The Flyleaf Killer (12 page)

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.

Steven Pearce had no involvement in either the murder or the subsequent disposal of the body. Nor could Steven be persuaded to say anything further about the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of his anorak and trainers, nor explain why he had failed to mention their loss, which left investigators unable to determine how and when the items had come into the murderer’s possession.

But Robert Strudwick knew well enough—and much more besides. Not least about the activities of the police in connection with the murder…

Lack of progress caused media interest to slacken, and whilst the team as a whole gained respite from persistent, news-hungry reporters, Melton and O’Connor agreed to be profiled so as to keep the investigation before the public eye and focus attention on the appeal.

Beast

There
was
no precise moment to define the beginning of his 2002 adventure. As far as Robert was concerned, everything of consequence related to when he had become custodian of the Book. He was far too engrossed with his career and the acquisition of material possessions to waste time on unproductive reminiscence, and whilst grateful for what
had
been thus far granted, knew
real
wealth would not be forthcoming until he proved himself completely and utterly worthy.

He did, however, permit himself an occasional, self-congratulatory reflection. His salary was low, but so what? Excellent commission tripled his income in the very first month. For this was Surrey, heart of the stockbroker belt, where ceaseless demand for property of all types and values rendered virtually anything standing a saleable commodity, and one which could generally be expected to sell in a matter of weeks.

With parental assistance, Robert bought his first car a week after starting with Gaston Hathaway, having learned that generous mileage allowance was paid when tidy, well-kept private cars were used on business. It was an arrangement preferred by Mr Hathaway, who believed the system more cost-effective than buying and maintaining a fleet of company vehicles.

Apart from his career, the year would differ vastly from those preceding and Robert knew it. Pentophiles’ visitations became far more frequent; his inner voice was rarely silent. Robert welcomed both. Instinct told him a mission was due; months of relative inactivity were nearing an end; long-promised riches would soon become reality.

There were side-effects following Pentophiles’ manifestations, however, of which Robert remained unaware. Had it been otherwise, he would most certainly have taken such unworldly peculiarities into consideration when formulating his plans and conducting his daily affairs.

To the casual observer, Kenward Crescent, Claygate was as unremarkable as many hundreds of residential streets within commuting distance of London. Number seven was a fairly typical three-bedroom semi towards the end of the cul-de-sac.

Occasionally, however, and lately with increasing frequency, an eerie, indefinable aura seemed to surround the property, setting it strangely apart from other nearby dwellings. This tenuous, miasmic atmosphere was readily apparent to those whose sensitivities were sufficiently attuned; others, less sensitive, experienced only a vague disquiet. Apart from this sense of unease, a faint, barely discernible odour of putrefaction, reminiscent of bad drains, would sometimes linger, and noses of passers-by might wrinkle in distaste. Since the new family had taken up residence, neighbours no longer called to pass the time of day, borrow a cup of sugar or ask for the loan of a tool, and those who were obliged to pass did so hurriedly and with averted gaze. Wildlife shunned the garden. Neighbourhood cats rarely trespassed and birds were likely to nest, feed and sing elsewhere. Dogs out walking were apt to pull on the leash without stopping, whilst passing strays invariably favoured the opposite pavement. This was the house that door-to-door salesmen contrived to overlook and to which few window-cleaners willingly returned. It was home to Albert Strudwick and his wife; equally home, lair and headquarters to their son Robert.

And then, one evening in early June when Robert routinely opened the Book, a message leapt from the flyleaf, scintillating as a display of fireworks:

BY THY KEENE BLADE SHALL PERISH FAIR MAID

SHE WHO DIDST SPURN AND REVILE THEE

His lips moved involuntarily as he mouthed the words he knew he must interpret correctly and obey unquestioningly. Yet, as he silently recited the script intended for his eyes alone, the fiery letters writhed, blurred and faded until the page became, as before, utterly blank.

Emitting a sigh, he closed the book thoughtfully, locked it and replaced the key around his neck. Here were concise instructions for his first major mission in almost three years, instructions to be rid of the bitch who had rejected his advances and exposed him to ridicule. She was to die by the knife, of course—but what about strategy? Nothing at all had been specified.

Then it dawned on him that the omission was intentional—he was to devise a plan of his own. It was a sobering thought. What if he should fail? He could hardly bear to think about it. Instead of the elation which normally accompanied a successful consultation, he felt subdued, apprehensive even, and he shivered a little at the thought of what must be done and how best it could be achieved— or was it in fear of the terrible consequences of failure? He wasn’t sure which.