The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

  Ken nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and the policeman began.

  ‘Last Saturday, a body was discovered in a locked vault beneath Esher Old Church.’

  Observing the milkman intently, Melton continued.

  ‘As yet, we have no means of identification, but the probable age of the deceased matches that of your son and the approximate time of death—around the end of November—appears to tally with the date your son went missing.’

  Kenneth paled and clutched at his throat.

  ‘You probably suspected something to be seriously amiss,’ Melton continued, after a pause.

  Ken gave Melton an anguished look. ‘Yes, I suppose I did. I’ve been worried sick ever since Frank failed to ring. You see, Inspector, he promised, and my boy never broke a promise to me—not once in the whole of his life.’

  Kenneth’s face crumpled; he was dangerously close to tears. The policeman nodded. Hard though it was, he had to get over a very important point.

  ‘I understand and sympathise. The evidence is flimsy and circumstantial and we cannot simply assume the body to be that of your son. Mr Bridgwater!’ Melton exclaimed sharply, noticing tears welling in the man’s eyes, ‘It might turn out not to be Francis, in which case the sooner that identity can be established the better.’

  Kenneth shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘I don’t wish to trouble you with too many questions, but I wonder if you’d mind clearing up one rather important point?’

  Kenneth drew himself up, took a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘Thank you.’ Melton resumed. ‘It’s my understanding Francis left for France on November seventeenth, yet it was the third of December before you reported him missing. Tell me, what was the reason for such a long delay?’

  Kenneth was fatigued, but he distinctly remembered the same question having been put before, when he had reported his son’s absence. Perhaps the dopey copper hadn’t bothered to record his answer? He blinked and knuckled his eyes. ‘In season, Frank works as a courier for a holiday company and fills in as a cabin steward with Air France, Toulouse, during the winter.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘Frank goes all over the world on long-haul trips, and picks up work for other airlines whenever there’s a scheduled delay. But he always keeps in touch and promised he’d ring by the end of November. I waited a few days in case he’d met with difficulties, then rang his manager at Toulouse. When he insisted Francis hadn’t reported for work, I knew for certain something was wrong.’

  Reliving the memory and the agony suffered since, Kenneth found his lower lip trembling. Melton grasped the milkman’s arm, reassuringly.

  ‘Bear up, sir; we desperately need your help. Do you have a recent photo of Francis?’

  ‘Yes, a couple, taken last year—in France, I think. They’re in the album in my bedroom. Wait here, and I’ll fetch it.’ He got up and started towards the door. ‘I wish I didn’t feel so tired,’ he added.

  When he returned, Melton propped the album on his knee. He had a gut-feeling that the smiling young man indicated by his father and the rotting corpse in Kingston morgue would prove to be one and the same. Who’d want to be a bloody copper? Melton asked himself.

  ‘I can only say how sorry I am,’ he began, placing a hand on Kenneth’s arm, ‘but these seem sufficient reason to ask for your help with formal identification. It involves visiting the morgue, but that can wait till later when I shall accompany you. You need to prepare yourself. Better get your head down for an hour or two, if you can.

  ‘Before I go—with your permission, of course, I’d appreciate a look at your son’s bedroom. It could be important—there may be something to help our inquiries. Would you mind? And may I borrow these photographs?’

  Mr Bridgwater stood up and bravely squared his shoulders. ‘By all means, Inspector Melton,’ he said. ‘Frank’s room is just down there.’ He pointed. ‘I haven’t been inside—apart from shoving the vacuum cleaner round—or touched anything. Couldn’t bring myself to somehow … and yes, you can borrow the photos, but I’d like them back when you’ve finished. My boy, Frank, you see…’

  He stifled the beginnings of a sob, strode purposefully along the hallway and stopped. Turning, he said proudly, ‘This is Frank’s room, Mr Melton.’

  Reaching the threshold, Melton stopped, motioned Kenneth to remain where he was and stood still for a moment, taking in something of the atmosphere. Casting around the bedroom, he saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing caught his attention. The room was neat and tidy. No sign of a hurried departure, no note in a prominent position, no towel, clothes or dressing-gown, no shoes beneath the bed—nothing!

