by K. J. Frost
He raises his arm, summoning two men who approach, carrying a stretcher between them. While they remove the body, Wyatt turns back to me. “For what it’s worth,” he says in a more considered tone, “I didn’t see it coming either.”
“Didn’t see what coming?”
“Ellis. He fooled all of us.”
“But especially me?” I decide to get the jibe in before he can.
“No,” he says slowly. “All of us.” He takes a deep breath. “There were things I missed… things I should have picked up on…” I can hear his sadness and, judging from the expression on his face, I wonder if maybe this is someone else with whom I need to bear the brunt of the blame.
“It was my case,” I point out. “My responsibility.”
“Our responsibility,” he replies. “And I apologise for the things I said to you at the time. They were unfounded and unreasonable.”
I’m stunned into silence for a moment, but then find my voice. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“And now, I’d better get on,” he says, squaring his shoulders. “If that message means what we both think it means, we could end up with another serial killer on our hands, only this time, they’ll be targeting you and your colleagues.” He pauses. “But you don’t need me to tell you that, do you?”
I shake my head and he moves away, following the stretcher-bearers down the street and around the corner.
Sergeant Tooley is standing off to one side, his hands behind his back, watching proceedings.
“I’m going to speak with Mr Wilkinson,” I tell him. “When Sergeant Thompson comes back, can you tell him where I am and have him join me?”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry about all the chaos earlier,” he says. “It—It was just such a shock.”
“Don’t worry about it, Tooley.”
He gives me a slight smile and a brief nod of his head, and I turn and go over to the property on the corner of Gordon Road. It’s a street where the houses occupy one side only, the other being taken up by the railway embankment. From what I can see before the buildings disappear into the fog, the properties are all similar, small Victorian villas and as I approach the first one, there’s a low, wrought iron gate, which I pass through, walking up the short pathway to the white painted front door. I knock once and wait until it’s opened, by a broad, muscular uniformed officer. He’s got to be at least an inch or two taller than me, which is unusual in itself, but he’s also almost as wide as the doorway he’s standing in. He’s not someone I’d want to pick a fight with, that’s for certain.
The hallway behind him is in darkness and I assume he’s switched off the lights to allow for the blackout.
“PC Wells?” I ask.
“Yes?”
He obviously doesn’t know me, but then, why should he? “I’m Detective Inspector Stone,” I say, showing him my warrant card. He gazes at it for a second, trying to see it in the near darkness, and then comes to attention, his back ramrod straight.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry.” He stands back and lets me in. “Where’s Mr Wilkinson?” I ask.
“In the kitchen, sir,” he says, closing the door, pulling the blackout curtain across and turning on the light. He indicates a door on the right hand side of the hallway. “This way, sir.”
I follow him into a medium sized kitchen, in the centre of which is a square table. Sitting on the left hand side is a middle-aged man. He’s pale, with light brown hair, greying at the temples, and is wearing the trousers from a black suit, coupled with a shirt and tie. Having taken off his jacket and placed it on the back of the chair he’s now occupying, he’s wearing a grey cardigan instead, the sleeves of which are rolled up by an inch. He’s nursing a glass of amber coloured liquid, which I assume to be either whisky or brandy.
I turn to the PC. “Make some tea, Constable, will you? Strong and sweet.” Then I walk over to Mr Wilkinson and move the glass away from him. “Tea’s better for shock, sir,” I say politely.
He looks up, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. “Yes,” he whispers. “Yes, of course.”
The constable busies himself at the stove while I sit down beside Mr Wilkinson, turning my chair, so I’m facing him.
“My name is Rufus Stone,” I say quietly. “I’m a detective inspector.”
He stares at me and slowly nods his head. “A detective inspector?” he repeats.
“Yes, sir.” He places his hands on the table in front of us, and I notice they’re trembling. “It’s my job to investigate what’s happened.” I wait again and he nods his head. “Do you think you could answer some questions for me?” I ask.
“Questions,” he says vaguely, echoing my words again, and I start to wonder if this was such a good idea.
“Yes. Questions.” He stares at me. “Do you think you’re up to that?”
Right at that moment, there’s a knocking on the door.
“That’ll be Sergeant Thompson,” I tell PC Wells. “Go and let him in, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wells disappears, returning a few moments later, with Thompson in tow, who leans down and whispers in my ear that the Chief Constable will be at the station in half an hour.
“Very good,” I reply and nod towards one of the other two vacant chairs.
Thompson takes a seat and pulls out his black notebook, setting it on the table in front of him, poised to take notes.
“Mr Wilkinson?” I return my attention to the householder and witness. “Can you help us?”
He starts, as though he’s only just realised we’re there.
“Help you?” he says, repeating my words for the third time. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I’ll help you.”
“Good. Thank you, sir,” I say, then lean forward. “Can you tell me how you came to discover the body?”
He takes a deep breath, just as PC Wells deposits a plain green teacup and saucer in front of him, the hot tea steaming, before placing a matching sugar bowl close by.
