The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  “Where were you on Tuesday last between the hours of twelve noon and three pm?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I was at work,” he replies, taking me by surprise.

  “Where do you work?”

  “I’m a porter at the hospital.”

  “Which hospital?” I ask him.

  “Kingston.”

  I stare at him for a moment. “You seem remarkably well dressed for a porter.”

  “It’s not against the law to wear a suit, is it?” I don’t reply and after a few seconds, he huffs out a sigh. “When your lot came calling, I was getting ready to go out for the evening…” His voice fades.

  “Anywhere nice?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  I lean forward and lower my voice. “It is my business, Mr Kelsey. I’m investigating the rape and murder of a young child. You have history when it comes to children… and that means, if I want to know what time you got up, whether you cut yourself shaving, what you had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, who you met at any and every minute of the day, and what you talked about, in minute detail, you will answer me. Do I make myself clear?”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it, and then, in a quieter voice, says, “I haven’t done anything… like that. Not for years. I changed my ways last time I was inside.”

  “Found God, did you?” I ask, sarcastically.

  “No. I just… I just realised it was wrong.”

  “Took three spells in prison for you to work out that showing your private parts to young children was wrong, did it?”

  He lowers his head, staring at his clasped hands. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

  “I’ll remember to pass that on to your victims.”

  He looks up again. “This… this murder… it ain’t got nothing to do with me.” I can see the fear in his eyes now. “I was at work all day. Two of the other porters was off sick, so I didn’t even get a lunch break on Tuesday, nor on Wednesday. You can check with Mr Silversmith. He’s my boss.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Mr Kelsey. We will be checking.”

  I stand up and his eyes follow my movements, lightening slightly. “I can go now, can I?” he says, sounding more hopeful.

  “Back to the cells, yes. You’re not leaving until we’ve checked your alibi.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing.” I hold up my hand and go over to the door. Outside there’s a young PC, leaning against the wall. I don’t know his name, but he looks up on seeing me and stands to attention.

  “Who are you?” I ask him.

  “PC Dyson,” he replies, then adds, “sir,” as an afterthought, and blushes. “The custody sergeant told me to wait here.”

  “Right. Well, PC Dyson, you can take this man back to the cells. Then give us five minutes before you bring up the next one, please.”

  He nods his head and comes into the room, waiting while Kelsey gets to his feet, a more forlorn figure than he was when he entered. He doesn’t look at me as he leaves, but stares straight ahead, his eyes fixed.

  I turn, once he’s gone and look at PC Adams.

  “Alright?” I say to him and he nods.

  “Did he really do that?” he asks. “Show himself to children, like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Filthy bugger,” he murmurs.

  “It’s likely to get worse yet,” I warn him. “I started us off with an easy one.”

  He turns to me and blinks a few times, but doesn’t say a word.

  Albert Finch is a man in his mid-forties, with light brown hair and pale blue eyes. He sits opposite Adams and I, looking around the room, resolutely refusing to make eye contact, even though he’s been in here for nearly two minutes.

  “Mr Finch?” I say eventually.

  “Yes.” He stares at the table.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “You’ve heard about the little girl who went missing in Long Ditton?”

  “Yes.” He’s not the most talkative soul, I’ll say that.

  “Well, she’s been found. She was raped and murdered.”

  His eyes dart to mine. “You… you think that had something to do with me?”

  I ignore his question, and ask my own instead. “Can you tell me where you were last Tuesday, between the hours of twelve noon and three pm?” I give myself the same latitude as I did with Kelsey, even though I know Amy was taken sometime between one forty-five and two-thirty.

  “Last Tuesday?” He looks up nervously, his eyes directed to the ceiling. “I was working until one,” he says, lowering his head and staring at me now, his gaze a little intense.

  “What do you do?” I ask.

  “I’m a plumber. That morning, I was fixing a leaky pipe in a house in Rectory Lane. And then I went home for lunch.”

