The Flyleaf Killer (20 page)

Nowadays, Kenneth owned a neat, semi-detached bungalow at West End, but it had not always been so. At one time, he had made a good living as a travelling-salesman, but when his wife died, he gave it up to become a part-time window-cleaner, an occupation which didn’t pay very well, but allowed him to regulate his hours, in order to care for his son. Even so, he was grateful for the kindness shown by a motherly neighbour, without whose help Francis might well have been taken into care.

In 2002, the year Francis left school to begin work, the mortgage was repaid and the resultant increase in family disposable income, coupled with a modest bank-loan, made it possible for Kenneth to buy a milk round of some 300 customers, which he promptly set about increasing. After years of toil for scant reward, and despite the unsociable hours, Kenneth was in his element.

On leaving school, Francis worked on the production line of an automotive factory, but after a year of boredom, he decided his future lay elsewhere and sought a vocation where his linguistic talents could be usefully employed. He checked out a number of possibilities, none of which fired his imagination but eventually, after several disappointments, he was offered a position as a trainee holiday courier with a travel company based at Hounslow, a job he gladly accepted.

As part of his training, he accompanied an experienced courier on a number of trips and, like most newcomers, was expected to be competent enough to tour unaided by the end of the season. A brilliant linguist, already a seasoned traveller, he took to the business like a duck to water, and became a courier in his own right within three months.

The work suited Frank admirably; not only did he travel around Europe, he got paid into the bargain.

The rewards were high: a fair basic salary, tips, free food and accommodation—not bad, for an eighteen-year-old. But there were other benefits too. Many of the single ladies in his parties—and some who obviously were married—fell madly in love and the handsome six-footer was usually happy to oblige. Trip-end tips could be astronomical, gratuities from grateful hoteliers and restaurateurs frequent and generous. Oh, yes, Frank loved his work all right but, unfortunately, it was seasonal.

After idly kicking his heels for an entire winter, he cast around for something to occupy his time from November to March, and found it—as a freelance airline steward for Air France, working out of Toulouse Airport. It would mean being away from home most of the year, but Frank promised to telephone his father regularly and return for a break as often as he could. He attended a twelve-week training course in order to qualify. Air France rewarded his efforts by keeping him continuously employed for the remainder of that winter—and beyond…

The romance between Janice and Steven deepened with the passage of time and, after two blissful years together, the happy couple chose April 15, 2004—Janice’s nineteenth birthday—to reveal to the world their commitment each to the other by announcing their engagement. Towards the end of the evening, at a wonderful party to mark the occasion, Steven and Janice were still dancing.

‘That’s it, old lady,’ he said, putting his arms around her and giving her a kiss, ‘first a house, next the church—then we can think about starting a family. Come to think of it, what about finding somewhere quiet for a spot of practice right now,’ he murmured seductively, noting with delight how easily she blushed.

Janice looked at him adoringly.

‘Not so much of the old,’ she retorted (he was a year younger than she). Come on then.’

August 1 2004. To celebrate his recent appointment as senior negotiator with Gaston Hathaway, Robert Strudwick took delivery of a brand-new Jaguar XJS in white—and paid cash!

On October 31, after an interval of more than two years, came the long-awaited message:

WITH KEENE STEEL BE AVENGED, HIS TIME IS NIGH,

HE WHO DIDST STEAL FAIR MAID

Robert’s heart lurched and a familiar surge of adrenaline caused his pulse to quicken. Word by word, he studied the archaic prose, determined to assimilate each and every character. Again he watched, awestruck, as the words shimmered and faded, just as he knew they would. Their import was crystal clear—Francis Bridgwater was to be the subject of his next mission:
Keene steel? I’ll cut the bastard’s head off!

Once more he was to devise his own plan, set his own agenda, taking care never to deviate from steel as the designated weapon. A number of interesting possibilities crossed his mind and he licked his lips, thinking about the pain he would inflict before dispatching the snivelling bastard. But where was Bridgwater? He would find out tomorrow. Robert put away the book.

