The Flyleaf Killer (34 page)

‘You can’t do that. I’ve done nothing wrong. I want my solicitor.’

‘All in good time, sir. Now, shall we go?’

‘Very well—but if I’m likely to be kept overnight, I’ll need a few things from the house.’

‘Certainly, sir. I’ll come with you—not that you’d be foolish enough to nip out the back door.’

Strudwick led the way to his room, thinking furiously. Had he inadvertently violated the Contract? Of course not. Was Pentophiles taking revenge for intransigence or insubordination? Extremely unlikely. What then?

Having never meekly submitted to authority throughout his long Custodianship, it was difficult to face the prospect of detention with equanimity. Desperately seeking a way out, he applied his mind to every facet of the situation. The one thing he was sure of was that the police were not to be trusted. That being so, and to ensure his most treasured possession remained inviolate during his absence, he wrapped the important volume in a spare towel and placed it carefully among a selection of overnight essentials. Realising PC Frobisher was watching and concerned that he might object, Strudwick looked up.

‘Just a little light reading, officer, in case I have time to kill.’

The policeman did not respond. His brief was to deliver a potentially important witness to Surbiton, allowing no opportunity for communication with a third party, and it made little difference what the man took. Everything would be confiscated pending release anyway.

Strudwick arrived at Surbiton, was booked in and interviewed without delay. Once the line of questioning became apparent, he regained his confidence. He was unable to help. The car seen near Esher Old Church the night of November 17, supposedly a light-coloured Jaguar XJS, was definitely not his. He stuck to his guns and was released unconditionally at 11.05, unaware that, whilst he was being interviewed, a curious PC Frobisher had taken a surreptitious peek at the book so carefully packed by the detainee.

Running down Henry Dyson was simple. DS O’Connor simply drove to ‘Ace Cars’.

‘Good morning, Mrs Fairweather,’ he said to the proprietor, pleasantly. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant O’Connor from Surbiton. As you know, we are investigating the disappearance of a young couple and I’d like another word with the cabby interviewed by DC Gibson on Monday—Henry Dyson, I believe. As it’s rather urgent, I’d be obliged if you’d call him. I assume he
is
working and not too far away?’

‘Yes, he’s on station duty all week. Have a chair, I’ll call him.’

‘Don’t tip him off in case he does a runner. Can you make a suitable excuse?’

She nodded. ‘Control to oh-five, where are you, Henry?’

The radio clicked in response. ‘Jest leaving the station. Client wantin’ the council offices.’

‘OK. Deliver the fare and come straight in. I want a word about yesterday’s takings.’

‘Right, missus. Oh-five, out.’

When Dyson appeared, O’Connor rose to his feet to intercept him. ‘Good morning. Mr Dyson?’

Dyson’s eyes widened. ‘Yus, ’oo wants t’know?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant O’Connor, Surbiton police. Since making a statement to Detective Constable Gibson, certain developments lead us to believe you may be able to help further with our inquiries. I should therefore like you to accompany me to Surbiton police station where additional questions will be put to you.’

‘’Ere, wotcher bleedin’ nickin’ me for? I ain’t dun nuffink. I tole the uvver copper all wot I know.’

‘I’m not nicking you, but if you refuse to come voluntarily I most certainly shall.’

Grumbling about ‘Perlice ’arrassment’ and ‘lorst earnings’, Dyson acquiesced. However, he stuck doggedly to his story: he had collected the young lady and taken her to Surbiton, just as he’d told the other copper, but knew nothing about some young bloke getting into a cab—how could he?

Insisting that he had knocked off after taking the girl to Surbiton, the indignant man demanded, ‘So ’ow the bleedin’ ’ell d’yer s’pect me to be in two places at once, then?’

When Sylvia Fairweather confirmed Miss Pearson had been Dyson’s last recorded fare of the day, the cabby was released but warned not to leave the area without permission.

Although thoroughly alert to Pentophiles’ impatience, estate agency business continued to keep Strudwick fully occupied and it was late Friday evening before he donned an old boiler suit, placed a can of paraffin and a bulky valise in the boot of his car and returned by an indirect route to his isolated house on the outskirts of Claygate, totally unaware that he was discreetly being followed.

On his approach, an indefinable blackness descended upon the property:
KILL! KILL! KILL!
As he neared the end of the gravelled driveway, Strudwick’s face contorted into a snarl, his teeth gleamed eerily in reflected light from the dashboard and he licked his lips in anticipation.

