The Marquis of Granby—a well-known hotel near the Scilly Isles roundabout—was a convenient place to stop for sandwiches and a soft drink. Strudwick left his gloves in the car whilst making his purchase and put them back on when he returned. He ate and drank in the car, disposing of the bottle and wrappings in a handy rubbish bin, and at the same time taking the opportunity to be rid of two plastic sandwich boxes he had wiped clean of fingerprints.
At ten minutes past eleven, he parked the Astra behind Lower Green Post Office, switched off the engine and extinguished the lights. Slipping on the anorak and trainers, he took the bags from the boot and walked openly to Rodene Close via Cobham Street and through the side entrance of number eleven.
Strudwick was entirely familiar with the garden, having reconnoitred thoroughly in advance. He used a spade from the shed to bury the bags, taking no particular trouble to work quietly. Interment was completed in under ten minutes, the hole filled and the spade returned to the shed. There, Steven Pearce. Let’s see you wriggle your way out of that. If the police were smart enough, his toe-rag rival might spend the next twenty years in jail. He grinned happily at the thought.
But, excellent though his intelligence-gathering had been, Strudwick was not aware that Steven’s ticket had failed to arrive, nor that at the eleventh hour he had accepted his father’s offer of a free weekend, assured that Manchester United would undoubtedly survive, even without his support.
Robert returned to the car, where it was the work of a few minutes to make a parcel of the trainers and anorak, run silently in his socks to a nearby house and dump the package in a dustbin where, with a bit of luck, it might reasonably be found.
Five minutes later, he was en route for a quarter-past midnight rendezvous with a hard-up mechanic from an Isleworth garage (a useful contact through his father, who managed Charlesworth’s finances) to return the Astra borrowed for the weekend on an unofficial ‘sale or return’ arrangement. He stopped beside the Thames at Hampton near the A311 turn-off for Twickenham and threw the bucket, water-container and latchkey into the river. In a back street close to the garage, the car was checked and £200 paid over in cash, the agreed ‘sweetener’ should the vehicle fail to sell. No names were mentioned: no questions asked. Strudwick summoned a taxi from a nearby call box, was picked up in minutes and back in Esher High Street by 12.50, barely a couple of minutes walk from where he had left his car. An hour later, he was home, bathed and fast asleep in bed.
Sparkling and pristine, the Astra was back on the Isleworth forecourt by nine and purchased by an elderly couple from Osterley before midday for £5,000—a very reasonable price for a highly sought-after, low-mileage car in extremely nice condition.
Chapter Seven
Investigation
Police work relies on information, whether communicated electronically, verbally or via the traditional piece of paper—without information, few crimes would ever be solved. Modern information technology, infinitely capacious and a thousand times faster than the data transmission of yesteryear, would contribute little to efficiency were this vast reservoir of available information not prioritised. The humble copper must therefore be selective and turn to the computer only when absolutely necessary.
There are basically two species of policeman: the ‘beat bobby’ (a rarity, these days) whose brief is to uphold the law and prevent crime, and the detective, who must concentrate on tracking down and bringing miscreants to justice. Enter the Criminal Investigation Department. Be assured, the modern detective is simply an old-fashioned detective with electronic additions.
And what, you may ask, constitutes a successful detective?
Take intuition, attention to detail and sheer, hard grind— mostly the latter—plus, if you like, the dogged application of crime-detection methods devised, applied and proven over the years and you have the makings of a solid, dependable CID officer.
Detective Inspector David Melton was essentially an old-fashioned type of policeman. Keenly intuitive, his attention to detail regularly pinpointed clues that might otherwise be overlooked, and therefore he probed and prodded at every snippet purely as a matter of course. In common with most successful officers, he never ignored memoranda—routine or otherwise. He simply worked longer hours when necessary.
Monday, 20 July 2002
Week three into the investigation—The Body in the Garden murder.
