by K. J. Frost
“If you want to. You can come and help me with the unpacking, if you feel like being a glutton for punishment.” I drove down here today, with the last of my belongings jammed into my car, only arriving at around four o’clock. I dumped it all in the spare room but haven’t yet had a chance to unpack a single thing.
“I’d love to,” she replies, smiling up at me.
“You might not say that once you’ve seen how much there is to do.”
“Oh… I don’t mind.”
I move a little nearer, and we spend the next few minutes in perfect, intimate harmony.
Our Sunday hasn’t gone quite as smoothly as I’d hoped. I’d anticipated a day spent with Amelie, sat on the floor of the spare room, poring over book titles, stacking them on the bookshelves, and taking as many opportunities as possible to kiss her. In reality, Aunt Dotty decided that, for some reason, we were not to be left alone – not even for five minutes, it seemed – and she spent the day with Amelie, sorting through my books, while I was despatched to my own bedroom, to arrange my clothes in the wardrobe and chest of drawers.
Amelie stayed for lunch and tea, after which I escorted her home. I half expected Aunt Dotty to decide to come with us then as well, but she finally relented and allowed us those few moments to ourselves.
“I do apologise,” I say to Amelie as soon as I’ve closed the door behind us. “I don’t know what’s come over Aunt Dotty.”
“I think she’s of the opinion that we need a chaperone.” She smiles up at me in the moonlight.
“Hmm. I wish she’d make her mind up. She’s spent the last few weeks finding excuses to push us together, even to the point of leaving the day bed in the spare bedroom. And now that we are – together, that is – it seems she’s determined to get in the way.”
“Are we together then?” she asks, and I stop in my tracks, feeling as though the earth is crumbling beneath my feet, as I stare down at her.
“I… um,” I stammer, feeling myself blush. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t actually asked – not formally – and I should have done. I mean, I shouldn’t have assumed…” I feel awful.
She giggles and leans into me. “Oh, Rufus,” she says. “I was teasing.”
I shake my head, putting my arms around her. “You were scaring the living daylights out of me.” I feel like I’m on safer ground again, thank goodness, and I lean down, my lips claiming hers, ensuring she knows that, even if I haven’t asked – formally or otherwise – we are very much together.
We part after a few minutes and just stare at each other, in perfect understanding, before I link her arm through mine and we cross the road.
“Dotty wasn’t really in the way today,” she says reasonably, getting back to our original conversation, as we step up onto the pavement on the other side. “Obviously I’d rather have spent the whole day with you, but that can’t always be possible, and we were still together for a lot of the time.”
That is quite true. Once I’d packed away my clothes, I did manage to join them in the spare room after lunch, although my job seemed to consist mainly of getting rid of the boxes they’d already emptied, and storing them away in Aunt Dotty’s potting shed for the time being.
We turn into the driveway of Amelie’s house, and I stop, pulling her back and into my arms. “I know. I just missed you.”
“I missed you too,” she replies and tilts her head back, awaiting my kiss.
A few minutes later, breathless and wanting more, I lean back again. “Do you think, maybe Aunt Dotty has a point?” I say, smiling.
“Hmm. Maybe she does.” Her eyes are alight, her lips parted.
“I suppose I’d better say goodnight,” I add. “Before I forget myself completely.”
She leans into me, resting her head on my chest. “You’re going to work tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
She pulls back, and looks up into my eyes. “Are you nervous?”
“No. I’m quite looking forward to it. It’ll be a new challenge.”
“In what way?” she asks, nestling into me once more as a gust of wind catches her hair. I hold her closer, wrapping my arms tight around her.
“At Scotland Yard, an inspector is just a cog in a very large machine. Here, I’m much more of an individual. Obviously I answer to the Chief Super – well, the Chief Constable for now, being as the new Chief Super doesn’t start for another ten days – but on a day-to-day basis, I’m pretty much in charge of my own men.”
“And you’re looking forward to that?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be very good at it.” I don’t know whether she’s right or not, but I don’t care either, because she’s leaning back in my arms and tilting her head in that way I’m starting to understand is an invitation to kiss her. And who am I to disappoint?
My office is the one which used to be occupied by Inspector Styles – my predecessor. It’s off of the main CID room, where all the junior officers sit – not that we have that many of them, thanks to reservists being called up, and men volunteering – and looks out on the rear of the premises, onto the car park below. My office itself is quite large, with a desk, a comfortable chair, two filing cabinets and a bookcase. The former are crammed with old case notes; the latter is empty, waiting for me to fill it. There are also two chairs for visitors, and on the desk itself, there’s a potted African violet, and a bottle of single malt Scotch whisky. I hang up my coat and hat, and carry the small box of personal belongings which I’ve brought with me over to the desk, sitting in the chair and examining the plant and the bottle. Propped up against the latter is a folded piece of paper – a hand written note, which reads:
‘Water the plant; drink the Scotch. Don’t muddle them up. Good luck. Bob Styles.’
I smirk, recalling the man’s display of African violets which caught my eye when I first entered his office a few weeks ago, and how he shared a glass of very good single malt with me, while handing out some extremely sound advice. He’s going to be a hard act to follow and, as I hear the men outside arriving for the start of the new week, I realise I’m going to have my work cut out earning their trust.
