The Flyleaf Killer (25 page)

He waited for O’Connor to finish writing, then went on.

‘Then get hold of Brendan Curtis—the artist fellow we’ve used before for missing person inquiries, and see about getting a sketch made of the dead man’s likely appearance. It’ll be neither easy nor pleasant, but speed is essential.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I imagine Professor Matthews will help regarding skin, features, hairstyle and so on—I’ll have a word beforehand to make sure. Oh, and you’d better warn Curtis the face looks ghastly. Buy him a stiff brandy before he goes into the morgue if you like. Despite those terrible slashes, I’d say the features are more or less intact and we should end up with a reasonable likeness.’

Again he waited for O’Connor to catch up.

‘When I meet the press later on,’ Melton continued, ‘I’ll mention that we’re thinking of using an artist’s impression to help establish identity.’ He looked up. ‘Have you got that, Sergeant?’

‘Noted, sir, will do. But isn’t publishing a
guesswork
murder-victim likeness a bit unorthodox?’

‘So it might be, but I don’t recall seeing a missing persons report likely to fit the bill, do you? Let’s face it, with nothing whatever to go on, it’s the obvious thing to do when you think about it. Of course,’ he went on, ‘it’s always possible we mightn’t need that sketch, but I want one up my sleeve in readiness, just the same.’

‘Fair enough, Guv’nor,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’

Routine formed a substantial part of Melton’s workload, for which his basic establishment was adequate, and in the event of a major inquiry, he could readily muster additional resources. DS O’Connor’s departure marked the moment Melton effectively ‘pushed the button’ on the Old Church murder inquiry, when an expanded team slipped smoothly and efficiently into top gear.

A computer-generated schedule detailing thirty-two male persons reported missing throughout London and the Home Counties during November and December arrived on his desk in an hour. Running a practised eye down the list, Melton struck through all but four with a black marker pen.

One stuck out like a sore thumb. Melton cursed under his breath.
Stapleton, the pompous prat
. A corpse on his doorstep, and he didn’t have the nous to check his own ‘missing persons’? There it was, like a carbuncle on a parson’s nose. December 3rd, 2004: Mr Kenneth Bridgwater of West End reported his son Francis, aged nineteen missing—at ESHER police station, no less!

Incandescent, Melton opened his door, button-holed the nearest officer and roared, ‘Get on the blower to Esher. I want full details regarding Francis Bridgwater, reported missing on third December by his father, Kenneth Bridgwater—and I want them NOW! And should you be unfortunate enough to have Sergeant Stapleton come on the line, you’d better warn him to keep out of my way or I might just be tempted to recommend him for demotion and retraining.’

Still fuming, he strode across to the nearest copper and tossed him the list.

‘Deal with it,’ was all that he said, and stumped back to his office.

Academic perhaps, but within twenty-four hours, three out of the remaining four culled from the missing persons’ register by DI Melton had been accounted for. Two days after one man had gone missing, a body recovered from Brent reservoir was positively identified. Another turned out to be of Asian origin and a third had returned to the bosom of his family after a week—but nobody had thought to inform the police.

Late on the morning of February 16th, forty-eight hours after O’Connor had approached Brendan Curtis, a charcoal sketch suggesting the murdered man’s likely appearance arrived.

Events were shortly to render the drawing unnecessary, but it was, nevertheless, to prove a remarkably accurate likeness…

Francis, R.I.P.

The day Kenneth Bridgwater reported his son missing marked a turning point in his life. As day succeeded day and days became weeks, he became increasingly morose and withdrawn. Long accustomed to unsociable hours and physically demanding work, his general level of fitness remained unchanged, but long weeks of worry for his son were taking their toll. Work that once brought pleasure turned to drudgery. He lost weight, and his weatherbeaten face seemed permanently creased with anxiety. Fearing the worst, yet hoping against hope, Kenneth suffered an agonising wait for news. So far he had waited in vain and when February arrived with still no word, poor Kenneth scarcely noticed.

It was getting on for 10.30 by the time he arrived home. He was irritable and in need of sleep. Within minutes, the telephone shrilled. ‘Hello,’ he grumbled. ‘Who is it and what do you want?’

‘Good morning. Mr Bridgwater?’ a baritone voice inquired.

‘Yes, who wants to know?’

