the trial had even got properly under way. Leggett had also been instrumental in provoking the interest of Miles Norcroft in the undertaking of Arthur's defence. So, despite the obvious gloom attendant upon the Jameson's, there were nonetheless good reasons for them to feel optimistic – Arthur included.

As for the crown prosecution team, including DSupt Ackroyd and company, they had spent most of December trying desperately to paper over the cracks in their case and achieve a cohesive facade of assured credibility. But, in reality, they knew full well that their case had more holes than a Swiss cheese and a similarly unappetising odour. Vera's identification and testimony, combined with the cartridge case evidence and Jameson's lack of any meaningful alibi, were the cornerstones upon which their case depended, but these were not without some obvious structural fissures that could be exploited by a competent defence team. Ackroyd had not had a decent night's sleep since the second week of the pre-trial hearing, such were his misgivings regarding the performance and integrity of a number of the witnesses that he had personally procured; but, there was no turning back.

The Paris family, meanwhile, had probably suffered even more than the Jamesons. Carol's pregnancy had added considerable stress to their already painful position of having to turn Queen's evidence on a surrogate family member, who Carol and Mary knew to be the father of Carol's unborn child. Dickie, who also suspected the worst in Carol's condition, was greatly troubled by the whole circumstances of his "grassing" – something that a man like the _Lion Fist_ did not find compatible with his lifelong criminal association, and it was losing him friends at a rapid rate. But he felt a grave compulsion to do what he believed to be the right thing; murder and rape were not among this hard-man's repertoire and he couldn't condone it; moreover, he was as convinced of Arthur's inexplicable descent into evil, as most others were convinced of his inculpability, and he needed to protect his family from it.

Denise Deneo remained in a state of utter bewilderment, unsure what to conclude about her once close friend, while driven along by an intimidating prosecution contingent, like a car spinning out of control on an icy road to its inevitable oblivion in a ravine of destruction. Whatever happened, her life could never be the same again. Gone was the quietly comfortable anonymity and financial security: her antique shop had closed, partly because she no longer felt able to cope with running a business and partly because of growing hostility from the public. The press had even intimated that her mother had died in mysterious circumstances and that Denise may have had something to do with that. She had been forced to hide away in her flat in total isolation.

Anne mason conversely felt able to finally relax a little in the knowledge (she believed) that the nightmare would soon be at a conclusion. Gregg wouldn't be coming back, but at least she could attain some closure from Jameson's conviction; and, now there was a new man in her life, Detective Sergeant Tony Collins, a man who was able to make her feel truly secure, physically _and_ emotionally – probably for the first time in her life. She was now daring to dream of a future for both herself and her children with stability and elation in dependable abundance; and most important of all, a complete absence of competition. There was, however, one bothersome rock of the love boat in the form of the media's intrusion into the case: journalists at the _News of the World_ had got wind of a possible affair between Anne Mason and an unknown police detective who was (or had been) involved in the investigation into her husband's death. As a result, two rather unscrupulous hacks took it upon themselves to delve into this rumour by ingratiating themselves with Ewan Williams. Having persuaded him to accompany them to the local public house, they plied him with strong drink in a bid to extract information. What they got wasn't quite what they'd expected, though: Ewan remained tight-lipped about his sister's romantic liaisons, but could not help let slip the extraordinary story of his sister spotting Jameson outside a florist's shop. Their enquiries into the incident did seem to suggest that there was some truth to this revelation. Although the police refused to comment upon the incident which followed the related tip-off, in early December 1965 the _News of_ _the World_ editor decided to run the story, which also intimated at Anne Mason's clandestine relationship. Unsurprisingly, both Anne and Ewan flat denied any knowledge of such an incident, but could do little to prevent the speculation among the press and the public. Nonetheless, Anne continued her blossoming romance with DS Collins – fortunately for them, the police authorities paid scant attention to such scurrilous journalism.

Vera Fable was finally allowed to return to nurture of her childhood home, though she would be required to reside at Guy's hospital for the duration of the trial. Her life certainly had not unfolded in a way that she could have ever imagined, but she was strangely content now that she had come to terms with the dictates of her new life; in some respects it had removed the pressure for success that she had always placed upon herself; now she was susceptible to jubilance in just the gift of life itself. But, of course, there remained one psychological obstacle to her potential for achieving an everlasting happiness and that was the uncertainty in the doleful conclusion to Arthur Jameson's life. The death penalty was all but permanently dissolved, but Jameson could still face a lifetime in prison – for him, a fate worse than death – but until that aspect of the whole awful debacle was concluded, she would not be able to truly relax.

And as for Arthur: the Christian festival period on remand wasn't so bad; he just prayed that the New Year would bring him a more earthly salvation.

Miles Norcroft's natural confidence exuded from every pore, but even he knew that he had some work to do if the case of _Regina versus Arthur Jameson_ was to be expedited with a favourable outcome for the defendant. Norcroft's most concerning factor in constructing an efficacious defence was Jameson's lack of a tangible alibi. With this as his primary matter for resolution, he attended Arthur in his Old Bailey cell the morning of the day the trial proceedings were due to begin, in the hope that Arthur might have decided to elaborate upon his existing alibi, or perhaps have a new (provable) one to submit. As Norcroft solemnly followed behind the prison guard – his expensive leather soled shoes clip-clopping upon the polished concrete floor of the cell block, ominously reverberating through the fabric of the narrow corridor like ghostly echoes of the buildings bleak Victorian origins – the historic majesty of the setting did not escape his over-inflated, upper-middle class, public school ego; this was the pinnacle of legal calling, the model of a British justice system that had stood the test of time, that not even Hitler's bombs could dismantle, and presided over by Lady Justice herself.

As the cell door was opened, the sullen image of Arthur Jameson revealed itself. Norcroft was greeted by Arthur's desolate eyes, which showed no emotion. However, inwardly Arthur was gratified to be visited by this strange new "friend": a man who was at complete odds with his own persona in both a social and intellectual disposition – even his sense of dress would ordinarily have induced an antipathetic merriment in Arthur, being as it was more akin to an Edwardian drawing room than the emancipated sixties – but, at this juncture in their fateful (albeit diametrically opposed) lives, there was a symbiotic chemistry that bound them in a necessitous brotherhood. The guard was duly dismissed by Norcroft, who believed he was the last person on Earth that would have anything to fear from _this_ man at _this_ precise time-point; he sat himself down next to Arthur on the stark prison bed.

"Good morning, Arthur. Today is a momentous day: the beginning of a journey that will bring either freedom or incarceration. It is my steadfast intention that the outcome will be the former of those two possibilities."

Arthur nodded, although he wasn't entirely sure what the barrister actually meant, but rightly concluded that Norcroft would do everything in his power to win an acquittal for him. Arthur mumbled a meek, yet enormously grateful "thank you".

"Arthur, in order to win this case, I still need your help... This alibi – or lack of one – is a major problem. If a new alibi were to be presented to the court, it would do better to enter that into evidence now, than after the trial has progressed; the sooner the better, you understand?" Arthur looked at Norcroft blankly, hoping for guidance. "You see, Arthur, an alibi that cannot be proved, is akin to having no alibi at all. Now, I seem to recall that you were a regular visitor to Liverpool for a period at the end of July – is that correct?"

"Yes sir."

"Do you think that perhaps you could be confusing the dates? Er, perhaps the events that you are relying upon, do not in fact correlate with the date of the crime? Perhaps you are confusing two separate occasions that happened in close proximity? Think back, Arthur: could there be events that you recollect in relation to Liverpool that occurred around the same time and that you have inadvertently exchanged in your mind. In which case, your perceived honesty could be your downfall; do you see what I am saying?"

"I fink so, sir."

"We still have a few hours – the court doesn't convene until 2 pm. Please have a long hard think, Arthur. Recheck your memory of the events of the 30th of July; it would be a terrible injustice if you in fact could account for your whereabouts at the relevant times, but had confused the dates... Give it some thought. I'll have Mr Robeson visit you at twelve thirty – you can let him know whether you've remembered anything important." informed Norcroft, getting to his feet; he patted the forlorn Arthur gently on the back, "You mustn't worry, Arthur: together we can win this fight." Norcroft banged on the cell door to indicate for the guard (who was lingering discreetly a little way up the corridor) to let him out. "To misquote Yates: 'in faith will be our victory'." and with that cryptic sentiment, Norcroft departed, leaving Arthur perplexed, though contemplative.

As promised, Robeson arrived in Arthur's cell at the allotted time. Robeson was a more down to earth character, in comparison to Norcroft, despite dressing like a bank manager; he was also highly competent, his career tempered only by his modest social background. He greeted Arthur and sat upon the in-built ledge that ran along one side of the cell, which could be used as a bench.

"How are you, Arthur?" he asked courteously.

"Not so bad Mister Robeson. Mister Norcroft visited me earlier."

"Yes, so I understand. And have you remembered anything?" enquired Robeson optimistically.

"Possibly sir. I fink I might 'ave got me dates mixed up."

"That sounds promising, Arthur." commented Robeson as he opened his aged briefcase to acquire paper and pen.

"Do go on."

"Well, sir, I fink that on that Friday, I went t'Liverpool in the mornin', about eleven, after leavin' the _Verona 'otel_."

"I see. Were there any witnesses at the railway station or on the train that might remember you?" "Possibly..."

"Okay – we'll come back to that. When did you arrive in Liverpool?"

"I fink it was two-firty."

"What was the purpose of this visit?"

"I needed to off load some jewellery and watches – nicked stuff: that's why I didn' wanna say before."

"Don't concern yourself with that, Arthur. You're facing a much more serious sentence than a bit of theft would get you. So, do you have a contact in Liverpool?"

"Yeah; I have several, in truth – all villains."

"Can you reveal the name of this contact?"

"I didn' get to find 'im, tha's the fing."

"Why was that?"

"The address I got was duff, y'u see. I couldn' find it. I did ask some people directions, though."

"Ahh – that may be helpful. What did you do then?"

"I took a bus t'where this woman told me was close to where I wanted t'go."

"Right; and do you recall the name of this road?"

"Er, yeah, it was Stanley Road – off the Scotland Road. It wasn' right though. I asked anuver woman in a sweet shop and she said it might be Stanley Court I was lookin' for. I tried to find it, but I 'ad t'give up... Too many pissin' Stanleys." complained Arthur, "Des told me that the place wasn't far from the station, but I ended up all over the shop."

"Right. Des? Is this the man you expected to meet?"

"No. Des, Des Naismiff, put me on to it."

"Would this Naismith be willing to give evidence, Arthur?"

"I dunno. 'E might."

"What time did you leave Liverpool, or did you stay overnight?"

"Not exactly. I 'ung around f'r a bit. There was a picture 'ouse – I went there for a bit." "Okay. Then what?" pressed Robeson, frantically scribbling notes.

"Well, after a bit, I got a bus t'Rhyl."

"Rhyl?" exclaimed Robeson with astoundment, "Isn't that in Wales?" "Er, yeah, tha's right... It's a seaside place." elaborated Arthur.

"Yes, so I believe. Why did you go to Rhyl?"

"I dunno. I went there on day trip, once..." continued Arthur, but Robeson wasn't any the wiser; then Arthur realised what detail Robeson was seeking: "Oh, well, there's lots of digs, y'u see?"

"Right – I see." Robeson still wasn't entirely convinced, but as explanations go, it wasn't unreasonable. "What time did you arrive in Rhyl?"

"About seven – I think."

"Excellent." Robeson declared, "If you can corroborate that, you're in the clear, Mister Jameson." Arthur smiled, "So, can you corroborate it?"

"Sorry, what d'y'u mean, sir?"

"Can you recall where you stayed? Or any witnesses that may have seen you in Rhyl?"

"It was pretty quiet. I'll 'ave to fink... The 'B&B' was called somefink like... Somefink villa. I can't remember – sorry. I didn' take much notice."

"No, of course not – why would you?" granted Robeson, who was greatly encouraged by this news, "Okay. I think that's enough to amend your plea deposition. There will probably be an adjournment, so you can relax for a bit longer. We may be able to file a motion of dismissal, if the witness evidence is sufficiently robust; however, I suspect the prosecution will want to press on regardless, so don't get your hopes up there..." Robeson gathered his notes and bundled them into his briefcase, "I will get word to you as soon as possible; you may not need to be brought down to court today... The police will likely want to re-interview you at some point, in light of your new alibi. Make sure you get your story straight, Arthur – any inconsistencies and the prosecution _will_ exploit them. Someone will be down later to take your full statement." As he left the cell, he added: "Cross your fingers, Arthur – it can't do any harm."

At 2 PM on the dot, his Honourable Justice Ravensdale brought the court to session in the case of _Regina v Arthur Jameson_. The defence team immediately dispatched a clerk to pass a note to the judge. Ravensdale pondered this irritably before calling Norcroft to approach the bench.

"Mister Norcroft, have the prosecution been made aware of this development?"

"Er, no M'Lord. I've only just found out myself."

"I see. Very well, Mister Norcroft, you may return to your seat."

"Thank you, M'Lord."

The judge addressed the court: "It has come to my attention that the defence have received new information regarding the defendant's alibi which I consider to be of some significance. Mister Norcroft, I trust you will disclose all relevant facts to the prosecution forthwith?"

"I will indeed, your Lordship." grovelled Norcroft. Meanwhile the prosecution barrister (Oliver Carmichael QC) initially remained seated, giving Norcroft a contemptible sideways glance, before abruptly standing to address the judge.

"My Lordship, the prosecution respectfully request an adjournment, to allow for the expedition of further enquiries and for time to reappraise our case."

"Of course, Mister Carmichael. The court will adjourn for one week... And Mister Norcroft: I will not be expecting any further surprises." the judge warned sternly, before standing to leave the court.

In the public gallery, DSupt Ackroyd was observing the proceedings along with DC Cartwright: he was less than impressed by the unexpected development.

"I might have known _bloody_ Norcroft would pull some kind of stroke." moaned Ackroyd.

"Do you think this is a ploy, then, sir?" asked Cartwright quizzically.

"It's _bloody_ inconvenient... Better get onto the office and arrange another interview with Jameson. I best speak to Carmichael." instructed Ackroyd bristling with indignation.

## Chapter Twenty-Five

## (6 January 1966)

**Robi** Parmer ran a successful private investigation business and had for several years been contracted by Miles Norcroft to provide information to support his court cases. Parmer was an ex-Metropolitan police detective, who being of dual ethnicity, had encountered considerable institutionalised racism preventing any serious career progression within the force, despite having a highly respectable background: his father being a successful businessman, his mother a high school teacher. Following eight difficult years in CID, he decided his best course of action was to defect to the private sector. Norcroft held him in very high regard and had immediately sought his services in respect of Jameson's new alibi; consequently, Parmer hot-footed it to Liverpool on the Thursday morning, hoping to be a step ahead of Ackroyd's team, who did not receive full details of Jameson's new account of the 30th July until late on the Wednesday.

Parmer's primary target was in the Bootle area of Liverpool: a sweet shop on the Stanley Road. On arrival at the Lime Street Railway Station, he quickly realised that the biggest challenge to his investigation was going to be in deciphering the liverpudlian accent; either that, or the bitterly cold conditions. Fortunately, Parmer's appearance was quintessentially English, his Indian heritage barely discernible, so the only prejudice he was likely to meet with would be due to the ignominy of being an educated southerner. Stanley Road was a very long stretch, but he managed to negotiate his way onto the correct bus and alighted at the first stop on the relevant retail section of Stanley Road; from here he was following Jameson's cloudy recollection of notable street features. The sweet shop was surprisingly easy to locate, Jameson having recalled that it was called _The Sugar Plum_. Parmer entered the veritable confectionery paradise and approached the main counter at the back of the shop, where the scales and till were situated, the shelves behind filled with an array of every sugary delight imaginable – it was a plethora of artificial colours. To one side of the shop was a small counter for the serving of ice cream in summer, which was covered with small open topped boxes of chews and alike – a young girl was wishfully guarding them. Parmer smiled at the young girl, before approaching the main counter, where a woman in her sixties was proudly standing at the proverbial gateway to tooth decay temptation.

"Good morning madam." started Parmer presenting his business card to the lady, "I represent a London-based firm of lawyers involved in a major criminal case. I would be very grateful if you would agree to answer one or two questions pertaining to our enquiries?"

"Well, ay suppose." she answered cautiously, "Ay yous de bussies?"

"Sorry, madam?"

"De police." she clarified.

"Oh, no madam. I'm a private investigator."

"W's this all about."

"I am gathering evidence in a very serious criminal case, involving loss of life. It is a very serious matter, indeed, and the police will be contacting you. However, I am acting for the defendant." "'Ow canna ellp, me love?" she asked a little dazed.

"Could you cast your mind back to the end of July – were you working here then?"

"Yis, ay weerk e'yer every Thsdee and Fridee." the lady glanced over to the young girl across the shop, which prompted Parmer to ask her the same question: "Only sometimes." the girl answered rather unhelpfully.

"Do you recall the 31st of July this year – it was a Friday?" continued Parmer.

"Dat wuz quite a while ago." noted the lady with a pained expression.

"Yes, but you may recall something unusual that day: do you recall a man asking directions to an address in Stanley Road – he would have had a cockney accent?" The lady pondered the question; Parmer felt obliged to supply some further detail: "He was looking for 38 Stanley Road."

"Mmm, yis, ay think ay do... This _is_ 38 Stanley Road." she suddenly affirmed.

"Yes, so I believe." encouraged Parmer.

"'E didn't want this shop, dough... Ay think 'e wuz lewk'n fe some bloke 'e knew. Ay remember now – Florrie wuz in de shop." she elaborated looking to the young girl for confirmation, but the girl was non-plussed.

"Do you recall what time this was?"

"Well, Florrie's only e'yer in de avvy onna thsdee and it wuz deffo avvy."

Parmer was now even more confused than the young girl [Florence]; he momentarily gave pause to pencilling upon his notepad, debating how to tackle this incomprehensible dialect without stooping to condescension. He decided to modify his question: "And what time would this be, as exact as you can be?" "About fo." the lady replied with confidence.

Parmer, having mentally decoded what the lady had said previously (albeit only partially), realised that if the young girl in the shop was 'Florrie', then her presence that morning was in contradiction to what the lady was claiming. He sought to clarify the situation: "So, would the young lady here, be the Florrie of which you speak?" he asked, gesturing to the girl, who was nodding.

"Oh, rite, yis she is. Ay meant Fridee."

"So, Florrie is only here in the afternoon on a Friday – is that right?" he tentatively enquired.

"Yis, that's rite. It must 'uv beun a Fridee whun de Londoner come in."

"I see..." Parmer murmured; being mindful of the potential for such uncertainty to be mercilessly exploited by the prosecution, he needed to coax out an incontrovertible testimony in favour of the defence, without appearing to persuade the witness in a particular direction. "Um, may I ask your name, madam?"

"Joan... Joan Copperton – misses."

"Mrs Copperton, I just need to clarify your statement: a man you describe as a 'Londoner' came into your shop to ask directions at about four o'clock on a Friday?"

"Yis."

At this juncture, Parmer remembered that he had a photo of Jameson in his pocket; he rifled it out and presented it to Joan: "Is this the man you are referring to?"

"Yis, ay think it could be."

"Okay, that's very helpful, Mrs Copperton. Now, you say that it was definitely a Friday, because Florrie was in the shop serving – is that correct?"

"Yis, Florrie is only e'yer in de avvy ed Fridee – whun am e'yer."

"Florrie," started Parmer, turning to address Florence, "can you confirm what Mrs Copperton has just said?" "I dun kun about de feller, but ay only weerk e'yer ed Friday's wi' Mrs Copperton, sir." "Thank you, Florrie." said Parmer; "I think." he thought to himself.

"Um, Mrs Copperton, can you recall what this man said to you?"

"'E said 'e wuz lewk'n fe this addy, but ay didn't kun de feller 'e wuz ask'n fe."

Parmer visibly grimaced, having not really understood any of what Mrs Copperton had just said; he looked at her with a pained expression, unsure how to progress. "Do you recall the name of the man he was looking for?" he asked hesitantly.

"Er, I can't, nah..." she replied, then a little spark of recollection flittered across her eyes, "Ay remember suggest'n ter try Stanley Grove, juss up de road, a way."

"Excellent, that's excellent, Mrs Copperton. That is an important detail... Anything else that you recall about this man?"

"Nah. 'E left de shop and ay didn't see 'im again."

"Well, I believe that you could be of help to my client. You will be required to attend court in London – would you be willing to do that...? Your expenses would be paid for you." he assured her, aware that this would be a determining factor.

"Bright – ay suppose so. Whun would it be?"

"That I can't say precisely, but it would be within the next few weeks... You should know that the police will want interview you, too, and they may want to call you as a witness, themselves. I'm sure they will be in touch, very soon." "Ooh, wa' a ter do." she exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth in dismay.

"Sorry, madam, but a man's freedom depends on it, not to mention the progress of due justice... May I have your home address, Mrs Copperton, so that the court can contact you?"

"Number six, Blythe Road."

"Do you have telephone, madam?"

"Blower! – yous must be jok'n." she laughed, "But thuz is a blower in de shop."

"Okay, could I have that number, please?"

"Or'rite, I'll juss check de number." she agreed, before disappearing through a back door.

Parmer now addressed Florence: "Florrie, may I have your surname, please?" Florence looked at him blankly, before stating: "It's Florence."

"No, no, Florence, I don't mean your Christian name, I mean your second name." he explained with a mirthful smile.

"Oh, Gazeley, sir." answered Florrie, slightly embarrassed.

"Shouldn't you be back at school now?" he astutely suggested. Florrie shrugged her shoulders rather coyly.

Joan returned with the number written on a scrap of paper, which she handed to Parmer; he thanked her and after acquiring Florence's home address, asked for directions to the _Rialto_ cinema, which turned out to be a just a short walk further up the street. Jameson had attested that he had spent the rest of the afternoon there, after relinquishing his halfhearted search for Stanley Grove. He purportedly had spoken to one of the doormen, as well as the woman operating the ticket kiosk and an usher; he claimed to have watched _What's New Pussycat_ (which featured Ursula Andress). Unfortunately, none of the staff at the _Rialto_ recognised Jameson from the photo, nor recalled a man with a London accent; however, the doorman that morning was not the one who would have been working on the afternoon in question and Jameson claimed to have had a lengthy conversation with that particular individual. The relevant doorman was due to go on shift when the afternoon matinee started at 4 PM, so Parmer decided to make a sweep of all the shops and businesses operating from that end of Stanley Road on the off-chance that someone might remember seeing, and possibly, speaking to Jameson. Frustratingly, his tenacity did not yield a single new witness, though he did identify a telephone box that Jameson had included in his vague description of the area. The only saving grace was the discovery of a rather good Chinese restaurant called the _HongKong Pheonix_ , rather incongruously nestled between a bookmaker's and a launderette, where Parmer enjoyed a hearty lunch.

At ten past four, Parmer returned to the _Rialto_ just as several police cars arrived outside of _The Sugar Plum_ , which added a little urgency to his appointment with the Geordie doorman described by Jameson. As he approached the entrance, which already had a small contingency of youngsters semi-queuing outside, he immediately spotted the tall and very wellbuilt man who was keeping order. Parmer waited while the small throng of teenagers were guided in to an orderly queue up to the ticket kiosk inside the foyer. Parmer then advanced toward the rather imposing brute of a man brandishing his business card. The man showed no reaction other than to briefly glance at the card.

"The' telt wor yee wud be comin." The doorman stated brashly.

"Oh, good – that's good." remarked Parmer circumspectly, wondering how he managed to communicate with the liverpudlian locals. Parmer showed him the photo.

"Wey aye, ah dee vaguely recaal him. What's he done?"

"Well, sir, it is more a case of what he hasn't done." contended Parmer with feigned light-heartedness.

"Divvint caal wor sir." grunted the doorman in a surly manner.

"Right." noted Parmer, slightly disconcerted and unsure of what the man had meant – although he got the impression he didn't like being addressed as 'sir'.

"Um, the man in the photo, he was here some months ago; do you have any recollection of when that was?"

"July, ah think. _What's New Pussycat?_ wes showin'."

"Ah, very good, yes. Do you recall what day of the week this was?"

"Nar, ah cannit remembor that."

"No; no. Never mind. Can you remember speaking with him?"

"Aye ah dee."

"Can you remember any details of that conversation?" "Neet deed, nar."

"Well, thank you for your time. May I ask your name?" "Wot fo'?" he snapped suspiciously.

"Well, it's just that we may need to contact you – you may be required in court." "Court! Ahm neet ganin tuh nar fuckin' court." he insisted angrily.

"It would only be as a witness; you'd be helping an innocent man." said Parmer in an attempt at conciliation. "Ah wey, ah divvint knar." the man replied, a tad more amiably.

"The police may well want to interview you and insist you attend court, if suits their cause." informed Parmer, hoping to appeal to the man's apparent antipathy toward law enforcement.

"Rites, I'll think abyeut it." the doorman reluctantly offered.

"Well, that would be very helpful... Mister?"

"Yee wot?"

"I'd be grateful if you would give me your name and address – for the record... So that we can contact you." said Parmer in a somewhat cautious effort at persuasion.

"Reet. It's John Smth – rites?"

"John Smith." repeated Parmer, slightly in relief and slightly in disbelief. "Your address?"

"Fourteen Badgor Lonnen."

Parmer was half-convinced that the man was having him on and wasn't at all sure what 'Lonnen' meant, either, so he wrote it down as he heard it with a view to having someone translate it later. Feeling the police already breathing down his neck, no more than yards up the road, he decided to cut his losses in Liverpool and follow Jameson's route to Rhyl (by bus) and locate a suitable hotel for the night, before continuing with his enquiries. Fortunately, there was a bus station not far from the _Rialto_ , underneath a new shopping centre [just as described by Jameson]. Parmer was lucky enough to arrive just in time to catch the 4.50 PM coach (or rather, single-decker bus) to Ryhl, which would take about two hours to reach its' destination. It was a tiresome journey, albeit a quite picturesque one; the seats were grubby and uncomfortable, while the air had a distinct diesel odour. On the plus side, the bus was relatively uncrowded, such that he had a whole bench seat to himself; on the down side, he hadn't had time to acquire any reading matter before boarding – preferring to travel light, he had only his notebook for entertainment.

On arriving at Rhyl, it was a considerable relief to Parmer to again be able to breathe fresh air, not to mention stretch his tormented legs and gain some blood supply to his buttocks. He immediately noted that there was a fish and chip restaurant adjacent to the bus station exit, which was due to open at any moment; the attraction of wholesome high calorie, piping-hot food and the warmth of the diner's interior were irresistible. His next port of call was the nearby _Marlborough Hotel_ , a small 2-star establishment adequate for his needs and cheap enough to contemplate for a lengthy stay; given Jameson's vagueness regarding the location of the guest house at which he had stayed, Parmer realised that it could take several days (at least) to identify the correct one, presuming that any record and/or recollection of his visit could even be established – although, it being out-of-season could be an advantage, assuming that the proprietors were in residence. However, he also hoped to uncover other witnesses who could independently verify Jameson being in Rhyl during the pertinent time period required to add veracity to his alibi. He intended to do this by placing a large advert in the local paper, appealing for information and including a picture of Jameson; this would be his first mission on Friday morning, before embarking on his arduous trawl of a large proportion of Rhyl's hostelries – this didn't just involve interviewing people, but also documenting the interior features of each of the premises in an attempt to find a match to Jameson's sketchy (though invaluable) description. It was going to require every bit of Parmer's charm and patience to successfully achieve a beneficial outcome to this particular enterprise.

## Chapter Twenty-Six

## (11 - 12 January 1966)

**The** first full day of the trial began at 10 AM on the Tuesday morning of the 11th of January. Prior to the start of the proceedings, Judge Ravensdale had summoned the two opposing barristers to attend a meeting in his chambers to ensure, given the previous adjournment, that both sides were now ready to progress with the trial – though he would have required considerable persuasion to do otherwise. Carmichael was a very old hand and was well acquainted with the judge, having tried many cases in his presence – he therefore knew not to push his luck too far; Norcroft was less than half Carmichael's age and a relative newcomer; something of an upstart in the eyes of Carmichael and unknown to Ravensdale. However, Norcroft was wily enough to know not to push his luck, either. Consequently, despite a few private reservations on both sides, they all agreed that it would be judicious to continue forthwith.

The morning session was taken up with the process of both sides presenting the details of their additional evidence (relating to the new alibi) for the purpose of judicial evaluation of its respective admissibility. The afternoon began with the swearing-in of the jurors: eight men and four women – there were no objections to any of them by either side. Arthur Jameson was then marched into court to make his plea before the jury. There were three counts to answer: the _murder_ of Gregg Mason, the _attempted murder_ of Vera Fable, and their joint _abduction_ – the rape charge had been dropped so as to spare Vera cross-examination on this count, particularly as it was unlikely to increase the overall tariff; the count of _attempted murder_ was retained just in case Jameson decided to enter a _manslaughter_ plea for the death of Gregg.

Jameson looked nervous as he stood in the dock; his natural dark-blonde hair colour now evident, his face sullen and pallid. He was wearing a dark blue suit with waistcoat and a plain sliver-grey tie. Glancing at the jury, he noted that there were a greater proportion of men, which he considered may be to his advantage. The female jurors consisted of two women in their fifties and early sixties, the other two were in their mid-twenties: this seemed to offer little in the way of advantage or disadvantage, but one of the younger women was rather attractive, which he supposed would be a welcome distraction from the drudgery of the court business. The judge read out the charges against him and asked him how he pleaded, to which the predictable utterance of "not guilty" was returned in Jameson's prototypical cockney vernacular. By this point, it was just after 4 PM and Judge Ravensdale was already contemplating his dinner arrangements; nonetheless, he was duty bound to allow Carmichael the opportunity to make his opening address to the court. Following a short preamble, Carmichael set out the gory details of the crime in explicit detail starting from the abduction at 9.35 PM in Cherrydean (on the 30th July 1965) and leading through (with the aid of road maps and photographs of various scenes) to the cruel and horripilation inducing conclusion at approximately 2 AM in the foreboding depths of Marsholm Wood (on the 31st July 1965). At which point, Judge Ravensdale promptly, and with not entirely inconspicuous relief on the part of Jameson, adjourned until 9.45 AM the next morning.

Wednesday morning found Jameson sitting anxiously in a waiting-room attached to the cell-block of the Old Bailey. It contained three cold steel chairs and a metal table, screwed to the floor. He was expecting a visit from his legal counsel, Norcroft and Robeson, who were to brief him in preparation for the days' mental labours ahead. Robeson entered the room first and greeted Arthur with a friendly handshake; Norcroft followed behind, already gowned and wigged-up for their imminent courtroom appearance: he acknowledged Jameson more formally and did not offer his hand, regarding him as unworthy – this case was just another step on his career ladder; ordinarily, he would consider someone of Jameson's social standing as contemptible.

"How are you this morning?" asked Robeson with a genuine concern for Arthur's welfare.

"So-so." answered Arthur, slightly on edge.

"Arthur, we believe that Vera Fable will be put on the stand today – probably first thing." started Norcroft, "It is critical that you do not react adversely towards her."

"Don't get angry or stare at her, whatever you do." interjected Robeson.

"Yes, indeed. It is imperative that we persuade the jury to our side of the argument. You need to appear concerned for her plight, but perplexed as to why she has identified you as her attacker. Remember, this trial is not about what happened: the crime is not in dispute and neither are most of the details; the only issue here is the erroneous identification of you as the gunman. That is what we want to display to the judge and jury. How you present yourself may be decisive in whether or not the court believes your story."

"Just stay relaxed, Arthur. Try to show your belief that the truth will win out." added Robeson reassuringly.

"Now, Arthur, I have a useful ace to show today, which I hope will sew the seed of doubt in the minds of the jury in regard to Vera's identification... You must endure her evidence with dignity – today will be difficult. But, remember, our day will come." Norcroft turned to Robeson, "I believe our PI friend has some good news from his activities in Rhyl?"

"Er, yes, our investigator has turned-up a witness who spoke to you in Rhyl High Street and he says that he can confirm that it was early on the Saturday morning, making it practically impossible for you to be in Felstave at 2 AM." Jameson had an odd look of surprised glee in his tired eyes; Robeson continued: "He's still searching for this B and B you stayed at, but we've still got time for him to come up trumps there."

"Don't worry, Arthur, we have a few surprises for the prosecution. I intend to decimate their case before this trial's finished." stated Norcroft with supreme confidence.

As the lawyers rose to leave, Arthur grabbed Robeson's arm and cryptically asked: "Did y'u do that fing I said about?"

Robeson glanced apprehensively at Norcroft, who appeared puzzled, before hesitantly giving his reply: "Um, I'm afraid the young lady doesn't want to have anything further to do with you." Arthur looked very dismayed; "You do mean Miss Gardener?" Robeson proceeded to clarify, referring to Jameson's former "steady" girlfriend, Marion.

"Oh, no... No, I mean Carol."

"Carol Paris?" enquired Norcroft, somewhat perturbed.

"Yes. Did y'u give 'er me note?" Arthur continued to persist.

"Well, I couldn't..." started Robeson.

Norcroft stepped in to alleviate Robeson's obvious difficulty: "Arthur, I'm afraid that is impossible – she is a prosecution witness." Arthur released Robeson's arm and slumped back into his seat.

"I'm sorry, Arthur." commiserated Robeson. The lawyers then swiftly left the room.

Vera Fable made a dignified entrance to a hushed courtroom; using crutches and assisted by a nurse, she slowly made her way to the witness box, where she was provided with a chair. She was dressed in a grey and white chequered top and matching dark grey skirt and jacket – it was subtle, yet eye-catching. Her red hair was in a rather short, almost masculine style. After swearing-in, the judge addressed her with kindness and assured her that she could ask to take a rest at any time. Carmichael gave her a comforting smile before launching into his discourse. "You are Miss Vera Fable of 6 Connaught House, Maidenhead?"

"Yes."

"Do you recall the events of the 30th and 31st of July 1965?"

"Yes – vividly."

"Would you please tell the court where you went on the evening of the 30th of July?"

"I left my flat at about eight o'clock and met Gregg in the car park..."

"That would be Gregg Mason of 16 Fern Drive, also in Maidenhead?" "Yes."

"Please continue, Miss Fable."

"He drove us to the _Bowman Arms_ in Tapton."

"The _Bowman Arms_ is a public house, my Lord." Carmichael felt obliged to explain to the judge; "Tapton is a small village about two miles outside Maidenhead. Please continue Miss Fable." "We arrived at the _Bowman_ at about eight thirty..." "Eight thirty?" quizzed Norcroft.

"Yes."

"What is your point Mr Norcroft?" asked the judge irritably.

"My Lordship, I was just wondering why it took half an hour to drive two miles." clarified Norcroft.

"Can you explain that, Miss Fable?" directed the judge.

"It didn't... We chatted for a while before leaving the car park."

"Thank you. Please carry on." the judge instructed, giving Norcroft a disapproving glance.

Vera was wrong-footed for a moment, but quickly regained her composure: "We stayed at the pub for about an hour or so."

"What was the purpose of your liaison with Mr Mason?" asked Carmichael purely for the benefit of the court, wanting to avoid the jury's drawing of any scandalous conclusions on their own part.

"We... Well, Gregg is...was a member of a motor club; we had a shared interest, so we sometimes organised rallies for the club."

"For the court, could you please describe what your relationship was with Gregg Mason?"

"We were work colleagues...and friends."

"With a shared interest." reminded Carmichael for absolute clarity.

"Yes." agreed Vera positively.

"Were you regulars at the _Bowman Arms_?" Carmichael deliberately probed, aware that this question would be on the mind of the defence and eager to douse any potential flames they might seek to kindle. However, Norcroft remained impassive.

"No – not normally. But we had been there about three...four times over a couple of weeks."

"I see, and this was in relation to planning a particular rally?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Objection." groaned Norcroft getting to his feet.

"What is the problem, Mr Norcroft?" the judge asked knowingly – it was all part of the court theatrics and a way to test the temperament of the judge.

"My learned friend seems to be making a habit of leading the witness, my Lord." explained Norcroft smugly.

"Yes. Please allow the lady to tell her story without prompting, Mr Carmichael." ordered the judge blandly.

"Yes, of course, my Lordship – forgive me. Now, Vera... What time did you leave the public house?"

"I think it was about nine, nine-fifteen."

"Where did you go, then?"

"We drove to..."

Norcroft interrupted: "I have one question, my Lord, relating to the public house: were you ever aware of anyone watching you?"

"Well, no. I mean, the barman did mention one time that a man seemed to be taking an interest in us."

"Did you see this man?"

"Briefly."

"Would you recognise him, if you saw him again?"

"Possibly."

"Do you see that man in court, today?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Thank you, Miss Fable." Norcroft sat back down with a mysterious look of satisfaction upon his face, which slightly worried Carmichael.

"Vera," recommenced Carmichael, mildly riled, "please continue from when you left the _Bowman Arms_."

"We drove to Cherrydean... It's about two miles from the pub. We decided to stop in the entrance to a field to look at the map... After about ten or fifteen minutes we were disturbed by someone tapping on the driver-side window." "Did you see this person approach the car?" enquired Carmichael.

"No. It was getting dark and we were...pre-occupied."

"Studying the map?" asked the judge for verification, though the inference was obvious.

"Yes...M'Lord." she replied hesitantly; Ravensdale gave Vera a gentle smile.

"What happened next?" continued Carmichael, somewhat ungrateful for the judge's interjection.

"Gregg wound down the window. We thought it was the farmer... But it wasn't; it was a man with a gun." "Do recall what this gun looked like?"

"Yes. It was a revolver, like they have in western movies."

"If my Lord pleases, I would like to present exhibit number 32." The judge indicated to go ahead. "Is this the type of weapon that the gunman used?" he asked Vera as the exhibit was displayed to her.

"Yes, that looks like the one."

"For the record, this is the Enfield .38 calibre service revolver which has been forensically identified as the murder weapon, and the weapon used to shoot Miss Fable... What did the gunman do next, Vera?"

"He said he was 'a desperate man' and that it was 'a stick-up'. He ordered Gregg to give him the car keys. Then he got into the back of the car."

"Was there anything distinctive about this man?"

"He was wearing a hanky over his nose and mouth – like cowboys do... He spoke like a cockney?" "Can you be more specific?" interrupted the judge.

Vera was initially baffled by this question, giving Carmichael a bewildered look – but he was reticent to help in case Norcroft accused him of leading the witness again. Vera attempted to elaborate: "He had a London accent; East London?

It was a distinctively a lower class London accent: he said 'a'n't' and 'fink' a lot, and 'kip'."

"For the record, m'Lord, the defendant, Arthur Jameson has a distinctive London accent."

Norcroft immediately leapt to his feet: "My Lord, there are millions of Londoners, all with _distinctive_ London accents:

my client's accent is not unusual. I intend to present a linguistics expert-witness to corroborate this."

"Thank you Mr Norcroft for your learned instruction. Carry on Mr Carmichael." directed Ravensdale.

"My Lordship, I was merely informing the court that the defendant's accent is homologous with the gunman's, as opposed to be being notably different."

"Granted Mr Carmichael."

"Thank you, my Lord... Please continue, Vera."

"We offered him money, which he took. But he didn't seem to be that interested in robbing us, although he did take our watches."

"What do you mean by not being interested in robbing you?" pressed Carmichael.

"Well, after we gave him our money and watches, he seemed to want to chat. We suggested he take the car and go, but he said he was too tired because he'd escaped from prison and been sleeping rough. That didn't ring true, though."

"Why was that?"

"Because he was too clean – quite smart, in fact. And he smelt of aftershave." "You said he wanted to chat?" noted Carmichael.

"Yes. He kept asking odd personal questions too. Sometimes he would threaten us if we did or said something he didn't like... After a bit, he told Gregg to drive further into the field. Then he started questioning us, again."

"What kind of questions?"

"Like, were we married and what we did for a living – that sort of thing. Then he mentioned that he was doing five years, and that he had done 'the lot'." "The lot?" the judge enquired.

"My Lord, 'the lot' is a criminal's expression which relates to having served all of the various types of sentence – it's very unusual. This would seem to have been a lie, though, because of the few who have done 'the lot', none have been considered as suspects in this case."

"I see... Please continue, Mr Carmichael."

"How long were you stopped in the field?"

"I'm not sure – probably about twenty minutes. He kept chatting with us; asking personal questions and talking about movies... Then all of a sudden he said he was hungry and wanted to get some food. That was when things really got worrying. He said he needed to tie me up and put Gregg in the boot of the car. That idea scared me a lot, so I said that there was a leak in the exhaust, which could kill Gregg. He accepted that and agreed to let Gregg drive; so we all got back in the car."

Carmichael briefly glanced at Norcroft, half-expecting an interjection, but he was occupied studying his notes.

"Did he tell you to go somewhere specific?"

"Sort of. He wanted to know where the right-hand turn led; I told him it led to the A308 Windsor road. He said to go that way."

"So, he was unfamiliar with that area?"

"He seemed to be, but I think once we got to Windsor, he knew more or less where we were...and where he wanted to go." Vera then went on to describe the journey into Staines.

## Chapter Twenty-Seven

## (12 January 1966)

**Sitting** patiently in the dock, a burly dock officer ominously in attendance behind him, Arthur surveyed the small courtroom which seemed terribly cramped in order to accommodate all of the various participants required to conduct a criminal trial. In the gallery, along with numerous journalists and members of the public, were Arthur's parents – who were not to be required as witnesses – there to show faith in their son's innocence; and unbeknown to them, Vera's parents were a few seats away, providing moral support for their daughter.

Thus far, Arthur's presence had been largely that of a detached bystander, but he knew that soon the evidence would turn attention fully upon the _accused_.

"After passing London Airport and joining the A4 into Brentford, what happened next?" prompted Carmichael.

"Well, we thought he'd gone to sleep, but then he suddenly seemed to wake up and said there was a chip shop just up the road...and there was, just under the flyover."

"That would be the M4 flyover, my Lordship." Carmichael informed the judge, who duly nodded in gratitude.

"Yes, I think so..." said Vera, momentarily confused, "He told Gregg to go in with him – that's when he took his mask, hanky, off."

"Did you get a look at his face at this time?"

"Not fully; just from the side. I was too scared to look into the shop; I thought about running." "Why didn't you, Miss Fable?" asked Ravensdale.

Vera looked up at the old judge with a sorrowful expression. "I was too scared, my Lord. I was worried that he might start shooting... Shooting Gregg – and the woman in the shop." choked Vera, a tear running down her cheek.

