CHAPTER ONE
1940
Chief Inspector Kenneth Langford offered the Commissioner a crisp salute, and then walked back through the labyrinth of passageways to his own small office. Langford was a member of the London Metropolitan Police, commonly referred to as Scotland Yard. The name was derived from the location of the police headquarters at 4 Whitehall Place. The building’s main public entrance was a street named Great Scotland Yard, and over time the name ‘Scotland Yard’ had become synonymous with the police force itself, not just the street. Chief Inspecter Langford had been a member of the force since shortly after the end of the Great War in 1918. Now at 51 years of age, he was deemed too old to return to active duty with his regiment. Still – even in the current state of war with Germany – there was no shortage of the usual robberies, rapes and murders that demanded police attention.
The Commissioner had briefed Langford on a series of heinous crimes that seemed connected, and all had the hallmarks of being the work of a serial killer. He explained that four young women had been murdered in the greater London area over the past several months. Each one had been brutally raped, and left with their throat cut. As the ‘Boss’ was reciting these facts, the building suddenly shook as bombs exploded in nearby Craven Street. Langford had thought, the bloody Luftwaffe is at it again! The image of King George VI gazed stoically from his picture on the Commissioner’s wall, as the air raid sirens wailed. There was a subterranean vault where they could have taken shelter, but the German attacks came with such regularity that most of the rank and file just ignored them, and continued on with their work.
The Boss had instructed me to clear my desk, and devote my full attention to solving these murders. Any and all resources would be at my disposal. He said that the Home Secretary had called earlier to inform him (in a veiled threat) that Winston wanted this business sorted out post-haste! And, he wanted it to be kept low profile. Under no circumstances were the rapacious tabloids to get wind that a serial killer was on the loose in London. He said the public was getting enough bad news, with the bloody Nazis bombing the hell out of the city every day and night. Langford thought, the press would be watering at the mouth over a potential ‘Jack the Ripper’ story! The Boss continued, “Langford, I’ve selected you for this job because you’re my best investigator. Besides, you travel in high circles and have good connections. That should open all of the necessary doors for you.” When I turned to leave, he said, “Good luck, old boy.”
Good luck indeed, I thought as I left his office. If this went sideways, I would be the lightening-rod for the new Prime Minister’s ire! Churchill was a demanding taskmaster, and had no patience for excuses or failure. In the event, the Commissioner would simply shrug and point his bony finger at me, protecting his own prospects for a future knighthood at all costs. I returned to my office and called the Duty Sergeant, instructing him to locate Detective Sergeant Dennis Shanks and have him report to me immediately. Then I began to review the files, looking for some connection between the four victims. Nothing jumped out, except for the fact that the files were light on useful information. They had been compiled by four different borough command units within the city, and apparently the investigations were never coordinated… until finally, some enterprising detective had connected the dots.
Detective Sergeant Dennis Shanks rapped on my door frame, and stood there at attention. He said, “You wanted to see me, sir?” I looked up from the file I was reading and said, “Come in Shanks, and take a seat. I then briefed him on the situation, and explained that I was forming a special task force to investigate the murders of the four young women. He would be seconded from his present duties and would act as my number two. I gave him a list of instructions and told him to get started right away. His first task was to contact administration and arrange for Mrs. Kitritch from the secretarial pool to report for temporary duty. She was to reserve the second-floor conference room for our exclusive use. I wanted a large detailed map of the city mounted on the wall, and two telephone lines installed. I also asked DS Shanks to arrange for a service vehicle and driver to be put on standby for our use. Finally, I passed over the case files and asked him to review them thoroughly. We would meet in the conference room at 16:00 hours for a strategy session.
At noon I left the building and took the Tube to Green Park Station. From there it was a brisk 6-minute walk to the Carlton Club. When I entered, the lunchtime crowd at the bar was already three deep as the usual gaggle of Tory MPs and other members of the London elite shouted out orders for liquid refreshment. Elbowing my way to the front, I was finally handed my usual whiskey and soda, and after chatting with a few acquaintances, I made my way to the dining room. Beaverbrook and some of his cronies were at one table, and he nodded as I passed by. Lord Gort (recently evacuated from Dunkirk) sat nearby with some military types. I sat at the ‘trough,’ a large common table where individual diners could gather to enjoy lunch and socialize. Moments later, a man sat down beside me. I said, “Good of you to join me, Nigel. I think I may be in need of your help.”
