by K. J. Frost
“Long Ditton,” Tooley says, handing me the piece of paper. “This is the parents’ address, and the little girl was last seen in the recreation ground just down the road from there.”
“How old is she?” I ask, looking down at the note in my hand. It says ‘Mr and Mrs Sanderson, Treetops, St Mary’s Road. Girl’s name – Amy’. I hand it to Thompson and he glances at it, then puts it in his pocket.
“Four, sir.” Tooley’s voice is strained.
“Four?” He nods. “What was she doing in the recreation park by herself?”
“She wasn’t by herself. The nanny was with her.”
“And she went missing?”
He shrugs. “That’s what the woman said,” he replies. “She was pretty upset though… not surprisingly.”
“Okay…” I start to move around my desk. “Gather everyone together in the main office, Harry,” I say to Thompson. “I’m just going to see the chief super. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
He nods his head and we all exit my room.
Upstairs, Miss Parsons is at her desk, typing, when I enter. “Is the chief superintendent available?” I ask.
“He’s got someone with him, I’m afraid. I can…” She reaches for her notepad.
“Sorry, but this is really urgent. Do you think you could interrupt him?”
She bites her bottom lip. “I’m not sure.”
I lean over her desk, trying not to be intimidating, although I expect I probably am. “We’ve just had a report of a missing child come in,” I explain and she pales and swallows. “I need authorisation for overtime, and to possibly call in some extra men from further afield, depending on how wide the search area ends up being.”
She doesn’t say a word, but stands up and goes over to the chief super’s door, knocking once and entering. A few moments later, the man himself comes out, with Miss Parsons in tow. She closes his door behind her and sits back down at her desk, while Webster stands in front of me.
“What’s happened?” he asks.
“I don’t know that much yet, sir. All I’ve been told is that a four year old girl has gone missing.” I glance out of the window. It may be only three o’clock, but because it’s a dull, overcast day, it’s already getting dark. “We’ll need to mount a search for her, which will mean overtime and possibly using men from outside the area, being as we’re so short-staffed.”
He nods his head. “Do whatever you need to. I’ll square it with the Chief Constable.”
“I’m going to leave Stan Tooley in charge of things here, so he’ll be coordinating the search teams,” I tell him, “and Thompson and I will handle the family and the investigation.”
“Investigation?” he queries. “You don’t think she’s just wandered off then?”
“I don’t think anything at the moment, but we do know the family nanny was with her at the time, which seems a little strange to me. Until I can get a few more facts, I won’t be able to say what we’re dealing with. All I do know is it’s getting dark, it’s bloody cold, and she’s only four years old.”
He nods his head. “Go,” he says and points to the door.
I don’t hesitate, and walk quickly from the room and back down the stairs.
In the main office, things are surprisingly calm. Sergeant Tooley is over by one of the large noticeboards, pinning up a detailed map of the Long Ditton area, while it seems that every available man in the station is gathered around Sergeant Thompson. I go over to him, and they all fall silent, looking at me.
“We’ve been informed of a four year old girl, called Amy Sanderson, who has gone missing from a recreation ground in Long Ditton,” I say, raising my voice just a little to ensure they can all hear me. “Sergeant Tooley is going to coordinate search parties, focusing on the area where she was last seen. We don’t have much light left, so we need to start as soon as possible. Due to the blackout restrictions, once it gets dark, we won’t be able to continue, so make the most of every moment you’ve got.” A few of them nod their heads, one of two of them look at each other, their expressions grim. They all know that if we don’t find her tonight, her chances of surviving in the freezing cold are minimal. “Sergeant Thompson and I are going to see the family, so that’s where we’ll be if anyone needs us.”
With that, I take a step back, letting them know my speech – such as it was – is over. A general murmuring starts up and I pull Thompson to one side. “Phone Julia,” I say to him. “God knows what time we’ll get finished tonight. I’ll see you outside in five minutes.”
He nods his head and I return to my office, closing the door and sitting at my desk as I pick up the telephone. I’d planned to see Amelie tonight, and I really ought to let my mother and Aunt Dotty know that I won’t be home, but only really have time for one call, and it’s an easy decision.
“May I speak with Miss Cooper, please,” I ask as soon as the operator has connected me.
“Oh, it’s you, Inspector.” Miss Higgins, the office manager’s secretary at Hawker’s Aviation recognises my voice now and I can hear the smile in hers.
“Yes.”
“Just a moment,” she replies, and there’s a click on the line, followed by another, and then I hear Amelie.
“Rufus?”
“Yes, darling.”
“What’s wrong?”
I’d thought I had control of my emotions, but I suppose she knows me too well to be fooled.
“Something’s come up at work,” I explain and just for a second, I wonder how Mrs Tierney must feel every time her husband phones her, probably saying exactly the same thing. Still, I don’t have time for that now. “A little girl has been reported missing, so I’m going to have to work late, and I won’t be able to see you tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says, sounding concerned. “But are you well enough for this, Rufus?”
“I’ll be fine. I promise.”
There’s a moment’s silence. “Please don’t overdo it.”
