The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  “The nanny.”

  “What about?” I lean forward myself now.

  “The child.” He puts the piece of paper back on my desk and looks down at his notebook once more. “Everyone we spoke to, with the exception of the nanny, told us that Amy Sanderson was annoying, naughty, badly behaved…”

  “The cook said she was a little monster,” I add, remembering her comment.

  “I know.” He taps the piece of paper in front of him. “It says so here in your report.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ve remarked all the way through that the nanny is the only one who had a good word to say about her, or who liked her at all.”

  “I know, but children can do that, can’t they?”

  “Do what?” He tilts his head to one side and picks up his tea, taking a sip.

  “Turn on the charm when it suits them. If Miss Sutton was nicer to her than everyone else, then maybe the child was just better behaved for her.”

  “Maybe,” he says slowly. “Or maybe she’s lying. Maybe Amy actually was a little monster.”

  I think for a moment. “Even Donald Curtis commented on it,” I recall and get to my feet. “And how would he have known, if…”

  “If Elizabeth Sutton hadn’t told him.” He completes my sentence for me.

  I run my fingers through my hair, trying to stay calm, and look down at him. “Does it mean anything?”

  He shrugs. “Possibly not, but it’s the only anomaly I can find. Anywhere.”

  I have to agree with him. “I think we should go and see Donald Curtis.” I check my watch. It’s nearly a quarter past two. Heaven knows where the last few hours have gone. “He’ll be at work,” I remark, “and I’d rather see him at his flat. But we could kill some time first.”

  “How?”

  “By calling on David Cooke.”

  “Won’t he be at work too?”

  “Yes. But in his case it’s less important.”

  “You think he’ll agree to see us at the bank?” Thompson asks.

  “I think so. And besides, I only want to lay a few ghosts to rest with him.”

  “For your benefit, or his?” he asks.

  “Mine.”

  “Such as?” He stands, pocketing his notebook and swallowing down the last of his tea.

  “Such as asking him how Mrs Sanderson behaved around the children, and confirming whether they had actually made definite plans to leave – with, or without them.”

  “But if we’re concentrating on the nanny…?” he queries, seemingly puzzled.

  “I know. I just want to make absolutely sure, before we go blasting into Donald Curtis’ flat, letting him know our suspicions. Once we do that, the chances are, there won’t be any turning back. For any of us.”

  David Cooke glares at me from the door of his office.

  “Detective Inspector.” His voice is a low growl. He may not be pleased to see us, but he won’t make a fuss. Not here. I was depending on that, because I didn’t want to wait until the end of the working day to speak to him. It would just delay our visit to Donald Curtis even further… and that’s the last thing I need.

  I walk towards him, with Thompson following behind me. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr Cooke.”

  He steps to one side, eager to usher us into his office, before I have the chance to mention why we’re here, I presume.

  He closes the door firmly and turns. “This is most inconvenient.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  He doesn’t offer us seats, so we stand just inside the door, him with his back to it, and Thompson and I facing him.

  “So, what do you want?” All trace of civility has abandoned him now.

  “I wanted to ask you about Mrs Sanderson.” I keep my own voice as calm and collected as possible.

  “What about her?” he asks.

  “I wanted to know what you can tell me about her temperament, specifically how she is around her children.”

  He frowns. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Answer the question, please, Mr Cooke.” His frown becomes a scowl.

  “I’m not sure she spends that much time with them, Inspector. You may not be familiar with how things work in homes like the Sandersons’, but they employ a nanny for the very reason that they don’t wish to spend too much of their own time with their offspring.” He looks down his nose at me, conceit written all over his face.

  “And she doesn’t talk about them that much?”

  “I’ve already explained to you, that I’m not interested in children. Hers, or anyone else’s. When Lillian and I meet, we’re usually quite short of time, so idle chit-chat about her daughters isn’t high on our agenda. The only times we’ve ever discussed them in any detail is in the context which I’ve already described to you, whereby she dreamt of a new life…” His voice fades and he has the decency to look away.

  “Without them?” I’m not about to let him off the hook.

  He turns back to me. “Yes.”

  “Were her dreams ever more than that?” I ask him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you formulate any plans? Did you make arrangements for Mrs Sanderson to leave her family?”

  He shakes his head. “No. But I wish we had. I wish I’d taken her away from Daniel before all of this happened.”

  “Why? Don’t you think she’ll come with you now?” I can’t help the scepticism in my voice.

  “No, I’m sure she will, one day. But if I’d managed to get her away sooner, she wouldn’t have had to suffer through all of this upset, would she?”

  I stare at him, unable to believe my ears. “You’re actually suggesting she’d have heard of the death of her daughter, of the murder and mutilation of her daughter, and been unaffected by it?” He doesn’t reply. He fixes me with a long, hard look instead, and I can’t stay silent. “I hope she does leave with you, Mr Cooke. You deserve each other.”

