The Flyleaf Killer

by William A Prater

  One fundamental truth struck home forcibly: seven years of exciting, challenging brinkmanship with DI David Melton were finally at an end. What’s more, given that Dyson had blabbed, it was likely he had also spilt the beans regarding the kidnap. It was too much. Initially stunned and betrayed, ‘Mr Roberts’ now became angry—very angry. Biting his lip, he pushed back his chair, shot to his feet and made a beeline back to his room. He could barely contain his rage, but he managed to close the door without slamming it—just.

  Drawing his knife, he slashed at the air furiously. Stuff the plan, I’ll cut his fucking bollocks off! A promise was a promise—the traitor would die before the day was out precisely as promised. He calmed a little as he contemplated the attractive prospect: Henry, down on his knees, crying, gibbering, begging for mercy—not that it would do the arsehole any good. He might even refuse to stand—until a knife up his nostril persuaded him otherwise. And then, back on his feet and with the blade at his throat, he would be ordered to drop his trousers, step clear of his underpants and lift up his shirt—right up. ‘Wot the bleedin’ ’ell for, guv?’ he would probably screech, crying, sweating and shaking with fear. To which he would respond: ‘I want to see your guts fall out! Blabbed, didn’t you? I promised, didn’t I?’

  Knife extended, he would move swiftly forward, thrust hard, twist, pull and slash upwards, and step back to avoid the torrent of spurting blood—or maybe not. If theory held true, Dyson would clutch frantically at his belly, but fail to hold his entrails in place.

  He imagined the expression on the pervert’s face: shock, disbelief, the realisation he was already as good as dead. Hopefully, he would scream in agony as his stomach spilled out. He might even drop back to his knees and raise his head in supplication, thus facilitating the avenging strike—a long, curving slash completely across the throat.

  Beyond doubt, retribution would taste uncommonly sweet. Strudwick could hardly wait. He shoved his belonging into his bags and started towards the door. But wait! Native instinct, animal cunning—call it what you will—intervened. No matter what, he needed a plan. Whilst the temptation to leave immediately was compelling, it was nevertheless tempered by caution. Forcing himself to remain calm, he sat down and began to think the situation through rationally.

  In order to secure his freedom, Dyson had obviously made a statement. Further statements might follow: from Pearce and Pearson. This changed everything. Lying low for a few weeks was no longer an option. Failing an intervention by Pentophiles, the prospects of returning, either now or in the foreseeable future, appeared slim.

  Regrettably, there could be no going back. The contingency plan must be implemented in full. Those carefully engineered financial arrangements must be triggered first thing in the morning, before news of his flight spread far enough to reach the ears of the banking fraternity. First, he would empty the safety deposit box; then on to the Maidstone branch of the Midland where he would realise assets; buy travellers cheques; close accounts and convert balances into a single banker’s draft. Finally, he would exchange the bulk of his remaining Sterling for Euros. That done, he would travel to Folkestone, stay quietly overnight and board a ferry on Tuesday. When the time seemed right, he would contact his father via the bank, grant him powers of attorney with instructions to market The Beeches and transfer the proceeds offshore— discreetly, of course. He would survive, with or without the help of Pentophiles.

  But an image of Dyson writhing on the floor flashed into his mind. Greedily, he licked his lips. Yet again, caution intervened. Torn between compelling desires, he vacillated. Maybe he should forget Henry and concentrate instead on making good his escape? It made sense. The police were disadvantaged; they had no idea of his whereabouts. Surely it would be wiser to maintain that advantage and remain here in relative safety, at least until the morning?

  On the other hand, Dyson’s treachery merited sharp punishment. The stinking pervert had effectively sabotaged any possibility of Strudwick’s eventual return. For that alone, he must definitely be made to suffer.

  For a full minute he stood, hesitant. Then the thirst for revenge overwhelmed him. Bollocks! I’ve time to sort Dyson, return here tonight and pick up where I’ve left off. Clutching the more important of his two bags, he left the hotel and made for the station…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Come into my Parlour…

  Following a worrying baby-snatch incident, security at Kingston General Hospital is vastly improved. Cameras now monitor main, emergency and outpatient entrances and every corridor and walkway, including the approaches to maternity and clinic areas, operating theatres and intensive care.

