by K. J. Frost
There’s an emotion in his voice that I haven’t heard from him yet. If I wasn’t such a cynic, I’d say it could be love. But I’m a cynic.
“Do you keep Miss Sutton’s letters?” I turn away from him and look at the mantlepiece.
“Yes,” he replies, sounding suspicious of my motives.
“I’d like to see them, please.”
He shoots to his feet again, and I turn back to face him. “No. No way. They’re private; between me and Lizzie.”
“I’d still like to see them.”
He shakes his head vehemently. “I—I don’t know what you’re trying to imply with these questions, Inspector, but Lizzie is innocent. I know she is. Just because she got cross with Amy sometimes when she was playing up, and then wrote something different in a letter after the girl was killed, doesn’t mean anything.” He pauses. “I—It just means she was sorry the girl was dead, that’s all. That’s normal.”
“It may well be, Mr Curtis. But I’d still like to see her letters.”
“And I’m refusing to let you.”
I nod my head and take the single step required to close the gap between us. “I can get a search warrant, Mr Curtis. And then I can turn your whole flat upside down. Actually, I can arrest you as well, and turn your whole life upside down.” He pales. “Or you can do the sensible thing, and fetch me those letters.”
We stare at each other, the pulse on his temple flickering, until he lets out a breath and backs down, going out of the room. I nod towards Thompson to follow him, which he does, and within a few minutes, they both return. Curtis is clutching a small pile of letters in his hand, which after just a few moments’ hesitation, he holds out to me. I take them and remove one from its envelope. It seems to be the most recent letter, dated yesterday, in which she does indeed beg him not to end their relationship. Opening another one, further down the pile, I notice her eloquence, and wonder if I’m blushing as I read the fairly graphic content. I replace the letter in its envelope and decide I’ll leave those for Thompson to peruse.
“Are these all of her letters?” I ask. There are no more than a couple of dozen here, which seems a fairly meagre quantity for a relationship of several months’ duration.
“Yes,” he says.
“So, if my sergeant went into your bedroom and conducted a search, he wouldn’t find any more?”
Curtis glares at me, with a look of pure hatred, and then turns on his heel, leaving the room. Again, Thompson follows and, again, they return within minutes. This time, Curtis is carrying a significantly larger batch of envelopes.
“Sergeant Thompson will take those.” Curtis hands them over and I add the ones I’m holding to the pile. “We’ll return them to you in due course,” I add, moving towards the door.
“Whatever you think she’s done, she’s innocent,” he repeats as I pass him, and I look down at his upturned face. “I know her, and I know she’d never harm anyone.”
“Then she has nothing to fear, does she?
Back in the car, Thompson puts the letters into his briefcase, which he’d left on the back seat.
“Where to now?” he asks.
“Back to the station.”
“Not the Sanderson house?” He seems surprised. “I thought—”
“No. We need to read through these letters first.”
“And then we’ll be going to the Sanderson house?”
“Very probably.”
He starts the engine and sighs. “Why do I get the feeling that tonight is going to be a very, very late one?”
“Because you’ve been a policeman for far too long.”
“I’m not sure you should be reading these letters,” Thompson jokes from the other side of my desk, a smile forms on his lips as his eyes scan the document in his hand. “But if you need any help,” he adds, “any explanations of some of the things these two seem to have been up to…”
“Oh, be quiet.”
Despite my earlier decision to let Thompson go through the letters by himself, I worked out when we got back here, that it would be quicker if we both did it – especially as there are so many of them. So we’ve divided the stack in half and are reading them as quickly as we can, commenting to each other every so often, when something important crops up. So far, in looking through her earlier missives, all I’ve discovered is that their relationship became physical within about two weeks of their first meeting – something which Miss Sutton claimed in subsequent correspondence wasn’t like her at all, although as to the veracity of that statement, I have yet to be convinced. Thompson is going through the later letters and reveals that a few weeks ago, Miss Sutton began calling herself ‘Kitten’ instead of ‘Lizzie’. The explanation of this seems to be that she made some very particular noises when aroused, and that Donald Curtis had given her the nickname. In many of the letters, both the older, and the more recent ones, there are reminders of Mr Curtis’ comment when we first met, that Miss Sutton has her ‘kinks’, and I have to say, some of them are very unusual indeed.