‘Detective Inspector Melton, Surbiton police. I wonder if I might call. It’s regarding your son, Francis. I understand you reported him missing in early December.’ Kenneth’s heart lurched.
Francis!
He gulped.

‘Yes, of course but what’s happened? Is Frank in hospital? Was he in an accident or something?’

‘Nothing like that, I’m afraid,’ Melton responded gently. ‘Perhaps I should explain when I see you. I could be there in about twenty minutes, if that is convenient?’

‘Y-es, I suppose so,’ Ken agreed, reluctant on the one hand, yet anxious for news on the other. ‘I’m just in from work, and I need a couple of hours sleep. But I
must
know what it is you’ve discovered. Come on over. I’ll put the kettle on—I could do with a cuppa myself.’

Ken managed to make a pot of tea, but then forgot about it. He made some toast, burnt it, threw it away. He started to pace up and down, waiting for the knock on the door.
There he is!
He tripped on a rug and fumbled with the door handle. When he opened it he didn’t know what to say.

‘Mr Bridgwater? Detective Inspector Melton.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘I rang a short time ago. May I come in?’

Leading the way to the kitchen, Ken ushered the policeman inside.

‘Excuse the mess, but I’m a milkman, as you probably know. Not much sleep—up early and not long home. I’m absolutely bushed. What’s happened to my son?’

‘How about that tea, Mr Bridgwater—and can we sit down?’

Kenneth poured; they sat.

Melton collected his thoughts.

‘I hardly know how to explain, so it might be better if I came directly to the point.’

Ken nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and the policeman began.

‘Last Saturday, a body was discovered in a locked vault beneath Esher Old Church.’

Observing the milkman intently, Melton continued.

‘As yet, we have no means of identification, but the probable age of the deceased matches that of your son and the approximate time of death—around the end of November—appears to tally with the date your son went missing.’

Kenneth paled and clutched at his throat.

‘You probably suspected something to be seriously amiss,’ Melton continued, after a pause.

Ken gave Melton an anguished look. ‘Yes, I suppose I did. I’ve been worried sick ever since Frank failed to ring. You see, Inspector, he promised, and my boy never broke a promise to me—not once in the whole of his life.’

Kenneth’s face crumpled; he was dangerously close to tears. The policeman nodded. Hard though it was, he had to get over a very important point.

‘I understand and sympathise. The evidence is flimsy and circumstantial and we cannot simply assume the body to be that of your son. Mr Bridgwater!’ Melton exclaimed sharply, noticing tears welling in the man’s eyes, ‘It might turn out
not
to be Francis, in which case the sooner that identity can be established the better.’

Kenneth shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

‘I don’t wish to trouble you with too many questions, but I wonder if you’d mind clearing up one rather important point?’

Kenneth drew himself up, took a deep breath and nodded.

‘Thank you.’ Melton resumed. ‘It’s my understanding Francis left for France on November seventeenth, yet it was the third of December before you reported him missing. Tell me, what was the reason for such a long delay?’

Kenneth was fatigued, but he distinctly remembered the same question having been put before, when he had reported his son’s absence. Perhaps the dopey copper hadn’t bothered to record his answer? He blinked and knuckled his eyes. ‘In season, Frank works as a courier for a holiday company and fills in as a cabin steward with Air France, Toulouse, during the winter.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘Frank goes all over the world on long-haul trips, and picks up work for other airlines whenever there’s a scheduled delay. But he
always
keeps in touch and
promised
he’d ring by the end of November. I waited a few days in case he’d met with difficulties, then rang his manager at Toulouse. When he insisted Francis hadn’t reported for work, I knew for certain something was wrong.’

Reliving the memory and the agony suffered since, Kenneth found his lower lip trembling. Melton grasped the milkman’s arm, reassuringly.

‘Bear up, sir; we desperately need your help. Do you have a recent photo of Francis?’

‘Yes, a couple, taken last year—in France, I think. They’re in the album in my bedroom. Wait here, and I’ll fetch it.’ He got up and started towards the door. ‘I wish I didn’t feel so tired,’ he added.

When he returned, Melton propped the album on his knee. He had a gut-feeling that the smiling young man indicated by his father and the rotting corpse in Kingston morgue would prove to be one and the same.
Who’d want to be a bloody copper?
Melton asked himself.

