The Flyleaf Killer (35 page)

Flanked by DS O’Connor, with plain-clothes DCs Gibson and Slade close behind, he knocked on the door. Almost immediately, an outside wall light snapped on. There came a rattle of bolts, the door opened, and Strudwick senior appeared, wearing a nondescript dressing gown. If Alfred was annoyed at being disturbed twice within a matter of twenty minutes it didn’t show.

‘Good
morning
, Inspector—you too, Sergeant,’ he said, intentionally sarcastic. ‘I must admit I was half expecting you, even though I’ve already told those two…’ pointing at Slade and Gibson, ‘…I’ve no knowledge of Robert’s whereabouts. I presume that
is
why you’ve come knocking, late as it is?’

‘Yes, Mr Strudwick, it is—and please, don’t play games with me. A very serious crime has been committed and your son may be involved. It is essential we speak with him as quickly as possible. Now, where is he?’

Strudwick blanched, but stuck to his guns.

‘I haven’t the remotest idea, Inspector, as I’ve already made clear. Robert went to the office this morning—well, yesterday, to be precise—and hasn’t been home since. It’s nothing unusual. Robert is often away on business.’

‘That isn’t true, Mr Strudwick, and you know it,’ Melton interrupted. ‘Your son arrived home at five-forty and was seen to leave again at nine-fifty. Now, I’ll ask you once again, where is he?’

Cornered, Alfred Strudwick almost fell to pieces. He swallowed and tried again.

‘You must be mistaken, Inspector. If Robert did come home, I’m sure I would have seen him.’

Clearly, he was lying. Moving closer, Melton pressed his advantage. ‘Then if, as you say, Robert failed to come home last evening, who was driving his car? The truth, Mr Strudwick, or I shall require you to accompany us to the police station. Come on, sir. What exactly are you trying to conceal? Why are you lying to protect your son?’

It was enough. Never a good liar, Strudwick realised he was in danger of becoming embroiled in whatever it was his unprincipled son was up to. Clearly, he could stall no longer.

‘If you’re not prepared to accept my word that Robert isn’t here, then feel free to check the house, but that does
not
entitle you to take liberties without a proper search warrant.’

Flushed with affected indignation, he retreated into the hallway and swung wide the door.

‘Thank you,’ Melton said quietly, crossing the threshold. ‘Who, besides yourself, is in the house at the present time?’

‘Just my wife, asleep in bed—or at least she was!’

‘Having the benefit of your consent we are obliged to check the entire house, but would prefer not to distress Mrs Strudwick. Perhaps you should explain our presence, accompany her to the lounge and remain there with her until we’ve finished. I trust this is acceptable to you?’

Alfred Strudwick inclined his head. ‘I’ll go and fetch her. Will you and your officers wait here, please?’

‘Of course. But, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait while my men check around outside.’

Wearily, Alfred acquiesced. He had, after all, done his best. As Strudwick set off up the stairs, Melton turned to the open doorway and the waiting policemen.

‘We need a man to cover the driveway, Sergeant—Slade, I think. You and Gibson check the rear, including the garage and outbuildings. Make sure the suspect isn’t lurking somewhere outside. Come back here when you are completely satisfied.’

Five minutes later DS O’Connor returned.

‘The garage is secured with a heavy-duty pad-bolt and a Chubb padlock, Guv’nor. There isn’t a window so we couldn’t see inside, but I doubt if he’s in there—unless somebody’s locked him in!

We also checked the garden shed, but there’s barely room for a lawnmower and a few tools, much less a fugitive. If he’s here, he’s in the house, sir. There’s definitely nobody skulking in the garden.’ Beckoning the officers inside, Melton pointed towards the stairs. ‘Take Gibson and check the first floor, Sergeant. I’ll look around down here.’

He opened the door to the kitchen and went inside. Casting around, he noted the door to the garden was bolted on the inside; there was only one possible hiding place—the walk-in pantry. Warily, he pulled wide the door. Nobody lurked within.

The only remaining door opened to the lounge/diner. He knocked and went in.

‘Sorry to intrude, Mr Strudwick,’ Melton began, with an apologetic smile to Mrs Strudwick.

‘We’ve almost finished, except for a quick look in the garage. Just routine, you understand.’

Strudwick merely stared, as if unable to fully comprehend.