Following the release without charge of Steven Pearce, the area covered by house-to-house inquiries and the search of gardens and outbuildings were twice extended, yet nothing further emerged to suggest a possible suspect, or provide a clue which might help establish the murdered girl’s identity, nor uncover anything to indicate a possible motive for the crime. Even though the blood on the anorak matched that of the corpse, it was necessary to establish beyond doubt they were from the same person. Samples were therefore sent for genetic analysis. Missing person reports from all over the country were checked, but none stood up to scrutiny and after a week with little or no progress to report, media interest waned.
But, on July 31, nineteen-year-old Jennifer Montague arrived home after ten miserable days in Tangiers. For some unknown reason, her close friend Malandra Pennington had failed to keep their rendezvous at the Britair departure terminal in Kensington on Sunday July 14.
Jennifer dialled Malandra’s number—no reply; tried her mobile—switched off. Strange! She went round to Malandra’s flat, knocked the door and rang the doorbell—no response.
What if Malandra’s change of heart had been unintentional? Might she have fallen ill—been taken to hospital, perhaps? And whose so-called friend went on holiday without first finding out? Jennifer almost ran to the garages behind the flats. She stood on tiptoe to peer through a window and there in Malandra’s lockup stood a car, unmistakably her ancient Mini. Something was definitely wrong.
She returned to Malandra’s flat and hammered on the door. Again there was no response, but the next-door neighbour came out.
‘What’s going on? Oh, hello, Jennifer. What’s the matter?’
‘I can’t locate Malandra. She doesn’t answer the phone, she’s not at home, but her car is still in the garage.’
‘I thought she was away on holiday—with you!’
‘She didn’t turn up at the air terminal. I kept ringing her but couldn’t get an answer. I thought she’d changed her mind—she often does—so I went on holiday without her. What else could I do?’
Phyllis Gleave—Malandra’s neighbour—turned deathly white. She swayed, seemed likely to faint, and may even have fallen, had not Jennifer grabbed her arm.
‘Whatever is the matter, Phyllis? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘Oh my God, Jennifer. It’s Malandra—it must be! The police found the body of a girl in a garden at Lower Green a fortnight ago … and she was a blonde. It was on telly and in all the papers.’ Jennifer blanched. ‘Do you really think…?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, no!’ She burst into tears.
It was Phyllis’ turn to be supportive. ‘Steady on, love, don’t cry. I’ve got a key—shall we take a look? Maybe it’s all a mistake.’
Jennifer nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Yes, we’d better make sure, I suppose.’
Mrs Gleave ran for the key. Nervously, she turned it in the lock and pushed back the door. Behind it lay a scattering of mail. There were two suitcases and beyond, lying on the hall table beside a vase of dead flowers, stood Malandra’s handbag. Jennifer shrieked.
‘Shut the door, Phyllis, and come away. I’m calling the police. Can I use your phone?’
‘Of course you can. There’s a special number to ring—it’s been in all the papers. It was in the Sunday Mirror. I’ve still got my copy, somewhere—hang on, I’ll go and find it.’
Scaled-down incident-room staff were doggedly ‘plodding’, but soon after Jennifer Montague telephoned the special number, the atmosphere became dramatically transformed. Her call was taken by a civilian telephone operator, who immediately alerted DS
O’Connor.
‘Hey, Sarge, there’s a Miss Jennifer Montague on the line, from Esher. Says she’s a friend of an eighteen-year-old girl named Malandra Pennington—a blonde. Seems they were going away on holiday on July fourteenth, but when Miss Pennington didn’t show up as arranged, she went to Tangiers on her own. She got back from holiday an hour ago. Tried to phone her friend, but there was no reply. She checked Miss Pennington’s flat to find nobody at home, yet her car is still in the garage. Miss Montague is ringing from the flat next door. Apparently the neighbour heard knocking, came out, told her about the murder and our appeal. Do you want to speak to her?’
‘Yes, George, put her through. I’d very much like a word!’
Minutes later, he reported the text of the conversation to DS Melton.
