The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

  They passed through a series of unfamiliar lanes, until the driver slowed and swung into a winding, tree-lined driveway. After some eighty metres, a house came within range of the headlights. There were no welcoming lights, no sign of life—the place seemed deserted. The vehicle slowed to a crawl. Where are we? Why has he brought me here?

  There came a crunch of gravel, whereupon the driver swung the cab round in little more than its own length, coming to a halt facing the way they had come. She scarcely noticed that the engine was still running.

  ‘Where is this? What are you going to do?’ she shouted, banging the screen with her fist.

  Ignoring her, the driver pulled his cap down over his eyes and got out. God, he’s coming for me! Menacingly—or so it seemed—he opened the rear passenger door. Janice couldn’t help but cringe.

  ‘You get out here,’ he ordered. ‘Come on, hurry up!’

  I’m frightened! What is he going to do? Fearing she was about to be raped—killed, possibly—Janice remained seated, too petrified to move.

  ‘Get out, you stupid cow,’ he growled, ‘I ain’t got all bleedin’ night!’

  Janice recovered her voice. ‘What for? Where are you taking me? Why are you doing this?’

  Ignoring her protests, he dragged her out of the vehicle and pushed her roughly to one side. Without speaking, he snatched her cases from the back seat and threw them to the ground, got back behind the wheel and drove away, leaving the terrified girl alone in almost total darkness.

  Casting about, Janice located the house, vaguely outlined against a leaden sky. Hurriedly picking up her luggage, she set off towards the road, feeling her way by means of the gravel underfoot, but after a few faltering paces, she was violently grabbed from behind. Her bags went flying and, unable to resist, she was forcibly propelled in the direction of the house.

  Janice could hardly breathe. A powerful arm encircled her neck in a vicious half-nelson and a brutal hand clamped firmly over her mouth prevented her from screaming. She was shoved roughly through a door into a dank interior, poorly lit by a paraffin lantern.

  A voice snarled hoarsely in her ear, ‘I’m going to take my hands away and when I do, put your hands behind your back—quietly, or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.’

  His voice seemed vaguely familiar. The sincerity of the threat, however, was unmistakable.

  Janice obeyed, and her hands were promptly secured.

  ‘In case you decide to scream…’

  A gag was shoved across her mouth and tied behind her neck. A blindfold swiftly followed and Janice was manhandled across the room, down steep steps and shoved ignominiously to the floor and into a sitting position. Sensing his proximity, she cringed when her captor bent to fasten her ankles together.

  ‘That’s you fixed nicely,’ the man said. ‘Just keep still—and remember, I’ll be watching!’

  Meanwhile, at Surbiton station, Steven fidgeted. It was 5.43 p.m. and Janice had yet to arrive. Their coach was due to depart in a little over ten minutes. Assuming she had left home as arranged, she should surely have arrived by now, so where was she? After all, the journey was relatively short—no more than six or seven minutes, ten at the most. Anxiously, he checked his watch against the station clock.

  Five more minutes ticked inexorably by with still no sign of Janice. Steven began to pace to and fro anxiously—six steps this way, six that, keeping within metres of the rendezvous. Damn, if only I had my mobile with me.

  There were public telephones the other side of the concourse, however. If she’s not here soon I’ll ring her Mum and ask what’s happened. But at 5.48, a taxi drew into the forecourt.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ Steven exclaimed aloud.

  He picked up his luggage, crossed to the vehicle and peered through the tinted glass windows. His heart sank: there were no passengers on board.

  ‘You Steven Pearce?’ the driver inquired gruffly, through a partially lowered window.

  ‘Yes. Where’s Miss Pearson? What’s going on?’ Steven demanded in agitation. ‘Where’s my fiancée?’

  ‘Calm down sir—please! I’ve bin sent ter collect yer. Miss Pearson met with a haccident an needs yer hurgently. Jump in, I’ll take yer.’

  ‘What’s happened to Janice? Where is she?’ Steven repeated, anger forgotten.

  ‘Don’ know no more than wot I’ve already tole yer,’ the driver answered. ‘I’m jus’ takin’ yer to where she’s bein’ looked arter till the hambulance arrives.’

