The Flyleaf Killer (30 page)

Her introduction to the Midland came about when she sought advice from local Estate Agent, Gaston Hathaway, when she was considering mortgaging her house in order to raise capital. Naively, she attributed her change of fortune to the kindness of Robert Strudwick, who took trouble to introduce her personally to his father, something for which, she made clear, she would always be grateful. From this a friendship of sorts developed—a friendship Strudwick would use to his advantage.

During June 2001, Strudwick heard that one of Sylvia’s drivers reputedly nurtured an unnatural interest in children, and had the man discreetly investigated by a private detective from Richmond. The sleuth earned his fee by discovering that the man, a resident of Gravesend at the time, had been convicted at Maidstone Crown Court in August 1998 on two charges of indecent assault against children, for which he had been fined heavily and sentenced to three months in prison.

Confronted with the evidence that he was a convicted paedophile, who must therefore have falsified references when applying for a Surrey hackney licence, the former felon was easily recruited into Strudwick’s ever-expanding informer network. In addition to keeping his ‘employer’ acquainted with the activities of Sylvia and the other drivers, the man was coerced into the occasional covert trip, without recording details, and, should his cab happen to be ‘borrowed’ for the odd evening, knew better than to ask questions.

Robert Strudwick was firmly ensconced as a successful estate agent, but fast becoming bored. Since learning that the police had all but abandoned hope of establishing a connection between Bridgwater and an unknown enemy, his interest in that particular investigation had evaporated. Whilst aware Steven Pearce was probably the only medium through which he might be linked with Bridgwater’s death, Robert was confident the ‘slimy arsehole’ would never dare mention his one-time altercations with ‘poor departed Francis’—to the police or anybody else. Or was he? For the first time, Strudwick pondered the question and, for a while, felt distinctly uneasy.

But any lingering doubt was dispelled by cold, hard logic. His first major mission had been carefully devised and meticulously carried out and, by their own admission, the police hadn’t a single clue. Yet still he craved excitement. Months had passed since the last mission and he longed to be called upon to fulfil another— Steven Pearce and Janice Pearson, perhaps? His wishes were granted when he opened the Book that very evening. Even as he watched, fascinated, the flyleaf shimmered and a message sprang into being:

SEEK VENGEANCE ON THINE ENEMY
AND SHE WHO SPURNED THEE FOR HIM

As on previous occasions, the script blurred, faded and rapidly disappeared.

Strudwick stared unseeing at the blank page whilst he evaluated the message and applied it to the mortal world and the people he most had reason to dislike. It really was quite simple; his fondest hopes were to be fulfilled. Pearce and Pearson were to be the subjects of his next mission.

Although gratified, he nevertheless felt a pang of disappointment. There was nothing in the message to suggest he was to dispose of the hated couple permanently—but wait! In the absence of specific instructions, he was surely free to take revenge in any way he chose.
Janice and Steven
, he mused. It was common knowledge Janice had booked a weekend break in London for Steven and herself; she never tired of talking about it. Might that form part of a plan?

Robert Strudwick smiled. He applied his superior intellect to the question and it wasn’t long before Sylvia and her taxis came to mind; he swiftly devised an appropriate and interesting solution. That plan came to fruition at 5.25 p.m. on Friday, 18 March 2005 when a cabdriver tooted his horn outside Janice’s house. Excitedly, Janice kissed her mother at the front door.

‘Bye Mum, see you Sunday,’ she chirruped, and tripped gaily down the path, making light of her suitcase and overnight bag.

‘Have a lovely time dear—mind you take care now,’ Mrs Pearson called after her daughter. It was the first time her precious Janice would be away from home, and she watched, anxiously, as the driver received the girl’s luggage and placed it on the back seat. She nodded her approval when he held the door open for his passenger, before resuming his position at the wheel. With another ‘toot’ of the horn and a waving of hands, the taxi sped swiftly away.

For the security of the driver—standard equipment in most modern taxicabs—the vehicle was fitted with an electrically-operated, toughened-glass screen, enabling the cabby to isolate at will the rear passenger compartment and passengers. Additionally, a flick of a switch would remotely lock both rear doors for the safety of child passengers, with the added advantage of preventing dodgy fares from trying to abscond without first making payment.

