The Flyleaf Killer (18 page)

It transpired, to their dismay, that none interviewed knew the deceased girl intimately and Malandra’s neighbours were simply neighbours—friendly when encountered, but not in any way privy to Malandra’s private life. With one exception, the question, ‘Do you know of anyone who may have wished to harm Malandra or who might benefit from her death?’ the answer was ‘No’.

The one exception was Robert Strudwick.

At first it seemed nobody was in, but they persevered and after repeated knocking, listening and bell pressing, a thin, flustered, middle-aged woman came to the door.

‘Good afternoon, madam,’ Melton began, displaying his warrant card. ‘We are police officers. I am Detective Inspector Melton from Surbiton and this is Detective Sergeant O’Connor. Are you Mrs Strudwick?’

She became agitated and wrung her hands.

‘Yes, I’m Mrs Strudwick, and I’m in the kitchen busy getting dinner. What do you want?’

‘We won’t keep you, but we’re investigating a serious crime and would like a word with Robert William Strudwick who may be able to assist with our inquiries. Would Robert be your son?’

‘Yes—but he’s not here. He’s at work and he won’t be home before six.’

Melton glanced at his watch: three forty-five—too long to wait. He pressed harder. ‘The matter is important,’ he insisted. ‘Where does your son work?’

‘I’m not sure whether I should…’

Melton frowned.

‘I don’t suppose it matters, you’ll find out anyway. All right then—but I hope he isn’t cross. Gaston Hathaway, Long Ditton,’ she said. ‘Estate agents. Robert is a management trainee.’ DI Melton thanked her and with O’Connor at the wheel, they departed.

Presently, the DS remarked, ‘Rum sort of house, Guv’nor. Seemed ordinary enough, but fair gave me the creeps.’

‘Oh, you noticed too? Lived in but a sort of “fustiness” about the place. Lack of maintenance, do you suppose? Dodgy drains, maybe? They ought to get the council in.’

‘Yes, something like that,’ O’Connor grunted, and fell quiet. Unusually for O’Connor, he remained preoccupied for the remainder of the journey.

Reaching Ditton, he parked in front of Gaston Hathaway; Melton led the way inside. A smartly-dressed youth seated at a desk by the entrance looked up and rose to his feet.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I help?’ he asked.

Melton flashed his warrant card.

‘We’re police officers. Would you happen to be Robert William Strudwick, by any chance?’

The lad shook his head. ‘Not flipping likely I’m not; he’s out with a client. I’m Roger Tattler. Would you care to leave a message?’

‘No, we need to speak privately with Mr Strudwick. Is he likely to be long?’

‘Sorry, I don’t know’. He looked at the clock. ‘Mr Robert went on a three o’clock appointment and it’s well after four. I don’t expect he’ll be very much longer. Would you care to wait?’

‘If you don’t mind…’ Melton glanced about.

‘No problem. Mr Hathaway is out all day. I’m here by myself. Have a chair.’

The youth resumed addressing envelopes, leaving Melton and O’Connor to settle down and wait.

Time passed. At four fifty-five, Roger Tattler got to his feet.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t think where he’s got to. We close at five and I must start locking up. Could you could come back tomorrow? If you’ll excuse me…’

The policemen exchanged glances, then rose to their feet. Melton cleared his throat.

‘All right, Mr Tattler, you weren’t to know. Thanks anyway. We may call again tomorrow.’

The investigators returned to Melton’s car:

‘What a waste of bloody time,’ Melton grumbled, with a rare display of ill-temper. ‘I wonder if Strudwick’s mother tipped him off and the artful sod deliberately avoided us.’

O’Connor held his peace. It was not until they were at HQ, negotiating the entrance to the underground car park, that he voiced his thoughts. ‘If Strudwick purposely dodged us, maybe he’s something to hide?’

DI Melton hesitated. ‘I don’t know, but it’s a thought. But I’ll tell you what
is
important, Sergeant. Discovering something of the murdered girl’s background, that’s what. Somebody either knows who the killer is or has a pretty good idea of who he might be. A hint would help. And I keep thinking about Steven Pearce—
he could be that somebody
.

‘The theft of the anorak and trainers two weeks before the murder—if Steven’s story is to be believed—means the killing was planned at least that far ahead. If nothing else, the gear was planted in the garden to deliberately implicate the boy, added to which the body was buried with little or no attempt to do so quietly or avoid being seen. Had the murderer deferred dumping the corpse until, say, two or three in the morning, those bags might still be buried behind the rhododendrons with no-one the wiser.