CHAPTER TWO
When the train pulled into Toronto Union Station I stepped onto the platform and looked around to get my bearings. I was flat broke, hungry and without any immediate prospects. Making matters worse, I was on the run from the RCMP who wanted to talk to me about a couple of murders back in Western Canada. When I saw the recruiting poster, I was reminded that the war with Germany had been a hot topic of conversation on the train. The poster said:
COME TO MAPLE LEAF GARDENS
AND SIGN UP TODAY!
It was only a few blocks away, so I thought I’d wander over and check it out… it would be a bit of luck if they were offering free coffee and donuts. The Recruiting Sergeant greeted me warmly and asked, “What’s your name, young man?” I hesitated, nervously fingering two coins in my pocket, and answered “Ah… my name is Nickels.” He asked me if I had any identification. I said, “No, sorry.” He shrugged and said, “OK, fill this out and get in that line-up over there.” I thought, Christ, they must be taking anyone with a heartbeat!
Somehow, I was swept up in the moment and what happened next is just a blur. Some Corporal took my application, and then I was stripped down to my shorts and given a cursory medical exam. After I was deemed fit, I was herded along with several other men in front of a stern looking officer who said, “Raise your right hands…” After we had sworn an oath to King and Country, a tough looking sergeant with a swagger-stick took charge and hustled us out to a military vehicle that was parked outside of the Gardens. It was just a short drive to the Toronto Drill Hall on University Avenue. Inside we found that part of the massive floor space was taken up with cots, and after a light meal, we bedded down for the night. There were about a hundred other volunteers there already, and the exits were secured by white helmeted Military Police. I guess they didn’t want anyone to change their mind and go home to mama.
Over the next two weeks our days were spent forming ranks and marching around the drill hall. We had been issued a basic kit, including itchy battle dress uniforms and silly looking balmoral bonnets. When we weren’t learning how to drill, the Corporals would double time us around the perimeter of the cavernous drill hall. In the evenings we would sit in social circles and spit shine our boots. I often thought wryly, what the hell am I doing here? Oh well… at least there were three square meals a day, and the Mounties wouldn’t find me. My new name was Robert Nickels, and my backstory was that I hailed from a mining town in Northern Manitoba. The other guys were a pretty good bunch. Just boys really. At 28 years of age, I was probably one of the oldest, and no doubt, the only one who had served time in the Stony Mountain Penitentiary.
I had spent two years in the Pen, after stabbing some guy in a bar fight. When I was released, I drifted out to Vancouver and got involved with some people living on the fringe of society. The thought of getting an actual job never crossed my mind. I was mostly involved in small time stuff… petty theft, B&E’s and purse snatching. My good looks were my greatest asset. People said that I resembled the handsome actor, Errol Flynn. At one point I moved in with an older woman. She was a bit of a hound, but she paid the bills. Things were OK until she started to get too clingy. We argued, and then one night, in a rage, I cut her throat. When I looked at her bloodied corpse, I felt no remorse. In truth, there was a tremendous eroticism about what I had done. The next time it happened the thrill was overwhelming! I was totally hooked on the experience, but by then the RCMP were on my trail.
I was pondering this as our convoy of trucks traveled to Camp Borden, 75 miles north of Toronto. Here we would continue with our training until receiving orders for deployment. I was now part of a 600-man infantry battalion, and over the next two months we would be drilled continually on the parade square and instructed in a multitude of basics, ranging from weapons handling to platoon tactics. Above all, we were subjected to a strict discipline that most of us had never experienced before. This rubbed me the wrong way, but soon I learned to keep my mouth shut and just go with the flow. Then one day, we were put on alert and with just a few hours of notice, we were trucked back to Toronto. There we boarded a train, and two days later pulled into the station in Halifax, Nova Scotia. We stepped off onto the platform and were formed into three ranks. Hoisting our kit-bags we marched down to the harbor where we caught our first glimpse of the SS Louis Pasteur. The massive ship was moored alongside a pier, dwarfing everything in sight.
