The Flyleaf Killer (26 page)

‘If you feel up to it, Mr Bridgwater,’ Melton said, gently, ‘I’d like to ask another question.’

‘I’m OK really, so go ahead. You probably think me an old fool but I still don’t understand.’

‘Nor do I, sir—not yet, anyway. It would be foolish to assume anything at this stage.’

‘I’m trying to work out why Frank’s luggage is still in the wardrobe, Detective Inspector. I mustn’t jump to conclusions. You might think otherwise, but you know,’ he said, sorrowfully, ‘I’ve the strangest feeling I’m unlikely ever to see Francis again—alive, that is.’ The look on his face said it all.

‘You may well be right, Mr Bridgwater, but we’ve a long way to go in order to be sure. With your permission, I’d like to examine Francis’ luggage.’

‘Would you mind explaining why, Mr Melton?’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Nothing was found on the body: no cash, no means of identification, nothing. Should Francis have left his passport, cash and travel documents at home that evening—perhaps for reasons of security, then the body found in the vault may well be his. Should that be so—but remember, until positively identified we cannot be sure—he may have been waylaid, forcibly abducted, taken to the church, held prisoner and eventually killed. In any event, Mr Bridgwater, we have a ruthless killer somewhere within the community, one who must be caught and brought to justice before he finds an opportunity to strike again. Even if the victim proves not to be your son, I’ve no doubt you’ll assist in any way you can to help apprehend the murderer. Now, sir, if you don’t mind, may I please look inside Francis’ luggage?’

Kenneth nodded.

‘If it turns out my son
has
been murdered, then rest assured I’ll do anything and everything within my power to help nail the bastard responsible.’

Ken placed the rucksack and the valise on the bed:

‘There you are, Mr Melton,’ he said, firmly, ‘go ahead and help yourself.’

A bulging pocket on the valise stood out like a sore thumb. Still gloved, Melton slid back the zip and fished out the contents: a wallet, a passport—and an envelope containing railway tickets.

Gingerly unhinging the wallet, taking care that nothing should become disturbed, he whistled through his teeth and invited Kenneth to view the contents. There were traveller’s cheques and a NatWest Visa card, clearly visible through the transparent window of a dedicated card pocket.

For all his courage Kenneth’s face was a picture of despair; his last vestige of hope had been destroyed.

‘Come on, sir,’ the DI said gently, replacing the luggage for forensic examination later. ‘Try to get some sleep. It won’t change anything, but it might help a little. I’ll go back to the station and return around three this afternoon, when I’d like you to accompany me to the morgue—and, believe me, it’s a duty I’d willingly postpone if I thought it would do any good. But, in my experience, the sooner something like this can be got out of the way the better. We none of us move forward, otherwise.’

Kenneth managed a wan smile.

‘Thank you, Inspector. You’ve been very kind and I’m grateful…’ He broke off. ‘I wonder, can you tell me what to expect, assuming the body does turn out to be Francis?’

Melton paused before replying.

‘For you, sadly, a coroner’s inquest, a funeral and getting your life back together—which won’t be easy. I’m told your wife died soon after childbirth and you brought Francis up yourself. For my colleagues and me, we’ve a killer to track down whatever happens.

‘If you
do
confirm your son was his victim, then we shall have a name to go on and can begin exploring his background, checking friends, habits and so on and, hopefully, establish a motive which may eventually lead to an arrest. But more of that another time. First things first.’

Kenneth no longer seemed fatigued. Long weeks of uncertainty were almost at an end, and this helped him discover an inner strength. Melton regarded him with admiration.

As a prelude to departure, Melton shook hands with Kenneth at his front door.

‘Good-bye for now, Mr Bridgwater—and thank you for your invaluable help. I’ll see you around three this afternoon. In the meantime, do try and get some rest.’

Kenneth smiled ruefully. ‘Au revoir, Mr Melton.’

Back at HQ, the DI brought his assistant up to date over a plate of lethargic sandwiches with a pot of the usual coffee—seldom hot, of dubious origin, frequently undrinkable.

‘Plucky chap,’ he remarked, eventually, ‘been through hell, poor devil. I reckon he knew in his heart all along his son was dead but wouldn’t admit it, even to himself, long before the boy’s luggage turned up.

‘I’m as sure as I can be that before the end of the day the morgue will have a name to attach to their corpse.’

