The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  “Thank you for saying that, Amelie,” I whisper and she leans into me rather temptingly, which makes me groan slightly, despite my best attempts at self control, and a smile forms on her perfect lips as I let my hand drop to her thigh, resting it there and, if I’m being honest, holding her in place, because if she moves any closer, she’s going to find out the effect she’s having on my body. “I needed to hear it,” I add.

  “I know,” she murmurs. “Except you didn’t. Not really. You just thought you did. Deep down, you know I love you, and I’ll never, ever hurt you.”

  “God… I love you so much.” Our lips touch once more, the heat flaring between us to a fever pitch. “We have to stop,” I say, when she pulls back, breathless, panting, her fingers still entwined in my hair.

  “We do?” She looks disappointed, but there’s that impish smile I love so much twitching at the corners of her mouth.

  “Yes. You’re too… tempting.” Her smile widens.

  “And you think you’re not?”

  “I have absolutely no idea, but what I am certain about is that we said we’d wait… and at the moment, with you sitting on me like this, I’m not sure I can.”

  She stares at me, her eyes reading mine. “Do you want me to move?” she says.

  “Well, I didn’t say that,” I reason, and she grins. “But maybe we should try talking about something else. Something less… provocative than how much we love, and want, and need each other?”

  “Even if we do… love, and want, and need each other?” she whispers.

  “Yes, even then.” I lean forward and kiss the tip of her nose and she giggles, which doesn’t help my cause at all.

  “Very well,” she says, and leans back just a little. “If you insist… Actually, I have a favour to ask.”

  “You do?” I’m all too aware that my hand is still resting on her thigh, but I’m enjoying the intimacy of touching her, despite everything I’ve just said.

  “Yes,” she says rather dreamily as she starts to fiddle with my shirt buttons and I tilt my head to one side, staring at her.

  “Is that meant to help?” I nod towards her hands, a smile forming on my lips.

  “What?” She looks down to where she’s twisted a button undone, and pulls away sharply, blushing. “Oh. Sorry. I was distracted.”

  “So am I,” I point out. “I’m just trying – despite the obvious temptations – to be a gentleman.”

  She leans forward, her arms around my neck, and kisses my cheeks, one at a time. “In that case, I thank you,” she says, full of mischief again.

  “So… about this favour?” I take the coward’s option and steer us to safer ground.

  “Yes,” she says. “I was wondering if you might be available at the weekend.”

  “I’m not sure.” Her face falls. “I’m sorry, darling,” I add quickly, “but it depends on the case.”

  She nods her head. “Yes, of course.”

  “What do you need me for?” I ask.

  “All kinds of things,” she replies, pursing her lips to avoid smiling.

  “Are you teasing me again?”

  “No. I do need you for all kinds of things… Like kissing…” And she kisses me very briefly on the lips. “And holding hands.” She takes my hand from her thigh and holds it in hers, entwining our fingers, looking at them closely, as though intrigued.

  “You’re utterly enchanting, you know that, don’t you?”

  She reverts her gaze to me. “No. But everything we do is so new, I’m fascinated by it all… I mean, just look at our fingers when we’re holding hands… It’s like we’re the same person. I can’t tell which is your hand and which is mine. Not really…” Her voice fades to a whisper.

  “And that’s just how it should be. We are one and the same person, Amelie.”

  She smiles. “We are, aren’t we.” It’s not a question, so I don’t answer, but I rest my forehead against hers and savour a very special moment.

  It’s Amelie who sits back first, looking down at me. “It’s about the Christmas tree,” she says, rather unexpectedly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This weekend. I wondered if you’d be free to help me decorate it.” She’s looking down at our still coiled fingers and biting her lip.

  “Won’t your uncle want to do it with you?” I ask her and she shakes her head, not looking up at me.

  “I doubt it. He doesn’t usually come home during the last weekend before Christmas. He always used to tell us that he had to finish off his work in London before the festivities, but now of course, I know that what he really meant was that he wanted to spend time with her, being as he wouldn’t see her over Christmas, because of his family duties here. What he’ll be doing this year, I don’t know. He hasn’t said yet.” Her bitterness over her uncle’s infidelity is still raw and I wonder if she’ll ever get past this. “Decorating the tree…” she continues falteringly. “It—It’s something I always used to do with Beth…” Her voice cracks and I take my hand from hers, pulling her close to me, crushing her tight to my chest, while she rests her head on my shoulder.

  “I’ll find the time, my darling,” I murmur. “I promise.”

  Chapter Five

  My darling,

  I’m so grateful for your letter. Your words, your precious words, make me feel so loved, so wanted… so desired. Just knowing that you care so much, and that you’re thinking of me, even though we can’t be together, it means everything to me.

  You won’t be aware yet, because the police are keeping it out of the newspapers, but a ransom note was received yesterday morning. This has given everyone a renewed hope that Amy is still alive and I suppose they might be right. After all, a kidnapper would hardly send a ransom note for a dead child, would they? The money is due to be dropped off late tonight, so we should have her back within a few hours from now… and then the police will be gone, ‘his lordship’ will return to work, life can revert to normal, and I can see you again.

