The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

  Once more he was to devise his own plan, set his own agenda, taking care never to deviate from steel as the designated weapon. A number of interesting possibilities crossed his mind and he licked his lips, thinking about the pain he would inflict before dispatching the snivelling bastard. But where was Bridgwater? He would find out tomorrow. Robert put away the book.

  It promised to be a demanding mission, yet he relished the challenge and began to apply his intellect to the task of creating an outstanding strategy, not merely to dispense with a physically superior enemy and baffle the police, but to enhance his standing with Pentophiles, giving his mentor no reason whatever to withhold the material wealth Robert so desperately craved. He wanted to be a millionaire—he expected to be a millionaire. He wouldn’t fail, he couldn’t fail, for he was the chosen one. Had he not willingly conceded metamorphosis to Pentophiles, making it possible for his nether-region guru to satisfy a long-denied craving for human flesh and blood?

  Robert continued to deliberate. Bridgwater’s movements must be monitored from the moment he arrived home; that much was obvious. Equally obvious was the fact that Robert must stay in the background well out of sight, or the cleverest of plans might fail. To succeed, he would need help.

  No longer willing to risk the likes of Charlesworth, he would restrict his informants to two, neither of whom must know the other, or be bright enough to connect him with subsequent events. But before Robert could decide who to employ and how, something—was it fate?—intervened…

  Proud father Kenneth told several of his customers about Francis’ impending arrival for a two week vacation and was overheard by the son of one of them, who promptly made a telephone call. The caller lived opposite the Bridgwaters; he also knew a great deal about Frank—including his activities the last time home. Even as he spoke—and whilst Robert listened intently—a plan began to form.

  Besides the current informant, the services of another trustworthy person would be needed to act as intermediary, and Brian Carpenter was exactly the man for the task. Carefully briefed, Brian would follow instructions to the letter—and never dare to reveal his involvement afterwards. By the time the connection was broken, the complete strategy had been decided—simple, but brilliant.

  The next day Robert visited Kingston Hospital, venue of two successful disguise experiments. Parking unobtrusively, he put on a white coat and, wearing contact lenses and horn-rimmed spectacles fitted with plain glass, he strode purposefully through the main entrance doors.

  Briefcase in hand, he made his way towards the operating theatre, but slowed his pace when a scrub-nurse bearing a pile of folded laundry emerged from a sterile store a few metres ahead. She elbowed her way through the swing-doors of the theatre and disappeared from view, giving Robert precisely the opportunity he’d hoped for. Unchallenged, with a complete set of green operating clothes tucked inside his briefcase, he was halfway down the corridor before the nurse remedied her omission and returned to lock the door.

  Before he left Kingston, Robert bought a folding wheelchair and a second-hand surgical scalpel in a leather case from a market bric-a-brac stall. Highly-prized by model-makers, these fine Victorian instruments are sharper than modelling-knives, even when no longer fit for surgery, remaining keen-edged almost indefinitely, providing they are not abused.

  Frank Bridgwater’s brief vacation drew to a close. On Monday November 15, two days in advance of his scheduled return to France, he visited Esher railway station to purchase his train ticket. Once he was gone, the booking clerk earned his £20: he dialled the number scribbled on a scrap of paper by a charming, rather elderly gentleman who had called at the station earlier that morning.

  ‘Hello, I’m ringing to confirm Mr Bridgwater’s reserved seat on Eurostar Express, departing Waterloo International at 10.30 a.m. on November 17, just as you expected, sir. By the way, I hope the farewell-party goes well, but don’t get him too drunk—he might miss his train.’

  The first phase of the plan concluded, Robert relaxed, smiled with satisfaction and chuckled.

  ‘Thanks, but don’t worry. I expect he’ll have a nasty headache— but I’ve plenty of aspirin!’

  Ten minutes later, Robert rang Brian Carpenter.

  ‘Hello Brian, it’s me. Are you at home?’

  ‘Yes, Robert.’

  ‘How much petrol have you got in your tank?’

  ‘Not much—about two gallons.’

