by K. J. Frost
“Chief Inspector,” he says, holding out his hand.
“No need to promote me. I’m still just an inspector.”
He laughs. “Oh, I do apologise.”
“Apology accepted,” I say gracefully. He indicates the two seats in front of his desk and we obligingly sit on them. “This is my colleague Detective Sergeant Ellis,” I add, completing the introductions.
Pickford nods at Ellis, but then turns back to me. “How can I help you, Inspector?”
“Would it be possible for us to include Mr Johnson in this interview?” I ask him. “It would just save us some time and repetition.”
“I’m not sure.” He picks up his telephone and waits. “Miss Higgins, can you see if Mr Johnson can come over to my office, please?” There’s a pause. “Yes, right away. The police wish to speak with him.” He doesn’t wait for a reply, and replaces the receiver, looking up at me. “He’s in a different part of the building,” he explains. “It might take him a while to get here.”
“We’re in no hurry.” I sit back in my chair.
“Can I get you some refreshments?” he offers. “Tea? Or Coffee?”
“Tea would be most welcome,” I reply. It’ll pass some time as well, being as I don’t want to start the interview without Mr Johnson. There’s nothing I hate more than repeating myself unnecessarily.
Pickford gets up and leaves the room, returning a few moments later. “Miss Higgins will arrange the tea,” he says, sitting back down. “You’re from Scotland Yard?” He’s clearly making small talk, and judging from the way he fiddles with his tie, loosening it slightly around his neck, he doesn’t seem altogether comfortable with the practice.
“Yes,” I reply.
“And how are you finding it down here? We must seem very slow and parochial to you.”
“Not at all. I grew up here, so I’m well used to the ways of village life.”
“Oh. I see.” He seems surprised.
We look at each other for a while, which I think Pickford finds more awkward than I do, until there’s a knock on the door and his secretary enters, carrying a tray, which she sets on the table in front of her boss.
“Mr Johnson is on his way,” she says, before leaving the room and closing the door behind her.
“Excellent,” Pickford replies, then rubs his hands. “Shall I be Mum?” he suggests.
“By all means.”
He pours weak tea, that clearly needed a lot more brewing time, and offers milk and sugar. I accept the first and decline the second. Ellis declines the tea altogether. I can’t say I blame him.
Pickford and I have both taken a sip of the insipid liquid, when there’s another knock on the door and a man enters. He’s probably about five foot eleven, and younger than his colleague, in his late twenties, I would say. He’s well dressed and not unattractive.
“This is Mr Johnson,” Pickford says unnecessarily, pulling up another chair, which he puts at the end of the table. “This is Detective Inspector Stone, and Detective Sergeant…”
“Ellis,” I supply.
Johnson nods at the two of us, taking off his spectacles and polishing them with his handkerchief, before replacing them, high on the bridge of his nose. He looks the type who’d be a perfectionist.
“Now that we’re all here, how can we help?” Pickford enquires for the second time, glancing at Ellis, who’s sitting slightly off to one side, preparing to make notes in his small black book.
“As you’re both aware, Beth Templeton was murdered last night…”
“Yes,” Pickford interrupts. “Terrible business. I informed Mr Johnson after your… your telephone call earlier.”
I fix my eyes on him for a moment. “As I was saying, Miss Templeton was murdered last night. I’m here to ask if you can give me any information about her work that may be relevant.”
“Relevant?” Johnson asks. His voice is deeper than Pickford’s. “In what way?”
“At the moment, I don’t know,” I reply. “We have no idea why Miss Templeton was assaulted and killed—”
“Did you say ‘assaulted’?” Pickford interrupts again.
“Yes.”
He blanches. “I didn’t realise,” he mutters.
“Why would you have done? I didn’t mention it earlier, and it’s not public knowledge yet…” We’ll no doubt have that salacious joy to look forward to when the newspapers get hold of the story, although I’m going to try my best to keep back as many of the details as I can. The last thing I need is sensationalist reporters getting in the way of my investigation.
“No… no, of course not.”
“So, Miss Templeton?” I nudge.
“I can’t tell you very much about her, I’m afraid,” Johnson responds. “She wasn’t due to start working for me until next week. I hadn’t actually met her.”
“Excuse me?”
“I hadn’t met her,” he repeats.
“But surely, you must have interviewed her?”
He shakes his head. “No. I don’t have time for things like that. I told Mr Pickford here that I needed a new assistant, and he dealt with everything for me.”
I turn to Pickford.
“That’s quite right,” he says. “That’s how it tends to happen. The designers are kept very busy at the moment. They often work seven days a week, you know.” As do we, I want to say, but don’t. “They don’t have time to deal with personnel matters,” Pickford continues, “so if they need anything, they come to me and I deal with it. Although I’m the factory manager, I’m in charge of the secretarial personnel as well…”
I’m wondering why we bothered to wait for Mr Johnson now.
“Very well,” I reply. “So, prior to her promotion, what was Miss Templeton doing.?”
