The Flyleaf Killer (31 page)

Muffled footsteps somewhere above her head preceded the thud of a door, followed by silence for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes. It was difficult to assess the passage of time in total darkness.

The sounds from overhead were different now. There was an indistinct ‘thud’, shuffling footsteps and slithery noises that sounded like a bag of potatoes being dragged across a floor. Unmistakably, a door opened and, much louder, came a series of hollow bumping sounds, as if that same sack of potatoes was being manhandled down a flight of stairs—in her direction. She heard grunts of exertion, scraping sounds, another thud, a groan and a long, drawn-out sigh. The footsteps retreated, a door slammed, more footsteps and a second door thudded—distant, less distinct. Then silence once more—except that if she held her breath and listened carefully, she could just make out the soft, steady sound of someone breathing. Janice was not alone! Petrified, she kept as still as a mouse, hardly daring to breathe.
What if…?
But her captor was gone.

Time passed and were it not for the need to shift regularly to ease discomfort Janice may well have drifted into sleep. She had no idea whether two hours or twenty had passed since she had been abducted. But the poor girl was obliged to relieve herself— twice, maybe three times. In all probability, the period of incarceration had already exceeded twenty-four hours.

Throbbing pain rose and fell in intensity, each peak serving to bring consciousness a little closer. The process was gradual, for the mind will always prolong the comatose state in the event of serious head injury, giving nature’s healing processes sufficient time to effect repairs.

The girl’s companion in confinement groaned softly. Janice stiffened. It sounded as if it was Steven! The groan came again, and this time she was almost certain. Cursing the gag, Janice tried to speak, but ‘Mmmm! Mmmm!’ was all she could manage. Janice abandoned the effort. Taking strength from the thought that it really might be Steven whose breath she could hear, she thereafter contented herself with listening. Time passed and Steven gradually regained his senses.

At first, he found himself the victim of a thundering headache which seemed to alternate in potency, the pain tending to fall away then increase in intensity until it became almost unbearable. He remained still, shrewdly suspecting that to do otherwise would make matters worse. Eventually, he tried to open his eyes, but saw nothing but blackness. Exhausted, he decided to rest for a while, vaguely aware he was propped against a wall. The headache persisted, but the longer he waited, the less intense it became. As time passed, he came to realise his arms and legs were numb, his backside sore and he positively ached all over.

Seeking relief, Steven wriggled painfully, and managed to relieve the pressure on his lower spine. But attempts to coax movement from lifeless arms and legs failed, and only now did it register that both his wrists and ankles were securely pinioned. Dammit! He was trussed up like a chicken. Another revelation followed. In attempting to take a deep breath, he discovered he was gagged.

Slowly, memory returned. Surbiton bus station … taxi … accident … Janice? …
Janice!
He struggled to free himself—get up—find Janice—anything! But, giddy and weakened he desisted. He groaned, panted through his nose and, after a while, felt a little better.
Sit still, you silly pillock
, he told himself.
Save your bloody energy.

What was that?
Janice pricked up her ears. After ages and ages, that sound again—
Steven?

‘Mmmm—Mmmm—Mmmm.’ She did her best to articulate—and, amazingly, Steven heard her.

‘Glur—Nind?’ He tried desperately to respond.
Jan, Janice!
he shouted, but only inside his head.
It’s no use. Even if it
is
Jan, I can’t make her understand.
He slumped against the wall, defeated.

Was it Steven? Perhaps!
Janice recognised the futility of struggling and didn’t try again. The hours drifted painfully by.

2100, Saturday 19
^th
March 2005

A white XJS left Kenward Close and headed for a secluded, five-bedroomed house standing in seven acres of woodland on the outskirts of Claygate. The house, formerly the home of an elderly recluse, had been bought covertly by Strudwick the previous year when Gaston Hathaway were invited by the executors to market the property ‘For Sale and Renovation’. Undoubtedly a sound investment, it would make a tidy profit when put to rights and remarketed, but in the meantime would provide an excellent mission venue, with ample disposal opportunities right on the doorstep and well away from prying eyes.

Nearing his destination, Strudwick killed the headlights, negotiated the driveway on head and tail only and parked well out of sight to the side and rear of the house. Armed with a flashlight, he patted his jacket to confirm an essential item of equipment was in place, vacated the car, remotely locked the doors and set the alarm system. After a careful reconnaissance to make sure nothing had been disturbed in his absence, he let himself in through the front door.

