Demons

By Alex Binney

1958, and the Murder Squad at Scotland Yard have been called in to solve five killings in London and to re-open a murder case when the prime suspect is acquitted.

As if that were not enough, someone has decided to emulate Jack the Ripper and create nothing less than carnage in the Whitechapel area. It seems bizarre to the investigating detectives that even with a heavy police presence the killings continue and, worse still, one police officer after another becomes a victim.

Superintendent William Lamb should, surely, come up with the answer, but it soon becomes clear to some that the Superintendent has dark secrets to hide.

Everyone, it seems, has his or her own demons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strict Publishing International
• Release date: Jul 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857792976

Alex Binney

Alex is a well established English author of murder mystery novels. He took early retirement as a manager from a major UK bank to pursue his first love of writing murder mysteries. Over the years he has devised numerous plots which he did not have chance to bring to his readership whilst pursuing his bank career. Divorced, he lives in Plymouth, Devon, UK, and you can correspond with him on Facebook.

Book preview

DEMONS

by Alex Binney

Copyright 2013 Alex Binney

Second edition, for Smashwords

Published by Strict Publishing International

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 person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

THE DEMONIC TOUCH

The secret of Life is simple:

It is in three parts –

Birth, Life and Death:

We do not ask to be born

In life we seek three things -

Health, Wealth and Love

Whatever we find or achieve

Death takes it all away.

If that’s not Demonic,

Then tell me what is…

With gratitude to Bretonside Copy for their skill in designing the following maps.

Bretonside copy

Tel: [phone]

Email: [e-mail]

CHAPTER ONE: A Contract

I want you to kill my husband.

She crossed her legs – and very attractive they were, too – as she placed a du Maurier into a gold cigarette holder and ignited it with a jewel-encrusted lighter.

You see, she continued, he’s a gambler, a waster, a womaniser and he drinks too much. If I don’t stop him, he’ll bankrupt us within a matter of months.

Gilbert Hodgkiss looked questioningly at her. Where did you get my name from?

A friend of a friend. Someone you’ve already completed a task for.

Are you going to tell me who that was?

I was asked not to. He gave you a false name when he engaged you, and wishes to remain anonymous.

I’m not sure I like the sound of this, Hodgkiss reacted. I normally like to know who I’m dealing with and where the introduction comes from.

The lady hesitated for a moment. Her blonde hair and blue eyes radiated a power of seduction that would attract most men. Her rouge lips parted slightly as she exhaled the smoke from her cigarette.

I was told you were efficient and very discreet, she said, after the brief pause. If you don’t want to help me, I’m sure I can find someone else.

Hodgkiss eyed her with a certain amount of suspicion. He hoped he was not being set up.

What does your husband do for a living?

He’s a High Court judge.

He grinned at her, a disbelieving glint in his eye.

I find it hard to believe that a High Court judge is knowingly heading for bankruptcy.

You don’t know him. When he’s sitting in court, he has consumed a fair amount of vodka and eats peppermints to disguise his breath.

What about his gambling?

Horses and poker. He loses most of his money at poker. They must see him coming.

Where does he play his poker?

At the Regency. It’s a men’s club. Women are not allowed in.

And what about his womanising – when does he find time to do that?

Whenever the opportunity presents itself. I’ve employed a private detective who’s taken photographs of his exploits.

Why don’t you divorce him?

And be left destitute? We don’t have any children, so I wouldn’t receive much in a settlement.

I see. Do you have a photograph of him?

Yes. She reached inside her handbag and took out a black-and-white photograph. This is he with one of his floosies.

Hodgkiss looked at a middle-aged, balding man, sporting a bushy moustache and who was of average height. Certainly no oil painting. He was holding a busty brunette in his arms.

Okay, he said. I’ll agree to help you. It will cost you two thousand pounds and I shall want half up-front.

I was told that’s what you charged. Again she reached inside her handbag and took out a bulging brown envelope and passed it across the table to him.

After counting it, Hodgkiss stood up and shook her hand while the lady remained seated. Thank you for your patronage, Mrs. Hampshire. You will know when I’ve completed the contract.

Will it be soon?

As soon as I can make it. I will need to check his movements and seize the right opportunity to carry out the agreement.