"You were in fear of your life?" added Ravensdale.

"Yes... He threatened to shoot us and other people if we didn't do as he said... I believed him."

"Thank you, my Lordship." interjected Carmichael, "Did Gregg get a good look at the gunman?"

"I don't know: I think he was afraid to look at him... But the woman in the shop would have." Vera declared with a dim glint of hope in her eyes.

"My Lord, the police have not been able to trace the lady serving in the chip shop, though inquires continue." explained Carmichael.

"I see. I am grateful for your illumination on that matter, Mr Carmichael." noted Ravensdale.

"Please continue, Vera." Carmichael gave Vera an encouraging smile.

"Well, he got back in the car – with Gregg... Then he sat there eating chips for a while. Then he said to head for Kew

Gardens."

"He was clearly familiar with that part of London, would you say?"

"Yes, otherwise he couldn't of known about the chip shop. I didn't really know where we were, and I know London quite well."

"My Lordship, I would like to draw attention to Exhibit 19: a statement given by Richard Paris – a close associate of the defendant... You will note that on page three, about half way down, he mentions that Arthur Jameson once had a girlfriend who lived in Brentford." Carmichael instructed the court usher to hand the exhibit to the judge, who then had it passed onto the jury.

Once the jury had digested this, Norcroft made his objection: "My Lordship, the accused has had numerous girlfriends from various parts of London: I fail to see the significance."

"I think we'll let the jury decide that. Sit down Mr Norcroft." barked Ravensdale.

"As my Lordship pleases." snivelled Norcroft.

Carmichael recommenced Vera's account: "After you passed the botanic gardens, what was the gunman's next action?"

"He made us pull over into a lay-by outside some shops... He spotted a cigarette machine and sent me to get some. I thought about running, again, but couldn't bring myself to do it – I didn't want to leave Gregg on his own."

"Of course not." reassured Carmichael, "What type of cigarettes did you get?"

" _Kensitas_ : that was all there was."

"And what happened when the gunman smoked one of these _Kensitas_ cigarettes?"

"He, er, he choked. I don't think he was a real smoker."

"My Lordship, Kensitas cigarettes are a high tar variety – rather strong. I would suggest only hardened smokers can cope with such a cigarette..."

"We are concluding that the gunman was not a regular smoker – is that the assertion, Mr Carmichael?"

"Yes, my Lord: you are very perceptive."

Norcroft rose to his feet with exasperation: "My Lord, surely such a subjective matter cannot be regarded as evidence?"

"I presume you have a reason for highlighting this particular detail, Mr Carmichael?" asked Ravensdale.

"Yes, my Lord. The accused is known to be a non-smoker, or casual smoker. That can be found in several statements by friends and family of the accused." countered Carmichael.

"Hmmm, I'll allow this; though the jury should regard it with caution." directed Ravensdale.

Norcroft took a deep breath and restrained himself; meanwhile, Carmichael mentally chalked-up an imaginary point to himself, before prompting Vera to continue.

"I think he chucked the cigarettes out of the window – a car behind flashed its' lights... A little bit after that he said to mind out for some road works, which we couldn't see at that point. They were there, though – just before we passed

Richmond train station."

"The court should note that the gunman was evidently familiar with the Richmond area." started Carmichael, poised to score another point, "Returning to Exhibit 19: the lengthy statement made by Richard Paris..."

Jameson winced at the revelation that his former friend had apparently colluded with the police to make a voluminous statement, which incriminated him at every turn; he momentarily sunk his head into his hands in dismay.

"It catalogues all of the defendant's favourite places where he regularly conducted his housebreaking activities. The court should note that Richmond is close to the top of this list." cited Carmichael with an air of accomplishment. Norcroft could not do anything to dispute Jameson's criminal behaviour, as the nature of his criminality was to be used as an element of his defence.

"This is not an area he would otherwise have reason to frequent." added Carmichael, just to add salt to the wound.

"Objection. I do not believe my learned friend is imbued with the power to make such an assertion." complained Norcroft, determined to not to let Carmichael have it all his own way.

"Sustained. You will confine yourself to the facts, Mr Carmichael."

"Of course, my Lordship." conceded the contented prosecutor. "Where did the gunman take you next, Miss Fable?" "We crossed the river into Petersham, I think it is. As we passed a sort of park area..." "Petersham Common." assisted Carmichael.

"Yes... Well, he forced Gregg to pull onto the grass verge. Then we just sat there – I don't know what he was doing... After about five minutes, I'd guess, he told Gregg to carry on. A bit further on, we passed Richmond golf course; then he told Gregg to make a U-turn and park in a lay-by alongside the golf course... I thought: he's going to kill us now, but he just wanted to go to the toilet. He took Gregg with him; then, when they came back, he let me go too – on my own. I should have made a run for it, but he said he'd kill Gregg if I didn't come ba..." Vera began to cry, which sent a shudder up Arthur's spine and made Norcroft cringe, painfully aware that this would serve to heighten the jury's sympathy for Vera and simultaneously induce increased antipathy toward his client. Conversely, for Carmichael this was something of a barbaric gift. The Honourable Justice Ravensdale quickly intervened by calling a short adjournment, allowing Vera to recompose herself.

Following a twenty minute break, during which Vera's parents were allowed to comfort her, the trial resumed: Vera clenching her hands, determined to see her evidence through without a further breakdown; Arthur clenching his hands in hope of divine intervention, or in fact any form of supernatural assistance.

"Miss Fable, please continue your account from Richmond golf course." requested Carmichael.

"...We continued south, following the river through Kingston, before joining the A3... We were getting a little low on petrol, so he made us stop at Esher and fill-up... That was the long part of the journey, all the way down the A3 to Guildford.

He was pretty quiet during that – we thought he'd gone to sleep a few times, but he always seemed to wake up when we came to a roundabout; I think he was checking that we kept on the A3."

"You were in no doubt that he knew exactly where he was going at this stage?" prompted Carmichael, intent on proving that this had been the gunman's plan.

"Yes...Well, we thought we were going to Guildford, but he told us to by-pass that and stick to the A3. At the Milford roundabout he told Gregg to take a B-road and we ended-up in a small village." "That would be Felstave, my Lordship." advised Carmichael.

"Yes – so, I believe." Vera concurred; "It was very dark, but he seemed to know where he was going. He told Gregg to turn down a dirt track. That road ended in a wood."

"Marsholm Wood, my Lordship." clarified Carmichael. "Before we go on, I would like to bring to the courts' attention two material facts relating to the accused: if my Lordship will allow, I would like to refer to statements made by Patricia and Earnest Jameson, the parents of the accused..."

Arthur recoiled at hearing this, while his parents looked at one another, both mystified and horrified that something they had said was to be used as evidence against their son.

Carmichael continued: "I refer to exhibits 11 and 12. In this testimony it states that Arthur Jameson stayed with an aunt in Bramley, Surrey, in August 1962 for a month. Bramley is about ten miles from Felstave. Jameson also worked in Guildford during this time, which is also about ten miles from Felstave. I believe this demonstrates that Jameson was familiar with that area and could have visited Felstave _and_ Marsholm Wood."

"Objection. My Lordship, there is no evidence that my client _ever_ visited Felstave." complained Norcroft bristling slightly.

"Sustained. The jury will ignore that inference... Stick to the facts, Mr Carmichael." ordered Ravensdale.

"Thank you my Lordship." acknowledged Norcroft with genuine appreciation.

"I bow to your direction my Lord." grovelled Carmichael, "Also, notably given in Patricia Jameson's statement is an affirmation that Arthur Jameson rarely swore; this is also corroborated by Denise Deneo's statement, exhibit 60, and also Carol Paris' statement, exhibit 66... Miss Fable, during the entire four and a half hours or so of your terrible ordeal, did the gunman use any foul or abusive language?"

"Hardly at all; only two or three times, I would say." recalled Vera, "I found that surprising, considering how rough he was."

"In what way was he rough, Miss Fable?" enquired the judge.

"Well, working class. A criminal."

Norcroft was tempted to ask if she was implying that all working class people were criminals, but as his client was undeniably criminal, there seemed little point.

"Thank you, Miss Fable... I think it also worth pointing out a particular phrase the gunman used: Vera, can you recall the term he used to describe Debbie Reynolds – a well-known Hollywood actress, and rather attractive, I believe." Carmichael added for the judge's benefit.

"Yes, he called her a 'tasty tart'."

"A 'tasty tart'. Hardly a flattering expression and one that Carol Paris, an associate of the accused, recalls him using in her statement, in reference to another actress, Ursula Andress."

Norcroft felt compelled to interject at this point: "My Lordship, such an expression can hardly be considered unique to my client. I imagine many _young_ men use such terminology."

"If you say so, Mr Norcroft. I think it is a valid point." contended the old judge.

Norcroft sighed; bowing, he conceded very unconvincingly: "As my Lordship pleases." Following this, Carmichael deliberately paused, so as to add a little more drama to the evidence to come: "Now, Vera, I know this is very painful for you, but you must tell the court exactly what happened when the car stopped in the wood."

"Yes... Well, he told Gregg to turn the engine off, and the lights – it was pitch-black. Then he said he was tired and needed to sleep – he used the word 'kip'... So, he said he needed to tie us up. He already knew there was rope in the boot, but I suppose he was looking for something else, so he could tie both of us up... That's when he asked me to pass my shopping bag back..."

"Take your time, Miss Fable. Tell the court exactly what happened." said Ravensdale encouragingly.

"Well... Gregg just tried to guide the bag back to... _him_. We were afraid to look back at him because he'd warned us not to... I don't know...I don't know why..." Vera gulped in air and braced herself, "He just fired – twice. Gregg didn't stand a chance... I think he died instantly." Vera sniffed and struggled to hold back the tears.

"No rush, Vera. I know the next part is very difficult: we don't need to hear the precise details, but you must tell the court _clearly_ what happened." Carmichael gently asserted. A tense hush descended over the room in anticipation of the most harrowing section of Vera's evidence. For the first time, Vera dared to look towards the dock and make eye contact with Jameson, who visibly flinched as though a knife had been plunged between his ribs, tearing into his heart.

"We argued briefly. I think I called him 'a bastard' for killing Gregg."

"Understandable, I think." Carmichael concurred; the judge nodded in agreement.

"He told me to shut up, so he could 'fink'." she explained with venom, "I told him he'd killed Gregg; he seemed to accept that after a while, then he went quiet; but I could feel him leering at me." "What did you imagine was going to happen?" probed Carmichael.

"I don't know... I suppose I thought he would have to kill me, too. I was sure he liked me, so I thought if I keep him sweet, maybe I can talk my way out."

"I think it is worth noting that Miss Fable was sitting in a car with a murderer in a dark wood in the middle of nowhere. I think anyone in that position would be in fear of their life." Carmichael somewhat unnecessarily expounded.

"I didn't think he would let me live – I'd seen his face." Vera suddenly revealed; this is what Carmichael had been waiting for, "I turned around to speak to him. It was dark, but I could see him clearly... He said I should get in the back with him, as it would be 'more cosy'. I didn't feel I had a choice, so I did what he said... When I got in the back...he told me to snuggle up to him; then he asked me to kiss him... I didn't want to; I felt sick; I thought he was despicable and disgusting..." Vera paused.

"Please continue, Vera: it is very important that the court hear what happened." said Carmichael in a gently persuasive tone.

"He... He started to undress me. I didn't try to stop him: I was frozen with fear. I just let him do it." "Do what?" pressed Carmichael.

"Rape me." she stated coldly.

"Sexual intercourse took place?" asked Ravensdale, to ensure absolute clarity.

"Yes. Against my will, my Lord."

"At this time – please forgive me, Vera – but you must have been face to face with this man?" Carmichael was leading up to the big moment.

"Yes. It was dark, but he was inches away. I'll never forget those piercing eyes."

"Miss Fable, this is of utmost importance: would you recognise this man if you saw him again?" "Yes. Yes, I will never forget _his_ face." she snarled.

"And, Miss Fable, can you see that man in court today." Carmichael reached the finale.

"Yes. Yes it's the man in the dock – Arthur Jameson." she affirmed with complete confidence as she pointed to him.

At that instant, Arthur's heart turned to ice. Carmichael need not have feared an angry response, because Arthur was deeply hurt by the accusation and deeply troubled by it.

"The court will record that the witness identified Arthur Jameson as the man who attacked Mr Mason and herself on the 31st July last year." ordered Ravensdale, then added: "The court will adjourn for lunch. Reconvene at one o'clock."

## Chapter Twenty-Eight

## (12 January 1966)

**Arthur** sat in his cell (in the block adjacent to the courthouse), miserably eating his bowl of spaghetti hoops and chomping on a bread roll. He was just about to take a slurp of tea, when the prison warder opened the cell door.

"Arfur, your brief's 'ere to see y'u. Leave your lunch like a good boy and come wiv me." the officer instructed. He then led Arthur down to the interview room where Robeson and Norcroft were impatiently waiting for him. "Are you okay, Arthur?" enquired Robeson.

"Yeah, bit upset, but..."

"I'm afraid his Honourable Justice rather stole my thunder, adjourning for lunch like that. I was about to play that ace I spoke of previously." explained Norcroft, "You see, I intend to discredit Miss Fable's identification." Jameson's interest was immediately piqued. "In respect to this, I am proposing to conduct an experiment in court, Judge Ravensdale permitting, and I require your agreement, Arthur. I want to trump my ace, as it were..." "I strongly advise against this." interrupted Robeson.

"Arthur, your solicitor does have your best interests at heart, but I have no interest in this case _other_ than proving your innocence _and winning_. I get minimal remuneration, and to be honest, I would do it gratis, because I believe I can win this case, and I will not deny that is very much in my interest. Do you have faith in me, Arthur?" asked Norcroft manipulatively; Robeson sighed and rolled his eyes.

"I do sir. I know y'ur me best chance. What do y'u need from me?"

Norcroft had a self-congratulatory smile beaming from his face: "Let me explain, Arthur: the biggest problem we have is Vera Fable's identification of you as the killer; if we are to win this, we need to discredit that. This _is_ an audacious strategy..."

Robeson was shaking his head: "This is very dangerous, Arthur; it could easily backfire."

"It does have its' risks, I'll admit, but I honestly don't think it will harm your case." insisted Norcroft.

"If you say so, Mr Norcroft, I'm prepared t'go along wiv it." agreed Arthur somewhat innocently.

"You have to explain this to him – properly." asserted Robeson, who was deeply concerned about Norcroft's unprecedented tactic.

The court session resumed at one o'clock on the dot. Carmichael hadn't quite finished teasing out Vera's evidence: it was now time to show the jury just what a depraved and evil man they were dealing with.

"Vera, can you please tell the court what happened after the sexual assault."

"He told me to get dressed and then he got out of the car... When I got out, he was just staring at Gregg's body slumped in the front of the car... He said he didn't want to get blood on his clothes, so I had to pull Gregg out of the car – it took all my strength... Then he was complaining about the blood on the seat; he needed something to mop it up...so he made me take my top off and told me to use that. There was a blanket in the boot which he made me cover the seat with... Then he started asking about how the car worked, which I thought was odd, because at the beginning he was going to drive himself, so... Well, it was like he didn't know how a car worked. After that we were both standing next to the car and he was leering down at me... I thought, this is it, he's going to kill me now... So...so...I kneed him in the crotch as hard as I could...and ran into the wood; I had to kick off my heels, which meant I had bare feet, but I couldn't run with those shoes on, so had no choice... It was pitch-black; I couldn't see my hand in front of me... I kept falling over and hurting myself, but I kept on going... Then I heard him start chasing me. I don't think he really knew where I was; then he started shooting. I felt one shot fly past my face, so ran to the side and he got me in the thigh – the pain was excruciating: I just fell over on to my back." The court was absolutely silent at this point, everyone's attention intensely focused upon Vera's words, "I could hear him coming. I tried to stay silent, but the pain was terrible; I think he heard me groan... Anyway, he found me. He said: 'I was going to let you live, but now I can't.', or something like that. I didn't understand why he had to kill me _now_ and not before; I think I hurt him and he didn't like it. Then he fired..."

Ravensdale broke the silence of Vera's audience: "Where was he standing, when he shot you on the ground?"

"Right over me, my Lord. The gun was a couple of feet from me, I'd guess. He shot me in the chest twice... I was surprised that I was still alive, then he shot me in the head... I think the shock knocked me unconscious for a few minutes. I came 'round for a few seconds and heard the car take off. The next thing I knew, it was getting light. I was amazed to still be alive... I thought, I've got to get to the clearing, otherwise no one will find me and I'll bleed to death... I wasn't really bleeding that much by then, though; but I was pretty weak. Somehow...I don't know how, I managed to crawl back to the clearing. I just managed to make it to Gregg's body... I must have lost consciousness again at that point... I don't know how long I was laying their before that dog started licking my face." Vera giggled, which broke the ice-hard tension in the court.

"Thank you, Miss Fable. I think we'll let our other witnesses take up the story from there. I have no further questions, my Lord." stated Carmichael and sat down thoroughly satisfied with Vera's performance.

"Your witness, Mr Norcroft." directed Ravensdale quietly; there was an audible release of breath by the jury and members of the public gallery. Vera's, parents pulled tighter together for comfort.

Norcroft rose to his feet and bowed in readiness for his cross-examination: "Thank you, my Lordship. I just have a few questions for Miss Fable... You say that the gunman appeared unfamiliar with the motor vehicle, is that correct?" "Yes, that was the impression he gave." she replied testily.

"He had to ask you how the controls worked in the car – is that correct?" "Yes." she reluctantly conceded.

"So, it would seem that the gunman was not a competent driver – not confident, at least?"

"I suppose." she assented, then added: "But he drove away fast enough."

"Yes, so you say, Miss Fable... I would contend _that_ could in fact indicate a _lack_ of driving skill. Other witnesses of the vehicle, as driven by the gunman, will attest to the same, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. However, my client is known to be a highly proficient driver, being a car thief by profession, as it were." Ravensdale and Carmichael both raised an eyebrow in a synchronistic disapproval of the classification of theft as a profession. "If the court would please refer to the statement made by my client's criminal associate, Richard Paris, it is evident that Arthur Jameson was regarded as a proficient driver by his peers. He is also well known to the police as a car thief: no self-respecting car thief would need lessons in how a car's controls operate." A feint snigger was audible from the public gallery; Ravensdale gave the individual – a journalist – a contemptuous stare.

"I don't think he _really_ didn't know how to drive that car." complained Vera.

"That is your opinion, Miss Fable, and you are entitled to it. But, it is just your opinion, upon which you have no more information than we do, to base." countered Norcroft smugly.

Carmichael could contain himself no more: "My Lordship, there is no evidence to support the claim that the gunman could not drive properly."

"My Lord, when the vehicle was recovered in Fulham, it had sustained damage to both ends. That does not indicate careful or competent driving." argued Norcroft.

"I agree with my learned friend that the car was not driven _carefully_." asserted Carmichael, "But that does not necessarily imply an incompetent driver – just a careless one."

"I think we'll allow the jury to decide for themselves." interjected Ravensdale irritably. "Do you have any further questions, Mr Norcroft?"

"Yes, I do, my Lordship... For the court's benefit, I would like bring a peculiar matter to the fore: Miss Fable, was there anything unusual about the gunman's hands?"

"Well, I presume you mean the gloves?"

"Yes, the gloves, Miss Fable. Is it correct that the gunman wore those gloves throughout the entire escapade?"

"Yes... As far as I'm aware."

"Even when he was eating his chips?"

"Yes."

"And, forgive me, but also throughout the sexual attack?"

"Yes."

"Members of the jury, this is an important detail, for two reasons: firstly, it explains why there were no identifiable fingerprints, aside from the victims', inside or outside the car. Of course, this in itself does not rule out my client, but it does mean that there is not one scrap of hard evidence to indicate that my client was ever in that car, other than Miss

Fable's identification and possibly rather spurious witnesses of the vehicle on the Saturday morning..."

"Objection. My Lord, my learned friend is casting aspersions on witness evidence before it has even been presented in court." complained Carmichael scornfully.

"Sustained. Choose your words carefully, Mr Norcroft." warned Ravensdale.

"My apologies my Lordship... Apart from the identification evidence, which I intend to discredit, there is nothing to connect my client to that car."

"I think Miss Fable's identification is highly credible, Mr Norcroft." asserted Ravensdale.

"My Lord, I do not doubt Miss Fable's believed veracity. However, if the court would allow, I will return to this point, shortly." Norcroft smiled and bowed to the judge in perfunctory deference. "Returning to the gloves, I would like to refer to the statement by Richard Paris, in which he relates how my client was notorious for never wearing gloves when in the pursuit of burglary. Moreover, the records from a number of my client's previous convictions indicate that his fingerprints constituted the primary prosecuting evidence. He is, and I make no secret of this, a habitual petty crook that is sufficiently artless to leave his calling card, almost without fail, at every scene upon which he visits his crimes."

The courtroom was stunned by such a revelation, not least of all, Arthur himself, who was slightly offended. Norcroft continued: "My Lord, members of the jury, my client's felonious outlook on life is not in question. But, there is a world of difference between petty criminality and murder..."

"Mr Norcroft," interrupted an exasperated Ravensdale, "please spare the court your rhetoric until _your_ opening address. I hope I do not need to remind you again that you are supposed to be cross-examining the witness, not making noble speeches."

"Please forgive my enthusiasm my Lord." beseeched Norcroft.

"Have you any more questions for this witness, Mr Norcroft?" demanded Ravensdale, whose patience was beginning to wear thin.

"I do, my Lord. Miss Fable, you have testified in this court that you have an unequivocal recollection of the gunman's face..."

"Yes, I do. It was him!" snapped Vera pointing emphatically at Arthur in the dock; Arthur froze momentarily with an expression of sheer dread upon his face.

"Miss Fable, please allow the learned counsel to make his point." Ravensdale gently directed.

"Thank you, my Lord. Miss Fable, you were required to attend a number of identity parades, were you not?" "Yes."

"And did you identify anyone else during any of those parades?"

Vera hesitated, knowing exactly what Norcroft was leading up to; she glanced across to Carmichael in a desperate craving for salvation. Instead, Ravensdale prompted her: "Please answer the question, Miss Fable."

"Yes, yes I did. But, I felt under pressure to pick someone." she looked entreatingly to the judge for absolution; none was forthcoming. "He looked similar. I just thought I should pick someone."

"I see, Miss Fable. And did you feel compelled to 'pick someone' when you singled out the man in the dock?"

"No, I was certain that time."

"Certain?"

"Yes – I'd never forget those eyes."

"Miss Fable, why did you need to make several passes of the line-up and have them speak...if you were _so sure_?" "I just wanted to get it..."

"Get it right?" argued Norcroft.

"Yes. I mean... I didn't want to make any mistake... I didn't want it said that I hadn't checked thoroughly before making my choice." she recovered with a little more confidence.

"I see... Surely, Miss Fable, if you were so certain in your memory of this man's face, why didn't you just pick him out immediately?"

"My Lord, I must protest: the witness has answered the question. My learned friend is barracking the witness."

"Yes. Mr Norcroft, I believe the witness has given an adequate explanation. Are we ever going to get to the crux of this interrogation?" moaned Ravensdale, who was contemplating a tea break.

"My Lord, I beg your patience. I would like to bring a document to the attention of the court relating to a study by an eminent Forensic Psychologist of the Southern New Hampshire University, in the United States." "An American?" noted the judge disparagingly.

"Yes, my Lord. A Professor Fallenberg. He has been employed by the FBI on many high level cases." "FBI?"

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, my Lord... A kind of MI5 equivalent, I believe."

"I have heard of the FBI. May I have a copy of this document?" asked Ravensdale sniffily.

"Yes, of course, my Lord. I have prepared a number of copies for the court." Norcroft passed copies to the court usher, who duly handed them to the judge and Carmichael.

"Professor Fallenberg conducted a series of studies during 1962 to 1964, regarding the efficacy of facial recognition over a variety of time intervals, and of particular interest, where the witness had only a fleeting glimpse or only observed the subject in poor lighting conditions; he conducted a range of tests in varying degrees of light. I consider these results to be relevant to this case, my Lord... If the court recalls, Miss Fable has testified that the conditions were exceedingly dark..." "There was some light." corrected Vera, "The moon was out."

"Yes, thank you, Miss Fable. There was indeed moonlight... Professor Fallenberg's studies include low-light conditions, such as those limited to illumination by moonlight."

"Very interesting, I'm sure, Mr Norcroft. I will have to consider this _evidence_ overnight. I will make a judgement of its' relative admissibility in this case, in the morning. Is there anything else, Mr Norcroft?"

"Er, yes, my Lordship. If my Lordship approves the information I have provided, I would respectfully request the conductance of a small experiment in the courtroom using Professor Fallenberg's study as a foundation – the details are provided with your copy of the report, my Lord."

"I fear you have spent a little too much time in America, Mr Norcroft, where I believe such courtroom antics are commonplace." taunted Ravensdale.

"My Lord, I have never been to America." protested Norcroft.

"Hmmm, well perhaps you should consider _going_ , Mr Norcroft." The judge was known for his occasional jocular remarks and this one caused some hilarity in the public gallery _and_ amongst the prosecuting counsel.

"My Lordship is most amusing." acknowledged Norcroft. "No more questions, my Lord."

"You may leave the witness box, Miss Fable." granted Ravensdale with conciliatory smile, adding: "The court will adjourn for fifteen minutes."

The moment the court adjourned, Arthur leant over to complain to Robeson, who was sitting below and behind Norcroft: "What was that all about? 'E made me look stupid."

"Arthur, trust me, in this instance, looking stupid was the least of your concerns... It's all part of the game-plan, Arthur. Norcroft knows what he's doing... I think."

## Chapter Twenty-Nine

## (12 January 1966)

**The** prosecution team were somewhat baffled by the Fallenberg report:

"Wherever did Norcroft uncover this little gem of gobbledygook?" queried Allerton-Brown (the prosecution solicitor), leaning over to take the report from Carmichael – in order that he could examine it during the day's final court session. "He's certainly full of surprises... I'm going to be busy tonight." lamented Carmichael.

"Do you think this thing has any credibility?"

"If it just muddies the waters, it will have done its' job... Find out whom this Professor Fallenberg is, old chap, and whether he really is as exalted as Norcroft would have us believe."

"Looks like I'm going to be busy, too." grumbled Allerton-Brown.

"Who have we got available on reserve today?"

"Dr Ross..."

"Ahh, yes, our biologist chappy." noted Carmichael felicitously.

The trial resumed with the calling to the witness box of Dr Quentin Ross, a senior scientist at the Scotland Yard department of Forensics

"Dr Ross, you are a Forensic Manager at the New Scotland Yard forensic laboratory unit?" asked Carmichael.

"Yes."

"And you are highly qualified: you have a PhD in Biological Science from Southampton University and are a member of the Chartered Society of Forensic Sciences?"

"Yes. I have been working in Forensics for some ten years and before that I was a supervisor in a Pharmacological laboratory."

"Dr Ross, you were responsible for overseeing the analysis of Miss Fable's clothing – is that correct?"

"Yes, I head a small team that dealt with those particular specimens."

"And what did your examinations reveal?"

"Miss Fable's clothes were heavily soiled with blood. Most was identified as belonging to Miss Fable, who is Group O; there were also a number of large stains that also contained Group B blood, presumed to be from contact with Mr Mason's body."

"Did you recover any other bodily fluids from Miss Fable's clothing?"

"Yes. We examined the underwear, which were found to be stained with blood and semen."

"What were you able to determine in respect to those samples?"

"The blood was Group O and assumed to belong to the victim. The semen was found to be from a Group A secretor, and therefore, not from Mr Mason."

"Dr Ross, could you please explain what you mean by 'Group A secretor'...?"

"It means that blood derived antigens are secreted into all bodily fluids. We can detect these antigens and identify which blood Group they relate to."

"Did you test a sample of Arthur Jameson's blood and saliva?"

"Yes. His blood group was found to be Group A; the saliva samples indicated that Mr Jameson is a secretor."

"So, Arthur Jameson's semen would contain these Group A secretions?" "Yes."

"Thank you, Dr Ross – no more questions."

"Your witness, Mr Norcroft." directed Ravensdale.

Norcroft rose slowly and purposefully: "Dr Ross, what proportion of the population are blood Group A?"

"Approximately 35 to 40% of the population, male and female."

"I see. 35 to 40%... What is the approximate population of England, Dr Ross?"

"Er...I would say, something of the order of 40 million persons."

"And what would you estimate is the male population of England in the age range of 20 to 30 years"

"Er...I'm not sure. This is not really my area." protested Dr Ross.

"Well, allow me to help you. According to the _Central Statistical Office_ census data recorded in 1961, the figure is about 7%. The information is available on request, my Lord, for those interested in such matters." explained Norcroft smugly waving the report from which he was referring.

"If you say so." Ross replied in a vexed tone.

"I do, Dr Ross... I remind the court that the gunman has been described as approximately 25 years of age. I believe that would mean that the gunman is one of close on 3 million possible individuals?" Dr Ross remained expressionless, "Do you agree Dr Ross?"

"I suppose. That sounds about right."

"It is right. Therefore, the fact that the accused is blood Group A, isn't all that significant – is it?" "No, but it narrows it down." proffered Ross.

"One in 3 million? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will note that the gunman could be anyone of 3 million people."

Carmichael stood-up aggrievedly: "My Lordship, my learned friend is misleading the court: not all of those 3 million would have cockney accents, nor an intimate knowledge of London and its' suburbs."

"Quite true, Mr Carmichael." agreed the judge, "I don't suppose the learned defence counsel have statistics to suitably narrow down that proportion?" pompously queried the judge.

"Er, not exactly, my Lord... But, I do have an estimate of the population of Greater London – which is about 10% of the population of England as whole."

"Is it really?" noted the judge slightly astounded before scribbling a note.

"That, if my calculations are correct, narrows the possible number of individuals from which the gunman is derived to a _paltry_ 300,000 persons, my Lord." stated Norcroft with an air of satisfaction – they had effectively walked blindly into his trap.

"Indeed." grunted Ravensdale a tad resentfully.

Carmichael suddenly had a flash of inspiration, "Dr Ross, what proportion of the population are Group A secretors?" "...Um. Difficult. There hasn't been much research into that..." "In your professional opinion?" Carmichael proffered.

"Well, to my knowledge, the greater proportion of the populous will be secretors."

"The greater proportion? Could you be more exact: an expert guess?" asked Norcroft seizing upon the opportunity to undermine Carmichael's attempted denigration of his data.

"Um, an estimate? I suppose, I would have to say, at least two-thirds."

Carmichael slumped back in his chair, in defeat. Norcroft, conversely, now appeared to almost inflate with confidence, before making his consummate observation:

"Two-thirds, Dr Ross. Two-thirds of 300,000, is I believe, 200,000, is it not?" "Yes." admitted Ross with reluctance.

"Members of the jury, you have it from the prosecution's forensic expert: the gunman is one of 200,000 possible individuals. If I were a betting man, I would consider my client to be a rank outsider in this _particular_ contention. No more questions my Lord." Norcroft completed his victorious circumvention, while Carmichael seethed and simmered.

"Do you have any more witnesses today, Mr Carmichael?" asked the judge.

"No, my Lord." replied Carmichael with obvious resignation.

"In that case: court will adjourn until tomorrow morning..." ordered the judge, "Mr Carmichael and Mr Norcroft, please attend my chambers at 9.30 tomorrow morning." he imperiously instructed.

"This ruddy Norcroft is a smart one." noted Allerton-Brown to Carmichael.

"Hmm. Make sure we get a copy of that statistics report, there's a good chap."

After the court had cleared, Robeson received a message from Jameson asking to see him, which he duly did. Sitting in the cell, Jameson was still stewing over the personal comments made by Norcroft earlier that day. Robeson stepped in to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the cell somewhat naive of Jameson's mood.

"Keep it short: we want to get 'im back to Brixton." the warder grumbled as he closed the door.

"Well, Arthur, I think we're definitely ahead on points..." started Robeson cheerfully.

"What? I didn't like what 'e said about me today." grumbled Arthur, adopting a decidedly aggressive stance.

"Norcroft is doing a great job for you." reminded Robeson desperate to placate Arthur.

"Yeah, well, tell 'im not t'slag me off again – right?"

"Arthur, Arthur, it's just tactics. He's using your record to your advantage and stopping the prosecution using it against you – it's a clever strategy."

"What was all that stuff about stat-ics?"

"Statistics... Clever stuff, Arthur. Don't worry about it, Arthur, just know that it's working. Look son, Norcroft is a brilliant advocate. He might just be using this case as a spring-board, but if anyone can win this for you, he can. That's all that matters. You don't have to like him."

"Yeah...okay. When 'ave I got to get in the box?"

"Not yet. I think we might expect the prosecution to put you on the stand towards the end of their evidence; otherwise, not until the defence case begins. You can still change your mind about that..."

"What about this identity fing?"

"All to come, Arthur; all to come."

In his office at _Snow Hill Chambers_ , Norcroft, along with his junior, Fiona Letheridge were mulling over the police evidence relating to the cartridge cases; Fiona, being the diligent and enthusiastic sort, had spotted a discrepancy between the police records and the forensic laboratory records, which she excitedly brought to Norcroft's attention – he immediately had a eureka moment. Seconds later, the telephone rang: it was Parmer with news from Rhyl.

"Hello Robi, my dear fellow..." exclaimed Norcroft brimming with gratification.

"Mr Norcroft, I think I've got the witness we need. I found the boarding house Jameson stayed at." "Excellent news!"

"The landlady seems quite keen to support Jameson's alibi. Did you get my message the other day?"

"Er, yes, I think so: a witness came forward claiming to have spoken to Jameson in the street, or something?"

"Yes. I've got them both lined up, ready and willing to give evidence on our behalf."

"Good man, good man – I knew I could rely on you. Get yourself back to London tout suite, my friend; by any means

– charter a plane – just get here as quickly as you can. I've got several new leads for you."

"Right. I think the nearest airport is in Liverpool. I don't know that I can get back there tonight; I don't think there are any more buses or trains until the morning."

"Find a taxi. Don't worry about the cost, old man."

"If you say so, Mr Norcroft. I'll be with you as soon as I can." "I'll have a scotch and soda waiting." promised Norcroft.

Parmer laughed: "Make that a gin and tonic. See you soon."

Norcroft replaced the receiver and with a jubilant smile beaming from his legalistic face, addressed Fiona: "Miss Letheridge, I believe a celebration is in order." He then perched himself on the edge of his junior's desk and leaned flirtatiously toward Fiona, "Have you ever been to the Adelphi theatre, Miss Letheridge?" "Um, no, I haven't actually, Mr Norcroft." she replied with a nervous smile.

"There's a marvellous production on at the moment: _Charlie Girl_. Awfully good fun I hear. If we take a taxi we should just make it – what do you say, Miss Letheridge: shall we have some fun?"

"Well, there's still quite a lot of work to..." she started, slightly reluctant.

"Nonsense, my dear. Champagne and a show – now that's got to be better than a stuffy evening in chambers?"

"Well, I suppose." she was beginning to warm to the idea, "Yes, okay – why not."

"Just ring my dear wife: let her know I'll be working late." he disparately announced as Fiona put her coat on.

Meanwhile, Jameson sat in his cell in Brixton prison, smoking a roll-up which he wasn't enjoying very much. His cell mate, Eric 'The Ferret' Whittley, was buffing his shoes.

"Where d'y'u get this snout, Ferret?"

"Dennis gave it me."

"Dennis? Dennis who?"

"Yeah, Dennis Crossby, y'u know?"

"What fuckin' _Dodgy Dennis_?"

"Yeah, _Dodgy Dennis_ , that's 'im."

"No wonder it tastes like parrot shit." moaned Arthur stubbing out the obnoxious excuse for a cigarette.

"That's good stuff, that is." argued Ferret, "Can't be too fussy in 'ere – you should know that."

"Yeah, well I only smoke when I'm jittery."

"Oh yeah... 'Ow's the case goin'? I fought you 'ad a top brief."

"I 'ave. Still gets me on edge, though."

"So, did y'u do it, or what?" asked Ferret rather blatantly.

"Wha'd'you fink?"

"I dunno, mate... Y'u don't look like a killer."

"Don' judge a book by its cover, tha's what my old mum I always says." replied Arthur a little cryptically.

"I a'n't sayin' you a'n't capable... Y'u jus' don' look like a killer, tha's all. I'm guilty as fuck. If my brief gets me off, it'll be a fuckin' miracle – know what I mean?"

"Yeah, well, I a'n't guilty, all right?" affirmed Arthur defensively.

"I 'eard on the grapevine, like, that bird said y'u were a dead cert' for it."

"Yeah, well she's wrong."

"Funny, though, eh?"

"What d'y'u mean?"

"Another bloke jus' like you runnin' aroun' shootin' people..." goaded Ferret; Arthur refused to take the bait, "Wonder where 'e's at, like... I mean, y'u're in nick an' 'e's probably out shaggin' an' gettin' pissed; 'avin' a good time, y'u know?"

"Y'u're a barrel o' laughs, mate. Y'u' really cheerin' me up."

"You done plenty o' time: why y'u so bovvered this time?"

"I don' wanna do any more time, tha's all."

"Y'u know what they say: if y'u can't do the time..."

"Shullup will y'u?" grumbled Arthur climbing up onto his bunk. "Nice bit o' skirt, I 'eard..."

"What?"

"That bird...in y'ur case... Well, she use' t'be – if y'u know what I mean?"

"What? What the fuck y'u on about?"

"I'm jus' sayin': she use' t'be... When she still 'ad two legs, like."

"Give it a fuckin' rest will y'u?"

"Jus' makin' conversation, mate."

"Well, make it somewhere else, will y'u – I need t'fink."

"Close, you an' y'u mum, are y'u?" continued Ferret, determined to get a reaction; Arthur decided to ignore him. "I use' t'ave a mum... Died, y'u see. I was just a kid, an' all... I reckon tha's why I went bad... What about you, Arfur?" "What about me?"

"Why d'you go off the rails?"

"I dunno. It's jus' the way I am."

"Wha's it like?"

"What?"

"Killin' someone? Did y'u get a buzz?"

"I told y'u – I didn' do it."

"Yeaah, I know. We all say that though, don' we? I mean, I'm as guilty as fuck, but I a'n't pleadin' it." smirked Ferret, then stood up so as to be on at eye level with Arthur; "Come onnn: what was it like pulling that trigger?"

Arthur sat up and climbed off the bunk to stand face to face with Ferret, adopting a very threatening stance: "If you don' shut the fuck up, I'm gonna knock y'u fuckin' teef out... You got me?"

"Hey, I'm jus' windin' you up." declared Ferret, not wishing for any violence.

"Yeah, well, I've 'ad enough." Arthur gave Ferret a hard stare, before returning to his bunk.

"It's okay, mate. If y'u say y'u didn' do it, y'u didn' do it..." Ferret paused for a minute, then suddenly said: "My missus fucked off wiv this bloke she met down some poxy club. Eight years we' been married... Trouble is I've been inside most o' that. Can' expect 'er to be a fuckin' nun, can y'u...?"

As Ferret's voice continued to drone on, Arthur switched off and turned his thoughts inward. He was still upset about Carol Paris, suspecting that her pregnancy was the result of their brief liaison. The thing was he really did care for Carol; she had always had a special place in his heart – not love, exactly, but a deep affection. Now she had metamorphosed into his worst enemy and he really could not understand why.

## Chapter Thirty

## (13 January 1966)

**The** morning of the 13th brought bad-tidings. Jameson was visited by Robeson soon after his arrival at the Old Bailey cell block – he had some difficult news to convey. Entering the cell, the unsuspecting Arthur greeted Robeson with an appreciative smile, which slowly drained from his face when it was clear that his solicitor had something sombre to inform him; he stood up in anticipation of some legal setback.

"Arthur, you should sit down. I have something distressing to break to you..." Arthur sat on his bed morosely attentive,

"Arthur, it's...it's your friend...Carol." Arthur's ears pricked up, his expression puzzled, "I'm afraid she had an accident on

Monday afternoon..."

Arthur leapt to his feet: "Wha'd'y'u mean?"

Robeson put his arm on Arthur's shoulder and gently persuaded him to sit back, before sitting down next to him: "Arthur, she appears to have fallen down a stairwell at a shopping centre... They were able to deliver the baby by caesarean..."

"What? What's sayzarian?"

"Caesarean section: it's a surgical procedure to remove a baby through the abdomen, as opposed to...normal means." "What does that...? Why did they need t'do that?" Arthur was obviously beginning to panic.

"They had to do that because the mother couldn't deliver the baby, normally."

"Why not?"

"The fall knocked her unconscious... She was in a coma, Arthur... She died Tuesday night."

Arthur sat transfixed, not moving a muscle, while this information slowly sunk in. Then, quite suddenly, he jumped off the bed screaming and started banging his head on the ground. The warder rapidly returned to the cell: what he found was not a legal representative in danger, but a grown man crying like a baby on the floor; Robeson side-stepped around the bereft body of Jameson.

"You might want to get the psych'." Robeson quietly suggested as he removed himself from the room rather hastily.

Norcroft and Carmichael arrived outside the door of the judge's chambers together, promptly on the stroke of 9 AM. The learned "friends" did not speak. Carmichael knocked on the panelled solid oak door: a barely audible distant invitation to enter was heard – Carmichael opened the door. The judge was seated behind his imposing desk in a rather grand leather trimmed chair.

"Good morning my dear fellows. Do have a seat."

The barristers sat a respectful distance from each other and faced his Honourable Justice Ravensdale with baited breath.

"I have read this Fallenberg's jottings." the judge began, slightly dismissively, "An interesting dissertation, I must admit... Mr Norcroft, you are certain of this man's credentials, I hope?"

"Er, yes, my Lordship: I have made a study of the illustrious professor. He is quite well known in the United States, I understand." declared the wide-eyed Norcroft with optimism.

The judge gave Norcroft a slightly dubitable look over his gold-rimmed reading spectacles: "Hmmm, I'm inclined to accept this gentleman's findings... Do you have any objections, Mr Carmichael?"

Norcroft braced himself for a soliloquy of contentious disparagement, but instead got a rather bland: "I doubt the jury will understand it."

"Perhaps not, but do you understand it, Mr Carmichael?" the judge asked exploratively.

"I believe I do, my Lordship; though I am not convinced that a sufficient statistical population has been as yet employed as to demonstrate an incontrovertible proof of thesis. It is suggestive – no more."

