The Flyleaf Killer (21 page)

Horrified, Kenneth protested, ‘You must be mistaken. Francis left for Paris on November the seventeenth—he
must
have arrived.’

‘I am sorry M’sieur, but there is no mistake. Francois did not report for duty. ’E did not even take trouble to telephone me and explain ’imself…’ Fearful, trembling, Kenneth mumbled his thanks. Without replacing the receiver, he broke the connection and telephoned the police…

Assassin

During the 1920s, the expanding village of Esher became a parish within the diocese of Guildford and, to reflect this enhanced status, a new church was commissioned and built on a dominant position overlooking ancient common land, earmarked to become the village green. Designed to reflect Early English architecture, the new structure took full advantage of twentieth-century materials and techniques and the scaled-down cathedral-like edifice had the capacity to cope with whatever size congregation might conceivably develop in the future.

The consecration of Esher Parish Church was generally welcomed, but a surprising number of residents complained that its presence rendered the tiny chapel of Saint George—the village place of worship since the twelfth century—virtually redundant. Bowing to pressure, the church authorities agreed that St. George’s—known locally thereafter as the ‘Old Church’—should be maintained in good repair in perpetuity, but stipulated that a minimum of two services must be conducted on the premises each year.

The chapel is open daily and visitors are free to worship, to inspect the artefacts or to visit the ancient graveyard, where monuments to the long-departed still stand, many of historical interest. The Old Church is set behind the original village green, two minutes’ walk from the present-day town centre. Its imposing main entrance door is of oak. The entrance is approached over a cobbled pathway through a rather splendid lychgate. The graveyard is enclosed by substantial stone walls and a second, rarely-used gate opens to a service area behind a parade of High Street shops. Two ladies from a church-sponsored charity spend a morning each week cleaning the interior, whilst staff from the parish church look after the building, graveyard and the surrounds.

Beneath the main body of the church lies the crypt, abandoned and sealed for over two hundred years. At the foot of a short flight of steps, a single, solid-oak door provides access to an anteroom, thence to a side-vault, once privately owned.

Nothing in church records gives any indication of the former owner, nor whether at one time the space was employed as a burial-chamber.

The tall, wrought iron gates guarding the crypt have remained chained and padlocked for longer than anyone can remember, and years have elapsed since the vault was last used. Few are aware that access can be gained by means of a key hanging from a nail in the vestry.

In the days when St. George’s was in regular use, limited storage probably prompted an enterprising verger to press the vault into service. Nothing was stored there currently, however, except a pair of wooden trestles, a rickety old stepladder and a couple of decrepit, cane-bottomed chairs.

St. George’s was converted from gas to electricity in 1934 and whilst it was thought unnecessary to have electricity wired to the disused crypt, the side-vault and anteroom were included in the interests of safety and supplied via a separate, fused lighting-spur.

Robert Strudwick knew more about St George’s than most, having explored the place during his early teens and realised its potential. It became immediately obvious that it was rarely used and he was particularly intrigued to discover that it could be entered covertly from the rear. It didn’t take long to establish which door could be opened by means of the key in the vestry, but a hacksaw would be needed in order to get into the crypt. However, its use would simply advertise a break-in and neutralise an otherwise potentially first-rate entrapment venue. Eventually, Robert’s caution paid off. The vault beneath St. George’s represented the perfect place wherein to exact long-awaited vengeance on smarmy, oh-so-cocky Francis Bridgwater…

Bridgwater eagerly accepted Brian Carpenter’s offer of a pint and a lift home. He drank two full cups of drug-laced coffee and was out to the world in minutes. As expected, the Littleworth Common lay-by was deserted. Here, Bridgwater was speedily bundled into the boot of the Jag and the conspirators went their separate ways, completely unobserved.

Screened from the High Street and by means of the wheelchair, the ease with which he was able single-handedly to transfer Bridgwater into the vault seemed something of an anticlimax and the lack of excitement left Strudwick vaguely disappointed…

Emerging slowly from a drugged stupor, he had no awareness of danger, merely a vague sense of discomfort coupled with a pounding headache. As the level of consciousness improved, however, Francis attempted to move, only to realise he was secured to a hard wooden seat of some description with his wrists tied securely behind his back.