‘May I have the key please?’ Melton asked.

‘I wish you’d hurry it up, Inspector,’ Strudwick grumbled. ‘Mrs Strudwick and I need to get back to bed.’

He glanced at his wife. Fortunately, she kept her thoughts and opinions to herself these days.

‘The key, Mr Strudwick,’ Melton insisted. He extended his hand.

‘Oh yes, the key,’ Alfred muttered vaguely.

He fidgeted uncomfortably, shook his head and sighed. His forehead creased into a frown and he appeared old and careworn. Melton waited, hand extended. Finally, as if he’d only just realised that the policeman required an answer, he said, ‘Robert keeps his car in the garage. I park mine outside on the verge, and there’s only one key. Robert keeps it with him all the time, Inspector. It’s an expensive car—the insurance, you know.’

Strudwick’s impassive face concealed a thumping heart and a sense of utter bewilderment:
Robert
never
locks the garage unless his car is inside! Was he, then, still nearby?
He fervently hoped not, but knew better than to warn the police—Robert would be
furious!

DI Melton’s exasperated sigh coincided with the clump of feet to signal the return of DS O’Connor and DC Gibson. Robert Strudwick was not at home.

‘No sign of him, Guv’nor. It doesn’t look as if he’s been here. His bedroom-cum-office—call it what you will—is neat and tidy. The bed hasn’t been slept in. I reckon we’re pissing in the wind!’

‘Maybe so,’ Melton conceded, ‘but we’ll keep an eye on the place in case he should show. Organise a relief for Slade—better still, rustle up another surveillance team. Get them in position a.s.a.p. and I’ll clear it with the Chief Super in the morning.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Let’s get back to HQ, Sergeant—I’ll drive while you’re on the radio. We need to sort things out for tomorrow, and I want to inquire after those unfortunate youngsters before we call it a night.’

He tapped the lounge door. ‘All finished, Mr Strudwick. Thank you for your co-operation. We’ll see ourselves out.’

For the second time that night, DS O’Connor wondered why the Guv’nor deliberately allowed the suspect to escape when he might have been nailed. He could have had him followed: a fast, fully-manned back-up car had waited in a lay-by on nearby Littleworth Common.

Strudwick was a kidnapper and a cruel torturer at the very least. Something (or someone) had startled him into doing a bunk, and it seemed likely he was well out of the area by now. Considering the man was also a murder suspect, it seemed curious that the Guv’nor continued to avoid confronting the possibility that they might be harbouring a ‘mole’. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, clipped his seat belt and reached for the microphone…

Fugitive

During the return to Kenward Crescent, Robert succeeded in regaining his composure and with it his extraordinary ability to plan, think clearly and resolve problems, no matter how complex.

Finely-tuned survival instincts and exceptional resourcefulness had produced the spur of the moment decision taken in the cellar: to put as much distance between himself and Claygate as possible and as quickly as possible; to gain time to re-establish relations with his nether-world sponsor and, with his guidance and protection, resume his rightful place in society for the rest of his natural life.

He had come perilously close to discovery, yet quick thinking had undoubtedly averted the ignominy of capture, handcuffs, confinement and trial. But first they had to catch him, and produce some evidence which would prove him ‘guilty beyond all reasonable doubt’.

Evidence!
he sneered.
What evidence?
Providing Dyson remained silent (he’d better!) and Pearce and his tart either failed to survive or were disposed of before they recovered (which might yet be arranged), the only evidence the police could offer would be entirely circumstantial.

Enemies or acquaintances capable of pointing the finger? None—he had been extremely careful. Of his extensive band of ‘assistants’, few possessed sufficient information to incriminate him. Fewer still were likely to talk, no matter how closely questioned.

In order of least risk, he eliminated them one by one, including
Bobby Shafto
—privy to nothing of consequence except which side her bread was buttered … which left Henry Dyson—who knew far too much for comfort, but had been vital to the kidnap and was equally essential right now. But what had gone wrong? He decided to deal with that question later. He was fast approaching his destination and his first priority was to implement the escape initiative conceived right there in the cellar.

