The Flyleaf Killer (19 page)

Reminded of the uncomfortably warm hairpiece, Jennifer’s hand started towards her head.

‘No,’ O’Connor warned, ‘leave it alone. Don’t take it off here; you might be identified.’

‘Sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I wasn’t thinking. OK, what happens next?’

‘Nothing as far as you’re concerned. We’re hoping your performance will lead us to the killer. But it was a “one-off’, you know. It probably represents our last hope of finding somebody who can remember seeing Malandra on Sunday the fourteenth of July.’

August 12, Monday

Keeping their collective word, pressmen and television journalists gave the
Body in the Garden
reconstruction an extensive airing, a photograph of Malandra prominently displayed. The reason for the reconstruction was explained, with a further appeal for witnesses.

Public response was disappointing, although incident-room telephones began ringing around nine. From a total of eight would-be informers, six failed initial scrutiny and were discounted. The two remaining, Arthur and Mildred Jupp, were logged for subsequent interview.

On Tuesday August fourteenth, the couple were interviewed jointly by Melton and O’Connor. They stated that they visited Charlesworth’s garage just after 11.00 a.m. on the fourteenth July, a few minutes late for an appointment to inspect a Ford Fiesta advertised in
Esher News
that week. They had entered in something of a hurry, almost bumping into a young woman on her way out. They had caught the briefest of glimpses, but thought she resembled the photo in Monday’s newspaper. Arthur Jupp had been struck by her beauty and obvious youth, whereas Mildred remembered how well her hair seemed to complement her rather daring, lemon-coloured dress. Invited by Melton to look carefully at the original photograph, however, neither could swear it was
definitely
the same girl.

August 14, Wednesday

Melton and O’Connor called on Tobias Charlesworth. Melton proffered his warrant card and introduced his assistant. Charlesworth made no move to shake hands and remained seated.

‘Oh, it’s you again, Detective Inspector,’ he sighed. ‘What on earth do you want this time?’

Melton trod warily.

‘Since my last visit, Mr Charlesworth, two witnesses claim to have seen a young woman leaving these premises just after eleven on Sunday fourteenth July, wearing a yellow summer dress. Both are of the opinion she strongly resembled Malandra Pennington. I am obliged, therefore, to ask you again: Did Miss Pennington call at these showrooms on the day in question?’

Call their bluff; sit tight. He says they’re guessing, haven’t got a clue.

Pre-warned, DS O’Connor watched for the slightest unease, as did Melton. Far from looking guilty, however, Charlesworth put on a masterful display of exasperation. He rose to his feet.

‘Listen, Detective Inspector—you too, Sergeant O’Connor. I’ve had just about enough of this. I’ve already made it perfectly clear. I haven’t seen Miss Pennington since June, but if you come back with a warrant, I’ll gladly make my appointments diary available. I cannot in all conscience say the woman
hasn’t
checked our forecourt stock since June, she may well have done—perhaps on a number of occasions. After all, she was seeking to replace her car. But whether she did so or not is immaterial. We do not keep tabs on every pedestrian in the street. If there’s nothing further, gentlemen, I’ve plenty to do. You won’t mind seeing yourselves out?’

Steven Pearce again found himself in a Surbiton interview room. He sat facing the same two officers across the same, bare, coffee-stained table. DS O’Connor spoke into a microphone.

‘Interview timed at fourteen-thirty hours August fourteenth two thousand and two. Persons present: Detective Inspector David Melton, Detective Sergeant Benjamin O’Connor, Surrey Police, and Steven Pearce, aged sixteen. Say ‘Yes’, Steven, if that is correct.’

‘Yes.’

‘You live at number eleven Rodene Close, Lower Green, Esher. Is that also correct?’

‘Yes, you know I do.’

‘Now Steven, I’d like you to cast your mind back to June nineteenth of this year—the day of the league cricket match at West End in which you participated. At a previous interview, you identified as your property a blue anorak with yellow-striped sleeves and a pair of canvas trainers sized seven and claimed that these were removed during the course of the match, entirely without your knowledge or consent. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are aware that the same anorak and trainers were scientifically linked with the murder of Malandra Pennington on the fourteenth of July—whose body was discovered in your garden the following day—and that the very same items were subsequently recovered from a nearby dustbin?’