After interminable hours with only the rhythmic sigh of breathing for company, there came the ‘thud’ of a distant door, muffled footsteps overhead—then, for a little while, silence again. The securely trussed prisoners, each gagged and one wearing a blindfold, confined in darkness within a dank cellar for over twenty-four hours, cold, filthy, hungry, thirsty, stiffened at the sound, before lapsing again into dreamlike apathy. But when the door opened and someone came down the steps, both instantly became alert.

Steven closed his eyes to avoid the dazzle of a lantern, while Janice sat as upright as she could and wondered hopefully whether rescue was at hand. The newcomer suspended the lantern from a convenient nail and turned to face Steven.

‘Hello arsehole,’ he drawled. ‘Fancy seeing
you
here—sucker!’ Janice froze. That voice—Why hadn’t she recognised it before?
Robert Strudwick!
She shivered. Steven’s eyes bulged:
Robert Strudwick!
The taxi, this cellar; it all made sense.
Janice!

Even though his eyes had become accustomed to the light, the poor illumination barely reached the other side of the dingy cellar, but the instant his eyes encountered the figure seated almost directly opposite, he had no difficulty in recognising the slender, adorable girl he’d known and loved almost from the moment he’d first clapped eyes on her.

Steven reasoned furiously. Why abduct them both? He realised he represented a threat to Strudwick’s freedom, but the bastard knew he’d never breathe a word.
Does the evil swine mean to silence me after all, even though he knows I’d never grass? But what about Janice? She knows nothing!

His mouth was covered, but perhaps his eyes were too expressive. Strudwick grinned knowingly.

‘You may well wonder, shit-features,’ he mocked. ‘You’ve been a pain in the arse for years, and now I’m going to fix you once and for all, you
and
your bloody tart. But first—a little fun.’

He turned up the lantern-wick for maximum illumination, looked around the cellar and spotted an old wooden bench adjacent to the rear wall.

‘Ah,’ he grunted in evident satisfaction and, righting it, he dragged it nearer the centre beneath the lantern. He took off his jacket, folded it and placed it on the end of the bench, unbuckled the sheath beneath his armpit and withdrew a fearsome-looking cook’s knife.

Steven watched with horror. Long convinced that Strudwick was crazy and probably capable of murder, he was already half out of his mind with fear—not only for himself, but for Janice. Strudwick tested the keenness of the weapon with his thumb, turning it this way and that so as to reflect the lantern-light directly into his prisoner’s eyes.

He laid both knife and sheath side by side on top of the coat, and moved across to Janice.

Janice! What does the bastard want with Janice?
Steven struggled furiously, but his bonds were cruelly tight, and he was obliged to desist.

Sensing Steven’s disquiet, Strudwick turned. ‘Huff, puff and fart till you shit yourself for all I care,’ he ground out, scornfully. ‘
You
’re going nowhere, you miserable arsehole, but before I slit your fucking throat I’ve some unfinished business with
this
bloody trollop!’

He kicked at Janice’s foot, angrily. His violent words filled the girl with terror and she too struggled to get free.

‘Oho!’ Strudwick exclaimed. ‘Unhappy with the way I’ve tied you up, is that it? Well, what a shame. Perhaps I’d better do something about it.’

He reached for the knife, waved it at Steven—who almost choked behind his gag, stooped, and with a single stroke, sliced cleanly through the bonds securing Janice’s ankles. Strudwick stood back expectantly, but the girl didn’t move. She either failed to comprehend or didn’t even realise her legs had been freed.

‘Shift your arse, you silly cow,’ he barked impatiently. ‘Stand up. Your feet are untied. Come on, you bitch, get up and turn around and I’ll undo your hands.’

Behind the gag, Janice bit her lip.
What does he want? What does he mean to do? Stevie, help me, darling. I’m frightened!

‘Hurry up, sod you. I’ve got a knife. Get a bloody move on or I’ll stick it up your boyfriend’s arse.’

Bravely, Janice tried to comply. With her back pressed against the wall, she pushed with her feet and managed to lift herself a little, but having precious little feeling below her waist, she flopped painfully back to the floor, close to tears and even more terrified.