Pickford sits forward. “She was in one of the secretarial offices,” he says. “We have several. One for each department. Miss Templeton worked in the general design department and had been there for about eighteen months, I suppose. She was a very good worker, very competent. Then, as Mr Johnson explained, a vacancy came up for an assistant, and she fitted the bill.”
“Why was there a vacancy?” I ask.
“I had to let the previous girl go,” Johnson replies.
“For any particular reason?”
“She made too many mistakes.” He glares at me.
“And the girl before her?”
“I—I don’t recall.” He’s lying. I know he is. “In any case, what has that got to do with Miss Templeton?” he asks.
“Nothing. So you weren’t aware in any way of Miss Templeton, prior to being notified that she’d be coming to work for you?” I ask him.
“No. I’ve only been in the department myself for about six months. And I’ve been very busy. I’m afraid I haven’t really had time to get to know people very well yet. Besides, this is a large site. I’m sure there are plenty of people here who don’t know all their colleagues.”
“I see. What is it exactly that you do, Mr Johnson?” I ask.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I’m not allowed to say. Sorry.”
I suppose that’s a response we may have to get used to hearing as the war progresses. “And Miss Templeton’s role, had she been able to fulfil it?”
“Typing up my personal notes and letters, organising meetings, filing…” His voice fades.
“Would she have had access to anything that might be deemed secret?” I ask.
“Once she’d started in her new position, yes.” It’s Pickford who responds, adding, “But being as she hadn’t…”
“And in her previous position? What exactly did she do there?”
“She’d have typed up orders, general correspondence and anything else required by the design department. There’s a team of three secretaries in there, and they share the work between them. The personal assistants handle anything more confidential.”
“Very well,” I say, feeling a little disappointed. “While we’re here, would it be possible to speak with Dani
el Milton?”
Pickford pulls a ledger from his drawer and opens it. “He’s working the night shift at the moment, so he won’t be here.”
“He’ll be at home, I assume?”
“Presumably, yes.”
“In which case, can you give me his home address?” I ask.
“If you ask my secretary, Miss Higgins, she’ll find it for you. It’ll be in the personnel files.”
We stand and I shake hands with Pickford again. Johnson walks to the door with us, and once he’s closed it, he turns to me. “I was very sorry to hear about what happened,” he says, and then shakes my hand and goes down a long corridor, disappearing around a corner at the end. He’s definitely lying about at least one of his previous secretaries and, while that may, or may not, have any bearing on my case, I’m determined to get to the bottom of his dishonesty. And that means I’ll be coming back to see him… by himself.
We get Milton’s address from Miss Higgins and then walk out past a door marked ‘General Secretarial Office’. The door is open and I glance in and notice four desks, one of which is vacant. I assume it’s Amelie’s desk and try to picture her sitting there, working. A young blonde woman stops typing, looks up and smiles at me, her lips parting slightly and her eyes twinkling. I smile back a little half-heartedly, just to be polite, and then realise that Ellis has already gone out to the car park.
I join him and, once we’re both seated, Ellis turns to me.
“That was interesting, wasn’t it, sir?” he says, starting the car.
“It was?” I twist in the seat to face him.
“Well, given that the victim’s father’s an MP, at the War Office…”
“I didn’t know he was at the War Office,” I interrupt.
“Yes. He’s only got a minor role, as far as I know, but put that together with the daughter working here and there could be something in it, don’t you think? Especially as she’d just been promoted…”
I stare at him, trying to think through what he’s suggesting.
Beth Templeton had just been given access to potentially top secret information about aircraft design, and her father holds a position at the War Office… it’s possible that someone maybe wanted her to give away something, or to obtain something, either from her father, or from her office. She may have refused, and been killed for her dissent. Equally, given her father’s position, it’s possible that someone was blackmailing him, threatening his daughter if he didn’t give them what they wanted, and they may have made good on the threat. I shake my head. Both scenarios are complex and I can’t make all the pieces fit for either of them, but then I don’t have enough information yet.
Even so, it’s more of place to start than I had a couple of hours ago, and it gives us a line of enquiry to pursue.
“Well done, Ellis,” I say.
“Sir?” He seems surprised by my praise.
“Well done for seeing the connection. Excellent work.”
“Oh… Thank you, sir.” He blushes and smiles as he pulls the car out onto Canbury Park Road.
Ellis drives the Wolseley through the familiar archway of the London Road station, parking up in a free space to the rear.
“You worked here before, didn’t you, sir?” he asks, getting out of his side.
“Yes. It was a while ago now, but nothing seems to have changed.” I climb out and look up at the building. “Nothing at all.”
We go in through the back door, and up the stairs. “You left about six years ago, didn’t you?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Well, we must have just missed each other,” he says, over his shoulder. “I went to university before training, so I suppose you could call me a late starter.” He turns to face me as we move down the corridor and I smile, pretending an interest. “I think this is going to be your office,” he says, stepping to one side by a doorway on the left.
I pass through and stand, looking at the sparse room, filled with a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. Oh, how I long for my comfortable chair, my bookcases, my familiar surroundings. This is very sterile and inhospitable.
“Stone!” I hear my name being called and step back out into the corridor to see Inspector Styles striding towards me. “You’ve found your office then?” he says. “Sorry it’s so dull. Best we could muster at short notice.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I reply.
