The Flyleaf Killer Read online

  Melton seemed suitably heartened, if not wildly enthusiastic.

  ‘Good work, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Well done. Give Rogers and Connelly my compliments—but, to be honest, I’m more concerned about that poor girl. Any clue as to her identity yet?’

  ‘No, bugger all,’ came the reply.

  The journalists earlier dispersed were now back, numbers more than doubled. Too many to fit comfortably in reception, the pressmen were ushered into interview rooms and told to wait.

  Already dubbed ‘Body in the Garden’ by an unimaginative reporter, the murder sparked a flurry of speculation among the waiting newsmen. Rumour was tempered by fact, however. It was common knowledge Surbiton police were in the throes of a murder inquiry.

  A babble of voices greeted DI Melton when he walked into the briefing-room, and not until he took his position on the podium and raised his hand did the hum of conversation fully die away. As he sat down, a glare of portable lighting at the rear intensified and television cameras began recording the proceedings, whilst remote-switched microphones became ‘live’, in readiness to capture every word.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen and lady,’ he began, for there was a lone female present. ‘For those of you who do not know, I am Detective Inspector David Melton and the officer on my right, here to take notes, is Detective Constable Martin Edwards. First of all, thank you for your patience and for sparing me your time. I have here a prepared statement which I propose to read before endeavouring to answer your questions—and to spare us the screeching of pens, the officer at the door will provide you all with a copy.’ Speaking in measured tones, Melton read the release aloud and when he had finished, his response to the inevitable barrage of questions was simple: he would point to the owner of an upraised hand and wait for silence.

  ‘Christopher Dangerfield, Evening News.’

  With a gesture, the reporter was duly acknowledged. ‘Can you reveal the victim’s name, where she comes from and the probable cause of death?’

  ‘Not yet. The body was badly mutilated, the face battered beyond recognition and up to now we know of no missing person who might correspond with what little we have to go on.

  ‘To answer your second question, the post-mortem results will not be available until tomorrow but preliminary findings suggest death was caused by massive bleeding from the neck. Next!’

  ‘Benjamin Jopney, Thames Television. Can you tell us something about the murdered girl?’

  ‘As you already know, the deceased was a young female—I can reveal that she was a natural blonde, aged between sixteen and eighteen, slightly built and around seven stone in weight.’

  ‘Can you confirm the body was found buried in the garden of the Pearce family at eleven, Rodene Close, Lower Green, Esher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you also confirm the body was dismembered and in plastic bags when found?’

  Melton hesitated. ‘Well, yes—but where did you get that information from, Mr Jopney?’

  ‘Just an informed guess, Inspector!’

  A smile creased the reporter’s face. He wouldn’t reveal his source, but it wasn’t difficult to guess that it was probably the ambulance driver, who would have had little reason for refusing a couple of simple questions, not having been sworn to secrecy. ‘Next question.’

  ‘Robin Prendergast, Surrey Chronicle.’ The reporter smirked. His was a minor newspaper. ‘Was the deceased sexually assaulted and if so, could that be the motive behind the killing?’

  Melton hesitated before answering, then decided to accept the question. ‘There was no evidence of sexual interference prior to death. Sex has, therefore, been ruled out as a possible motive … Yes, Mr Dangerfield.’ Melton turned to the reporter from the Evening News.

  ‘Have the police any leads and, if so, along what lines are inquiries being pursued?’

  ‘Certain evidence was found near to where the body was concealed which may prove helpful, but I cannot as yet be more specific. Until the victim is positively identified and her family and friends, movements and so on, are discovered, it will be difficult to establish motive. Without which,’ he added, ‘we have little chance of flushing out the murderer.’

  ‘You mentioned evidence—what evidence?’ Dangerfield demanded to know.

  Others immediately jumped to their feet and chorused the same question.

  Melton gestured for silence and spoke firmly.

  ‘I’m sorry. I cannot release further information. It is confidential.’

