The Flyleaf Killer (13 page)

Robert remained in bed, book rested against his knees, searching for the beginnings of a plan. Then he chuckled—a mirthless, inhuman sound from deep within his throat—and an expression of utter bestiality momentarily contorted his face. But the moment passed and the manic chortle ceased. An idea coalesced in his mind.

Without further ado, Robert went into action.

Although late in the evening, he made several telephone calls and listened without comment to what he was told in response to carefully-worded, ambiguous, but highly pertinent questions. He considered and recalled everything relevant from the mass of information stored within his prodigious memory. Bridgwater’s name sprang to mind. And oh, how he wished that snivelling arsehole could be included in the scheme! Perhaps it was feasible, even now, but instructions from the Book held sway and dared not be tampered with. He consoled himself with the thought that Bridgwater’s day would inevitably come, and must surely merit some rather special attention—all to himself!

Part of the strategy was to confuse the police and he came up with a way of not only achieving that, but also of being avenged on girlfriend-thieving Steven Pearce as something of a private bonus. Robert rubbed his hands gleefully, and set about developing the idea.

Wednesday 19 June dawned warm and sunny, the day Esher Secondary Modern were to play Hinchley Wood Grammar in the County Senior Cricket League at West End.

It was a key match and maximum possible support for Esher was essential.

The entire school was required to attend by order of the headmaster, who let it be known that he personally would deal with instances of unauthorised absenteeism the following morning.

The match was due to start at 2.15 p.m., but seating was limited; the ground filled rapidly and few spectator places were left by two o’clock.

Among those fortunate enough to secure a seat on the benches in front of the pavilion was Janice Pearson, intent on cheering on a special young man, one she had started to view rather differently once her traumatic affair with Robert Strudwick had finally come to an end.

The openers emerged from the pavilion at 2.10 and Janice grabbed the sleeve of one, threw her arms around his neck and gave him a resounding kiss for luck. This was the last school match in which he expected to play.

At 2.20, one of several ‘old boys’ watching from the pavilion, a latecomer, wriggled as if in some discomfort, excused himself and headed for the men’s toilets—via the changing rooms. He located what he was looking for almost immediately, checked to make sure he remained unobserved and stuffed into his empty briefcase a pair of canvas trainers and a dark-blue anorak bearing a yellow stripe down each sleeve—items he knew to be the property of one of the two stalwarts currently opening the batting—and was back on the veranda in a couple of minutes.

Malandra Pennington rose early, left a note for the milkman and went to the office to tie up a few loose ends. Whilst there, she cancelled her newspapers over the telephone, leaving again at 11.30 in plenty of time to deal with remaining, outstanding matters—and there were several: call at the shops, suntan lotion, camera check, supply of films, pick up traveller’s cheques, hairdressers at 12.15, home again by 1.30. Lunch—convenience pre-pack from larder; refrigerator—empty, switch off; pass leftovers to neighbour … and oh, leave a spare latchkey in case of any problems.

Thrilled at the prospect of her first holiday abroad, Malandra hummed happily as she packed. It was Friday, the day before departure and she crossed each item off her list as she filled two suitcases with neatly-folded clothes and a plethora of other holiday essentials. Check: passport, entry visa, hotel booking, tickets for train, theatre and plane—all correct! As planned, she would lunch out somewhere, take a train to Waterloo and taxi to Knightsbridge, dine at the hotel and spend an evening at the theatre.

Her friend Jennifer was visiting parents at Wimbledon—she was probably on her way by now. They were to meet Sunday afternoon at the Britair terminal in Kensington, spend an hour or two sightseeing, returning to catch the coach to Heathrow in readiness to fly out later that night.

And now, with preparations finally out of the way, Saturday morning could be spend trying to replace her ageing Mini, forever breaking down and costing a small fortune to keep on the road. The search had begun weeks ago. Malandra had heard about two potentially interesting cars for sale and, though neither was of the type she really wanted, intended to look at them in the morning. She went to bed early; slept fitfully.

On Saturday morning, at 7.55 a bleary-eyed Malandra crawled from between the sheets. She showered, dressed and applied her usual touch of make-up before eating breakfast—two slices of toast engineered from elderly bread, garnished with the last scrapings of butter from the tub. She glanced at the clock—8.58—and, tempted to have a few words with Jennifer, she reached out for the telephone—-just as it began to ring.