"Well, I can let you know what his movements will be each day…"

"I’m sorry. That’s not how I operate. No telephone calls. Just leave it all to me."

As she stood up, Veronica Hampshire wrapped the mink stole around her neck, having extinguished her cigarette.

I hope you can make it soon, she said, pleadingly. He’s spending money like water.

I’ll do my best.

He watched the lady waddle from the office before stuffing the payment she had given him into a briefcase.

After that, he put on his raincoat, took out a cloth and wiped the desk clean of fingerprints. As he left the premises he also cleaned the doorknob on both sides.

He then made his exit, dropping the latch with a gloved hand to secure the building.

* * * * *

Veronica Hampshire had cause to visit Hodgkiss again the following day as she had some further information she could give him concerning her husband.

On reaching the premises, she entered the building by turning the door handle on the large oak door and stepped inside.

She knocked on the office door and heard a voice say, Come in.

When she entered, she was confronted with a rather stout individual with a reddish face, smoking a fat cigar.

Oh, she said. I was hoping to see Mr. Hodgkiss.

Mr. Hodgkiss? queried the little fat man. Who’s Mr. Hodgkiss?

Well… I… thought this was his office. I saw him here yesterday.

Really? I don’t know who you saw, madam, but he had no right being here. This is my office. I run an import-export business.

How did he have access to your office, then?

The businessman coughed over his cigar. I’ve no idea. It was my day off. He must have broken in.

Not wishing to give any more information to this man, Veronica thanked him and left. She was now very concerned that she had parted with a thousand pounds to an individual who may have been just a con man.

* * * * *

He picked up the receiver on his rather ornate telephone in answer to its persistent ringing.

Bates.

Duncan – it’s Veronica.

Hi, Veronica. How are you doing? All sorted out?

That’s what I’m ringing about. I met the person you recommended and reached an agreement with him. I went back to see him again today at the place we had met the day before, and he wasn’t there. I had some extra information I wanted to give him. Instead, I met a man who didn’t know who I was talking about and he told me that this was his office and that he ran an import-export business from there.

So you think you were duped?

In a word, yes.

Well, don’t worry. That’s how our man works. He’ll never let you know where he actually operates from. He obviously knew that that office would be empty when he saw you. Your money is safe.

Are you sure? Mr. Hodgkiss resisted my request in the first instance…

That’s part of his game. He was sounding you out. Oh… and another thing… you don’t really think he’s called Hodgkiss, do you?

CHAPTER TWO: A Murder Trial

Judge Fitzroy Hampshire was fast losing patience with the defence counsel.

Mr. Craven, he said, admonishingly, I do not intend warning you again about leading the witness.

Sorry, m’lud, fawned the barrister whilst adjusting his wig at the same time.

He glared at the old lady in the dock.

Mrs. Dimmock, you wear spectacles, do you not?

What do you think these are on the end of my nose? scoffed the witness.

Laughter from the court.

Silence! shouted the judge, banging down his gavel.

Clearing his throat, Craven – reddening somewhat – continued with, The reason I was making that point, Mrs. Dimmock, was to establish that you are as blind as a bat without them.

So what? sneered the old lady.

I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Dimmock. Were you wearing your spectacles on the night in question?

What night?

Craven shook his head disbelievingly. On the night of the murder!

I think so.

You think so?

Well, I don’t see why I wouldn’t be wearing them.

I should imagine there would be occasions when you wouldn’t be wearing them – for instance, when you were taking a bath.

Oh, I see what you mean. I can definitely tell you I wasn’t taking a bath that evening.

More laughter from the court.

Silence! Or I’ll clear the court! shouted the judge.

Craven looked appealingly at the judge. I would like this witness’s evidence to be completely ignored, m’lud. She is clearly unreliable.

Objection!

At this point, Sir Dagfield Wallings, the Crown prosecutor, was on his feet. Mrs. Dimmock is a key witness for the Prosecution.

Quite so, Sir Dagfield, agreed his worship. You’ll have to make the best of your cross-examination, Mr. Craven. And try and get to the point, will you?

Very well, m’lud, responded Craven, showing his chagrin. Mrs. Dimmock, I put it to you that on the night of Hester Hargreaves’ murder you were not wearing your spectacles. Is that correct?

