The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

  ‘Yes, sir—er, do you want me to call the pathologist?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll get hold of Doctor Matthews myself. I’m hoping he’ll deal with this personally. But there’s no way we can allow a service here tomorrow and I’d be obliged if you’d contact the church authorities. No promises. Tell them we’ll give them back their church as soon as we can.’

  Avidly scanning the newspapers spread across his desk, Strudwick grinned sardonically. BODY IN THE VAULT one headline screamed. HUNT INTENSIFIES FOR SLASHER; SURREY RIPPER SOUGHT; KNIFE-FIEND STRIKES IN SURREY CHURCH yelled others.

  The story in every paper began with a graphic description of the scene in the vault as given to Robin Prendergast by James Billows and went on to quote the sexton: ‘The corpse was tied to a bloody chair, stinking rotten. Been there ages, I reckon. The poor bugger had both cheeks slashed and his bloody throat was slit from ear to ear.’

  As Strudwick recalled in delicious detail the cycle of events which had led to those injuries, his grin broadened—and when he remembered the pleasure derived from inflicting them, he laughed until his sides hurt. Yet still he considered the mission nowhere as exciting as the Pennington adventure.

  Pentophiles’ lapdog closed his eyes and tried to visualise what form his next task might take. When nothing came to mind, he returned briskly to reality and resumed drafting particulars for a property newly entrusted to Gaston Hathaway.

  Melton put down the post-mortem report, tilted his chair until his head rested against the wall, wedged one knee under the desk and focused his eyes somewhere above his assistant’s head—a posture adopted as an aid to concentration. Challenging his memory, he began to recite.

  The deceased was male, aged between eighteen and twenty. Height, five foot eleven. Estimated weight, eleven stone ten pounds. Fresh complexion, brown hair, hazel eyes. There were no distinguishing marks on the body.

  Advanced decomposition was consistent with the man having been dead for ten or eleven weeks. Ambient temperature and relative humidity inside the vault were recorded on twelfth February, from which adjustments were made to arrive at an average for the preceding twelve weeks. During this period, the weather was predominantly cold and dry, which undoubtedly delayed bacterial action quite significantly.

  Life became extinct around November thirtieth—with an error probability of plus or minus four days—within ninety seconds of the throat having been cut and was due to massive bleeding from the carotid artery and jugular vein.

  The stomach, intestines and bladder were empty at the time of death and extremely low blood-sugar levels, coupled with severe liver damage, suggests no food or water were taken for at least ten days prior to that event.

  Kidney function had already ceased, however, and the heart was failing rapidly through dehydration, blood-loss, malnutrition and general debilitation.

  Cardiac arrest and/or renal failure were inevitable, probably within forty-eight hours. Assuming food and water intake ceased simultaneously, the man was placed in the vault about the fourteenth to sixteenth November, some two weeks before he died. Prior to that date, the deceased was free of disease but wasn’t particularly fit which—coupled with an absence of hand calluses—is indicative of a sedentary occupation. The wrists and ankles were tied tightly with white, plastic-covered bell-wire of the type readily obtainable in most DIY stores. The gag was simply a bandage.

  Clothing is normally removed on arrival at the morgue, but it was left to the discretion of the pathologist in this instance because of the cadaver’s condition.

  The body was fully-dressed when discovered and the clothes, although badly soiled and mildewed, were of good quality. The man wore a cotton singlet and matching X-front underpants, a cream Van Heusen open-neck shirt, a grey pullover, grey flannel trousers and a fawn jacket, two-tone grey sports socks and brown leather walking shoes. No identification or laundry-marks were noted, but all items of clothing were sealed in specimen bags and transferred to the forensic laboratory, together with the bell-wire.

  Melton removed his knee and allowed gravity to return his chair to an upright position.

  The post-mortem report brought vividly to mind the decomposing remains viewed at the morgue, his second sighting of the rotting corpse, more revolting than the first when, despite the horrible gagging smell, the body had at least been decently covered and more or less intact. Little in Melton’s experience had ever affected him more deeply. He nudged the file towards O’Connor.

