The Scoretto Trick
by Alan Brough
Genre: Thriller
Swearwords: None.
Description: Pederson is a "fully paid up member of club psychopath" and he is out of prison with revenge on his mind – with a little old lady who writes romance stories for a living as the likely subject.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Scoretto Trick involved a wire coat hanger, an old fashioned corkscrew and two kitchen knives, neither of which punctured the victim’s body in the normal way. None of the newspapers that covered the event were prepared to go into any more detail although the original radio play, broadcast in 1985, had contained a few hints as to how the thing was done. The author of the radio play had gone into more elaborate detail during the Pederson trial at the High Court in 1988, none of which was reported beyond the courtroom at the time.
Pederson was thought at the time of his arrest to have killed either three or four people. The fourth may have been a suicide. Pederson was more practical than most serial killers. He knew all his victims and there was money involved in each case. The prosecution concentrated exclusively on the final victim, a gay man Pederson had befriended and borrowed money from, once they had overcome the initial difficulty of having neither a murder weapon nor a plausible theory as to how death had been administered.
This was what I had so far. An old crime with an up to date context; Pederson’s imminent release from prison. I thought it might go as a filler in a Sunday supplement.
“Pederson would photograph well for your piece, if you could get someone to do it. He’s a bull of a man, six foot plus, flaming red hair. A wolf in sheep’s clothing he is not.” A thought struck him. “He might kill you for writing it, you know.”
I could tell that this thought was not one he found particularly unpleasant. Him a social worker too, or a prison visitor or whatever. And I thought he liked me and the lunch I was paying for was just an added bonus to my company.
“Why would he do that?”
“Cos he’s a fully paid up member of club psychopath. Also, he threatens revenge.”
I raised my eyebrows so he would continue. It didn’t take any more than that. Pederson fascinated him. I imagine he spent most of his working day dealing with unfortunates and inadequates swept up in the prison system. Sympathetic but disinterested. Then Pederson. Genuine evil. His own little Hannibal Lector.
“Och, he doesn’t ever pretend he was innocent of the murder they put him away for. But he still feels wronged, as though they didn’t play fair, or got him on a cheat.”
“Thought he was too smart?” I suggested.
“Yeah, that sort of thing, so he’s got it in for someone.”
“Think he’s serious?” Trying hard not to think that a fresh murder would turn my filler into a spread, with colour pictures.
“Crazy is what he is. We recommended against, well you know all about that, don’t you.”
“In that case it might be you he’ll be coming after.” Little bit of revenge of my own here, I thought, but he was prepared.
“We were very discreet,” he grinned, but not so he was kidding.
I found I was taking Pederson pretty seriously myself. The idea of the spread just wouldn’t go away. By the following morning I had used up a favour and persuaded a photographer friend to spend the morning at the prison gates to catch the first taste of freedom. If he did the job right it would be the ideal backdrop. This was an imposing fortress of a place, even if the main entrance where I imagined any photos would be taken, now looked like that of a corporate headquarters. I could see the rooftops as I sped along the motorway, heading south east out of the city.
Was looking at it in fact when my mobile went off. Photographer friend telling me his mission was a bust. Pederson had flown, released a day early. Probably a ruse to avert any media attention. Still a wasted favour though.
Myrtle Jones was the writer of the radio play that described the ‘Scoretto Trick’. This morning I was going to interview her; the final missing piece for the article. At least I hoped to interview her, unfortunately no firm arrangement existed. I had written requesting an interview three weeks earlier and had received a reply, hand written on perfumed notepaper no less, acquiescing. She didn’t give a date, a time or a telephone number.
Maybe I should have expected the scented notepaper. Myrtle Jones was a name that appeared regularly under the New Romance banner, where girls always said no. She had a more Scottish pen name she used for her short stories in ‘People’s Friend’.
I left the motorway just south of Hamilton and stopped to consult my Road Atlas. Myrtle Cottage, Rosebank. Flowers upon flowers, delicate petals adorned the pink notepaper too, evoking images of little old powdered aunts.
This was flower country she lived in too, I learned as the winding A class road took me down into the river valley. Market gardens followed one another at the roadside until it came to Rosebank.
Myrtle Cottage it turned out sat a little way outside the village but I left the car there anyway, in the car park of the local pub, and finished my journey on foot. Almost finished myself. Twice I came close to being crushed against an aggressive hedgerow by speeding lorries on the narrow road. A pleasant walk in the country, stretching clutch weary legs, this was not.
The cottage itself, when I got to it, was as pretty as the pictures in front of the New Romance paperbacks. Easy to imagine her sitting by the window picking out the sweet stories on an ancient typewriter. Or sitting on the old garden seat while she composed.
Creating ‘The Scoretto Trick’? Now there was a disturbing story. Not for these surroundings, on a gentle spring morning. No wonder Myrtle Jones had been happy to deny originality in the court room all those years ago, admitting that the trick itself had been learned during a holiday on Sardinia, rather than created in Myrtle Cottage.
The front door was open. I knocked anyway, always an awkward thing to do on an open door. There was no bell so I shouted “hello” and “anybody home?”