I reach over and start to spoon sugar into his cup. “Oh… I don’t,” Mr Wilkinson says, noticing what I’m doing and holding up his hand.
“You do tonight,” I tell him as I add two more spoonfuls, then stir the tea and push the cup a little closer. “It’ll help,” I explain and he lifts the cup to his lips, taking a small sip, followed by another, longer one.
He sits back in his chair and puts the cup down in its saucer again. “That’s odd,” he says. “I do feel a little better.” He looks up at me. “What was it you wanted to know?”
“How you came to discover the body, sir,” I reply.
He nods his head. “Well,” he says slowly, “I hadn’t long been in from work and I was just doing the blackout and turning on the lights, when I heard a very loud bang…”
“Do you know what time this was?” I interrupt.
“I got in at about seven-fifteen,” he says. “So I suppose sometime between then and seven-thirty?”
“Very good,” I reply. “Now… this loud bang?”
“Yes. It sounded like it was right outside the door.”
“Did you know what it was?” I ask him.
“I thought it was vehicle… you know, a lorry backfiring, or something,” he says. “It made me jump, but I didn’t think anything of it.” He takes another sip of tea. “But then… then I heard footsteps.”
“Footsteps?” I say.
“Yes. They were running.”
“In which direction?”
“Past the house, away from the railway line,” he says with absolute certainty.
“So what did you do?” I ask.
“Well, I decided I’d just take a look outside, because the bang, and the footsteps together seemed a little odd.” I nod my head encouragingly. “And that’s when I—I saw him.” He pauses. “I didn’t realise what had happened at first. I thought he must have fallen, maybe from the railway bridge, but when I walked over… I saw…” He stops talking and picks up the tea cup in two shaking hand
s, holding it to his mouth and taking a long drink.
“You didn’t see anyone else?” I ask him.
He shakes his head, moving the cup away from his lips first.
“And these footsteps, was there anything out of the ordinary about them?”
“Out of the ordinary?” he queries.
“Well, were they heavy-footed, or light-footed? Would you say it was a man, or a woman?” I ask, making suggestions, but trying not to lead him – not that I have any idea in what direction I’d be taking him anyway.
“Light-footed,” he says, with conviction. “But I couldn’t say if it was a man or a woman.”
“Does anyone else live here with you?” I ask him.
“No,” he replies. “I’m a bachelor. I live alone.”
I nod my head. “Will you be alright?” I ask him, getting to my feet. He’s clearly still in shock.
He looks up at me. “I expect so,” he says. “Although, do you think your constable could make me another cup of tea before he goes?”
“Of course, sir. And thank you for your assistance.” He waves away my gratitude and I give Wells a nod of my head, watching while he fills the kettle with more water. “Perhaps you could just show us out, PC Wells?” I say, and he follows Thompson and I into the hallway.
Once he’s closed the kitchen door, I turn to face him. “Stay with him for a little longer,” I tell Wells. “Make sure he’s settled before you leave him. The man’s had a shock.”
“Yes, sir,”
“And don’t let him drink anything alcoholic. Alright?”
He nods his head and Thompson and I make our way to the front door, switching off the light before we make our exit.
Outside, I find Tooley again.
“We’re going to need to carry out house-to-house enquiries,” I tell him. “I want that started right away. I realise it’s gone ten o’clock now, and that might mean getting people out of bed, but needs must.”
“Very good, sir,” he says.
“And we’ll need to make a thorough search of this area.” I indicate the place where the body was found, and the surrounding four or five yards, to the middle of the road, in both directions, and up onto the railway embankment. “We can’t do that now, although I would if we could light this place up. We’ll start in the morning, though, and in the meantime, I want this whole area cordoned off and guarded. Is that clear?”
He nods. “I’ll see to it myself,” he replies.
“Good. Thompson and I are going back to the station to see the Chief Constable. We’ll be there if you need us.”
“Right, sir.”
There are a few officers in the station, which is shrouded in dim light and dark feelings, as befits the violent death of one of our own. Thompson and I climb the stairs to the second floor and go straight to the Chief Constable’s temporary office. There’s no secretary to stop us – which is hardly surprising at this time of night – and I knock on the open door. Uncle Frank is sitting at his desk in full uniform, even though I know he will have possibly been in bed, or certainly in civilian clothes at the time Thompson telephoned him.
“Rufus,” he says, looking up. “Come in.”
“You know Harry Thompson.” I make the introduction and Uncle Frank nods, offering us both a chair.
“Yes. We spoke earlier,” he replies, and stares at me across the desk, his eyes sombre. “This is a bad business, Rufus.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Drop the ‘sir’,” he says. “I’m not in the mood.” He leans forward, his elbows on the desk. “Tell me everything.”
I outline what I know, including the details given to me by Mr Wilkinson, and the inscription on Harper’s chest.
“It has to be related to the Ellis case,” Uncle Frank says eventually, sitting back in his seat again.
“I agree,” I reply, “but I think we also need to keep in mind that Harper had a reputation.”
Uncle Frank raises his eyebrows. “He did?”
