The Baby Jane Murders Read online

  THE BABY JANE MURDERS

  A book by Pen Avram

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Pen Avram on Smashwords

  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 author's work.

  Copyright 2014 Text-Author - Pen Avram

  Copyright 2014 ArtDesign Author - Pen Avram

  The author and the artwork designer assert the moral rights to

  be identified as the author and designer of this work,

  Contact: mailto:[email protected]

  To those who have not met previously Kroupa and Hendrych in their adventures, let me redress this misfortune and introduce the pair.

  Kroupa and Hendrych shared a similar build and both were middle aged. Detective Chief Inspector Kroupa was a few years older. His pink cheeks were sagging and he was going bald. Every criminal, who encountered him, feared him. His simple interrogation technique was well known in every police academy - ‘He never answers a question with an answer, but always with another question.’

  There was a popular anecdote circulated about him. A suspect had asked Kroupa, “Why do you always answer with a question?” Kroupa replied, “Why shouldn’t I?”

  However Kroupa had a weakness – which also proved to be his strength at times – and it was known only to Hendrych. Kroupa always followed his intuition

  Kroupa had worn the same black, horn-rimmed glasses for over twenty years, since he had become aware that his eyesight was deteriorating. He liked the old-fashioned look and they also served as a memento of Rome. Therefore, he never replaced them. Instead, he simply had the lenses replaced every year. On the rare occasion when a smile crossed his face, his cheeks touched the bottom of his glasses.

  Kroupa wore tweed. Usually rusty Harris tweed, comfortable moleskins trousers, dark brown, soft flat shoes, and a dark green woolen necktie. Whenever he went outdoors, regardless of the weather, he sported a Baxter Tartan cap – of course, he’d had the pompom removed. “It looks more ‘classy’, and it matches my car,” he liked to say. The car in question was a dark-brown Rover SD1.

  He liked classical music and art, his favourites being old Dutch Masters. However, he also had a penchant for Picasso and Dali, and Miles Davis was often his choice of music, but not for too long at one time. Philosophy was another of his hobbies and his library included everything from Plato to Wittgenstein, but also many Russian writers. He had no time for poetry or Dickens. But always had time for a pint of cold beer. “It helps me think,” he liked to say. Sometimes, more often than not, the thinking did for him his beloved dog Sara. Nobody has ever known how these two found each other, but there have been inseparable, making Hendrych jealous. He thought that too much credit went to Sara - which he thought he deserved.

  Kroupa’s friend Hendrych had been a freelance reporter for over 20 years. He’d written for major newspapers in Hamilton and when Kroupa had relocated to Boarsville, he moved too. Amongst his major publishers he counted Boarsville Morning Post, Boarsville Daily, and Hamilton Telegraph. He loved to get an ‘exclusive’ and be paid for it. Occasionally he still struck gold with The Times and The Guardian, due to his previous contributions and contacts there.

  Hendrych had met Kroupa at the very beginning of his career while on assignment and since then the two had become best friends. Hendrych often helped Kroupa in his investigations. His reward: 'exclusives' for his papers. He was in his early forties, about 185 cm tall, lean but strong, with a mane of reddish hair that was always neatly combed. Curiously, he wore contact lenses and sunglasses, even when the light was dim. Mostly he was dressed in a fine soft black leather jacket, perfectly tailored, as were his grey flannel trousers, elegant black loafers and a blood-red kerchief around his neck. On special occasions, he would put on more formal flannels, but he preferred his leather. He liked to look good, and tried to appear younger than he really was. That was the main reason for his contact lenses. He could take shorthand, an art almost forgotten by now and he was fluent in a number of languages. And not the least, he was a back-belt marshal-art expert.

  Hendrych loved his car. Every three years he traded in his Alfa Romeo Spider for the latest model, always at the same dealer. “I mightn’t be able to afford a red Ferrari, but I can still afford a new red Italian car,” he often said with a satisfied smile.

  But his failing had always been in music and arts. He didn’t like music and he didn’t understand art. He would complain that art was subjective and made you take a stand, and not having any bias or preferences in art kept him neutral. Kroupa had long given up arguing this point.