The 600 men of my battalion were crammed aboard the ship, along with about 1,500 other members of our brigade. The quarters were tight as we embarked on a voyage which would conclude six days later when we arrived in Greenock, Scotland. The route was a circuitous one, skirting the North Atlantic where German U-boats ruled the waves. But the SS Pasteur was fast enough that she could sail safely without escort ships or as part of a protective convoy. The voyage was uneventful except for a day or two of stormy seas which resulted in many cases of seasickness. From Greenock, the battalion travelled south by train to Camp Aldershot, 60 kilometers southwest of London, England. Here, we were housed in Quonset huts and in the following weeks and months resumed our training routines. Our deployment to England was a typical military example of ‘hurry up and wait.’ We wouldn’t face the enemy for another two years. In the meantime, we were given ample opportunities to visit London on weekend passes. For me the hunger was building. It was time to resume the hunt.
CHAPTER THERE
Chief Inspecter Langford introduced Nigel Pencastle to the team as they gathered in the war room at Scotland Yard headquarters. In attendance was Detective Sergeant Shanks, Mrs. Kitritch and three Detective Constables from the Criminal Investigation Division who had been pressed into service. Langford explained that Pencastle was a close friend, and was considered the most celebrated private detective in all of London. In response, Pencastle tugged on the waxed tips of his bushy mustache and said, “I dare say, I find myself in good company here.” Langford went on, “I know that it is unorthodox for the Metropolitan Police to consult with a detective from the private sector, but the urgency of this matter requires that we call upon every resource.” He continued, “Let’s begin with what we know about these murders.” Dennis Shanks chimed in sarcastically, “The only thing we know for certain, is that we have four bodies.”
Pencastle asked, “Are there any leads at all? Witnesses? Any connections among the victims? Or any inconsistencies in the method in which the crimes were carried out?” Langford replied, “What we have is shoddy police work, where little effort was put into the investigations or follow-up. Until now, no one looked upon these murders as part of a pattern. So, we really have very little information.” Shanks suggested, “Then we must start at the beginning and consider motive, means and opportunity.” One of the Detective Constables offered, “These murders are of a violent sexual nature. If they are being committed by the same person – presumably a male – the perpetrator must be a psychopath… probably a serial killer.” Pencastle abruptly interjected, “Yes, yes! By all means label the killer, but at this point we must have facts!”
Chief Inspecter Langford turned to Mrs. Kitritch. He said, “Please put the pins in the map showing where the bodies were found.” As she moved to comply, he said, “The murders took place about three weeks apart, and they all occurred on a Friday or Saturday night. You can see on the map that the bodies were all found in or around the Borough of Hammersmith. Given the amount of blood at each scene, it would be accurate to say that the crimes occurred in each of those precise locations. The cause of death in each instance was from a severe cut to the throat.” Pencastle asked, “Do we have photographs of these wounds?” Langford sighed, “Regrettably not.” DS Shanks said, “The last victim was a 19-year- old girl named Alice Ford-Abbott. She was murdered just a few days ago, and her body might still be at the mortuary.” Langford ordered, “Mrs. Kitritch, find out where the body was taken and tell them they must not release it, until we have made an examination. Please do it now!”
Langford looked at each member of the group and then admitted, “Finding this killer in a city of 8.5 million people won’t be an easy task. It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack, especially when we have no leads. So, we must rely on good detective work to develop usable information. It’s going to be difficult just traveling around the city with all the bomb damage and the ongoing attacks, but we must proceed with urgency. DS Shanks, I want you to take charge of interviewing all of the victims’ families, friends and anyone else who might have had an interaction with them. Establish two teams, including yourself and the CID Detectives, and get on this right away. I want you to be tenacious in your inquiries - take copious notes - and consider this a 24 hour a day job until we have some results.” Suddenly an excited Mrs. Kitritch interrupted. She said, “Sir, the young lady’s body is resting at a mortuary on Shepherd Bush Road.” Langford said, “Nigel, if I put a car and driver at your disposal, would you be good enough to go and examine the body?”
Nigel Pencastle entered the mortuary and was greeted by a cadaverous looking funeral director, who was distressed over the timing of the visit. Alice Ford-Abbott’s family were assembled for a visitation in an adjoining room, and emotions were high as they gathered around the open casket. The body had been prepared with care, and a scarf had been placed around the girl’s neck to disguise the gaping wound. Pencastle gently explained the reason for his visit and asked if could have just a few minutes to examine the body. When the distraught family had adjourned to another room, the undertaker carefully removed the scarf. The exposed neck had been roughly stitched up, and this partially obscured the extent of the trauma. The man was aghast when Pencastle asked him to pull the stitches. After a short argument he reluctantly complied, and the Detective made a number of measurements with a pocket caliper.