“How’s the case going?” he asks, guiding me into the room. Ellis follows and the three of us stand, a little awkwardly, being as there are only two seats.
“I can’t see it clearly yet,” I reply honestly, giving him a vague outline of our activities, but unwilling to tell him where my thoughts are heading with regard to the Templeton connection, until I’ve worked it out for myself.
“You need to get hold of this Milton chap,” he replies. “And the landlord’s wife.”
“Yes.” Believe it or not, I’d worked that out for myself. “Pickford’s secretary gave us a phone number for Milton, so I’m going to try it now and see if he’s at home.”
Styles slaps me on the arm in a jovial manner. “Jolly good,” he replies. “I’d better get back to the coal face. Let me know if you need anything, won’t you?”
“I will.” I won’t. I’ll manage just fine. Still, no need to rub the locals up the wrong way too soon.
I can do that tomorrow.
Chapter Six
“You’re late,” Mother calls, the moment I step into the hall.
“Ten minutes, Mother.”
“Well, don’t blame me if the dinner’s overcooked.”
The dinner is always overcooked, I think to myself, but say nothing. It’s not worth it.
“You’ll have to start the tea straight away,” she replies.
“Will do.”
I don’t want to talk to her anyway. I want some time to myself, to think. Going through to the kitchen, I pour water into the kettle and put it on the gas to boil. Then I get the cups and saucers out as usual, and prepare the teapot, before sitting down at the table.
Is it too soon to go out again? I sit and think about it for a minute. I had so much fun last night, but would it be better to wait for a while? I shudder. The thought of waiting – even for a day or two – makes me tense and uneasy, and I clench my fists on top of the table, trying to ease the pressure. The thing is, I’ve worked out what I need now, and it’s not enough for me that they should be in uniform. They also have to be young. Innocent. The surge of power I felt when I took Beth Templeton’s virginity against her will, was almost overwhelming. I need to feel that again… and again… and again.
The whistling of the kettle startles me and I jump up from my seat, flicking off the gas and pouring the boiling water over the tea leaves.
“What’s taking so long?” Mother calls from the living room.
“Just a tick,” I reply.
I have to get out of the house. The prospect of an evening spent with my mother is just too much. I’ll go back to the pub. I’ll do it… I’ll do it tonight. I pant out short breaths, then turn and catch sight of myself, reflected in the glass fronted cabinet. I can just about make out the beads of sweat forming on my upper lip and I stare at my own wan face and take a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm down. No… I daren’t take the risk. Not yet. No matter how much I need to feel that divine sense of release, to go out again so soon would be insane. And I’m not insane. I’m really not.
*****
Sergeant Tooley reported back that the house-to-house enquiries had returned absolutely nothing of significance, and Ellis had notes to type up, so one of the uniformed constables drove me back to Aunt Dorothy’s, after I’d spoken to Daniel Milton’s mother. She remembered him ‘courting’ Beth Templeton – as she put it – describing her as a ‘charming girl’. She told me that Daniel had just gone out with some friends, and would be going straight on to work. I asked if I could call round and see him tomorrow, and she said he sleeps in the mornings, but she’d make sure he was
up and available from two o’clock onwards. I thanked her and we said our goodbyes. She seemed genuinely distressed about what had happened to Beth and, if her son is anything like his mother, I can see that line of enquiry being a dead end. Still, we have to follow it up, just to make sure.
I let myself in through the wrought iron front gate of Aunt Dorothy’s house. Other than when I helped her move in earlier in the year, and my brief visit this morning, this is the first time I’ve been to see her in this house. It’s a large, beautiful white painted Edwardian villa, with bay windows and ivy growing up the front. Her late husband, Samuel, was a diplomat who was knighted near the end of his service, and he and Dotty travelled widely during their marriage. He left her very comfortably off when he died, but I know she’d rather live in penury with him, than live in grandeur alone.
I knock on the front door and wait for a few moments until it opens and I’m met by a young girl, dressed in a smart maid’s uniform. Her eyes widen and she swallows.
“Y—Yes, sir? C—Can I help you?” she whispers.
Oh dear. “Yes. I’m Rufus Stone. I believe my aunt is expecting me?”
“Yes, sir.” She steps to one side and ushers me into the house, not taking her eyes from my face. “The mistress is in the drawing room,” she mutters. I hand the simpering girl my hat and then follow her to the door that’s on our left, which she opens.
“Mr Stone, ma’am’,” she announces, with due deference as I enter the room and she exits, closing the door again.
Aunt Dorothy springs from her seat at one end of the sofa, her arms outstretched and we meet halfway across the room. She enfolds me in a tight embrace, and then leans back and places her hands on my cheeks, clasping my face, just like she did earlier. “Look at you, you beautiful boy,” she chirps. “I didn’t have a chance to say so this morning, but I think you get more handsome every time I see you. And isn’t it marvellous? You’re just in time for a drink.”
“Being as you’ve nearly always got a drink on the go, that’s not a difficult thing to achieve,” I say, laughing.