“Good Lord,” Thompson says softly, then looks up at me.
“What?”
“Well…” He tilts his head to one side. “She’s describing something here which I would have said is physically impossible.”
“Does it relate to the case?”
“No.”
“Then you can tell me about it another time…” I struggle to conceal a smile. “Or maybe try it out on Julia?”
He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t want to break her.”
I chuckle and get back to my reading, turning over the page in my hand. “Oh… wait a minute. Here’s a passage.” Thompson sits forward. “She says, ‘Amy has been a little cow today. I’ve bent over backwards to keep her entertained, and she tipped her dinner all over the floor, and over me too, and when I bent down to clear it up, she hit me on the head.’”
“Charming child,” Thompson comments.
“Wait, there’s more. ‘I told her off, and the little bitch called me a slut. Can you believe that? To start with I wondered where she’d have picked up such words, but then I remembered the argument between Mr and Mrs Sanderson a few weeks ago, when he called her the same thing…’”
“Those two have a lot to answer for,” Thompson mutters quietly, putting his letter back down on my desk. “Have we trawled through enough of these yet?”
I glance across at him. He looks weary. “Yes, I think we have.” I pick up the letter from a few days ago, which we’ve set aside, in which she describes Amy as a ‘lovely girl’, and put it together with the one in my hand, which is less complimentary.
“We can go and pick her up?” he says.
“Well, we can at least ask her about the discrepancies, anyway. We don’t have enough evidence for an arrest yet, but we can pull her in for questioning… yes.”
He sighs out his relief. “Are we going to interview her tonight?”
“Yes.”
“I’m just going to phone Julia, if that’s alright?” he says. “I should let her know not to wait up.”
I nod my head. “I’d better call Amelie, and my mother.”
He smiles and leaves the room, and I pick up the telephone receiver, asking for Amelie’s number first. We’re connected quickly and I recognise Sarah’s voice. She clearly knows mine too, and asks if I want to speak to Miss Cooper. I smile, realising that, in just a few weeks, she’ll be ‘Mrs Stone’, before replying in the affirmative.
“Rufus?” Amelie’s voice is soothing and comforting.
“Yes, darling.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Yes. I’m just calling to let you know that I’m going to be working late tonight.”
“Oh?” She sounds intrigued, and perhaps a little saddened – which is gratifying, and worrying at the same time, being as I hate the idea of her being even a little sad, if I’m not there with her to cheer her up again.
“I know we hadn’t made any arrangements for this evening, but
I’d probably have come over after dinner, just for an hour or so. I doubt I’ll be back in time now, though.”
“Has something happened?”
“It might have done. We’ve got to question someone, and I want to at least make a start on it tonight.”
“Well, I’m not going to say I’m not disappointed that I won’t be seeing you, but if it means this awful case is coming to a close, then I’m relieved.”
“So am I. I’ll miss seeing you though.”
“I’ll miss you too,” she whispers, although I can still hear her. “But thank you for letting me know.”
I smile. “You don’t have to thank me, darling. You’re entitled to know where I am.”
“Entitled?” She sounds a little surprised by my choice of word. “I don’t think I’m entitled to anything.” How can she say that?
“Well, you are. As far as I’m concerned, you’re entitled to know everything about me. I love you and I don’t have any secrets from you.”
“Neither do I,” she says, without a second’s pause, although I can hear the emotion in her voice.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” She doesn’t sound it. “I’m just tired and I could do with cuddling up to you, that’s all.”
The need to comfort and protect her is automatic; the pull of her, magnetic. “I think I’m going to be horribly late, but I can still come over, if you want me to. We can cuddle up for a while…”
There is a pause this time, before she finally says, “You’ll be tired by then. I’ll be fine, Rufus. I think I’ll have a bath and get into my pyjamas.”
“In that case, I think I should definitely come over…” I joke, trying to cheer her up.
She giggles. “And what would your mother say to that?”
