by K. J. Frost
“Can you tell me if there are any men associated with the household?” I ask him. His wife flips her head around, staring at me. For someone who wants her affair kept secret, she’s doing a fairly spectacular job of giving herself away.
“Men?” he asks.
“Yes. Your nanny told us about a man, if you remember? It’s possible that he’s a complete innocent and has nothing to do with Amy’s disappearance. Equally, he could be pivotal to the case, and I just wondered if there was anyone who’s associated with the house, who you might have failed to mention.”
He glances at his wife and then frowns, as though he’s thinking. “I can’t think of anyone, no,” he murmurs eventually.
“No regular delivery men?” I suggest.
“Well, I wouldn’t know about them,” he replies. “You’d have to speak to Cook about deliveries.”
I nod. “And your servants don’t have men friends?”
He shakes his head vehemently. “No,” he replies. “I have a very strict policy about such things. That’s why I employ older members of staff. Both Cook and Lois are widowed. The last thing I need is young men hanging around the house, and love-sick servants not doing their jobs properly, when I’m paying them a good wage.”
“Miss Sutton hardly qualifies as ‘older’,” I point out, and he blushes.
“She’s different,” he says, then pauses before adding, “The role of a nanny is hardly the same as an ordinary domestic servant.”
“But your rule applies just the same?”
His lips narrow to a thin line. “Of course.” I’m not sure whether he’s more angry at my line of questioning, or the prospect of Miss Sutton having a young man in her life.
In the car, Thompson turns to face me, before switching on the engine. I have to admit to feeling disappointed with events so far today. I’d hoped to find out more, to ferret out their secrets.
“I feel as though they’re still holding back, don’t you?” I say to him.
“Yes. But to be fair, I’m not sure whether they’re hiding things from us, or from each other.”
“Or both?”
He tilts his head. “Possibly.”
“What was Sanderson like with the nanny when you went up there?”
“The baby was stirring,” he says, “just about to wake up, and Miss Sutton needed to get something from the kitchen, so she left us to it. He seemed… disappointed.” I nod my head. “Did you get what you wanted from Mrs Sanderson?”
“I’ve got an address for Mr Cooke, yes. He works at the bank in Thames Ditton, and lives in the High Street. Not only that, but I established in my own mind that Mrs Sanderson would probably be more upset if something happened to David Cooke than she is about her daughter.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Thompson replies, looking out of the front windscreen.
“You might think so, but you didn’t see her face when she was talking about him. She’s enchanted by him, besotted with him, and everything else can go to hell.”
Thompson doesn’t reply for a moment, then he turns back to me. “Do you want to go over to Thames Ditton now?” he asks.
“Yes, I do.”
He starts the engine and reverses out of the driveway, onto the road. Rather than turning right and heading towards the river, past the searching men, he turns left, taking us on a more circuitous route to Thames Ditton. I think he’s guessed that my mood is not good, and to see the men searching, fruitlessly, is not going to help.
“Sorry,” I murmur as he drives along the edge of Giggs Hill Green. We’ve been on the road for about ten minutes now, and I feel something needs to be said.
“I do understand, Rufus,” he says, mildly, although I don’t think he does. “And I feel the same. We both want to find her… and catch whoever did this.” He glances at me. “Because we both think someone did, don’t we?”
I nod my head, even though he hasn’t grasped the reason behind my mood at all. But then why would he? I mean, obviously I’m feeling the same way as him. I want to find the girl and return her to her parents, although with every hour that passes, that seems less likely. But the other thing that’s going through my mind and weighing me down, is the realisation that I keep coming across so many people who appear to be incapable of monogamy, so many people who’ve made mistakes in their marriages, and who end up hurting those around them. I know that I’m about to ask a very beautiful, very young woman to commit her life to me, as I already have to her, and I can’t help thinking: am I making a huge mistake myself? And is it one that she’ll end up regretting?
A knock at Mr Cooke’s house goes unanswered, which isn’t surprising as it’s the middle of the day, so we go on to the bank, where the manager tells us that he’s gone out for the afternoon, to visit two important clients. He’s not expected back until tomorrow. Keen to find out why we’re there, the manager offers us tea, but we decline and the disappointment in his countenance, is noticeable.
“So much for that,” Thompson says, himself a little moody now, as we climb back into the car. “Where to next?”
“We’ve got nothing else to follow up on until tomorrow,” I reply. “And I don’t know about you, but I can’t sit at the office doing nothing. Let’s get back over to Long Ditton and join the search.”
“Are you up to that?” he asks.
“No, but we’re going anyway.”
He shakes his head and puts the car into gear, steering us back the way we’ve just come, but taking the more direct route this time.
At least if I keep busy, I won’t have time to think. That’s the plan, anyway.
Chapter Four
My dearest Kitten,
I’ve just received your letter and am writing before going to work.