‘Miss Pennington?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good morning. Tobias Charlesworth from Charlesworth’s garage. Sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but you were asking about a good, second-hand Astra? Well, we have a real beauty in emerald green coming in this morning which might well suit you. It’s a one-point-three, under two years old—first registered August 2000, to be precise. Loads of extras—power steering, driver’s airbag, stereo-cassette radio, wheel-trims and head-restraints, genuine low mileage; one owner and an absolute snip at four thousand two hundred and ninety-five pounds. I thought I’d better ring you immediately before someone else snaps it up.’

Charlesworth was in full flow. ‘This little cracker is coming in at the right price, so we can offer two thousand pounds in part-exchange for the Mini—double its actual worth …’

Her silence told him the bait had been taken.

‘Can you call in tomorrow morning?’ he asked. ‘We open at ten-thirty, so how would eleven o’clock suit you?’

Malandra had set her heart on an Astra. A new vehicle was beyond her means and good, second-hand examples of the popular car were rarely offered for sale. The opportunity seemed just too good to miss.

‘I’m certainly interested, Mr Charlesworth—but what about today? I’d planned to spend the morning looking at cars, anyway.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Pennington, but there’s a full service to be carried out—oil change, filters and so on, and we valet every vehicle before offering it for sale. There’s absolutely no chance of having it ready before this evening, and we close for the day at five o’clock, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, I was intending to stay overnight in London—I’m going on holiday tomorrow. Getting a new car sorted is something of a priority though, so I suppose it’s a good enough reason for stopping another night. Look, I’ll be pressed for time tomorrow and I’ve practically emptied my current account. If I decide to buy the Astra, will you accept a small deposit and hold it for me? I’ll be back in a fortnight.’

‘No problem.’

‘All right then, eleven tomorrow it is. Thank you very much, Mr Charlesworth.’ Malandra had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang again.

‘Hi Landra, how’s the packing?’ Jennifer inquired breezily. ‘Mum and I are going shopping in a minute, but I thought I’d give you a quick bell to see where you’re up to.’

‘I finished packing last night, Jen, but guess what? There’s a nearly-new Astra coming in today at Charlesworth’s—it sounds brilliant, and I’m going to look at it tomorrow morning … Oh, crikey, that reminds me—I must ring the hotel and cancel my room for tonight!’

‘What about your trip to the theatre then—knocking it on the head?’

‘Yes, getting a car sorted is far more important.’

George Pearce and his family, meanwhile, were on their way to Brighton. Elsewhere, final touches were being made to plans for which the Pearce’s absence was absolutely critical.

The next morning Malandra looked stunning. Uncluttered by accessories and empty-handed apart from her latchkey, her pale-lemon summer frock flattering her superb figure and flawless complexion, she collected several appreciative looks as she walked to town. She reached Charlesworth’s a trifle early, at 10.55.

‘Good morning, Miss Pennington.’

Hand outstretched in greeting, Tobias rose from his chair but seemed rather flustered for such an experienced salesman.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he apologised, ‘but I’ve two more customers coming in at any moment—managed to get myself double-booked, I’m afraid. Did you bring your car with you?’

‘No, I walked round. The Mini is locked in the garage until after my holiday—and no bumps or scratches since you last saw it, either,’ she assured him.

He smiled. ‘Well, I’m sure we can take your word for that—we know you pretty well—so much so, I wonder whether you’d mind looking at the Astra by yourself? It’s parked in the driveway leading to the car park at the rear, fully serviced, ready and waiting to g°.’

Malandra knew exactly where he meant. Set behind the main showroom was a small enclosed area of hard-standing, reserved specifically as overflow parking when the front was full.

‘No, I don’t mind a bit—but what about a test drive?’

‘Please feel free Miss Pennington. Take it out for as long a run as you like. There’s plenty of fuel in the tank, it’s taxed, your own insurance will suffice and it’s a beautiful runner, as I think you’ll agree. Drop the key off when you return and let me know whether or not we have a deal.’ He proffered a fob bearing a single key. ‘Doors, ignition, boot and fuel tank—all rolled into one.’

