The Flyleaf Killer Read online

  Steven Pearce had no involvement in either the murder or the subsequent disposal of the body. Nor could Steven be persuaded to say anything further about the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of his anorak and trainers, nor explain why he had failed to mention their loss, which left investigators unable to determine how and when the items had come into the murderer’s possession.

  But Robert Strudwick knew well enough—and much more besides. Not least about the activities of the police in connection with the murder…

  Lack of progress caused media interest to slacken, and whilst the team as a whole gained respite from persistent, news-hungry reporters, Melton and O’Connor agreed to be profiled so as to keep the investigation before the public eye and focus attention on the appeal.

  Chapter Six

  Beast

  There was no precise moment to define the beginning of his 2002 adventure. As far as Robert was concerned, everything of consequence related to when he had become custodian of the Book. He was far too engrossed with his career and the acquisition of material possessions to waste time on unproductive reminiscence, and whilst grateful for what had been thus far granted, knew real wealth would not be forthcoming until he proved himself completely and utterly worthy.

  He did, however, permit himself an occasional, self-congratulatory reflection. His salary was low, but so what? Excellent commission tripled his income in the very first month. For this was Surrey, heart of the stockbroker belt, where ceaseless demand for property of all types and values rendered virtually anything standing a saleable commodity, and one which could generally be expected to sell in a matter of weeks.

  With parental assistance, Robert bought his first car a week after starting with Gaston Hathaway, having learned that generous mileage allowance was paid when tidy, well-kept private cars were used on business. It was an arrangement preferred by Mr Hathaway, who believed the system more cost-effective than buying and maintaining a fleet of company vehicles.

  Apart from his career, the year would differ vastly from those preceding and Robert knew it. Pentophiles’ visitations became far more frequent; his inner voice was rarely silent. Robert welcomed both. Instinct told him a mission was due; months of relative inactivity were nearing an end; long-promised riches would soon become reality.

  There were side-effects following Pentophiles’ manifestations, however, of which Robert remained unaware. Had it been otherwise, he would most certainly have taken such unworldly peculiarities into consideration when formulating his plans and conducting his daily affairs.

  To the casual observer, Kenward Crescent, Claygate was as unremarkable as many hundreds of residential streets within commuting distance of London. Number seven was a fairly typical three-bedroom semi towards the end of the cul-de-sac.

  Occasionally, however, and lately with increasing frequency, an eerie, indefinable aura seemed to surround the property, setting it strangely apart from other nearby dwellings. This tenuous, miasmic atmosphere was readily apparent to those whose sensitivities were sufficiently attuned; others, less sensitive, experienced only a vague disquiet. Apart from this sense of unease, a faint, barely discernible odour of putrefaction, reminiscent of bad drains, would sometimes linger, and noses of passers-by might wrinkle in distaste. Since the new family had taken up residence, neighbours no longer called to pass the time of day, borrow a cup of sugar or ask for the loan of a tool, and those who were obliged to pass did so hurriedly and with averted gaze. Wildlife shunned the garden. Neighbourhood cats rarely trespassed and birds were likely to nest, feed and sing elsewhere. Dogs out walking were apt to pull on the leash without stopping, whilst passing strays invariably favoured the opposite pavement. This was the house that door-to-door salesmen contrived to overlook and to which few window-cleaners willingly returned. It was home to Albert Strudwick and his wife; equally home, lair and headquarters to their son Robert.

  And then, one evening in early June when Robert routinely opened the Book, a message leapt from the flyleaf, scintillating as a display of fireworks:

  BY THY KEENE BLADE SHALL PERISH FAIR MAID

  SHE WHO DIDST SPURN AND REVILE THEE

  His lips moved involuntarily as he mouthed the words he knew he must interpret correctly and obey unquestioningly. Yet, as he silently recited the script intended for his eyes alone, the fiery letters writhed, blurred and faded until the page became, as before, utterly blank.

