It Wasn't Me

By Alex Binney

“It wasn’t me,” protested Jason Handel, not for the first time but never so desperately as he protested now. Acquitted of Mary Matthews’ murder at his trial at the Old Bailey, it appeared that at least one member of Mary’s family did not believe him and was determined to take revenge, with fatal results for Jason.

And that, apparently, led to a feud between the two families, despite warnings from the police that they would arrest those responsible and that the killings would be stopped one way or another. The problem was that all the members of both families had seemingly unshakeable alibis, and it did not look like the work of a professional hitman.

So who did kill Mary Matthews, Jason’s fiancée? And which members of the two families were carrying out the subsequent murders? There had to be a twist, something the police were missing, even though they had meticulously covered every possible angle to catch the culprits... hadn’t they?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strict Publishing International
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9780857793171

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.

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IT WASN’T ME

by Alex Binney

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Alex Binney

Published by Strict Publishing International

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INNOCENCE

It wasn’t me

I tell no lie

Cross my heart

And hope to die

It wasn’t me

I tell you true

I’ve been pious

My whole life through

It wasn’t me

Who did this deed

Killing of humans

Is not my creed

It wasn’t me

Who kills at will

Murder is his

Bitter pill

It wasn’t me

Who gets a kick

From taking lives

- He’s real sick

It wasn’t me

Who gets the joy

Of ending lives

Girl or boy

It wasn’t me

Whom you now blame

You know who-

You know his name

It wasn’t me

So why the gun?

Go after him

He’s the one!

It wasn’t me

I tell no lie

Cross my heart

And hope to die…

CHAPTER ONE: An Execution

Please, don’t do this. You’ve got the wrong man. It wasn’t me!

His executioner leaned over him and pointed the gun at his head. You may have fooled the jury, but you didn’t fool us.

No, really… you’ve got it all wrong. I had nothing to do with her death. I loved her!

You can tell that to her when you next see her.

Please, no… don’t. I’m begging you. It wasn’t me.

When the gun went off, the single bullet at the back of his head was enough to despatch him to his maker.

He fell forward, his arms still tied behind his back and the dead weight of his body pitched him forward until his head crashed on the rough ground before him.

As his blood oozed into the mud and made a gelatinous mix, his killer looked down on the corpse and said, At least we now know that justice has been served. May Mary Matthews rest in peace and may Jason Handel rot in hell.

‡

Thursday, August 4th 1983.

11 a.m.

It was Emily Patterson who found the body.

She was walking her Alsatian Sheppey along the public footpath when she saw the shoes protruding from the bushes.

It was her dog who drew her attention to the site, being a collection of mixed green shrubbery that was only of occasional interest to our canine friends, her animal letting out an excited yelp when they passed near the scene.

Emily was not aware that the shoes were attached to the body of a young man until she was quite close to it, whereupon she let out a large scream.

There were other walkers nearby, some ramblers out for a breath of fresh air, some other dog walkers, a pair on bikes and some holiday makers who had lost their directions and were trying to find their way back to their caravan park.

A couple of tourists who were the closest to Emily approached her on hearing her cry and enquired what her problem was.

The girl was now stunned to silence and could only point at the body.

The holidaymakers recoiled in horror at the sight. The cadaver lay face down in the dirt, hands still tied behind him and the hair at the back of his head matted in blood.

My God, said one of them. Looks like the poor bugger’s been shot in the back of the head. Just like it was some form of execution.

One of the tourists, a woman of around fifty years of age, said, I’ll phone the police. There’s a telephone box on the main road not far from here.

In the meantime, more people had gathered around the murder spot, not realising they were contaminating the crime scene as they gazed like gormless morons at the sickening sight in front of them.

‡

The wooded area near Ironbridge Gorge (formerly known as the Severn Gorge), where the body was found, is only four miles from Telford as the crow flies, but seven miles by car.

When Detective Inspector Hayden Brent arrived at the scene with his assistant Detective Sergeant Bill Derrick at his side, the crowd had been dispersed by some uniformed men who had arrived in patrol cars ahead of the detectives.

The pathologist, Dr. Lyndon Blaine, was making a preliminary examination of the body when the two detectives arrived.

Hi, Lyn, greeted Brent in that rough voice of his, which the pathologist attributed to the detective’s smoking habit, what have you got to tell me?

Looks like a gangland execution to me. He was trussed up, and a single small calibre bullet to the back of the head saw him off. Didn’t stand a chance.