“We don’t have to tell her.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll—”
“Don’t worry about you?” I interrupt. “How can I not? You’ve said you need a cuddle and I’m not there, so…”
“Well, I’m not going to cuddle up with anyone else, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not Vic—” She stops talking, although I know exactly what she was about to say.
“I’ve never thought you were like Victoria. Not in any way.” The humour has been forgotten now. “I know I can trust you, and I do. My point is, I want to comfort you, and I can’t. And that’s frustrating.”
“Would you prefer it if I didn’t tell you how I feel?” she asks. Without being able to see her face, I’m not sure if she’s upset, angry, or just asking the question, genuinely intrigued, and I wonder for a moment how this conversation got so serious.
“No,” I reply, regardless. “I want to know how you feel. Always. But you have to let me respond to your feelings. You have to let me be there for you if I can, and worry about you, if I can’t. That’s my job. It’s what I do.”
“As a policeman, you mean?” She sounds confused.
“No, as your future husband. As the man who loves you and who will always put you first.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be.” I’m not even sure what she’s apologising for. “Just tell me… do you want me to come over to see you when I get home, regardless of what time it is?”
“No,” she replies, keeping her voice soft, letting me know this is not a rejection. “I will be fine, Rufus, I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Will I see you tomorrow?” she adds, with renewed hope in her voice.
“Yes.”
“What about the case?”
“I should have everything resolved by then.”
“And if not?”
“Then I will move heaven and earth, and all the stars in the sky, to make sure I can get home to you. I’ll stop time, if I have to, Amelie.”
She sighs. “I love it when you say things like that. And I really do love you,” she murmurs.
“Nowhere near as much as I love you.”
The telephone call to my mother was a lot quicker and less emotional – I’m pleased to say – and by seven-thirty, Thompson is behind the wheel of the car, and I’m beside him. We drive in silence, which is a relief as it gives me time to think. I know I should be focusing on the case, and how I’m going to deal with Elizabeth Sutton, but my mind is too full of Amelie, and my need to be with her. That need has nothing to do with anything physical, though. It’s so much deeper than that.
When we arrive, the house is in darkness, but so is every other building, and we get out of the car and walk slowly to the front door.
Lois answers my knock, and peers at us in the gloom. “Oh,” she says eventually, “it’s you, Inspector.” She steps to one side, automatically, and we enter the darkened hallway, waiting until she’s closed the door and switched on the light. She looks up at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak.
“We’d like to see Miss Sutton,” I explain.
“Miss Sutton?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll be up in the nursery,” she says. “Or possibly in her room, I suppose, if the baby’s asleep.”
I nod my head. “Would you mind fetching her down?” I ask. I don’t want to do this in the baby’s room.
“Certainly,” she says and makes her way to the stairs, climbing up them and disappearing from view. Thompson and I remain where we are, listening to the maid’s footsteps on the landing above, before she goes up to the second floor. Then there’s the distant sound of voices, and finally Lois reappears by herself.
“She’ll just be a minute,” she says, looking flustered, and remaining with us in the hallway, as though to guard us, and we wait a little longer, until Miss Sutton comes into view at the top of the stairs.
As usual, the nanny is smartly dressed, her hair neat, and her make-up perfect. She smiles as she reaches the bottom step, then walks slowly over, looks up at me through her fluttering eyelashes, and opens her mouth to speak.
“What’s going on?” Mr Sanderson’s voice forestalls her speech, and I peer upwards, to where he’s standing at the top of the stairs, one hand on the banister rail, looking down at the scene before him. “Inspector? What are you doing here?”
“We have some questions for Miss Sutton,” I reply, looking from him, to her.
“You do?” She’s positively purring now and gently bites on her bottom lip in a seductive manner. I’m aware of Mr Sanderson coming down the stairs and across the hallway to us.
“And we’d like you to accompany us to the police station,” I add, speaking to her now, just before he arrives.
Miss Sutton’s lip is released, her mouth popping open, and her eyes widen significantly as I notice her face pale beneath her make-up. “The… the police station?” she whispers.