The following morning the task force met in the war room at eight o’clock. The purpose was to share any new information before continuing with the tasks at hand. DS Shanks had something important to report. They had just begun the interviewing process, but had already established a pattern in the routines of two of the victims. Both girls regularly attended dances at the Hammersmith Palais, and had actually been there on the night they were murdered. Shanks said, “We have the names of a least a dozen of their friends to follow up with, which should help us develop any connections between the victims.” Mrs. Kitritch had mounted pictures of the four victims on the evidence board. One obvious commonality, was that each of the girls was extremely attractive. The Chief Inspecter asked, “Nigel, what do you have for us?” The Detective responded, “I have deduced that Alice Ford-Abbott was killed with a Kukri knife, commonly carried by Nepalese Gurkhas.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The bus ride from Aldershot into central London took about one and a half hours. Every seat was taken by giddy soldiers on weekend passes, who were anxious to visit the big city. London in 1940 was considered to be the most cosmopolitan city in the world. As I looked around, I could see uniforms from every country in the British Commonwealth. These guys weren’t busing in to visit the zoo or the museums. They were all thinking of ‘wine, women and song.’ And not necessarily in that order. Some of them were headed to the Hammersmith Palais, commonly known by soldiers as the ‘meat market.’ Due to the absence of sweethearts and husbands - who were off fighting on distant battlefields - many of the local girls flocked to the dance clubs to mix with foreign soldiers, who were available. For me, it provided the perfect hunting ground.
After arriving at the Victoria Bus Station, many of us took the tube to Hammersmith and then walked the short distance to the dance club. On the way, I stopped at a local pub to get lubricated, as there were no alcoholic beverages on offer at the Palais. It was a typical damp, foggy London evening, as I lined up in the Palais foyer to pay my entry fee. Once inside, the music blared. There were at least 2,000 people mingled on the floor. It was the current big band sound, made popular by Glenn Miller, Count Basie and Tommy Dorsey. Some couples were dancing, while others were just talking or surreptitiously sizing up members of the opposite sex. I always zeroed in on the most stunningly attractive girls. They were the most likely to be egotistical, narcissistic bitches. So full of themselves. Like my mother was! She was always dragging some man home, and for years I listened to the disgusting sounds that filtered through my bedroom wall.
The dance floor of the Palais was a sea of khaki uniforms, the men outnumbering the women by a ratio of 3 to 1. The majority of the men held the rank of private, with a sprinkling of corporals and lance corporals. I had recently been promoted to lance corporal and wore one stripe on each arm. This was a little worrisome, because it was something that distinguished me slightly from the crowd. And, I had always made an effort not to be noticed. The pickings here had been very good, but I knew that you could only return to the same well so many times. Tonight, would be my final visit to the Palais. After perusing the crowd for about an hour, I focused in on a promising candidate. She was young and very beautiful… surrounded by eager soldiers who were trying to summon up the courage to ask her to dance. When I approached through the crowd, her eyes were already upon me.
I knew the effect that I had on women. Truly, I did look like the movie star Errol Flynn… right down to the carefully trimmed mustache and my six-foot, one inch of height. The girl was probably thinking, my God, here comes (from the movie) Captain Blood! I chuckled to myself, if only she knew. The girl took my outstretched hand, and I swept her away to the dance floor. When I asked her name, she said it was Alice Ford-Abbott. An hour later we left the club and walked out into the misty night. She was a little anxious about leaving and not saying goodbye to her friends, but by then she was totally captivated by me and didn’t make a fuss. We walked hand in hand in the direction of Shepherd’s Bush Green. I steered her towards a secluded area, and we sat on a park bench. We kissed passionately for a few minutes, and then things began to progress a little more quickly than she had anticipated. When she began to resist, I reached for the knife that was strapped inside my pant leg.
As soon as the struggle was over, I realized that I had made a big mistake. My new Kukri knife had almost decapitated the girl and blood from her jugular had spouted like a fountain… splattering all across the front of my army great coat. When her body stopped convulsing, I pushed it away and stepped back to assess the damage. My coat was badly stained, and there was no possible way that I could return to Aldershot looking like this. Nor, could I go down into the Underground where I had expected to huddle in my warm coat and spend the night. Too many people would notice and ask questions. I dragged her body behind some bushes, and then set out for the Victoria Bus Station. Several blocks from the murder scene, I removed the coat and stuffed it into a garbage bin. In spite of my duress, I had the presence of mind to rip off the shoulder patches which showed my rank and regimental affiliation.
