The Flyleaf Killer (9 page)

‘Roger, Sarge. Thanks. Zebra Two—out.’

Thoughtfully, Bennett replaced the mike. In circumstances as suspicious as these nothing, but nothing, would be left to chance. In the light of Mrs Frasier’s call and subsequent reports, referral to CID became mandatory. Bennett rejoined PC Edmunds.

‘Sorry, Sam, seems we’re stuck here a while. Squad coming out to relieve—CID most probably, but don’t hold your breath—could be an hour or two before they get here. Sergeant Glinksky is none too thrilled, either. He’s due to stand down, but says he’ll hang on till we get back. Maybe we’ve stumbled on something important. He certainly thinks so, by the looks of it.’

‘Oh, sod! Who’d be a bleedin’ copper? Mark my words. It’ll turn out to be a dead cat! Oh, hell! I’m knackered, thirsty, starving, overdue a crap—and I want my bloody bed!’

‘Can it, Sam. You’re not the only one. Just think of that lovely big plate of canteen bacon and eggs, with gallons of tea and piles of hot buttered toast!’ He grinned, impishly. ‘And I’ll bet you a fiver it’s no dead cat—are you on?’

Edmunds shook his head, hastily.

‘Not bloody likely. Since when did
you
bet on
anything
except a stonking certainty?’

Bennett’s eyes twinkled—but immediately he became serious again.

‘To save time, I’ll go back to the car and get the report started. You carry on here.’

Edmunds glanced at his watch – 7.55 a.m. He shrugged.

‘OK, Gordon.’ His reluctance was obvious. ‘I hope Glinks gets his finger out. Stuff being stuck here half the bloody morning.’

Bennett, wisely perhaps, made no reply.

‘Glinks’ did get his finger out, however. At eight thirty on the dot – contrary to Bennett’s forecast and coinciding with the completion of his draft report—the ‘cavalry’ arrived: a formidable, professional squad, comprising plainclothes CID officers Detective Sergeant Ben O’Connor, Detective Constables Harry Slade and Graham Gibson and, for security duties, a uniformed bobby. Swiftly debriefed, Bennett and Edmunds were finally relieved—their shift was at an end.

Back at the station at 8.45, Bennett finalised the report and submitted it to a bog-eyed Sergeant Glinksky, who had awaited their return as promised, riven with curiosity. Stuffed with breakfast, the officers chatted a while, speculating as to what might or might not be recovered from the garden, Edmunds steadfastly refusing to bet on his pussycat assertion. By 9.15, over a third mug of tea, however, both men began to nod. It was time to call it a day.

Meanwhile, at Rodene Close, Mrs Frasier was interviewed and her statement taken. The task of identifying and preserving clues began; the investigation was under way.

At 10.30, DS O’Connor, in the interests of confidentiality, contacted headquarters using Daphne’s hallway telephone and asked to be put through to Detective Inspector Melton.

‘Melton,’ the familiar voice announced.

‘Good morning, sir. O’Connor. I’m calling from Rodene Close.’

‘Good morning, Ben,’ his senior responded—then started firing questions: ‘What’s up? Why phone? What’s wrong with your personal radio—well?’

‘Flat spot, sir. Lower Green’s well named, it suits. Mobile’s OK, but networked. This is a sensitive matter, so I thought it better to land line. OK sir?’
What’s eating the old grump?

DI Melton hesitated before he replied.

‘OK. What’s the position? Anything important? Incidentally, I’ve already seen Bennett and Edmunds’ report.’

O’Connor was also silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

‘Well, Guv’nor,’ he finally said, ‘keep your wool on. It’s bad news, I’m afraid. We’ve a murder on our hands—a nasty one at that. I’ll try to be brief, although there’s quite a bit to report. The footprints on the grass didn’t amount to much, but Slade spotted a fairly distinct impression behind the shrubs. We took a
Quickcast
there and then, in case it got trodden on. I roped in Slade and Gibson as you suggested—good job I did. Before you could say ‘Knife’, Gibson found cloth fibres on a fence post—he must have eyes like a hawk. While the ground was much as the late-night visitor left it, Slade took soil samples. He also shot the photos. With that out of the way, they set-to with spades and discovered the body. Shocking!

‘Crudely butchered, dismembered, wrapped in plastic sheeting and shoved in dustbin liners, four in all, each tied at the neck with string. One contained the head and arms of what appears to be a young woman—not a pretty sight, I might add. I came close to throwing-up. The rest of the body divided between the other three bags. In a word, sir, gruesome!