  ‘Good, that’s enough for the moment. You can fill up later— my treat. Now, listen carefully, I’ve an important job lined up for tomorrow evening and I need your help. Let’s see what the time is—um… just after five. Right. Leave at six and drive to Esher station. Go to the rear of the car park, switch off your lights and wait for me there. I’ll be along shortly to explain exactly what I want you to do. Have you got that?’

  ‘Yes, Robert. Leave at six, go to Esher station and wait for you at the back of the car park.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll see you there at six-fifteen. Don’t forget, turn off your lights—and be there!’

  En route to the station, Robert made a detour to surreptitiously borrow a key…

  Kenneth went to work long before Frank fancied getting up. Eight o’clock was plenty early enough.

  Providing he left by nine, he could bus to Esher station and catch the 9.45 for Waterloo—perfect. It was becoming routine. Packed, ready to leave by teatime on the eve of departure, he would round his holiday off with a trip to the cinema.

  For safety’s sake, Frank zipped his wallet and passport into the side-pocket of his valise. He shrugged into his overcoat, closed the bedroom door and went in the living-room where the ‘old fellow’ was working. Promising to telephone by month end, Frank hugged his father good-bye and caught the 6.05 bus for Kingston.

  Robert’s mobile rang—he grinned. True to form, just as on the last two occasions, Francis Bridgwater was heading for the cinema. But which one? Robert dialled another mobile number and a similar instrument warbled in the Black and White Milk Bar, adjacent to the 218 bus stop.

  ‘He’s on the bus, Brian. Watch for him. Ring me back when you see which cinema he goes to.’

  Diagonally opposite stood the Odeon cinema, some seventy metres from its Granada rival on the next corner, the entrances to both clearly visible from the Milk Bar. The Milk Bar! Justice demanded that it should figure in this retribution-seeking scheme. Robert grinned sardonically.

  The 218 from Staines drew up at 7.10. Twenty or so passengers alighted and dispersed. Some headed towards the Granada cinema, others to the Odeon, among them Frank Bridgwater.

  Fearful, yet obedient and fully-briefed, Brian Carpenter made his return phone call.

  ‘He’s going to the Odeon, Robert,’ he said.

  Strudwick smirked, all was going well.

  ‘OK Brian. Thanks. Don’t forget why I gave you that fifty. Sit near him, then bump into him as if by accident when the film finishes. Be pleased to see him. Get him to the bar. Buy him a pint or two and keep him talking. It shouldn’t be difficult—he loves his beer. Remember, he mustn’t catch the bus. It would spoil his surprise. Offer him a ride home—anything. Don’t forget, if he doesn’t want a drink or refuses a lift, go to the toilets and ring me, but I doubt that’ll be necessary.

  ‘Leave at ten thirty-five exactly. I’ll be watching, don’t forget. As soon as you clear Kingston, mention the coffee in the glove-box and tell him to help himself, but don’t be too pushy—and don’t drink any yourself—it’s full of knockout drops. He’ll be easier to handle if he takes a drink, but it’s not vital.

  ‘Pull into the lay-by on Littleworth Common. Tell him you’re bursting for a piddle if he’s still awake and, if there’s anybody about, you’d better pretend to have one. I’ll park right close behind. As soon as he’s in my car, you can go home. I shan’t need you any more tonight.’

  Kingston was about twenty minutes drive away. Robert completed his preparations and took stock: key, bell wire, wheelchair, surgica
l clothing and impedimenta in the boot, cosh under his seat, a second flask of coffee in one glove-box, cagoule and knife (for emergencies) in the other. Elated, confident, fully prepared for any eventuality, Robert left Claygate at nine-fifty…

  Kenneth experienced some unease when November drew to a close without the promised phone call. On the night of December 1st, two full weeks after Francis’ departure, Kenneth hardly slept in case the phone should ring and he might not wake to answer it. Morning found him edgy, fearful that something was wrong. Francis was always as good as his word, never broke a solemn promise or intentionally caused anyone needless anxiety. Yes, something was definitely amiss with the boy—but what? An accident of some sort? A plane crash? Surely not. He would have been notified immediately.

