The Flyleaf Killer Read online

  ‘Sorry Caroline,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you, but you seemed rather edgy and I was trying to be friendly…’ He seemed genuinely sincere.

  ‘Well, all right,’ she said, mollified. ‘But just remember, I don’t like being mauled!’ She took a sip or two of coffee, apparently to steady her nerves. Robert’s drink arrived. He paid, took a swallow and returned the glass to the counter, then turned towards Caroline as if to speak, just as Francis and Malandra strolled in and made straight for the bar. Hard on their heels came Calvin Smith. Their arrival presented an opportunity for Robert to reassure Caroline further. He seized it.

  ‘Very well, Caroline,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got the message. But look, there’s Malandra—and, oh, Calvin Smith. I vote we take our drinks and ask them to join us. There are loads of tables available and we could make up a party.’

  Caroline nodded, whereupon Robert picked up his glass and headed for the newcomers, leaving the girl to follow. All five seated themselves around two tables pushed together, and fell into animated conversation. Nobody seemed to consider their meeting up in any way remarkable, which said a great deal for the popularity of the place.

  Ignoring Caroline, Robert contrived to sit beside Malandra and attempted to monopolise her.

  ‘Hi Malandra, how are you doing? Wow, you look lovely, as usual, good enough to eat. Tell me, you tasty little thing,’ he smirked, ‘What are you doing in Kingston?’

  Malandra giggled nervously, flattered despite herself.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Robert,’ she replied. ‘Just shopping for odds and ends. I ran into Frank in Bentalls. He was kind enough to offer me coffee, so here we are.’

  On more than one occasion in recent weeks, Robert had unsuccessfully propositioned Malandra, and each time accepted her gentle evasion with a nonchalant smile, as though rejection wasn’t particularly important. It seemed strange, therefore, that he should make a play for her in public, and she was uncomfortably aware of the cold, compelling stare behind his thick, pebble lens glasses. She shivered, involuntarily. Strudwick seemed not to notice.

  Lowering his voice, he murmured, ‘You know how I feel about you, gorgeous. I’m lonesome, I’m flush, so how about the pictures, my treat? There’s a cracking film at the Odeon…’

  He placed a possessive hand on her arm. Malandra pushed him away. She wanted nothing to do with boys right now—especially Robert Strudwick; he was beginning to frighten her. Instinct told her to finish her coffee and catch the next bus home. Bother rotten, conceited, one track-minded boys. God’s gift? Pooh, I hate the lot of them! Maybe it was time somebody put arrogant, creepy Robert Strudwick in his place.

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks and especially no thanks,’ Malandra sneered, in obvious disgust. Her annoyance intensified as she went on, ‘You’re nothing but a weirdo, but in any case, you know perfectly well I came in with Frank, so what makes you think I’m likely to dump him for the likes of you?’ and she gave Francis a beseeching look.

  ‘Come off it, Malandra,’ Robert sneered. ‘Maybe you did come in with him, but so what? You’re not his girlfriend; never have been. So how about coming out with me? I fancy you rotten— always have—and you jolly-well know it!’

  Again, his hand went to her arm and this time she flinched and drew away sharply.

  ‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t play hard to get. I’m offering you a front seat on the balcony. Look, I’ve got plenty of cash!’ He flashed his wallet, stuffed with notes.

  Malandra gave Francis another imploring look and this time he responded gallantly. He half rose from his seat and leaned across the table.

  ‘Why don’t you get stuffed, Strudwick?’ he snarled. ‘You heard what Malandra said. Keep your dirty paws off. She came with me and she’s leaving with me, just as she says.’

  His look of contempt spoke volumes. Robert flushed angrily. He also started to rise.

  ‘Watch it, Bridgwater. Mind your own business,’ he growled, but hurriedly sat down again when Francis raised his fists.

  Caroline said nothing, hoping Robert would collect a well-deserved punch on the nose. Calvin looked uncomfortable—but it wasn’t his quarrel so he also said nothing. He feared Robert and decided Frank would have to finish whatever it was he’d started by himself.

