by K. J. Frost
“Then why are we starting with him?”
“Because out of all of them, I think he’s the least likely suspect, so we may as well break ourselves in gently and rule him out from the beginning.” Thompson nods his head and settles into the seat. “Don’t get too comfortable,” I tell him. “He only lives a few minutes away.”
“So we could’ve walked?” he suggests.
“Yes. But we’re going to need the car, so I thought we might as well start as we mean to go on.”
“Does that mean we’re going to deal with all the easy ones first?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m guessing, therefore that the Gibsons will be next? Because I can’t imagine two people less likely to murder someone in cold blood than those two.”
“I agree.” I nod my head, turning into Willougby Road. “But we might squeeze in Gloria Middlemas’s mother first.”
“Hmm,” he says softly. “I didn’t meet her before.”
“No, Ellis dealt with her.” I can’t keep the regret out of my voice.
“Do you want to leave her until later?” Thompson suggests.
“No. I doubt any of them are going to be pleased to see me. I just want to get this over with.”
I park the car outside the Milton house, which is just as neat and tidy as it was the last time I was here. As we walk up the path, Thompson pulls me back, holding my arm.
“If any of them react badly, or if this gets too hard,” he says, “just give me a nod. I’ll take over.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
“The offer’s there, Rufus,” he replies and I nod my head, letting him know I appreciate the thought.
I knock on the door and we wait for just a few moments before it’s opened by Mrs Milton.
“Inspector Stone?” she says.
“Yes, Mrs Milton. It’s good of you to remember me.”
“Well, your photograph was in the newspaper several times,” she replies. “After that man was arrested…” She looks down at the space between us, seemingly embarrassed.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” I say, paying no heed to her comment. “I’m afraid I need to see your son.”
“He’s not long gone to bed.” She glances upward, presumably in the direction of his bedroom.
“I thought that might be the case,” I reply. “But I’m afraid it’s very important.”
She hesitates for a moment, then nods her head and takes a step back. “You’d better come in then,” she says.
Once we’re inside, she closes the door and shows us into the parlour, where I interviewed Daniel just a few weeks ago. It looks exactly as it did then, and I imagine she maintains it in a clean, tidy fashion, just in case someone should happen to call.
“I’ll go and fetch him,” she says and leaves the room.
Thompson goes over to the fireplace and studies the faded photograph that hangs above it. “The father?” he says, speaking in whispers, and clearly noting the military uniform which the young man in the picture is wearing and the black etching around the border of the frame.
“I didn’t ask, but I imagine so.”
We hear footsteps on the stairs and Thompson steps away from the hearth, coming to stand just slightly behind me. Mrs Milton enters first, followed by her son, who appears to have just got out of bed. He’s wearing blue and grey striped pyjamas with a plain brown dressing gown over the top. His hair is dishevelled and his eyes are slightly red-rimmed.
“I’m sorry to have woken you, Mr Milton,” I say quickly.
“Mum said it was important,” he replies. “Is it something to do with Beth?”
“We’re not sure,” I reply candidly.
“Please… sit down,” Mrs Milton offers and I sit in one of the chairs. Daniel takes the other and Thompson stands behind me. “Can I get you some tea?” Mrs Milton adds, hovering by the door.
“No… no, thank you,” I reply.
She pauses for a moment, then leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her. I turn to face Daniel again.
“What’s happened?” he asks.
“There’s been another murder,” I tell him.
“Another one?” His voice is barely audible. “Like Beth… and the others?”
“No. This one is very different,” I explain. “A police officer was shot yesterday evening.”
“Shot?” He sits forward, his face betraying his shock.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Just around the corner from here, in Gordon Road.” He pales, but before he can say anything, I continue, “We have reason to believe there may be a connection between this murder and the Ellis case. So, I’m afraid we’re having to ask all of the relatives of the victims in that case to account for their whereabouts yesterday evening.”
“I was at work,” he whispers, clearly still stunned by my news. “I started my shift at six. My supervisor will be able to back me up, if you need him to.” He looks from me to Thompson. “His name’s Mr Cunningham.”
I’m aware of Thompson’s pencil moving across paper just behind my head. “Thank you, Mr Milton.”
“I’d never do anything like that,” he adds, focusing on me again, his voice gaining in strength. “I loved Beth, but killing someone else isn’t going to bring her back, is it?”
“No,” I reply. His sadness is unavoidable and I have to ask, “How are you?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not getting any easier,” he murmurs. “I started having nightmares about what happened to Beth…” He looks down at his hands. “Because I wasn’t there to help her, you know?”
“It’s not your fault, Mr Milton,” I tell him.
“Hmm. I just wish I’d been there…” It’s a sentiment I can understand. I wish I’d been there too. For all of them. “I stopped seeing Mabel,” he adds, looking up at me again, rather blank and lost. “I couldn’t keep walking out with her, not when all I could think about was Beth. It wasn’t fair.”
“It won’t always be like this,” I say. My words sound banal, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His expression doesn’t change, anyway.
“No,” he murmurs. “Mum says I need to give it time.”
