The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

  Only now did Strudwick turn his attention to the captives, and only now did the dreadful condition they were in become apparent. Had he left them too long? His mind raced: Pentophiles! What of Pentophiles?

  Full subject awareness was essential if he was to regain the approbation of his master. To recreate the conditions for an exchange of personalities and allow his mentor to participate in the climax of the mission, now substantially more difficult than originally intended.

  Strudwick dared not delay. He unzipped the valise, withdrew the two-litre bottle of water and set about reviving the prisoners. Janice gagged, spluttered and drank greedily. Steven turned his head away, but when Strudwick grabbed a handful of hair, tilted his head and sloshed water into his face, he too began to drink.

  Suddenly, the ill-defined, miasmic blackness lifted. Thou hast betrayed Pentophiles! Strudwick straightened up: the water-bottle fell from his grasp, its contents gurgling unheeded across the shadowy floor.

  Flee! Flee! Thine enemies are nigh!

  His mobile telephone trilled. He jumped. Who was calling? He snatched the instrument from his pocket and squinted at the display: Bobby Shafto!

  ‘Hello! What?’ He listened intently whilst the informant spoke, then demanded, ‘Now? In the morning? Don’t you know? What do you mean “They’re watching me?”’ Strudwick’s face paled. ‘Right, I’m on my way!’

  His mind went blank.

  What the hell was his home number? Frantically, he scrolled the memories.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes, Robert.’

  ‘Listen, don’t speak. Something urgent has cropped up. I’ve no time to explain, but I’m going away for a few days. There are two bags inside my wardrobe, packed ready. Get both and put them behind the hedge inside the gates. I’ll pick them up in a while. The police will call later tonight or in the morning. Stall them; tell them I’m ill in bed—anything. I need a little time. But don’t answer any questions about me. I’ll give you a ring when I’ve sorted things out. Goodbye.’

  He rang off. Immediately, he punched in another number.

  ‘Henry? Where are you? Are you free? Good, I need your help. Switch off your radio and pick me up in ten minutes. No, not at the house—Mother is asleep. I’ll meet you on the corner. OK? Good!’

  It was difficult to think, but he maintained a measure of self-control and focused on the need to escape. Suppressing an impulse to knife the captives there and then, he retrieved the bottle, snatched the lantern from its nail, grabbed the valise and fairly ran up the steps and out of the cellar.

  Pausing only to re-bolt the cellar, he slammed the front door, extinguished the hot lantern and threw it into the bushes, slung the valise into the boot of his car and, regardless of risk, drove at breakneck speed down the driveway to regain the road.

  ‘Let him go—for now,’ Melton said, newly arrived and parked in the entrance to a farmer’s field diagonally opposite, screened from the road by gorse and hedgerow. ‘He’s heading home and we’ll have a word with him later. Right now, I want to know what he was doing up that driveway and why he came out in such a hell of a hurry.’

  On his signal, waiting police advanced cautiously and, within a matter of minutes, a muted voice came over the radio to report the discovery of a ramshackle house in total darkness.

  ‘Wait there,’ Melton ordered, leaving his car. ‘I’m coming in to join you.’

  Meanwhile, the water taken by the captives had brought them back from the brink. It was meant only to revive, but may well have saved their lives. Steven was the first to attempt to speak.

  ‘Jan—are you all right?’ he managed to croak.

  ‘Just about—are you?’ she whispered, hoarsely.

  ‘I’m OK—what was all that about?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Robert Strudwick, just now. That business on the phone.’

  ‘Dunno, couldn’t take it in … Oh, Stevie, I feel terrible.’

  ‘I’m not so good either,’ Steven admitted, ‘but better after that drink.’

  He fell silent. She sighed and leaned sideways in the darkness to rest her head against his shoulder. He smiled. Despite their condition, the couple drifted off to sleep.

  They didn’t sleep long. Discovery and rescue came not a moment too soon. Their bonds were gently removed. Paramedics arrived in minutes and administered water and oxygen. Both on saline drips, Steven and Janice found themselves in an ambulance—lights flashing, sirens blaring—bound for Kingston General, where specialist medical staff stood by to receive the couple.

