by K. J. Frost
“Yes, but not by the same person,” I manage to say, keeping to the point and trying not to let Amelie’s mind drift away too much.
Her face pales as a shadow crosses her eyes and her brow furrows. “Let me get this straight,” she says, her voice stronger than I would have expected it to be. “The victim was raped, and then murdered, but by two different people?” She looks confused.
“No. I think that the victim was raped and made pregnant, probably in November, and that the murderer found out about it and killed her, to keep her quiet.”
“About the rape, or the pregnancy?” she asks quietly, although she’s blinking rapidly, clearly affected by my revelation.
“Both,” I reply, then squeeze her hand gently. “Are you all right?” I ask. “Has this brought back memories of Beth?”
She looks up at me. “No,” she says softly. “It’s just that I’m… well, I’m so proud of you,” she says, surprising me.
“I hate to disappoint you, darling, but you might not be by the time I’ve finished this case.”
She frowns now. “Why on earth not?”
“Because some of the methods I might have to employ today could be a little…” I search for the right word.
“Unorthodox?”
I shake my head. “No. I have a reputation for that already. Today… Today I think I might have to break a few rules.”
She lets out a breath, then gets up and comes to stand beside me, her hand on my shoulder. “Then break them, Rufus,” she says firmly. “Do whatever you have to do. Catch whoever did this, and then come home to me.”
I put my arms around her waist, my head resting between her breasts, and I cling to her, basking in the last fragment of humanity I’m likely to experience, at least until I come home again tonight.
My drive to work is brief, and I spend it thinking about my parting kiss with Amelie, rather than focusing on the case. She did seem a lot brighter this morning, which I can only put down to our discussion about her joining the WVS in the near future. I can understand that she wants to delay for a while, just so she feels a bit more settled first, but as I said to her yesterday, I will help out as much as I can, and I know it will do her good to get out and make some friends of her own.
When I arrive at the station, Thompson is already there waiting for me, a grim expression on his face.
“I can see you’re looking forward to this as much as I am,” I remark, walking past him and into my office.
“I haven’t slept well,” he explains, getting up and following me.
“Thinking about the case?” I ask as I hang up my coat and hat. “Or is there something else wrong?”
“It’s mainly the case,” he says, “although Julia had a restless night. The baby’s moving around a fair bit now, and it decided to keep her awake for an hour or so.”
“And she kept you awake in turn?” I ask.
He smiles. “No. I was already awake, but at least that meant I could go and make us both a cup of tea at three o’clock this morning.” I shake my head, smiling at the domesticated image of my once carefree friend. “You needn’t look so cheerful,” he says, smiling back at me. “You’ve got all of this to look forward to.”
“One day,” I reply, picking up the files on my desk and thumbing through them. “One day…”
“Hmm…” he muses and then nods to the files. “Who are we seeing first?”
“Mrs Hodge, I think.”
“Oh good,” he sighs, rolling his eyes. “More histrionics. I’ll go and arrange to have her brought up, shall I?”
“If you don’t mind.” I sit down at my desk. “I’ll just go through these.”
He nods and leaves the room, while I go over the paperwork, making sure I’ve got everything fresh in my mind, being as I have absolutely no doubt that both Mrs Hodge and her husband are going to try and run rings around me for the next few hours.
Thompson returns ten minutes later and informs me that Mrs Hodge is waiting in interview room one, and she’s not best pleased.
“So there’s nothing new there then,” he adds, waiting for me by the door. “Shall I have some tea brought in?”
“Has she been given breakfast?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Then skip the tea for now.”
He nods and we make our way down the corridor, through the double doors, stopping outside the interview room, where we both take a deep breath, before I open the door.
On the inside, Constable Beresford is standing guard and gives me a brief nod of his head, which I return, letting him know he’s to remain exactly where he is, before I turn and look at Mrs Hodge, who is sitting on one of the three chairs surrounding the metal table in the middle of the room.
Her hair is slightly dishevelled and her scant make-up is smudged, but otherwise, she looks the same as she did yesterday evening, her eyes alight and filled with indignation.
“About time too,” she says huffily. “I don’t know why you felt it necessary to lock me up for the last twelve hours, when we could have dealt with this yesterday evening, and I could have been spared a sleepless night.”
I don’t respond to her, but walk slowly over to the table, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down opposite her, waiting a moment for Thompson to take his seat beside me, and then placing the files on the table in front of me.
“Good morning,” I say eventually, and she narrows her eyes.
“You know my husband is a rapist?” she says, randomly, blinking rapidly, her hands clasped together, the knuckles almost white. “You know he raped Mildred Ryder?”
I place a deliberately confused frown on my face. “How do you know this?” I ask, not answering her question as to whether or not we are aware of her husband’s misdemeanours.
“Because I overheard a conversation between them,” she admits, triumphantly.
“Between him and Mildred Ryder?” I play along.
“Yes,” she hisses.
“When was this?”
