The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

  Each bent to his task and made steady progress but, nearing midday, Melton was interrupted.

  Not by any means for the first time—and probably not for the last—the hapless Desk Sergeant found himself under siege from a quartet of newsmen. These were demanding full and proper information regarding the investigation, without which they refused to go away. In desperation, he rang DI Melton to ask for help.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to trouble you sir, but they’re kicking up a hell of a fuss. They won’t leave without finding out what’s going on, and demand to hear it from you. I’ve told them you’re busy, but they won’t take “no” for an answer.’

  Melton sighed. ‘OK Sergeant, I’ll see what I can do. Tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

  Five minutes later. Melton walked into a noisy reception.

  ‘Hush, gentlemen,’ he pleaded. ‘Statements have been issued twice already this week and there’s nothing further to tell.

  ‘The investigation has been stepped up, and fifteen officers are now working flat out.’

  With this the journalists had to be content.

  The investigation intensified, as police sought anyone even suspected of having shown the slightest degree of animosity towards the dead man at some time in the past. It roared ahead throughout Monday and Tuesday, but without uncovering a single useful lead.

  1100, Wednesday 23rd February 2005: Police HQ, Surbiton

  DI Melton began working through the contents of his ‘In’ tray. Several files and memos later, he came to a brown manila envelope inscribed: CONFIDENTIAL: Detective Inspector Melton CID.

  ‘Funny,’ he remarked, to no-one in particular, ‘I didn’t notice that. Wonder when it arrived?’

  ‘Seen this before, Ben?’ he asked his assistant, sitting opposite. ‘No sir. It wasn’t there last night. Must have arrived with the post. But it does seem important. Oughtn’t you take a look.’

  Melton opened the envelope, withdrew a foolscap sheet and began to read.

  Affecting indifference, O’Connor studiously returned to his file. Suddenly, Melton slapped the desk. ‘Eureka! The first piece of real evidence.’

  ‘Those hairs recovered from the deceased man’s clothing, all but one belonged to Francis Bridgwater. DNA was extracted and the profile checked against the computer database at Central Criminal Records. There was no match. When we find the man whose DNA does match, we shall have our murderer.’

  ‘That’s good news sir—up to a point. There’d be an outcry if we attempted to saliva-test every local male and if it were done voluntarily, it’s unlikely our man would be daft enough to come forward. We’d only catch the blighter if he was arrested and tested for a totally unrelated reason.

  ‘What defines “local” anyway? To be certain of netting the killer, we’d need a swab from every male over the age of sixteen within a radius of, say, five miles of Esher? That takes in Twickenham, Hounslow and Isleworth, Kingston and Teddington, as far south as Leatherhead, Weybridge in the west, across to Epsom and Ewell in the east. I’m no population expert, sir, but I’d guess we’re talking in excess of a million.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Sergeant, but blanket DNA census isn’t quite what I had in mind.’

  Thoughtfully, he returned the paper to its envelope and tucked it into his inside pocket. He gestured towards the outer office. ‘I’ll acquaint the Chief Super and explain my reasons in due course, but in the meantime I want the existence of this document kept strictly between ourselves. Unless you disapprove, I intend to take this home and lock it in my safe.

  ‘One day—hopefully soon—we will have reason to bring in a suspect in connection with the murder of Francis Bridgwater. When we do, I shall propose a simple saliva test, which could free an innocent party of all suspicion.’ He looked his assistant squarely in the eye. ‘Do you have any such objection, Detective Sergeant O’Connor?’ he asked.

  O’Connor did not. Ben rubbed his chin, thought for a moment, then asked, curiously, ‘How come that result came directly to you instead of through usual channels?’

  Melton tapped his nose.

  ‘Why do you suppose? I arranged it of course, right after we learned of the hair’s existence.’

  0945, Friday 25th February 2005: Police HQ, Surbiton

  The office intercom sprang into life.

  ‘Inspector Melton!’ the all-too-familiar voice snapped.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I dare say you’re busy, (How did he guess?) but I’d appreciate a word.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  ‘I’ll give you one guess what he wants,’ O’Connor ventured.