  It was thirty minutes after midnight. Uniformed police took up station; the property was secured, pending forensic examination. It was time to find out what part, if any, Robert Strudwick had played in the abduction and incarceration of Janice Pearson and Steven Pearce.

  DI Melton prodded a yawning DS O’Connor in the ribs.

  ‘It’s getting late. He’s no idea we’re on to him. Sod it! We’ll deal with him in the morning.’

  ‘You’re having me on, Guv’nor,’ his assistant gasped, instantly wide awake. ‘You don’t intend to leave that bloody animal on the loose overnight, surely?’

  ‘A-ha! You’re not asleep, after all,’ Melton chuckled.

  ‘Just as well I’m not. Somebody needs to keep an eye on you, obviously.’

  There was silence for a moment. O’Connor fidgeted.

  ‘What about Strudwick? That was his car, wasn’t it? Were you taking the mick, Guv’nor?’

  ‘Of course not. It was his car right enough, and he was driving it,’ Melton confirmed wearily.

  ‘Tell you what—radio the team who trailed him here to go nick him and shove him in the pokey till morning. Let him cool his heels for a few hours, minus his braces, belt, shoelaces and dignity while we both grab a spot of shut-eye.’ Vindicated, but still uneasy, his assistant nevertheless thumbed the mike switch.

  ‘Oh, we’ll talk to Mister Strudwick all right—tomorrow’ … a remark which prompted DS O’Connor to let go the key. He was not to know that malign influences heavily affected the DI’s judgement, nor, for that matter, that he too was affected, although to a lesser degree. But—and not for the first time—he wondered whether his superior officer was losing the plot.

  ‘Just a thought, Guv’nor,’ he ventured. ‘What if chummy knew he’d been rumbled? Why else would he scarper in a tearing hurry within minutes of our arrival? Take it from me, sir. He’ll be miles away by now.’ I’d put my shirt on it!

  Melton jerked himself upright.

  ‘Possible, but unlikely. The surveillance was strictly “need to know”. Nobody—apart from you, me and the operatives, and the Chief of course—knew about it until after the subject was shadowed here and we mobilised.’

  ‘Come on, Guv’nor. Get real. Mobile phones? Our probable “mole”? Strudwick could easily have been tipped off. Common knowledge once the teams were briefed.’

  DI Melton was unable to contain his irritation any longer.

  ‘I’m in no mood for idle speculation, Sergeant,’ he snapped. ‘Just detail Gibson and Slade—right now, dammit, before they make it to HQ and knock off for the night.’

  O’Connor dutifully re-keyed the microphone.

  Meanwhile, at Kingston General, in intensive care, Steven and Janice had stabilised and were resting peacefully under sedation. Neither could yet be assured of full recovery and no further bulletins would be issued for the time being. The frustrated assassin, on the other hand was many miles away, just as DS O’Connor had predicted.

  The call came as Melton’s car was nearing Hinchley Wood. ‘Zebra One—receiving?’

  ‘Zebra Five, go ahead.’

  ‘Problems, Sarge. It took ten minutes for the suspect’s father to answer the door; he was very annoyed at being disturbed. Refuses to co-operate: says he’s not responsible for his son’s actions, doesn’t know where he is and, what’s more, doesn’t much care—might still be at the office, or upstairs ill in bed, for all he knows. He
told us to leave him and his wife in peace and slammed the door. Could be the suspect has flown the coop. Zebra One, over.’

  ‘Zebra Five, wait one.’

  ‘Roger, Zebra One. Zebra Five to standby.’

  O’Connor turned his head. ‘What now, sir?’

  Melton sighed. ‘Tell them to wait there. We’ll check it out ourselves. Turn the car round, Sergeant.’

  On reaching the gates, Melton was again aware of the strange aura of brooding unease that seemed to surround the property. But tonight he thought it had lessened. He swallowed, suppressed a shiver, and strode ahead.

  Flanked by DS O’Connor, with plain-clothes DCs Gibson and Slade close behind, he knocked on the door. Almost immediately, an outside wall light snapped on. There came a rattle of bolts, the door opened, and Strudwick senior appeared, wearing a nondescript dressing gown. If Alfred was annoyed at being disturbed twice within a matter of twenty minutes it didn’t show.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector—you too, Sergeant,’ he said, intentionally sarcastic. ‘I must admit I was half expecting you, even though I’ve already told those two…’ pointing at Slade and Gibson, ‘…I’ve no knowledge of Robert’s whereabouts. I presume that is why you’ve come knocking, late as it is?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Strudwick, it is—and please, don’t play games with me. A very serious crime has been committed and your son may be involved. It is essential we speak with him as quickly as possible. Now, where is he?’

