One Hundred and Thirty-Three

By Malcolm D. Mather

Despite her flaws, Roshaunda Jones is a respected and confident Detroit police officer. She trusts her intuition and intelligence in life-or-death situations, but she continues to struggle in her personal life. While on special assignment in London, she teams up with Police Constable George Nelson, an uncomplicated yet mysterious gentleman. As their relationship develops, Roshaunda and George attempt to pinpoint the vicious serial murderer behind a swath of gruesome and puzzling crime scenes. Follow along in author Malcolm D. Mathers’s debut novel, One Hundred and Thirty-Three, as the duo’s feelings for each other complicate their lives in ways neither could imagine, and they close in on the elusive killer!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Mar 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781662943775

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was past 10 p.m. on a Friday night and the pub was busy as usual; it was, as the bartender described it, a popular little backstreet boozer. Miranda Newsombe was sitting with her stunningly attractive friend, Victoria Morgan, who as usual, was being spoken to by a couple of men. She had no doubt that they were soon going to buy drinks for everyone. Men were so predictable; it didn’t matter whether it was in England or back home in the good old US of A. Most men were extremely limited; it boiled down to them only being after one thing. Most of them were too dumb to realize that a female with a brain knew this fact and quite enjoyed stringing them along, then dropping them like the proverbial bad habit.

Last week, however, Miranda had had a conversation with a man in this pub and she found him to be intriguing and interesting. She had let her guard down and told him that she was the US vice president’s daughter. He was good company with a wide range of intelligence, but he didn’t want anything else other than an enjoyable conversation. She saw him again tonight and acknowledged him with a friendly smile, which he returned. Several moments later, she again looked up to make eye contact with him, but all she saw was that he glanced back at her as he left the pub and smiled again at her.

Miranda gestured to Victoria that she was going for a cigarette. She stepped outside and looked up and down the street, hoping to see her interesting acquaintance from last week. He was not around, and the heavy fog didn’t help her search. Miranda noticed that, with being close to the river Thames, the proverbial London fog frequently made an appearance.

As Miranda leaned against the wall of the pub, she noticed how warm it was for a February night; the climate was certainly a lot milder over here as opposed to back in New Hampshire. She lit a cigarette (cigarettes were so much more expensive in England than back home in New Hampshire, but it didn’t matter what the price, a cigarette relaxed her and helped her to focus) and thought about where she was at this stage of her life.

In her twenty-two years of life, she had enjoyed a very privileged upbringing. Miranda came from old money, and her family had always been influential; but now they were nearly at the top of the tree. Her father, Courtland Newsombe, had enjoyed over one term as the vice president of the US. He entered politics after a highly decorated career in the military, which saw him awarded the Medal of Honor for conspicuous gallantry in Afghanistan. The leader of the political party was savvy enough to realize that a potential vice president who was a war hero would guarantee many votes from veterans and gun enthusiasts. Miranda was used to having things easy, but she wanted to take a path less traveled. So, she expressed an interest in studying abroad. It had not been particularly difficult for her to attain a place studying history at the world renowned and highly acclaimed Cambridge University. What really surprised her was how she enjoyed all things English: the people and how they enjoyed and lived life, as well as their understated intelligence. This was not limited to just the academics at Cambridge but included the average person on the street. For example, there was the guy whom she had looked for just now. During their conversation last week, she had mentioned that she was from New Hampshire. He immediately stated that New Hampshire was one of the thirteen British colonies, not in a look how smart I am kind of way but in a matter-of-fact conversation. She also enjoyed the pub atmosphere and the camaraderie of the people in the pub, not to mention the quality of the alcohol. This had been the main reason why she had let it slip about her father’s occupation. However, there was no comeback so no harm, no foul.

On weekends, she and Victoria, who was studying politics at Cambridge, traveled down to London and embraced the capital city and its people. They shared a twin room at a hostel nearby. Her parents expressed concern at this arrangement, but as she informed them, she was now a woman who wanted to live life her way. If she was careful, there would be no problem. They trusted her judgment and had no reason to doubt their daughter.

