The Flyleaf Killer (15 page)

Slowly, she began to regain consciousness. By and by, she raised her head and opened dull slits of eyes.

Pentophiles drew ever closer.
NOW! NOW! NOW!

‘Oh good, you snotty little cow. Awake at last,’ Strudwick jeered. ‘Now you’ve had a nice, long restful sleep, the time has come to say ‘goodbye’—so goodbye, you stinking bitch!’

To prevent her moving, he grasped her hair and passed the knife to and fro in front of her face, watching, fascinated, as comprehension dawned. Mercilessly, employing a technique of his own devising, he slit her throat with one vicious, slashing stroke, starting from under one ear, continuing across and under the chin almost to the other. Blood fountained from the severed neck but her assassin made no attempt to avoid it. He allowed the warm, crimson fluid to pump freely over his hands and trickle down his body.

He watched and waited until her eyes glazed over and the flow of life-blood ceased.

Using the trowel, he dug a substantial hole in soft, sandy soil inside a clump of bushes beyond the clearing, into which he tossed the bonds from her wrists, the trowel, her sandals and the remnants of her clothes. Then Strudwick stood over the body, threw back his head and emitted a peal of demonic laughter. Pentophiles triumphant—
AT LAST! AT LAST!
In a manic frenzy, he bit, tore and ripped at what little was left of her features; he took and ingested mouthfuls of flesh from the breasts and upper arms. Not until sated did his rage subside; he rested a while.

Once refreshed and back in control, Strudwick worked swiftly. He spread the prepared plastic sheets and heaved the body on top, severed the head, sawed and hacked to separate arms and legs and wrapped the parts to form four parcels—the torso in one, head and arms in another and a leg in each of the two remaining. Shoving the parcels into plastic bags, he secured the necks with string and loaded all four into the boot.

He removed the gloves, rinsed and dried the knife and returned it to its sheath, threw the hacksaw and soiled gloves into the hole. Then he sponged himself from head to toe and poured away the water, repeating the process until every trace of blood was gone. He dried himself and tossed both towel and sponge into the hole, which he carefully back-filled and smoothed by hand.

Despite a thorough douching with the remaining water, traces of blood persisted around the sapling, but these would be flushed away by the next shower of rain. Donning fresh gloves, he wiped the can and bucket handles and everything on the car he might accidentally have touched.

He returned the bucket to the boot, latched it and, after carefully checking the clearing, started the engine and manoeuvred the car back on to the track. Leaving the engine running, he returned to the clearing in his bare feet. He used a dead branch to sweep the area clear of tyre-marks and footprints and, once satisfied, went back to the car to dress. Strudwick left the woods by the shortest and most direct route.

The Marquis of Granby—a well-known hotel near the Scilly Isles roundabout—was a convenient place to stop for sandwiches and a soft drink. Strudwick left his gloves in the car whilst making his purchase and put them back on when he returned. He ate and drank in the car, disposing of the bottle and wrappings in a handy rubbish bin, and at the same time taking the opportunity to be rid of two plastic sandwich boxes he had wiped clean of fingerprints.

At ten minutes past eleven, he parked the Astra behind Lower Green Post Office, switched off the engine and extinguished the lights. Slipping on the anorak and trainers, he took the bags from the boot and walked openly to Rodene Close via Cobham Street and through the side entrance of number eleven.

Strudwick was entirely familiar with the garden, having reconnoitred thoroughly in advance. He used a spade from the shed to bury the bags, taking no particular trouble to work quietly. Interment was completed in under ten minutes, the hole filled and the spade returned to the shed.
There, Steven Pearce. Let’s see you wriggle your way out of
that. If the police were smart enough, his toe-rag rival might spend the next twenty years in jail. He grinned happily at the thought.

But, excellent though his intelligence-gathering had been, Strudwick was not aware that Steven’s ticket had failed to arrive, nor that at the eleventh hour he had accepted his father’s offer of a free weekend, assured that Manchester United would undoubtedly survive, even without his support.

Robert returned to the car, where it was the work of a few minutes to make a parcel of the trainers and anorak, run silently in his socks to a nearby house and dump the package in a dustbin where, with a bit of luck, it might reasonably be found.

