The Society of Intelligent Murderers

By Robin Vicary

‘The Society of Intelligent Murderers’ is set in 1970s England and France. Detective Chief Inspector Harry Rainham is tasked with reviews of a number of suspicious deaths where relatives had appeared dissatisfied with the initial police investigation. Close to retirement and with an unwell wife at home, he forms a team with two young women detectives. They quickly unearth three bizarre apparently unrelated cases, and as each investigation progresses, it becomes apparent that the murderers are linked by seemingly mysterious blackmail attempts. There also appears to be a link to the poem ‘The Waste Land’, and possibly to the story of ‘Rebecca’. The novel progresses through moments of danger for all involved until it climaxes with a series of alarming events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Conrad Press
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839786402

Book preview

Chapter One

Guilty

I

t is a cool and blustery late afternoon in June 1973. The inside of Court Number One at the Old Bailey remained, as ever, clad in wooden panels and full of a recently silenced collection of people. His Honour Justice Laidlaw is presiding. The twelve jury members have just returned to their seats after a remarkably short absence.

‘Members of the jury, how do you find the defendant Stephen Boyes in the matter of the charge of the murder of his wife, Greta Boyes? Guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty, m’lud.’

‘Were you unanimous?’

‘Yes, m’lud.’

A small applause breaks out in the gallery, silenced by a fierce look from His Honour and a small movement by two of the attendant ushers.

‘Stephen Boyes, you have been found guilty of this heinous crime by a unanimous decision of the jury. In view of the late hour, I shall delay sentencing until tomorrow, but you must expect a long custodial sentence, particularly in light of your apparently accidental admission, whilst giving evidence in this trial, of the murder of your previous wife Antonia. I must say it seems deeply regrettable that the police did not investigate her death more thoroughly in light of the repeated representations made to them by her parents. Then the loss of this second wife might not have occurred.’

The judge stands.

‘All rise,’ is heard. The courtroom empties.

On the steps of the Old Bailey, an unruly herd of trilby-wearing, coated men push forward towards the hastily erected microphone while two policemen attempt to maintain a semblance of order. An elderly couple, accompanied by a younger woman wearing slightly too much bright red lipstick, emerge from the court. The younger woman approaches the microphone with confidence.

‘My clients have prepared a statement which I shall now read to you:

‘We regret that this evil man has been allowed to murder another beautiful, loving young woman. Had our concerns been listened to with greater attention by the police, another set of relatives would not be grieving today. Nothing can bring back our beloved daughter, Antonia, and we now wish to grieve in peace.

‘My clients will not answer any questions.’

The pushing and shoving abates and the hooligan crowd dissipates.

On the following morning, eight o’clock dawns still blustery. In an upstairs section of the Home Office building on Northumberland Avenue, the minister Gerald Trusome, is closeted with his senior civil servant, Sir Jeremy Brankaster.

‘Minister, shall we start with any potential headlines from our colleagues in the world of journalism?’

‘One day perhaps could we start with the prospects for the England cricket team?’

‘Oh, very jocular, minister. But surely we don’t wish to start the day on a low note?’

Trusome stirs his coffee in irritable silence, watching a small grain circulating clockwise, and trying not to think of the dark locks of his research assistant, Jennifer Grayson.

‘So, to today’s Times, minister,’ Sir Jeremy continues, unperturbed by the minister’s apparent disinterest. ‘My assistants have picked up two possible points for this afternoon’s Question Time in the House. The first concerns yesterday’s trial at the Old Bailey.’

‘Yes, I heard the verdict on the Nine o’clock News last night.’

‘Regrettably His Honour chose to make an unsubtle criticism of the police handling of a previous matter which, even more regrettably, concerned the apparent confession by the murderer to a previous offence. Apparently, no charge had been brought in that case as the DPP had not felt that there were suspicious circumstances. Obviously in hindsight—’

‘Well, what am I supposed to do?’ This said even more irritably.

‘Well, minister, it appears that your opposite number on the Labour Party front bench will be asking a question today in parliament about what we intend to do.’

‘And I am expected to respond to that whinging idiot Franklyn’s every thought?’

‘Sadly, minister, that is the way our democracy ordains it.’

The minister looks up from his coffee and sees not a flicker of expression.

‘Oh, Lord. Well, what would you advise?’

A small warmth suffuses the face of the man opposite him.

‘We could set up a small working party, minister, to see whether there are wider lessons to be learnt about the administration of justice. In particular, His Honour was critical of police not listening to concerned relatives. So, we could make that one of the prominent features of the review. And then—’

But the minister cut in.

‘Yes, alright I get the gist. So, give me half a side of foolscap and I will brief whoever is standing in at Question Time whilst our PM has his hand on the tiller rather than his brain focussed on national matters – or can I assume that he is entertaining some important magnate at Chequers again, or swanning around walking in the Chilterns as we mere mortals might have it?’

‘Actually, minister, the prime minister is in Paris today with the French president, amongst others, while desperately trying to prevent the French consolidating more national power within the European civil service. And my belief is that you are standing in for him at Question Time.’

