The Flyleaf Killer Read online

After a mile or two, the winding road straightened and they passed out of the restricted zone. Two cars passed, both travelling in the opposite direction. The first part of the operation had gone precisely to plan, but Strudwick knew he had much to achieve in order to complete his most difficult mission to date.

  ‘Slow down—now! Take the next right—yes, down there,’ he ordered tersely, and as Malandra complied, he tightened his grip on her shoulder—brutally hard—but she bit her lip and somehow managed to remain silent. Oh dear God, does he have to be so cruel?

  There followed some twenty minutes of complicated manoeuvring, when Malandra drove along tortuous narrow lanes, crossing and re-crossing a seemingly familiar track that she thought might lead to the exit route across Oxshott Heath, but she was wrong. She did not realise they were scouring the area for signs of people rather than heading for a specific destination.

  But once her captor was satisfied the scrubland was deserted, he directed her into much deeper woodland where they bumped along a barely discernible track until he said, ‘Right, that clearing ahead to the left, pull into it, stop, switch off the engine but leave the key in the ignition.’

  She hadn’t glimpsed a soul since turning off the main road and the empty woodland engendered a terrible feeling of isolation. Her bladder signalled an oncoming need for relief. She began to feel uncomfortable. Does he intend to rape me? If so, please God make it quick so I can get out of here! But who is he? Have I heard that voice somewhere before? Damn, I need to go the loo!

  His voice cut across her thoughts.

  ‘There are two sandwich boxes in the glove-box. Get them out— yes, that’s right. Pass me the white one—no, don’t look round. The other one’s for you. Go ahead, open it and have your lunch—but keep your seat belt on—and don’t turn around!’

  Malandra was hungry, having eaten nothing since lunch the previous day, and when she heard the snap of a plastic lid followed by the sounds of eating, she almost sighed with relief. An extraordinarily bizarre situation seemed suddenly less ominous.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m extremely sorry, but I need to go to the loo,’ she ventured, timidly.

  ‘OK—but eat your lunch first,’ he ordered.

  She opened her box: beef salad, an apple, and a plastic knife and fork neatly wrapped in a paper serviette.

  Immediately she felt better. He doesn’t intend me harm – if he did, why would he give me lunch?

  She began to eat, hesitantly at first. But appetite improved with each mouthful and the food rapidly disappeared, leaving her feeling considerably more confident.

  ‘Excuse me, but I really must spend a penny. Can I go into the bushes, please?’

  ‘Wait a moment. Don’t move—keep your seat belt fastened.’ There came fumbling sounds. Then a length of nylon cord looped swiftly over her head and tightened around her neck. It bit deep into her skin. She gasped for air. Burning pain! Fear returned. The bastard, he had a rope all ready – he actually expected this!

  ‘Undo your seat belt and open the door—slowly, mind. Right, get out—but don’t turn around!’

  The cord slackened and Malandra climbed out of the car. She heard the driver’s seat move forward and sensed him close behind as she started towards the bushes.

  ‘I’ll release enough line to allow you to go, but if you try to get loose, I’ll pull it—like this!’

  The cord jerked savagely and she gurgled and snatched in an attempt to ease the pain, but it was tight, too slippery to grasp. When she pulled her hands away there was blood on her fingers. Strudwick noticed too. He shoved her roughly towards the nearest tree where she stumbled and fell, crying with pain and gasping from lack of oxygen.

  ‘Now you can go,’ he said, and when she hesitated, confused, he jerked the cord viciously. ‘You said you wanted to go, so go!’ he roared, angrily. ‘Are you bloody stupid, or what?’ Rather than wet herself, Malandra slipped down her panties and squatted against the bole of a tree, acutely aware that her tormentor was standing close behind, no doubt watching her every move.

  As she started to straighten up, he moved closer and tugged again. Trying to ease the pain and relieve the pressure on her neck forced her in his direction, causing her to trip over the panties around her ankles and fall awkwardly, completely exposing herself. Cheeks aflame she scrambled to her feet and hastily pulled the skimpy garment back into place. So indignant was she that she ignored the tether around her neck and turned to confront her captor.

  ‘Robert Strudwick,’ she gasped. ‘You rotten bastard!’ No wonder the voice had seemed familiar! Strudwick’s face filled with rage. He raised a clenched fist and drew it back.