‘We’ve a bobby minding the pavement; the gardens are taped front and rear. There’s no space for an awning, so I’ve organised a tent for the lawn, due shortly.’ O’Connor paused, thought for a moment, and asked, ‘I wonder sir, would you mind alerting the pathologist? I don’t want to use Mrs Frasier’s phone more than absolutely necessary.’

‘Certainly, Ben, will do—and thanks. Give me half an hour. I’ll be on my way.’

The Body in the Garden

Detective Inspector David Melton, CID, arrived at 11 Rodene Close, Lower Green, Esher at 11.30. Unaccompanied, driving his official Rover, he drew to a halt behind two other cars, carefully locked his vehicle and made directly for the gate.

He was recognised, saluted and waved inside by the uniformed officer on duty. Ducking beneath the blue and white tape proclaiming
POLICE. DO NOT ENTER
, he acknowledged the greeting with a smile.

As if on cue, Detective Sergeant Benjamin O’Connor, CID, appeared from the direction of the rear and neatly intercepted his superior. ‘Morning again, Guv’nor. Nasty business!’

‘Yes,’ the DI replied, grimly, ‘Headline news—but the way the cookie crumbles, I suppose.’

‘One way of looking at it,’ his assistant remarked, adding, ‘but we can’t pick and choose, more’s the pity.’

‘Would that we could,’ Melton replied, drily. ‘Would that we could.’ He shrugged. ‘But, enough of the chitchat. Where are we up to?’

‘Nothing new, Guv’nor—except that Doctor Matthews arrived ten minutes ago and is conducting a preliminary examination right now.’

‘OK Ben,’ Melton said. ‘Thanks. I’ll catch up with him directly. Meanwhile I’d like to inspect the spot where the body was found. You’ve spoken with Mrs Frasier?’

‘Yes sir, she’s already made a statement.’

‘Good, I’d like to see it. But before I do, I want you to have another word with her. Ask her if she can add anything to her statement, and warn her not to speak to anyone just yet. It won’t be long before the press gets wind of our presence, and we don’t need reporters milling about and getting under our feet—at least until we’re good and ready.’

‘Right sir.’

O’Connor left, leaving Melton to find his own way to the rear.

The garden was typically suburban: patio, lawn, shrub borders, vegetable plot, garden shed. Already erected, the tent was positioned to the right of the lawn, tight to the shrubbery—mainly rhododendrons—close to a pair of bamboo canes pushed into the ground, supporting blue and white ribbon on either side of a half-metre gap, positioned to allow access to the shrubbery.

Melton waited as two barrier-suited, spade-bearing officers emerged; then he squeezed through. Behind the shrubbery, he found himself in a half-metre wide space, which extended about six metres up to the house. Other than freshly-turned earth, there seemed little else of significance. Melton stood still in order to register the scene, then emerged from the shrubbery and entered the tent.

In relief against the glare of portable lighting, a white-coated, stooped figure with his back to the doorway straightened up, and a dapper, grey-haired man in his fifties turned to greet the newcomer. He smiled gravely.

‘Good morning, Detective Inspector. I saw no point in leaving the remains in situ, so I asked your forensic chaps to transfer the bags out here. It fitted in nicely—they were more or less finished, and with the ‘body bags’ out of the way, were able to get on with back-filling. I believe they’ve finished, in point of fact.’

Melton nodded, impressed. Doctor Matthews had an ability to take charge without offending.

‘As you see,’ the professor was saying, with a twinkle, ‘they brought me the corpse in bits, still wrapped and more or less as it was unearthed.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ve not quite finished my initial examination, but I won’t be long—if you’d care to hang on a minute…’

Melton nodded, and Professor Stephen Matthews bent to resume. He straightened again after a minute or so.

‘Come and look,’ he invited, ‘but brace yourself. This isn’t particularly pleasant.’

The pathologist stepped to one side. He snapped off his gloves, dropped them into a bag, produced a notebook from an inside pocket and proceeded to make notes.

Melton bent for a closer look. His stomach heaved. Here lay the pathetic bloodied remains of a cruelly dismembered body. Forcing himself to examine the grisly remains, he swore softly.

Spread on the grass were several sheets of opened-up, black plastic bin-liners, on which lay the pitiful remains of what was still recognisably a naked girl. Fair, matted hair framed a decapitated head; remnants of youthful breasts clung to a lacerated torso.