"Mmm, you may be right. What of the proposed theatrical experiment?" asked the judge somewhat mockingly – Norcroft shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

"Well, my Lord, the Prosecution are of the view that such an exhibition could be more damaging for the defence than for our own endeavour." smirked Carmichael.

"Is that acceptance of the proposal, then, Mr Carmichael?" challenged the judge.

"Not exactly an acceptance, but we will not object if Mr Norcroft chooses to pursue such a reckless undertaking." was Carmichael's supercilious reply.

"I think then, Mr Norcroft, that on the basis of Professor Fallenberg's postulations, I might allow you to conduct this little experiment. However, I will not allow this rather abstruse report to be entered into the evidence – we don't want to overwhelm the jury with abstract psychological interpretations, inferred from complex mathematical computation. But you may cite the report as justification for your _mootable_ scientific venture. I imagine Mr Carmichael will denigrate any result favourable to the defence in any event... Are we all agreed? Mr Norcroft?"

"Um, yes – my Lordship is most gracious in his accommodation." Norcroft grovelled; although he would have preferred the jury to have had the opportunity to read the report, he knew this was nonetheless a superlative outcome given that he had not been forced to fight his corner, possibly antagonizing the judge and precipitating hostility toward the cause of the defence.

"Mr Carmichael?" the judge prompted for complete clarity.

"Oh, whatever his Lordship thinks is most judicious." Carmichael acquiesced with a bow, coupled with a sickly smile. Norcroft dutifully acknowledged Carmichael's agreement with a subtle bow of the head.

The Honourable Mr Justice Ravensdale reconvened the trial. Carmichael, noticing the absence of Jameson from the dock, gave Norcroft a bewildered look, at which point Norcroft stood to address the judge:

"My Lord, my client has respectfully requested that he be excused from attending court today..." "The reason, Mr Norcroft?"

"It would seem that he received some distressing news this morning regarding a close friend, my Lord." "How distressing?"

"The lady in question is deceased as of Tuesday night, my Lord."

"Ah, I see..." the judge cleared his throat, somewhat flummoxed by that announcement, "Under the circumstances, the defendant may be excused for duration of today's deliberations."

"My Lord is most kind." thanked Norcroft in pseudo-gratitude, despite the fact that the defendant wasn't obliged to attend court, anyway.

As Norcroft sat back down, Carmichael pondered what he just heard and putting two and two together he wondered whether he might be making five; but there was no time for such frivolous contemplations, so he immediately rose to summon the next witness: "I call Denise Deneo to take the stand..."

Denise sat nervously awaiting that dreaded call, but a whisper in her ear shortly before (from one of the prosecution team) allayed her foreboding of having to face Arthur while giving evidence against him. She took a deep intake of air and entered the courtroom...

"Miss Deneo, you are a former friend of the accused, Arthur Jameson?" began Carmichael.

"Yes."

"How long have you known the accused?"

"About five years."

"And how did you come to know the accused?"

"He heard I dealt in objet d'art, through the trade."

"I see. So you regular bought items from the accused?"

"Yes – or sold them for him for a fee."

"Were you aware that Jameson was a thief and that the items he traded through your business were stolen?" "I suppose... I suspected."

"And over the years you developed a non-romantic friendship with Jameson?" "Yes. We were only ever friends." She was determined to make that crystal clear.

"Would you say you got to know him pretty well?"

"Up to a point, yes... Sometimes he would stay overnight – on the sofa. We were pretty friendly."

"Cast your mind back to a day in early May of last year – a few months before the crime was committed. Would you please tell the court about one particular occasion he stayed at your flat?"

"Yes. He came 'round to mine late one evening; he needed somewhere to sleep for the night – for some reason he was a bit short of cash... The next day he was still there at lunchtime when I closed the shop for an hour – I go up to the flat to have my lunch... Anyway, we were just chatting; he was boasting about some conquest..."

"Conquest?"

"Yes. He'd spent the previous evening on a date with some girl."

Norcroft interrupted: "Did he give the name of this _girl_?"

"No... At least, I don't recall." she lied, having been instructed not to say by Allerton-Brown, as the jury might construe that the person in question was Carol Paris – which they did not know for a fact.

"And what did he say about this girl he was with?" continued Carmichael.

"Well, he said something that unnerved me. He didn't normally make sexual references in my presence – he knew I didn't like that sort of thing... But on this occasion he implied that he had...you know, had his way with her." "Had sexual intercourse?" helped Carmichael.

"Yes, that was the impression he was giving."

"What did you make of that comment?"

"It made me feel uneasy: he seemed to be referring to her like she was...some prostitute."

"What else did Jameson impart during that conversation?"

"I think he realised I didn't approve of his sex-talk, and like some impetuous child, he needed to score a point back, or something..."

"What did he tell you?" pressed Carmichael. Deneo was struggling with her betrayal and began to snivel; she produced a hanky and blew her nose rather loudly.

"He mentioned that he had a gun." she eventually admitted.

"A gun? Did you believe him?"

"I wasn't sure, but, well he described where he was keeping it – it sounded convincing."

"What did he tell you?"

"He said he kept it at his friend's flat...Dickie Paris."

"Richard Paris, my Lord." Carmichael illuminated the obviously confused judge. "Miss Deneo, do you recall any details relating to that?"

"Yes. He said that it was in a bag hidden behind some pink towels in the airing cupboard."

"What did he say this gun was for?"

"Protection. Better them than me, he said."

"So, he was prepared to use this weapon if need be?"

"That's what he was claiming." she confirmed, albeit falteringly.

"Thank you, Miss Deneo... Now if you would cast your mind back again, this time to mid-July 1965: do you recall a personal item going missing around this time?"

"Yes, yes I do... I used to have a pair of black gloves – artificial leather; fairly old."

"I see, and what happened to those gloves?"

"They disappeared. The only person who'd been to my flat since the last time I remembered seeing them, was Arthur, Arthur Jameson." stated Denise confidently; Norcroft shuffled some papers and pulled an expression of incredulity.

Carmichael paused momentarily. "My Lord, I would like to draw the court's attention to Vera Fable's statement – exhibit 44. On page three, she describes the gloves worn by the gunman, which the jury may recall were mentioned in Miss Fable's earlier testimony in court. She described them as 'black, leather or artificial leather, quite worn'." Carmichael looked up from reading this out and paused dramatically for a few seconds, before continuing: "This description seems awfully familiar, and that is because it is exactly the same as Miss Deneo's description of _her_ missing gloves. The defence have argued that Arthur Jameson was known not to wear gloves; I would suggest that he acquired Miss Deneo's gloves specifically for the purpose of pursuing his criminal activities. The inference is I think, obvious." Carmichael smiled in gratitude for Denise's performance: "Thank you Miss Deneo. No further questions, my Lord." Carmichael sat down, fairly satisfied with his witness.

"Mr Norcroft, your witness." needlessly reminded the judge, as Norcroft momentarily hesitated.

"Thank you my Lord... Miss Deneo, would you be kind enough to show your hands to the jury and his Lordship." Denise raised her hands above the witness box, giving Norcroft a perplexed look. "Miss Deneo, would you say you had small or large hands?"

"Small." she answered sheepishly.

"Yes, small _lady's_ hands... Unfortunately, my client is not in court today, but I can assure the members of the jury that Arthur Jameson has average sized hands... Average for a _man_ , that is."

Carmichael winced and looked distinctly uncomfortable as several of the jury adopted wry smiles. Norcroft deliberately paused to allow this observation to disseminate fully, before continuing:

"Miss Deneo, _apart_ from this one occasion in May last year, during the five years that you were acquainted with Arthur

Jameson, did he ever give you cause to fear him, or doubt his impeccability?"

"No. I knew he was no saint, though. But I had no reason to ever fear him."

"So, you, a lone woman, were perfectly comfortable to allow this man to stay at your home, overnight?" "Yes."

"He never made any overtures towards you?"

"No. Nothing like _that_." she affirmed with conviction.

"What was your impression of Arthur Jameson's intellectual ability?"

"He's a bit ill-educated; a bit slow, sometimes. But we always managed to have a good conversation."

"I see... I'm just struggling a little to understand your relationship with this man, Miss Deneo. Why would someone of your obvious decorum and intelligence wish to befriend someone like Arthur Jameson?"

"I...I just liked him... I suppose I felt a sisterly affection."

"I put it to you, _Miss_ Deneo, that you had amorous designs for Arthur and when he rejected them...you saw this trial as an opportunity to reap revenge – isn't that right?"

"No! No, absolutely not. There was never anything like that." Denise looked at the judge for assistance, "I don't do...

I'm not interested in that sort of thing."

"I think that's enough, Mr Norcroft..." warned the judge, "Do you have anything else for this witness?"

"Yes, I do, my Lord. Miss Deneo, is it true that your mother died in 'an accident', falling down the stairs?"

Denise visibly shrivelled, her eyes stare unblinking; the colour slowly draining from her face, until she was decidedly corpse-like in appearance.

"I must protest, my Lord: the witness is not here to answer questions about her mother's death."

"I quite agree, Mr Carmichael. I don't see that this has any relevance, Mr Norcroft. Unless you have any more questions relating to the case in hand...?" asserted the judge.

"No, my Lord." Norcroft conceded, before dramatically adding: "Oh, forgive me; there is one last matter, my Lord – if I may?" Ravensdale nodded, if a little reluctantly, as Denise was still in a state of apparent petrifaction.

"In your police statement, Miss Deneo, you said that the gun Arthur told you about was, so he told you, a _Beretta_ – is that correct?"

"I...I can't remember."

"It says it in your statement, Miss Deneo."

"I don't recall."

"For the benefit of the jury, the murder weapon was an Enfield revolver, _not_ a Beretta pistol. No further questions."

"You may step down, Miss Deneo." the judge courteously informed her, whereupon she practically fell out of the witness box; the court usher rushed to her rescue. Once Denise had been escorted from the courtroom, Carmichael addressed the judge:

"My Lord, the prosecution has been struck by several unexpected absences in the witness schedule. Apparently, Miss Carol Paris unexpectedly died on Tuesday, we have been informed. Consequently, her parents, Richard and Mary Paris, are also unable to attend court today, due to their bereavement. I therefore request a two hour adjournment to allow us the opportunity to summon some alternative witnesses."

"Certainly, Mr Carmichael. Court is adjourned until 1.30 PM." the judge graciously granted an adjournment until after lunch as he had missed breakfast that morning.

Meanwhile, Denise Deneo was escorted from the Old Bailey by a court official, still unaware that Carol Paris was dead.

## Chapter Thirty-One

## (13 January 1966)

**A** black taxi drew up in front of the Old Bailey building and out stepped Derick Jacobsen, wearing a shabby raincoat and trilby hat. He was intercepted by the prosecution chambers' clerk, who was waiting with cupped hands and looking decidedly chilled: he hurriedly escorted Jacobsen into the sumptuous Grand Hall, where Allerton-Brown was anxiously waiting for the prosecution's substitute witness for the afternoon session.

"Good afternoon Mr Jacobsen. Good of you to come at such short notice."

"No prob's. Mr Cambridge says there's a bottle o' whiskey in it f'r me." admitted Jacobsen, somewhat to Allerton-

Brown's dismay, who was then compelled to pretend not to understand what this might imply about Jacobsen's evidence. "Er, right. If you could come with me?" directed Allerton-Brown a little disconcerted.

"Yeah, I need a piss, first – where's the bogs?"

Allerton-Brown cringed at Jacobsen's uncouth manner as he pointed in the direction of the 'Gents' toilet. When Jacobsen emerged a few minutes later, the solicitor was nowhere to be seen, so he had no choice but to loiter like a piece of trash, which had randomly blown in from the gutter and defiled the splendour of the Grand Hall. A few moments later, he was in collision with a youngish man, whom unbeknown to Jacobsen was DS Anthony Collins.

"Sorry mate." apologised Collins.

"No prob's – y'u got the time, mate?" enquired Jacobsen.

"Er, yeah, ten past one..." replied Collins and was about to walk on when he turned back and asked: "You're not here for the Jameson case, are you?"

"Yeah, tha's right. Wha's it to you?" asked Jacobsen cagily.

"Oh, I'm one of the investigating team. When are you due to appear?"

"'Alf one, I fink."

"Court 6 is it?"

"Dunno, mate."

"Oh well, I'll find it." said Collins with a smile and continued on his way.

Seconds later, Allerton-Brown reappeared to escort Jacobsen into a side room where the prosecution team were encamped waiting for the call to court; there he was quickly briefed regarding his testimony.

Carmichael began his examination of Derick Jacobsen: "Mr Jacobsen, on the 29th of July last year, you were employed as a manager..." – Norcroft irreverently coughed at this misinformation – "...at the _Verona Hotel_ in Maida vale – is that correct?"

"It is sir, yes." Jacobsen firmly agreed.

"Was the hotel full at the time?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

"Pretty much?" quizzed Carmichael pointedly.

"Oh, well, there was one room vacant – number twen'y six."

"Why was that, Mr Jacobsen?"

"Er, well, sir, 'cause it's like a big room wiv sev'ral beds – sleeps up t'four."

"So, why would that be vacant?" continued Carmichael somewhat painfully.

"Oh, well, yeah, 'cause it's expensive, unless y'u share like."

"I see. And did anybody take occupation of this room?"

"Er, not 'til late."

"Go on."

"Well, at about eleven, this geezer come in wantin' a room, so I says you can 'ave twen'y six, but it's like over two quid for the night...unless someone else comes in later and shares it, like – which weren't likely at that time." "I see. And did this man take the room?"

"Yes, yes 'e did, sir."

"What name did he give?"

"Er, if me mem'ry serves me right, it was 'A. Johnson'."

"It does, Mr Jacobsen... If I may I refer to Exhibit 27, my Lord: the hotel guest register." The register was duly presented to Carmichael by the court usher. "The jury should note that there is an entry for Room 26 on the 29th of July with the name

'A. Johnson' given as the occupant... Now, Mr Jacobsen, were you be able to subsequently identify this guest as Arthur

Jameson?"

"Yes I was sir."

"Members of the jury, this is not a matter of dispute: Jameson has freely admitted that he was the guest in that room on the night of 29th July... Mr Jacobsen, please tell the court what happened the next morning when Jameson booked out."

"Erm, well, 'e left the 'otel, but came back a minute or so later. 'E asked t'go back t'the room to get somefin' 'e'd forgot, like."

"And then?"

Norcroft could not resist the temptation to interrupt any longer: "My Lord, has this witness been coached and require prompting?"

"Noted Mr Norcroft. Please continue Mr Carmichael." granted Ravensdale.

"Thank you, my Lord. Please continue with your account Mr Jacobsen."

"Yeah, as I was gonna say: when 'e came back from the room, 'e asked for the best way t'Paddington station... So, I suggests gettin' the number firty six bus at the end of the 'igh street."

"The number 36 bus, members of the jury, is significant to this case, because the gun was found on that bus..." "My Lord, it was the 36 _A_ bus." corrected Norcroft.

"Ah, yes, my learned friend is quite correct. The jury is advised that the 36 and 36A buses have similar routes and stop at the same place in Maida Vale. Either bus will take one from Maida Vale to Paddington, and vice versa."

Norcroft immediately leapt to his feet, yet again: "My Lord, that as may be, but the gun was reported as found on the Monday morning, that is the 2nd of August, therefore there is no correlation with Jameson's visit to Maida Vale."

Carmichael rose for the counter-attack: "My Lord, my learned friend is quite correct, but I was not implying that the gun was left on the bus on the Friday _before_ the crime was even committed." A wave of tittering flowed around the courtroom. "Mr Jacobsen, you have been very helpful; please stay there – my learned friend may have some questions."

"Indeed I do." said Norcroft purposefully as he stood to address the shifty Jacobsen, "Mr Jacobsen, you've not been completely honest with this court, have you?"

"I don' know what y'u mean sir?"

"Well," Norcroft laughed derisively, "I'm not sure where to start... Let's begin with a nice easy one: how long have you been 'Derick Jacobsen'?" Carmichael had a look of puzzlement and horror on his face and turned to Allerton-Brown (sat behind him) to ask what it was that Norcroft was talking about. Norcroft continued, while Jacobsen stood silent in shock: "Let me help you further: were you once known as 'Morris Finch'?"

"Er, well, I..."

"You've had many names?" suggested Norcroft with amusement.

"Um..."

"Answer the question, Mr Jacobsen." insisted the judge.

"Well, I s'pose, I might 'ave used some uvver names." he finally conceded.

"Yes, quite a number I believe... But let's run with Morris Finch, shall we? I understand that you are rather well known to the Midlands police under that name...? Let me remind you: during the period of 1954 to 1958, you were an informant, weren't you?"

"I... I like to 'elp the police sometimes." he began to explain and then turning to the judge, added: "I 'ave a sense of civic duty, my Lord."

"Really?" commented Ravensdale, unconvinced.

"Mr Jacobsen, you are well known as a 'coppers nark', are you not, and in 1957, you were indicted, along with a member of her majesty's constabulary, for taking bribes for giving false information..."

Jacobsen hesitated, before turning to the judge again: "Do I 'ave t'answer that m' Lord?"

"Yes you do, Mr Jacobsen – and please hurry up about it." barked Ravensdale with growing impatience.

"Er, well, yeah, but I was acquitted."

"Yes, you were. But no smoke..."

"My Lord, I must protest." asserted Carmichael, desperate to recover some dignity.

"If the man was acquitted, then there can be no fire." instructed the judge.

"No my Lord, of course not..." accepted Norcroft with a smile of satisfaction, "Mr Finch, sorry, I mean Jacobsen..." There was uproar in the public gallery, prompting Ravensdale to stiffly rebuke Norcroft, who had to restrain himself from laughing too. "I apologise, my Lordship... Mr Jacobsen, let's move on to another issue: you said that you were _employed_ at the _Verona Hotel_ as a manager – is that correct?"

"Er, yeah, tha's right."

"Hmm, I note a hesitation there, Mr Jacobsen." Norcroft observed pointedly, "Would that be because you were in fact _an imposter_ at the hotel?"

"Eh, what?"

"Mr Jacobsen, you were never _actually_ employed to work there, were you?" "I was gettin' paid." Jacobsen proffered as proof of his employment.

"Yes, but only because you had duped the Spanish couple who were _actually_ working there."

"Mr Carmichael?" prompted the judge for some explanation, but Carmichael remained seated, shaking his head and looking dejected.

"Mr Jacobsen, the owner of the _Verona Hotel_ , a Mr Mickelman, claims to have never clapped eyes on you or your common-law wife, let alone offer you a job. What do you say to that?"

"Well, 'e did. 'E's old, 'e's probably jus' forgotten, like."

"Did you have a contract?"

"Contract...? Nah, it was a gentleman's agreement." Jacobsen announced with a misguided sense of ascendency.

"Gentlemen?" mocked Norcroft to yet more sniggering in the public gallery, "Mr Jacobsen, it does appear that we have to take your word for it – because there is no one else to corroborate this story. Perhaps you would care to tell the court why you were 'sacked'?" Norcroft continued his assassination with enjoyment; the jury were becoming noticeably contemptuous of Jacobsen.

"That was a lie, sir. We was accused o' nickin' money, which we 'adn't."

Carmichael rather wearily stood up to defend his witness: "My Lord, this is pure hearsay."

"Mr Norcroft, unless you have proof, please move on. The jury should dismiss that last accusation." instructed Ravensdale, though secretly he sympathised with Norcroft's attack on the scurrilous Jacobsen. Meanwhile, the despondent Carmichael whispered to Allerton-Brown accusatively: "Whose bright idea was it to put this berk on the stand?" to which Allerton-Brown contentedly stated: "Yours, I believe." But Norcroft was not finished yet.

"Mr Jacobsen, would you be so kind as to wait there a moment longer." instructed Norcroft, then turned to Carmichael: "May I have the hotel register"; he was reluctantly handed it, whereupon he begun meticulously inspecting it, before announcing: "My Lord, I am of the opinion that something has been erased from this register – would you care to it inspect yourself, my Lord?" he asked, passing the book to the court usher, who duly handed it to Ravensdale. "My Lord, could you please inspect the entry for the 29th of July for room 26... It appears to me that a pencil entry has been scribbled over and then rubbed-out."

"Yes... Yes, I see what you mean, Mr Norcroft. What is your point?"

"Well, my Lord, in Mr Jacobsen's _third_ and final written statement, it records that 'A. Johnson' arrived early in the day, at around 2 PM and booked Room 26 on the basis that he could be transferred to a cheaper room, if one became available, and that he made a deposit. I believe that is what was originally recorded in the register, consistent with Mr Jacobsen's final statement, and _not_ as claimed here today in court."

"Mr Jacobsen, is this correct, that you have changed your story?" enquired Ravensdale. "No, my Lord...I mean I don' recall makin' that statement." "You don't recall it?" asked Ravensdale incredulously.

"I mean, my Lord, that I don' remember that part of me statement." "I see." groaned the judge in frustration, "Is this important, Mr Norcroft?" "It may become so, later, my Lord." Norcroft explained rather cryptically. "That being the case, Mr Norcroft, I direct the jury to make note of this discrepancy in Mr Jacobsen's statements." "Thank you, my Lord."

"Is that all?" asked the judge irritably.

"Not quite, my Lord." Ravensdale raised his eyebrows and audibly sighed. Norcroft continued: "Mr Jacobsen, you have made a number of different statements to the police in this case, haven't you?"

"Well, me memory comes and goes, like." he claimed, much to the merriment of gallery and the jury.

"Yes, Mr Jacobsen, which leads one to think that your memory isn't very reliable... Did you erase the entry in the register?"

"No sir. I don' know nuffin' about that. I don' remember any pencil entry."

"If you say so, Mr Jacobsen... It is the case though, isn't it, that you change your statements to suit the police requirements?"

"No. I tells the troof as I remembers it."

"If you say so, Mr Jacobsen... No more questions my Lord." concluded Norcroft triumphantly.

Ravensdale puffed out his cheeks in sheer exasperation: "You may step down, Mr Jacobsen." he directed with relief; Jacobsen looked equally relieved, as did the entire prosecution entourage.

As Jacobsen shuffled his way out of the Old Bailey, he was passed – though, fortunately at some distance – by a hot and flustered Gordon Storrington hurrying into the Old Bailey to give his evidence. This passed-by without incident, as Norcroft did not choose to cross-examine this witness – his evidence being considered to be indisputable, merely establishing that cartridge cases were discovered in Room 26 of the _Verona Hotel_ on the 9th of August (two days before being reported); Storrington also verified that the Jacobsens were sacked on the 5th of August and vacated the hotel on the 6th. Following this testimony, the prosecution were unable to furnish the court with any further witnesses for the remainder of the scheduled session, which left the judge with no alternative but to adjourn until the next morning.

"Well, Miss Letheridge, I think we can safely say that the defence are firmly ahead on points." declared Norcroft as he and his junior waltzed jubilantly into their office at Snow Hill Chambers. Norcroft flung his wig onto the desk, before slumping into his chair with air of equanimity.

"Going well, is it sir?" enquired Joe the chambers clerk.

"It certainly is, Joe. A brandy is in order, I think – Miss Letheridge?"

"Not for me thanks." declined Fiona, who preferred to remain fully compos mentis when at her place of work.

Norcroft pulled himself out of the chair, opened the cabinet next to his desk – where he located the decanter of cognac – and poured himself a large glass of Courvoisier. "The prosecution have saddled themselves with some bloody awful witnesses." he noted as he took a swig of brandy, "Any more like that and we'll be able to call for a dismissal." He joked. "It's all about the cartridge cases tomorrow, Joe." he stated somewhat obliquely.

"Is it indeed, sir?"

"Yes, and thanks to our delightful Miss Letheridge, it's going to be another golden day for the defence..." Norcroft was building for a quote: " _True glory takes root, and even spreads; all false pretences, like flowers, fall to the ground; nor can any counterfeit last long_."

"Cicero, sir?" asked Joe perceptively.

"Indeed it is, dear boy. You _are_ a dark horse, my friend."

"No, that's Disraeli, sir."

"Indeed it is, my boy, indeed it is." laughed Norcroft, both gratified and astounded by the humble clerk's literary knowledge.

The atmosphere was considerably less cordial in Jameson's cell, back at Brixton Prison. He had endured his day of mourning and would now return to court with grit determination to emerge a free man; after all, he was now a lone father and took his duty toward his child with utmost seriousness. This was his spur to go forward, his reason to survive. As he lay on his bunk contemplating fatherhood, he wondered whether his new born was a boy or a girl.

## Chapter Thirty-Two

## (14 January 1966)

**Friday** morning in Court 6 of the Old Bailey saw the return of Arthur Jameson to the dock, now wearing a black tie to display his respect for the recently deceased. Carmichael was still feeling bruised from the previous days drubbing, but had renewed buoyancy in anticipation of the appearance of his next witness, Dr Edward Compton, ballistics expert for the Forensic Laboratory at New Scotland Yard.

"Dr Compton, your laboratory received a number of cartridge cases collected from the crime scene, along with spent bullets; you were subsequently supplied a .38 Enfield service revolver recovered from a number 36A bus, along with a considerable quantity of ammunition. What were you able to conclude from this evidence?" Carmichael contentedly sat down.

"We were able to determine from the rifling on the spent bullets recovered from the crime scene, Mr Mason's body, and also from Miss Fable's thigh, that they were all fired from the revolver found on the 36A bus."

"For the jury, Dr Compton, could you please explain the principle of bullet rifling?" asked Carmichael standing briefly.

"Certainly: all gun barrels are designed with spiralling grooves which apply a spin to the bullet before it leaves the barrel of the gun; this is to improve accuracy. Every make of gun has slightly different rifling specifications, and in fact, no two guns are exactly identical, such that the microscopic rifling striations applied to a bullet fired from any gun can be matched to that specific gun – much like a fingerprint."

"Thank you, Dr Compton. So, having established that the murder weapon was recovered from the 36A bus, what were you able to say about the used cartridge cases?"

"Ordinarily, it is difficult to link a cartridge casing to a specific gun, but in this instance it was clear from the recovered cases from the murder scene and from tests conducted in our lab' that the striking hammer on this particular gun left microscopic marks that were unique to this gun." "Why was that?" asked the judge.

"My Lord, in this particular gun, there is a small defect on the striking surface of the hammer; this defect leaves a feint impression on the surface of the casing rim. This is only visible under the microscope, but is as unique as the rifling. Comparison between the different cartridge cases found at the murder scene, the _Verona Hotel_ and from testing the gun in the lab', prove indisputably that all were fired from the same gun."

"Thank you." said Ravensdale, though he had asked the question for the jury's benefit rather than his own.

"So, just to clarify, Dr Compton, the cartridge cases found in Room 26 of the _Verona Hotel_ were from the murder weapon?"

"Yes – undoubtedly."

Carmichael turned to address the jury: "Members of the jury, may I remind you that the accused, Arthur Jameson, occupied Room 26 of the _Verona Hotel_ on the night of 29th of July last year, the day prior to the commencement of the crime. What is more, no one else had used that room for almost two weeks prior to that and no one since the 29th of July until the two cartridge cases were discovered on the 9th of August – or in fact, at all since. Given that those cartridge cases have been irrefutably linked to the murder weapon and that the accused openly admits to having stayed at the _Verona_ on the night of the 29th of July, albeit under a false name, it must be concluded that it would be highly unlikely that anyone other than the accused could have placed them there. Also, given that everyone else identified as staying at the _Verona Hotel_ during July has been eliminated from the police enquiries, we can be left with only one conclusion: that Arthur Jameson left those cartridge cases at the Hotel the night before committing the atrocious crimes of the 30th and 31st of July." Carmichael bowed to the judge and sat back down with considerable satisfaction.

There was a short pause before Ravensdale said, a little expectantly: "Your witness, Mr Norcroft."

"Thank you, my Lord... Dr Compton, how many cartridge cases were located at the crime scene and subsequently supplied for analysis?"

"Er, inventory isn't really my responsibility."

"I see. Well, let me enlighten you in this regard: the laboratory records indicate that five cases were supplied between the 31st of July and the 2nd of August, which tally's with the police evidence collection record."

"That sounds correct." noted the doctor.

"Yes, that is not in question. Now, when the gun was recovered from the bus – also on the 2nd of August – were there any cases left in the gun?"

"Er, to my knowledge, no. The gun would appear to have been emptied of spent cartridges."

"Yes, which again tally's with the police records. Now, moving on to the cases found at the _Verona Hotel_ : two were discovered on the 9th of August, although this was not reported to the police until the 11th; these were booked into the lab' on the 11th. When were all of the analyses of these items completed?"

"Er, I can't recall, exactly...But, I would say in mid-to-late October."

"The laboratory evidence log indicates that 'all' cartridge cases were returned to police evidence at Scotland Yard on the 18th of October – which was a Monday, for the record. Now, members of the jury, your attention should be drawn to the term 'all'. The log does not actually state the number." Norcroft passed the inventory to the court usher, "If the jury could be allowed to inspect the log, my Lord?"

"By all means. Bring it to me afterwards, Usher." instructed Ravensdale.

"I now wish to refer to the police evidence log for the 18th of October, which states that _five_ cartridge cases were booked-in. If my calculations are correct, I believe that five, from the murder scene, and two, from the hotel, makes _seven_." Norcroft now passed the police log to the court usher to hand to the jury. "Correct me, if I'm wrong, but doesn't seven minus five equal two? In other words, two cartridge cases seem to have been misplaced between the period in August when they were all supplied to the lab' and the 18th of October, when they were returned to police custody... I would suggest that the two 'missing' cartridge cases are in fact the ones found at the _Verona Hotel_ and that the forensic lab' only ever received a total of five."

"My Lord, my learned friend seems to be adding five and two and getting five: I am unclear as to what he is inferring?" complained Carmichael.

"What are you inferring, Mr Norcroft?" asked the judge with tone of caution.

"My Lord, I am inferring that someone planted the cartridge cases at the _Verona Hotel_." stated Norcroft unperturbed and intransigent in his intimation.

Carmichael could not get to his feet quick enough: "My Lord, my learned friend would appear to be casting aspersions upon the Metropolitan police?" he complained emphatically.

"Indeed." agreed the judge, "Unless you have some proof to justify such an accusation, you will withdraw it immediately."

"I do not, my Lord, and I withdraw the comment without reservation." appeased Norcroft, though of course, the damage was done.

"So you should. I will have no more chicanery of this sort, Mr Norcroft. The jury will disregard the defence allegation... Mr Recorder, please omit that from the court record. Now, Mr Norcroft, unless you have any questions for which you can substantiate the necessity?"

"No, my Lord."

"Dr Compton, you may step down." instructed Ravensdale grumpily; Compton meanwhile was completely nonplussed.

"I suggest an interval to allow the learned defence counsel time to reflect upon their conduct. There will be a twenty minute adjournment... I will see you in my chambers, Mr Norcroft." ordered Ravensdale ominously.

Miles Norcroft stood like a naughty public school boy in front of his headmaster, with hands clasped behind his back. The judge was ignoring him, making notes, just for the sake of heightening the tension that hung punishingly in the air.

"Well, Mr Norcroft..." The judge finally addressed him. "You seem to be hell-bent on making an impression; unfortunately, this time it is a highly discordant one. Any more antics of such a dissonant nature and it will be my unpalatable duty to report you to the Bar for disciplinary action – do you understand, Mr Norcroft?"

"I do my Lordship, and I thank you for your admonition."

"Hmm. You are a promising barrister, young Norcroft; don't tarnish your flourishing career by resorting to Americanized heroics – we don't stand for that sort of thing at the Bailey..." The judge paused for a moment. "That said, I did see your point: there is something decidedly fishy about the activities of the _Verona Hotel_. But never point the finger at the boys in blue without hard evidence; even then, you should be very careful. Be warned dear boy, mud rarely sticks to the Met' boys."

"I appreciate your Lordship's advice." acknowledged Norcroft with a subtle bow of the head.

"I believe you are pursuing an admirable defence of Mr Jameson; the jury are practically lapping it up. You'll have them purring before your done – so don't spoil it. Old Carmichael is commanding a sinking ship; if he takes on much more water, he'll be blowing bubbles." quipped Ravensdale, which brought a conceited smile to Norcroft's lips.

Norcroft retook his position in court; Carmichael gave him a stern glance of disapproval and presumed that Norcroft had been thoroughly knocked down to size.

"If you would care to resume the proceedings, Mr Carmichael." prompted Ravensdale once settled back into his chair.

"Yes, my Lord... I call Detective Superintendent Ackroyd." announced Carmichael confidently, knowing that Ackroyd would give at least as good as he got, and that while [he believed] Norcroft was still licking his wounds, would be the perfect time to inflict the Superintendent upon him.

Roger Ackroyd had kept himself fully apprised of the events of the case over the last week and knew that his performance would be critical to the prosecution's impetus – and he did not intend to fail them. He stood proudly in full uniform, ready to do battle.

"Superintendent, would you please tell the court how Arthur Jameson became the suspect in your enquiry into this heinous crime?"

"The discovery of the cartridge cases at the _Verona Hotel_ was the critical evidence that led us to Arthur Jameson. Only he could have left those cartridge cases in that room, just a matter of hours before committing the pre-meditated crime." Norcroft was about to get up, when Carmichael asked the very question he was about to:

"Why do you believe this to be a _pre-meditated_ crime?"

"In my thirty-one years of service to the force, one gets a nose for these things. Cherrydean is a back-end of nowhere village, which few people happen across by accident. However, this is not Jameson's usual area of activity – he much prefers the affluent suburbs. I can see no practical reason why Jameson would have been at that spot at that time, unless he had been planning it."

"This is not his usual _modus operandi_ , though, is it?" submitted Carmichael, again taking the words out of Norcroft's aghast mouth.

"No. Jameson is a thief by nature; his record is testament to that."

"So, why would this common thief turn to abduction, rape and murder?" Carmichael continued to steal Norcroft's fire.

"It's hard to say, but the prison medical records do indicate certain traits that might materialize themselves in this way."

"Yes, the medical records to which you refer are exhibits 120 and 121. Two doctor's reports: the first from November 1961, during a spell in Camp Hill, the other from October 1963, during a spell in Strangeways. The doctor at Camp Hill described Jameson as 'mentally sub-normal, demonstrating psychotic behaviour, with delusions of grandeur'; the doctor at Strangeways described him as a 'potential psychopath, with hysterical tendencies'. This clearly sounds like a man capable of murder."

Norcroft finally got the opportunity to interrupt: "My Lord, these reports are the work of _non_ -specialist medical doctors and not that of a trained psychologist. My client was examined by Mr Stephenson, who is a Clinical Psychologist at the Maudsley Hospital and a Fellow of King's College London. In his expert capacity he found Arthur Jameson to be 'of sound mind, memory and understanding' and, therefore, fit to stand trial – Exhibit 97." Norcroft sat down feeling that he had satisfactorily scotched that particular incrimination.

"My learned friend is correct in his declaration, but many a madman has managed to fool the authorities into believing they were sane, when they quite plainly were not. There would seem to be little point in doing the opposite whilst already incarcerated, however." asserted Carmichael.

"My Lord, I stand by the assessment pronounced by the amply qualified Mr Stephenson." countered Norcroft.

Ravensdale settled the argument: "I think we shall accept the judgements of the various medical gentlemen upon their own individual merits, Mr Norcroft; Mr Carmichael. Please continue."

Carmichael continued his devil's advocate method of prompting Ackroyd: "Superintendent, the accused has provided an alibi which apparently places him in Rhyl at the time of the crime: why then was he ever indicted?"

"This Rhyl alibi, as the court is aware, is a late revision to Jameson's original claim of being in Liverpool, both of which I would suggest are subterfuge – fake alibis to be blunt." proffered Ackroyd with conviction.

"What makes you believe that?"

"It seems to me that Jameson probably went to Liverpool on a previous occasion – very likely the previous day, the 29th of July – as deliberate ploy to create a false alibi. Witnesses are invariably unsure of precise dates when recalling events that occurred months earlier and which they were not expecting to have to remember; Jameson would know that."

"My Lord, we still have not established why my client went from ordinary thief to a sadistic, sexually motivated murderer, overnight." contended Norcroft.

"Do you want to answer that?" guided Ravensdale, addressing Ackroyd.

"Well, that's impossible to know for sure, but I believe Jameson was tired of being a _nobody_ and wanted to make a name for himself. Once he acquired a gun, it was just a case of dreaming up some nasty form of entertainment."

"This is pure hearsay, my Lord." interjected Norcroft, "I see no justification for supposing such a fanciful sequence of behaviour."

"Mr Carmichael?" prompted Ravensdale, "Do you have any causal evidence?"

"Not as such, my Lord, but if I may be allowed, I think it can be demonstrated that there was a momentum to this crime."

"Please go on." instructed Ravensdale with intrigue.

"Superintendent, Miss Fable has testified that she and Mr Mason attended a public house prior to driving to Cherrydean, and that they had done this several times in the weeks leading up to the 30th of July: is there any evidence that Jameson had been stalking the couple?"

"Er, I believe there is. The landlord and bar staff at the _Bowman Arms_ in Tapton, have made statements indicating that they were aware of a man fitting Jameson's description present on a least one occasion prior to 30th of July, who appeared to be watching the couple and left shortly after they did. I believe he was following them to establish an opportunity to initiate his crime – a suitably secluded place, like a field entrance in Cherrydean."

"How exactly was he supposed to have got to Cherrydean – no car was recovered nearby?" queried Norcroft.

"I don't know... Perhaps he had a bicycle." suggested Ackroyd.

"I think my client would have to be a yellow-jersey to have been capable of catching them up, don't you?" "I agree that is a mystery, but the gunman – Jameson or not – did get there." reminded Ackroyd.

Norcroft remained impassive: "Jameson, or not...? I believe we established earlier that the man in the pub was _not_ the accused." noted Norcroft pointedly.

"Thank you, Superintendent, for pointing that out." cited Carmichael with vigour (and chose to ignore Norcroft), "Let us return to the morning of the 30th of July. The defendant has admitted in his statement to being at the _Verona_ and travelling by bus to Paddington Station. How does that conflict with his alibi?"

"Trains do not run to Liverpool from Paddington Station." Ackroyd declared with satisfaction.

"Indeed; members of the jury, Jameson would have needed to go to Euston in order to catch a train to Liverpool... Now, turning to Miss Fable's identification of Arthur Jameson in the line-up of the 26th of August: what was your impression of her attitude towards that difficult task?"

"She was determined not to make any mistake; she wanted to be certain before she made her identification."

"And were you satisfied that she made a clear and decisive choice?"

"Yes, she handled it impeccably."

Carmichael sighed as Norcroft rose to his feet: "What colour was the accused's hair at that line-up?"

"Er, I think it was dyed reddish-brown." recalled Ackroyd and braced himself for what he knew Norcroft was leading to.

"Did any of the other men in the line-up have that colour hair, Superintendent?" Norcroft challenged.

Ackroyd took a deep breath and restrained his irritation: "No...But, considering the fact that he had dark brown or black hair at the time of committing the crime, it would seem to me that his hair colour that day was as much an advantage as it was a disadvantage – they effectively cancelled each other out."

Norcroft did not choose to pursue the point. Carmichael recommenced his examination:

"What was Jameson's reaction when he was picked out?"

"He was visibly shaken. In my professional opinion, he looked like a guilty man in shock at being caught, rather than an innocent man bewildered. He struck me as resigned to it."

"Now, we know from his statement that he denied any involvement in this crime, but could not provide a verifiable alibi – is that correct?"

"Yes, his claim was to have been in Liverpool, staying with some villains, who he was afraid to name." "Did that seem plausible?"

"I can't say that it wasn't possible, but an un-provable alibi is worthless. This later alibi seems to me an after-thought, invented out of desperation. Why not just tell us that story from the outset?"

"Why not indeed, members of the jury; I would suggest because he had not yet dreamt it up."

Norcroft inevitably interrupted: "My Lord, my client had visited Liverpool on a number of occasions around that time and his recollection of events was a little confused. He honestly..." – Carmichael made a muffled scoffing sound – "he honestly wanted to tell the truth; unfortunately, what he believed was the truth at that time, was not helpful. The court will hear witness evidence that corroborates my client's alibi during the defence case."

"My Lord, I am sure that the court is waiting with bated breath for _that_." Carmichael sneered.

"Mr Carmichael!" chastised the judge.

"My Lord." Carmichael bowed to the judge's authority, "Superintendent, you were able to persuade, were you not, a number of Jameson's closest friends to give evidence against him – was this a difficult process?"

"No, not at all. Most volunteered; others were easily won over, once they heard the details of the crime and the weight of evidence against him."

"That, I think, is in dispute." contended Norcroft.

"If you say so." argued Ackroyd derisively.

"I do, my Lord." added Norcroft, with a nod to the judge in contempt to Ackroyd.

"Can we curb the bickering, please." groaned Ravensdale, "Please continue, Mr Carmichael."

"Thank you, my Lord. Superintendent, what was your impression of Miss Fable's account of the events of the 30th and

31st of July?"

"She was remarkably articulate; she remembered a great deal of detail, right from the earliest interviews."

"So, you would regard Miss Fable's evidence as highly credible?"

"Yes, I would. In my experience, she represents a particularly lucid and accurate witness, despite her dreadful suffering."

"Thank you, Superintendent Ackroyd, you have been most obliging. If you would remain, I believe my learned friend may have some questions." Carmichael turned to Norcroft with a sickly smile.

"Yes, I certainly do." agreed Norcroft, "Superintendent, my client, Arthur Jameson, was not your only suspect, was he?"

"We did have another suspect, early on, but he was subsequently exonerated."

"By which you mean that Miss Fable was unable to pick him from a line-up?" "Principally: yes."

"In fact, on that occasion, Miss Fable picked out a completely innocent volunteer, didn't she?"

Ackroyd bristled, struggling to contain his indignation: "This was quite soon after the events: she was understandably still in shock, finding it difficult. She was desperate to help us catch this man; erroneous, but understandable, I think."

Norcroft looked unconvinced and shuffled through his notes: "It wasn't that soon after, Superintendent: the 17th of

August – well over two weeks."

"True, but she'd had her leg amputated only a week before." growled Ackroyd.

"A week...? Um, the 6th, in fact..."

"My Lord, I must protest." beseeched the incensed Carmichael, "My learned friend would seem to be determined to diminish the extent of the victim's injuries and suffering."

"Hmm, I quite agree. Move on, Mr Norcroft."

"As your Lordship pleases... For the record, my client's identity parade took place on the 26th of August.