“She’s right.”
He makes a poor attempt at a smile. “I’m sorry about what happened to the policeman,” he says.
“Thank you.” I reach into my pocket and take out a card, getting up and handing it to him. “If you need to talk,” I say quietly, “my telephone number’s on there.”
“Talk?” he queries.
“About Beth.”
He looks up at me and nods his head, just once.
“Please tell me you didn’t write all that down,” I say to Thompson as we get back into the car.
“No. I stopped after he told us the name of his supervisor. Not that I think we need that either. That young man’s too broken to have done anything.” He pulls his coat around him.
“Yes, he is.” I start the engine and pull away from the kerb. “He loved Beth Templeton very much, and the day she died, he’d just found out she still loved him too. I think he feels like his future’s been snatched away from him.”
“It’s hard on the lad,” he says softly.
“Yes, it is.”
“Is that why you gave him your card?” he asks.
I pause for a moment, checking the traffic at the end of the road, and turning left. “I gave him my card for the reason I stated,” I explain. “I get the feeling he doesn’t really have anyone he can talk to. Not anyone who understands, anyway. He’s got his mother, but there are things a young man doesn’t always want to discuss with his mother. And no doubt he has friends…”
“Men of that age don’t discuss their innermost feelings with their friends,” Thompson says, with a tinge of sadness, and I wonder if he’s thinking about Daniel Milton, or about us, and how different things might have been if I’d told him about my fiancée, and if he hadn’t slept with her.
“No they don’
t.” Regardless of what he’s thinking, he’s right. Young men – rightly or wrongly – do tend to keep their emotions in check. It’s a mistake I’m trying to learn from.
“Do you think he’ll contact you?” he asks.
“I doubt it. It’s one thing to admit he’s not coping and to talk to me about that when I’ve come to see him; it’s something else entirely for him to approach me independently. That would be a leap too far.” I shake my head. “No, he’ll probably just muddle through it like most people do.”
I glance across at Thompson. He’s just staring at me, then he looks forward out of the windscreen, without saying another word.
We make our way silently out of Kingston and it’s only as we’re crossing Hampton Court Bridge that he asks, “What do we know about Mrs Middlemas?”
“Not much. I recall Ellis saying that there were a couple of brothers, both in the army.”
“And a father?”
“I don’t remember there being one, no.”
“Because, I don’t know about you,” he continues, “but I feel that we’re looking for a man.”
“It seems most likely, yes.”
“Which means the brothers come into the picture?” he suggests.
“They’re worth considering, yes.”
I turn right and manoeuvre into Riverbank, passing the spot where Gloria Middlemas was murdered, recalling her muddied hair and uniform, her exposed, used body… I shake my head. I need to concentrate. The Middlemas house is in Feltham Road, which is the next on the left and I turn in, finding their property around a bend in the road. It’s a very smart three storey Victorian terraced house.
“Nice,” Thompson murmurs under his breath.
I don’t reply and we both step out of the car and go up to the blue painted front door. I knock twice and we wait until a woman in her mid-fifties appears, looking up at us, with an expression of apprehension on her face. I take a step back, remembering somewhat belatedly that, both being well over six feet tall, Thompson and I may look a little intimidating to someone as diminutive as this woman. She’s probably only around five foot three, with dark blonde hair and spectacles that sit on the end of her nose.
“Can I help?” she says, peering at us both.
“I’m Detective Inspector Stone.” I pull out my warrant card, showing it to her, and she pushes her glasses closer to her eyes and examines it closely. “This is Detective Sergeant Thompson.” He offers his own warrant card and she performs a similar inspection, before looking back at me. “Would it be possible for us to come in?” I ask her.
“I suppose so,” she says and stands back to allow us access. We enter into a long hallway, with black and white tiles on the floor and a mirror on one wall. “First on the right,” she says, offering directions while she closes the front door.
I follow her instructions, and find myself in a comfortable-looking sitting room, furnished with two large sofas and a chair, set around a marble fireplace. On the low table in the centre is some knitting, although what the garment is, I couldn’t say. The colour of the wool is a pale pink, and the size of the item suggests it might be for a baby, or young child.
Mrs Middlemas bustles into the room behind us and starts to clear the table, perching on the edge of one of the sofas as she does so.
“Do excuse me,” she says. “I was just trying to finish this little cardigan for my great-niece.” She looks up as she bundles the knitting into a fabric bag beside the sofa. “She’s nearly a year old now… and they do grow so fast at that age, don’t they?”
I nod my head and make agreeable noises, although I don’t have the vaguest idea how quickly children grow at any age.
“Please… have a seat,” she offers, and Thompson and I sit down opposite her. “How can I help you?” she asks, clasping her hands in her lap and looking across at us.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” I say, knowing that my enquiries are likely to upset her. “I believe you spoke to a former colleague of ours… Sergeant Ellis?”
Her face clouds over and she opens her mouth, then closes it again and I notice her eyes glistening. “That man…” she says eventually. “He sat where you are now, drinking tea and talking to me about Gloria…” Her voice cracks as she says her daughter’s name, and I get up and go to sit beside her, offering her my handkerchief. “I’ve got my own,” she says, retrieving a lace trimmed scrap of cotton from her sleeve and dabbing at her eyes with it. “But thank you anyway.”
