The Magpie (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 3)

by K. J. Frost

  I get to my feet and walk around the table, perching on the edge of it, right beside her. She looks up at me, doing her best attempt at a demure expression. “Can you see what I’m getting at here, Miss Sutton?” She remains silent. “Can you see the discrepancies in your letters, and how suspicious they might look to us?” I lean over and pick up another piece of paper. “When you write such diametrically opposing statements, it makes it difficult to know what’s true and what isn’t. So, you see, I don’t know whether to believe you when you say Amy was a lovely girl, or whether what you actually mean is…” I glance down at the page in front of me. “That she was really a ‘noisy, messy little brat, no better than an animal’.” She sighs slightly, but keeps her eyes on mine.

  “We have other reasons to be suspicious of you,” I say, putting down the letters. “You’ve lied to us.” She tilts her head to one side, evidently bemused by my statement, although she still says nothing. “You kept the fact that you had a boyfriend from us,” I point out. “We discovered that information from another source. Then, when we questioned you about Mr Curtis, you initially denied that you and he were together, and only confirmed it under duress. And again, when we spoke to you in front of your employer, you told us that your relationship with Mr Curtis was just friendly, not romantic, or physical.” I grab a couple of letters and drop them back down on to the desk. “These would seem to prove otherwise, wouldn’t they? Your descriptions of what you do with Mr Curtis are bordering on pornographic, Miss Sutton, and are certainly not the the actions of friends.”

  A very slight smile crosses her face and she opens her mouth, licking her lips very slowly. “Jealous?” she murmurs, uttering her first word since we left her employer’s house.

  “I don’t like being lied to in the course of my investigations.” I ignore her comment. “It makes me suspect that the person lying to me might have something to hide.”

  Her smile drops and she goes back to staring at me, blank faced.

  I stand again and walk back to my seat. “Let’s start again, shall we?” Her brow furrows. “I’d like you to confirm that you wrote these letters…”

  We continue in the same vein for nearly two hours, with me showing Miss Sutton various letters, reading her extracts, and asking for confirmations. She ignores everything I say and do, and either stares at me, or at the wall behind me. I’d hoped to break her down, to make her reveal something – anything – that might give her away. But she’s sat there throughout the entire interview, as though it’s nothing to do with her.

  As the clock ticks around to ten-thirty, I let out a long, bored sigh and nod to Thompson, and we rise to our feet, packing away the paperwork, tucking the file under my arm, and going over to the door.

  “Are you letting me go now?” I turn at the sound of Miss Sutton’s voice. She hasn’t changed position, but is looking across at me.

  “No.”

  I don’t give her anymore information and walk out into the corridor. Thompson closes the door behind him and joins me.

  “What now?” he asks as I lean against the wall opposite.

  “We’re going to get another cup of tea, while she stews in there for a while.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I’ll have a think about it.”

  He shakes his head and I push myself off the wall again, setting off slowly down the corridor. “We don’t really have anything on her, do we?” he mutters, stepping up beside me.

  “No we don’t. And I think she knows it. That’s why she’s giving us the silent treatment.”

  “What if we can’t find anything?” He sounds very down-hearted and I turn to look at him.

  “We will.”

  We’ve had a cup of tea and sat in my office for the last hour. We haven’t talked much. Thompson has re-arranged the paperwork in the file, where I gathered it up in haste, and I’ve been thinking. And for once, I haven’t been thinking about Amelie – well, not for most of the time, anyway. She’s never far from my thoughts, but on this occasion, I’ve had other things to contemplate.

  “Let’s go back,” I announce, getting to my feet.

  “You’re going to start again… now?” He looks at the clock.

  I don’t reply and, leaving the file on my desk, I walk from the room, with him following behind.

  Inside the interview room, nothing has changed. Miss Sutton is still sitting at the table, and Wells is standing close to the door, although his hands are by his sides now. As we enter, Miss Sutton looks up, her eyes giving away her relief, and I think for the first time, that my ploy might work.

  “Constable,” I say, ignoring her and turning to Wells, who stands upright.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Take Miss Sutton down to the cells, will you?”

  The scraping of the chair legs on the floor makes us all turn as Miss Sutton stands, glowering, and takes two paces towards me. I’m aware of Wells behind me on one side and Thompson on the other. “You can’t,” she says, her voice reasonably calm, although there’s a hint of some emotion beneath the surface.

  “I can,” I reply. “I have further investigations to carry out. And I’ll need to speak to you again.”

  “Further investigations?” she repeats.

  “Yes. I’m going to apply for a search warrant in the morning.”

  “A search warrant?” she parrots. “Where for?” Her skin has paled, becoming pasty in the stark electric lights.