Steven was obliged to work that day and had been refused permission to leave early. But a colleague had promised him a lift to Surbiton and, on the strength of this, he and Janice agreed to meet under the clock at 5.45 p.m. He dealt with the problem of luggage by simply taking it to work with him.

‘You won’t be late, Stevie darling?’ she entreated anxiously. ‘We mustn’t miss the coach.’

‘No worries, Jan,’ he replied. ‘George won’t let me down. I’ll be there, have no fear.’

The taxi trundled along Lower Green Road, giving way to oncoming traffic on Station Road before heading across the common towards Hampton Court Way. The driver should have crossed the dual carriageway heading for the Dittons, but turned right, towards the Scilly Isles. Despite the onset of dusk, the girl was quick to notice.

‘Why are you going the wrong way?’ she demanded. ‘This isn’t the way to Surbiton station and I have to be there before six. What the heck do you think you’re playing at?’

‘S’orl right, miss, just a slight detour,’ the man replied, reassuringly. ‘I bin tole there’s a burst water-main jus’ along Victoria Road, so I’m finkin’ it’d be better ’f we go the bypass way.’

‘First I’ve heard of it, and anyway, there isn’t time. Our coach leaves dead on six. Take the next left onto Portsmouth Road,’ she ordered. ‘Go through Long Ditton. Take the second right past the reservoir. Turn left,’ she shouted, ‘left, left—now!’

But instead of turning onto the A308, the driver made for the second roundabout and took the first exit right across Littleworth Common, accelerating hard in the direction of Claygate.

‘What do you think you’re doing? Where are you taking me?’ she cried, becoming alarmed.

He made no reply. The girl heard the whine of an electric motor and the glass screen dividing the passenger compartment from that of the driver slid upwards and thudded into the closed position. Frightened, Janice tugged the door handles—locked. She felt for a window-winder—there were none.
Electrically-operated windows and doors! God, I’ve got to get out. The bastard means to rape me!

Their headlights illuminated the road ahead; it was becoming dark. If only she could attract someone’s attention. But the gorse-fringed road didn’t even have a footpath. What’s more, whilst the tinted windows allowed her to see out, they were designed to ensure the passenger’s privacy, rendering it unlikely she would attract attention, even in full daylight.

There was no means of escape, even if the cab should stop. Janice realised she was trapped! She fought back an impulse to scream—nobody but the driver would hear her anyway. What should she do? What
could
she do? Much afraid, the girl nevertheless pressed her nose to the glass and tried to identify their whereabouts and route, but it was already too dark so see much.

Abruptly, the cab left the main road, and twisted and turned so much she was forced to concede she was hopelessly lost.
Oh, Stevie darling, what about our holiday?
Janice fought back her tears. She peered at the luminous dial of her watch: 5.35. They had been travelling for barely ten minutes.

They passed through a series of unfamiliar lanes, until the driver slowed and swung into a winding, tree-lined driveway. After some eighty metres, a house came within range of the headlights. There were no welcoming lights, no sign of life—the place seemed deserted. The vehicle slowed to a crawl.
Where are we? Why has he brought me here?

There came a crunch of gravel, whereupon the driver swung the cab round in little more than its own length, coming to a halt facing the way they had come. She scarcely noticed that the engine was still running.

‘Where is this? What are you going to do?’ she shouted, banging the screen with her fist.

Ignoring her, the driver pulled his cap down over his eyes and got out.
God, he’s coming for me!
Menacingly—or so it seemed—he opened the rear passenger door. Janice couldn’t help but cringe.

‘You get out here,’ he ordered. ‘Come on, hurry up!’

I’m frightened! What is he going to do?
Fearing she was about to be raped—killed, possibly—Janice remained seated, too petrified to move.

‘Get out, you stupid cow,’ he growled, ‘I ain’t got all bleedin’ night!’

Janice recovered her voice. ‘What for? Where are you taking me? Why are you doing this?’

Ignoring her protests, he dragged her out of the vehicle and pushed her roughly to one side. Without speaking, he snatched her cases from the back seat and threw them to the ground, got back behind the wheel and drove away, leaving the terrified girl alone in almost total darkness.

Casting about, Janice located the house, vaguely outlined against a leaden sky. Hurriedly picking up her luggage, she set off towards the road, feeling her way by means of the gravel underfoot, but after a few faltering paces, she was violently grabbed from behind. Her bags went flying and, unable to resist, she was forcibly propelled in the direction of the house.

