The Flyleaf Killer (23 page)

Early on the day in question, Saturday 12 February, the ladies were enjoying a quiet cup of tea before starting work, when James Billows came into the vestry and unceremoniously thrust a piece of paper under the senior cleaning lady’s nose.

‘’Ere,’ the sexton grumbled irritably, ‘just take a look at this blinkin’ note from the vicar. Shoved it through me flamin’ letterbox last night ’e did. Just ’cos it’s the British Legion service tomorrow, ’e wants me to clean bat-muck off the organ-loft balcony this morning.’

Matronly, prim and proper, Edna considered it her duty to put Master Billows in his place.

‘Don’t come moaning to me,’ she said, sharply. ‘If Vicar wants it done, why don’t you just get on and do it instead of whinging. Really Mr Billows, if you carry on like this at home it’s no wonder your poor wife always looks harassed. How on earth she manages to put up with you…?’

Billows’ mouth opened—and closed again. Edna sniffed, waved a dismissive duster and winked covertly at Gladys, her cleaning colleague, who hurriedly turned away to hide her amusement.

The sexton flushed and shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Edna demanded of the discomfited man. ‘Come on, we ladies have a lot to do this morning.’

Untypically, Billows, stood his ground.

‘I wasn’t whinging really,’ he protested, mildly. ‘It’s just that the curate borrowed the steps on Friday and ’asn’t brought ’em back— and there’s no way I can reach up there without ’em.’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ she retorted, sarcastically. ‘If that’s all that’s troubling you, it’s a pity you didn’t say so in the first place instead of moaning and groaning. I might’ve been able to help. As it happens, there used to be a pair of steps and a couple of trestles down in the crypt—still there, I shouldn’t wonder. They might be a bit rickety by this time but still usable, with care. I suggest you go and take a look, Mr Billows—there’s the key, over there look, on the wall!’

Perfectly aware Billows was hen-pecked unmercifully by his wife, Edna felt a twinge of remorse as, with arms akimbo, she watched the inoffensive little man hasten to collect the vault key from the nail on the wall, then scuttle out of the vestry without so much as a word of protest.

‘Oh, you are awful, Edna,’ Gladys giggled. ‘Poor James. He didn’t expect a flea in his ear, I’ll be bound. You fair frightened the life out of him—he must’ve thought he was still at home.’

James stumped down the crypt steps, turned the key in the lock and creaked open the heavy, oak door.

‘Cor, blimey Moses!’ he gasped, close to gagging. ‘What a bloody awful pong!’

Holding his nose, the sexton pushed wide the door and depressed the light switch. A single bulb suspended from the lobby ceiling came on, revealing a small inner chamber. He saw nothing at first, but when a second switch produced much brighter light within, he edged forward nervously a couple of paces—then stopped dead in his tracks.

‘Good God Almighty! It’s a bloody stiff. Jesus, I’m out of here!’ Despite his shock, Billows closed and re-locked the vault door, before rushing back to the vestry as fast as his shaking legs would allow. He reappeared, wide-eyed and panting.

‘Don’t go down there. There’s a dead body in a chair!’ he yelled, gesturing dramatically. He threw the vault key onto the table. ‘I’ve locked the door. There’s the key. I’m going to fetch the police!’ he shouted over his shoulder, already halfway out of the door.

‘Good gracious!’ Gladys exclaimed ‘Poor Jim’s gone off his rocker—it’s either that or he’s pulling our legs, trying to get his own back. Personally, I don’t believe a word of it.’

Edna Burstow crossed to the open door and looked out. There was no sign of the sexton, nor was his bicycle propped against the vestry wall in its accustomed place—so it wasn’t a joke.

‘I’m not so sure,’ she cautioned. ‘It’s not James’ style. His bike’s gone—and look at the way he shot out of the door as if his britches were on fire. If he says there’s a body, then there
is
a body. I’ve known Jim for years. He’s no liar—and I’ve never seen him run anywhere, before today.’

Gladys sniffed, picked up her cup and swallowed the last of her tea.

‘Dead bodies in church cellars—pooh, whatever next? I think I’ll get on with the dusting—but do be sure to call me if dear Mr Billows comes rushing back with a policeman,’ she sneered.

Meanwhile, having pedalled furiously up the High Street to the police station, the terrified sexton threw the machine against the front wall, and, fighting to recover his breath, buttonholed the duty policeman.