  ‘Go on then, you filthy disgusting swine,’ she taunted. ‘Hit a girl, would you? How dare you! I’m not frightened of you. Once a pig, always a p—!’

  Her words ceased abruptly as iron-hard knuckles crashed into her face. She didn’t seem so pretty, lying in a crumpled heap at his feet. He watched, fascinated, as the knuckle-marks on her cheek turned livid and licked his lips at the sight of a scarlet trickle meandering slowly towards her ear.

  ‘Sod it,’ he snarled, frustrated. He ought to have fitted a blindfold before letting her out of the car, but the bandage intended for the job was still in the boot with the other gear. Too late! Now she knew who he was, the ungrateful whore would forego the joy of anonymous sex.

  He loosened the cord and after a while she stirred, gave a little gasp and opened her eyes. She looked appealingly into his face, but he hauled savagely on the cord.

  ‘Bloody trollop, don’t try the glad-eye on me. I can’t easily be fooled, you stinking little bitch. I’m no bloody gigolo, either. Someone you can pick up for a quick screw then dump again.’

  With the girl completely at his mercy, Strudwick decided to experiment. He dragged her to her feet and, watching her face dispassionately, passed a second loop of cord around her neck and viciously twisted it tight. Malandra began to suffocate. Her pallid face changed colour—first red then purple. Her tongue began to protrude, her eyes bulged horribly and, suddenly, she went limp. Curiosity satisfied, he dropped her to the ground, untied the cord and removed it completely.

  It took two or three minutes, but, after several rasping breaths, Malandra started to breathe again. She opened her eyes and some semblance of colour returned to her cheeks. Rolling her over, he manhandled the slender figure into a sitting position against a nearby sapling and secured her by tying her wrists together behind her back.

  Knowing that she watched, Strudwick fished in his pocket and produced a key, crossed to the car, unlocked and raised the hatchback door. Inside were items of clothing, brown paper, a large valise, a plastic bucket, a sponge; a filled ten-litre plastic water-container, a garden trowel, a ball of string and an eight-pack roll of rubbish bags.

  He took off his clothes, including his shoes and socks, and placed them all in the boot. Stark naked, he turned to face his victim, then walked slowly across and stood over her.

  ‘Time you knew what a real man looks like,’ he sneered. ‘What do you think—do you like me?’ Malandra let out an anguished shriek. He smacked her face, twice in quick succession. She sobbed once, then fell quiet.

  ‘Don’t scream again,’ he warned. ‘For one thing I don’t like it, and for another, no-one out here is likely to hear you.’ You’re wasting time. Stop messing. You know what to do so get on with it!

  He bent and pulled her dress clear of one shoulder, then deliberately ripped the garment to the hem, to reveal she wore nothing beneath except a matching half-cup brassiere and tiny briefs.

  ‘Aren’t you going to show me the rest, Malandra?’ he mocked. ‘Especially now you see what you’ve been missing. Surely you don’t mind a handsome, loving friend taking a proper look?’

  She made no reply, but her expression of loathing, revulsion and contempt was surely answer enough.

  He grasped her brassiere by the connecting strap between each cup and, with one pull, ripped the garment completely off, exposing
her pert young breasts. He then grabbed the front of her panties and pulled hard – but the silken material proved surprisingly resilient and held firm. Cursing, he retrieved his knife from the car and slit the minuscule garment on each slender hip, leaving it hanging between her legs. He replaced the knife, unfastened her corded wrist and wound the surplus around his hand. Moving in front, he hauled savagely and forced her to her feet, ignoring her gasps of pain. He was rapidly becoming aroused but, as yet, was far from satisfied.

  ‘Let’s take a proper look at you,’ he snarled, and pulled the skimpy cloth from her crotch, leaving the poor girl completely naked except for her sandals. Keeping hold of the cord, her tormentor stepped back to drink in her beauty, while she strove desperately with her free hand to thwart his lascivious gaze, though to little effect.

  Strudwick came closer and, starting with her breasts, moved his hands slowly and intimately across most of her beautiful body. And when Malandra closed her eyes, Strudwick stepped back angrily and struck her a vicious, open-handed blow across the cheek. Shocked and startled, her eyes snapped open.