Any I.D.?

Nope, but I do recognise him.

Oh?

You will, when you take a look at him. It was in all the newspapers. Your Scotland Yard colleague Mercer took the case. You are looking at the recently released Jason Handel who was up on a charge of killing his fiancée, Mary Matthews.

Brent lit up a cigarette, and exposed his yellow teeth in doing so. In that case, he said, it could be a vigilante execution. There were a lot of angry people around here after the verdict was handed down.

Yes, I guess, said Blaine, seemingly agreeing with him. Get him down to the morgue as soon as you can, will you? I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment.

Don’t you mean slab? grinned Brent, as he blew out some smoke.

Still haven’t lost your sense of humour, I see, Hayden. I’m off. See you.

Hey, wait a minute. Time of death?

Rigor’s been and gone. Sometime yesterday afternoon. I’ll let you know more when I have him in the lab, and he added: "…on the slab."

The detective grinned back at the pathologist, but made no further comment.

While Brent had been having his conversation with the medical examiner, Derrick had been having a word with the forensic boys and the photographer.

Once the inspector had finished with Blaine, the sergeant reported back to the inspector. The crime scene has been compromised, guv. The ground around the body has been severely trampled on by the discoverers of the body and other interested onlookers.

You mean nosey, interfering busybodies, don’t you? groaned Brent, throwing the stub of his cigarette to the ground and stamping on it.

Anyway, it doesn’t look like he was killed here, according to the forensic guys. They think the body was dumped.

How do they figure that out?

Lack of blood where the body was found, and the dirt found on the soles of his shoes doesn’t match the soil around here.

I see.

Brent stooped over the body as the medics hovered with a body bag. The corpse was now facing upwards, so the detective rolled the deceased over so that he could view the wound at the back of the head. Hmm. Single shot all right. No exit wound. Make sure the pathologist digs the bullet out of his brain for us, Bill. Okay, lads, you can have him.

As he watched the body being bagged, Brent turned to Derrick and enquired: What happened to the rope that he was tied up with?

Forensics has it, guv, for identification and comparison purposes.

Get it off them, will you? I’d like to have a look at it.

‡

Malinsgate Police Station was a fairly modern building in the centre of Telford, and was home to Detective Inspector Brent and his assistant, D.S. Derrick.

Telford itself is by far the largest town in Shropshire, and one of the fastest growing towns in the United Kingdom. It was named after civil engineer Thomas Telford after the town was put together in the 1960s and 1970s, being a new town constructed on previously industrial and agricultural land and incorporating lesser towns. It was created from smaller settlements such as Wellington, Oakengates, Madeley and Dawley. The M54 was completed earlier in this year of 1983, connecting the town with the West Midlands conurbation.

Telford itself lies about 13 miles east-southeast of Shrewsbury and 15 miles northwest of Wolverhampton. The town centre stands on a watershed, with land to the south draining towards the River Severn, and to the north the land slopes gently down towards the Weald Moors. Telford is dominated by the Wrekin, a large hill of a little over thirteen hundred feet in height, located southwest of Wellington, straddling the border with the borough of Shrewsbury and Atcham.

The recent homicide was the first case of its kind that had occurred within the town’s environs since it was first formed, and it hit the front page of the Telford Express as well as being broadcast on the main BBC nine o’clock news bulletins.

We’re not going to get a lot of support from the locals, muttered Brent as he smoked a Kensitas in his office the following day.

That’s because Handel got a bad press at his trial, plus the girl was a popular debutante, observed Derrick.

Well, we’re going to struggle over this. I left the Met to get away from the rat race and all that vice and thuggery you find in the capital. This is a new town, Bill. We aren’t supposed to get this sort of crime here.

The sergeant was philosophical about the event. The problem was that she was a local girl and he was local, although the murder was committed in London where they were both students. Handel was a fool to come back here.

He needed the comfort of his parents after what happened, replied Brent. Even though he was declared innocent, there were a lot of unanswered questions which cast a shadow over him.

And now he’s paid the price for it. So how are we going to deal with this, guv?

Difficult one, Bill. The super reckons we have to handle it, because it happened on our patch, even though Mary Matthews’ murder was committed in London and was handled by the Murder Squad. As he believes that Handel was done in by a bunch of locals, he believes it’s our job to hunt the blighters down.