‘It seems the neighbour had a key to Miss Pennington’s flat. They checked inside, but didn’t enter. One look was enough to convince them Malandra had gone missing. Her holiday suitcases and her handbag were still in the hall as she left them, together with a pile of unopened mail. Not surprisingly, Miss Montague is distraught, but she’s still perfectly coherent.’
‘Get her to come in—better still, go and see her,’ Melton said. ‘Turn her story over and take a statement. Get a description of Miss Pennington and a photo, if possible—you know the form. Action stations, Ben. Give me a ring. If everything checks out, there’ll be buttons to push!’
Melton was visibly brighter. After two weeks without progress and a cold trail on this callous, well-planned killing, there were signs of despondency in the team. Everybody needed a breakthrough. For the first time in more than a fortnight, Melton actually smiled.
‘The more I think about it the surer I am. We’re on to the girl’s identity.’
DS O’Connor also seemed confident. Half an hour later he came on the line.
‘We may have a match, sir, the description fits. I’m at Miss Montague’s home—16 Stretton Mews, two minutes’ walk from Miss Pennington’s flat. I’ll explain why I’m here in a minute. I gave the neighbour a receipt for the key and advised Mrs Gleave not to jump to conclusions, to stay calm and not assume the worst until positive identification is established. I pointed out there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Miss Pennington’s absence.
‘I also suggested it would be wiser not to discuss the matter with anyone, at least for the moment. It was impossible to question Miss Montague—Mrs Gleave was parroting ten to the dozen—so I escorted her home to talk to her and pick up a photograph of Miss Pennington. She produced several and I picked out a couple taken last year. What a pretty little thing she was too—an orphan, so Miss Montague says.
‘She seems convinced the girl is dead and is extremely upset. She and Miss Pennington have been close friends for years—they went to school together, apparently. When I asked her if she knew of anyone who might wish to see Miss Pennington dead, or might have a motive for wanting to harm her, she said she hadn’t the remotest idea—and burst into tears. It’s too soon to try for a statement, but she might have more to say once she’s calmed down…’ He went quiet for a couple of seconds, then asked, ‘Do you want to get in on this, Guv’nor?’
‘No, you’re doing well enough, Ben. Too much pressure and she might clam up. Our first priority is to secure positive ID. If the body turns out to be Miss Pennington and her friend was as close to Malandra as she claims, then Miss Montague may be the key to this whole business, even if she doesn’t realise it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Are you happy to carry on dealing with Miss Montague yourself?’
‘Yes sir, I am. She’s likely to be relaxed and more talkative in her own home. I’ll see if I can draw her out over a cup of tea. There is just one thing, sir.’
‘What’s that, Sergeant?’
‘There’s a killer loose somewhere out there and Miss Montague might therefore be in danger. Do you think…?’ He left the question suspended, and Melton was quick to respond.
‘Yes, I do—and you only just managed to beat me to it. She’ll be in danger from the moment this gets out. But let me correct you, Sergeant. He’s not “somewhere out there”, he’s nearby—a local man—someone who knows the area thoroughly.
‘Explain to Miss Montague how things work, but try not to frighten her unduly. I’ll arrange for round-the-clock protection. I’ll also get Slade and Gibson to collect the key to Miss Pennington’s flat so they can get started—oh, and before you get back to Miss Montague, it would be cruel to ask her to formally identify the body—I doubt whether it’s even possible. Keep off the radio, Sergeant. And what’s the number there, in case I need to get back to you?’
By late afternoon, DI Melton had consulted the ‘Chief’, issued instructions and made a number of important telephone calls. A much heartened, reinvigorated police unit swung back into action. Within the hour, barrier-suited DCs Gibson and Slade began work in Malandra Pennington’s flat. Gibson dusted for fingerprints, whilst Slade searched for strands of hair. When examination of the girl’s brushes, combs and toiletries failed to produce results, he promptly dismantled the shower waste and recovered enough hair for both identification and DNA purposes.
Slade joined in the hunt for fingerprints, but the flat was spotless, leading the officers to assume it had had a thorough cleaning by someone wearing gloves, prior to being closed for a fortnight. They checked around, and Slade (the junior of the two) wondered about the handbag and luggage.
