The Flyleaf Killer (32 page)

‘Please—don’t cry Jan,’ he begged, close to tears himself. ‘Chin up, Pet. With that damn nutter out of the way, let’s see about getting ourselves out of here.’

Aching to comfort her, Steven began to shuffle and ‘caterpillar’ across the cellar on his bottom. The action seemed so comical that, despite the horror of their predicament, Janice couldn’t help but smile.

‘I’m sorry, Stevie, but you do look ridiculous, and I’m frightened in case you hurt your bum.’

Grunting with exertion, he smiled briefly, but persevered.

‘Don’t care,’ he retorted, happy she was cheered a little. ‘S’only me kecks and a bit of skin.’

Moving surprisingly quickly, he manoeuvred alongside and contrived to comfort her with a kiss.

‘Turn sideways, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can undo our wrists. I’ll have a go first.’

Each with a shoulder against the wall for support, they tried in turn to loosen the knots but, despite their best efforts, neither could make the slightest impression. Even if it had been somehow possible for them to see what they were doing, numb fingers and painfully tight lashings would still have rendered it an almost impossible task. Reluctantly they were forced to give up.

They cast around for something against which to rub through their bonds, but there was nothing. The lamp flared, guttered briefly, flickered and went out, and after a while Janice fell into a fitful sleep, her head resting against Steven’s shoulder…

Missing Persons

After an indeterminate period of uneasy sleep, Janice awoke, immediately and painfully aware. Scarcely able to move, the frightened girl groaned and burst into tears.

‘Oh, Stevie, what are we to do?’ she sobbed. ‘I want to go home. I’m so thirsty, I’m cold, I hurt all over and my bottom’s red raw.’

Manfully, but with difficulty, Steven did his best to raise her spirits.

‘I know Jan, same here. But cheer up, Strudwick’s only doing this to frighten us. It’s his idea of a joke. He’ll be back before you know it, laughing his stupid socks off—but even if he
did
mean what he said about leaving us here,’ he added, ‘someone’s bound to come looking. You’ll see.’

Knowing Strudwick as she did Janice remained unconvinced, but for Steven’s sake she brightened.

‘Do you really think so? I can’t wait to get home. I’ll wash my hair, have a long, hot soak in the bath—and then for a lovely hot dinner.’

‘That’s my girl!’ Steven declared, trying to sound positive. He tried to kiss her, but failed to make contact when, with a muffled sob, she turned away in the darkness. It seemed a deliberate rebuff and, unwilling to risk another, he didn’t try again.

The cellar floor was wet with urine, cold and unbearably hard, forcing the pinioned sweethearts to change position frequently to ameliorate, to some extent at least, the agony of immobilised limbs. Helping one another, they contrived to lower themselves to the floor and lay hunched together in the foetal position, hoping to gain some respite and perhaps even snatch a little sleep. But, far from finding relief, their securely tied hands and feet rendered lying down even more uncomfortable, and it required a sustained effort for them to regain their former positions.

Miserable and in pain, the couple languished in the dark and waited for rescue.

Driving home, Strudwick congratulated himself on the success of a mission which would result in painful, lingering deaths for the hated pair instead of relatively merciful release by means of the knife. Later, at his leisure, he would remove the stinking remains to a suitable location in the dense woodland surrounding the house, thereby putting the finishing touches to another insoluble mystery.

But by Sunday, the serial assassin was having second thoughts. What if the devious pair of shits managed to escape and contacted the police? Or suppose an itinerant burglar stumbled across the property, broke in and discovered the couple? It seemed unlikely, but perhaps he should return to check all was well. Yes, that was it. He might even contrive to be on hand when the couple died; he’d particularly enjoy the death throes of Steven Pearce, the snivelling pile of dog crap.

Robert went to his room to ponder the pleasing prospect when a voice in his mind intervened:
Why dost neglect Pentophiles, thy friend and protector?
Having heard nothing from the being in months, Strudwick was taken by surprise.

‘I h-haven’t n-neglected you,’ he stuttered, idiotically. ‘It—it’s ages since you’ve spoken to
me.’

Have care, Robert William Strudwick
, the voice warned, ominously.
Bandy not words ere cause annoyance. Hast dared entertain revenge without regard for Pentophiles? What sayest thou?

‘I thought—I didn’t think—the Book. What do you wish me to do?’ Strudwick quavered.
Have regard my special preferences
, the unseen being thundered.
KILL! BLOOD! KILL!
The voice tailed away.

