The Flyleaf Killer (29 page)

He fished out his car keys and tossed them on the desk.

‘Here, partner, take my car tonight and drop me off. I’ll buy you a half on the way.’

0915, 19
^th
February, 2005, County Police Headquarters, Surbiton

Mufti-clad, on what was supposedly his Saturday off, Detective Chief Superintendent Jarvis arrived, stomped through reception and continued noisily towards his office. He went in and slammed the door. Seconds later, an unmistakable voice issued from Melton’s office intercom.

‘Inspector Melton?’
What the blazes…? It’s supposed to be his Saturday off!
‘Yes sir.’

‘Oh good, you
are
in. Can you spare a minute?’

‘Certainly, sir. Right away, sir?’

‘Yes, please.’

A ‘click’ from the speaker and the intercom fell silent. Melton made his way to the Chief Super’s office.

‘Come and sit down, David,’ Jarvis said. ‘Sorry to trouble you, but I’m meeting the DACC at ten for golf. He’s bound to ask about the Bridgwater case and I wonder if you’d mind telling where we’re up to.’

‘Well, sir,’ Melton began, ‘I’ll be as brief as possible. Should I start to digress, please tell me. I wouldn’t want to make you late for your appointment.’

Suspecting sarcasm, Jarvis looked up, but Melton seemed intent only on delivering his report.

‘You were absolutely right, sir. Success or failure depends almost entirely on our ability to establish a motive. When it became clear at yesterday’s forum we were in danger of stalemate—even at this early stage—I decided, prompted by your remarks, to set routine to one side in order to concentrate all the available resources. Time is of the essence, sir. Whatever trail once existed grows fainter by the day.

‘Forgive me for being dramatic, but now I’ve committed, it’s vital I have your full backing. As from today—apart from telephone and radio liaison duties at headquarters—all officers are devoting themselves to finding a connection, however tenuous, between the deceased and the man who clearly had powerful enough reason to plan and execute an extremely heinous crime.

‘Every West End resident over the age of twelve is to be questioned, all tradespeople canvassed, every staff member identified and visited—similarly with pubs, clubs and bars throughout the area. Furthermore, we shall seek out former school friends and teachers, UK employers and colleagues and follow through every item of information gleaned—all in all, sir, a formidable undertaking.

‘Few people are home during the day. Therefore officers on house-to-house inquiries will work flexitime up to a maximum of ten hours spread across the day. I see no need to seek authority for excess overtime. Can I take it these measures meet with your approval sir?’

‘Exactly what I hoped to hear you say, David. I trust your efforts will speedily be rewarded. By the way, the former school friends, did you learn anything?’

Damn, I knew he’d ask me that!
‘No sir. All expressed regret about the tragic death and wanted to help, but not one could recall a single instance when Francis Bridgwater openly disagreed with anybody.’

‘Pity,’ Jarvis remarked. He looked at his watch. ‘Better dash; mustn’t keep the Deputy Assistant waiting.’

The moment Melton was back in his office, O’Connor popped his head round the door.

‘How did you get on, Guv’nor?’ he asked.

Melton rubbed his nose conspiratorially.

‘Don’t ask silly questions, you nosy sod. Get on with your work,’ he replied, mischievously.

‘That’s the trouble with this bloody place,’ retorted O’Connor. ‘Nobody tells me anything.’ Melton failed to rise to the bait, and both men turned their attention to a substantial amount of paperwork left over from the previous day.

Each bent to his task and made steady progress but, nearing midday, Melton was interrupted.

Not by any means for the first time—and probably not for the last—the hapless Desk Sergeant found himself under siege from a quartet of newsmen. These were demanding full and proper information regarding the investigation, without which they refused to go away. In desperation, he rang DI Melton to ask for help.

‘I’m sorry to have to trouble you sir, but they’re kicking up a hell of a fuss. They won’t leave without finding out what’s going on, and demand to hear it from you. I’ve told them you’re busy, but they won’t take “no” for an answer.’

Melton sighed. ‘OK Sergeant, I’ll see what I can do. Tell them I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

Five minutes later. Melton walked into a noisy reception.

‘Hush, gentlemen,’ he pleaded. ‘Statements have been issued twice already this week and there’s nothing further to tell.