Superintendent, what led you to the _Verona Hotel_?"

"Well, initially, our original suspect. Obviously, the discovery of the cartridge cases was the key lead. The fact that our other suspect had stayed at the same hotel was purely coincidental."

"Coincidental? It was, I remind you, the day after my client's stay – the day of the crime..."

"Yes, which is how we know that man could not possibly have been the gunman." said Ackroyd in a superior tone.

Norcroft paused and smiled rather unnervingly: "I'm so glad you mentioned that, Superintendent. The witness who supplied that evidence was Derick Jacobsen, wasn't it?" "Yes." conceded Ackroyd with suppressed fury.

"Yes, Derick Jacobsen: the man of a thousand statements." mocked Norcroft, much to the amusement of the public gallery and even a few of the jury. An inflamed Ravensdale was poised to castigate Norcroft, but he immediately apologised and withdrew the comment, which just about appeased the judge, while the court usher ordered 'silence in court' before the merriment had any chance to amplify. "How many statements did Derick Jameson and his 'wife' produce?"

"Three...Though the third was much as the first."

"Yes, three; plus the one in court... Let us consider Jacobsen's first statement: no mention of my client and an alibi for your original suspect – correct?"

"At that stage, Jameson was not in the frame. In fact, he was only known as 'A. Johnson' of a false address – at that stage."

"Very true, Superintendent. Soon after, this other suspect became the primary target of your investigation, and _conveniently_ , Jacobsen changed his statement, thereby denying him an alibi... Then, when he was cleared and my client became 'enemy number one', Jacobsen conveniently changed his statement again, didn't he?" "He has a few memory problems." accepted Ackroyd.

"Yes, that's one way of putting it... The problem is that Jacobsen's third statement makes it impossible for the accused to have been in Liverpool on the 29th of July, as the prosecution seems to want to suggest, and _conveniently_ , hey presto, Jacobsen changes his mind, again, to accommodate that little theory. Don't you find that odd; and don't you think it is odd that the hotel register has been altered?"

Carmichael finally got his chance: "My Lord, there is no proof of that."

"The jury will ignore that remark." instructed Ravensdale, adding: "Watch your step, Mr Norcroft."

"My Lordship is most gracious..." Norcroft was compelled to grovel. "How exactly did you identify 'A. Johnson' as my client, Arthur Jameson?"

"We had information that Jameson used that alias."

"What information, Superintendent?"

"Er, it was anonymous."

"I see: an anonymous informant?"

"An anonymous witness." corrected Ackroyd.

"The fact is, Superintendent that, up to that point, there was nothing to connect my client to this crime. Then, suddenly, cartridge cases appear in the room my client stayed in the night before the crime – convenient isn't it?"

"Not if he's guilty, it isn't – it's just a fatal mistake on his part." Ackroyd asserted, glancing at the jury with confidence.

"I'll have to beg to differ on that point." Norcroft tactfully retorted, "One last issue with the cartridge cases, Superintendent: the spent cartridge cases were left in the hotel room – rather casually, it has to be said – presumably on the morning of the 30th of July, prior to the crime? Isn't that odd? I mean, the gun hadn't been used at that stage, had it?"

"I don't know. He could have fired some practise shots. We don't know how long he'd had the gun." Ackroyd pointed out bluntly.

Norcroft paused momentarily before launching into his final attack: "Superintendent, if my client was in Liverpool on the Friday afternoon, as witnesses will confirm, then how could my client possibly have got back to the railway station in time to catch a train back to Euston, and then _somehow_ make his way to Cherrydean?" "I don't know – perhaps he flew." sneered Ackroyd in frustration.

"Flew...?" Norcroft made a theatrical display of incredulity to the court, before adding the quip: "I presume you mean, as in, _pigs might_...?" The courtroom erupted into uproarious laughter – even the Prosecution had to smile at that one. "Mr Norcroft, are you intent on bringing this court into disrepute." thundered the judge.

"Please forgive me, my Lordship... Superintendent, with all due respect to my client, do you really think he is the sort of person to charter a plane?" Jameson was simultaneously confused and offended by this comment.

"As far as I'm concerned, he was in Cherrydean at half past nine on the evening of the 30th of July. How he got there, and what he did before hand, is frankly irrelevant in regard to his guilt." responded Ackroyd firmly.

"Perhaps, perhaps. Or, _perhaps_ my client is, in fact, completely innocent. I have no more questions for this witness, my Lord." ended Norcroft abruptly, with intentional disrespect to the detective.

## Chapter Thirty-Three

## (14 January 1966)

**A** short adjournment was the inevitable conclusion to the Ackroyd altercation, which left time for just one more witness before lunch, that being Dr Jeremy Forsyth, the Surrey County Coroner, who took the stand looking as grumpy as ever... "Dr Forsyth, you examined the body in situ at the murder site?" started Carmichael.

"Correct." confirmed Forsyth a little fractiously.

"What were your conclusions?"

"The man was stone-dead – that much was obvious. I removed a sheet that some member of the public had placed over the body. Immediate examination revealed what appeared to be two large calibre gunshot wounds, probably fired at close range, though there was no evidence of residue; however, this was no doubt due to the fact that a bag was between the gun and man's chest, at the time of the shooting – as described by Miss Fable. The bullets had not passed through the body; I deduced that the shots were fired at a slight sideways angle to the chest, such that the bullets travelled through the cross-width of the body; this combined with the bag would likely account for the bullets remaining lodged in the victim's body."

"Would you say that death occurred more or less instantaneously?"

"From the superficial examination, I couldn't say for certain; but the location of the entry wounds suggested probable damage to the heart and lungs, which generally induces a rapid death."

"And what time did you estimate death to have occurred."

"Early hours of the morning of the 31st of July – consistent with Miss Fable's account." concluded Forsyth somewhat indifferently.

"Thank you Dr Forsyth. My Lord, I would be grateful if the jury could examine Exhibit 11, the crime scene photo's." Carmichael sat down to what was in effect a formality.

"Your witness, Mr Norcroft." needlessly reminded the judge, while Norcroft hesitated over his notes.

"My Lord." acknowledged Norcroft, "Dr Forsyth, you arranged the post-mortem, is that correct?" "Yes – that is my job."

"As you say 'that is your job'; why then did you fail to have the body formally identified prior to the post-mortem being conducted?"

Forsyth shuffled uncomfortably and looked suitably offended: "I was under the impression that identification had already taken place...By Miss Fable. I was unaware that they were not related – that nugget of information had failed to filter through."

"I see. So you are of the view that this error was due to the police being negligent?"

"Not exactly." snapped Forsyth, "There was simply a misunderstanding – it happens. I don't believe the victim's next of kin has made any complaint."

"No, Mrs Mason hasn't complained..."

"What exactly is your point, Mr Norcroft?" interrupted Ravensdale, slightly vexed.

"My Lord, I am merely demonstrating that this case was prone to police incompetence from the outset." "That'll be enough of that, Mr Norcroft." warned the judge sternly.

"My Lord." Norcroft conceded with a bow – but yet again, the boot had already been squarely put in.

Following the lunch-time adjournment, the prosecution wheeled in several medical doctors who had examined and assessed Vera's wounds on or soon after the 31st of July. They were swiftly succeeded by the pathologist who conducted the post-mortem of Gregg Mason's body, along with some more 'delightful' photographs. None of this testimony was in dispute, being presented purely for the purpose of reinforcing the gravity of the crime upon the jury. The defence had no interest in cross-examining any of these witnesses and so the afternoon session, and the first week of the trial, ended rather uneventfully.

Arthur returned to his cell in something of a huff and demanded to see Robeson before being shipped back to Brixton for the night. Robeson was rather loathed to see his client, guessing what the likely complaint would be; however, he had some positive news and needed to make a request of him, so agreed to see Arthur in an interview room with Joe Abercrombie (the chambers' clerk) in attendance, just in case there was any trouble.

"Hello, Arthur... The case is going well, isn't it?" cited Robeson appeasingly.

"Yeah, I s'pose it is." reluctantly conceded Arthur, "But what was that put down about?"

Robeson acted ignorant: "What put down?"

"What Norrey said about flyin'?"

"Oh, 'pigs might fly': yes, that put Ackroyd in his place, didn't it?"

"Eh? Wha'd'y'u mean?"

"Everyone was laughing at Ackroyd, Arthur – the joke was on him."

"Oh, right. I fought they were laughin' at me."

"Nooo. Norcroft scored big points with that one." assured Robeson; Joe nodded in agreement. "Was that all you wanted to see me about?"

"Well, no. I wondered if there was any news about Carol's baby?" Jameson adopted a fatherly stance.

"Er, not that we have been privy to... I could ask our prosecution friends whether they know anything, if you like?"

"Yeah, alright."

"Now, Arthur, I have some good news: our friend John Leggett wants to interview you for an article; it would be a chance for you to give your side of the story. The Guardian newspaper is keen to publish such an article."

"Wha's that then, some toffs' paper?" Robeson and Abercrombie both laughed.

"It's er, what you might call, for the more discerning reader – intellectuals. It would be in your interest." explained Robeson.

"Yeah – okay." Arthur agreed, not entirely convinced.

Back at New Scotland Yard, DSupt Ackroyd was brooding over a large scotch in his office. DS Cambridge joined him before leaving for home.

"How did it go, boss?"

"Not great. I hate bloody smart Alec lawyers like Norcroft...He's shown up Jacobsen for the fool that he is, and he's managed to put doubt on all the key evidence... By the way, did you know that the _Verona_ guest book had been doctored?"

"Doctored?"

"Yes. Someone rubbed out the note against Jameson's entry. I imagine whoever did it, thought they were doing us a favour, but it looks highly suspect. You don't think Jacobsen could have done it, do you?"

Cambridge pulled an expression of sincere doubt: "He hasn't got the brains or the balls."

"Yeah, you're probably right; but if he didn't, one of us must have..." noted Ackroyd slightly accusingly.

"Now, now boss... I'll have a word, see if anyone wants to own up – but _I_ wouldn't."

"I'm worried about these cartridge cases, as well. Now I think about it, it all seems a bit sus'."

"I spoke to the boys in the lab': they say that no one from the met' could have got hold of them before they returned them..."

"No... Something's not right, though – I can smell it." Ackroyd looked genuinely concerned.

"Surely you don't think Jameson's innocent, do you?"

"No. No, I'm confident we got the right man. It's just _something_... I can't put my finger on it."

"You need a rest, sir. I'd have a few days off – you've surely earned that?"

"Yeah, you may be right, Teddy. I'll be glad when this is all over, sure enough."

Ackroyd wasn't the only one with worries on his mind. Richard and Mary Paris had a few serious problems of their own to consider. Their daughter – their only child – was now dead, as the result of an 'unfortunate accident', which they strongly suspected was an attempt to abort her baby, which couldn't have gone more wrong. They were left with a grandchild, a bouncing baby girl, who instantly demanded love and protection – the only descendant they would ever have. But it was very much a mixed blessing, because apart from the untimely death of their daughter, they now had a child to care for which they believed to be the product of an unlawful violation of their adored daughter. This in addition to their being shunned by their friends, associates, neighbours, even complete strangers, and branded 'grasses'. The pressure upon them was mounting exponentially, as they felt more and more isolated. They had taken to renting a room in Hornsey, (where they were not known,) using money they had stashed away for their retirement. Their whole world now revolved around a baby that they both cherished and simultaneously despised. For Mary, the mothering instinct had taken over and enabled her to block out most her more negative emotions, while Dickie was a nervous wreck and constantly blaming himself for this catastrophic turn of events. And just to add insult to injury, he would still be obliged to give evidence against Arthur.

Conversely, Anne Mason's life seemed to be on the up and up. She no longer had the stressful burden of an errant husband and now had found love with a new and decent man, Detective Sergeant Anthony Collins, who was conjointly proving to be a great surrogate dad to her children. Collins had no children of his own; his previous marriage had been a disaster. Now he had put his career on the line for Anne, something that she was deeply grateful for, and this convinced her that he was the real deal. Anne's brother, however, was less enthusiastic about this union; although he never made it known why, she was acutely aware of his opposition to it. Her parents, on the other hand, were delighted to welcome this respectable, yet down to earth, man of the law. Deep down, they were beginning to see this whole terrible episode as a blessing in disguise.

Arthur returned to Brixton Prison during his wing's association time and was immediately intercepted by Dave Stirling, one of his "wing mates":

"Hey, Arthur... You got a new cell mate."

"Yeah, the screw told me." affirmed Arthur, before sitting down with Dave in the association area of the cell block;

"What 'appened to Ferret?"

"Dunno... All a bit strange." started Dave while offering Arthur a puff of his roll-up, "I 'eard they'd transferred 'im to

Wandsworth. That's all anyone knows – weren't 'e due for trial at the Bailey soon?" "Yeah, tha's right – so why move 'im to Wandswoff?" Arthur was concerned.

"Dunno, but wait 'til you see y'u' knew cell mate." sniggered Dave.

"Why? Oo is it?" Arthur enquired cautiously.

"It's 'Sissy' Braithwaite." informed Dave with a provocative smirk.

"Oh, fuck." lamented Arthur.

"Don't worry, mate – 'e won't bum y'u unless y'u want 'im to." Dave was struggling to contain his mirth.

"If 'e comes near me, I'll rip 'is balls off."

"Bad choice o' words mate: bad choice o' words." noted Dave continuing his wind-up.

"S'pose I'd better see what the shit's done to the cell." groaned Arthur, before reluctantly climbing the stairwell to the landing where his cell was located. He pushed the door open tentatively to find the cell decorated with feminine adornments.

"Oh 'ello cell mate." Braithwaite effeminately welcomed him.

"Yeaah, 'ello Sissy." replied Arthur with undisguised malcontent.

"Don't worry Arfur: I won't bum y'u unless you want me to." Sissy assured him, and then added: "You don't want me to, do you?"

Arthur ignored the taunt and climbed on to his bunk: "Do you know why Ferret was moved?"

"Ferret? That disgusting article? Who cares – good riddance to bad rubbish, that's what I say."

"I fought 'is trial started next week."

"Dunno; don't care... Hey, Arthur: you don't fart at night, do you? Only my last cell mate used to stink the place out." "Not normally, no – but I'll make sure I do tonight." sneered Arthur.

"Oh, ha-ha. I'll just surround myself with perfume – I sha'n't even notice." scoffed Sissy. "I hear you've got a high-flyer for a brief... Lucky boy. You'll need 'im though, won't you?" "I've been stitched up." Arthur protested.

"Yeaah, course you 'ave, sweetie."

"Don't call me 'sweetie'." snarled Arthur, already weary of the new 'lodger'.

"I wouldn't dream of it...sweetie." Sissy sniggered and returned to his crotchet.

The Prosecution chambers were pretty peaceful. Carmichael was studiously examining the statements pertinent to the witnesses whom were due to appear in court on the Monday morning. Carmichael's temperament was one of singular frustration; thus far, Norcroft had successfully undermined almost all of the primary evidence _and_ he still had his witnesses to come; he also had his little psychology experiment still to run – the results of which could be anyone's guess. Nigel Granger QC (Head of Chambers) poked his head in the door of the office to say goodnight before leaving for a pleasant weekend at home, away from the legal fray.

"Still at it then, old man?" enquired Granger rhetorically.

"Oh, hello Nigel." replied Carmichael, lifting his head from the toil of testimony, "Yes, I'm afraid so. This Jameson case is a bally pain in the proverbial rear end."

"Not going awfully well, then?"

"I don't know; that wretched defence lawyer, Norcroft – do you know him?"

"Vaguely heard the name."

"The man has been causing me interminable discomfiture... The trouble is, we have a rather weak case, and he's quite justifiably unpicked every loose stitch in our sack cloth of a suit."

"How long before the defence starts?"

"Middle of next week... We have got one more shock for them, but I sense some aggressive cross-examination will ensue."

"Well, Ollie, I'm sure you'll get your chance to tear a strip off some of their witnesses." noted Nigel encouragingly.

"I'm going to need to if we're to have any hope of winning this."

"Don't take it personally, old boy, we can hardly be blamed for failing to make silk purses out of pig's ears. It's their job to provide us with the ammunition; one can't be expected to fight machine guns with a swagger stick, no matter how good an advocate you are."

"I appreciate your support Nigel. But one just hates losing a case like this... Perhaps the CPS could have brought it to court a bit sooner, before chappy concocted his alibi..."

"I blame Christmas." started Nigel reflectively, "Interrupts the course of judicial process for the sake of some hymns and a mince pie. Never been a fan, myself; Mrs Granger always goes overboard, of course. Takes months to remove all the glittery bits from the shag pile, you know?"

"Really, Nigel..." commented Carmichael with a hint of irritation – he was not particularly in the mood for chit chat.

"Well, dear boy, I'll leave you to your Herculean labours; I shall depart to my Olympia [which was code for The

Athenaeum Club]... Goodnight old chap."

"Goodnight Nigel."

Meanwhile, at the enemy encampment of Snow Hill Chambers there was a celebratory assemblage on account of the junior barrister (Miss Letheridge) having turned the grand age of 25 years. Champagne and hors d'oeuvre were the order of the day, as all the chambers' employees gathered to raise a glass to their promising new litigator.

Norcroft dinged his champagne flute with his gold-nib fountain pen and duly called the legal congregation to order:

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my cordial honour to wish our lovely Miss Letheridge a very happy 25th birthday. A quarter of a century spent in chambers would be a certain path to perdition..." "Here here." noted Stibbington, a veteran of thirty years.

"Thank you, George." Norcroft continued: "So, with that prospect ahead, let us all commemorate what can only have been a picnic in the park of life, thus far. To Miss Letheridge." Whereupon, following a momentary titter, they all raised their glasses in homage whilst repeating the tribute in cheerful unison

## Chapter Thirty-Four

## (17 January 1966)

**Monday** morning of week two of _Regina v Arthur Jameson_ began with the Prosecution calling John Albertini to the witness stand. He and another man (Donald Cripp) had observed the stolen _Singer Gazelle_ being driven erratically in the early hours of the morning of the 31st of July, not long before it was abandoned.

"...Mr Albertini, you were walking on your way to work with another man, Donald Cripp, on the morning of the 31st of July last year along Caroline Street, in Hammersmith?" prompted Carmichael.

"Yes."

"What time would this be?"

"About 5.30 – in the morning."

"For the jury's benefit: the car is estimated to have been parked at the bottom of Stevenage Road in Fulham sometime between 5.30 and 6 AM that morning...That is approximately five or so minutes' drive from the top of Fulham Place Road, at the junction with Caroline Street... Please go on, Mr Albertini."

"As we approached the Fulham Palace Road, we heard a car approaching at speed...Don ran across the road ahead of me, but I waited..."

"Don being Donald Cripp?"

"Yes... A dark coloured car – green I think – screeched past and turned into the Palace Road. I noted the number plate started 'KGV' and there was an AA badge on the bumper; also, a sticker in the back window – I only caught the word 'Auto'."

Carmichael again interrupted in order to instruct the jury: "The Mason car was dark green, licence plate KGV 88C and was further distinguishable by an AA badge on the bumper and a sticker in the back window bearing the 'Maidenhead Auto Club' insignia... Please go on Mr Albertini."

"Y'u don't see too many cars at that time, 'specially not driving at that speed. As it passed me on the corner, I caught a glimpse of the driver."

"Yes and the record shows that your description matches that of the accused. You also later picked out the accused from a line-up. Do you see that man in court today?"

"Yes, in the dock."

"Thank you Mr Albertini. No more questions my Lord." "Mr Norcroft?" enquired the judge.

"My Lord." acknowledged Norcroft rising to his feet. "Mr Albertini, I don't doubt your veracity, but in regard to the line-up identification, may I ask, had you seen newspapers displaying Miss Fable's identikit picture prior to that identification?"

Albertini was momentarily agitated, glancing at the judge for mystical guidance, to which Ravensdale instructed him to answer truthfully.

"Er, well, yes – I suppose I did." he eventually conceded.

"That's all, my Lord." Norcroft informed the judge with satisfaction.

The next witness was swiftly wheeled in, that being John Albertini's work colleague, Donald Cripp, who gave a more or less identical description of the event. Norcroft stood confidently to begin his cross-examination:

"Mr Cripp, may I ask how you were able to get a view of the driver of the vehicle from the left-hand side of the street?" "Well, the car came straight past me." Cripp grinned and glanced around the courtroom somewhat arrogantly. "Yes, but the driver would have been on the right-hand side of the car: how could you have got a clear view?" "Well...I caught sight of 'im as 'e turned into Fulham Palace Road." said Cripp with an air of self-evidence.

"I see... According to your colleague's statement, your back was turned to the car as it turned – you only viewed it from the side and rear, didn't you?"

"No. That's wrong. I saw 'is face."

"You saw his face? If that were true, you would have got a closer view than Mr Albertini, wouldn't you?" "Well, yeah."

"So, Mr Cripp, why did you fail to pick anyone from the line-up that you attended?"

"I don't know." stated Cripp blandly.

"You don't know? Mr Cripp, a man's freedom and reputation are at stake here, and you 'don't know'?" Norcroft stare harshly at Cripp, who was now shuffling uncomfortably. The judge's eyes were also now burning into the back of his head, as he looked helplessly at the gallery.

"Answer the question Mr Cripp." demanded Ravensdale.

"I can't, sir...my Lord. I just didn't."

"Indeed. Are you just trying to get in on the act, Mr Cripp?" asked Norcroft accusatively, which raised a titter from the gallery.

"No sir... I've told y'u what I saw. That's it."

"Really, Mr Cripp? No more questions my Lord." Norcroft almost snarled as he sat down.

The next three witnesses observed the car at distance and were only able to place it at a given location at an approximate time, all of which was consistent with what was believed to be the gunman's route, therefore, Norcroft did not bother to cross-examine any of these witnesses. The final witness of the morning was Ronald Palmer, the attendant at the petrol station in Ripley (on the A3), a spotty man of twenty-one years of age, who wore NHS spectacles.

"Mr Palmer, you were on duty on the night of 31st July and about to close-up, when a vehicle arrived; would you please describe those events." instructed Carmichael.

"Yes. A _Singer_ – _Gazelle_ , I think – pulled up just as I was about to close: that was midnight."

"Did you observe the occupants?"

"Yes. A woman was in the passenger seat and a middle-aged bloke was drivin'. There was a younger bloke in the back of the car – he looked out at me; a bit threatenin'."

"What do you mean by 'threatening'?" pressed Carmichael.

"A hard stare, like 'e was threatenin' me. Then he sat back and I couldn't see 'im anymore." "So, it was fleeting?" interjected Norcroft.

"Yes, but I got a good look at 'im." Palmer affirmed.

"Can you see that man in court today?" asked Carmichael.

"Yes. It's him." Palmer turned and pointed at Arthur, who looked decidedly shocked and confused.

"Thank you, Mr Palmer. No more questions my Lord." Carmichael sat down, notably pensive.

Norcroft quickly rose and smiled obnoxiously at Palmer, which had the desired effect of unnerving the young witness.

"Mr Palmer, did you note the number plate of this vehicle?"

"No. It didn't seem suspicious."

"Can you be sure that it was even green?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"And you think it was a _Singer_? Not a _Humber_ , perhaps? Or a _Hillman_?"

"Yeah...I think it was a _Singer_."

"Did you get a good look at the driver?"

"Not really – I wasn't payin' that much attention."

"But you vividly recall the passenger in the back?"

"Yeah. Well, like I said, 'e gave me a hard look."

"The thing is Mr Palmer," started Norcroft leaning down on the bench and smiling creepily, again, "Miss Fable has no recollection of stopping at your garage...and has clearly stated that they had filled-up at Esher: so, why would they need to stop at Ripley?"

"I don't know." sniffed Palmer – he was looking a little hot at this point.

"It doesn't seem very likely, does it?" insisted Norcroft forcefully.

"Well," stuttered Palmer, now overtly anxious, "I don't know."

"Are you sure that this wasn't some other car? Or, perhaps, you were tired – dreaming? Or, didn't have your glasses on?"

"Mr Norcroft..." subtly warned the judge.

Norcroft continued unperturbed: "Did you hope to gain some popularity from your involvement in this case?" "No."

"Are you sure...? Are you sure there was a car at all?" demanded Norcroft.

"My Lord, I must object..." started Carmichael.

"Yes, yes. Stop barracking the witness, Mr Norcroft."

"My Lord, I am merely attempting to establish whether this witness has any credibility whatsoever."

The judge turned to face the witness: "Mr Palmer, remember you are under oath; perjury is a serious offence."

"May be it wasn't the same car." Palmer finally conceded, now desperate to escape from public scrutiny. Carmichael fell back into his seat and sighed heavily.

"No more questions, my Lord." stated Norcroft casually whilst restraining a grateful smirk.

During the lunchtime interval, Norcroft noticed that a new witness had been slyly added to the Prosecution's schedule, apparently in attempt to wrong foot the Defence; this was highly suspicious. Norcroft at once abandoned his smoked salmon salad and ran from the cafeteria to the nearest public telephone, whereupon he called his stalwart PI, Robi Parmer, to instruct his immediate enquiry into the mysterious Eric Whittley.

The afternoon session was predisposed to be emotionally charged, with the belated, but inescapable appearance of Dickie Paris for the prosecution. Originally, all three of the Paris family were to give evidence, but under the unfortunate circumstances it was decided that only Dickie would take the stand, as Mary's evidence would not have augmented the case, being essentially only supportive of Dickie's testimony. No one in the courtroom was tenser than the man in the dock.

"...Richard Paris, you have been a friend and associate of the accused since 1959, when you met during a mutual spell in Wormwood Scrubs – is that correct?" asked Carmichael.

"Yeah. We've been chummy for about free years, since teamin'-up on the outside."

"So, would you say that you know the accused – and his activities – pretty well?"

"Yeah – as well as anyone."

"What were the accused's primary interests in life?"

"Apart from nickin', y'u mean?" Dickie responded in a strangely detached moment of hypocrisy. The comment induced a titter in the public gallery.

"Criminal activity, I presume, would be his main source of income?"

"Yeah. 'Ousebreakin', nickin' cars – that sort a fing. 'E liked to gamble a fair bit..." "What sort of gambling are we talking about?" pressed Carmichael.

"'Orses, mainly... 'E 'ad a reg'lar place in a poker game, or two. Casinos." "A lot of this would be illegal in nature, would it?" "Er, yeah." affirmed Dickie.

"Did he have any _non-profit_ interests?" Carmichael enquired with a sceptical tone.

"Not many...Women, of course. Cars."

"Any woman in particular?" asked Carmichael in a deliberately ambiguous manner.

"There were one...or two." Dickie noticeably gritted his teeth and glared at the dock; Arthur just shrank back in his seat in a futile bid to hide from Dickie's demonstrative fury.

"Would you care to embellish that remark, Mr Paris?" encouraged Carmichael – he was seeking ammunition with which to assassinate Arthur's character.

"There was one pa'tic'lar whore, yes."

"Do you mean a prostitute, Mr Paris?"

"Yeah, a prozzer... There was one 'e liked to see reg'la'."

"What about girlfriends?"

"Diff'rent one every week; plus, one steady bird."

"It sounds as though Mr Jameson is something of a rake, when it comes to women?" noted Carmichael, essentially addressing the jury; Dickie, being a little unsure what he meant, just made an expression that conveyed general agreement. "Now, I would like to move on to some conversations you had with the accused during the months prior to the crime...

Let's begin with a conversation relating to a gun, that you had with Arthur Jameson in mid-May 1965."

"Er, yeah. Arfur said 'e was int'rested in gettin' a gun."

"I see. Did he explain why?"

"Not really. I fink 'e just fancied feelin' big – y'u know?"

Carmichael paused briefly, aware of Norcroft shuffling in his seat as he dithered over whether to object; he decided not to – Carmichael, therefore, was condoned to continue:

"And did he obtain a gun, do you know, Mr Paris?"

"Well, I can' say for sure, but 'e made inquiries, like."

"Enquiries?"

"We, er, met some geezers I know...oo do armed robb'ries an' stuff." admitted Dickie with obvious discomfort.

"Armed robbers?" declared Carmichael with feigned outrage, "Was Jameson considering moving up the criminal career ladder?"

"Possibly. 'E was def'nately showin' int'rest."

Norcroft finally felt compelled to interject: "Did Arthur, to your knowledge, ever acquire a firearm?"

Dickie shifted uneasily: "Well...no, not that I know of."

Carmichael decided to change tack: "Let's move on to another conversation you had with the accused during June

1965: I believe he made reference to hiding booty on buses – is that correct?"

"Booty...? Oh, yeah, tha's right: 'e reckoned the back seat of a bus was a good place to 'ide stuff. 'E said that there's a, like, space be'ind; underneaf, or somefin'."

Carmichael turned to address the jury, whilst holding aloft a thick wad of papers: "The members of the jury should note that within Jameson's _extensive_ statements, he was questioned on this point and admitted to having this conversation, and in fact, also the one relating to obtaining a gun... Now, Mr Paris, if we could move forward to the end of July, last year... Earlier you mentioned a 'steady girlfriend': where did this steady girlfriend live?"

"Paddin'ton area. Don' know exactly."

"Paddington. Paddington, members of the jury is where Jameson said he was going on the morning of the 30th of July, when he was given directions, by Mr Jacobsen, to catch a number 36 bus. You will recall that the gun was discovered on the 36A bus – which is a parallel route. Also, worth noting, is that both of those buses pass through the Soho area, where the accused is predominantly associated. Mr Paris lives in that general area... Mr Paris, were you aware of Jameson's purpose for staying in Maida Vale on the 29th?"

"Well, 'e told me 'e was takin' out some bird."

"This is someone else, not the 'steady' girlfriend?"

"Yeah: 'e cheated on 'er all the time." Dickie revealed somewhat superfluously.

"Indeed." agreed Carmichael with glee at embellishing that particular point. "Why did he stay at the _Verona Hotel_?"

"'E told me that 'e booked the room earlier in the day, 'oping to get off with this bird."

"'Get off' I presume means, have sexual relations?"

"Yeah, tha's it."

"And did he?"

"Nah, she weren't up f'r it."

Norcroft leapt to his feet: "So, my client was hoping for _consensual_ sex, wasn't he?" "Yeah – I s'pose." conceded Dickie with a note of reluctance.

"Thank you, Mr Norcroft..." stated Carmichael ingenuously, "Mr Paris: so am I right in believing that he had arranged a date with _a stranger_ in the hope of securing some sexual gratification?"

Dickie considered this for a moment and when he had decoded it, said: "Yeah, tha's right."

Norcroft was now tiring of this line of questioning: "My Lord, I fail to see what relevance any of this has to the crime my client is accused of?"

Carmichael was immediately on the defensive: "My Lord, I am merely establishing a pattern of behaviour and the degenerate moral attitudes of the accused – I believe that is relevant to this case."

"I agree, Mr Carmichael, please continue." overruled Ravensdale; Norcroft stewed quietly.

"When did the conversations relating to this _date_ , take place?"

"On the Wen'sday, the 29th. Arfur came 'roun' to our flat, like 'e oft'n did."

Much to Carmichael's exasperation, Norcroft again jumped to his feet: "What time did the accused leave your flat on the 29th?"

"After dinner – about seven." disclosed Dickie.

"Thank you." said Norcroft appreciatively; Carmichael, being focused on establishing Arthur's psychological disposition, overlooked the significance of this admission and was momentarily derailed.

"...Er, Mr Paris, returning to the 29th: what else did Arthur talk about that day?"

"'E was goin' on about goin' down Liverpool to flog some watches, or summit."

"Did he say when he planned to do this?"

"...Er, sorry, that was the day before." Dickie rather clumsily corrected himself – and Carmichael.

"Ah, yes, my apologies my Lord, members of the jury: this was on the 28th of July."

Norcroft's eyes narrowed as he scratched his head under his wig, suspecting that there had been some coaching. Carmichael looked decidedly shifty and avoided eye contact with Ravensdale, who suspicions were also raised. But it would have been against etiquette to suggest that the learned Prosecution might be guilty of colluding with their witness to pervert the course of justice: the benefit of the doubt being the order of the day.

Carmichael regained his composure and continued: "Mr Paris, did the accused have an association with Liverpool?"

"Yeah: 'e did some time up there an' made a few contacts; fences, mainly."

"For the benefit of the jury: Mr Jameson had a spell in Walton Prison, in Liverpool. _Fences_ are people who buy and trade in stolen property..." Carmichael again lost his thread momentarily, "Um, Mr Paris, we have heard earlier in the evidence that Jameson never wore gloves when pursuing his criminal activities: that isn't in itself contested, but is there reason to think that Jameson may have changed his approach in the weeks leading up to the end of July?"

"I kept tellin' 'im to wear gloves – I think it was gettin' frew by then..."

Norcroft interrupted: "Do you know for certain that the accused started wearing gloves prior to the 31st of July last year?"

Dickie took a deep breath: "Well...no."

Carmichael was now beginning to lose the whole thrust of his attack on Jameson, and having exhausted his magazine of circumstantial rounds, he decided to tactically disengage. Now it was Norcroft's turn:

"Mr Paris, can you explain to the court the reason why you have chosen to give Queen's evidence against your friend?" "Former friend." Dickie corrected Norcroft acerbically.

"I note some animosity in your tone, Mr Paris."

"I don' approve of killin' innocent people, or rapin'."

"I see...That's very commendable of you, Mr Paris, considering your background." sniped Norcroft; Dickie was visibly perturbed by this remark, "It isn't exactly blameless, is it?"

"I know I a'n't been no model citizen, but there's a world o' difference between me an' 'im." Dickie pointedly argued.

"Perhaps, but you've inflicted your own fair share of hurt on others, haven't you...?"

Carmichael interrupted in a bid to rescue his witness: "My Lord, how is this relevant to the accused?" "Mr Norcroft, can you explain?" requested the judge with intrigue.

"Certainly, my Lord: I am attempting to demonstrate that this witness is far from honest and decent, himself, and has a lot to lose if the police took it upon themselves to investigate him."

"I think I see where this is leading – please move on, Mr Norcroft." instructed Ravensdale knowingly.

"As his Lordship pleases... Mr Paris, and remember you are on oath, have you ever known the accused to be needlessly violent or aggressive?"

"No. That don' prove anyfin', does it?" Dickie complained and glanced at Arthur, who looked openly saddened by his former friends' betrayal.

Norcroft decided to change tack: "You mention that my client had a _steady_ girlfriend – how would you describe her?"

"I never met 'er."

"Well, how did Arthur speak of her?"

"I got the impression she was respectable."

"A _nice girl_ , then? Virtuous, would you say?"

"'E weren' gettin' any from 'er, if tha's what y'u mean?"

"'Gettin' any'? A delightful expression, Mr Paris, which I presume refers to sexual relations?"

"Yeah: 'e moaned about that sometimes."

"But, continued with the relationship, nonetheless?"

"Yeah – I dunno why."

"Perhaps he was more honourable than he gave you to believe, Mr Paris. Perhaps most of what he told you was just for the sake of 'bigging himself up'? Perhaps he was trying to impress _you_ – a notorious hard man."

"I don' fink so."

"May be, but you don't know so, _either_ , do you?" Norcroft contended; Dickie was somewhat muted by this. "I would suggest that there are hidden motives for the desertion of your good friend Arthur Jameson, aren't there?" Norcroft was digging for implication of self-interest, unaware of the full extent of that interest. Dickie, however, remained tight-lipped.

"Cat got your tongue?" goaded Norcroft – a member of the public sniggered rather loudly.

"I a'n't got nuffin' else t'say." Dickie calmly announced.

"Have you quite finished, Mr Norcroft?" intervened Ravensdale, who was now tiring of this direction of questioning.

Norcroft stare rather disapprovingly at Dickie for a moment before signalling the end of his cross-examination. Dickie gave Arthur one last hateful glance as he left the witness stand – something which did not escape the attention of many of the jurors.

The prosecution was brought to a close with the appearance of Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, whose primary purpose was to emphasize the callousness of the crime by recounting the appalling scene that she had stumbled across on the fateful morning of the 31st of July and the events leading up to the police arrival – which she did with considerable eloquence.

Norcroft listened attentively and waited patiently for his opportunity:

"Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, on the morning of the 31st of July, did you make a formal statement to the police?" "Yes, to a lovely sergeant." she cheerfully affirmed.

"The reason that I ask is that I notice that the police statement is typed and does not bear your signature...?" "Typed?" she queried, rather perplexed.

"Yes; I have it here – Exhibit 1." Norcroft directed the clerk of the court to pass the document to Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, "Is that your statement?"

"Well...no." she declared disconcertedly.

"Er...sorry, Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, did you say it isn't your statement?" asked Norcroft with surprise.

"No it isn't. Mine was hand written, you see – by me."

Carmichael began to coil up in anticipation of a major embarrassment.

"I see," started Norcroft, getting the bit between his teeth, "but the statement is in your words, is it?"

Mrs Pomfrey-Jones studied the document for a "long" few minutes – there was complete hush in the courtroom. Finally, she looked up and addressed Norcroft with the bomb shell: "This isn't what I said in my statement." There were immediate conspiratorial whispers in the public gallery, while Carmichael frantically consulted with Allerton-Brown. "Not what you said?" pressed Norcroft for complete clarity.

"No, not exactly. These are not my _exact_ words."

"But in essence, does the statement reflect what you actually said?" "More or less." she conceded.

"That is reassuring..." quipped Norcroft, "I ask because there are a few details I would like to highlight..."

"Before you go on, Mr Norcroft," interrupted Ravensdale, "I would like a private word with prosecution counsel – please approach the bench, Mr Carmichael."

Carmichael gingerly stepped into the open area of the court and walked over to the judge's bench, fully aware of the watchful eyes trained upon him, and Norcroft's self-satisfied expression.

"My Lord?" enquired Carmichael in a low voice.

"Do you know anything about this statement malarkey?"

"Er, no I do not, my Lord."

"I want this matter looked into, Mr Carmichael. I expect some explanation before this trial concludes." "Of course, my Lord." agreed Carmichael submissively.

Norcroft recommenced his examination: "Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, I note in this statement that you thought the victim –

Miss Fable – initially stated that the gunman had _brown_ eyes?"

"Did I...? Oh yes, I must have. The poor girl wasn't very coherent at first."

"But are you sure that she did say that?" reiterated Norcroft with optimism.

"Yes, I think so." she finally committed herself.

"Members of the jury, in the original description given to the press, it did state that the gunman had brown eyes... Early on in the investigation, the main suspect did have brown, or hazel eyes, and although Miss Fable has remained adamant in her description of _piercing blue eyes_ , it is unclear precisely when she became resolved to that detail."

"I think there was some confusion with the name the gunman had adopted for himself: that being _Mr Brown_." adduced Carmichael.

"Perhaps," agreed Norcroft, "but the discrepancy remains, nonetheless." he concluded, turning to the jury. "No more questions, my Lord."

## Chapter Thirty-Five

## (18 January 1966)

**The** final day of the Prosecution case had arrived. Jameson took his place in the dock with some apprehension: the last two prosecution witnesses were a downright puzzle to Arthur. The first, a name he did not recognise, the second beyond obvious comprehension. It was certainly clear that the Prosecution were intending to end on a climax, but precisely what that entailed, Arthur and his defence team could only surmise from deliberately limited information – and that suggested at exceedingly disquieting possibilities.

A young woman by the name of June Maxfield was called to take the stand; she had curly ginger hair and a heavily freckled face; her bright green eyes coyly glanced toward the dock, allowing her a brief glimpse of Arthur, who she immediately recognised – Arthur likewise had a spark of recognition at that moment.

"...Mrs Maxfield, in 1962 you were known as June Nokes and living in Bramley, Hampshire – is that correct?" "Yes." she answered in very low and nervous voice.

"Please speak up, Mrs Maxfield." Ravensdale requested, "The members of the jury need to hear your responses – try to relax."

"Thank you, my Lord." acknowledged Carmichael, "In August 1962, you were eighteen years of age...?" "Er, yes."

"Do you recall meeting a young man calling himself 'Alf Johnson'?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Can you see that man in the court today?"

"Yes: he's the man in the dock."

"For the record, the witness has identified Arthur Jameson... Mrs Maxfield, did you accompany this man on a number of dates during August 1962?"

"Yes I did. Four...four dates."

"And on the last of these dates, where did Arthur Jameson take you?"

"Alf...that is, Arthur, turned up in an open top sports car – I don't remember what type it was, except that it was bright red."

"I see, and where did Arthur take you?"

"He suggested we have a picnic in the country; he had a hamper and everything." she recollected with a tinge of glee.

"Where did he actually take you?"

"It was a surprise – I don't know exactly. He drove for about half an hour, something like that, to a wood." "A wood?"

"Yes, there was a clearing and we parked there. I'm not sure where we were – I never did find out." June stated quizzically.

"And what happened in this wood?"

"...We had a picnic. It was very nice... Then Alf, Arthur, whatever his name really is, started getting a bit, well, fresh." "He made romantic advances?" assisted Carmichael.

"Yes; he tried to kiss me... I liked him, but I think I'd already decided that he wasn't my type, really. So, I wasn't particularly interested in anything...like that."

"How did he react?"

"Um, he seemed upset; angry... Then he said we should leave, and go back to Bramley."

"Did you feel threatened?"

"A little... But once we got back in the car, he seemed fine...though he didn't talk much after that... He drove me to my door and dropped me off, and that's the last I ever saw of him – until today."

"Thank you Mrs Maxfield, no more questions."

Norcroft slowly stood up and gave June a contemplative look: "Mrs Maxfield, why did you come forward?"

"I read about the case in the paper; I thought I recognised the picture, although the name was wrong. Anyway, I just thought the police might be interested...in speaking to me."

"Why did you think that?" impelled Norcroft.

"I thought I might be of help... I wanted to say that I never felt afraid of him, and he didn't attack me, did he?"

"No, June, he didn't – thank you. No more questions my Lord." Norcroft retreated triumphant in his reversal of the strategic impetus of this witness' evidence.

Carmichael closed his eyes and inwardly prayed for divine intervention. The final prosecution witness was about to take the stand – this was the last throw of the dice. As Eric Whittley walked arrogantly into the courtroom, Arthur had to be restrained by the dock warder, such was his infuriation in regard to what he suspected Whittley was about to claim.

"...Mr Whittley, you spent a period of six days sharing a cell in Brixton prison with Arthur Jameson, up until the 14th of

January this year...?"

"Yes, I did, sir."

"During that time, were you able to gain Jameson's confidence?"

