The Flyleaf Killer Read online

  Back across the lawn, Melton re-entered the tent.

  ‘Sorry to keep you, Doctor. House-owner problem.’

  The pathologist smiled.

  ‘Not at all, David—gave me time to finish. I’d like to get on with the post-mortem, and the sooner the remains get to the mortuary the sooner I can get started. Um—did you happen to notice whether the ambulance has arrived? I asked your Sergeant to call one half an hour ago?’

  ‘It arrived five minutes ago—sorry, I should have mentioned it. While I was talking to Mr Pearce—the house owner—the driver came round the corner, probably realised it wasn’t a good moment and hightailed it back outside.’

  ‘Tactful of him,’ Matthews commented, adding crisply, ‘I’ve all but finished here. I’ll give them the go-ahead on my way out.’

  DI Melton glanced at the corpse, snapped his fingers and exclaimed, ‘I almost forgot. Sergeant O’Connor. Would you mind hanging on while I fetch him? I think he should view the remains properly, having had only the briefest of glimpses earlier. I doubt whether he fully comprehends what was done to that poor girl. It would take but a couple of minutes.’

  ‘By all means. I’ll grab a spot of lunch and go straight to the mortuary. I should be through with the post-mortem by four. Will you call, or shall I give you a ring?’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll be there at four. I’ll just fetch O’Connor.’ Detective Sergeant O’Connor accepted it was his duty to see for himself the full extent of the atrocities perpetrated on the young woman. He entered the tent and, like Melton—despite having glimpsed the severed head and arms earlier—turned pale at the sight of grisly body-parts lying like pieces of a macabre jigsaw puzzle where the pathologist had positioned head, limbs and torso for the purpose of taking measurements. He gulped and turned away.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said, shakily. ‘We can’t afford not to catch the bastard responsible for this, can we?’

  It was a rhetorical question. Matthews grunted. ‘I’ll see you later, Inspector,’ he said, and duly departed.

  Gloved hands placed six pieces of corpse into a body bag—sparing the pathetic remains the indignity of further exposure—transferred the misshapen bag onto a stretcher, and covered it respectfully with a blanket. The officers followed the stretcher to the waiting vehicle, and watched while it was carefully loaded and driven away.

  Returning to the garden, O’Connor signalled to the waiting detectives who recovered the sheeting from the grass and placed it into the specimen sack, which was duly sealed and labelled for forensic examination. David Melton had a question.

  ‘I presume Mrs Frasier had nothing further to add, Sergeant?’

  ‘No sir, not a sausage,’ his right-hand man replied. Melton went for a walk.

  Keeping to paths, keen eyes missing nothing, hands clasped characteristically behind his back, the DI prowled the garden, committing details to memory, taking in atmosphere, a technique which had led to the successful resolution of his first investigation as a Detective Inspector and paid dividends on numerous occasions since.

  Several days of forensic testing would ensue before the garden could be returned to its owners, and Melton wanted to get the feel of the place before fingertip examination began, centimetre by centimetre.

  The house itself was in no way connected with the crime, so the search for evidence need not extend beyond the garden. The owner and his family were, therefore, free to come and go as they pleased. Local inquiries were in hand, and incident-room facilities permanently in place at Police Headquarters—minutes away by road—were preferable to a cumbersome caravan at the scene. Rodene Close was not a ‘through road’ and the body had been buried at night, rendering the likelihood of obtaining witnesses slender. But an appeal would be launched, nevertheless.

  Melton spent ten minutes in the garden, returning again to the space behind the shrubbery. Here, he contemplated the disturbed ground thoughtfully, finding it hard to believe a spade or similar implement could be so effectively wielded in such confined space and in almost total darkness. Melton knew with absolute certainty that whosoever had buried the bags in such an unlikely place had planned carefully in advance: they could never have stumbled across the spot by chance.

  When Melton finally left the garden, O’Connor was waiting to buttonhole him.

  ‘Mr Pearce co-operated like a lamb, Guv’nor; says he’ll call at Esher ‘Nick’ around four to make a statement. The ground search is organised, which means I’ve finished here for now. If you’re through, I thought we might grab a bite on the way back to headquarters—if you fancy lunch, that is.’