‘I hope you’re right, sir,’ O’Connor murmured. ‘We need a bloody break. What are those, Guv’nor?’ he asked, pointing to two photographs lying on Melton’s desk.

‘Sorry, Ben,’ he said sheepishly, ‘I forgot: Francis Bridgwater, borrowed from his father.’ He slid the prints across the desk.

O’Connor gave his chief a peculiar look and rummaged ‘sans permission’ in Melton’s ‘In’ tray for an envelope. Triumphantly he withdrew a charcoal sketch.

‘Delivered less than an hour ago, Guv’nor,’ he announced. ‘Brendon Curtis’ “John Doe”. Look for yourself, sir. If they’re not one and the same person, then I’m a Dutchman.’

Taken in sunshine against a lakeland background, the snapshots were fairly good. Viewed alongside the sketch, they showed similarities so far as head, ears and jaw line were concerned, but precious little else. Whilst computer enhancement was possible, image detail might suffer as a consequence.

Melton by no means shared the conviction so enthusiastically displayed by his assistant, preferring to defer judgement until the evidence was corroborated beyond all possible doubt.

‘You might just find yourself learning a new language, Ben,’ he observed, drily. ‘Yes, there are similarities, I’ll grant, but I’d rather wait for a positive ID to be absolutely sure.’

Melton collected Kenneth Bridgwater himself and they drove in silence to Kingston morgue. Arriving just after 3.30, Melton parked his car and led the way to Reception. As soon as the preliminary formalities were completed, the DI took Kenneth to one side.

‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Mr Bridgwater?’

‘Yes, quite sure, thank you. I’ll be OK. Now please—can we get on with it?’

‘Then brace yourself,’ Melton advised gently. ‘I feel it my duty to warn you what to expect. You will be taken to a sheeted figure and asked whether you recognise the person. The sheet will then be lifted. Remember, the body is in a state of decomposition. On top of that, some rather nasty injuries were inflicted prior to death.

‘You must look at the face, but I advise you not to linger—it’s not a sight for the squeamish. Furthermore, morgues tend to be smelly—formaldehyde, you know. You’re sure you’re OK?’

Kenneth nodded grimly.

‘Then let’s go,’ Melton said, simply.

No stranger to the place or what went on within its white-tiled walls, the hardened policeman led the way.

They were intercepted in a vestibule by a white-coated, wellington-booted attendant, clutching a stainless-steel clipboard, who conducted them through plastic, double swing doors into a long, dank, chilly chamber, lit by ranks of bright fluorescent tubes and flanked by rows of stainless-steel, tiered cabinets.

Halfway on the left, the attendant stopped, referred to his clipboard and grasped a handle.

On silent wheels, a trolley bearing a sheeted body emerged. He checked the label, glanced again at his clipboard and asked, ‘Mr Kenneth Bridgwater?’

‘Yes.’

‘There is reason to believe you may have personal knowledge of the deceased?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you are required by law to look upon the person displayed to you and state clearly whether you recognise the person. Do you understand?’

Kenneth nodded.

‘Then do you recognise this person?’ The attendant raised a corner of the sheet.

Kenneth recoiled and covered his eyes in horror.

‘No, no,’ he croaked. ‘That’s not Francis, that’s not my son.’

Melton’s heart sank; he had been sure, so very, very sure. He grasped Kenneth firmly by the arm.

‘Hold on, Mr Bridgwater. I warned you it wouldn’t be pleasant. Take a minute to compose yourself.’

He waited, and after a while, Ken whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Inspector—the shock…’

‘Never mind,’ Melton soothed, ‘perfectly understandable. Come, sir, brace yourself and take another look—and this time, try to look beyond the injuries; the head, hair, ears, nose and chin.’

He signalled to the attendant, who raised the sheet and said for a second time, ‘I have to asked you again, sir: do you recognise this person?’

Kenneth stepped bravely forward. He forced himself to follow Melton’s advice and looked carefully at the cadaver. Shortly, recognition dawned, and for a full minute he stood in silence, remembering the years of joy, sometimes laced with heartache: how a tiny baby first began to toddle, then went to school and developed into a young man of whom any parent might justly be proud. And as he stood and gazed at what remained of his once handsome son, tears filled his eyes and he wept copiously and without shame.