  Is that very selfish of me?

  Is it awful of me to be so desperate for your kisses, for your lips, your touch… your words, while you love me? Is it terrible of me that, when I know I should be worrying about Amy, or thinking of Eve, or trying to get on with my life, the only thought in my head is you, my darling?

  Please God… let this be over soon.

  With all my love, my dearest one,

  Your Kitten xx

  *****

  On the journey to the Sanderson house this morning, it’s been very difficult to concentrate on anything at all. My mind is filled with images and memories of my evening with Amelie. Her kindness, her words, her breathless need – which only matches my own – have banished all my doubts and scattered them to the four winds.

  “You seem more cheerful this morning,” Thompson says, even though he’s concentrating on driving.

  “That would be because I am. It’s amazing what an evening spent with Amelie, and a good night’s sleep will do.”

  “Did you work everything out with her?” he asks.

  “If you’re asking whether I proposed, the answer is ‘no’. But we talked. It was… helpful.” I choose my words carefully, because around Harry Thompson, it’s best to.

  “Helpful?” He shakes his head, smiling. “Is that a euphemism for…”

  “It’s not a euphemism for anything.” I cut him off before he completely lowers the tone of the conversation. “We talked. That’s all.” I’m not going to tell him how close we came to doing a lot more than talking – because I’m still a gentleman. Just.

  He pulls onto the Sanderson’s driveway and parks the car and I can feel our moods dropping. “Let’s hope today goes better than I think it will,” he says.

  “You think it’s a hoax, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” He turns to look at me. “But we have to go through the motions, don’t we?”

  I nod my head, knowing that the first of those ‘motions’ is for Harry to accompany Mr Sanderson to the bank to
collect the ransom money.

  Thompson and Mr Sanderson have been gone about ten minutes. They expect their journey to take no more than three quarters of an hour, all told, so I’m waiting at the house for them, and when they get back, it’s intended that we’ll go over the plan for this evening’s drop off of the money, and then Thompson and I will return to the station for a while.

  Mrs Sanderson is still upstairs. As far as I can understand it, she hasn’t come down at all yet today, and I’ve been sitting in the drawing room by myself, when Lois brings me in some coffee on a small tray. It’s the first time I’ve been served any refreshments here, apart from when Mrs Slater gave me a cup of tea in the kitchen on that first afternoon, and I find myself rather surprised by her entrance.

  “Cook and I thought you might like some coffee,” Lois says, putting the tray down on the table in front of me.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.” She’s just straightening up, when there’s a loud, urgent and continuous knocking on the door, and she yelps in surprise as it stops, and then starts again after a few moments’ pause. I get to my feet and say, “It’s alright. I’ll come with you,” taking in the worried expression on her face.

  She nods her head and we both go out into the hall, where she opens the front door tentatively, to reveal a constable, who I don’t know, standing on the other side, his helmet tucked neatly under his arm. He looks pale and slightly fearful.

  “What’s going on, Constable?” I step forward.

  “Sorry… are you Inspector Stone?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “In that case…” He glances at Lois, and then continues, “Sergeant Tooley says would you mind coming with me… right away, please, sir?”

  He stares at me, rather hard, willing me to understand. And I do. Something’s happened. And it’s not good.

  I turn, and discover that Lois is already holding out my coat and hat, which I take from her, with thanks, before exiting the house.

  “Tell me you brought a car,” I murmur to the constable as we walk up the driveway.

  “It’s parked outside,” he replies.

  “Good.”

  We climb into the Wolseley and he turns it around, driving back down the road at speed. I don’t bother to ask him what’s happened. Apart from the fact that I’m fairly sure Tooley will have instructed him to just get me to wherever I’m going, I’ve got a fairly good idea already. And besides, I’d rather just find out for myself, first hand, than have another man’s perceptions of what I’m about to see.

  “What’s your name, Constable?”

  “Beresford, sir.”

  “Right. Well, when you’ve dropped me off, Constable Beresford, I want you to go back to the house and wait for Sergeant Thompson to return. Tell him to come and find me, will you?”

  The constable nods his head.

  “But – and this is very important – do not tell Mr and Mrs Sanderson anything yet. Do you understand? I need to see what we’re dealing with first. If they ask, just tell them that there’s been a development and that I’ll come back and report to them as soon as I can.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  When we get to the small park, which I’d decided wasn’t worth searching, due to the lack of hiding places, Beresford turns the car left, into Effingham Road, and I keep my eyes open, wondering which house I should be looking at. After a few hundred yards, however, he turns again, to the right this time, and shortly afterwards, parks the car, behind several other police vehicles, alongside the other recreation ground. I feel a chill run down my spine, but I ignore it and climb from the passenger seat.

  Tooley is standing by the gate and comes over to me, his expression grim.

  “You’ve found her?” I don’t wait for him to state the obvious and he nods his head. “Where?”