It promised to be a demanding mission, yet he relished the challenge and began to apply his intellect to the task of creating an outstanding strategy, not merely to dispense with a physically superior enemy and baffle the police, but to enhance his standing with Pentophiles, giving his mentor no reason whatever to withhold the material wealth Robert so desperately craved. He wanted to be a millionaire—he
expected
to be a millionaire. He wouldn’t fail, he couldn’t fail, for he was the chosen one. Had he not willingly conceded metamorphosis to Pentophiles, making it possible for his nether-region guru to satisfy a long-denied craving for human flesh and blood?

Robert continued to deliberate. Bridgwater’s movements must be monitored from the moment he arrived home; that much was obvious. Equally obvious was the fact that Robert must stay in the background well out of sight, or the cleverest of plans might fail. To succeed, he would need help.

No longer willing to risk the likes of Charlesworth, he would restrict his informants to two, neither of whom must know the other, or be bright enough to connect him with subsequent events. But before Robert could decide who to employ and how, something—was it fate?—intervened…

Proud father Kenneth told several of his customers about Francis’ impending arrival for a two week vacation and was overheard by the son of one of them, who promptly made a telephone call. The caller lived opposite the Bridgwaters; he also knew a great deal about Frank—including his activities the last time home. Even as he spoke—and whilst Robert listened intently—a plan began to form.

Besides the current informant, the services of another trustworthy person would be needed to act as intermediary, and Brian Carpenter was exactly the man for the task. Carefully briefed, Brian would follow instructions to the letter—and never dare to reveal his involvement afterwards. By the time the connection was broken, the complete strategy had been decided—simple, but brilliant.

The next day Robert visited Kingston Hospital, venue of two successful disguise experiments. Parking unobtrusively, he put on a white coat and, wearing contact lenses and horn-rimmed spectacles fitted with plain glass, he strode purposefully through the main entrance doors.

Briefcase in hand, he made his way towards the operating theatre, but slowed his pace when a scrub-nurse bearing a pile of folded laundry emerged from a sterile store a few metres ahead. She elbowed her way through the swing-doors of the theatre and disappeared from view, giving Robert precisely the opportunity he’d hoped for. Unchallenged, with a complete set of green operating clothes tucked inside his briefcase, he was halfway down the corridor before the nurse remedied her omission and returned to lock the door.

Before he left Kingston, Robert bought a folding wheelchair and a second-hand surgical scalpel in a leather case from a market bric-a-brac stall. Highly-prized by model-makers, these fine Victorian instruments are sharper than modelling-knives, even when no longer fit for surgery, remaining keen-edged almost indefinitely, providing they are not abused.

Frank Bridgwater’s brief vacation drew to a close. On Monday November 15, two days in advance of his scheduled return to France, he visited Esher railway station to purchase his train ticket. Once he was gone, the booking clerk earned his £20: he dialled the number scribbled on a scrap of paper by a charming, rather elderly gentleman who had called at the station earlier that morning.

‘Hello, I’m ringing to confirm Mr Bridgwater’s reserved seat on Eurostar Express, departing Waterloo International at 10.30 a.m. on November 17, just as you expected, sir. By the way, I hope the farewell-party goes well, but don’t get him
too
drunk—he might miss his train.’

The first phase of the plan concluded, Robert relaxed, smiled with satisfaction and chuckled.

‘Thanks, but don’t worry. I expect he’ll have a nasty headache— but I’ve plenty of aspirin!’

Ten minutes later, Robert rang Brian Carpenter.

‘Hello Brian, it’s me. Are you at home?’

‘Yes, Robert.’

‘How much petrol have you got in your tank?’

‘Not much—about two gallons.’

‘Good, that’s enough for the moment. You can fill up later— my treat. Now, listen carefully, I’ve an important job lined up for tomorrow evening and I need your help. Let’s see what the time is—um… just after five. Right. Leave at six and drive to Esher station. Go to the rear of the car park, switch off your lights and wait for me there. I’ll be along shortly to explain exactly what I want you to do. Have you got that?’

‘Yes, Robert. Leave at six, go to Esher station and wait for you at the back of the car park.’

‘That’s right. I’ll see you there at six-fifteen. Don’t forget, turn off your lights—and be there!’

En route to the station, Robert made a detour to surreptitiously borrow a key…

Kenneth went to work long before Frank fancied getting up. Eight o’clock was plenty early enough.