  Strudwick blanched, but stuck to his guns.

  ‘I haven’t the remotest idea, Inspector, as I’ve already made clear. Robert went to the office this morning—well, yesterday, to be precise—and hasn’t been home since. It’s nothing unusual. Robert is often away on business.’

  ‘That isn’t true, Mr Strudwick, and you know it,’ Melton interrupted. ‘Your son arrived home at five-forty and was seen to leave again at nine-fifty. Now, I’ll ask you once again, where is he?’

  Cornered, Alfred Strudwick almost fell to pieces. He swallowed and tried again.

  ‘You must be mistaken, Inspector. If Robert did come home, I’m sure I would have seen him.’

  Clearly, he was lying. Moving closer, Melton pressed his advantage. ‘Then if, as you say, Robert failed to come home last evening, who was driving his car? The truth, Mr Strudwick, or I shall require you to accompany us to the police station. Come on, sir. What exactly are you trying to conceal? Why are you lying to protect your son?’

  It was enough. Never a good liar, Strudwick realised he was in danger of becoming embroiled in whatever it was his unprincipled son was up to. Clearly, he could stall no longer.

  ‘If you’re not prepared to accept my word that Robert isn’t here, then feel free to check the house, but that does not entitle you to take liberties without a proper search warrant.’

  Flushed with affected indignation, he retreated into the hallway and swung wide the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ Melton said quietly, crossing the threshold. ‘Who, besides yourself, is in the house at the present time?’

  ‘Just my wife, asleep in bed—or at least she was!’

  ‘Having the benefit of your consent we are obliged to check the entire house, but would prefer not to distress Mrs Strudwick. Perhaps you should explain our presence, accompany her to the lounge and remain there with her until we’ve finished. I trust this is acceptable to you?’

  Alfred Strudwick inclined his head. ‘I’ll go and fetch her. Will you and your officers wait here, please?’

  ‘Of course. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait while my men check around outside.’

  Wearily, Alfred acquiesced. He had, after all, done his best. As Strudwick set off up the stairs, Melton turned to the open doorway and the waiting policemen.

  ‘We need a man to cover the driveway, Sergeant—Slade, I think. You and Gibson check the rear, including the garage and outbuildings. Make sure the suspect isn’t lurking somewhere outside. Come back here when you are completely satisfied.’

  Five minutes later DS O’Connor returned.

  ‘The garage is secured with a heavy-duty pad-bolt and a Chubb padlock, Guv’nor. There isn’t a window so we couldn’t see inside, but I doubt if he’s in there—unless somebody’s locked him in!

  We also checked the garden shed, but there’s barely room for a lawnmower and a few tools, much less a fugitive. If he’s here, he’s in the house, sir. There’s definitely nobody skulking in the garden.’ Beckoning the officers inside, Melton pointed towards the stairs. ‘Take Gibson and check the first floor, Sergeant. I’ll look around down here.’

  He opened the door to the kitchen and went inside. Casting around, he noted the door to the garden was bolted on the inside; there was only one possible hiding place—the walk-in pantry. Warily, he pulled wide the door. Nobody lurked within.

  The only remaining door opened to the lounge/diner. He knocked and went in.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, Mr Strudwick,’ Melton began, with an apologetic smile to Mrs Strudwick.

  ‘We’ve almost finished, except for a quick look in the garage. Just routine, you understand.’

  Strudwick merely stared, as if unable to fully comprehend.

  ‘May I have the key please?’ Melton asked.

  ‘I wish you’d hurry it up, Inspector,’ Strudwick grumbled. ‘Mrs Strudwick and I need to get back to bed.’

  He glanced at his wife. Fortunately, she kept her thoughts and opinions to herself these days.

  ‘The key, Mr Strudwick,’ Melton insisted. He extended his hand.

  ‘Oh yes, the key,’ Alfred muttered vaguely.