A week’s incarceration without food or drink in cold, damp conditions found the couple hallucinating and close to hypothermia. They hovered on the borderline between life and death. Neither noticed the rattle of bolts nor the creak of the door and not until the brilliance of torchlight and the sound of footsteps penetrated the veils of tortured exhaustion did either become vaguely aware that they were no longer alone.

They scarcely registered the shadowy form, much less observe him dump a bag on the bench and wedge the flashlight into a niche somewhere near the ceiling. Neither reacted as Strudwick refuelled the paraffin lamp, turned up the wick and brushed it free of charred cotton. A second match was expended before the wick was sufficiently primed to ignite. He replaced the chimney and adjusted the flame for maximum illumination. Unhurriedly, the accomplished assassin returned the lamp to its nail, retrieved the flashlight and consigned both it and the matches to a pocket of the valise.

Only now did Strudwick turn his attention to the captives, and only now did the dreadful condition they were in become apparent. Had he left them too long? His mind raced:
Pentophiles! What of Pentophiles?

Full subject awareness was essential if he was to regain the approbation of his master. To recreate the conditions for an exchange of personalities and allow his mentor to participate in the climax of the mission, now substantially more difficult than originally intended.

Strudwick dared not delay. He unzipped the valise, withdrew the two-litre bottle of water and set about reviving the prisoners. Janice gagged, spluttered and drank greedily. Steven turned his head away, but when Strudwick grabbed a handful of hair, tilted his head and sloshed water into his face, he too began to drink.

Suddenly, the ill-defined, miasmic blackness lifted.
Thou hast betrayed Pentophiles!
Strudwick straightened up: the water-bottle fell from his grasp, its contents gurgling unheeded across the shadowy floor.

Flee! Flee! Thine enemies are nigh!

His mobile telephone trilled. He jumped. Who was calling? He snatched the instrument from his pocket and squinted at the display:
Bobby Shafto!

‘Hello! What?’ He listened intently whilst the informant spoke, then demanded, ‘Now? In the morning? Don’t you know? What do you mean “They’re watching me?”’ Strudwick’s face paled. ‘Right, I’m on my way!’

His mind went blank.

What the hell was his home number? Frantically, he scrolled the memories.

‘Father?’

‘Yes, Robert.’

‘Listen, don’t speak. Something urgent has cropped up. I’ve no time to explain, but I’m going away for a few days. There are two bags inside my wardrobe, packed ready. Get both and put them behind the hedge inside the gates. I’ll pick them up in a while. The police will call later tonight or in the morning. Stall them; tell them I’m ill in bed—anything. I need a little time. But don’t answer any questions about me. I’ll give you a ring when I’ve sorted things out. Goodbye.’

He rang off. Immediately, he punched in another number.

‘Henry? Where are you? Are you free? Good, I need your help. Switch off your radio and pick me up in ten minutes. No, not at the house—Mother is asleep. I’ll meet you on the corner. OK? Good!’

It was difficult to think, but he maintained a measure of self-control and focused on the need to escape. Suppressing an impulse to knife the captives there and then, he retrieved the bottle, snatched the lantern from its nail, grabbed the valise and fairly ran up the steps and out of the cellar.

Pausing only to re-bolt the cellar, he slammed the front door, extinguished the hot lantern and threw it into the bushes, slung the valise into the boot of his car and, regardless of risk, drove at breakneck speed down the driveway to regain the road.

‘Let him go—for now,’ Melton said, newly arrived and parked in the entrance to a farmer’s field diagonally opposite, screened from the road by gorse and hedgerow. ‘He’s heading home and we’ll have a word with him later. Right now, I want to know what he was doing up that driveway and why he came out in such a hell of a hurry.’

On his signal, waiting police advanced cautiously and, within a matter of minutes, a muted voice came over the radio to report the discovery of a ramshackle house in total darkness.

‘Wait there,’ Melton ordered, leaving his car. ‘I’m coming in to join you.’

Meanwhile, the water taken by the captives had brought them back from the brink. It was meant only to revive, but may well have saved their lives. Steven was the first to attempt to speak.

‘Jan—are you all right?’ he managed to croak.

‘Just about—are you?’ she whispered, hoarsely.

‘I’m OK—what was all that about?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Robert Strudwick, just now. That business on the phone.’

