Mortimer's Mark

By Adam Patterson

In the small seaside town of Upperhampton, a serial killer is butchering young women and cutting markings into their flesh - the same markings used by a murderer hanged over 60 years ago...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Patterson
• Release date: Dec 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301807444

Adam Patterson

Adam Patterson is currently residing between England and Thailand with his wife. Being a keen writer of horror, science fiction and suspense, he is hoping to publish many more novels and short stories in the near future. Any comments, please feel free to contact me at [e-mail]

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Mortimer’s Mark

By Adam Patterson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Adam Patterson

www.smashwords.com/adampatterson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and places either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

PROLOGUE – DEATH CELL

June 5th, 1952

Nobody would have believed by the composed and almost carefree expression upon Felix Alexander Mortimer's face that he was soon to be hanged. He sat at a wooden table set in the centre of the cell with the shadow of the seated guard darkening his left arm while he held his hands together in silent prayer. It was the guards who appeared to be the nervous ones; their eyes were constantly shifting to the far wall as though something was about to leap out from behind it.

Felix was not a religious man by far, but this morning he was concerned that he would be letting the clergyman down if he did not participate with the sermon, as he had told him a good many comforting words throughout his short time under sentence of death. The holy words seemed just a distant murmur in his ears as his mind reflected on the last terrible weeks he endured waiting inside the confining walls of his death cell within London's Wandsworth Prison. Every day he expected a reprieve would come, hoping that someone would believe his plea of innocence. But it never came and right now, more prison guards, officials and hangmen were gathering outside his cell door in readiness for the strike of the hour.

Mostly, he thought about his two young daughters, Judith and Elizabeth. They would be the ones suffering the most right now, knowing that their father – their last remaining parent – would also be lying within his grave by the end of this day. If it were not for their aunt, Anna, who would now be taking them permanently into her care, he would have surely gone completely out of his mind. His wife's sister and Elizabeth, his eldest daughter at fifteen, had managed to keep enough composure throughout most of their final meeting only a day ago. But it was the distraught look within eleven-year-old Judith's eyes that made Felix lose control of his emotions. Now he tried to push those last moments during their precious final meeting from his mind before he would break down once more and become a pathetic wreck.

The two warders were becoming increasingly agitated as the minute hand slowly and cruelly ticked towards the hour of nine o'clock a.m. Felix surprised himself on how relatively calm he felt, and wondered if all would change when he finally heard the sound of the key turning within the lock. They say that death is instantaneous, and that his executioner, Mr. Albert Pierrepoint, was the best there ever was. He was only glad that England did not have the electric chair like in the United States, as he could not bear the thought of being strapped into a seat so they could send thousands of volts burning through his flesh. Before his mind had a chance to push the thought aside, he wondered how far he would have to walk to the gallows, and what his reaction would be when he saw the rope that would end his life.

From outside, he was sure he could hear the faint sound of the anti-capital punishment protesters that had gathered beyond the prison gates. His mind cruelly crept back to the morbid thought of the days of public hangings, when people would laugh and jeer in amusement as the condemned kicked, struggled and soiled their clothing whilst the noose slowly strangled.

Felix looked down at the table to see the small glass of brandy still waiting there for him to drink. He wanted it to remain that way: he had drunk enough alcohol during his sorrowful life, and believed it to be one of the major factors in his downfall. He wanted to face God without any more of the demon drink tainting his soul.

Then, amidst the soothing chant of the clergyman's sermon, he found himself thinking yet again about God.

Who was God? Would He send him to hell after the things he had dabbled in during the last few months? And what about those people found guilty of a crime they did not commit? What happened then? What…

Suddenly the clergyman stood and the new words he began to speak were no longer low and soothing but earnest and sharply pronounced. I am the resurrection, and the life, saith the Lord…

Then Felix noticed that his two warders were also standing to attention, their faces beneath their caps grave and stony. He sensed movement behind him, and as he slowly turned, rising uneasily from his chair, his heart appeared to stop completely within his chest.