‘Steven is no killer, but the fact he denies knowing anyone capable of planting evidence sufficient to have him convicted just doesn’t ring true. Had he not gone to Brighton with his family, Steven Pearce would be facing arrest, trial and imprisonment for abduction, bestiality and murder. He’s either naive, stupid, or a very frightened young man—and I think the latter is the most likely.’

He turned to retrieve his briefcase, giving O’Connor an opportunity to air his own views.

‘I think we ought to pull him in again, sir. I’m not too happy about him either. OK, we know he didn’t carry out the murder but, as you rightly say, he knows much more than he pretends. Despite denials, I think he was “fitted up” by someone bearing a grudge—and that someone could only be the murderer, or at the very least an accomplice.’

Back in his office, Melton dumped his briefcase and dropped into his chair.

‘You know, Ben,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘you’ve a habit of going over the same ground twice, but that remark back there in the car set me thinking—and you’re right, Steven
could
hold the key to the killer’s identity, even if he doesn’t realise it, although I very much doubt that. We went over it, time and again, but he refused to be drawn and stuck resolutely to his story—you were there, don’t forget. Unfortunately, there’s nothing further we can do. However—and this is the point I think you were trying to make—if he
does
have knowledge of the killer’s probable identity, then his life is in very grave danger.’

Vindicated, O’Connor nodded. ‘I’ve been trying to point that out almost since day one.’

‘OK,’ Melton said. ‘It’s well worth following up. I’ll see what the Chief thinks about appealing to Steven Pearce again, and I’ve little doubt he’ll agree. Incidentally—and this is my final word on the subject for the time being—the killer of Malandra Pennington takes size seven shoes. No larger, but maybe a size smaller.’ O’Connor winced but, wisely, made no reply.

‘Meanwhile,’ Melton went on, ‘there could be an absolute mine of information out there waiting to be tapped and, rather than settle for a wasted day, what say we sort things out here then go get ourselves a chat with that damned, elusive Robert Strudwick? Are you on, Pimpernel?’

At 6.45 p.m. Melton’s car swung into Kenward Close and drew to a halt at number seven. The officers walked up the driveway together.

It is they but have no fear. Your cause was just, your plan supreme. They do not know, they shall not know. Send them away!

Melton depressed the bell-push and rapped hard on the door. There was no immediate response, and he shuddered uneasily, as if chilled.

‘I’m glad I don’t live here, Ben,’ he remarked. ‘What a dismal dump. I’m not superstitious nor the least bit sensitive, as far as I know, but I swear I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as we came through the gates. And whew, that awful pong. Maybe it’s not the drains. Could be a septic tank needs emptying.’

O’Connor pulled a face. ‘Dunno, Guv’nor, but it’s worse than this afternoon, if you ask me. Like I said before, the bloody place gives me the creeps!’

There came the rasp of a key followed by a rattle of bolts. The door opened and they were confronted by a sallow youth wearing bulbous glasses, through which he glared belligerently.

‘Yes, what do you want?’ he demanded. ‘We’re in the middle of dinner.’

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Melton apologised, displaying his warrant card. ‘We’re police officers. I’m Detective Inspector Melton from Surbiton and this is Detective Sergeant O’Connor—we called earlier, but you were out. We’re investigating a serious crime and it’s a matter of some urgency that we speak to Mr Robert Strudwick. Am I correct in assuming that you are he?’

‘Oh, it’s you again. My mother said the police had been here. Yes, I’m Robert Strudwick and again, what do you want? You’d better make it snappy or my dinner will get cold.’

‘I’ve already apologised but, as I said, the matter is urgent. May we come in?’

‘No, you may not. You can talk to me here. I’ll give you two minutes.’

The policemen exchanged glances. Each sensed the commanding, compelling presence radiated by this self-assured young man. Melton tried to take the initiative.

‘I think I’d better warn you, Mr Strudwick,’ he cautioned, ‘we are conducting a murder inquiry and understand you were acquainted with the victim, Miss Malandra Pennington. I’m sure you will have heard something of the tragic case. As part of our enquiries it is essential we establish as much of her background as possible and, in that connection, there are a number of questions we wish to put to you. To begin with, how long have you known the deceased?’