You don’t need my forgiveness. And you mustn’t worry about the manner of your writing to me. Just make sure you write. Please. I need to know that you’re all right. I wish more than anything that I could be with you, but I can’t, and I’m dying here, not being able to hold you. So, don’t feel bad about not writing the words we’d both like to hear, and just write anything. Whatever you need to say to me, just put it in your letters. I’ll read them, and I’ll write back. Because at the moment that’s all I can do. That, and think of you all the time, of course.
I’m sure no-one is judging you, my darling. Anyone who knew you like I do, would know how much care and love you’ve always given to both of the children. It’s all just an accident; a misunderstanding and I’m sure Amy will turn up soon.
It’s not wrong of you to think about us, no matter what else is going on. You need to think of happier times, when things are so bleak. And if doing so helps you to get through this ordeal, then think about us; dream about us and all the things we like to do when we’re together. Know that I love you, more than life; that I would do anything to be with you, to give you my strength and comfort. And in the meantime, rest assured, this will pass, and soon I will hold you in my arms and this will feel like a distant nightmare.
I have to go now, or I’ll be late.
Please write back soon, my darling Kitten, and remember how much I love you.
D x
*****
I’ve hardly slept a wink. Again. I got back at just after eleven last night. I didn’t manage to stay out with the search teams for that long; I wasn’t physically up to it, but at around four-thirty, Thompson and I went back to the station and, in the company of the chief super, we sat in the main office and went through all the evidence we’ve got so far, the various interviews conducted with the householders who live near to the park where Amy went missing and who might have seen the direction in which she wandered off – or noticed someone loitering, who didn’t belong there. We went over and over everything, trying to piece something together… anything that might point to where she could be. We didn’t get anywhere, of course, and eventually exhaustion got the better of all of us and the chief super suggested we call it a night. I didn’t even have the energy to argue with him
, and Thompson dropped me at home. My mother was still sitting up for me, although Dotty had gone to bed, and while she fussed about the fact that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast – and I wasn’t about to – I think she knew I wasn’t in the mood to talk and just let me come to bed.
“Rufus?” My mother pokes her head around the door, coming in quietly, rather than announcing herself in her usual, jovial fashion.
“I’m awake.”
She doesn’t reply, but goes over to the curtains and opens them, pulling back the blackout at the same time and revealing a dull, overcast morning, which perfectly suits my mood.
“I’ll run your bath,” she says quietly, going straight back out again.
I close my eyes, just for a second, feeling guilty for imposing my own dark frame of mind on those I love.
“Mother?” I call out, sitting up on the edge of the bed, and she comes back in, looking down at me from the doorway. “I’m sorry.”
She moves closer, and then sits beside me, the bed sagging slightly. “Don’t be,” she says. “I know how awful these cases can be.”
I lean into her. If only it were just the case. If only I wasn’t still haunted by the idea that my relationship with Amelie is doomed to end in failure. “Even so…” I murmur.
She rests her hand on my knee. “You need to see Amelie,” she says softly and I wonder if she’s psychic.
“I know.”
“And you need some rest.” She gets up again, going back into the bathroom. “Your bath’s ready,” she adds, coming into the bedroom again. “We’ve arranged that Ethel’s doing you bacon and eggs for breakfast. You barely ate a thing yesterday, so we’re going to make sure you at least have one good meal today.”
I smile up at her and, making an effort, get to my feet and go over to her, giving her a hug.
“What’s that for?” she says, looking up at me.
“Being you.”
She chuckles. “That’s not what you normally say or do when I’m being me.”
“No, but a man can be wrong sometimes, can’t he?”
Her chuckle becomes a laugh. “No, dear. All the time would be more accurate.”
Once I’ve bathed and Mother has changed the dressing on my wound, I get dressed in the privacy of my own room, the smell of bacon wafting through the house and making me realise how hungry I am. I stand by the window, in my shirt-sleeves, my tie around my neck, wondering if I might catch a glimpse of Amelie. Just to look at her would feed my weary soul…
“Breakfast, Rufus,” my mother calls up the stairs, and I sigh, disappointed, just as Amelie appears at the end of Beauchamp Road. She stops her bicycle at the junction and glances at the house, her eyes finding my window right away. I smile at her, and she smiles back. And I know I can’t wait a moment longer to see her in the flesh, to touch her and talk to her. I hold up my hand, letting her know I want her to wait, and she nods her head, stepping off of her bicycle and starting to wheel it towards the pavement.
Incapable of running yet, I walk quickly to the top of the stairs and descend as fast as I can.
“Ah, there you are,” my mother says, from the dining room doorway.
“I’ll be a couple of minutes, no more.” I glance at her as I move towards the cupboard by the door, where the coats are kept.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Amelie’s outside.”
She smiles and waves me away. “Go on then. I’ll keep your breakfast warm.”
I smile back, and take my coat, putting it around my shoulders, before I open the door, and go quickly down the steps and out through the front gate. Amelie is standing opposite, her bicycle resting against her hip, her navy blue coat done up tight and her grey beret settled firmly on her head. She looks adorable and I cross the road to her. I don’t care that we’re in a public place, or that what I’m about to do is neither becoming, nor particularly gentlemanly; I need her, more than ever, and I lean down and kiss her, letting my lips rest on hers, for longer than is strictly acceptable, but a lot less time than is necessary. Because forever wouldn’t be long enough, as far as I’m concerned.