‘Thank you, but I won’t be gone long. I need to collect my cases and handbag—and I’d better come back to pay the deposit— assuming I like the Astra, that is,’ she added, hastily.

‘You will, Miss Pennington, you will. But, as I said before, take as long as you like—but be back before five or we’ll send out a search-party.’

He leered.

What in heaven does he mean by that?

‘I’ve no intention of being that late. I need to be at the station in time to catch the one-thirty. I’ve already told you I’m going away on holiday.’

Charlesworth paled. Everything running like clockwork and he came close to alarming the girl. He placed the key in Malandra’s hand and she turned to leave, just as a middle-aged couple were entering. Charlesworth’s ‘double booking’, she supposed.

She crossed the forecourt and made her way round the showroom to the rear car park access-way. She spotted it immediately— a beautiful Astra, in emerald green. It looked pristine, paintwork gleaming like new. Malandra fell in love with the car there and then. A glance round told her it was free from major dents or scratches. She unlocked the door and slid behind the wheel. Surprisingly, the driving position suited her perfectly. A good omen!

She placed her front-door key on the passenger seat, fastened the seat belt and turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred into life.

‘Don’t turn round—and don’t scream!’

Malandra froze. A hand came over her shoulder clutching a fearsome-looking knife; razor-sharp steel was pressed menacingly against her throat. Strong fingers gripped her shoulder; there was little chance of escape. Malandra was utterly petrified. She risked a glance in the rear-view mirror but it was in the tilted position, set for night driving.

‘Do exactly as I say. Keep the engine running and listen carefully. When I say “go”, drive off slowly without attracting attention and turn left up the High Street. When you get to The Bear, turn left at the lights and head for Leatherhead—have you got that?’

She inclined her head slightly, terrified of the knife, not trusting herself to speak.

‘All right then. I’ll take the knife away—but remember what I said: just one false move …’

Malandra trembled anew—the threat was unmistakable. He gripped her shoulder hard.

‘I’ll tell you what to do once we’re heading towards Leatherhead—go!’

The Astra moved smoothly away. The hand left her shoulder and the knife withdrew, but the presence behind was overpowering.

‘Don’t do anything foolish—I’ve got a knife, remember.’

She reached the end of the access road and stopped, numb with fear.

‘Get going, you bitch, or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.’

Maintaining a steady thirty miles per hour, the frightened girl continued along the A13 until she neared The Bear, where she turned left onto the A244 as instructed.

‘We’re on the Leatherhead road,’ she managed to quaver. ‘What do I do now?’

‘Keep driving until I say different,’ he rasped, and the knife was back at her throat in an instant. She instinctively flinched, and the blade nicked her tender skin. But she felt no pain, unaware that a trickle of blood was slowly staining her collar crimson.

After a mile or two, the winding road straightened and they passed out of the restricted zone. Two cars passed, both travelling in the opposite direction. The first part of the operation had gone precisely to plan, but Strudwick knew he had much to achieve in order to complete his most difficult mission to date.

‘Slow down—now! Take the next right—yes, down there,’ he ordered tersely, and as Malandra complied, he tightened his grip on her shoulder—brutally hard—but she bit her lip and somehow managed to remain silent.
Oh dear God, does he have to be so cruel?

There followed some twenty minutes of complicated manoeuvring, when Malandra drove along tortuous narrow lanes, crossing and re-crossing a seemingly familiar track that she thought might lead to the exit route across Oxshott Heath, but she was wrong. She did not realise they were scouring the area for signs of people rather than heading for a specific destination.

But once her captor was satisfied the scrubland was deserted, he directed her into much deeper woodland where they bumped along a barely discernible track until he said, ‘Right, that clearing ahead to the left, pull into it, stop, switch off the engine but leave the key in the ignition.’

She hadn’t glimpsed a soul since turning off the main road and the empty woodland engendered a terrible feeling of isolation. Her bladder signalled an oncoming need for relief. She began to feel uncomfortable.
Does he intend to rape me? If so, please God make it quick so I can get out of here! But who is he? Have I heard that voice somewhere before? Damn, I need to go the loo!