The Cuckoo (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 1)

by K. J. Frost

  I listen as she moves around the room next door, then hear the creaking of the bed springs and the click of the light switch. I decide to give it half an hour longer, but then I hear her snores – loud enough for the neighbours to notice – and I smile to myself, getting up and going along to George’s room.

  The trousers are dry, thank goodness and I take them back to my own bedroom, changing quickly before leaving the house again.

  I choose a different pub this time – The Fox – and as soon as I enter, at just after nine o’clock, I know I’ve picked a good night. The bar is heaving with customers, a lot of whom are in the services, and the atmosphere is lively. It doesn’t take me long to spot her though. She’s in a group of three, all wearing the uniform of the Women’s Royal Naval Service. That’s an unusual one to see around here, but what strikes me most is that, while two of them are laughing with a couple of soldiers, the third seems a little left out – making her perfect for my purposes – and I soon manage to catch her eye. She gives me a tentative smile and, within moments, I’m by her side, pulling her away from her friends, who are so ensconced with their own young men, they don’t even seem to notice.

  “Hello,” I say, allowing my voice to drop to a diffident tone. “I’m George. Are you alright…?”

  She nods and smiles again. “Yes. I’m just a little bored, really.” She holds out her hand, formally. “I’m Janet.” I take in her mousy brown hair, lack of make-up and wide-eyed innocence and decide she’s better than perfect.

  “Nice to meet you,” I reply. “Now… we can’t have you being bored, can we? Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’ve already had two… I don’t think I should have anymore,” she says, swaying a little.

  “We could go for a walk, if you like?” I suggest, unable to believe my luck.

  “Would you mind? It’s horribly hot and noisy in here.”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  “I should probably just let my friends know…” She turns around to face them, but I take her arm.

  “I think they’re a bit preoccupied,” I reply. Luckily for me, one of the soldiers chooses that moment to make a move and is kissing her friend, while the other one has disappeared from sight, leaving her young man at the bar, ordering more drinks. Janet turns back to me, blushing, although her eyes are shining and I wonder for a moment, if she’s going to cry. Not that I care.

  “Yes,” she murmurs.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll see you home safely.”

  She smiles once more, just slightly. “Thank you,” she says, and allows me to steer her out of the pub.

  Once outside, the cold air seems to hit her and she shivers. I take advantage and move closer, putting my arm around her. She doesn’t object though and we start walking.

  “Where do you live then?” I ask. “I’d hate to be heading in completely the wrong direction for several miles. Although it would mean I’d get to spend more time with you…” I smile down at her in the moonlight, keeping up the act.

  “I’m staying at my parents’ house… in Summer Gardens,” she replies, ignoring my flirtatious comment. “Do you know it?”

  “Yes, I do.” I turn away just slightly, a smile crossing my face. An idea has just come to me. It’s devilishly wicked, but I can’t resist… Just the thought of it makes me chuckle.

  “What’s funny?” she asks.

  “Nothing,”I reply, turning back to her. “I’m just really glad I met you, that’s all.”

  *****

  I can hear a hammering in my head and turn over. I knew I shouldn’t have said yes to that third pint, not on top of the two gin and tonics I’d had with Aunt Dotty… and that I should have called it a night at nine-thirty, instead of staying until closing time. I was tired beforehand, and I’m not used to drinking beer. It’s given me a headache, which seems to be manifesting itself by trying to bash the insides of my brain out, and that’s the last thing I need on a Monday morning. I bury my head beneath the pillow and try to get some more sleep.

  It’s no good. The hammering continues.

  “Mr Stone?” I hear Ethel’s voice and sit up straight, suddenly awake.

  “Yes?” I call out, in what I know to be the direction of the door. At least the hammering has stopped, but that’s not surprising, as I’ve now worked out that it was Ethel who was responsible for it.

  “It’s the telephone, sir,” she says. “An Inspector Styles for you.”

  “Okay,” I reply. “Thank you, Ethel. I’ll be right there.”

  I flick on the lamp beside the bed and look around. I didn’t bring a dressing gown, and I’m the sort of man who sleeps in just pyjama bottoms, to the point where I have a drawer full of unused tops at home. It’s one thing for me to flit from the bedroom to the bathroom in such attire, knowing Ethel’s downstairs, or safely tucked up in her room, and that Aunt Dotty’s seen it all before, but this is different. I’ve got to go down to the hall, where Ethel’s probably standing waiting for me. I glance up at the door and heave a sigh of relief. Aunt Dotty seems to have thought of everything and, hanging on the back of the door, there’s a dark blue robe. I get up, still feeling a little wobbly, and pull it on, then open the door and go downstairs, my heart getting heavier with every step. The hall clock says it’s five-thirty-five in the morning. If Styles is calling me this early, it can only mean one thing…

  I pick up the receiver from the hall table.

  “Hello? Styles?”

  “Yes,” he replies. He doesn’t need to say anymore. I can tell from the tone of his voice that it’s not good news.

  “Where’s the body?” I ask.

  There’s a pause. “Behind the police station.”

  “London Road?” I ask, incredulous.

  “No. Walton Road… in East Molesey.”

  “Jesus.” I run my fingers through my sleep-messed hair. “Excuse me.” I apologise for my blasphemy. I’m not religious, but he may be.

  “Don’t worry,” he replies. “That’s nothing to what I said.”

  “He’s got some nerve,” I murmur, almost to myself. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. I’ll call Thompson and Ellis,” he says.

  “Fine. Tell them to meet me there.”

  I don’t wait for his reply and hang up, running up the stairs and into my bedroom, my headache forgotten.

  I wash quickly and dress in double quick time, going back out onto the landing, fully suited.

