The Flyleaf Killer (40 page)

‘But if anyone imagines this is merely an elaborate witness protection exercise, they are wrong. It is, in reality, a great deal more.’ He paused. ‘The main aim is to nail Robert William Strudwick.

‘I need hardly remind you of the ignominy of having two unsolved murders on our patch. Working together, it is my belief we can bring about a speedy and satisfactory conclusion to both. At long last, there is mounting and credible evidence to identify Strudwick as the perpetrator. Although he left the area yesterday, there is every possibility he will return—albeit briefly—with the intention of eliminating three people, each able to incriminate him for abduction and torture, but one, we believe, with sufficient information to have him arrested and charged with murder.

‘Put simply, Dyson’s value as a witness will not escape Strudwick’s attention, thanks to the media. A unique opportunity has thus been created to tempt into the open a known kidnapper and probable killer.

‘Don’t underestimate Robert Strudwick. He’s cold, sadistic and cruel, but intelligent and observant. One false move and he’ll melt away. There will be no margin for error and I’ll accept no excuses. Be under no illusions: Strudwick is evil, devious and extremely dangerous.’

His forefinger stabbed the air.

‘Should he succeed in silencing Henry, he will almost certainly go after Stephen and Janice, even though both are in hospital, dangerously ill, and may not survive in any case.

‘That fact is unlikely to concern Strudwick, however. He is not given to taking chances.’ His measured tones became sterner.

‘With luck we shall have a chance to nab him, but one chance only. We cannot afford mistakes. At all costs, this man must be prevented from eliminating witnesses and from fleeing the country. Gentlemen. Be diligent, be swift, and be successful. Good luck!’

At 11.01, the sparsely populated 10.45 from Waterloo squealed to a halt at Surbiton where three passengers alighted. Two were ladies returning from a trip to the theatre and an overnight stay in town. The third was a dark-haired man carrying a single item of luggage, unremarkable, except that he sported expensive designer sunglasses yet wore a singularly scruffy raincoat.

Emerging from the station, the ladies entered a waiting car, whereas the man walked briskly down Westfield Road, turned left on Maple Drive and right into The Mall. Here, he crossed to the left, reduced pace and sauntered on to where two blocks of flats faced one another, just short of the junction with Portsmouth Road.

A familiar black taxi stood opposite. He stopped for a moment, and looked about, warily. There was little traffic, few people. No voice warned of impending danger. Reassured, he moved off again. A few paces more brought him to Portsmouth Road, where he turned left and continued on to the offices of ‘Ace Cars’, on the corner of Brighton Road. Pushing wide the door, the newcomer walked in and dumped his bag on the floor.

Sylvia Fairweather was on duty as usual. She looked up immediately.

‘Yes?’ she asked, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Hello, Sylvia,’ he grinned, removing his sunglasses. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you recognise me? You run a taxi service, don’t you? Strangely enough, that’s exactly what I want—a taxi.’

To her eternal credit, Sylvia didn’t turn a hair.

‘Of course, Mr Robert,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you. You look different, somehow.’

‘It’ll be my hairdo,’ he retorted, sarcastically, ‘cost a small fortune—John Frieda, and all that.’

‘Go on with you,’ she said, disarmingly. ‘Youngsters, you’re all the same. You’d tell me anything.’

‘More than likely,’ he agreed. ‘But what about that taxi? I’m rather short of time.’

‘I’ve two working today: George is on airport and Phil’s at home on standby. Poor Phil. A drunk spewed in the cab last night. He’s cleaning and disinfecting right now, but monitoring the radio in case I need him. Hang on a sec, I’ll give him a call.’
What a stroke of luck! Perfect.

She reached for the microphone, but Strudwick stopped her short.

‘No!’ he exclaimed, sharply. ‘Let him finish cleaning it up; I couldn’t stand the smell. I’ve a better idea.’

His eyes gleamed black. At his most persuasive, he set out to impose his will. ‘Give Henry a ring—I prefer his driving, anyway. He is home. I noticed his cab on the way—not another in sight, incidentally—and what I have in mind is right up his street.

‘Tell him you’ve a job for him. Say: “It’s bent; fifty quid, back pocket, no questions asked”—there’s fifty in it for you, by the way—and don’t tell him it’s for me; he might be suspicious. Tell him it’ll take no more than an hour and has nothing to do with taxis—I’ll borrow your spare—so he’s to leave his where it is and walk. Impress on him he’s to slip out the back and nip through the alley—it’s shorter and quicker—and to make sure he isn’t followed, or the whole deal’s off.’