‘But…’ Robert began, then realised the entity had already departed.

Uneasily he sat, loathe to tinker with a mission running to plan, a plan devised through careful thought, within guidelines stipulated by the Book, but he grudgingly accepted that to exclude the wishes and desires of Pentophiles was hardly an option. But for Pearce and Pearson he had devised punishment entirely appropriate—that they should continue to enjoy one another’s company a while longer. Ever cautious, he checked the Book and was gratified to find no further instructions waiting. He put the matter out of his mind for the time being and retired for the night.

0915, Monday 21
^st
March, 2005: Police HQ, Surbiton

As David Melton replaced the telephone receiver, his eye was drawn to ‘Pending’, wherein reposed, among other, less challenging matters,
two
unsolved murder files.

Peremptorily, he rapped the glass partition and beckoned his assistant.

‘I’ve just had Sergeant Stapleton on the phone,’ Melton told him. ‘Would you believe? Another Missing Persons on our patch?’

O’Connor frowned.
What the hell’s special about that?

‘Sorry, sir, but doesn’t it happen all the time?’

‘Not when it involves
two
missing persons in one hit it doesn’t, nor if they’ve gone missing from Esher and
especially
from
Lower Green
, no less.’

‘You don’t suppose? We’re not off again, are we?’

Melton nodded grimly.

‘It’s looking a lot like it, I’m afraid. You see, one of them just happens to be Steven Pearce, the other his fiancée, Janice Pearson.’

O’Connor’s eyebrows ascended like rockets.

‘The Pennington murder!’ he exclaimed. ‘The anorak and trainers, the young man we questioned to the limit; who probably knew more about the killer than he chose to admit…’ Indignantly, he added, ‘Damned if I know why we didn’t keep a closer eye on him.’

‘The very same,’ Melton replied. ‘And for your information, Sergeant, we
did
keep an eye on him. To ensure secrecy and with the Chief Super’s approval, he was under surveillance by undercover men seconded from Essex. I chose not to advertise the fact, but I thought you might have guessed.’

‘Bait sir?’

‘Yes, but when nothing untoward happened, the Chief Super downgraded the risk to “minimal”.’

‘You kept that one pretty dark, sir. I really hadn’t a clue. When did the couple disappear?’

‘Yesterday—well Friday, to be precise,’ Melton replied. ‘Stapleton is filing a report, naturally, but the name “Steven Pearce” rang a bell and knowing of our interest he thought it important enough to ring me personally.

‘It appears Steven and his young lady went to London for the weekend. Janice left Lower Green by taxi just before five-thirty on Friday to meet up with Steven at Surbiton station. Their coach was due at six and to save time, apparently, he took his luggage to work with him having organised a lift to Surbiton from a workmate.

‘The couple were due back at Surbiton at five yesterday evening and when six o’clock rolled round and they hadn’t put in an appearance, Janice’s mother rang the travel company to find out whether the coach was delayed. They informed her the coach had completed its journey on time.

‘She then rang Steven’s mother, thinking perhaps the couple had stopped by to visit. This alarmed Mrs Pearce, who had assumed the couple were at Janice’s home, and agreed the Pearsons should ring the police should the youngsters fail to make contact reasonably soon. Janice’s parents agonised until eight o’clock, praying their daughter would arrive or at least ring, whereupon Mr Pearson finally contacted Esher ‘nick’ at eight-ten, when Sergeant Stapleton took the call.’

‘Do you think Malandra Pennington’s killer could be behind this?’

The possibility hadn’t escaped Melton, who had long felt a solution tantalisingly close, but couldn’t fathom exactly how or for what reason.

‘Could be, Sergeant—possibly Bridgwater’s too—always assuming the two cases
are
connected.’ Melton glared at ‘Pending’, wishing it was possible to magic away the unwelcome contents. ‘But unfortunately,’ he sighed, ‘it’ll take more than supposition to be rid of
those
two files.’

He rose to his feet. These were obvious and compelling reasons for initiating a full investigation.

‘But first things first, Sergeant,’ the Detective Inspector cautioned. ‘There could be a simple explanation and we must check the possibilities before jumping to conclusions. One or the other, perhaps both, may have been involved in an accident, for example, and might be lying in hospital. They may even have decided to stay over without telling anyone. Youngsters
can
be rather thoughtless, you know.