“You’re welcome.”
She turns to look at me. “How could he do that?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” It’s the truth. I have no idea how Ellis managed to live two such separate lives, raping and murdering by night and investigating his own crimes by day. The deception is beyond me.
“You’ve come to see me about him?” she says, tilting her head to one side.
“Not exactly, but a policeman was shot dead yesterday evening, and we have reason to believe his murder is connected to the Ellis case.” I wonder how many times I’m going to say that in the next few days. “We’re asking all the relatives of his victims to account for their whereabouts yesterday evening.”
She stares at me for a moment, and I’m just thinking she’s about to argue that I’m being outrageous in suspecting her of such a heinous crime, when she takes a deep breath and says, “I was playing bridge with some friends.” She turns to Thompson, who’s making notes on the other side of the room. “We started at about seven, I suppose and finished sometime before ten. I got back here at ten-thirty. My friend Mr Powell walked me home. I can give you everyone’s names and addresses, if you like?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say. There’s no way this woman is responsible for what happened to Harper. I think just holding a gun would scare her to death. “Before we go… can you account for the other members of your family?”
She twists in her seat this time and studies me closely.
“My husband has been dead for nearly six years,” she says, a little bluntly, and I know I’ve offended her. “And my twin sons are both away training with their army unit. They’re in Yorkshire somewhere at the moment.”
“Twins?” I enquire.
“Yes,” she says, softening a little. “Richard and Raymond.” She looks up at a photograph on the mantelpiece and I follow her gaze, seeing an image of two young men, wearing army uniforms, smiling at the camera. They may be twins, but there are a few obvious differences between them. The man on the left of the picture has bushier eyebrows, and a wider smile than his brother, and there’s also a variation in their height as well, with the man on the right being around two inches taller. “They doted on Gloria,” she murmurs.
“I’m sure they did.” I get to my feet. “And I’m very sorry.”
She looks back at me. “It’s not your fault,” she says, standing and facing me. “That man is the devil incarnate, and the noose would have been too good for him. But I don’t think there’s anything you could have done in the face of such evil. I honestly don’t.”
I appreciate her sentiment. I just wish I could agree with her.
“I take it we’re going to the Gibsons next?” Thompson asks.
I turn out into Hampton Court Way and then right onto Bridge Road, before confirming his supposition. “Yes,” I say quietly.
“And after them?”
“Kate Pendry,” I reply. “As I said earlier, I want to get all the least likely suspects out of the way first, and she only lives round the corner from the Gibsons.”
“How do we know Miss Pendry will be at home?” he asks, obviously remembering that she’s in the Wrens and could, therefore, be with her unit.
“We don’t. But if she’s not, we can ask her parents to contact her for us.” I turn left at the Walton Road police station, and go over the bridge, before taking the next left into Summer Road and driving slowly through ‘the Splash’, a ford in the River Ember that passes across the road, being mindful of the depth after the recent rain.<
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Thompson peers over the side of the door. “I hope your car doesn’t leak,” he says, smirking.
“Of course it doesn’t,” I reply, keeping my fingers crossed.
We cross ‘the Splash’ without incident and take the first turning on the right, which leads us into Summer Gardens, and I pull the car up outside the Gibsons’ house, a tidy detached Victorian property. “Let’s get this over with,” I murmur to Thompson as we both climb out.
“It does feel like rather a waste of time,” he says, “but I suppose it’s got to be done.”
We walk up the garden path and knock on the door, which is answered promptly by Mrs Gibson, who looks years older than the last time we saw her. She seems to have withered and bent in on herself, her brown hair more flecked with grey than I remember.
“Mrs Gibson?” I say and she tries to focus on me.
“Inspector?” she replies, as though she barely remembers me, even though our meeting was quite recent.
“Yes,” I reply. “Do you think we could come in?’
“Of course.” She stands to one side and Thompson and I enter the house, waiting for her to lead us into the sitting room. She doesn’t, but stands before us in the hallway, wrapping her cardigan around her and holding it in place, her eyes fixed on a point in the near distance.
“We won’t keep you very long,” I say softly. “We just need to enquire as to the whereabouts of you and your husband yesterday evening, at between seven-fifteen and seven-thirty.”
She blinks a couple of times, then looks me in the eye. “We were both here,” she whispers. “We had our supper at about six, and then we listened to the wireless for a couple of hours, while I did some darning.” She pauses. “There was an orchestral concert which started not long after we’d finished the washing-up, and then there was a sort of cabaret type of thing, which we didn’t enjoy very much, but luckily it only went on for half an hour. After that…” She pauses and I wonder if I need this much information, but she seems to want to give it. “After that it was ITMA, and then Scenes from Pickwick,” she says, nodding her head. “That’s a series we’ve been listening to each week. I made us some cocoa at the end and we went to bed after the news.” She seems to drift off again, her momentary spark of life forgotten.