Exasperated, Strudwick snorted, but restoring her to full mobility was essential to the plan, so he reached out and hauled her to her feet. Effortlessly, he spun her round and severed the bonds securing her wrists. Propping her against the wall, he waited to make sure she wasn’t about to lose her footing.

‘Rub your wrists hard, then your legs,’ he commanded. ‘I want you in decent working order!’

He stood back and watched impassively as the frightened girl hastened to obey. Satisfied, for the moment at least, he turned his attention to Steven.

‘Now do you get the drift, shit-features?’ he asked, with a dreadful, meaningful leer. Steven’s eyes widened in comprehension. ‘Yep, you’ve got it in one. A pillock like you wouldn’t recognise a decent fuck if it kicked you in the bollocks, so I’ll give her a good shagging for you. Watch carefully, arsehole, and I’ll show you how it
should
be done!’

He turned back to Janice and swiftly removed her blindfold. ‘Get your gear off, you bitch—every stitch. Quickly! We mustn’t keep boyfriend waiting!’ Steven’s eyes flashed with anger and disgust.
You filthy bastard!
But he was powerless to intervene. Petrified with fear and loathing, Janice was unable to move. Strudwick exploded with rage. He leapt across the cellar, lunged at Steven with the knife and shouted at Janice, ‘You’ve got twenty seconds to strip, you bitch, or I’ll cut his fucking throat!’

Fumbling with leaden fingers, tears spilling down her face and soaking the gag, she pulled her blouse over her head, loosened and stepped out of her skirt, took off her bodice and removed her brassiere. Finally, she slowly peeled down her stockings and stepped out of her panties. Completely naked, she faced her tormentor.

Steven agonised.
Some day, you bastard
, he promised himself,
some day!

Strudwick positioned himself in front of the girl—a little sideways, so as not to block Steven’s view—then, deliberately and suggestively, unzipped his fly to expose himself. Soaking in the beauty of the girl who once had surrendered herself to him unreservedly, he reached out to her breasts and fondled her intimately, whilst rubbing himself vigorously in an attempt to trigger arousal.

But Janice was scarcely at her best. She stank of urine, her hair was matted and, with a gag across her mouth, she seemed singularly unattractive. His efforts failed to produce the desired result and it wasn’t long before Strudwick gave up in disgust.

‘Put your kit back on, you dirty, stinking bitch,’ he snarled. ‘I don’t want you; I never wanted you. I didn’t fancy you in the first place, if you must know. It was simply your availability.’

While the relieved girl got dressed, Strudwick returned the knife to its sheath and shrugged back into the harness. He fastened the straps and put his jacket back on.

‘I’ve had just about all I can stand of you pair of shits for one day,’ he said, almost cheerfully. ‘You think a lot of one another, obviously, so I’ve decided to do you both a big favour…’

He broke off, produced two lengths of cord from his pocket and used one to refasten Janice’s wrists.

He shoved her roughly to the floor and retied her ankles.

‘You won’t be needing this anymore.’ He grinned and, removing her gag, laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter if you scream your bloody head off, morning, noon and night—nobody will hear. And what about you, lover boy?’ he chortled gleefully, crossing the cellar to Steven. ‘You’d enjoy a nice long chat with smelly little shag-nasty, wouldn’t you?’

He bent and ripped Steven’s gag from his face with a vicious tug. ‘Why am I being so kind? Simple. I intend to shut both of you up permanently, but instead of slitting your throats I’ve a much better idea!’

He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

‘I’m no spoilsport,’ he sniggered. ‘You seem to enjoy each other’s company, so I’ve decided to let you spend your last days together. Don’t worry, you won’t be disturbed. The house is empty and miles from anywhere, and I’ll lock it securely when I leave. Of course, you will remain tied up.’ He crossed to each in turn and checked their bonds.

‘Sorry, no tea or biscuits, I’m afraid, but I’ll leave the lamp, it’s nearly empty. Don’t bother getting up, I’ll see myself out.’

Stunned by the ferocity of Strudwick’s revelations, the hapless couple looked at one another in dismay as he ascended the cellar steps and slammed the door. Two bolts rammed home and they listened to the sound of retreating footsteps, the muffled ‘thud’ of what was presumably the front door being slammed shut—then silence. Tears welled up in Janice’s eyes and she began to sob bitterly. It was more than Steven could bear.