  Melton didn’t even bother to reply. He got to his feet and left immediately, to return some ten minutes later, grim faced.

  ‘That’s it, Ben,’ he said, morosely, ‘we wind the inquiry down to a maximum of just two men. One continues sniffing pubs, clubs and so on, the other following up former employers. All others come off the investigation as of today and we revert to standard manning forthwith.’

  ‘I wish there was something I could say, Guv’nor. All that effort for damn-all. But I suppose the Chief Super didn’t really have much choice.’

  ‘No, the investigation has cost a bomb already and couldn’t possibly continue indefinitely. We have to be realistic. Reduced maybe, but the inquiry goes on. We will nab that murderer.’

  At 1.30 p.m. reporters arrived.

  With a practice born of long experience, Melton ignored their barrage of questions, gaining attention with nothing more potent than a smile and a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I presume you’ve picked up another of those dreadful rumours. You’ve probably heard the Bridgwater investigation is to be scaled down. I have here a prepared statement which I propose to read aloud…’

  Elsewhere, later that evening, Robert Strudwick’s eyes glinted with satisfaction as he listened to an informed voice explain that, despite intense effort, the ‘Bridgwater’ investigation had been scaled down owing to lack of progress. The woman rang off. Robert replaced the receiver with a satisfied smirk.

  Saturday 26 February 2005

  BODY IN THE VAULT DEVELOPMENT

  HUNT FOR KILLER SCALED DOWN

  Reading from a prepared statement, Detective Inspector David Melton CID, the officer heading the Francis Bridgwater murder inquiry, yesterday confirmed that the wide-ranging investigation was to be scaled-down with immediate effect. The inquiry, which began in earnest on February 14 following the accidental discovery of nineteen-year-old Francis’ decomposing body in a locked vault beneath Esher’s Old Church, was dramatically intensified just seven days ago. ‘The first and most important part of an ongoing investigation has been speedily concluded and, as a consequence, certain lines of inquiry have been eliminated. This will enable other elements to proceed unimpeded,’ Inspector Melton said. The Inspector paid tribute to a dedicated team of detectives who worked tirelessly for long hours under difficult conditions to produce a satisfactory result in record time. ‘I am confident the continuing investigation will culminate with the apprehension of a vicious, ruthless and unbelievably sadistic killer,’ he concluded.

  Robert Strudwick folded his newspaper, yawned—and pondered the nature of his next mission.

  Chapter Twelve

  Abducted

  Although engaged for almost a year, Steven and Janice had yet to spend a full night together. That apart, ‘quality time’ together was always at a premium, due largely to Janice’s quaintly old-fashioned mother, who knew perfectly well what young lovers got up to—having been there herself—yet didn’t consider it ‘proper’ for her daughter to sleep with Steven ‘under her own roof’. A potential solution presented itself early in their relationship—a ‘just the two of us’ holiday. The subject cropped up often enough, but even though the balance in their joint account grew steadily, a great deal more would be needed if they were to get married and set up home together, and the idea of plundering their savings fo
r the sake of a holiday never entered their heads.

  One Saturday in February, however, Janice chanced across a holiday advertisement:

  Weekend Mini-hols in London for two!

  All-inclusive.

  Two nights’ overnight luxury hotel accommodation.

  Afternoon sightseeing coach tour.

  Tickets to a Saturday-night show, choice of three theatres.

  Return coach fare: Croydon/Malden/Surbiton/Kingston/Twickenham

  Depart 6 p.m. Friday—return 5 p.m. Sunday

  Why not treat yourselves? Send for a brochure—now!

  Surbiton was awkward to get to by bus, but easy by taxi, and relatively cheap. Janice tore out the page.

  ‘Ace Cars’, the only taxi company of substance within the Esher urban district, was based at Long Ditton and, discounting a couple of ‘rogue’ minicabs, enjoyed a virtual monopoly within the area.

  The cars were radio-controlled from a small office on Portsmouth Road by Sylvia Fairweather, a thirty-five-year-old spinster and owner of a business inherited from her father. She soon discovered it barely ‘broke even’ with a fleet of just three vehicles. Two were somewhat decrepit ex-London taxis and the newest at ten years old was still on extended contract hire.

