The Flyleaf Killer (38 page)

‘Anyway, harking back to the
Pennington Murder
, I remember your offer of help. Developments? Yes, quite a story. Prepared statement and interview at three. Interested? Good, see you then. Bye.’

‘Benjamin Jopney, Thames Television,’ Melton explained, entirely unnecessarily. ‘One of the few with a heart, I feel I owe him. Anyway, I’d like you to ring Robin Prendergast. Tell him there’s a Press briefing at three. Invite him to attend, but not in my name—he gave me a really rough time this morning, the hardnosed sod. If we didn’t need the publicity—?’

‘Yes sir—right away,’ O’Connor replied. He returned to his desk and reached for the telephone, leaving Melton free to begin drafting the all-important statement.

Prendergast accepted: Ben visited the canteen; Ben, coffee and sandwiches duly arrived.

Yet again, Melton’s telephone rang. ‘Melton. Yes, I most certainly will. Put him through.’ He began to listen, then interjected, ‘Hold on a second.’ He signalled O’Connor to pick up the extension, then resumed, ‘Sorry about that, Constable, something cropped up. Would you mind beginning again?’

‘Not at all, sir,’ the caller replied. ‘As I was saying, sir, Transport Police, Waterloo. I’m P.C. Melberg. One of the booking clerks, chap named Blessington, came into the station a few minutes ago—still here, actually, if you want a word. Says he came off shift a bit late and went to the staff lounge to eat his lunch and watch telly for a while. When the one o’clock news came on, there was an item about a wanted man by the name of Robert William Strudwick.

‘The description reminded him of some four-eyed weirdo who bought a single around nine-thirty this morning. The man fiddled and rummaged for the right money and seemed—well, sort of
furtive
. He wore glasses and had yellow, greasy hair, and when he looked up, Blessington noticed he had big, goggle-eyes, nigh on big as saucers, and black, like knobs of coal. Something clicked. He can’t be certain, but Mr Blessington has a funny feeling it was Strudwick. He couldn’t remember the man’s destination, so he nipped back to the office to check the computer. It seems he sold seventeen tickets between 9.25 and 9.35, but only one single—to Tilbury, at 9.31. Blessington seems intelligent and genuinely anxious to help, sir. Would you care to speak to him?’

‘No, thank you,’ Melton replied. ‘Tell Mr Blessington we’re very grateful. Congratulate him on his alertness and powers of observation. Tell him his public-spirited action is appreciated, and we shall make the best use possible of his information. And thank you for ringing through so promptly, Constable Melberg. Please be good enough to render your report through the usual channels.’

Melton replaced his receiver. O’Connor followed suit.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ said Melton. ‘What do you make of that?’

‘Pretty conclusive, Guv’nor, I’d say. That describes Strudwick to a tee, the crafty bastard. Tilbury! He’s legging it to Tilbury, the nearest port. Where to from there, sir? Ostend? Zeebrugge?’

Melton didn’t think so. ‘No, that’s what he
wants
us to think, but for once he’s been far too clever for his own good. How did Blessington put it? ‘Black, goggle-eyes, nigh on big as saucers’?
Why
, do you suppose?’

‘I haven’t the remotest, Guv’nor.’

‘I’ll tell you why, Benjamin, my boy. Strudwick was wearing contact lenses as well as glasses. It would be difficult to see—he fumbled for money buying the ticket, remember, so I suspect he wore glasses purposely in order to be recognised, which suggests he bought a
second
ticket to a different destination, probably from another booking clerk, this time
without
his give-away goggles.

‘Where would he head to from Waterloo? Port, airport? Certainly, but not, repeat not, to Tilbury.’

Melton waited, eyeing his assistant. O’Connor fingered his whiskers absently. The more he considered, the more it made sense. What seemed astonishing supposition at first, swiftly transformed itself into a first-class piece of inspirational deduction.

‘I reckon you’ve hit the nail on the head, Guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Which leads to a rather crafty notion,’ Melton went on. He formed a steeple with his fingertips. ‘Let’s play him at his own game. Let’s let him think we’ve swallowed his red herring. What d’you say?’ O’Connor was quick to agree. ‘But how?’ He scratched his head.