  Benjamin Jopney was next on his feet:

  ‘What comment can you make for the benefit of viewers?’

  Here was Melton’s opportunity, and he needed little prompting. ‘This was a brutal murder perpetrated on a young woman in a particularly horrifying manner. It is vital that the killer be apprehended as quickly as possible before he has a chance to strike again.

  ‘I appeal to anyone who knows of a young girl missing either from home or her normal place of work to come forward. We also wish to hear from anybody who witnessed anything unusual in Rodene Close, Lower Green—including Cobham Street and Methodist Way—on 14th July.

  ‘Information can be given at any police station or free of charge by telephone to the special incident room on 0801 661 7788. Informants will not be required to disclose their identity and all information will be treated as strictly confidential. Thank you!’

  With absolute finality, Melton closed the file and stood up. As he made for the exit, the television lights dimmed: filming had ceased.

  Benjamin Jopney moved swiftly, intercepting DI Melton before he could reach the door. He expressed his appreciation and shook Melton’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, Detective Inspector. I hope we can include your appeal on both early evening and ten o’clock news programmes. Limited slot-time will prevent the entire recording on either, but an edited version should make the latter. Good luck! If there’s anything I can do which might help to nail the killer, don’t hesitate to get in touch. Here’s my card!’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Jopney; we’ll keep you informed.’

  Before anyone else could stop him, Melton slipped through the door and headed for his office. O’Connor was deeply engrossed when the ‘Guv’nor’ came through the door. He glanced up, but resumed his study of a report when the DI passed without speaking and entered his office.

  Melton dropped his clipboard and sat down. Then he rang his wife and told her to expect him by 7.30 and, with the receiver still in his hand, tapped on the glass partition. O’Connor looked up; Melton beckoned to him to come in. Over coffee, the two went over the case in detail and agreed strategy for the following day. They left headquarters at 6.30, with O’Connor at the wheel of Melton’s official Rover, and drove to the Railway Arms—a ‘free-house’ watering-hole adjacent to Surbiton station—for a well-earned half of Worthington ‘E’, a beverage to which both were partial. It was 7.30 precisely when O’Connor delivered his superior officer to his Hinchley Wood home—but the day wasn’t over for either man.

  At 9.30 the DI’s enjoyment of his post-prandial malt whisky was interrupted by the telephone.

  ‘Melton,’ he announced, and listened intently, from time to time interjecting ‘Oh’, ‘Yes’, or ‘Right’. He visibly brightened and, after a minute or so, said, ‘He’s willing to call and make a statement then? Tomorrow, you say? Yes, first thing in the morning would be fine. Can you arrange it for nine? He will? Good. Thank you, yes, that’s fine.’

  ‘Sorry, darling, work,’ David said, in response to his wife’s inquiring look.

  She smiled. The principle of not bringing work home was well-established, but she knew the odd phone call couldn’t be avoided; she neither expected nor wanted details.

  George Taite proved helpful, articulate and sure of his facts—an ideal witness—and lived at 16 Cobham Street, Lower Green, opposite the ‘T’-junction connecting with Rodene Close.

  At about 11.15 on Sunday night, fifteenth July, Taite was returning from the ‘take-aw
ay’ at Thames Ditton with supper for himself and his wife, when he saw in his headlights someone wearing an anorak with a yellow fluorescent stripe down each sleeve. This person—he was sure it was a man—turned left into Rodene Close just as Taite rounded the corner, but there was time to notice the fellow was carrying what appeared to be bags of laundry. Taite didn’t see the man’s face nor could he give a description, other than that he seemed fairly young, wasn’t very tall and had shortish hair—possibly light to medium brown, it was hard to tell.

  Taite remembered thinking it odd that someone should be bringing washing from the launderette that late, but it seemed a trivial matter and went out of his mind as he reversed into his drive to park for the night. He was positive about the time, however, having arrived at the ‘take-away’ at 10.50, with just minutes to spare before closing. They had locked the door after he went in as he was the last customer of the evening. He noticed the clock on the wall showed ten-past eleven as he left, the assistant having to let him out. The drive home was uneventful and couldn’t have taken more than five or six minutes.