  ‘Are you certain you’ve disturbed nothing?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, quite sure.’

  ‘Would you mind if I look in the wardrobe? I’ll be careful not to disturb anything.’

  ‘No, go right ahead.’

  Melton took a pair of latex gloves from an inside pocket and snapped them on. Gingerly, he opened both doors and leaned forward for a closer look.

  There were two, well-stocked hanging rails. Two pairs of walking shoes strode cheek-by-jowl with a battered pair of trainers, behind which stood a hiker’s rucksack and a canvas travelling valise, partially obscured by clothes. He straightened and turned to Kenneth.

  ‘Come and take a look, Mr Bridgwater. What was Francis wearing the day of his departure? Do you know what luggage he took?’ He broke off as Kenneth slowly entered the room and added, ‘Sorry to press you, but I really do need to know.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. Frank said “good-bye” around six the evening before he left—that’s when he promised to ring.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Then he went out—to the pictures, I think—and I went to bed. I’d have been asleep when he came home and long gone when he awoke in the morning. I think he intended to bus to Esher station then train to Waterloo, but I can’t be sure. Chances are he did, however. He did the last time he was home, I’m absolutely certain.’

  ‘I see.’ Melton was disappointed. Pursuing the same line of thought, he asked, ‘If you didn’t know what he wore the morning of his departure, then what about the evening before, when he was going to the cinema?’

  Again Ken pondered.

  ‘Sorry, Inspector,’ he replied regretfully. ‘I really can’t remember. Frank has loads of clothes, and changes frequently—sometimes twice in one day. I never could keep up with him. I’m truly sorry; I really wish I could help.’

  ‘What about luggage? What would he normally take on a trip?’ Bridgwater bent to peer into the wardrobe. Fear sent shivers down his spine. Distressed, he clutched at Melton’s arm.

  ‘Wh-at?—I don’t understand,’ he quavered. ‘Francis’ rucksack— and his valise. It’s—it’s Frank’s luggage, Inspector. It’s all he has— it’s what he takes, every trip. What does it mean? It’s not like Francis to be forgetful. He’d never go off without his gear.’

  Melton took Kenneth by the arm and steered him towards the bed.

  ‘Sit down for a minute,’ he soothed. ‘It doesn’t pay to jump to conclusions. We need to consider carefully. There could be a perfectly simple explanation.’

  But for Melton, another possibility arose: What if young Bridgwater never left for France? Supposing he did visit the cinema that evening but never returned home—was waylaid, mugged and robbed, taken by force to the Old Church, incarcerated and subsequently murdered? Robbery could form part of the motive: nothing had been found on the body. But what if the young man took just enough cash for the evening and left everything of value at home?

  Melton was all but convinced. If Francis Bridgwater’s passport, travel tickets and cash were somewhere within this room, it only could mean one thing—the body lying in Kingston morgue was that of Francis Bridgwater, and his disappearance and murder had been deliberate and premeditated. But, to satisfy the requirement of law, the identity of dead persons must formally be established.

  ‘If you feel up to it
, Mr Bridgwater,’ Melton said, gently, ‘I’d like to ask another question.’

  ‘I’m OK really, so go ahead. You probably think me an old fool but I still don’t understand.’

  ‘Nor do I, sir—not yet, anyway. It would be foolish to assume anything at this stage.’

  ‘I’m trying to work out why Frank’s luggage is still in the wardrobe, Detective Inspector. I mustn’t jump to conclusions. You might think otherwise, but you know,’ he said, sorrowfully, ‘I’ve the strangest feeling I’m unlikely ever to see Francis again—alive, that is.’ The look on his face said it all.

  ‘You may well be right, Mr Bridgwater, but we’ve a long way to go in order to be sure. With your permission, I’d like to examine Francis’ luggage.’

  ‘Would you mind explaining why, Mr Melton?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Nothing was found on the body: no cash, no means of identification, nothing. Should Francis have left his passport, cash and travel documents at home that evening—perhaps for reasons of security, then the body found in the vault may well be his. Should that be so—but remember, until positively identified we cannot be sure—he may have been waylaid, forcibly abducted, taken to the church, held prisoner and eventually killed. In any event, Mr Bridgwater, we have a ruthless killer somewhere within the community, one who must be caught and brought to justice before he finds an opportunity to strike again. Even if the victim proves not to be your son, I’ve no doubt you’ll assist in any way you can to help apprehend the murderer. Now, sir, if you don’t mind, may I please look inside Francis’ luggage?’