  “I am a reporter who reports the facts, not personal feelings or preferences,” Hendrych proclaimed.

  Perhaps these differences had helped the two men maintain their friendship for well over twenty years. They had solved many mysteries together. It was usually easier for a journalist to ask questions. People were keen to talk if they thought there was a chance they might see their names in the paper. On the other hand, you could come a cropper after an encounter with DCI Kroupa.

  It was steaming hot in Medlow Bath, which was unusual in the Blue Mountains during summer. In January the days tended to be hot, but dry. Sandra Whiteford was visiting her friend Gertrude Winterbottom as she did every day, regardless of the weather. The two had known each other for over almost fifty years, since they’d met under somewhat peculiar circumstances. Due to their family names, they were close to each other on the electoral role, and the closeness on the roll resembled their feelings. They could never agree on anything, except that they would always argue. In later years they both remained old spinsters, who visited each other on a regular bases, usually daily, to sit at the table or on the sofa, have tea and the cucumber sandwiches, which Gertrude occasionally prepared - and they would argue.

  On this particular day Sandra wanted to know how many times she needed to ask Gertrude to keep Rascal away from her cats.

  “I understand he’s your pet, but cats and dogs don't go together well. At least not my cats and your dog, anyway."

  "Be nice to him, Sandra, please. He won't hurt them."

  "Don't tempt me, Trudy. If he does anything to Rosy or Brim, I'll kill Rascal. As my name is Sandra Whiteford!”

  "You wouldn't hurt my Rascal. He’s so gentle. Just look at him. He understands and right now, he’s thinking: What a nasty woman Sandra is?"

  "Trudy, you've just crossed the line in our friendship. I’ll have another sandwich and then I'll go. Thank you for the tea." Sandra did exactly as she'd promised – although she had not one, but three cucumber sandwiches in a hurry and went home, which was next door to Trudy.

  At home she pondered on the visit. She couldn't get Trudy’s frightened look off her mind when she’d mentioned killing Rascal. It wasn't nice. It wasn't right. She had to set things right. But what would she say? They’d never apologised for anything they'd said. That had always been the rule of their arguments. She’d have to have another tea and to clear her mind before going back.

  "Sandra, is that you? I didn't expect you so soon." Trudy went to the dining room to reconcile with Sandra. She didn't have a clear conscious either.

  ----

  DCI Rowan Kroupa was walking his beloved Sara. She loved the fresh air and chasing her new ball that Kroupa was clumsily throwing for her to catch and bring back. There was a smile on Sara's face - a smile tha
t only Kroupa could see. His cheeks were touching the rim of his glasses at short intervals when Sara ran after the ball, brought it back and pretended that she didn’t want to let it go. Kroupa had to wrestle with her. When he got off her, Sara stood a metre away ready to chase the ball again.

  All of a sudden she lost her interest in playing, pricked her ears and indicated to Kroupa that they should get on the move. Kroupa, as was his habit, trustingly followed Sara. They arrived at a house and could hear a dog howling, that sounded more like a wail.

  "What's wrong, Sara? Are you afraid?"

  Sara took up the pace. She could sense something, thought Kroupa. He was right. Soon he could hear a much quieter howling coming from the house that was surrounded by a group of people; police, paramedics, and some locals. He showed his badge to a policewoman who tried to stop him from entering and walked into Gertrude Winterbottom's living room. The source of the howling was a black terrier, standing by the body of an elderly woman. She seemed to be dead. There was another woman holding a blood-stained poker in her hand and another woman, looking at her sternly. A man in plastic overalls was examining the dead body while two policeman were looked on. It was a classic crime scene. Another woman came in, carefully took the poker away from the shaky woman and carefully put it into a strange case. She was the fingerprinting expert.

  "Who raised the alarm?" One of the policemen asked in a quiet voice.

  "I did," exclaimed the stern woman with pride.

  "What’s your name?" the policeman asked in turn.

  "Alyson Brunt, I’m Trudy’s neighbour. I live next door, on the left."

  "Did you hear or see anything unusual prior to ringing the police?"

  "That’s a silly question, don't you think? Why would I call you if I hadn’t heard or seen anything."

