Confession
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: An aged murderer confesses to his crime.
_____________________________________________________________________
James Stirling leaned heavily on the steel handrail as he pulled his frail body up the slope. With barely enough energy to walk, he stopped, his brow dripped with sweat. Five bloody yards and I’m knackered.
At that moment a uniformed police officer placed her hand on his shoulder. “Come on, sir, hold my arm and we’ll get you inside.”
Still wheezing, James eased himself on the grey, plastic coated chair. His eyes drifted and distant memories flooded back, it was the same building, different colour now but how many times had he dragged or booted some yob or thief from this exact spot down to the cells? In those days a bunch of fives gained you respect from a villain.
“Now you’ve got your breath back, can I help you?” said the dark haired officer.
“I would like to have a chat with either a DCI or your Super. It’s about the Dunston estate murders thirty years ago. You’re far too young to even remember but I have information that will close the file on all four, but as a retired DCI, I’ll tell what I know to my equal or superior, no one else.”
Constable Jane Whitley smiled at the old man in his white shirt, blue tie and rumpled blue suit that smelt of mothballs. The rasp in his voice made him difficult to understand. “Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting? Can you tell me your name please and I’ll need to talk to the desk sergeant first.”
He looked up into her face. “Detective Chief Inspector James Stirling, retired, and thank you, a cup of tea would be nice, dear.”
Superintendent Brian Rogers entered the waiting area from a side door, his manner cold and arrogant. “Mr Stirling, as you will remember in your days, time is a valuable commodity. I can give you five minutes and then I must leave.”
James looked at the man staring down at him. “How would you like to close four murder investigations today? I know they’re still open because the killer was never arrested.”
“When did you leave the Force, Mr Stirling?”
“Forty years ago. Retired on full pension.”
“Mr Stirling. I have more important matters to attend to than stand here listening to an old man’s tales. The Force has changed more than you care to imagine in the last forty years. I wasn’t even a copper when you retired.”
“I may be old, Superintendent, but even I realise that. Now do you want to hear my confession or not?”
The superintendent’s eyes met a glance that chilled him. “You’re bloody serious. What have you to confess? Beating up some old lag, throwing him down the cell stairs and reporting it as an accident.”
James chuckled. “You lot still ponce about with your thumbs up your bums. Good detective work is an art form. All you do is politic and crawl up the arse of the Chief Constable. Why do you think the Dunstan murderer got away? Because he knew the way the local police operated. Out of courtesy, I think we should go to your office and continue this conversation.”
The superintendent swallowed; this old man’s calm made him nervous. “Yes, I think it may be more comfortable. Can I assist you?”
“Support my weight under my arm. I hope it’s not far.”
James slumped into the armchair in the superintendent’s office and breathed deeply. After a lengthy silence, he opened his eyes. “Do you want to know who killed those four evil bastards?”
The superintendent sat behind his desk and stared at the remnants of a man wilting in his favourite chair. “You’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not, aren’t you?”
“I killed all four of them.”
Rogers laughed and leaned forward on his desk. “I don’t believe you and even if you did, why tell us now? How old are you? Ninety plus and you want to end your days in prison. Get on with it. Thanks to you, I’ve missed my important meeting.”
James cocked his head to one side. “The Little brothers, John, Bobby and David, began their protection rackets at school, threatening the kids. They were not stupid, they took a few coppers from each child. In their late teens, Dunstan estate became easy pickings as many of the residents were on a pension. Unfortunately for the brothers, they threatened my sister who told me what they were up to. I reported it but your predecessors couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery or wouldn’t deploy the manpower. I did my bit. I watched them, made notes, gathered evidence, but still the local plods did nothing. Yes, every now and then a police car would enter the estate, drive round and talk to the residents. Those people were scared shitless and said nothing. How would you react if you’re threatened with a can of petrol being poured through your letter box, followed by a burning rag? They did it to an old guy’s house. Thank goodness he was out visiting his kids but it was enough to put the fear of God into everyone and the brothers knew it. I reported the incident to this station and shouted the house down but, of course, nothing happened. Even the local press demanded results and questioned the ability of the then Chief Constable.
“Those three bastards caused my sister to have a mental breakdown. She spent months in a private nursing home thanks to the Forces’ incompetence. From that moment, I stopped turning the other cheek; I became the arbiter of justice. Rival feuds between other gangs made it easy to place the blame elsewhere.”
