by K. J. Frost
“Or you can take me,” she concurs, returning my smile.
I nod my head as Aunt Dotty hands around the coffee. At that moment, the telephone rings but we all ignore the shrill interruption, knowing Ethel will answer it. A few seconds later, just as I’m taking my first sip of coffee from a pretty porcelain cup, the saucer of which I’ve got balanced on the arm of the sofa, so I can keep hold of Amelie’s hand, the living room door opens and Ethel steps in. We all turn as one to face her.
“Excuse me,” she says, doing a little bob curtsey and looking directly at me. “There’s a telephone call.”
“For me?” She nods. “Did they say who it was?” I ask.
“Sergeant Thompson?” she replies in the form of a question, clearly unsure of herself.
I put down my cup and glance at Amelie. A phone call from Thompson at this time of the evening can only mean one thing. And it won’t be good. I kiss her hand gently and then let it go and follow Ethel out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. Ethel has left the telephone receiver lying on the hall table, and takes herself back off to the kitchen, so I’m alone in the dimly lit, slightly chilly hallway.
“Stone,” I say, picking up the receiver and holding it to my ear.
“Rufus, it’s me.” Thompson’s voice sounds shaky.
“What’s happened?”
“It’s Harper,” he says.
“What about him?” What on earth can he have done now, for heaven’s sake?
“He’s dead.”
I glance up at my reflection in the mirror above the hall table and notice that I’ve paled.
“How?”
“H—He’s been shot,” he stutters.
“Did you say ‘shot’?” I can’t have heard that right.
“Yes. It’s a mess, Rufus.”
If he’s been shot, it would be.
“Where?” I ask.
“The corner of Gordon Road, by the railway bridge,” he says, taking a deep breath.
“I’ll be twenty minutes.” The place he’s described is only just around the corner from the London Road station. I know exactly where it is.
“Okay.”
“Are you alright?” I ask him, even though I know he’s not.
“No,” he says honestly. “I—I think there might be a connection between this and the Ellis case.”
My blood turns to ice and I’m aware of my hand shaking as I hold the receiver a little tighter, thinking of the close proximity of Gordon Road to Canbury Park Road, and the Hawker Aviation factory, where Amelie works, as did her friend, Beth – the second of Ellis’ victims.
“You do?” I manage to utter.
“Yes. Whoever did this left a message.”
“A message?” I don’t understand.
“Yes. I can’t explain it properly over the phone. You need to get here, Rufus. You’ve got to see this for yourself.”
“I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”
We both hang up and I walk straight back into the living room.
“I’ve got to go,” I say, interrupting the flow of conversation between Amelie and Aunt Dotty, and Amelie turns to look at me, resting her arm along the back of the sofa.
“Go where?” she asks.
“Into Kingston,” I reply, focusing on her. “I’ll take you home, but then I really must leave.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she says, smiling. “I can make my own way back.”
“No,” I say quickly; maybe a little too quickly, as her eyes widen and her face pales. “I want to make sure you get home safely,” I add, more softly.
“What’s wrong, Rufus?” she asks, twisting around in her seat.
I know I’m going to have to tell her the truth, especially if I want her to do as I ask.
I go over, move my coffee cup onto the table, and sit down beside her, perched on the edge of the sofa. “One of my men has been shot,” I say and hear her gasp. Aunt Dotty brings her hand up, covering her mouth.
“Rufus,” Amelie cries, then throws herself at me. I catch her in my arms and hold onto her, stroking her hair.
“I need to go,” I say quickly, because I do, “but I need to know you’re safe first.”
“Why?” she asks, leaning back and looking up at me, her confusion obvious. “I’m perfectly alright.”
I let out a long sigh. “Not necessarily.”
“I think you’d better explain that,” Aunt Dotty says, sitting forward.
I turn to look at her, keeping hold of Amelie. “I don’t really understand it fully myself yet. But my sergeant says he thinks this man’s death is connected to the Ellis case… and the place where his body has been found is not far from the Hawker’s factory.” I feel Amelie stiffen in my arms, and then she starts to tremble. “I’m sorry. I have to go and do my job,” I continue, looking down into her terrified eyes, “but I can’t, unless I know you’re safe.”
“Then she must stay here,” Aunt Dotty says firmly.
“I may be out all night,” I reply.
“Then Amelie will stay here all night. The day bed in the spare room is made up already, and I’m sure we can find her something to wear.”
Amelie turns to look at Aunt Dotty. “And what about tomorrow?” she asks, managing to remain practical, despite the fear in her eyes. “I have to go to work.”
“If I decide it’s safe, you do.” I suppose that’s my way of letting her know that she won’t be going anywhere until I’ve worked out whether there’s any threat to her, and to my surprise, she doesn’t argue, she just nods her head.
“Well, if Rufus says it’s alright, then you can pop home in the morning for a change of clothes, can’t you?” Dotty suggests.
“I suppose so,” Amelie replies slowly.
“Right, that’s all dealt with,” Dotty says, clapping her hands together. “You need to go,” she adds, looking at me.
I nod, and turn back to Amelie, but before I can say anything, she murmurs, “What about you? Aren’t you in danger?”