  "So what did you hear or see?" The policeman didn't seem to be at all ruffled by her retort. Kroupa gave him a brownie for that.

  "First I heard a screech. I ran into this house and found the murderer, this woman, holding the poker. Trudy was lying on the floor. 'Don't you let the poker go', I ordered and called you. That's how you found us."

  "You didn't touch anything?"

  "Of course I did. The phone… to call you and the ambulance."

  All this time Sara was taking care of the distressed Rascal. She put her head on his and was stroking him with her paw. The policeman turned to the other woman. "And your name is?"

  She could not make a sound. Kroupa took a glass from a cabinet, went to the tap in the kitchen, and handed the full glass to the shaking woman. "Thank you," was the first sound she managed to utter. Then she looked at the policeman with glassy eyes and didn't answer.

  "What is you name?" he repeated. Still no answer.

  "Sandra Whiteford, she lives next door, on the other side." Alyson offered. "Of course she can't talk after what she did."

  Kroupa observed the two living women and occasionally his eyes came to rest on the lifeless body. "Did you take photographs?"

  "This is an open and shut case," the other policeman said. "She was caught in flagrante delicto. What do you need photographs for?"

  "Take them. The position of the body, the wounds, the usual."

  "Do you want pictures of these women, too?"

  "If you don't mind," Kroupa said with a smirk. "Who is, or will be in charge of this case?"

  "I guess Senior Constable Milton from the Katoomba police station. It's a murder. We don't have enough of them here."

  "How many people live in Medlow Bath?" Kroupa showed interest in the place.

  "Around seven hundred locals and lots of tourists. Since the refurbishment of the Hydro and the Hotel Management Institute, it’s been swarming with people. But I suppose it's good for local business."

  "What about Katoomba?"

  "Oh, now you're talking. It's a city. Eight thousand people and hundreds of Chinese. So far they’re only tourists only. Everybody wants to see the Three Sisters. " The policeman seemingly forgot that there was a dead body in the room; he was so enthusiastic he was about his home town.

  "When you get to the police station, please send me the photographs, and when you get the fingerprints, can I have the report? I'm staying in the Hydro Majestic. I mean the photos you took just now, not the Three Sisters," Kroupa jokingly added.

  "I’m not stupid," retorted the policeman. Kroupa didn't answer. Instead he went to the phone and called Hendrych. Upon his return he turned to Sandra Whiteford. "Can you speak now? What can you tell me?"

  Miss Whitefors, still shaking, tried her best. "I came to apologise for the harsh words I’d said before. Trudy made such nice sandwiches and I was harsh to her. I should’nt have done it. How can I apologise to her now?"

  "When you arrived, what did you see?"

  "I saw her lying on the floor, head down, and that bloody poker text to her. I must have screamed and knelt over her. Then Alyson Brunt came in and rang you, I think. Sorry that I can't tell you anything else. I'm still shaky."

  The policeman rudely asked miss Whiteford to follow him. Sobbing, she did as she was told.

  -------

  Hendrych arrived in style; he’d chartered a single engine Cessna and from Katoomba airport he took a taxi. He was beaming with joy. "The nicest place in the world, and on top of that a murder," he greeted Kroupa with outstretched arms. Summer in the Blue Mountains. I almost suffocated from the fresh air when I landed. And the beautiful eucalypti, millions of them. They smell so nice. And it’s not so hot here. Sydney is so humid at the moment. For a few days I can enjoy writing."

  "Don't get too excited. Wait till you see the pictures."

  "What happened? You were so brief on the phone."

  "A little old lady was struck on the back of her neck, presumably with a poker. She fell and fatally hit her head on the edge of the fireplace. Her neighbour found her with another neighbour next to the body and blood on her hands, holding the poker. We have to wait for forensics. You can imagine, here in the mountains there’s no rush. Enjoy yourself. Why didn't you bring your Spider?"

  "I thought of it. But then I thought it would be too flashy for a quiet place like this. The Cessna had to do."

  "What are you going to write?"

  "Let me see first the papers. I mean the local papers, if there are any." responded Hendrych.

  "There is the Gazette. It came this morning."

