The Flyleaf Killer Read online

  First out of class after the bell, he stepped from behind the school gate and intercepted her.

  ‘Hi Janice. Wow, you look nice! Would you like to come for a walk?’ he asked, engagingly.

  Janice gasped, stopped dead in her tracks and blushed furiously. She seemed startled—but he could tell what her answer was going to be … Talk about easy!

  ‘Oh, yes, Robert, I’d like that!’ she blurted out, astonished and delighted.

  Bingo, hole in one! With the girl at his side, Robert set off across the village green, heading for the estate road through Waynflete and the private woods which ultimately would take them to Lower Green. Ten minutes later, he steered her into a coppice away from the footpath and they were alone.

  Robert put his arms around her, drew her close and they kissed—awkwardly, dry-mouthed. Encouraged, he spread his jacket on the ground and sat down, pulling her down beside him. They kissed again and she submitted to his clumsy attempts to fondle her breasts through her clothing—in fact, it felt quite pleasant, she was surprised to discover. He kissed her, parted her lips with the tip of his tongue—and Janice kissed him back. Wow!

  Enjoying the experience, Janice made no protest when he sidled his hand up her dress, but was shocked rigid when he roughly insinuated his hand inside her knickers. Outraged, she smacked his hand away and jumped to her feet, cheeks aflame.

  ‘Just what sort of girl do you think I am, Robert Strudwick?’ she screeched. Before he could stop her, she was off through the trees heading for home as fast as her legs would carry her, leaving him cursing furiously.

  The next day, Janice pointedly avoided Robert. She stuck her nose in the air when he called to her in the quad. Later, in the canteen, she abandoned her lunch and stalked away when he attempted to strike up a conversation.

  Robert smirked. He considered rejection an amusing challenge and set about winning her back. Changing strategy, he became the pursuer and she the pursued. Throughout several days of unremitting (but flattering) attention, Janice continued to resist his advances, but eventually relented and agreed to walk out with him again.

  ‘Providing you behave yourself, Robert Strudwick,’ she stipulated.

  ‘I was only doing what all boys do, when they’re very fond of a girl,’ he protested, a statement she ignored. And when Robert walked her home that afternoon, he made no attempt to invade her privacy, although they kissed and cuddled a great deal.

  Janice was delighted and thrilled. At last, the boy she had set her heart on seemed determined to woo her in the manner she imagined all romances ought rightfully to be conducted. In the days and weeks that followed she allowed the association to develop, during which time Robert maximised his formidable powers of persuasion in order to insinuate himself into the girl’s affections. Slowly, carefully, he cultivated the association until Janice was completely under his spell. But it wasn’t only affection that he sought, he also took control of Janice’s emotions and made her his obedient slave.

  The moment he judged her sufficiently subservient, he submitted her to a series of sexual acts that began with petting and rapidly extended in scope until no part of her body was safe from his prying eyes and fingers. Yet he frequently abandoned her for a fling elsewhere, returning to resume where he’d left off when— but only when—he had tired of the new encounter.

  If she protested, he became threatening and abusive, claimed the interlude was only for fun and declared Janice to be the only girl he’d ever really wanted—and each time she forgave him and gladly took him back.

  At fifteen, whilst Janice imagined herself in love and was frightened of losing Robert, she was also frightened of him, and so emotionally confused she was unable to differentiate between the two states.

  She submitted to full sex before she was sixteen, an experience devoid of pleasure for her and which stimulated Robert to enter into a series of experimental, unnatural practices. He treated her with contempt, used her as he saw fit and, following the sex act, would pinch her intimately and make her cry, which apparently afforded him some sort of sadistic pleasure. On the only occasion she tried to put a stop to his deviant behaviour he produced a knife and held it against the terrified girl’s throat until, fearing for her life, she tearfully relented. As time passed, she became increasingly nervous and depressed, yet was far too frightened to share her fear and misery with anyone.

  Calderwood Clough-Cartwright was self-opinionated, pompous and overweight. He was also manager of the Esher branch of the Midland Bank, a position he had held since his appointment (several stones lighter) in 1991.

