But, off the record, it was a way of paying tribute to an honest, hardworking and extremely courageous man, to whom he had taken a liking almost from the moment they first met.
On reaching Bridgwater’s bungalow, the detective checked his watch: four oh five—already? He turned to his passenger and proffered his hand.
‘May I offer my condolences, Mr Bridgwater? I wish there was more I could do to help.’
‘Thank you,’ Kenneth said. ‘You’ve been more than helpful already, extremely kind, in fact. I doubt I’d have survived the afternoon without your support.’
‘You’re entirely welcome, I can assure you,’ Melton responded, warmly. ‘I must get back to headquarters, but we need as much information as possible regarding Francis’s past acquaintances to help build a background picture. May I call again tomorrow? About ten-thirty? I’d like you to meet my assistant, Detective Sergeant Ben O’Connor.’
‘Not in the least. I look forward to seeing you both—and the kettle will be on, you may be sure.’
Now that the victim was formally identified, the investigation proper could get under way, and there was a great deal more to be accomplished before Melton and O’Connor dare call it a day.
Chief Superintendent Jarvis was briefed and, on his authority, Melton and his assistant combined forces to issue a short but credible press-release. This was accomplished in time for inclusion in mid-evening television news programmes and to feature in national newspapers destined for the streets the following morning. Additionally, acting on a hunch of O’Connor’s, they sifted through the Pennington file and confirmed Ben’s suspicion that Francis Bridgwater, then seventeen, was one of seven teenagers interviewed almost three years previously during the Body in the Garden investigation.
‘I bloody-well knew it, Guv’nor,’ Ben O’Connor felt entitled to crow. ‘Eight of them—if you include Malandra Pennington, and they all went to the same local school. That’s no coincidence, surely, nor the fact that both victim’s throats were cut in the same way and with a similar type of instrument. There isn’t any doubt. We’re looking for a man with extensive local knowledge. What’s more, the killer of Francis Bridgwater and Miss Pennington are one and the same.’
‘Hold it, Ben,’ Melton snorted, impatiently. ‘What the hell are you rabbiting on about? We’ve been over this already; try something a bit more original. You’ve added nothing to what we already know—and what’s so unusual about eight local youngsters going to the same local school, anyway? Where the hell else would you expect local children of local parents to go?’
Chastened, his assistant came down to earth.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, ‘I got carried away.’
Melton grinned. ‘No problem—so long as you stick to facts and don’t jump to conclusions. Although in one respect I do agree: the more we compare cases, the more likely it seems the two murders are connected.’
Returning to the Pennington file, he shuffled through a sheaf of interview reports, checked each against an abridged summation and came to a decision.
‘All right, Ben,’ he allowed. ‘It might be as well to re-interview those youngsters. Set it up for tomorrow—except for Pearce and Robert Strudwick. We’ll deal with those two ourselves.’
No sooner were the words out than Melton was regretting his decision. Not for the first time, any suggestion that Strudwick might not be all that he seemed brought a rush of irrational irritability. What was the point of pursuing a perfectly innocent, forthright, upright citizen? Had it been within Robert Strudwick’s power to assist, he surely would have done. Damn! These re-interviews would stand, however, if only to stop his assistant’s incessant badgering.
Abruptly, he selected a hand-written sheet, shoved it towards O’Connor and ordered, sharply, ‘Do three photostat copies—and put the original back in the file before it ends up in the bin.’
His tone was peremptory, unexpected and out of character. O’Connor frowned, but held his tongue. When he was halfway to the copier, Melton issued an afterthought.
‘But before you do, delete Phyllis Gleave and Fletcher Roberts—they’re no longer relevant.’
Melton glanced at the wall clock: 6.15. His grumpiness subsided as quickly as it had arisen. He whistled in surprise and tidied his desk.