The following morning, I reported in at the battalion orderly room - most unusually – returning a day before my weekend pass had expired. I explained to the Orderly Sergeant that I had lost all of my money in a craps game, and decided to return to camp. He asked me why I wasn’t wearing my great coat. I replied hesitantly, “It was stolen when I was at the Hammersmith Palais.” He said, “You’re a regular fuck-up, aren’t you Corporal?” When I glared at him, he continued, “You’re out-of-uniform, and I’ll be reporting you to your Company Sergeant-Major.” I thought, so much for keeping a low profile! For the first time, I felt that my well thought out precautions were beginning to unravel. But I had been very careful, and was certain that there was nothing amiss that would connect me with any of the murders. I said to the Sergeant, “Hey, give me a break. I have a friend in quartermaster stores who can fix me up with a new coat. Come on Sarge, it’s been a rough weekend!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Chief Inspecter Langford asked, “Nigel, are you suggesting that some psychopathic Gurkha is responsible for all of these murders?” Pencastle responded, “All I can say with some certainty, is that the wound I inspected was inflicted by a Kukri knife.” Langford continued, “But, do you think there could be a military connection to this?” The detective responded, “Perhaps, but I doubt if it is a Gurkha soldier. Not to sound racist, but it seems unlikely that a Nepalese man could get close to four beautiful young English girls – in a public setting – and go unnoticed. DS Shanks interjected, “Our interviews of the victims’ families and friends, have born considerable fruit. We have now determined that all four of the girls attended the Hammersmith Palais on the nights they were murdered. Apparently, each of them loved to dance.” One of the detectives added somberly, “It was their dance of death.”
Shanks continued, “A few of the victims’ friends can recall the girls dancing with a tall, handsome soldier. That is not unusual in itself, but noteworthy, especially since a few of Alice Ford-Abott’s friends said she was last seen dancing with a good-looking man… he might have been Australian or Canadian, and they were pretty sure that he had one stripe on his sleeve.” The Chief Inspecter pondered, “So, what have we got here?” Shanks said, “The killer may be a tall, good looking Commonwealth soldier, possibly a lance corporal.” One of the detectives noted, “At least we now have something to work with!” Mrs. Kitritch, who had been on the telephone said, “It gets even better! The Duty Officer in the Hammersmith Borough just called in to report that a bloodied coat has been found by a binman, not far from the scene of the most recent murder. It’s a military great coat!”
An hour later, the coat was delivered by a courier from the Hammersmith Bureau. The group gathered around as Shanks opened the evidence bag, and there was a hush as the coat was laid out upon a table. Mrs. Kitritch broke the silence and gasped, “Oh my goodness!” The front of the coat was discolored with an enormous crusty stain. One of the detectives stated the obvious, “So much blood!” Nigel Pencastle added, “Forensic analysis will no doubt verify that it is the same blood group as that of Alice Ford-Abbott.” DS Shanks observed that the shoulder patches had been removed from the coat. Pencastle quickly added, “Yes, it looks as if the perpetrator cut them away in a hasty fashion. There are still a few threads attached, and you can see on the arms that there is a slightly different shading on the khaki fabric where a single chevron has been removed.
Chief Inspector Langford stated grimly, “This proves that the murderer is a soldier, a lance corporal.” Pencastle cautiously pointed out, “It suggests that whoever was wearing this coat is the likely murderer, but we still have no witnesses or supporting evidence. He added, “We must find the owner of this coat!” Langford said, “I believe this coat is of Canadian origin. It has a slightly different tint than British or Australian khaki, and in any case, this can be verified by referencing the manufacturing codes on the inside label.” Shanks asked, “So how do we follow this up?” Langford replied, “With great difficulty! There are over 10,000 Canadian troops currently stationed in England.” He continued, “It’s really a question of how cooperative the Canadian brass will be with the investigation. I think there’s someone I can call who might help smooth the way.”