  “Your rooms at the Sanderson property,” I reply, and without warning, she lunges at me, her flattened hand making contact with the side of my head, before either Thompson or Wells can react. I grab her arm and hold her off while they seize her, Wells taking charge and, once I’ve released her, pulling both of her arms behind her back. She struggles against him, but she’s no match for his strength. Few people are, I wouldn’t have thought.

  I step closer, towering over her, making myself intimidating. “Something to hide, Miss Sutton?” I ask.

  “You bastard,” she hisses, and then sucks in a breath, before spitting directly in my face.

  “That’ll do,” Wells says, shoving her forward and escorting her from the room.

  I reach into my pocket and retrieve a handkerchief to wipe my face, while Thompson perches on the edge of the table in front of me.

  “Are you alright?” he asks.

  I nod my head. “I’ve been in worse.”

  He folds his arms across his chest. “She’s obviously got something to hide,” he muses.

  “Hmm. The question is, what?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lizzie,

  I don’t even know when or if this letter will get to you. I have no idea whether they’ll forward it. But I have to write it anyway.

  I was worried about you all night, because the police came to the flat yesterday. They seemed to think you were guilty of killing Amy, but I didn’t believe them. I defended you. I said it was impossible. They didn’t listen and they took your letters away with them as evidence of something. So this morning, before work, I went to the house. The worry had become too much for me and I wanted to talk to you. Except you weren’t there. I saw the maid – Lois, I think her name was. She told me you’d been arrested last night; that the police came and took you away, and that Mr Sanderson tried to stop them, and that he was nearly arrested too for his trouble. She was in a right state, and she also let slip why he tried so hard to keep you there… that he’s been sweet on you for ages. You never told me that, Lizzie, and I have to ask myself why not? Why would you keep that from me? If he’s been harassing you, or chasing after you, or doing anything against your will, then surely you’d have told me, so I could do something about it. So, I’m forced to wonder, have you been fucking him too? Have all your letters to me been lies? Have you been playing me for a fool all along?

  Maybe the police are right. Maybe you did kill Amy. I don’t know. My head hurts just thinking about it. I don’t want to think that of you. I really don’t. I don’t want
to think you could do something like that, but then I’m starting to wonder who you even are, and if I know you at all.

  One thing I do know is that I don’t trust you anymore, and I can’t be with you ever again.

  If they do let you go, don’t come back here. I don’t want anything more to do with you.

  And this time, I mean it.

  Donald.

  *****

  I’m sitting at my desk, drumming my fingers on its wooden surface. I asked Tooley to arrange a search warrant for Miss Sutton’s rooms the moment I arrived and he said he’d do it right away, but these things can take time – especially when you don’t want them to.

  “It won’t come any quicker, just because you wear a hole in your desk.” I look up to find Thompson standing in the doorway.

  “I know. I’m just feeling anxious about this one, that’s all.”

  He comes in and sits opposite me. “You think I’m not?”

  I smile across at him and then stand as I notice the Chief Superintendent walking through my open door behind him. “Sir,” I say deferentially and Thompson shoots to his feet.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Webster says, coming over and standing at the end of my desk, between the two of us. “I hear you’ve got a young woman in custody in relation to this child murder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A woman?” He pulls a face, as though he doesn’t quite believe the outcome of the case.

  “Yes.”

  “What evidence do you have against her?”

  “Until I’ve searched her rooms, absolutely none,” I reply with complete honesty.

  He raises his eyebrows. “But you’re sure it’s her.”

  “Based on her reactions, yes.”

  He nods. “Very well.” It seems like he’s going to leave, but he stops and looks at me, and then at Thompson. “Are you both alright?” he asks, his voice softening. “This has been a horrendous case.”

  “We’re fine, sir,” Thompson replies.

  “Stone?” Webster looks at me.

  “I think what the sergeant means is, we’ll be fine once we’ve got the evidence we need to lock this woman up – for a very long time.”

  “Hang her, surely,” he replies.

  I shrug my shoulders. “I think she’ll try and claim it was an accident.”

  He leans forward, his hands on the edge of my desk. “How on earth can she hope to do that?”

  “The child had a bruise to her cheek, and a blow to the back of her head. I think she was struck across the face and fell, hitting her head on the concrete pathway.” I glance up at him. “Miss Sutton has a temper and a reasonable right hand,” I add. “I felt both of them for myself last night.”

  “But what about what she did afterwards?” Thompson says, sitting forward. “That was deliberate, one might even say premeditated, to throw us off the scent. She can’t claim that was accidental.”

  “No,” I reply, turning to him. “But sexual molestation isn’t a hanging offence.” Both men stare at me. “And either way, we have to prove all of this before we can start talking about punishments. I need to find something physical that ties her to the scene.”

  “Well, I hope you do,” Webster says, turning to go this time. “And then I hope they throw the book at her.”