  The DI glanced at his watch. ‘Twelve o’clock, already? My, doesn’t time fly! I’m not particularly hungry, but we’re in for a late one and I’m not overly keen on canteen sandwiches—they generally taste of cardboard. That being so, a decent cup of coffee and a ham roll wouldn’t go amiss—and I’d like to compare notes, anyway, preferably uninterrupted. Come on, we’ll use my car. You can pick yours up later.’

  The two lunched on chicken sandwiches and some of the excellent coffee for which the small restaurant in Surbiton was noted. They arrived back at HQ just before 2.00 p.m. O’Connor went to check progress on the house-to-house and other inquiries under way. These would systematically proceed until every adult in the area had been interviewed or accounted for, passers-by quizzed, nearby gardens checked, every outbuilding searched.

  Prior to dealing with accumulated reports and correspondence, Melton updated his superior, Detective Chief Superintendent Jarvis, while O’Connor took the opportunity to collect his car.

  Back in his office, Melton fielded an appeal for help from the Desk Sergeant, who was under siege by reporters, who had somehow caught wind of ‘unusual police activities’ and were pestering him for information.

  ‘Dammit,’ grumbled Melton. ‘Stall ’em for a bit, I’ll be right down.’

  Shortly afterwards he walked straight into bedlam.

  ‘Dangerfield, Evening News. What’s this about a murder, Inspector?’

  ‘Surrey Chronicle. What can you tell us, Mr Melton?’

  ‘Benjamin Jopney, Thames Television’ (complete with cameraman)…

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, quiet, please!’ They hushed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We are in the early stages of a murder inquiry. A body has been found, as yet unidentified. I am unable to release any further information at present. Some progress has been made, however, and I shall be pleased to brief you this afternoon at seventeen hundred hours. For the moment, please disperse quietly. Thank you, and good day.’

  With that Melton walked away. He summoned his secretary and dictated a draft press release. It was typed and back on his desk within minutes ready for approval and signature.

  SURREY CONSTABULARY—SURBITON DIVISION

  PRESS RELEASE No. 6721

  Monday 15 JULY 2002

  Acting on information received, the body of a young woman was discovered earlier today, buried in a garden at Rodene Close, Esher.

  The deceased has not yet been identified and any member of the public who has any information regarding missing persons which might assist the police should contact Surbiton Police Headquarters or their nearest police station as soon as possible. Anyone who may have noticed anything unusual in the vicinity of Rodene Close or either of the access roads—Cobham Street and Methodist Way—between the hours of 10.30 p.m. and midnight on Sunday 14 July 2002 are also asked either to come forward, or ring the incident room free on 0801 661 7788. All information received will be treated as confidential.

  Melton made no mention of the atrocities perpetrated on the unfortunate victim. To do so at this stage might not only prejudice the inquiry, but precipitate a flood of crank telephone calls. Neither was there any point in referring to the post-mortem. He would need to digest the findings before deciding to what extent he would recommend the media be informed.

  The DI cleared the release with the ‘Chief’, arranged for photostat copies to be mad
e and returned to his office to finish clearing his desk.

  That done, he took a service lift to the ground floor and, skirting reception, left the building via a rear door to reach the car park unchallenged. Ten minutes later he was seated in a small anteroom at the mortuary, waiting for Professor Matthews.

  It was not quite four and Melton fidgeted. He thought about his relationship with Stephen. Incredibly, nine years had passed since David Melton was a newly-promoted, ambitious Detective Sergeant and it was about this time that Professor Matthews retired from a London Teaching Hospital to take up a pathology post for the county of Surrey, based at Surbiton. It was his home town: a very convenient appointment. He later told Melton he expected the appointment to be less demanding and, with the need to commute abolished, at last have time to write the book he had had planned for years. They had met professionally several times before a chance encounter at Claremont disclosed an interest that had nothing to do with work—more about irons, putters and swing! Working encounters increased, following his promotion to Detective Inspector. Appreciation of each other’s professionalism and an occasional round of golf led to their becoming firm friends, despite their widely differing backgrounds.