‘The investigation has been stepped up, and fifteen officers are now working flat out.’

With this the journalists had to be content.

The investigation intensified, as police sought anyone even
suspected
of having shown the slightest degree of animosity towards the dead man at some time in the past. It roared ahead throughout Monday and Tuesday, but without uncovering a single useful lead.

1100, Wednesday 23
^rd
February 2005: Police HQ, Surbiton

DI Melton began working through the contents of his ‘In’ tray. Several files and memos later, he came to a brown manila envelope inscribed: CONFIDENTIAL: Detective Inspector Melton CID.

‘Funny,’ he remarked, to no-one in particular, ‘I didn’t notice that. Wonder when it arrived?’

‘Seen this before, Ben?’ he asked his assistant, sitting opposite. ‘No sir. It wasn’t there last night. Must have arrived with the post. But it does seem important. Oughtn’t you take a look.’

Melton opened the envelope, withdrew a foolscap sheet and began to read.

Affecting indifference, O’Connor studiously returned to his file. Suddenly, Melton slapped the desk. ‘Eureka! The first piece of real evidence.’

‘Those hairs recovered from the deceased man’s clothing, all but one belonged to Francis Bridgwater. DNA was extracted and the profile checked against the computer database at Central Criminal Records.
There was no match.
When we find the man whose DNA
does
match, we shall have our murderer.’

‘That’s good news sir—up to a point. There’d be an outcry if we attempted to saliva-test every local male and if it were done voluntarily, it’s unlikely our man would be daft enough to come forward. We’d only catch the blighter if he was arrested and tested for a totally unrelated reason.

‘What defines “local” anyway? To be certain of netting the killer, we’d need a swab from every male over the age of sixteen within a radius of, say, five miles of Esher? That takes in Twickenham, Hounslow and Isleworth, Kingston and Teddington, as far south as Leatherhead, Weybridge in the west, across to Epsom and Ewell in the east. I’m no population expert, sir, but I’d guess we’re talking in excess of a million.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Sergeant, but blanket DNA census isn’t
quite
what I had in mind.’

Thoughtfully, he returned the paper to its envelope and tucked it into his inside pocket. He gestured towards the outer office. ‘I’ll acquaint the Chief Super and explain my reasons in due course, but in the meantime I want the existence of this document kept strictly between ourselves. Unless you disapprove, I intend to take this home and lock it in my safe.

‘One day—hopefully soon—we will have reason to bring in a suspect in connection with the murder of Francis Bridgwater. When we do, I shall propose a simple saliva test, which could free an innocent party of all suspicion.’ He looked his assistant squarely in the eye. ‘Do you have any such objection, Detective Sergeant O’Connor?’ he asked.

O’Connor did not. Ben rubbed his chin, thought for a moment, then asked, curiously, ‘How come that result came directly to you instead of through usual channels?’

Melton tapped his nose.

‘Why do you suppose? I arranged it of course, right after we learned of the hair’s existence.’

0945, Friday 25
^th
February 2005: Police HQ, Surbiton

The office intercom sprang into life.

‘Inspector Melton!’ the all-too-familiar voice snapped.

‘Yes sir.’

‘I dare say you’re busy,
(How
did
he guess?)
but I’d appreciate a word.’

‘Right away, sir.’

‘I’ll give you one guess what
he
wants,’ O’Connor ventured.

Melton didn’t even bother to reply. He got to his feet and left immediately, to return some ten minutes later, grim faced.

‘That’s it, Ben,’ he said, morosely, ‘we wind the inquiry down to a maximum of just two men. One continues sniffing pubs, clubs and so on, the other following up former employers. All others come off the investigation as of today and we revert to standard manning forthwith.’

‘I wish there was something I could say, Guv’nor. All that effort for damn-all. But I suppose the Chief Super didn’t really have much choice.’

‘No, the investigation has cost a bomb already and couldn’t possibly continue indefinitely. We have to be realistic. Reduced maybe, but the inquiry goes on. We
will
nab that murderer.’

At 1.30 p.m. reporters arrived.

