The Flyleaf Killer (16 page)

‘No, you’re doing well enough, Ben. Too much pressure and she might clam up. Our first priority is to secure positive ID. If the body turns out to be Miss Pennington and her friend was as close to Malandra as she claims, then Miss Montague may be the key to this whole business, even if she doesn’t realise it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Are you happy to carry on dealing with Miss Montague yourself?’

‘Yes sir, I am. She’s likely to be relaxed and more talkative in her own home. I’ll see if I can draw her out over a cup of tea. There is just one thing, sir.’

‘What’s that, Sergeant?’

‘There’s a killer loose somewhere out there and Miss Montague might therefore be in danger. Do you think…?’ He left the question suspended, and Melton was quick to respond.

‘Yes, I do—and you only just managed to beat me to it. She’ll be in danger from the moment this gets out. But let me correct you, Sergeant. He’s not “somewhere out there”, he’s nearby—a local man—someone who knows the area thoroughly.

‘Explain to Miss Montague how things work, but try not to frighten her unduly. I’ll arrange for round-the-clock protection. I’ll also get Slade and Gibson to collect the key to Miss Pennington’s flat so they can get started—oh, and before you get back to Miss Montague, it would be cruel to ask her to formally identify the body—I doubt whether it’s even possible. Keep off the radio, Sergeant. And what’s the number there, in case I need to get back to you?’

By late afternoon, DI Melton had consulted the ‘Chief’, issued instructions and made a number of important telephone calls. A much heartened, reinvigorated police unit swung back into action. Within the hour, barrier-suited DCs Gibson and Slade began work in Malandra Pennington’s flat. Gibson dusted for fingerprints, whilst Slade searched for strands of hair. When examination of the girl’s brushes, combs and toiletries failed to produce results, he promptly dismantled the shower waste and recovered enough hair for both identification and DNA purposes.

Slade joined in the hunt for fingerprints, but the flat was spotless, leading the officers to assume it had had a thorough cleaning by someone wearing gloves, prior to being closed for a fortnight. They checked around, and Slade (the junior of the two) wondered about the handbag and luggage.

‘Have you checked the suitcases, Graham?’ Gibson shook his head. ‘I didn’t give them a thought, to tell the truth.’

Slade regarded his colleague solemnly: ‘Never mind, let’s
both
take a shufti, shall we?’

A light dusting of power produced two sets of prints, one on each suitcase handle.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ Gibson remarked, not the least bit put out. ‘Go get the digicam, Harry, old son. I put it in the kitchen behind the door.’

With the prints photographed, the pair locked and sealed the flat and returned to headquarters. Gibson downloaded camera to diskette, made back-up copies and ran for a print comparison with the computer database. In less than a minute it came up with a match. ‘Come on, Harry,’ Gibson said, ‘we’d better go see the Guv’nor!’ DS O’Connor, meanwhile, returned to Jennifer’s flat and succeeded in persuading the tearful girl to talk, particularly about Malandra and their long-standing relationship. At first, Jennifer ‘pooh-poohed’ fears for her own safety and insisted nothing mattered except finding out what happened to her dearest friend— and catching her killer, if she really was dead. But she relented, agreed to be protected, and promptly resumed sobbing. DS O’Connor succeeded in calming her and she agreed to make a statement the following morning.

O’Connor took his leave, returned to HQ and reported to Melton.

‘Sorry I took so long, Guv’nor,’ he said, ‘but it’s quite a story.’ He handed over the photographs. ‘That’s her, Malandra Pennington—the murder victim, I reckon. What a pretty girl! Look at her figure, that gorgeous hair … pretty distinctive, wouldn’t you say?’ Melton studied the prints carefully.

‘It looks that way,’ he agreed, ‘But the corpse’s hair was tangled and matted, which makes it difficult to be sure. We’ll know for certain soon enough, so for the moment, let’s keep an open mind.’

‘Yes, sir. Can I bring you up to speed regarding Miss Montague?’

‘Yes, Sergeant. I take it she’s added to her earlier information?’

‘With a bit of prompting and the help of umpteen cups of tea, yes, sir, she has.’

