The Flyleaf Killer (36 page)

Dyson indicated and was slowing in readiness to stop. A solitary cab emerged and rumbled away. Gaining an unrestricted view of the forecourt, he could see clearly that no further taxis were available. Strudwick’s innate caution was vindicated—but he would have to trust Dyson yet further.

‘Don’t stop, Henry. I’ve changed my mind,’ he ordered, brusquely. ‘Swing the cab round. Go back to the bypass and run me up to Raines Park tube.’

Glancing in his mirror, Henry spun the vehicle through a hundred and eighty degrees and headed back the way he came. Around 11.15 he pulled up at Raines Park underground, leaving the engine running.

‘What’s on the meter?’ Strudwick demanded, to divert the man’s attention.

Dyson switched on the interior light and glanced instinctively towards the meter.

‘Nuffink, guv, it ain’t been on. Look arter the boss, I allus say.’

‘Highly commendable sentiments,’ Strudwick remarked, drily— and flashed a fearsome-looking knife in front of the man’s eyes.

Dyson was terrified out of his wits.

‘Wassermarra, guv?’ he bleated. ‘I ain’t dun nuffink.’

‘No, and make sure you don’t,’ Strudwick snarled, his voice thick with menace. ‘Keep your bloody mouth shut—or else. One word about me to the police—or anybody else, for that matter— and I’ll be back to slit your fucking throat. Make no mistake, I’ll get you, no matter what—no matter where you are, no matter how hard you might try to hide. You can rely on it!’

His hand backed off—then flashed forward to stop the blade barely an inch short of the man’s nose.

‘Christ, you know you c’n trust me!’ Henry fairly screeched. ‘I won’ say a bleedin’ word—’onest!’

Slowly—almost reluctantly, it seemed—Strudwick withdrew the knife and returned it to its sheath.

‘All right then. Stay schtum, you filthy pervert, or before I cut your throat I’ll spill your guts all over the floor.’ Dyson was frantic with fear.

‘I tole yer, guv, yer don’ need ter worry abaht me. I swear I won’ say nuffink—not ever!’

‘You’d better not. Stay where you are. I’m coming round for my bags.’

Satisfied that the disposal of Dyson could now safely be deferred, Strudwick vacated his seat, rounded the front of the cab and pulled open the rear passenger door to retrieve his luggage. Producing his wallet, he thrust five ten-pound notes into Dyson’s hand.

‘Here you are, Henry’ he said casually. ‘Ten should cover the diesel, the rest is for you.’

Dyson gulped. ‘S’orl right, guv. Tole yer I didn’t want nuffink. Yer c’n ’ave it back, reely,’ he protested.

‘No problem, Henry,’ Strudwick said airily, waving the proffered notes away. ‘You’ve earned it. Off you go. Just remember you haven’t seen me—tonight or any other night.’

‘Yus, guv—fanks.’

Jerkily, the cab moved off.

Shrugging, Strudwick turned on his heel and strode into the tube, where he followed the arrows for Wimbledon and the City. Midway down the broad, brightly-lit corridor, he slipped through a short connecting tunnel to the southbound platform and boarded the first train to appear. Getting out at New Malden, he crossed the bridge in time to connect with a northbound train. This time he stayed on until Waterloo, where he vacated the lightly populated carriage, surrendered his ticket at the barrier and walked into the nearest public toilets.

In the privacy of a cubicle, he rummaged in his luggage, swapped his jacket for a raincoat and donned a flat cap. Wearing contact lenses in place of spectacles, he assumed a stoop, shuffled out of the station and set about finding a hotel. As ‘Mr William Roberts of East Camberley’, he checked into a nondescript three-star establishment just before midnight, and went directly to his room. He locked the door on the inside, leaving the key in place, in order to prevent the insertion of a master from outside.

Placing his phone by the bedside reminded him that calls to and from mobiles were traceable, and that network records were frequently made available to the police. His mobile was an unregistered ‘Pay and Go’, purchased for cash in Kingston and, therefore, theoretically safe. The number would be known to the company, but they would be unable to connect it with a name. But those in his confidence certainly could, and these were many. What if one should talk? After a moment’s thought, he switched the instrument off, flushed the SIM card down the toilet and wrapped both phone and charger in newspaper retrieved from the bin. Craving guidance, he consulted the Book, but without success—the page remained stubbornly blank. Cursing Pentophiles, he retired to bed.

After an uneasy night, ‘Mr Roberts’ checked out at nine o’clock and limped slowly to Waterloo Station, where he covertly dropped a package into a convenient litter bin.