Embracing a warm and secure buzz from the three pints of English bitter that she had drunk, along with the strong menthol cigarette that she was savoring, she imagined the original Pilgrim Fathers setting out on the first stage of their journey to the New World from close to where she was standing at this very moment.

This famous public house had been called The Ship Inn in 1620, but for obvious future commercial reasons, had renamed itself after the famous ship. They had embarked upon perhaps one of the most important journeys of all time. The captain of the ship was Christopher Jones, who co-owned The Ship Inn and had been christened at the church across the street. This was also where he was buried. Although the exact location of his grave is unknown, there was, however, a statue in the churchyard dedicated to this little-known seafarer. Miranda was unaware of this history until last week, when the interesting male stranger that she had conversed with told her. Quite spontaneously, she walked towards this church to check out the statue and the blue plaque commemorating Jones that adorned the side of the church. Miranda was unaffected by the slight drizzle and the opaque conditions.

In the few weeks that she had been visiting London, she knew that this was the usual weather condition, and she embraced it, finding it to be endearing. Miranda then entered the gateway to the churchyard; it really was like a horror film set, the fog hanging heavy and thick, and the gravestones standing defiantly yet quietly in the mist. She could see the statue of Christopher Jones; it didn’t really fit in with the surroundings, but it was a commendable gesture. It had Jones holding a newborn child, and around the base was some writing. Making sure not to kneel on the damp ground, Miranda took out her phone and activated the flashlight as she crouched down to read the inscription. Snapping a photograph of the writings, she instantly became aware of a very strong force wrapping around her throat and forcing her head back, causing a sharp pain. She couldn’t swallow or cry out as she felt a thump in her stomach, and then, nothing.

It was about 6:30 a.m. Saturday, and Zbigniew Kamalinski was strolling to work. He and his wife of twenty-five years, Anita, lived in a modest house in Rotherhithe. They had lived in England for over fifteen years, and both fully embraced the English culture and way of life, so much so that they had both proudly become British citizens, referring to themselves as British first and Polish second. He had started out doing menial jobs, but through hard work and dedication had worked his way up to proudly becoming the manager of a coffee shop located close to Tower Bridge. The owner realized how lucky he was to have such a dedicated employee as Zbigniew and had no problem in promoting him to manager when the position became available.

Zbigniew liked to walk to work along the south bank of the river Thames every morning. Ever since serving in the Polish army, he had kept himself in relatively good shape and realized that looking after himself now in his forty-ninth year would stand him in good stead for his later years. Also, London was such a beautiful and interesting city. It was a waste to take transportation when it wasn’t necessary, especially when the morning was unseasonably warm like it was this Saturday morning.

He always walked through St. Mary’s Churchyard and turned left onto Rotherhithe Street. So long as he kept the river Thames on his right, it was impossible to get lost. It had rained last night, and it was still a little misty, but that would soon lift, and he was confident it would be a decent February day. He was aware of an object lying next to the statue on his left as he proceeded through the graveyard. From the pathway, he at first thought that someone had just thrown a bundle of rags onto the ground. Zbigniew approached the bundle, having decided to pick it up and place it into a rubbish bin that he would pass on his way to work. He stopped abruptly when he saw that the object was a body. Because of his military background, he quickly reasoned what to do. Like those trained in every branch of the military throughout the world, Zbigniew’s conditioning to operate under stressful and traumatic situations kicked in. Civilians do one of two things, and usually both: they freeze and then they flee. Zbigniew knew not to touch the body. It was obviously dead. He saw the massive amount of blood on the corpse and on the ground. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his mobile phone, phoning the emergency number of 999. He then calmly told the emergency operator about the dead body and its location. The operator told him to stay exactly where he was, and a police car would be dispatched immediately.