I want to talk to them, to set their minds at rest, if I can, but I want to do it when they’re all here, so I take advantage of a few moments of peace and unpack my personal items from the box which I left on the end of the table.
I haven’t brought much in yet – because that can wait until I’ve worked out what I need – but I lay out my fountain pen, ink, blotter, a few pencils, a small notepad and magnifying glass, and then reach in for my newest possession. I’d contemplated leaving this at home, possibly by my bed, but I asked for it with the specific intention of having it on my desk, so that’s where I’m going to put it. The frame is one Aunt Dotty had lying around unused and was happy to let me have, and is plain silver, quite understated. The photograph is of Amelie. I’m not sure when it was taken, but I imagine it was back in the summer, as she’s wearing a simple short-sleeved dress and seems to be sitting on a blanket in a garden or park, looking up at the camera and smiling. God, she’s beautiful. I place the picture on my desk, facing me and just for a few moments, I stare at it… at her, and thank my lucky stars that she’s a part of my life.
The knocking on my doorframe makes me jump.
“Morning, sir.”
I look up and see the tall, blond haired figure of Detective Sergeant Harry Thompson standing just inside my office, looking across at me, a broad grin on his face.
“Looks a bit odd seeing you here,” he adds.
“Feels a bit odd,” I reply.
“You’ll get used to it. Just give it ten years or so…” He smirks.
“Thanks for that.”
“Any time, sir.”
His use of the word ‘sir’ grates on me and I settle back in my chair, lowering the empty box onto the floor beside me.
“Can you come in for a minute and close the door?” I ask him. He obeys, coming over
to stand in front of my desk. “Take a seat,” I offer, and he does.
“Have I done something wrong already?” he asks.
“No.” I run my fingertips along the edge of the wooden desk. “I wanted to talk to you about what you should call me.”
He smiles. “Well, I can think of all kinds of things to call you…”
I smile back. “I’m sure you can. But the thing is, most of them aren’t repeatable in polite company.”
“No. I suppose that is a problem, now you’re my boss.” His brow furrows slightly.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t feel entirely comfortable with you calling me ‘sir’.”
“Then what should I call you?” he asks, grinning again. “Should we start a list?”
I scowl at him and shake my head. “No.” I cough. “Look, in the normal course of things, I’d rather you called me ‘Rufus’, just like you used to.”
“The problem with that is, you’re now an inspector and I’m a sergeant.” He’s being more serious now. “I’m not sure the powers that be would approve,” he says, rolling his eyes upwards, indicating the offices where these more exhalted beings reside, one floor above us.
“I’m absolutely certain they wouldn’t,” I reply. “And I’m equally certain I don’t care.”
He chuckles. “Which is fine, except it would be me who’d get a roasting for being insubordinate, not you.”
He has a point. “Okay, well, how about we agree that you’ll call me ‘sir’ when we’re here, in front of our fellow officers, but when we’re on our own, you can drop the ‘sir’ and call me ‘Rufus’.”
“Sounds like a fair compromise to me,” he replies. “Can I call you other things too, when we’re on our own?”
“I don’t know why you’re bothering to ask,” I say quietly. “You’re going to anyway.”
“You know me so well.” He sits back and crosses one leg over the other, making himself comfortable.
“What’s going on out there?” I nod towards the main office.
“Not very much. Things are fairly quiet at present. There were a couple of payroll thefts from factories over in West Molesey last week.”
“Two in one week?” I lean forward, my elbows on the desk.
“Yes. Before Inspector Styles left, he suggested posting a couple of plain clothes men over there to keep an eye on things.”
“It’s an idea… But those are large factory estates, aren’t they?” He nods in confirmation. “It would take more than a couple of men to cover them. If only we knew where the thieves were going to strike next.”
He nods his head. “If only.”
“Well, I suppose one way to work it out would be to ask the factory owners when they pay their staff, so we can ascertain when they’d be most likely to be targeted. Then we could watch those companies more closely…” I muse.
“This is why you sit behind the desk and I sit in front of it,” he murmurs, grinning.
“Ha ha, Harry.” I lean back again, shaking my head. “So, apart from that, how are things?”
He uncrosses his legs and shifts forward in his chair, looking closely at me. “They’re all on edge,” he says quietly. “Don’t expect an easy ride.”
“I wasn’t.”
“It’s not just the fact that you’re taking over from Inspector Styles,” he continues, “it’s the situation surrounding Ellis as well.”
“The Chief Constable warned me that morale would take a hit,” I reply.
“It’s taken more than a hit.” He tilts his head, as though he’s thinking about something. “There’s nothing worse than a bent copper, we all know that… but a raping, murdering, cheating, lying bent copper? One who worked among us, lived among us…?” His voice fades.
“Most of them didn’t work on the case though,” I point out.
“That doesn’t mean it’s not personal,” he replies. “Five women died because of Ellis. Just because they didn’t have anything to do with what happened doesn’t mean they don’t feel at least partially responsible for his actions.”