Leaving his contact lenses in, he put on spectacles and made his way to the booking hall. Fumbling a little, he purchased a single to Tilbury at one kiosk and rounded the carousel to another. There, without glasses and with cap pulled low to mask his eyes, he bought a period return to Folkestone. His train clattered through Clapham Junction a little after 10.15, heading south-east.

Melton’s day began badly. DCS Jarvis was in vitriolic form.

‘I find it hard to believe you actually watched Strudwick take off in his bloody XJS,’ he snorted. ‘But if by following your instincts you were instrumental in rescuing those youngsters whilst still alive, I suppose I shall have to overlook it.’ He favoured the DI with a sour look and changed the subject. ‘I presume you’ve put out an official alert for Strudwick and his distinctive white Jag?’

Melton shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

‘Er—no, sir, not yet. I thought it better to seek your advice first.’

‘What the devil do you mean?’

‘Well, sir. I’ve prepared a photofit and an “All Stations” regarding Strudwick and his car.’ He placed them on the desk. ‘—I propose an early meeting with the Press—with your approval, sir, and plan to get an appeal “on the wire” as quickly as possible, but I’m not sure whether Strudwick ought rightfully to be described as “presumed dangerous, not to be approached”. He may yet prove to be innocent, sir. After all, we’ve no real evidence to the contrary.’ Jarvis’ eyebrows clambered skywards.
No evidence? What on earth was wrong with the man?
He leaned back and regarded his one-time star detective thoughtfully.
He
seems
normal enough
, he thought.
Damn ditherer! I
must
shake him out of it, somehow.

‘David,’ he said, choosing his words with care, ‘I’m worried. Something still colours your judgement where Strudwick is concerned. I’m tempted to take the case out of your hands and refer you to the psychiatrist. However, I’ve no wish to destroy your self-confidence.’

Melton stiffened, but said nothing.

Edward Jarvis picked up the draft, and read aloud:

‘All stations alert. Origin: Surrey County Police, Surbiton. Originator: DI D. Melton

Be on the lookout for Robert William Strudwick, aged 20.

5 foot 4, or thereabouts. Sallow complexion; straw-coloured hair; myopic—generally wears special glasses. Last seen at 10.40 p.m. Friday 25 March 2005 driving white Jaguar XJS registration no. X434RRP. Wanted for questioning in connection with the abduction on 18 March 2005 of Janice Ann Pearson, 20, and Steven Vincent Pearce, 19, both of Esher.’

‘Hm!’ he grunted, eyeing the photofit with distaste. ‘Strudwick? Not much to look at, is he?’

Jarvis tossed the draft towards its author.
Come on, both barrels!
‘Add “Considered dangerous, etc.” and get it onto the system, pronto,’ he snapped irritably. ‘And get this into your head, once and for all. I’m sick and tired of your puerile dithering. Your first and only priority is to nail this Strudwick fellow. Results, we must have results! Don’t come bothering me again without something useful to report.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Melton muttered, sheepishly.

Within minutes, the alert was flashed to police forces the length and breadth of the United Kingdom.

Still smarting, Melton was engrossed in paperwork when he gradually became aware of a growing clarity of thought and an encouraging sense of well-being and relief.

No longer plagued by self-doubt, he perceived just how blinkered he had been with regard to Robert Strudwick.

Briefly, he strove to understand why, and in the absence of a more rational explanation, was obliged to conclude that he had been adversely influenced by the man’s persona. But what if Strudwick’s power diminished with distance? The notion was fanciful, to say the least. But were it so, others too might become less restrained. Then again, had enlightenment been brought about simply through pressure from DCS Jarvis?

No matter. Whatever the reason, Detective Inspector David Melton now felt ‘on top of the job’, his former indecision a thing of the past. Long-standing doubt gave way to a burgeoning certainty: Robert William Strudwick was their man. The DI strode towards DCS Jarvis’ office, practically treading on air.

‘Oh, it’s you again. What do you want?’ snapped Jarvis.

‘I thought I should confirm the “All stations” went out and that the media have been fully informed. Robert William Strudwick is now officially wanted in connection with the Pennington inquiry as well as the kidnap of Janice Pearson and Steven Pearce.’

‘Of course, just as I instructed. So what? Do you expect a medal?’

‘Not exactly, sir,’ Melton replied. ‘The fact is, I’ve come to apologise. Strudwick had me completely bamboozled, I’m afraid. I simply couldn’t penetrate his facade. You were right. The evidence
does
suggest his likely involvement in the death of that poor young woman—maybe the murder of Francis Bridgwater too. Why I couldn’t bring myself to accept it before today I don’t know. I’m extremely sorry, sir.’