  I step forward and he obviously thinks that I’m going to strike him, because he moves very quickly to one side, inadvertently allowing me access to the door, which I open, vacating the room, before I’m overwhelmed by the temptation to raise my fists for the first time in my entire career.

  “Are you alright, Rufus?” Thompson catches me up on the pavement outside the bank.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Alright. I’m not.”

  He glances to his right, down the high street. “There’s a tea room over there.” He nods across the road, and a little further along. “I’ll buy you a cup and you can calm down.”

  “I think it’ll take more than a cup of tea,” I point out.

  “Then we’ll see if they’ve got any buns, shall we?”

  I look at him and he smirks, and I have to smile back. It’s one of the best things about working with Harry again. He never lets me take myself too seriously.

  Once we’re seated at a small table and the waitress – an older woman with a slight limp and half-moon spectacles – has brought us our tea, and two buttered teacakes, I permit myself a really deep breath for the first time since leaving the bank.

  “I should never have let him get to me like that,” I say, almost to myself, although I know I’m speaking out loud.

  “Well, if you hadn’t have said it, I would have done,” Thompson remarks. “And it’s probably better that you did, being as you’re the senior officer.”

  “Oh, I see. I can be the one to get in trouble, can I?”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t see there being any trouble. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, and I don’t imagine for one minute that Cooke will report the conversation to the Chief Super. It shows him in a far worse light than it does you.”

  He’s quite right. That doesn’t excuse my lapse, but David Cooke is hardly going to boast about his role in it.

  “So… Donald Curtis,” he says, enigmatically as he stirs his tea, even though he hasn’t added any sugar.

  “W
hat about him?”

  “How are we going to play it?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “We’ll just have to ask him if Miss Sutton ever mentioned to him anything about Amy’s behaviour, and see what he says.”

  “And make sure not to lead him in one direction or the other.” He’s rather pointing out the obvious, although I don’t pick him up on it.

  “How’s Julia?” I decide to change the subject.

  “Quite a lot better now.” He smiles. “She’s not being sick every morning anymore.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Just every other morning.” We both laugh. “And her mother’s not coming in quite so much.”

  “So it’s settling down?”

  “Yes, the last few days have seen a real change in her.” His lips twitch upwards, as though he’s remembering something. “I think this bit that’s coming up is my favourite part of Julia being pregnant. I really like these few months after the morning sickness, and before it all starts to become uncomfortable and she gets too big to move.” His slight smile becomes a broad grin. “Although don’t you dare tell her I said that.”

  I hold up my hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I sip my tea. “What’s so good about it? About this part of her pregnancy, I mean?”

  “Well, once the sickness has worn off, she’s much less tired, she gets a bit more energy back and she starts to get this glow to her. It’s like you can actually see the new life she’s creating. It’s really quite miraculous.” He’s positively poetic in his admiration and I marvel at the change in him, from his wild young bachelor days, when he had a different woman on his arm – and in his bed – almost every week. Then I notice the twinkle in his eyes, before he leans forward. “And then there’s the fact that she becomes absolutely obsessed…”

  “What with?”

  “Sex,” he whispers, so that no-one else sitting in the small tea room will overhear him. I raise my eyebrows. “Don’t get me wrong,” he adds, “she’s not exactly restrained normally, but…”

  “Well, I still need you to be able to function at work, so don’t let her wear you out,” I joke, realising that we’re very different, he and I. I’d never tell him something like that about Amelie. As far as I’m concerned, that’s too personal. I’ll share so much, and no more.

  He smirks and then chuckles. “Oh, don’t worry, Rufus. I can keep up.”

  “Hmm. I’m sure you can.”

  We take our time finishing our tea, and then pay, leaving the shop and walking back to the car. The wind has picked up again, and he has to help me with my coat, which is in danger of flying away, being as I can’t wear it properly, thanks to my broken arm.

  “I can’t wait to get rid of this plaster,” I mutter, holding it up slightly.

  “I don’t blame you,” he replies.

  “Still, only a couple of weeks to go now.”

  “And then you can give Amelie a proper cuddle.” He smirks at me once more.

  “Do you ever say anything that doesn’t lower the tone of a conversation?” I ask, although I have to admit – only to myself – that the thought of holding Amelie in my arms and feeling her properly is one of my main reasons for being so eager to be free of the plaster cast.

  “Rarely.” He opens the car door for me, and then goes around to the driver’s side, getting in himself. “It’s what makes the world go around, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I look across at him.

  “Sex.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t you mean love?”

  His lips twitch upwards. “That too. Just wait until you’re married and the waiting’s over,” he says. “Then tell me I’m wrong.”

  I look out of the window to hide my smile, because I’m not about to deny a word of what he’s said. Not a single word.

  As we drive down Fleece Road, approaching Curtis’ flat, I notice the man himself, walking along the pavement, his head bowed against the icy wind. Thompson parks the car and we climb out, just as Curtis stops to speak to the greengrocer – a portly man, wearing a brown overall – and the two of them exchange a few words, both glancing up the sky, presumably discussing the weather, before Curtis approaches his front door.