  Unhesitatingly, he scrambled aboard the vehicle, which moved smartly away the instant he slammed the door. The journey lasted around ten minutes and was conducted in silence, Steven accepting that the driver was simply following instructions. Such was his anxiety, he was not in the least suspicious and took no particular notice of the route by which they travelled.

  ‘Nearly there, guv,’ the driver ventured, as they entered a long gravelled driveway leading to a rather ramshackle house, although Steven scarcely noticed.

  The cabbie gestured towards the front door, starkly illuminated by the glare of his headlights.

  ‘She’s bin took inside out of the cold, guv. I was told to tell yer it’s OK ter go straight in.’

  ‘Thanks. Wait for me please,’ Steven said, and leapt from the cab. The vehicle moved forward and started to turn—in readiness to depart, Steven supposed—and plunged the house into darkness, forcing him to moderate his headlong dash. Picking his way, Steven reached the entrance without incident and pushed wide the unlatched door. Hesitantly, not bothering to knock, he fumbled his way inside.

  The hallway smelt musty and was in pitch darkness. He heard no sound, other than the beat of his own heart. Where could Janice be? The hairs at the nape of his neck stiffened. Beside himself with concern, confused and bewildered, he simply couldn’t understand.

  ‘Janice! Janice! Where are you?’ he called.

  His only answer was the muffled echo of his own voice. Yet still he had no inkling of danger. Cautiously, Steven shuffled forward a couple of paces. Suddenly, there came a brilliant flash of light, a loud roaring in his ears, a violent pain inside his head and he knew no more. Steven slumped to the floor unconscious, felled by a single blow to the back of the skull, delivered by the man who had waited behind the door, truncheon raised in readiness.

  Muffled footsteps somewhere above her head preceded the thud of a door, followed by silence for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes. It was difficult to assess the passage of time in total darkness.

  The sounds from overhead were different now. There was an indistinct ‘thud’, shuffling footsteps and slithery noises that sounded like a bag of potatoes being dragged across a floor. Unmistakably, a door opened and, much louder, came a series of hollow bumping sounds, as if that same sack of potatoes was being manhandled down a flight of stairs—in her direction. She heard grunts of exertion, scraping sounds, another thud, a groan and a long, drawn-out sigh. The footsteps retreated, a door slammed, more footsteps and a second door thudded—distant, less distinct. Then silence once more—except that if she held her breath and listened carefully, she could just make out the soft, steady sound of someone breathing. Janice was not alone! Petrified, she kept as still as a mouse, hardly daring to breathe. What if…? But her captor was gone.

  Time passed and were it not for the need to shift regularly to ease discomfort Janice may well have drifted into sleep. She had no idea whether two hours or twenty had passed since she had been abducted. But the poor girl was obliged to relieve herself— twice, maybe three times. In all probability, the period of incarceration had already exceeded twenty-four hours.

  Throbbing pain rose and fell in intensity, each peak serving to bring consciousness a little closer. The process was gradual, for the mind will always prolong the comatose state in the event of serious head injury, giving nature’s healing processes sufficient time to effect repairs.

  The girl’s companion in confinement groaned softly. Janice stiffened. It sounded as if it was Ste
ven! The groan came again, and this time she was almost certain. Cursing the gag, Janice tried to speak, but ‘Mmmm! Mmmm!’ was all she could manage. Janice abandoned the effort. Taking strength from the thought that it really might be Steven whose breath she could hear, she thereafter contented herself with listening. Time passed and Steven gradually regained his senses.

  At first, he found himself the victim of a thundering headache which seemed to alternate in potency, the pain tending to fall away then increase in intensity until it became almost unbearable. He remained still, shrewdly suspecting that to do otherwise would make matters worse. Eventually, he tried to open his eyes, but saw nothing but blackness. Exhausted, he decided to rest for a while, vaguely aware he was propped against a wall. The headache persisted, but the longer he waited, the less intense it became. As time passed, he came to realise his arms and legs were numb, his backside sore and he positively ached all over.

  Seeking relief, Steven wriggled painfully, and managed to relieve the pressure on his lower spine. But attempts to coax movement from lifeless arms and legs failed, and only now did it register that both his wrists and ankles were securely pinioned. Dammit! He was trussed up like a chicken. Another revelation followed. In attempting to take a deep breath, he discovered he was gagged.