  “Right. And what time did you finish lunch?”

  “Not sure. I was at my next job by two though,” he replies.

  “And where was that?”

  “Woodstock Lane North. Big house, it was.”

  “Do you have precise addresses for these properties?” I ask.

  “They’ll be on the work dockets,” he replies. “Clara will have those.”

  “Who’s Clara.”

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Your wife? You mean the woman you beat senseless five years ago?”

  His eyes widen. “No, not her. That was Pauline. And before you start feeling sorry for her, she had it coming. She made my life a bloody misery, that woman, but I didn’t rape her, no matter what she said.”

  “So, you remarried?” I ask, not bothering to hide my surprise.

  “Well, no. When I say Clara’s my wife, we’re not actually married… although she’s a lot more accommodating than Pauline ever was, if you get my meaning.” He gives me an exaggerated wink at this point and I stare at him for a full ten seconds, until he looks away.

  “And Clara helps with your business, does she?”

  He nods. “She does my books, takes the phone calls, that sort of thing.”

  “Was Clara with you during your lunch break on Tuesday?” I ask.

  “Yes. I always go home at lunchtime if I can… like I say, she’s very obliging, is Clara.” He smirks and I get to my feet, resisting the temptation to drag him with me, by the hair.

  He looks up. “Can I go?”

  “No. You’ll be returned to the cells until we’ve checked your alibi.”

  “You… you mean you’ll be going to see Clara?” he says, standing up and facing me.

  “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

  He pales. “No… but…”

  “But what?” I move around the table, getting close to him. Uncomfortably close, I hope. “Have you been using your fists again, Mr Finch?”

  “No.” He shakes his head, although I don’t believe him. Not for one minute.

  “Then I’m sure everything will be just fine… won’t it?”

  He narrows his eyes and his shoulders sag, but he doesn’t reply and I walk to the door, opening it. “PC Dyson?” I call.

  He appears in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take Mr Finch back to the cells, please, and bring us the next candidate, will you?”

  He nods his head and waits while Finch shuffles across the room.

  Henry Platt looks exactly how I’d expected. A man in his mid-forties, he’s of medium height and slight build, with a shiny complexion and thick glasses, which are perched on the end of his nose. His hands are clasped in front of him as he walks into the room, his eyes taking in his surroundings, like a captive bird, nervous, looking for a means of escape.

  “Mr Platt?” I stand and indicate the seat across the table.

  He glances up at me and quickly sits, putting his hands down in his lap. “Yes,” he says, as rather an afterthought.

  “I’d like to know your movements on Tuesday afternoon, please, be
tween the hours of twelve noon and three pm.”

  He blinks rapidly a few times. “Might I ask why?”

  “Because we’re investigating the rape and murder of a young girl.”

  He pauses, then nods his head. “I had a dental appointment,” he replies simply.

  “At what time?”

  “I was booked in for twelve forty-five, but I got there about fifteen minutes early. Unfortunately he was running late and I didn’t go in until about twenty past one.”

  “And when did you leave?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replies. “It was after two o’clock though. The man who was due in after me was complaining to the receptionist as I left. He remarked on the time.”

  “And after that?”

  “I went home,” he says. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Can anyone confirm that?” I ask him.

  “No.”

  I don’t suppose it matters, being as the vital times are accounted for. “Can I have the name of your dentist?” I ask.

  “Doctor Redmond,” he says obligingly. “He’s got a small practice in Lovelace Road. It’s part of his house, really. That’s to say, he lives upstairs, with his sister.”

  I nod my head and stand, unsure that I need so much information.

  “You’ll be taken back to the cells,” I tell him, even though he hasn’t asked and he gets up, pushing the chair back under the table.

  “Right.”

  “Just until we’ve checked your alibi.”

  “I see.”

  I go over to the door and call PC Dyson, who removes Platt from our presence.

  “He was placid,” Adams says, once they’ve gone. “I thought you said he’d be the worst.”