Janice could hardly breathe. A powerful arm encircled her neck in a vicious half-nelson and a brutal hand clamped firmly over her mouth prevented her from screaming. She was shoved roughly through a door into a dank interior, poorly lit by a paraffin lantern.

A voice snarled hoarsely in her ear, ‘I’m going to take my hands away and when I do, put your hands behind your back—quietly, or I’ll slit your throat right here and now.’

His voice seemed vaguely familiar. The sincerity of the threat, however, was unmistakable.

Janice obeyed, and her hands were promptly secured.

‘In case you decide to scream…’

A gag was shoved across her mouth and tied behind her neck. A blindfold swiftly followed and Janice was manhandled across the room, down steep steps and shoved ignominiously to the floor and into a sitting position. Sensing his proximity, she cringed when her captor bent to fasten her ankles together.

‘That’s you fixed nicely,’ the man said. ‘Just keep still—and remember, I’ll be watching!’

Meanwhile, at Surbiton station, Steven fidgeted. It was 5.43 p.m. and Janice had yet to arrive. Their coach was due to depart in a little over ten minutes. Assuming she had left home as arranged, she should surely have arrived by now, so where was she? After all, the journey was relatively short—no more than six or seven minutes, ten at the most. Anxiously, he checked his watch against the station clock.

Five more minutes ticked inexorably by with still no sign of Janice. Steven began to pace to and fro anxiously—six steps this way, six that, keeping within metres of the rendezvous.
Damn, if only I had my mobile with me.

There were public telephones the other side of the concourse, however.
If she’s not here soon I’ll ring her Mum and ask what’s happened.
But at 5.48, a taxi drew into the forecourt.

‘Thank goodness!’ Steven exclaimed aloud.

He picked up his luggage, crossed to the vehicle and peered through the tinted glass windows. His heart sank: there were no passengers on board.

‘You Steven Pearce?’ the driver inquired gruffly, through a partially lowered window.

‘Yes. Where’s Miss Pearson? What’s going on?’ Steven demanded in agitation. ‘Where’s my fiancée?’

‘Calm down sir—please! I’ve bin sent ter collect yer. Miss Pearson met with a haccident an needs yer hurgently. Jump in, I’ll take yer.’

‘What’s happened to Janice? Where is she?’ Steven repeated, anger forgotten.

‘Don’ know no more than wot I’ve already tole yer,’ the driver answered. ‘I’m jus’ takin’ yer to where she’s bein’ looked arter till the hambulance arrives.’

Unhesitatingly, he scrambled aboard the vehicle, which moved smartly away the instant he slammed the door. The journey lasted around ten minutes and was conducted in silence, Steven accepting that the driver was simply following instructions. Such was his anxiety, he was not in the least suspicious and took no particular notice of the route by which they travelled.

‘Nearly there, guv,’ the driver ventured, as they entered a long gravelled driveway leading to a rather ramshackle house, although Steven scarcely noticed.

The cabbie gestured towards the front door, starkly illuminated by the glare of his headlights.

‘She’s bin took inside out of the cold, guv. I was told to tell yer it’s OK ter go straight in.’

‘Thanks. Wait for me please,’ Steven said, and leapt from the cab. The vehicle moved forward and started to turn—in readiness to depart, Steven supposed—and plunged the house into darkness, forcing him to moderate his headlong dash. Picking his way, Steven reached the entrance without incident and pushed wide the unlatched door. Hesitantly, not bothering to knock, he fumbled his way inside.

The hallway smelt musty and was in pitch darkness. He heard no sound, other than the beat of his own heart.
Where could Janice be?
The hairs at the nape of his neck stiffened. Beside himself with concern, confused and bewildered, he simply couldn’t understand.

‘Janice! Janice! Where are you?’ he called.

His only answer was the muffled echo of his own voice. Yet still he had no inkling of danger. Cautiously, Steven shuffled forward a couple of paces. Suddenly, there came a brilliant flash of light, a loud roaring in his ears, a violent pain inside his head and he knew no more. Steven slumped to the floor unconscious, felled by a single blow to the back of the skull, delivered by the man who had waited behind the door, truncheon raised in readiness.