  George had rung the incident room after the television appeal on the nine o’clock news, which he had watched out of curiosity, because his wife was agog about the earlier mention of a murder.

  ‘Right on our doorstep, George,’ she had informed him, excitedly.

  While Melton was reading the signed statement, there came a knock on the door and Albert Ferguson from the forensic lab stuck his head in. He seemed flustered.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Melton,’ he said, a brace of folders extended. ‘The reports I promised. Can’t stop, I’ve piles to do.’ And without waiting, he spun on his heel and scurried from the room.

  ‘Old fuss-pot,’ O’Connor muttered. ‘Always cracks on he’s busy, but a brilliant technician.’

  Still reading, Melton affected not to hear, but a few minutes later, he exclaimed, ‘No doubt about it, Ben, you were right, there is a connection!’ He tapped the reports. ‘It seems there was a bloodstain on the anorak which checks out ‘O’ Rhesus Positive, the same blood-group and type as the deceased, and the fibres from the fence appear to match the blue anorak. On top of that, the Quickcast tallies with the trainers in size and shape. Unfortunately, the impression was shallow, suggesting someone not particularly heavy. But the cast showed hardly any tread, which rules out a positive ID, more’s the pity. It is promising,’ he added, hurrying on. ‘Whilst the footprint isn’t conclusive, the anorak fibres match those from the fence which, with the bloodstain, leads to a fairly positive conclusion. As the anorak tallies with George Tait’s description, the time factor and the man with the laundry bags ties in neatly. The noises Mrs Frasier heard add weight. If that lot taken together isn’t sufficient to secure a conviction, I’ll eat my hat.’

  Melton jabbed the documents with an emphatic forefinger. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘ten to one the man carrying those bags of so-called laundry on Sunday night is owner of the anorak and trainers, and the sooner he’s under lock and key the better.’

  Bingo! They had a trail to the killer, it seemed. But these were early days. In order to ‘feel the collar’, so to speak, they must first identify the owner of the anorak and trainers.

  O’Connor ran five fingers through short, sandy hair, a sure sign he was thinking. Then he brightened, and his neatly-clipped moustache positively bristled.

  ‘I wonder, Guv’nor,’ he ventured, ‘as trainers and anoraks are popular with teenagers, some local youngster might know of someone who wears similar gear—might even come up with a name. How about the Pearce boy, the one who was away for the weekend with his parents? He might be able to help. He probably expects to be interviewed, anyway.’

  ‘Nice one, Sergeant,’ responded the DI. ‘An excellent suggestion. Let’s have a word with Steven Pearce.’

  En route to Esher, Melton’s mobile warbled: Chief Superintendent Jarvis required a word. O’Connor took over the wheel and steered the Rover to a halt outside 11 Rodene Close at 11.45.

  Whilst Melton was on the blower, O’Connor collected a package from the boot. Approaching the house, the DI was spotted immediately. Several reporters surged forward. Ignoring their questions, Melton brushed past.

  ‘Watch out for this lot, constable,’ he warned the policeman on duty. ‘Keep them back, well out of the way. Those two especially,’ he said, indicating the cameraman and his companion.

  ‘Yes sir,’ the officer replied. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  As he preceded his assistant up the path, a curtain twitched. Melton knocked. They waited.

  Understandably overwrought, Mrs Pearce peeked from the lounge suspiciously. She then opened the door.

  ‘Mr Pearce is at work,’ she snapped.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Pearce,’ Melton quietly rejoined, raising his hat, politely. ‘I’m sure you recognise us: DI Melton and DS O’Connor. But it isn’t Mr Pearce we’ve come to see, it’s young Steven. We’d like a word, if possible. He may be able to help in our inquiries and his assistance might prove invaluable. Can you tell us which school he attends, please? Time is of the essence. It’s important we speak to him at the earliest opportunity.’

