A Very Mersey Murder

Prologue

PrologueHale, Liverpool, 30th July 1966

The 30th July 1966 had proved to be a landmark day for English football, a day that began with hope and expectation among the fans of 'the beautiful game' and ended with joyous celebrations all over the country. Not only did England triumph in the World Cup Final, in a thrilling 4 -2 encounter with West Germany in a game that needed extra-time to separate the two evenly matched teams, but England's Geoff Hurst became the first player in the history of the game to score a hat-trick in a World Cup Final, the final goal scored and accompanied by the now famous words of commentator Kenneth Wolstenholme, as Hurst's shot rocketed into the net, “And here comes Hurst. He's got…some people are on the pitch, they think it's all over. It is now! It's four!”

Celebrations began all over the country as those who'd watched the game on television, listened to the radio commentary indulged in impromptu parties and revelry. Victory over the Germans had been the perfect excuse for unprecedented scenes of delirium and togetherness among fans and non-fans of the game as it became a matter of national pride that England for the first time, had been crowned kings of the game that, after all, they had invented.

Nowhere were the celebrations more pronounced, more fervent, than in and around the city of Liverpool, a hot bed of football fanaticism and home to two veritable giants of the English First Division, in the forms of Liverpool and Everton Football Clubs. That year, Liverpool had won the First Division Championship and Everton had won the F.A. Cup with a thrilling comeback victory over Sheffield Wednesday at Wembley, after being two-nil behind, eventually winning 3 goals to 2. For that day, and especially in the evening, all thoughts of partisan rivalry were forgotten as fans of all teams joined together to celebrate England's triumph. The people of Liverpool could feel extra pride as two of the England team that day played for the city's teams, Inside Forward Roger Hunt of Liverpool and Ramon (Ray) Wilson, the Everton full back.

As the night drew towards a close, the customers in the Traveller's Rest public house on the outskirts of the village of Hale, some six miles from the city of Liverpool were enjoying themselves, a spirit of bonhomie and good humour being the order of the day, or night, to be more precise.

Closing time was drawing closer as 19-year-old barmaid Stella Cox made her way through the loud, happy throng of drinkers, tray in hand, attempting to clear the tables of empty glasses. In the packed, crowded bar, more than one stray hand would reach out, trying to grab a cheeky feel of Stella's shapely rear as she tried to navigate the obstacle course of happy, mostly slightly inebriated drinkers.

“Get off, you lecherous old bugger,” Stella laughed as she good naturedly fought off the semi-drunken attentions of more than a few of the bar's regular punters.

“Oh, come on, Stella. You look good enough to eat, girl,” old Billy Riley said with a grin as he 'accidentally' allowed his hand to encounter the fabric of her softly pleated skirt. “Give us a feel for England, eh?”

“The only feel you'll cop, Billy Riley, is the feel of my fist as it connects with your chin, you old dog,” shouted Micky Drummond, the landlord of 'The Travellers' as it was known to the locals. “Leave my sodding staff alone, you b****y p*****t. Stella's young enough to be your b****y daughter.”

“Aye well, I s'pose I did go to school with yer old man, Stella, so I guess old Micky's right,” Riley hiccupped as the effects of the locally brewed Higson's Bitter induced a distinct slurring of his words. “Sorry love.”

“I think you ought to be getting off home, Billy,” Stella laughed, unperturbed by Billy's fumbling. “Sheila won't be best pleased if you roll in drunk as a lord, now, will she?”

The thought of his wife standing in the hall, rolling pin in hand seemed to have a sobering effect on Billy Riley, who quickly downed the last of his eighth pint of the night, placed his glass on Stella's tray, almost missing entirely as his eyes failed to focus properly, and made a lurch towards the door, calling out a hearty “Goodnight all,” as he set off on his drunken walk to his home a few hundred yards away.

“The way he's weaving around, I reckon it'll take him half a b****y hour to get home,” Micky Drummond laughed as the door swung shut behind Billy Riley. A wave of laughter accompanied Micky's words and Stella completed her penultimate collection of empty glasses just as Drummond called 'Last orders. please,” ringing the bell over the bar to back up his announcement. She'd clear the final lot after the final customers had left the premises. His wife, Dora, took the bell as her signal to leave her place behind the bar and she quickly walked across the room to turn off the jukebox in the corner, that was currently playing the new number one in the charts, Wild Thing, by The Troggs, for what was probably the twentieth time that night.

“Oy, Dora, love. I paid a tanner to play that song,” Bobby Evans protested as the music died and the lights of the juke box faded away to nothing.

At twenty-two, just under six feet tall, with a shock of unruly blonde hair, Bobby was one of the younger regulars at The Travellers, and was the pub's star darts player, captaining the darts team in the Liverpool and District Licensed Victuallers Darts League. By day he worked as a postman and was only in the pub till closing time because it was Saturday, and there was no delivery service on Sundays.

