The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  “Can you give me details of what you and Miss Sutton did?”

  “You want details? Of what we did? Is that usual?”

  I tilt my head and glare at him. “I just need timings. That’s all.”

  He takes a drag of his cigarette. “Well, she came first,” he smirks, blowing smoke up in the air. “Does that help?”

  “Not particularly.” I refuse to be baited and sit forward in my chair, making myself as large as possible, without actually standing up. “We can do this here, or at the police station, Mr Curtis. I don’t mind which.”

  He looks across at me. “Alright,” he murmurs. “I met her at just after twelve-thirty.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “And?”

  “And we kept ourselves entertained for just over half an hour. She couldn’t spare any longer because they’d only given her an hour or so off, and it had taken her ten minutes to walk here, and she still had to get dressed and walk back. Still, half an hour with Lizzie is like a whole night with a lot of other women. Trust me… I’ve tried more than my fair share.” Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.

  “So she left here at one?” I ask, ignoring his remarks.

  “There or there abouts… probably a few minutes after, I’d have said.”

  “And you went back to work?”

  “Yes. Well, I grabbed a quick sandwich first, and then I went back. I’ve got witnesses for that, if you need them. Obviously I don’t have any for my time with Lizzie. She’s not into being watched.” He smirks again. “She has her little kinks, but that’s not one of them.”

  I know he’s trying to goad me, so I stand. He does too, but he’s a good few inches shorter than me, even when he pulls himself up to his full height. “You haven’t been called up yet?” I ask.

  “No. I’ve just been granted exemption.”

  “Medical?”

  “No. On the grounds of my job. Because of the work we’re doing at the moment, I’ve been given reserved status.”

  I nod my head. “I see. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Curtis. If we need anything else, we know where to find you.”

  “Is that it?” he asks.

  “For now, yes. Did you expect something else?”

  He hesitates. “No… I mean, I don’t know. I’ve never been questioned by the police before.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

  “I suppose,” he mumbles, and then takes a half step forward. “Was it her?” he asks.

  “Was what her?”

  “Was it Lizzie who put you onto me?”

  I stare at him for a moment and then turn away, deliberately leaving him to mull that over for himself.

  Downstairs, we let ourselves out onto the street again, where the air feels remarkably fresh, and not just because we’re no longer in a smoke filled room.

  As we sit back in the car, Thompson stares out through the windscreen. “Was I ever like that?” he asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “When we knew each other before… when I had my fair share of women… was I ever that arrogant?”

  “No. Never.” I turn in my seat, facing him. “Care to revise your opinion of Miss Sutton now?” I ask.

  “In what way?”

  “I think you called her a tease. ‘All promise and no delivery’ were your words, if I remember rightly.”

  He smiles, shaking his head. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you have a complete understanding of women now, are you?” he says.

  “I don’t think there’s a man alive who can claim that, Harry,” I chuckle.

  “No, there probably isn’t,” he agrees, then adds, “Do you think Curtis knows how much she flirts with every man she meets?”

  “I doubt it,” I reply. “I shouldn’t think he’d be contemplating marriage if he did. But then, who knows? Perhaps he gets a thrill from her behaviour… they seem the type.”

  He starts the car and shakes his head slowly as he begins the drive over to Thames Ditton.

  David Cooke is at home and answers the door promptly to my knock.

  “You again?”

  It’s not the most polite of greetings, but I’ve heard worse, and just reply, “Yes,” and wait to be invited in. It takes him a moment, but he eventually steps back, presumably because he has no desire for his personal business to be conducted on his doorstep.

  We stand in his living room, but he doesn’t invite us to sit, making it clear we won’t be staying for long – not if he has anything to do with it.

  “We’ve come to inform you that Mrs Sanderson has confirmed that she was with you on the day her daughter went missing,” I say, breaking the silence that’s starting to stretch.

  “So? I hardly needed you to confirm that. I know where I was.”

  I’m not in the mood for him, or his tone. “And I’ve also come to inform you that I don’t want you to leave the area, not without letting me know.”

  His face whitens in an instant. It’s funny how using that phrase always gets a person’s attention. Never fails. “Excuse me?”

  “I think you heard and understood me, Mr Cooke. I’m sure you’re aware that Amy Sanderson’s body was found on Friday. What you won’t be aware of is that she was sexually assaulted.” He turns even whiter. “That means we’re looking for a man in connection with her murder.”

  “A—And… and you think I—I…” he stutters, leaving his sentence hanging.

  “I don’t think anything yet, sir. I’m just asking you not to leave the area until further notice, without advising me first.”

  “But how could you even think I’d do something so… so vile? H—Has Lillian said something?”

  “Why would you think Mrs Sanderson might say something?”

  “Why else would you be questioning me and telling me not to leave the area? It has to have come from her, doesn’t it?”