‘Time we weren’t here Ben,’ he remarked, in a return to his normal, easy-going manner. ‘I’ll cop it if I’m late for dinner again,’ he explained, lamely. ‘See you in the morning … Incidentally, I’ve made an appointment, ten-thirty, to visit Kenneth Bridgwater and I’d like you along. The sooner we delve into his son’s background, the sooner we might unearth something to indicate a motive which could lead us to the killer. Keep an hour or so free; we ought to be back by midday. Goodnight, Sergeant.’
‘G’night sir.’ Miserable sod. Didn’t so much as suggest a pint, Ben thought gloomily…
Hungry for information and hoping to repeat the success born of James Billows’ indiscretions—and retain credibility with editors demanding follow-on articles—Robin Prendergast pounded his typewriter furiously. Waste-bin awash with discarded material and faced with a 10.00 p.m. deadline, he strove for acceptable copy; with only a miserly police press-release to go on, he came close to giving up.
Desperately seeking a snippet of some sort, he tentatively telephoned a contact, and gleaned an unexpected disclosure, sufficient to transform an indifferent item into a juicy report. He redoubled his efforts at the keyboard and ten minutes later pronounced himself satisfied. Not an eye-catching, full-page article, perhaps, but sufficient to keep the story ‘live’ another day. Robin dictated copy to three news desk editors, patted his elderly ‘Imperial’ (he maintained it aided concentration), sneered at the blank screen of his computer and strolled out of the house to the local watering-hole, bent on rounding off the day with a pint or two of Guinness.
His reward came the following morning with front-page headlines in the Surrey Chronicle and second-feature status in several national dailies. Thursday, 17 February 2005:
INSPECTOR MELTON HUNTS THE SLASHER.
BODY IN THE VAULT IDENTIFIED
A report from our special correspondent Robin Prendergast.
Detective Inspector David Melton, CID, the officer conducting the Body in the Vault inquiry, today launches a full-scale murder investigation following formal identification of the deceased late yesterday afternoon.
The decomposed remains discovered by sexton James Billows in a little-known vault beneath the historic church of St. George at Esher on Saturday February 12 were positively identified as those of Francis Bridgwater aged 19, formerly of West End, Esher, by his father Kenneth, a popular local milkman. It is understood post-mortem examination established that death took place during late November, about two weeks after Francis disappeared. The body was discovered, quite by chance, by Mr Billows. Twelfth century St. George’s remained cordoned off until Tuesday afternoon when Forensic specialists withdrew and the church reopened to the public. Detective Inspector Melton was not available for comment, but is expected to release further details at a press conference later today.
David Melton pushed a copy of a daily tabloid across the desk. ‘Read that Ben—factual and accurate,’ he remarked without rancour. ‘Where do you reckon Prendergast got his information?’ O’Connor scanned the item and grunted.
‘Easy, Guv’nor—has to be the morgue. Just the place for an ambitious young crime reporter to invest a sweetener now and then.’
He handed the paper back.
‘Oiling the wheels, they call it,’ Melton grumbled. ‘Buying confidential information, more like. Not easily preventable, however, more’s the pity—nor illegal, so far as I’m aware. He’s wrong about the press conference though. I intend to release a prepared statement later on, and he’ll get a copy just like the rest of them. If he doesn’t like it, he can lump it.’
‘Egg on his face, Guv’nor? Maybe he’ll think twice before trying to second-guess you in future.’
; ‘I doubt it. Reporters are thick-skinned—have to be to be successful, I suppose … Come in,’ Melton called, in response to a knock on the door, effectively closing the subject. The door opened and a constable entered, bearing an assortment of papers, envelopes and files:
‘Post, sir,’ he announced, dumping a pile on the desk. ‘Rather a lot and that one on top is regarding Bridgwater, sir, from Forensics. Came by messenger, about five minutes ago.’
Melton grabbed the envelope, tugged open the flap, withdrew a sheaf of papers and began to read. O’Connor sorted the remaining reports and memos, placing everything for immediate attention in Melton’s ‘In’ tray and the remainder in ‘Pending’. Nothing escaped the Guv’nor, however; he’d plough through the lot in an hour.
O’Connor completed his self-imposed task as Melton looked up.