After the others had left to continue their investigations, I asked Mrs. Kitritch to ring the switchboard at Number 10 and see if she could reach General Brooke. Alan Francis Brooke and I had both been Majors in the 18th Division, during The Great War. He was now a Lieutenant-General (and future Field Marshall) and was the principal military advisor to Prime Minister Winston Churchill. After a short delay, he came to the phone and said, “Langford my dear fellow, how are you?” After exchanging a few pleasantries, I explained the situation and asked if he would be good enough to call the Canadian Commanding General McNaughton, and ask him to inform his Provost Marshall that I would be calling. He said that he would be happy to do so, and wished me good luck with the investigation. I thought that I would wait until the following day before making the call, allowing time for Brooke to get all the ducks in order. In the meantime, I went to see the Commissioner to report on our progress.
Two days later I met with Colonel Phillipe-Auguste Piuze, the Provost Marshall for the Canadian military forces. I was impressed with him immediately, and found that we had many things in common… being of a similar age, our respective service during The Great War and having a policing background. Prior to his recent appointment, Colonel Piuze was the Commissioner of the Quebec Provincial Police. When I explained about the murders, and that it was the work of a serial killer, he was appalled to think that a Canadian soldier might be involved. Piuze said that he would make every effort to assist with the investigation. He felt that identifying the culprit, was simply a process of elimination. There were several hundred lance corporals in the division, but which one of them fitted the physical description, had weekend passes on the precise dates of the four murders, and had recently been issued a new great coat?
CHAPTER SIX
As soon as my platoon Sergeant told me to report to the company office, I knew I was in trouble. When I arrived, the Company Sergeant-Major growled, “Put your bloody heals together, Corporal.” I snapped to attention and looked straight ahead. The CSM informed me that the Major wanted to speak to me, and that I must be in deep shit! He ushered me into the inner office, and once again I slammed my foot down and came to attention. The Company Commander said, “That will be all Sergeant-Major, please shut the door.” When we were alone, he said, “Corporal, the Military Police and a couple of civilian policemen are here to question you in relation to a serious crime. Is there anything you wish to tell me?” I feigned shock and responded, “Sir, I have no idea what it could be about!” He gave me a skeptical look… and then said, “OK, the Sergeant-Major will take you to the Adjutant’s office where these people are waiting for you.”
The Battalion Adjutant - Lieutenant Bloomfield - said, “Thank you Sergeant-Major, I’ll take it from here.” I stood at attention as he closed the door and we turned to face the other men in the room. He said, “Corporal Nickles, these officers are here to question you on an important matter, and I will represent the Commanding Officer by acting as your advocate. Do you have any idea what this might be about?” I figured, yes and no would be the safest way to answer any questions. I responded, “No, Sir!” He then proceeded to introduce the other men. Major Henning is from the Divisional Military Police. Chief Superintendent Langford is a senior officer with the London Metropolitan Police, and his associate is Detective Nigel Pencastle. My bowls felt weak as I stood in front of this formidable group of men. Henning had the same look about him as the nasty ‘screws’ at the Stony Mountain Penitentiary. Langford had steely gray eyes that seemed to look right through me. And the mustachioed Pencastle reminded me of a Sherlock Holmes reincarnate.
Bloomfield pointed to a chair and said, “Please, take a seat. He turned to Henning and said, “Major, perhaps you’d like to begin.” Major Henning laid out pictures of the four victims on the Adjutant’s desk and asked, “Corporal Nickles, do you recognize any of these girls?” My stomach flipped, and I paused briefly before responding with (I hoped) a convincing, “No!” The Major continued, “Would it surprise you to know that many friends of these girls are willing to testify that you were seen dancing with them?” I thought to myself, this guy’s bullshitting me and trying to set a trap. I shook my head and said, “I don’t know any of these girls. What’s this all about anyway? Are you trying to accuse me of something?” The Major glared at me, “All four of these girls have been murdered, and you are the prime suspect.” “Murdered,” I exclaimed! You must be out of your fucking mind?” Bloomfield interjected, “Corporal, I must remind you that you are speaking to an officer, and any further outbursts will result in a charge of Conduct Unbecoming.”