Providing he left by nine, he could bus to Esher station and catch the 9.45 for Waterloo—perfect. It was becoming routine. Packed, ready to leave by teatime on the eve of departure, he would round his holiday off with a trip to the cinema.

For safety’s sake, Frank zipped his wallet and passport into the side-pocket of his valise. He shrugged into his overcoat, closed the bedroom door and went in the living-room where the ‘old fellow’ was working. Promising to telephone by month end, Frank hugged his father good-bye and caught the 6.05 bus for Kingston.

Robert’s mobile rang—he grinned. True to form, just as on the last two occasions, Francis Bridgwater was heading for the cinema. But which one? Robert dialled another mobile number and a similar instrument warbled in the Black and White Milk Bar, adjacent to the 218 bus stop.

‘He’s on the bus, Brian. Watch for him. Ring me back when you see which cinema he goes to.’

Diagonally opposite stood the Odeon cinema, some seventy metres from its Granada rival on the next corner, the entrances to both clearly visible from the Milk Bar.
The Milk Bar!
Justice demanded that it should figure in this retribution-seeking scheme. Robert grinned sardonically.

The 218 from Staines drew up at 7.10. Twenty or so passengers alighted and dispersed. Some headed towards the Granada cinema, others to the Odeon, among them Frank Bridgwater.

Fearful, yet obedient and fully-briefed, Brian Carpenter made his return phone call.

‘He’s going to the Odeon, Robert,’ he said.

Strudwick smirked, all was going well.

‘OK Brian. Thanks. Don’t forget why I gave you that fifty. Sit near him, then bump into him as if by accident when the film finishes. Be pleased to see him. Get him to the bar. Buy him a pint or two and keep him talking. It shouldn’t be difficult—he loves his beer. Remember, he mustn’t catch the bus. It would spoil his surprise. Offer him a ride home—anything. Don’t forget, if he doesn’t want a drink or refuses a lift, go to the toilets and ring me, but I doubt that’ll be necessary.

‘Leave at ten thirty-five exactly. I’ll be watching, don’t forget. As soon as you clear Kingston, mention the coffee in the glove-box and tell him to help himself, but don’t be too pushy—and don’t drink any yourself—it’s full of knockout drops. He’ll be easier to handle if he takes a drink, but it’s not vital.

‘Pull into the lay-by on Littleworth Common. Tell him you’re bursting for a piddle if he’s still awake and, if there’s anybody about, you’d better pretend to have one. I’ll park right close behind. As soon as he’s in my car, you can go home. I shan’t need you any more tonight.’

Kingston was about twenty minutes drive away. Robert completed his preparations and took stock: key, bell wire, wheelchair, surgical clothing and impedimenta in the boot, cosh under his seat, a second flask of coffee in one glove-box, cagoule and knife (for emergencies) in the other. Elated, confident, fully prepared for any eventuality, Robert left Claygate at nine-fifty…

Kenneth experienced some unease when November drew to a close without the promised phone call. On the night of December 1st, two full weeks after Francis’ departure, Kenneth hardly slept in case the phone should ring and he might not wake to answer it. Morning found him edgy, fearful that something was wrong. Francis was always as good as his word, never broke a solemn promise or intentionally caused anyone needless anxiety. Yes, something was definitely amiss with the boy—but what? An accident of some sort? A plane crash? Surely not. He would have been notified immediately.

Kenneth vacillated. What should he do? He couldn’t think straight any more. By December 3, tired, irritable and frantic with worry, he muddled deliveries—even missed some out altogether— and, by the afternoon, almost out of his mind with anxiety, he disregarded Air France company rules and telephoned Toulouse airport.

Unlike Frank, Kenneth’s command of French was limited and he had difficulty making himself understood. But he persevered, and was eventually connected with the cabin-crew manager.

‘I must speak urgently with Francis Bridgwater, please. I am his father, Kenneth Bridgwater.’

‘But ’e is not ’ere, M’sieur Bridgwater!’ the Frenchman exclaimed. ‘Francois was engaged as acting senior cabin steward for Flight G8 for Toronto, but ’e did not report for duty. The plane ’ad to leave Toulouse on November the nineteenth understaffed as a consequence. Passengers were inconvenienced, M’sieur. I was inconvenienced. It was inconsiderate of ’im. I am still very angry!’