The Flyleaf Killer (39 page)

Hefting his bags effortlessly, Robert mingled casually with the throng of passengers, but he neither crossed the bridge for the Folkestone connection, nor did he make for the exit. Instead, he sidled unobtrusively into the nearest gent’s toilet, slipped into a vacant cubicle and securely bolted the door, allowing the platform to empty and free the ticket-collector for his duties elsewhere.

Five minutes later, a bespectacled, stooped figure emerged, shuffled down the platform, passed through the unmanned exit, down the stairs and into the street. Clear of the station, he straightened up, increased pace and headed for the nearest chemist, where he bought a pair of light-reactive designer sunglasses, a bottle of shampoo, a pair of scissors, two pairs of latex gloves and a bottle of brown hair dye.

Shortly afterwards, ‘George Kingsley’, of Pine Avenue, Orpington booked into The Bell, a dubious two-star, close to the High Street yet within five minutes’ walking distance of the station. Going directly to his room, ‘Mr Kingsley’ locked the door and set to work.

He half-filled the washbasin with hot water and washed the gel from his hair. After towelling, he parted, combed and snipped, collecting the cuttings on a sheet of newspaper. Pulling on the gloves, he proceeded to apply the dye. Having allowed the requisite fifteen minutes for maximum ‘take’ and after a further, final rinse, he dried, combed and snipped again until the image in the mirror reflected the changes he sought. He put on the sunglasses. Then, almost without thinking, he added the gloves and empty dye container to the clippings and wrapped the lot into an innocuous-looking parcel for disposal later.

Eyeing himself critically, he concluded that, whilst the differences were purely cosmetic, they were nonetheless effective. Encouraged, he shrugged on his mac, pocketed the parcel and used toilet tissue to wipe clean any surface he may inadvertently have touched, before flushing the tissue down the loo. After a final check and a precautionary wipe of the door handles, he vacated the room—leaving the key in the door—and strode the length of the corridor, down the stairs and into the lobby without encountering a soul. To a fugitive with a vested interest in anonymity, it seemed like an omen.

At reception, he rang the bell and waited. Nobody responded. He hesitated. Should he ring again? He glanced around. The place appeared deserted. Could he? … Should he? … Oh, what the hell! He picked up his bags and strode boldly out of the building, unchallenged.

Thus, ‘George Kingsley’ ceased to exist and ‘William S. Roberts’ (allegedly of Smith Crescent, East Camberley) was resurrected. He dumped an unwanted parcel into a handy bin, walked briskly down the High Street and booked a room for two nights at The Railway Hotel, a comfortable hostelry he had stayed at once before. Registering under an assumed name (of what use were hotel registers when proof of identity was not demanded?), together with his subtle change of appearance, made it less likely he would be recognised.

Leaving the less important of his bags in the wardrobe, he picked up the other, returned to the foyer and slipped quietly out of the building in search of coffee and sandwiches.

He returned an hour later, equally unobtrusively, and switched on the television in time for the one o’clock news:

‘Robert William Strudwick’, the broadcaster droned, ‘wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance last week of Janice Ann Pearson and Stephen Pearce, both of Lower Green, Esher. Twenty-year-old Strudwick is five foot four, has straw-coloured hair and generally wears glasses. At about ten-forty p.m. yesterday, he eluded capture when driving a white Jaguar X434 RRP at high speed away from premises where Stephen and Janice were subsequently found to be incarcerated. Strudwick is thought to be armed, is unpredictable and dangerous and should not be approached. Anyone who spots the wanted man or his car should telephone the special incident room free on 08041 890890 immediately or notify the police at any police station as soon as possible.’

Robert sneered. Was that
really
the best they could do? A description sufficiently vague to fit thousands and not so much as a snapshot. Did they
really
expect to catch him? Contemptuously, he switched the television off, napped for a while and enjoyed a leisurely bath.

He dined well, slept well and breakfasted well: he felt safe and secure within his new persona. But, on unfolding a copy of The Sunday People, his sense of security abruptly evaporated. Front page banner headlines. Bold, central inset of an uncannily-accurate photofit—
Jesus Christ!
Striving for calm, stony-faced but with thundering heart, he read the article:

SERIAL MURDERER SOUGHT

A report by our special correspondent

The
Body in the Garden
—The
Body in the Vault

Early yesterday, police named Robert William Strudwick as the chief suspect behind the abduction eight days ago of missing sweethearts Janice Ann Pearson and Stephen Pearce.