“I won’t, darling. Now, can you do something for me?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Can you telephone my mother and let her know? I don’t want her and Aunt Dotty to worry.”
“I’ll call them straight away,” she says.
“Thank you. Make sure you tell them I’m perfectly well enough to handle this, won’t you? I don’t want them fussing.”
“I will. Although I’m sure they’d rather hear from you themselves.”
“I know, but I only had time to make one call, you see…”
“And you phoned me?” She sounds surprised.
“Of course I phoned you.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“You don’t have to thank me.” I glance at the clock. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Take care of yourself, Rufus.”
“I will, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Alright. I love you.” She whispers those last three words, presumably because there are other people in her office who can hear her.
“I love you too.” I don’t have to worry about being overheard, so I say it out loud.
The Sandersons live in St Mary’s Road, in a large red brick house, well set back from the street, laid out over three floors, with twin gables, large bay windows at the front, and a central door, which is painted dark blue. At least, I think it’s painted blue. By the time we arrive, it’s so gloomy, it’s rather difficult to tell.
“What does Mr Sanderson do for a living?” I ask Thompson, keeping my voice low as we approach the house.
“According to Stan Tooley, I think he owns a jewellers in Kingston.”
I glance across at him and wonder if I’m about to come face to face with the man who sold me Amelie’s necklace, and who failed to entice me into purchasing any of his rings.
“It clearly pays well,” I remark, and am just reaching out for the brass door knocker, when another car pulls up into the driveway, parking alongside the black Wolsel
ey Thompson and I used to get here. Turning, I see a man climb out, although I don’t get to look at him properly, before he reaches back into the car, retrieves a briefcase, and then stands and slams the door shut loudly. He strides towards us, still not having looked up, and therefore starts when he finally does, and notices myself and Thompson standing in front of him. He may well be Mr Sanderson, but he is not the jeweller I met yesterday. He’s significantly thinner and at least four inches too tall.
“Who are you?” he barks, looking up at me. “Get out of my way.”
Thompson moves to his right and I to my left, allowing the man to gain access to the door, his hand delving into his pocket.
“I’m Detective Inspector Stone,” I say, and the man turns to look at me.
“Oh.” He seems embarrassed and pulls out a key, opening the door. “I suppose you’d better come in.”
We follow him inside the house. It’s unlit and almost impossible to see anything, and the man turns, putting down his briefcase, then makes a fuss of pulling the blackout curtain across the door, before switching on the light to reveal a wide, long hallway, with four doors leading off of it, and a stairway on the right hand side.
“I’m Daniel Sanderson,” the man says, taking off his coat and hat, and depositing them on the end of the stairs. Now that I can see him clearly, I take in his receding dark hairline, and narrow moustache, his pale complexion and grey, rather sunken eyes. I would say he’s around forty-five, or maybe a little older, but given the fact that he’s probably just been told his daughter has gone missing, that’s rather hard to tell. He doesn’t offer his hand, and neither do I. “I assume you’re here about my daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why aren’t you out looking for her?” he says, walking away while he speaks and heading towards the first door on the left of the hallway.
“We have other men doing that,” I explain, removing my hat and holding it in my hand. “My sergeant and I have come to find out the circumstances of her disappearance.”
He opens the door and turns to glare at me. “I would have thought that was of secondary importance to actually finding her,” he says, gruffly.
“With respect, sir, we have done this before.” I’m just about managing to keep my temper, but only because I know the man is almost certainly worried out of his wits.
He doesn’t reply this time and enters the room. We follow, unbidden, and I glance at Thompson, who raises his eyebrows, but stays silent.
Inside, the room is nicely furnished, with two large sofas and two chairs, set in a square around the fireplace, together with a baby grand piano, which sits by the front window. The fire is alight, but otherwise there is no illumination, other than a single lamp, placed on a low table between the two chairs, facing the fireplace, in one of which there sits a woman, who has a white, lacy handkerchief clasped in her hands. As we enter, she turns, revealing herself to be not only extremely beautiful – in a rather classical way – but also very young. Her eyes lock on to Mr Sanderson, who ignores her and goes straight to an ornate, dark wood sideboard, where he takes the stopper from a decanter and pours himself a large whisky, half of which he downs in one gulp, before turning to face us properly.
“This is my wife, Lillian,” he says, waving the glass in her vague direction.
She smiles, halfheartedly, and nods her auburn head in recognition.
“You are aware that it’s getting dark, Inspector?” Sanderson’s barking voice makes his wife jump.
“Yes, sir. As I said, we have men out looking for your daughter.”
He glares at me once more. “And yet you thought it was more important to come here and question us… upsetting everyone… heh?”
I hear a sob coming from the chair and turn to see Mrs Sanderson raise the handkerchief to her face.
“See?” Sanderson says, although he doesn’t go to his wife to comfort her. “See what you’ve done?”
“Just let them do their job, Daniel,” she whimpers, and he flips his head around, his mouth opening as though to shout. But then he clearly remembers our presence, and changes his mind.
“Ask your damn questions,” he says sulkily, topping up his glass and going to sit down on the end of one of the sofas – about as far away from his wife as he can possibly get.