‘In any event we deal in facts, and there’s little we can do until a few have been established. First of all, get someone to ring all major London hospitals. Once that’s under way, ring Mrs Pearson, no doubt she’ll be worried. Give her my regards and tell her we’ll do everything we can to find Janice and her fiancé. Find out as much as you can regarding that weekend break and try to establish the couple’s itinerary.

‘And ask her about the taxi. It would either have been a minicab or a cab from Ace. In either event, get somebody to trace the driver in case he or she noticed anything out of the ordinary.’ Melton smiled and nodded meaningfully at ‘Pending’.

‘I’ve got a “feeling in my water” about this. The day we ship those files to Records might be nearer. When we do, it’ll be worth more than a swift half on the way home, my lad. I’ll buy you the bloody bucketful. Now, get a flaming move on and report back a.s.a.p. I’m off to brief the Chief Super.’

At 10.30, DS O’Connor tapped on DI Melton’s door. His appearance was sombre.

‘Not good news I’m afraid,’ he began. ‘That weekend break; Mrs Pearson gave me the details.’ The DS referred to his notebook. ‘The couple were booked on an all-inclusive weekend for two with Cosmopolitan Coaches, a travel-firm trading from Battersea. The package included return fare from a number of pickup points, including Surbiton, two nights hotel accommodation at Wimbledon’s Clare del Ortega, tickets for a Saturday-night show and an afternoon’s conducted coach-trip around London. It seems Janice booked about a fortnight ago.’

He paused to rub his nose.

‘Well, sir, I got the number from Mrs Pearson and rang Cosmopolitan. They confirm the booking, but say neither Mr Pearce nor Miss Pearson checked in. The coach left Surbiton on time, sir, but with two of the seats vacant.’

‘Damn! People don’t just disappear. Someone knows something, that’s for sure. What about the taxi? Any luck there?’

O’Connor looked through the glass screen into the office beyond.

‘I sent Graham Gibson to look into that one, Guv’nor. That’s him just coming in.’

‘Fetch him in here.’

O’Connor went out, buttonholed DC Gibson and returned with the latter in tow.

‘DC Gibson managed to locate the taxi driver, sir,’ O’Connor announced.

‘Good morning, Gibson. Glad to hear you found the driver. Well done! What did he have to say?’

Gibson consulted his notes.

‘Ace operates from Portsmouth Road, Long Ditton. The owner, a Mrs Fairweather, co-operated. She must have a bloody good memory, begging your pardon, sir. She didn’t check a sheet, look in a book or anything, but knew exactly which driver picked Miss Pearson up. That struck me as unusual, sir. I mean, they
are
pretty busy, especially at weekends.

‘Anyway, the man’s name is Dyson—Henry Dyson, she said—and she called him in by radio. He was nearby, as it happened, in line at Surbiton station waiting his turn for a fare.

‘Five minutes later, sir, in he rolled. Ordinary sort of bloke, early thirties I’d say, but a bit shifty, if you know what I mean. Medium build, dark hair, spoke with a heavy cockney accent. I told him who I was and asked him if he remembered picking up a Miss Pearson from Lower Green on Friday evening, and he said:’ (Gibson read from his notes) ‘“Yus mate, I remember, pretty little tart. Picked ’er up about ’arf pass five and took ’er ter Surbiton station. Dropped her orf abaht twenny-five ter six; ’ad a couple of soot-cases, she did.” That’s about as close as I can get to the way he spoke, sir.’

‘That’s OK, Constable,’ Melton was amused. ‘You sounded practically cockney yourself.’

Gibson blushed.

‘To be perfectly honest, sir, I doubt whether he
is
a cockney. His accent seemed too contrived and he didn’t always drop his aitches. That’s the reason I’ve done my best to imitate him.’

‘I understand. Well done, constable. As I always say, what may seem a minor point at the time can become vital evidence later. We could do with more like you. Get your report in as soon as you can.’

‘Just how busy are you, Sergeant?’ Melton asked, once Gibson had departed.

‘So so, sir—why? Have you something particular in mind?’

‘Yes, I have, and it concerns Steven Pearce. If you remember, he works at Hadfields, Long Ditton. I’d like you track down the workmate who gave Steven a lift to the station. His mother might know who it was, but in any event, nip round to the factory and ask a few questions. Get the “OK” from the manager first, naturally.