Five minutes later, he was en route for a quarter-past midnight rendezvous with a hard-up mechanic from an Isleworth garage (a useful contact through his father, who managed Charlesworth’s finances) to return the Astra borrowed for the weekend on an unofficial ‘sale or return’ arrangement. He stopped beside the Thames at Hampton near the A311 turn-off for Twickenham and threw the bucket, water-container and latchkey into the river. In a back street close to the garage, the car was checked and £200 paid over in cash, the agreed ‘sweetener’ should the vehicle fail to sell. No names were mentioned: no questions asked. Strudwick summoned a taxi from a nearby call box, was picked up in minutes and back in Esher High Street by 12.50, barely a couple of minutes walk from where he had left his car. An hour later, he was home, bathed and fast asleep in bed.

Sparkling and pristine, the Astra was back on the Isleworth forecourt by nine and purchased by an elderly couple from Osterley before midday for £5,000—a very reasonable price for a highly sought-after, low-mileage car in extremely nice condition.

Investigation

Police work relies on information, whether communicated electronically, verbally or via the traditional piece of paper—without information, few crimes would ever be solved. Modern information technology, infinitely capacious and a thousand times faster than the data transmission of yesteryear, would contribute little to efficiency were this vast reservoir of available information not prioritised. The humble copper must therefore be selective and turn to the computer only when absolutely necessary.

There are basically two species of policeman: the ‘beat bobby’ (a rarity, these days) whose brief is to uphold the law and prevent crime, and the detective, who must concentrate on tracking down and bringing miscreants to justice. Enter the Criminal Investigation Department. Be assured, the modern detective is simply an old-fashioned detective with electronic additions.

And what, you may ask, constitutes a successful detective?

Take intuition, attention to detail and sheer, hard grind— mostly the latter—plus, if you like, the dogged application of crime-detection methods devised, applied and proven over the years and you have the makings of a solid, dependable CID officer.

Detective Inspector David Melton was essentially an old-fashioned type of policeman. Keenly intuitive, his attention to detail regularly pinpointed clues that might otherwise be overlooked, and therefore he probed and prodded at every snippet purely as a matter of course. In common with most successful officers, he never ignored memoranda—routine or otherwise. He simply worked longer hours when necessary.

Monday, 20 July 2002

Week three into the investigation—The
Body in the Garden
murder.

Following the release without charge of Steven Pearce, the area covered by house-to-house inquiries and the search of gardens and outbuildings were twice extended, yet nothing further emerged to suggest a possible suspect, or provide a clue which might help establish the murdered girl’s identity, nor uncover anything to indicate a possible motive for the crime. Even though the blood on the anorak matched that of the corpse, it was necessary to establish beyond doubt they were from the same person. Samples were therefore sent for genetic analysis. Missing person reports from all over the country were checked, but none stood up to scrutiny and after a week with little or no progress to report, media interest waned.

But, on July 31, nineteen-year-old Jennifer Montague arrived home after ten miserable days in Tangiers. For some unknown reason, her close friend Malandra Pennington had failed to keep their rendezvous at the Britair departure terminal in Kensington on Sunday July 14.

Jennifer dialled Malandra’s number—no reply; tried her mobile—switched off.
Strange!
She went round to Malandra’s flat, knocked the door and rang the doorbell—no response.

What if Malandra’s change of heart had been unintentional? Might she have fallen ill—been taken to hospital, perhaps?
And whose so-called friend went on holiday without first finding out?
Jennifer almost ran to the garages behind the flats. She stood on tiptoe to peer through a window and there in Malandra’s lockup stood a car, unmistakably her ancient Mini. Something was definitely wrong.

She returned to Malandra’s flat and hammered on the door. Again there was no response, but the next-door neighbour came out.

‘What’s going on? Oh, hello, Jennifer. What’s the matter?’

‘I can’t locate Malandra. She doesn’t answer the phone, she’s not at home, but her car is still in the garage.’

‘I thought she was away on holiday—with you!’

‘She didn’t turn up at the air terminal. I kept ringing her but couldn’t get an answer. I thought she’d changed her mind—she often does—so I went on holiday without her. What else could I do?’

Phyllis Gleave—Malandra’s neighbour—turned deathly white. She swayed, seemed likely to faint, and may even have fallen, had not Jennifer grabbed her arm.

