The Flyleaf Killer (5 page)

Improvements in his parents’ attitudes continued. Father’s former indifference never returned. He went out of his way to avoid friction and became almost obsequious at times. Should Robert complain, Mr Strudwick was apt to cringe, apologise and hurriedly acquiesce.

The monotonous diet once grudgingly produced by an incessantly carping mother was superseded by varied and plentiful meals, well-cooked and tastefully presented. She no longer nagged, but was pleasant, friendly, and careful never to offend.

Thrifty Alfred Strudwick was employed as a cashier at the local branch of the Midland Bank. The position brought salary commensurate with ability, experience and years of dedicated service. It might be supposed Alfred’s frugality stemmed from looking after other people’s money, but in reality he was simply miserly, a man who hated parting with money except for necessities—unless, of course, it was something he wanted for himself. Robert was deprived of many of the things that most boys took for granted— fishing gear, for example.

Alfred, a keen fisherman, indulged his passion with little regard for cost. He sometimes allowed Robert to accompany him, and might even lend the boy a rod and tackle. But this was on sufferance, and he steadfastly refused to buy Robert equipment of his own.

But Alfred’s plaintive ‘we can’t afford it’ seemed latterly abandoned. He took his son to the best fishing-tackle shop in Kingston, where Robert chose two rods – one in steel for pike fishing, and a rosewood beauty for general use, each with a carry-case of its own. Together, they bought a fine selection of tackle: reels, hooks, lines, lures, floats and sinkers, landing and keep nets, waders, oilskins, folding stool, tackle basket—even a fisherman’s umbrella. And later, for Robert’s fourteenth birthday, he was given a gleaming new bicycle, fitted with drop handlebars, the latest dynamo lighting, leather saddlebag and white-enamelled mudguards.

Youthful contemporaries—once derisive and cruel—displayed remarkable civility in his presence, and took care to be polite and complimentary even when out of earshot. Teachers ceased to ridicule and were at pains to help and assist, particularly Brendon Ford, a changed man since his unfortunate accident, whose attitude towards students generally and to Robert in particular became kindly, helpful and solicitous.

Encouragement and one-to-one tuition advanced Robert’s academic prowess, until he became top of the class, not only in Maths, but in English, Business Studies and Science. During this period, he acquired a fascination for Biology, in which he also soon excelled.

The contrast in lifestyle suited the young man admirably and he studied hard, played hard and enjoyed life; perhaps as a consequence, his latent inclinations rarely surfaced. Making the most of his new-found freedom, he spent many useful hours exploring by bicycle.

In time, everything of interest for miles around—buildings, roads, estates, lakes, woods and countryside—were committed to his phenomenal memory. He ceaselessly recruited informers from among those who held him in awe. There were many. These unwitting pawns were encouraged to pass on information—any information—regarding anybody and everybody about whose activities he was the slightest bit curious. Thus were the foundations laid for what was to come.

One afternoon during the summer of 1999, whilst fishing on the River Mole, Robert was obliged to answer a call of nature. During the few minutes he was away from the river, his tackle-box was rifled and a number of items stolen, including a brand-new, red and yellow perch float. It was glaringly obvious the box had been disturbed and cursory inspection pinpointed the losses. With nobody else around, two boys fishing further along the bank seemed to merit investigation. Accordingly, Robert went along to issue a challenge. The pair denied responsibility but, whilst admitting they hadn’t noticed anyone else about, each provided the other with an alibi.

‘You’re nothing but a pair of liars,’ Robert told them, grimly. ‘If you weren’t so cocksure, I could be tempted to believe you, Scaife—except that that’s my float; I’d know it anywhere.’ And he pointed to the float sticking out of the boy’s top pocket.

‘Sod off, it’s
not
yours, Strudwick,’ the accused youth sneered. ‘I got it from Kingston on Saturday. That’s right, isn’t it?’ he asked his companion. ‘I showed it you yesterday, didn’t I?’

The boy flushed. ‘Don’t drag me into it, Sid. It’s nothing to do with me.’

‘Come on, Scaife, don’t be stupid,’ Robert said, holding out his hand: ‘Pass it over –
and
my spinner and number twelve hooks, while you’re at it, and we’ll say no more about the matter.’