A stout, middle-aged man dressed neatly in a dark suit was standing before a small group of officials and guards. Only after Felix noticed the leather strap within his hand did realization sink in.

Sir, you will need to turn around for me, he said softly but firmly. I have to put this on you're wrists.

Everyone appeared to have their heads turned towards the floor as his eyes moved from the hangman to his assistant behind him, then over to the governor and the additional guards. After he felt the firm and persuasive grip of his executioner upon his right arm, Felix Mortimer turned round so that he could pinion his wrists. He kept his eyes fixed upon the clergyman as he continued with the sermon – the only comforting sight within the entire glum surroundings of his prison cell – whilst Pierrepoint swiftly bound his arms tightly together.

Then the hangman's face appeared before him again, and for a moment their eyes locked together. When he pulled the collar of his suit down to expose his neck, Felix winced. Follow me, and it'll be all right.

The two warders flanking him gripped his upper arms tightly as they led him not in the direction of the main door to his cell, but towards a room that, until only moments before, had been a wooden panelled wall.

I didn’t kill those people, he said timidly as each foot automatically stepped before the other, inching him further towards his death. I… I did not kill those girls.

The hangman was the first to step into the execution room and Felix could now see the noose coiled at head height above two wooden trapdoors.

He swallowed hard and attempted to speak with more clarity, but saliva caught and locked within his throat. He could not shift it. His feet neared the white 'T' on the trapdoors as he struggled to gulp that large lump down his throat before they could tighten the noose around his throat. That would be ironic, he thought as he stopped before the hangman: dying of asphyxiation from his own saliva before the noose could do its grisly task.

Before alarm could turn to panic, Felix successfully managed to swallow just as the white hood plunged his last vision of the world into darkness. Now his heart was thumping within his chest and his breathing was almost deafening within the confines of the cotton hood. Everything was happening too fast. He could feel the hangman's assistant pinioning his ankles together while the noose slipped over his head, the knot catching onto the bridge of his nose before being tightened beneath his left ear.

He was breathing too rapidly now and feared he would faint. Sounds of a chain rattling against concrete appeared from his far right as the hangman slipped the cotter pin from the lever. Coming from within the darkness of his mind, the vision of his two young daughters appeared before him like two angels – angels that would be waiting for him beyond this cruel, unjust world.

Yes, an angel: just like his dear wife. And Felix Mortimer clung to that vision in the same way as a drowning man would cling to driftwood when he felt more than heard the grating of the mechanism turning beneath his feet.

Then he was falling through the air, dropping down and down seemingly forever, never hearing the sound of the doors crashing against the sides of the trap, never hearing the sound of his spine snapping in two.

Then there was nothing.

Chapter 1 – Victor Gwynne

October 29th 2013.

The first time he noticed that the old man was in poor health was Tuesday evening after his return from work. Unloading the most valuable of his tools from his van for fear of another break-in, Jason Mathews caught sight of his elderly neighbour upon his front doorstep, frozen in mid-action with his key half inserted into its lock. His head was turned downwards and cocked slightly to the right, and at first Jason believed he was simply staring at something below his feet. The tool box he was carrying was quite a heavy one so he did not at this point wish to strike up a conversation with his neighbour, even though the rare occasion of a conversation culminated to nothing more than a mere exchange of words. But after returning from his hallway to close and lock his van doors and finding the old man in the same position, Jason decided it was wise to say something.

Found anything interesting? He slammed the vehicle’s doors a little harder than normal to emphasize his presence. At first, it seemed that the old man would continue staring at this assumed object of curiosity, but eventually his head gradually turned – reluctantly, so it seemed – in his direction.

Just catching my breath, son. He spoke with a chirpiness that contradicted his appearance: an appearance that instantly told Jason that something was seriously wrong with his health. Maybe it was the dying light that made his lips appear almost blue and his face a snow-white pallor, but taking no chances he crossed the short distance of his front lawn, stepped easily over the small dividing wall with his long legs and up to his neighbour’s side.

Hey, Vic, you look ill, if you don’t mind me saying so.