  I don’t answer him, because I don’t have to. “Can you give me the name of the client you saw on Tuesday afternoon, when you’d finished with Mrs Sanderson?”

  “I’ve already explained,” he says, taking a step away and running his fingers through his hair, “my manager doesn’t know I was late for the appointment. I’ll get into serious trouble…”

  “Listen, Mr Cooke,” I interrupt, keeping my voice level and even, but slightly menacing at the same time, just for effect, “I didn’t object too much when you chose to conceal your whereabouts the other day, because at the time we were investigating Amy’s disappearance, which either meant she’d wandered off, or been taken, and I couldn’t for the life of me think why you would have kidnapped the child, given that you have no interest in Mrs Sanderson’s offspring. But now things have changed. We’re investigating a murder. So, if you don’t tell me precisely where you were, I’ll arrest you. How do you think your manager would react to that? Especially when he knows the charges relate to the rape and murder of a four year old girl?”

  “Ellison,” he says quickly. “His name’s Ralph Ellison.”

  I’m aware of Thompson making notes. “His address?”

  “He lives in Watts Road. Oakley House. He’s one of the bank’s most important customers.”

  I nod my head. “We’ll be discreet,” I tell him and turn towards the door. “You haven’t been called up yet then?” I ask, recalling my question to Donald Curtis, and feeling intrigued.

  “No,” he replies. “I went for my medical not long ago and they discovered I’ve got a heart murmur.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, doing my best to sound sincere.

  “It’s nothing serious.” He shrugs. “It’s not life threatening or anything. But it’s enough to prevent me from being called up – or so it seems.” He looks up. “I’ve got the letter of exemption, if you need to see it.” He’s being very obliging all of a sudden, but I still don’t like him.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Thompson and I leave and walk back to the car, which is
parked a little way down the road, and he turns to me as we approach it.

  “I’ll say something for you,” he remarks, smiling. “When you don’t like someone, you really don’t like them.”

  Back at the station, Doctor Wyatt is waiting for me in my room, which is a surprise, given that it’s Sunday, and Thompson comes in to join us, the two of them sitting opposite me at my desk.

  “What have you got for us, Doctor?” I ask, leaning forward on my elbows.

  “I’ve done the preliminary report,” he replies as he places a brown file on my desk, looking worried. “But there’s a problem.”

  “There is?”

  He nods his head. “She was killed by a blow to the back of the head,” he confirms. “There’s no doubt about that. I’ve found traces of earth and concrete in the wound.”

  “So a brick?” Thompson suggests.

  “I said concrete, not brick dust, and not cement either.” Wyatt turns to him, frowning and Thompson looks at me, raising his eyebrows.

  “Okay, so what are you implying?” I ask.

  “I’m not implying anything, although if you want me to do your job for you, I’d say that the bruise on her cheek is suggestive of her having been struck across the face, and her falling to the ground and banging her head. But it’s your job to prove that… I’m just telling you what I’ve found. It’s up to you to work out what it means.”

  “Very well.” I ignore his moodiness. It’s understandable. He’s almost certainly as tired as the rest of us; and I don’t envy him the job he’s been doing either. “You said there was a problem?”

  “Yes.” He shakes his head. “I examined her… thoroughly,” he says. “And there was no trace of semen either on or in her body, or on her clothing.”

  I feel a little sick, but swallow it down. “Well, maybe he didn’t climax,” I point out. “He might have been interrupted. Or he could have used a condom, couldn’t he?”

  He frowns. “Do you think that’s likely?”

  “He might have pulled out, mightn’t he?” Thompson suggests, his voice reflecting his own state of mind, which I imagine to be roughly the same as my own.

  “I doubt it,” Wyatt replies. “Why would he bother? And in any case, I said there was no semen. None. Usually there would be a trace, even if it was only minute.”

  “But what are the alternatives?” I ask. “I mean…”

  He holds up his hand, stopping me from speaking. “I don’t know yet. I’ll need to carry out further examinations and tests before I can pass judgement and give you my final report. It might take me another day or two.” He gets to his feet and looks down at me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, Doctor. I know you’re doing your best. And I’m sorry too, but now that you’ve completed your initial investigations, I’m afraid we need to get Mr Sanderson to do a formal identification.”

  He sighs. “Very well. I’ll prepare the body for tomorrow morning.”

  He turns to leave, just as Sergeant Tooley knocks on the door and comes in.

  “Inspector?” he says, then looks up, glancing around. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were busy.”

  “That’s alright, Sergeant. You can speak freely.”

  He comes over to the desk, standing beside the doctor. “I’ve just come from the recreation ground in Ewell Road,” he says. “We’ve found traces of what I think is blood on a small area of the pathway.”

  “Whereabouts in the park?” I ask him.

  “It’s quite close to the entrance,” he replies. “Just along to the right, on the edge of the path.”