‘It’s in the—the Old Church’ he eventually wheezed. ‘In the vault—a dead body in a chair…’

‘Whoa, steady on sir,’ the young constable interjected. Just hang on till you get your breath back, then start at the beginning.

‘A body—in the vault, you say? All right, Mr Billows, you’d better give me the details. Take your time. The body you saw won’t go anywhere. We’ll sort your statement out when we’ve established the facts.’

One look in the vault was sufficient. Police Sergeant Stapleton retreated, ashen-faced, and DCs Gibson and Slade took charge of the key, and re-locked the door. Back in their car, Gibson radioed HQ to confirm the discovery while Slade unloaded a reel of blue and white tape and set about cordoning off the church entrances.

Although unnerved by the horrific scene, Sgt Stapleton deferred going off duty and returned to Esher police station where he telephoned headquarters for instructions.

With promotion in mind, and knowing the importance of keeping the discovery under wraps until the officer-in-charge decided otherwise, Stapleton skilfully parried the Duty Sergeant’s questions and waited instead to be connected with DS O’Connor. Pre-warned, case-file opened, presence of a corpse confirmed, O’Connor was expecting his call.

‘Two beat-bobbies are already on their way from here, George,’ he said briskly, ‘but the DI reckons we’ll need four to secure the site properly. Do you think you can get two of your chaps round there reasonably quickly?’

‘No problem, Ben, I’ll organise that before I go off duty. Would fifteen to twenty minutes be soon enough?’

‘Sounds fine to me—but listen. The DI and I are coming over— he’s in a meeting right now, but we’re leaving the moment he comes out. It might be as well if you went back to the church. Hang on until we arrive. Mr Melton wants to view the scene before calling the pathologist, so make sure nobody gets into that cellar until he says so—and that includes Gibson and Slade. Keep the media outside the gates, no matter what, and have the sexton and the cleaners on hand ready for the DI to talk to—you know the form. Can I leave it with you, George?’

Duty, duty, duty.
‘OK Ben, see you later.’

At St. George’s, meanwhile, taping-off complete, Gibson and Slade were ferrying equipment from the car to the head of the crypt steps in readiness to begin work inside. Whilst they toiled passers-by stopped to stare, for the most part ignored by the detectives, who preferred to leave moving-on of spectators to the ‘uniforms’ who were due almost at any time.

At this juncture, whilst Slade was returning from the car, Billows rounded the corner from the direction of the vestry, pushing his bike. DC Slade looked up.

‘Oi!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just where d’you think you’re going?’

‘Just goin’ for a packet of fags, that’s where. And just what’s wrong with that, may I ask?’

‘Nothing, I suppose,’ the officer conceded, ‘so long as you’re coming straight back. One of our senior officers will be along shortly and as you were the one to discover the body, you’ll probably be the first person he’ll want to speak to. You’re a very important witness, Mr Billows.’

Such flattering words were music to Billows’ ears.

‘Don’t worry your ‘ead on that score, young feller. I’ll be back in a jiffy, no sweat,’ the sexton declared and, without further ado, he placed one foot on a pedal and scooted towards the gate—just as DC Gibson was coming up the path. Craftily, Billows pre-empted a second challenge.

‘Just goin’ for some fags,’ he shouted, as he whizzed past. ‘Yer mate back there says it’s OK.’

Short of throwing himself in front of the bike, there was no way Gibson could have stopped the sexton and he quickened his step, determined to put his partner in his place, once and for all.

‘That sexton chap,’ Gibson began, ‘Why did you let him loose? Lost your marbles or what?’

‘You know perfectly well we’ve no authority to detain him,’ Slade protested. ‘So why are you making so much fuss? The silly old bath-brick will probably be back in five minutes, anyway.’

‘It’s not whether he comes back or not that bothers me,’ Gibson retorted. ‘It’s whether he keeps his flaming mouth shut once he’s out of sight. You know as well as I do the DI dislikes premature publicity and if he arrives to find a mob of reporters lying in wait…’ He drew a finger across his throat.

Harry shrugged, offhandedly. ‘If the old chap talks, he talks. There’s sod-all we can do about it. Like I said, there’s nothing to prevent him from coming and going as he pleases—and if I
had
told him to keep his mouth shut, most likely he’d be on the phone to the
Mirror
right now.’ Feeling he’d said all that there was to be said, Slade turned away and began unpacking camera gear.

‘I
still
think you should have checked with me first. After all I am in charge,’ Gibson muttered.

Meanwhile, as a consequence of a telephone tip-off, a modest saloon drew up behind Gibson and Slade’s car and two men emerged, one carrying an elderly Speed Graphic.