“For Christ sakes, Bobby Evans, you must have played it a dozen times at least this evening. You tryin' to wear the grooves out lad?” Dora cajoled him.

“Right, I'm off then. Youse lot don't know good music when you hear it. Place is like a b****y morgue without the jukebox,” Bobby replied, draining the last of his pint, and banging the glass down on the bar in protest.

“Hey, la' break that and you'll be paying for it,” Micky said, sternly as Bobby held a hand up in apology and made his way to the door, followed closely by the last of the die-hards who'd stayed till closing time, England's World Cup win being the perfect excuse for a good night out and maybe a drink or two more than usual.

“Thank God for that,” Dora exclaimed as a momentary silence followed the exit of the last of night's patrons.

“Don't knock it girl,” Micky responded. “That World Cup win has boosted our takings by about fifty percent tonight. He quickly poured himself a large scotch from a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label he kept under the bar, for his personal consumption, as well as a gin and tonic for Dora and a Babycham for Stella. As they were joined by Ann Rolls and Pete Donovan, who'd staffed the small lounge bar that evening, he added a pint of Higson's bitter for Pete and a Cherry B for Ann.

For the next ten minutes, landlord and staff enjoyed a convivial drink together before calling it a night. Before the staff left to make their way to their homes, Dora pulled Stella to one side.

“Just wanted to tell you how nice you looked tonight, Stella. That skirt new, is it?”

“Yes, it is,” Stella replied, running her hands down the fabric of the navy blue, pencil pleated skirt, that was beautifully complimented by her white satin effect blouse with ruffles at the neck. With her flowing auburn hair, Stella Cox could easily be mistaken for a model, though she would be the first to tell anyone who asked that such a job just wasn't for her. In fact, Stella had ambitions to succeed in a less lucrative but more stable business and had recently gained an interview for a position as a clerk in the Littlewoods Football Pools offices on Walton Hall Avenue, where she hoped to one day become an office manager or something similar. She'd promised Micky that she'd continue to work at the pub at weekends if she got the job, a decision that greatly please the landlord of the Travellers, who knew that Stella's good looks and permanently cheerful disposition helped trade enormously. Everyone loved a pretty barmaid, and they didn't come much prettier than Stella Cox.

“I bought it this afternoon at C & A,” Stella continued her conversation with Dora, who, at forty-eight, had retained her own youthful figure, much to the delight of her husband, a former Liverpool City police sergeant, who'd taken early retirement in order to fulfil his lifetime ambition to run his own pub one day. He and Dora had now run the Traveller's Rest successfully for three years.

“You're a very pretty girl, Stella,” Dora went on. “Still no lad in your life yet?”

“No, not yet, Dora. You know me, still young and fancy free. My Mam says I've plenty of time ahead of me to get tangled up with boys, as she puts it.”

“She's got a sound head on her shoulders, that Mam of yours,” Dora smiled in agreement with Lucy Cox, her friend, Stella's mother, who she'd known for as long as she could remember.

“Yeah, well, me Dad agrees with her,” Stella replied. “And it could put any lad wanting to be my boyfriend off if I tell 'em me Dad says he'll kill any scally that so much as lays a finger on me, never mind tried to kiss me or anything.”

Dora laughed, as did Stella, and a few minutes later Stella, Pete and Ann all made their way to the door, which Micky unlocked to allow them out of the pub, ready for home, and bed.

Pete and Ann both lived on Church Road, about a ten-minute walk from the pub, and Pete, as was customary, would walk Ann home before heading to his own house, a few doors away, not far from St. Mary's church. Stella lived in the opposite direction, her family residing in a neat detached cottage not far from the disused Hale Lighthouse, from where her father, Terry, ran his own small business, making items of bespoke hand-made furniture, much sought after by many of the local city retailers, as well as making individual commissions for discerning customers.

“You going to be alright walking home alone, Stella?” Micky asked the same question he posed every night that Stella worked in the pub.

“Stop fussing, Micky,” Stella laughed as she replied. “You're like an old mother hen. What's gonna happen round here? This is Hale, not flippin' London or Manchester, or even the city centre. Besides, everyone round here knows me and my Mam and Dad. We're all one big happy family in the village, right?”

“Aye lass, I suppose you're right at that. Just be careful, okay?”

“I'm always careful, Micky, you know that. Now get yourself in there with Dora and get a good night's sleep. I'll see you tomorrow night as usual.”

“Right you are, Stella,” Micky replied, bending his six feet three-inch frame enough to allow him to plant a fatherly kiss on Stella's right cheek. “Good night, girl. Take care.”

Micky Drummond didn't know it, but those would be the last words he, or any of her workmates at the Traveller's rest would ever speak to Stella Cox.