"Yeah, we was matey..." Arthur shook his head in vehement disagreement; Whittley turned to address the jury: "When y'u' banged up with a bloke for a few days, the usual barriers soon breakdown, uverwise you'd end up killin' eachuver."

"Yes, indeed... So, you were able to form a rapport with Jameson, would you say?" "Yeah, I fink so."

"What did you talk about during your six days cooped up in a cell together?"

Whittley shrugged: "Stuff...All sorts."

"Including your respective alleged crimes?"

"Yes, of course. Everyone does." he lied with a despicable grin.

"And did Jameson impart any information relating to the crime for which he currently stands trial?"

"Yeah...I asked 'im, if 'e did it... 'E denied it at first, but then on the fifth night, 'e suddenly opened up to me." "What did he tell you?"

"'E said that 'e did it... On a whim, like. 'E said it started as a robbery, but when 'e copped eyes on the bird, 'e decided to 'ave some fun."

"So, abduction, rape and murder, were all in his plans, more or less from the start?"

"Yeah, tha's right."

"All pre-meditated?"

"Yeah."

"Thank you, Mr Whittley. No more questions my Lord."

"Mr Norcroft, I presume you will be cross-examining this witness?" enquired Ravensdale with a rhetorical intonation. "I certainly will, my Lord." Norcroft resolutely replied. "Mr Whittley, you are a career criminal, are you not?" "Sorry?" Whittley tried to look baffled.

"How old are you Mr Whittley?" Norcroft asked tiresomely.

"Thirty-one."

"Thirty-one... And how many of those thirty-one years have you spent in prison?"

Whittley puffed out his cheeks: "I dunno, about eight, I s'pose."

"So, most of your adult life has been spent at her Majesty's pleasure?"

"Yeah, if y'u put it like that."

"What is your nickname inside, Mr Whittley?" "Nickname?" Whittley feigned ignorance.

"Come, come, Whittley, you know very well that you are called 'The Ferret' – aren't you?"

"If you say so."

"I do say so, and so does everyone else." sniped Norcroft, causing one juror to have to suppress a laugh, "And what's more is you are an infamous inmate... Why do they call you 'Ferret'?"

"I dunno – do they?"

"Yes, because you are well known to constantly dig for information; information that you then use to trade for lighter sentences for yourself – isn't that right?"

"I do 'elp the police sometimes – I think of it as a kind of atonement."

"Really... The thing is Mr Whittley, when you fail to derive the information you require, you simply invent it – don't you?"

"No."

"You are currently on remand for blackmail, aren't you?"

"Yeaah." groaned Whittley, painfully aware that Norcroft has the full low down on him. Carmichael inevitably, if somewhat wearily, objected: "The witness is not on trial, my Lord." "I believe this is pertinent, Mr Carmichael." deemed Ravensdale dismissively.

"Thank you, my Lord." Norcroft gratefully acknowledged, "Mr Whittley, I put it to you that you have concocted this evidence in order to curry favour with the judge at your trial next week – isn't that right?"

"No."

"Is that all you have to say, Mr Whittley?" demanded the judge.

"Yes, my Lord."

"I think that concludes my questions your Lordship." Norcroft proclaimed with considerable satisfaction.

"You may step down, Mr Whittley... Do you have any further witnesses Mr Carmichael?" queried Ravensdale.

"No my Lord; that concludes the case for the Prosecution." pronounced Carmichael, now feeling thoroughly disheartened.

"In that case, I think an adjournment for lunch is appropriate, while Mr Norcroft formulates his opening speech. Court will reconvene at 1.15." declared Ravensdale closing the session – once more, much to the relief of Arthur Jameson.

The trial resumed at the allotted time, with Miles Norcroft addressing the Jury:

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury; My Lordship; you have now heard the voluminous machinations of the Prosecution case: copious in the detail, but with little palpable substance...

There are four forms of material evidence: physical, documentary, witness and circumstantial. In this case, the physical evidence is both limited and of dubious provenance; the documentary evidence is questionable at best; the witness evidence – as I will soon demonstrate – is fatally flawed, and the circumstantial evidence is either misleading or wholly absent. The defence has already, and will further establish, an abundance of inconsistency and ambiguity in the Prosecution claims; a credible alibi will be presented which makes the defendants involvement in this crime an impossibility; character witnesses will attest to the defendants, admittedly tarnished, but otherwise inoffensive and essentially harmless existence; and moreover, I intend to expose a deeply flawed police investigation, rushed and pressured to pin the crime on the first _remotely likely_ candidate." Norcroft dramatically paused, "If you recall, members of the jury, in the early stage of this trial I submitted a research report by an eminent American Criminal Psychologist, which, though not categorical, is accepted to be highly authoritative. What that study strongly indicates is the weakness of witness identification under a variety of circumstances and time intervals. This is a complex subject, which relies heavily on statistical analysis to reach its conclusions, so I will not bore you with the details; suffice to say that it forms the basis of an experiment which his Lordship and the learned Prosecution counsel have generously accorded an audience in this court. I can honestly say that neither I nor anyone else can predict the exact outcome of this experiment, and whatever the result is, will undoubtedly be disputed and/or manipulated by both of us to achieve our respective ends..." Norcroft noted that Carmichael was doodling a skeleton on a gallows, "Members of the jury, you will now have the honour of making British judicial history in the conductance of this small scale study. To summarise: anecdotal witness testimony is infamous for its unreliability, albeit that it remains an essential element in solving crime; ultimately, human fallibility is an inherent defect in the vast majority of all criminal case studies: fundamentally inescapable and indispensable, despite its obvious shortcomings..." Ravensdale was now becoming impatient and starting to yawn; Norcroft cut to the chase. "In this case, the primary identification is that of Miss Fable, and is by far and away the most reliable; she saw the gunman close-up and for comparatively long periods of time. However, the conditions under which the observations of her attacker were constructed were less than perfect, because at all times it was extremely dark; of course, there was some light, mainly in the form of moonlight. In this experiment I am attempting to replicate those conditions, as best as possible; we also have to consider that there was a 26 day interval between the committal of the crime and Miss Fable's identification. It is a fact that the memory's detail fades over time and can be distorted by subsequent experience...

We employed a professional photographer and actors to facilitate our experiment. In a moment, each of you in the jury, will be asked to examine a high quality portrait photograph of our mock-criminal; this image has been subject to lighting that replicates the conditions in Marsholm Wood on the night of the 31st of July 1965, that is to say, that the subject is lit with an artificial light source that simulates moonlight. Each of you will be asked to examine the image for 30 seconds and then return to the jury box. Once all of you have completed this task, you will each be asked in turn to examine a large photo of a line-up of twelve men – each assigned a number, one to twelve, much as in a real line-up, with similar lighting. The fact that the facial area of the men in the line-up photo will be somewhat smaller than the original is representative of the loss of recallable detail over a period of approximately one month. You will each decide which man in the line-up photo is the man in the original and write that number down on a piece of paper that will be provided, and you will then fold that up, so as to conceal your choice; you will then be asked to place that in a box, much like a ballot box on a polling day. Once all of you have done this, the box will be passed to his Lordship, who will kindly determine the result."

Ravensdale woke with a jolt as his arm slipped; he then did his best to pretend that he hadn't drifted off, although no one had noticed, due to the fact that _everyone_ in the court was suffering from drowsiness by this time. "Shall we get this little exercise under way, Mr Norcroft?" suggested the judge wearily.

The clerk of the court handed the "ballot" box to the judge, who then proceeded to empty out the contents and collate the result. There followed a deafening silence inside court number 6, as everyone awaited the momentous result with bated breath.

"I believe I have the result, Mr Norcroft." notified Ravensdale.

"I am very grateful, my Lord... Before his Lordship announces the result, for the court record, the number of the mockcriminal in the line-up was number 4." Norcroft declared with a note of apprehension – this really was a risky game to have played; now he would discover whether or not it would have the desired effect. "Members of the jury, my employment in this case is quite literally at stake, as I am sure that my client will promptly sack me if this backfires." This produced a nervous titter to ripple around the court; the tension was tangible. "My Lord, would you be so good as to reveal the result to the court?"

Ravensdale took a deep breath, before puffing out his cheeks in an ambivalent display: "There are ten votes for subject 4." An audible note of curiosity fluttered in the air, "One vote for subject 6, and one vote for subject 10... And I have no idea what that means." he confessed.

"My Lord," began Norcroft's contention, "what this indicates is that one in six made an incorrect identification; that equates to approximately 16.5%."

"Yeas. I'm still not much wiser, Mr Norcroft." the judge professed.

"My Lord, if you recall the Fallenberg report, his findings indicated about a 20% error rate – which is similar... Would the jurors who did not pick number 4, please reveal themselves for the benefit of proving fair play?" requested Norcroft; two slightly embarrassed hands were raised. "Please do not regard your error as a personal failing; what we are demonstrating here is a normal human failing, to which we are all susceptible."

Carmichael now decided that he had afforded sufficient respect for his learned friend's performance and it was time to put the Prosecution's spin on the result: "My Lord, may I address the jury?"

"You may."

"Members of the jury, we have all participated in a potentially groundbreaking experiment, but it should be viewed with due caution. Granted it has indicated that one in six identifications, under the circumstances of this case, at least, are _potentially_ erroneous; however, there is of course the converse conclusion, vis-à-vis, that 5 out of 6 identifications are correct; nearly 85%."

"I thank my learned friend for his perceptive observation." cited a subtly thorny Norcroft, "Members of the jury, what I would seek to proffer is that this exercise is proof of the potential inexactness of witness identification, irrespective of how credible it may seem. That, I hope you will all agree, makes room for reasonable doubt."

## Chapter Thirty-Six

## (19 January 1966)

**The** Wednesday morning of the 19th of January heralded the beginning of the Defence case proper. The court was brought to session by the court recorder. Ravensdale decided to have a small joke with Norcroft before addressing the jury: "I see that you're still with us, then, Mr Norcroft?"

"Sorry?" Norcroft replied, somewhat distracted and so not fully cognizant of the judge's intimation.

"You've not been sacked." laboured Ravensdale.

"Oh, no, my Lord – very amusing. No, my client seems reasonable satisfied with his counsel."

"So he should." discerned the judge in a subtle recognition of Jameson's good fortune. "May we have your first witness, Mr Norcroft?"

"I call Arthur Jameson." A feint ripple of consternation was audible around the courtroom.

"...Arthur, I think it would be fair to admit that you are, in effect, a professional criminal, who derives all of his income from illegal pursuits of one sort or another, as opposed to gainful employment...I presume you would not disagree with that corollary?"

Arthur ruminated for a moment, not entirely sure what his barrister meant, eventually nodding: "Yeah."

"You are a criminal by trade. However, that does not automatically equate with being a murderer or rapist; despite your obvious lack of moral fortitude, you still maintain some standards of acceptable behaviour: in short, you do have some scruples?"

There was a pause while Arthur realised that an affirmative response was required: "Er, yes – sir."

"In fact, there is nothing in your criminal or personal history that would indicate a capacity, let alone a propensity, for any kind of _evil_. Members of the jury, the heinous nature of this crime is not contested; the only issue that _is_ , is who was responsible, and there is no adequate reason to believe that Arthur Jameson was that person..."

"Mr Norcroft," interrupted Ravensdale – as Carmichael appeared to have given up the ghost – "It is not within your remit to make any more speeches to the jury; Lord knows you've had enough rope, already...Please confine yourself to questioning the witness."

Norcroft winced: "Of course, my Lord..." – Carmichael appeared to perk up at this point, which was also disconcerting

– "Arthur, would you please tell this court what you were doing on the evening of the 30th July last year?"

"I was in Liverpool."

"Ahem, would you care to enlighten the court to your activities that day?" asked Norcroft a little perturbed by Arthur's vagueness.

"Oh, yeah – sorry. I took a train to Liverpool, late mornin'..."

Carmichael broke in: "Why then did you go to Paddington Station after leaving the _Verona Hotel_?" "I don't know; I got confused."

"Confused...? What about: where you were going?" pressed Carmichael.

"Well, yeah. I was finkin' of visitin' Marion – that was me girlfriend, at the time."

Carmichael seized the opportunity to defame Arthur: "After a date with another girl?"

"Well, yeah?" This question was beyond Arthur's comprehension; Norcroft leapt to his defence:

"My Lord, I think my client's moral character has already been established and is frankly not relevant at this time." "Agreed. Carry on Mr Norcroft."

"Arthur, do you recall what time you arrived at Lime Street Station in Liverpool?"

Carmichael again rudely interrupted: "Hold on. Let us return to the _Verona Hotel_ : why did you need to ask directions to Paddington, and specifically, Paddington Station?"

"I don' fink I did, sir... I may 'ave mentioned it to that Jacobs bloke that I was goin' to Paddington..."

Ravensdale was compelled to intervene: "Are you saying that Mr Jacobsen was lying when he said he gave you directions to the number 36 bus?"

"Yes, I fink so, my Lord." Arthur replied assuredly.

"I see." noted the judge a tad irksomely, while Carmichael kicked himself; "Please continue, Mr Jameson."

"...Well, when I got t'Paddington, I realised I'd meant t'go t'Liverpool, so I 'ot footed it to Euston. I missed the train I really wanted t'catch, so I 'ad t'get a later one: jus' before mid-day."

A now exasperated Norcroft, after glancing with mock expectation at Carmichael and Ravensdale, attempted to reestablish control of the evidential delivery: "So, what time did you arrive in Liverpool?"

"I'm not sure – about two-ish."

"What did you do on arrival?"

"I was given a contact in Liverpool – a bloke oo buys swanky watches: y'u know – expensive stuff?" "Go on."

"So I 'ad an address f'r firty-eight Stanley Road...It was supposed t'be close to the station, but when I asked this woman for directions, she told me it was miles away – I 'ad t'get a bus."

"For the benefit of the jury," explained Norcroft, "we believe that the address was in fact 38 Stanley _Street_ , which is why my client ended up on wild goose chase. Please continue, Arthur."

"Yeah... Anyway, I got a bus to Bootle, I fink. I found the address, but it was a sweetshop..."

"What time did you arrive at this sweetshop?"

"I reckon it was about 'alf free."

"So, then what?"

"I asked the woman in the shop if she knew anyone by the name of Freddie, but she didn'." "Freddie was your contact?" assisted Norcroft.

"Yeah, _Freddie the Fox_."

"Dare I ask why he was called 'the fox'?" enquired Ravensdale.

Arthur looked at the judge, slightly surprised by the question: "Er...no – I dunno...my Lord"

Norcroft sighed in despair: "Let's get back to the shop: where did you go next?" "Um, well, the biddy in the sweetshop suggested some uvver Stanleys." "Biddy?" quizzed Ravensdale.

Norcroft was fast losing his usual cool demeanour: "The witness means the woman serving in the shop, my Lord...

Now, Arthur, what did you do next?"

"I wondered aroun' a bit...Then I spoke t'this doorman, at the cinema – up the road from the shop. I fink 'e was a Geordie – I couldn' understand anyfink 'e said... Anyway, I walked aroun' the block an' found a shoppin' centre place; there was a bus station underneaf, so I went down there, t'see what buses there was... I was like, at a loose end, y'u know...? I see there was a bus t'Rhyl. I a'n't never been t'Rhyl before. It's a seaside place – I fought it be a laugh." "So, you caught a bus to Rhyl... What time did you arrive in Rhyl?"

"Dunno: early evenin'."

Carmichael detected a small flaw in the story: "Er, why would you go to Rhyl at that time of day?" "Wha'd'y'u mean?" asked Arthur blankly.

"Well, the day was nearly over – a bit late for paddling, wasn't it?" smirked Carmichael, which got a snigger from the public gallery.

"I wasn' finkin' of paddlin', sir. I fought there might be some girls there."

"Ah, of course: you needed to indulge your insatiable sex drive?" snidely remarked Carmichael.

"Objection." complained Norcroft irritably.

"Sustained. The jury will dismiss that comment. Mr Carmichael, let's have no more cheap tricks – it's really rather beneath you." scolded Ravensdale.

"When in Rome." said Carmichael under his breath, fortunately out of Ravensdale's earshot.

"Thank you, my Lordship..." gratefully accepted Norcroft, "Now, Arthur, you arrived in Rhyl around 6 PM – is that correct?"

"Yeah, about that. I didn't make a note."

"No, why would you?" asserted Norcroft, "What did you do in sunny Rhyl?"

"Ju's wandered aroun'. I 'ad some nosh in a cafe. Then I found a pub – on the seafront... It was all a bit quiet." "Did you speak to anyone?"

"Not really. Only the barman, like."

Carmichael immediately jumped in at this point, having been following Arthur's retelling of the story relative to his police statement: "You didn't mention any pub in your statement?"

"No, I forgot."

"But you remember, now?"

"Yeah. I've 'ad time to fink."

"Yes, I'm sure you have." noted Carmichael with a clear suggestion of mistrust.

"If we could return to your account of that day." moaned the disgruntled Norcroft. "So, you didn't speak to anyone; where did you go next?"

"I decided to look f'r a B an' B... I don't remember what it was called..." "How many hostelries did you try?" asked Carmichael quizzically.

"I don' remember. A couple, probably."

"You didn't mention that in your statement, either." noted Carmichael, but did not pursue an explanation.

"In your statement," started Norcroft, pointedly, "you said the lodging house was called 'something like _Vista_ ' – is that correct?"

"Er, yeah. Somefink _Vista_."

"Can you describe the interior of that guesthouse?"

"Um, there was an attic room. That was the one I got – there weren' any uvvers vacant."

"In your statement, you described some aspects of the decor – can you recall that?"

"Er, yeaah: the wallpaper in the hall and stairs was like, floral; blue colours. There was a table...a wooden table with a phone on it, in the hall."

"What about the room?"

"It was just emulsioned – yellowy colour."

"Was there a bathroom?"

"Yeah, downstairs, on the landin' – communal. It 'ad a toilet and bath; an' sink, obviously... It was all in a light green colour."

"Thank you, Arthur." said Norcroft with relief at having finally gotten through that section of evidence, "And, how long did you stay at this guesthouse?"

"Jus' overnight...I stayed in Rhyl durin' the mornin', then went back t'Liverpool... Then I looked up some old mates, an' stayed wiv them for a few days."

"So, members of the jury," began Norcroft, "The defendant, Arthur Jameson, could not have been the Marsholm Wood murderer, because he was in Rhyl at the time the crime was committed. I will be calling more witnesses who will further attest to this alibi... No more questions my Lord."

"Mr Carmichael?"

"My Lord... Mr Jameson, would you say that you had large sexual appetite?"

"Do what?"

"Just answer the question." insisted Carmichael.

Arthur was genuinely bewildered by this question: "I like girls, if tha's what y'u mean?"

"What I mean, Mr Jameson, is that you have a greater sex drive than most men of your age." abetted Carmichael in a bid to trap Arthur by appealing to his ego. However, Arthur had been warned about such tactics and wasn't falling for it:

"No, sir, I wouldn't say so."

"Why did you need to go all the way to Liverpool just to sell some hooky watches?" asked Carmichael changing tack.

"I wanted a good price... Not everyone can 'andle the expensive stuff."

"Is there a particular shortage of good quality watches in Liverpool?" asked Carmichael in jest.

"I dunno. They a'n't so rich, are they?" observed Arthur in all seriousness.

"Nor are the people you steal from, anymore." Carmichael noted caustically – which brought a smile to the jurors.

"They got insurance, a'n't they?"

"Is that how you justify yourself, Mr Jameson...?"

"Mr Carmichael," the judge interrupted, "do you have any sensible questions?" That one got a smattering of giggles throughout the courtroom.

"Yes, my Lord... Mr Jameson, why go to Rhyl for an evening and then return to Liverpool?" "Why not?" posed Arthur.

Carmichael realised this was going nowhere and resorted to going for the jugular: "You returned to Liverpool, on the 31st, where you visited some old acquaintances...This sounds awfully like your original _unverifiable_ alibi, doesn't it?" "I s'pose it does, yeah." Arthur agreed nonchalantly.

"You see, Mr Jameson, it appears to me that you went to Liverpool on the 29th to establish an alibi for the 30th; you then went back to Liverpool on the 31st to lie low with your criminal chums, who later refused to get involved – is that closer to the truth?"

"No. I wasn' in Liverpool on the 29th – 'ow could I be? Y'ur own witness said I was at 'is flat 'til seven on that day. I fought you 'ad more intelligence, _sir_." exclaimed Arthur bitterly.

"Mr Jameson," barked the judge, "You will show respect to the learned counsel. Do you understand?" "Yes, my Lord." he accepted reluctantly.

This show of anger was exactly the sort of thing Carmichael was hoping to instigate; he tried to press his advantage: "Mr Jameson, it is amazing how your memory of events, which should have been insignificant at the time, suddenly improved just before this trial began. I suggest that this whole alibi is a despicable fabrication, intended to mislead this court."

"No."

"This web of lies has been invented in the hope that someone will misremember events that actually occurred on different days to ones you claim – isn't that right?"

"No. Y'u' wrong; y'u wrong!" insisted Arthur with undisguised wrath.

"No more questions, my Lord." calmly concluded Carmichael, with a bow to the judge; sitting down, he stare at the simmering defendant, who's less demure side had now been exposed for all the court to see.

"Warder would you please remove the defendant from the court to cool down." instructed Ravensdale. Arthur was then rather roughly frog-marched out of the courtroom; Norcroft sighed heavily, uncomfortable with a dose of his own treatment – putting the defendant on the stand is always risky for the defence. Norcroft was grateful when the judge then adjourned for a short interval, giving him a chance to regroup.

Joan Copperton had been shipped down from Liverpool the night before in order to give her evidence. It had been decided that Florence Gazeley's recollection of events was so vague and contradictory that served no value to either side; that combined with the difficulties of her evidence having to be given by television relay, due to her age, negated a perfunctory appearance. There were two other witnesses, in relation to the sweetshop element of Jameson's alibi: these were Geoffrey Turnbull, the sweetshop delivery man, and Eric Gazeley, Florence's father. Neither had any direct knowledge of Jameson's presence in the shop, but they did present evidence that was contradictory to a critical aspect of Joan's testimony; these witnesses were identified too late to give their evidence in person, given that they would have appeared for the Prosecution.

"...Mrs Copperton, you were working at the _Sugar Plum_ sweetshop at 38 Stanley Road, Liverpool, on the afternoon of the 30th July last year?"

"Yis ay wuz."

"And did a man visit your shop asking for directions?"

"Yis, 'e wuz ask'n fe some bloke dat 'e thought lived at de sweetshop addy."

"Indeed." Norcroft affirmed a little hesitantly with a grimace, while glancing at Ravensdale, who appeared even more bewildered by the accent. "Do you see that man in this court, today?" "Yis, eez over thuz." she responded, while pointing to the dock.

"For the record, the witness has identified the defendant." added Norcroft for clarity.

"Um, Mr Norcroft, would you mind approaching the bench for a moment?" asked Ravensdale in something of a fluster.

Norcroft dutifully complied. "Er, Mr Norcroft, I can't understand a word this witness is saying."

"Yeaas. I appreciate your difficulty, m'Lord. Perhaps we could have her testimony translated later – I wouldn't want to insult her."

"No, I suppose not. Very well, carry on – as pointedly as possible, please."

Norcroft returned to his place and recommenced his questioning: "Mrs Copperton, can you recall what time the defendant entered your shop?"

"Ay think it wuz around fo."

"About four o'clock in the afternoon?"

"Yis."

"Can you recall any of that conversation?"

"Bright, ay terld 'im 'e 'ad de wrong addy, and ay suggested some others."

"So, you gave him some other addresses with the word 'Stanley' in them – and gave him directions to those?"

"Yis, that's rite."

"And then he left the shop?"

"Ay think 'e may 'uv spokun ter Florrie fairst."

"Florrie being Florence Gazeley?"

"Yis."

"For the benefit of the jury: Miss Gazeley's statement is unfortunately not helpful to this case, as she has no meaningful recollection of the event... Mrs Copperton, would you please explain how you are able to be sure about the day Mr Jameson came into your shop?"

"Yis, ay only weerk aftinewns ed Thsdee and Fridee; Florrie only works wi' me in de avvy onna Fridee."

"So, you only work afternoons on Thursdays and Fridays, while Florence only works the afternoon with you on a

Friday?"

"Yis."

"And how are you able to fix the exact date as the 30th of July?"

"Me sisti's birthdee is ed de thirty-fairst o' July."

"So, your sister's birthday is on the 31st of July?"

"Yis." She replied, now starting to wonder why the barrister was repeating everything she said; Ravensdale was however, very grateful.

"Do you work on Saturdays?"

"Nah."

"I have no further questions for this witness my Lord." concluded Norcroft.

"Your witness, Mr Carmichael." instructed the judge.

Carmichael rose slowly and purposefully to his feet: "Mrs Copperton, what day are the shop's supplies delivered?"

"Dat would be Thsdays."

"What sort of time?"

"Usually betweun five and five-thirty."

"The man who delivers your stock is Geoffrey Turnbull – is that correct?"

"Geoff, yis."

"Is it also correct that quite often Florence visits the shop around the same time as the deliveries on a Thursday?"

"Er, yis, that's rite."

"According to Mr Turnbull's statement, Florence is often serving in the shop during her visit – is that correct?" "Yis, sometimes, if we're chokka." "Chokka?" enquired Ravensdale.

"Er, busy, my Lord." assisted Carmichael, "...Florence's father, Eric Gazeley, drops her off and goes to the bookmakers next door – is that correct?"

"Yis."

"And this is always around 5 PM?"

"Yis, ay think so."

"So, that being the case, is it possible that the defendant could have visited your shop at around 5 PM on Thursday the 29th, rather than Friday the 30th?"

"Nah, it wasn't dat late in de avvy."

"Can you be certain: it is only an hour's difference?"

"It deffo wasn't as late as dat."

"Given that this short, seemingly insignificant event took place nearly 6 months ago, how can you be so certain?" pressed Carmichael.

"Thuz wuz nah delivery de dee de feller came in de shop."

At this point, Norcroft decided enough was enough: "My Lord, the witness has given her testimony. And I might add that the prosecution's own witness, Richard Paris, testified that the defendant was at his flat that afternoon and didn't leave until 7 PM – making it impossible for the defendant to be in Liverpool at 5 o'clock."

"Sustained. Mr Carmichael, I think your argument has been exhausted; please move on." the judge instructed jadedly.

Carmichael regrouped: "I don't doubt your veracity, Mrs Copperton, but you are being asked to recall events from almost 6 months ago: is it possible you could have the time wrong – could it have been early in the afternoon, perhaps?"

"Ay dun think it wuz, but ay suppose it could 'uv beun."

"My Lord," Norcroft again interrupted, "my learned friend seems to be amending his theory as we go along and then trying to implant that on the witness."

"I think this line of questioning has reached its zenith, Mr Carmichael." insisted Ravensdale concordantly.

"My Lord." Carmichael conceded respectfully, "No more questions."

"Mr Norcroft, is your next witness' evidence likely to be fairly concise?" asked Ravensdale, who was keen to break for lunch.

"Er, yes, I believe so." Replied Norcroft a little hesitantly, and not without good reason: "I call John Smith."

The burly Geordie John Smith, who presented quite a threatening persona, entered the courtroom and was sworn in; Norcroft was already aware of the judge's strained expression.

"...Mr Smith, you worked as a doorman at the _Rialto_ cinema on the corner of Exeter Road and Stanley Road – is that correct?"

"Aye."

"And you were working there during July and August of last year?"

"Ah wes thor from January tuh Octobor."

"Do you recall ever having a conversation with the man in the dock?"

"Aye, ah kind iv remembor 'im."

"Can you recall exactly when you met the defendant?"

"Sometime, end iv July."

"Can you be more precise?" stressed Norcroft with some frustration.

"The las' week iv July."

"Can you recall the day?"

"Ah think, Thorsda or Frida."

"Thank you. What time would this have been, approximately?"

"Mid or late affor."

Norcroft decided to cut his losses: "No more questions, my Lord."

Carmichael decided to forego the opportunity of quizzing John Smith, as Norcroft had already successfully produced satisfactorily vague answers. Ravensdale duly adjourned for lunch with considerable relief on his own part this time.

## Chapter Thirty-Seven

## (19 January 1966)

**Dickie** Paris stood on the tenth story balcony of the Watford flat provided by the council for the Paris' long term accommodation, now that they had a small child to care for; the police had pulled a few strings to get them the flat in way of reparation for their troubles resulting from providing evidence against Jameson. Little Joanna Paris, being a few weeks premature, was still being cared for in hospital, with Mary in attendance. These past few weeks had been the worst of his entire life; everything that he had spent a lifetime depending on had now vanished: friends, all his sources of income and his social life were forever lost, and worst of all, his cherished daughter was gone. Little Joanna offered some emotional solace, but even this was tainted. He had apparently exposed his family to a psychopath, and however irrational it was, he endured a hideous guilt for his daughter's death and bore shame for the crimes committed in Marsholm Wood. Dickie was deeply troubled by these tumultuous events and no amount of prescription anti-depressant was going to fix that. At this moment there was only one option open to him. He climbed up onto the metal balustrade, stood precariously for a moment teetering upon the abyss, before his foot slipped and he plunged like Icarus – the sun in his eyes – to crash and burn in a sea of his own blood.

Courtroom 6 reconvened for the afternoon session in readiness for some rather credulous Welsh visitors; luckily for the Eton educated judge (and everyone else), their accents were pretty mild. First up was Myfanwy Bevans, Rhyl guesthouse landlady, a jovial middle-aged woman with bouffant hair.

Norcroft smiled affably: "Mrs Bevans, you are the landlady at the _Buena Vista_ guesthouse in Rhyl?" "Yes, I certainly am." she answered cheerfully.

"Yes, a very exotic name." commented Norcroft with ingratiating good humour, "I believe you have been running this guesthouse for quite a number of years?"

"...Er, yes. About twelve, all in all."

"Do you have a good recollection of the guests that pass through your establishment?"

"I like to think so."

"Now, if you could search your memory back to the end of July last year; the 30th of July, to be precise: do you recall a man arriving in the early evening, looking for a single room?"

"I do, yes. The top room, number 12 – in the attic – is our smallest, least desirable room. Guests in that room tend to be late comers looking for one or two nights stay; there's not much of a view, you see."

"Thank you, Mrs Bevans; and do you see the man who stayed in the attic room on the night of the 30th of July in this court today?"

"I do, yes: the man in the dock."

"Thank you. Can you explain to the court how you can be sure of the date?"

"Yes. It was definitely a Friday night, because he booked out on a Saturday morning, when our laundry is collected."

"I see, and could you describe the attic room decor?"

"Yes. It is decorated in a plain duck-yellow. There's not much in that room – we just keep it for emergency bookings, you see."

"Indeed. And where is the bathroom?"

"There's a communal bathroom upstairs...on the first floor."

"Could you describe that please?"

"Basic facilities – we don't have any thrills in Rhyl." she jested, "We got the bathroom suite cheap, like; it's a limegreen colour: not very popular, you see; but no one minds putting up with that for a few days, do they? We're very reasonably priced you see, especially for family bookings..."

"Indeed, Mrs Bevans..." interrupted Norcroft, before Mrs Bevans could launch into a promotional monologue, "Could you please describe the entrance hall of your guesthouse?"

"Oh, yes: we have a wooden table with a payphone on the wall above it, for guest usage...The hall and stairway are decorated with blue-flower design wallpaper – very stylish, I think."

"Members of the jury, you will recall the defendant's description of the guesthouse that he stayed at in Rhyl matches Mrs Bevans' description... Thank you Mrs Bevans. I have no more questions for this witness, my Lord." "Mr Carmichael?" prompted Ravensdale.

Carmichael stood and paused deliberately, giving Mrs Bevans an intensely inquisitorial stare: "Mrs Bevans, you have explained how you could be sure of the day that the defendant stayed at your guesthouse, but you have yet to explain how you can be certain of the date?"

For the first time, Bevans looked unsure of herself: "I know it was the end of a month..."

"How do you know?"

"Because my son came to stay for a week at the end of each month, May through to September last year, and he was there, when that man was there – I remember. My son was temporarily unemployed, you see, he lives in Sheffield now; he was at uni..."

"Yes, I'm sure, Mrs Bevans: if we could stick to the matter in hand. So, how can you be sure it was July?"

"I'm pretty sure. It was definitely summertime."

"But you can't be certain?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure." she stated emphatically.

Carmichael decided to try another approach: "The guest book record, Exhibit 147: it doesn't seem to record anyone occupying that room during the whole of last year – how do you explain that?"

"Um," she appeared decidedly embarrassed, "I suppose because that room tends to get booked in the evening when we're busy with dinner and such; never gets booked in advance, you see."

"How many times was it occupied last season?"

"Well, I'd guess about six or seven times."

"Is this some sort of tax fiddle, Mrs Bevans?"

"I beg your pardon?" she retorted in aghast. Ravensdale and Norcroft caught eachother's eyes in a moment of astonishment. Carmichael didn't wait for anyone to have the chance to react, swiftly changing tack:

"Where does your son stay when he visits?"

"In the attic room...but if a guest books it, he sleeps on the sofa in our private living room. That's why I remember." was her excellent rebuttal. Carmichael had inadvertently provided the defence with a beneficial validation of the alibi, which put him on the back foot:

"I still don't see how you can be sure it was July." Carmichael reiterated impotently.

"I'm just sure, that's all." she affirmed with a look of defiance.

"It couldn't have been the 23rd of July?"

"No, because my son wouldn't have been there: he stays from Sunday to Sunday." stated Mrs Bevans with an air of vindication. Norcroft was beginning to enjoy this little exchange. Carmichael could see this was not going anywhere helpful and quickly shifted to a different line of attack:

"The police took statements from all the staff at your guesthouse and your husband, and your son: none of them had any recollection of this guest. What do you say to that?"

"My husband is hopeless; and my son, well, his head is full of _pop_ music and girls." There was ripple of laughter in the court.

"What about the staff?" asked Carmichael tetchily.

"We have a lot of guests during the summer; we're very busy... I have a good memory – they don't; they don't notice the guests."

Carmichael was starting to get ruffled, so withdrew gracefully: "No more questions, my Lord."

The second Welsh protagonist was Edwyn Craddock, a mid-thirties father of three, with his own (one man) bicycle sales and repair business; he had a small shop in Rhyl's Water Street, _Craddock's Bicycles_.

"...It is your practice to go to the _Co-operative Building Society_ on a Saturday morning to deposit savings – is that correct?"

"The _Co-operative Permanent_ , yes. Every Saturday, unless Christmas falls..."

"Yes, yes – thank you, Mr Craddock." Norcroft curtailed this ramble, "Now, do you recall the Saturday of the 31st of

July last year?"

"Yes; yes I do."

"Could please tell the court what happened on your way to the bank that day?"

"Building Society."

"Sorry?" queried Norcroft.

"You said 'bank'. It's a Building Society." Craddock joyfully corrected him.

"Yeas, as you say, Mr Craddock. Perhaps you could tell the court what happened?" suggested Norcroft, slightly exasperated by his pedantic witness.

"Oh, yes. Well, I was walking down the High Street, towards the Co-op, when this fellow accosted me. He showed me a couple of watches he was selling. I wasn't in the market for such things."

"I see...And can you see that man in court today?"

"Yes. He's the man on trial – over there...in the dock."

"Thank you Mr Craddock. You certainly appear very certain."

"Yes, I remember because I made a particularly large investment that day: a £110."

"A £110...extraordinary. No wonder you remember."

"Yes, and my pass book confirms it."

"Indeed it does – Exhibit 153. Thank you Mr Craddock, you have been most helpful. No further questions my Lord." Norcroft sat down extremely contented: his witness was so totally unambiguous, he was confident that Carmichael would not be able to shake the slightest grain of doubt from his testimony.

"You are a very exact man, aren't you Mr Craddock." noted Carmichael.

"Yes, I suppose I am." Craddock agreed condescendingly.

"Hmmm. I imagine it gets pretty dull in a Rhyl bicycle shop, doesn't it?"

"No. I like it. I enjoy tinkering, you see...Little details are very important..." "You're not a train-spotter, are you Mr Craddock?" asked Carmichael derisively.

"Er, yes I am, actually – how did you know?" This induced a fair amount of mirth amongst the public gallery and consequential consternation in the witness box.

"Just a lucky guess, Mr Craddock."

"Have you actually got any pertinent questions for this witness?" demanded Ravensdale.

Carmichael picked at his teeth, desperately trying to think of a meaningful question and finally just resorted to a frontal attack: "I put it to you Mr Craddock, that you are publicity seeker; a man whose life is so utterly dreary, that you have invented this story, simply in an effort to attain some sort of celebrity status – perhaps to sell more bicycles?"

Craddock was stunned to silence by the accusation, quite literally speechless. Ravensdale intervened: "You should answer the learned counsel's allegation, Mr Craddock." The poor man took another few agonising seconds to re-gather himself: "I...I just came here to help the court – that's all." he meekly proclaimed.

"Unless you have any proper questions, Mr Carmichael?" directed the judge.

"No, my Lord." confessed Carmichael and sat down, not entirely dissatisfied.

The next defence witness was Stewart Gamble, the conductor who discovered the gun on the 36A bus. Gamble was thirty, unmarried and something of a loner; he had worked for the bus company for ten years and had an exemplary employment record.

"...Mr Gamble, you discovered the murder weapon on the Monday morning of the 2nd of August, under the back seat on the upper level of the bus used to operate the 36A route – is that correct?" asked Norcroft.

"Yes. It's the conductor's responsibility to check the bus before it goes out and at the end of a shift."

"I see. So, when could the gun have been placed on the bus?"

"It must have got there overnight; that is, during the Sunday night."

"So, to be clear: whoever placed the gun on that bus, must have entered the bus station during the night and somehow gained access to that particular bus – is that correct?"

"Yes...I must have left it unlocked...It should have been safe in the locked depot, though." said Gamble in an attempt to exonerate his admitted mistake.

"Indeed it should." Norcroft agreed supportively, "So, members of the jury, this means that the gun must have been placed on the bus at least forty hours after the car was abandoned in Fulham. This makes no sense: why would the gunman do that? And why the 36A bus? This has the hallmarks of a plant by person's unknown, designed to incriminate my client. There can be no other logical conclusion. No further questions my Lord." Norcroft believed this was cast iron proof of a frame-up. However, Carmichael had different ideas:

"Mr Gamble, you have an excellent work record, do you not?"

"Yes: I'm very proud o' that."

"Yes, I'm sure you are. So, would it be fair to suggest that you would go to considerable lengths to avoid getting any black marks on your impeccable record?"

"Er, I don't know what y'u mean?"

"Well, for example, you might not want to admit that you failed to carry out an obligatory check of the bus?"

"But I 'aven't."

"Haven't what?"

"Done what you said." replied the aggrieved bus conductor.

"Hmmm. You see, Mr Gamble, I think my learned friend is correct to wonder how the gun came to be on that bus when it supposedly did."

"Sorry?"

"Mr Gamble, I don't believe that you carried out your checks properly and that you missed the presence of this item on the bus until either Monday morning, or perhaps even Sunday evening. What do you say to that?"

"I say that you're wrong. I did the checks I was supposed to – the gun wasn't there until after I checked the bus at the end of the shift on the Sunday."

"Don't you think it rather peculiar..." continued Carmichael, but Norcroft had seen enough.

"My lord, the witness has confirmed his evidence; his opinion on the matter of how the gun came to be on the bus is irrelevant." Norcroft submitted with mock incredulity.

Ravensdale sniffed and pulled a pained expression: "Well, yes, as you say Mr Norcroft...Mr Carmichael, do you have any justification for pursuing this line of inquiry?"

"Only that which I have already indicated, my Lord."

"In that case, unless you have any questions of substance...?"

"Um, no my Lord." conceded Carmichael with a wry smile, satisfied to have managed to cast the idea into the arena.

"The witness is therefore relieved." instructed the judge, "Any further witnesses today?" he asked wearily.

"Ah, yes. I have an expert witness." informed Norcroft.

The expert was a Professor of Linguistics at Leeds University (Ormerod de Winter), who had written a number of distinguished papers about British dialects, including cockney and other London accents. His purpose for the defence was to discredit the implication by the Prosecution that the similarity between the gunman's London accent and Jameson's accent were highly distinctive and relatively uncommon. His determination was that Jameson's accent was relatively common within the London and Essex areas (among others,) and although apparently of a generally similar type to that of the gunman's, was typical of at least several million people; only precise study of the gunman's vernacular could determine a more exact match – which was plainly not possible – and even then it would be difficult to link the individual to a specific location. Carmichael asked a few technical questions, but essentially could not argue with the Professor's conclusions. That effectively concluded the business on the eighth full day of the trial.

By this stage the newspaper media were by and large supporting Jameson's claim of innocence; there was a considerable swathe of public opinion in favour of acquittal, facilitated to some extent by John Leggett's biased biography of Jameson, published in the _Daily Express_ [a precursor to the intended article to be published in _The Guardian_ ]. Protesters were occasionally gathering outside the court with banners demanding Jameson be released. None of this sort of thing was particularly new to the Old Bailey or criminal trials in general, but it was nonetheless galling for the prosecution team to have to contend with, as they remained convinced of the righteousness of their case.

## Chapter Thirty-Eight

## (20 January 1966)

" **Another** day, another dollar." sarcastically remarked Carmichael to Norcroft in the robing room, as they prepared to enter court.

"Hong Kong dollars in this case, old chap." was Norcroft's riposte, "Although I do regard this case as something of an investment."

"Not if you lose, dear fellow." smirked Carmichael.

" _Victory at all costs, victory in spite of all terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory there is no survival_." Norcroft quoted Winston Churchill with an air of defiance.

Carmichael parried with a challenge: "Five guineas say you will eat those words, dear boy."

" _To this I witness call the fools of time, which die for goodness, who have lived for crime_." retorted Norcroft quoting Shakespeare and then added: "You're on."

" _Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes_." noted Carmichael, also quoting Shakespeare.

Norcroft turned momentarily to face Carmichael in acknowledgement: " _'Tis a fine gentlemen's agreement_."

Carmichael looked puzzled: "Is that another quote, old boy – can't say that I know that one."

"Marguerite Henry; an American author..." explained Norcroft, "My young brother insisted I read her _Black Gold_ – it's about a race horse; seemed appropriate."

"I bow to your superior knowledge." began Carmichael, which evoked a look of surprise on Norcroft's face; "In your juvenile literary prowess." he clarified with a smirk, which evoked a wry smile from Norcroft.