Fortunately, James Billows returned. As he dismounted, an astute reporter stepped forward with a smile—and a twenty-pound note between the fingers of his extended right hand.

‘Excuse me sir,’ he began, politely, ‘I wonder whether you’d mind telling me what’s going on? I’m Robin Prendergast, by the way, crime reporter for the
Surrey Chronicle
. I also freelance for the
Esher News
and it’s at their request we’re here. Somebody local rang in, apparently.’

‘Yes, course I will,’ James Billows replied, astutely persuading the twenty-pound note into his top pocket. Oh, yes, Billows was
more
than willing to introduce himself. ‘I’m James Billows, parish church sexton, ’ere at St George’s too. Wished I wasn’t, sometimes, especially today, what with finding a dead body down in the vault and rotten coppers everywhere…’

Once started, with scarcely a pause for breath, the sexton blurted out the whole story. Scribbling furiously, Prendergast took down the sexton’s gabbled information. The flash gun attached to the Speed Graphic popped, and James Billows’ claim to fame seemed assured.

DC Gibson came hurrying down the path, too late to prevent his fears from being realised. A wave of his hand was sufficient. The pressmen retreated.

‘Come on, Mr Billows,’ he said, trying to keep his cool, ‘I rather expected this to happen. You shouldn’t have spoken to the press just yet; the investigation has hardly begun. My Guv’nor won’t be best pleased, I can tell you. Might be better if you go back to the vestry and wait there.’ Billows sniffed, pointedly, but heeded the instruction and headed for the church.

Sgt Stapleton and two uniformed bobbies arrived and the officers set about dispersing a crowd of curious spectators.

Robin Prendergast spoke urgently and at length into his mobile telephone. Within minutes, the story was on the wire and an armada of media representatives set out for Esher.

Detective Inspector Melton and his assistant arrived at 11.45, expecting to find the entrance cordoned and uniformed men restraining and dispersing onlookers, but the rush of waiting reporters as Melton’s car drew to a halt rather took them by surprise. Ignoring a babble of shouted questions, they pushed through the throng and on through the lychgate.

Approaching the church, the two were intercepted by DC Gibson as senior man, whilst Slade craftily distanced himself by taking a position slightly to the rear and at one side of his colleague.

‘Good morning, sir—Sergeant,’ Gibson began. ‘Nasty business. If you’d care to come this way, the sexton who found the body is waiting in the vestry—and the cleaners are working inside somewhere, should you wish to see them.’ Turning to his colleague he went on, briskly, ‘You’d better get back to the vault, Harry. Don’t let anyone down those steps.’

An icy glance from Melton stopped both men dead in their tracks.

‘How come the press is here in force? Which of you two charmers do we have to thank, I wonder?’

‘Neither sir, it was James Billows—the sexton—actually,’ Gibson explained. ‘He insisted on going out for some cigarettes and, legally sir, there was nothing we could do to prevent him.’

‘I see, but I presume you tried?’

‘Yes sir.

‘That
still
doesn’t explain the army of reporters.’

‘No sir. At first, there was only Robin Prendergast and his cameraman—until Billows spilled the beans the moment he got back from the shops. That mob turned up about half an hour ago.’

‘OK,’ said Melton, ‘enough said.’ He changed the subject. ‘First of all, I’d like to see the body and then we’ll talk to the sexton—I take it you’ve already questioned him?’

‘Yes sir,’ Gibson nodded.

‘Have you also spoken to the cleaners?’

Again, Gibson nodded.

‘Good. I’d like to hear their side of the story. You can tell us about it on the way to the vault.’

Gibson produced his notebook and began to turn the pages. The DI turned to Slade. ‘I take it the vault is secured?’

The constable nodded.

‘Then perhaps you should go and keep Billows company,’ Melton suggested, with a twinkle. ‘He might be short of matches and we don’t want him nipping out again, now do we?’

‘No sir,’ Slade said—and quickly hurried away.

‘Lead on, Gibson,’ Melton said. ‘Ben and I can hear the gory details on the way.’

Referring to his notebook, Gibson recounted Billows’ version of events that morning. Still speaking as they arrived at a flight of steps, Gibson stopped, and concluded, ‘When Billows went to report his discovery, it seems the ladies were too frightened to look for themselves, so the vault remained locked until Sergeant Stapleton arrived. Nothing’s been disturbed, sir. Everything is exactly as Mr Billows found it.’ He looked up, anxiously.