  ‘Take a look,’ he invited, adding, ‘what a terrible way to die! The poor sod must have been in agony for days before the sadistic bastard finally cut his throat.’

  Melton shook his head dispiritedly. The killer was cold, merciless, and inherently evil—or was he? Melton simply didn’t know. He tried to imagine how the man might look like. Was he tall, short, fat—or what? Would he in any way stand out from the crowd? Probably not. Life would certainly be easier were he to wear horns and stroll around hatless—perish the facetious thought. Professor Matthews’ theories were all very well, but how do you search for an invisible man? Was this another detective’s nightmare? Another Pennington case? He hoped not.

  Watching his assistant leaf through the file, Melton decided to pose the question to O’Connor.

  ‘What do you make of it, Ben? What sort of fiend would do that to a fellow human?’ The DS hesitated. Unsure what Melton was really getting at, he replied, somewhat evasively.

  ‘Dunno sir. A raving lunatic, maybe!’

  He turned a few more pages and wrinkled his nose. He too had visited the morgue and, like Melton, gained Professor Matthews’ ‘off the record’ opinion in advance of the post-mortem. Apart from technicalities, probable dates and details concerned with internal organs, blood type and so on, the paperwork appeared to confirm much they already knew or suspected.

  Knowing he was closely observed, O’Connor continued to shy away from a considered reply.

  ‘It’s poor Doc Matthews I feel sorry for,’ he grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t have his job for a gold watch. Fancy having to poke around in a smelly, rotten stiff—what a way to make a living!’

  Melton treated his assistant to a withering look. Crime detection owed a great deal to pathology—vital work required by law which had to be carried out by someone.

  ‘That’s as may be, Ben. But someone has to do it and the professor is one of the best in his field. If it’s a question of pathology and he states that something is so, then you can bet your last shilling that ninety-nine times out of a hundred he’ll be correct. Now then, what do you really think?’

  O’Connor slid meaty fingers through his sandy thatch, whilst Melton waited, expectantly. Encouraging juniors to think was an essential part of training, as vital to the ‘Job’ as obeying orders and feeling a few collars. Thinking was essential for every copper with ambition. Melton knew that a little patient prodding would often persuade Ben to open up.

  ‘I’ve been wondering,’ O’Connor at last ventured, ‘do you think the killer could be the same man who butchered the Pennington girl? Doctor Matthews made no such inference, but his description of the way the poor chap’s throat was cut matches to a tee, right down to the type of knife.’

  He shuddered, involuntarily.

  The Pennington murder was no nearer resolution more than two years after the event, a fact which constantly irked two career detectives whose detection record rated among the best in the Force. The coroner had brought in a verdict of ‘Murder’ and found that Malandra Pennington was unlawfully killed on 14 July 2002 by person or persons unknown, and formally declared the inquest closed.

  ‘Yes, that has also occurred to me,’ Melton replied, ‘but, more importantly, the man must live somewhere in the area. He knows Esher extremely well. How else could he have pinpointed the Pearce’s back garden or even know of the vault’s existence, much less how to gain access?

  ‘There’s little doubt that on both occasions he operated after dark, but the church is locked at night. He must
therefore have taken the key from the vestry in advance, contriving to return it without its absence being noticed. He must also have known the vault was virtually soundproof, so his captive was unlikely to be heard, even if he managed to be rid of the gag and shouted for help.

  ‘It’s a worst-case scenario, Ben. A vicious, cold-blooded murder, carefully planned and ruthlessly carried out by a local man, who is currently walking free, undetected. I’m totally convinced that neither this killing—nor, indeed that of Malandra Pennington—would have been feasible without extensive local knowledge. That said, I can see few other similarities between the two killings, can you?’

  O’Connor shook his head. ‘No sir. Apart from the knifing strokes—and that the killer must have local knowledge they appear entirely dissimilar.

  ‘The first victim was female, the second male; the girl was dismembered and transported from the murder site whereas the second remained in situ; the girl’s remains were subjected to bestiality and the male’s were not.’