“Let me see…” She pauses, thinking, and looking up at the ceiling for effect, although I’d wager my house that she knows exactly when this conversation took place. “I think it must have been the Wednesday before Mildred was killed,” she says at last, looking me in the eye now.
“So, you’ve known about this all along, and are only telling us now?” I say, sounding cross with her and proving that Mrs Hodge isn’t the only one capable of putting on an act.
She blushes, looking away again. “Well, he is still my husband,” she says, offering a weak excuse.
“So? I would have thought that would be all the more reason to tell us.”
“He’s also the vicar,” she adds. “Can you imagine the scandal if word got out?”
I glare at her for a moment, in genuine revulsion, but manage to say, “Can you tell me about this conversation?” my voice surprisingly normal.
“Yes,” she replies, sitting forward again, clearly keen to get this off of her chest. “Mildred arrived at about four o’clock,” she begins, in what sounds to me like a well-rehearsed speech.
“Was your husband expecting her?” I ask, putting her off her stride.
“No. Not that I’m aware of.” I nod my head and she continues, “I answered the door, and she asked to see Neville, so I showed her into his study, where he was going over his sermon.”
“And you listened in?” I lean back in my seat, raising my eyebrows.
“You have to remember, Inspector, that I’d caught my husband in a compromising position once before,” she says, affronted by my remark, as well as my interruption to her flow, I think. “I wasn’t about to let him make a fool of me again.”
“I see. So, you listened in?” I repeat.
“It’s just as well I did,” she retorts angrily, “because the very first thing Mildred said was that she was pregnant, and that the baby was Neville’s.”
“How did that make you feel?” I interrupt again.
“Feel?” She seems surprise
d.
“Yes. You’d just heard a young woman claim that your husband had fathered her unborn child. How did you feel?”
“Angry,” she replies instantly. “And shocked.”
“I see. So, what happened next? Did your husband deny it?”
She shakes her head. “No,” she replies. “That was what was so odd about it. He didn’t say a word. Then I heard Mildred again, saying that what Neville had done to her was wrong; that she’d only gone into the vestry to talk about the Christmas carols they’d been rehearsing at choir practice that evening, and to tell him she thought someone else should have a chance at doing one of the solos… and then he’d turned the conversation round to her wedding – which had still been going ahead as planned at that time, you understand,” she adds as an afterthought.
“She said all of this, did she?”
Mrs Hodge nods her head. “Yes. She was crying, but I could hear her saying that she’d thought my husband was just being friendly when he’d asked her how the preparations were going, and whether she was ready for married life.” She looks up at me. “Can you believe he said that?” I shrug my shoulders, recalling the comments he made yesterday on the subject, but I remain silent, and she goes on, “Mildred was sobbing by this time, saying how was she supposed to know what he’d meant? How was she supposed to know what he’d do? And that was when my husband spoke for the first time. He seemed to be quite near the door – close enough to make me jump, anyway – and he told her that men have expectations of their brides, and that all he was doing was trying to help her.”
“Help her?” I query.
“Yes. He said… he claimed, that he just wanted to help, but then Mildred said that what he’d done was wrong… that he had no right to touch her like that, or to force her onto the desk in the way he’d done…” She falls silent for a moment. “Neville asked her to keep her voice down at that point, and then told her that he’d only been trying to prepare her for married life, so it wouldn’t be such a shock. Mildred turned on him then, and told him he’d ruined her marriage. She said he was the reason she’d had to postpone it… I can remember her words, Inspector, as clearly as though she’d only just said them, five minutes ago. She said, ‘How could I marry someone as good as Sam, knowing I wasn’t pure anymore?’.” She looks up, with what appear to be genuine tears in her eyes. “That’s when I knew,” she says softly. “That’s when I knew what he’d done. I felt sick to my stomach, but something held me there. Something made me listen to the end of her story.”
“And what was the end?” I ask.
“She told him she’d been to the doctor, and that he’d confirmed she was pregnant. She said she’d decided she was going to tell the police about what my husband had done to her. It was her only hope of having any kind of future with Sam… that’s what she said. Although quite why she thought Sam would stick by her, once he found out what she’d done, I don’t know…”
“What did your husband say?” I ignore her disparaging comment about what Mildred had supposedly ‘done’, wondering how she thinks being raped could possibly have been the young girl’s fault, and continue with my questions.
“He… he offered her money,” Mrs Hodge replies, sounding disgusted. It’s a sentiment with which I concur, although I’m not sure how genuine she is, so I don’t say as much. “He said he’d need a few days to arrange it with the bank, but he begged her to keep quiet. She turned him down flat. She said she didn’t want money; she wanted everyone to know what he’d done… especially Sam. As she was talking, I heard her voice getting nearer to the door, so I had to duck into the living room to avoid being seen. The next thing I knew, the front door was slammed shut and Mildred was gone.”
I sit for a moment, just looking at her and she holds my gaze with remarkable tenacity. “I still don’t understand,” I say eventually.
