by K. J. Frost
“Who do you think it was?” she asks and I hesitate.
“I have two people in mind, but would you be cross with me if I didn’t say who they are?”
She leans back and looks up at me. “Because it’s a secret? Something you’re not allowed to tell me?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. I’d rather not say, because I think you’ll get upset.”
“It’s no-one I know, is it?” Her eyes widen in horror.
“Good Lord, no.” I pull her close to me again and tighten my grip on her. “It’s nothing like that, and if you really want me to, I’ll tell you…”
There’s a slight pause and then she shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs, “I think I’d rather not know… not if you think it’s best.”
“For now, I do.”
Bearing in mind her reaction to me telling her about what was done to Amy, if she knew that my two suspects are the girl’s own mother, and her nanny – the woman charged with caring for her – I don’t want to think how she’d respond. And I don’t want her to be even more upset than she is now – not when I can’t stay here to comfort her. Well, not for much longer, anyway. We both have to get to bed soon.
“You are sure you’re alright, aren’t you, Rufus?” She looks up at me through her thick eyelashes.
“I’m fine.” I kiss her forehead, and she moves up slightly, so I can kiss her lips, which I do for a few minutes, savouring her sweetness, and the softness of her touch.
“Find them,” she says as she pulls away from me, looking up into my eyes. “Find whoever did this to that poor little girl – no matter who it is – and make them pay.”
“I will, darling. I promise.”
Chapter Ten
Dear Kitten,
I’m sorry.
I’ve just opened your letter before going to work, and I have to write now, even if it makes me late. Reading your words and imagining how you must have felt when you wrote them, made me feel terrible about the things I said to you in my last note. I hate the thought of you crying, and knowing that it’s me – and my words – that have made you so upset. I know I shouldn’t have got so cross with you, but having the police come here and tell me what had been done to Amy was just such a shock. I jumped to conclusions, instead of trusting you, and I was wrong.
Can you forgive me?
Please say you can, because I miss you so much.
I know things are difficult for you at the moment, and I know you say we need to wait a few more days, but I really do want us to meet up sooner than that, if we can. I need to see you, so desperately. I think it’s because I’m missing you so much, and missing all the things you do to me too, that I was so horrible. It just goes to show that I’m no good without you, doesn’t it? And maybe if you can find some time to be with me, we can talk about that, and about our future together? If we have one, that is. Because I really do hope you can forget all the things I said and let us put the last few days behind us.
Write back soon and let me know when you can get away. I don’t care when it is, I’ll find the time. I love you too much to lose you, my darling Kitten.
With all my love,
D.
p.s. I’ve just realised I don’t have any stamps, but I’ll get one on the way home from work, so you’ll still get this tomorrow and can write back to me quickly. I love you. xx
*****
“I forgot to ask,” I say to Thompson as I settle into the car beside him, “where are we going to see our friendly psychologist?”
“He’s got appointments at Kingston Hospital this morning, so he’s meeting us at his office there,” he explains.
“Okay.”
He turns to look at me as he starts driving. “Are you alright?” he asks.
“Why?”
“You look a bit tired, that’s all.”
“I am tired. I had a late night. And before you make any suggestive comments about that, Amelie and I spent most of it with my mother and aunts planning the wedding.”
“You only got engaged two days ago. You don’t have to get all the planning done in one night, you know. There’s no rush.”
“We didn’t. Although your point about there being no rush isn’t strictly true.” He turns onto Walton Road and glances at me. “We’ve set the date,” I explain.
“And?”
“It’s thirty-eight days from now.”
He flips his head around to me in surprise. “That’s… five weeks. Well, just over.”
“Yes, I know.”
Again, a smile appears on his lips. “And is there a reason for this haste?”
“No.” I think for a second. “Well, yes. Maybe.”
“That’s perfectly clear, Rufus.”
I sigh. “If you must know, we’re waiting.”
“Not for the wedding you’re not. You’re ploughing full steam ahead into that, it seems.”
“You can talk,” I reply. “You married Julia within four months of meeting her.”
“Yes, but I proposed after six weeks. We waited very nearly three months for the actual wedding, to give her mother time to make the dress and get things organised. And even then, there was an element of panic about it.” He chuckles. “What did your mother say when you told her?”
“She practically had kittens at the dinner table.”
“I’m not surprised.” He shakes his head, smiling. “So, if you’re not waiting for the wedding, what are you waiting for?”
I turn to him. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”
He glances at me again. “Oh, I see…” The light dawns. “You mean you’re waiting until your wedding night?”
“Yes.”
“Like you did with Victoria?” he asks, as though he thinks I should have learned my lesson the first time.
“No, not like Victoria,” I reply and his brow creases in confusion. “Well, sort of like Victoria.”
He sighs. “You’re really not making sense.”
