The Flyleaf Killer (22 page)

A scalpel glinted centimetres in front of his face, held in an unwavering, rubber-gloved hand. Forcing himself to focus beyond the blade he saw, to his horror, that his captor was clad in a green surgical gown, cap and mask. Green, rubber surgeon’s boots protruded from beneath the gown.

The hand flashed forward and back like a striking snake. He felt an impact and knew his left cheek had been laid open. Warm blood gushed down his face. Pain followed, fierce as flame.

The scalpel again thrust towards his face and he threw his head frantically from side to side, seeking to avoid the flashing blade.

‘Keep still, you bastard,’ his captor hissed and grasped a handful of hair to hold his victim still.

Francis saw the blade for a second time as the scalding pain of another bone-deep incision caused him to shriek in anguish.

The blood-soaked gag fell away, cut in two by the second strike of the blade.

The ‘surgeon’ stepped back to inspect his work and grunted with satisfaction.

‘There, you arrogant shit,’ he snarled. ‘That’s “V” for victory, pig-arse, and the victory is mine!’

Francis screamed—an awesome, heart-rending howl, made possible only by the removal of the gag. It sounded incredibly loud and he wondered, curiously, where the sound came from. Weakened by hunger, dehydration, blood-loss and physical suffering, the terrified youth relapsed into unconsciousness.

Kill the bastard, kill, kill, kill!
But Strudwick had no such intention. To be properly avenged, Bridgwater must suffer further—and be aware that he was about to die. The prisoner stirred and groaned. The watcher tensed, ready to strike again, but there was no further movement.
Damn!
It was getting late. Strudwick decided to return a night or so later. Bridgwater would still be alive; he could be revived sufficiently to recognise what he had coming.

When eventually the unfortunate man did recover, it was to discover both gag and blindfold had been replaced, the dungeon was once again in darkness and his assailant long gone.

Mercifully perhaps, he was unaware that most of his organs were failing and that even if rescued immediately, he was already beyond the help of medical science. It would require a miracle now to save him from certain death.

Further long hours dragged by, during which he alternated between consciousness and oblivion. When the door was unlocked for a third time he scarcely noticed.

After a time, he became vaguely aware of the blindfold being removed and kept his eyes screwed tight against the light. Contemptuously the watcher waited. More time passed. Eventually the captive’s eyelids fluttered and his eyes slowly opened. He squinted and watched as the outline behind the light slowly resolved into the menacing, green-garbed figure. Without doubt, it was Robert Strudwick. Once again the apparition stood silent and unmoving.

Strudwick peered balefully over his mask, impatient for at least a flicker of reaction. But Bridgwater seemed irritatingly oblivious, both to his situation and his surroundings. Vacant eyes showed no sign of awareness, no readable emotion, no fear, no hate, no despair. Pain had etched deep lines across a once-youthful brow and suppurating wounds rendered the countenance gaunt and macabre.

Strudwick’s throat constricted, but not from pity. He would wait.
Too late, too late—you’ve left it too late!

But he would not be cheated. He stepped forward and splashed water into Bridgwater’s face.

Gradually, the features began to re-animate. Slowly, memory returned. Francis attempted to beg for mercy, but the gag—now thick with coagulated blood—effectively thwarted the attempt and he barely managed to groan. Indifferent to any sort of plea, Strudwick’s only concern was the return of his subject to full awareness. It was time!

He stood directly beneath the lamp and produced a large, sheathed knife from inside his gown. Ensuring the terrified eyes of his victim were following every move, he held the protective cover in one hand and withdrew the blade with the other, taunting his captive by rotating the shining steel in front of his eyes.

Placing himself an arm’s length from the wretch, he lowered his mask and watched as recognition dawned, leaning forward until his eyes were a few centimetres from those of his captive.

He shoved the knife hard against the hapless man’s neck, just below his right ear, and hissed, ‘At last, you stinking shitbag, at last. I told you I’d get even one day. Now it’s
my
turn to take the fucking piss. So die, you filthy, scum-bagging bastard—die!’

