The Flyleaf Killer (41 page)

Apart from flatly denying everything, Strudwick remained stubbornly silent. Whilst confession would undoubtedly help, evidence mounting by the hour was beginning to render it unnecessary. When blood and DNA samples were checked and compared, all matched. And when Melton resurrected the envelope from home, it revealed that the rogue hair found on Bridgwater’s body conclusively belonged to Strudwick.

Sylvia made a precise and compelling statement. Henry happily talked his socks off.

With the suspected murderer safely in the can, three major investigations became as one, although for procedural, legal and other reasons, all were to remain separately documented.

Also on Tuesday, to the relief of many, and David Melton in particular, Stephen and Janice were taken off the danger list. Neither was well enough to be interviewed but, with their tormentor safely in custody, it was reasonable to expect both to co-operate fully, with luck in a matter of days. In anticipation, additional charges against Strudwick for murder and other related crimes were drafted in readiness.

Meanwhile, duly charged with the offences for which he was arrested, the prisoner appeared before magistrates on Wednesday, 30 March, 2005. Refusing to plead, he was remanded in custody for seven days pending reports. No application was made for bail.

0930, Thursday 31
^st
March, 2005: Police HQ, Surbiton.

Ejected violently through the open hatch, Strudwick’s breakfast tray clattered noisily to the floor, and he began banging on his cell door. Considering the officer on duty was comfortably within earshot, his actions were deliberately provocative.

‘Oi, bastard!’ he bellowed, determined to attract attention. ‘Bastard! Rotten, stinking pig! Wanker, toss-pot, pile of filthy shit!’ The facing door swung open and PC Frobisher appeared. Important prisoner, duty or no, he wasn’t the least amused. Co-opted from Esher to help guard, wait on and pander to the whims of someone as odious as Strudwick was bad enough, to be the target of unwarranted abuse…

‘Shut your row, you noisy sod,’ he shouted. ‘All you needed to do was press the bleedin’ bell!’

‘Fuck the bell! Get your fat, lazy arse in here, copper. I want a word.’

Frobisher reddened:

‘Not so much lip, Strudwick, or you’ll get more than just a word—what d’you want, anyway?’

‘For one thing I’m out of bog roll and for another, I’m pissed-off with being cooped up in here. I need exercise; I’m entitled to exercise. Tell Melton I want to go outside and stretch my legs.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ Frobisher sneered. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Roger Bannister?’

Strudwick ignored the jibe. He modified his tone.

‘Just ask, there’s a good chap. How would
you
like it, stuck in here? I do have rights, you know.’

‘I suppose,’ Frobisher conceded. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do—in about half an hour when I’m due a break. Meanwhile, keep quiet and behave yourself—or I shan’t even bother.’

‘Hang on a sec,’ Strudwick returned. ‘Don’t rush off. I want to ask a favour—it might help.’

‘What now?’

‘Give Melton a message. Tell him I’m putting him up for promotion—that should do the trick … and don’t be long about it. I’m getting as stiff as a board!’

Arrogant, impertinent bastard!
Frobisher glared and slammed the hatch. He was still seething when he knocked on DI Melton’s door.

‘Good morning, sir. Sorry to trouble you. It’s Strudwick. He’s demanding outside exercise. How do I deal with it?’

‘Yes, he is entitled to an hour a day, but it isn’t your problem. Prisons have exercise yards, we don’t. With a couple of extra guards, however, we can make do with the car park. Go back to your break, Frobisher, and leave it with me. I’ll see to it and have him off your hands in, say, around an hour.’

The DI was as good as his word. At 11.00 a.m., PCs Blake and Bellingham reported to the cells.

‘Wotcha, Frobey,’ said Blake, evidently none too pleased. ‘Strudwick! Exercise! DI’s orders. Go get yourself a brew. This Strudwick bloke, he’s nothing but a pain in the arse. We’ll give him bloody exercise.’

‘A couple of miles up the M1 would be nice,’ Frobisher commented, ‘preferably in the fast lane.’

‘You wish,’ Blake chortled. ‘Come on, Frobey, move it. He’s only got an hour.’ Frobisher grinned and unlocked the cell.

‘Oi, Strudwick,’ he said. ‘Jesus, you are ugly! Out you come then. Time for w-a-alkies!’

Strudwick glared, got off his bed and emerged.

‘Assume the position,’ Blake ordered, dangling handcuffs and pointing to Bellingham.

Strudwick extended a wrist, was duly cuffed and conducted to the car park.

‘Ere y’are, Cocky,’ Bellingham, the taller of the two remarked, deftly unlocking the manacles. ‘Steer clear of the cars. Walk, trot, rumba—whatever. Go round as often as you like, but try going further than that wall and you’ll be back inside quicker’n lightning. OK?’

Strudwick nodded. Pointing to the boundary wall, Bellingham treated Strudwick to a helpful, if rather vigorous shove.

Strudwick strode his assigned circuit for a solid fifty minutes until stopped by Bellingham.

‘That’ll do,’ he said, ‘time’s up. PC Blake will take you back. I’m off to lunch.’

Meanwhile, after an enjoyable break, a relaxed PC Frobisher made his way back to the cells. Purely from force of habit, he checked Strudwick’s cell—his euphoria promptly evaporated.

‘Scruffy sod,’ he grumbled. ‘Just look at the bleedin’ mess.’

His annoyance was understandable.

The bed was unmade, socks and underclothes strewn on the floor, washbasin half-full of dirty water, toilet used but not flushed, shaver on the bed:
deliberate
provocation. The man was a pig.

