Innocent Victims Read online

  He found him in one of the chicken sheds. “Mr. Thorne? Norman Thorne?”

  “That’s me.” Norman wiped his palms down his trousers and offered an open hand. “Sorry about the mess. The rain’s chewed up the ground. What can I do for you?”

  The policeman returned the handshake. “I’m here about Miss Elsie Cameron, sir. I believe you and she are engaged.”

  “That’s right. Has she had an accident or something?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Her father reported her missing yesterday. He says she left London a week ago to come down here.”

  Norman shook his head. “I haven’t seen her. She told me she was coming on Saturday . . . but she never turned up. I wrote the next day to ask what was going on but I haven’t had a reply. All I’ve had is a telegram from her dad.”

  “Do you mind telling me what you were doing last Friday, Mr. Thorne?”

  “Not in the least.” Norman gestured towards his shed. “How about a cup of tea? It’s warmer inside. I can give you a photograph of Elsie if it helps. I’m pretty damn worried about her, you know.”

  But not worried enough to come to the police station himself, thought PC Beck sourly as he picked his way through the mud. He studied the picture of Elsie while Norman set the kettle to boil.

  “Mr. Cameron says she left his house on Friday after­noon,” he said, taking out his notebook. “Do you want to give me your movements from lunchtime onwards?”

  Norman’s memory was surprisingly good. He recalled in great detail what he had been doing on Friday, December 5th. Shortly after lunch he had cycled to Tunbridge Wells to buy some shoes. On his return at around four o’clock he had fed his chickens and collected some milk from Mr. and Mrs. Cosham.

  “After that I made some tea and took a nap,” he said. “I was whacked. The round trip to Tunbridge Wells is a killer.”

  “But Miss Cameron didn’t come here?”

  “No. I went out again a bit later . . . about a quarter to ten I should think. I’d promised to walk a couple of lady friends home from the station. Mrs. Coldicott and her daughter. They spent the day in Brighton and came back on the ten o’clock train.”

  “Address?”

  Norman gave it to him. “I stayed at their house about fifteen minutes and was back here for half-eleven. There was no sign of Elsie . . . but I wasn’t expecting her till Saturday.”

  “How do you know the Coldicotts?”

  “The way I know most people round here. Mrs. Coldicott buys a hen from time to time.”

  “What did you do on Saturday, Mr. Thorne?”

  “Fed and watered the chickens then went to the station to meet Elsie. She told me she’d be coming in on the ten-fifteen. I waited around for an hour then caught the train to Tunbridge Wells.”

  “Was that normal?”

  “What?”

  “That she stood you up?”

  Norman stared at him for a moment. “I didn’t think of it as standing up. I assumed she’d had to stay home for some reason. Do you mean was I worried?”

  “If you like.”

  “Why should I have been?”

  PC Beck shrugged. “No reason. What did you do in Tunbridge Wells on Saturday?”

  “Nothing much. Walked around a bit, then came home again. I checked at the station in case Elsie had come on a later train, but no one had seen her. So I stopped off at the Coshams for some milk and asked if she’d booked in with them. But she hadn’t.”

  “Is that where she usually stayed?”

  Norman nodded. “They’d planned a party for Saturday night. I was hoping to take Elsie to it.”

  “Did you go anyway?”

  “No. The Coshams cancelled it because not enough people could come.”

  The policeman made a note. “What did you do instead?”

  “Went to the Coldicott house. There was a film I wanted to see at the cinema. I asked Miss Coldicott if she wanted to come with me.”

  PC Beck took another glance at the photograph of Elsie. “How old is Miss Coldicott?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Is she a special friend, Mr. Thorne?”

  “No. She just likes going to the movies.”

  “And you say you wrote to Miss Cameron the next day, asking what had happened to her?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do you have her letter to you, saying she’d be down on Saturday?”

  “We didn’t arrange it by letter. She was here the weekend before. We agreed the day and time then.”

  PC Beck took the mug of tea that Norman handed to him. “Do you have any idea what might have happened to her?”

  Norman shook his head again. “I did wonder if she nodded off on the train and ended up in Brighton. She takes pills for her nerves. They make her go to sleep in the oddest places.”

  “But she wouldn’t have stayed there, would she?”

  Norman pulled a face. “I don’t know. She might be trying to scare us into taking notice of her. She can act pretty strange at times.”

  PC Beck gave a report of this conversation to his inspector.

  “What did you make of him?” the man asked.

  “He’s a young chap. Looks as if he’s struggling to make ends meet. His place is more like a pigsty than a chicken farm. But he’s pleasant enough and looks you in the eye when he answers questions.”

  “So you think he’s telling the truth?”

  “I checked with Mr. and Mrs. Cosham and they confirmed what he said. I also visited the Coldicotts. They did the same. But I’m not sure Bessie Coldicott is quite the casual friend he claimed. She’s a handsome piece and she talked about Thorne’s farm as if she’s a regular visitor.”

  “Interesting.” The inspector steepled his fingers ­under his nose. “According to Mr. Cameron, his daughter was pregnant by Thorne. Is Bessie attractive enough to make the lad wish he hadn’t been so careless?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Beck dryly. “In terms of looks, there’s no contest.”