He stabbed the cutting edge deep into soft flesh and drew it rapidly across and under the chin, stepping back when blood spurted from the severed arteries. For one brief instant, horror and understanding registered on that pallid, bloodied face; then the head fell forward when his neck could no longer support its own weight. Agony departed, unseeing eyes dimmed and glazed over. Blessed oblivion finally released nineteen-year-old Francis Bridgwater from his ordeal. Merciful death followed a short while afterwards.

Strudwick shrugged, disappointed. The climax had proved nowhere as exciting as he’d hoped. It was time, however, to remove any possible evidence. Having disposed of the wheelchair on day one, he now wiped the knife on the gown and returned it to its sheath, slipped out of the protective garments and tied the lot into a bundle by means of the apron straps, rubber boots and gloves innermost. He would return to Kingston hospital tomorrow and dump the lot in a laundry-trolley.

The gag and blindfold had been formed from doubled-over 75 millimetre bandage and the bonds from common bell wire—both problem-free, untraceable. He left the corpse in the niche, exactly as it was.

After a careful look around he used his handkerchief to wipe the light switches and door latches clean, retrieved his hand-torch from the steps and locked the outer door on the way out. It was late at night and nobody was about—nor would they be until the sexton unlocked the church at 8.00 a.m. the following morning…

Ten minutes later, Strudwick strolled into the Old Church and glanced around—it was empty. Treading warily, nevertheless, he stealthily replaced the key in the vestry…

The Old Church

Impatient for news of his most recent mission to feature on television and be reported in the newspapers, Robert Strudwick nevertheless continued to apply himself both diligently and successfully to the business of property marketing. Throughout December and for the whole of January 2005 he worked and waited, whilst the remains of Francis Bridgwater lay mouldering in the vault beneath Esher Old Church.

Busy or no, Robert kept the lives of those in whom he was especially interested under constant review, and reserved sufficient time each day to maintain contact with each and every one of his informants. Access to police intelligence had already proven its worth and in case he might have further need of inside information, Strudwick took care to hone and nurture his covert contact at Surbiton.

Bridgwater’s fate and that of the girl had been sealed from the moment they had ignored his warning and left the Milk Bar together. Now he wanted the satisfaction of observing the puerile scampering of the police, as they set about trying to identify an unknown, clever assailant, one able to emerge at will, strike with impunity and vanish without trace. Certain that inspired planning and meticulous attention to detail had left no possible clue as to his identity, he craved publicity for the latest insoluble mystery to his credit—press and public alike would be suitably impressed by yet another remarkable achievement and they would ridicule another pathetic failure on the part of the police.

Francis Bridgwater
did
receive mention, however, when, in early December, an article reporting the young man’s disappearance appeared in
Esher News
. ‘Francis mysteriously vanished whilst en route to France’, the paper said, ‘to resume work after a short holiday in the UK.’

Police appealed for anyone who had seen Francis between November 16th and December 1st to come forward but, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, a spokesman ruled out any suggestion of foul play—much to Robert Strudwick’s amusement. As with the Pennington girl, the master tactician’s strategy for disposing of Francis Bridgwater had been designed to defer involvement of the police long enough for memories to fade and reduce the effectiveness of the inevitable witness appeals.

By early February, however, the assassin’s patience was wearing thin and he considered making an anonymous call to the police from an outlying phone box, suggesting they search St. George’s Church where there was reason to believe the body of a murdered man was concealed.

Considering the idea at dinner one evening, his thoughts were abruptly interrupted.
Come to your room this instant, I wish to speak with you
, a fearsome voice commanded. Strudwick blanched, and almost choked on a mouthful of fish. His knife and fork clattered noisily onto his plate. It was unprecedented. Pentophiles
never
approached unless he was alone—nor, as yet, had he done so in such an intrusive manner. His father looked up, bemused, and his mother twittered anxiously.

‘Are you all right, Robert darling? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ Something was seriously amiss to merit such a peremptory summons. Robert rose shakily.