‘Interesting reading,’ he remarked, ‘if not particularly enlightening. Good job the body’s been identified. There were no laundry or other marks on any item of clothing. Nothing of consequence came from the fingertip search, and the sweepings from the cellar floor were mainly dust and dirt, with minute quantities of pollen— none recent—either blown by wind or carried in on footwear over the years.
‘On top of that, samples taken from the vault walls and ledges were similar to ordinary household dust: soil particles, dead skin cells and mites and, once again, nothing of recent origin. In short, almost a complete blank.
‘However—and this is the interesting bit—out of more than a dozen hairs found on the cadaver, one differed from the rest. As soon as Mr Ferguson realised the significance, he had it packaged, labelled and sent it for DNA profiling, requesting comparison with DNA from tissue routinely sent by the mortuary.’ Melton tapped the desk with an emphatic forefinger. ‘That single hair could prove significant.’
‘It just might, sir. Presumably all the other hairs belong to Francis Bridgwater?’
‘We’ll have the answer to that quite soon, I hope—but yes, I should think they probably do.’
He returned the papers to the envelope and passed it to his assistant.
‘Shove it in the file for now, Ben. Read it later if you’ve a mind to.’ Dismissive, the DI removed the contents of his ‘In’ tray, bent his head and began to read. The message was clear. O’Connor withdrew.
At 09.40, Melton visited the forensic lab for a word with Mr Ferguson, the senior technician.
At 10.00, with O’Connor driving, the policemen left Surbiton and headed for West End. The easiest and most direct route took them via Long Ditton, the A3 to Esher and Lammas Lane.
At 10.25, Ken Bridgwater left his partially-loaded washing-machine in order to answer the door. Melton introduced his companion. The DS stepped forward and offered his hand.
‘Glad to meet you, sir. I’m sorry to hear about your son. Please accept my condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
Formalities out of the way, the milkman led the way to his kitchen and indicated chairs.
‘I rarely use the living room and was in the middle of putting the washing on,’ he explained. ‘Excuse me, I won’t be a moment.’ Kenneth loaded a few more items into the machine and switched it on.
‘Which would you prefer, tea or coffee? The kettle has already boiled.’ Both chose tea and with his visitors comfortably seated, Kenneth opened the conversation.
‘You said yesterday you needed information about Francis’ background, Inspector. What exactly would you like to know?’
‘We’d like to know where Francis went to school, and the names of as many of his teachers and classmates as you can recall. Also friends and companions since leaving school. A resume of his career would be helpful—names of employers and colleagues and, finally, an insight into his hobbies, social and sporting interests. Any incident, however trivial or apparently unrelated, might eventually lead us to the murderer.’
Needing no further prompting, Kenneth began to speak. Melton listened; O’Connor took notes. Francis had certainly lived his short life to the full. Even though his father spoke concisely, it took over half an hour for him to exhaust his fund of information, all of which was relevant.
‘That was certainly comprehensive, Mr Bridgwater,’ Melton declared, ‘and you put it across extremely well, given the circumstances. Thank you! That information may well prove invaluable. I very much doubt whether we shall need to trouble you further.’
‘But should there be anything further you need to know,’ Kenneth added, ‘please don’t hesitate to call me—at any time.’
‘We’ll bear that in mind. I’m sorry we have to rush, but duty calls.’
The officers got up to go, but Bridgwater gripped Melton’s arm.
‘I want to see Francis’ killer behind bars. It’s a pity the death penalty has been abolished; I’d like the bastard to swing.’ He sighed. ‘Be that as it may … I’m sure you’re always busy, but would it be possible to keep me informed of progress?’
‘Of course, it’s the least we can do—and, in confidence, may I ask you a final question?’
‘By all means, Inspector. Fire away.’
‘Can you think of anyone—male, female, young or old—who may at any time have had reason to think ill of Francis or who bore him a grudge in any way? Please think carefully before you answer.’
‘No, Inspector. Frank didn’t have an enemy in the whole, wide world, I’m absolutely positive.’