It was Derrick’s turn to search for a smoke, producing his Dutch pipe, which had a metal cap that fitted over the top of the bowl. It was supposed to give a steadier burn and thus a more even smoke. That did not stop Derrick being the butt of internal jokes when colleagues commented, as he was smoking the pipe, that he had got ‘his Dutch cap’ on.

So what do we do now, guv? asked the sergeant, lighting up.

While we are waiting for the post mortem report, which won’t contain many surprises, I suspect, and comments from ballistics section on the bullet taken out of the victim’s brain, I think we should have a word with the boy’s parents to see if they can shed any light on this.

The Handels had not been at home when the officers appointed to the task had tried to advise them of their son’s demise. When Olive Handel was eventually contacted, she had broken down in tears and when Timothy Handel was given the bad news at his work place he was given immediate compassionate leave to look after his wife. A policewoman and a male constable had been detailed to break the bad news but, notwithstanding their obvious distress, the couple had agreed to be interviewed at their home at 6 p.m. that evening.

Brent and Derrick called promptly at the appointed hour by knocking firmly on the door of 27 Brymore Way.

After showing their I.D., the two detectives were admitted to the couple’s lounge where the four of them sat down.

Brent always made a towering impression on all who met him, being six feet five inches in height and always immaculately dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a starched detachable white collar to his shirts. Clean-shaven, he was not considered handsome by the opposite sex but, nevertheless, the forty-year-old seemed to have a certain rugged attraction as far as the ladies were concerned. So much so, he was often out on dates, albeit the relationships did not seem to last very long….

Derrick, on the other hand, being happily married and two years older than his colleague, showed that he was not so careful with his appearance, displaying an upturned collar on his grey shirt and a creased suit covering his tubby five feet eight inches frame. He sported a bushy brown moustache and thinning hair, but his blue eyes looked kind and twinkling.

We are truly sorry to bother you at a time like this Mr. and Mrs. Handel, and please accept our sincerest condolences, began Brent. We appreciate how much you have been through in recent times, including your son’s trial. But if we are to catch your son’s killers, we needed to have a word with you sooner rather than later.

It’s all right, Inspector, said Timothy Handel. My wife and I – while still in shock – realise that we must be strong and do whatever is necessary to protect the good name and reputation of our beautiful son.

Handel himself was finding it difficult to hold back the tears. He and his wife chose to sit on the couch as he put a comforting arm about her. A man of average height, in his mid-forties, he was slight of frame and was dressed in grey flannels and wore a grey cardigan over a white open-necked shirt. His stubble around his dark complexion showed he was a man who needed to shave twice a day, but had neglected to do so on this particular day.

Thank you, sir. We’ll try not to keep you too long. The trial finished some five weeks ago, did it not? Did your son come home immediately after the trial?

Yes, replied the man of the house. We insisted that he did, and we were waiting for him outside the Old Bailey when he was released.

So you have no idea how his college friends reacted after he was found not guilty?

Not really, although a couple approached him as he came out of the courthouse to congratulate him. We didn’t see anyone who was angry with him.

What about the dead girl’s parents? How have they reacted?

Not good, I’m afraid. After Jason was arrested, they kept well away from us. And we haven’t heard from them after the trial.

Have you made any effort to contact them?

Of course. Jason was engaged to Mary. We wanted to share their grief with them when she was first discovered dead. They were okay with that at the beginning, until Jason got arrested. After that, it was the cold shoulder treatment.

Did – does – Mary have any siblings?

Yes, she has a brother Mark who is four years older than her. He works in a food factory on the outskirts of Telford. He’s married, I believe.

What about Jason? Does he have any brothers or sisters?

Yes, Trevor. He works in London in an insurance company. He’s coming home tomorrow.

I’m sorry, but I must ask you this: has your son received any death threats since he’s come home to you after the trial?

Yes – sort of. We’ve had handwritten notes pushed through our letter box, threatening to do this and that.

Why didn’t you report it to us?

Jason wouldn’t let us. He said he’s had enough heartache. He didn’t want to perpetuate the agony he was going through – which is what he felt would happen if he went to the police with those notes. He was hoping it would blow over, given time.

Do you still have those notes?

Some. Jason threw a lot of them away.

May we have a look at them?

Timothy Handel rose to his feet. I’ll fetch them. They are in one of the kitchen drawers somewhere.

While he was gone, Brent turned to Olive Handel, who had so far remained silent.

Do you and your husband have any relatives who are still alive, Mrs. Handel?