  He was well-regarded by his seniors, who saw him as a capable, conscientious manager, one who thoroughly understood his duties and responsibilities to company, clients and staff—in that order. To his unfortunate juniors, he was a pompous, overbearing martinet who ruled with military precision, as if they were private soldiers and he the Regimental Sergeant Major. Furthermore, once the branch was running satisfactorily, he shamelessly delegated as much as he could.

  The respectful knock on his door came (he consulted his watch) exactly one minute and five seconds after his summons—three full seconds earlier than anticipated.

  ‘Come in, Strudwick!’ he boomed, wriggling a corpulent backside a little more comfortably into his leather-upholstered chair.

  The door opened. Alfred Strudwick entered and, in obedience to Mr Clough-Cartwright’s imperious wave, seated himself gingerly on the lightly upholstered, straight-backed chair in front of the manager’s desk, a chair engineered for minimal comfort and to dissuade those who might otherwise be inclined to loiter from outstaying their welcome. Clough-Cartwright began.

  ‘Do you know why I wished to see you, Strudwick?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir—well, I think so, sir!’ was Strudwick’s obsequious reply.

  ‘Yes, I dare say you do, Strudwick’—he hurrumphed—‘but I shall explain in detail, nevertheless. It is common knowledge Featherstone is to retire at the end of the year, but not that he applied for a transfer to Cobham in order to complete his service closer to home. I do not object—he is frequently late—due, he says, to delays and congestion on the A3, and I therefore approached ‘District’ on his behalf and have managed to secure their approval. Rather than prolong the matter, it has been decided to implement his request without delay, which will therefore create a vacancy for a new Chief Clerk. You have the necessary qualifications, experience and seniority, Strudwick, so I have recommended you for the post—subject, of course, to a satisfactory interview. I trust you will accept the position should I decide to offer it to you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you, sir!’

  Alfred knew perfectly well that the interview was a mere formality. Featherstone’s transfer was approved at District and his replacement decided. Whispers had reached the branch via the ‘grapevine’ several days previously, but Alfred turned a deaf ear and waited for the manager’s summons. He’d been repeatedly passed over for promotion in the past, and for reasons never fully explained.

  Today, however, once the (largely irrelevant) questions had been answered with due deference, Alfred received a congratulatory handshake, an exhortation to work even harder in future and emerged in triumph from the manager’s sanctum bearing the long-coveted title, ‘Chief Clerk’.

  Time passed. The increase in salary proved useful; fringe benefits even more so. For one thing, the Midland Bank operated a generous mortgage scheme for employees.

  In August 1999, Alfred and his family vacated their council dwelling and moved to a modern, three-bedroom, semi-detached house in Kenward Crescent, Claygate. This momentous event was followed a year later by another—less spectacular, but certainly no less important—when Alfred traded his second-hand ‘banger’ for a brand-new family saloon, part-funded by means of a personal loan – again on advantageous terms.

  Few dared cross Robert Strudwick; most who did were likely to regret it. Yet Steven Pearce, for years a source of minor irritation, remained l
argely unpunished. Full, proper retribution was inevitable as far as Robert was concerned and he was frequently impatient for the Book to reveal how best it should be exacted. In reality, most of the incidents attributed to Steven were unfounded, the evidence circumstantial. Be that as it may, the earliest irritation (literally) had taken place when Robert was about twelve.

  At a compulsory carol service attended by the school, itching powder had been put down Robert’s neck by one of two boys sitting behind him. Both denied responsibility, but of the two, Steven Pearce seemed the likelier candidate. Then, only last summer, whilst he was swimming in the Mole at Imber Court, Robert’s clothes had been removed from his saddlebag and hidden in the next field, causing him considerable inconvenience. There were no clues as to a possible culprit but, almost inevitably, Robert suspected Steven.

  Born in 1984 and a year younger than Robert, Steven was easily his physical equal, which was why Robert had tended to avoid him. But in 1999, when an opportunity to teach the boy a lesson presented itself, Robert scarcely needed the Book in order to recognise it.