No, it’s not, protested the lady. I was definitely wearing them.

And you always wear them?

Yes, I do. As you said so succinctly yourself - I’m blind as a bat without them.

Muffled laughter in the court so as not to incur the judge’s further wrath.

Undaunted, Craven continued with his cross-examination. How is it, then, that when the police called at your house the following day, you were not wearing your spectacles?

Hesitancy. That was because I had put them down for a minute, and couldn’t remember where I left them.

Why did you take them off?

To relax my eyes. I was going to take a nap.

So you take your spectacles off when you want to take a nap?

Yes, most of the time…

So on the evening when Mrs. Hargreaves was shot, were you taking a nap?

A pause.

Before she could answer, the judge intervened with, "May I remind you, Mrs. Dimmock, you are on oath."

Yes… yes, responded the old lady. I remember now. I was taking a nap.

So you wouldn’t have been wearing your spectacles?

No, but I put them on as soon as I heard the shots.

At what time did you hear these shots?

It was about eight o’clock in the evening.

Craven picked up one of the exhibits. Mrs. Dimmock, I have in my hand a statement you made to the police after the shooting. You said you were listening to the wireless when you heard the shots. That was a false statement, wasn’t it?

I thought it was true at the time, the old lady faltered. I get confused sometimes.

Really? I submit you were totally confused on the night in question…

Objection!

Withdrawn, grinned Craven at Sir Dagfield.

To everyone’s surprise, the clerk of the court brought in a board with letters on it of various sizes, the sort that can be found in most opticians.

Mrs. Dimmock, I would now like to test your eyesight with your spectacles on, if I may.

Objection! Sir Dagfield was on his feet again.

Judge Hampshire looked enquiringly at him. What are you objecting to, Sir Dagfield?

Mr. Craven is reducing this to a farce. The credibility of my witness is not in doubt.

I think it may be, disagreed the judge. She’s already been caught out in a lie. She has identified the defendant as the person who shot Mrs. Hargreaves. I think the Defence has a perfect right to ensure that her eyesight is not flawed in any way. Proceed, Mr. Craven.

The barrister looked towards the witness. Mrs. Dimmock, will you please read the third line down on the board?

It’s too far away, she muttered. Bring it closer.

The clerk of the court was directed to do so. When he stood four feet from her, she said, That’s better. I can read it now.

There’s no need, countered Craven. I think the jury can deduce how much weight to give to your identification of the accused. No further questions.

Judge Hampshire leaned over his desk and uttered, You may step down, Mrs. Dimmock.

The old lady looked discomfited, as well she might. Sir Dagfield equally so. A big hole had been blown through the testimony of the Prosecution’s chief witness.

The barrister for the Crown stood up at this point and announced, The Prosecution rests, m’lud.

The judge glanced at his watch. I think now would be a good time to break for lunch. We’ll resume this afternoon at 2 p.m.

And he brought down his gavel with a sonorous ‘bang’.

* * * * *

Godfrey Craven took the opportunity of using part of the lunch hour to have a word with his client in one of the interview rooms at the Old Bailey.

The main problem we have is with your alibi, declared the barrister as they made themselves comfortable in that small room.

What alibi? declared the defendant, Geoffrey Golding.

Precisely, emphasised Craven. Because you can only declare that you were alone and asleep in your flat that evening, the Prosecution can pile up as much circumstantial evidence as they wish against you.

So you say, but I don’t know what I can do about it. It’s the truth. I was on my own, asleep, when I was suddenly awoken by those shots.

Remind me… what did you then do?

I dashed to the window and looked out. I could see this hooded figure running away from the ground floor flat where Mrs. Hargreaves lives.

But you couldn’t see his face?

No, it was too dark.

It was a pity they found that brooch belonging to Mrs. Hargreaves in your flat.

I told you – and the police – she gave that to me to pass on to my daughter as a birthday present. She was quite fond of Angela.

"She would have had to have been very fond of her. That brooch is worth a lot of money, being eighteen carat gold and encrusted with diamonds, emeralds and rubies."

Look, Mr. Craven, whose side are you on? I’m telling you the truth.