“I’ll be fine.” I try to sound as reassuring as possible.
“But if this is connected to the Ellis case, then surely…” Her voice trails off to a terrified whisper.
I pull her into me, holding her tight. “I don’t know for certain that it is connected yet. But I promise I’ll be careful. Stay indoors and let Aunt Dotty look after you. Get a good night’s sleep and I promise I’ll be back in time to take you to work in the morning. Alright?”
She nods her head, looking up at me. “Take care,” she whispers.
“Always.”
I kiss her cheek and get up, looking over at Aunt Dotty. “Look after yourself, Rufus,” she says, with unusual seriousness.
“Of course,” I reply. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
She nods and moves across to sit beside Amelie as I walk out of the door.
I’ve never wanted to leave anywhere less and the thought of abandoning the two of them is daunting, but I have to go. I have to find out what’s happened, whether Harper’s death really does have any connection to the Ellis case, and why a man as fearless as Harry Thompson sounded so scared.
Chapter Five
I’ve alternated between running and walking quickly, all the way back from Kingston. I didn’t dare take the bus in case anyone saw me. But now my legs are heavy and my heart is beating so hard against my ribs I’m sure they’re going to break, and it’s going to burst.
I slam the door and run up the stairs, taking them two at a time and entering my flat, leaning back on the closed door and sucking air into my lungs. I glance down, pulling the gun from one pocket and the penknife from the other other, and drop them both, before sinking to the floor.
How long I sit like that, I’ve got no idea. All I can think about are the events of the last hour or so; the feeling of fevered anticipation while I waited, and then the exhilaration when he came out of the police station, muttering to himself, an expression of resentment, or perhaps anger on his face. Of course,
it would have been so much more satisfying if it could have been someone who was directly involved with the investigation, but what does it matter? They’re all to blame. They all let it happen. And for all I know, this man might have been involved. Just because his face wasn’t familiar to me, just because I didn’t see him in the newspapers, like that Inspector Stone, doesn’t mean he wasn’t working on the case behind the scenes… I recall the sound of our footsteps on the pavement as I followed him; the expression on his face when he finally turned around.
“Why are you following me?” he said, with an air of arrogance that took away any guilt I might have felt over what I was about to do. “And don’t say you’re not, because you’ve been right behind me for the last five minutes or more. What do you want? Heh?”
I didn’t answer. I just raised the gun and pointed it directly at him, and even in the foggy gloom, he couldn’t fail to see it. That was when his expression changed, his cocky self assurance vanished in the blink of an eye.
“No,” he cried, holding up his hands. “No.”
It took but the squeeze of my finger on the trigger to shut him up. Permanently. I hadn’t expected the gunshot to be that loud though, so I knew I had to act quickly if I was going to finish the job and get my message across. I wanted to be sick as I undid his tunic and shirt, the smell of blood filling my nostrils, and his brains visibly splattered across the pavement. It took me a while, because I didn’t really want to look at him, and of course, it didn’t help that my hands were shaking. Perhaps I should’ve left sooner, but if I had they’d never have known why I did it, and what would have been the point in that? As it is, the clue is fairly cryptic, and they are incredibly stupid, but maybe one of them will be bright enough to work it out. There’s no point in spelling it out for them, is there?
I glance down at the gun to my right and the penknife, lying to my left. I’d planned to steal the gun from the moment the idea first popped into my head, but the knife had been a last minute bonus. I hadn’t expected to find it, you see, but I thought it might come in useful, and I’m sure it won’t be missed. Even so, I’d better clean it up and put it in the kitchen drawer, where it’s less likely to be noticed, just in case anyone should come looking. Not that I think they will… but you can’t be too careful. As for the gun… I glance around the flat as I slowly climb to my feet. There are all kinds of hiding places, but I need one that won’t be obvious. As I kick off my shoes and walk through to the kitchen, an idea comes to me, and a smile forms slowly on my lips. I know exactly what I’m going to do.
*****
It’s a foggy evening, a low mist hanging over the river as I drive back into Kingston. Somehow it seems fitting for such a situation, the swirling gloom shrouding the scene in melodrama and mystery. I shiver, clutching the steering wheel a little tighter, and try to rid myself of the feeling of impending doom.
When I arrive, the whole area is alive with police officers and cars, and I park in Canbury Park Road and walk back to the corner of Gordon Road. Just beneath the railway bridge, I’m met by Harry Thompson, who looks about ten years older than he did the last time I saw him, only a couple of hours ago.
“Where is he?” I ask. There are so many policemen around, I can’t even tell where the body is.
“Over here,” he says, leading me through a gaggle of uniforms.
I glimpse Sergeant Tooley out of the corner of my eye.
“Tooley?” I call. “Get these men out of the way.” I can’t keep the impatience out of my voice. It feels as though most of the station is here, when almost none of them have any need to be.
“Yes, sir,” he says and starts to issue instructions, dispersing the crowd.
As the road curves around, and the railway embankment starts to rise to my left, Thompson comes to an abrupt halt and moves to one side, and I look down on the body of Constable Harper. I’ve seen plenty of murders in my time, some more gruesome than others, but at the sight that lies before me, I feel my stomach churn.