I move a little further into the room, standing roughly between the two of them, while Thompson remains by the sideboard, his notebook in hand.
“Can you tell me what happened?” I ask, directing my question to Mrs Sanderson.
“Not really,” she replies, looking up at me. “I had to go out at lunchtime,” she explains. “When I got back, I had a dreadful headache and went to bed, and I only came down when I heard all the fuss.”
“The fuss?”
“Yes. When Elizabeth came home and said Amy had gone missing. She was hysterical. Cook had to slap her to find out what had gone on, and then cook telephoned the police.”
Mr Sanderson sits forward. “Is she alright?” he asks. “Elizabeth, I mean, not the cook."
“I have no idea,” Mrs Sanderson replies, not bothering to turn her face to look at him.
“Can I assume Elizabeth is your nanny?” I enquire, before their conversation runs away with my questions.
“Yes,” Mrs Sanderson says. “She’s been with us for about ten months now.”
“And none of this is her fault,” Mr Sanderson puts in quickly. “You can rest assured of that. She’s been wonderful with the children since the moment she arrived.”
“I’m sure she has, sir. But I’m going to need to speak with her, nonetheless.”
Mr Sanderson gets to his feet, as though he wants to argue with me and then thinks better of it and looks down at his wife. “Is she in the nursery, or her room?”
“I assume she’s in the nursery,” she replies a little vaguely. “Eve still needs to be taken care of.”
“I’ll take you up there,” Mr Sanderson offers, being helpful for once.
“You don’t need me to come up, do you?” Mrs Sanderson asks.
I don’t actually need her husband to come with us, other than to show us the way, so I shake my head. “No, Mrs Sanderson. You rest here.”
She smiles at me. “Thank you,” she murmurs, closing her eyes. “My headache is really rather dreadful now.”
As we leave the room, I’m struck by the fact that, while she seems upset, she’s not perhaps as distraught or hysterical as I would have expected, given the circumstances, and I wonder if she’s still in shock, and the reality of the situation will hit her later. I also wonder if she has anyone who will be able to help her through that, because based on their reactions to each other, I very much doubt her husband will be interested.
We climb up to the first floor and are going along the landing when Sanderson turns and says, “My wife gets a lot of headaches these days, you know?” in a rather man-to-man, knowing tone of voice.
I’m not entirely sure how to reply to him though, so I don’t bother.
Up the next flight of stairs, we find the nursery door on our left. “It’s in here,” he says, opening it and stepping inside.
Thompson and I follow, and discover a fairly typical nursery, with a small child’s bed on one side of the room, and a wooden cot on the other, a large chest of drawers between the two, and an armchair by the window. Standing by the chest of drawers, folding what appear to be baby’s clothes, is a tall young woman. She has her back to us, but as we enter, she turns and I’m struck by the colour of her hair, which is black – jet black – and contrasts with the deep shade of red she’s used to paint her rather full lips. She has unusually dark blue eyes and high cheekbones, and there’s no denying her beauty, although to me it feels much more forced and artificial than that of the lady we’ve just left downstairs. The woman before us is wearing a tight-fitting pale blue dress, with an open neck and narrow belt, which highlights her tiny waist.
“This… is Elizabeth,” Mr Sanderson says, as though she wer
e a prize bloom at a flower show. The broad smile on his face, and the sparkle in his eyes reveal his true feelings – which I would say amount to a wish that the nanny might become something much more intimate than the woman who cares for his children. Whether she feels the same way, or not, remains to be seen.
“We’ll manage from here,” I say to him and he turns, scowling.
“I think I should remain,” he replies.
“There’s no need, Mr Sanderson.” I step to one side and Thompson holds the door, making it clear he should leave.
“But she’s one of my employees.” He’s digging his heels in. But so am I. I don’t need the distraction of him fawning over the nanny while I’m trying to question her.
“I’m aware of that. However, your presence isn’t required.”
He stares at me for a moment longer, until it becomes obvious to him that I’m not going to back down, and then with a great show of reluctance, he leaves and Thompson closes the door softly behind him.
Before we’ve even had the chance to step further into the room, the nanny approaches.
“The baby’s sleeping,” she says, her voice lowered, although the sound of her master and myself talking hasn’t woken the infant. “We can go to my room… if you don’t mind, that is.” She smiles in a rather provocative way, and I wonder how many times she’s used that little trick to get her own way with the opposite sex.
“If that suits you,” I reply, and she leads us from the room and back onto the landing.
I’d half expected to find Mr Sanderson loitering outside, but the corridor is empty and the nanny leads us to the right, and opens the next door along, switching on the light as she enters.
Her room is smaller than the nursery, featuring a single bed, a wing-backed armchair, a large walnut wardrobe and matching chest of drawers, with a mirror mounted on top.
Going over to the bed, she sits down, and looks up at me, her eyes widened.
“May I ask your full name?” I enquire, getting straight to the point.
“Elizabeth Sutton,” she responds, leaning back and resting on her hands, in such a way that her very ample bosom is pushed forward and shown to its best advantage – a fact of which I have no doubt she is perfectly well aware.