  David sighed, picked up a dog-eared copy of The Reader’s Digest and began to read about the Eskimos—how civilisation had intervened, changing a once hard but happy existence into one of comparative wealth but, sadly, one which encouraged indolence and alcoholism. As he was nearing the end of the article, he heard a door slam and the sound of approaching footsteps. He put the magazine down as Professor Matthews came into the room.

  Still in shirtsleeves—though fortunately minus rubber boots, apron, gown and gloves—the pathologist smiled gravely and sat down to face Melton across the table.

  The DI half rose in greeting, but Matthews gestured him to remain seated.

  ‘Don’t get up on my account, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Shall we get on?’ And he proceeded to read from notes, without preamble:

  ‘The deceased was female, slightly-built, aged between sixteen and eighteen years: a natural blonde with no distinguishing marks. Height: five foot three inches. Calculated body weight seven stones three, taking blood-loss and missing tissue into account.

  Death occurred sometime between 9.00 p.m. and 11.00 p.m. yesterday—some fourteen hours before I examined the body, as a result of massive bleeding from the neck.

  Both the jugular vein and the carotid artery were severed. When life ceased, decapitation and dismemberment quickly followed. Extensive contusions, rope-burns and other injuries indicate extreme violence whilst the victim was still alive.

  First impressions that parts of the cadaver were missing are confirmed. Fifty per cent of the right breast, some twenty per cent of the left; sections of tissue from upper arms together with the right earlobe, were ripped off and are missing. The woman was not a virgin, but there was no evidence of recent sexual penetration.

  Dismemberment and decapitation was crude, carried out by someone with rudimentary anatomical knowledge by means of a hacksaw and a moderately sharp knife. Surgically-sharp instruments were not in evidence.

  Most facial and cranial damage was inflicted by multiple blows by a blunt instrument—a hammer, perhaps; slashing was inflicted by knife, most probably the same used for dismemberment. Bite marks on breasts and arms are consistent with human teeth, as were similar lesions elsewhere.

  The deceased did not eat immediately prior to death. The stomach contained uncooked vegetable matter in the latter stages of digestion, which indicates the final meal was predominantly salad, consumed some nine hours before life became extinct—say, around 1.00 p.m.

  The teeth were sound—apart from two small fillings—and complete except for wisdom teeth. These were at an advanced stage of development within the gums and corroborate the estimated age of the deceased arrived at by other means.’

  The quiet, precise voice fell silent and Matthews placed his clipboard on the table and looked up. He raised an eyebrow and lapsed into informality.

  ‘That about sums it up, David. Do you have any questions?’ Melton had remained motionless whilst the pathologist was speaking, his memory sufficiently good as to render note-taking unnecessary. Still concentrating, however, he strove to digest and analyse the pathologist’s findings, and eventually replied, ‘I don’t think so, Stephen, but I need a few moments to soak it all in. Please bear with me.’

  Matthews understood.

  ‘Don’t worry too much now,’ he said. ‘Although I’ve covered the salient points and omitted only the finer details and technical jargon, the full findings will be in your hands by noon tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m obliged,’ Melton replied, gratefully, and then asked, thoughtfully, ‘I wouldn’t dream of challenging what you say, but I take it there’s no doubt about the bite marks—they were definitely made by human teeth?’

  ‘No doubt at all, David. No doubt whatsoever.’

  ‘I see.’ His warm, brown eyes darkened and his voice was grim.

  ‘I need pointers, Stephen. I suspect we’ll need more than luck in order to wrap this one up.’

  ‘Only time will tell. I’d say dismemberment had much to do with getting rid of the body. But it would be messy and almost certain to leave evidence lying around.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps it was carried out in isolation somewhere; where a more conventional means of disposal wasn’t available—no nearby common-land, gravel-pit, or even a river, for example. Maybe the murderer wanted to draw attention away from the place—or felt it dangerous to leave the intact body in situ, positively crawling with clues. Consider: dividing the body between bags would hardly render transportation easier—a girl that size would fit readily in the boot of a car. Maybe a car formed only part of his plans. He may have needed to disguise the body in order to move it in a public place, where use of bin bags might render that possible without arousing much in the way of suspicion—depending on the circumstances and time of day. It would also be far more manageable.’ He paused again.