The superintendent pushed back his chair and stood up. He was certain now that the old man in front of him was delusional. “Would you mind if I sent for the Dunstan murder files? Obviously I’m not aware of the details and as a senior officer, I must verify the facts before making an arrest.”
James smirked. “Another cup of tea would be nice. The old throat’s getting a bit dry.”
Rogers left the room and spoke to a female detective. “Get me the files on the Dustan murders and another cup of tea for my visitor. I think he’s a nutter but he’s an ex-cop so I’ll humour him. Here’s his name and supposed rank. Says he was a DCI. See what you can find out.”
Jackie Parks, a small blonde, raised her hand. “I can give it fifteen minutes, then I’m out of here, Guv. Got a surveillance job at Next. They’ve been losing a lot of clothes lately and they believe it’s a gang of women from up north.”
“Whatever you find, bring it straight to me.”
“Okay, Guv.”
The superintendent returned to his office. “Cup of tea’s on its way. Now where were we?”
James looked at him and gave a sort of grimace-come-smile. “As I was saying, those three bastards lived the life of Riley at the expense of pensioners; they had to be stopped. They were amateurs and I easily figured out their routine. David, being the youngest and thickest, collected the money on Wednesday and Thursday nights. That way they had plenty to spend over the weekend. Thanks to the laziness of the Council, the overgrown trees and green areas on the estate meant I could conceal myself without difficulty. The following week when David took his normal short cut through the trees, I got him with my first shot. Poor sod didn’t know what hit him. As a warning to the other two brothers, I tied him to a tree using barbed wire and left a note. The money I placed in an envelope and posted it through some old dear’s letter box. Bet she thought Christmas had come early. The murder made front page news and what did the Chief Constable say? Nothing, full stop. He blamed it on gang rivalry; my note telling the police why he was killed, ignored.”
There was a knock on the door and Jackie Parks entered. “Excuse me, sir, one cup of tea for your guest and,” she pressed a few keys on the superintendent’s keyboard. “The records, sir. All computerised now but you have to call the old files up.”
He watched her leave and remembered to say, “Thank you.”
She turned, smiled and closed the door, muttering, “Arsehole.”
The superintendent read the details of David Little’s murder on the screen. “What was the murder weapon?”
James glanced at the clock high on the wall of the office. It was coming up to three o’clock. “I have to hurry; they didn’t give me much time. The weapon was a compressed gas harpoon. The shaft of the spear pinned him to a tree. In fact, it took another one, neatly placed, to stop him falling to the ground.”
“You’ve certainly done your homework.”
James paused and sipped his tea before he continued. “John and Bobby, scared that another gang was trying to take over their patch, operated as a team, one watching over the other. Hate is a wonderful weapon. Do you know it stimulates the mind no end? Where was I? Oh yeah, the boys tooled themselves up but you can’t whack a spear gun; silent, reasonable range and lethal. To be sure of getting them both, I went to London to buy another one. Well it saved reloading. I shot and left those two where they fell. No one reported their bodies for nearly a day and I know, at least half a dozen went and put the boot in. When people hate, it continues even when you’re dead.”
“So, why did you murder Keith Langton?”
“He thought he’d take over from where the brothers left off. His demise made that estate the safest place to live for a long while. The yobs stayed away. They never discovered the murderer. But I didn’t live on the estate so why would the police question me? Gamekeeper turned poacher that was me.”
James looked tired, drained and his body sagged as though released of a heavy load. “You now know the full story.”
For an instant the superintendent thought he saw an empty chair but in a blink of an eye, all appeared normal. He closed his eyes and thought about his next move. Placing a ninety year old in a cell would look great if the press ever got hold of it, but the man had confessed to four murders. “James, I need to go and take a pee.”
“Guv,” said Jackie Parks as he walked by her desk, “That old man you have in your office can’t be DCI James Stirling.” She pointed to a picture in that month’s Police Gazette. It showed a much younger man receiving the George Cross from the Queen. “He died last week in a nursing home.”
“Come with me.” They raced back to his office and opened the door. Two cold cups of tea remained untouched on his desk, but the smell of mothballs lingered in an empty room.
Swearwords: Some mild ones.