  Kenneth nodded.

  ‘If it turns out my son has been murdered, then rest assured I’ll do anything and everything within my power to help nail the bastard responsible.’

  Ken placed the rucksack and the valise on the bed:

  ‘There you are, Mr Melton,’ he said, firmly, ‘go ahead and help yourself.’

  A bulging pocket on the valise stood out like a sore thumb. Still gloved, Melton slid back the zip and fished out the contents: a wallet, a passport—and an envelope containing railway tickets.

  Gingerly unhinging the wallet, taking care that nothing should become disturbed, he whistled through his teeth and invited Kenneth to view the contents. There were traveller’s cheques and a NatWest Visa card, clearly visible through the transparent window of a dedicated card pocket.

  For all his courage Kenneth’s face was a picture of despair; his last vestige of hope had been destroyed.

  ‘Come on, sir,’ the DI said gently, replacing the luggage for forensic examination later. ‘Try to get some sleep. It won’t change anything, but it might help a little. I’ll go back to the station and return around three this afternoon, when I’d like you to accompany me to the morgue—and, believe me, it’s a duty I’d willingly postpone if I thought it would do any good. But, in my experience, the sooner something like this can be got out of the way the better. We none of us move forward, otherwise.’

  Kenneth managed a wan smile.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. You’ve been very kind and I’m grateful…’ He broke off. ‘I wonder, can you tell me what to expect, assuming the body does turn out to be Francis?’

  Melton paused before replying.

  ‘For you, sadly, a coroner’s inquest, a funeral and getting your life back together—which won’t be easy. I’m told your wife died soon after childbirth and you brought Francis up yourself. For my colleagues and me, we’ve a killer to track down whatever happens.

  ‘If you do confirm your son was his victim, then we shall have a name to go on and can begin exploring his background, checking friends, habits and so on and, hopefully, establish a motive which may eventually lead to an arrest. But more of that another time. First things first.’

  Kenneth no longer seemed fatigued. Long weeks of uncertainty were almost at an end, and this helped him discover an inner strength. Melton regarded him with admiration.

  As a prelude to departure, Melton shook hands with Kenneth at his front door.

  ‘Good-bye for now, Mr Bridgwater—and thank you for your invaluable help. I’ll see you around three this afternoon. In the meantime, do try and get some rest.’

  Kenneth smiled ruefully. ‘Au revoir, Mr Melton.’

  Back at HQ, the DI brought his assistant up to date over a plate of lethargic sandwiches with a pot of the usual coffee—seldom hot, of dubious origin, frequently undrinkable.

  ‘Plucky chap,’ he remarked, eventually, ‘been through hell, poor devil. I reckon he knew in his heart all along his son was dead but wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, long before the boy’s luggage turned up.

  ‘I’m as sure as I can be that before the end of the day the morgue will have a name to attach to their corpse.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, sir,’ O’Connor murmured. ‘We need a bloody break. What are those, Guv’nor?’ he asked, pointing to two photographs lying on Melton’s desk.

  ‘Sorry, Ben,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I forgot: Francis Bridgwater, borrowed from his father.’ He slid the prints across the desk.

  O’Connor gave his chief a peculiar look and rummaged ‘sans permission’ in Melton’s ‘In’ tray for an envelope. Triumphantly he withdrew a charcoal sketch.

  ‘Delivered less than an hour ago, Guv’nor,’ he announced. ‘Brendon Curtis’ “John Doe”. Look for yourself, sir. If they’re not one and the same person, then I’m a Dutchman.’

  Taken in sunshine against a lakeland background, the snapshots were fairly good. Viewed alongside the sketch, they showed similarities so far as head, ears and jaw line were concerned, but precious little else. Whilst computer enhancement was possible, image detail might suffer as a consequence.

  Melton by no means shared the conviction so enthusiastically displayed by his assistant, preferring to defer judgement until the evidence was corroborated beyond all possible doubt.