  Kenneth vacillated. What should he do? He couldn’t think straight any more. By December 3, tired, irritable and frantic with worry, he muddled deliveries—even missed some out altogether— and, by the afternoon, almost out of his mind with anxiety, he disregarded Air France company rules and telephoned Toulouse airport.

  Unlike Frank, Kenneth’s command of French was limited and he had difficulty making himself understood. But he persevered, and was eventually connected with the cabin-crew manager.

  ‘I must speak urgently with Francis Bridgwater, please. I am his father, Kenneth Bridgwater.’

  ‘But ’e is not ’ere, M’sieur Bridgwater!’ the Frenchman exclaimed. ‘Francois was engaged as acting senior cabin steward for Flight G8 for Toronto, but ’e did not report for duty. The plane ’ad to leave Toulouse on November the nineteenth understaffed as a consequence. Passengers were inconvenienced, M’sieur. I was inconvenienced. It was inconsiderate of ’im. I am still very angry!’

  Horrified, Kenneth protested, ‘You must be mistaken. Francis left for Paris on November the seventeenth—he must have arrived.’

  ‘I am sorry M’sieur, but there is no mistake. Francois did not report for duty. ’E did not even take trouble to telephone me and explain ’imself…’ Fearful, trembling, Kenneth mumbled his thanks. Without replacing the receiver, he broke the connection and telephoned the police…

  Chapter Nine

  Assassin

  During the 1920s, the expanding village of Esher became a parish within the diocese of Guildford and, to reflect this enhanced status, a new church was commissioned and built on a dominant position overlooking ancient common land, earmarked to become the village green. Designed to reflect Early English architecture, the new structure took full advantage of twentieth-century materials and techniques and the scaled-down cathedral-like edifice had the capacity to cope with whatever size congregation might conceivably develop in the future.

  The consecration of Esher Parish Church was generally welcomed, but a surprising number of residents complained that its presence rendered the tiny chapel of Saint George—the village place of worship since the twelfth century—virtually redundant. Bowing to pressure, the church authorities agreed that St. George’s—known locally thereafter as the ‘Old Church’—should be maintained in good repair in perpetuity, but stipulated that a minimum of two services must be conducted on the premises each year.

  The chapel is open daily and visitors are free to worship, to inspect the artefacts or to visit the ancient graveyard, where monuments to the long-departed still stand, many of historical interest. The Old Church is set behind the original village green, two minutes’ walk from the present-day town centre. Its imposing main entrance door is of oak. The entrance is approached over a cobbled pathway through a rather splendid lychgate. The graveyard is enclosed by substantial stone walls and a second, rarely-used gate opens to a service area behind a parade of High Street shops. Two ladies from a church-sponsored charity spend a morning each week cleaning the interior, whilst staff from the parish church look after the building, graveyard and the surrounds.

  Beneath the main body of the church lies the crypt, abandoned and sealed for over two hundred years. At the foot of a short flight of steps, a single, solid-oak door provides access to an anteroom, thence to a side-vault, once privately owned.

  Nothing in church records gives any indication of the former owner, nor whether at one time the space was employed as a burial-chamber.

  The tall, wrought iron gates guarding the crypt have remained chained and padlocked for longer than anyone can remember, and years have elapsed since the vault was last used. Few are aware that access can be gained by means of a key hanging from a nail in the vestry.

  In the days when St. George’s was in regular use, limited storage probably prompted an enterprising verger to press the vault into service. Nothing was stored there currently, however, except a pair of wooden trestles, a rickety old stepladder and a couple of decrepit, cane-bottomed chairs.

  St. George’s was converted from gas to electricity in 1934 and whilst it was thought unnecessary to have electricity wired to the disused crypt, the side-vault and anteroom were included in the interests of safety and supplied via a separate, fused lighting-spur.