  He points to the far corner of the park, away off in the distance, where there’s a small shelter of some kind. A shed, perhaps? There are a couple of uniformed officers standing in front of it and I glance back at Tooley.

  “Here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bloody hell,” I mutter, under my breath, and we start to walk towards the building – if you can call it that.

  “We’d just about finished the house-to-house searches,” Tooley explains, walking beside me. “And we got to the park itself this morning…” His voice fades and I glance at his whitened features before taking in my surroundings. Most of the grass has been dug up, with the exception of about the first fifteen feet or so, where there are some children’s swings and a slide, on the far side, although they’re fenced off at the moment. Walking in silence now, we stick to the pathway, until we get to the shed.

  PC Wells is there, looking pale, along with another constable I don’t recognise.

  “Sir,” Wells says, nodding his head.

  I return the gesture and, steeling myself for the worst, go into the wooden structure through the flimsy door, stopping on the threshold.

  “Was this locked?” I ask.

  “No, sir,” Wells replies.

  “And who found her?”

  “I did,” he says.

  I don’t reply, but turn back into the room, letting my eyes adjust to its dimness. There are no windows, so it’s hard to see, but even so, I can make out the small figure lying on the floor in the corner, her body flat against the wall. I observe the neatly piled tools and garden implements; spades, shovels, forks, and a large pile of string. I pick up a single strand, which I note is of considerable length, coiled around and around itself, and see that it has a small wooden stake attached at either end. The other pieces of string are all identical, with similar pieces of wood tied to them, and I drop the one I’m holding, shaking my head. I have no idea what that is for and at the moment I don’t care.

  Turning, I move across the room and crouch down by the child, recognising her straight away from her photograph. Her hair, which is peeping out from her hat, is the same shade of red as her mother’s. Her pale green eyes are open and staring, and she has pouting lips, which are a blueish purple, but which I imagine would have been pink. Her nose tips up at the end and she has a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks, although one of them is bruised, quite badly. She’s wearing a thick, pale blue coat, which is still fastened, but… my stomach churns and I try not to retch… her red dress has been pulled up and her underwear removed. I put my hand over my mouth and close my eyes, in an attempt to erase that image… even though I know I never will.

  Opening them again and swallowing down the bile that’s gathered in my throat, I notice that her legs have turned a blueish grey in colour, from the cold, and that her short white socks are dirty. One of her shoes has come off and is lying on its side and I reach over and pick it up, holding it in my hand for a moment, before putting it down on the ground.

  Very gently, I rest my hand on her cold head. “I’m sorry, Amy,” I murmur under my breath, and then slowly, I get to my feet.

  Outside, Tooley, Wells and the other constable are standing waiting.

  “Have you let the doctor know?” I ask Tooley, surprising myself by being so calm.

  “Yes, sir. He’s on his way.”

  I nod and turn to Wells. “Was the body concealed in any way?”

  “It was covered with some old rags, sir,” he replies. “But her foot was sticking out. I saw it the moment I went in there.”

  “So the workmen couldn’t have missed it?”

  “No, sir. Although there were no workmen here when we arrived.”

  “And does anyone know why they have so much string in here, with those little pieces of wood attached at either end?”

  The unnamed constable peers inside the shed. “That’ll be for digging the trenches,” he says.

  “Excuse me?” I look down at him and he stands upright, as though to attention.

  “This area’s being dug for potatoes, isn’t it, sir?” he asks.

  “That’s my understanding, yes.”

  “In
that case, when they come to dig the trenches, they’ll put those bits of string along the ground, holding them in place with those wooden stakes, and then dig along them, making sure they keep in a straight line, before planting the potatoes.”

  “I see… And your name is?”

  “PC Miller, sir.”

  “Well, thank you, PC Miller. Just out of interest, does anyone know where the workmen are? And why they failed to report the girl’s body lying in their shed?”

  They all shake their heads and I look up, noticing a small group of people standing near the gates to the park. There are two constables stopping them from entering, but I fancy I might find out more about the absentee, or unobservant workmen from the prying eyes of the local neighbours than from any official enquiry.

  “Stay here,” I say quietly and make my way back to the entrance. Close to the front of the group is a middle aged woman, with a pale green headscarf and rosy cheeks. She’s watching my every step and I find myself addressing her directly, even though my question is aimed at the group in general: “Does anyone here know where the workmen are? Or why they’re not here today?”

  The woman folds her arms across her chest. “They haven’t been here for over a week now,” she says with a single nod of her head. “One of them told me their job was just to remove the swings and slide from the other side of the park…” She points towards the opposite corner to where the shed is situated. “Then to clear the turf away. He said a different team has to come in and do the actual digging of the trenches and the planting. And I believe a third team will come at the end to reposition the swings and slide… that’s why they’re fenced off at the moment, so none of the kids can use them when they’re not safe.”

  “Completely disorganised, if you ask me,” someone mumbles behind her and there’s a general murmuring of assent.

  “Waste of bloody time,” says someone else.

  I notice a car pulling up along the street and thank them for their assistance. “What’s happened?” the woman asks. “Is it that little girl? The one who was missing?”