A silence, whilst the minister takes in the news.

‘Make it a full side of foolscap.’

Chapter Two

A neatness of solutions

S

ir James McCardle is seated at his desk, gazing across the greenery of St James’ Park. Although it is late June, nevertheless it is another windy day and he notes sadly that there is no stirring and spreading of wings from the pelicans on the island in the lake. He enjoys being distracted from his work by the vast birds’ antics. His desk is littered with paperwork problems, for many of which he is expected to provide a marvellous solution for his juniors to applaud. And this afternoon he also has his weekly meeting with the minister whom he detests, and that ghastly civil service chap whom he finds frankly incomprehensible.

His eyes drift back to the paper in front of him. His disciplinary committee has investigated one of his best officers Stuart Parker. He thinks of the day that he invested Parker and noted at the time the enthusiastic smile and the over-rosy cheeks. There had been something engaging there.

Sir James had just finished reading The Worst Journey in the World, a stirring account of Scott in Antarctica, and wondered whether he, Sir James, really had any problems in his life. So what would Shackleton or Scott have done with Parker? He decided that Shackles, as Scott used to call him, would have put Parker on ‘other duties.’ Whereas Scott would simply have sent him home. He decided that today he would follow the advice of Shackleton, the insanely glib, charming Irishman, but was unable to think exactly what Shackleton might think would be appropriate for one of his smartest officers who had been embezzling the Yard’s mess funds when off duty.

Was it a grave offence? he asked himself. Not really. Just damned stupid. Eventually he concluded that there was no option but for this clever man and exceptional detective to be taken off front-line duties. What a waste, he felt. But just at that moment he simply had no idea what exactly it might be appropriate for Parker to do, so he placed the file in his pending tray and contemplated meeting the Detestable and the Incomprehensible that afternoon. He leant back, closed his eyes and watched a small floater drift across his left lens.

A light lunch and a small stroll later took him to the Home Office building where he was met by the usual, obsequious male junior civil servant with the slightly bizarre bouffant hair style. They tramped up three flights of stairs, entered the minister’s room and Sir James took his usual seat at the long, highly polished table. There were six of them around the table in total. His eyes flicked through the agenda which, as usual, had not appeared in his in-tray despite his numerous requests for prior notice of issues. Sir Jeremy Incomprehensible whisked them through the first few items until they came to:

‘Point 6. Police attention to the concerns of relatives.’

He had known that this issue would come up, because he had of course read the reports in The Times and the preceding day’s Hansard had been in his in tray. The detestable minister had turned smarmily to him and asked:

‘What shall we do about this, James?’

He noted the emphasis on ‘we’.

‘I read your statement in the House so I know what we are going to do,’ he replied tartly.

‘No need for that, my friend,’ came the oleaginous ministerial response. ‘It is true that I did think a small working party would be a good idea, but I am really open to any suggestion.’

And before he could respond, an incomprehensible thought drifted across the gleam of the Johnson’s wax polish.

‘I had myself conceived a cold case review.’ And the fingers of the most senior civil servant were steepled in a brook-no-argument togetherness. Sir James was amazed.

‘What on earth would we review?’

‘I had thought, maybe, suspicious deaths where relatives had complained.’

A silence echoed across to the large Georgian windows and reverberated back.

‘Splendid,’ said the minister. ‘Shall we agree and move on?’

Sir James felt as impotent as usual in these meetings. The two of them had clearly discussed the matter previously, carved up the issue and set him up as the fall guy. The police would look bad whatever the outcome. If the review found something, they would take the blame, and if nothing, then the department would be praised for its thoroughness. Maybe there were hundreds of such cases − and of course his force would do all the work with no extra money. And talking of doing all the work, who on earth could he spare to do all of this? And a sudden small ray of light flashed through his eyes, completely obliterating the memory of this morning’s floater.

Three days later, Stuart Parker was seated nervously outside the door labelled simply ‘Commissioner’. The cloth of his best suit shone a little. His tie was sober and straight – he had checked it three times now. He could feel the pounding in his chest. A thin bead of sweat lined his upper lip. His career was in the balance and he knew it. He tapped his fingers hard against his thighs, trying to distract his thoughts with a potentially exquisite suspicion of pain.

Over the last two days, he had weighed up his options. He knew his manager had found out that he had been taking the money. Countless times he had told himself that the sum involved was small – surely too trivial to be important. But then he had remembered the other matter. Was that still on his record? And even if it was, wasn’t it too long ago? He had still been a lad, but he had been in the Force and so maybe it was still on his record. What would he do if they sacked him? Probably a private security firm, that’s what most of them did in retirement. But I am not ready for all that, he told himself.

The door of the commissioner’s secretary opened and Angela Wainwright emerged. Angela is a nice-looking woman in her middle years, of medium height and with a confident manner. Stuart Parker was too terrified to take in anything about her.

‘Come with me, please,’ she said.