George Nelson was taking a ten-mile run when he heard an emergency services vehicle. He looked up and saw the police car with its lights flashing and sirens blaring as it screeched around the corner onto Rotherhithe Street. It stopped directly in front of the entrance to St. Mary’s Church. He deduced that it would take only a short time for him to reach the car. As he approached the police car, he slowed down to a walk and glanced into the churchyard. He could see a policeman doubled over and retching. Another man stood a few feet away at his side. George immediately turned left into the churchyard and approached the man in distress.

Are you okay? he asked the figure.

When the man looked up, George was surprised at how young the policeman looked. He must be fresh out of training, he thought. The policeman pointed to the statue and immediately vomited again. Following the direction of the gesture, George could see a body on the ground. He then approached the figure and crouched down, discerning that it was a young female. Straightening up, George then turned and walked back to the two men. He immediately took control of the situation.

I take it that you discovered the body, he said to the man, who was now standing with his hand on the policeman’s shoulder.

Zbigniew Kamalinski answered in the affirmative and that it was about thirty minutes ago and that he phoned 999 straight away.

Well done, you did exactly as you should have done. I now need you to stand back by the church wall while we secure the murder scene.

Zbigniew smiled, pleased with the praise and did exactly as the man told him.

George then stepped closer to the policeman and said, What’s your name?

The young police constable replied, William, William Steahand.

In a fatherly, reassuring way, George calmly said, Constable Steahand.

He used the young officer’s rank and surname to snap him back into his professional mode despite the shock of his gruesome discovery.

We need you to start being English, and that means acting coolly and calmly and taking control of the situation. Do you understand?

William Steahand nodded. George Nelson withdrew his police ID from the travel wallet clipped on his tracksuit bottoms and showed it to Constable Steahand. He then informed him that he was a policeman and that he would help him secure the murder scene.

First, we need to isolate the area and stop any civilians from entering. In your car, there should be several rolls of crime scene tape and a blanket that we can cover the corpse with. We need to go to your car.

In the back of the car, they found both items that George had predicted.

He then said to Constable Steahand, Bind the tape across this entrance and stop any inquisitive civilians from entering. Then, contact your base and inform them that there is a dead body at St. Mary’s Church on St. Marychurch Street, Rotherhithe, and that you need a crime scene investigation unit here ASAP. I’ll take a roll of tape and secure the gate at the south entrance to the churchyard, and I’ll cover the body with this blanket. How are you feeling, Constable Steahand? He again used the young officer’s name and rank to goad him to act accordingly as a police officer.

I’m feeling fine, he replied. Obviously, it was a shock, but I’m good. Thank you for your help.

George gave him a slight smile and said, You’re going to be fine.

He grabbed a roll of crime scene tape and the blanket, then proceeded towards the body. He unwrapped the blanket and threw one end of it out while firmly holding the other end, letting it fall under its own trajectory to cover the butchered corpse. George then went to a side of the entrance and secured an end of the tape to a column of the gateway, stretching it out to cover the vehicle entrance and the pedestrian entrance.

Once he had secured both ends and checked that there were no civilians around, he turned and walked towards the body to make sure that the blanket was covering the entire corpse. George started to approach Constable Steahand but slipped and slid on the wet ground. He made a mental note to inform the constable that the ground around the statue was quite precarious and to mind his step. He did this and then asked Constable Steahand if he had called in the report. Steahand replied that he had done exactly as George had told him and that the crime scene unit should be here soon.

There is not much more we can do then, George said as he turned to look at the scene. What the fuck? he snapped as he saw two figures ducking under the tape that he had secured at the south entrance.

He walked quickly to stop the two gawkers from getting closer to the corpse.

This is a police crime scene; you’ll have to get back beyond the tape right now, George said with a raised voice to the man and the woman.

