The Flyleaf Killer

THE FLYLEAF KILLER

William A. Prater

Book Guild Publishing
Sussex, England

Copyright © William A. Prater 2007

The moral right of William A. Prater to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publishers, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain in 2007 by
The Book Guild Ltd
Pavilion View
19 New Road
Brighton
BN1 1UF

Digital editions by eBooks by Barb for
booknook.biz

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

Chapter 1 –
The Book

Chapter 2 –
A Taste of Revenge

Chapter 3 –
Teenagers

Chapter 4 –
Noises

Chapter 5 –
The Body in the Garden

Chapter 6 –
Beast

Chapter 7 –
Investigation

Chapter 8 –
Preparation

Chapter 9 –
Assassin

Chapter 10 –
The Old Church

Chapter 11 –
Francis, R.I.P.

Chapter 12 –
Abducted

Chapter 13 –
Missing Persons

Chapter 14 –
Fugitive

Chapter 15 –
A Promise Made…

Chapter 16 –
Come into my Parlour…

The Book

The boy was a little below average height, but sturdily built, fit and muscular. Heavily bespectacled, sallow and prone to spots, with straw-coloured, slicked-back hair—greasy from too much gel—his unpopularity had little to do with his appearance, even if it had once been a contributing factor. Sullen, bookish and introvert, frequently shunned by his schoolfellows, or else taunted and teased unmercifully, he avoided the playground as much as possible.

It wasn’t as if he sought to be disliked. On the contrary, in earlier years he had striven desperately for the approval of his classmates, even resorting to bribery. But apart from the few who probably felt sorry for the unhappy boy, most treated him and his advances with contempt—and rarely missed an opportunity to let him know it. None of the teachers liked him, despite his scholastic ability, and he was regularly singled out to be the butt of their sarcasm.

He suffered particularly at the hands of the school bully and his henchmen, who delighted in making his life a misery. There was little he could do: they were all older and stronger than he. But he was intelligent, quick to learn and possessed an extraordinarily retentive memory. He loved reading and excelled in most subjects but, paradoxically, hated the school, its system, and everybody connected with it.

Things were better at home, though not especially so. He had given up trying to please his mother as far back as he could remember. Nothing he did seemed to satisfy her no matter how hard he tried. There was little comfort from his father—habitually indifferent to his son’s well-being, he was authoritative and equally hard to please. It was better to keep out of his way.

The unpopular, miserable little boy had grown into a teenager with a burgeoning personality complex. At thirteen, Robert seemed destined to enter adulthood an embittered loner.

One afternoon in September 1998, another of those depressing days when little went right, Robert came out of school just before 3.30, earlier than the rest of the class as a reward for better than average marks for an essay—not that he was particularly bothered. Disconsolate and moody, he automatically began to head for home—his mother always nagged him not to loiter. Then, for some inexplicable reason, almost of their own volition, his feet overruled all other considerations and turned instead in the direction of town. Ignoring twinges of conscience he strolled on, unresisting. And as he walked he deliberated: What punishment might he expect for such ‘downright disobedience’—besides nagging, that is? Grounding? Guaranteed. No tea, bed by 7.30 and no supper? More than likely. Oh well…He ambled on resignedly, but then brightened. The library was close to the town centre and, no matter what, the detour was at least an opportunity to pick up a couple of new books. His reading tastes were wide-ranging: science fiction, Westerns, adventure, thrillers, educational material, even the classics. Dickens’
David Copperfield
was a special favourite. An avid reader from an early age, Robert was always on the lookout for new subjects and authors.

He walked past a succession of high-street stores, idly kicking a pebble and pausing should something in a window catch his eye. Reaching Woolworths on the main parade he stopped. Should he retrace his steps and go home? There was time yet to escape his mother’s wrath, and he could visit the library whenever he wished—subject to permission in advance. But the compulsion that had brought him thus far was not to be denied. He shrugged, blew a raspberry at his reflection in the window, then found himself going in the direction of the library at a considerably faster rate.

He came to and passed the model shop without a sideways glance, despite the array of planes, helicopters, trains and ships that he would normally have found irresistible. His pace quickened, accelerated by the same inner urge he had yet to recognise. Crossing the service road, he arrived at the last block of five shops: newsagents, ladies’ hairdresser, ironmonger, a boarded-up space owned by the post office which had been relocated after a fire in 1996 and, finally, a dingy carpet warehouse.

Beyond lay the imposing town hall and council offices complex whose extensive grounds contained Robert’s favourite destination, the public library. At least that was the way things had been the last time he had changed some books, about two weeks ago.

Remembering that the library closed at 4.00 and no further visitors were allowed in after 3.50, he checked the time by the town hall clock. It was 3.42. Abandoning the pebble, he broke into a trot but on reaching the former post office site he stopped dead in his tracks, stunned, amazed and massively intrigued. The hoarding was gone and the space had been transformed into a brand new shop—and what a shop! To a lonely boy whose only real pleasure stemmed from reading, this was no ordinary shop:

‘HENRY PLOWRITE – BOOKSELLER’

the sign above the door announced and lettered across the window in bold, red capitals were the words:

WE HAVE THE BOOK
YOU
REQUIRE

In Robert’s eyes, the attraction was nothing short of magnetic. Behind the glass lay a window display engineered to grab a booklover’s attention and hold it. Nose to glass, Robert scanned rows of volumes avidly; they were artistically arranged on glass shelves extending the width of the window and a comprehensive selection of publicity leaflets was pinned across the window-back, each promoting merits of a newly-published title. Magic!