“What I mean is, the principle is the same, but Amelie isn’t Victoria. She’s faithful, for one thing. And waiting for Victoria was different. We decided to wait… well, I decided and she agreed – or I thought she did – only we never actually got around to setting the date. Not officially, anyway. We talked about it a couple of times, but one or other of us always found an excuse to change the subject.” I huff out a half laugh. “I suppose I should have taken that as a sign and got out while I was vaguely ahead.”
“You probably should,” he murmurs.
I think about it for a moment. “But the thing is, it didn’t bother me that much.”
“What didn’t?”
“Waiting indefinitely.”
“And that didn’t tell you something either?” he says.
“Not at the time, no. Now, I’m with Amelie… now I know how it’s supposed to be, it speaks volumes.”
“Victoria really wasn’t right for you,” he says quietly.
“Was she right for anybody?”
He chuckles. “No-one who had expectations of monogamy, no.” We wait behind a bus for a moment while a few passengers alight, and he turns to me. “So what’s different? Other than the fact that your taste in women has improved significantly?”
I smile at his compliment – but only because it’s true. “Well, waiting for Amelie is driving me insane, if you must know.”
He roars with laughter, and I can’t help but join in.
“Just as well you’ve only got thirty-eight days to go then,” he says.
I recall how difficult it was to say goodnight to Amelie last night, in the darkened hallway, how I held her in my arms and she clung to me as we kissed deeply; how she moaned into my mouth and pressed herself against me and how I whispered my love for her, and told her how much I want her and need her as I bit her bottom lip, just gently. Remembering all of that, I know that if she were with me now, I’d struggle to wait for thirty-eight minutes. Actually, I think even thirty-eight seconds would be beyond me.
Th
e man sitting across the desk from us is younger than I’d expected. He’s probably younger than me, or maybe he just looks that way because of the rather boyish glasses he’s wearing. It’s hard to tell, especially as his clothes are somewhat dated. His tweed jacket and waistcoat have both seen better days, being frayed at the hems, his tie is crooked, and his watch chain is tarnished. Perhaps he’s just not very interested in his appearance, a concept which his surroundings of musty books and dust laden picture frames would seem to support. I can’t imagine this is where he carries out his professional appointments. It’s a very small space, for a start. And there’s nowhere comfortable for his patients to sit, or lie down. Instead, there’s just the desk, his chair, plus the two which seem to have been squeezed in for Thompson and myself, the bookshelves behind him and a filing cabinet between the two small windows. I presume this is where he does his paperwork, and his consultations take place somewhere else – hopefully more accommodating than this. His gaze is intense as he stares at me.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” His voice is deep, and rather more soothing than I’d expected.
“We’re looking for some professional insight with regard to a case,” I reply and he nods his head, waiting, while I take a breath, wondering how to explain. In the end, I decide to just begin at the beginning, giving him details of the disappearance of Amy Sanderson, the subsequent discovery of her body, and the mutilation that took place. “We’re now working on the theory that a woman carried out this act, or at least that it may have been a woman,” I clarify, “and have noticed, during the course of our enquiries, that the child’s mother exhibits some rather strange, detached behaviour.”
He raises his eyebrows. “How do you expect her to behave, given that her daughter has just been murdered?” he asks.
“Well, I didn’t expect her to be cracking jokes,” I reply, perhaps a little facetiously, “but in such circumstances – in my experience – mothers usually display some emotion. She doesn’t.”
“None?” He seems surprised by that.
“Not about her daughter, no. The only thing she seems to be interested in… the only thing that even registers with her in any way, is when the conversation turns to her lover.”
“She has a lover?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a recent thing?” he asks.
“I’ve been told that their relationship began about six months ago, at which point, her personality changed – for the better. Or at least for the more contented. She’d been quiet and withdrawn until that point, from the moment of her first daughter’s birth. The arrival of a second child had no impact, but taking a lover made all the difference, evidently. And now, she positively sparks to life whenever his name is mentioned.”
“Is this a serious relationship?” he asks. “Or is it just about sex?”
“I think it’s a serious relationship. Obviously I can’t be sure of that, but judging from the behaviour of both parties, I think they’d happily give up their current lives, if it meant they could be together permanently.”
“Then I wonder why they don’t?” he remarks. “Other than convention, public opinion and societal norms, what would be stopping them?”
“Money?” I conjecture. “She has a comfortable life at the moment. I don’t imagine her lover is poorly paid, but he’s not on the same level as her husband.”
“And you think money matters?” He frowns at me.
“No. I don’t. But I think she might. Otherwise, as you say, I can’t see why she hasn’t already left her husband. She claims to find him dull and boring, barely notices his existence and boasts about her lover in front of him. According to her lover, they’ve discussed their ‘ideal’ scenario, and it involves her leaving her husband and her children behind, in favour of him.”
“Well, ideals are all very well, but they won’t keep her in mink coats, will they?” I’m surprised by the vehemence behind his comment, as well as having found someone whose cynicism at least equals my own, and I study him as he shakes his head slowly, evidently disappointed. “So what do you want to know exactly?”