‘Sorry, I don’t feel very well,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, I’m going to my room…’

Since becoming custodian of the Book, he frequently sensed the presence of Pentophiles—usually as a prelude to communication—but following the fantastically exciting adventure which had culminated in the annihilation of the Pennington bitch in Oxshott Woods, the demonic emissary revealed himself once only, when, gloating over the mission’s success, he had delivered personal congratulations for the girl’s highly-satisfactory demise. Her soul-wrenching anguish had provided precisely the catalyst Pentophiles needed to exchange personalities temporarily with Robert, enabling him to savour human flesh and blood for the first time in several hundreds of years.

‘Henry Plowrite’ materialised the moment Robert entered his bedroom and closed the door. The patently hostile demeanour of the nether-being did nothing to counter Robert’s apprehension.

Indeed, there was far more of the demon in those pseudo-human features than before. ‘Henry Plowrite’ fixed red-flecked, gleaming black eyes firmly on those of his young protégé.

‘I come deliver thee warning,’ he intoned, formally and without preamble. ‘Mark well thy contract, Robert William Strudwick, for no other reminder shalt thou have, ere thy soul be instantly forfeit.’ The apparition vanished, leaving the barest suggestion of putrescence in its wake.

As if to underline his displeasure, Pentophiles had made no attempt to transpose his formalised, archaic prose into modern English and it took a while for his words to fully register, but when they did, Robert feared he had inadvertently violated the contract in some way; but logic prevailed. Should such a calamitous eventuality already have taken place, it was unlikely his mentor would content himself with a mere verbal warning. Clearly, Robert was in mortal danger but he was intelligent enough to recognise an opportunity to identify and address the problem.

The contract—in what way did he risk violation? Six years after the conditions had been expounded by Pentophiles, he was able to recall every word and nuance as though it were only yesterday:

Firstly: You must
never
allow the book to pass from your possession unless and until a Transfer Contract be properly executed.

Secondly: No person other than yourself may view
any
part of the contents whilst the book is under your custodianship.

Thirdly: The book will reveal each new situation
only
when appropriate and shall always provide precise details for its resolution. You must
swear
to follow these instructions to the letter and
never
attempt to obtain information beyond that which is current.

Finally: Your mortal soul shall remain your own property for as long as these clauses remain inviolate.

Only
should a clause be broken shall your life be forfeit and you solemnly declare that in that event the aforementioned soul shall belong to Mephistopheles.

Robert considered: Clause I—The book was secure in its accustomed place (he checked, to make sure) which automatically took care of Clause II. The final clause spelled the consequences of a breach of any of those preceding. Therefore he must be in imminent risk of violating the third. Robert took heart. Clearly, he was destined for matters of greater importance, or his mentor would not have bothered to intervene. Mephistopheles would
never
reprieve a soul already forfeit.

A moment’s thought and it became obvious.
Never
attempt to obtain information beyond that which is current. Of course, that was it! It was so simple he almost blushed: Pentophiles
knew
he was planning to telephone the police. Had he done so, information connected with the mission would have become public before the preordained time and Robert would thereby gain foreknowledge— a clear violation of Clause III.

It was a narrow escape; he breathed a sigh of relief. But for Pentophiles’s intervention, his impatience might well have cost him his life, and his soul would have become the property of Mephistopheles, thereafter to suffer the agonies of eternal damnation. He abandoned the idea of ringing the police and resolved to allow matters to follow their natural course. In fact, fate was already conspiring to set in motion a chain of events that were destined to lead to the discovery of the body—and with it the publicity he so desperately craved.

As custom decreed, St. George’s chapel was the venue for the Royal British Legion annual Church Parade—but for some reason the fact wasn’t announced until a few days before the event. Fully committed at the Parish Church and elsewhere, and by agreement with the vicar, the lady cleaners opted to defer their visit to St. George’s until Saturday, when they would have ample time to clean thoroughly in addition to taking care of the floral arrangements.