The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

‘What the hell was that all about, Guv’nor?’ O’Connor gasped, safely back on the pavement. ‘I had an eerie sense of foreboding in there—the same as at Strudwick’s house that night—and the strangest impression he was speaking, but I’m damned if I can remember what he said. Is the man a bloody hypnotist, sir—or am I losing my marbles?’

  What on earth was the man raving about? Melton gaped uncomprehendingly, then remembered his own sense of unreality in Strudwick’s presence. Shrugging away his own profound unease, he puzzled furiously for a rational explanation, anxious to reassure his obviously shaken assistant.

  The answer came in a flash. Astonishingly, he found himself laughing—if not in amusement, at least with considerable relief.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Ben,’ he chortled, ‘you’re every bit as sane as I am. I’m afraid Strudwick may have been tipped off—he was certainly expecting us. Didn’t you notice a faint smell in there? Some kind of mesmeric gas, I should think.’ O’Connor looked dubious. ‘I believe he hates everybody in authority, coppers in particular, and will stop at nothing to make fools of us. I also believe he knows absolutely nothing about Francis Bridgwater or the murder. But he’s clever, our Mr Strudwick, and a more compelling personality would be difficult to find.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and spend ten minutes with Steven Pearce. He might be able to help. Then we’ll hightail it back to HQ. I’ve an important press release waiting to be compiled.’

  At 14.02 O’Connor swung the Rover into Rodene Drive and drew to a halt at number eleven. Melton got out and made for the gate, forcing his assistant to step lively in order to catch up. As they walked up the path, a twitching curtain suggested their arrival was already noted. Mrs Pearce answered Melton’s knock almost before the echoes had had time to fade.

  ‘Come in, Inspector—you too, Sergeant,’ she bustled. ‘I’ve been expecting you. Steven’s upstairs. Please wait in the living-room. I’ll go and fetch him.’

  ‘Hello, Steven, nice to see you again,’ Melton said, pleasantly, when the young man came into the room.

  ‘What am I supposed to have done this time?’

  ‘Nothing. We’re investigating the unfortunate death of Francis Bridgwater, and badly need background information. You do know his body was found last Saturday?’

  ‘Yes, I read about it in the papers—in the Old Church, wasn’t it? How awful. I knew Frank pretty well, although I haven’t seen much of him since he went off working abroad.’

  ‘Can you remember when you did last see him?’

  ‘Not for sure. Around this time last year, I think, when he was home on leave. Yes, that’s right—he was having a week off before going back to France for the start of the new season.’

  ‘Not since then? Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. But why are you questioning me?’

  ‘Because you knew Frank and we want to learn as much about him as possible. The unusual circumstances surrounding his death suggest he was killed by somebody local, someone who knows Esher extremely well. A murder of this nature would not have been perpetrated without reason, and if the motive can be established, we’ll be well on the way to catching the killer.’

  ‘I see. What else do you want to know?’

  ‘Do you know of anyone—young or old, recently or at any time in the past—who may have had reason to wish Francis harm or bore him a grudge of any sort?’

  Don’t dare say a bloody word! ‘No sir, I never heard Frank say a bad word about anyone. Just about everybody liked him.’

  Surrey County Police Headquarters, Surbiton: 1600. Time for Detective Inspector Melton’s prearranged meeting with Chief Superintendent Jarvis. Melton tapped on the door and entered. The incumbent, busily scanning a document of some description, paused to look up.

  ‘Hello, David. Dead on time as usual. Come and sit down, I’ll be right with you.’

  Jarvis bent his head, ran a forefinger down a column of figures, scrawled his initials and closed the file.

  ‘Appropriation summary,’ he grunted, by way of explanation. ‘A nuisance, but necessary. Right,’ he said, briskly, ‘time is short so we’d better get down to business—but before we look at your draft statement, I’d appreciate an update on developments.’

  ‘Certainly sir,’ Melton replied and, omitting minor details, swiftly brought his superior up to date. DCS Jarvis listened without comment until Melton had finished. Then he positively exploded.