  Mrs Pearce glared. ‘Steven’s not at school, he’s in bed. He’s having a day or two off after exams. All this hassle and excitement,’ she ranted. ‘It’s very upsetting, you understand.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Pearce. Of course we understand. But I hardly need remind you of the importance of this inquiry. It’s a question of murder, madam—and the body was found in your back garden. Please fetch Steven, Mrs Pearce. You won’t mind if we come in and wait, will you?’

  He stepped forward and, annoyed though she obviously was, she meekly opened the door.

  ‘All right, you’d better come in. I’ll go and fetch Steven.’

  She led them to the lounge, indicated chairs and left the room. A couple of minutes later she returned with a tousled, sleepy-looking Steven. Melton smiled, reassuringly.

  ‘Hello Steven, sorry to disturb you, but this is important. I’m Detective Inspector Melton, and this is Detective Sergeant O’Connor. We think you may be able to help with our inquiries.’

  Steven’s eyes widened.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, darling,’ his mother twittered, anxiously. ‘I’ll ring Daddy to come home…’ Almost brusquely, Melton intervened. ‘Just a moment, Mrs Pearce. Steven may have information which could help apprehend a murderer. We cannot afford a moment’s delay.’ Dismissive, he returned to the youth, making it obvious he would brook no argument. ‘Now Steven, I want you to look carefully at some items which you may be able to help identify. Sergeant, if you please.’

  The DS unwrapped the parcel and displayed the contents.

  Wide awake now, Steven went pale and began to tremble. He looked wildly from side to side as if seeking an avenue of escape, and shook his head in disbelief. His mother shrieked. ‘Steven—oh, my God.’ she wailed. ‘That’s your anorak—and your trainers!’ Angrily, protectively, she rounded on Melton. ‘Where did you get them? What’s going on? Why are you accusing my Steven?’

  Recognising signs of mounting hysteria, Melton rose to his feet. ‘Nobody is accusing your son of anything,’ he said, sharply. ‘I must ask you to keep quiet while we question him—unless you’d prefer we went to the station?’

  She paled, bit her lip, and shook her head.

  Melton resumed. ‘Now Steven, this anorak, these trainers. Are they yours, as your mother seems to think?’

  The youth shifted from foot to foot, then muttered, ‘Yes, they’re mine. I lost them a couple of weeks ago—from the pavilion at West End, I think.’

  He caught his mother’s eye, appealingly. But now she seemed confused and unsure.

  Retaining the initiative, Melton said sternly, ‘Steven Pearce. I would like you to go now with Detective Sergeant O’Connor and get dressed, then accompany us to Surbiton Police Station where further questions will be put to you.’

  DS O’Connor took Steven by the
elbow and propelled him from the room.

  ‘Are you arresting Steven?’ his mother asked tremulously. Melton shook his head. ‘Mrs Pearce, Steven is not being arrested. He is needed urgently in pursuit of our inquiries. Telephone your husband if you wish, of course, but I must insist your son comes to the station. As a minor, you may accompany him, but are not entitled to be present while he is interviewed. You may advise your solicitor, if you prefer, although it isn’t really necessary for the moment.’

  The search of the garden continued. Although further samples from differing locations were taken for analysis, nothing was found to add to the evidence already collected, but traces of earth were discovered on a spade in the shed. George Pearce insisted the tool hadn’t been used recently and a lack of fingerprints supported his assertion that, when gardening, he invariably wore gloves.

  Laboratory tests failed to identify any traces of blood, and the implement being regarded as of no further consequence was returned to its owner. Steven Pearce was interviewed for three successive days but stuck resolutely to his story, added nothing and couldn’t be shaken. Cautioned about deliberately withholding evidence, he was eventually released without charge. Evidence to link him with the murder remained, but his arrival in Brighton and subsequent departure the following Monday morning was well documented, and the movements of both him and his parents during the intervening period were fully accounted for.