A well-built, tallish youth, Sidney rose to his feet. ‘Get stuffed, Strudwick! Who do you think you’re talking to? Piss off, or I’ll shove your teeth down your bloody throat.’ He raised his fists threateningly. ‘And if you’re still not convinced, how do you fancy a boot up the arse?’

‘OK, have it your own way—for now,’ Robert said, hastily backing away. ‘But let me tell you this—and mark my words carefully: One day—one day soon—I promise, you’ll be very, very sorry!’

That night, when Robert consulted the Book, the flyleaf conveyed outline instructions for the method by which he was to dispose of a sworn enemy—his very first Mission:

WHOMSOEVER OFFENDS BY WATER

SHALL PERISH BY WATER

Robert sat back to consider the words and how best they might be made effective.

Eagerly, he set about devising a plan appropriate to the crime— clever, foolproof, undetectable. Scaife was to die by water, so why not combine his demise with the recovery of stolen property? It wasn’t long before he came up with an ingenious, childishly simple means of being rid of the thieving rat, one that fulfilled essential criteria and seemed entirely fitting.

Sidney boasted for days about his forthcoming fishing trip on the Thames, made no secret of his intention to fish the Middlesex bank near Hampton Court Bridge in the morning and switch to the Surrey side around lunch-time, intending to try out a secluded spot near Hampton Lock. When asked his reason, he said: ‘Simple, I can fish all day without getting the sun in me eyes.’

The great day arrived. Prior to tying his tackle-box to the pannier, Sidney airily shoved a can of maggots to one side to make room for a flask of hot tea and a packet of corned beef sandwiches. With nets and rod-cases strapped securely to the crossbar, he waved to his mother watching from the window, and pedalled off gaily to spend the day fishing at Hampton Court.

Among other things, he was anxious to try out a recently acquired, state-of-the-art float.

Sidney, turned fourteen and an excellent swimmer, laughingly dismissed his mother’s fears when, before he left home, she cautioned him to be careful and not to fall in the water.

After lunch, Robert pocketed a pair of flesh-coloured house gloves belonging to his mother and cycled off to the Thames at West Molesey. Coming to a spot where gravel margins sloped gently to the water, he stopped and dismounted. Casting about, he found what he was looking for: a rounded, slightly-flattened stone around half a kilo. Wiping it with grass, he slipped it into his pocket without actually touching it.

About a kilometre from Hampton Lock, he came to a clump of bushes set back from the towpath. Checking that nobody was watching, he pushed his bike well into the bushes out of sight. Slipping on the gloves, he shoved his hand into his pocket to mask the presence of the stone, and set off to cover the remaining distance on foot.

Perched on his fishing stool, Sidney couldn’t be seen from the towpath, but Robert knew precisely where to find him. A shallow inlet a few metres upstream from the lock allowed access to the river, otherwise screened from the towpath by thickets of tall bulrushes.

Sidney claimed to have discovered the spot during a bicycle reconnaissance the previous week. It was unlikely to be occupied, having barely enough space for one person and tricky to negotiate, but potentially worth the effort, promising some fine fishing so close to the lock.

Approaching with care, Robert heard the distinctive ‘plop’ of float hitting water.
There he is!
Just as anticipated, Sidney was too engrossed to hear someone creeping up behind.

Inching through the bulrushes, what little noise Robert made was masked by the rustle of stems, as they swayed in the breezes from off of the river. Robert brought the stone from his pocket and, with one smooth, fluid movement, delivered a single blow to the back of Sidney’s head. Sidney toppled into the water with hardly a sound and sank. Robert grabbed the rod as it fell from Sidney’s hand and calmly carried on fishing.

He slid the stone into the river and waited, not only to make sure Sidney didn’t resurface, but to satisfy himself that nobody was nearby who might have witnessed the ‘accident’.

But wait. There came the ‘plash’ of oars from upstream, followed by the appearance of a skiff some two metres from the bank. The rower, the boat’s only occupant, ceased rowing and thoughtfully lifted an oar to avoid snagging Robert’s float. As he drifted towards the lock he smiled at Robert in a friendly manner and asked, ‘Caught anything, young fellow?’ to which Robert replied, ‘Not much, just a few tiddlers.’

The rower nodded knowingly and, hearing the blare of the lock-keeper’s klaxon for ‘gates opening’, raised his hand in silent farewell, bent to his oars and pulled away. As soon as he was out of sight, Robert dismantled and packed the fishing gear, climbed aboard Sidney’s bicycle and pedalled unhurriedly back to the thicket where his own machine was hidden.