‘You’re wasting your time—and mine. A right snooty bitch, if ever there was one! I’ve only seen her a couple of times since leaving school. Next. You’ve another minute and a half.’

‘Do you know of anyone who might wish her harm or might benefit from her death in any way?’

The young man’s attitude abruptly changed. He became derisive and sneered, ‘No, I don’t. It must surely be obvious, even to you, that I hardly knew the woman. Any further questions would be pointless. Now, I really would like to get back to my dinner, goodnight!’ The door closed. ‘Goodnight, Mr Strudwick,’ Melton said softly, swallowing his disappointment.

He turned and headed for the gates. He could almost sense his colleague’s moustache bristle with frustration as O’Connor stumped along at his side.

‘What a nasty, arrogant little swine!’ O’Connor declared, as he piloted Melton’s car towards Hinchley Wood. ‘Strewth, I almost felt like flattening him.’

‘Wouldn’t have done either of us any good, Sergeant,’ Melton responded, wearily. ‘I didn’t think he’d be able to help, but it was worth a try. He was far too sure of himself to be hiding something. Sorry, Ben, we’ve met with another dead end, so we might just as well accept it.’

O’Connor drove in silence. He wanted his dinner and a good night’s sleep.
Something
told him that the Guv’nor was right. Pursuing Strudwick further would be pointless.

August 8, Thursday

Of similar build and also size ten, Jennifer Montague agreed to wear one of Malandra’s dresses and take part in the forthcoming reconstruction. Having no idea what Malandra actually wore that fateful Sunday, Jennifer chose a pale-blue, sleeveless frock from her late friend’s wardrobe, one of her favourites, a style Malandra would be likely to favour for a warm, summer’s day. Jennifer must obviously pose as blonde and was therefore fitted with a wig at public expense.

With interest on the wane, the fickle reporters had largely abandoned police headquarters in favour of more newsworthy subjects elsewhere. The widest possible publicity would maximise the chances of someone coming forward who remembered seeing Malandra the day she disappeared.

With this uppermost in mind, Melton organised a further press briefing for later that afternoon. During that briefing, on the understanding that nothing would be published in advance of the event, details and timings of the planned reconstruction were released but, for security reasons, Jennifer Montague’s intended participation was withheld. Asked whether a policewoman look-alike would stand in for the murdered teenager, Melton had answered, ‘Well, what else do you suppose?’

The forecast for Sunday, 11 August 2002 was accurate. The day promised to be fine and warm. Looking uncannily like the Malandra in the photographs, Jennifer emerged from her friend’s flat at 10.45 and walked briskly towards the town centre. She was filmed from a safe distance and shadowed discreetly by a team of plain-clothes officers.

Reaching the High Street, Jennifer adjusted her pace, ostensibly in order to window-shop whilst still on the move, as Malandra might have done, yet headed directly for Charlesworth’s Garage. In addition to those keeping a watchful eye on Jennifer, further officers intercepted and questioned early-morning strollers in an attempt to jog memories, but met with little success.

At 10.55, Jennifer reached Charlesworth’s. She traversed the forecourt, scanning the dozen or so cars on display, then paused at one for a closer inspection.

Aware he was clutching at straws, Melton also monitored Jennifer’s progress with some anxiety. Except for Steven Pearce, perhaps, the entire investigation might well depend on a satisfactory outcome to today’s re-enactment. Witnesses were vital. No other viable line of inquiry remained. As matters stood, the only challenge to Charlesworth’s statement was the word of an elderly, rather unreliable witness.

When Jennifer was briefed, it was explained she must appear unaccompanied. She was alarmed at first, but accepted Melton’s assurance that help would be on hand should she appear threatened.

She looked about nervously, but nobody appeared to be paying much attention. Following her mandate, she entered the main doors and made her way to the sales office. Inside, a man was talking on the telephone, to all intents and purposes oblivious to her arrival. Spared the need to ask for directions to Kingston—her intended ploy—she turned about, walked out of the showrooms and retraced her steps to the town centre.

DS O’Connor intercepted Jennifer in front of the Odeon. ‘Well done, Jennifer,’ he said, warmly. ‘That was absolutely brilliant. I’ll see you home and hand you over to your minder. Then, if you’d care to change, I’ll relieve you of the wig and return the dress to Miss Pennington’s flat.’