From the general smell in the air, it’s clear I’m not the only person to have experienced that reaction, although I’m holding onto the contents of my stomach with more success than others, it would seem.
I can see that the man has been shot in the face, most of the left side of which is missing, replaced by a bloody, congealed mass of flesh. The right is fairly intact, however, his eye staring, lifeless into the darkness above him. There’s bone, blood, and what looks like grey matter scattered in a small area on the ground.
“Close quarters,” I murmur to myself. Thompson doesn’t reply. Instead, he moves in nearer to the body and crouches down, and only now do I notice that Harper’s tunic and shirt are undone.
“This is what I wanted you to see,” Thompson says, keeping his voice low as he pulls back Harper’s clothes, exposing his chest.
Again, my stomach churns over and I drop to my knees opposite Thompson, studying the letters that have been carved into the young constable’s chest.
‘JUSTICE’
It’s a simple word, etched in capital letters, down the centre of his abdomen, blood dried and occasionally still dripping in tiny rivulets from the scratched characters.
“Is this why you thought there was a connection to the Ellis case?” I ask, looking up at Thompson.
“Yes,” he replies, nodding his head at the same time.
“Who else has seen it?”
He shrugs. “I’ve got no idea. By the time I arrived, there were half a dozen men here…”
“And was his chest exposed?” I ask.
“Yes. I covered him over.”
“Damn,” I murmur under my breath, pulling the dead man’s shirt back across him again. I’d hoped to keep this as quiet as possible, in case it slipped out to the press, or even to the general public, but that seems unlikely now. “Who discovered the body?”
Thompson stands, and I follow suit. “A Mr Wilkinson. He lives in that house on the corner,” he says, pointing.
“And where is he now?”
“I said he could go back indoors, and sent PC Wells with him. He was very shaken up. Wilkinson, that is. Not Wells.”
I nod my head. “I’ll talk to him in a minute.”
Taking a look around, I’m relieved to see that Tooley has finally moved everyone away, placing men at strategic points, to avoid the public getting close to the scene. There are a few people looking on from a distance – local residents, disturbed but the sound of a gunshot, or the presence of so many police officers, no doubt. They may not be able to see much, but a shooting in their own road is clearly much more absorbing than whatever is on the wireless this evening, and will make for significantly more interesting gossip at the office and in the shops come tomorrow morning.
Thompson and I take a couple of paces away from the body, and Thompson grabs my arm, pulling me away from a pool of vomit at the edge of the pavement.
“That was Mr Wilkinson,” he says.
“Can’t say I blame him.”
“Neither can I.”
“I assume the police surgeon has been called?” I ask and Thompson nods his head.
“Yes, and we’ve already photographed the scene.”
“Good. I want the Chief Constable in on this as well,” I add. “So, can you go back to the station and phone him at home?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Tell him what’s happened. Tell him everything you told me, including your suspicions and the reasons for them, and ask him if he’ll come into the station.” I pause. “I doubt he’ll need asking, but ask anyway.”
Thompson nods his head and turns away, just as Doctor Wyatt appears around the corner, his medical bag in one hand, while the other nestles in his coat pocket. He saunters over, and looks up at me.
“You again?” he says. We never did hit it off before, when he was having to come out and examine the bodies of the young women Ellis had raped and murdered. He commented frequently on my inability to catch the guilty party, and of all the peop
le involved in that case, Wyatt was the one who seemed to hold me most responsible at the time. We haven’t spoken since Ellis was arrested, but I can’t imagine his opinion of me has changed that much, and muse to myself that at least we can agree on my culpability in that matter, if nothing else. It’ll give us something in common, for a change.
“Yes,” I reply. “I’m here permanently now.”
He pauses for a moment, then nods his head. “I suppose you’d better show me what I’m dealing with,” he says.
“This way.” I turn and take him over to Harper’s body.
“Christ Almighty.” Wyatt’s voice rings out in the near silence of the scene, and he bends down, focusing on the grisly wound.
“There’s more.” I lean forward and open Harper’s shirt.
Wyatt sucks in a breath, then crouches down properly, examining the etched words for a moment, before he gets to his feet again.
“It’s too dark for me to tell you anything much,” he says. “But I think we both know what we’re looking at, don’t we?” His eyes fix on mine.
“A revenge killing?” I suggest.
He smiles, just lightly. “Not as stupid as you look, are you?”
I don’t reply to his comment. Instead I ask him if he can tell me how far away the killer might have been when the shot was fired. “I know they were close,” I add, “but how close?”
He takes a step or two back and holds up his arm, as though aiming a gun – at me. “About here, I’d say.”
“And do you think the bullet will have passed right through?”
“I imagine so, at that proximity, but until I can see him properly, I can’t confirm that.”
I nod my head. “I need to know that as soon as possible. We’re going to have to search this area for the bullet, and the casing…”
“You’re assuming it was a pistol and not a revolver?” he asks.
“I’m not assuming anything. But we have to look anyway.” The prospect of searching the surrounding area for two such tiny objects is daunting, but it will have to be done, as soon as it’s light, anyway. I sigh deeply and tell Wyatt that he may as well take the body.