Description: An aged murderer confesses to his crime.
_____________________________________________________________________
James Stirling leaned heavily on the steel handrail as he pulled his frail body up the slope. With barely enough energy to walk, he stopped, his brow dripped with sweat. Five bloody yards and I’m knackered.
At that moment a uniformed police officer placed her hand on his shoulder. “Come on, sir, hold my arm and we’ll get you inside.”
Still wheezing, James eased himself on the grey, plastic coated chair. His eyes drifted and distant memories flooded back, it was the same building, different colour now but how many times had he dragged or booted some yob or thief from this exact spot down to the cells? In those days a bunch of fives gained you respect from a villain.
“Now you’ve got your breath back, can I help you?” said the dark haired officer.
“I would like to have a chat with either a DCI or your Super. It’s about the Dunston estate murders thirty years ago. You’re far too young to even remember but I have information that will close the file on all four, but as a retired DCI, I’ll tell what I know to my equal or superior, no one else.”
Constable Jane Whitley smiled at the old man in his white shirt, blue tie and rumpled blue suit that smelt of mothballs. The rasp in his voice made him difficult to understand. “Would you like a cup of tea while you’re waiting? Can you tell me your name please and I’ll need to talk to the desk sergeant first.”
He looked up into her face. “Detective Chief Inspector James Stirling, retired, and thank you, a cup of tea would be nice, dear.”
Superintendent Brian Rogers entered the waiting area from a side door, his manner cold and arrogant. “Mr Stirling, as you will remember in your days, time is a valuable commodity. I can give you five minutes and then I must leave.”
James looked at the man staring down at him. “How would you like to close four murder investigations today? I know they’re still open because the killer was never arrested.”
“When did you leave the Force, Mr Stirling?”
“Forty years ago. Retired on full pension.”
“Mr Stirling. I have more important matters to attend to than stand here listening to an old man’s tales. The Force has changed more than you care to imagine in the last forty years. I wasn’t even a copper when you retired.”
“I may be old, Superintendent, but even I realise that. Now do you want to hear my confession or not?”
The superintendent’s eyes met a glance that chilled him. “You’re bloody serious. What have you to confess? Beating up some old lag, throwing him down the cell stairs and reporting it as an accident.”
James chuckled. “You lot still ponce about with your thumbs up your bums. Good detective work is an art form. All you do is politic and crawl up the arse of the Chief Constable. Why do you think the Dunstan murderer got away? Because he knew the way the local police operated. Out of courtesy, I think we should go to your office and continue this conversation.”
The superintendent swallowed; this old man’s calm made him nervous. “Yes, I think it may be more comfortable. Can I assist you?”
“Support my weight under my arm. I hope it’s not far.”
James slumped into the armchair in the superintendent’s office and breathed deeply. After a lengthy silence, he opened his eyes. “Do you want to know who killed those four evil bastards?”
The superintendent sat behind his desk and stared at the remnants of a man wilting in his favourite chair. “You’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not, aren’t you?”
“I killed all four of them.”
Rogers laughed and leaned forward on his desk. “I don’t believe you and even if you did, why tell us now? How old are you? Ninety plus and you want to end your days in prison. Get on with it. Thanks to you, I’ve missed my important meeting.”
James cocked his head to one side. “The Little brothers, John, Bobby and David, began their protection rackets at school, threatening the kids. They were not stupid, they took a few coppers from each child. In their late teens, Dunstan estate became easy pickings as many of the residents were on a pension. Unfortunately for the brothers, they threatened my sister who told me what they were up to. I reported it but your predecessors couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery or wouldn’t deploy the manpower. I did my bit. I watched them, made notes, gathered evidence, but still the local plods did nothing. Yes, every now and then a police car would enter the estate, drive round and talk to the residents. Those people were scared shitless and said nothing. How would you react if you’re threatened with a can of petrol being poured through your letter box, followed by a burning rag? They did it to an old guy’s house. Thank goodness he was out visiting his kids but it was enough to put the fear of God into everyone and the brothers knew it. I reported the incident to this station and shouted the house down but, of course, nothing happened. Even the local press demanded results and questioned the ability of the then Chief Constable.
