The Flyleaf Killer (6 page)

Brian’s relentless persecution came to an abrupt end, neither did he suffer further abuse from any of the teachers—no doubt the word had spread!

The boy took Robert’s declaration of friendship quite literally and doggedly followed his ‘hero’ about, seeking an opportunity to perform small services in gratitude. This amused Robert, who set about converting gratitude into obedience and, within a week, simple, gullible Brian was completely under his control. Indeed, Brian Carpenter believed himself forever indebted to his ‘friend and protector’. Perhaps he was—but there were also to be times when he would be very much afraid…

Teenagers

At just under five foot, Janice Pearson might be considered suited to Robert Strudwick, at least in one respect. From the day he walked her home following the tragic death of Stanley Billham, she took to following him around, smiling, flirting outrageously, and doing her best to attract his attention. But never once did he condescend so much as to acknowledge her.

For two or three weeks he ignored her covert glances, affected not to hear the flattering remarks when within earshot, and treated the notes she left on his desk with indifferent contempt. Given the slightest encouragement, he would chat animatedly with almost any girl in the school, except Janice—or so it seemed. Eventually, tired of being ignored, yet reluctant to concede defeat, she summoned the courage to approach him directly.

‘Excuse me, Robert,’ she began, timidly. ‘Please, could I have a word with you?’

‘I suppose so—what do you want?’ was his brusque reply.

‘Well, I’m sure you know that I like you,’ she blushed, ‘but do you think I’m pretty?’

‘No, not much!’ Robert told her rudely, and walked away, leaving the girl close to tears.

Janice sulked the rest of the day. She tried to put him out of her mind, but without success. No matter what, Robert Strudwick would never be far from her thoughts and, so smitten, she convinced herself his hurtful response wasn’t rejection, but a ruse to test her sincerity. Heartened by self-delusion, she resolved to continue her campaign and to bolster the chances of success by adopting an entirely different tactic—but what?

After long and careful consideration, she settled on a plan. That evening, Janice went to bed early. She slept soundly, rose at six and spent the next two and a half hours preparing for battle. She bathed, brushed her teeth until her arm ached, washed and set her hair, and didn’t budge from the mirror until her make-up was exactly right. Finally, wearing her best dress and accessories, she set off for school, a very determined gleam in her eye!

At morning break, Janice watched from a distance as Robert strolled across the quadrangle to adopt a favoured position by the far perimeter, something of a sun-trap. Once he seemed settled, she threaded her way through scattered groups across the recreation area and, hips swinging provocatively, sauntered past Robert without so much as a glance. Continuing along the perimeter wall and round to the main building, she went inside.
That
’ll show him! she thought—then flushed, feeling a trifle foolish. For not only might the ploy have failed, she may also have appeared rather childish.

But she need not have worried. Robert saw her promenade, of course. He also noticed how nice she looked and wondered why the girl who had lately dogged his every move should suddenly put on a display of calculated indifference. He guessed it was either to repay his snub, or to inform him she was no longer interested. He decided to find out which, and at the same time establish just how far the girl was prepared to go. It could prove entertaining. He would begin by surprising her—simple enough.

First out of class after the bell, he stepped from behind the school gate and intercepted her.

‘Hi Janice. Wow, you look nice! Would you like to come for a walk?’ he asked, engagingly.

Janice gasped, stopped dead in her tracks and blushed furiously. She seemed startled—but he could tell what her answer was going to be …
Talk about easy!

‘Oh, yes, Robert, I’d like that!’ she blurted out, astonished and delighted.

Bingo, hole in one!
With the girl at his side, Robert set off across the village green, heading for the estate road through Waynflete and the private woods which ultimately would take them to Lower Green. Ten minutes later, he steered her into a coppice away from the footpath and they were alone.

Robert put his arms around her, drew her close and they kissed—awkwardly, dry-mouthed. Encouraged, he spread his jacket on the ground and sat down, pulling her down beside him. They kissed again and she submitted to his clumsy attempts to fondle her breasts through her clothing—in fact, it felt quite pleasant, she was surprised to discover. He kissed her, parted her lips with the tip of his tongue—and Janice kissed him back.
Wow!