‘Yes,’ he whispered, eventually and, ‘Yes,’ louder still, then ‘Yes!’ firmly and emphatically. ‘That’s my son—that
was
my son. Francis Bridgwater, definitely—and God help the bastard who did this if ever I lay hands on him!’

Back in Melton’s car, Kenneth Bridgwater fastened his seat-belt and heaved a great sigh.

‘I must say, Mr Melton, I feel better with that awful business over and done with.’

Melton heartily agreed. ‘You and me both, Mr Bridgwater,’ he said.

Kenneth lapsed into silence, no doubt busy with his thoughts. The journey back to West End took barely twenty minutes.

Although his motives for acting as personal chauffeur to a member of the public were never likely to be questioned, Melton had a perfectly valid reason for failing to delegate. Put simply, the result achieved would have been unlikely, had he not won the confidence of the witness and afforded him sympathetic guidance throughout the unfortunate man’s harrowing ordeal.

But, off the record, it was a way of paying tribute to an honest, hardworking and extremely courageous man, to whom he had taken a liking almost from the moment they first met.

On reaching Bridgwater’s bungalow, the detective checked his watch: four oh five—already? He turned to his passenger and proffered his hand.

‘May I offer my condolences, Mr Bridgwater? I wish there was more I could do to help.’

‘Thank you,’ Kenneth said. ‘You’ve been more than helpful already, extremely kind, in fact. I doubt I’d have survived the afternoon without your support.’

‘You’re entirely welcome, I can assure you,’ Melton responded, warmly. ‘I must get back to headquarters, but we need as much information as possible regarding Francis’s past acquaintances to help build a background picture. May I call again tomorrow? About ten-thirty? I’d like you to meet my assistant, Detective Sergeant Ben O’Connor.’

‘Not in the least. I look forward to seeing you both—and the kettle will be on, you may be sure.’

Now that the victim was formally identified, the investigation proper could get under way, and there was a great deal more to be accomplished before Melton and O’Connor dare call it a day.

Chief Superintendent Jarvis was briefed and, on his authority, Melton and his assistant combined forces to issue a short but credible press-release. This was accomplished in time for inclusion in mid-evening television news programmes and to feature in national newspapers destined for the streets the following morning. Additionally, acting on a hunch of O’Connor’s, they sifted through the Pennington file and confirmed Ben’s suspicion that Francis Bridgwater, then seventeen, was one of seven teenagers interviewed almost three years previously during the
Body in the Garden
investigation.

‘I bloody-well knew it, Guv’nor,’ Ben O’Connor felt entitled to crow. ‘Eight of them—if you include Malandra Pennington, and they all went to the same local school. That’s no coincidence, surely, nor the fact that both victim’s throats were cut in the same way and with a similar type of instrument. There isn’t any doubt. We’re looking for a man with extensive local knowledge. What’s more, the killer of Francis Bridgwater and Miss Pennington are one and the same.’

‘Hold it, Ben,’ Melton snorted, impatiently. ‘What the hell are you rabbiting on about? We’ve been over this already; try something a bit more original. You’ve added nothing to what we already know—and what’s so unusual about eight local youngsters going to the same local school, anyway? Where the hell else would you expect local children of local parents to go?’

Chastened, his assistant came down to earth.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he mumbled, ‘I got carried away.’

Melton grinned. ‘No problem—so long as you stick to facts and don’t jump to conclusions. Although in one respect I do agree: the more we compare cases, the more likely it seems the two murders
are
connected.’

Returning to the Pennington file, he shuffled through a sheaf of interview reports, checked each against an abridged summation and came to a decision.

‘All right, Ben,’ he allowed. ‘It might be as well to re-interview those youngsters. Set it up for tomorrow—except for Pearce and Robert Strudwick. We’ll deal with those two ourselves.’

No sooner were the words out than Melton was regretting his decision. Not for the first time, any suggestion that Strudwick might not be all that he seemed brought a rush of irrational irritability. What was the point of pursuing a perfectly innocent, forthright, upright citizen? Had it been within Robert Strudwick’s power to assist, he surely would have done.
Damn!
These re-interviews would stand, however, if only to stop his assistant’s incessant badgering.

Abruptly, he selected a hand-written sheet, shoved it towards O’Connor and ordered, sharply, ‘Do three photostat copies—and put the original back in the file before it ends up in the bin.’