Melton tilted his chair until his head rested against the wall, placed his fingertips together and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘Well, sir, Miss Montague would make a credible witness,’ O’Connor began. ‘Although distressed, she was lucid and a good communicator. She didn’t deviate one iota from what she told me previously, even though I gave her plenty of opportunity. I took notes, of course, and I’ll write my report as soon as I can.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Sir, I consider Miss Montague’s information to be reliable and I expect her statement tomorrow to corroborate every word.’

‘That’s encouraging,’ Melton said. ‘But what else did she tell you?’

‘I was coming to that, sir. Concise as Miss Montague was, there were important omissions. Apparently she and Miss Pennington spoke on the phone just after 9.00 a.m. on the Saturday, the day before they were due to meet. They chatted about this and that, but Miss Pennington said she’d changed her mind about going to London that afternoon, intended to cancel her hotel booking and stay another night at her flat. It was because a nearly-new Vauxhall Astra was due in at Charlesworth’s and she was intending to look at it on Sunday morning. I asked why that was important and she said Malandra had been after an Astra for some time and her current car, a Mini, was almost ready for the breakers.

‘She needed a reliable vehicle for work and didn’t relish returning to (and I quote) “a clapped-out old banger that probably wouldn’t go” (unquote). She had intended to go to the theatre but decided to give it a miss.’ He looked up. ‘And that’s about it, sir.’

Melton was impressed. It took skill to extract pertinent information from an upset witness.

‘Well done, Ben,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to watch out. You’ll be after
my
job next. That information could be crucial. It narrows the time-scale during which Miss Pennington disappeared to within a few hours. Regretfully, owing to the state of the corpse, formal ID is a non-starter, but in the light of this evidence I think we’ll get by without. I intend approaching the ‘Chief’ about staging a reconstruction, although it might pay to hold back on the event itself until after we’ve spoken with Charlesworth’s. At last we’re getting somewhere.’

There came a tap on the door and DC Harry Slade appeared on the threshold.

‘Come in, Slade,’ said Melton. ‘Did you have any luck?’

‘Yes sir, we’ve established positive fingerprint ID. Do you want details?’

‘I most certainly do.’

‘Well, sir, the flat was remarkably spotless, but Graham recovered hair from the shower waste. The only prints we could find were on the suitcase handles—which I photographed, naturally. Realising it might turn out to be important, we locked and sealed the flat and came back here. To save time, we downloaded, ran for a computer match and got a result in next-to-no time. Here’s the printout sir. As you can see, sir, the prints match those taken from the body before it went to the mortuary.’

‘Well done, Harry. Now we really
can
get cracking. Providing there’s nothing pressing, I suggest you and Graham call it a day…’ he turned questioningly towards DS O’Connor, who nodded ‘…and carry on at the flat in the morning.’

‘Yes sir, thank you. I’ll go and tell Graham,’ said Slade and started towards the door.

‘Hold on a second. Before you knock off, take the hair to Forensics and tell Ferguson I want it compared immediately with the sample from the body. He’ll tell you he’s too busy, most likely, so tell him if I don’t hear from him within thirty minutes, I’ll come over there and confiscate his bloody microscope!’

It was 6.40 p.m. when Albert Ferguson knocked on Melton’s door.

‘The hair samples, Inspector—they seem absolutely identical. The microscope rarely lies, but to be absolutely certain I recommend DNA profiling. Would you like me to do the necessary?’

‘Yes please, Albert.’ Melton smiled to himself. Ferguson
loved
his microscope. On August 1st, just after 9.00 a.m. Melton briefed Detective Chief Superintendent Jarvis. Press policy was agreed, discretionary authority for overtime was granted and, later that morning, Melton organised a brief statement:

SURREY CONSTABULARY—SURBITON DIVISION

PRESS RELEASE No. 6729

Thursday, 01 AUGUST 2002

Acting on information received, investigating officers made progress towards establishing the identity of the young woman whose body was unearthed at Rodene Close, Esher, sixteen days ago.

Details of the injuries inflicted on the victim cannot be revealed without risk of compromising the investigation, but were of such a nature as to render formal identification difficult, if not impossible.

For this and other legal reasons and pending the outcome of further tests, the victim’s name cannot yet be released, but may be made known shortly. A reconstruction of the murdered woman’s last known movements is planned, at which time media publicity will be sought and gratefully acknowledged.

The statement was issued at 11.00 a.m. Newsmen pressed for further information, but were refused.