Enjoying the experience, Janice made no protest when he sidled his hand up her dress, but was shocked rigid when he roughly insinuated his hand inside her knickers. Outraged, she smacked his hand away and jumped to her feet, cheeks aflame.

‘Just what sort of girl do you think I am, Robert Strudwick?’ she screeched. Before he could stop her, she was off through the trees heading for home as fast as her legs would carry her, leaving him cursing furiously.

The next day, Janice pointedly avoided Robert. She stuck her nose in the air when he called to her in the quad. Later, in the canteen, she abandoned her lunch and stalked away when he attempted to strike up a conversation.

Robert smirked. He considered rejection an amusing challenge and set about winning her back. Changing strategy,
he
became the pursuer and she the pursued. Throughout several days of unremitting (but flattering) attention, Janice continued to resist his advances, but eventually relented and agreed to walk out with him again.

‘Providing you behave yourself, Robert Strudwick,’ she stipulated.

‘I was only doing what
all
boys do, when they’re very fond of a girl,’ he protested, a statement she ignored. And when Robert walked her home that afternoon, he made no attempt to invade her privacy, although they kissed and cuddled a great deal.

Janice was delighted and thrilled. At last, the boy she had set her heart on seemed determined to woo her in the manner she imagined all romances ought rightfully to be conducted. In the days and weeks that followed she allowed the association to develop, during which time Robert maximised his formidable powers of persuasion in order to insinuate himself into the girl’s affections. Slowly, carefully, he cultivated the association until Janice was completely under his spell. But it wasn’t only affection that he sought, he also took control of Janice’s emotions and made her his obedient slave.

The moment he judged her sufficiently subservient, he submitted her to a series of sexual acts that began with petting and rapidly extended in scope until no part of her body was safe from his prying eyes and fingers. Yet he frequently abandoned her for a fling elsewhere, returning to resume where he’d left off when— but
only
when—he had tired of the new encounter.

If she protested, he became threatening and abusive, claimed the interlude was only for fun and declared Janice to be the only girl he’d ever really wanted—and each time she forgave him and gladly took him back.

At fifteen, whilst Janice imagined herself in love and was frightened of losing Robert, she was also frightened
of
him, and so emotionally confused she was unable to differentiate between the two states.

She submitted to full sex before she was sixteen, an experience devoid of pleasure for her and which stimulated Robert to enter into a series of experimental, unnatural practices. He treated her with contempt, used her as he saw fit and, following the sex act, would pinch her intimately and make her cry, which apparently afforded him some sort of sadistic pleasure. On the only occasion she tried to put a stop to his deviant behaviour he produced a knife and held it against the terrified girl’s throat until, fearing for her life, she tearfully relented. As time passed, she became increasingly nervous and depressed, yet was far too frightened to share her fear and misery with anyone.

Calderwood Clough-Cartwright was self-opinionated, pompous and overweight. He was also manager of the Esher branch of the Midland Bank, a position he had held since his appointment (several stones lighter) in 1991.

He was well-regarded by his seniors, who saw him as a capable, conscientious manager, one who thoroughly understood his duties and responsibilities to company, clients and staff—in that order. To his unfortunate juniors, he was a pompous, overbearing martinet who ruled with military precision, as if they were private soldiers and he the Regimental Sergeant Major. Furthermore, once the branch was running satisfactorily, he shamelessly delegated as much as he could.

The respectful knock on his door came (he consulted his watch) exactly one minute and five seconds after his summons—three full seconds earlier than anticipated.

‘Come in, Strudwick!’ he boomed, wriggling a corpulent backside a little more comfortably into his leather-upholstered chair.

The door opened. Alfred Strudwick entered and, in obedience to Mr Clough-Cartwright’s imperious wave, seated himself gingerly on the lightly upholstered, straight-backed chair in front of the manager’s desk, a chair engineered for minimal comfort and to dissuade those who might otherwise be inclined to loiter from outstaying their welcome. Clough-Cartwright began.