The clerk of the court brought the proceedings to order, as Ravensdale took his exalted seat at the front of the room and addressed Norcroft: "Would you like to summon another of your staggering array of witnesses." he quipped.

"My Lordship: I call Gordon Storrington." Storrington took his place in the witness box and read out the oath. "...Mr Storrington, you are a Hotel Manager employed by Mazal Mittelmann, who is the owner of the _Verona Hotel_ in Maida Vale

– is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Thinking back to June/July last year, do you recall ever hiring any staff to assist at the _Verona Hotel_?" "I do not."

"And did Mr Mittelmann inform you of having employed anyone to assist at the _Verona Hotel_." "I certainly do not." replied Storrington with notable zeal.

"What was your impression of the Jacobsens?"

"Opportunistic layabouts." Storrington observed peevishly.

"I see. What were their duties at the _Verona_?"

"Frankly, I have not the slightest idea. But they did not contribute _anything_ propitious."

"Would you consider them to be trustworthy?"

"Not at all. In fact, I sacked them for suspected pilfering. Although, how one terminates the employment of a person not actually employed in the first place...well, it is a very peculiar business indeed."

Carmichael shifted uneasily in his seat, but thought it unwise to antagonise this particular witness.

"When did they leave the premises?"

"Sunday the 8th of August."

"Sunday the 8th of August." repeated Norcroft turning to address the jury, "Members of the jury, you will recall that the cartridge cases were discovered the following day."

"My Lord," Carmichael finally saw his opportunity, "if my learned friend is implying that the Jacobsens planted the evidence to implicate the accused, may I remind him that Arthur Jameson was not even connected to this crime until the

17th of August. So, it would seem somewhat preposterous to suggest that the Jacobsens could have anticipated that." "My Lord, for all we know, it was Jacobsen that tipped-off the police." countered Norcroft.

"For what reason, Mr Norcroft?" implored the judge.

"Money." Norcroft suggested rather mischievously.

"Mr Norcroft, unless you have some proof, you will withdraw that accusation." ordered Ravensdale.

"I do not and I withdraw it immediately, your Lordship...I have no more questions."

"Mr Carmichael?"

"No questions, my Lord."

The next witness was "Dave" Engelgardt, son of a Russian émigré who managed to escape from Stalin's maniacal regime in 1947, and landlord of the _Bowman Arms_ in Tapton.

"...Mr Engelgardt, do you recall Gregg Mason and Vera Fable visiting your public house during July last year?"

"Yes, I do remember a couple, who I now know to be...the two people you just mentioned."

"And how often did they visit your pub during that period?"

"I think, once or twice a week for about a month."

"And how long would they stay?"

"I dunno, about an hour, I'd guess."

"On some occasions did you notice another patron who appeared to take an interest in the couple?"

"Yes, there was two or three occasions when I noticed this man, who wasn't a regular, seem to be watching the couple...in a slightly creepy way."

"What do you mean by 'creepy way'?"

"I dunno, it just seemed like he was spying on them, and they certainly didn't seem to know him...It was odd because he only started coming in after they first did, and since the murder, I haven't seen him...Also, he would always leave just after them."

"You don't think this was all just a coincidence?"

"No, definitely not. He seemed to be tailing them."

Norcroft addressed the jury: "So, we have a man taking a disturbing interest in a couple who were subsequently abducted and brutally assaulted... Mr Engelgardt, do you see that man in court today?"

Engelgardt searched the faces in the courtroom: "No, I do not." he declared with complete assuredness.

"Are sure, Mr Engelgardt: it couldn't be the defendant – the man in the dock?"

Engelgardt took a long hard look at Jameson: "No. No, I'm certain it wasn't him...though he does bear a vague resemblance – but _not_ him." he asserted positively.

"Thank you Mr Engelgardt, you have been most helpful. No more questions my Lord."

Carmichael immediately stood up: "Mr Engelgardt, do you drink when you are serving at the bar?" "Only a little." he admitted dispassionately.

"A little...? How much would be a little?"

"Depends."

"Depends on what?"

"How many customers buy me a drink." the barman drolly answered, which caused a few giggles in the gallery.

"Very amusing, Mr Engelgardt. Roughly, on average, how many would you say?"

"No more than six."

"Have you ever heard the adage of _beer goggles_?"

"Yes."

"Can you be certain that your perceptions were not affected by alcohol consumption?"

"Yes, because I'm teetotal." A gasp went up in the court and then a trickle of laughter followed; Carmichael visibly shrunk, while Norcroft struggled to retain his composure.

"No more questions my Lord." said Carmichael quickly sitting down and looking somewhat embarrassed.

Norcroft seized the opportunity to ram the knife in deeper: "Er, did the police ever investigate this stranger in your pub?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Thank you."

"Have you finished, Mr Norcroft?" Norcroft indicated that he had. "Then you may step down Mr Engelgardt." instructed Ravensdale, "Do you have any more witnesses this morning, Mr Norcroft?"

"Yes, my Lord: I recall Mrs Pomfrey-Jones." said Norcroft rather enigmatically; Carmichael glanced at him with concerned curiosity.

Mrs Pomfrey-Jones looked as though she were dressed for a wedding, having dolled herself up with her best finery and she was incongruously cheerful.

"...Mrs Pomfrey-Jones..." started Norcroft.

"Please call me Alice." she insisted; Ravensdale raised his eyebrows in expectation of some antics.

"Of course, dear lady. Alice, I would like to just re-examine your police statement. Because, last night, your written statement reappeared – as if by magic." Norcroft was going to have fun with this.

"Oh, how jolly." she inexplicably exclaimed.

"If you could pass this to the witness." requested Norcroft, handing the statement forward to the court usher. "Now,

Mrs...sorry, Alice, can you please confirm that this is your original statement?" "No." she said bluntly, a hush descended over the court.

"I'm sorry, did you say _no_?" enquired Norcroft with mock surprise.

"This isn't my statement?" she affirmed.

"Um, but the police supplied this document and identified it as your statement – forgive me if I am confused." continued Norcroft feigning ignorance. "Does it not bear your signature?"

"No. That is not my signature...This isn't my writing, either. In fact, this isn't even the paper that I used." she asserted disdainfully. Carmichael closed his eyes in discomfort and wished for a giant hole to open up.

"Not your signature?" exclaimed Norcroft theatrically; Ravensdale sighed.

"No. It doesn't even say the same things." she complained.

"My Lord, we appear to have a rather disquieting situation." Norcroft noted with delight.

"Yes, we do." Conceded Ravensdale, "The court will adjourn for an early lunch, and both counsel with attend my chambers forthwith. Reconvene at 1 PM."

The court was cleared and (yet again) the two lawyers were called to the headmaster's office for a possible caning; this time it was Carmichael who was most nervous.

"Gentlemen, it would appear that we have a serious problem." Ravensdale looked extremely concerned, "An apparent matter of evidence falsification...Were you aware of this, Mr Norcroft, before proceedings begun this morning?" "I was not my Lord." Norcroft lied.

"Hmmph, I can't say that I believe you, but I will have to give you the benefit of the doubt...What do you know about this Mr Carmichael?"

"I...I'm flabbergasted, my Lord...I am truly astonished."

"That I do believe." noted the judge. "I shall have to call for an inquiry into this matter. I presume both parties are happy to allow the police to conduct an internal inquiry – I don't think this needs to be put into the public arena." "No, quite." they both meekly agreed in unison.

"One really has to wonder what goes through the minds of officials who perpetrate such foolish ventures; somebody trying to save face no doubt. This sort of thing does nothing for the reputation of the legal process. I am most disappointed." the judge lamented.

"Likewise, my Lordship." accorded Carmichael.

"I do hope you have a genuine reason for recalling this witness, Mr Norcroft?"

"Er, yes, of course, my Lord."

"We wait with bated breath." gibed the judge.

As the two advocates emerged from the judge's chamber, Norcroft sniped: "Are sure you wouldn't like to make it ten guineas?" Carmichael decided not to rise to that.

Lunchtime was not an enjoyable experience for Carmichael, whom had largely lost his appetite. Norcroft, conversely, was enjoying a hearty plate of steak and kidney pie, with mashed potatoes and peas. Sharing his table in the Old Bailey canteen was his junior, Fiona Letheridge, looking as radiant as ever.

"So, Miles, what exactly are you going to ask Mrs Pomfrey-Jones?" she enquired before tucking into her leak and potato pie.

"Ah, yes, good question. I must admit to still be working on that one." Norcroft confessed to Fiona's dismay.

"Well, you had better hurry up, or 'old Raven' will have your guts for garters: you know how he hates the police being berated in public." she remarked with an unexpected familiarity with Judge Ravensdale.

"True my dear, but I could not resist knocking 'Mr Twist' of his pedestal. It has been _jolly_ good fun so far today." He chuckled to himself.

"Yes, but what is your excuse going to be?" she implored.

"Feint heart never won fair maiden." asserted Norcroft with a wink.

"Oh really, Miles. I've a good mind to tell your wife."

"Now that would be procurement of a serious crime – you would be de-barred."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"She would ruddy kill me." Norcroft proclaimed, "I only married the old battle-axe because her father was on the Bar Council...until his untimely death; probably poisoned by the mother-in-law from hell." he reflected miserably. "Oh dear, poor Miles; whatever will he do?" teased Fiona.

Alice Pomfrey-Jones confidently retook the stand and Ravensdale eyed Norcroft with distrustful expectation. "Mrs Pomfrey-Jones...Sorry, Alice: your house is in quite close proximity to Marsholm Wood, isn't it?" "Yes, my house is the nearest. Wonderful for dog-walking." she noted.

"Yes, I'm sure it is. On the morning of the 31st of July, do you recall hearing any gunshots?"

"Not that I remember, but I'm quite used to it, you see – what with the farmers and gamekeepers."

"Yes, of course. Well, thank you, Alice. No more questions my Lord."

"Really? Was that it?" barked Ravensdale, "What exactly was the point of that?"

"My Lord, I merely sought to fix the time of the shootings." explained Norcroft unconvincingly.

"Indeed...Yes, well, I suppose. You may step down Mrs Pomfrey-Jones... I hope your next witness has something useful to contribute, Mr Norcroft?"

"I certainly believe so. I call Detective Sergeant Edward Cambridge." "Oh god." murmured the judge under his breath.

DS Cambridge was well accustomed to the witness box, having attended court on numerous occasions during his 25 years of service to the Metropolitan Police Force, so Norcroft expected to encounter well-rehearsed rhetoric and diversion, which he hoped to be ready for.

"Detective Sergeant, you were Detective Superintendent Ackroyd's right-hand man in the investigation of the

Marsholm Wood crimes, were you not?"

"I was in charge of organising the investigation team, if that's what you're implying?"

"Yes, but you were also in the direct line of command under the Superintendent?" "Technically, yes."

"Do you recall seeing the _Verona Hotel's_ guestbook ledger when you first visited that establishment on the 4th of August?"

"I have a vague recollection."

"Do you recall seeing the pencil note against the entry for Room 26 on the 29th of July?" "I can't say that I do." replied Cambridge bluntly.

"Well do you recall seeing it when the book was taken for evidence on the 11th of August?"

"Um, I don't believe I do, no."

"You are an experienced police officer, detective; surely you would have noticed that?"

"One of the constables in the team was responsible for analysing the guest ledger."

"I see...Would you care to consult your notebook for the 11th of August?"

DS Cambridge paused thoughtfully, before leafing through his notebook and then took a deep breath: "Right, I see that I did make a note of that."

"Yes, of course you did. So, what happened to that note in the ledger?" asked Norcroft with emphasised curiosity.

"I don't believe I know."

"But, would you accept that whoever did erase that note, must have done it after the book entered into police custody?"

"I suppose it must have." he reluctantly conceded.

"Something of an oversight not to notice, let alone that it should happen in the first place, don't you think?"

"If you say so."

"Oh, I do say so, detective. There is every reason to believe that this evidence was doctored in order to allow incrimination of either the original suspect in this case, or the defendant, isn't there?" "I can't imagine why." contested Cambridge dismissively.

"Er, Mr Norcroft," interrupted Ravensdale, "I appreciate the importance of the issue, but I fail to comprehend what this has to do with the case against the defendant?"

"It doesn't your Lordship, but it does relate to the prosecution's false alibi theory; _and_ , whatever the reason, it does demonstrate a willingness on the part of the investigating team to falsify evidence in order to bolster their case." "I suppose – carry on." granted the judge, albeit reluctantly.

"DS Cambridge did you and your superior pay the Jacobsens a visit on the 11th of August, prior to them changing their original statements?"

"I think we did, yes."

"What exactly transpired at that visit?"

"We had new information, so we needed to check their accounts; we wanted to know what they remembered of the new suspect – that is, Jameson."

"Did you provide any inducement in order to extract that information?" "Inducement?" queried Cambridge looking completely non-plussed.

"Come, come, detective, we all know that some witnesses need a little encouragement; especially Jacobsen's type."

"If you say so."

"I _do_ , but _do_ _you_ admit it?"

"I wish I knew what you were talking about – then I could answer." said Cambridge antagonistically.

"Money, detective; did you pay money to the Jacobsens in order to get information?"

DS Cambridge turned to address Ravensdale: "My lord, it is a well-known practice to induce reluctant witnesses to provide information in exchange for a small remuneration. I emphasize _information_ my Lord, not _evidence_." "Thank you detective. Does that alleviate your anxiety, Mr Norcroft?" goaded the judge.

"I suppose, my Lordship." Norcroft accepted circumspectly. "DS Cambridge, you have had something of a chequered career, haven't you?"

"If you are questioning my lack of promotion, then I can tell you that I have chosen to remain at this level."

"Really – have you...? Perhaps, but it is also true that you have been subject to disciplinary action in the past, haven't you?"

"Some years ago, yes."

"Several times, in fact... I believe you were accused of falsifying evidence in 1958 – is that correct?" Cambridge made a submissive gesture with his hands and looked at Carmichael for support.

"My Lord, I fail to see what the detective's employment record has to with this case?" Carmichael finally complained.

"I agree. Does this line of questioning have any climax, Mr Norcroft?" queried Ravensdale irritably.

"No more questions, my Lord." conceded Norcroft, but of course the seeds of doubt had been neatly sown.

"Do you have any questions for this witness, Mr Carmichael?"

"No questions my Lord."

"You may step down, Detective..." Ravensdale checked his watch, "I understand that you have four more witnesses,

Mr Norcroft. Shall we adjourn until tomorrow – I assume you will be able to wrap this up then?"

"Er, yes, my Lord, mostly character witnesses."

"Mr Carmichael?" quizzed Ravensdale pointedly.

"I am in concordance, My Lord."

"Court is adjourned until 9.15 tomorrow morning."

## Chapter Thirty-Nine

## (21 January 1966)

**Arthur** Jameson, sitting in his Old Bailey cell awaiting the start of the final day of evidence in his trial, contemplated the news of Dickie Paris' death with mixed emotions. His best friend had transformed into his arch enemy, but was still the grandfather of his child; and he suspected he would have a fight on his hands getting past Mary Paris to reach his little Joanna, given the circumstances. However, there was one major hurdle to climb first, and that was the possibility of a life sentence in prison. Today promised to be a fairly agreeable one, as three of the four remaining witnesses were there to back his plea of innocence; the other was more of a mystery: Norcroft had been taciturn in relation to this witness, but had assured Arthur that the prosecution would be squirming by the end of his examination, and that was something Arthur was very much looking forward to.

The Honourable Justice Ravensdale took his chair and the clerk of the court brought the proceedings to order. There was a sizeable contingent from Arthur's family in the public gallery, the usual journalists and one lone woman, Mary Paris – a fact that did not escape Arthur's notice.

"Mr Norcroft, would you care to furnish the court with your first witness?"

"My Lord; I call Detective Sergeant Anthony Collins."

DS Collins was as much in the dark with regard to his appearance in court as were the prosecution team. Collins had obviously had some experience of giving evidence in court, but he usually had a good idea what he was likely to be asked.

"...DS Collins, you were involved in the early stages of the investigation into the Marsholm Wood murder, being one of the most local CID units at Guildford?"

"...Er, yes, I was on the scene around 11.30 on the morning of the 31st of July, along with my Inspector."

"That would be DI Longbridge?"

"Yes."

"A number of cartridge cases were recovered from the scene, weren't they?" "Yes, five in total."

"Were you responsible for delivering those to the Forensic Laboratory?"

"Yes, I did take care of that."

"DS Collins, what is your relationship with the widow of the murdered man, Mrs Anne Mason?" There was a gasp from all around the courtroom, not least from the prosecution bench, followed by a deathly silence as everyone awaited Collins' response.

"Er, I'm not sure what you mean. I did interview..."

"I don't mean your official relationship...You have been 'looking after' Mrs Mason, haven't you?" "There was a threat on her life." contended the detective, who was now sweating profusely.

"Yes, there was. Were you officially assigned to protect Mrs Mason?"

"Well, no, not officially... I volunteered."

"Volunteered? Hmm, yes, I bet you did." Norcroft commented derisively; there was whispering in the public gallery as it became clear where this was all leading to. "Is it true that your relationship with Mrs Mason has taken on a romantic connotation?"

"We have become close friends...Nothing more." insisted Collins, though not too convincingly.

"I see. That's not really within the rules, is it?" "There's no law against it?" asserted Collins angrily.

"May be, but it's something of an unwritten rule, isn't it? I doubt your superiors would regard this relationship to be acceptable, would they?"

Collins did not answer, instead shuffling around in the witness box, looking extremely agitated: he knew he would be serious trouble when this was over and his career would be on the line. Carmichael decided to come to the detective's rescue, despite his own sense of resentment at hearing this revelation:

"My Lord, Mrs Mason is not a suspect in this case, nor is she even a witness. I'm not sure exactly what this line of questioning is intended to achieve." he argued, albeit dishonestly.

"I think you should move on Mr Norcroft." suggested Ravensdale, who was less than impressed by yet another allegation of misconduct against the police.

"In that case, I have no more questions, my Lord." Norcroft contentedly informed the judge, before giving Arthur a puckish glance. Carmichael meantime was absolutely livid, but more was to come, because during this exchange, one of the jurors had also been behaving in a decidedly agitated manner, eventually getting the attention of the clerk of the court: what she told him would cause even more trouble for both Collins and the prosecution. The clerk conveyed her message to Ravensdale, who immediately called for an adjournment and ordered the two leading barristers to his chambers for yet another reprimand; this time, neither was sure who was in the firing line.

"...I have just been given some disturbing news from one of the jurors, Mr Carmichael."

"Oh, really." Carmichael was already reeling from the DS Collins debacle, now there was something else! "Apparently she observed Collins speaking to Jacobsen last week, just before he gave his evidence." "I assure my Lordship I have no knowledge of any of this." protested Carmichael.

"Did you know anything about this, Mr Norcroft?"

"If you mean the Jacobsen matter, then no, I do not."

"I think that under the circumstances I have no choice but to direct the jury to dismiss all of Jacobsen's testimony... I don't believe it added anything of value to the case, anyway – the man was an imbecile." mitigated Ravensdale, "There is obviously going to have to be a somewhat wider police inquiry into these improprieties. Mr Norcroft, you should pass any information you have uncovered to that future inquiry – I expect your fullest cooperation; and Mr Carmichael, you need to have some strong words with the CPS in respect to these various matters: it really is an unacceptable situation to have in our criminal court; such incidents are a slur on the entire judicial system. If the public cannot have complete confidence and trust in the carriage of justice and the constancy of police conduct...well, we'll all be out of a job, gentlemen!"

The court was reconvened with the jury being directed to ignore all evidence given by the Jacobsens and for Derick

Jacobsen's testimony to be struck from the record. The next witness was Marion Gardener, one-time "steady girlfriend" of Arthur Jameson. She was a rather dour looking young woman, a brunette with bobbed hair and dark eyes; a quiet, yet sultry looking girl, which had been the initial attraction for Arthur.

"...Miss Gardener, you were once romantically associated with the defendant – is that correct?"

"Yes, we did date for a while."

"How long?"

"About six months, I suppose. We didn't go out that often."

"And during that six months, did Arthur Jameson ever give you cause to be afraid of him?"

"No, he was always very gentle. He treated me like a lady."

"I have to ask you, Miss Gardener, did you ever have sex with Arthur?"

"Only kissin' and cuddlin' – that's all."

"And he never attempted to force himself on you?"

"No – never."

"Thank you. No more questions my Lord."

"Miss Gardener," began Carmichael, "why did you end your relationship with the accused?"

"No particular reason. After six months it didn't seem to be leadin' anywhere, so when Arthur was arrested, I decided it was time to call it a day."

"No more questions my Lord." Carmichael informed the judge somewhat wearily.

The next witness was even more familiar to Arthur than the last, being one of his older brothers, Fred Jameson. Though they hadn't seen much of each other over the last ten years, as children they had been very close; there were a great many happy memories of playing together, and for a time, they had been inseparable.

"...You are the brother of the defendant, Arthur Jameson?"

"Yes. There's a year between us in age, so we've always been as thick as thieves." There was a snigger from the gallery. "Indeed." noted Norcroft, with a nod to the member of the public who perceived the irony in the statement, "So, you could say that you know Arthur as well as anyone?"

"I reckon I do, yes."

"What sort of child was Arthur?"

"Pretty average. We 'ad a lot of fun together; sure we got up t'some pranks, like all kids, but nothin' nasty. Arfur never got int'fights – I usually 'ad t'protect 'im. Everyone liked 'im, though."

"So, in all your years together as children, you never once had cause to wonder if there might be a darker side to your brother?"

"No, not at all."

"Were you surprised when Arthur started getting into trouble with the police?" asked Norcroft in a bid to deny Carmichael anything to explore.

"Yeah, I was a bit. But, time's are 'ard, an' Arfur weren't never no scholar. 'E could see what there was out there an' 'e wanted some of it. If 'e couldn't get it by legal means, then..."

"By which you mean material wealth, status – that sort of thing?"

"Yeah, exactly. I a'n't sayin' I agree wiv 'is thievin', but I can understand it."

"So, a lovable rogue?"

"Yeah, a lovable rogue – that's Arfur."

Carmichael couldn't be bothered to waste his time cross-examining such a biased witness as it wasn't likely to yield anything remotely defamatory. The final witness now took their place on the stand, a criminal associate who had remained loyal to Arthur's cause, the Liverpudlian Desmond Naismith, a dapper fellow with a freckled face that belied his true nature. "...Mr Naismith, you met the accused in Walton Prison, yes?"

"Yis, wuz cell mates."

"And you are one of his contacts in Liverpool, yes?"

"Yis 'e put some business me way sometimes."

"That being stolen goods and alike?"

"Yis."

"What kind of criminal would you say the accused is?" "Eez a b'glar; and blags cars." he empathically declared.

"Indeed. Would you say that he was inclined to be violent?"

"Nah, not dat I've seun."

"Were you surprised when you heard about the charges against him?"

"Dead gob-smacked."

"I have no more questions, my Lord." declared Norcroft with finality.

"Mr Carmichael, do you have anything else to add to these proceedings?"

"One question my Lord. Mr Naismith, have you ever seen the Hollywood film _The Criminal Code_ – Walter Huston starred, I believe?"

"Can't say ay 'uv."

"Shame, it has an interesting plot that would probably appeal to a member of the criminal fraternity." "Is there any point to this?" groaned Ravensdale, who was anxious to adjourn for lunch.

"I think so, my Lord. You see, the plot of that film revolves around the concept of _the criminal code_ , the prisoners' code of silence, even when faced with a moral dilemma. I think it suggests that in such circumstances as this, criminals tend to stick together." said Carmichael blandly, after which he quietly sat down.

"Are you finished, Mr Carmichael?" growled Ravensdale.

"Oh, yes, my Lord."

"You may step down Mr Naismith...Mr Norcroft?"

"Er, that concludes the case for the defence, my Lord."

"The court will now adjourn for lunch, while Mr Carmichael composes his closing address – I'm sure we are all looking forward to that." the judge unkindly quipped.

The end of the trial had finally been reached after nine full days of evidence. Because the defence had called witnesses other than character witnesses, they were not allowed a final address to the jury, whereas the prosecution were, which gave them something of an advantage leading into the consideration of the verdict – and how they needed that.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Carmichael began his address, "you have now heard all of the evidence; listened to a great many witnesses; seen numerous exhibits; you have even participated in psychological experiment: it is now your responsibility to consider this voluminous information and arrive at the correct verdict. The defence have done their best to distract you from the facts of the case: do not be mislead by their obfuscation and sleight of hand. Members of the jury, there are a number of hard facts to this case and it is these that you should focus your attention.

The most persuasive evidence must be the identification of the defendant by the only indisputably credible witness, Vera Fable. The defence have tried to discredit her definitive identification with some parlour tricks: you should disregard that. Several other witnesses also managed to pick the defendant from a line-up, which adds even greater significance to Vera Fable's affirmation of the defendant's guilt. I think it was Benjamin Disraeli that said, 'there are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics' – an adage worth remembering, members of the jury.

You have been spun a web of lies in respect to the Liverpool/Rhyl alibi: ask yourselves why the defendant did not present this alibi from the outset. The defence has attempted to diminish the importance of the identification evidence, on the basis of some dubious statistics. The fact is though, that the ability of witnesses to accurately recall details of time and date are in fact far less reliable than witness identification is alleged to be. Moreover, there is good reason to suspect that this alibi is a concoction of partial truths, established on different days to those which are claimed.

Then we have the cartridge cases. The defence would like you to believe that these were planted, by either the police or members of the criminal fraternity in a bid to frame the defendant. Why? There is not the slightest modicum of logic to this assertion, however convenient it would be. Only one person could have left those cartridge cases in that hotel room, and that is the accused.

The defence have entertained us with their character witnesses; but, members of the jury, nearly all of the defendant's closest friends have given evidence for the prosecution, and at considerable expense to their personal circumstances. Why would they be compelled to do that unless they were convinced of his guilt?

Arthur Jameson perfectly fits the description of the gunman physically, linguistically, geographically and demographically. There can only be so many coincidences. When that is all taken into account, along with the defendant's confession to a fellow prisoner, and the blood group evidence, the statistical likelihood that the defendant is the gunman is overwhelming." Norcroft was tempted to interrupt in response to the flagrant contradiction, having to sharply bite his tongue.

"Members of the jury, you have the opportunity to ensure that a very dangerous man is permanently removed from society, so that innocent people, like yourselves, your families and your friends, can be protected from any further despicable acts by Arthur Jameson. You must therefore return a verdict of guilty on all charges." a pin drop could have been heard as Carmichael calmly sat down.

Ravensdale broke the silence: "Thank you Mr Carmichael... During my many years as judge there have been few cases over which I have presided that are both so serious _and_ so difficult to adequately evaluate in respect to the defendant's guilt or innocence. If you the jury should decide that the defendant was the gunman, then the circumstances of this crime are such that there can be no doubt of the intent to do serious harm. In the instance of Gregg Mason, you must consider that firing a gun at such close range would almost certainly result in the death of the victim; the defence have not attempted to propose the possibility that Gregg Mason's death was accidental, so you do not need to consider that. Therefore, you must find the defendant guilty of murder. In the case of the attempted _murder_ of Vera Fable, there was clear intent in the number of shots fired at close range and in the final shot to the head, to infer the intent to kill: you would therefore have to find the defendant guilty of _attempted murder_. With regard to the _abduction_ charge, again, the evidence against the gunman is overwhelming and I would direct the jury to find the defendant guilty.

There are a number of critical elements to consider in this case and these are the ones upon which you should focus your attention. Firstly, the cartridge cases: are you convinced that the defendant left these in the hotel room, or is it possible that they were deposited there by some other unknown means? Secondly, can the identification evidence be regarded as incontrovertible, or is there room for doubt? Thirdly, is the defendant's alibi sufficiently plausible, and he therefore could not conceivably have been in the location of the crime at the time it was initiated, or is it possible that the alibi is in some way false or misleading?

If, members of the jury, you are persuaded that the defendant was _not_ the gunman, then you must return a verdict of _not guilty_ on all counts. The standard of proof is _proof beyond reasonable doubt_ in returning a guilty verdict. Reasonable doubt should not be regarded as some fanciful or far-fetched theory, though. If the prosecution have met the standard of proof required, then it is not your duty to find some pretext upon which to avoid what is otherwise clearly proved and on which you are satisfied. Conversely, the accused is not obliged to prove anything.

Ladies and gentleman of the jury, you will now retire to consider your verdict. It is important that in the pursuance of this duty that you seek to reach a unanimous verdict...."

"Well, that was short and sweet." whispered Norcroft to Robeson.

"Yes, and pretty neutral." noted Robeson appreciatively.

"Mmm, I think our Honourable Justice's faith in her Majesty's police force may have been somewhat eroded over the last two weeks."

## Chapter Forty

## (25 January 1966)

**On** the Tuesday morning the jury were recalled by the judge, as they had still not arrived at a unanimous verdict, whereupon he directed them to return a majority verdict of at least 10 – 2. They then deliberated for a further four hours, finally announcing their reaching of a verdict at 2.15 PM that afternoon. Everyone involved was subsequently summoned back to the court to hear their momentous decision. The foreman of the jury stood to the instruction of the clerk of the court. There was an intense air of expectation in the courtroom. Jameson stood and fixed his gaze downwards, not daring to look at the jury. Carmichael had a decidedly pale complexion, decorated with a very pensive expression. For Norcroft, this was the pinnacle of his career so far; his whole future could hang on the outcome of this case and for one rare occasion in his life, he actually felt a slight sense of diffidence. In the public gallery, Arthur's parents tightly gripped each other's hands, while Arthur's siblings gathered around them to lend support. The journalist's pens were poised to write their headline for the late and morning editions. Vera's parents stood like a solitary rocky outcrop for their daughter's right to justice, amid a sea of Jameson supporters. Outside the courtroom, Anne Mason, accompanied by a (literally) resigned Tony Collins, awaited the announcement with a deep need of justification for the adversity that had afflicted their lives over the last six months. Vera Fable, unable to face the media, anxiously awaited alone in her Maidenhead flat for the most important phone call of her now blighted life.

"Mr Foreman, have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?" asked the judge.

"No my Lord."

"Have you reached a verdict on which _the majority_ are agreed?"

"We have, my Lord."

"Would you please read out your verdict."

"On all counts: abduction, murder and attempted murder, we find the accused, Arthur Jameson, _not_ guilty."

There was instantaneous uproar in the public gallery as Jameson's family and supporters gasped, cheered and laughed, much to the anguish of the Fables. Arthur nearly collapsed in shock and sheer relief. Carmichael visibly crumbled, while Norcroft took a deep breath before making the exaltation of whispering "Yes." Robeson had never felt so relieved in his entire life, while Fiona Letheridge could not hold back her smiles of joy.

This was all quickly extinguished by the court usher calling for order, as the jury's voting figure had yet to be established – it was 10 – 2. The short interlude in the Jameson celebrations was concluded and the judge struggled to be heard instructing the warder to release the prisoner, who was now free to go.

Arthur Jameson emerged into the Grand Hall to be immediately mobbed by his supporters, the press and his legal team. For the first time in his life, Arthur actually felt important and had a peculiar sense of achievement. But the honours and eventual adulation all belonged to Miles Norcroft, who had pulled off what many had (to begin with) considered to be an impossible task. He would be dining out on this episode for a very long time.

DSupt Ackroyd had deliberately kept a low profile, having suspected for some time that the case was slipping away from them; the verdict was not entirely a surprise to him and he knew that the press would converge on him at the first possible opportunity. His next course of action would be to arrange a meeting with the prosecution team and CPS to consider whether there was any mileage in mounting an appeal against the decision, but he was not hopeful.

Anne Mason and Tony Collins quietly withdrew from the Old Bailey and disappeared unnoticed into the London crowds. Meanwhile, the Fables fought their way through the scrum outside the court and managed to hail a taxi to facilitate their escape, and Allerton-Brown was given the unenviable duty of having to ring Vera Fable with the news – she did not take it well.

Roger Ackroyd's return to Scotland Yard was a melancholic one. The Marsholm Murder had been his last big case, before enforced retirement; he had hoped to go out on a high. The main office was like a morgue; DS Cambridge had made himself scarce as soon as he had heard that Ackroyd was back in the building. Upon entering his office, his attention was immediately drawn to a small sheet of paper sitting on his desk, clamped down by a snow globe paperweight. He tentatively picked up the note to find that it simply read: 'Report to DCSupt Allsop ASAP'.

With a deep sense of despondency, Roger knocked on his superior officer's door. Upon entering the office, he determined that Allsop was even more pokerfaced than normal, which was no mean achievement. "Ah, Roger: how are you? Please sit down." The Chief-Super' was being uncommonly polite.

"Thank you, sir...I've had better days."

"Yes, yes I heard. Damned bad luck; you deserved better."

"I assume we'll appeal?"

"Probably, though unless we can come up with some better evidence, it will just be a token effort." "I'd like to see this one through, sir."

"I know, Roger. But I don't think there's going to be any satisfactory conclusion...You got the right man; the evidence just wasn't there, I'm afraid. You did your best: no one is blaming you...May be if Jameson hadn't been gifted a fancy barrister..." The conciliatory tone was ominous. "Roger, I know you won't want to hear this, but I think it is time you hung up your hat; call it day. I can appreciate it's not the way you would have wanted to go out, but that's just in the nature of the job, isn't it? We never win them all."

Roger was by now more or less reconciled to the inevitable: "I guess you're right, sir." he conceded with a heavy hearted sigh.

"It's just the one that got away – it's always the big ones that get away."

"Well, I've always wanted to take up golf." Roger noted in good-humoured defeat.

Vera's parents anxiously returned to her Maidenhead flat, where they had been staying for the duration of the trial. Jack Fable knocked tentatively on the door several times to no avail. Muriel eventually took control and hammered on the door loud enough to wake the dead. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary, as Vera was simply having a nap after the trauma of the news from the court.

Vera wearily answered the door: "Oh, hello mum; dad." She turned and ambled back down her hallway using two walking sticks for support, leaving the door open; her parents followed behind.

"I presume they rang you with the result?" asked Muriel guardedly.

"Yes, Mr Allerton-Brown told me." Vera sounded dejected.

"I'm sure there'll be an appeal." proffered Jack benevolently.

"Yes, I expect so." Vera agreed, but did not seem optimistic about the prospect as she lowered herself onto the sofa. "Shall I make some tea, love?" asked Muriel comfortingly.

"Mmm, okay." was Vera's less than enthusiastic response; her mother scuttled into the kitchen, desperately trying to hold back her tears.

Jack sat down beside his daughter and gently cupped her hand in his: "You mustn't let this knock you back – you've been doing so well of late... Look, let's get you moved down to our place, so we can look after you. You'll feel safer once you're there permanent'."

"Yes...I've already handed in my notice to the landlord."

"Well, no need to wait until then; we'll get you started today. Pack some clothes and we can sort the rest out later." "I'll have to tell the hospital." she fretted.

"We'll ring them. I'm sure they'll understand."

"I just can't understand that jury: why didn't they believe me?" she lamented, obviously taking it personally.

"Two of them did – it was a majority verdict...It doesn't mean they didn't believe you, anyway; reasonable doubt, I suppose." Jack tried to appease her, but it was a fruitless task.

Muriel brought in the tea and some biscuits she had found in a cupboard; placing them on the coffee table, she gave Jack a glance of solicitude, before sitting on the edge of the sofa next to her daughter.

"What do I do now?" Vera implored.

"Get on with the rest of your life, my dear. Whatever you do, don't let... _him_ beat you." her mother advised encouragingly.

Jack pitched in: "You've still got everything to live for, my darlin'; if you can get through this, you can get through anything."

Vera suddenly brightened: "Yes, yes you're right: I _will_ rebuild my life...Let's have that tea."

When Anne Mason and Tony Collins arrived back at 16 Fern Drive in Maidenhead, Anne's brother Ewan Williams was already parked on the drive waiting for them: he immediately jumped out of his car to greet their arrival.

"Well? Did they convict him?" asked Ewan, who was visibly agitated. Anne and Tony looked at each other apprehensively and then at Ewan.

"He got off." Anne stated emotionlessly.

"He _what_?" Ewan exclaimed in alarm as his sister walked past him in a somewhat despondent state. Ewan looked disconsolately to Tony for an explanation:

"I don't know...He was acquitted by a majority verdict." "Majority? What does that mean?" impugned Ewan.

Tony shook his head: "He got off...It just wasn't unanimous. That's it."

Ewan followed Tony into the house, where Anne was already filling a kettle. Tony walked into the living room: mentally exhausted, he slumped onto the settee and lit a cigarette; he didn't look to be in a mood for dissecting the days' events. Ewan decided to interrogate Anne:

"So, what happened?"

"The jury returned a not guilty verdict." she responded impassively.

"I don't understand it...I thought he was a dead cert' for guilty." Ewan complained.

"He had a good lawyer...I don't know, maybe they did get the wrong man." she consoled herself.

"Now what...? Will they appeal?"

"I've no idea. I expect they'll let us know in due course."

"You don't seem too bothered?"

"I just want to move on, Ewan. Life's too short."

"I know, but..."

"Perhaps they'll reopen the investigation – look for another suspect."

"What? But...that girl was so sure."

"Apparently, _that_ couldn't be trusted." she asserted rather unkindly.

"So, that's it, is it?"

"I don't know, Ewan, I really don't." This persistence was starting to antagonise Anne and sensing that, Ewan decided to back off, quickly changing subject:

"I assume the kids are at mum's?"

"A-hu. Will you be wanting a cupper, before you go?" she asked rather pointedly.

Ewan frowned in frustration: "No – I better go. I'll leave you two to...do whatever you do." he grunted irritably, before making a hasty exit.

Anne brought the tea into the living room and set next to Tony.

"I don't know why he's so uptight." noted Tony.

"He's just worried about me... I think he needs a conclusion even more than I do."

"Mmm. Well, you've got me, now, so he shouldn't worry."

"Yes. I've got you, now." she restated with an air of gratitude. "My silver lining." she added affectionately.

The Jameson clan all descended on 16 South Park Lane, sweeping aside a pack of hungry press reporters. This was the first time the Jamesons had been a united family for a great many years and the first time most of them had seen Arthur for at least several years. It was a peculiar reunion under very peculiar circumstances. Ernie Jameson handed around glasses of whiskey or sherry to all those gathered in the small lounge area of the house, in order to propose a toast to his son, and to justice.

"This is a glorious day for the Jameson family." Ernie announced, "My son 'as been exonerated, just as I knew 'e would... 'Ere's to our Arfur's freedom an' a bigger an' better future." The room erupted with cheers and laughter; Arthur was clearly overwhelmed by this adulation: friends and family were shaking his hand and patting him on the back, as though he had accomplished something of personal acclaim. It almost made it all seem worth it.

When the commotion had subsided and everyone had settled into separate group conversations, Arthur's brother, Fred, took him to one side:

"So, what're y'ur plans for the future, Arfur?" he asked with concerned interest.

"Dunno. I 'aven't really fought about it."

"Y'u need to, Arfur. Y'u don' wanna end up inside again."

"What, get a job y'u mean?"

"Well, that is what normal people do... Maybe you could work wiv dad again – learn the trade. There's good money in plumbin'. Better than nick."

"I dunno, fixin' peoples toilets a'n't much dif'rent to sloppin' out." scoffed Arthur.

"Come on, Arfur, y'u need to fink more positive. Y'u can't put mum frew nuthin' like this again."

Arthur looked at his mum's joyful face and promised himself to go straight: "Yeah, I'll work summit out." he acceded.

The Snow Hill Chambers contingents were also in a state of jubilation. Miles Norcroft was hailed a heroic champion of the legal profession by his compatriots. Head of Chambers, Roland Forsyth QC was already predicting that Miles was destined to take silk in the near future in his little speech to the gathered company of fellow barristers and their clerks; everyone raised their glasses to this now perceived illustrious patron of British jurisprudence, while the calls for a speech were led by Fiona Letheridge.

"Colleagues, colleagues..." Norcroft gestured for quiet, "Friends, and I think can honestly say, that I consider every one of you a personal friend," he ingratiatingly affirmed, "in my short career at the bar, I would like to believe that my successes have been the result of my own diligence; my supreme intelligence..." there was a good-natured outburst of amusement, "and of course, my abundant charm." there was further amusement. "But seriously, friends, I could not succeed without the team effort, so I thank all those who have contributed to today's success, _and_ in particular, I would ask you all to raise your glasses to my intrepid investigator: Robi Parmer."

The humble private eye looked suitably embarrassed as the entire assembly turned to face Robi, who had been standing quietly at the back, avoiding the limelight and keeping a low-profile like all good PI's should; but no one deserved commendation more than he, fore without his contribution, they probably couldn't have won.

The Prosecution did mount a half-hearted attempt at forcing an appeal, but without any new evidence and only the flimsiest of arguments for a retrial, the petition was expeditiously refused, and so the case of The Monster of Marsholm Wood, as John Leggett's 1967 book would eventually immortalise it, was consigned to legal history. There were some rumblings of discontent in the early seventies, following Leggett's subsequent publicised doubts in respect to his original assertion of Jameson's innocence, but other major cases, such as the Moors Murders and the Kray twins' felonious activities, rapidly overshadowed the case, such that it was largely forgotten by the 1990's.

## PART FIVE

## The Past, the Present and the Futile

##  Chapter Forty-One

## (21 August 2006)

**After** forty years, the case of _The Monster of Marsholm Wood_ was long forgotten by the majority of the general public. However, it was strictly still an unsolved case and with advances in DNA fingerprinting, many old cases were being reopened. So it was that this cold case landed on the desk of Detective Inspector Michelle Cartwright, daughter of the DC Cartwright who was part of the original investigating team. Her father was now a long retired Detective Sergeant. This was a case that he had never forgotten and had often talked about to his aspiring daughter – _the one that got away_ , they always called it. Unfortunately, DI Cartwright did not fare much better on the 10th of March 2000, because when the request for the evidence boxes was made, it was discovered that everything had seemingly been destroyed or lost: sometime during 1984, a routine clear out of old evidence stored at New Scotland Yard was conducted and someone decided that the case was dead – no one had anticipated the advances in forensic science that might have been applied to the case. DI Cartwright therefore had no choice but to indefinitely shelve the investigation, and there it hypothetically sat in the offices of the Cold Case Squad until the 21st of August 2006.