‘Don’t look so puzzled,’ Melton said. ‘I’ll explain later. But first, I’d like you to do me a favour. Time is short and I need to get on with this statement. Get back to PC Melberg at Waterloo. Tell him we believe Strudwick bought a
second
ticket round about the same time—let’s say within about five minutes. We need to know where to. Ask Melberg to see if he can obtain a printout of all tickets sold between 0925 and 0935—not too vast a number, I dare say. Tell him to ring me personally should he encounter any difficulties. Impress on him that the matter is urgent and I’d like the printout faxed through with the minimum of delay.’

When, twenty minutes later, O’Connor returned bearing a sheaf of fax-paper, Melton was busily finalising the press statement.

Waterloo booking hall had proved reasonably busy, even on a Saturday. Four out of the seven ticket windows had been manned, from which 62 tickets—predominantly returns—were issued between 9.25 and 9.35.

‘I dare say you’ve twigged what we’re looking for,’ Melton remarked. ‘If Strudwick intends to skip, he’ll make for an airport: Heathrow, Blackheath, Gatwick or Southend—or, more likely, one of the channel ports with ferry services to the Continent: Southampton, Dover, Felixstowe, Ramsgate, Folkestone or Newhaven. Are you with me?’

‘Makes sense, Guv’nor,’ his assistant agreed. ‘That’s where I’d be heading if I were in
his
lousy shoes—France, Belgium or the Netherlands. He knows we’re after him, and there are precious few hiding-places anywhere in
this
country.’

‘My sentiments entirely, so let’s see what we can come up with.’ It helped considerably that the computer records were both comprehensive and self-explanatory. Every ticket sold was date-timed, with multiple sales to individual purchasers quantity bracketed.

Working together, Melton and his assistant swiftly reduced the list to nine destinations: Portsmouth(2), Seaford, Dover(2), Hounslow, Newhaven, Gatwick, Folkestone, Southend and Poole.

‘Hm,’ Melton murmured, thoughtfully. ‘Now which of these seem the least likely?’ Answering his own question, he crossed out Portsmouth, Felixstowe, Seaford and Poole. ‘Doubtful—too far away,’ he explained. ‘And scrub out Dover as well—Strudwick is travelling alone. If we rule out airports, and I think we can, that leaves Southend, Newhaven and Folkestone. Southend is out—no ferry services. Newhaven’s a bit less likely, but remains a possibility. That narrows things down a bit, doesn’t it?’

O’Connor nodded. ‘I follow your reasoning, but I can’t quite fathom where it’s leading.’

‘Tactics! We alert all three, publicise Tilbury, but keep Newhaven and Folkestone under wraps. And there’s more. Alfred said his son has current and deposit accounts at the Midland, which suggests an opportunity to set a trap. Whether it’ll work or not… well, that remains to be seen.’

O’Connor was puzzled. ‘Sorry, Guv’nor, I don’t see…’

‘We know from experience that Strudwick covers his tracks well and is both clever and resourceful. But, as things stand, he might suppose there’s nothing definite to connect him with the kidnap— or anything else, for that matter. He may even plan to return home after a week or two. Who knows? But not if he watches TV or reads tomorrow’s papers, he won’t. He’ll know we really are on to him. That being so, he won’t hang about waiting for the dust to settle, he’ll head for somewhere remote—a safe haven where he can start a new life. And for that, he’ll need money—lots of it. Think about it. He’s hardly likely to leg it permanently without realising or transferring his assets, now is he?’

O’Connor’s eyes widened. ‘Gotcha, Guv’nor.’

‘Yes,’ Melton said, ‘and I’ve an even tastier trick up my sleeve, but more about that later.’

Informed he was to be released conditionally, Henry Dyson expressed surprise—and some alarm.

‘’Ere!’ he exclaimed, loudly. ‘Wot if ’e comes lookin’ ter carve me up wiv ’is bloody great knife?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Melton reassured him, ‘we’ll be watching out for you. But in any case, there’s every reason to believe he’s miles away by now. But keep that to yourself, it’s confidential information.’

‘Wotcha mean? ’Ow the ’ell d’yer know?’ Dyson demanded.

‘All right, I’ll tell you—it’ll be in tomorrow’s papers, anyway. He travelled to Waterloo after you dropped him off, stopped overnight in London and bought a single ticket to Tilbury this morning. Chances are he’s making straight for the Continent, so you can go back to your cab and rest easy. The Sergeant will see to the formalities, Mr Dyson.’

A Promise Made…

While DI Melton and his team were setting up a manhunt, Robert Strudwick continued to put distance between himself and his pursuers—alert, wary, careful to avoid arousing suspicion.