‘Whatever is the matter, Phyllis? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’

‘Oh my God, Jennifer. It’s Malandra—it must be! The police found the body of a girl in a garden at Lower Green a fortnight ago … and she was a blonde. It was on telly and in all the papers.’ Jennifer blanched. ‘Do you really think…?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, no!’ She burst into tears.

It was Phyllis’ turn to be supportive. ‘Steady on, love, don’t cry. I’ve got a key—shall we take a look? Maybe it’s all a mistake.’

Jennifer nodded and wiped her eyes. ‘Yes, we’d better make sure, I suppose.’

Mrs Gleave ran for the key. Nervously, she turned it in the lock and pushed back the door. Behind it lay a scattering of mail. There were two suitcases and beyond, lying on the hall table beside a vase of dead flowers, stood Malandra’s handbag. Jennifer shrieked.

‘Shut the door, Phyllis, and come away. I’m calling the police. Can I use your phone?’

‘Of course you can. There’s a special number to ring—it’s been in all the papers. It was in the
Sunday Mirror
. I’ve still got my copy, somewhere—hang on, I’ll go and find it.’

Scaled-down incident-room staff were doggedly ‘plodding’, but soon after Jennifer Montague telephoned the special number, the atmosphere became dramatically transformed. Her call was taken by a civilian telephone operator, who immediately alerted DS O’Connor.

‘Hey, Sarge, there’s a Miss Jennifer Montague on the line, from Esher. Says she’s a friend of an eighteen-year-old girl named Malandra Pennington—a blonde. Seems they were going away on holiday on July fourteenth, but when Miss Pennington didn’t show up as arranged, she went to Tangiers on her own. She got back from holiday an hour ago. Tried to phone her friend, but there was no reply. She checked Miss Pennington’s flat to find nobody at home, yet her car is still in the garage. Miss Montague is ringing from the flat next door. Apparently the neighbour heard knocking, came out, told her about the murder and our appeal. Do you want to speak to her?’

‘Yes, George, put her through. I’d very much like a word!’

Minutes later, he reported the text of the conversation to DS Melton.

‘It seems the neighbour had a key to Miss Pennington’s flat. They checked inside, but didn’t enter. One look was enough to convince them Malandra had gone missing. Her holiday suitcases and her handbag were still in the hall as she left them, together with a pile of unopened mail. Not surprisingly, Miss Montague is distraught, but she’s still perfectly coherent.’

‘Get her to come in—better still, go and see her,’ Melton said. ‘Turn her story over and take a statement. Get a description of Miss Pennington and a photo, if possible—you know the form. Action stations, Ben. Give me a ring. If everything checks out, there’ll be buttons to push!’

Melton was visibly brighter. After two weeks without progress and a cold trail on this callous, well-planned killing, there were signs of despondency in the team. Everybody needed a breakthrough. For the first time in more than a fortnight, Melton actually smiled.

‘The more I think about it the surer I am. We’re on to the girl’s identity.’

DS O’Connor also seemed confident. Half an hour later he came on the line.

‘We may have a match, sir, the description fits. I’m at Miss Montague’s home—16 Stretton Mews, two minutes’ walk from Miss Pennington’s flat. I’ll explain why I’m here in a minute. I gave the neighbour a receipt for the key and advised Mrs Gleave not to jump to conclusions, to stay calm and not assume the worst until positive identification is established. I pointed out there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Miss Pennington’s absence.

‘I also suggested it would be wiser not to discuss the matter with anyone, at least for the moment. It was impossible to question Miss Montague—Mrs Gleave was parroting ten to the dozen—so I escorted her home to talk to her and pick up a photograph of Miss Pennington. She produced several and I picked out a couple taken last year. What a pretty little thing she was too—an orphan, so Miss Montague says.

‘She seems convinced the girl is dead and is extremely upset. She and Miss Pennington have been close friends for years—they went to school together, apparently. When I asked her if she knew of anyone who might wish to see Miss Pennington dead, or might have a motive for wanting to harm her, she said she hadn’t the remotest idea—and burst into tears. It’s too soon to try for a statement, but she might have more to say once she’s calmed down…’ He went quiet for a couple of seconds, then asked, ‘Do you want to get in on this, Guv’nor?’