When a man in a track-suit jogged slowly by, Robert went through the motions of pumping an imaginary tyre. Once the coast was clear, it took but an instant to recover the stolen tackle.

Finally, he shoved the remaining gear out of sight, swapped machines and set off for home, arriving in time to replace the gloves before his mother even realised they were missing. Discounting the appearance of the man in the boat, the operation had gone smoothly to plan, heralding the first major act of revenge signalled by the Book but orchestrated by him.

Success had him whistling cheerfully. It had been an interesting, moderately thrilling exercise, an adventure which certainly whetted his appetite for more – much more!

Sidney’s parents expected him home by six but the normally reliable boy failed to arrive. At 8.00 p.m., when there was still no sign of Sidney, his father telephoned the police. When the facts were explained, a full-scale search was mounted, but it was Monday before frogmen located Sidney’s body, trapped by a sluice beneath the weir adjacent to Hampton Lock.

Some hours after the body was found and identified, a man walking his dog came across a boy’s bicycle and a quantity of fishing tackle concealed in bushes about a kilometre from the lock. Identified as Sidney’s by Mr Scaife, the grieving father had no means of knowing that items of tackle possessed by his son earlier that day were now missing – a red and yellow perch float, a packet of number twelve hooks and a silver-coloured lure.

Post-mortem examination established death by drowning. No injuries were found on the body: contusions beneath thick hair at the back of the head passed unnoticed.

There seemed nothing to suggest that Sidney’s demise was anything other than an unfortunate accident, but the boy’s known swimming ability raised doubts and forensic experts were called. At this point, Detective Inspector David Melton from Surbiton CID took charge of the inquiry.

The area surrounding the spot Sidney fished was subjected to a search, but nothing of consequence was found, nor anything to suggest a struggle may have taken place. How and why Sidney’s bicycle and fishing gear came to be concealed a kilometre from where he was fishing remained a mystery. Furthermore, the only fingerprints on the bicycle were Sidney’s.

Police appealed for witnesses to anything unusual along the Surrey towpath between Hampton Court Bridge and Hampton Lock on 24 July 1999. Any persons who noticed a young man fishing in the vicinity of Hampton Lock during the course of that day were also urged to come forward. The appeal had a measure of success: two witnesses responded; both were duly interviewed.

It transpired that a schoolboy thought to be Sidney had been seen twice, once riding a bicycle along the Surrey towpath near Hampton Court at about 11.00 a.m. when he had stopped to ask an angler ‘Caught anything, mister?’ and again, just after 2.00 p.m., when fishing some hundred metres up stream from Hampton Lock, where he had exchanged pleasantries with a man rowing a skiff.

Whilst accepting the boy may accidentally have entered the water, neither the police nor Sidney’s parents could understand why a strong, healthy lad—an excellent swimmer—failed to regain the bank from a relatively slow-flowing, non-tidal stretch of the Thames. An unanswered question of some concern, but in the absence of any evidence to suggest the possibility of foul play, the coroner recorded a verdict of ‘Accidental Death’.

Comfortably ensconced in the library reading-room, Robert Strudwick read the full report and accompanying articles published in the
Surrey Chronicle
with interest and considerable satisfaction. When he eventually replaced the newspaper, he was not only wearing a smug, sardonic grin, he was wondering about the likelihood of a further ‘mission’ and, he hoped, one considerably more exciting!

It was around this time that Robert befriended Brian Carpenter, a boy about his own age. Brian was not overly bright. He came from a poor family: wore the same stained pullover every day, smelt of perspiration and tended to obesity, owing to an as yet undiagnosed glandular condition. Predictably, he was a target for teacher sarcasm and hurtful taunts from other children—just as Robert himself had been, although in his case for entirely different reasons.

Cornered one day in the playground, Brian was subjected to a series of prods and shoves by three belligerent boys, who fortified needless aggression with hurtful jibes.

‘Fatso! Stinker! Lard-arse! Michelin-man!’ they jeered—until Robert stepped in. Totally confident, secure in the authority of well-established persona, he barked, ‘Pack it in! Clear off, the lot of you. Brian’s a friend of mine. Any more and you’ll have
me
to deal with,’ he threatened, sternly. And when three, ashen-faced youngsters hurried away, Robert not only felt vindicated, he permitted himself a satisfied smirk.