  Romantic opportunist, Francis spotted an opening far too good to miss. Malandra was extremely pretty and in need of help; she might be grateful, so why not? He grabbed the initiative.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ Malandra hesitated. Francis was nice-looking and seemed safe, but she didn’t really want to go out with him—or any other boy, for that matter. She continued to dither and, misinterpreting her indecision, Francis rounded the table, elbowed Robert away, and lifted the girl to her feet.

  ‘Don’t worry about him, sweetheart,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I’ll see you safely home, and make certain the obnoxious, four-eyed little twit doesn’t bother you any more today.’ Abruptly, Malandra decided. Frank must surely be the lesser of two evils?

  ‘OK Frank,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll finish my drink and we’ll go…’ Her words were cut short when Robert leapt to his feet, spilling his remaining squash down the front of his trousers. Dabbing uselessly with his handkerchief, voice thick with rage, he almost lost control. ‘If you two leave together, you’ve had it,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll get even one day, just see if I don’t.’

  It was more than Malandra could swallow. ‘Don’t you dare threaten me, Robert Strudwick,’ she gasped, indignantly. ‘Who do you think you are? Tyrone Power? You wish! Fact is you’re nothing but an obnoxious, conceited, goggle-eyed pillock. Yuk, I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last boy on earth!’

  Her contempt was plain for all to see.

  ‘Yeah, she’s right, so shut your stupid face,’ Frank said rudely, and took Malandra’s hand. Turning to lead her away, he hissed in Robert’s ear, ‘Arsehole!’ and delivered a surreptitious, but remarkably accurate kick to the shins. He was rewarded with an anguished grunt of pain.

  Francis and Malandra left the milk bar hand-in-hand without looking back. Neither could have registered the incandescent fury that flashed across Robert Strudwick’s face. It would have made little difference if they had. Despite his anger, he was amazingly cautious, cunning and scheming.

  ‘You stinking, lousy bastards! You’re as good as dead—both of you,’ he hissed, deliberately sotto voce…

  The following year, taking advantage of father’s car, father’s tuition, private roads and common-land tracks, Robert learned to drive and, with the benefit of three professional driving lessons (a seventeenth birthday present), passed his driving test. Success behind the wheel coincided with another milestone—he landed a job!

  At interview, Robert seemed just the young man they sought: willing, presentable, intelligent, with impressive GCSE grades, and his father a senior employee of the Midland Bank.

  ‘Can you start next Monday?’ Mr Hathaway asked. Robert most certainly could.

  On Monday, 22 April 2002 Robert became a management trainee at the Long Ditton offices of Gaston Hathaway, a notable firm of estate agents with branches throughout Surrey.

  Chapter Four

  Noises

  It was Sunday, 14 July, a little before midnight. For the third time since retiring, Daphne Frasier slipped into mules, shrugged into a dressing gown and padded uneasily out of the room. She crossed the landing and into the rear bedroom, where the sounds seemed more distinct, and listened. There it goes again!

  Nervously, she peered from the darkened room through a slit in the curtains. A pale, crescent moon added little to a glimmer of reflected street lighting and, strain as she might, she saw nothing more than outlined shrubs and the garden fencing.

  Daphne was by no means nervous. Her natural self-reliance had stood her in good stead after the death of her husband three years earlier. Although she missed him terribly, social work, visits from her daughter, her
son-in-law and baby grandson helped heal the hurt and render the loss more bearable; they fostered a determination to get on with her life.

  Knowing the neighbours were away for the weekend, she wondered whether the noises might be a scavenging animal of some description. The clatter of a falling dustbin often heralded the presence of a marauding fox, seeking an easy meal. But the more she listened, the more certain she became the sounds were not those of an animal. She hesitated a moment longer, tempted to go back to bed, and this time to stay there. Might there, after all, be a perfectly innocent explanation?

  She frowned into the darkness, annoyed with herself for dithering, but instinct told her something was definitely amiss. At the risk of being labelled a busybody, she returned to her bedroom, picked up the telephone and dialled 999.

  A brisk, female voice responded. ‘Emergency! Which service?’

  ‘Police,’ Daphne replied.

  ‘Connecting you,’ the operator said, and after a single ‘brrr brrr’, a pleasant, baritone voice came on the line.