  ‘You might just find yourself learning a new language, Ben,’ he observed, drily. ‘Yes, there are similarities, I’ll grant, but I’d rather wait for a positive ID to be absolutely sure.’

  Melton collected Kenneth Bridgwater himself and they drove in silence to Kingston morgue. Arriving just after 3.30, Melton parked his car and led the way to Reception. As soon as the preliminary formalities were completed, the DI took Kenneth to one side.

  ‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Mr Bridgwater?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure, thank you. I’ll be OK. Now please—can we get on with it?’

  ‘Then brace yourself,’ Melton advised gently. ‘I feel it my duty to warn you what to expect. You will be taken to a sheeted figure and asked whether you recognise the person. The sheet will then be lifted. Remember, the body is in a state of decomposition. On top of that, some rather nasty injuries were inflicted prior to death.

  ‘You must look at the face, but I advise you not to linger—it’s not a sight for the squeamish. Furthermore, morgues tend to be smelly—formaldehyde, you know. You’re sure you’re OK?’

  Kenneth nodded grimly.

  ‘Then let’s go,’ Melton said, simply.

  No stranger to the place or what went on within its white-tiled walls, the hardened policeman led the way.

  They were intercepted in a vestibule by a white-coated, wellington-booted attendant, clutching a stainless-steel clipboard, who conducted them through plastic, double swing doors into a long, dank, chilly chamber, lit by ranks of bright fluorescent tubes and flanked by rows of stainless-steel, tiered cabinets.

  Halfway on the left, the attendant stopped, referred to his clipboard and grasped a handle.

  On silent wheels, a trolley bearing a sheeted body emerged. He checked the label, glanced again at his clipboard and asked, ‘Mr Kenneth Bridgwater?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is reason to believe you may have personal knowledge of the deceased?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you are required by law to look upon the person displayed to you and state clearly whether you recognise the pe
rson. Do you understand?’

  Kenneth nodded.

  ‘Then do you recognise this person?’ The attendant raised a corner of the sheet.

  Kenneth recoiled and covered his eyes in horror.

  ‘No, no,’ he croaked. ‘That’s not Francis, that’s not my son.’

  Melton’s heart sank; he had been sure, so very, very sure. He grasped Kenneth firmly by the arm.

  ‘Hold on, Mr Bridgwater. I warned you it wouldn’t be pleasant. Take a minute to compose yourself.’

  He waited, and after a while, Ken whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Inspector—the shock…’

  ‘Never mind,’ Melton soothed, ‘perfectly understandable. Come, sir, brace yourself and take another look—and this time, try to look beyond the injuries; the head, hair, ears, nose and chin.’

  He signalled to the attendant, who raised the sheet and said for a second time, ‘I have to asked you again, sir: do you recognise this person?’

  Kenneth stepped bravely forward. He forced himself to follow Melton’s advice and looked carefully at the cadaver. Shortly, recognition dawned, and for a full minute he stood in silence, remembering the years of joy, sometimes laced with heartache: how a tiny baby first began to toddle, then went to school and developed into a young man of whom any parent might justly be proud. And as he stood and gazed at what remained of his once handsome son, tears filled his eyes and he wept copiously and without shame.

  ‘Yes,’ he whispered, eventually and, ‘Yes,’ louder still, then ‘Yes!’ firmly and emphatically. ‘That’s my son—that was my son. Francis Bridgwater, definitely—and God help the bastard who did this if ever I lay hands on him!’

  Back in Melton’s car, Kenneth Bridgwater fastened his seat-belt and heaved a great sigh.

  ‘I must say, Mr Melton, I feel better with that awful business over and done with.’

  Melton heartily agreed. ‘You and me both, Mr Bridgwater,’ he said.

  Kenneth lapsed into silence, no doubt busy with his thoughts. The journey back to West End took barely twenty minutes.

  Although his motives for acting as personal chauffeur to a member of the public were never likely to be questioned, Melton had a perfectly valid reason for failing to delegate. Put simply, the result achieved would have been unlikely, had he not won the confidence of the witness and afforded him sympathetic guidance throughout the unfortunate man’s harrowing ordeal.