“Those three bastards caused my sister to have a mental breakdown. She spent months in a private nursing home thanks to the Forces’ incompetence. From that moment, I stopped turning the other cheek; I became the arbiter of justice. Rival feuds between other gangs made it easy to place the blame elsewhere.”
The superintendent pushed back his chair and stood up. He was certain now that the old man in front of him was delusional. “Would you mind if I sent for the Dunstan murder files? Obviously I’m not aware of the details and as a senior officer, I must verify the facts before making an arrest.”
James smirked. “Another cup of tea would be nice. The old throat’s getting a bit dry.”
Rogers left the room and spoke to a female detective. “Get me the files on the Dustan murders and another cup of tea for my visitor. I think he’s a nutter but he’s an ex-cop so I’ll humour him. Here’s his name and supposed rank. Says he was a DCI. See what you can find out.”
Jackie Parks, a small blonde, raised her hand. “I can give it fifteen minutes, then I’m out of here, Guv. Got a surveillance job at Next. They’ve been losing a lot of clothes lately and they believe it’s a gang of women from up north.”
“Whatever you find, bring it straight to me.”
“Okay, Guv.”
The superintendent returned to his office. “Cup of tea’s on its way. Now where were we?”
James looked at him and gave a sort of grimace-come-smile. “As I was saying, those three bastards lived the life of Riley at the expense of pensioners; they had to be stopped. They were amateurs and I easily figured out their routine. David, being the youngest and thickest, collected the money on Wednesday and Thursday nights. That way they had plenty to spend over the weekend. Thanks to the laziness of the Council, the overgrown trees and green areas on the estate meant I could conceal myself without difficulty. The following week when David took his normal short cut through the trees, I got him with my first shot. Poor sod didn’t know what hit him. As a warning to the other two brothers, I tied him to a tree using barbed wire and left a note. The money I placed in an envelope and posted it through some old dear’s letter box. Bet she thought Christmas had come early. The murder made front page news and what did the Chief Constable say? Nothing, full stop. He blamed it on gang rivalry; my note telling the police why he was killed, ignored.”
There was a knock on the door and Jackie Parks entered. “Excuse me, sir, one cup of tea for your guest and,” she pressed a few keys on the superintendent’s keyboard. “The records, sir. All computerised now but you have to call the old files up.”
He watched her leave and remembered to say, “Thank you.”
She turned, smiled and closed the door, muttering, “Arsehole.”
The superintendent read the details of David Little’s murder on the screen. “What was the murder weapon?”
James glanced at the clock high on the wall of the office. It was coming up to three o’clock. “I have to hurry; they didn’t give me much time. The weapon was a compressed gas harpoon. The shaft of the spear pinned him to a tree. In fact, it took another one, neatly placed, to stop him falling to the ground.”
“You’ve certainly done your homework.”
James paused and sipped his tea before he continued. “John and Bobby, scared that another gang was trying to take over their patch, operated as a team, one watching over the other. Hate is a wonderful weapon. Do you know it stimulates the mind no end? Where was I? Oh yeah, the boys tooled themselves up but you can’t whack a spear gun; silent, reasonable range and lethal. To be sure of getting them both, I went to London to buy another one. Well it saved reloading. I shot and left those two where they fell. No one reported their bodies for nearly a day and I know, at least half a dozen went and put the boot in. When people hate, it continues even when you’re dead.”
“So, why did you murder Keith Langton?”
“He thought he’d take over from where the brothers left off. His demise made that estate the safest place to live for a long while. The yobs stayed away. They never discovered the murderer. But I didn’t live on the estate so why would the police question me? Gamekeeper turned poacher that was me.”
James looked tired, drained and his body sagged as though released of a heavy load. “You now know the full story.”
For an instant the superintendent thought he saw an empty chair but in a blink of an eye, all appeared normal. He closed his eyes and thought about his next move. Placing a ninety year old in a cell would look great if the press ever got hold of it, but the man had confessed to four murders. “James, I need to go and take a pee.”
“Guv,” said Jackie Parks as he walked by her desk, “That old man you have in your office can’t be DCI James Stirling.” She pointed to a picture in that month’s Police Gazette. It showed a much younger man receiving the George Cross from the Queen. “He died last week in a nursing home.”
“Come with me.” They raced back to his office and opened the door. Two cold cups of tea remained untouched on his desk, but the smell of mothballs lingered in an empty room.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.