As part of a major police operation, Janice and Stephen were rescued late on Friday, having been incarcerated in a cellar, cruelly bound, for more than a week without food or water. Both were in poor physical condition and are currently in intensive care at Kingston General Hospital.

Detective Inspector David Melton, the officer in charge of the case, revealed that Strudwick is also wanted for questioning in connection with two murders: the
Body in the Garden
in July 2002, and the
Body in the Vault
, the gruesome killing perpetrated towards the end of November last year.

A top employee of a well-known Surrey estate agent, Strudwick, aged twenty, was observed leaving the house where Janice and Stephen were found, and is known to have visited his Claygate home where he concealed his car prior to fleeing the area by taxicab.

It has since been established that Strudwick was driven first to Surbiton and thence to Raines Park, from where he travelled by underground to London, probably using a circuitous route.

A middle-aged man (who cannot be named for legal reasons) was detained early yesterday for questioning, but later released conditionally pending the outcome of further investigations.

At nine-thirty yesterday, a man answering Strudwick’s description was spotted at Waterloo by an alert railway employee, who later confirmed that the suspect purchased a single ticket for Tilbury.

The fugitive, who is believed armed and considered dangerous, may be heading for the continent. Police, customs and port authorities have been warned to be on the lookout for him.

Stocky, well-built, Strudwick is about five feet four, variously wears distinctive pebble-lens glasses or contact lenses and has slicked-back, straw-coloured hair—which he might possibly dye.

The suspect should not be approached. Anyone who believes they have seen Strudwick should notify the police immediately. All such reports will be held in complete confidence.

Taxicab! Surbiton! Raines Park!
He had little doubt where
that
particular information had come from.
Dyson! The bastard, the snivelling, grovelling little shit. I ought to have slit his bloody throat!
Concealed behind the newspaper, face suffused with rage, Robert remained in his chair, rereading, digesting and analysing the import of the article.

One fundamental truth struck home forcibly: seven years of exciting, challenging brinkmanship with DI David Melton were finally at an end. What’s more, given that Dyson had blabbed, it was likely he had also spilt the beans regarding the kidnap. It was too much. Initially stunned and betrayed, ‘Mr Roberts’ now became angry—very angry. Biting his lip, he pushed back his chair, shot to his feet and made a beeline back to his room. He could barely contain his rage, but he managed to close the door without slamming it—just.

Drawing his knife, he slashed at the air furiously.
Stuff the plan, I’ll cut his fucking bollocks off!
A promise was a promise—the traitor would die before the day was out precisely as promised. He calmed a little as he contemplated the attractive prospect: Henry, down on his knees, crying, gibbering, begging for mercy—not that it would do the arsehole any good. He might even refuse to stand—until a knife up his nostril persuaded him otherwise. And then, back on his feet and with the blade at his throat, he would be ordered to drop his trousers, step clear of his underpants and lift up his shirt—right up. ‘Wot the bleedin’ ’ell for, guv?’ he would probably screech, crying, sweating and shaking with fear. To which he would respond: ‘I want to see your guts fall out! Blabbed, didn’t you? I promised, didn’t I?’

Knife extended, he would move swiftly forward, thrust hard, twist, pull and slash upwards, and step back to avoid the torrent of spurting blood—or maybe not. If theory held true, Dyson would clutch frantically at his belly, but fail to hold his entrails in place.

He imagined the expression on the pervert’s face: shock, disbelief, the realisation he was already as good as dead. Hopefully, he would scream in agony as his stomach spilled out. He might even drop back to his knees and raise his head in supplication, thus facilitating the avenging strike—a long, curving slash completely across the throat.

Beyond doubt, retribution would taste uncommonly sweet. Strudwick could hardly wait. He shoved his belonging into his bags and started towards the door. But wait! Native instinct, animal cunning—call it what you will—intervened. No matter what, he needed a plan. Whilst the temptation to leave immediately was compelling, it was nevertheless tempered by caution. Forcing himself to remain calm, he sat down and began to think the situation through rationally.