‘I can only say how sorry I am,’ he began, placing a hand on Kenneth’s arm, ‘but these seem sufficient reason to ask for your help with formal identification. It involves visiting the morgue, but that can wait till later when I shall accompany you. You need to prepare yourself. Better get your head down for an hour or two, if you can.

‘Before I go—with your permission, of course, I’d appreciate a look at your son’s bedroom. It could be important—there may be something to help our inquiries. Would you mind? And may I borrow these photographs?’

Mr Bridgwater stood up and bravely squared his shoulders. ‘By all means, Inspector Melton,’ he said. ‘Frank’s room is just down there.’ He pointed. ‘I haven’t been inside—apart from shoving the vacuum cleaner round—or touched anything. Couldn’t bring myself to somehow … and yes, you can borrow the photos, but I’d like them back when you’ve finished. My boy, Frank, you see…’

He stifled the beginnings of a sob, strode purposefully along the hallway and stopped. Turning, he said proudly, ‘This is Frank’s room, Mr Melton.’

Reaching the threshold, Melton stopped, motioned Kenneth to remain where he was and stood still for a moment, taking in something of the atmosphere. Casting around the bedroom, he saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing caught his attention. The room was neat and tidy. No sign of a hurried departure, no note in a prominent position, no towel, clothes or dressing-gown, no shoes beneath the bed—nothing!

‘Are you
certain
you’ve disturbed nothing?’ he asked.

‘Yes, quite sure.’

‘Would you mind if I look in the wardrobe? I’ll be careful not to disturb anything.’

‘No, go right ahead.’

Melton took a pair of latex gloves from an inside pocket and snapped them on. Gingerly, he opened both doors and leaned forward for a closer look.

There were two, well-stocked hanging rails. Two pairs of walking shoes strode cheek-by-jowl with a battered pair of trainers, behind which stood a hiker’s rucksack and a canvas travelling valise, partially obscured by clothes. He straightened and turned to Kenneth.

‘Come and take a look, Mr Bridgwater. What was Francis wearing the day of his departure? Do you know what luggage he took?’ He broke off as Kenneth slowly entered the room and added, ‘Sorry to press you, but I really do need to know.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. Frank said “good-bye” around six the evening before he left—that’s when he promised to ring.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Then he went out—to the pictures, I think—and I went to bed. I’d have been asleep when he came home and long gone when he awoke in the morning. I think he intended to bus to Esher station then train to Waterloo, but I can’t be sure. Chances are he did, however. He did the last time he was home, I’m absolutely certain.’

‘I see.’ Melton was disappointed. Pursuing the same line of thought, he asked, ‘If you didn’t know what he wore the morning of his departure, then what about the evening before, when he was going to the cinema?’

Again Ken pondered.

‘Sorry, Inspector,’ he replied regretfully. ‘I really can’t remember. Frank has loads of clothes, and changes frequently—sometimes twice in one day. I never could keep up with him. I’m truly sorry; I really wish I could help.’

‘What about luggage? What would he normally take on a trip?’ Bridgwater bent to peer into the wardrobe. Fear sent shivers down his spine. Distressed, he clutched at Melton’s arm.

‘Wh-at?—I don’t understand,’ he quavered. ‘Francis’ rucksack— and his valise. It’s—it’s Frank’s luggage, Inspector. It’s all he has— it’s what he takes, every trip. What does it mean? It’s not like Francis to be forgetful. He’d
never
go off without his gear.’

Melton took Kenneth by the arm and steered him towards the bed.

‘Sit down for a minute,’ he soothed. ‘It doesn’t pay to jump to conclusions. We need to consider carefully. There could be a perfectly simple explanation.’

But for Melton, another possibility arose:
What if young Bridgwater never left for France?
Supposing he
did
visit the cinema that evening but never returned home—was waylaid, mugged and robbed, taken by force to the Old Church, incarcerated and subsequently murdered? Robbery could form part of the motive: nothing had been found on the body. But what if the young man took just enough cash for the evening and left everything of value at home?

Melton was all but convinced. If Francis Bridgwater’s passport, travel tickets and cash were somewhere within this room, it only could mean one thing—the body lying in Kingston morgue was that of Francis Bridgwater, and his disappearance and murder had been deliberate and premeditated. But, to satisfy the requirement of law, the identity of dead persons must formally be established.