Free The Flyleaf Killer by William A Prater Page A

animal, perhaps. But when I listened again—I went back two or three times—I realised the sounds were coming from the next door garden. I mightn’t have thought much about it,’ she added, ‘except that I know the Pearces are away until tomorrow, so that’s when I decided to call.’
    ‘That’s fine, Mrs Frasier, thank you. You did the right thing. But I need to be clear about one or two things. Are you alone in the house?’
    ‘Yes, my husband died three years ago.’
    ‘I see, I’m sorry to hear that.’ There was a pause, then: ‘Tell me, you looked from the rear bedroom but saw nothing. Is that correct?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you switch on the light?’
    ‘No—well, yes—but only in my bedroom. I came back here in order to ring you.’
    ‘Your bedroom—it’s at the
front
of the house, presumably?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then it probably doesn’t matter—unless the intruder spots it from the rear. Could he?’
    ‘No, he couldn’t. Definitely not.’
    ‘That’s fine. Now, don’t worry. Leave everything to us. We’ll send a patrol car to investigate.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Daphne said, ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’
    ‘You’re certainly not a nuisance. Thank you for calling—someone will be along shortly.’
    ‘Goodbye, thank you again.’
    With considerable relief, Daphne replaced the receiver. The call had lasted barely a minute. Quick, and nowhere as difficult as she had imagined.
    Police mobile ‘Zebra Two’—manned by PCs Gordon Bennett and Samuel Edmunds—To investigate a reported prowler at the rear of eleven, Rodene Close, Lower Green. Owners believed to be away for the weekend. Informant, Mrs Daphne Frasier, number thirteen.
    At 12.22 a.m. the patrol car entered Rodene Close, PC Bennett at the wheel. He slowed to check house numbers, continued for some twenty metres or so, killed the engine and coasted to a halt, some way short of number eleven.
    Vacating the car, the officers walked up the path of eleven and tested the front door and ground floor windows. Moving to the rear, they repeated the process. All seemed secure. When a cursory inspection of the garden revealed nothing untoward, they made their way back to the front, where PC Edmunds took it upon himself to comment.
    ‘There weren’t nobody lurking, Gordon,’ he grumbled, ‘Quiet as the grave—another bloody wild goose chase?’
    ‘More than likely,’ his partner agreed, ‘we get plenty of ‘em, these days … oh, well. Anyway, we’re here, so we’d better have a word with the lady next door.’
    Edmunds grunted.
    The policemen regained the pavement and made their way to number thirteen. Light showed at a first-floor window, the rest of the house was in darkness. As senior, Bennett took it upon himself to tap gently on the front door. The hall light snapped on and the door opened, framing a slightly-built, grey-haired woman in mules and a floral dressing-gown.
    ‘Good evening, Mrs Frasier?’ Bennett inquired, and when she nodded, went on, ‘I’m Police Constable Bennett from Surbiton, this is Police Constable Edmunds.’
    ‘Good evening, I’ve been expecting you. Won’t you come in?’ She moved back a step, opening the door invitingly.
    ‘Not for the moment, thank you. We won’t keep you long.’ He produced his notebook. ‘Now then, about fifteen minutes ago you reported hearing noises next door, number eleven, yet the owners—I need their name—are away for the weekend. Is that correct?’
    ‘Yes, that’s right. The owners are called Pearce. They went to Brighton.’
    ‘Thank you. Can you describe the noises?’
    Daphne sighed. ‘Just after I went to bed, I heard scraping and thudding sounds somewhere behind the house. It was difficult to pinpoint the source, so I got up, went to the rear and listened—I went back a couple of times—and concluded the noises were coming from the neighbours’ back garden. I knew the Pearces were away, so I dialled nine, nine, nine. I’ve heard nothing since. The