  ‘Am I to understand that not one of those former friends of Francis Bridgwater crossed swords with him in some way before, during or since school—or knew of anyone who did?’ Melton was taken aback.

  ‘Unfortunately, sir, that is exactly so,’ he protested. ‘I admit it’s unfortunate that none of the interviewees could remember a past protagonist nor hint at a possible enemy, but every interview was conducted in accordance with proper procedure.’

  Logic prevailed. Jarvis’ wrath subsided as rapidly as it had arisen. ‘Sorry if I upset you, David, but I can’t for the life of me imagine what to say to the DACC. He’s pushing hard for an early result— and still asks about the Pennington case almost every week.’ Such a feeble, half-hearted apology did little to extinguish Melton’s controlled indignation:

  ‘But surely he must realise a body discovered a few short days ago has already been identified. Getting on for three months went by between the murder and discovery of the corpse. Consequently whatever trail the murderer may have left is long since cold. Let’s face it, sir, only last Saturday we were saddled with a decomposing corpse with absolutely no means of identification. That’s progress, surely?’

  ‘I’ll grant you that—but will the DACC? He’s under pressure himself. I can just hear him asking: “What sort of man was he, this Bridgwater chap, some sort of saint? No minor playground squabble? Never nicked another chap’s girlfriend or slept with another man’s wife? Not a single enemy in the world? Rubbish!” Your men had better believe he had an enemy, David—the poor chap wouldn’t be lying in the morgue otherwise. Come on, Inspector Melton. He expects results and so do I. Without going into detail, what is your strategy for trying to establish some sort of motive?’

  ‘Well sir, with the exception of one officer on telephone and radio liaison and six tied up with routine and other matters, the remaining eight are out seeking a lead on anyone who may have had a difference of opinion with the deceased sometime in the past. Two are calling house-to-house in West End, two are tracking down former employers and colleagues and the other four are canvassing local tradespeople, pubs, clubs and the like, anywhere he may have frequented, not necessarily with his father’s knowledge. I really don’t see what more we can do.’

  The Chief Superintendent snorted.

  ‘That’s fine, but former friends of Francis Bridgwater must still represent the best chance of a lead to the killer and therefore— except for the two you’ve already questioned—they are to be interviewed again, and by you personally this time—and no “ifs” or “buts” about it. I don’t doubt the interrogatory skills of your men, but none can match your experience or perception.

  ‘You’re an excellent policeman, David, and I’ve come to rely on your judgement. Under your leadership we’ve built a team the equal of any in the Force, and I’d like to be sure my confidence isn’t misplaced so, please, root out something that might conceivably point to a motive, OK?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Right, subject closed. Let’s have a look at this draft bulletin of yours.’

  At 16.25 Melton left the ‘Chief Super’s’ office and conveyed an amended draft to the data office. The route back to his own office took him through front Reception where he was accosted by excited news reporters.

  ‘Dangerfield, Evening News!’ the nearest announced.

  Melton acknowledged the crime reporter.

  ‘Wire Services E-mail Inspector. Body in the Vault inquiry. Press Conference this afternoon—but your desk sergeant says it’s the first he’s heard of it. What the hell is going on?�
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  ‘Well, I did hear a rumour to that effect, but it didn’t come from me. I suggest you ask Robin Prendergast for an explanation, Mr Dangerfield. I’m told he’s an absolute mine of information.’

  ‘Oh, him was it?’ snorted another reporter. ‘I read his article in the Surrey Chronicle this morning.’

  Several eager faces surrounding Melton darkened in annoyance. One fellow scowled and muttered, ‘I’ll have his guts for garters, just see if I don’t. I’ve travelled miles to get here this afternoon.’

  Having lit a bonfire, so to speak, Melton decided to apply a bucketful of water.

  ‘Now gentlemen,’ he soothed, ‘it may not be entirely his fault; try blaming his crystal ball. In any event, none of you have had an entirely wasted journey. A special press release will be issued at 1700 hours.’