“Yes. He arrested a man yesterday,” I explain. “And he beat him.”
“He did what?” The thunderous tone in Uncle Frank’s voice must be audible from everywhere in the station.
I hold up my hands before he can say anything else. “I was going to come and see you about it in the morning,” I say, calmly. “I was going to ask your advice on what to do next.”
“Throw the bloody book at him?” he suggests.
“Well, we don’t need to worry about it now, do we?” I reply and he nods his head slowly.
“Are you suggesting this beating might be connected to his death?” he asks.
“No. The man he beat is still in custody downstairs. But from what I’ve gathered in speaking to other officers, I wouldn’t be surprised if this had occurred before. I think we just need to bear that in mind… along with the fact that Harper initially beat this man – Chambers – at the scene of the arrests, and someone may have witnessed that.”
“Which means that could have given someone else a motive for seeking justice?” He makes a point of using the word which was engraved onto Harper’s chest, and the sound of it sends chills down my spine.
“Possibly,” I reply, eventually. “Although, given the timing – with Ellis only being declared unfit to stand trial just a few hours ago – I still prefer that as our connection.”
“Very well,” he murmurs, after a brief moment’s thought. “We’ll keep both aspects in mind, but focus on the Ellis matter as a priority.”
“Thompson and I will go and see all the relatives of Ellis’ victims tomorrow,” I tell him.
“You think it’s one of them, rather than just a disgruntled member of the public?” he asks.
“Well, I think they’re the best place to start.”
“Even though they all live in Molesey, if memory serves?”
“What difference does that make?” I ask. “They could have caught a bus, driven here, or even cycled… or walked, for that matter. It’s only three miles.”
“And you don’t think it’s significant that Harper didn’t actually work on the case?” he says. “You don’t think that makes it more likely that we’re looking for someone who… who perhaps read about Ellis being sent to Broadmoor and decided to seek revenge on the first policeman they saw?”
“I think that’s perfectly possible,” I reply, leaning forward. “In fact, I think that’s quite likely. But that doesn’t mean that the someone wasn’t one of the relatives. They’d have more motive than most to blame us, and Harper could just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. They might have been waiting for one of us and run out of patience.”
The Chief Constable stares at me for a moment, then nods his head. “It’s your case, my boy,” he says softly. “Just watch your back. You’re going to need to handle the relatives very carefully.”
“I know that.” I’m just about managing to disguise my impatience. “They’ve already been through a lot.” I understand that better than most.
“Yes, and if you’re right, one of them is a murderer, and having you turn up on their doorstep could be the last straw.”
“That’s not going to stop me from doing my job.”
“I didn’t think it would,” he says, smiling.
“I’ll make sure to warn the men to be on their guard,” I add.
“Yes,” he says wistfully. He gets up and wanders over to the window, even though it’s hidden behind the blackout. “We need to handle this with kid gloves,” he says. “We can’t afford to let the relationship between the force and the public go sour.”
“No, sir.”
“So make sure the men are aware that the public are not the enemy,” he adds, turning around again. “I’ll come and speak to them myself if you think it’ll help.”
“We’ll see how we get on,” I reply, turning to Thompson, who’s been sitting in silence beside me. “I’m going to be relying on Harry and Sergeant Tooley to handle some of that. They have a closer rapport with the men. I’
m still the stranger in the camp.” I don’t mention that I’ve also given the men permission to hold me responsible for the Ellis situation which, given this latest turn of events, is hardly likely to endear me to them. Luckily, Harry maintains his silence.
“Anything you need,” Uncle Frank says, sitting back down, “anything at all, just let me know.”
“Oh, I will.”
“And take care of yourself, Rufus. Your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
It must be just after two-thirty in the morning by the time I let myself quietly back into the house. I take off my hat and coat, putting them over the end of the stairs and am just about to creep up to bed when I notice a crack of light coming from under the living room door. I go over and push it open, moving silently inside. Initially, there doesn’t appear to be anyone in here, but as I step further into the room, I see a pair of feet at the end of the sofa and, going around it, I can’t prevent a smile from settling on my lips, despite the awful evening I’ve had. Amelie is lying on her side, her head resting on a cushion and a blanket pulled up over her, fast asleep. She looks angelic, with one hand resting beside her head, the other hidden beneath the blanket, and she’s making soft, snuffling noises, which broaden my smile as I drop to my knees beside her and kiss her forehead.
Very slowly, her eyes open and she focuses on me.
“Hello,” she murmurs, pulling her hand from underneath the blanket and resting it on my cheek. “Are you okay?”
I nod my head. “I’m fine,” I say softly. “What are you still doing down here?”
“I was worried about you and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until you got back…” She smiles at me. “Except it seems I could.”
“Evidently.”
She shifts back into the sofa and taps the seat, indicating I should sit down, which I do, right beside her.
“What’s happened?” she asks.
“One of my men was shot,” I say softly.
“I know. You told me that before you left. Was there a connection between this and what happened to Beth?” Her voice trembles as she says the last few words and I reach over and take her hand in mine.