With a practice born of long experience, Melton ignored their barrage of questions, gaining attention with nothing more potent than a smile and a raised eyebrow.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I presume you’ve picked up another of those dreadful rumours. You’ve probably heard the Bridgwater investigation is to be scaled down. I have here a prepared statement which I propose to read aloud…’

Elsewhere, later that evening, Robert Strudwick’s eyes glinted with satisfaction as he listened to an informed voice explain that, despite intense effort, the ‘Bridgwater’ investigation had been scaled down owing to lack of progress. The woman rang off. Robert replaced the receiver with a satisfied smirk.

Saturday 26 February 2005

BODY IN THE VAULT DEVELOPMENT

HUNT FOR KILLER SCALED DOWN

Reading from a prepared statement, Detective Inspector David Melton CID, the officer heading the Francis Bridgwater murder inquiry, yesterday confirmed that the wide-ranging investigation was to be scaled-down with immediate effect. The inquiry, which began in earnest on February 14 following the accidental discovery of nineteen-year-old Francis’ decomposing body in a locked vault beneath Esher’s Old Church, was dramatically intensified just seven days ago. ‘The first and most important part of an ongoing investigation has been speedily concluded and, as a consequence, certain lines of inquiry have been eliminated. This will enable other elements to proceed unimpeded,’ Inspector Melton said. The Inspector paid tribute to a dedicated team of detectives who worked tirelessly for long hours under difficult conditions to produce a satisfactory result in record time. ‘I am confident the continuing investigation will culminate with the apprehension of a vicious, ruthless and unbelievably sadistic killer,’ he concluded.

Robert Strudwick folded his newspaper, yawned—and pondered the nature of his next mission.

Abducted

Although engaged for almost a year, Steven and Janice had yet to spend a full night together. That apart, ‘quality time’ together was always at a premium, due largely to Janice’s quaintly old-fashioned mother, who knew perfectly well what young lovers got up to—having been there herself—yet didn’t consider it ‘proper’ for her daughter to sleep with Steven ‘under her own roof’. A potential solution presented itself early in their relationship—a ‘just the two of us’ holiday. The subject cropped up often enough, but even though the balance in their joint account grew steadily, a great deal more would be needed if they were to get married and set up home together, and the idea of plundering their savings for the sake of a holiday never entered their heads.

One Saturday in February, however, Janice chanced across a holiday advertisement:

Weekend Mini-hols in London for two!

All-inclusive.

Two nights’ overnight luxury hotel accommodation.

Afternoon sightseeing coach tour.

Tickets to a Saturday-night show, choice of three theatres.

Return coach fare: Croydon/Malden/Surbiton/Kingston/Twickenham

Depart 6 p.m. Friday—return 5 p.m. Sunday

Why not treat yourselves? Send for a brochure—now!

Surbiton was awkward to get to by bus, but easy by taxi, and relatively cheap. Janice tore out the page.

‘Ace Cars’, the only taxi company of substance within the Esher urban district, was based at Long Ditton and, discounting a couple of ‘rogue’ minicabs, enjoyed a virtual monopoly within the area.

The cars were radio-controlled from a small office on Portsmouth Road by Sylvia Fairweather, a thirty-five-year-old spinster and owner of a business inherited from her father. She soon discovered it barely ‘broke even’ with a fleet of just three vehicles. Two were somewhat decrepit ex-London taxis and the newest at ten years old was still on extended contract hire.

In a matter of weeks, however, thanks to substantial backing from the Midland Bank, negotiated through their Esher branch, the revitalised business ran a fleet of five modern taxicabs operated by self-employed drivers, whose remuneration was determined as a percentage of their own takings. With commission set at ten per cent of turnover, Sylvia’s financial security seemed assured. But, convinced the business would fail should the bank ever decide to call-in her loan, Sylvia was at pains never to offend Calderwood Clough-Cartwright the manager nor, more particularly, his chief clerk, Alfred Strudwick, the man with whom she was normally expected to deal.

Poor gullible Sylvia. She did not realise that most reputable banks would consider financial support for a company such as hers, and although putting up her home as security would be the norm, few would demand she second-mortgage the office premises, garage and workshops, much less insist on retaining the deeds pending full repayment of the loan plus interest. Neither was she aware that, apart from the setting-up and administrative fee, standard interest on outstanding monthly balances was probably the only reward that most would seek to impose.