Beyond the door was a sort of porch, with a tiled floor; plants stood in an earthenware pot at one side, a pair of Wellington boots on the other. Another door, glazed this time, also open. I passed through and into an L shaped hall. At the corner of the hall there was an old fashioned telephone table. Above that was a mirror, also antique. As I advanced I could see there was a thumbprint low down on one corner of the mirror.
I knew immediately it was blood, although the colour was more brown. Not particularly horrifying. You can leave the same sort of mark if you cut yourself shaving in the morning.
Did Myrtle Jones shave? Maybe she did. But I knew with a dead certainty right there in the hall that Pederson shaved. With an open razor. And more than his big Scandinavian chin.
My legs separated from my body, the gap where my stomach had been. They were still moving after a fashion, taking me back towards the front door. Maybe he’s there, right at your back. Immediately my back was to the wall. I didn’t move any more. Just remained. I stayed like that and listened. Nothing. Of course, I knocked, I shouted, even if he was still there, if he was ever there, he would have gone by now, quietly slipping out of the back door as I arrived, wiping the razor on a handy dish towel as he went. But I heard the social worker’s voice. “A fully paid up member of club psychopath.”
I waited a bit longer, just in case he needed more time to finish whatever he was doing.
Round the corner of the hall finally and finding nothing there. There were two doors at the far end. The first, which was slightly ajar and therefore seemed less intimidating, opened into the kitchen. Not so much as a dirty dish. Oak units, country style, more greenery. On the worktop beside the Aga, she had one of those wooden blocks for holding knives. Either she hadn’t bought the full set or…
My hand caressed the handle of the other door. This is where it ends, through this door. Either the room and the house is empty, or her body is in here, mutilated, or she’s binding a finger she nicked this morning while pruning the roses with one of the enormous kitchen knives. Or Pederson is right behind the door.
It brushed against his ankle as I pushed it slowly open. Myrtle Jones was in a large armchair. There was a story from one of her books, a True Romance I think this was. There was a passage in it where the heroine’s cat gets run over by a car. Not driven by the charming but initially unobtainable male interest. I was struck at the time by the detail in which the incident is described. The only part of anything I ever read that would allow me to believe the same author had penned ‘The Scoretto Trick’, which she only learned and didn’t create.
“What happened?”
“He wasn’t expecting the ‘scoretto trick’ when he came at me.” Her voice shook badly but she still managed a smile. “And it worked. How remarkable.”
We both looked at the body on the floor.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Pederson is a "fully paid up member of club psychopath" and he is out of prison with revenge on his mind – with a little old lady who writes romance stories for a living as the likely subject.
_____________________________________________________________________
The Scoretto Trick involved a wire coat hanger, an old fashioned corkscrew and two kitchen knives, neither of which punctured the victim’s body in the normal way. None of the newspapers that covered the event were prepared to go into any more detail although the original radio play, broadcast in 1985, had contained a few hints as to how the thing was done. The author of the radio play had gone into more elaborate detail during the Pederson trial at the High Court in 1988, none of which was reported beyond the courtroom at the time.
Pederson was thought at the time of his arrest to have killed either three or four people. The fourth may have been a suicide. Pederson was more practical than most serial killers. He knew all his victims and there was money involved in each case. The prosecution concentrated exclusively on the final victim, a gay man Pederson had befriended and borrowed money from, once they had overcome the initial difficulty of having neither a murder weapon nor a plausible theory as to how death had been administered.
This was what I had so far. An old crime with an up to date context; Pederson’s imminent release from prison. I thought it might go as a filler in a Sunday supplement.
“Pederson would photograph well for your piece, if you could get someone to do it. He’s a bull of a man, six foot plus, flaming red hair. A wolf in sheep’s clothing he is not.” A thought struck him. “He might kill you for writing it, you know.”
I could tell that this thought was not one he found particularly unpleasant. Him a social worker too, or a prison visitor or whatever. And I thought he liked me and the lunch I was paying for was just an added bonus to my company.
“Why would he do that?”
“Cos he’s a fully paid up member of club psychopath. Also, he threatens revenge.”
I raised my eyebrows so he would continue. It didn’t take any more than that. Pederson fascinated him. I imagine he spent most of his working day dealing with unfortunates and inadequates swept up in the prison system. Sympathetic but disinterested. Then Pederson. Genuine evil. His own little Hannibal Lector.
“Och, he doesn’t ever pretend he was innocent of the murder they put him away for. But he still feels wronged, as though they didn’t play fair, or got him on a cheat.”
“Thought he was too smart?” I suggested.
“Yeah, that sort of thing, so he’s got it in for someone.”
“Think he’s serious?” Trying hard not to think that a fresh murder would turn my filler into a spread, with colour pictures.
“Crazy is what he is. We recommended against, well you know all about that, don’t you.”
“In that case it might be you he’ll be coming after.” Little bit of revenge of my own here, I thought, but he was prepared.
“We were very discreet,” he grinned, but not so he was kidding.
