Solve This Murder

Murder mystery about an unsolved crime

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  • Part 6: History Always Repeats Itself

    by

    A gypsy encampment late 1982
    A man exits his caravan vomiting. There were sharp flashing pains in his head like lightning, and a thumping pulse alternating in his ears that seemed to echo through his skull. He couldn’t think, and the pain made him vomit so much that he couldn’t catch his breath.
    He stumbled through the site towards the fence and stumbled down the incline, still vomiting. He fell to his knees in front of the railway track. He would have taken a moment if he was able to think coherently enough, but all that was him and all of his thoughts were being stolen from him. He reached down and felt the cold metal of the railway track and laid his ravaged head slowly down on the rail. He couldn’t think enough to say goodbye to anyone. He just lay down and winced, one eye was closed, wrinkled up in pain. He couldn’t think anymore. He felt himself drain away. They called it the popping point when the consciousness and soul left the body. When the brain was so damaged that areas of it died taking everything contained there into the after life leaving a limp and useless body behind.
    He wouldn’t let them defile him or use his limp body for their benefit in front of his boys. He knew that he could not hold on any longer.
    The rail started to hum, it vibrated against his ravaged head. A tear welled and rolled gracefully down the side of his face. The last thing that he heard was the deafening sound, momentary violence, and then he left the world. The person in the nearest caravan heard only a soft grunt. 

    He left two boys behind who were taken in by the nearest caravan. They went from family to family, alternating between being owned or being looked after. By the age of ten both were the equivalent of robots, with no consciousness, empty and soulless, just being commanded, and then carrying out instructions with out much thought. They were used for every type of crime and whim imaginable. 
    They were in and out of prison. Then in the late 80’s they were part of an early release programme and landed in a place called Torquay.
    They set up their schemes in a quiet cul-de-sac. They wanted to settle and have all the trappings of society but they didn’t understand what that meant or how society worked. 
    One was very taken in by large screen tvs and he stole them from everywhere that he could. He cleared peoples houses out just because he fancied a large screen tv. People even died for their TVs.
    In 2010 he decided to branch out to trafficking children to have as either a homegrown slave of what ever persuasion the buyer would want. Or his gang would brain damage them for the family to claim benefits for caring for them. They began to use each others children which led to factions forming who bitterly hated each other. 
    One of the two brothers from the caravan site lost his son. He then also laid himself down on a railway track as his father had done before him. He died with the same pain flashing through his skull.

  • Part 5: The Spindle

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    The Spindle was an end cottage in a row of five. It used to be part of a farmhouse, and before that it was an original part of a settlement dated to the 1100’s. It was tiny, dark, haunted, and cold, and full of very large spiders. It was down an ancient lane that led to horse pastures and then to a winding footpath that curved down to a pond.  The footpath was lined with wildflowers, nettles and an ancient hedgerow that formed an archway above the path.
    I used to sit on the fence where the lane met the start of the footpath and I would watch the sun set with the horses snickering and pulling out grass. The sound of the grass ripping, their breathing and their gentle munching was so soothing in the silent summer evenings. There were cuckoos and woodpigeons further down the lane and their calls added to the melliferous song of the Spindle meadows.
    I can remember the smell of loamy soil in the ancient hedgerow, the smell of the fresh grass ripped up by the horses, and the smell of wildflowers on the light breeze.
    In the front garden there were roses and honey suckle, which also smelt amazing. I would sit in the garden eating lemonade Spangles and Parma violets. All Around My Hat by Steeleye Span played on the radio, also Lynard Skynyrd, Queen, We will rock you, and I Can See Clearly Now by Johnny Nash. I used to dance and sing along and play air guitar alongside my Dad. I wore bright flares and a knitted over vest. I had an amazing kaleidoscope and a sizable collection Britons animals that I took everywhere with me. I was given my first kitten there, an orange cat called Pudding who lived 26 years. When we moved he kept going back to the Spindle so we asked if the new occupants would like to adopt him. They happily agreed and gave him the longest and best life ever, at least he had a happy ending. 

    When we moved away my dad kept the old deeds to the Grindle as a keepsake. They were later given to me when I moved away to Devon to remind me of the early days of my life and to keep safe as part of our families history.
    It was these deeds that were later found by the ignorant and spiteful children of a criminal gypsy led cult from a housing estate. The trespassers thought that the deeds were active and current because they couldn’t read them properly. They stole them thinking that they had landed a huge prize. Their usual fodder was vulnerable people who had no families or friends. The type of people who went missing without anyone noticing.
    This gang trafficked people as slaves with a house, or brain damaged to claim benefits for. They possibly believed that they could kidnap me and sell me to the highest bidder with a building. It turned out that I was not their type, I was not the type who wouldn’t be missed. In fact it was the opposite, but this opposite actually contributed to my death as people within the gang tried to save face and to not look like the imbeciles that they were. All the criminals and opportunists that they had surrounded themselves with then competed for the prize that was just lies that idiots told to cover up their ridiculous and embarrassing mistake. 
    There were many elements and details between the beginning of the crime and its grisly culmination that were thrown into the pot together to create the perfect Storm of violence, hate, spite and destruction. 
    Exacerbated by a piece of useless, worthless paper that was very obviously just a keepsake, a memory that was stolen by trespassing children. Who were sneaking into my space to ferry lies back to their parents who were waiting eagerly to fuel a witch hunt. These ignorant people dehumanised every victim that they could get their hands on. There were over 300 victims from over three decades. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong look and with personal things that they should never have touched. 