  ‘Look at me!’ he shouted. He frothed at the mouth as if possessed. ‘Don’t close your eyes, I want you to look. Look at this,’ he insisted, gesturing obscenely. ‘Look what you’ve missed. I’d have made love to you years ago. Don’t you wish you’d let me?’

  Fully aroused, he rubbed against her suggestively, while she tried desperately to push him away.

  Malandra had had many would-be suitors. Few got beyond first base; only two ever got her into bed. In fact she disliked being fondled and considered the mechanics of intimacy embarrassing. Finding herself tethered, naked and in the power of a man long feared was an ordeal in itself; severe physical abuse rendered it infinitely more distressing. When the ordeal was compounded by salacious advances, however, Malandra could contain herself no longer.

  ‘Stop it! Leave me alone, you filthy beast. Haven’t you done enough already?’ she shouted, sobbing. ‘Wh-whatever did I do to make you treat me like this?’

  In an instant, his face darkened with fury.

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know, you slag. What about the times you turned me down? Dumping me and going off with Bridgwater, the slimy arsehole. Did you think I wouldn’t care? You know exactly what you’ve done, you bitch. Just try and deny it—if you dare!’

  Thinking hard, she vaguely recalled the incident. Is that really what this is all about? God, have pity! He’s mad—stark, raving mad!

  Enraged by the recollection, he raised his fist as if to strike, but when she flinched, he dropped his hand to her inner thigh, and began to rub her intimately with his fingers.

  ‘How do you like that?’ he leered. ‘Nice, eh? Or would you prefer a smack in the mouth?’ He pressed closer—perilously so, and thrust at her body, suggestively.

  ‘Come on, you cow, stop pretending. It wouldn’t be your first length of dick, now would it?’

  Malandra’s head throbbed and ached. Strudwick’s malevolent presence and invasive attack filled her with nausea. She tried again to repel his advances, pushing weakly with her one free hand. Contemptuously, he brushed her arm aside. Utterly convinced she was about to be violated, she used the last remaining weapon in her meagre armoury—she spat directly into his face!

  Was Pentophiles’ moment come? Dirty bitch! … Kill! … Kill! … Kill!

  Outraged, Robert roared with fury. Adrenaline surged; his brain pounded; dark-red mist obscured his vision. Triggered by frustrated lust, driven by hate and goaded by the voice in his mind, he knocked her to the ground and threw himself on top, growling, snarling and slavering like a wild animal. Her resistance inflamed him further, and he punched, bit, scratched and kicked almost every part of her body.

  She screamed piteously but he silenced her with a punch in the face. Mindlessly, he gripped an earlobe between his teeth and ripped it off then threw back his head and howled like a dog. Eventually, the onslaught proved too much. Malandra lost consciousness and lay still, yet still he continued to beat her. For timeless minutes the assault continued until it dawned on him that she was unconscious.

  No longer masquerading as a man, a dreadful shadowy being approached the clearing in Oxshott Woods. The fulfilment of pent-up demonic lust was surely imminent, but his protégé; must hurry: KILL HER!… KILL HER!

  Strudwick, however, lay still. He waited for his head to clear, then sat up and gazed dispassionately at his handiwork.

  Malandra’s injuries were horrendous: her once-beautiful face was a featureless mask of split skin, cartilage and ruptured flesh, her body a mass of abrasions, bruises and cuts and she was blooded, quite literally, from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

  He too was covered with blood, Strudwick noted, casually. He felt no remorse and watched for a while as she lay crumpled on the ground like a rag doll wondering how such a useless pile of meat had ever taken his fancy. He was calmer now, more receptive to the voice in his mind: The whore, serves the bitch right! She stirred, groaned, peered through pain-filled eyes and reached upwards towards the sapling. Strudwick grinned, sardonically. He released the cord and watched as she struggled to regain her feet. Eventually, through sheer tenacity and effort, she raised herself enough to look directly at him. Speaking through split and bruised lips her every word was agony.

  ‘You bastard! You stinking lousy bastard! I hope you rot in hell.’

  Exhausted by the effort, she sagged against the tree and again lost consciousness.

  He stared at her, incurious, but made no move. The lust to inflict pain was sated, and nothing would now be allowed to prevent him from following his carefully-constructed strategy to the letter. To do otherwise would not only increase the risk of failure, but be a gross betrayal of the one person whose brilliant intellect he esteemed above all others—himself!