  The security office boasts a ‘state of the art’ monitoring console, manned daily from 8.00 a.m. to 10.00 p.m., with video recording equipment in continuous-loop operation over a seven day cycle. Add one small office adjacent to intensive care, a monitor linked to the corridor camera, tea-making facilities and two alert policemen equipped with digital two-way radios and DI Melton pronounced himself satisfied. Stephen and Janice would suffer no further at the hands of Robert Strudwick.

  Protecting a frightened taxi driver without making it obvious was more complicated and difficult to achieve in a short space of time, but DI Melton was decisive, persuasive, and utterly determined. That Dyson’s apartment block faced one immediately opposite did help, however, and a substantial bribe secured the flat next to Dyson’s for three days. Its unemployed single tenant readily took himself off to Blackpool for the weekend, expenses paid.

  Alerted to danger but assured that help was close at hand, Henry blanched.

  ‘If anyone knocks, don’t open the door,’ he was told. ‘Just shout “hang on a minute,” and sit tight. We’ll check it out and see you come to no harm.’ Grey-faced, anxious, Dyson simply nodded.

  Round-the-clock watchers moved into place, installed cameras and binoculars, set up and tested listening equipment, checked out individual radios, reported readiness—and waited. Strategically-placed back-up units moved into position at 8.00 a.m., the finishing touches to what was probably the most intense, meticulously planned discreet surveillance initiative ever mounted by Surbiton Police. DI David Melton’s carefully engineered trap was in place.

  After a heavy night with a whisky bottle, Henry obliged by sleeping late, but had he emerged, his every step would have been dogged. Should he climb into the cab parked just outside, an unmarked car lurked nearby, ready to follow at a safe distance, tailed in turn by a back-up crew.

  ‘The importance of this briefing cannot be overstated, so listen carefully,’ DI Melton exhorted. ‘As you know, weekend leave has been cancelled; few of you fully appreciate why. Before duties are assigned, therefore, I feel you deserve a full and proper explanation. Miserable little creep though he is, it is our duty to keep Henry Dyson safe from harm.

  ‘But if anyone imagines this is merely an elaborate witness protection exercise, they are wrong. It is, in reality, a great deal more.’ He paused. ‘The main aim is to nail Robert William Strudwick.

  ‘I need hardly remind you of the ignominy of having two unsolved murders on our patch. Working together, it is my belief we can bring about a speedy and satisfactory conclusion to both. At long last, there is mounting and credible evidence to identify Strudwick as the perpetrator. Although he left the area yesterday, there is every possibility he will return—albeit briefly—with the intention of eliminating three people, each able to incriminate him for abduction and torture, but one, we believe, with sufficient information to have him arrested and charged with murder.

  ‘Put simply, Dyson’s value as a witness will not escape Strudwick’s attention, thanks to the media. A unique opportunity has thus been created to tempt into the open a known kidnapper and probable killer.

  ‘Don’t underestimate Robert Strudwick. He’s cold, sadistic and cruel, but intelligent and observant. One false move and he’ll melt away. There will be no margin for error and I’ll accept no excuses. Be under no illusions: Strudwick
is evil, devious and extremely dangerous.’

  His forefinger stabbed the air.

  ‘Should he succeed in silencing Henry, he will almost certainly go after Stephen and Janice, even though both are in hospital, dangerously ill, and may not survive in any case.

  ‘That fact is unlikely to concern Strudwick, however. He is not given to taking chances.’ His measured tones became sterner.

  ‘With luck we shall have a chance to nab him, but one chance only. We cannot afford mistakes. At all costs, this man must be prevented from eliminating witnesses and from fleeing the country. Gentlemen. Be diligent, be swift, and be successful. Good luck!’

  At 11.01, the sparsely populated 10.45 from Waterloo squealed to a halt at Surbiton where three passengers alighted. Two were ladies returning from a trip to the theatre and an overnight stay in town. The third was a dark-haired man carrying a single item of luggage, unremarkable, except that he sported expensive designer sunglasses yet wore a singularly scruffy raincoat.