  ‘Police! How can I help?’

  ‘Emergency call from an Esher number 01372 448721;’ the operator interjected, then: ‘You’re through, caller.’

  ‘I want to report unusual noises from the garden next door— eleven, Rodene Close, Lower Green,’ Daphne began, excitedly. ‘The owners—the Pearces—are away for the weekend.’

  ‘Just one moment, madam. Please confirm your telephone number, and state your full name and address.’

  The quiet, authoritative voice again. Daphne became impatient. ‘The noises, I keep hearing them. Someone’s trespassing; if you hurry you might catch them. Hurry, please hurry. If you waste time asking questions, whoever it is will be gone.’

  ‘Perhaps so, madam,’ the officer said, ‘but we still need details in order to take action.’ Keep calm, Daphne told herself. Struggling for composure, she took another deep breath.

  ‘01372 448721; Frasier, Daphne—Mrs. Thirteen, Rodene Close, Lower Green, Esher,’ she managed, this time articulating slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Right, got that. Please describe the noises; explain exactly why you called.’

  ‘I’d gone to bed,’ she said, ‘when I heard unusual sounds. When I listened carefully, they appeared to be coming from round the back, so I got up and went into the rear bedroom, where the noises seemed louder. There were scraping sounds, and a sort of thud, thud, every now and then,’ she went on. ‘At first, I thought something was in my garden—an animal, perhaps. But when I listened again—I went back two or three times—I realised the sounds were coming from the next door garden. I mightn’t have thought much about it,’ she added, ‘except that I know the Pearces are away until tomorrow, so that’s when I decided to call.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Frasier, thank you. You did the right thing. But I need to be clear about one or two things. Are you alone in the house?’

  ‘Yes, my husband died three years ago.’

  ‘I see, I’m sorry to hear that.’ There was a pause, then: ‘Tell me, you looked from the rear bedroom but saw nothing. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you switch on the light?’

  ‘No—well, yes—but only in my bedroom. I came back here in order to ring you.’

  ‘Your bedroom—it’s at the front of the house, presumably?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it probably doesn’t matter—unless the intruder spots it from the rear. Could he?’

  ‘No, he couldn’t. Definitely not.’

  ‘That’s fine. Now, don’t worry. Leave everything to us. We’ll send a patrol car to investigate.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Daphne said, ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

  ‘You’re certainly not a nuisance. Thank you for calling—someone will be along shortly.’

  ‘Goodbye, thank you again.’

  With considerable relief, Daphne replaced the receiver. The call had lasted barely a minute. Quick, and nowhere as difficult as she had imagined.

  Police mobile ‘Zebra Two’—manned by PCs Gordon Bennett and Samuel Edmunds—To investigate a reported prowler at the rear of eleven, Rodene Close, Lower Green. Owners believed to be away for the weekend. Informant, Mrs Daphne Frasier, number thirteen.

  At 12.22 a.m. the patrol car entered Rodene Close, PC Bennett at the wheel. He slowed to check house numbers, continued for some twenty metres or so, killed the engine and coasted to a halt, some way short of number eleven.

  Vacating the car, the officers walked up the path of eleven and tested the front door and ground floor windows. Moving to the rear, they repeated the process. All seemed secure. When a cursory inspection of the garden revealed nothing untoward, they made their way back to the front, where PC Edmunds took it upon himself to comment.

  ‘There weren’t nobody lurking, Gordon,’ he grumbled, ‘Quiet as the grave—another bloody wild goose chase?’

  ‘More than likely,’ his partner agreed, ‘we get plenty of ‘em, these days … oh, well. Anyway, we’re here, so we’d better have a word with the lady next door.’

  Edmunds grunted.

  The policemen regained the pavement and made their way to number thirteen. Light showed at a first-floor window, the rest of the house was in darkness. As senior, Bennett took it upon himself to tap gently on the front door. The hall light snapped on and the door opened, framing a slightly-built, grey-haired woman in mules and a floral dressing-gown.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Frasier?’ Bennett inquired, and when she nodded, went on, ‘I’m Police Constable Bennett from Surbiton, this is Police Constable Edmunds.’