Absorbed in window-shopping, he forgot about the time. Eventually, dragging himself back to reality, he told himself firmly: Better get to the library, Robert my boy, or there’ll be no new books for you today.

He stepped back a couple of paces to bring the town hall clock into view—3.48pm. Too late! Even if he ran at top speed, the library doors would be locked before he got there.

‘Bother, what a twit!’ he exclaimed, gaining a puzzled look from an elderly passer-by.

Disappointed, annoyed with himself for having dallied, Robert returned to the window where his eye was drawn to the central display and a book he hadn’t previously noticed. Wow! A gold blocked, leather-bound copy of
Oliver Twist
, one of Dickens’ most famous novels. Robert stared, hungrily. ‘How the heck did I miss seeing that?’ he wondered aloud.

As with most people, addressing oneself in times of doubt is far from uncommon, but Robert wasn’t ‘most people’ and today, as on other recent occasions, he was privileged to receive an answer.
No point in wishing,
an inner voice observed, and went further—much further:
A magnificent book. A fantastic book—and it could be yours, Robert Strudwick—today! Oliver Twist. A wonderful story, beautifully written. Dickens’ literary masterpiece, some say.
The voice wheedled:
Come Robert, this is your chance. Why not take a closer look?

Robert saw nothing unusual in being thus addressed; felt no curiosity regarding the voice, lately familiar in times of stress and, more particularly, whenever he needed help.
Go on
, his disembodied mentor urged, adding with precise, reassuring logic:
Where’s the harm in looking? They can’t lock you up for that can they? What are you waiting for?

Robert moved nearer the entrance, but stopped. Tempted indeed, but restrained by caution. He looked again in the window where the delectable book seemed to beckon, then back at the entrance to his left. Just then the latch clicked and the door creaked open invitingly. Gosh! Weakening, Robert took two steps sideways and peered warily into the shop.

Surprisingly, the place was devoid of customers; what’s more, despite a clear view of the interior, there was nothing to be seen of the shopkeeper either.
What are you waiting for?
the voice repeated.
Go on, nobody’s going to bite!

But still Robert resisted. ‘Huh,’ he retorted, half under his breath, ‘What’s the point of looking? I want to buy it, not try it—but I
can’t
buy it, I haven’t any money. And if you think I’m going to pinch it think again,’ he added. ‘Do you think me stupid, or what? I’m in trouble enough, thank you very much!’ And he subsided, essentially to consider.

This wasn’t the public library, where each of the tickets in his pocket would secure the loan of a book for two weeks without charge. Was there
really
any point in going in? For one thing he had only coppers in his pocket, and for another he knew from bitter experience shopkeepers rarely tolerated unaccompanied children. Robert was nobody’s fool.

What bookseller wouldn’t pounce the instant a boy came through the door, demand to know what the boy wanted and, if the declared intention was to purchase, insist on seeing the money? Robert
had
no money, and could therefore expect to be told to clear off in no uncertain terms.

But the shopkeeper isn’t looking—and there’s nobody else around
, the voice insisted.
You could read from Oliver Twist—or any other book for that matter. And further wheedled: You can, you know you can. You can, can, can if you really want to.

That did it! Curiosity and compelling, overwhelming desire could no longer be denied. Abandoning caution, Robert entered the premises of ‘Henry Plowrite, Bookseller’.

The cathedral-like shop was hushed, the floor heavily carpeted. The smell of printer’s ink and the unmistakable, pungent tang of fine leather bindings both tangible and heady. The atmosphere welcomed and enfolded the boy like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s night. For all his caution he felt comfortable, at ease—had a curious sense of destiny, as though he’d been here before. When the door closed quietly behind, he scarcely noticed. Even were he captive, so be it. It didn’t even occur to him he might need to beat a hasty retreat. Enraptured, determined to take maximum advantage of a splendid opportunity, Robert postponed examining the Dickens classic and wandered the shelves, browsing contentedly. Most books he replaced after cursory inspection, others after a page or so, but if the occasional volume proved outstanding it took conscious effort to return it from whence it came.

Time slipped by unheeded so engrossed was he. Neither did he notice an absence of customers, nor realise that nobody had so much as rattled the door handle since his arrival, nor indeed, that the shopkeeper had yet to appear, much less deliver that half-expected challenge. Nearing the end of the shelving and approaching the counter, Robert’s eager gaze was captured by a particularly handsome volume on the topmost shelf. Acting on impulse, he reached up to withdraw the book, but the instant he touched it a surge of power tingled his fingers and shot up his arm like a bolt of electricity. ‘Crikey!’ he exclaimed, and almost dropped the book. Startled he most certainly was, but massively intrigued and curious too. Whilst holding the book his fingers prickled, but on returning it to the shelf the sensation ceased. ‘How very strange!’ he muttered and, cautiously, he experimented.

If he touched the book his fingertips tingled—not the least unpleasant he established, but an extraordinary sensation which persisted until he put it down again. But, try as he might, he was unable to induce the tome to deliver another shock—and even found this a trifle disappointing. Fascinated, Robert took a closer look.

Undoubtedly beautiful, it was bound in dark blue vellum with heavy gold fillets and intricate tooling, the spine reinforced by five raised bands embellished with heavy gold overlay, but only now did he realise neither cover nor spine was entitled or bore the name of the author.