  Emitting a sigh, he closed the book thoughtfully, locked it and replaced the key around his neck. Here were concise instructions for his first major mission in almost three years, instructions to be rid of the bitch who had rejected his advances and exposed him to ridicule. She was to die by the knife, of course—but what about strategy? Nothing at all had been specified.

  Then it dawned on him that the omission was intentional—he was to devise a plan of his own. It was a sobering thought. What if he should fail? He could hardly bear to think about it. Instead of the elation which normally accompanied a successful consultation, he felt subdued, apprehensive even, and he shivered a little at the thought of what must be done and how best it could be achieved— or was it in fear of the terrible consequences of failure? He wasn’t sure which.

  Robert remained in bed, book rested against his knees, searching for the beginnings of a plan. Then he chuckled—a mirthless, inhuman sound from deep within his throat—and an expression of utter bestiality momentarily contorted his face. But the moment passed and the manic chortle ceased. An idea coalesced in his mind.

  Without further ado, Robert went into action.

  Although late in the evening, he made several telephone calls and listened without comment to what he was told in response to carefully-worded, ambiguous, but highly pertinent questions. He considered and recalled everything relevant from the mass of information stored within his prodigious memory. Bridgwater’s name sprang to mind. And oh, how he wished that snivelling arsehole could be included in the scheme! Perhaps it was feasible, even now, but instructions from the Book held sway and dared not be tampered with. He consoled himself with the thought that Bridgwater’s day would inevitably come, and must surely merit some rather special attention—all to himself!

  Part of the strategy was to confuse the police and he came up with a way of not only achieving that, but also of being avenged on girlfriend-thieving Steven Pearce as something of a private bonus. Robert rubbed his hands gleefully, and set about developing the idea.

  Wednesday 19 June dawned warm and sunny, the day Esher Secondary Modern were to play Hinchley Wood Grammar in the County Senior Cricket League at West End.

  It was a key match and maximum possible support for Esher was essential.

  The entire school was required to attend by order of the headmaster, who let it be known that he personally would deal with instances of unauthorised absenteeism the following morning.

  The match was due to start at 2.15 p.m., but seating was limited; the ground filled rapidly and few spectator places were left by two o’clock.

  Among those fortunate enough to secure a seat on the benches in front of the pavilion was Janice Pearson, intent on cheering on a special young man, one she had started to view rather differently once her traumatic affair with Robert Strudwick had finally come to an end.

  The openers emerged from the pavilion at 2.10 and Janice grabbed the sleeve of one, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a resounding kiss for luck. This was the last school match in which he expected to play.

  At 2.20, one of several ‘old boys’ watching from the pavilion, a latecomer, wriggled as if in some discomfort, excused himself and headed for the men’s toilets—via the changing rooms. He located what he was looking for almost immediately, checked to make sure he remained unobserved and stuffed into his empty briefcase a pair of canvas trainers and a dark-blue anorak bearing a yellow stripe down each sleeve—items he knew to be the property of one of the two stalwarts currently opening the batting—and was back on the veranda in a couple of minutes.


  Malandra Pennington rose early, left a note for the milkman and went to the office to tie up a few loose ends. Whilst there, she cancelled her newspapers over the telephone, leaving again at 11.30 in plenty of time to deal with remaining, outstanding matters—and there were several: call at the shops, suntan lotion, camera check, supply of films, pick up traveller’s cheques, hairdressers at 12.15, home again by 1.30. Lunch—convenience pre-pack from larder; refrigerator—empty, switch off; pass leftovers to neighbour … and oh, leave a spare latchkey in case of any problems.

  Thrilled at the prospect of her first holiday abroad, Malandra hummed happily as she packed. It was Friday, the day before departure and she crossed each item off her list as she filled two suitcases with neatly-folded clothes and a plethora of other holiday essentials. Check: passport, entry visa, hotel booking, tickets for train, theatre and plane—all correct! As planned, she would lunch out somewhere, take a train to Waterloo and taxi to Knightsbridge, dine at the hotel and spend an evening at the theatre.