Muttering, and praying the duty Sergeant was nowhere around, Frobisher set about clearing up the mess. As he was tidying the bed …
Hello, what’s this? Oh, might have guessed. Strudwick’s bloody book! What the hell’s he got
this
time? ‘War and Peace’? ‘Maggie Thatcher’s Memoirs’
? He smiled at the thought.
Hang on, it’s the same as last time. Blimey, he
must
be a slow reader!
Frobisher sat on the bed, opened the book midway and flipped idly through the pages.
I wonder who actually wrote this crap?
Turning to the title page, he read:

BIRDS OF THE WORLD

Pilo Sephten

Funny sort of name!
Impelled by more than mere curiosity, he turned to the first chapter and began to read. Becoming engrossed despite himself, he failed to hear approaching voices and was still reading when Robert Strudwick arrived, cuffed and chatting to PC Blake.

‘Hey, what the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘Get your arse off my fucking bed.’ Turning to Blake, he ordered, ‘Get these bloody shackles off, sod you.’

Scarcely thinking, Blake fumbled for the key and obeyed. Rubbing his wrist, Strudwick turned his attention back to Frobisher. Then he did a double-take, turned deathly white and clutched at his throat.

‘You’re reading the Book!’ he screamed.

‘So what?’ replied the officer. ‘You’re not reading it. Too busy gallivanting while I clean up your mess? I’ve seen it before, anyway—last time we met. I’m Frobisher from Esher, remember? Took you to Surbiton for interview. Got a bad memory, have we? Hell’s bells, and it was only a couple of weeks ago.’ He laughed. ‘Same stupid book, as I recall, all about birds. Bit of a slow reader, ain’t’cher? Here, take your book if it’s
that
important.’ He tossed it at Strudwick’s feet.

Strudwick stared. His eyes bulged, he staggered, almost fell.
God, tell me it isn’t true!

‘Y—you’ve looked at the Book—before?’ he stammered. ‘H-how? I never let it out of my sight.’

‘Easy,’ Frobisher sneered, ‘while you were at interview. You made such a hoo-hah packing it, wrapping it, treating it like the crown jewels. I thought it was gold-plated or something. Can’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s only a sodding book, after al—’

He stopped, thunderstruck. Crazed with fear, for all the world like a man possessed, Strudwick had dropped to his knees.

‘No, Master, no!’ he cried. ‘Forgive me. I can explain. It was a mistake, I didn’t mean it!’

The cell light flickered and dimmed. The temperature fell. Dank mist eddied and swirled. Strudwick screamed. A long, drawn-out wail—the sound of a soul in torment, a creature without hope. He clutched his head, shook violently from side to side, howled, thrashed and screamed again.

Struggling to his feet, he confronted the watchers. Mouth agape, he dribbled. Dark, viscous liquid oozed from his nose. Vacantly, he turned, lowered his head and charged, crashing headlong into the wall. He howled like a banshee, fell writhing to the floor, limbs thrashing, jerking, shuddering—finally still.

The watching policemen stood helplessly by, stricken powerless, unable to intervene. Time stood still. A moment passed—and another. Neither policeman moved. Strange, archaic words—mysterious, vaguely poetic—entered Frobisher’s mind. It was his right, his privilege, his duty. For he had been the catalyst—Strudwick’s chosen nemesis.

Involuntarily, he recited aloud:
Another time, another dimension, faint mocking, thundering low, starting with whisper increasing but slow, vengeance as promised by creature none know…

His voice faded. Frobisher shook his head and turned to his companion.

‘Christ! That was weird. What about him? Does he need an ambulance?’

Blake jumped. ‘What? What did you say?’

‘Come alive, you dozy plonker! Does he need an ambulance?’

‘Nah, too late—he’s a goner. Seen it before, Frobey. Only friggin’ thing he needs is a meat wagon.’

Skirting the body, Frobisher picked up the book, opened the front cover and examined the label:

SURREY COUNTY LIBRARIES

No:
666 Birds of the World, Sephten

Date for return:
15:10:98

WILLIAM A PRATER has packed a wealth of experience into an interesting life and career. Born the son of a farm worker at West Molesey, he moved to Esher with his family at the age of 7, when Dad left farming for something more financially rewarding.

He was educated at Esher; won
Francis Mary Eastwood
prizes over several years for ‘Proficiency in Knowledge of the Bible’, most notably First Prize in December 1939 - a beautifully illustrated Bible, and was a choirboy at Esher Parish Church from the age of 9 until his thirteenth year when his boyish soprano plummeted earthwards. Marking time with a variety of jobs until he was old enough, Bill signed with the Regular Army (REME) in 1948.

The young soldier learned to box and saw service in Far Eastern Land Forces Hong Kong - where he won a tournament championship as a lightweight, and served with the 1st Commonwealth Division during the Korean War before returning to the UK in 1952.

He married Jean in 1953, who accompanied him together with their young son on his posting to Tripoli in 1956. Their daughter happened along eventually during 1964.

Returning to civilian life in 1961, he joined a nationally-known pre-cast concrete manufacturer and in 1966 became works manager at one of their factories in Cheshire. He was later appointed to a similar position at the group’s structural steel fabrication plant in Trafford Park, becoming redundant in 1973 when he joined a small building company as an administrator. His appointment to general manager followed in 1975.

He is a keen photographer and became a licensed radio amateur and member of the Radio Society of Great Britain in 1984 and, as G0EOL, made many friends around the world – some of whom have visited from as far away as Australia and New Zealand.

Having written
The Flyleaf Killer
in ‘odd spare moments’, he has a file full of ideas and is currently working on a new novel. ‘Something entirely different’, he says.