The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  David Cooke’s house is exactly as Mrs Sanderson described it. A lovely little terraced property, in the high street, in Thames Ditton, and today he answers his door promptly and shows us inside, directly into his living room, which is furnished with a large, single sofa and chair, both very soft and comfortable looking, and a low coffee table. There’s a deep brick fireplace, which takes up most of one wall, and a door, which seems to lead through to the kitchen, at the rear of the property. It’s small, but really rather charming. The man himself is exactly what I’d expected him to be: tall, dark, and handsome. Just like Elizabeth Sutton’s description, in fact. He’s dressed in a three-piece suit, and appears rather flustered.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks, standing in the middle of the room. He doesn’t offer us seats, so we stand too, and while Mr Cooke may be tall, both Thompson and I are taller, to the point where my head almost touches the living room ceiling.

  “As I said, we’ve come to speak to you about Amy Sanderson.”

  “And as I said, I’m not sure how I can help.”

  “Well…” I look him in the eyes. “I suppose you could start by telling me about your relationship with Amy’s mother.”

  His eyes close, just for a second, and when he opens them again, he sighs out a breath. It’s as though he’s accepted his situation and he takes a step back and indicates the sofa behind us. “Take a seat,” he says, and sits himself down in the chair.

  Thompson and I perch on the edge of the sofa, unwilling to get too comfortable in its deep cushions, and Thompson takes out his notebook, poised.

  “I assume you’ve already spoken to Lillian?” Mr Cooke says.

  “Yes.”

  He nods. “In which case, you know that we’ve been seeing each other for some time now. You might also like to know that she’s absolutely miserable with Daniel and has been since before baby Eve was born.”

  A thought strikes me. “I assume the baby is Mr Sanderson’s and not yours?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No. She’s Daniel’s. Lillian and I only started seeing each other when Eve was about five months old. And I’ve never been very interested in children, Inspector. Lillian is aware of that.” He leans forward. “I love her though,” he says earnestly. “And if she were free, I’d marry her tomorrow.”

  “Even though, in marrying her, you’d be taking on her children?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Well, not necessarily. I imagine Daniel would have something to say about that.”

  “And Mrs Sanderson wouldn’t?”

  He stares at me, then looks away. Is he really suggesting she’d put her relationship with him before her own children? Or perhaps he just likes to hope that?

  “Is Mr Sanderson aware of your affair?” I ask him.

  “We’re not sure,” he replies, his tone thoughtful. “Sometimes Lillian thinks he is, but at other times, she’s convinced he’s not even remotely interested in what she does. He’s become rather wrapped up in the children’s nanny, from what I’ve gathered…” So she has noticed, despite her apparent indifference. He smiles. It’s rather a lewd, unpleasant expression, which makes his face a lot less handsome. “Sometimes, when Lillian and I are here…” He rolls his eyes upwards, indicating the bedroom, no doubt. “… she jokes that, in an ideal world, she and I could run away and go and live somewhere by ourselves – maybe on a desert island, far from prying eyes – and Daniel could stay in the house, with the nanny and the children, playing at happy families.” He focuses on me and his smile fades. “Of course, this current situation… well, it changes everything.”

  I take a breath, swallowing down my contempt. “Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday afternoon?” I ask.

  “Um… I was with clients.”

  “Can I have their names, please?”

  Thompson turns the page of his notebook, rather purposefully.

  “I’m afraid our clients’ names are confidential.”

  “Not when it comes to a missing child, they’re not.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.” I get to my feet, knowing how imposing it makes me, even with a broken arm.

  “W—What for?”

  “Obstruction.”

  He sits right back in his chair and sighs. “Very well,” he says. “I wasn’t with a client… not all afternoon, anyway.”

  “Where were you then?”

  I sit back down and wait.

  “I was here. With Lillian.” He looks up. “She managed to get out of the house and met me at about twelve-thirty. We came back here for half an hour, or maybe a few minutes longer, and then we both had to leave. She had to get home, and I had my first meeting to get to… a real one. I should have been there at one, but I was late. The manager doesn’t know, and I don’t want him to find out. I’d told him the meeting was due to start at twelve o’clock, which gave me time to get away and meet Lillian. The meeting was actually due to start at one, but I didn’t even get there until nearly twenty past. As it turned out the client was running late himself and didn’t notice, but if the manager found out what I’d been doing…”

  “I imagine you’d be fired.” I finish his sentence and his eyes widen.

  “Yes,” he breathes.

  “Why didn’t you just say you were seeing Mrs Sanderson in the first place?” I ask him. “We’re aware of your relationship.”

  “I have my career to think of,” he blusters, his face reddening slightly.

  I want to tell him that it might have been better if he’d thought about that before he started sleeping with another man’s wife, but I don’t. I’m not sure I’m the most impartial judge when it comes to cheating.

  Thompson turns the car around and we drive towards Long Ditton.

  “You didn’t like him, did you?” he says quietly.

  “Did it show?”

  “Only a little bit.”

  “Well, that’s a shame.” I look over at him. “What’s wrong with these people?” He doesn’t reply, so I continue, “Why do they get married, if all they’re going to do is cheat on each other? Mrs Sanderson told me yesterday that her husband is old and boring, and dull and cold.”