  Steven was consulting a reference-book inside his desk, hand resting beneath the lid when a shadowy figure crossed his field of vision. Purely on reflex, he tried to snatch his hand away – a fraction of a second late, for the desk-lid slammed down hard across his fingers.

  Shocked immobile, his mouth nevertheless opened wide and his lungs filled with air, ready to fuel the anguished roar of pain such injuries demanded, but, with great presence of mind, he managed to stifle the outburst at source. The crashing lid seemed extraordinarily loud in the silent classroom—and didn’t go unnoticed. Brendon Ford looked up from the papers he was marking.

  ‘What is going on?’ he inquired, peering at Steven over the top of his spectacles.

  ‘Nothing, sir, sorry, sir,’ Steven lied. Bloody hell! A pound to a penny, Robert Strudwick? ‘The lid of my desk slipped. Sorry, sir,’ he ground out painfully, and stuffed his squashed fingers into his mouth in a desperate attempt to obtain relief. His eyes watered, impairing his vision but, looking left and squinting, he was able to confirm that the blurred figure in the act of sitting down four rows away was indeed Robert Strudwick, back from visiting the lavatory.

  Steven had long been wary of Robert, careful to avoid antagonising the boy who never failed to retaliate swiftly and viciously when provoked. The desk-lid was obviously no accident and Steven was at a loss to understand why Robert should behave so spitefully and for no apparent reason. Nobody was likely to admit to having witnessed the ‘accident’, which simply went to prove that both in and out of the classroom Robert Strudwick could do pretty well as he pleased. Prudently, Steven decided against making a fuss: better to hold his tongue and bide his time.

  Steven was a friendly, outgoing boy, well thought of by teachers, popular with schoolmates, girls and boys alike. He had struck up a friendship with Janice long before she had taken up with Robert Strudwick and grown quite fond of her in a brotherly sort of way. When she began going out with Robert, however, he realised his feelings were anything but brotherly, but by that time, it was too late to say so. He concealed his dismay, and even though it was the last thing he wanted, respected her right to go out with whomsoever she chose; he studiously avoided her as far as possible, and was careful never to interfere, even when Robert began playing fast and loose. Unhappy, perpetually subdued, Janice seemed resigned to Robert’s treachery. Poor, brave, Janice! She wilted. Yet, unwilling to exhibit distress or cause concern, she strove to maintain an appearance of normality, and might well have succeeded, were it not for Steven, watching from afar.

  He had long decided he would keep an eye out for Janice and was devastated when the vivacious girl became dejected, lost weight, lacked colour and was frequently absent from school. Steven ached to take her in his arms and comfort her, yet wasn’t prepared to interfere with her relationship, unless and until she signalled a readiness to end it.

  Shortly after the desk incident, Janice was making her way to classes, head lowered, her shoulders hunched, when Steven approached from behind, intending only to cheer her up.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jan?’ he asked, gently. ‘You don’t seem yourself. Have you been ill?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Stevie, thanks,’ Janice returned, with a wan smile. ‘Just a headache. I’ve had a few recently. But don’t worry. It’ll pass and I’ll be fine, but thanks for asking. Subject closed.’ There was a distinct air of weary finality in her voice. What did she mean? ‘Subject closed?’

  Steven was having none of it. He grasped her by the arm to bring her plodding feet to a halt, took both her hands in his, turned her gently and looked her straight in the eye. His heart bled with pity at the abject misery he perceived in the pale, lined face and he became tender, protective, and solicitous.

  ‘Come on, Pud, you can’t fool me, you know. You’ve not been yourself for ages. If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, at least remember we’re friends and that I’ll help in any way I can.’

  ‘Thanks, Stevie. I’m all right, really. I’ll let you know if I need you.’

  Steven nodded. Pressing harder might cause further distress— something he wished to avoid. Responding to his concern, Janice moved closer and kissed him on the lips, lightly, gratefully.