* * *

Stella was almost home. Turning off the main footpath onto the narrow unpaved track that led to her parent's cottage, she sensed, rather than heard, the soft footfalls approaching from the darkness behind her. A tiny frisson of fear ran the length of her spine, but, seeing the lights of the cottage ahead, she tried to dispel any thoughts of impending trouble. After all, she'd be home in a minute. The sound of someone breathing close by eventually forced her to quicken her pace a little, not easy in her three-inch heels on the unpaved, rough surface of the track to the cottage. Stella whirled round, ready to confront the apparition in the dark.

“Oh, it's you,” she gasped, as a familiar face came into view.

“Who were you expecting, Stella?” the voice asked.

“Nobody of course. I'm going home and I'm going to bed. What are you doing down here anyway?”

“I wanted to see you, of course.”

“Me? Why?”

“You looked so nice tonight in the pub, so pretty.”

“Thank you, but why follow me home?”

“Because I wanted to see you. I already told you.”

A ripple of fear made Stella turn towards home again. Something wasn't right here, and she knew it.”

“Look, I'm very tired and I want to get to bed. You can see me in the pub again tomorrow, okay?”

She walked two paces in the direction of home when she felt strong arms around her waist, strong enough to lift her off her feet, and throw her to the ground. Before she could scream a hand pressed down across her mouth, silencing her, as the weight of her attacker held her pinned to the ground.

“Scream, and you die,” the once friendly voice commanded, and Stella nodded, as he removed his hand and stuffed an old piece of rag in her mouth, choking and gagging her at the same time. She felt herself being flipped over onto her front, and in mere seconds, her hands were pulled behind her back and tied together with a rough length of rope.

Rough hands pulled at her beautiful new skirt, exposing her legs to the attacker.

“Now, I can see you,” the voice said, as tears stung Stella's eyes. She felt herself being lifted and was soon hoisted over the shoulder of the man, who, she now noticed, was dressed in black from head to foot. No wonder she hadn't seen anyone behind her as she'd walked along the dark path towards home.

A few minutes later, Stella felt herself being tossed like a sack of garbage onto the rough ground. Rough hands pulled at the buttons of her blouse as the man spoke again.

“I only want to see you, Stella.”

Despite the foul-tasting rag that effectively gagged her, Stella Cox did her best to struggle, and behind the gag, she screamed into the night, but her screams went unheard.

* * *

Postman Bobby Evans discovered the body of Stella Cox at three a.m. the following morning. Bobby walked his dog Max, a young Bedlington terrier, along the old farm tracks near the disused Hale Lighthouse, early every morning before heading off to work. He had to be at the local sorting office by four a.m. so made sure Max had a good run before having to leave him at home with his widowed Mum, Edith for most of the day. Despite the fact he wasn't working the following day, he stuck to the usual routine, as Max had no concept of days off and his built-in body clock demanded he be walked at the same time every early morning. Bobby never minded his early morning walks with Max. The village and its surrounding area always exuded a feeling of peace and tranquillity late at night and first thing in the morning, just before dawn, and now, it gave Bobby, after just a couple of hours sleep, an opportunity to walk off some of his slightly drunken feelings, after celebrating England's victory with his mates in the pub. He planned to get his head down for an afternoon nap after one his Mother's gargantuan Sunday roast beef dinners.

He'd let Max off his lead, allowing him to run free and as usual, Max was running well ahead of Bobby, until he seemed to pull up with a start. From thirty yards away, Bobby saw his dog, standing still, whimpering as if he'd hurt himself.

“Hey Max, what's the matter boy? Have you found something?”

In the darkness, Bobby could just about make out a form on the ground in front of where Max stood. Hoping his dog hadn't come across the rotting corpse of a dead animal, he increased his pace until he was almost upon the spot where Max still stood, stock still and whimpering incessantly.

“Oh my God, no, please no!” Bobby Evans gasped in shock as he finally saw what Max had found. Futile as it was, he fell to his knees, trying to find some sign of life in the inert body that lay before him. When he realised who he was looking at, and the enormity of his discovery hit home, Bobby turned away from the body of Stella Cox just before depositing the contents of his stomach on the ground at the side of the path where she lay. Bobby ran over a mile, with Max at his side until he came to the nearest public telephone box, from where he dialled 999 and summoned the police.

* * *

Despite a massive police inquiry at the time, no charges were ever brought in the case of the murder of Stella Cox. As one of the last people to see her alive and also being the one to report the finding of her body, Bobby Evans at first came under close scrutiny as a possible suspect, but he was eventually cleared of any involvement. The investigation was hampered by the fact that between her death and the finding of her body, there'd been a light rain shower, which had potentially destroyed any trace evidence that may have been present at the scene or on Stella's body.

Every man in Hale was interviewed, and many from the surrounding areas. Sadly, in 1966, there was no such thing as DNA testing, so the semen found at the scene of the murder and during the autopsy couldn't be tied to any one man.

Although the case remained on the 'open' file for many years, it would eventually find itself into the archive of 'cold cases,' those for whom a resolution seemed as likely as a snowfall in hell, the longer the passage of time since they were committed.