He fished out his wallet, extracted ten ten-pound notes and placed them on the desk.

‘There you are, Sylvia. Real cash, up front. Now, are you on?’ he asked, with a knowing smile.

‘I certainly am,’ she replied, ‘nothing like a few extra quid. I’ll treat myself to a new handbag.’

She picked up the telephone and dialled. In the still of the office, Strudwick distinctly heard Dyson’s answering voice, tinny but unmistakable.

‘Yus?’

‘Hello, Henry,’ Sylvia began.

She explained Strudwick’s proposition.

‘Cor, not ‘arf!’ came the eager response. ‘I’ll get me coat an’ be rahnd in a minnit.’

The bug installed the previous afternoon performed faultlessly … three cars moved quietly closer.

Henry replaced the receiver, put on his shoes, shrugged into his coat and sneaked out of the door. He tiptoed along the corridor and down the stairs, turned left and sidled through the rear entrance. Crossing the parking area, he made it to the alley. Two minutes later, he pushed through the doorway of ‘Ace Cars’ and blundered in.

‘Hi, Sylv,’ he said, ‘wot’s up? Wotcha wan’ me ter do? Bury yer friggin’ granny?’

‘
Hello
, Henry,’ Strudwick drawled, from immediately behind, ‘nice of you to call. D’you know, I was actually
hoping
you’d pop in. I’d very much like a word—you gabby, snivelling little shit!’

It was a voice with which Henry was all too familiar. His face a picture (as Sylvia afterwards said) he froze momentarily and spun on his heel, offering an irresistible target. Strudwick didn’t hesitate. He delivered a single, ferocious back-hander right across the mouth, knocking Henry off-balance. Dyson staggered and slammed hard against the wall.

Panther-like, Strudwick pounced. Twice in succession, he punched Henry full in the mouth. Dyson fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

‘Oi!’ Sylvia yelled. ‘That’s enough. I’m surprised, Mr Robert. I thought you a gentleman. If you
must
fight that’s your business, but if you do it in here, it’s mine!’

‘Shut it, Sylvia,’ Strudwick snarled, ‘this is nothing to do with you. Just Henry and me, personal. Sit still, keep quiet—or suffer the consequences and I’m sure you know
exactly
what I mean.’ Frightened, and sharply reminded of the debt she believed she owed, Sylvia subsided. Strudwick returned to the cringing wretch at his feet.

‘That’s just for starters,’ he spat, furiously. ‘Remember my promise, bastard? Well, do you?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Dyson snivelled, through split and bleeding lips. ‘But I ain’t dun nuffink, ’onest!’

‘Liar! Copper’s nark! Squealing, miserable, ungrateful little shit. You grassed me up, didn’t you?’

‘No, guv, no. I swear! Melton threatened me, ’ad me knocked abaht—but I didn’t tell ’im nuffink!’

‘You expect me to believe that? Taxi! Surbiton! Raines Park! Reporters with crystal balls? Bollocks! Come on, you stinking pervert, on your feet. We’ll borrow the spare cab and find a nice quiet spot somewhere—somewhere private where I can keep my promise and slice your stinking guts!’

Unquestionably sincere and oozing malevolence, Strudwick drew his knife … It was enough! Sylvia’s hand flew to her mouth in horror. Dear God, had she left it too late? Screened by the desk, her knee moved fractionally, located a hidden button and pressed twice.

Linked to a radio transmitter concealed in a drawer, Sylvia’s panic button triggered a distinctive series of ‘beeps’, inaudible— except in the earphones of around thirty police officers. The door to Sylvia’s private office crashed open and two waiting detectives burst in at a run.

‘Police! Don’t move! Drop the knife! Get down on the floor— now!’

Taken by surprise, Strudwick froze and dropped the knife. He made a dash for the door—but was easily outmanoeuvered. In the resultant melee, his sunglasses went flying and were trodden on, he lost one of his contact lenses and collected a couple of bruises. It was soon over. Strong hands clamped his arms and applied handcuffs.

Pulling on gloves, DC Gibson recovered the knife, slipped it into a plastic bag and labelled it. Strudwick was frisked and declared ‘clean’.

It fell to DC Slade to ‘do the honours’.

‘Robert William Strudwick. I’m arresting you on suspicion of kidnap, carrying an illegal weapon, aggravated assault with intent, causing actual bodily harm and attempting to avoid arrest. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down and given in evidence. It may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you may later rely on in court. Do you wish to say anything?’