  I turn back to Thompson once we’re alone again. “Did you mean that?” he asks. He’s paled, his eyes mournful. “You think she won’t hang?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I thought she’d try and plead it was an accident. And for all we know at the moment, it may well have been. Look, Harry, until we’ve got the evidence in our hands that she was actually there, we can’t start to question her properly. Once we do, and she tells us her side, then we’ll see where we go from there. But how she’s punished isn’t our responsibility. Remember? We’re just here to find the evidence to convict.”

  He nods his head, leaning back in his seat. “Dear God,” he murmurs to himself.

  “Shall we change the subject?” I suggest. I know I want to. I’m sick of this whole case.

  “Gladly.” He sighs and looks across the table at me. “What do you want to talk about?”

  There is something I need to ask him, and now seems as good a time as any. Hopefully, it’ll cheer him up, because something needs to. “I’ve got a question for you.”

  “Hmm… what’s that?” He stares down at his fingernails.

  “Will you be my best man?”

  His head shoots up. “Me?”

  I smile across at him. “Yes. I don’t see anyone else in here, do you?”

  He glances around, as though to make sure we’re alone. “But surely… after what happened…”

  “With Victoria, you mean?”

  “Yes. She was your fiancée, and I did sleep with her,” he reasons.

  “She was my fiancée in another life, and what happened is in the past. The dim and distant past. I thought we’d already been through this. Several times.”

  “We have. But… being your best man, it’s…”

  “It’s what? Look, Harry, if you don’t want to do it, you only have to say.” I wonder if that’s why he’s prevaricating.

  “No,” he says quickly. “I’d love to do it. It’d be an honour.”

  “Then stop making bloody excuses, will you?”

  “Sleeping with your fiancée is hardly an excuse, Rufus. It’s a bloody good reason for you not to want me anywhere near your wedding.”

  “Why? I’m not marrying Victoria,” I reply, shuddering involuntarily at the prospect.

  “I know, but what I did… it was unforgivable.” He looks down at his hands again.

  “Isn’t that for me to decide?” He doesn’t reply. “There’s nothing to forgive. Not as far as you’re concerned, anyway. You didn’t know who she was.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then stop blaming yourself.”

  He glances up. “You really want me to be your best man?” A smile is slowly forming on his lips.

  “Yes. On one proviso.”

  “What’s that? Because if you’re worried about Amelie, then think again. I—”

  “I’m not. The proviso is that, if you get me too drunk the night before my wedding, or I’m late for the ceremony, I will demote you to constable and have you filing paperwork for the next five years.”

  He shakes his head, grinning. “You’re actually going to pull rank on me over your wedding?”

  “Too right I am. I know you, Harry Thompson.” I wag a finger at him. “I know what you’re like.”

  “Then why are you asking me to be your best man?”

  I pause, just for a second. “I would have thought that was blindingly obvious by now.” He tilts his head to one side and I get up, walking around my desk and over to the door to check if there’s any sign of Tooley yet. “The clue’s in the title, Harry. You work it out.”

  He doesn’t have a chance to reply, as Tooley’s just walking through the main office entrance and spots me by my door. He waves a piece of paper at me and I turn to back to Thompson. “We’re in business,” I say and he jumps to his feet. “Get half a dozen men together, will you? I want this done quickly.”

  He nods and goes into the main office, calling out names and gathering the men around him, while I get my coat and pull it around my shoulders. We’re ready to leave within a few minutes, and I have to admit to a frisson of excitement. We’re finally there. I know we are.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Mr Sanderson thunders as I stand in his hallway, the six uniformed officers behind me and Sergeant Thompson to my right.

  Thompson holds up the warrant, which he’s removed from his pocket. “We have a search warrant here,” he says.

  “What for?” Sanderson looks up at me.

  “To search your nanny’s rooms,” I reply and turn to the men behind me. “Sergeant Thompson will show you the way.”

  “Now wait a minute…” Sanderson moves quickly blocking the stairway in a melodrama
tic fashion, his arms outstretched. “I’m not letting you up there.” He raises his chin defiantly.

  I’ve had enough, and I step towards him. “Mr Sanderson,” I say, my voice calm and just slightly menacing, “it’s of no interest to me that you seem to be rather too fond of your children’s nanny, but when that fondness gets in the way of my investigation, then I do start to take it more seriously. Now, I don’t know what your motives are for trying to prevent this search, but I suggest you move out of the way, before I arrest you for obstruction.”

  His arms drop in an instant and he steps aside. His fascination for Miss Sutton has its boundaries, it would seem.

  I nod at Thompson and he leads the way up the stairs, followed by the other officers.

  “They’d better clear up after themselves,” Sanderson remarks, stamping the only authority he has left on the matter.

  “They know what they’re doing,” I tell him.