  Emerging from the station, the ladies entered a waiting car, whereas the man walked briskly down Westfield Road, turned left on Maple Drive and right into The Mall. Here, he crossed to the left, reduced pace and sauntered on to where two blocks of flats faced one another, just short of the junction with Portsmouth Road.

  A familiar black taxi stood opposite. He stopped for a moment, and looked about, warily. There was little traffic, few people. No voice warned of impending danger. Reassured, he moved off again. A few paces more brought him to Portsmouth Road, where he turned left and continued on to the offices of ‘Ace Cars’, on the corner of Brighton Road. Pushing wide the door, the newcomer walked in and dumped his bag on the floor.

  Sylvia Fairweather was on duty as usual. She looked up immediately.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, ‘what can I do for you?’

  ‘Hello, Sylvia,’ he grinned, removing his sunglasses. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you recognise me? You run a taxi service, don’t you? Strangely enough, that’s exactly what I want—a taxi.’

  To her eternal credit, Sylvia didn’t turn a hair.

  ‘Of course, Mr Robert,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you. You look different, somehow.’

  ‘It’ll be my hairdo,’ he retorted, sarcastically, ‘cost a small fortune—John Frieda, and all that.’

  ‘Go on with you,’ she said, disarmingly. ‘Youngsters, you’re all the same. You’d tell me anything.’

  ‘More than likely,’ he agreed. ‘But what about that taxi? I’m rather short of time.’

  ‘I’ve two working today: George is on airport and Phil’s at home on standby. Poor Phil. A drunk spewed in the cab last night. He’s cleaning and disinfecting right now, but monitoring the radio in case I need him. Hang on a sec, I’ll give him a call.’ What a stroke of luck! Perfect.

  She reached for the microphone, but Strudwick stopped her short.

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed, sharply. ‘Let him finish cleaning it up; I couldn’t stand the smell. I’ve a better idea.’

  His eyes gleamed black. At his most persuasive, he set out to impose his will. ‘Give Henry a ring—I prefer his driving, anyway. He is home. I noticed his cab on the way—not another in sight, incidentally—and what I have in mind is right up his street.

  ‘Tell him you’ve a job for him. Say: “It’s bent; fifty quid, back pocket, no questions asked”—there’s fifty in it for you, by the way—and don’t tell him it’s for me; he might be suspicious. Tell him it’ll take no more than an hour and has nothing to do with taxis—I’ll borrow your spare—so he’s to leave his where it is and walk. Impress on him he’s to slip out the back and nip through the alley—it’s shorter and quicker—and to make sure he isn’t followed, or the whole deal’s off.’

  He fished out his wallet, extracted ten ten-pound notes and placed them on the desk.

  ‘There you are, Sylvia. Real cash, up front. Now, are you on?’ he asked, with a knowing smile.

  ‘I certainly am,’ she replied, ‘nothing like a few extra quid. I’ll treat myself to a new handbag.’

  She picked up the telephone and dialled. In the still of the office, Strudwick distinctly heard Dyson’s answering voice, tinny but unmistakable.

  ‘Yus?’

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ Sylvia began.

  She explained Strudwick’s proposition.

  ‘Cor, not ‘arf!’ came the eager response. ‘I’ll get me coat an’ be rahnd in a minnit.’

  The bug installed the previous afternoon performed faultlessly … three cars moved quietly closer.

  Henry replaced the receiver, put on his shoes, shrugged into his coat and sneaked out of the door. He tiptoed along the corridor and down the stairs, turned left and sidled through the rear entrance. Crossing the parking area, he made it to the alley. Two minutes later, he pushed through the doorway of ‘Ace Cars’ and blundered in.

  ‘Hi, Sylv,’ he said, ‘wot’s up? Wotcha wan’ me ter do? Bury yer friggin’ granny?’

  ‘Hello, Henry,’ Strudwick drawled, from immediately behind, ‘nice of you to call. D’you know, I was actually hoping you’d pop in. I’d very much like a word—you gabby, snivelling little shit!’

  It was a voice with which Henry was all too familiar. His face a picture (as Sylvia afterwards said) he froze momentarily and spun on his heel, offering an irresistible target. Strudwick didn’t hesitate. He delivered a single, ferocious back-hander right across the mouth, knocking Henry off-balance. Dyson staggered and slammed hard against the wall.