Finally, he fully inserted and turned the key. Without a return reply, Victor Gwynne swung the door open and shuffled inside his hallway. A mixed smell of mildew and tobacco – an old man smell, Jason thought – wafted from within like a gentle but stale breeze.

Eventually he turned back to face Jason, unbuttoning his jacket with arthritic hands that were far from steady, making what should be a simple procedure into a laborious task. You should be in a care home he thought, not realising that his head was slowly shaking with pity, betraying his inner feelings.

Okay… Thank you, but I’m okay, Victor finally replied. His eyes, usually bright and alert, appeared dull and somewhat confused. An inaudible mumble followed as he turned his back on him again, holding his jacket before his face in mid-air, its rightful place of rest far off to his right.

Here, let me help you. Jason gently slipped the jacket from the old man’s grasp and hung it upon a free hook by the doorway. Without a further word or gesture, Victor shuffled into his living room and immediately slumped into an armchair – his favourite chair, by the amount of ware and blemishes – with a sigh of either effort, relief or a combination of the two escaping from his lips. Jason hesitantly followed and stood just inside the doorway, his eyes skipping from the motionless figure in the chair to the contents of the room. The living room was cluttered, albeit neatly cluttered, with an array of objects ranging from books, magazines, ornaments, photo frames and pictures, to bottles of medicine, opened mail and stationery. A bulky yet modern-looking clock ticked away the seconds from its high place upon the far wall.

Need me to get you anything, Vic? Make you a hot drink?

The old man’s gaze shifted to where he stood, appearing to be looking at him up and down curiously.

Vic?

Dropping his eyes, Victor shook his head seemingly more to clear the thoughts within his mind than in answer to his neighbour's question. No... No thank you. His voice had become husky and gravelly as he laboured to speak. His head motioned towards a cabinet at the end of the room. But in there…

Jason stepped fully into the living room and obediently headed for the cabinet, slipping past Victor on the way. Their eyes locked for a second – just a second, but it was enough for Jason to see an inkling of… what was it? Annoyance?

In here?

Yes, son, he replied. Open the front… please.

Jason reached out and pulled the brass handle of the cabinet. The front swung down upon its tracks and settled in a horizontal position, exposing an array of bottles. There was mostly whisky, but cognac, Grand Marnier and port were amongst them. Most of them had been opened.

Pour me a brandy, please, Victor asked, his head nodding. You'll find a glass on the shelf above, to the left.

There was indeed a number of drinking glasses perched on a shelf above the liquor bottles, and Jason plucked one from its place and settled it upon the horizontal cabinet door-cum-bar top. Brandy, did you say?

There's a bottle of Courvoisier in there. Can you see it?

Glass chinked against glass as Jason reached in and pulled free the Cognac. He held it up to the old man in acknowledgement before opening the bottle and pouring him a generous helping.

There you go, sir. Hope this makes you feel better.

Victor reached up and gently took the glass from his fingers. His eyes shut as the golden liquid slipped past his lips, seemingly savouring the moment. After he emptied half his glass, the old man let off a long, satisfied gasp and relaxed further back into his chair. When his eyes opened again they were glazy but appeared more alert. More alive.

Better now?

Victor licked his lips. The best medicine an old man can have, he replied. Yes, I'm starting to feel a bit more with-it, thank you.

You gave me a little scare just then, Jason told him with a pally smile. Thought you were having a… Having a…

Heart attack? Victor gave a chesty laugh. Not yet, I hope. Just been overdoing it a little, I think. The glass returned to his lips and all but a small mouthful remained when he placed it on the table before him. Would you care for a glass?

Oh…no, thanks, Jason said with his smile slipping to an awkward-looking grin. Would love to, but I've still got things to do.

Victor only nodded his lowered head. His eyes, gazing blankly across to the opposite side of the room, now appeared far away in thought. Jason stood silently for a moment, feeling awkward – feeling somewhat like an unwelcome guest. His next words remained poised on his lips as he took the time to prepare his question diplomatically. Do you want me to call your doctor for you? I think you need to see someone… I believe… I believe that…

I believe I'm all right now.