It was deathly quiet, the only discernible sound the beating of his heart as the muscle thumped in sympathy with a synchronous throbbing somewhere inside his head. A blindfold covered his eyes and the blackness beyond suggested he was confined in a place of darkness. A gag was jammed firmly between his teeth making it difficult to breathe.

Where the hell am I? What’s going on?
He winced with pain.

The effort of trying to think simply magnified his headache. Barely conscious, he tried shifting his legs, but they were tied tightly together and strapped securely to the chair, making it impossible for his feet to touch the floor. To say he was uncomfortable would be something of an understatement. As time passed and the effects of restricted circulation worsened, discomfort turned first to pain and thence into sheer agony. Eventually, and paradoxically, he reached a stage when paralysed nerve-endings and numbness allowed exhaustion to take precedence and he dozed fitfully, scarcely aware of his predicament.

After an hour or so of fragmented slumber, however, this anaesthetising insensibility wore off, and the pain from his tortured buttocks alone destroyed any possibility of sleep.

With the return of full consciousness, the eerie silence seemed to intensify. No sound disturbed the deathly hush, yet he gradually became aware of a faint, continuous whistling noise, equally audible in both ears. He did not know it but profound silence, coupled with extreme discomfort, had triggered the onset of a hearing condition known medically as tinnitus.

Increasingly desperate and disregarding the likelihood of bruising himself, he rocked the seat from side to side, trying to topple over and thereby relieve the excruciating pain at the base of his spine, but was thwarted when his shoulders came into contact with solid walling on either side. It was almost if he were entombed, or penned in some kind of narrow tunnel or enclosure. He regretted the discovery. For the first time in his life he was overwhelmed by claustrophobic panic. Fear of close confinement magnified his pain and he tried to scream, but the gag between his teeth was tied tightly at the back of his neck and he could manage little more than a gurgle.

He could breathe only through his nose and, as he struggled, his lungs became seriously starved of oxygen, causing his heart to thump violently.

It took a monumental effort of will but, eventually, he managed to calm himself sufficiently to restore his breathing to its former, barely adequate level.

The atmosphere was dank and musty, which suggested his prison was underground. It was bitterly cold and Francis shivered; he realised for the first time that his overcoat was missing. His remaining clothes were chilly and damp. Tears of self-pity began to well up in his eyes. They were absorbed in an instant by the blindfold.
Sod it, I can’t even bloody-well cry!
He was racked with misery.

Returned to full awareness, he cursed his crass stupidity at having been gullible enough to fall into what he now recognised was a carefully-prepared trap.
Brian Carpenter, of all people, but why? The coffee, it must have been drugged—again why? Perhaps it’s all a joke. He’ll turn up any moment and let me go, pissing himself with laughter—or will he?

Despite his pain he strove to establish a reason for his predicament. Brian Carpenter—fat, smelly Brian, one of Robert Strudwick’s crazy minions. What was he playing at? But wait! What if Strudwick himself was behind this? And if so, what were his intentions? Revenge for an imagined insult or what? The penny dropped; his heart sank.

Strudwick.
He struggled frantically.
Oh no, not Strudwick. Not
that
vindictive bastard, surely!

Time passed. After battling with his bladder for what seemed an eternity, he was forced to succumb to nature. The resultant flow of urine added sore thighs and a stinging crotch to his catalogue of woes.

Desperately thirsty, he was tortured by images of countless glasses of ice-cold lager lined up on the bar. He blamed his present predicament on his weakness for the beverage, and vowed on his late mother’s memory that, once free, he would never touch the stuff again…

He had no way of judging the passage of time. It may have been twenty-four hours after he first awoke, or even forty-eight, when he heard the rattle of a bolt and the rasp of a key. Light showed dimly through the blindfold. At last! His heart leapt. His spirits revived at the prospect of imminent rescue. A creak of hinges and a barely perceptible waft of air told him someone had entered his prison, but no other sound reached his ears, although he tilted his head and listened intently.