  ‘Good evening, I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in?’ She moved back a step, opening the door invitingly.

  ‘Not for the moment, thank you. We won’t keep you long.’ He produced his notebook. ‘Now then, about fifteen minutes ago you reported hearing noises next door, number eleven, yet the owners—I need their name—are away for the weekend. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The owners are called Pearce. They went to Brighton.’

  ‘Thank you. Can you describe the noises?’

  Daphne sighed. ‘Just after I went to bed, I heard scraping and thudding sounds somewhere behind the house. It was difficult to pinpoint the source, so I got up, went to the rear and listened—I went back a couple of times—and concluded the noises were coming from the neighbours’ back garden. I knew the Pearces were away, so I dialled nine, nine, nine. I’ve heard nothing since. The noises seem to have stopped.’

  Bennett scribbled briefly, and cleared his throat. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘As you probably know, we’ve already checked next door, front and back.’ (Daphne looked at him suspiciously: he seemed not to notice.) ‘All doors and windows are secure and there’s no sign of a break-in. We also checked the garden. Did you notice anyone hanging about?’

  ‘No, it’s too dark. With all the shrubs, I couldn’t see beyond the fence anyway, even in daylight.’ Why the inquisition? She felt a flush of indignation. ‘But somebody was there, make no mistake—and it wasn’t an animal, either!’

  Silent until now, PC Edmunds decided to ‘pour oil on troubled waters’.

  ‘Nobody doubts you, Mrs Frasier,’ he intervened, reassuringly. ‘You make an excellent witness. What we are saying is that nobody’s about now and nothing appears to have been disturbed. There’s nothing more we can do, as I’m sure you appreciate.’

  What does he mean? ‘I hope you don’t think I’ve wasted your time,’ Daphne countered.

  ‘Not at all,’ Bennett said, ‘you were right to call, and if you hear or see anything else unusual, please ring again. Rest assured, whoever was prowling has gone – probably legged it before we got here.’ Sliding his pencil into the spine, Bennett returned his notebook to his breast pocket. ‘Play safe. Make sure your doors and windows are locked, and try to get a good night’s sleep.’

  Daphne couldn’t shake off a singularly uneasy feeling and sought to delay their departure. />
  ‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go? It wouldn’t take a minute.’

  Bennett shook his head. ‘No, thank you. That’s very kind, but we’re still on duty and with considerable ground still to cover. Good night, Mrs Frasier.’

  Turning, he started towards the road, closely followed by PC Edmunds.

  ‘Good night—and thank you,’ Daphne called.

  They heard the door close, a rattle of bolts, and the rasp of a key in the lock. Bennett slid behind the wheel and closed the door. Edmunds reached for the microphone.

  ‘Zebra Two—receiving?’

  ‘Zebra Two, go ahead.’ (The unmistakable voice of the station Duty Sergeant.)

  ‘Nothing to report figures one-one Rodene, Sarge. No sign of break-in, all doors and windows secure. Nobody hanging about, nothing apparently disturbed.’

  ‘Roger. What about the neighbour?’

  ‘Confirms she didn’t actually see anything, says noises stopped right after she phoned.’

  ‘OK, carry on with your patrol. Keep an eye for anything suspicious—nip back once in a while, and make a further inspection in daylight before you knock off.’

  ‘Roger, Sarge, will do. Zebra Two, out.’

  Edmunds replaced the microphone. Bennett returned the notebook to his pocket and started the engine.

  7.40 a.m. Nearing the end of an otherwise uneventful shift, the officers returned to Rodene Close. They checked the doors and windows again. Everything seemed secure.

  ‘Waste of bloody time,’ Edmunds muttered, and headed for the gate.

  Ever cautious, Bennett touched his sleeve. ‘Hang on. We’d best check the garden…’ (he yawned) ‘…in case somebody’s nicked the roses.’

  Edmunds reacted ungraciously by thumbing his nose, but nevertheless accompanied his fellow officer to the patio. Bennett glanced down the garden, suddenly alert. He took three paces and spun on his heel to confront his colleague.

  ‘Hey, Sam, look!’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone was here last night, look at the grass. See those marks in the dew? Footprints—and neither of us strayed from the path.’