“Hmm.” I shake my head. This is going to be harder than I thought. If I’m going to stand a chance of raising their spirits, I’ll have to find a way of absolving them. Carrying that kind of guilt around with you isn’t healthy. I should know.
I wait until nine-thirty, letting the men get settled into the morning’s work, before going out into the main office. There are two men in plain clothes, seated at opposite sides of a desk, talking quietly to each other. I vaguely recognise them from when I was here before and remember them working with Styles on his arson case, but judging from their fresh-faced appearance, I’d say they’re no higher than the rank of detective constable. The remaining men in the room – which amounts to roughly another half dozen – are uniformed men, who I assume help out with enquiries when required. Sergeant Tooley, who played a pivotal role in the Ellis case, is among their number and he’s the first to spot me and give me a welcoming nod of his head. He may have only been here for a couple of years, but there’s something very calming about Tooley’s presence, and today, that’s particularly welcome. After just a few moments longer, a silence descends, as one by one, everyone else notices me and they all turn in my direction.
“Good morning,” I say, raising my voice to make sure they can all hear. I take a couple of steps further into the room. “For those of you who haven’t met me before, my name is Stone. Rufus Stone. And if any of you want to make a joke about me being named after a monument in the New Forest, I suggest you get it out of your systems now…” There’s a general murmur, which quickly dies down, although no-one makes the obvious flippant connection. I suppose they’re not in a very humorous mood. “Officially, I’m here to replace Inspector Styles, but I want to tell you all that I’m not here to replace anyone – not in the way you might think. I’m my own man. I’m no-one’s replacement.” A couple of them look at each other and raise their eyebrows. “I worked with Inspector Styles and I have a lot of respect for him, as a police officer and a man, and I know you feel the same.” I pause, because I know the next bit of what I have to say isn’t going to be easy – for them, or me. “Some of you will already know that I was the lead investigator on the Ellis case. That makes me responsible for what happened. Me. Not you. If any of you want to see me about that, to air your grievances, discuss what happened, or just talk, either about that case, or about anything at all, then my door is always open.” I glance around. They’re all staring at me now, seemingly unsure of how to react. “But in the meantime, I suggest we all just get on and do our jobs.” I don’t have anything else to say to them, so I turn and go back into my room, living up to my word and leaving my door open.
Thompson comes in a few minutes later, with two files.
“These are the notes on the thefts,” he says, putting them down on my desk. “Nice speech, by the way, although you know it’s not true, don’t you? You’re not responsible.”
“I can’t agree with you there, but that’s not the point. If it helps them to absolve themselves by blaming me, then I can handle that. The question is, do you think it worked?” I ask him, looking up from the files.
He shrugs. “Too early to say. And I’m not sure they’ll appreciate your sacrifice, sir.”
I look up at him. “We’re alone, Harry. You can call me ‘Rufus’, remember?”
“I know. But I also told you that I’ll call all kinds of things when we’re by ourselves, and ‘sir’ seemed the most appropriate at the moment,” he says, smiling at me.
I shake my head, trying to shrug off the unexpected compliment. “Can you start phoning round the factories over in West Molesey, to find out about their…?”
“Payroll schedules?” he interrupts. “I’ve made a start on that already. I’ve got Gilmore and Deakin working on it.”
“Who are Gilmore and Deakin?”
“Our wet behind the ears detective constables,” he replies, with a smile. “They’re keen, but st
ill learning the ropes.”
“So now Ellis has gone, CID consists of just the four of us?” I ask him.
“At the moment, yes.”
I’m starting to understand why Styles became unwell now.
“I’ll make sure we’ve got that list ready inside the next hour or so,” Thompson says, getting back to the case.
I look up at him, smiling. “Such efficiency. Are you hankering after sitting on this side of the desk?”
“No. I like things just as they are,” he replies.
“Well, I think you’re wasted, but if you’re happy…?”
“I am.”
I nod my head. “Good. In that case, when you’ve finished being efficient, can you find me three teams of two men who can undertake the surveillance over in West Molesey?” I open the first of the files. “They’ll obviously need to be in civilian clothes, ideally dressed to fit in with the surroundings. I’ll read through these notes and, hopefully by then, we’ll have an idea as to where we’ll need to position them.”
He nods his head and leaves the room.
I start working through the files, taking a quick look at the photograph of Amelie and wishing I could be with her, rather than dealing with all this unease and ill-feeling. Still, I need to concentrate on the matter at hand, not daydream… The two factories that have already been targeted are at opposite ends of a large trading estate and I get up and go over to the map on the wall, to one side of the room, studying the area.
“He should’ve handled it better.” A voice from outside the room penetrates my thoughts.
“How was he to know his own sergeant was the killer?” comes a reply, and I know immediately that they’re talking about the Ellis case… and me. “Come to that, the sergeant wasn’t even his own man. Stone’s from London, remember?”
“No he’s not. He’s local. He was born here.” The other man sounds affronted at having his argument shot down.
“Even so, what I mean is, it’s not like he knew the sergeant. How was he supposed to know what Ellis would do?”
“Because he was working with him, day in, day out?” The first man states his answer in the form of a question, as though his colleague is being a bit dense in not seeing things from his perspective.