I found I was taking Pederson pretty seriously myself. The idea of the spread just wouldn’t go away. By the following morning I had used up a favour and persuaded a photographer friend to spend the morning at the prison gates to catch the first taste of freedom. If he did the job right it would be the ideal backdrop. This was an imposing fortress of a place, even if the main entrance where I imagined any photos would be taken, now looked like that of a corporate headquarters. I could see the rooftops as I sped along the motorway, heading south east out of the city.
Was looking at it in fact when my mobile went off. Photographer friend telling me his mission was a bust. Pederson had flown, released a day early. Probably a ruse to avert any media attention. Still a wasted favour though.
Myrtle Jones was the writer of the radio play that described the ‘Scoretto Trick’. This morning I was going to interview her; the final missing piece for the article. At least I hoped to interview her, unfortunately no firm arrangement existed. I had written requesting an interview three weeks earlier and had received a reply, hand written on perfumed notepaper no less, acquiescing. She didn’t give a date, a time or a telephone number.
Maybe I should have expected the scented notepaper. Myrtle Jones was a name that appeared regularly under the New Romance banner, where girls always said no. She had a more Scottish pen name she used for her short stories in ‘People’s Friend’.
I left the motorway just south of Hamilton and stopped to consult my Road Atlas. Myrtle Cottage, Rosebank. Flowers upon flowers, delicate petals adorned the pink notepaper too, evoking images of little old powdered aunts.
This was flower country she lived in too, I learned as the winding A class road took me down into the river valley. Market gardens followed one another at the roadside until it came to Rosebank.
Myrtle Cottage it turned out sat a little way outside the village but I left the car there anyway, in the car park of the local pub, and finished my journey on foot. Almost finished myself. Twice I came close to being crushed against an aggressive hedgerow by speeding lorries on the narrow road. A pleasant walk in the country, stretching clutch weary legs, this was not.
The cottage itself, when I got to it, was as pretty as the pictures in front of the New Romance paperbacks. Easy to imagine her sitting by the window picking out the sweet stories on an ancient typewriter. Or sitting on the old garden seat while she composed.
Creating ‘The Scoretto Trick’? Now there was a disturbing story. Not for these surroundings, on a gentle spring morning. No wonder Myrtle Jones had been happy to deny originality in the court room all those years ago, admitting that the trick itself had been learned during a holiday on Sardinia, rather than created in Myrtle Cottage.
The front door was open. I knocked anyway, always an awkward thing to do on an open door. There was no bell so I shouted “hello” and “anybody home?”
Beyond the door was a sort of porch, with a tiled floor; plants stood in an earthenware pot at one side, a pair of Wellington boots on the other. Another door, glazed this time, also open. I passed through and into an L shaped hall. At the corner of the hall there was an old fashioned telephone table. Above that was a mirror, also antique. As I advanced I could see there was a thumbprint low down on one corner of the mirror.
I knew immediately it was blood, although the colour was more brown. Not particularly horrifying. You can leave the same sort of mark if you cut yourself shaving in the morning.
Did Myrtle Jones shave? Maybe she did. But I knew with a dead certainty right there in the hall that Pederson shaved. With an open razor. And more than his big Scandinavian chin.
My legs separated from my body, the gap where my stomach had been. They were still moving after a fashion, taking me back towards the front door. Maybe he’s there, right at your back. Immediately my back was to the wall. I didn’t move any more. Just remained. I stayed like that and listened. Nothing. Of course, I knocked, I shouted, even if he was still there, if he was ever there, he would have gone by now, quietly slipping out of the back door as I arrived, wiping the razor on a handy dish towel as he went. But I heard the social worker’s voice. “A fully paid up member of club psychopath.”
I waited a bit longer, just in case he needed more time to finish whatever he was doing.
Round the corner of the hall finally and finding nothing there. There were two doors at the far end. The first, which was slightly ajar and therefore seemed less intimidating, opened into the kitchen. Not so much as a dirty dish. Oak units, country style, more greenery. On the worktop beside the Aga, she had one of those wooden blocks for holding knives. Either she hadn’t bought the full set or…
My hand caressed the handle of the other door. This is where it ends, through this door. Either the room and the house is empty, or her body is in here, mutilated, or she’s binding a finger she nicked this morning while pruning the roses with one of the enormous kitchen knives. Or Pederson is right behind the door.
It brushed against his ankle as I pushed it slowly open. Myrtle Jones was in a large armchair. There was a story from one of her books, a True Romance I think this was. There was a passage in it where the heroine’s cat gets run over by a car. Not driven by the charming but initially unobtainable male interest. I was struck at the time by the detail in which the incident is described. The only part of anything I ever read that would allow me to believe the same author had penned ‘The Scoretto Trick’, which she only learned and didn’t create.
“What happened?”
“He wasn’t expecting the ‘scoretto trick’ when he came at me.” Her voice shook badly but she still managed a smile. “And it worked. How remarkable.”
We both looked at the body on the floor.
About the Author
Alan Brough was born and brought up in Glasgow, but has lived in Argyll for the last twenty years.
‘I have always written short stories,’ he tells us. ‘They tend not to go beyond my laptop, although one or two have been published in various places and are almost certainly not in print now.’
‘I have always written short stories,’ he tells us. ‘They tend not to go beyond my laptop, although one or two have been published in various places and are almost certainly not in print now.’