‘Dunno, couldn’t take it in … Oh, Stevie, I feel terrible.’

‘I’m not so good either,’ Steven admitted, ‘but better after that drink.’

He fell silent. She sighed and leaned sideways in the darkness to rest her head against his shoulder. He smiled. Despite their condition, the couple drifted off to sleep.

They didn’t sleep long. Discovery and rescue came not a moment too soon. Their bonds were gently removed. Paramedics arrived in minutes and administered water and oxygen. Both on saline drips, Steven and Janice found themselves in an ambulance—lights flashing, sirens blaring—bound for Kingston General, where specialist medical staff stood by to receive the couple.

It was thirty minutes after midnight. Uniformed police took up station; the property was secured, pending forensic examination. It was time to find out what part, if any, Robert Strudwick had played in the abduction and incarceration of Janice Pearson and Steven Pearce.

DI Melton prodded a yawning DS O’Connor in the ribs.

‘It’s getting late. He’s no idea we’re on to him. Sod it! We’ll deal with him in the morning.’

‘You’re having me on, Guv’nor,’ his assistant gasped, instantly wide awake. ‘You don’t intend to leave that bloody animal on the loose overnight, surely?’

‘A-ha! You’re not asleep, after all,’ Melton chuckled.

‘Just as well I’m not. Somebody needs to keep an eye on you, obviously.’

There was silence for a moment. O’Connor fidgeted.

‘What about Strudwick? That
was
his car, wasn’t it? Were you taking the mick, Guv’nor?’

‘Of course not. It was his car right enough, and he was driving it,’ Melton confirmed wearily.

‘Tell you what—radio the team who trailed him here to go nick him and shove him in the pokey till morning. Let him cool his heels for a few hours, minus his braces, belt, shoelaces and dignity while we both grab a spot of shut-eye.’ Vindicated, but still uneasy, his assistant nevertheless thumbed the mike switch.

‘Oh, we’ll talk to Mister Strudwick all right—tomorrow’ … a remark which prompted DS O’Connor to let go the key. He was not to know that malign influences heavily affected the DI’s judgement, nor, for that matter, that he too was affected, although to a lesser degree. But—and not for the first time—he wondered whether his superior officer was losing the plot.

‘Just a thought, Guv’nor,’ he ventured. ‘What if chummy knew he’d been rumbled? Why else would he scarper in a tearing hurry within minutes of our arrival? Take it from me, sir. He’ll be miles away by now.’
I’d put my shirt on it!

Melton jerked himself upright.

‘Possible, but unlikely. The surveillance was strictly “need to know”. Nobody—apart from you, me and the operatives, and the Chief of course—knew about it until after the subject was shadowed here and we mobilised.’

‘Come on, Guv’nor. Get real. Mobile phones? Our probable “mole”? Strudwick could easily have been tipped off. Common knowledge once the teams were briefed.’

DI Melton was unable to contain his irritation any longer.

‘I’m in no mood for idle speculation, Sergeant,’ he snapped. ‘Just detail Gibson and Slade—right now, dammit, before they make it to HQ and knock off for the night.’

O’Connor dutifully re-keyed the microphone.

Meanwhile, at Kingston General, in intensive care, Steven and Janice had stabilised and were resting peacefully under sedation. Neither could yet be assured of full recovery and no further bulletins would be issued for the time being. The frustrated assassin, on the other hand was many miles away, just as DS O’Connor had predicted.

The call came as Melton’s car was nearing Hinchley Wood. ‘Zebra One—receiving?’

‘Zebra Five, go ahead.’

‘Problems, Sarge. It took ten minutes for the suspect’s father to answer the door; he was very annoyed at being disturbed. Refuses to co-operate: says he’s not responsible for his son’s actions, doesn’t know where he is and, what’s more, doesn’t much care—might still be at the office, or upstairs ill in bed, for all he knows. He told us to leave him and his wife in peace and slammed the door. Could be the suspect has flown the coop. Zebra One, over.’

‘Zebra Five, wait one.’

‘Roger, Zebra One. Zebra Five to standby.’

O’Connor turned his head. ‘What now, sir?’

Melton sighed. ‘Tell them to wait there. We’ll check it out ourselves. Turn the car round, Sergeant.’

On reaching the gates, Melton was again aware of the strange aura of brooding unease that seemed to surround the property. But tonight he thought it had lessened. He swallowed, suppressed a shiver, and strode ahead.