The Flyleaf Killer (8 page)

The following year, taking advantage of father’s car, father’s tuition, private roads and common-land tracks, Robert learned to drive and, with the benefit of three professional driving lessons (a seventeenth birthday present), passed his driving test. Success behind the wheel coincided with another milestone—he landed a job!

At interview, Robert seemed just the young man they sought: willing, presentable, intelligent, with impressive GCSE grades, and his father a senior employee of the Midland Bank.

‘Can you start next Monday?’ Mr Hathaway asked. Robert most certainly could.

On Monday, 22 April 2002 Robert became a management trainee at the Long Ditton offices of Gaston Hathaway, a notable firm of estate agents with branches throughout Surrey.

Noises

It was Sunday, 14 July, a little before midnight. For the third time since retiring, Daphne Frasier slipped into mules, shrugged into a dressing gown and padded uneasily out of the room. She crossed the landing and into the rear bedroom, where the sounds seemed more distinct, and listened.
There it goes again!

Nervously, she peered from the darkened room through a slit in the curtains. A pale, crescent moon added little to a glimmer of reflected street lighting and, strain as she might, she saw nothing more than outlined shrubs and the garden fencing.

Daphne was by no means nervous. Her natural self-reliance had stood her in good stead after the death of her husband three years earlier. Although she missed him terribly, social work, visits from her daughter, her son-in-law and baby grandson helped heal the hurt and render the loss more bearable; they fostered a determination to get on with her life.

Knowing the neighbours were away for the weekend, she wondered whether the noises might be a scavenging animal of some description. The clatter of a falling dustbin often heralded the presence of a marauding fox, seeking an easy meal. But the more she listened, the more certain she became the sounds were not those of an animal. She hesitated a moment longer, tempted to go back to bed, and this time to stay there. Might there, after all, be a perfectly innocent explanation?

She frowned into the darkness, annoyed with herself for dithering, but instinct told her something was definitely amiss. At the risk of being labelled a busybody, she returned to her bedroom, picked up the telephone and dialled 999.

A brisk, female voice responded. ‘Emergency! Which service?’

‘Police,’ Daphne replied.

‘Connecting you,’ the operator said, and after a single ‘brrr brrr’, a pleasant, baritone voice came on the line.

‘Police! How can I help?’

‘Emergency call from an Esher number 01372 448721;’ the operator interjected, then: ‘You’re through, caller.’

‘I want to report unusual noises from the garden next door— eleven, Rodene Close, Lower Green,’ Daphne began, excitedly. ‘The owners—the Pearces—are away for the weekend.’

‘Just one moment, madam. Please confirm your telephone number, and state your full name and address.’

The quiet, authoritative voice again. Daphne became impatient. ‘The noises, I keep hearing them. Someone’s trespassing; if you hurry you might catch them. Hurry, please hurry. If you waste time asking questions, whoever it is will be gone.’

‘Perhaps so, madam,’ the officer said, ‘but we still need details in order to take action.’
Keep calm
, Daphne told herself. Struggling for composure, she took another deep breath.

‘01372 448721; Frasier, Daphne—Mrs. Thirteen, Rodene Close, Lower Green, Esher,’ she managed, this time articulating slowly and deliberately.

‘Right, got that. Please describe the noises; explain exactly why you called.’

‘I’d gone to bed,’ she said, ‘when I heard unusual sounds. When I listened carefully, they appeared to be coming from round the back, so I got up and went into the rear bedroom, where the noises seemed louder. There were scraping sounds, and a sort of
thud, thud
, every now and then,’ she went on. ‘At first, I thought something was in my garden—an animal, perhaps. But when I listened again—I went back two or three times—I realised the sounds were coming from the next door garden. I mightn’t have thought much about it,’ she added, ‘except that I know the Pearces are away until tomorrow, so that’s when I decided to call.’

‘That’s fine, Mrs Frasier, thank you. You did the right thing. But I need to be clear about one or two things. Are you alone in the house?’

‘Yes, my husband died three years ago.’

‘I see, I’m sorry to hear that.’ There was a pause, then: ‘Tell me, you looked from the rear bedroom but saw nothing. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you switch on the light?’

‘No—well, yes—but only in my bedroom. I came back here in order to ring you.’

‘Your bedroom—it’s at the
front
of the house, presumably?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it probably doesn’t matter—unless the intruder spots it from the rear. Could he?’