  Although late afternoon it remained comfortably warm. Remaining naked formed an essential part of the plan. He rose without haste and re-secured Malandra to the tree, then lay down and calmly fell asleep.

  Flies appeared, as if from nowhere, drawn by the sickly stench of blood and he stirred from time to time, irritated by the insects.

  His victim remained slumped against the tree, barely conscious. Her breathing was shallow and she groaned from time to time. It was late evening before he awoke. Somewhat chilled, he got to his feet, stretched, and covered the short distance to the Astra in two or three strides. Taking care to touch nothing, he peered through the driver’s side-window to consult the dashboard clock, noting with satisfaction that it was nine o’clock—perfect.

  Moving purposefully, he pulled on cotton gloves, earlier placed in readiness and strode to the boot, where he filled the bucket with three or four litres of water. He pulled four refuse sacks from the roll and placed them on the ground about two metres from the girl. Returning to the boot, he took the towel from the valise and draped it over the bumper. Lastly, he slit the remaining rubbish bags and spread the resulting sheets in front of his victim. He was ready.

  Strudwick took his knife in one hand, strode across to Malandra and grasped a handful of hair with the other. He lifted her head and peered into her face, but detected no signs of awareness.

  ‘Wake up, you bitch,’ he snarled angrily, and shook her head from side to side. Failing to elicit response, he began to slap her bruised and battered cheeks back and forth, alternating between his palm and the back of his hand. Eventually she emitted a feeble groan, and he eagerly redoubled his efforts … Kill her, but make sure the bitch is awake!

  Slowly, she began to regain consciousness. By and by, she raised her head and opened dull slits of eyes.

  Pentophiles drew ever closer. NOW! NOW! NOW!

  ‘Oh good, you snotty little cow. Awake at last,’ Strudwick jeered. ‘Now you’ve had a nice, long restful sleep, the time has come to say ‘goodbye’—so goodbye, you stinking bitch!’

  To prevent her moving, he grasped her hair and passed the knife to and fro in front of her face, watch
ing, fascinated, as comprehension dawned. Mercilessly, employing a technique of his own devising, he slit her throat with one vicious, slashing stroke, starting from under one ear, continuing across and under the chin almost to the other. Blood fountained from the severed neck but her assassin made no attempt to avoid it. He allowed the warm, crimson fluid to pump freely over his hands and trickle down his body.

  He watched and waited until her eyes glazed over and the flow of life-blood ceased.

  Using the trowel, he dug a substantial hole in soft, sandy soil inside a clump of bushes beyond the clearing, into which he tossed the bonds from her wrists, the trowel, her sandals and the remnants of her clothes. Then Strudwick stood over the body, threw back his head and emitted a peal of demonic laughter. Pentophiles triumphant—AT LAST! AT LAST! In a manic frenzy, he bit, tore and ripped at what little was left of her features; he took and ingested mouthfuls of flesh from the breasts and upper arms. Not until sated did his rage subside; he rested a while.

  Once refreshed and back in control, Strudwick worked swiftly. He spread the prepared plastic sheets and heaved the body on top, severed the head, sawed and hacked to separate arms and legs and wrapped the parts to form four parcels—the torso in one, head and arms in another and a leg in each of the two remaining. Shoving the parcels into plastic bags, he secured the necks with string and loaded all four into the boot.

  He removed the gloves, rinsed and dried the knife and returned it to its sheath, threw the hacksaw and soiled gloves into the hole. Then he sponged himself from head to toe and poured away the water, repeating the process until every trace of blood was gone. He dried himself and tossed both towel and sponge into the hole, which he carefully back-filled and smoothed by hand.

  Despite a thorough douching with the remaining water, traces of blood persisted around the sapling, but these would be flushed away by the next shower of rain. Donning fresh gloves, he wiped the can and bucket handles and everything on the car he might accidentally have touched.

  He returned the bucket to the boot, latched it and, after carefully checking the clearing, started the engine and manoeuvred the car back on to the track. Leaving the engine running, he returned to the clearing in his bare feet. He used a dead branch to sweep the area clear of tyre-marks and footprints and, once satisfied, went back to the car to dress. Strudwick left the woods by the shortest and most direct route.