But I think…

I'm telling you, I'm okay.

Victor's words appeared cold and hard within Jason's ears. Only the tick, tick of the clock could be heard as the two men became silent. The old man's eyes never lifted from their place across the room as his head faintly nodded up and down. From outside, a motorbike roared past. Somewhere across the street, a child called out somebody's name. In the back garden opposite the house, a dog barked. The clock continued to tick, tick, tick…

Well… I will be going now if there's nothing else I can do.

There was no reply from Victor as he continued with his delicate nodding. Jason backed away from his armchair and stepped back into the hallway. The old man's eyes, even though they were still staring at the same place across the room, appeared to be watching him.

From the doorway where he now stood he could see the shadows of the late evening stealthily creeping across the lounge like dark and silent assassins. He had to fight back the temptation to flick the light switch and send them cowering back into their corners: Jason had always had a disliking for gloomy places.

Eventually he cleared his throat. You know where I am if you need anything. Don't hesitate to knock on my door. Only the continuous, gentle nodding from his neighbour's head gave any indication that he was awake or even alive. Jason put it down to the fact that he was old and obviously ill and probably never even heard his last comment. He began towards the door. I'll be off now, Vic. Bye.

Still no answer. He turned the door handle to let himself out, feeling more than a bit guilty for leaving him there on his own knowing there was definitely something up with him, despite his denials. But as his foot stepped onto the hardness of the pathway, the crisp evening air hitting his face, Victor's soft words floated from the darkening room like a disembodied voice of a phantom.

Thanks, son, he said.

Jason noticed that Sophie was already home when he turned into his own front garden after resisting the urge to step back over the dividing wall, resorting to using the longer route instead. Her black Nissan was parked nose to nose with his van, and seeing that the trunk was slightly raised, he knew she had just returned from the supermarket.

Sophie gave a little yelp of surprise followed by a smile of approval when her boyfriend entered the door carrying the remainder of the shopping bags. The refrigerator door was open, spilling light and cool air from its shell as she began to fill it. Yin and Yang, their two young sibling cats, wound their way around and between her legs, their habitual pestering to be greatly rewarded shortly. Jason placed the bags down gently at her side and stood back, taking the opportunity to admire her shapely buttocks accentuated by tight jeans as she bent forwards for her task.

I wondered where you were, hon, she said and straightened to plant a quick kiss on his lips. I was calling out for you for ages.

Sorry love, but I had to go next door to help Vic. Think he's got health problems.

Vic? She began to sift through the bags Jason had just brought in. You mean the old man?

Yeah. Am quite worried about him actually. He doesn't look in good shape.

Well, neither would you if you were his age, she remarked. How old is he?

Don't quite know, Jason said. In his early to mid eighties, I guess.

Sophie straightened again and looked at him, a can of beans in each hand. Well, what’s wrong with him?

Jason shrugged. Well, it looked at first to be his heart by the way he just stopped on his doorstep for ages, not seeming to be able to move. And by the colour of his face. I just went over and helped him inside… see if he needed anything.

And? Sophie asked with her eyebrows raised. The two cans were still poised above her shoulders as though she was promoting them for a new ad.

He didn't really need anything, no.

I meant his heart, silly. Was it heart problems?

Jason shrugged his shoulders again. I… I don't think so, really. Think he's been gallivanting around too much, by what he was saying. Probably just worn out.

And he's okay now? Sophie finally placed the two cans down on the worktop above the refrigerator. Yin and Yang, after mistakenly thinking the cans were filled with cat food, intensified their persistent meowing and rubbing against their mistress' legs.

Yeah. After a glass of brandy he was fine, it seems.

Oh, my little hero, Sophie told him. A little grin followed before she continued to fill the fridge.

Jason kicked off his shoes in the hallway and substituted them for a more comfortable pair of slippers. When he returned, Sophie was opening a bottle of red wine – a Cabernet Sauvignon – to accompany their evening meal.

How was your day? he asked.

Not bad. More busy than I expected. Seems to be a lot of birthday and anniversaries this week.