  Her friend Jennifer was visiting parents at Wimbledon—she was probably on her way by now. They were to meet Sunday afternoon at the Britair terminal in Kensington, spend an hour or two sightseeing, returning to catch the coach to Heathrow in readiness to fly out later that night.

  And now, with preparations finally out of the way, Saturday morning could be spend trying to replace her ageing Mini, forever breaking down and costing a small fortune to keep on the road. The search had begun weeks ago. Malandra had heard about two potentially interesting cars for sale and, though neither was of the type she really wanted, intended to look at them in the morning. She went to bed early; slept fitfully.

  On Saturday morning, at 7.55 a bleary-eyed Malandra crawled from between the sheets. She showered, dressed and applied her usual touch of make-up before eating breakfast—two slices of toast engineered from elderly bread, garnished with the last scrapings of butter from the tub. She glanced at the clock—8.58—and, tempted to have a few words with Jennifer, she reached out for the telephone—-just as it began to ring.

  ‘Miss Pennington?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good morning. Tobias Charlesworth from Charlesworth’s garage. Sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but you were asking about a good, second-hand Astra? Well, we have a real beauty in emerald green coming in this morning which might well suit you. It’s a one-point-three, under two years old—first registered August 2000, to be precise. Loads of extras—power steering, driver’s airbag, stereo-cassette radio, wheel-trims and head-restraints, genuine low mileage; one owner and an absolute snip at four thousand two hundred and ninety-five pounds. I thought I’d better ring you immediately before someone else snaps it up.’

  Charlesworth was in full flow. ‘This little cracker is coming in at the right price, so we can offer two thousand pounds in part-exchange for the Mini—double its actual worth …’

  Her silence told him the bait had been taken.

  ‘Can you call in tomorrow morning?’ he asked. ‘We open at ten-thirty, so how would eleven o’clock suit you?’

  Malandra had set her heart on an Astra. A new vehicle was beyond her means and good, second-hand examples of the popular car were rarely offered for sale. The opportunity seemed just too good to miss.

  ‘I’m certainly interested, Mr Charlesworth—but what about today? I’d planned to spend the morning looking at cars, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Pennington, but there’s a full service to be carried out—oil change, filters and so on, and we valet every vehicle before offering it for sale. There’s absolutely no chance of having it ready before this evening, and we close for the day at five o’clock, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I was intending to stay overnight in London—I’m going on holiday tomorrow. Getting a new car sorted is something of a priority though, so I suppose it’s a good enough reason for stopping another night. Look, I’ll be pressed for time tomorrow and I’ve practically emptied my current account. If I decide to buy the Astra, will you accept a small deposit and hold it for me? I’ll be back in a fortnight.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘All right then, eleven tomorrow it is. Thank you very much, Mr Charlesworth.’ Malandra had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang again.

  ‘Hi Landra, how’s the packing?’ Jennifer inquired breezily. ‘Mum and I are going shopping in a minute, but I thought I’d give you a quick bell to see where you’re up to.’

  ‘I finished packing last night, Jen, but guess what? There’s a nearly-new Astra coming in today at Charlesworth’s—it sounds brilliant, and I’m going to look at it tomorrow morning … Oh, crikey, that reminds me—I must ring the hotel and cancel my room for tonight!’

  ‘What about your trip to the theatre then—knocking it on the head?’

  ‘Yes, getting a car sorted is far more important.’

  George Pearce and his family, meanwhile, were on their way to Brighton. Elsewhere, final touches were being made to plans for which the Pearce’s absence was absolutely critical.

  The next morning Malandra looked stunning. Uncluttered by accessories and empty-handed apart from her latchkey, her pale-lemon summer frock flattering her superb figure and flawless complexion, she collected several appreciative looks as she walked to town. She reached Charlesworth’s a trifle early, at 10.55.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Pennington.’