‘Yes … but we’ve been through all this before, over and over.’

‘I know, but these points have to be confirmed for the record. Now, bearing in mind that whoever stole your property may also have murdered Miss Pennington, I have to ask you once again to tell us the name of anyone you suspect might be the thief—no matter how remote the possibility. Somebody tried to frame you for a crime you didn’t commit. Surely you’ve
some
idea who that somebody might be? Come on, Steven, who dislikes you enough to have you convicted for murder? Take your time—think hard. This is extremely important.’

Melton waited.

Steven sighed, appeared to consider, but nothing was changed:
Do they really expect a cheap, sneak-thief maybe-killer, to be handed them on a plate? They are the detectives, why don’t they go out and do some detecting? On the other hand, whom
do
I know who might fit the bill?—Nobody, really—except, perhaps… no, not even him. A two-faced rat certainly, a nasty little shit who once made Jan’s life a misery, but a killer? No way! How could he have nicked my gear, he wasn’t even at the match, was he? OK, suppose I did give his name and they pulled him in for questioning, what then? They’d get nowhere and have to let him go, that’s what. Pretty soon he’d find out who grassed him up—and then who would he take it out on? Yes, poor Janice again. Then it’d be my bloody turn—no chance! She’s happy. I love her and I reckon she loves me. I can’t risk getting up his nose just to shift a couple of lousy coppers off of my back…

‘Sorry, Mr Melton,’ Steven said, ‘but as I’ve already told you, I haven’t the remotest.’

DI Melton wrote: ‘Steven Pearce, re-interviewed, nothing to add. Dead end, again!’

August 23, Friday

Lacking justification for its continuance, the incident room was closed. The case, however, was anything but closed, and Detective Inspector David Melton resolved to keep the
Body in the Garden
file current, and to bring the killer to justice, no matter how long it took.

Much good
that’ll
do them
, Strudwick sniggered, derisively.

December, 2002.

Four months into the investigation the police were no nearer solving the crime. Robert Strudwick felt no sense of relief, however. Why would he? Supremely confident his masterful scheme would remain detection-proof, backed by the Book and the powers of his mentor, how could it be otherwise?

But he wasn’t complacent. There
had
been flaws: gambler Toby Charlesworth—always a weak link, though he’d never dare talk; and Steven Pearce’s last-minute change of plan, without which the police would long since have declared the case closed. The girlfriend-stealing rat ought to be staring a life-sentence in the face, instead of which (he was reliably informed) he was to remain free, despite a well-justified suspicion that he knew far more than he cared to admit. Steven Pearce’s turn would come but first, Francis Bridgwater, Robert promised himself, grimly.

It had been a wonderful year, for all that. With personal sales rapidly approaching those of millionaire Gaston Hathaway, Robert’s income, investments and assets grew month on month. His future seemed assured. Safe, unassailable, confident his mentor was sated for the time being, he nevertheless consulted the Book each and every day.

Preparation

Just about everybody knew about it, read about it, talked about it, worried about it, lived in fear and dread of it: the
Body in the Garden
murder … yes,
MURDER!
Right here, in the quiet, normal, everyday, workaday town of Esher. And whilst the nature of the atrocities to which Malandra Pennington’s body had been subjected were never fully made public, just about everybody knew there was a depraved killer living somewhere in their midst—a
local
man! Even so, what
had
been revealed about the crime was so monstrous as almost to defy imagination.

But time is indeed a great healer and, as the weeks and months passed, the frequency with which the subject cropped up steadily diminished, until the day came when young women no longer thought it necessary to seek safety in numbers and began to venture out alone once more.

All was duly noted by Robert Strudwick, who maintained and expanded his local knowledge as a matter of course, keeping tabs on persons of particular interest through a network of craven informants, subjugated puppets recruited over time since the Book had come into his possession.

Nor did he neglect his other skills. Apart from almost effortless success as a young, up-and-coming estate agent, he amused himself exploring and developing a wide range of possibilities for obtaining revenge on those earmarked for further attention—and there were several. But one in particular was never far from his thoughts: that arrogant, womanising creep Francis Bridgwater. Well-rid of the Pennington bitch, Robert ached for the signal to repay Francis too—and painfully.