‘No, he couldn’t. Definitely not.’

‘That’s fine. Now, don’t worry. Leave everything to us. We’ll send a patrol car to investigate.’

‘Thank you,’ Daphne said, ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘You’re certainly not a nuisance. Thank you for calling—someone will be along shortly.’

‘Goodbye, thank you again.’

With considerable relief, Daphne replaced the receiver. The call had lasted barely a minute. Quick, and nowhere as difficult as she had imagined.

Police mobile ‘Zebra Two’—manned by PCs Gordon Bennett and Samuel Edmunds—To investigate a reported prowler at the rear of eleven, Rodene Close, Lower Green. Owners believed to be away for the weekend. Informant, Mrs Daphne Frasier, number thirteen.

At 12.22 a.m. the patrol car entered Rodene Close, PC Bennett at the wheel. He slowed to check house numbers, continued for some twenty metres or so, killed the engine and coasted to a halt, some way short of number eleven.

Vacating the car, the officers walked up the path of eleven and tested the front door and ground floor windows. Moving to the rear, they repeated the process. All seemed secure. When a cursory inspection of the garden revealed nothing untoward, they made their way back to the front, where PC Edmunds took it upon himself to comment.

‘There weren’t nobody lurking, Gordon,’ he grumbled, ‘Quiet as the grave—another bloody wild goose chase?’

‘More than likely,’ his partner agreed, ‘we get plenty of ‘em, these days … oh, well. Anyway, we’re here, so we’d better have a word with the lady next door.’

Edmunds grunted.

The policemen regained the pavement and made their way to number thirteen. Light showed at a first-floor window, the rest of the house was in darkness. As senior, Bennett took it upon himself to tap gently on the front door. The hall light snapped on and the door opened, framing a slightly-built, grey-haired woman in mules and a floral dressing-gown.

‘Good evening, Mrs Frasier?’ Bennett inquired, and when she nodded, went on, ‘I’m Police Constable Bennett from Surbiton, this is Police Constable Edmunds.’

‘Good evening, I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in?’ She moved back a step, opening the door invitingly.

‘Not for the moment, thank you. We won’t keep you long.’ He produced his notebook. ‘Now then, about fifteen minutes ago you reported hearing noises next door, number eleven, yet the owners—I need their name—are away for the weekend. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s right. The owners are called Pearce. They went to Brighton.’

‘Thank you. Can you describe the noises?’

Daphne sighed. ‘Just after I went to bed, I heard scraping and thudding sounds somewhere behind the house. It was difficult to pinpoint the source, so I got up, went to the rear and listened—I went back a couple of times—and concluded the noises were coming from the neighbours’ back garden. I knew the Pearces were away, so I dialled nine, nine, nine. I’ve heard nothing since. The noises seem to have stopped.’

Bennett scribbled briefly, and cleared his throat. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘As you probably know, we’ve already checked next door, front and back.’ (Daphne looked at him suspiciously: he seemed not to notice.) ‘All doors and windows are secure and there’s no sign of a break-in. We also checked the garden. Did you notice anyone hanging about?’

‘No, it’s too dark. With all the shrubs, I couldn’t see beyond the fence anyway, even in daylight.’
Why the inquisition?
She felt a flush of indignation. ‘But
somebody
was there, make no mistake—and it wasn’t an animal, either!’

Silent until now, PC Edmunds decided to ‘pour oil on troubled waters’.

‘Nobody doubts you, Mrs Frasier,’ he intervened, reassuringly. ‘You make an excellent witness. What we
are
saying is that nobody’s about now and nothing appears to have been disturbed. There’s nothing more we can do, as I’m sure you appreciate.’

What does he mean?
‘I hope you don’t think I’ve wasted your time,’ Daphne countered.

‘Not at all,’ Bennett said, ‘you were right to call, and if you hear or see anything else unusual, please ring again. Rest assured, whoever was prowling has gone – probably legged it before we got here.’ Sliding his pencil into the spine, Bennett returned his notebook to his breast pocket. ‘Play safe. Make sure your doors and windows are locked, and try to get a good night’s sleep.’

Daphne couldn’t shake off a singularly uneasy feeling and sought to delay their departure.

‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go? It wouldn’t take a minute.’

Bennett shook his head. ‘No, thank you. That’s very kind, but we’re still on duty and with considerable ground still to cover. Good night, Mrs Frasier.’