  Elsie’s photograph appeared in the newspapers that weekend under the caption: “Has anyone seen this woman?”

  It prompted two flower growers in Crowborough to come forward. They told the police they’d passed someone matching Elsie’s description at ten past five on the day she went missing. She was walking in the direction of Wesley Poultry Farm.

  This time a team of officers visited Norman’s farm. He was asked if he had any objections to the huts being searched. “Of course not,” he told them. “I want to help all I can.”

  The inspector sent his men to check the chicken sheds while he went into the shack with Norman. He refused to sit down or take a cup of tea. Instead he moved about the room, pulling open drawers and examining Norman’s clothes.

  He asked Norman the same questions that PC Beck had asked. And received the same answers. “You have a good memory, Mr. Thorne.”

  “My life’s pretty boring. There’s not much to remember.”

  “So the last time Elsie came here was Sunday, November 30th?”

  Norman nodded. “I haven’t seen her since.”

  The inspector eyed him for a moment. “And how often have you seen Miss Coldicott in that time?”

  “Just once,” said Norman truthfully.

  Bessie had been in the shack when a reporter came to the door. Norman hid her from view by stepping outside and closing the door behind him. But Bessie had taken fright.

  “I don’t want to be in the papers,” she said after the reporter had left. She was trembling.

  Norman tried to comfort her.

  “No,” she said, pushing him away. “I can’t see you again till this is over. I won’t bring scandal on my family, Norm.” She slipped away in the dark without saying goodbye.

/>   The inspector might have been reading Norman’s mind. “I’m told you’ve had reporters here, Mr. Thorne.”

  “I didn’t invite them. They just keep coming.”

  “But you show them around and let them take photographs of you with your chickens.”

  Norman gave a morose shrug. “What else can I do? If I refuse, they’ll say I have something to hide. They hang around the gate, waiting for me to come out.”

  The inspector felt sorry for the lad. He had no liking for the press either. “It’s not easy. What are these stains?” he asked, pointing to the table.

  “Blood and guts,” said Norman. “It’s where I pluck and pull my hens. Sometimes I joint them and take their heads off. It depends what the customer wants. There’s a fair amount of mess if I do a batch at a time.”

  “Where do you hang the birds?”

  “From a beam in one of the empty sheds.” He looked up. “Sometimes from this beam.”

  The inspector followed his gaze. “The one you keep your hats on?”

  “Yes. I move them to make room.”

  “How do you reach it?”

  “Stand on a chair.”

  “May I?”

  Norman pushed a seat towards him. “Be my guest.”

  The inspector hoisted himself up and looked along the beam. “It’s very clean. The upper beam’s dusty . . . but not this one.”

  “It’s harder to reach the top. If I stored anything up there, I wouldn’t be able to get it down.”

  “But why are there are no feathers, Mr. Thorne? You seem to have done a splendid job of cleaning this place.”

  “I do my best. A chap shouldn’t let his standards go just because he lives alone.”

  The inspector stepped down and replaced the chair under the table. “But you don’t feel the same about the outside? Your chicken runs look as if you’ve taken a plough to them.”

  “It’s the hens. They scratch for worms.”

  The lad had an answer for everything, the inspector thought. He watched Norman closely as he asked his next question. “Why was Elsie walking along Blackness Road the day she went missing, Mr. Thorne?”

  Norman’s eyes widened slightly. “I don’t understand.”

  “Two witnesses saw her at five-ten. They said she was heading here.”

  “It can’t have been Elsie.”

  “They recognised her from the photograph you gave us.”

  “Well, she never arrived,” Norman said flatly. “I’ll swear on any Bible you like that I have not seen Elsie Cameron since the end of November.”

  Blackness Road

  December 31st

  My darling Bessie,

  It’s been so long since I saw you. I really hoped we could spend Christmas together. But things are getting better now. The reporters have gone and the police accept that Elsie never came here. I now wonder if she killed herself in secret somewhere. She always said she’d do it if I let her down.

  She had a strange nature and not very kind parents. They forced her on me because they were bored with her moods. I should have listened to my father. But like you say, I was too young to know what I was doing.

  Honour bright, darling, I have never felt for any girl as I do for you. I was drawn to Elsie out of loneliness. I’m drawn to you out of love. Dearest of pals, you keep me going through the dark hours. I hope it won’t be long before this nightmare is over and we can be together again.

  Your own dear,

  Norman

  Groombridge Road

  Crowborough

  January 13th

  Dear Norman,

  Sorry not to have replied before but we’ve been busy at work. I don’t think we should see each other for a while. Dad doesn’t want me walking out with you until the police go away. People might gossip. I’ll write again when I can. Mum and Dad aren’t too keen, though.

  With love,

  Bessie

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Wesley Poultry Farm, Blackness Road—

  January 14th, 1925

  A shadow darkened the doorway of the shack. Norman looked up from Bessie’s letter to see a stranger standing there. Hastily, he used the sleeve of his jumper to wipe tears from his eyes. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Chief Inspector Gillan of Scotland Yard, Mr. Thorne. I’m here to arrest you.”