One potential plan called for the use of disguise. This prompted a visit to the library to learn more and he became fascinated by the subject. Reading that no disguise was infinitely preferable to a poor one—more likely to attract rather than divert attention—he put the theory into practice and developed a simple but entertaining means of gaining unchallenged access to protected premises in locations spread across half of Surrey.

On his first outing, he discovered a natural talent for blending into the background, and learned to transform his appearance by wearing contact lenses instead of spectacles; by adopting a small mannerism—a stoop, a slight limp perhaps; or simply by wearing clothes appropriate to the venue. Robert practised under a variety of guises in widely differing circumstances and places without ever once raising a single, questioning eyebrow.

For all his success with women, however, Robert seemed unable to sustain a relationship for any length of time and continued to indulge in brief, spasmodic affairs. When at a loose end, he tried occasionally to force his attentions on Janice, cynically ignoring her protests that she and Steven were very much in love. Although fearful of the consequences, she steadfastly kept him at arm’s length, which further exacerbated his dislike of Steven. Eventually, tired of being rebuffed, Robert decided not to bother with her again, but to be avenged on them both, given a suitable opportunity. Meanwhile, he decided to amplify Steven Pearce’s fear as a reminder to keep his mouth shut.

Happening across Steven in the High Street a day or so later, Robert took him to one side.

‘Listen, Pearce,’ he said, ominously, ‘just in case you suspect
me
of nicking your gear at that bloody cricket match…’

It was both threat and accusation. Steven hastily defended himself.

‘Why on earth should I?’ he protested. ‘You weren’t even at the match, as far as I know.’

‘That’s right, I wasn’t—and make sure you remember it!’ was Robert’s swift rejoinder. Then: ‘And another thing. You enticed Janice away from me and I won’t forget that in a hurry, either!’

It was an unfair assertion, delivered with menace. Suddenly fearful, Steven shook his head.

‘I didn’t entice her; I didn’t need to. She was finished with you long before I asked her for a date.’

‘Bullshit! She was still my girlfriend when you snogged her on the way to school—and don’t bother denying it either. A friend of mine saw the pair of you canoodling and holding hands.’

Steven paled. He recalled both the incident and the mitigating circumstances, but it would be futile to try and explain it away to Robert. Realising that to say more might only make matters worse, he made as if to walk away, but Strudwick wasn’t allowing that. Gripping Steven roughly by his arm and in a voice heavy with menace, he snarled, ‘Yes, Pearce, I’ve known all along what you were up to and, what’s more, you’ll pay for it, one of these days!

‘But about your anorak and trainers. If you breathe a word to the police—or anybody else, for that matter, I’ll treat you to a razor-job—Janice too. Will you still fancy her with a ripped cake hole? And what will she say when she finds out it’s all down to you? Do you get my drift—arsehole?’

Steven was no coward, but Robert scared him. He was even more frightened for Janice’s safety.

‘But I love Janice and she loves me. Just leave us alone—I swear I’ll keep out of your way…’ His plea fell on deaf ears. Robert strode away without so much as a backward glance.

Janice and Steven’s childhood friendship—resumed out of sympathy towards the end of her unhappy relationship with Robert— blossomed from the day she told him her affair was at an end, whereupon he had confessed his true feelings. Janice was astonished at first, but his ardour, sincerity and manliness couldn’t be denied, and it wasn’t long before she eagerly reciprocated his advances…

But what of Francis Bridgwater, so often the subject of Robert Strudwick’s malevolent thoughts? Francis, an only child, never knew his mother, who had died from complications following his birth. He was brought up virtually single-handed by his father, whose main concern was to ensure that the boy enjoyed a normal childhood, despite the lack of a mother’s love and attention—and he had succeeded. Francis (or Frank, as he was popularly known) not only did most of the things boys generally did, he also coped well at school, excelling in languages, especially French and Italian.

Slender resources or no, Kenneth Bridgwater financed a continental holiday each year for the boy, something Frank hugely enjoyed, and he worked tirelessly to improve his colloquial fluency in order to repay his father’s generosity.