  “That’s possibly why she’s cheating?” Thompson suggests.

  “But then why marry him in the first place? She must have realised the age gap would show sooner or later; it’s bound to, when there are more than a few years between a couple, isn’t it?”

  “Are we talking about Mr and Mrs Sanderson, or you and Amelie?” he asks.

  I’m inclined to forget sometimes, how well he knows me.

  “Both,” I reply quietly.

  “Well, in that case, you’re being ridiculous and you need to grow up.” His voice is harsh, but his comment makes me smile.

  “Isn’t that rather the point? I’m too much of a grown-up for Amelie. I’m being selfish, tying her to a marriage with a much older man.”

  “For crying out loud.” With a sharp movement of the wheel, he pulls the car over to the side of the road and parks, turning in his seat to look at me. “You’re about the least selfish person I know, Rufus,” he says, raising his voice a little, “but in any case, the problem isn’t with you, or with Amelie, or your age, or hers. It’s this bloody case. You know that just as well as I do. Cases like this do strange things – they make you see the dark side of everything.” He stops and takes a breath, and I take advantage.

  “So you really don’t think it’s a problem?”

  He sighs. “No. But if you’re that worried about it, can I point out that the age gap between you and Amelie isn’t anywhere near as big as it is between Mr and Mrs Sanderson.”

  “It’s big enough. Amelie’s thirteen years younger than me.”

  “So?” He raises his voice again. “At the risk of sounding soft, she’s also in love with you, and you’re in love with her. You’re so in love, it’s bloody sickening sometimes.” He smiles. “Do you honestly think I believed yo
ur cock-and-bull story about going to buy Amelie a Christmas present the other day? I mean, I know you came back with one, but you were really looking for an engagement ring, weren’t you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because you’re about as transparent as glass. Just propose to her, will you? And put us all out of our misery.”

  He turns back to face the front and pulls the car out onto the road again. I can’t help smiling, even though I’m still determined to speak to Amelie this evening, because only she can really set my mind – and my heart – at rest.

  Lois lets us into the Sanderson house, her hands shaking, her face flushed.

  “Is everything alright?” I ask.

  “No. The master’s in an awful to-do,” she says, a deep frown on her forehead.

  “What’s happened?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “In his study.”

  I nod my head and hand her my hat, going directly to Sanderson’s study door. I can hear his raised voice, and knock once, letting myself in, with Thompson close behind.

  He glares at me, the phone held tightly to his ear.

  “I don’t care!” he’s saying into the mouthpiece. “You should have contacted me right away. How could you be so irresponsible?” He slams the phone down. “Unbelievable!”

  “What’s happened?” I repeat my question, to him this time.

  “An envelope came in the post this morning, addressed to me personally at the shop,” he says, between huffed out breaths, as he paces the floor behind his desk, running his fingers through his hair. “My secretary thought it looked odd, compared to the sort of correspondence we usually receive, and was about to open it when the phone rang and she got waylaid. She’s only just remembered – two hours later – and called me.”

  “And?” I prompt.

  “And it’s a ransom note,” he replies, wide-eyed and pale.

  “May I?” I nod towards his telephone and he pushes it in my direction, his hands shaking now, although I’m not sure whether that’s with residual anger, or with fear.

  Picking up the receiver, I ask to be connected to the London Road station, where my call is answered by PC Adams. I give him detailed instructions to get someone to go around to Mr Sanderson’s shop, to collect the note – in an evidence bag – and bring it directly to me at the house. Immediately. Adams understands and we hang up.

  “You need to sit down,” I say to Mr Sanderson, who’s still pacing.

  He looks up again, and then does as I suggest, pulling out his chair and sitting down heavily. “Do you think this means she’s still alive?” he asks, blinking quickly a few times, as though to hold back threatening tears. I’m quite surprised; it’s the first time I’ve seen him show any real emotional reaction about his daughter.

  “I don’t know what it means,” I reply honestly, making an effort to keep my voice much more calm and considered than I previously have in his presence. “Let’s wait and see what the letter says, shall we?”

  PC Adams himself arrives about half an hour later, with a small evidence bag, which he hands over to me on the doorstep, before leaving again.

  I take the bag into the living room, where Mr Sanderson, Sergeant Thompson, and I moved not long after the end of his telephone call. His wife is also there and, other than a change of clothes, she looks no different to yesterday; still staring at a point in space, distanced from everything around her. This remoteness troubles me. I know now that she would have left her children for her lover, but surely she must care about her daughter, mustn’t she?

  Sitting down on the sofa, I take the single sheet of paper from the envelope, being careful to touch it only on its edges, and place it on the table. We all lean forward – even Mrs Sanderson, just for a moment, although she soon seems to grow bored, and sits back again – and read the printed words, which state that, for the sum of two hundred pounds, Amy’s whereabouts will be notified to her parents. I check the amount again, just to make certain I haven’t misread it. No, it is only two hundred pounds, in five pound notes, to be left on the park bench, near to where the girl was last seen. The time given for the ‘drop’ is eleven pm tomorrow night, and when the money is collected, a note will be left, giving the address where Amy can be found. Needless to say, they warn against any police involvement.