  Hendrych was scrutinising the weekly paper. Among other local news, there was one headed "Murder or Accident?" The article read: Those who had the privilege to know Gertrude Winterbottom are mourning her premature death. She was discovered this morning in her house. The police are treating her death as suspicious. No arrests have been made. Miss Sandra Whiteford, a neighbour, is assisting the police with the inquiry. The case is in the safe hands of Senior Constable Andrew Milton and will be solved soon. Assisting him is the well known, highly regarded and acclaimed Detective Chief Inspector Rowan Kroupa. Anyone with any information, please contact Katoomba police station without delay. Complete confidence is assured."

  "They don't say much, do they," Hendrych complained. "You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you."

  "I don't like my name being in the papers. It gives the culprit an extra advantage."

  --------

  Alyson Brunt was sitting in the interviewing room at the police station, facing Senior Constable Milton and a stenographer. She felt important and uneasy at the same time. She wanted to be in the Gazette again, but didn’t want to place herself in any danger. Did she have to stick to the facts, or could she enrich them with her own thoughts? The Constable helped her in her indecision.

  "Well, you have endured a really big shock, haven't you? Ms Winterbottom was your friend, I believe?"

  "Actually, she wasn't my friend. She was a neighbour. She preferred the company of that wretched woman Whiteford. Some women, and men, have weird tastes. If you know what I'm saying."

  "Tell me what you saw… tell me everything, please."

 
"Well, as I was saying, there was an awful yell - a screech really - as if somebody was being murdered. I ran into Miss Winterbottom’s house and I found Miss Whiteford kneeling over Miss Winterbottom, her hands covered in blood, and the poker in her hand. I quickly ran to the phone and called triple-0. I asked for the police and for the ambulance. Both were remarkably swift. You can commend the policeman and women supporting you."

  "Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

  Miss Brunt thought for a moment and shook her head.

  "If you should think of anything, please let me know. Oh, and there’s one more thing. You didn’t see anybody else around Ms Winterbottom's house, did you?"

  "No, Winterbottom wasn't particularly well-liked… I mean she wasn't the most popular person around. The Whiteford woman was about the only one who visited her regularly. But even they argued. I could hear them, noisy as anything. But, I don't sniff around. I couldn't tell you anything more."

  "Alright then. Please wait until your statement is ready for your signature. Then that will be all. Thank you, Miss Brunt. You were very helpful. I'll keep your information in confidence."

  "You don't have to. Winterbottom is dead and Whiteford will soon be behind the bars. They can't hurt me any more. Goodbye, Constable Milton. Have a pleasant day." She departed to the waiting room with her head high and her chin up.

  It was going to be some time till the forensics would be ready, and the police had said that they’d left all investigations open, so Kroupa had nothing to do, but take Sara for her regular walk. The day was pleasant, not too hot or cold. The sun was shining, the wind was light - simply a perfect day to clear one's lungs in the healthy air of the mountains. But Kroupa was never completely satisfied and he wished that the healing waters of Medlow Bath hadn't dried up. He was walking slowly and every now and then he threw a stick for Sara to fetch and bring back to him. They kept doing that for a considerable while, without Hendrych crossing their mind for a second. The birds were singing, Kroupa heard the lyre-bird imitating what Kroupa thought was Sara's bark twice, the bell-birds were entertaining them with their concert and Kroupa believed that he recognised a bower-bird’s song. It was too peaceful to be the scene of murder. He looked around to see where they were. The signpost said Morven Road, but there was nothing but bushland. Kroupa carefully noted their position on his telephone, the co-ordinates showed up on his compass and they entered the bush. The birds were now louder. Sara was off the leash, not strictly according to the law, but she knew how to behave. Kroupa noticed how nervous she’d suddenly become. Her ears were pricked and she ran to Kroupa as if he was in danger. All of a sudden she gave out a loud yelp and pushed Kroupa aside. The arrow just missed his head. "That was the shot of a professional. Thank you, Sara. You could’ve been walking home alone." Kroupa was surprisingly calm, as if he’d expected something like that to happen. "I don't think we should chase whoever it was. They surely have more than one arrow." They both went back hastily, much to Sara's dissatisfaction. -----