  In a matter of weeks, however, thanks to substantial backing from the Midland Bank, negotiated through their Esher branch, the revitalised business ran a fleet of five modern taxicabs operated by self-employed drivers, whose remuneration was determined as a percentage of their own takings. With commission set at ten per cent of turnover, Sylvia’s financial security seemed assured. But, convinced the business would fail should the bank ever decide to call-in her loan, Sylvia was at pains never to offend Calderwood Clough-Cartwright the manager nor, more particularly, his chief clerk, Alfred Strudwick, the man with whom she was normally expected to deal.

  Poor gullible Sylvia. She did not realise that most reputable banks would consider financial support for a company such as hers, and although putting up her home as security would be the norm, few would demand she second-mortgage the office premises, garage and workshops, much less insist on retaining the deeds pending full repayment of the loan plus interest. Neither was she aware that, apart from the setting-up and administrative fee, standard interest on outstanding monthly balances was probably the only reward that most would seek to impose.

  Her introduction to the Midland came about when she sought advice from local Estate Agent, Gaston Hathaway, when she was considering mortgaging her house in order to raise capital. Naively, she attributed her change of fortune to the kindness of Robert Strudwick, who took trouble to introduce her personally to his father, something for which, she made clear, she would always be grateful. From this a friendship of sorts developed—a friendship Strudwick would use to his advantage.

  During June 2001, Strudwick heard that one of Sylvia’s drivers reputedly nurtured an unnatural interest in children, and had the man discreetly investigated by a private detective from Richmond. The sleuth earned his fee by discovering that the man, a resident of Gravesend at the time, had been convicted at Maidstone Crown Court in August 1998 on two charges of indecent assault against children, for which he had been fined heavily and sentenced to three months in prison.

  Confronted with the evidence that he was a convicted paedophile, who must therefore have falsified references when applying for a Surrey hackney licence, the former felon was easily recruited into Strudwick’s ever-expanding informer network. In addition to keeping his ‘employer’ acquainted with the activities of Sylvia and the other drivers, the man was coerced into the occasional covert trip, without recording details, and, should his cab happen to be ‘borrowed’ for the odd evening, knew better than to ask questions.

  Robert Strudwick was firmly ensconced as a successful estate agent, but fast becoming bored. Since learning that the police had all but abandoned hope of establishing a connection between Bridgwater and an unknown enemy, his interest in that particular investigation had evaporated. Whilst aware Steven Pearce was probably the only medium through which he might be linked with Bridgwater’s death, Robert was confident the ‘slimy arsehole’ would never dare mention his one-time altercations with ‘poor departed Francis’—to the police or anybody else. Or was he? For the first time, Strudwick pondered the question and, for a while, felt distinctly uneasy.

  But any lingering doubt was dispelled by cold, hard logic. His first major mission had been carefully devised and meticulously carried out and, by their own admission, the police hadn’t a single clue. Yet still he craved excitement. Months had passed since the last mission and he longed to be called upon to fulfil another— Steven Pearce and Janice Pearson, perhaps? His wishes were granted when he opened the Book that very evening. Even as he watched, fascinated, the flyleaf shimmered and a message sprang into being:

  SEEK VENGEANCE ON THINE ENEMY

  AND SHE WHO SPURNED THEE FOR HIM

  As on previous occasions, the script blurred, faded and rapidly disappeared.

  Strudwick stared unseeing at the blank page whilst he evaluated the message and applied it to the mortal world and the people he most had reason to dislike. It really was quite simple; his fondest hopes were to be fulfilled. Pearce and Pearson were to be the subjects of his next mission.

  Although gratified, he nevertheless felt a pang of disappointment. There was nothing in the message to suggest he was to dispose of the hated couple permanently—but wait! In the absence of specific instructions, he was surely free to take revenge in any way he chose. Janice and Steven, he mused. It was common knowledge Janice had booked a weekend break in London for Steven and herself; she never tired of talking about it. Might that form part of a plan?