Turning the final corner in third, he slipped into neutral, killed the lights and coasted towards his parent’s house. Leaving the engine ticking over, he swung wide through the open gates and trundled with scarcely a whisper the full length of the concrete driveway up to the garage. Making little or no noise, it was the work of seconds to open the double doors, slip into first and edge the big car inside without a nudge of the accelerator. Switching off the ignition, he closed the driver’s door with a soft ‘clunk’, locked the garage and slipped the key into his pocket. Walking on the balls of his feet, he made his way to the gates, picked up the bags and—for the benefit of anyone who might be watching—strolled casually to the corner and waited.

Nor did he have long to wait. Almost on cue, Henry’s black cab rounded the corner and stopped, the driver already unlatching the rear passenger door. As soon as it was open, Robert tossed his luggage inside, pulled open the front passenger door and climbed in beside the driver.

‘Wassermarra, guv? Scared I might lock yer in?’ Dyson sniggered.

‘Just drive.’ Strudwick grunted.

‘Where to?’

‘Down to “The Bear” at Esher, turn right on High Street and down the A3 towards the Scilly Isles. Straight across onto Portsmouth Road, past my offices and turn right at the lights towards Surbiton station. I’ll direct you from there—OK?’

‘S’long way rahnd, innit? Quicker’f we crosses Littleworth Common.’

‘Don’t argue, damn you. Just do as I bloody well say … and there’s an extra twenty in it for you.’

‘OK, OK! You’re the boss.’

Henry drove off, suddenly afraid.

Traffic was light. They passed ‘The Bear’ and progressed smoothly along Esher High Street. Strudwick glanced speculatively at the subservient pervert who sat close at hand, comfortably within striking-distance of the razor-sharp cook’s knife secreted beneath his jacket.

Should he—on the pretext of needing a leak—direct the obnoxious child-molester to a quiet spot somewhere along the Thames and slide the knife between his ribs? Death would be instantaneous; cab and corpse would be under thirty feet of water in a couple of minutes. It was an interesting thought, but the longer Strudwick pondered the more hesitant he became.

Escape required the use of the cab. He could dispose of Dyson and drive himself, but there would be blood, (he licked his lips) not only in the vehicle but probably on his clothing. Moreover, without the cab as a coffin, the body would eventually rise and come to the attention of the police. Furthermore, he would abandon an out-of-district, full-of-clues taxi at or near his destination, there to be spotted by an alert taxi-driver (they really did exist) who would report the discovery to the police. Even bumbling, reluctant DI Melton would connect such a find with the disappearance of Robert Strudwick and call off the search for a white XJS—the very search he was
meant
to initiate. In addition to that, discovery of the taxi might well provide other, more potentially incriminating evidence. He wanted to disappear without trace.

Dyson might well consider himself fortunate—for now. At least he would live to see another day.

Strudwick shifted in his seat, and reflected on the comprehensive way in which he was protected. That seemingly trivial altercation with Pentophiles, for example. Obviously preordained and no mere accident brought about by temper, it served as a reminder that he might one day have need to escape, and prompted his resolve to be packed in readiness for flight at short notice, with the inclusion of the Book and his cash contingency fund amounting to something in excess of £1,000.

He considered his resources and his ability to survive without revealing his whereabouts, by avoiding Barclaycard and the dubious confidentiality of the credit card system—not indefinitely, of course, but certainly for several weeks—if not months. Knowing he might one day need to evade the police—or even flee the country—adequate, accessible funding had long been in place. Far-sighted, intuitive Robert Strudwick had planned well. Apart from around £200 in his wallet and more than £1,000 in his baggage, £20,000 was set aside in a Midland deposit account, whilst his current account balance of around £2,000 was quickly retrievable—in small amounts, using Maestro and automated cash machines anywhere in the modern world. As a further precaution, another £2,000 in cash was stashed in a safety deposit box at a Maidstone bank, accessible by password and coded keypad with no requirement whatever to prove identity. Masked by darkness, Strudwick’s unsavoury countenance creased into a self-satisfied smirk.

The taxi trundled on. He was startled out of his reverie when Dyson spoke.

‘Cummin’ up ter Surbiton station, guv. Where d’yer want me ter drop yer?’

‘Pull up by the bus stop. Don’t go into the station yet—I need to take a look.’

It was here he intended to pay Dyson off, spelling out the consequences of disclosure, now or at any time in the future. He would cover his tracks in another cab once Dyson was out of sight. But it was late on Friday: most travellers were already home; taxis were at a premium.