The barrister looked analytically at the accountant. He did not look like a killer, not by a long chalk. His client was middle-aged, brown hair parted in the middle, wore horn-rimmed spectacles over those haunted-looking eyes and wore a neatly trimmed moustache over a weak mouth.

It’s okay, Mr. Golding, I was just testing you, as I intend putting you on the stand later on. When you’re in the witness box you must sound as positive as you do now, do you understand?

His client nodded, somewhat nervously.

The barrister put his hands on Golding’s shoulders. Good man.

* * * * *

The Old Bailey gets its name from the street in which it stands. Around the corner is the main thoroughfare of Ludgate Hill, which runs into Fleet Street.

Here was situated Judge Hampshire’s favourite restaurant, aptly named The Pig Inn, except that it was not an inn but rather an up-market bistro. Whenever he was trying a case at this particular court, the maitre d’ would always ensure a table was specially reserved for him for luncheon.

As he took his seat, a waiter rushed up to him and offered him the a la carte menu. After perusing it and ordering a Tournedos Rossini steak, he followed this by requesting a large Tio Pepe. Quaffing it quickly, he ordered two more before the steak was served.

After consuming the main course, followed by a large sherry trifle, he ordered a half carafe of vintage port with a large slice of stilton cheese, before returning to the court.

* * * * *

The court reconvened at 2 p.m. as instructed by Judge Hampshire.

At the Old Bailey, the presiding official is referred to as either My Lord or Your Worship. As far as Craven was concerned, the first of these was reduced to m’lud.

The barrister for the Defence called his first witness, Doctor Jeremiah Blenheim.

After he had been sworn in, Craven began with his opening question.

Doctor Blenheim, will you tell the court of your qualifications and where you practise?

The physician was a skinny-looking individual with a handlebar moustache and heavily Brylcreemed jet-black hair, parted on the right hand side of his head. He appeared unduly nervous.

Certainly, he responded. I am an M.D. and was formerly in general practice. Latterly I have obtained a Doctorate in Armaments and Explosives.

That seems to be a strange departure from your chosen profession.

It may appear so. However, I obtained my initial experience as a doctor during the last war. I was employed as a medic in the army. I saw first hand the damage caused by machine guns and explosives. When I left the army and took up private practice, I determined to find out more about these weapons of destruction – hence my doctorate. After that, I was employed as a researcher for a munitions factory in Lancashire, which is my current employment.

Thank you, Doctor Blenheim. Now, tell me, did you view the police report on the shooting and the ballistics report as regards the late Mrs. Hester Hargreaves?

Yes, I did.

Did you concur with the police findings?

Not entirely.

Why not?

Firstly, the police report says that Mrs. Hargreaves was shot at point blank range, which would have meant that powder residue would have been found on the accused’s hands and clothing.

The police would maintain that the defendant could have washed his hands after the event.

Accepted, but there was no powder residue found on Mr. Golding’s hooded jacket, and I believe there are several witnesses who saw a hooded figure running away from Mrs. Hargreaves flat after the shooting.

The police have maintained that the accused took the jacket to the laundry to be cleaned.

There is no evidence of that. There were no laundry marks on the jacket nor, under my examination, was there any evidence that the jacket had been laundered.

Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.

Sir Dagfield Wallings slowly rose to his feet, evidently deep in thought.

Dr. Blenheim, how many coats with a hood does the defendant, Geoffrey Golding possess?

I presume only one.

"You presume? You presume !? Why do you presume that?"

It was the only one that the police allowed me to examine.

Really? Is it not conceivable that Mr. Golding owned two such coats, one of which – the one he was wearing at the shooting – he ditched immediately after he had murdered Mrs. Hargreaves?

This time it was Craven’s turn to rise to his feet. Objection, m’lud. The prosecution is attempting to invent a story to fit their distorted view of the facts. There is no evidence that Mr. Golding possessed two such coats!

Objection sustained, enunciated the judge. You really must behave, Sir Dagfield. This really isn’t on, you know.

The admonished barrister adjusted his wig. Apologies, m’lud. I was merely trying to give the jury an alternative interpretation of events.

Yes, but not by telling them fairy stories, underlined the judge. By the bye, did you know that Father Christmas wears a hood?