Suddenly, without warning, a vicious blow to the forehead sent his seat rocking backwards and he cracked his head painfully against a wall:
A wall! There’s another wall behind me?

At once claustrophobia returned; this and the combination of facial and cranial impact produced blinding flashes of lights, agonising pains and a terrible feeling of nausea. Mercilessly, the assailant struck again, this time full in the face—another crack of the head.

His nose was broken, the pain almost unbearable. Blood poured down his face and soaked the gag. He couldn’t breathe. For long moments he was gripped by panic; only willpower and a strong sense of self-preservation kept him from inhaling and drowning in his own blood. He forced himself to exhale slowly through his shattered nose and, by dint of careful control, managed to take in sufficient life-giving air until, eventually, his breathing returned to something approaching normal. The roaring in his ears persisted.

He failed to hear the door open and close, nor the key turn in the lock. Eventually, a sense of isolation swept over him and he knew he was alone once more. As the pain lessened he began to recover a little and realised for the first time that his assailant hadn’t uttered a word.
It’s that bastard Strudwick—it has to be.
His heart sank. Far from being a rescuer, the visitor had been his gaoler and tormentor.

During the assault, his control of bodily functions all but lost, he had defecated from shock. His damaged olfactory senses were incapable of confirming the fact, but the physical discomfort was unmistakable.
Robert Strudwick, the evil sod. It’s him, it’s got to be him, no doubt about it!

Frank knew of his captor’s dislike, had known it for years. The antagonism, begun over some long-forgotten trifle when they were schoolboys, had persisted in a minor sort of way but hadn’t really surfaced until he had managed to date that pretty girl (he could scarcely remember her name) in the Black and White Milk Bar, and she had told Strudwick exactly what she thought of him. Ironically, that one and only date had begun with a walk in the park and ended two hours later when, having seen her safely home as he had promised, she had refused him a kiss at her front gate.

Strudwick’s motives became suddenly overwhelmingly important.
What harm did I ever do him?
he agonised.
Oh! dear God, I hurt. Christ. I can’t stand much more of this. What does he mean to do? When will he let me go? I hate the lousy shitbag—hate! hate! hate!

The borderline between sanity and madness is fragile and easily breached, it is said. By the time the pathetic, stinking creature had reached what he supposed to be his third day of incarceration he was praying desperately for insanity to release him from reality.

Consciousness ebbed and waned. His head drooped lower each time he started to slip away until, eventually, he slumped forward, limp and lifeless. The rickety chair overbalanced. Accelerated by the weight of his entire body, his forehead struck the floor with concussive force and he remained in a state of blessed oblivion for well over an hour.

But, bruised and sore, suffering excruciating pain from pinioned arms and legs, with the terrible roaring inside his skull beating time with an intense, throbbing headache, he finally ascended through successive levels of consciousness, summoned by strange, persistent keening sounds. When he eventually returned to full consciousness, however, he realised the anguished mewling was coming from his own throat.

The scrape of the key crashed into his awareness like a thunderclap. He lay motionless and when minutes passed with no further sound he shivered, uncontrollably. Then came the ‘click’ of a switch and light gleamed once more through the blindfold, seeming extraordinarily bright after so long in total darkness. A rustle of clothing was followed by two distinct thuds—not unlike shoes being dropped. Soft, shuffling steps approached him and he froze, holding his breath in agonised anticipation. There were sharp, slapping sounds—elastic? A catapult? Rubber gloves? Gloves?
For what?

He felt no touch but, suddenly and roughly, was hauled upright and returned to a sitting position. It dawned on him that he had been lifted bodily by the back of the chair.

The covering over his eyes was snatched away. Blinding agony! The brilliance of a naked bulb shone directly into his face and his senses reeled. After hours in Stygian blackness, his eyes reacted violently. Tears flowed, sharply astringent against the rawness of his facial contusions. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he was able to make out a shadowy shape standing before him. Gradually, imperceptibly, the silent, motionless figure became clearer until, quite suddenly, Frank was able to see again.