The man carried on walking up to him and stated that he was the Reverend Canon Gregory McKinney of St. Mary’s Church, and the female with him was his wife, Sheila McKinney. He mentioned that they had seen and heard the police car pull up on the south side of his church and they wondered what had happened and if they could offer any help. George Nelson explained what had happened, then gestured to the blanketed corpse. He told the reverend and his wife that it was better if they didn’t see under the blanket. The vicar replied that he should say a few words over the deceased woman’s body.

Policeman Nelson led them both to the spot. At this point, Zbigniew Kamalinski came up to the three of them and said that even though this wasn’t his parish, he would also like to be there when the vicar said his small sermon. It was a quiet and touching moment as the few words were said at the foot of the victim’s body, even more so because nobody knew the poor woman’s name yet. George Nelson thought that it was the Christian thing to do.

While they waited for the crime scene investigators to arrive, George took the reverend’s wife to one side.

The police officer at the rear entrance is in quite a state of shock, he said. I’ve been in that position myself and found that a strong cup of coffee calms the nerves. Is there any chance that you could arrange for a strong cup of coffee for him, please?

The lady immediately replied, Of course, please forgive me. I will bring over coffee for everyone as we all need something to ease ourselves after this terrible ordeal.

Fifteen minutes was all it took for the five of them to be holding hot, steaming cups of strong instant coffee. George advised Zbigniew to phone his boss to explain that he would possibly be late because he was helping the police with their inquiries. Then they waited for the crime scene investigators to arrive.

They stood around for about one and a half hours. During this time, the two police officers and the clergyman had to turn away quite a few people on their way to work, as well as several inquisitive civilians. Finally, at around 8:30, the crime scene investigation unit arrived. The officer in charge approached the five people already there and commended them all for their help while his team set up all that they required.

George took the officer in charge to one side and showed him his ID, making a full report of the incident. Being extremely thorough, he left nothing out and used police terminology that made what had happened fit smoothly into his report. The chief thanked him, told him that he could now leave, and that he would be in contact with George’s commander to give him a glowing report.

George walked home from the crime scene. He had lived in a flat in Bermondsey for about five years. His parents were very affluent, and they had left their entire estate to him in their last will and testament. He was their only child after all, and he’d had to decide where he would live and what he would do when he left the Royal Marines. Like many service leavers, he applied to join the police force and the Metropolitan Police had been the first to offer him a career in law enforcement. So, he sold the family abode in the East Midlands, moved to London, and began his career with the Met.

George knew that property would only increase in value in London, and so he bought a flat in Bermondsey to begin a new chapter in his life. Build from the defense had been the mantra of his hero, the legendary Brian Clough, and so he bought this flat outright, considering it to be the defense of his new life. He fitted in well with the police, but instead of seeking promotion, he instead chose to experience different avenues of police work, proving to be highly competent and reliable at whatever he did. The last five years proved to be very interesting to say the least.

When he got back, he showered, changed, and headed west to London Bridge for his weekly shopping expedition at Borough Market. Borough Market had been around for centuries and always sold fresh, top-quality food. He had learned how to have a balanced and nutritious diet from his mother, and the basics for such a diet were all sold on a Saturday at the market. He normally got there early to beat the crowds, but today’s events meant that he would be a few hours later than normal. However, it was better to be late than not be there at all.

After his shopping expedition, he returned to his home, which he had named (bearing in mind that he was a Nottingham Forest fanatic) Clough after the most successful manager in his team’s history. Clough was also one half of the famous double act Brian Clough and Peter Taylor, or Clough and Taylor as they were always referred to by everybody. He had even gone to the lengths of having an all-weather sign made that read Clough that he had proudly attached at the side of his front door.

After he unpacked his groceries, he went outside into his small garden and sat in his favorite seat. At three in the afternoon, for nostalgic reasons, he always liked to listen to the radio so he could follow Nottingham Forest as they played live while he savored the moment. This was how he spent just under two hours most Saturday afternoons. He never played it too loud in case he annoyed his neighbors.