  “He is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was arrested many years ago, in his late teens, for molesting two children… two young girls. It was a particularly nasty case.”

  “Oh my God,” Adams whispers.

  “Looking at the file, it seems he didn’t try to deny what he’d done. In fact, he was actually quite pleased with himself. He hasn’t been out of prison for very long, and I think he was placid and accommodating just now, because he expects this. Every time there’s a case involving children, he knows he’ll be brought in. It’s going to be par for the course for him… probably for the rest of his life.”

  I’ve been back in my office for no more than ten minutes, when Thompson knocks on the doorframe and then leans against it.

  “How did you get on?” I ask him, looking up.

  He comes into the room. “Millard and Cowley were a waste of time,” he replies. “They both had cast iron alibis.”

  “Same with all three of mine. What about your third one?” I look down at the list on the desk in front of me. “Douglas Coates, was it?”

  He sits down, his face darkening. “He couldn’t account for his whereabouts at all. Seemed rather proud of the fact, if you ask me.”

  “What was he like?” I sit forward.

  “Shifty. Wouldn’t look me in the eye throughout the whole interview.”

  I nod my head. “Very well. Can you get Pearce and Adams in here?”

  He stands and goes over to the door again, calling the two constables into my office. They stand on the other side of my desk, looking older than they did a few hours ago, but I suppose that’s not surprising, given what they’ve heard this afternoon.

  “I’ve got a job for the pair of you,” I tell them, and they both raise their heads expectantly. “You made notes on the interviews, so I want you to check up on the alibis of the five men who actually have them. Check every name they gave us – don’t be satisfied with just one. Unfortunately, these men are entitled to their privacy, so when you’re asking your questions, don’t reveal what case we’re enquiring about. And assuming they’re telling the truth, those men can be allowed to go home.”

  “Do you want this done tonight?” Adams says.

  “You can make a start now,” I reply, looking at the clock and seeing that it’s ten to five already. “And then finish off in the morning. It won’t hurt our friends to spend another night tucked up in the cells.”

  Pearce nods his head. “What about Coates?” he says, his voice quieter than usual. “He didn’t have an alibi.”

  “I know. Sergeant Thompson and I will speak to him tomorrow, after we’ve taken Mr Sanderson to identify his daughter.” If I’m being honest, I’m not looking forward to either event. “Are you both alright?” I ask, as they turn to leave.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, if you’re not… I mean, if you need to talk about today, or just about the case in general, come and find me.” They both smile, Adams nods his head, and they leave my office.

  “I made point of checking Pearce was okay between each interview,” Thompson says, once they’ve gone. “I was pretty sure he’d never have done anything like that before.”

  I shake my head. “No, but they have to do it sometime.”

  He looks down at me. “Unfortunately, it seems they do.”

  By the time we leave the station, about forty-five minutes later, Pearce has already reported that Adams has checked with Mr Silversmith at the hospital, who fortunately happened to be on duty on a Sunday, and Kelsey had indeed been where he’d claimed to be, and Joe Cowley’s alibi was also sound, so those two have been released, leaving us with four men still in custody overnight.

  “We’re going straight to the Sanderson house tomorrow?” Thompson asks as he parks up at the end of Beauchamp Road, opposite Aunt Dotty’s and a little further along from Amelie’s house, being as there are a couple of cars in front of Aunt Dotty’s, making it impossible to park there.

  “Yes. I know we’re not due with Doctor Wyatt until ten, but we’ll need to prepare Mr Sanderson first, and I’d rather take our time.”

  He nods. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

  “Have a good evening, Harry.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I get out of the car and wave him goodbye, glancing over at Amelie’s house, and in the bright moonlight, I notice Gordon Templeton closing up the garage and making his way back to the front door.