Turning, he started towards the road, closely followed by PC Edmunds.

‘Good night—and thank you,’ Daphne called.

They heard the door close, a rattle of bolts, and the rasp of a key in the lock. Bennett slid behind the wheel and closed the door. Edmunds reached for the microphone.

‘Zebra Two—receiving?’

‘Zebra Two, go ahead.’ (The unmistakable voice of the station Duty Sergeant.)

‘Nothing to report figures one-one Rodene, Sarge. No sign of break-in, all doors and windows secure. Nobody hanging about, nothing apparently disturbed.’

‘Roger. What about the neighbour?’

‘Confirms she didn’t actually see anything, says noises stopped right after she phoned.’

‘OK, carry on with your patrol. Keep an eye for anything suspicious—nip back once in a while, and make a further inspection in daylight before you knock off.’

‘Roger, Sarge, will do. Zebra Two, out.’

Edmunds replaced the microphone. Bennett returned the notebook to his pocket and started the engine.

7.40 a.m. Nearing the end of an otherwise uneventful shift, the officers returned to Rodene Close. They checked the doors and windows again. Everything seemed secure.

‘Waste of bloody time,’ Edmunds muttered, and headed for the gate.

Ever cautious, Bennett touched his sleeve. ‘Hang on. We’d best check the garden…’ (he yawned) ‘…in case somebody’s nicked the roses.’

Edmunds reacted ungraciously by thumbing his nose, but nevertheless accompanied his fellow officer to the patio. Bennett glanced down the garden, suddenly alert. He took three paces and spun on his heel to confront his colleague.

‘Hey, Sam, look!’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone
was
here last night, look at the grass. See those marks in the dew? Footprints—and neither of us strayed from the path.’

Edmund’s eyes followed his colleague’s finger. ‘Crikey, you’re right!’ he exclaimed.

‘Look, over there on the ground as well.’

‘Where?’

‘Over by the bushes—rhododendrons, or whatever.’ He moved forward. ‘Come on, let’s take a closer look.’

He turned, side-stepped the washing-line and was about to cross the lawn, only to be restrained by his more-experienced colleague. Bennett grabbed his sleeve.

‘Whoa. Not so fast, Sam. Something’s up! Better steer clear of the grass, just in case.’ Bennett’s wisdom, born of sound training and years of experience, took him a step further. ‘Tell you what,’ he suggested. ‘Nip next door and take a shufti over the fence. I’ll wait here.’

Edmunds frowned. ‘What for?’

‘Someone could be watching us,’ his partner sighed. ‘We can’t risk anyone coming in and poking about while our backs are turned.’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ he returned, a tad too hastily to carry conviction. ‘But before I go tramping across Mrs Frasier’s garden, oughtn’t I to get her permission?’

‘Yes. Tell her we’ve found
something
, but it’s too early to say whether or not it’s important. Suggest she keeps the matter confidential for the time being. Say: “Pending investigation”.’

With permission granted, Edmunds traversed Daphne’s neat borders and peered over the fence. Staring down at freshly disturbed earth, he whistled softly between his teeth.

‘Better come and look, Gordon,’ he called. ‘Something’s been buried—recently, by the looks of it. Come round and see for yourself.’

Crikey, that’s all we need!
Bennett thought.

‘Come back first, Sam,’ he ordered. ‘Make sure nobody gets anywhere near this little lot, or we’ll be in hot water.’

Edmunds returned as ordered. Finding things just as his partner had described, Bennett keyed his personal radio.

‘Zebra Two.’ No response. ‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘Out of range!’ Leaving his partner to prevent unauthorised access, Bennett returned to the patrol car. He reached for the microphone, thinking
Daytime. Network relay. Stick to procedure!
‘Zebra Two, receiving?’

‘Zebra Two, go ahead. Where are you?’ Again the night-shift sergeant, sounding weary. Bennett knew the feeling, poor sod: eyes prickly from lack of sleep—just like his own.

‘Back at figures one-one Rodene, Sarge. Found some marks on the grass, not visible earlier—might be footprints. More near a clump of rhododendrons. We’ve taken a look from next door’s garden—figures one-three—to find freshly disturbed ground behind the shrubbery. Zebra Two, over.’

‘OK, Gordon. Stay put, both of you. Make sure nothing’s disturbed. A squad will relieve. I’ll stick around until you get back. See you later, Zebra Two—over.’