  An edited version of the bulletin gained inclusion in the mid-evening and main television news programmes that evening and was fully reported in national dailies the following morning: 18 February, 2005:

  POLICE STEP UP HUNT FOR KILLER

  BODY IN THE VAULT LATEST

  In a statement issued by police hunting the killer of nineteen-year-old Francis Bridgwater, Detective Inspector David Melton, CID—the officer heading the investigation—had little to add to what he told reporters yesterday. ‘Details of the circumstances surrounding the way in which Francis Bridgwater met with an untimely end are being withheld so as not to prejudice the investigation,’ he said, and went on to reveal that detectives are ‘actively pursuing certain lines of inquiry’ which it is hoped will help establish a motive for the brutal killing and eventually lead to the murderer being apprehended.

  It can also be disclosed that Francis—seasonally employed as a courier for a national holiday company—disappeared last November after failing to arrive in southern France where he was contracted to work as an airline steward.

  08.30: Police HQ, Surbiton

  ‘Stone the perishing crows,’ DS O’Connor snorted, vehemently. He prodded the newspaper.

  ‘Have you read the last paragraph, Guv’nor? Francis Bridgwater’s employment wasn’t even mentioned in that release.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I wrote it,’ Melton said angrily. ‘And that’s what I think of that!’ he added, sweeping the newspaper from the desk directly into the waste bin.

  Between 9.00 and 9.15, all officers currently working on the Bridgwater investigation received instructions to report to the briefing room to attend a case conference commencing at 10.00 sharp.

  After preliminaries, DI Melton delivered a concise summation of the investigation to date. He expressed his disappointment at the lack of progress since identification of the body, and invited comment, but after fifteen minutes of general discussion little of value had emerged.

  With continued pressure from higher authority and the prospect of another unsolved murder, Melton decided the time had come to place the bulk of routine on hold and commit all available resources. The Chief Superintendent was right. It was crucial a motive be established without delay. He rapped his desk for order.

  ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ he resumed, ‘as you all know, almost three months have elapsed since Francis Bridgwater was murdered. That fact alone substantially reduces detection possibilities. Whatever trail that may once have existed will have long since disappeared. To stand any chance of apprehending the killer, we must first establish a motive.

  ‘The deceased man’s father—his only living relative apart from a distant cousin, has bravely set aside his grief to provide a comprehensive resume of his dead son’s former friends and associates. Unfortunately for this investigation, he knew of no-one with whom Francis had had any kind of disagreement; he was confident his son hadn’t an enemy in the world. Clearly that was not the case.

  ‘It is neither desirable nor operationally acceptable for this inquiry to drag on indefinitely. The longer the file remains on my desk, the less the chance of ever apprehending the killer. To this end, all routine and other matters not of an urgent nature are to be placed on the back burner with immediate effect, allowing us to concentrate every effort on seeking a breakthrough.

  ‘The following measures will be implemented forthwith:

  ‘Door-to-door inquiries in West End will be extended to include all residents over the age of twelve—a brief word with the householder will no longer suffice. To achieve this without prolonging the investigation unduly, the number of officers detailed will increase to six.

  ‘Similarly, to speed the task of trawling through local business people, shops, pubs and the like, the existing complement of two is to be doubled.

  ‘Finally, two additional officers will help locate and interview all Francis Bridgwater’s former employers and workmates everywhere he worked since leaving school—in the UK, that is. Anyone who smells an excuse for a continental holiday might as well forget it.

  ‘Few people are at home during the day, so those on house-to-house inquiries will work flexitime up to a maximum of ten hours a day. Excess overtime will not be authorised.

  ‘A word of warning to anyone who fancies skiving off sick over the next couple of weeks. He—or she—will find themselves referred to a medical board for absences exceeding twenty-four hours.

  ‘Your brief: To persevere, to exhaust every possibility, but winkle out some form of altercation in which Francis Bridgwater almost certainly became engaged at some time during his short life, no matter how trivial and that, I might add, includes a playground tiff or sports-field disagreement. The lead we so desperately need is out there somewhere. Go and find it! Detective Sergeant O’Connor will detail and organise to suit operational convenience. Remember—no enemy equals no motive equals no killer in the dock. Good hunting!’