  He subsided. Melton was impressed by what seemed a well-reasoned evaluation.

  ‘Spot on, Ben, but there might be a similarity we’ve overlooked—tenuous perhaps, but in both cases there was a significant delay between the murder and the discovery of the remains. The periods were different, but that could be down to luck and choice of location.’

  ‘W-ell Guv’nor, I suppose that could be a similarity of sorts,’ O’Connor conceded. ‘But how that might help track down the killer I’m blessed if I know. If anything, it makes our task more difficult.’ He scratched his head. ‘People tend to forget; witness appeals become less effective. It’s a cliche but nevertheless true. Whatever trail was left by the Body in the Vault killer has already gone cold, and in the case of the Pennington girl it must be frozen— rock, bloody solid. Chummy must be laughing his socks off.’

  O’Connor shoved the file back across the desk.

  Melton merely grunted and leafed through it again. The salient points were already committed to memory but had he overlooked some small snippet that might help identify the deceased, or point to a possible motive for the killing, perhaps?

  O’Connor had a fair idea of what was going through the Guv’nor’s mind. But would he consider another go at Tobias Charlesworth? And what about that nasty piece of work, Robert Strudwick?

  Hold it, Ben, he told himself, firmly. Having spoken his mind regarding both men before, he didn’t relish being put in his place again. The Guv’nor was wary of Charlesworth and shied away from the subject whenever Strudwick’s name cropped up, almost as if he were somehow frightened of the man. Ben sighed and sat quietly, deeming it prudent not to interrupt the DI’s train of thought.

  After deliberating a while, Melton became brisk and businesslike.

  ‘Right, Sergeant,’ he said, crisply, ‘let’s get cracking. Our first priority is to identify the body. Get your backside over to Forensics. I want to know whether the clothes have been under the microscope yet—and if not, why not? Any form of identification or laundry mark would be helpful, no matter how indistinct.’ He tapped the file. ‘Doctor Matthews’ observations regarding the post-mortem, whilst helpful, go nowhere near far enough. Next, I want on my desk pronto a list of every male disappearance both locally and throughout Greater London from the first November until … say, fifteenth December.’

  He waited for O’Connor to finish writing, then went on.

  ‘Then get hold of Brendan Curtis—the artist fellow we’ve used before for missing person inquiries, and see about getting a sketch made of the dead man’s likely appearance. It’ll be neither easy nor pleasant, but speed is essential.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I imagine Professor Matthews will help regarding skin, features, hairstyle and so on—I’ll have a word beforehand to make sure. Oh, and you’d better warn Curtis the face looks ghastly. Buy him a stiff brandy before he goes into the morgue if you like. Despite those terrible slashes, I’d say the features are more or less intact and we should end up with a reasonable likeness.’

  Again he waited for O’Connor to catch up.

  ‘When I meet the press later on,’ Melton continued, ‘I’ll mention that we’re thinking of using an artist’s impression to help establish identity.’ He looked up. ‘Have you got that, Sergeant?’

  ‘Noted, sir, will do. But isn’t publishing a guesswork murder-victim likeness a bit unorthodox?’

  ‘So it might be, but I don’t recall seeing a missing persons report likely to fit the bill, do you? Let’s face it, with nothing whatever to go on, it’s the obvious thing to do when you think about it. Of course,’ he went on, ‘it’s always possible we mightn’t need that sketch, but I want one up my sleeve in readiness, just the same.’

  ‘Fair enough, Guv’nor,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  Routine formed a substantial part of Melton’s workload, for which his basic establishment was adequate, and in the event of a major inquiry, he could readily muster additional resources. DS O’Connor’s departure marked the moment Melton effectively ‘pushed the button’ on the Old Church murder inquiry, when an expanded team slipped smoothly and efficiently into top gear.

  A computer-generated schedule detailing thirty-two male persons reported missing throughout London and the Home Counties during November and December arrived on his desk in an hour. Running a practised eye down the list, Melton struck through all but four with a black marker pen.

