The Flyleaf Killer (11 page)

‘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 16
^th
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.’

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-away’ 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.