The court burst into laughter. This time, Judge Hampshire did not seem to mind. He rather enjoyed the response to his witty comment.

When the laughter had died down, Sir Dagfield picked up the police report that had earlier been referred to. Clearing his throat, he looked meaningfully at the witness before him. You say you read this police report on the shooting of Mrs. Hargreaves?

I did.

You read, then, that the officers who investigated the case took plaster cast impressions of the footprints left in the mud outside Mrs. Hargreaves flat.

Yes, I read that.

And you will have read further on that these impressions matched the tread on certain footwear in Mr. Golding’s flat.

Yes, that’s correct. They were Clarks’ shoes. That type of shoe is very popular amongst the male fraternity.

But size nine?

I did some research on that. Size nine is the most common size worn by the adult male population in the U.K.

Sir Dagfield attempted to be dismissive by observing, Yes… we only have your word for that, don’t we, Doctor?

Before the witness could answer, Sir Dagfield said hastily, No further questions.

At this point Craven stood up rather smartly. A question on redirect, m’lud?

If you’re quick about it, Mr. Craven.

The Defence barrister asked his witness, Doctor Blenheim, did you examine the shoes just referred to by the Prosecution?

I did.

And?

The soles were clean. There was no evidence of any traces of mud.

Could they not have been cleaned after the event?

Sure. But I examined the soles under a microscope. Because they were moulded and corrugated, it would have been almost impossible for a layman to have removed every single trace of the mud had they been the shoes which made the imprints outside Mrs. Hargreaves’ flat.

Thank you, Doctor.

Sir Dagfield’s brain was working overtime. This witness had proved to be a thorn in the side. He jotted down a couple of notes that he would use in his summing up at the end of the trial.

Judge Hampshire looked down upon the witness. You may step down, Dr. Blenheim. Then he looked towards the Defence. Your next witness, Mr. Craven.

The barrister rose to his feet and announced, I call Desmond Albright."

Presently, a short individual, slightly overweight and wearing a gaudy mustard suit, entered the courtroom.

After being sworn in and stating his name to be Desmond Crighton Albright, he was ready to be questioned in the witness box.

Mr. Albright, began Craven, will you tell the court what you do for a living?

I am the manager of a tailor’s in the West End.

And where do you live?

In a house in Blackheath.

Do you recall what you were doing on the night of February the tenth last?

Yes, I was discussing my forthcoming tax return with my accountant on the telephone.

And who is your accountant?

Mr. Golding, the defendant. He pointed nervously at the accused.

At what time were these discussions taking place?

It was just before eight o’clock when I rang.

And during the course of the conversation, did you hear anything?

Yes – I heard some loud bangs. It sounded like some shots were being fired from a gun.

What happened then?

Geoffrey – Mr. Golding, that is – told me to hold on for a minute. When he came back on the phone he said he would have to hang up on me so he could ring the police.

Did he say why?

Not at that point. He did ring me later and explained that he had seen a hooded man running away from Mrs. Hargreaves flat carrying a gun.

Did he say anything else?

Only that the police were on their way. We had just finished our conversation on my tax affairs when the police arrived at Mr. Golding’s flat. The next thing I knew was that he had been arrested.

Thank you, Mr. Albright. No further questions. Your witness.

Sir Dagfield rose to cross-examine, looking rather severe in aspect.

Mr. Albright, are you sure about the time you originally rang Mr. Golding on that evening?

Quite sure. I knew Mr. Golding always worked late, so I had my supper before ringing him at home.

Why didn’t you ring him at the office where he worked?

I didn’t want to disturb him there. I knew he would be working on other clients’ files.

I see. Or rather, I don’t. You’re as much a client as the others that use Mr. Golding’s services, aren’t you?

Yes, but –

No buts, Mr. Albright. Yes or no will suffice.

The shop manager started shuffling uneasily in the witness box. He found Sir Dagfield unsettling.

Now, continued the barrister, it is true that not only are you a client of Mr. Golding’s, but you are also a friend of his, are you not?

Uhh… yes, that’s correct.

A long standing friend?

We’ve known each other for a number of years, yes.

Would you say you were a loyal friend?

I would like to think so.

"Someone