  Slowly, memory returned. Surbiton bus station … taxi … accident … Janice? … Janice! He struggled to free himself—get up—find Janice—anything! But, giddy and weakened he desisted. He groaned, panted through his nose and, after a while, felt a little better. Sit still, you silly pillock, he told himself. Save your bloody energy.

  What was that? Janice pricked up her ears. After ages and ages, that sound again—Steven?

  ‘Mmmm—Mmmm—Mmmm.’ She did her best to articulate—and, amazingly, Steven heard her.

  ‘Glur—Nind?’ He tried desperately to respond. Jan, Janice! he shouted, but only inside his head. It’s no use. Even if it is Jan, I can’t make her understand. He slumped against the wall, defeated.

  Was it Steven? Perhaps! Janice recognised the futility of struggling and didn’t try again. The hours drifted painfully by.

  2100, Saturday 19th March 2005

  A white XJS left Kenward Close and headed for a secluded, five-bedroomed house standing in seven acres of woodland on the outskirts of Claygate. The house, formerly the home of an elderly recluse, had been bought covertly by Strudwick the previous year when Gaston Hathaway were invited by the executors to market the property ‘For Sale and Renovation’. Undoubtedly a sound investment, it would make a tidy profit when put to rights and remarketed, but in the meantime would provide an excellent mission venue, with ample disposal opportunities right on the doorstep and well away from prying eyes.

  Nearing his destination, Strudwick killed the headlights, negotiated the driveway on head and tail only and parked well out of sight to the side and rear of the house. Armed with a flashlight, he patted his jacket to confirm an essential item of equipment was in place, vacated the car, remotely locked the doors and set the alarm system. After a careful reconnaissance to make sure nothing had been disturbed in his absence, he let himself in through the front door.

  After interminable hours with only the rhythmic sigh of breathing for company, there came the ‘thud’ of a distant door, muffled footsteps overhead—then, for a little while, silence again. The securely trussed prisoners, each gagged and one wearing a blindfold, confined in darkness within a dank cellar for over twenty-four hours, cold, filthy, hungry, thirsty, stiffened at the sound, before lapsing again into dreamlike apathy. But when the door opened and someone came down the steps, both instantly became alert.

  Steven closed his eyes to avoid the dazzle of a lantern, while Janice sat as upright as she could and wondered hopefully whether rescue was at hand. The newcomer suspended the lantern from a convenient nail and turned to face Steven.

  ‘Hello arsehole,’ he drawled. ‘Fancy seeing you here—sucker!’ Janice froze. That voice—Why hadn’t she recognised it before? Robert Strudwick! She shivered. Steven’s eyes bulged: Robert Strudwick! The taxi, this cellar; it all made sense. Janice!

  Even though his eyes had become accustomed to the light, the poor illumination barely reached the other side of the dingy cellar, but the instant his eyes encountered the figure seated almost directly opposite, he had no difficulty in recognising the slender, adorable girl he’d known and loved almost from the moment he’d first clapped eyes on her.

  Steven reasoned furiously. Why abduct them both? He realised he represented a threat to Strudwick’s freedom, but the bastard knew he’d never breathe a word. Does the evil swine mean to silence me after all, even though he knows I’d never grass? But what about Janice? She knows nothing!

  His mouth was covered, but perhaps his eyes were too expressive. Strudwick grinned knowingly.

  ‘You may well wonder, shit-features,’ he mocked. ‘You’ve been a pain in the arse for years, and now I’m going to fix you once and for all, you and your bloody tart. But first—a little fun.’

  He turned up the lantern-wick for maximum illumination, looked around the cellar and spotted an old wooden bench adjacent to the rear wall.

  ‘Ah,’ he grunted in evident satisfaction and, righting it, he dragged it nearer the centre beneath the lantern. He took off his jacket, folded it and placed it on the end of the bench, unbuckled the sheath beneath his armpit and withdrew a fearsome-looking cook’s knife.

  Steven watched with horror. Long convinced that Strudwick was crazy and probably capable of murder, he was already half out of his mind with fear—not only for himself, but for Janice. Strudwick tested the keenness of the weapon with his thumb, turning it this way and that so as to reflect the lantern-light directly into his prisoner’s eyes.