Almost exactly 41 years after the murder of Gregg Mason and the diabolical attack on Vera Fable, all of the original investigative team were either dead or long retired. DSupt Ackroyd had of course retired immediately after the court case in 1966, and having enjoyed 25 years of peaceful pursuits, died in his sleep in 1991; sadly his wife had preceded him by 10 years, but he always had his family around for comfort and support. DS Cambridge had a somewhat premature death at the age of 56 from a heart attack, undoubtedly the result of many years' hard drinking. DC Alger left the force in 1970 to pursue a new career as a chartered accountant, retiring to live in Eastbourne. DC Pawson went on to become DI Pawson (rather late in his career), retiring in 1981. DI Longbridge, the original investigating officer, died in 1969 as the result of a car accident while on duty, in pursuit of a van involved in a post office robbery. DS Anthony Collins resigned from the police force on 22nd of January 1966, after a severe dressing down by Chief Inspector Macintosh and the threat of possible demotion. He effectively sacrificed his career for the love of Anne Mason; they married in May of 1967, had two children of their own after starting a new life in Leicester, where Tony established his own private investigation business. When Tony retired in 1992, Anne's son, Paul, took over the business, while they relocated to their villa in Spain, where they remain to this day. Anne's brother, Ewan, continued to run his antiques shop until 1999, finally retiring to Harpenden in Hertfordshire where he continues to live with his second wife.

Vera Fable never married, became a florist and lived out a quiet life in the Hampshire market town of Fareham, (close to her parents in Portsmouth,) until her untimely death in 1979 following a hit and run accident; the driver was never traced. Several months earlier, she had begun a collaboration with John Leggett in what was his final attempt to bring the case to the public attention: he died of cancer 2 years later.

Miles Norcroft went on to lead a successful career at the bar, eventually becoming a High Court judge. He also divorced and remarried to his junior, Fiona Letheridge. Retiring in 1992, he died shortly after from pulmonary fibrosis. Oliver Carmichael, the defeated prosecution barrister, decided to conclude his legal career as a circuit judge soon after the trial. What he lacked in success, he made up for in longevity, living until the grand old age of 99. Robi Parmer, Norcroft's dependable Private Investigator, immigrated to Australia in 1974, where he had considerable success with his detective agency based in Adelaide.

Derick Jacobsen was murdered by another inmate at Walton prison (Liverpool) in 1971 whilst serving a 6 year sentence for blackmail; Linda Maccawley (aka Jacobsen) disappeared in 1972 and was never seen or heard of again. Police informant Eric Whittely, was destined to enter the _Witness Protection Program_ in 1973 when a gangster he had helped to get sent down, put out a contract on his life – whereupon he disappeared into obscurity.

Alfred Pederson led a somewhat clandestine existence, appearing to be financially comfortable without any obvious means of income. Leggett had investigated him extensively in the years after the trial, but could never establish anything particularly incriminating, although he had imparted some curious tales to a number of reporters during the late 1960's in which he implicated himself as responsible for a murder; but he had always kept it sufficiently vague that no one had ever dared to take it seriously enough to publish anything; the police remained completely disinterested. However, Leggett did uncover some financial irregularities in respect to several of Pederson's bank accounts – large deposits that could not be explained. Having illegally obtained this information and unable to trace it to its source, he was never in a position to report his findings to the police. Pederson subsequently immigrated to France in 1972 and lived out a solitary existence in a small chateau close to Challans [in western France] until his death in 1978, when he apparently fell down a 30 foot well on his property.

Denise Deneo was never able to recover either her personal or business reputation; consequently, she sold up in 1968 and effectively retired to a caravan park in Ramsgate, where she died in 1995 of an untreated kidney infection – alone and penniless. Three months after her funeral, her caravan mysteriously burned to the ground, destroying what little was left of her legacy.

Mary Paris grew tired of London life, and keen to disappear, she took her grand-daughter to grow up in the expanding market town of Huntingdon in Cambridgeshire, where she obtained a 2-bedroom council home on the Oxmoor estate in 1969. At that time, Huntingdon had a rapidly growing residential community, taking overspill from all over the country, but particularly from London – so she certainly fitted in. The maisonette in the locally notorious _Tamar Street_ – part of the rabbit warren colloquially known as _The Rivers_ – was no palace, but it served its purpose and the environment was in many ways not unlike the complex of flats she had lived in for so long, before the Marsholm murder turned her family's life upside down. Mary was a heavy smoker and died of emphysema in 1985, leaving her 19 year old daughter to fend for herself – fortunately she was born of stalwart stock, with an instinctive ability to survive anything life could throw at her. Joanne Paris married the following year and settled into her own new found family life, producing three children in the space of six years. The marriage was never destined to last, though; following various failed relationships, by 2006 she was single and living in a rather nicer part of town in small block of flats with her youngest child, 14 year old Marc [ _The Rivers_ had completely disappeared following sweeping redevelopment in the late 1990's]. Her two eldest children, (17 and 18 year old girls,) had already spread their wings and started their own families. Her life was a relatively simple one, revolving around family, friends and work [local estate agent]. There was however, one other factor that had entered into her life in 1994. She was never told anything about her father or the exact circumstances of her mother's death, so when Arthur Jameson suddenly appeared from the misty past claiming to be her father, she embraced him with open arms. Arthur was now a pensioner and also living in Huntingdon in bungalow in another part of the town.

Patricia and Ernie Jameson never saw their wayward son again following his trial for an armed robbery; amazingly, they both lived on into their seventies, dying within a week of each other in 1999. Arthur's siblings lived out largely separate existences, none of them ever seeing him again after 1968.

All things considered, Arthur's life had eventually developed into a fairly pleasant little subsistence, despite his family disowning him; he might even be mistaken for a harmless old man – but it had been a long time coming. After the _Marsholm Murder_ trial, Arthur gradually lapsed back into his old ways, culminating in his involvement with the Dixon brothers and Joe Hebdon [in April 1967], which lead to an armed bank robbery [with a haul of ca £80,000] that ended in two innocent people being seriously injured and the entire gang being caught two days after the raid. As the getaway driver, Arthur was treated to a slightly lighter sentence than the rest of the gang, but still got 22 years. Initially he found himself back in HMP Wandsworth, but after two rather hapless escape attempts he was sent to HMP Wakefield [in 1975], a high security facility where he spent the rest of his incarceration, being released in October 1990 after having served the full 22 years of his sentence. Soon after release he set about tracking down his long lost daughter, but it took four years to finally locate her and once he did, he committed himself to going straight.

Monday morning of the 21st of August 2006 was much like any other for recently promoted Detective Chief Inspector Michelle Cartwright, who now headed up the Cold Case Squad at New Scotland Yard. It had been a busy year though, with a sudden surge of old case reviews instigated by the repeal of the _double jeopardy_ provision in April 2005, and the team had been strengthened to cope with the demand.

DCI Cartwright leafed through the pages of a statement made twenty years earlier, in relation to a double murder discovered in 1985 – but actually committed at least ten years prior – when two bodies tied together, surfaced in the Thames; it was a particularly perplexing case. Deep in thought, she did not notice DS Johnson knock on the open door and enter the office; he was clutching an old evidence bag.

"Oh, I didn't hear you come in, Callum." noted Michelle with some surprise and a hint of disgruntlement.

"Sorry, ma'am...Um, you know I'm working on that 1964 murder-rape...well, I found this in one of the boxes – I thought you might be interested." Callum handed the rather dog-eared bag to his superior with a look of anticipation. Michelle gingerly examined the bag and read the identification label: the words 'Marsholm murder' immediately caught her attention; she glanced up at Callum with a mixture of excitement and expectation beaming from her face. "I think it must have got misfiled." he explained.

The writing on the label was quite faded, but Michelle could just make out the name 'Vera Fable' and the word

'underwear'; not normally one for profanity, she exclaimed under her breath: "Oh fuck."

The wide-eyed DS smiled: "I thought that might make your day, ma'am."

"Yes...Yes, thank you, Cal'." she gasped, clutching the bag like a treasured possession. Callum jauntily withdrew from the office to leave his boss to savour her gift from the gods.

The DCI could not get the evidence bag booked into the Forensic Laboratory quick enough and immediately requested a DNA analysis. Her next port of call was DCSupt Lancashire's office to request prioritisation of the _Marsholm Murder_ case; much to her delight, he did not require a great deal of persuasion. She then returned to the CCS main office with a little skip in her step, summoning DI Crickley to join her in her office as she passed his desk.

"Yes, ma'am...You seem very chipper, if you don't mind me saying so." said Bob Crickley closing the door.

"Bob, I've got a fantastic old case for you..."

"I'm still up to my neck in the _Serpentine Slaying_ , ma'am."

"Yes, I know." she noted dismissively, "I want you to put that on the back burner; I've got something special for you.

Do you recall the Marsholm Wood murder in 1965?"

"Er, a bit before my time, ma'am."

"Yes, before mine, too; most of our cases are, Bob."

"Yes, I suppose so, ma'am. Doesn't mean anything."

"Well, my dad was a DC back then, under Superintendent Ackroyd..." "A legend, ma'am." acknowledged Crickley.

"Yes, and that was his last major case – but it was never resolved. My dad thought it pretty sad that Ackroyd had to end his career on that one... The main suspect was an Arthur Jameson. He managed to get acquitted by a majority verdict. Apart from one early suspect, no one else was ever linked to it – it's still all a bit of mystery, really. Anyway, Jameson is still alive, I think. He did a long stretch for armed robbery not long after: he was released in 1990. We looked into the case in 2000, but all the evidence appeared to have been lost..." she leant down to the bottom draw of her desk and produced a thin file, "I did make some preliminary inquiries: he has a daughter living in some place in Cambridgeshire...Huntingdon. He may be living there now. The daughter's worth checking out, in any case: Joanne Paris – I don't know what name she's using these days, though; I believe she's been married at least once."

"Excuse my interruption, ma'am, but what's changed since 2000?" enquired Crickley, slightly bewildered.

"Yes, I'm glad you asked." she smiled ingratiatingly, "This morning, DS Johnson found a piece of evidence buried in another case box. It's the one piece of evidence we need to clinch the case, too. I'm getting the DNA checked ASAP..."

"I see. What do you want me to do in the meantime?"

"Like I say, all the other evidence has been destroyed or lost, but there are still the transcripts from the court case: I want you to obtain those and start going through it – familiarize yourself with it. You can use DS Johnson to do your dirty work."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll get right onto it." assured Crickley getting up to leave the office.

"Keep me posted, Bob." called Michelle to Crickley as he left the room. "Will do, ma'am."

That evening, Michelle Cartwright relaxed with her partner Mike at her Paddington flat. As they tucked into a Chinese takeaway [roast duck chow mein], she could not resist mentioning her gem of a breakthrough in the _Marsholm Murder_ case. Mike was an editor at a major publishing house and as such was very well read; he was therefore familiar with John Leggett's 1967 book.

"Mike? Have you ever heard of the _Marsholm Murder_ case?" she asked casually.

"Marsholm murder...? Ah, yes, _The Monster of Marsholm Wood_." he learnedly declared.

"That's the one. My dad was involved in that, back in '65. It never did get resolved; the main suspect was acquitted and the case was buried."

"Leggett's book seemed to support his innocence, if I recall correctly."

"Yes, it did, but he rescinded that some years later; probably when he realised Jameson wasn't quite so meek and mild as he had been fooled into believing... His book was published before Jameson went down for armed robbery."

"Armed robbery?" exclaimed Mike, slightly taken aback, "Yeah, that doesn't quite fit with Leggett's assessment of him... Mind you, the evidence was pretty dubious."

"Only because the defence made it look like the police had framed him. My dad was on that case and there's no way that happened." she empathically asserted.

"No, of course not... But, it was all a bit fishy. I mean, they never really established a motive, did they?"

"Psycho's don't need a motive..." she unnecessarily informed him, "Anyway, we've got a chance to solve it, at last." "New evidence?"

"No, no. Very old evidence: the best – DNA... Well, hopefully."

"If they can extract DNA from 3000 year-old mummies, they can probably get viable samples from just about anything, these days."

"I do hope so, Mike. I really want this one put to rest... I must remember to ring dad and let him know the good news..."

## Chapter Forty-Two

## (28 November 2006)

**It** was a bitter drizzly day; dark and depressing. DS Johnson pulled his grey coloured greatcoat from the back seat of the unmarked Ford Focus and flung it on over his dark grey suit – it wasn't a particularly good disguise, but he did blend in well with the weather. Bracing himself he embarked on the short walk to the row of bungalows where Jameson's residence had been traced. The numbering was very unclear and not obviously logical; he spent over ten minutes of wandering up and down and around what was a relatively small block of abodes, because most of the doors had no numbers; also, it was difficult to determine whether it was the front or the back door of many of them. Eventually, he started knocking on doors at random, but to no avail – either everyone was out, or just hiding. Callum was beginning to get a little exasperated, when a middle-aged woman with dark-blond hair appeared behind him and asked in a highly suspicious tone: "Can I 'elp you?"

"Oh, yes...I'm looking for number twelve _Woden Close_."

The woman eyed him with distrust. She was fairly attractive, but her face was distinctly hardened: "Who y'u lookin' for?" she asked.

Callum hesitated, before overcoming his natural lawman's reticence to share information with the general public: "Er, a Mr Jameson – do you know him?"

"I might. Who are y'u?" she asked interrogatively.

Again, Callum hesitated, but realised that he needed cooperation and so produced his warrant card: "Police. I need to speak to Mr Jameson in regard to a private matter."

She approached closer to Callum and indicated that she wanted to inspect his warrant card, which she scrutinized with uncommon caution: "You're from the Met'?" she noted with some surprise.

"Yes. It's not a local matter." he explained, withdrawing the identity card and safely returning it to his inside pocket, "Do you know which is number twelve, madam?" He was growing tired of the woman's attitude. "Yes...I know it. Mr Jameson is my dad." she finally admitted. "Ah, then you must be Joanne Paris?" "Clayton." she corrected him.

"Sorry...Would that be your married name?"

"Yes...I'm divorced, actually, but..."

"Right...Could you direct me to your father?" Callum glanced around the close and gestured with his hands to indicate his impatience for an answer.

"...Yeah – okay. It's right here." She gestured with her head to the bungalow they were standing in front of: one of the few Callum hadn't tried.

"I assume he's in?" he enquired wearily.

Joanne's demeanour suddenly relaxed and she gave the detective a cigarette tarnished smile: "He should be – 'e's expecting me." She knocked forcefully on the large sheet of glass that constituted almost half of the door; Callum winced in expectation of the glass breaking – amazingly it remained steadfast. There was a lengthy pause, followed by Joanne yelling through the letterbox: "Dad, it's me – are you awake?"

There was a muffled response: "Yeah, alright – I'm comin'." The door finally opened to reveal a rough looking aged man wearing spectacles. "'Ello love...W'a's this geezer want?"

"It's alright dad, 'e's police."

"Police!" Arthur was decidedly alarmed, "What do they want?" "Er, Mr Jameson, I am DS Johnson; Metropolitan police." "I a'n't done nuffin'." Arthur immediately claimed.

Joanne smiled reassuringly, unaware of the extent of her father's criminal exploits: "It's okay; 'e just wants t'talk to you."

"'Aven't you lot 'ad y'u' two penneth worth out t'me, already?" Arthur continued to complain with open hostility.

"Mr Jameson, I'm not here to cause you trouble – honestly." Callum beseeched.

"Dad, calm down. Just let 'im 'ave a chat." said Joanne soothingly in her blissful ignorance.

Arthur reluctantly shuffled into the living room and sat in his armchair, before demanding a cup of tea – Joanne duly obliged.

"So, what do you bastards want?" asked Arthur venomously.

Callum took the liberty of sitting down on the sofa: "Mr Jameson, a lot of old cases are being re-examined and one of them happens to be the Marsholm Wood murder... There's been some incredible advances in forensics since the 1960's... The case is still unsolved, but we now have a DNA profile. Nothing came up on the database, so we're still no further forward." Joanne was avidly listening from the kitchen. "Not too surprising, given the age of the crime... We were hoping you would help us out – it would be a chance to clear your name, once and for all." "What d'y'u mean?" Arthur enquired apprehensively.

"Well, we could eliminate you from the new enquiry, and you would be able to prove your innocence beyond any doubt." Callum was desperately trying to be surreptitiously persuasive, but Arthur wasn't that stupid.

"Look, I was acquitted forty years ago. I don' need t'prove anyfink."

"I know...But it was a majority verdict, I believe... DNA is definitive." Callum persevered.

Arthur took a deep and aggressive breath, before standing to glare over the detective, who was now feeling slightly vulnerable: "Jus' get the fuck out. I a'n't got nuffin' else to say on the matter." And with that Arthur walked out of the tiny living room and shut himself in the bathroom, just as Joanne rushed back into the room to rescue the situation.

"God, I'm sorry." she said apologetically.

"No worries." Callum calmly replied, "I wasn't really expecting a welcome... We thought it was worth a try." He rose and walked towards the front door, saying: "I'll let myself out."

Joanne stood motionless for a moment, somewhat stunned by the whole affair; then she suddenly remembered something and rushed out to catch up with DS Johnson.

"Officer...Officer!" she called chasing after him, "I couldn't 'elp 'earin' what y'u was sayin' t'me dad... He never told me about this murder thing."

"Well, I suppose that's understandable." he consoled her.

"Look, my dad's a bit of an old grump sometimes, but maybe I can 'elp..."

"In what way, madam?"

"Well, y'u know that American crime programme, CSI?" "Yes, I have heard of it." he concurred, a little non-plussed.

"Well, there was this episode where they used family DNA to get a match."

"Family DNA...? Ah, right, you mean familial DNA." The penny had dropped for the detective, though Joanne didn't quite grasp the difference in what he had said – something he could tell from her puzzled expression. "Yes, I know what you're talking about...Are you saying you would volunteer a sample?"

"Yeah – exactly. If it'll 'elp clear me dad's name."

Callum immediately had a warm sense of triumph come over him: this should keep the boss happy, he thought: "Well, that would be extremely helpful, Ms Clayton. Would you mind accompanying me to the local station – we can take your samples there?"

Joanne initially hesitated, but certain of her conviction in her dad's innocence, she agreed; Callum drove her to Huntingdon Police Station and arranged the sampling under officially controlled conditions (to ensure that there could be no mistakes – or dispute, later).

Late that afternoon, Joanne returned to her father's bungalow, he was still simmering from the earlier debacle, so she trod carefully to begin with, making him a pot of tea and his dinner, as he hadn't eaten all day. As Arthur sat with a kneetray, eating his egg, sausage and chips, while watching _Neighbours_ on the television, Joanne tried to approach the subject of his 1966 trial.

"Dad...? You never mentioned being tried for murder..."

Arthur tutted and sighed: "Yeah, well I didn' fink it was important." he grouchily explained.

"Well, it is quite a big thing... That's around the time I was born and...my mum died." she commented gently.

Arthur sighed heavily: "She died in child birf – nuffin' t'do wiv my trial." he reminded her, reiterating what her mother had told her and she had later verified with Arthur, who just conveniently agreed with the story.

"Yeah, I know... But..."

"But what?"

"Nothin'... I can't understand why you don't wanna take the opportunity to clear y'u' name, once and for all."

"Look, it was forty years ago – I wanna forget it."

"Yeah, well, if they reopen the case, the papers might come lookin' for you..." she was quick to point out.

"They can' touch me. I was foun' not guilty, and tha's an end to it."

"Actually, that copper told me that it's not necessarily the case, anymore."

"What 'd'y'u mean?" Arthur turned to face his daughter for the first time in the conversation.

"Double jeopardy – it's been banned."

"You what?"

"They can retry people, now; even if they got off before."

Arthur stare uncertainly into his daughter's eyes, before an expression of bewilderment overtook his face; he then continued eating and watching the television, apparently indifferent.

"Anyway," Joanne recommenced, "you don't have to worry, do you? You're innocent... And I've made sure that they prove that." she announced auspiciously.

Arthur stopped eating and froze: "What d'y'u mean?" he asked warily, without looking at her. "I gave them a sample." she exalted.

"What sample?"

"Just some blood and saliva, tha's all."

"What for?" Arthur was both alarmed and confused.

"They can do this family match, y'u see... Don't ask me – I don' do science." she said putting on her coat.

"Where y'u goin'?" snapped Arthur.

"Home...I have a fourteen year old son who'll be demanding his dinner, y'u know...I'd quite like some myself, too... I'll come 'roun' tomorrow evening. Dunno exactly when – got t'make up some time at work." The front door slammed shut and Arthur was left alone with some perplexing thoughts.

DS Johnson returned to Scotland Yard early in the evening to find his boss still in the office; she was well known for her diligence and commitment to the squad, and her promotion had been no surprise to anyone when the previous DCI retired. Callum knocked on the closed door of her office; she looked up and was pleased to see him; hoping for good news, she beckoned him in.

"Hello Cal' – how did it go?"

"Um, interesting, ma'm...I think I got what we need, just not from Jameson."

Michelle was intrigued: "How do you mean?"

"Well, Jameson was unsurprisingly uncooperative. But, his daughter couldn't help enough... I never thought I'd praise American television, but thanks to CSI, people know a lot about forensics these days." "Is that a good thing?" she queried doubtfully.

"In this case, yes – a very good thing...Familial DNA, ma'm: she provided samples; if Jameson was the killer, we'll be able to match her DNA to his with a high degree of certainty...Then we can get a warrant to get samples from him."

Michelle's eyes lit up with recognition and considerable appreciation: "Well done, Cal'! Good work."

"Thank you, ma'm. I'll book the samples in first thing tomorrow."

"No...Give them to me – I'll take them now. There's usually someone down there in the evening."

DCI Cartwright practically ran down to the Forensics Laboratory, such was her excitement and anticipation. As she expected, Dr Fletcher was still hard at it. She knocked on the glass of the security door access to the laboratory. Dr Fletcher acknowledged her with a wave and indicated she would be three minutes.

Dianne Fletcher opened the door and greeted her friend DCI Cartwright: "Hello, 'Chelle; what can I do for you at this late hour?"

"I need an urgent DNA analysis." Michelle passed the cold bag of samples to Dianne.

"Right. We're pretty busy..."

"Aren't you always?"

"Well, is it a priority?"

" _I_ think so. The sooner the better, anyway...I need a comparison with an historic sample we had analysed the other month: the Marsholm murder... That's a familial sample, so it won't be exact – we just need to know if there's any relation, then we can move the case forward..." Dianne examined the bag with curiosity. "This is important to me, Di': I'd really appreciate a fast track." Michelle pressured, reckoning on the perks of her friendship. "Okay, 'Chelle – I'll see what we can do." Dianne conceded with good humour.

Arthur had been pacing up and down the small, rather dank bungalow, fretting about this new investigation. His understanding of genetics was exceedingly limited, so he was in a quandary about the implications of the whole situation; he had an instinctive distrust of the police and therefore envisaged a scenario whereby they would _fit him up_ no matter what. Around 10 PM he resolved to pack his bags and take a taxi to the railway station. He didn't have a railcard, but he did at least have a bank debit card, (thanks to his daughter,) so was able to buy a ticket from the automated ticket machine – the station was only manned until 8 PM. He arrived at the station at 10.45, just minutes before the last train to London (king's Cross) was due to arrive.

Sitting in the 2nd class carriage, clutching a holdall containing his few possessions, he felt like a 2nd class citizen, destined to be reviled and deprived; wallowing in this vat of self-pity, his beleaguered past all began to flood back: so many unanswered questions. He did not leave those cartridge cases in Room 26 at the _Verona Hotel_ , so who did put them there; and why did so many of his close friends and associates so keenly turn Queen's evidence against him? Their treachery still rancored deeply within him; but they were all long dead, as were most of the police involved – so none of the truth behind all of that would ever come out now.

As the train rattled along the tracks, the distant street lights were a mesmerising distraction from all his woes. At this stage, he still had no idea where he would go when he got to King's Cross. Everything he had known, people and places, were largely gone, swallowed up by the new metropolis of increasingly cosmopolitan internationality – his type were gradually being squeezed out, like dregs scraped from society's smelting pot. In fact, he didn't even know why he was going to London, because there was nothing left there for him; and yet, it was the only world he really knew, outside of the prison walls. He considered changing his identity or joining some obscure religious sect – either would enable him to drop out of society and off the police radar, but he was getting a bit too old for all that. Vagrancy might be his only real option and he had heard that there was good money to be made begging in the streets down Putney way.

The Ticket Inspector, a large man of African extraction, meandered down the carriage in a totally expressionless manner. Arthur's natural reaction to any form of authority was to make a bolt for it, but then he remembered he had paid; he had a valid ticket. The inspector indifferently asked "Ticket please" in a monotone voice of abject boredom. Arthur produced his ticket with a feint air of smugness in the fact that on this occasion he was legit. The journey would take about an hour, so he removed his glasses and neatly placed them in his pocket, before shutting his eyes and allowing his mind to drift back to the old days.

## Chapter Forty-Three

## (28 May & 2 June 1965)

**Friday** mornings tended to be a bit quiet at _La Matrice des Curios_ ; Denise therefore busied herself by checking her stock and rearranging the shelf and window displays. Alone, deep in thought and uninhibited, she sung to herself _When a Man Loves a Woman_ , dancing care freely about the small shop, she didn't notice the bell chime as the shop door was opened behind her and consequently visibly jumped when a loud, deliberate cough, announced the presence of a man.

"Oh! My god." she exclaimed turning and clutching her chest; immediate recognition of an old friend brought a relieved smile to her face: "Ewan! You frightened the life out of me." "Sorry Denise." Ewan Williams apologised with a chuckle.

She hugged him affectionately: "I wasn't expecting you this early."

"No, I know. I didn't open up today – family crisis." he cryptically explained.

"Oh...Nothing serious, I hope?" she enquired empathetically.

"Well, nothing new, anyway...So, how are you?"

"Very well, thanks."

"In fine voice." he noted cheerfully.

"Oh, yes." she laughed, "How embarrassing... Do you want to come up for a cuppa? I can lock up for an early lunch – don't get a lot of trade on a Friday morning down here."

"Yeah, that'd be nice."

"You can tell me all about it; a problem shared..."

They both went out to the back of the shop and up the stairwell leading to the flat above. Ewan made himself comfortable on the chaise lounge, while Denise made a pot of tea. "Are you going abroad again this year?" she called as she filled a bone-china Victorian teapot.

"I don't know that we can afford it this year...Jane wants to go to the Greek Islands."

"Wow, that would be lovely." she attested, standing in the kitchen doorway, the bead-curtain tied to one side. "Yeah...I was thinking more of _The Valleys_ this year." "Back home, eh?" she inferred.

"Yes. My Grandparents still live near Cardiff, we could stay with them – would be a lot cheaper." he concluded.

"You're not becoming a skin flint in your old age are you, Ewan?" she suggested with a laugh.

"Cheeky cow...You're older than me." he complained.

"Yes, you're right – still very young." Denise asserted with mock-indignation. She poured two cups of tea, milk, no sugar, and handing one cup and saucer to Ewan, sat down on the sofa opposite. "So, what's troubling you?" "Oh, it's just my sister and her...shit of a husband." he groaned. "You never really talk about them...Are they having problems?"

"They've always had problems: namely _him_." "Not a very nice bloke?" she suggested quizzically.

"Well, he's quite personable; I mean: I've always got along with him on a personal level – man to man." "So, what's the problem?"

"He just can't keep it in his trousers." Ewan stated bluntly.

"Oh, he's like that is he? I see."

"He's been having affairs ever since they met; we warned her, but she wouldn't listen... Every now and then, it seems to drive Anne into a crisis state. This latest one's been on the go for a while and she's scared stupid he's going to leave her on her own with the kids."

"Oh dear...Do you think that's likely?"

"I don't know; it's not like we haven't been here before... I just hate seeing my sister getting like that. She deserves better."

"Couldn't you have a word with him?" Denise tried to be helpful.

"She doesn't like anyone interfering. The one time I did, it didn't exactly help matters." Ewan seemed quite dejected by it all.

"Well, is there anyone you could ask to speak to him, so that it wouldn't look like it was coming from you?"

"Not really. I couldn't risk asking any of my friends – he's met most of them."

Denise pondered this conundrum for a moment and then had a flash of inspiration: "What if you could hire someone?" "What do you mean?"

"Well, hire someone to put the wind up him – scare him off this other woman."

"Mmm, nice idea, but he'd guess that I had something to do with it and that would get back to Anne."

"Oh, yeah; yeah, I see... What if looked like a random thing?"

"Random? How would that work?"

"I don't know...Maybe if he was humiliated in front of this girl, it might put her off him."

"Right; roughed up a bit?"

"Yeah – make it look like a robbery, or something; you, know: a mugging."

"Hmm, that might work. But who the hell could I get to do something like that? Do you know some Teddy boys?" Denise chuckled: "No, not exactly...But I do know some people who are bit, how shall I put it – rough?" "Really, Denise? Are you living some double life, or something?" he queried with some surprise.

"No, no. I just know this young chap... _He_ knows some dodgy characters." she clarified with enthusiasm.

"And you think they could be of help?" Ewan sounded dubious.

"Well, he knows this hard case; _Mr Fixit_ type – he could probably arrange for some thug to shake up your errant brother-in-law."

"Wow, you're certainly full of surprises, Denise... How would I get hold of this _Mr Fixit_?"

"Well, his name is Dickie, Dickie Paris." "Sounds like a saucy holiday." joked Ewan.

Denise burst out laughing: "Oh, Ewan!" she reprimanded in good humour. "Seriously, that's his name...I know he meets people at a snooker club in Soho – you know, to do business. You could say you're an associate of Arthur Jameson – that's my friend – they're quite close, I believe."

"Do you have the address of this club?"

"Romily Road, I think it is... I think they go every Wednesday... Actually, I know that Arthur is going to Liverpool next Wednesday, so he won't be going...That would be a good opportunity for you – I don't really want Arthur to know I've been bandying their names around, he might not like it."

"Are these people dangerous?" Ewan asked cautiously.

"Dangerous? No. Well, I don't think Arthur is...I wouldn't want to mess with his friend, though." Ewan looked worried. "I think you're safe as long as you don't cross them." she reassured him; he didn't look entirely convinced. "Honestly, they're salt of the earth types; rough diamonds. They're not malicious."

"You're sure about that?"

"I've known Arthur quite a while: I couldn't imagine him hurting someone...except in self-defence."

Ewan Williams was certainly no wimp; in fact, he was quite a well-built man, who had played rugby in his youth. But, walking into that snooker club in Soho, he had never felt so scared in all of his life. The people who frequented this establishment gave the distinct impression that they would cut your throat if you so much as looked at them wrong. He fully expected to cross paths with a Kray twin or 'Mad Frankie Fraser', or some other nefarious villain, at any moment. However, Dickie Paris wasn't quite in that league, though he had brushed shoulders with plenty of them over the years.

Ewan gingerly approached the bar, glancing into the large open hall filled with billiard tables, each illuminated by its own overhanging light. It was a bizarre atmosphere: gloomy and smoke filled, curiously quiet, with the occasional echo of a rasping voice, boisterous laugh or the clank of balls, the air thick with beer fumes. The barman – smartly dressed and impeccably groomed – eyed him like a snake hypnotically locks onto its prey; he was dapper, yet threatening.

"Yes?" the barman asked sharply.

"Um, I'm looking for a friend of an acquaintance...Dickie Paris – do you know if he's here?" "Dickie...? Who are you?"

"Er, a friend of Arthur Jameson." Ewan proffered uncertainly; the barman gave him a long hard stare while drying a glass with a white cloth.

"Arthur, eh...? Are you a member?"

"Well, no." Ewan admitted somewhat self-evidently.

"Stay there." the barman instructed sternly, before opening the bar access gate; he gestured with his finger to emphasize that Ewan should stay put, before walking casually into the hall and over to a table in a far corner. He more or less disappeared in the smoggy conditions for what was only a minute or so, but felt like hours for Ewan, who felt incredibly vulnerable standing there, eyes gouging into the back of his head from a group of men at a table opposite the bar. He was considerably relieved when the barman returned.

"He says to go over." The barman pointed in the direction of the table in the corner.

Ewan walked, as coolly as he could, through the maze of tables, careful to avoid contact with anyone or anything, eventually glimpsing a large brutal looking man sitting at a small table with another man – who was decidedly shifty looking.

"Er, Dickie Paris?" he enquired nervously.

"Yeah. You a friend of Arfur's then, are y'u?" Dickie asked mistrustfully.

"Well, more a friend of friend, to be honest." he explained with an appeasing smile; it wasn't returned.

"So, what can I do for y'u?" Dickie lit a cigarette.

"Er, well, I may have a little job for you."

"Job? What sort o' job?"

"Well, it er, requires some explaining...There's a good earner in it." Ewan solicited.

"Right...Well, in that case, y'u'd better sit down." offered Dickie, gesturing with his head for Ewan to take the empty chair in front of the table. Ewan sat down, Dickie to one side, the roguish man to the other. "So, 'ow d'y'u know Arfur?" "Like I say, I'm a friend of a friend...It was Denise Deneo that put me on to you." he was forced to admit.

"Ah, Denise. We 'ave met." acknowledged Dickie, much to Ewan's relief; this also seemed to placate the other man, who had been listening attentively and scrutinizing Ewan with hostility up to that point; the whole situation appeared to relax at that moment. "So, what's this all about?"

"Well, I have a problem with my brother-in-law...He's having an affair and I want it to stop."

"And 'ow exactly do y'u think I can 'elp – this a'n't a fuckin' marriage _wotsit_ bureau." mocked Dickie, which caused some amusement to the other man.

"No, it's beyond that sort of help, anyway. Something more drastic is needed."

"Drastic, eh? Sounds like y'u need a vet." Dickie continued to mock much to the other man's hilarity. Ewan smiled in recognition of the joke: "No, no, nothing like that. I just want him scared off." "Can't y'u sort it y'urself, mate?" Dickie queried with mystification.

"No. It has to be someone unknown to him – a stranger...I don't want my sister to know I had anything to do with it."

"Ah, I see what'y'u mean." Dickie finally grasped the problem, "So, what d'y'u want done, exactly?"

"I just want him humiliated in front of this girl...I want their little relationship marred, so it comes to an end." "Right...So, y'u wan' 'im roughed-up, like?"

"No, no. No violence. I just want him threatened...I was thinking maybe a mugging or something."

"Rob 'im...?" Dickie considered this proposition, "I think _that_ could be arranged." he declared with a sly smirk to his associate, who nodded enthusiastically.

"How much would you want?" Ewan asked hesitantly, "A couple of hundred?" he suggested optimistically.

"Two 'undred nicker?" Dickie pondered this, and sensing there was more to be got, made a proposition: "'Ow about five 'undred...? An' we keep anyfin' we nick off 'em."

"Five hundred...Okay, I think I can raise that."

"Sure you can...We need 'alf up front; 'alf when it's done."

Ewan was unsure whether he could trust this man with £250, but the lion's cage had been opened now and there seemed no safe way back: "Okay...I'll get the money as soon as I can."

"We'll need a dossier." Dickie informed him insightfully, though this apparent cognizance with the necessities of the situation was based more on Hollywood movies than on experience. "Dossier?" Ewan hadn't thought it out that far.

"Yeah. Photo's; information...We need to know where to find this geezer – and when 'e's wiv this girl. We'll 'ave to case 'im out – y'u know?"

The apparent display of expertise by Dickie had certainly made Ewan feel more confident about the whole arrangement: "Okay – I'll put some stuff together...Shall I meet you here when I've got it?"

"No...We can meet at me local boozer...An' bring the 'alf monkey." Ewan stare at Dickie, completely gone out. "The money." Dickie explained with a smirk...

Ewan decided to pay his sister another visit before returning home that evening; he arrived at her house at eight o'clock, immediately noticing that Gregg's car was not on the drive. Anne answered the door with smudged mascara all over her face and was visibly disappointed to see that it was Ewan.

"Christ – look at the state of you." he deplored; he hated seeing his sister in this state. "I see the bastard's not back yet."

"Don't start." Anne pleaded.

"Why do you put up with this shit?" "I love him...You wouldn't understand." "No, I wouldn't." Ewan bitterly agreed.

"Where are the kids?"

"In bed – where do you think?"

"They haven't seen you like this, have they?" "No." she protested weakly.

"So, had another row, have you?"

"Yes...He's probably with _her_ now." Anne curled up foetal-like on the sofa.

"That's not _your_ fault, Anne. You can't keep going on like this, you know. It'll affect the kids eventually. It's not good for them, seeing their parents fighting." Anne had heard it all before and knew he was right, but she continued to defy common-sense. "So, when did this latest argument blow-up?"

"It's just a continuation from last night and this morning."

"When did he go out?"

"About an hour ago."

Ewan sat down on the sofa next to his huddled-up sister and caressed her head. "Maybe he'll come to his senses one of these days..." he consoled her, "I could sabotage his car – that would limit his activities."

"How would he get to work?"

"He could use his legs." Ewan stated with exasperation; Anne giggled. "Well, I'm glad you found that funny...Come on, cheer up." He started to tickle her.

"Get off, get off!" she squealed with delight; suddenly they were children again and all the tribulations of adulthood were momentarily forgotten.

Gregg Mason wasn't in fact with Vera Fable, but had dropped into the local Conservative Club for a stiff drink, instead. Perversely, he was quite upset; he did not relish falling out with his wife, and in his own peculiar way, loved her dearly. Strange though it might seem to most "normal" folk, his affairs were merely a need for sexual excitement and in his mind did not detract from his loyalty to his wife. Vera was more a friend to have fun with than any kind of emotional shackle. He would never choose her, or in fact any other woman, over his beloved wife, Anne. Little could he have known what the dire consequences of his frivolous dalliances would ultimately be.

## Chapter Forty-Four

## (30 July 1965)

**As** the bus pulled up at the stop in Euston Road, Arthur jumped off and ran into the station. He had suffered something of a mental aberration that morning and initially gone to Paddington; now he was severely pressed for time, just managing to miss the 10.45 train and now having to wait for the 11.50 train to Liverpool. He had two gold watches burning a hole in his pocket; wanting a good price, he had made a contact in Liverpool through his old prison friend, Des Naismith. The watches were red hot in London, so few local fences would touch them, and those that would were offering poultry remuneration. This Liverpool contact was willing to pay 15% of the retail value, which was about a £100 for each of the watches, so it was well worth the trouble. He wandered around the station for about three-quarters of an hour waiting for the next train; the station was relatively quiet at this time of day on a Friday. Eventually, he bought a paper and a bottle of Coca-Cola; his reading ability was fairly limited, but _The Sun_ , being one of the easier papers to read, made it possible for him to get the gist of most of the articles.

It was a blessed relief when the train finally arrived. He threw the newspaper in a waste bin and walked towards the back of the train, where he found an empty carriage. An elderly woman had the audacity to take a seat in Arthur's carriage before the train pulled out: she fell asleep about ten minutes into the journey, giving Arthur the opportunity to rifle through her handbag: there wasn't much in it and on locating her purse, he found she was pretty much "boracic", so didn't have the heart to take her last few shillings. The rest of the journey he whiled away his time staring out of the window in a trance, firstly, dreaming about winning the football pools – which he didn't even do – and then recalling the events of the previous morning, when he had met up with Joe Hebdon, who might prove to be his ticket to a more tangible form of windfall...

The _Jack of Clubs_ cafe on Kilburn High Road was not a place for the feint hearted, having quite a reputation for trouble, mainly from its principally Mod patronage and the rockers who occasionally came looking for a quarrel, and generally found it in good measure. It was somewhat quieter during the morning and both Arthur and Joe, being sharp dressers, certainly did not look out of place in that particular environment. Arthur had arrived first and occupied a suitably quiet corner table; Joe arrived several minutes after Arthur had sat down with a strong _expresso_ coffee.

"Ah, Arfur, buddy – jus' get one o 'those meself." exclaimed Joe on entering the cafe and spotting Arthur. He greeted the girl on the counter with a cheeky wink and sleazy grin: "Alright darlin'? [The girl smiled politely] I'll 'ave an expresso."

Joe sat down opposite Arthur and slurped on his coffee. "So, 'ow's it goin'."

"Alright, yeah: got some nice little earners lined-up." Arthur boasted with an element of bravado – he was keen to impress Joe.

"Nice... Bet they a'n't worff 'undred grand, though." scoffed Joe cryptically.

"What? An 'undred grand!" blurted Arthur astounded.

"Shhh, keep it down." warned Joe, his eyes full of reproach.

"Sorry...That much, eh?"

"Yeah. Should be close on 'alf a mill'; so, we should see a good 'undred large ones – each."

"Shit. This really is a big job, then?"

"Oh yeah. The Dixon's wanna retire on this."

"So, 'ow soon is this likely to come off?"

"Sometime next year. Lot o' plannin' involved; timin' is everyfin'... We need to get someone on the inside, first." "So, where is this job?"

"Can't say too much at the mo'... Souff London – tha's all I can say. We need a good safe blower; do y'u know anyone?" "No one on the outside." Arthur had to admit.

"I fink Dennis Watkinson is due out in March...They don't call 'im _Dynamite Den'_ for nuffin'." Joe laughed.

"Can't say I've met 'im." admitted Arthur.

"Currently finishing a sentence in Dartmoor... So, w'a's these jobs you' got lined-up?" Arthur was slightly embarrassed: "Oh, nuffin' much: just a few ton, 'ere an' there." Joe nodded appreciatively: "What'y'u up to later?"

"Oh, I got this date tonight. Tasty piece she is. Met 'er down the _Essoldo_..." Arthur explained, referring to the cinema a short distance up the street, (on _The Parade_ , which branched off from the Kilburn High Road).

"Ah, yeah...The one up the road." acknowledged Joe.

"Yeah. I'm takin' 'er there tonight...Nice legs."

"What you goin' t'see?" asked Joe lighting a cigarette; he offered one to Arthur, who gestured with his hand to the negative.

"Er, _Mister Moses_...Robert Mitchum... Oh, and Carroll Baker – very nice." imparted Arthur approvingly.

Joe smiled and nodded: "Oh, I nearly forgot." he said reaching into an inside pocket and producing a small tin, which had previously contained mints and was well used, adding: "There's 'alf a dozen in there for y'u. Don't take them all at once." he joked. Arthur prised the lid open a crack to see what he presumed were Benzedrine tablets.

The conversation subsequently lapsed into discussions about football and then the musical merits of _The Who_ versus _The Rolling Stones_ , until two girls in their late teens entered the cafe. Their attentions were immediately steered in the direction of the young women.

"What d'y'u reckon?" asked Joe rather non-specifically.