  I’m surprised by how little the demand is for. My impression is that the family is worth a lot more than this, which points towards an amateur… although there’s something nagging at the back of my mind, that it’s another strange element to this case, another piece of the jigsaw that doesn’t fit. Between the peculiar attitude of both Mr and Mrs Sanderson, both towards each other, and their situation, the fact that I’m fairly sure the nanny is using her feminine wiles to hide something, and that no-one witnessed Amy’s disappearance, even though it now seems she may have been snatched by someone in the middle of the day, and now this odd ransom note, I’m as confused as I think I’ve ever been. If only I wasn’t so tired, I could probably connect it all together, but as it is…

  I glance up at Mr Sanderson, who’s looking at me with a puzzled expression on his face, which isn’t surprising, as I’ve just been sitting here for quite a while now, staring at the note, mulling things over. “Can you raise the sum of money?” I ask him.

  “Yes. Easily.” He speaks slowly and deliberately, and I assume he’s as confused as I am by the comparatively paltry request. “I’ll have to arrange to withdraw it from the bank, obviously,” he adds. “I don’t keep sums of money like that in the house… I don’t have a safe here.”

  I nod my head. “Perhaps you should contact your bank to arrange that. I’d suggest you make an appointment for tomorrow morning,” I say as he gets to his feet and walks towards the door. “And don’t tell them what you need the money for.”

  He nods his head and departs.

  “When he comes back, I’ll have to speak to Webster,” I whisper to Thompson, although I’m fairly sure Mrs Sanderson isn’t listening. “I’ll need to update him.”

  Thompson nods his head and I glance over at Mrs Sanderson, but she’s staring out of the window now, as though none of this affects her. Part of me is pleased in a way that she can remain so untouched by the disappearance of her daughter, but another part of me wants to shake her and ask her what on earth is wrong with her. I know in her shoes, I’d be going mad with worry, and I’m fairly sure Thompson feels the same, judging from the frown on his face whenever he looks at her.

  The door opens and Mr Sanderson comes back in. “It’s arranged for ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” he says.

  I get to my feet. “Good. I have to go and telephone my Chief Superintendent,” I tell him. “I’ll leave you with Sergeant Thompson. You can start to discuss the arrangements between you, if you like.”

  “Arrangements?” Sanderson queries.

  “Yes. Sergeant Thompson will be going to the bank with you,” I explain.

  For a moment, I think Sanderson is about to argue with me, but he sighs and nods his head instead, and I go out into the hallway, closing the door and going along to the study.

  Webster’s response to my phone call is one of surprise, even though he’s heard of the ransom note already, via the station grapevine. Like me, I suppose, he didn’t expect a demand to arrive so long after the girl’s disappearance.

  “Ordinarily, I’d say ‘no’ to paying ransoms,” he says, his voice rather stern. “But in this instance, as it’s a young child, and she’s already been missing for several days… and the family can raise the money quite easily, I think you should go ahead.”

  “I’m rather relieved you said that, sir, because I’ve had Mr Sanderson make the arrangements with his bank already.”

  There’s a moment’s silence. “In that case, why are you telephoning me?”

  I cough. “Because I’m going to need some additional men on watch at the drop site tomorrow evening.”

  “I see.” I c
an hear the tension; actually, I can almost feel it.

  “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve overstepped the mark, sir,” I say. “But something doesn’t fit here.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “The amount for a start. It’s so small.”

  “Two hundred pounds is a lot of money,” he reasons.

  “Not to this family.”

  “So you think our kidnapper is a bit of an amateur?”

  “I’m not even sure they’re a kidnapper. I suppose what I’m wondering is whether we might be dealing with an opportunistic hoaxer.”

  “It’s a possibility,” he allows.

  “Either way, we have to go ahead, just in case, but it doesn’t feel right to me.” None of it does.

  “Copper’s instinct?” he suggests.

  “Something like that.”

  There’s a slight pause, before he says, “Very well, Stone. You have the run of things. Just keep me informed.” I thought I was. “Just so you know, the extra men have been sent to the search area this morning. I understand Sergeant Tooley is taking charge of them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll get a message to him to find a few volunteers to work late tomorrow night, to cover your surveillance.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I put down the telephone and stare up at the ceiling, wondering whether he’ll be as lenient and understanding if I mess this up.

  When I get back into the drawing room, Mrs Sanderson has disappeared.

  “My wife has gone upstairs to rest,” her husband explains and I sit down beside Sergeant Thompson as Mr Sanderson keeps his eyes fixed on me. “Can I assume this latest development means you’ll call off the search?” he asks.

  “No, sir.” I shake my head. “We’ll keep looking for the time being.”

  His brow furrows in confusion. “But why?” He nods towards the note, which is still lying on the table, and I pick it up, glancing at it once more before carefully placing it back in its envelope. Reading quickly through the words, I’m struck by the correctness of the English, the spelling and the punctuation. There’s not a full stop or comma out of place, and while I don’t have a huge amount of experience in ransom notes, I’d have thought that was fairly unusual.