‘We’ll add “so far as you’re aware” to that Mr Bridgwater,’ Melton suggested. ‘Your son had the misfortune to acquire one enemy at least, and a deadly enemy at that, as events have shown.’ En route back to Surbiton, Melton referred to his watch and remarked, ‘No time for lunch, we’re running late. We’d better head straight back to headquarters.’
‘Ooh, lovely! Cardboard wedgies—again!’
DS O’Connor spent half an hour clearing accumulated correspondence, and it was 1.00 p.m. when he tapped the inner sanctum door and waited for an invitation to enter.
‘Come in, Sergeant,’ Melton called. ‘Park your tail, Ben. I won’t be a minute.’
O’Connor duly sat and watched in silence whilst reports were read, initialled and tossed into the ‘Out’ tray. Melton stood up, yawned, stretched—and sat down again.
‘I won’t ask whether you enjoyed your lunch,’ he chuckled, ‘but I take it you’re all sorted?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Anything I ought to know?’
‘Not much really, except the information from the former school chums interviewed so far. Calvin Smith vaguely recalled a Frank Bridgwater at school, but couldn’t remember what he looked like, and Brian Carpenter locked himself in the toilet and refused to come out. Waste of time going to see him again, sir—he’s not quite all there, you know. The others were equally dismayed by the untimely death of Francis, who was popular, and all expressed regret at being unable to help.’
‘More or less as expected,’ the DI remarked. ‘Maybe we’ll do better with Pearce or Strudwick.’
‘Hopefully, Guv’nor,’ O’Connor sounded dubious. ‘What’s the plan of action?’
‘Long Ditton first,’ Melton replied, ‘then Pearce. He is at home—I’ve checked with his mother.’
*
Arriving at Gaston Hathaway, O’Connor trundled the Rover into the car park at the rear and whistled appreciatively at the gleaming white Jaguar XJ6 standing alone in a marked-off space labelled ‘Mr R.W. Strudwick’. He pulled up tight behind the beautiful car, effectively blocking its exit.
They are here! They know nothing, they shall know nothing. Send them away!
‘Over there, Guv’nor,’ O’Connor observed, gesturing with his chin, ‘rear entrance—shall we?’
‘No, better use the front. We’ll do things properly and announce ourselves to the receptionist.’
The policemen made their way back to the high street on foot, and entered by the front door. As if expected, they were intercepted by Strudwick in an otherwise empty reception area. He immediately is
sued a challenge. ‘If it isn’t dear Inspector Melton— and his faithful lackey, Sergeant O’Connor. Well, well, what a surprise! And what exactly do you mean by bothering me at work?’ When roused, O’Connor’s face was apt to mimic the colour of his flaming hair. A hand restrained him from rising to the bait. Apparently unruffled, Melton took the insult in his stride.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Strudwick. Our apologies for calling without prior appointment, but we are investigating the brutal murder of Francis Bridgwater—a young man we believe you are acquainted with, and would like you to assist in our inquiries by answering a few questions. Can we use your office?’
Strudwick shook his head.
‘No, you damn well can’t,’ he snarled. ‘I’m far too busy to waste time pandering to your stupid whims.’
Addressing himself equally to Melton and O’Connor, his eyes gleamed darkly behind pebble-lens spectacles as he strove to impose his will upon the luckless policemen. In seconds, both were rendered impotent, transfixed by the satanic gaze. Each detective stood as if mesmerised while Strudwick ranted on.
‘For your information, yes, I knew Bridgwater—went to school with him as you doubtless know. But I’ve neither seen nor heard of him since he cleared off to Spain—or somewhere. I never did like the man. I know nothing about him. I don’t want to know anything about him and, if somebody upped and killed him—and I heard recently that somebody did—then that’s a matter between you, the killer and his conscience. I don’t care what questions you were going to ask; I wouldn’t know the answers. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve an appointment with an important client in ten minutes.’
Abruptly, his attitude changed. He smiled and ushered the officers out of the door.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, gentlemen. I almost wish I was able to help.’
The Flyleaf Killer Page 21