Jarvis snorted, ‘At last. It’s about time you came to your senses.’

Melton winced, but went on, ‘Sir, I believe we can assemble a strong case, but I’d like first to search his home and turn his bedroom over. Strudwick senior was neither as helpful nor as truthful as he might have been and I’d like to lean on him a little. He might be more amenable after a night’s sleep. In any event, may I have your permission to apply for a search warrant?’

DCS Jarvis’ countenance broke into a broad grin.

‘You certainly can,’ he said, enthusiastically. ‘Get cracking, David—and good luck!’

Detective Sergeant Ben O’Connor was equally delighted.

‘Crumbs, it’s about time, Guv’nor! I’ve been trying to tell you for months. Where do you reckon that creepy little toe-rag has buggered off to?’

‘I wish I knew, Ben, but he ought not to get far. That car of his should prove a dead give-away. In the meantime, I’ve a job for you.’

Melton picked up a file, extracted a report sheet marked ‘Confidential’ and waved it in the air.

‘Any idea what this is, or when it came in?’

O’Connor shook his head.

‘Dyson! We should have applied more pressure. I knew there was more to that man than meets the eye—we let him go far too readily. It transpires our imitation cockney is a convicted paedophile.’

O’Connor’s eyes widened.

‘It seems he worked as a cab-driver in Gravesend and was convicted at Maidstone in ninety-eight. He served three months in Brixton, got slung out of his bed-sit on release and promptly disappeared. How the hell he came by a Surrey cab licence is anybody’s guess, but we’ll look into that one later. Right now, he’s our best chance of getting the goods on Strudwick.’ Melton thumped his desk. ‘Mark my words, Sergeant. Dyson knows more about the kidnap than he would have us believe. Get off your tail and go nick him. Borrow a “plod” as a witness. Caution Dyson— “Suspected of aiding and abetting, etc.”—and let’s have his backside in here within the hour. Drag him from his cab if need be. Harass him, allow no time for him to collect his thoughts—or a solicitor. I want him fizzing when I talk to him. While you’re out, I’m off to find a magistrate, Saturday or no Saturday. We’ll deal with Dyson first, then go a-visiting…’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s 10.45—straight after lunch, with a bit of luck.’

Delighting that the Guv’nor was back to normal, O’Connor scrambled to his feet and headed for the door.

Henry Dyson was satisfactorily belligerent.

‘Wotcha fink yer playin’ at—rotten, bleedin’ copper?’ he rudely demanded. ‘I wos ’aving a nice cuppa when ’e’ (pointing to O’Connor) ‘came bustin’ in ter nick me. Yer costin’ me money and ’e won’ tell me nuffink ’cept sum bleedin’ rubbish ’bout aidin’ an’ abettin’. I know me rights. I wanner see me brief.’

But David Melton was not to be intimidated.

‘Don’t push your luck. This chat is informal and isn’t being recorded—yet. So keep quiet, speak when you’re spoken to, and keep a civil tongue in your head.

‘We’ll see about a solicitor after the weekend—possibly Monday or Tuesday. Meanwhile, you’d better come clean and tell us exactly what really happened after you picked Miss Pearson up. Both she and Mr Pearce are in hospital, thanks to you. But they’re heaps better and will soon be well enough to give us their version of events. Make no mistake, we’ll find out the truth, anyway. Do yourself a favour, Dyson—save everybody’s time. It’ll be better for you in the long run.’

The taxi-driver fell silent, weighing the import of Melton’s words. But his fear of Strudwick was overpowering. The threatened consequences of ‘grassing’ just too terrible to contemplate. Terror tightened his throat.

‘I dunno wot the ’ell yer on abaht. I don’ know nuffink wot I ain’t already tole yer. Sorry, copper, yer’ll ’ave ter find sum uvver geezer wot duz know sumfink.’

Long moments passed—then, when he judged he’d waited long enough Melton said, ‘Come on Dyson, I’m waiting. We know all about your liking for children. The three months you were handed down in ninety-eight at Maidstone Crown Court is nothing compared to the stretch you’ll get for aiding and abetting Robert Strudwick—a kidnapper
and
a murderer!’

Dyson turned white.

‘M-murder? Robert Strudwick? Wot the bleedin’ ’ell yer on abaht?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know Robert Strudwick—or that he cruelly killed two local people, one as recently as last November.’ He leaned forward. ‘Why did you help him kidnap Janice Pearson and Steven Pearce? How much did he pay you? Twenty quid— thirty quid?’