So we won't be getting much offcuts this time, then?

Sophie laughed and turned the sink tap on full, allowing the water to spatter droplets upon the worktop. A large globule of water came down and splashed upon Yin's nose, sending her scurrying into the shadows beneath the dining table.

There are always offcuts for the house, she said. Always a little something.

One could clearly see by the vastly flower-decorated rooms that Sophie was a florist. She had a small, private business in a little shopping precinct on the outskirts of town, which her sister and a friend helped to run. 'Flower Power' had been in operation for twelve years now, although it had changed from its original, blander titled 'Betty's flowers' when Sophie took over the business from her mother, Betty Skinner, two years ago after she passed away after a long fight with cancer. Her older sister, Maxine, worked there most days, although her constant unreliability and lateness was a cause of many bitter arguments. If she were not family, then she would have been long-gone by now, but as she now had a share in the business, Sophie had little choice but to bite her lip as best she could.

On the other hand, Vicky was the one who helped to keep things going strong. She, who mostly did the driving around in the little white van delivering to their customers, had been working there since leaving school five years previous after Betty had taken her on. Always there on time, always there after it shut, always there at the weekend, Sophie was not at all surprised she never had a steady boyfriend, although there now seems to be a more prospective one on the horizon.

Tomorrow Vicky would be working even harder, although Maxine promised with all her heart that she would be there right at the beginning until the bitter end. Sophie had booked the day off for her three-yearly visit to the gynaecologist as well as her half-yearly visit to the dentist. May as well do job lot, she told Jason earlier that week. If they needed help, then she would go directly back to the shop after her morning's worth of poking and probing gloved hands, otherwise she would prefer to have the rest of the day to herself.

Jason had quickly showered and changed, and by the time he came back down to the kitchen, Sophie had almost finished preparing the evening meal. A glass of wine sat close to hand upon the worktop as she continued with her chores, the farmhouse steak pie now sitting above the oven, thin wisps of steam emitting from its crusty topping.

Mmmm, smells good, he told her and gave her another of his quick pecks on her cheek. She returned a fleeting yet sweet smile and donned a pair of oven gloves for the removal of the roast potatoes.

See you've already started, he said as he gestured to the wine glass.

Yep. Apart from my appointments tomorrow, I've got nothing but time for myself.

Oh, yeah, Jason said and turned towards the dining room with its subdued lighting – Sophie always insisted on a tranquil setting for their evening meals, with the added soft music for good measure. You've got to see the 'pussy doctor' tomorrow as well as the dentist.

It's the dentist that I hate the most, she told him.

Jason spotted both Yin and Yang lying snugly together on the living room couch, obviously now contently filled with cat chow.

I just want to know, he asked as he turned round and poured himself a glass of wine, do they both say 'open wide' when you lay on the couch?

Ha, ha, she half-heartedly called before bringing a casserole dish filled with steaming vegetables into the dining room. Just shut up and sit your bum down at the table, won't you?

Five minutes later, as the soft and low music drifted from the living room, the two began to eat. Outside the rain began to fall, gently at first but gradually strengthening in pace. The last of the day's light was far-gone, and the black clouds that brought the rain created a more solid cloak of darkness.

So how was your day? Sophie asked.

Oh, not very eventful, he told her over a mouthful of food. Couldn't get the doors I needed delivered, so had to do the outside stuff today instead. Glad it didn't rain like it's doing now!

Where are you working now?

Still doing the pub refurb' out on the A27. It’s not too far – a little close to Brighton. Big job. Still got over a month’s worth of work, it looks like. He swallowed and washed the food down with three large gulps of wine, emptying the glass. He topped it up again.

Big pub, then?

Pub with some hotel rooms above, yes.

But everything's hunky-dory, though? She also reached for the bottle and half-filled her near-empty glass. By now, even with a stomach full with food, she was feeling a little tipsy.

Now Lisa's helping me out, yes.

Lisa? Sophie's eyebrows furrowed, the glass stopped at her lips. What's she got to do with your work?