  I know he’s planning on returning to London this evening, and I’m not sure when he’s coming back again, so I suppose if I’m going to speak to him about marrying Amelie, now’s my best chance. I call out his name and he glances around, his eyes settling on me as I walk up the driveway. I’ve only ever seen him wearing a suit before now, but today he’s in casual trousers and a thick sweater, and he brushes his forefinger and thumb across his moustache, as I approach.

  “Inspector,” he says. “Amelie’s inside. Did you want me to let you in?”

  “No, sir. It was you I wanted to speak to.”

  He looks confused, perhaps remembering the times I’ve questioned him in a professional capacity. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s nothing official. It’s actually concerning Amelie.”

  “Is something wrong?” His confusion changes to concern and he looks over his shoulder, in the direction of the house.

  “No.”

  “Well, I was just going back in for tea. Why don’t you join me? I’m sure Amelie would be delighted to see you.”

  “I can’t.” His eyes widen and I realise I’m going have to just come out with it, or we’ll be dancing around like this all night. “I know that it’s perhaps a little unorthodox to discuss such things on a freezing driveway in the middle of a winter’s evening, but I—I’d like to ask your permission to marry Amelie.” I look down at him, feeling nervous now. “I may not be the richest man in the world,” I add, when he doesn’t respond, “and I can’t give her all the things she’s become accustomed to in your household.” I glance up at the enormous house behind him. “But I can promise to love her, and to keep her safe… until my dying breath.” I stop talking, rather embarrassed that I just said all of that out loud.

  Templeton’s expression alters once m
ore, his concern replaced with relief, and finally happiness, as a broad smile spreads across his lips.

  “Of course,” he says, cheerily. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather she married. I know how happy you make her and I wouldn’t dream of withholding my consent.”

  He holds out his hand and I take it in mine, shaking his. “You won’t tell her, will you?” I add, as an afterthought. “Only, I haven’t asked her yet and I’d rather like it to be a surprise.” I’m not sure it will be – not really – given all the hints my relations have been dropping, but I’d still prefer her to hear it from me.

  “I won’t say a word,” he says, lowering his voice and then turning serious, his smile fading. “Do you think she’ll let me walk her down the aisle?”

  “Um…” That’s an awkward question; one which I’m uncertain how to answer, given Amelie’s feelings towards her guardian. “I’m not sure there’s going to be an aisle,” I say, thinking quickly and coming up with the only excuse I can. “We may get married in a registry office.” I’m not a churchgoer, and I know Amelie isn’t either, and although we obviously haven’t discussed our options, I’m not sure I want a church wedding. If she does, then I’ll go along with it, but it feels like a reasonable thing to say in the circumstances.

  “I’d still like to give her away,” he says, ruining my plan to put him off for the time being. “If she’ll let me, that is. Things haven’t been the same since she found out about my indiscretions and mistakes.” He sighs. “She’s polite, when she has to be, but she goes out of her way to avoid me, and our relationship has suffered.” He looks up at me. “I—I had a bit of an argument…”

  “With Amelie?” I interrupt, wondering if I should go to her, even though we didn’t plan to meet up this evening.

  “No, with Abigail.” I let out a sigh and wait, assuming he’s going to say more. “I wanted to come back here for the whole weekend, for Amelie’s sake. I know it can’t be easy for her at the moment, with Christmas coming, and… and Beth not being here.” He looks down at the space between us. “It’s not easy for any of us really. But Abigail wanted me to stay in London with her, which is what I usually do just before Christmas, because I obviously can’t see her during the festivities.” He pushes his fingers back through his dirty-blond hair. “The best compromise I could come up with was to spend Friday and Saturday with Abigail and then return here on Saturday evening. Abigail wasn’t happy…” His voice fades. “But then Amelie asked me outright over lunch today why I’d bothered to come back, if I only planned to stay for a day. I—I didn’t know what to say to her. I feel like I can’t win.” He huffs out a breath. “I would like her to at least give me the honour of giving her away though. Do you think she might consider it?” He looks up at me again.