Bollocks to the lot of you—especially Melton,—and watch your sodding back, copper! Hang on! Why not try a spot of bluff? You can be absolutely brilliant when you’ve a mind to.

His self-belief was astonishing.

‘Kidnap? Assault?’ he challenged. ‘What the hell are you talking about? You must be mistaken—confusing me with somebody else. My name isn’t
Strudwick
, it’s Roberts.’

DC Slade laughed.

‘Sure, Julia—and I’m Bela Lugosi. If you think we’re swallowing that line of crap, you’re either off your crust or living in cloud-cuckoo-land. For one thing, Mrs Fairweather knows you and for another—apart from your hair—you match an extremely accurate photofit of—you’ve guessed it—Robert William Strudwick. What’s more, you and I have already met, now haven’t we?’

Not the least dismayed, Strudwick changed tactics.

‘If you say so,’ he muttered. ‘But you
could
be mistaken and end up with egg all over your face.’

‘I’ll just have to chance it, won’t I?’ Slade retorted, ‘’cos
you
, Mr Strudwick, are
staying
nicked.’

Strudwick shrugged and tried another tack.

‘Now I’ve been arrested, I suppose the next thing you’ll do is cart me off to the station—right?’ Slade glared. Paperwork, Sunday duty, now this … this … pillock. What
was
it, with the little creep? Harry had had enough.

‘Not if it upsets you. Maybe I should just turn you loose and buy you a ticket to the Bahamas? Of
course
you’re going to the station— the nearest one, buster. There’s the door, get moving. I’ve had just about enough of you—and that’s putting it mildly.’

He grasped the detainee’s arm. Strudwick shrugged him off. His eyes gleamed, he became calmer, rational, persuasive.
The Book!

‘Just a minute, Constable,’ he protested, ‘I’m being serious. See that holdall, by the wall? It’s mine. My pyjamas, shaver and toiletries are inside and it looks as if I’ll be needing them. Would you mind if we take it along? I’ll carry it—if you take these manacles off.’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ Slade replied. ‘You wear your own gear— until you reach the Slammer, that is. But
I’ll
look after the bag, thank you.’

He picked up the bag.

‘Come on, no more messing. Time to get you to the nick.’ Strudwick merely smiled.

1140, Thames Ditton Police Station.

‘Here we are, Sarge,’ Slade announced, ‘I reckon you’ve been expecting us. This here is Robert William Strudwick, arrested on suspicion of kidnap, aggravated assault with intent, causing actual bodily harm, resisting arrest and carrying an illegal weapon—i.e., this here knife and sheath.’ The Desk Sergeant completed an evidence form which, together with the weapon and sheath, were placed in the safe.

Procedural arrest routine followed, modified to suit Ditton’s lack of prisoner facilities. ‘Take off your watch. Empty your pockets—money, keys, wallet, handkerchief, and place everything on the counter.’

Strudwick obeyed. Every item was checked and listed, his money counted and everything except his spectacles and his handkerchief went into the customary basket.

He signed the receipt and accepted his copy without protest— he wanted something.

‘And this is his bag, Sarge,’ said Slade, dumping it on the counter.

‘OK, Mr Strudwick,’ the long-suffering non-com sighed, ‘open it up. Everything on the counter!’

Again without protest, Strudwick complied.

Into the basket went a large wad of notes—carefully counted and annotated—passport, travelling alarm, mirror, dressing-gown, shoes and a clothes brush.

‘You won’t be needing those!’

Suitably crestfallen and compliant, Strudwick asked, ‘Then what
can
I keep?’

‘Socks, vests, pants, shirts, soap, towel, shaver, toothpaste and brush, and the bag to keep it all in. Hang on a minute. That towel—what’s that wrapped up inside it?’

‘Just a book I’m halfway through. OK if I keep it?’

‘Show!’

Cautiously, Strudwick displayed one edge of the treasured tome. ‘OK? Can I keep it—please?’

‘Seems harmless enough, all right.’

Outwardly calm, privately elated, Strudwick merely said, ‘Thank you.’

On finding himself locked in a cell, however and in the absence of any response from the Book, he became progressively morose and withdrawn. Invited to submit to a saliva swab, Strudwick demurred, but changed his mind shortly afterwards when four burly policemen arrived to commend the procedure. Refusing point blank to co-operate any further, he was moved to Surbiton and interviewed by successive teams of interrogators—including Melton and O’Connor—throughout Monday and again on Tuesday, continuing until late afternoon.