  Hand outstretched in greeting, Tobias rose from his chair but seemed rather flustered for such an experienced salesman.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he apologised, ‘but I’ve two more customers coming in at any moment—managed to get myself double-booked, I’m afraid. Did you bring your car with you?’

  ‘No, I walked round. The Mini is locked in the garage until after my holiday—and no bumps or scratches since you last saw it, either,’ she assured him.

  He smiled. ‘Well, I’m sure we can take your word for that—we know you pretty well—so much so, I wonder whether you’d mind looking at the Astra by yourself? It’s parked in the driveway leading to the car park at the rear, fully serviced, ready and waiting to g°.’

  Malandra knew exactly where he meant. Set behind the main showroom was a small enclosed area of hard-standing, reserved specifically as overflow parking when the front was full.

  ‘No, I don’t mind a bit—but what about a test drive?’

  ‘Please feel free Miss Pennington. Take it out for as long a run as you like. There’s plenty of fuel in the tank, it’s taxed, your own insurance will suffice and it’s a beautiful runner, as I think you’ll agree. Drop the key off when you return and let me know whether or not we have a deal.’ He proffered a fob bearing a single key. ‘Doors, ignition, boot and fuel tank—all rolled into one.’

  ‘Thank you, but I won’t be gone long. I need to collect my cases and handbag—and I’d better come back to pay the deposit— assuming I like the Astra, that is,’ she added, hastily.

  ‘You will, Miss Pennington, you will. But, as I said before, take as long as you like—but be back before five or we’ll send out a search-party.’

  He leered.

  What in heaven does he mean by that?

  ‘I’ve no intention of being that late. I need to be at the station in time to catch the one-thirty. I’ve already told you I’m going away on holiday.’

  Charlesworth paled. Everything running like clockwork and he came close to alarming the girl. He placed the key in Malandra’s hand and she turned to leave, just as a middle-aged couple were entering. Charlesworth’s ‘double booking’, she supposed.

  She crossed the forecourt and made her way round the showroom to the rear car park access-way. She spotted it immediately— a beautiful Astra, in emerald green. It looked pristine, paintwork gleaming like new. Malandra fell in love with the car there and then. A glance round told her it was free from major dents or scratches. She unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Surprisingly, the driving position suited her perfectly. A good omen!

  She pla
ced her front-door key on the passenger seat, fastened the seat belt and turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred into life.

  ‘Don’t turn round—and don’t scream!’

  Malandra froze. A hand came over her shoulder clutching a fearsome-looking knife; razor-sharp steel was pressed menacingly against her throat. Strong fingers gripped her shoulder; there was little chance of escape. Malandra was utterly petrified. She risked a glance in the rear-view mirror but it was in the tilted position, set for night driving.

  ‘Do exactly as I say. Keep the engine running and listen carefully. When I say “go”, drive off slowly without attracting attention and turn left up the High Street. When you get to The Bear, turn left at the lights and head for Leatherhead—have you got that?’

  She inclined her head slightly, terrified of the knife, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘All right then. I’ll take the knife away—but remember what I said: just one false move …’

  Malandra trembled anew—the threat was unmistakable. He gripped her shoulder hard.

  ‘I’ll tell you what to do once we’re heading towards Leatherhead—go!’

  The Astra moved smoothly away. The hand left her shoulder and the knife withdrew, but the presence behind was overpowering.

  ‘Don’t do anything foolish—I’ve got a knife, remember.’

  She reached the end of the access road and stopped, numb with fear.

  ‘Get going, you bitch, or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.’

  Maintaining a steady thirty miles per hour, the frightened girl continued along the A13 until she neared The Bear, where she turned left onto the A244 as instructed.

  ‘We’re on the Leatherhead road,’ she managed to quaver. ‘What do I do now?’

  ‘Keep driving until I say different,’ he rasped, and the knife was back at her throat in an instant. She instinctively flinched, and the blade nicked her tender skin. But she felt no pain, unaware that a trickle of blood was slowly staining her collar crimson.