Little more than a child, her face had been slashed, battered and ripped, the few remaining features scarcely recognisable as human. Melton shuddered. It wasn’t a sight for the squeamish.

A transparent specimen sack adjacent to the tent wall caught the detective’s eye. It contained several plastic bags, similar to the sheets beneath the remains. All were soil-encrusted and heavily stained with blood.

Melton was sickened and appalled. ‘If it would help, David,’ Matthews said, ‘I’ve a spot of brandy…’ He reached inside the valise, produced a hip-flask and proffered it sympathetically. Gratefully, the DI accepted.

‘Thank you, Stephen,’ Melton said, returning the flask. ‘That certainly helped.’

‘You’re entirely welcome, my friend. By the way, Sergeant O’Connor organised that large specimen sack. He wants the bin-bags and string preserved for forensics, leaving plenty of room for the sheets after I’ve finished. Incidentally, it was my idea to spread them to prevent staining the grass.’

It was stating the obvious, but Melton realised the professor was prompting a return to reality. Pulling himself together, he said, ‘We cannot afford to be maudlin, but I make no excuses for being affected when obliged to look closely at something like
that
, the poor soul!’ He shuddered. Then: ‘What have you established so far, Doctor Matthews?’ he asked, formally.

‘Not a great deal at this stage, I’m afraid, Inspector. Death probably occurred some eighteen to twenty-four hours ago, although I cannot be specific. Female of course. Young—late teens I should think—a little over five foot, somewhere around seven stones. Killed elsewhere, transported here almost certainly, and not long dead before dismemberment, judging by the amount of blood. Cause of death? It’s impossible to say until after post-mortem.’

Melton nodded, thoughtfully. He knew the pathologist well.

The regard each held for the other had rapidly developed into friendship—but a friendship neither permitted to interfere with professionalism. Both observed the formalities demanded by position, more especially in the presence of others.

‘I appreciate what you say. But can you give me something more? Anything that might help identify the animal responsible for this … atrocity?’ He gestured. Again, Matthews shook his head.

‘Sorry, Inspector, I’ve told you as much as I can. Anything more would be speculative. I prefer to wait until the post-mortem.’

Melton hesitated. Stephen was unlikely to be drawn further, but the pathologist’s intuition was legendary. His thesis, ‘The Workings of the Criminal Mind’ was a well-respected study. Might he therefore be persuaded to speculate? Suggest what type of person could be capable of this sort of crime? His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of nearby voices.
Damn, what’s going on?
He decided to postpone quizzing the professor until later. Doctor Matthews was right. Better await the post-mortem and hard facts. Time enough for theory, should nothing tangible emerge on which to build. The voices were louder, more heated. Irritated, Melton turned to the exit, pulled back the flap and stepped outside.

Standing on the patio, whilst a well-built youth looked on and the uniformed officer from the gate stood by, a middle-aged couple were haranguing O’Connor. The man gesticulated angrily, and blustered.

‘I’ll tell you just once more, copper. This is our house and you’ve no right to stop us coming and going as we damn-well please. I don’t care
what
you’ve found in the bloody garden. Who the hell gave you permission to poke around out there in the first place? And what’s that sodding great tent doing on my lawn?’

Patiently, O’Connor set out to explain.

‘Calm down, Mr Pearce. As I’ve already told you, a serious crime has been committed and we’ve been obliged to close the garden to preserve vital evidence…’ He broke off. DI Melton was emerging from the tent and starting across the lawn. Evidently relieved, DS O’Connor gestured with his thumb. ‘Here’s Detective Inspector Melton, the officer in charge, perhaps you’ll listen to him, Mr Pearce.’

Perhaps awed by the appearance of a senior police officer, the man allowed his anger to subside. Ben O’Connor stepped to one side: the uniformed bobby discreetly returned to his post. It required but a single pertinent question to establish that George and Nancy Pearce—accompanied by Steven, their sixteen-year-old-son—were back from a weekend trip.

Mr Pearce had not taken too kindly to being accosted at his front gate by a uniformed policeman. He had refused to accept that he and his family were to remain in the house until further notice, and was objecting vehemently to the blanket appropriation of his garden. Brushing past the officer, he had bulldozed his way to the rear until intercepted by DS O’Connor. He was still, understandably, perhaps, indignant.

‘After all,’ he protested, ‘Nancy wants to go shopping: we’ve nothing in for dinner.’