Yes. Our parents are both dead, but Timothy has an unmarried brother called Jake who lives in Coventry, and I have a married brother, Albert, who lives in Surrey.

Do you see them often?

No, not really…

The woman was wringing her hands together in her anguish and was finding it difficult to hold back the tears. She was still an attractive woman in her early forties, with long blonde hair and peach-like complexion, displaying a good, firm mouth and piercing ebony eyes. As a single man, Brent found himself quite attracted to her. She was plainly dressed in a green pleated skirt and matching cardigan, and wore a gold crucifix about her neck.

When her husband returned, he placed a half-a-dozen notes in the inspector’s hands. The detective had put on some latex gloves.

That’s all I could find, he said.

Brent had a cursory look at them and put them into a plastic envelope he had taken from Derrick.

Not very pleasant, he commented. We would like you to handle this piece of blank paper, sir.

Brent tore a sheet from his notebook and gave it to the man of the house. He then put it into the same plastic envelope.

It’s just to eliminate your fingerprints on those notes, sir, the inspector explained. Did you ever handle those notes, Mrs. Handel?

No, she said. My husband and son wouldn’t let me look at them.

We were only trying to protect her, said Handel defensively.

I understand, sympathised Brent. It’s just that as we already have your son’s prints, and now yours, sir, so the remaining ones on these notes – if there are any – must belong to the people who sent them. A process of elimination, you see.

How will that help?

Some of the senders may have form. If so, we’ll know who sent them. That will be a useful start for us. What about friends of your son’s? Do you know who they are? Did he ever speak of them or bring them to the house?

Sure, replied the father. There were several locals he used to see on a social basis before he went to college.

What about girls? Did he ever take any out before he became engaged to Mary?

Yes. There were a couple, nothing serious.

Okay. Well, I’d like you and your wife to put your heads together and write down all the friends of Jason that you can remember – male and female, and their addresses if you know them.

You don’t think any of his friends would have had anything to do with this, though, do you, Inspector?

Brent looked seriously at the father. They do say that fact is stranger than fiction, Mr. Handel. I’ve been in this game long enough not to discount anything, as far as human traits and emotions are concerned.

As the pair lifted themselves from the couch to approach a writing cabinet to write out the details the detectives required, Handel said, I do hope you catch whoever did this, Inspector, soon – and bring them to justice. It’s a pity they’ve banned hanging. It’s what these people deserve. Our son didn’t stand a chance. They just treated him like some sort of rabid animal that needed to be put down. They executed him without compassion or remorse.

CHAPTER TWO: THE TRIAL OF JASON HANDEL

Monday, 13th June 1983. 10 a.m.

The sun was out and shone its ultra-violet rays upon the courthouse below.

The Old Bailey looked quite welcoming in the bright sunshine as the jurors were sworn in and took their seats ready for the commencement of the trial in Court Number One.

While this was going on, Sir Stephen Fortescue, representing the Crown, was fiddling with a number of papers in front of him, in an attempt to put them in some semblance of order.

Lawrence Oliver, Q.C., for the Defence, was feeling quite relaxed as he was having words with his number two, Wendy Cornelius.

The clerk of the court, Desmond Scone, having completed the swearing in, then ordered everyone to rise in anticipation of the arrival of the trial judge, Lord Asquataine.

With a slight flourish, his lordship made his entrance, and duly took his seat, peering imperiously over both counsels below him.

When everyone was seated, the court was called to order and the indictment was read out to the accused. After which he was asked:

How do you plead – guilty or not guilty?

Not guilty.

At that stage, Sir Stephen rose and addressed the jury by laying out the precise circumstances and evidential facts that had led to the accused being placed in the dock. He concluded his address by saying:

"When we have placed all the evidence before you, members of the jury, we believe you will find that Jason Frederick Handel is guilty of wilful murder, beyond a reasonable doubt, and that he maliciously and premeditatedly took away the life of a young girl – his fiancée – Mary Stanforth Matthews, around midnight on Monday, 24th January of this year.

Oliver then stood up and gave his brief pronouncement that the Prosecution’s case was based purely on circumstantial evidence and that they could not place his client at the scene of the crime.

The advocates, having completed their opening speeches, prepared for the battle ahead.

At this point Detective Inspector Walter Mercer was called to the stand, as the first witness.

After he was sworn in, the detective was asked to state his name and profession.

"Detective Inspector Walter Mercer of