‘Have you checked the suitcases, Graham?’ Gibson shook his head. ‘I didn’t give them a thought, to tell the truth.’
Slade regarded his colleague solemnly: ‘Never mind, let’s both take a shufti, shall we?’
A light dusting of power produced two sets of prints, one on each suitcase handle.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Gibson remarked, not the least bit put out. ‘Go get the digicam, Harry, old son. I put it in the kitchen behind the door.’
With the prints photographed, the pair locked and sealed the flat and returned to headquarters. Gibson downloaded camera to diskette, made back-up copies and ran for a print comparison with the computer database. In less than a minute it came up with a match. ‘Come on, Harry,’ Gibson said, ‘we’d better go see the Guv’nor!’ DS O’Connor, meanwhile, returned to Jennifer’s flat and succeeded in persuading the tearful girl to talk, particularly about Malandra and their long-standing relationship. At first, Jennifer ‘pooh-poohed’ fears for her own safety and insisted nothing mattered except finding out what happened to her dearest friend— and catching her killer, if she really was dead. But she relented, agreed to be protected, and promptly resumed sobbing. DS O’Connor succeeded in calming her and she agreed to make a statement the following morning.
O’Connor took his leave, returned to HQ and reported to Melton.
‘Sorry I took so long, Guv’nor,’ he said, ‘but it’s quite a story.’ He handed over the photographs. ‘That’s her, Malandra Pennington—the murder victim, I reckon. What a pretty girl! Look at her figure, that gorgeous hair … pretty distinctive, wouldn’t you say?’ Melton studied the prints carefully.
‘It looks that way,’ he agreed, ‘But the corpse’s hair was tangled and matted, which makes it difficult to be sure. We’ll know for certain soon enough, so for the moment, let’s keep an open mind.’
‘Yes, sir. Can I bring you up to speed regarding Miss Montague?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. I take it she’s added to her earlier information?’
‘With a bit of prompting and the help of umpteen cups of tea, yes, sir, she has.’
Melton tilted his chair until his head rested against the wall, placed his fingertips together and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
‘Well, sir, Miss Montague would make a credible witness,’ O’Connor began. ‘Although distressed, she was lucid and a good communicator. She didn’t deviate one iota from what she told me previously, even though I gave her plenty of opportunity. I took notes, of course, and I’ll write my report as soon as I can.’ He took a deep
breath. ‘Sir, I consider Miss Montague’s information to be reliable and I expect her statement tomorrow to corroborate every word.’
‘That’s encouraging,’ Melton said. ‘But what else did she tell you?’
‘I was coming to that, sir. Concise as Miss Montague was, there were important omissions. Apparently she and Miss Pennington spoke on the phone just after 9.00 a.m. on the Saturday, the day before they were due to meet. They chatted about this and that, but Miss Pennington said she’d changed her mind about going to London that afternoon, intended to cancel her hotel booking and stay another night at her flat. It was because a nearly-new Vauxhall Astra was due in at Charlesworth’s and she was intending to look at it on Sunday morning. I asked why that was important and she said Malandra had been after an Astra for some time and her current car, a Mini, was almost ready for the breakers.
‘She needed a reliable vehicle for work and didn’t relish returning to (and I quote) “a clapped-out old banger that probably wouldn’t go” (unquote). She had intended to go to the theatre but decided to give it a miss.’ He looked up. ‘And that’s about it, sir.’
Melton was impressed. It took skill to extract pertinent information from an upset witness.
‘Well done, Ben,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to watch out. You’ll be after my job next. That information could be crucial. It narrows the time-scale during which Miss Pennington disappeared to within a few hours. Regretfully, owing to the state of the corpse, formal ID is a non-starter, but in the light of this evidence I think we’ll get by without. I intend approaching the ‘Chief’ about staging a reconstruction, although it might pay to hold back on the event itself until after we’ve spoken with Charlesworth’s. At last we’re getting somewhere.’
The Flyleaf Killer Page 12