Comfortably ensconced in a window seat, his luggage safe in the rack where he could keep an eye on it, he relaxed for a while, taking in something of the scenery as the train moved through the urban sprawl, heading for Beckenham and beyond.

Lulled by the rhythmic clatter of the wheels, he lapsed into thought. It was his first real opportunity to rationalise the who, what or how behind the first-ever failure of a well-conceived ‘Mission’ and the consequent enforced abandonment of a comfortable existence among his parents, home and friends. More important was the loss of his pride, his enviable position and hard-won, highly lucrative career.

At some stage, and at all costs, the status quo must be re-established, something he realised was next to impossible without the backing of his netherworld mentor, whose patronage he must therefore urgently seek to restore.

Pending that moment, outwitting the police and maintaining freedom must remain his overriding priority. Given his proven survival record, he confidently expected to achieve both.

Not that he didn’t recognise—and regret—an extraordinary succession of blunders. What had possessed him to run from the cellar in mindless panic? Why hadn’t he stopped to think?
What if Stephen and Janice were to survive? Would fear keep them quiet—or would they talk?
An idiotic question—too damn right they would! Furthermore, Pearce was the one person alive who knew enough to implicate him in the Pennington adventure. So why was the bastard still alive?
Bloody hell!
He cursed, angrily, under his breath. A couple of knife thrusts would have silenced Stephen Pearce
and
his bloody tart permanently.

And what of Henry Dyson, the grovelling, snivelling little pervert who knew far, far too much? Having outlived his usefulness, he too ought rightfully to have been disposed of.
Damn! Damn!
And as for himself—forced to run like a common criminal; revenge abandoned.
Hell’s teeth!

What
had
gone wrong—and why? It didn’t make sense. If he really had digressed, then how? He needed help. As Custodian of the Book he surely merited it. Why was Pentophiles so infuriatingly elusive? Clearly he had upset his mentor, but how? He’d been rude before with no lasting effect. Why? Why? He examined and re-examined the happenings of the past few days, but failed to find a satisfactory answer. But he
would
find out—eventually.

Strudwick was still supremely confident, but as the train progressed and the distance between home, office and familiar territory increased, so his confidence began to evaporate.

Nearing Orpington he became anxious, as if events were spiralling out of control. Intuition—some sort of sixth sense—sounded a warning in his mind. He wondered if his escape plan was as foolproof as he had thought?

Doubt engendered fear which constricted his throat, and he became increasingly edgy and uneasy. He ached to know what the police were up to. Were his parents conforming, or not?

His ‘spur-of-the-moment’ bravado at Waterloo had been needlessly dangerous, and the disposal of his mobile telephone, logical enough at the time, was also beginning to seem like a serious mistake. His unease intensified. Ought he to modify—or even abandon—the escape plan? He was unsure. If only Pentophiles would return to guide him. For all his self-reliance, his ability to scheme and evaluate would surely benefit and he would thereafter know
exactly
what he must do. That Pentophiles
would
relent, he didn’t doubt, probably quite soon. Re-empowered and protected, current difficulties resolved, he would return to Claygate in triumph to resume his rightful place.

Probing, questing, his thoughts lit on the informant who urged him to flight:
Bobby Shafto!
She said he had been followed for several days and was under surveillance even as she spoke. OK, she
had
warned him—but why so late in the evening? Why the hell hadn’t she alerted him earlier? Had she provoked him into running for no good reason? Thinking back, there was no sign of the police when he left The Beeches, nor was he followed—at least, so as far as he could tell … Hm!

He knew she resented his hold over her. Was the warning a hoax, motivated by a wish for revenge? If so, the bitch would definitely become the subject of a brand-new ‘Mission’ … His pulse quickened.

But a ‘Mission’ needed instructions from the Book … He cursed, softly. Abruptly, reality returned, accompanied by an uncomfortable sensation. Damn, he needed a piddle.

Attempting to relieve the pressure, he wriggled, and made matters worse.
What now?
he wondered:
Leave my bags here and have them nicked? Solicit attention by taking them with me to the bog and risk losing my seat into the bargain, or sit it out and hope I don’t end up by pissing myself?
Perversely, he was also becoming extremely thirsty and badly needed a drink. These two simple needs became, collectively, the catalyst for a modified course of action. By the time the train squealed to a halt at Maidstone, his mind was made up.