‘Do you know why I wished to see you, Strudwick?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir—well, I think so, sir!’ was Strudwick’s obsequious reply.

‘Yes, I dare say you do, Strudwick’—he hurrumphed—‘but I shall explain in detail, nevertheless. It is common knowledge Featherstone is to retire at the end of the year, but not that he applied for a transfer to Cobham in order to complete his service closer to home. I do not object—he is frequently late—due, he says, to delays and congestion on the A3, and I therefore approached ‘District’ on his behalf and have managed to secure their approval. Rather than prolong the matter, it has been decided to implement his request without delay, which will therefore create a vacancy for a new Chief Clerk. You have the necessary qualifications, experience and seniority, Strudwick, so I have recommended you for the post—subject, of course, to a satisfactory interview. I trust you will accept the position should I decide to offer it to you?’

‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Thank you, sir!’

Alfred knew perfectly well that the interview was a mere formality. Featherstone’s transfer was approved at District and his replacement decided. Whispers had reached the branch via the ‘grapevine’ several days previously, but Alfred turned a deaf ear and waited for the manager’s summons. He’d been repeatedly passed over for promotion in the past, and for reasons never fully explained.

Today, however, once the (largely irrelevant) questions had been answered with due deference, Alfred received a congratulatory handshake, an exhortation to work even harder in future and emerged in triumph from the manager’s sanctum bearing the long-coveted title, ‘Chief Clerk’.

Time passed. The increase in salary proved useful; fringe benefits even more so. For one thing, the Midland Bank operated a generous mortgage scheme for employees.

In August 1999, Alfred and his family vacated their council dwelling and moved to a modern, three-bedroom, semi-detached house in Kenward Crescent, Claygate. This momentous event was followed a year later by another—less spectacular, but certainly no less important—when Alfred traded his second-hand ‘banger’ for a brand-new family saloon, part-funded by means of a personal loan – again on advantageous terms.

Few dared cross Robert Strudwick; most who did were likely to regret it. Yet Steven Pearce, for years a source of minor irritation, remained largely unpunished. Full, proper retribution was inevitable as far as Robert was concerned and he was frequently impatient for the Book to reveal how best it should be exacted. In reality, most of the incidents attributed to Steven were unfounded, the evidence circumstantial. Be that as it may, the earliest irritation (literally) had taken place when Robert was about twelve.

At a compulsory carol service attended by the school, itching powder had been put down Robert’s neck by one of two boys sitting behind him. Both denied responsibility, but of the two, Steven Pearce seemed the likelier candidate. Then, only last summer, whilst he was swimming in the Mole at Imber Court, Robert’s clothes had been removed from his saddlebag and hidden in the next field, causing him considerable inconvenience. There were no clues as to a possible culprit but, almost inevitably, Robert suspected Steven.

Born in 1984 and a year younger than Robert, Steven was easily his physical equal, which was why Robert had tended to avoid him. But in 1999, when an opportunity to teach the boy a lesson presented itself, Robert scarcely needed the Book in order to recognise it.

Steven was consulting a reference-book inside his desk, hand resting beneath the lid when a shadowy figure crossed his field of vision. Purely on reflex, he tried to snatch his hand away – a fraction of a second late, for the desk-lid slammed down hard across his fingers.

Shocked immobile, his mouth nevertheless opened wide and his lungs filled with air, ready to fuel the anguished roar of pain such injuries demanded, but, with great presence of mind, he managed to stifle the outburst at source. The crashing lid seemed extraordinarily loud in the silent classroom—and didn’t go unnoticed. Brendon Ford looked up from the papers he was marking.

‘What
is
going on?’ he inquired, peering at Steven over the top of his spectacles.

‘Nothing, sir, sorry, sir,’ Steven lied.
Bloody hell! A pound to a penny, Robert Strudwick?
‘The lid of my desk slipped. Sorry, sir,’ he ground out painfully, and stuffed his squashed fingers into his mouth in a desperate attempt to obtain relief. His eyes watered, impairing his vision but, looking left and squinting, he was able to confirm that the blurred figure in the act of sitting down four rows away was indeed Robert Strudwick, back from visiting the lavatory.