When we pull away from each other, Amelie doesn’t look down the road to check who’s seen our embrace. She doesn’t even blush, or seem embarrassed. Instead, she looks straight into my eyes, hers filled with nothing but love and concern.
“Are you alright?” she asks.
“No.”
“I didn’t think you were. You look exhausted.”
“I feel exhausted.” I try to smile.
“You haven’t found the little girl?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s looking more and more as though she’s either been taken, or she’s dead… somewhere. Although God only knows where.”
She places her hand on my arm, high up on my bicep, and I wish there wasn’t the thickness of my coat between us. “Can I do anything?” she offers and I know immediately what I’m going to say.
“Yes.” I move closer, cupping her face in my hand. “Do you remember you said we could talk?”
“Of course.”
“Then do you think we could?”
“Now?”
I shake my head. “No. You have to get to work, and so do I.”
“Tonight then?”
“Yes. But I don’t know when. I might be late again. I can’t…”
“I don’t care,” she interrupts. “It doesn’t matter to me what time it is. I’ll wait up. Just come over whenever you get home.”
I lean down to her, our lips almost touching. “God, I love you,” I whisper, my voice cracking slightly.
She brings her hand up from my arm, resting it on my neck. “I love you too, my darling.”
As Thompson drives us into Kingston, I can feel the weight of the day pressing down on me again, and Amelie’s words of love and warmth and promise are already fading into a distant memory. I’m finding it a struggle at the moment, and I don’t mind admitting it. She may only live over the road, a few yards away, but it’s too far. I need her beside me… right beside me; even though my doubts about our future are still looming large in my mind. And that’s why I’m going to talk to her tonight. It has nothing to do with the case. I have to put my own mind at rest, to find out whether it’s just her brief absence from my life that’s making me feel so insecure, or whether there’s any foundation in my fears, before I drive myself completely insane.
Gilmore and Deakin are waiting in the main office, looking rather pleased with themselves, and they both stand as Thompson and I enter the otherwise deserted room.
“What have you got?” I ask, because it’s obvious they have something.
“A couple of young lads,” Deakin replies, stepping forward. “We picked them up in a pub last night, trying to flog some of the jewellery.”
“The landlord called it in,” Gilmore continues. “He was going to throw them out, because they were underage, but then he saw what they were up to, and reported it.”
I nod my head. “And how old are these two?”
“One’s fourteen. The other says he’s the same, but I think he’s a bit younger.”
“You haven’t interviewed them, have you?”
They shake their heads. “We were going to get started this morning.”
“Well don’t. Not without a responsible adult in the room. They may, or may not have committed burglary, and they may or may not have been trying to get rid of the loot, but they’re still underage.”
“Get this bit wrong,” Thompson puts in, “and the whole case falls apart.”
Both men nod their heads. “I suggest you let them have breakfast,” I explain, “get them a solicitor and then get started.” Again, they nod, and then turn away. “Well done, both you of,” I add and they turn back again, smiling.
“Bloody kids,” Thompson says as he closes my office door behind him. We’re not stopping here for long, so neither of us has bothered to take off our coats, although I sit down at my desk.
“Would t
hat be our burglars, or Deakin and Gilmore?” I ask and he grins.
“The burglars,” he replies patiently. “Why they can’t take up a sport, or join a club or something, rather than robbing elderly people, I don’t know…”
“You’re starting to sound old.”
“I’m starting to feel old,” he says, sitting down in the chair opposite me. “I think I’ve had about five hours’ sleep in the last two nights.”
“I know the feeling.”
I pick up the telephone and ask to be connected to a number in Thames Ditton. It’s David Cooke’s home, the number for which we found out very late last night, and I’m hoping to catch him before he leaves for the bank.
He answers on the third ring, sounding rather out of breath.
“Mr Cooke?”
“Yes,” he says impatiently.
“My name is Stone. Detective Inspector Stone. I’m calling about the disappearance of Amy Sanderson. You’ve probably read about it in the newspapers?” I could mention that he’s also probably been discussing it somehow – either by telephone, or in person, or in writing – with Mrs Sanderson, but I don’t.
“Um… yes.” He sounds less impatient and more uncertain now.
“I wonder if it would be possible to come and talk to you?”
“When?” he asks. “I was just leaving for work.”
“Well, we’d like to see you this morning, if possible. I’m sure you appreciate the urgency of this matter.”
“Of course. I’m not sure I can be of any assistance, but…”
“Nonetheless,” I interrupt. “We can come to the bank, if you’d find that easier?”
“No,” he says quickly. “I’ll see you here… at my house.” There’s a pause. “I’ll telephone the bank and tell them I’ll be late. You can come now, can’t you?”
“Of course, sir.”
I hang up and look across at Thompson. “We’d better be going. He’s expecting us.”