“What don’t you understand?” she asks with a fawning, rather condescending tone to her voice.
“Why you didn’t tell us any of this yesterday, when you asked us to come and see you, because you were so afraid of your husband? Why didn’t you tell us your suspicions then, Mrs Hodge?”
Her eyes flicker for a moment. You didn’t think of that, did you? I muse to myself. You haven’t got your answer prepared. Even so, she rallies quickly. “For the very reason that I was so scared,” she whispers.
“Of your husband?” I decide to play along with her.
“Of course. I explained that. I mean… hasn’t it occurred to you that the woman in that letter, the one calling herself his little teddy bear, or whatever it was… hasn’t it occurred to you that she might be dead too?”
“How do you work that out?” I frown, doing my best to look bemused.
“Think about it,” she says, with mock patience. “In that letter, the woman said that my husband had promised to tell me of their affair, so that they could be together.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But he never did, did he?” she says.
“Maybe he changed his mind,” I reason.
“Or maybe he only said it to her so she’d do what he wanted, and he never had any intention of seeing it through… and when she got too demanding, he did away with her, just like he did away with Mildred, when she became too much trouble.” She sits back, with a jubilant expression on her face.
I nod my head very slowly, as though I’m thinking through her idea and coming to a conclusion in her favour.
“We’re going to need to speak to your husband about this,” I say softly, getting to my feet and picking up the files, neither of which have I opened during the course of our interview.
“Does he know I’m here?” she asks, sounding worried.
“No.”
“Please don’t tell him.” There’s a trembling in her voice and, for a moment, I almost admire her. She’s good… she’s very good.
I nod my head and then turn, going over to the door, with Thompson in my wake. “We’ll be back later,” I say, looking back at Mrs Hodge and trying not to smile. “I’ll arrange to have some tea brought in for you.”
She smiles up at me. “Oh, that would be very kind,” she simpers and, with a final nod of my head to PC Beresford, Thompson and I leave the room.
“Do you know,” Thompson says, once we’ve arranged to have the Reverend Hodge brought up from the cells, “for a second there, I almost believed her.”
“Oh, I believe almost every word of that particular story,” I tell him and he looks up at me sharply, from his position outside the interview room, where he’s leaning against the wall.
“You do?”
“Yes. I believe that Mildred went to the vicarage that afternoon, that she had a private conversation with the vicar, in which she accused him of rape, and informed him of her pregnancy. I believe he offered her money and that she declined and threatened to come to us… because she loved Sam enough to want to save their relationship, and she hoped that telling the truth and revealing what had been done to her might be her only chance.”
“You honestly believe that?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“So, you think the vicar killed her?” he says, shaking his head.
“I didn’t say that,” I reply. “I said I believed almost all of her story. I think that’s how Mrs Hodge found out about Mildred’s condition, and her husband’s role in it. I also think she’s of the opinion that we’re stupid enough to fall for her lies, unquestioningly.”
“And are we?” he asks.
“No,” I reply. “The problem with people like Mrs Hodge, is they’re complacent. They let their guard down too quickly.”
“They do?”
“Yes.” I smile at him as he pushes himself off the wall. “As we were leaving, I glanced back at her. She was staring straight ahead, looking at the wall at the time, but she made the mistake of smiling, just a little too quickly. I saw it. I saw the look in her eyes which told me she thought she’d won…”
Thompson
nudges into me. “So you’ve let her think she has?” he says.
“Yes… for now.”
I’m aware that we don’t have long before the reverend is brought up and I turn to Thompson. “This is the part we’ve both been dreading,” I tell him, lowering my voice.
“I know,” he replies and I let out a long sigh.
“Whatever happens in there, Harry… whatever I do, please don’t try and stop me.”
He pauses, his brow knitted into a frown, before he slowly nods his head, and we turn as one as the double doors at the other end of the corridor open and the enormous figure of PC Wells appears, with Reverend Hodge a step in front of him, looking diminutive by comparison, but then most people do. He glances up at us, defiance written across his face, and manages a smile.
“Good morning, Inspector,” he says, annoying me still further by ignoring Thompson, who’s standing a half step behind me now.
“Interview room two, please, Constable,” I say to Wells, ignoring the reverend.
Wells opens the door to his left and ushers the vicar inside. We follow them. “Take a seat, sir,” the constable says, and then closes the door and steps back into the corner of the room.
Thompson and I take our places in the chairs opposite Reverend Hodge, and I place the files in front of me once more.
“How much longer are you going to keep me here?” the vicar asks, frowning at me.
“As long as it takes,” I reply.
“As long as it takes for what?” His frown deepens.
“For you to tell me the truth.”
Anger flickers across his eyes. “I’ve already told you the truth,” he blusters.
“No, you haven’t.” I open the top file and gaze down at it for a moment, even though I don’t need to. “Can you tell me about the conversation you had with Mildred Ryder in your study on the Wednesday afternoon before she was killed?” I say, looking up at him halfway through my sentence.