  Robert Strudwick smiled. He applied his superior intellect to the question and it wasn’t long before Sylvia and her taxis came to mind; he swiftly devised an appropriate and interesting solution. That plan came to fruition at 5.25 p.m. on Friday, 18 March 2005 when a cabdriver tooted his horn outside Janice’s house. Excitedly, Janice kissed her mother at the front door.

  ‘Bye Mum, see you Sunday,’ she chirruped, and tripped gaily down the path, making light of her suitcase and overnight bag.

  ‘Have a lovely time dear—mind you take care now,’ Mrs Pearson called after her daughter. It was the first time her precious Janice would be away from home, and she watched, anxiously, as the driver received the girl’s luggage and placed it on the back seat. She nodded her approval when he held the door open for his passenger, before resuming his position at the wheel. With another ‘toot’ of the horn and a waving of hands, the taxi sped swiftly away.

  For the security of the driver—standard equipment in most modern taxicabs—the vehicle was fitted with an electrically-operated, toughened-glass screen, enabling the cabby to isolate at will the rear passenger compartment and passengers. Additionally, a flick of a switch would remotely lock both rear doors for the safety of child passengers, with the added advantage of preventing dodgy fares from trying to abscond without first making payment.

  Steven was obliged to work that day and had been refused permission to leave early. But a colleague had promised him a lift to Surbiton and, on the strength of this, he and Janice agreed to meet under the clock at 5.45 p.m. He dealt with the problem of luggage by simply taking it to work with him.

  ‘You won’t be late, Stevie darling?’ she entreated anxiously. ‘We mustn’t miss the coach.’

  ‘No worries, Jan,’ he replied. ‘George won’t let me down. I’ll be there, have no fear.’

  The taxi trundled along Lower Green Road, giving way to oncoming traffic on Station Road before heading across the common towards Hampton Court Way. The driver should have crossed the dual carriageway heading for the Dittons, but turned right, towards the Scilly Isles. Despite the onset of dusk, the girl was quick to notice.

  ‘Why are you going the wrong way?’ she demanded. ‘This isn’t the way to Surbiton station and I have to be there before six. What the heck do you thi
nk you’re playing at?’

  ‘S’orl right, miss, just a slight detour,’ the man replied, reassuringly. ‘I bin tole there’s a burst water-main jus’ along Victoria Road, so I’m finkin’ it’d be better ’f we go the bypass way.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it, and anyway, there isn’t time. Our coach leaves dead on six. Take the next left onto Portsmouth Road,’ she ordered. ‘Go through Long Ditton. Take the second right past the reservoir. Turn left,’ she shouted, ‘left, left—now!’

  But instead of turning onto the A308, the driver made for the second roundabout and took the first exit right across Littleworth Common, accelerating hard in the direction of Claygate.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? Where are you taking me?’ she cried, becoming alarmed.

  He made no reply. The girl heard the whine of an electric motor and the glass screen dividing the passenger compartment from that of the driver slid upwards and thudded into the closed position. Frightened, Janice tugged the door handles—locked. She felt for a window-winder—there were none. Electrically-operated windows and doors! God, I’ve got to get out. The bastard means to rape me!

  Their headlights illuminated the road ahead; it was becoming dark. If only she could attract someone’s attention. But the gorse-fringed road didn’t even have a footpath. What’s more, whilst the tinted windows allowed her to see out, they were designed to ensure the passenger’s privacy, rendering it unlikely she would attract attention, even in full daylight.

  There was no means of escape, even if the cab should stop. Janice realised she was trapped! She fought back an impulse to scream—nobody but the driver would hear her anyway. What should she do? What could she do? Much afraid, the girl nevertheless pressed her nose to the glass and tried to identify their whereabouts and route, but it was already too dark so see much.

  Abruptly, the cab left the main road, and twisted and turned so much she was forced to concede she was hopelessly lost. Oh, Stevie darling, what about our holiday? Janice fought back her tears. She peered at the luminous dial of her watch: 5.35. They had been travelling for barely ten minutes.