The London cop asked me, “Corporal, are you saying that you haven’t met any of these girls?” I responded, “I’ve rubbed shoulders with hundreds of girls at the Palais and other dance clubs, and I can’t remember all of them. But honestly, these pictures don’t ring a bell.” The cop followed with, “In that case, would you agree to participate in a police line up to see if the victims’ friends can identify you?” I looked at him dumbfounded, and asked, “Are you actually charging me with a crime?” Lieutenant Bloomfield hastily intervened, “That might be a little premature at this point.” With a quavering voice I stated, “In that case, you have no legal basis for forcing me to participate in this witch hunt!” The Major snarled, “You’re a real barrack room lawyer, aren’t you Corporal?” Pencastle interjected, “Gentlemen, we must remain calm! This young man is innocent of any wrong doing, until proven otherwise”
The Major changed his line of questioning by asking, “How do you explain the fact that you had weekend passes on the occasion of each of the four murders?” I just gave him a confused look. He demanded, “Answer the question Lance Corporal!” I replied, “I don’t know what dates you’re talking about, but no doubt thousands of other guys had passes at the same time.” Pencastle then asked, “Do you have a Kukri?” I said, “Huh? … what the hell is that?” He said, “It’s a Gurkha’s Kukri knife.” I gave an exasperated sigh and replied, “What is all this shit about anyway?” The Major asked, “Would you let us examine your barrack box and kit bag?” I responded defensively, “Why should I?” Raising his voice he argued, “Because if you don’t, I’ll charge you with obstructing an investigation, and march your ass to the guardhouse!” At this, Lieutenant Bloomfield urged, “Please, let’s cool this down a bit. I think the Chief Inspector has a few more questions.”
The cop’s gray eyes bore into me as he asked, “Why did you recently acquire a new great coat?” I looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then explained how my coat had been stolen at the Hammersmith Palais. Chief inspector said, “You might be interested to know that your original great coat has been recovered, and it is covered with the blood of one of the victims. How do you explain that Corporal?” I just shook my head in shocked disbelief. He continued, “We have several pieces of circumstantial evidence, all of which points towards you… and I don’t believe in coincidences. The room fell silent. Then Langford continued, “Law enforcement officials in Canada have been looking into your background, and remarkably it seems that you don’t have one. Certainly not under the name of Robert Nickles. You are a ghost, an imposter. And I believe that you are guilty of these terrible murders… as guilty as sin!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lieutenant Bloomfield - a lawyer in civvy life – finally came to my defense and said, “Gentlemen, what I’ve heard here today is a lot of speculation about Corporal Nickles possible involvement in these crimes. However, there is no hard evidence. Certainly nothing that would hold up in a Military Tribunal or, dare I say, in the Crown Court. Based on this circumstantial evidence alone, an arbitrary arrest or any measure taken to force this soldier to incriminate himself is unwarranted, and would be a breach of his legal rights. If there are no further questions, I suggest that we adjourn and allow the Lance Corporal to return to his duties. The heavy silence that filled the room was a tacit acceptance. I felt like I was walking on air, when I left the room. I was in the clear, at least for the time being, although I might have to postpone my extracurricular proclivities for a while.
I extended my distance from the long arm of the law a few months later, when the battalion was relocated to Hastings, Sussex on the south east coast of England. We were billeted in houses and small cottages which dotted the coastline. It was an idyllic setting - far from the glamor of London - where we spent considerable time training and conducting field exercises in the surrounding countryside. Mindful that the Germans were just across the Channel, we were frequently put on red alert and mobilized on short notice. But, in each instance the call to arms was either a false alarm or simply another drill. Then one day in August, we were once again put on red alert. This time though, we were trucked to the coast and boarded assault vessels.
The raid on the French seaport of Dieppe took place the following morning. There were 6,100 troops involved of which 5,000 were Canadians, including 588 men from my battalion. From the very beginning it was a disaster! We landed on a well defended beach at the west end of the promenade in front of the town. The German soldiers, who were concealed in cliff top positions and in nearby buildings, swept the beach with deadly machine gun fire. They also had mortars zeroed in on predetermined positions, and knocked out the tanks that were bogged down in the pebbled stones on the beach. Some of us cut through the barbed wire, and fought our way into the town. But it was a bloodbath. Of the 588 men from my battalion, 197 were killed, 174 were taken prisoner and the remaining 217 were evacuated to England. Many of these soldiers were wounded, including me with mortar fragments embedded in my legs and torso… my war was over.
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1945
A CBC radio broadcast reported this morning that three women in the Toronto area had recently been murdered. In each instance the victim was brutally raped and their throat was cut. A serial killer is suspected, and police have formed a special task force to investigate.
By Michael Barlett