Jason sniggered and shook his head. Not my ex-wife, silly. I meant Lisa from the office. She helped to get things moving, get things ordered for me better than my useless boss could…other than the doors, that is.

Oh, sorry.

Not seen that stuck-up twat for ages, anyway – my ex.

Oooh, language, please. She was now collecting the last of the vegetables on her plate with her fork, making little high-pitched scraping noises that Jason hated.

Well… Now finished with his meal, he set his plate aside. I've heard you say things like that about Liam.

I'm entitled to, she told him before laying her knife and fork down neatly together on her empty plate. She gave a little belch and excused herself. He did run off with my supposedly best friend.

If he hadn't of done that, then you wouldn't have gotten me, he told her with an added cheeky grin. Sophie pulled a face that was not quite humorous. So, what's for dessert, then?

She stopped to consider this for a few seconds, absently twining her long dark hair around her fingers. When she faced him across the table again, she smiled warmly. Something sweet, she whispered.

Jason raised his eyebrows. Oh, yeah? He leant towards her. What's that then?

Sophie also leant forward, her previous smile transforming into a large, almost devious grin. It's what one would call ‘sweet F A’.

Victor Gwynne believed that just the smell of freshly ground coffee alone was enough to satisfy him. His long passed-away wife had always complained to him that coffee in the evenings was pointless: evenings and nighttimes were for relaxing or sleeping and had no place for caffeine. But now, at aged eighty-three, he could change his habits as much as the sun could change its daily cycle around the earth.

He was feeling a lot better than before, although his hands continued to shake more than they usually do. He had given himself quite a scare after he had stepped from the bus and onto the street adjoining his own this afternoon. He felt his left arm go numb and his chest tighten, and if the street lamp had not been there for him to collapse against, then he was damn sure he would have gone straight down like a brick in a river. There he waited for the inevitable: the moment when his heart would cease altogether, forcing him to suck in his final breath before crumpling into a lifeless heap on the filthy pavement. Minutes passed – five, ten, maybe more – before his heart returned to a near normal, steady rhythm. He was sure he was going to throw-up on the pavement when a hot wave of dizziness swept over him, but somehow he managed to pull himself upright and lean his scrawny buttocks against the lamppost. Two or three people passed him by, but not one cared to look at him, let alone ask if he needed help.

I could have died right there and lay in the middle of the street and nobody would have stopped, he informed himself in mere mumbles as his slightly arthritic fingers stubbed out his cigar before pulling down the drinks cabinet door. He added a dash of Scotch whisky to his steaming mug and sniffed at the combined aromas. It smelled good.

In fact, he would not have been surprised if they had stepped over his body to get to wherever they were going, especially the kids. He sank back into his favourite armchair, releasing a combined sigh of exhaustion, exasperation and relief.

Fuckers, he told the silent room, silent other than the constant tick, tick of the clock. Worthless little fuckers with their walk-about phones and their baggy clothes. The room never answered, as expected. And those girls with nothing on 'cept for a skimpy skirt. He smiled at this, but it appeared as an insubstantial smirk.

Victor's head relaxed against the backrest, his coffee mug balanced upon his knee. The heat began to radiate through the material of his trousers but he paid it no attention as his mind reflected on the day passed.

As for my neighbour, well…

Outside, the rain fell hard and with more urgency. As he listened, the dripping of the water from the overflowing guttering somehow tapped in time to the steady rhythm of the clock, blending into one harmonious, hypnotic sound.

With his drink still balanced and cooling upon his kneecap, Victor Gwynne fell into a light doze, his thoughts turning into flashes of weak dreams, his shallow breath becoming gentle grunts and snores. Five minutes later, the coffee mug slipped from his fingers and onto the floor. It remained in one piece, although its contents spread and ran across the carpet before soaking into its thinning material, becoming a dark stain. Undisturbed, the old man slept on. His dreams – a rarity now – played out within his head. Those dreams were fragments of his past, and his face began to twitch as each memory came alive. Sometimes he would frown, sometimes he would smile, and sometimes he would cry out with what could only be anguish.