“Yes.” I reach for her arm, but Sanderson tries to barge in front of me, pushing my hand away, and Thompson steps forward.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Sanderson blusters.
“Please stand to one side,” I tell him.
“I’ll do no such thing. You have no right to come in here and…”
“I have every right.” I turn to him. “Move aside. Now.”
He remains where he is, staring up at me, with a startling look of defiance on his face. “You need to stand away, sir,” Thompson says, very officially.
“Or what?” Sanderson turns to him.
“Or I’ll arrest you,” Thompson replies simply.
Sanderson takes a half step back. “A—Arrest me? But I haven’t done anything. And Miss Sutton is innocent.”
“If she’s innocent, they’ll release her.” We all turn at the sound of Mrs Sanderson’s voice. She’s standing by the drawing room door, her arms folded across her chest. She lets her eyes settle on Miss Sutton’s face, resting them there for a moment. “And if she’s not… then they’ll hang her.” Her words fester in the air, momentarily smothering all of us, and then she turns and goes back inside the room.
“Miss Sutton?” I break the st
ony silence, placing my hand on her elbow.
“Can I fetch a coat?” she asks quietly.
“No.” She looks up at me, bemused by my response, and I turn to Lois, who is still standing at the foot of the stairs, watching the scene before her, wide eyed. “Can you go to Miss Sutton’s room and bring a coat for her, please?”
Lois nods her head and runs up the stairs, returning moments later with a navy blue coat draped over her arm. I note the colour, recollecting Mrs Nichols’ description of the woman who was pushing the pram in the park on the day that Amy disappeared. Miss Sutton takes the garment, shrugging it on and looking up at me as I guide her to the front door. Thompson gets there first, having left Mr Sanderson to his own devices, and flicks off the lights, before opening the door and walking out ahead of us. I keep a firm grip on Miss Sutton’s arm, leading her to the car and sitting her on the back seat, before going around to the other side and getting in beside her. She turns away, gazing out of the window. Mr Sanderson is standing on his own front step, staring at us, and as Thompson reverses the car out of the driveway, his eyes don’t leave Miss Sutton. Not even for a second.
Miss Sutton has been sitting in the interview room for nearly half an hour now, in the company of PC Wells, while Thompson and I have gathered together all the paperwork, and he’s made some tea, which he carries in on a tray, because I’ve decided we may as well be civilised. I’ve got the file tucked under my arm and, as we enter, Wells steps to one side and makes to leave the room, but I give him a slight shake of my head and he stays put, his hands behind his back, staring into space.
Miss Sutton doesn’t acknowledge our entrance, her own eyes fixed on the table in front of her, on which Thompson puts the tea, and I drop the file, before sitting opposite her.
“Would you like some tea?” I ask her.
She doesn’t look up, or reply, so I nod at Thompson and he pours a cup anyway, passing it across to her. She’s in a trance and doesn’t respond.
“Miss Sutton?” I say and wait. After a minute, she finally looks up. Her eyes are vacant; devoid of any emotion at all and I feel a shiver run down my spine. “We’d like to talk to you about your correspondence with Mr Curtis.” I open the file and reveal the letters, lying on top of the other paperwork. She lowers her own gaze and glances at them, before returning her eyes to me. “Can you confirm you wrote these letters?” I ask, taking them out one at a time and laying them before her across the table. She continues to stare at me. “Please look at them, Miss Sutton.” Her eyes remain fixed on me. “Very well.” I take back the first letter, the one on the right hand side of the table and read the extracts that relate to Amy, the ones I read out to Thompson earlier. “Did you write that?” I ask her as I finish the passage. She doesn’t react at all, so I take the second letter. “Let’s try this one, shall we?” I lift up an earlier letter and turn the page. “Here, you’ve said that Amy deliberately tore her best dress, and when her mother asked about it, she blamed you? You call her a lying she-devil in that passage. Is that how you felt about her, Miss Sutton?” Again, she doesn’t reply. “Very well,” I remark. “Let’s look at this one, shall we?” I pick up another letter. “Here you say she’s a lovely, sweet darling girl.” She blinks a few times, quite rapidly, but keeps her lips tightly closed.