  “What for?”

  “Involvement in the disappearance of Miss Elsie Cameron. We have a warrant to dig up your property.”

  Norman looked past him to where several policemen were leaning on spades. “What happened to the other inspector?”

  “Scotland Yard was called in a week ago. I’ve been running the case since your neighbour, Mrs. Annie Price, gave evidence to Sussex police. She saw Miss Cameron walk through your gate at five-fifteen on the evening of December 5th.”

  Norman knew Annie Price. She was one of Bessie’s despised curtain twitchers. A woman with nothing better to do in life than spy on her neighbours. “It wasn’t Elsie,” he said.

  The Chief Inspector stepped into the shack. “Then who was it, Mr. Thorne?” He read Bessie’s letter over Norman’s shoulder. “Miss Coldicott?”

  “It wasn’t anyone. I was here alone.”

  Gillan put a hand under the young man’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “I’m betting Elsie’s somewhere in this ploughed field, Norman. But if I’m wrong, I’ll be the first to say sorry.”

  Four hours later, Norman was asked to account for the contents of an Oxo-cube tin. Found under a pile of rubbish in his tool shed, the tin contained a broken wrist-watch, some cheap jewellery and a bracelet.

  “Do these belong to Elsie Cameron?” Gillan asked him.

  “Yes . . . but it’s not what you think. She hid them there the last time she came.”

  “Why? They aren’t worth anything.”

  The question threw Norman. “I don’t know,” he said. “She didn’t tell me why.”

  At nine-thirty the next morning, Gillan showed him Elsie’s overnight case. It was sodden and filthy. “Do you recognise any of this?” he asked, removing the baby’s frock, the two pairs of shoes, the wash bag and a pair of damaged spectacles.

  Norman stared at the items.

  “The case was buried near your hut. We think these are Miss Cameron’s glasses. Who put them there?”

  Norman didn’t answer.

  “If we find her body, you’ll be charged with murder. Do you understand that? And the penalty for murder is to be hanged by the neck until you’re dead. Is there anything you want to tell me that might save your life?”

  Norman ran his tongue across dry lips. “No,” he whispered.

  Ten hours later, he changed his mind. At eight o’clock in the evening he asked to speak to Chief Inspector Gillan.

  “I didn’t kill Elsie,” he told him, “but I know where her body is. It’s under the chicken run where the Leghorns are.”

  “Do you want to make a statement, Norman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I must remind you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”

  Sussex Constabulary

  Statement given by Norman Thorne at 8.15 p.m. on January 15th, 1925

  I was surprised when Elsie arrived at the farm on Friday, 5 December. It was shortly after five o’clock in the evening. She was in an angry mood. She calmed down when I gave her a cup of tea and some bread and butter. I asked her why she had come and where she planned to sleep.

  She said she was going to sleep in the shack. And that she intended staying there until we were married. I told her she couldn’t do that and we had a bit of a row. At seven-thirty, I went to the Coshams to see if they could put her up for the night. They were out.

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bsp; When I got back to the farm Elsie was in a bad temper. We had a row about Bessie Coldicott. Elsie cried because I’d been unfaithful. I cooked her a boiled egg to raise her spirits. She calmed down again until about nine-thirty when I told her I had to meet Bessie off the train.

  Elsie tried to stop me going. She yelled at me and pulled me towards the bed. She said she wanted me to sleep with her. I refused and told her to go to bed on her own. She started sobbing. I could hear her as I went to the gate.

  I walked Bessie and her mother home from the station then returned to the farm about half past eleven. The light was on in the shack. It was shining through the window. When I opened the door I saw Elsie hanging from the beam by a piece of washing-line cord. I couldn’t believe it. I cut the cord and laid her on the bed. She was dead. She had her frock off and her hair was down. I put out the light and lay on the table for about an hour.

  I thought about going to Dr. Turle and knocking up someone to call the police. Then I realised the position I was in. There were so many people who knew I didn’t want to marry Elsie. Who would believe I hadn’t killed her? The only thing I could think to do was bury her body and pretend I’d never seen her.

  I got out my hacksaw and sawed off her legs and head by the glow of the fire. I did that because I thought smaller pieces would be easier to bury. I put her head in a biscuit tin and wrapped the rest in newspaper. I dug holes in the chicken run nearest the gate and put Elsie into them.

  Then I burnt her clothes and cleaned the shack. I was afraid to tell the truth before. Elsie always said she’d kill herself if I let her down. But I never thought she’d do it.

  Signed:

  Norman Thorne

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Crowborough police station—January 16th, 1925

  Chief Inspector Gillan folded his hands on the table. “What happened to the washing-line cord?”

  “I burnt it with her clothes.”

  “Why did you do that? Why did you keep her jewellery?”

  Norman ground his knuckles into his eyes. “I moved all her things on to the bed when I cut her up . . . then forgot about them. She was completely naked . . . nothing on at all.” He took a breath. “I found her stuff when I started to clean up . . . but I was too tired to dig any more holes by then. It was simpler to throw her clothes on the fire and hide her jewellery in the tool shed.”