  One stuck out like a sore thumb. Melton cursed under his breath. Stapleton, the pompous prat. A corpse on his doorstep, and he didn’t have the nous to check his own ‘missing persons’? There it was, like a carbuncle on a parson’s nose. December 3rd, 2004: Mr Kenneth Bridgwater of West End reported his son Francis, aged nineteen missing—at ESHER police station, no less!

  Incandescent, Melton opened his door, button-holed the nearest officer and roared, ‘Get on the blower to Esher. I want full details regarding Francis Bridgwater, reported missing on third December by his father, Kenneth Bridgwater—and I want them NOW! And should you be unfortunate enough to have Sergeant Stapleton come on the line, you’d better warn him to keep out of my way or I might just be tempted to recommend him for demotion and retraining.’

  Still fuming, he strode across to the nearest copper and tossed him the list.

  ‘Deal with it,’ was all that he said, and stumped back to his office.

  Academic perhaps, but within twenty-four hours, three out of the remaining four culled from the missing persons’ register by DI Melton had been accounted for. Two days after one man had gone missing, a body recovered from Brent reservoir was positively identified. Another turned out to be of Asian origin and a third had returned to the bosom of his family after a week—but nobody had thought to inform the police.

  Late on the morning of February 16th, forty-eight hours after O’Connor had approached Brendan Curtis, a charcoal sketch suggesting the murdered man’s likely appearance arrived.

  Events were shortly to render the drawing unnecessary, but it was, nevertheless, to prove a remarkably accurate likeness…

  Chapter Eleven

  Francis, R.I.P.

  The day Kenneth Bridgwater reported his son missing marked a turning point in his life. As day succeeded day and days became weeks, he became increasingly morose and withdrawn. Long accustomed to unsociable hours and physically demanding work, his general level of fitness remained unchanged, but long weeks of worry for his son were taking their toll. Work that once brought pleasure turned to drudgery. He lost weight, and his weatherbeaten face seemed permanently creased with anxiety. Fearing the worst, yet hoping against hope, Kenneth suffered an agonising wait for news. So far he had waited in vain and when February arrived with still no word, poor Kenneth scarcely noticed.

  It was getting on for 10.30 by the time he arrived home. He was irritable and in need of sleep. Within minutes, the telephone shrilled. ‘Hello,’ he grumbled. ‘Who is it and what do you want?’

  ‘Good morning. Mr Bridgwater?’ a baritone voice inqui
red.

  ‘Yes, who wants to know?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Melton, Surbiton police. I wonder if I might call. It’s regarding your son, Francis. I understand you reported him missing in early December.’ Kenneth’s heart lurched. Francis! He gulped.

  ‘Yes, of course but what’s happened? Is Frank in hospital? Was he in an accident or something?’

  ‘Nothing like that, I’m afraid,’ Melton responded gently. ‘Perhaps I should explain when I see you. I could be there in about twenty minutes, if that is convenient?’

  ‘Y-es, I suppose so,’ Ken agreed, reluctant on the one hand, yet anxious for news on the other. ‘I’m just in from work, and I need a couple of hours sleep. But I must know what it is you’ve discovered. Come on over. I’ll put the kettle on—I could do with a cuppa myself.’

  Ken managed to make a pot of tea, but then forgot about it. He made some toast, burnt it, threw it away. He started to pace up and down, waiting for the knock on the door. There he is! He tripped on a rug and fumbled with the door handle. When he opened it he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Mr Bridgwater? Detective Inspector Melton.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘I rang a short time ago. May I come in?’

  Leading the way to the kitchen, Ken ushered the policeman inside.

  ‘Excuse the mess, but I’m a milkman, as you probably know. Not much sleep—up early and not long home. I’m absolutely bushed. What’s happened to my son?’

  ‘How about that tea, Mr Bridgwater—and can we sit down?’

  Kenneth poured; they sat.

  Melton collected his thoughts.

  ‘I hardly know how to explain, so it might be better if I came directly to the point.’