  “Mr Curtis?” I call out.

  He turns and looks in my direction, a confused expression on his face, which clears and is replaced by a frown as we get closer and recognises me.

  “Inspector? What do you want?”

  I think to myself that it would be quite pleasant to be greeted with something other than hostility, just for once, but instead I say, “Can we speak to you, please? Upstairs, perhaps?”

  He pauses for a moment, then without saying a word, turns around and opens the door, letting himself in first, but leaving the door open for us to follow.

  We traipse up the darkened stairs and into his flat, where he finally switches on a light and illuminates the hallway, then goes straight on into the living room. Here he enters the dark space and Thompson and I wait by the door until he’s dealt with the blackout and turned on two lamps – one of which sits on the table at the end of the sofa, and the other a stylish standard lamp, which has its home beside the fireplace. Once he’s done this, I take a few steps further into the room, and Curtis turns to face me.

  “What’s this about?” he asks, the belligerence still obvious in his voice.

  “We’ve come to ask you some questions…”

  “More questions?” he interrupts. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  “These are more closely connected with Miss Sutton.”

  “In what way?”

  I take another step or two closer to him. “Can you tell me what Elizabeth thought of Amy Sanderson… how she felt about her?”

  “We didn’t really talk about her that much.” He furrows his brow, his tone surprisingly thoughtful. I’d expected a more truculent response, but perhaps he’s realised that the best way to get rid of us is to cooperate. “We had better things to do than discuss either of the children. I mean, you’ve seen her, Inspector. Tell me, would you bother passing the time of day, knowing full well that she’d really rather just fuck?” His face contorts into a lewd grin, but I refuse to be goaded. Again.

  “So the subject never came up?”

  He removes his hat and coat, throwing them over the arm of the sofa, then sits down in it and leans back, rather nonchalantly, his arm resting along the back. “I didn’t say ‘never’,” he replies, smiling and looking up at me.

  I walk around the chairs between us and stand in front of him. “Mr Curtis… I’m investigating the brutal murder of a four year old child. That means I’m not in the best of moods at the moment, and you would do well to bear that in mind when answering my questions, and stop wasting my time.”

  He swallows and blinks twice, the swagger gone. “Sometimes Lizzie would get into a bit of a temper about Amy,” he murmurs, having decided to stop being an idiot, it seems. “She could be a brat, demanding her own way and throwing tantrums when Lizzie didn’t do as she demanded. Amy even bit her once. I remember her showing me the marks, and saying how much she hated her…” He stops talking and sits forward, a shadow crossing his eyes as he looks up at me and I wonder if he’s thinking that he may have just incriminated his girlfriend.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why did you stop?”

  Rather than the expected answer of ‘Lizzie didn’t mean it that way’, he continues to stare for a full ten seconds, before he turns away.

  “Mr Curtis?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Something occurred to you then, while you were speaking. I want to know what it was.”

  He shakes his head. “It was nothing,” he perseveres. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because… well, it can’t mean anything. You’re looking for a man, not a woman.”

  “Not necessarily,” I reply. “Now, tell me why you just stopped talking so suddenly.”

&nb
sp; He shakes his head slowly, as though he’s trying to work out exactly why we might not be looking for a man anymore, his face paling at the same time. “No,” he mutters defiantly.

  “Sergeant?” I turn to Thompson. “Arrest this man.”

  Thompson takes a step forward, without querying the charge, and Curtis leaps to his feet, holding up his hands. “Wait!”

  Thompson stops in his tracks and I move closer, so I’m right in front of Curtis.

  “Tell me what you’ve remembered. Because I know you’ve remembered something.”

  “Her letter,” he whispers, so quietly I have to strain to hear him.

  “Speak up.”

  “Her letter,” he says again, more clearly this time. “She sent me a letter.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago… one day last week…” He’s starting to ramble.

  “What did she say in the letter?”

  “She… She said Amy was a lovely girl and that she couldn’t bear to think about what had happened to her. I can’t remember her exact words now, but I remember thinking at the time that it didn’t ring true, because Lizzie had never had a good word to say about the child when she was alive.”

  “So this letter came after the body was found?”

  He pauses. “I think so. It’s hard to keep track, being as we write to each other so often… at least until we fell out, anyway.”

  “You fell out?” I query and he nods his head, then sighs and sits back down again, looking at his hands, rather defeated.

  “Yes. I—I thought she’d tried to incriminate me in Amy’s murder… and what had been done to her. The sexual thing… you know?” I nod. “I wasn’t best pleased about that and I wrote her a letter telling her so.” He looks up at me. “It wasn’t a very nice letter.”

  “Did she write back?” I ask.

  “Yes. She begged me not to break things off with her. She said she was crying while she was writing.” He shakes his head. “I felt pretty lousy about that.”

  “What are you going to do?” I ask him.

  “Oh, I’ve already done it,” he replies, brightening slightly. “I’ve just posted a letter to her, asking her to meet me so we can talk things through. I don’t want to lose her, Inspector.”