  He fidgeted uncomfortably, shook his head and sighed. His forehead creased into a frown and he appeared old and careworn. Melton waited, hand extended. Finally, as if he’d only just realised that the policeman required an answer, he said, ‘Robert keeps his car in the garage. I park mine outside on the verge, and there’s only one key. Robert keeps it with him all the time, Inspector. It’s an expensive car—the insurance, you know.’

  Strudwick’s impassive face concealed a thumping heart and a sense of utter bewilderment: Robert never locks the garage unless his car is inside! Was he, then, still nearby? He fervently hoped not, but knew better than to warn the police—Robert would be furious!

  DI Melton’s exasperated sigh coincided with the clump of feet to signal the return of DS O’Connor and DC Gibson. Robert Strudwick was not at home.

  ‘No sign of him, Guv’nor. It doesn’t look as if he’s been here. His bedroom-cum-office—call it what you will—is neat and tidy. The bed hasn’t been slept in. I reckon we’re pissing in the wind!’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Melton conceded, ‘but we’ll keep an eye on the place in case he should show. Organise a relief for Slade—better still, rustle up another surveillance team. Get them in position a.s.a.p. and I’ll clear it with the Chief Super in the morning.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Let’s get back to HQ, Sergeant—I’ll drive while you’re on the radio. We need to sort things out for tomorrow, and I want to inquire after those unfortunate youngsters before we call it a night.’

  He tapped the lounge door. ‘All finished, Mr Strudwick. Thank you for your co-operation. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  For the second time that night, DS O’Connor wondered why the Guv’nor deliberately allowed the suspect to escape when he might have been nailed. He could have had him followed: a fast, fully-manned back-up car had waited in a lay-by on nearby Littleworth Common.

  Strudwick was a kidnapper and a cruel torturer at the very least. Something (or someone) had startled him into doing a bunk, and it seemed likely he was well out of the area by now. Considering the man was also a murder suspect, it seemed curious that the Guv’nor continued to avoid confronting the possibility that they might be harbouring a ‘mole’. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, clipped his seat belt and reached for the microphone…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fugitive

  During the return to Kenward Crescent, Robert succeede
d in regaining his composure and with it his extraordinary ability to plan, think clearly and resolve problems, no matter how complex.

  Finely-tuned survival instincts and exceptional resourcefulness had produced the spur of the moment decision taken in the cellar: to put as much distance between himself and Claygate as possible and as quickly as possible; to gain time to re-establish relations with his nether-world sponsor and, with his guidance and protection, resume his rightful place in society for the rest of his natural life.

  He had come perilously close to discovery, yet quick thinking had undoubtedly averted the ignominy of capture, handcuffs, confinement and trial. But first they had to catch him, and produce some evidence which would prove him ‘guilty beyond all reasonable doubt’.

  Evidence! he sneered. What evidence? Providing Dyson remained silent (he’d better!) and Pearce and his tart either failed to survive or were disposed of before they recovered (which might yet be arranged), the only evidence the police could offer would be entirely circumstantial.

  Enemies or acquaintances capable of pointing the finger? None—he had been extremely careful. Of his extensive band of ‘assistants’, few possessed sufficient information to incriminate him. Fewer still were likely to talk, no matter how closely questioned.

  In order of least risk, he eliminated them one by one, including Bobby Shafto—privy to nothing of consequence except which side her bread was buttered … which left Henry Dyson—who knew far too much for comfort, but had been vital to the kidnap and was equally essential right now. But what had gone wrong? He decided to deal with that question later. He was fast approaching his destination and his first priority was to implement the escape initiative conceived right there in the cellar.

  Turning the final corner in third, he slipped into neutral, killed the lights and coasted towards his parent’s house. Leaving the engine ticking over, he swung wide through the open gates and trundled with scarcely a whisper the full length of the concrete driveway up to the garage. Making little or no noise, it was the work of seconds to open the double doors, slip into first and edge the big car inside without a nudge of the accelerator. Switching off the ignition, he closed the driver’s door with a soft ‘clunk’, locked the garage and slipped the key into his pocket. Walking on the balls of his feet, he made his way to the gates, picked up the bags and—for the benefit of anyone who might be watching—strolled casually to the corner and waited.