  ‘Are you with me so far, David?’

  Absorbed with the professor’s theory, Melton simply inclined his head.

  ‘In that case,’ the pathologist went on, ‘let us consider the killer’s mentality.’ He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully, ‘Without benefit of expert psychological evaluation or close study over time, it’s virtually impossible to draw conclusions—at least none we could safely rely on. But to venture an opinion—and it is only an opinion—I conclude the killer to be clever, organised and self-reliant. He will be fit, strong and comparatively young—I say ‘he’, because I’m pretty certain the murderer is a man. The damage to the body and the manner in which it was dismembered calls for considerable strength; what’s more, those bags would prove awkward and difficult to carry.

  ‘If in his own mind, the man has justifiable reasons for his crime, which seems likely, it means—again in my opinion—he’s compulsively psychopathic: therefore completely and utterly mad.’ Inspector Melton nodded, but frowned, seemingly puzzled.

  ‘What’s troubling you?’ Matthews asked. ‘You seem a little … unsure?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Melton apologised, ‘but I confess to feeling confused.

  ‘You say you believe the killer clever, yet seem convinced he’s a psychopath. I was wondering how both characteristics could apply to the same person. Is he schizophrenic then—a split personality?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But he is clever and a good organiser—he must be. He killed somewhere, unseen and unheard, so far as we know, and contrived to find unoccupied premises in order to plant a body at night in a spot where it was unlikely to be discovered. He arrived undetected, carried out a physically demanding task in almost total darkness, then melted away like a shadow. In a sense, we were lucky. If Mrs Frasier hadn’t heard noises, or hadn’t felt inclined to report them, then the poor girl’s body might never have been found. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Yes, it does. You’ve been more than helpful. Thank you
.’

  ‘You are entirely welcome,’ the pathologist replied.

  Melton got to his feet. ‘I’d better get back to HQ. I’m meeting reporters at five. A press release is already in draft, but requires alteration in the light of the post-mortem result. Incidentally,’ he added, ‘I’ve included witness appeals, so media support is essential.’

  ‘Good. I wish you luck. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Small comfort that a depraved killer is at large. The sooner he’s caught and locked up the better.’

  The two men shook hands and David Melton departed, deep in thought.

  DI Melton had risen through the ranks, not by virtue of intellect or good luck—although he had had his share of both—but by dogged, methodical application of long-established methods and procedures which form the foundation upon which all police work is based. Becoming a police cadet at eighteen, he wangled his way onto courses covering most aspects of crime prevention, departing the ‘Beat’ at twenty-six to become a Detective Constable.

  Promotion followed: Detective Sergeant at thirty-six, Detective Inspector three years later.

  It is an unfortunate fact that up and down the country many crimes remain unsolved and Surbiton was no exception. Modestly discounting years of hard work, David considered himself fortunate to have fewer such cases to his account than most of similar age and experience.

  1645, Tuesday 16th July, 2002: Police HQ, Surbiton.

  En route to his office, Melton buttonholed his assistant.

  O’Connor looked up. ‘Hello sir, how did it go?’

  ‘Much as expected. I’ll brief you later. Are there any developments?’

  ‘Yes sir. Seems as if the search is paying off. Rogers and Connelly found a brown-paper parcel tied with string inside the bin at seven, Rodene Close. It seemed odd so they unwrapped it to find an almost new anorak and a muddy pair of trainers. The owners of the house—people by the name of Beswick—deny all knowledge and say it wasn’t there yesterday. I believe them. Nice old couple—wouldn’t say “boo” to a goose. The trainers appeared similar in size to the impression near the shrubs, so I took them and the anorak to Forensics about twenty minutes ago. Mr Ferguson was very busy—as usual. Apparently he’s got three cases on the go and a whole raft of samples waiting to be dealt with. He said analysis of the fibres is well in hand, however, and agreed to check the trainers against the Quickcast as soon as he gets time. We’ll have to be patient, I suppose, but he’s working late tonight and promised to get the reports to us first thing in the morning. I’d say it’s coming together nicely, Guv’nor. Could be we’re on the trail of the killer already.’