  He laid both knife and sheath side by side on top of the coat, and moved across to Janice.

  Janice! What does the bastard want with Janice? Steven struggled furiously, but his bonds were cruelly tight, and he was obliged to desist.

  Sensing Steven’s disquiet, Strudwick turned. ‘Huff, puff and fart till you shit yourself for all I care,’ he ground out, scornfully. ‘You’re going nowhere, you miserable arsehole, but before I slit your fucking throat I’ve some unfinished business with this bloody trollop!’

  He kicked at Janice’s foot, angrily. His violent words filled the girl with terror and she too struggled to get free.

  ‘Oho!’ Strudwick exclaimed. ‘Unhappy with the way I’ve tied you up, is that it? Well, what a shame. Perhaps I’d better do something about it.’

  He reached for the knife, waved it at Steven—who almost choked behind his gag, stooped, and with a single stroke, sliced cleanly through the bonds securing Janice’s ankles. Strudwick stood back expectantly, but the girl didn’t move. She either failed to comprehend or didn’t even realise her legs had been freed.

  ‘Shift your arse, you silly cow,’ he barked impatiently. ‘Stand up. Your feet are untied. Come on, you bitch, get up and turn around and I’ll undo your hands.’

  Behind the gag, Janice bit her lip. What does he want? What does he mean to do? Stevie, help me, darling. I’m frightened!

  ‘Hurry up, sod you. I’ve got a knife. Get a bloody move on or I’ll stick it up your boyfriend’s arse.’

  Bravely, Janice tried to comply. With her back pressed against the wall, she pushed with her feet and managed to lift herself a little, but having precious little feeling below her waist, she flopped painfully back to the floor, close to tears and even more terrified.

  Exasperated, Strudwick snorted, but restoring her to full mobility was essential to the plan, so he reached out and hauled her to her feet. Effortlessly, he spun her round and severed the bonds securing her wrists. Propping her against the wall, he waited to make sure she wasn’t about to lose her footing.

  ‘Rub your wrists hard, then your legs,’ he commanded. ‘I want you in decent working order!’

  He stood back and watched impassively as the frightened girl hastened to obey. Satisfie
d, for the moment at least, he turned his attention to Steven.

  ‘Now do you get the drift, shit-features?’ he asked, with a dreadful, meaningful leer. Steven’s eyes widened in comprehension. ‘Yep, you’ve got it in one. A pillock like you wouldn’t recognise a decent fuck if it kicked you in the bollocks, so I’ll give her a good shagging for you. Watch carefully, arsehole, and I’ll show you how it should be done!’

  He turned back to Janice and swiftly removed her blindfold. ‘Get your gear off, you bitch—every stitch. Quickly! We mustn’t keep boyfriend waiting!’ Steven’s eyes flashed with anger and disgust. You filthy bastard! But he was powerless to intervene. Petrified with fear and loathing, Janice was unable to move. Strudwick exploded with rage. He leapt across the cellar, lunged at Steven with the knife and shouted at Janice, ‘You’ve got twenty seconds to strip, you bitch, or I’ll cut his fucking throat!’

  Fumbling with leaden fingers, tears spilling down her face and soaking the gag, she pulled her blouse over her head, loosened and stepped out of her skirt, took off her bodice and removed her brassiere. Finally, she slowly peeled down her stockings and stepped out of her panties. Completely naked, she faced her tormentor.

  Steven agonised. Some day, you bastard, he promised himself, some day!

  Strudwick positioned himself in front of the girl—a little sideways, so as not to block Steven’s view—then, deliberately and suggestively, unzipped his fly to expose himself. Soaking in the beauty of the girl who once had surrendered herself to him unreservedly, he reached out to her breasts and fondled her intimately, whilst rubbing himself vigorously in an attempt to trigger arousal.

  But Janice was scarcely at her best. She stank of urine, her hair was matted and, with a gag across her mouth, she seemed singularly unattractive. His efforts failed to produce the desired result and it wasn’t long before Strudwick gave up in disgust.

  ‘Put your kit back on, you dirty, stinking bitch,’ he snarled. ‘I don’t want you; I never wanted you. I didn’t fancy you in the first place, if you must know. It was simply your availability.’