  Robert Strudwick knew more about St George’s than most, having explored the place during his early teens and realised its potential. It became immediately obvious that it was rarely used and he was particularly intrigued to discover that it could be entered covertly from the rear. It didn’t take long to establish which door could be opened by means of the key in the vestry, but a hacksaw would be needed in order to get into the crypt. However, its use would simply advertise a break-in and neutralise an otherwise potentially first-rate entrapment venue. Eventually, Robert’s caution paid off. The vault beneath St. George’s represented the perfect place wherein to exact long-awaited vengeance on smarmy, oh-so-cocky Francis Bridgwater…

  Bridgwater eagerly accepted Brian Carpenter’s offer of a pint and a lift home. He drank two full cups of drug-laced coffee and was out to the world in minutes. As expected, the Littleworth Common lay-by was deserted. Here, Bridgwater was speedily bundled into the boot of the Jag and the conspirators went their separate ways, completely unobserved.

  Screened from the High Street and by means of the wheelchair, the ease with which he was able single-handedly to transfer Bridgwater into the vault seemed something of an anticlimax and the lack of excitement left Strudwick vaguely disappointed…

  Emerging slowly from a drugged stupor, he had no awareness of danger, merely a vague sense of discomfort coupled with a pounding headache. As the level of consciousness improved, however, Francis attempted to move, only to realise he was secured to a hard wooden seat of some description with his wrists tied securely behind his back.

  It was deathly quiet, the only discernible sound the beating of his heart as the muscle thumped in sympathy with a synchronous throbbing somewhere inside his head. A blindfold covered his eyes and the blackness beyond suggested he was confined in a place of darkness. A gag was jammed firmly between his teeth making it difficult to breathe.

  Where the hell am I? What’s going on? He winced with pain.

  The effort of trying to think simply magnified his headache. Barely conscious, he tried shifting his legs, but they were tied tightly together and strapped securely to the chair, making it impossible for his feet to touch the floor. To say he was uncomfortable would be something of an understatement. As time passed and the effects of restricted circulation worsened, discomfort turned first to pain and thence into sheer agony. Eventually, and paradoxically, he reached a stage when paralysed nerve-endings and numbness allowed exhaustion to take precedence and he dozed fitfully, scarcely aware of his predicament.

  After an hour or so of fragmented slumber, however, this anaesthetising insensibility wore off, and the pain from his tortured buttocks alone destroyed any possibility of sleep.

  With the return of full consciousness, the eerie silence seemed to intensify. No sound disturbed the deathly hush, yet he gradually became aware of a faint, continuous whistling noise, equally audible in both ears. He did not know it but profound silence, coupled with extreme discomfort, had t
riggered the onset of a hearing condition known medically as tinnitus.

  Increasingly desperate and disregarding the likelihood of bruising himself, he rocked the seat from side to side, trying to topple over and thereby relieve the excruciating pain at the base of his spine, but was thwarted when his shoulders came into contact with solid walling on either side. It was almost if he were entombed, or penned in some kind of narrow tunnel or enclosure. He regretted the discovery. For the first time in his life he was overwhelmed by claustrophobic panic. Fear of close confinement magnified his pain and he tried to scream, but the gag between his teeth was tied tightly at the back of his neck and he could manage little more than a gurgle.

  He could breathe only through his nose and, as he struggled, his lungs became seriously starved of oxygen, causing his heart to thump violently.

  It took a monumental effort of will but, eventually, he managed to calm himself sufficiently to restore his breathing to its former, barely adequate level.

  The atmosphere was dank and musty, which suggested his prison was underground. It was bitterly cold and Francis shivered; he realised for the first time that his overcoat was missing. His remaining clothes were chilly and damp. Tears of self-pity began to well up in his eyes. They were absorbed in an instant by the blindfold. Sod it, I can’t even bloody-well cry! He was racked with misery.

  Returned to full awareness, he cursed his crass stupidity at having been gullible enough to fall into what he now recognised was a carefully-prepared trap. Brian Carpenter, of all people, but why? The coffee, it must have been drugged—again why? Perhaps it’s all a joke. He’ll turn up any moment and let me go, pissing himself with laughter—or will he?

  Despite his pain he strove to establish a reason for his predicament. Brian Carpenter—fat, smelly Brian, one of Robert Strudwick’s crazy minions. What was he playing at? But wait! What if Strudwick himself was behind this? And if so, what were his intentions? Revenge for an imagined insult or what? The penny dropped; his heart sank.