  Panther-like, Strudwick pounced. Twice in succession, he punched Henry full in the mouth. Dyson fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  ‘Oi!’ Sylvia yelled. ‘That’s enough. I’m surprised, Mr Robert. I thought you a gentleman. If you must fight that’s your business, but if you do it in here, it’s mine!’

  ‘Shut it, Sylvia,’ Strudwick snarled, ‘this is nothing to do with you. Just Henry and me, personal. Sit still, keep quiet—or suffer the consequences and I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.’ Frightened, and sharply reminded of the debt she believed she owed, Sylvia subsided. Strudwick returned to the cringing wretch at his feet.

  ‘That’s just for starters,’ he spat, furiously. ‘Remember my promise, bastard? Well, do you?’

  ‘Yes, guv,’ Dyson snivelled, through split and bleeding lips. ‘But I ain’t dun nuffink, ’onest!’

  ‘Liar! Copper’s nark! Squealing, miserable, ungrateful little shit. You grassed me up, didn’t you?’

  ‘No, guv, no. I swear! Melton threatened me, ’ad me knocked abaht—but I didn’t tell ’im nuffink!’

  ‘You expect me to believe that? Taxi! Surbiton! Raines Park! Reporters with crystal balls? Bollocks! Come on, you stinking pervert, on your feet. We’ll borrow the spare cab and find a nice quiet spot somewhere—somewhere private where I can keep my promise and slice your stinking guts!’

  Unquestionably sincere and oozing malevolence, Strudwick drew his knife … It was enough! Sylvia’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. Dear God, had she left it too late? Screened by the desk, her knee moved fractionally, located a hidden button and pressed twice.

  Linked to a radio transmitter concealed in a drawer, Sylvia’s panic button triggered a distinctive series of ‘beeps’, inaudible— except in the earphones of around thirty police officers. The door to Sylvia’s private office crashed open and two waiting detectives burst in at a run.

  ‘Police! Don’t move! Drop the knife! Get down on the floor— now!’

  Taken by surprise, Strudwick froze and dropped the knife. He made a dash for the door—but was easily outmanoeuvered. In the resultant melee, his sunglasses went flying and were trodden on, he lost one of his contact lenses and collected a couple of bruises. It was soon over. Strong hands clamped his arms and applied handcuffs.

  Pulling on gloves, DC Gibson recovered the knife, slipped it into a plastic bag and labelled it. Strudwick was frisked and declared ‘clean’.

  It fell to DC Slade to ‘do the honours’.<
br />
  ‘Robert William Strudwick. I’m arresting you on suspicion of kidnap, carrying an illegal weapon, aggravated assault with intent, causing actual bodily harm and attempting to avoid arrest. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence. It may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you may later rely on in court. Do you wish to say anything?’

  Bollocks to the lot of you—especially Melton,—and watch your sodding back, copper! Hang on! Why not try a spot of bluff? You can be absolutely brilliant when you’ve a mind to.

  His self-belief was astonishing.

  ‘Kidnap? Assault?’ he challenged. ‘What the hell are you talking about? You must be mistaken—confusing me with somebody else. My name isn’t Strudwick, it’s Roberts.’

  DC Slade laughed.

  ‘Sure, Julia—and I’m Bela Lugosi. If you think we’re swallowing that line of crap, you’re either off your crust or living in cloud-cuckoo-land. For one thing, Mrs Fairweather knows you and for another—apart from your hair—you match an extremely accurate photofit of—you’ve guessed it—Robert William Strudwick. What’s more, you and I have already met, now haven’t we?’

  Not the least dismayed, Strudwick changed tactics.

  ‘If you say so,’ he muttered. ‘But you could be mistaken and end up with egg all over your face.’

  ‘I’ll just have to chance it, won’t I?’ Slade retorted, ‘’cos you, Mr Strudwick, are staying nicked.’

  Strudwick shrugged and tried another tack.

  ‘Now I’ve been arrested, I suppose the next thing you’ll do is cart me off to the station—right?’ Slade glared. Paperwork, Sunday duty, now this … this … pillock. What was it, with the little creep? Harry had had enough.