"The brunette's very tasteful... The blonde one's a bit chubby, but I wouldn't say no."

Joe indicated with his thumb for them to move in on the girls – an endeavour that Arthur needed little encouragement for. They then spent the next hour chatting them up, after buying them a coffee. Joe seemed to be onto something with the Brunette, but Arthur's luck did not appear to be in, so he eventually left Joe to it...

The train pulled into Lime Street Station at 2.35 PM. Arthur checked his watch and cursed; he was feeling the pressure of time like a lead weight upon his shoulders. The contact had told him to meet at 38 Stanley Street, which was fairly close to the station, but Arthur – who rarely wrote things down – misremembered it as 38 Stanley Road, which was in a completely different part of Liverpool. Consequently, when he started asking directions, there was an immediate conflict of comprehension: Arthur was convinced the address was near the station, but everyone he asked, either didn't know it or directed him to Kirkdale or Bootle – or Huyton, which even he knew couldn't be right. What made it worse was that most people were not aware of Stanley Street, or at least were not aware that it was called Stanley Street, so that option just didn't get raised. After about 45 minutes of wandering around the general area and asking umpteen different people for help, he finally took the advice of one particular woman and waited for a bus that went to Stanley Road in Kirkdale/Bootle.

Arthur decided to get off at the first stop in Stanley Road after crossing the railway bridge, as he had no idea whereabouts number 38 would be located, nor even what sort of property it was. This still left him a fair walk before he reached the sweetshop. Instinctively he knew this couldn't be right, but was at a loss as to what else to do; so, with no time remaining to explore any other possibility, he entered the sweetshop. This of course turned out to be a fruitless effort, and although the woman in the shop tried to be helpful, directing him to other possible 'Stanleys', he was none the wiser on leaving the shop. He rather aimlessly wandered further along the street until he came across a cinema – _The Rialto_. On approaching the doorman, he discovered that he was a Geordie, which was an accent he wasn't really familiar with. Communication with this character proved to be less than convivial, nor particularly coherent, however, Arthur did manage to ascertain that there was a bus station just up the road a way, which rang a bell with him, because the previous month he had caught a bus to Rhyl from a station in Bootle, (following that trip to Liverpool). He was supposed to be meeting Dickie back in London later that day, but by this time, there was no chance of getting back to Lime Street in time to catch a train that would return him to London early enough. In something of a dilemma, he started walking in the direction of the bus station at the shopping centre in Washington Parade.

Dickie was reading the paper in the kitchen, while Mary cooked his dinner: fried eggs, sausages and fried slice. Mary gave the frying pan a sharp shake, before taking a drag from her cigarette.

"Where y'u goin' tonight Dick?" she casually enquired, aware that he was up to something.

"Eh...? Nowhere special, why?"

"Y'u're upt'somefin', I know you are." she asserted.

Dickie lowered his newspaper and looked Mary in the eye: "Wha'd'y'u mean?"

"I know you. Y'u're up t'somefin'." she maintained.

"Just a bit o' business, tha's all." he answered after a pause, before resuming his study of the sport pages.

"You a'n' got anuver woman 'ave y'u?" She was semi-serious.

"Don' be fuckin' daft, woman." he instantly complained.

"So, what are y'u up to?" she persisted whilst shoving his plate of coronary inducing greasiness under his paper.

"Fuck sake, woman." he moaned and briskly folded the paper, before slapping it down on the table. She remained leaning on the table glaring at him mistrustfully. "What?" he continued to refute.

"'Ave it y'ur own way." she eventually conceded, "I just 'ope it a'n' anyfin' too dodgy." Dickie was determined to ignore her and carried on eating his dinner. She tried a different tack: "So, oo's this geezer y'u seein' tonight?" Dickie slammed his knife down on the table and stared ahead with fire in his eyes. "Ooh, touchey." she taunted, before nonchalantly putting the frying pan in the sink and turning on the tap.

"Aren't you 'avin' any?" Dickie enquired, somewhat puzzled.

"I'm gonna 'ave some chips wiv the girls down the bingo."

"Oh, right." He continued eating his fry-up, thinking he had now subverted the interrogation.

"Carol said some odd bloke came 'round earlier, when I was at the launderette?"

Dickie maintained his ignorance of the whole matter, saying dismissively: "Did she?"

Tired of the subterfuge, she put on her cardigan and grabbed her handbag: "Right, well, I'm goin' out... Don' expect me to bail you out." was her parting valediction. Dickie heard the front door slam and breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly finished his dinner and departed for his beloved _Red Bull_.

Anne Mason sat at the dinner table with face like thunder, looking distinctly like she had just been sucking a lemon. Gregg did his best to ignore this and eat his pork chops, while the two children had a little spate over the gravy jug. After a sustained period of silent tension, Anne finally posed the question that had been eating away at her all day:

"Are you still going to the club, tonight?"

"Yes. Have I indicated anything to the contrary?" he sarcastically replied.

"This rally is taking a lot of planning." she acerbically contended.

"Yeah, well we like to do it right." His response was deliberately ambiguous, which induced an audible growl from Anne. She decided to wait until the dinner was over and the children were ready for bed, whereupon she ushered them a little prematurely to their shared bedroom. Now she confronted Gregg more openly:

"Are you seeing that little tart, tonight?"

Gregg reeled at the directness of her accusation: "What...? If you mean, is Vera involved, then yes."

"Sounds like a Freudian slip."

"What? What does?"

"The use of 'involved'." she smugly insinuated.

"For Christ's sake, Anne... Don't make every time I go out into an inquisition."

"Every time!" she complained vehemently, "I hardly ever say a word."

"Keep it down – you'll upset the kids."

"I'll upset the kids? What are you doing: making them feel secure?"

"It's just a rally meeting – okay?" Gregg gently grasped her shoulders, realising that he needed to a pacify her, but she just shook him off. "Don't get all het up. I'll only be out a few hours."

"Last time, you didn't come back until gone midnight." she reminded him sniffily.

"Well, okay. I'll try to get back earlier this time. Okay?"

"Not really."

"Look, I'll take us all out at the weekend for a treat. Have a nice family day...We could go to London Zoo." He suggested optimistically. "Come on, cheer up. I promise I'll make it up to you." Anne didn't look entirely convinced, but the tactic did seem be to having the desired effect. He kissed on the forehead and used his beguiling smile to soften her neurotic disposition. "I'll be back by eleven – I promise." She was mildly reassured.

As Arthur walked down the road towards Washington Parade, he noticed a cherry red _Jaguar S-type_ , (the 3.8 litre version), parked rather incongruously in the shabby street. It stuck-out like a proverbial sore thumb. Arthur surreptitiously ambled around it, looking for any sign of the driver, either in the car or nearby. The street was remarkably quiet, with no one else in sight. He could not resist trying the driver's door – it opened. Not quite believing his luck he slunk inside, still keeping out a beady eye for the owner. Astonishingly, the keys were in the ignition – it was a gift from God, or perhaps, Satan. He started the engine: it purred beautifully. Still there was no sign of anyone in the street, so he casually pulled away and drove off rather sedately. He was soon opening up the engine on the M62 and then the M6. About two and half hours into the journey, he stopped at the Watford Gap Service Station and bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. While he was wondering around the station, he noticed a public telephone and decided to ring _The Red Bull_ in the hope that Dickie would be there. "Hello?" enquired Dickie a bit nonplussed when the barman handed him the pub phone.

"Dickie – it's me, Arfur...Look, fings went to cock in Liverpool, but I should still be able to make it. I best meet y'u at the pub."

"Right...Okay – just be there by about nine." insisted Dickie a little fretfully.

"I'll do me best." Arthur put the phone down. The pressure was back on and he needed to change route. He bought a road atlas with his last few shillings, took a couple of pills and then devised the most practicable course to his target destination.

## Chapter Forty-Five

## (6 - 11 March 2007)

**Although** mild for the time of year, there was a heavy down pour of rain that morning. Joanne sat at her desk in the estate agents office in Huntingdon High Street where she worked; she was on her own this morning, the other agent who worked out of the small office had called in sick and the manager was on a course; however, the miserable weather ensured there was little business to be done, anyway. It was cold, quiet and the air was impregnated with the smell of rain; as she sat there bored to tears, she contemplated the demise of her father: she had not heard from him since he had disappeared over three months ago, and the local police had been thoroughly disinterested in a missing ex-con who had apparently left his bungalow of his own free will. Though she suspected that he could look after himself fairly well, he was now 66 years old and presumably running out of money. There had been no word from the Metropolitan Police.

At about 10.30, a customer finally entered the premises. It didn't look too promising, however, as the man was clearly well into his seventies. After closing his umbrella and giving Joanne a sideways glance, he began perusing some rather large detached houses, which seemed a bit peculiar; Joanne wondered if he had won the lottery, or was just a time waster.

"Good morning, sir. Is there anything you're particularly looking for?" she asked in her most articulate parlance.

"Er, well...I'm not sure." the man answered very unpromisingly.

"House, flat, maisonette?" she attempted to assist him.

"Actually, I'm not looking for a property." he informed her with an unnerving stare. Joanne started to feel decidedly uncomfortable. "Are you Joanne?"

"Er, yes...why?"

"Joanne Paris?"

"Er, yes...Well, Clayton these days. Do I know you?"

"Very unlikely. I have some news about your father." he informed her mysteriously.

"My father...? Is he okay?"

"Um, to be honest, I couldn't tell you. Don't _you_ know?"

"Look, I'm sorry, but who the hell are you?"

"I'm...a shadow from the past. My name is Ewan Williams."

This was getting stranger by the second – she had no idea who he was: "I'm sorry; I don't know who you are. My father never mentioned you."

"No, he wouldn't have: we've never met..." Joanne now looked extremely perplexed. "I think I need to explain." "Er, yes." agreed Joanne.

"We had a connection a very long time ago, through your grandfather – Dickie."

On hearing this, Joanne realised that this man was undoubtedly serious: "Right...Look, would you like a cup of tea or something – I could lock up shop for a bit; I don't think there's going to be a rush anytime soon."

"I think that might be a good idea." Ewan concurred with the gentle smile of a seemingly harmless old man.

Joanne directed him to a customer chair by her desk, before going out the back to make some tea. When she returned with the mugs of tea, she sat down opposite Ewan; she was noticeably agitated.

"Thank you..." Ewan sipped some tea, "You remember giving those DNA samples last year?" "Yes."

"I take it they haven't contacted you, yet?"

"No." she said tentatively, her face full of anxiety.

"No. I suppose they might not, with your dad missing an' all."

"What do y'u mean? How do you know that?"

"I know a lot of things, Joanne; and none of them are going to make you very happy...I'm sorry to have to inflict this on you – it's nothing to do with you, really..."

"Come on – spit it out." Joanne was beginning to get stressed.

"They compared your DNA sample with the sample obtained from evidence kept from 1965...It was a murder and rape case."

"I know. My dad was acquitted."

"Yes, but that was before DNA fingerprinting...Your DNA has a familial match with the DNA from that crime. So, it was either your dad or one his brothers – his brothers are known not to have been involved. There was only ever one realistic suspect..." Joanne was appalled and had to place her hand over her mouth, as she felt physically sick; "I know this is a shock..."

"Who the hell are you!" she demanded with sudden indignation.

"The man he killed was Gregg Mason; Gregg was married to my sister, Anne Williams... The police notified Anne of the result of the DNA analysis. There will be something in the news about it, soon. He's a wanted man, Joanne." She struggled to digest this information. "I never met your father, but my hands aren't completely clean of my brother-in-law's blood...Forty odd years ago, Gregg was having an affair with a secretary at his works – Vera Fable. Anne was falling apart over this particular affair, though it wasn't the first...Anyway, she wouldn't let anyone intervene, so I took it upon myself to try to put a stop to it, without her knowledge; she never knew I set it up...He wasn't supposed to kill anyone; there wasn't even supposed to be any violence. All he had to do was scare them and rob them; basically, humiliate them and leave them stranded in the middle of nowhere... Your grandfather enlisted your dad for the job; I reckon that had something to do with his suicide..." Joanne was stunned to silence. "This man you call dad, was a low life crook who stepped over the line into...sick acts. He killed Gregg Mason in cold blood; he raped that girl and then chased her down like a dog and tried to kill her. He's evil, Joanne. I wouldn't be surprised if he raped your mother, too – that's probably why _she_ killed herself..."

"What?" Joanne frantically interrupted, "No, no. She died in child birth – my mum told me that."

"No, Joanne. She had an accident: that's what killed her...I can't prove it was suicide; maybe she just wanted to abort...I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset you, but you should know the truth. Your...father, for want of another word, is a lying scumbag; he can't be trusted."

"If this was all going to come out, anyway, why _are_ you here? To gloat?" she asked resignedly.

"Hardly...Like I said: I've had to live with my own guilt all this time. I just want a chance to speak to him. I need to resolve this before I die."

"And what exactly are you planning to do?" she asked with obvious suspicion.

"Look, I'm a 75 year old man. I'm not exactly capable of that much... I just need to speak to him; exorcise my demons."

"Well, I can't help you – I don't know where he is. He hasn't been in touch since he scarpered." she explained with bitterness permeating every word.

"I see...Well, if he does get in touch..." Ewan handed Joanne a business card, "I'm retired, but you can reach me on the mobile number on the back." She turned the card over to see a number scrawled on the back. "Please...If he gets in touch, try and arrange a meeting, and then let me know."

"What makes you think I ever want to see him again?"

"You don't have to. Just arrange the meeting."

"Shouldn't I just tell the police?"

"Don't worry, I'll do that; after I speak with him... Please?"

"One thing." she said as was about to leave, "How did you find me?"

"Oh, I've known where you were for a long time...I just didn't know where he was."

Three days later, Joanne was at home and getting ready to go out with her friends on a Friday night pub crawl, when the phone rang; she assumed it would be one her friends, but it wasn't:

"Hello!" she answered chirpily.

"Joanne...? It's me – y'u dad." Initially, Joanne froze; "Hello? Are y'u there?"

"Yes...Yes, I'm here."

"I suppose y'u saw the papers?" Arthur enquired hesitantly.

"Yes, of course. Thankfully not many people connect me with that name."

"Joanne, please, I'm innocent. They've faked it, some'ow..."

"Then turn yourself in and they can check _your_ DNA."

"They're settin' me up, jus' like before."

"Why? Why would they do that?"

"Because, it makes 'em look bad; they wanna prove Ackroyd wasn't wrong."

"It was forty odd years ago – why would anyone care, now? This Ackroyd 'll be long dead – isn'e?"

"I know...Jus' trust me; they're fittin' me up, again."

"Well, I dunno what y'u expect me to do?"

"I just need some money...I'm skint. Please, Joanne...I can't do time at my age." he implored.

"I could put some money into your bank account." she suggested rather unhelpfully.

"They'll trace it, won't they? Even I know that...I need cash."

"And how exactly do I get you this cash?" "We could meet somewhere... Please?" "Where?" she finally agreed.

"I'm not that far away...Do y'u know the Country Park – it's near the 'ospital?" "Yes, I know _that_." she snapped.

"There's a small parkin' area, just after where the f'rensic lab' is." "Yes, I know where y'u mean." She couldn't hide her agitation.

"Are y'u okay?" Arthur was slightly worried that his daughter had turned on him.

"Yes...Look, you're askin' me to 'elp a wanted man...I could get in trouble."

"Don't worry... Meet me on Sunday at midnight, where I said."

After a lengthy pause, she said: "Okay... How much do y'u want?"

"As much as y'u can get...At least free 'undred."

"What makes y'u think I can afford that?" she complained.

"Please...Jus', jus' bring me what y'u can."

"Okay."

"Make sure no one follows y'u." he instructed before abruptly putting down the phone.

The parking area for the country park had no lighting, as it was intended for use in daylight hours, and it was pretty well hidden, too; even the path that ran down the side and all the way to a mini-roundabout, providing access to the hospital and a new housing development, did not have any streetlights. Consequently, the whole area was pitch-black and pretty foreboding. No one who wasn't up to any good would be frequenting that place at midnight.

Arthur had hidden in some bushes that ran down the centre of the parking area, splitting it into two separate sections; this gave him easy access to both sides. At the stroke of midnight he observed a car's headlights, which had clearly turned off the roundabout and on to the approach road to the car park. In the darkness, the headlights were like blazing arc lamps – it was impossible to see the shape of the car, let alone the colour or type. The car pulled into the middle of first parking area. For a few minutes there was no sign of the driver; the lights remained on and the engine was kept running. Arthur had in fact stolen a car earlier in the day and parked it on the other side of the car park: he decided to return to the car and desperately tried to hot wire the old _Rover_ , but its starter motor was a bit temperamental. Then he heard the ominous sound of a sharp tapping sound on the driver's side window. He struggled to make anything out in the blackness, so he decided to get out of the car, taking a large metal steering lock with him as a weapon. For a few seconds he just stood there next to the stolen car, clutching the steering lock; the other car's engine was still running and its lights still burning brightly through the bushes, causing a slight spread of dim light. Then he heard a click; he instinctively recognised that click as the cocking of gun hammer and immediately became aware of the barrel of a .38 Enfield revolver (rather appropriately) pointing directly at his left temple at a range of a few inches.

"Drop it." instructed the elderly voice, with its hint of a welsh accent, "Or I'll blow your head off." it added for good measure. Arthur did as instructed.

"What d'y'u want? I a'n't got no money."

"Money? You wouldn't be here, if you did, would you?"

"Who the fuck are y'u?"

"A skeleton from your past... We never actually met. But I was the fool who hired you...to do a simple little job. One you completely fucked up. I never wanted anyone hurt; why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Don't bullshit, Jameson. You're a murderer and a rapist. A sick bastard."

"Look, I don' know what y'u' on about. You've got the wrong person."

"No. No you're the one; it couldn't be anyone else."

"Look, I didn't rape that girl...they set me up; those cartridge cases were planted by the police." "No."

"I swear I never left them there." Arthur was adamant.

"I know you didn't...Because I did." Ewan shockingly revealed. Arthur turned to face the gun: "You? Who are y'u?" "Your nemesis." Ewan replied obscurely.

"My what?"

"Your angel of darkness, come to claim your rancid soul, you thick bastard."

"So, what, y'u gonna kill me?"

"Isn't that what you deserve?"

"Wouldn' that make you a murderer?" Arthur reasonably discerned.

"No...There's a world of difference between me and you: _you_ are a sick murderer... _I_ am an executioner."

A loud report rang out and Arthur stepped back, shot in the chest at almost point-blank range. As he staggered backward, two more shots were fired into his chest, causing him to collapse to the ground on to his back; amazingly, he was still alive. Ewan stepped forward and leant over Arthur's prostate body, pointing the gun at his forehead at close range.

"And another big difference between us: I don't fuck up killing someone." Three more shots rang out. Ewan dropped the gun onto Arthur's bloody, and now, very _dead_ body.

Shortly after, the police arrived from the station just down the road, but Ewan had already managed to escape and was already wending his way home. What they found was a mystifying scene of carnage; the brutal killing of an old man. By morning, the crime had taken on a whole new context, when the significance of the person who had been killed became understood. Of course, Joanne became the immediate suspect, but she had a cast iron alibi, with six people accounting for her whereabouts at the crucial time. Given the infamy of the dead man, the police did experience a degree of pressure to catch what was presumed to be a vigilante; but they had nothing whatsoever to go on. The gun was untraceable – a WW2 antique with the serial number filed of – and had no discernible fingerprints; even the bullets were identified as WW2 issue. Ewan did come under the spotlight, but his wife gave him an unshakeable alibi, and they had a hard time believing that a 75 year old man would have taken it upon himself to kill his cheating brother-in-law's murderer, over 40 years after the event; it was a theory that seemed to have little substance and was not pursued.

The case file of the Marsholm Monster could finally be closed once and for all, and everyone was happy to leave it that way.

## Chapter Forty-Six

## (30 -31 July 1965)

**Arthur** pulled the _Jaguar_ into the car park at the back of the _Bowman Arms_ public house in Tapton at just after 9 PM; spotting Dickie's _Ford_ , he drew-up alongside it and switched off the engine. After making a good survey of the car park area, to assure himself no one else was around, he got out of the _Jaguar_ and stealthily got into the front passenger seat of Dickie's _Ford_.

"Y'u made it, then?" commented Dickie sarcastically.

"Yeah. There's plenty o' time 'n't there?" Arthur countered antagonistically.

"What the 'ell happened?" Dickie continued to dig.

"Nuffink; things didn' go t'plan, tha's all." Arthur explained aggrievedly, adding: "I got 'ere, didn' I?" "Yeah, okay, I s'pose..."

At this point, Arthur realised that there was someone sitting in the back of the car and he immediately turned his head to see who it was: "Oo the 'ell's this?" he asked a little perturbed.

"Oh, yeah, sorry Arfur; you a'n't met 'ave y'u? This is Freddy."

"'Ello." said Alfred Pederson in a benevolent tone and offering his hand. Arthur chose not to shake it.

"It's alright, Arfur, 'e is in on this." explained Dickie, "Freddy's done some good work f'r us...'E's been doin' all the reccyin'. 'E's been tailin' 'em f'r weeks." Arthur took another glance at Freddy, this time with a more amicable look in his eyes. "Oh yeah, an' 'e's got y'u a gun."

Freddy handed over the Enfield revolver: "It was my dad's. I've removed the serial number – it can't be traced." Arthur held the gun in his hand and stare at in wonderment. "Be careful, it's loaded."

"What?" exclaimed Dickie with alarm, "What the fuck for?"

"Just in case...In case 'e needs to prove it's real." Freddy rationalised and then handed over a whole box of ammunition.

"What the fuck!" Dickie was beside himself, "What's 'e need that lot for? It's a stick-up not a fuckin' firing squad."

"I just brought the lot...Bullets aren't much use without a gun." reasoned Freddy. Arthur was mesmerised by the power he now held in his hand, which slightly unnerved Dickie. However his attention was distracted by the appearance of Gregg Mason and Vera Fable exiting the rear of the pub to access their vehicle, which was parked on the opposite side of the car park. The couple were too engrossed in each other to even notice the men sitting in the Ford and it was far too dark to make out any detail, anyway. The group of conspirators froze and tried to hide their faces (albeit somewhat pointlessly) until the couple had driven off.

"Right, we got t'go in a minute." informed Dickie; "Arfur...Watch what y'u doin' wiv that fing, we don' want any accidents." Dickie then handed Arthur some gloves. "Put these on, we don' wan' this comin' back to us – and don't take 'em off, no matter what." he insisted.

"Here." said Freddy handing Arthur a handkerchief, "Wipe it down with that before you put your gloves on."

"Okay...Just a minute." started Arthur and produced a small bottle from his inside pocket, "I'll put this on firs'." The powerful smell of aftershave filled the air as Arthur sloshed it out with an eager exorbitance. "Jesus! What y'u doin'?" complained Dickie, "Y'u goin' on a stick-up, not a fuckin' date." "There's a bird a'n't there?" noted Arthur for justification.

"Soh!" Dickie continued to protest, "F'r fuck's sake, clean the gun and le's get on." "What about the _Jag_ '?" queried Arthur.

"Oh yeah. Best not leave it 'ere." acknowledged Dickie, "Well, Freddy don' need to come wiv us, so 'e can take it an' dump it somewhere."

"Is it nicked, then?" enquired Freddy rather stupidly.

"Is it nicked? I'm workin' wiv a couple o' bird brains 'ere." lamented Dickie, "Of course it's fuckin' nicked." "What I mean is," started Freddy, desperate to redeem himself, "I can't hot wire." "Ah, good point." noted Dickie.

"It's okay, the keys are in it – they never learn." chuckled Arthur.

"Fuck me." Dickie exclaimed, "Now _that_ is stupid." whereupon they all laughed. "Okay boys, we need t'get serious now..."

"One thing." interrupted Freddy, "Where shall I dump the car?"

"Anywhere, jus' not near us – alright?" advised Dickie with exasperation.

"Fair enough, but I also need somewhere to stay tonight." Freddy added.

"Y'u're given me a fuckin' 'eadache." groaned Dickie holding his head in despair.

"It's okay," reassured Arthur, "I know a good place in Maida Vale: the _Verona_. It's a shit'ole, but the geezer runnin' the place looks more bent than we are." They all had a chuckle at that one. "You should get a room alright, 'cause they've got this big one wiv free beds in it. I don' fink it gets used much."

"Excellent. Tha's all sorted, then." asserted Dickie optimistically.

"Oh, okay. Where is it exactly?"

"Lanark Street. I think there's a tube station jus' 'roun' the corner; near a big sports field." "Okay – I'll find it." said Freddy, much to Dickie's relief.

"Right; are we all sorted now, 'cause we need to get on, or we'll miss our chance?" impressed Dickie, whose patience was almost exhausted. Freddy got out of the _Ford_ and into the _Jaguar_ , driving off with a bit of a kangaroo:

"Oh shit: 'e can' even bleedin' drive." Dickie groaned.

"Where d'y'u find 'im?" asked Arthur with a note of sarcasm.

"I've known 'im f'r years. 'E's got brains; 'e's useful sometimes. 'E's also got some dangerous frien's." "Y'u' sure we can trust 'im?"

"As much as I trust anyone." assured Dickie, slightly unreassuringly.

Dickie drove them to Cherrydean and made a slow pass down River Lane, to check that the _Singer_ was parked where they had expected it to be. He then stopped a hundred yards up the road, around a bend, out of sight. "Right, y'u know what t'do: jus' give 'em a bloody good scare and then nick their car – right?" "Yeah, yeah. I got it." said Arthur getting out of the car.

"Dump it somewhere discreet; and don' take y'u' fuckin' gloves off." Dickie barked, before driving away, leaving Arthur standing in the dark in a deserted country lane. He was now feeling the strain of a long frustrating day and so gulped down two more pills...

Arthur accelerated hard as he sped away from Marsholm Wood, believing that with both the witnesses dead, he would be safe; however, he still had to explain this bizarre turn of events, which even he didn't really comprehend, to what would be a very angry Dickie Paris. He retraced the outward journey back to Esher Services, where he got a small amount of fuel (to allow him to get him back to London) and several bottles of Coca-Cola; he then took a slightly different route back from Esher, stopping in a car park at Bushy Park, near Teddington. By this stage, he was feeling incredibly spaced-out and, acutely unwell, albeit a bit non-specifically. He didn't feel tired, but he was mentally fatigued, so he rested for what seemed like thirty minutes, but was in fact nearly two hours. His ability to drive competently had also been impaired; consequently, he managed to hit several wooden posts just trying to negotiate his way out of the gravel car park. He continued driving fairly erratically for some time, losing his way on several occasions, until somehow he eventually ended up in Fulham, with a near empty tank. Dumping the car at the bottom of Stevenage Road; he bundled all of the things left in the car, plus the watches, into Vera's bullet holed bag, before making his escape over a fence into the grounds of Bishop's Park and then Fulham Palace Gardens, following the footpath along the side of the Thames. At some point he found some bricks, which he loaded into the bag and fastened it up, before throwing it into the middle of the river, where it sank without trace. He then followed the path up the side of the river bank, to appear just past Putney Bridge; from there he gradually made his way back to Soho, so as to arrive at his arranged meeting with Dickie at 8 AM.

The unsuspecting Dickie sat in his car, which was parked a little way up the road from his flat. It was still fairly quiet in that area at that time of morning – just a few children playing in the street. Dickie had drifted into a trance, still half-asleep, when he was rudely awakened by a dishevelled Arthur getting into the front passenger seat.

"Shit." exclaimed Dickie, partly in surprise and partly at the state of Arthur. "What the 'ell 'appened to you?" Arthur didn't answer and just shook his head despairingly. "So, is it done?" "Yeah – it's done." Arthur's tone indicated all was not well.

"Nuffin' went wrong, did it?"

Arthur looked extraordinarily sheepish: "Well, they won't be 'aving an affair, anymore." he attested with a feeble smile.

"What...? What d'y'u mean?" Dickie asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"I, um, sort of...killed 'em."

There followed a stunned silence, while Dickie's jaw slowly dropped to the floor: "Y'u what?" he scarcely dared to ask.

"I...I got bit carried away. I dunno what got int'me."

"Please tell me y'u jokin'..." Arthur's subtle shake of the head and the look of guilt in his eyes told the story. "What...What the fuck d'y'u do that for – are you insane?"

"It was a bit of an accident..." Arthur tried to explain, like a small child to his mother when he's broken her best piece of china.

"Bit of an accident? How the fuck do y'u _accidently_ kill two people?"

"Sorry...There was a bit of a cock-up." his filthy smirk did not encourage Dickie.

"Fuck...! Fuckin' hell...Are you insane?"

"I did go a bit nuts, actually."

"Shittin' hell....Right...You need to make y'urself scarce f'r a few days – go to Liverpool, or summit...And get a new suit – burn that one...Bollocks!" they both sat there for a moment contemplating their respective navels, "Y'u did wear y'u' gloves – right?" he suddenly asked in fit of anxiety.

"Yeaah. I'm still wearin' 'em." Arthur waved his hands in the air to demonstrate.

"Right, give us the gloves...And that fuckin' gun."

Arthur pulled the revolver out of his pocket carefully by the butt and placed it in Dickie's sweaty hands; he then took off the gloves and handed those over, too. Dickie immediately emptied the chamber of all the spent cartridges, just in case there were any live ones left and put them in his pocket. Arthur handed him the box of unused bullets:

"There are some left, then?" he snarled. Arthur remained silent and donned an apologetic expression. "What did y'u do wiv the car?"

"I dumped it in Fulham."

"Good. Y'u didn' leave anyfin' in it, did y'u?"

"No. Y'u don' need t'worry about that." Arthur meekly replied; Dickie was glaring at him intensely.

"Right, y'u better disappear, now."

"Um, can I 'ave my money?" an expectant Arthur enquired without looking up at Dickie. "Money?"

"I'm skint."

"Right." conceded Dickie irritably, "'Ere's fifty."

"I fought it was a ton?"

"Yeah, a ton t'do the job properly; I doubt I'll get the uvver 'alf of the money, now." Dickie lamented; Arthur recognised that this was not negotiable and shoved the money into an inside pocket. "Right, now fuck off." ordered Dickie, before getting out of the car.

Arthur remained for a moment, then getting out, he asked: "Can' I 'ave a lift?"

"No. I don' wanna be seen wiv you." snapped Dickie, locking the car and briskly walking off in the direction of home. After a pause, a crestfallen Arthur ambled off to find a bus.

Dickie returned to his flat for a strong coffee and some hard liquor to steady his nerves. He waited for Mary and Carol to go out (on one of their 'west end' shopping trips), before getting the gun out for a thorough clean, before wrapping it in a handkerchief. He decided that he had best warn Freddy, so just before 9 AM he went out to his car, only to find that someone had let down all of the tyres – he suspected Arthur, though it was in fact some local kids. Being as he was under extreme stress, he abandoned the car and caught a bus to Maida Vale – a 36A bus. Remembering what Arthur had told him about hiding things under the upstairs back seat of a bus, he resolved to rid himself of the gun and ammunition sooner rather than later. On arrival in Maida Vale he made swiftly for the _Verona Hotel_. As he walked down Lanark Street, he spotted Freddy walking in the same direction to him on the other side of the road. Quickly running across the road, dodging several vehicles, he managed to catch up with Freddy.

"Freddy! Fank God I caught y'u."

"What? Dickie? What you doin' down here – I thought we was meeting later?"

"Yeah; slight change o' plan."

"Have you got the money, then?"

"No, and I doubt I'll get the rest, now."

"Why? What's happened?" Freddy suddenly realised there was gravity to this situation.

"I hate t'tell y'u this, but Arfur fucked up big time...There was some deaf involved."

"What...? How?"

"You 'ad to supply a loaded gun, didn' y'u..." "He shot 'em?" asked Freddy incredulously.

"Yes, he shot them – dead."

"Both of them!"

"Yes. Be grateful, or we'd 'ave a witness to this total fuck-up."

Freddy dropped his case and went weak at the knees as a result of the shock: "What happens now?"

"Now? Nuffin'. We keep well clear of eachuvver, tha's what."

"What about the money?"

"Right, 'ere's fifty. Tha's it. Sorry, just try an' forget me an' everyfin' about this 'ole fuckin' mess." At which, Dickie ran back across the road and disappeared up the street as fast as he unfit body would allow, leaving Freddy standing there in the middle of the street utterly dumbfounded.

Dickie had one more meeting that day before he would hide in his flat for the next couple of weeks. That meeting was at 2 PM in Regent's Park with Ewan Williams. Dickie waited anxiously on the designated bench; when he caught sight of Ewan coming towards him, he could see that the cat was already out of the bag. Ewan sat down next Dickie without saying a word, or even looking directly at him.

"Is this thing I've heard about got anything to do with us?" Ewan eventually enquired with trepidation.

"Yeah. I'm afraid so...What can I say: the boy's a loose cannon."

"Why the fuck did you use him, then?" Ewan snarled in an infuriated whisper.

"I didn' know 'e would do that. 'E's not normally violent."

"Is there any chance of this getting back to me?"

"I don't fink so: all the evidence 'as been disposed of."

"What about this idiot you enlisted – is 'e likely to grass if he gets caught?"

"No, no. Arfur's solid; 'e would never grass."

"In that case, wouldn't it be better if he went down for this?"

"What d'y'u mean?"

"Well, we don't want a lengthy investigation – you don't know what they might uncover."

Dickie pondered this – he was none too keen himself to be smeared with this one, or do hard time: "What are y'u suggestin'?"

"I don't know...We need something to incriminate him...But you said all the evidence was gone?"

Dickie suddenly remembered that he still had the cartridge cases in his pocket: "There is something." he said producing them.

"Give us 'em?" Ewan firmly requested; Dickie momentarily paused, but then handed them all over.

"Make sure y'u clean the prints off 'em."

"Yeah. _I'm_ not stupid...Where would be a good place to leave these?"

"Well, somewhere 'e's stayed recently...That don' implicate us... I think I know. There's this 'otel in Maida Vale: I know 'e stayed there the uvver night....I dunno which room, though...It was a big room with sev'ral beds... You'd 'ave to get a look at the guest book t'find out which room it was."

"Okay...What's 'is name?"

"Arfur Jameson...But 'e might be under an alias."

"Oh great."

"I know 'e uses 'Johnson', sometimes."

"Okay. Where exactly is this place?"

"Lanark Street, in Maida Vale...Do y'u know that?"

"No, but I'll find it, don't you worry."

Ewan stood up and was about to leave when Dickie optimistically asked: "I don't suppose I could 'ave the money?" Ewan turned and stare with eyes like machine guns – Dickie got the message.

## Chapter Forty-Seven

## (12 & 26 October 2007)

**Arthur's** funeral took place on a Friday morning – not quite the 13th, which would have been the most apt – seven months after his murder, when the pathologist finally decided to release the body: there certainly hadn't been anyone pushing for it. It was suitably gloomy, though surprisingly mild for the time of year.

Joanne arrived at the _Cambridgeshire County Crematorium_ – which was sufficiently removed from her place of residence to make it completely anonymous – alone and dressed in a dark blue dress and matching coat. She did not consider that Arthur deserved the distinction of the usual black reverence: there would be no celebration of Arthur's life and the service would be nothing more than pure formality. She walked to the crematorium waiting room with a sense of morbidity about the whole affair. She wasn't sure whether she was there to say goodbye to her father – despite his obvious faults – or whether she just wanted to be sure he really was gone forever. After a few minutes, a policewoman entered wearing the uniform of senior officer – it was DCI Cartwright.

"Hello." she greeted Joanne with a slight awkwardness. "I presume you are Joanne Clayton?" "Yes...No question what you are, is there?" commented Joanne with a hint of sarcasm.

"I am attending in an official capacity..." Michelle began.

"What, to make sure 'e's really dead?"

"In a sense...I can assure you we do not derive any joy from this. We would much rather have caught him and retried him...We don't hold with vigilantism."

"No, I guess not. Sorry." Joanne finally yielded to a hint of contriteness.

"Quite a nice day, considering..." said Michelle in a vain attempt at friendly conversation.

"Thunder and lightning would be more appropriate, don't y'u think?" Joanne quipped; DCI Cartwright just sighed. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Joanne decided to drop the defensiveness: "I never really knew 'im; I only met 'im thirteen years ago. My mum never spoke about 'im...except to say he was in prison for armed robbery. I just assumed that was the reason she didn't like 'im...He managed to con me into thinkin' 'e was just a decent bloke who got in with the wrong crowd. He hid his true self well, that's all I can say. I realise now that 'e got that bungalow near us, so 'e could use me as his skivvy."

"Don't blame yourself, Joanne; Arthur Jameson conned a lot of people over the years, including a jury." Michelle gently grasped Joanne's arm in a comforting manner. The icy atmosphere seemed to evaporate at that moment. Shortly after, the funeral director notified them that the hearse had arrived and they were ushered into the chapel.

The simple coffin sat on the conveyor belt, while the Celebrant [BHA Officiant] waited solemnly by the lectern. The chapel was not particularly large, but with only the two "mourners" it certainly seemed vastly excessive. Michelle followed Joanne into the seating area and stopped short of sitting down:

"Are you happy for me to sit with you, or would you...?" she politely asked.

"No, no – it's fine." assured Joanne and they took adjoining seats on the front row. What neither of them noticed was the appearance of Ewan Williams at the very back of the chapel.

The officiant had been painstakingly versed with the details of the deceased, so she was aware this could not be an ordinary address: there would be no tribute and most definitely no committal, just one simple combined [opening/closing] oration, with not much in the way of sentiment. She obtained permission by eye contact with Joanne and the subtlest of facial gestures to begin her speech:

"We are gathered here today to respect the life of a fellow human being, Arthur Jameson... Arthur may not have led the most moral or ethical of lives, but in death, we are all equal and we should endeavour to forgive the transgressions of the deceased during their life on this Earth. Human beings have but a transient existence in the eternity of time; perhaps too short for some to achieve atonement for their Earthly deeds, but they have an eternity in death in which to be absolved. We therefore commit Arthur Jameson's body to the bowels of the Earth from whence we all originate and will all inexorably return." With that the officiant turned on the conveyor and Arthur's body slowly disappeared into the curtained opening in the wall. Joanne thanked the lady from the Humanist association and the two women walked quietly out of the chapel and into the fresh chill air.

"I think she did that rather well." Michelle kindly noted.

"Yes...Yes that was...perfect." said Joanne turning to face the detective and offering her hand in a gesture of conciliation; Michelle shook it, smiled and then promptly took her leave.

As Michelle walked back to her car, she couldn't help notice the one old man loitering near the chapel. She suspected who it might be, but was content to pretend otherwise. Ewan had been waiting for Joanne: he was exceedingly grateful to her for not turning him into the police, though he had been prepared for it. When she noticed his presence, she immediately recognised him; after an initial hesitation, she decided to approach him.

"Come to check it was all over, did you?" she asked passively.

"I just wanted to thank you for not dobbing me in."

"Why would I? You did us all a favour...You didn't need to come _here_ to thank me."

"No, you're right: seeing that coffin disappear into oblivion was a cathartic moment...I've had this millstone dragging me down for 42 years. I can't deny that it is a relief."

"Well, you can move on with your life and do your best to forget that Arthur Jameson ever existed." she blithely asserted.

"What's left of it." Ewan added rather poignantly.

During the days following the funeral, Joanne gradually began to return to her normal cheerful self. Her son celebrated his fifteenth birthday with a riotous party at a local municipal hall, which ended with the police breaking up a mass brawl that had spilled out into the street – something which her son regarded as absolutely hilarious. She feared that he was turning out to be a chip off the old grandfather's block, but he did have one huge advantage over Arthur Jameson, and that was a semblance of intelligence that would stand him in good stead for the future.

On the 23rd of October several national newspapers and the BBC reported that DNA taken from Arthur Jameson's corpse had been analysed and proved to be an exact match to the DNA from the rapist in the Marsholm Wood murder case, confirming that Arthur was indeed the _Marsholm Monster_. For Joanne, that was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak, in respect to any remaining sense of loyalty that she had toward her father. She even contemplated having her own DNA tested, in the hope that it would prove that they were not actually related at all – she only really had his word for it, anyway. However, the fear that it would only confirm what she had come to believe, and therefore negate any possibility that he was _not_ her father, prevented her from pursuing that particular course of action, so that she at least could still maintain the hope that he had been mistaken or lying. [The police never revealed the result from her DNA, which proved to be inconclusive.]

The Metropolitan Police were initially shocked by the result, as over the years, even despite John Leggett's change of heart, many had tried to console themselves with the idea that Jameson had been innocent, after all. Once the truth had sunk in, there was general elation that DSupt Ackroyd, his team, and the Metropolitan Police as a whole had been vindicated; however, some elements of the press were not so forgiving with their insinuation that it was the police's historical incompetence and corruption that directly led to Jameson's acquittal. The reality though had more to do with a singular lack of evidence; only modern forensic techniques would ever solve the crime definitively.

Two weeks after the funeral, Joanne (again, alone) returned to the crematorium on a Friday afternoon to witness the burial of the ashes. A crematorium attendant carried the lidded bucket with the contents of her father's remains down to the Rose Garden, which was a fair distance from the crematorium office. A hole had already been prepared in readiness and small twig with a polythene bag tied around its roots, which was (apparently) a befitting blood-red rose – deliberately chosen by Joanne – lying on the ground by the hole. The attendant had brought along a hand spade to aid the process.

"Would you like to put some of the remains into the hole, madam? I can complete the burial if you wish." enquired the attendant. Joanne nodded affirmatively. The attendant opened the bucket and placed it by the hole, offering the small spade to Joanne. "Madam?" Joanne hesitated for a moment before taking the spade and proceeded to shovel several loads into the hole, after which she stopped and stood up to stare down into it, while the attendant stepped back reverentially. Then, much to the shock and dismay of the attendant, Joanne spat, with venomous bitterness, onto the ashes and aggressively trampled the poor rose into the ground.

"You can chuck the rest in, now." she growled turning back to face the attendant before marching defiantly out of the garden, leaving the unsuspecting and nonplussed attendant completely flabbergasted. Getting back into her car, a sense of closure descended upon her; she switched on the radio, whereupon the CD player unceremoniously blasted out AC/DC's _Hell's Bells_ : after listening for a few seconds and finding the track to be highly appropriate, she drove off with a screeching vengeance. (The next track on the CD was _Shoot to Thrill_.)

The End.

Nota bene: The author can be contacted via the following email address

jdeath@gmx.co.uk

600