He followed her through the door and sat obediently where indicated. Sir James said nothing, and simply looked at him with a neutral expression. Eventually he spoke:

‘You will know that you are a complete idiot. Maybe you have sacrificed your career. You are an excellent detective. You solved both the Parsons and the Shillingford cases. I had seen you as ascending the ranks, maybe even up to my seat.’ Then silence. ‘I simply cannot understand why you would do it. Are you a gambler? Do you need money for drugs? And such a trifling sum?’

More silence.

‘Nothing to say. Alright. I’ve decided that you will have a last chance. You are removed from all active duties as of this moment. You will be doing a cold case review under my personal supervision for the next few months. You will have an office on this floor. My secretary will give you the remit and arrange some administrative support. I shall want a preliminary report in two weeks. Now go away.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Get out.’

Parker stands and opens the door, and as he is leaving, hears, ‘And I have not forgotten the other matter; when you were much younger.’

Two days later, he is sitting at a bare desk, empty but for a single cup of coffee, in a cramped office three doors down from the commissioner. His coat and hat hang mournfully from the hook behind the door. The window is so high that he cannot see across the park; in fact, he can barely see the sky, so small is the aperture of the glass. There is a second chair in the room but apart from the desk and the chairs, no other furniture. There are no pictures on the magnolia-wash walls, just twelve files dumped on the floor partly propped up in a corner of the room.

She had told him:

‘Sir James has determined that you should review twelve cases where there was an apparent lack of listening by officers to relatives. The cases were selected by Inspector Parfitt.’

He knows Parfitt of course; bumbling half-wit, past his sell-by date.

‘In none of these cases,’ she had continued, ‘were successful prosecutions brought. Two cases came to court but in both the judge stopped the trial, claiming that the prosecution had failed to determine that there was evidence of an unnatural death.’

The files were stacked, bulging and ill-at-ease in their disorder, in two untidy heaps on the floor. He looked at the names. None of them were even vaguely familiar, so he took one of the smaller files and opened it. It was ten past nine. He had more hours than he could imagine before escape was possible. Undoubtedly, they were having him watched. He had already noticed that that tiresome secretary had a view of the corridor from her desk. Short of his ducking down in an undignified manner, she could not fail to notice his comings and goings. Perhaps when she left the office… He wrenched his mind back to the file before him.

The deceased was Cecilia Porteous. She had been born Cecilia Grunfeld in a small town in Saxony but ended up thirty-two years later in the morgue at St Pancras Coroner’s Court. At the age of twenty-seven she had married John Porteous, chief executive officer of a city company who was by then on wife number three. Apparently the first wife had died under unusual circumstances. She had gone missing on a walking holiday in the Alps with no body ever being found. This fact and the vociferous complaints by her sisters in Germany had intensified the police investigation.

Mrs Porteous had been admitted to the London Clinic in Wimpole Street for a routine procedure to investigate infertility. It appeared that, during the procedure, her small bowel had been punctured, a rare but recognised complication. A general surgeon had been called in and the abdomen opened up and the hole closed. After the procedure however, all did not go according to plan and the patient developed an ileus, a failure of the gut to restart. A number of other specialists were called in, apparently demanded mostly by the husband. The gynaecologist, who had been in overall charge of the patient, had described him as being ‘extremely difficult’. When asked to explain this, he had said that the husband had demanded increasing numbers and varieties of consultants and had insisted on vetting all of them first.

When this had been voiced at the inquest, the husband had become verbally abusive − at first to the gynaecologist. When silence was requested, he then turned his wrath on the coroner calling him a ‘fucking ignorant peasant’. In the end, there being no ushers at a coroner’s court, the police had had to be called. It had required four officers to remove Mr Porteous from the courtroom but not before he had upturned a number of chairs and thrown a full glass of water at the coroner.

When the case was resumed, after a warning to Porteous that any repeat of his previous behaviour would result in an immediate custodial sentence, it appeared that the presence of so many differing opinions had resulted in considerable confusion amongst the nursing staff, and an error in the dosage of one of the drugs had directly resulted in the patient’s death.

The coroner had given his verdict as misadventure but had added that although no one person could be singled out for blame, nevertheless the situation had become unnecessarily confused and almost everyone concerned shared a part in the patient’s death.

At the end of the file that Parker was reviewing, there was also a photograph from one of the tabloid newspapers, taken during the late Mrs Porteous’ illness, showing a pop star entering a famous Mayfair club. In the background could be seen a man in the doorway of the club, hand in hand with a young fair-haired woman. The photographer had claimed that it was John Porteous, but when the photograph had been shown to a number of other people, most had decided that it was too grainy to be definite. The photographer had been questioned and had apparently been certain that it was him, as he had by chance photographed Porteous on a separate occasion.

The two German sisters of the deceased had been vociferous in their complaints and had even complained to the Police Complaints Authority. In the end, the DPP had decided the whole thing was so complicated that it would be hard to prosecute.

Stuart Parker finished reading and put the file down. It had now been six months since the coroner’s court uproar. In his mind, there was a definite suspicion that the husband had gone out of his way to hinder the progress of his wife’s recovery. The behaviour of the man had been bizarre in the extreme. One consultant described him unofficially to a police officer as ‘doing everything he could to obstruct the medical and nursing staff’.’ Another described