  After a trying afternoon, Melton returned to HQ at 6.00 p.m. to find DS O’Connor still at work. To avoid upsetting the original interviewing officers, his itinerary remained confidential to all except his assistant. Tired, grumpy and despondent, Melton dropped into his chair.

  ‘Hello, Guv’nor. How did it go? Any luck?’

  ‘Not really,’ Melton sighed. ‘Caroline Lucas—last of the three. Lady minicab driver—sans radio. Finally ran her to earth half-an-hour ago. Says she was saddened by Frank Bridgwater’s death, would love to help, but couldn’t recall him falling out with anyone. I might as well have gone to Sandown, or sneaked home for the afternoon to put my feet up.’

  He fished out his car keys and tossed them on the desk.

  ‘Here, partner, take my car tonight and drop me off. I’ll buy you a half on the way.’

  0915, 19th February, 2005, County Police Headquarters, Surbiton

  Mufti-clad, on what was supposedly his Saturday off, Detective Chief Superintendent Jarvis arrived, stomped through reception and continued noisily towards his office. He went in and slammed the door. Seconds later, an unmistakable voice issued from Melton’s office intercom.

  ‘Inspector Melton?’ What the blazes…? It’s supposed to be his Saturday off! ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Oh good, you are in. Can you spare a minute?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. Right away, sir?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  A ‘click’ from the speaker and the intercom fell silent. Melton made his way to the Chief Super’s office.

  ‘Come and sit down, David,’ Jarvis said. ‘Sorry to trouble you, but I’m meeting the DACC at ten for golf. He’s bound to ask about the Bridgwater case and I wonder if you’d mind telling where we’re up to.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ Melton began, ‘I’ll be as brief as possible. Should I start to digress, please tell me. I wouldn’t want to make you late for your appointment.’

  Suspecting sarcasm, Jarvis looked up, but Melton seemed intent only on delivering his report.

  ‘You were absolutely right, sir. Success or failure depends almost entirely on our ability to establish a motive. When it became clear at yesterday’s forum we were in danger of stalemate—even at this early stage—I decided, prompted by
your remarks, to set routine to one side in order to concentrate all the available resources. Time is of the essence, sir. Whatever trail once existed grows fainter by the day.

  ‘Forgive me for being dramatic, but now I’ve committed, it’s vital I have your full backing. As from today—apart from telephone and radio liaison duties at headquarters—all officers are devoting themselves to finding a connection, however tenuous, between the deceased and the man who clearly had powerful enough reason to plan and execute an extremely heinous crime.

  ‘Every West End resident over the age of twelve is to be questioned, all tradespeople canvassed, every staff member identified and visited—similarly with pubs, clubs and bars throughout the area. Furthermore, we shall seek out former school friends and teachers, UK employers and colleagues and follow through every item of information gleaned—all in all, sir, a formidable undertaking.

  ‘Few people are home during the day. Therefore officers on house-to-house inquiries will work flexitime up to a maximum of ten hours spread across the day. I see no need to seek authority for excess overtime. Can I take it these measures meet with your approval sir?’

  ‘Exactly what I hoped to hear you say, David. I trust your efforts will speedily be rewarded. By the way, the former school friends, did you learn anything?’

  Damn, I knew he’d ask me that! ‘No sir. All expressed regret about the tragic death and wanted to help, but not one could recall a single instance when Francis Bridgwater openly disagreed with anybody.’

  ‘Pity,’ Jarvis remarked. He looked at his watch. ‘Better dash; mustn’t keep the Deputy Assistant waiting.’

  The moment Melton was back in his office, O’Connor popped his head round the door.

  ‘How did you get on, Guv’nor?’ he asked.

  Melton rubbed his nose conspiratorially.

  ‘Don’t ask silly questions, you nosy sod. Get on with your work,’ he replied, mischievously.

  ‘That’s the trouble with this bloody place,’ retorted O’Connor. ‘Nobody tells me anything.’ Melton failed to rise to the bait, and both men turned their attention to a substantial amount of paperwork left over from the previous day.