In order to secure his freedom, Dyson had obviously made a statement. Further statements might follow: from Pearce and Pearson. This changed everything. Lying low for a few weeks was no longer an option. Failing an intervention by Pentophiles, the prospects of returning, either now or in the foreseeable future, appeared slim.

Regrettably, there could be no going back. The contingency plan must be implemented in full. Those carefully engineered financial arrangements must be triggered first thing in the morning, before news of his flight spread far enough to reach the ears of the banking fraternity. First, he would empty the safety deposit box; then on to the Maidstone branch of the Midland where he would realise assets; buy travellers cheques; close accounts and convert balances into a single banker’s draft. Finally, he would exchange the bulk of his remaining Sterling for Euros. That done, he would travel to Folkestone, stay quietly overnight and board a ferry on Tuesday. When the time seemed right, he would contact his father via the bank, grant him powers of attorney with instructions to market The Beeches and transfer the proceeds offshore— discreetly, of course. He would survive, with or without the help of Pentophiles.

But an image of Dyson writhing on the floor flashed into his mind. Greedily, he licked his lips. Yet again, caution intervened. Torn between compelling desires, he vacillated. Maybe he should forget Henry and concentrate instead on making good his escape? It made sense. The police were disadvantaged; they had no idea of his whereabouts. Surely it would be wiser to maintain that advantage and remain here in relative safety, at least until the morning?

On the other hand, Dyson’s treachery merited sharp punishment. The stinking pervert had effectively sabotaged any possibility of Strudwick’s eventual return. For that alone, he must
definitely
be made to suffer.

For a full minute he stood, hesitant. Then the thirst for revenge overwhelmed him.
Bollocks!
I’ve time to sort Dyson, return here tonight and pick up where I’ve left off. Clutching the more important of his two bags, he left the hotel and made for the station…

Come into my Parlour…

Following a worrying baby-snatch incident, security at Kingston General Hospital is vastly improved. Cameras now monitor main, emergency and outpatient entrances and every corridor and walkway, including the approaches to maternity and clinic areas, operating theatres and intensive care.

The security office boasts a ‘state of the art’ monitoring console, manned daily from 8.00 a.m. to 10.00 p.m., with video recording equipment in continuous-loop operation over a seven day cycle. Add one small office adjacent to intensive care, a monitor linked to the corridor camera, tea-making facilities and two alert policemen equipped with digital two-way radios and DI Melton pronounced himself satisfied. Stephen and Janice would suffer no further at the hands of Robert Strudwick.

Protecting a frightened taxi driver without making it obvious was more complicated and difficult to achieve in a short space of time, but DI Melton was decisive, persuasive, and utterly determined. That Dyson’s apartment block faced one immediately opposite did help, however, and a substantial bribe secured the flat next to Dyson’s for three days. Its unemployed single tenant readily took himself off to Blackpool for the weekend, expenses paid.

Alerted to danger but assured that help was close at hand, Henry blanched.

‘If anyone knocks,
don’t
open the door,’ he was told. ‘Just shout “hang on a minute,” and sit tight. We’ll check it out and see you come to no harm.’ Grey-faced, anxious, Dyson simply nodded.

Round-the-clock watchers moved into place, installed cameras and binoculars, set up and tested listening equipment, checked out individual radios, reported readiness—and waited. Strategically-placed back-up units moved into position at 8.00 a.m., the finishing touches to what was probably the most intense, meticulously planned discreet surveillance initiative ever mounted by Surbiton Police. DI David Melton’s carefully engineered trap was in place.

After a heavy night with a whisky bottle, Henry obliged by sleeping late, but had he emerged, his every step would have been dogged. Should he climb into the cab parked just outside, an unmarked car lurked nearby, ready to follow at a safe distance, tailed in turn by a back-up crew.

‘The importance of this briefing cannot be overstated, so listen carefully,’ DI Melton exhorted. ‘As you know, weekend leave has been cancelled; few of you fully appreciate why. Before duties are assigned, therefore, I feel you deserve a full and proper explanation. Miserable little creep though he is, it is our duty to keep Henry Dyson safe from harm.