Moves to secure legal waiving of formal identification began. Having demonstrated a rapport with key witness Jennifer Montague, it became DS O’Connor’s brief to take her formal statement and establish Malandra Pennington’s known acquaintances to the best of Miss Montague’s knowledge and recollection. He was to set up a register and arrange for each to be traced, and to update the register as and when further names emerged. The objective was to interview every single one of Malandra’s work mates, friends, neighbours and acquaintances.

Later still, Robert Strudwick was brought up to date. He made a number of telephone calls…

04 August: DNA tests proved positive. Tissue from the corpse, blood from the anorak, hair from the cadaver and Malandra Pennington’s flat, all matched and were therefore from the same person. The
Body in the Garden
was, without question, Malandra Pennington, aged eighteen.

Formal identification no longer seemed necessary—much to DS O’Connor’s relief. But the ultimate legal responsibility rested with the coroner. The matter must therefore wait for a decision at the Coroner’s Inquest when convened.

Unannounced (but not unexpected) DI Melton called at Charlesworth’s sales office. He introduced himself and asked to speak to the salesperson on duty over the weekend of the thirteenth and fourteenth of July.

‘That would be me, Detective Inspector. I’m Tobias Charlesworth, Sales Manager.’

‘You seem very sure, Mr Charlesworth. Haven’t you any other sales staff?’

‘Yes, Inspector—part-timers, weekdays only. Our regular salesman walked out at the end of June—and left us in the lurch. Experienced staff are difficult to find, so I cover weekends myself.’

‘I see—but
every
weekend, Mr Charlesworth? That seems rather hard—your wife must be very understanding. Let’s hope you find someone suitable in the very near future.’

‘Thank you, but it’s not a problem—I’m not married. Now, what can I do for you, Inspector?’

Melton looked meaningfully towards an office at the rear. ‘Can we talk in private?’

‘Certainly. This way, Inspector.’

Preceding Melton into the office, Charlesworth cleared a space on the desk and sat down, indicating a chair directly opposite. Melton observed Charlesworth carefully.

‘We are investigating the disappearance of Miss Malandra Pennington who, we have reason to believe, is a client of yours. Is that correct, Mr Charlesworth?’

The salesman didn’t turn a hair.

‘Not exactly, Inspector. we haven’t sold her a car—yet. But I certainly remember her—a very pretty girl. She came in—let me see—’ (he turned the pages of a desk diary)—‘ah, yes, June eleventh—oh, and again on the twenty-sixth. She was looking for a 1300 Astra under three years old and wanted to part-exchange a worn-out 1988 Mini Traveller which, quite frankly, we wouldn’t touch although I couldn’t hurt her feelings by saying so. Recent one point threes are like gold-dust, Inspector. We haven’t handled one in months.’

Melton’s dislike of the man deepened. He bridled.

‘I had better warn you, Mr Charlesworth, this is a murder investigation. Miss Pennington disappeared on Sunday the fourteenth of July and her body was found buried in a local garden the following day. The case has been particularly well publicised. Am I to believe you’ve heard nothing about it?’

‘Oh, was that the same Miss Pennington? I didn’t realise. Yes, I did read something about it now you come to mention it. Terrible shame, lovely girl. But what’s all this to do with me?’

The man’s expression revealed nothing.
Salesman—or consummate liar and gifted actor?
Melton decided to put on pressure.

‘Mr Charlesworth,’ he said, sternly, ‘we have every reason to believe Miss Pennington called at these premises the day she disappeared—Sunday fourteenth July, to look at a Vauxhall Astra…’

How the hell did they find out? He said no-one would ever know!

‘…and I’m not satisfied you are telling me the complete truth. Perhaps we should continue this interview at the station.’

‘If you like, Inspector.’ Charlesworth shrugged, apparently unconcerned. ‘But as I’ve already told you, we don’t have an Astra—and you’re perfectly welcome to look at the books.’
So piss off, copper!
…

Charlesworth downloaded stock printouts for May, June and July and gave them to Melton, produced the sales ledger from the safe and placed it on the desk.

‘There you are, Detective Inspector … see for yourself—and
then
can I get on with my work?’

Melton checked. No Astras. Stalemate! He put the printouts in his briefcase and stood up.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Charlesworth. You’ve been most helpful. But hold yourself in readiness,’ he warned, ‘we may wish to talk with you further.’