  It was enough—for now! Holding her hand comfortingly, Steven walked the rest of the way without speaking—until they reached the school, where he stopped and turned to face her.

  ‘Now don’t forget, young lady,’ he lectured, ‘give me a shout if there’s anything I can do … anything at all. I really can’t bear to see you looking so pale and unhappy. Promise me?’

  Janice nodded. Unshed tears glistened her eye and his enraptured heart lurched a second time. She smiled, disengaged her hand and hurried into school, leaving Steven to follow.

  They weren’t to know that their walk together, that innocent kiss, the holding of hands, were all reported to Robert Strudwick.

  The brightly-lit, open-fronted establishment—boasting a full-length, chromium-plated counter, matching stools and stainless-steel drinks-dispensers—was designed to attract passing trade and, more specifically, the younger generation: a place to meet, enjoy a snack, a soft drink … All of these things it did admirably.

  Kingston’s Black & White Milk Bar, prominently situated opposite the bus station, had been refurbished and modernised during the late nineteen-forties. The attraction quickly ‘caught on’ and became practically an institution for teenagers for miles around, one of the few places they could meet freely, refresh themselves, gossip and generally ‘put the world to rights’.

  Although the establishment had changed ownership several times, it retained a successful format, and continued to flourish throughout the decades into the nineties, despite competition.

  For differing reasons and independently of one another, five teenagers travelled to Kingston one Saturday. They were Calvin Smith, Caroline Lucas, Francis Bridgwater, Malandra Pennington and Robert Strudwick. By chance, all five visited the milk bar around the same time and met, though none were close friends.

  Malandra was sixteen, the others something beyond their fifteenth birthdays, an age when the opposite sex starts to become increasingly important, yet no serious relationship existed for any of them yet.

  Of the girls, Malandra was easily the most attractive. Blonde, petite, with flawless complexion and beautiful hair, her near-perfect figure would be the envy of thousands. She dressed fashionably and wore just a trace of make-up, effectively applied. Malandra had no shortage of suitors.

  Caroline wore her straight, light-brown hair pageboy style. She played basketball and netball, sewed, knitted and embroidered— and still took her teddy to bed. Her figure tended to the dumpy, and she dressed to disguise the embarrassing lumps on her chest. Unsure of her feelings towards boys—strange, unpleasant creatures—Caroline became confused and uncomfortable whenever one ventured close or appeared overly attentive.

  At five foot ten, Calvin
Smith would probably top six foot in a year or so. A popular boy, especially with girls, fair-haired, fresh-faced and freckled, he was an outstanding athlete. Calvin wasn’t the least bothered whether fair sex conquests were due to luck, looks or personality, or were simply the fringe benefits of sporting success—dammit, he simply enjoyed girls!

  When it came to girls, classic looks put Francis Bridgwater in a league of his own. Well-travelled and worldly-wise, five foot seven and still growing, brown-eyed and handsome, Francis broke hearts regularly as he fell in and out of love: he was a ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ exponent.

  Robert Strudwick assumed an ambitious, patronising attitude towards girls. He was inclined, sooner or later, to make overtures to practically every pretty female he met. Despite his reputation and general unpopularity, he achieved considerable success.

  By 3.00 p.m. all three Kingston cinemas were in the throes of feature films, which explained the number of empty tables in the milk bar. Caroline was perched on a stool sipping coffee when Robert walked through the doorway. He spotted her at once and exchanged greetings as he climbed aboard the vacant seat at her side. He ordered an iced orange squash.

  Caroline immediately became ill at ease and fiddled nervously with the handle of her cup; she was much too close to a boy whose reputation where girls were concerned left much to be desired. Noting her discomfort, Robert placed a reassuring hand on her arm, but she pulled away in alarm.

  ‘Keep your hands to yourself, Robert Strudwick!’ she ordered, with an angry toss of her head. ‘My name isn’t Janice. I’m not a twopenny tart you can pick up and dump as you please.’ She was clearly outraged; it was a public place; Robert apologised at once.