“Is it possible that she experienced some sort of… I don’t know… some sort of depressive episode as a result of giving birth to her first child that might lead to her killing her daughter?”
He stares at me again, with a slightly withering expression. “Depressive episode?” he repeats.
“I’m sure that’s not the correct term…”
“Not really.” He sits forward, clasping his hands together on the desk. “There are many terms used to describe what I think you’re talking about, but for myself, I’ve never seen the value in focusing on terminology. The fact of the matter is that postnatal illness – while still not recognised or understood by some in my profession – has been a sad fact of childbirth for many women, for centuries.” He releases his hands and pushes his glasses up his nose slightly, warming to his subject. “There are documented cases that go back as far as the ancient Greeks. And although some say the state of a woman’s mind has a direct correlation to her experiences in labour and childbirth, there is no real evidence as to this.”
“I see.” I’m not sure that I do, but at least he seems well versed on the subject. “And are there incidences of women with this condition who have killed their offspring?”
He sighs deeply. “I’m afraid there are. But I would say it’s more common for women in that situation to harm themselves. It also seems odd that the woman in your case would wait four years… and as for the mutilation…” His brow furrows. “I can’t see a reason why she’d do that.”
“To throw us off the scent.” I repeat the reasoning I gave to Amelie. “To ensure that we would suspect a man.”
“Yes, I understand that,” he says, “and I’d agree if we were talking about someone of sound mind. But we’re not. That is, of course, assuming she actually is suffering from some kind of ‘depressive episode’.” He uses my term, raising his eyebrows again at the same time. He stands up and goes over to the window, looking down at something outside, and then turns back to face us, leaning on the windowsill. “I can’t give you definitive answers,” he says.
“Opinion will do.”
“I’m not even sure I can give you that. I haven’t met the woman, so I can’t diagnose. I can theorise. That’s all.”
“Then theorise.”
He examines his fingernails for a moment, then says, “It could be that she suffered from postnatal depression after the birth of the child – a state in which she remained, despite the arrival of a second baby, until she took a lover, and found a purpose to her life. Having found such a purpose, I highly doubt she would pay any attention at all to her children, whether for good or bad. To her, they would be reminders of the life she once had; the life her lover claims she wishes to escape.” He sighs. “It could be that something happened to tip her over the edge, and drove her to murder and mutilate her child, but I’m sorry, I can’t see a reason for it, not with the facts you’ve given me. Her current state of mind, her distraction and disengagement, could be entirely due to the fact that she can’t be with the man she loves. She’s stuck at home with a husband she seemingly struggles to tolerate, living a life she no longer wants. Society and – possibly – a need for the financial comforts of her marriage, dictate that she has to stay where she is for the time being, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it, or be happy about it.”
He pulls his watch from his waistcoat pocket and squints down at it, but before he can comment, I get to my feet.
“We’ve taken up enough of your time.” I hold out my hand to him and he replaces his watch and shakes my hand, looking up at me.
“If you should find some evidence against her, or decide to make an arrest, and need me to speak with her, I’ll be happy to oblige,” he remarks. “If she were to be found guilty… well, such cases make for fascinating research.”
I stare down at him for a moment, wondering how to reply to that, and decide to ju
st nod my head, being as words have, for the moment, failed me.
“Are we any further forward?” Thompson asks as we climb back into the car.
“Possibly,” I muse. “I suppose we know that this postnatal depression – or whatever it’s called – is an actual illness.”
“Does that help?”
“Well, it shows that Mrs Sanderson might have been suffering from it, and could have harmed her child as a result…”
“‘Might’ and ‘could’,” he repeats. “Not the most encouraging of words at this stage of an investigation.”
“No. We need some evidence. Preferably physical and irrefutable.”
“Back to the station?” he suggests.
“Yes. I’ll let you make us a cup of tea, and we’re going to wade through the files until we come up with something. Even if it takes us all day.”
“I think that might require more than one cup of tea.”
“Nice of you to make the offer.”
We’re on our second cup of tea, with which Thompson brought up some digestive biscuits, although where he scrounged them from, I have no idea. The paperwork is all scattered across my desk, but so far we’ve found nothing and we’re both starting to feel a little disheartened.
Thompson is sitting opposite me, his cup balanced on his knee as he thumbs through his notebook. “I don’t think I’ve ever come across a case where everyone tells almost exactly the same story. I can’t find any differences between them at all…” He stops and sits forward, the cup wobbling, although he catches it before it falls and moves it to the table.
“What’s wrong?”
He holds up his hand. “It might be nothing,” he murmurs. “Hold on…”
He flicks back and forth through his notebook, then leans over and leafs through the papers on my desk, until he finds what he’s looking for. He reads, his lips moving quickly, then he sits back and looks up at me.
“What if she’s lying?”
“Who?”