  • Part 4: A deal with the devil continued

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    My parents tried every legal way that they could to get me back, to no avail. Predictably Sue turned out to be a very neglectful and abusive parent, and a horrible person.
    My clever parents came up with a way to get custody of me but they had to sacrifice their relationship and my fathers happiness. They offered Sue a cottage called the Spindle on the condition that she marry my father (which gave him back full custody of me). Her spite ensured that she agreed. To her she had upstaged another female, to my parents they had my destiny back in their hands. 

    My mother found another partner, he died in a car accident and after that I never saw her again.
    I lived in the ancient flint cottage with my father and the hateful and horrible step surrogate mother. She wasn’t just casually neglectful, she was horrifically spiteful. She did the worst things that she could do to people and exhibited a kind of miserable joy from doing so.
    It was this kind of spite that later in life I encountered in all its horrific violence that was a central element that led to my murder. 

  • Part 3: A deal with the devil

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    The hospital that I was born in was a very old building and the room of my birth was not well lit. The lights kept flickering in the storm and the power cut out for a while.
    My dad was not allowed into the room as the woman giving birth to me was the surrogate. My mother watched my birth from across the room. Thunder rumbled in the back ground. When I was born I was handed straight to my mother who held me and rocked me with joy, I was, to her, the tiny miracle that she could not birth herself due to fibroids. The nurse then took me to my father who had fallen asleep outside in the dark corridor. My dad said that he remembered my mass of black hair all sticking up on end and how I was very quiet and observant. The nurse had exclaimed that I must have been an old soul.

    The surrogate watched through narrowed eyes as my parents wept, laughed and held their first born child. The birth had been so long that they were worried that I might not survive, which heightened their grateful relief and joy. I wish that I could have remembered, or witnessed that pure moment before everything went horribly wrong. 
    I think that my parents had about 5 minutes of happiness before the other nurse came out and said that the surrogate had changed her mind. She now refused to give me up. 

    I imagine that spiteful, hate filled woman watching my parents happiness and how she just wanted to ruin it. Watching through the window in that hospital door. Her bitter face framed in it. 

    I was to run into her kind several times in life, and each time it ended in tragedy. 

  • Part 2: A lightning storm

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    Before I tell this story I will need to travel back to my birth in the 1970’s. This is where two major elements of the story originate from. Call it fate, or a random shuffle of the universe, these two things led to torture, violence, and my death later on.

    I was born to a married couple who could not conceive. They really loved each other, and they had a home and everything that they could have wished for in life but no children. So they decided to give IVF with a surrogate a go. It worked out.
    To my parents I was a miracle, to my religious grandma I was an immaculate conception. 
    I was born in the early hours of a Thursday morning during a thunderstorm, and by pure chance, (or by ordinance of Thor) my eyes bore an iris mutation in the shape of lightening. Like a pitch black lightening strike through pale grey.
    As I grew pale green patches appeared amongst the grey, and my aunt likened it moss on a dry stone wall, speckled with luminous yellow pigments.
    Later on it was noticed that my irises narrowed to slits in very bright light to look like cats eyes. If you didn’t look closely enough though you wouldn’t see it. Most people never noticed it. Those that did, didn’t usually respond very well to it. Some people thought that it was cool, but mostly responses were a mixture of spite or fear. I just got on with life and ignored that I had it.
    It is this tiny mutation and the pale colour of my eyes that later in life drew the attention of my murderers. I now wonder that if I had not been born with it, would I have slipped their attention and lived?  

  • Part 1: Silence

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    I’m currently a corpse laid out on a concrete table in a mortuary. I’m still in all the clothes that I wore when I was so rudely ripped from this life. I was murdered by people who were both unthinkably stupid and unthinkably evil. 
    My body is adorned in comfy clothes, black leggings, black hoody, a band t shirt and two necklaces. One necklace is a dragonfly the other is my favourite dinosaur. My corpse looks empty. Pale and empty, completely devoid of my usual colourful animation. It reminds me of a time in my childhood when I found a dragonfly that was dying and I took it home hoping that shelter would help. It died a couple of hours later and all the resplendent colour completely drained away leaving a colourless corpse.
    Looking sadly down at my now empty cold body I realized that it was all over. The end of a story, the song had played out and now everything was quiet. 
    How I appreciate that silence though.
    Before I turn away and step into the afterlife, I ask one thing. 

    Solve this Murder.