George thought about the events of the day and looked back with some satisfaction about how he had handled himself. Maybe later in the evening, the details will be on the news. With the advent of social media, he knew that it would be all the news tomorrow, and he was sure that there would be photographs galore of the crime scene. At least in Clough he could stay away from any possible media intrusions. In fact, his neighbors probably wouldn’t even know that he was home, and there was no way any of them would say anything or entertain any outside intrusion. The bond of his community was a good thing.

At about eight in the evening, George’s phone went off and he simultaneously received an email; both were from work. He answered the phone first and was surprised to hear Chief Superintendent Phillip Davenport on the other end.

Hello George, it’s Phillip Davenport. I’ve received news that you were quite busy this morning. Just to let you know, you received a top-quality report from the chief of the crime scene unit team. He said that you made it very smooth and ran proceedings very professionally, though the ground resembled Twickenham after England played a rugby game due to all the muddy footprints. Well done.

The praise was nice, but it didn’t really matter to George.

Thank you, sir, but I was just doing what I’m trained to do, even during wet and damp conditions.

The chief then adopted a serious tone. George, this thing has turned political and international. We’ve kept the news from the press so far and there will be no disclosures until tomorrow, but we need to see you before it breaks. There is a meeting tomorrow at 9 a.m. sharp in my office. This is massive, George. Do not tell anyone and do not talk to anyone. Understand?

Absolutely, sir. Tomorrow at nine, your office.

Good lad. Goodnight, he said before clicking off.

Well now, what is going on? He needed to relax and not dwell on this morning or tomorrow. To unwind from his eventful day, he decided to go out for a pint or two. First, he would go to his local pub and then probably to the one that was closest to last night’s atrocity. It wasn’t his local, but the police officer in him decreed that it might prove to be feasible in obtaining a possible lead, no matter how slight it may be. Somebody could say something in total innocence that may provide a kernel of possibility. Afterwards, hopefully, he would have a good night’s sleep.

He slept well and woke up at around five in the morning. Pulling on a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt, he slipped into his trainers and hit the streets of London. A quick five miles was the order of the day. Normally, he would run further, but he had a meeting at 9 a.m. to attend. He still wasn’t sure what it would entail, but he would find out soon enough. Last night, he’d found it to be rather subdued in the two boozers. There was a rumor that the victim was a Yank, but there was that much speculation flying about, as expected.

He had spent a couple of hours in the specific pub that was closest to the murder but had been very prudent regarding his alcohol consumption. George was back in Clough before seven o’clock. He had a light breakfast before a shower and dressed casually. Davenport had not mentioned what to wear, so he wore a plain black polo shirt, black trousers, and black shoes. He set out on a steady stroll and arrived at the office at around 8:20, showed his ID, and proceeded to Davenport’s office. Davenport was already there, and he, too, was dressed smart casually. He gestured to George to enter, but even as he did, George still knocked on the door.

Good to see you, and you’re early as expected. Let’s go to the conference room. They’re already waiting for us, Davenport said to George.

They both walked down the corridor until they reached the main conference room. Chief Davenport knocked and waited to be let into the room.

If someone of the chief’s rank has got to knock and wait, then there is someone of considerable rank and power on the other side of this door, thought George. The door opened and they entered to find that Darryl Joseph, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police (the highest rank that there was) had let them in. There was also another man sitting at the long table who got up to shake hands with them both; his face wasn’t familiar to George. They all sat down on one side of the table while George sat on the other. The other man introduced himself. He was David Titcombe, the American ambassador to the United Kingdom.

The commissioner addressed George while the other two listened very closely.

"Officer Nelson, let me first commend you on what you did at St. Mary’s Church yesterday. The victim has been identified. As soon as she was identified as an American, British law dictated that the American ambassador had to be informed. Straight away, the ambassador knew who the victim was, and so he contacted the correct personnel, who then contacted the president of the USA. The victim was Miranda Newsombe, the vice president’s daughter who was studying at Cambridge University. The president contacted the prime minister,