  I turn to the doctor. “Would that account for the earth and concrete you found in the wound?” I ask him.

  “Possibly.” He rubs his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “I’ll go over there for myself and take a look.”

  I nod my head and turn back to Tooley. “Perhaps you could accompany the doctor and show him the site yourself?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “And I’ll send Prentice over as well, to see if he can get any samples,” I add as they’re leaving.

  “I’m not sure there’s enough blood for that,” Tooley says, stopping.

  “It’s worth a try.” They turn, but I call Tooley back. “Is there any sign of the girl’s underwear?” I ask him.

  “No, sir.”

  I nod my head. “So it looks like he may have taken it with him…” Tooley raises his eyebrows but says nothing and turns again, leaving with the doctor. “Call Prentice, will you?” I say to Thompson, once we’re alone. He nods in agreement. “Ask him to go to the park. And then call Mr Sanderson and set up the identification at the mortuary for ten o’clock on Monday morning.”

  He stands. “Do you think we might be getting somewhere?” he says, the hope in his voice unmistakeable.

  “Who knows?” I shrug my shoulders. “If there’s as little blood as Tooley says, it might not tell us anything, other than where the girl died.”

  Thompson sighs deeply. “Yes, I suppose.”

  “We will find him, Harry.”

  He looks up and smiles. “I know.”

  I spend the next ten minutes quickly leafing through the files of the men we’ve got in custody, seeing what their offences are and deciding on the order in which we should see them. By the time I’ve done that, Thompson is knocking on my doorframe.

  “That’s all set up, Rufus,” he says and comes over to the desk.

  “Well, before you get comfortable,” I reply, preventing him from sitting down, and standing up myself. “It’s probably about time we had a word with our motley crew of former offenders.”

  His shoulders drop. “Must we?”

  “I’m afraid we must. I think we should split up though. We’ll get through them more quickly.” We walk out through the door, with me ahead and I glance around. There are a few officers present, some of whom I recognise. “Pearce,” I call. “And Adams… Could you both come over here, please?”

  They look up from the paperwork they’re sorting through together and come over, standing in front of me.

  “Sergeant Thompson and I are going to start interviewing the men in custody,” I explain. “I’ve decided it’ll be quicker if we speak to them separately, so I want you, Constable Pearce, to sit with Sergeant Thompson, and Adams, you’ll be with me. Alright?”

  They both nod and Adams says, “Yes, sir,” with a fair degree of enthusiasm. Somehow I doubt he’ll be feeling like that by the time we’re finished.

  I hand the list of names to Pearce. “Take that to the custody sergeant. Tell him to have the men sent up in the order in which I’ve numbered them. I’ll see Albert Finch, because he already knows Sergeant Thompson, but other than that, he’s just to send each one up in order, as we call for them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turns and walks down the corridor, going through the double doors at the end.

  “You take room one,” I say to Thompson, “and we’ll be in room two. If anything comes up, just let me know. Alright?”

  He nods and makes his own way down the corridor towards the interview rooms.

  “Ever done anything like this before?” I turn to PC Adams.

  “Interviews, sir?” he asks. “I’ve done a few.”

  “I mean interviews with convicted child molesters and rapists.”

  I notice his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows hard. “No… no I haven’t… sir.”

  I nod my head and start walking, and he falls into step beside me. “Well…” I turn to him. “It might get a bit ugly. Try and bear it as best you can, and we’ll take a break between each one.”

  He doesn’t reply and I open the door to the interview room and step inside, taking a breath – because I know it’s going to be the last clean breath of air I’ll take for the next few hours.

  The first man we see is John Kelsey. He’s served three spells in prison – the first one at the tender age of nineteen – for exposing himself to children and young adult
s, although I notice that there’s nothing on his record since early 1932.

  “What’s all this about?” he says, the moment he walks into the room. His appearance is surprising. I’d expected someone rather wretched and reptilian. Instead, I’m faced with an upright man, in a business suit – albeit one that he’s been wearing since yesterday, when he was brought into the station – with glasses, and a full head of iron grey hair. I know from his record that he’s fifty-seven years old and, while he looks roughly that, he’s very different to what I’d anticipated.

  PC Adams is sitting to my right, his notebook ready, but I stand as Kelsey enters the room. “Mr Kelsey. Please sit down.”

  He glares up at me. “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking you to.”

  His staring continues a little longer and then he relents, plonking himself down in the seat opposite us.

  “Thank you.” I sit myself and open the file in front of me.

  “You are John Kelsey?” I confirm.

  “Yes. I’ve been rotting in one of your bloody cells overnight and I’d like to know why?”

  I keep my eyes focused on the file, even though I’m not reading it. I want to make him wait. Eventually, I look up. Kelsey’s face is red with anger and impatience.