  “Is everything alright?” I almost jump out of my skin at the sound of Aunt Dotty’s voice. Her bedroom is at the other end of the house, overlooking her beloved back garden, and I’d hoped I hadn’t woken her.

  “No,” I reply honestly. “There’s been another murder.”

  “Dear God.” She clasps her hand to her mouth. “Do you need anything?”

  “No. Go back to bed.” I go up to her and give her a quick hug. “I’ll phone you if I’m going to be late.”

  “Take care, Rufus,” she calls after me as I run down the stairs.

  The police station in Walton Road is probably only a ten minute walk away, but I take the car because I don’t know where I’ll need to go next, and pull up outside the large red-brick building, parking behind a standard police Wolseley. Styles said the body was behind the station, so I go through the open wooden gates and around the back, unchallenged this time.

  The scene that greets me is chaos. It’s still quite dark. The sun isn’t due to rise for another half an hour or so, and emergency or not, we can’t light this place up as much as we need to. Even in the dim light though, I can see there are uniformed policemen everywhere, either standing staring, or talking in huddles, there are loose pieces of paper lying about all over the place, and no-one seems to be in charge.

  “What’s going on?” I ask in a loud enough voice to get just about everyone’s attention.

  “Who are you?” The man who answers me is wearing the uniform of a sergeant, and the expression of an exasperated man.

>   I pull out my warrant card. “I’m Detective Inspector Stone,” I reply. “And I’m slightly concerned that I just managed to walk in here without anyone stopping me.”

  The sergeant looks about my own age, a little overweight perhaps, and probably a good six inches shorter than me. He also looks like he wants to argue with me, but glances at the card a second time and thinks better of it. “Sorry, sir,” he says. “Nicholson?” He turns to a group of constables who are standing by the back entrance to the station, and one of them comes over to him. “Go and stand by the gate,” he says. “And don’t let anyone else in here.”

  “Unless they’ve got one of these.” I wave my warrant card at him. “Or they’re a doctor, or fingerprint expert.”

  The constable nods his head and trots away, just as Thompson appears around the corner of the building.

  “Why the hell is no-one out there manning the gates?” he asks.

  “I’m just going,” the constable replies, then stops in his tracks. “Who are you?”

  “He’s with me,” I reply.

  The constable nods and then disappears and I turn back to the uniformed sergeant. “What’s your name?” He hesitates and stares at his feet as though he’s worried about something. “Don’t look so scared. I’m not going to reprimand you. I just want to know what to call you.”

  “Jacobs,” he says.

  “Right, Sergeant Jacobs. First thing’s first. Have you arranged to get the police surgeon down here?”

  “Yes, sir.” He stops talking. “Well, no sir. What I mean is, I didn’t actually do that myself. I put the call through to CID. Inspector Styles called me back and he said he’d arrange for the doctor.”

  “Very good,” I reply. Despite his nerves, he’s good with details. I might need that yet.

  “He also said he’d arrange for the fingerprint chaps to come over.”

  I nod. “Right. While we’re waiting, let’s get this area cleared and then you can tell me what happened.”

  “Very good, sir,” he says, then turns and, with a voice that would make any Regimental Sergeant Major quake in his boots, calls out, “Right you lot, back inside for now… Except you, Hickson. You come over here.”

  The men disperse and go into the station through the rear door, leaving just myself, Thompson, Sergeant Jacobs and the man who’s evidently called Hickson.

  Jacobs turns around to me again. “It was Hickson who found the body,” he says. “I thought you’d want to speak to him.”

  I nod my head. “Yes. Well done, Sergeant.”

  Jacobs looks down at the floor, less worried this time, and more embarrassed at receiving praise, I think. I turn to Hickson, who looks about fourteen. “What happened?” I ask him.

  “The sergeant sent me out to empty the waste basket from the front office,” he says quietly. “The bins are over there…” He points towards the back corner of the parking area.

  “I see. And?”

  “And I was just walking over there, when I saw her feet sticking out.”

  “What did you do?” I ask him.

  “I ran straight back inside and told the sergeant.”

  I turn to Jacobs. “And what did you do?”

  “I came out here to make sure the lad wasn’t seeing things,” he says, with an air of seniority, as becomes his rank. “And then I moved the bin slightly, just so I could make sure she was… dead.” He whispers the last word.

  “You didn’t touch anything else?”

  He shakes his head. “I didn’t need to. I could tell from just looking at her that she was gone.”

  “What time was this?” I ask.

  The two men glance at each other. “I came out here about… four-fifteen, I suppose,” Hickson replies.

  “Stone!” My name is called out and I spin around to see Edgar Prentice walking towards me.

  “I knew you’d be trouble,” he says, shaking his head and smiling.

  “It seems to be following me around.” He gives me a sympathetic look and glances around the area.

  “Someone care to point me in the right direction?” Thompson offers to lead the way, and steers Prentice towards the rear of the yard, returning a few moments later.

  “He reckons he won’t be long,” he says.

  “Good.”

  “Can I assume you’re familiar with each other?”

  “Yes. He was at the Yard, not that we worked together that much.”

  Thompson smiles. “Really? He seems to know you quite well.”

  I glare at him rather half-heartedly for a moment and then turn back to Hickson. “Did you notice anything else, when you came out here?” I ask him. “Apart from her feet, I mean?”

  He looks at me for a moment, as though he’s trying to remember. “No, sir,” he says eventually. “The waste paper basket was overflowing and I was trying not to let go of it. I just noticed her feet, dropped the bin and ran indoors.”

  “Hence the paper,” I remark, picking up a piece from the floor. I look at Jacobs. “You’d better get this lot cleared up,” I tell him and he nods his head, going back inside the station and returning a few moments later with three more constables, who set about collecting all the stray papers from the car park.

  Jacobs has just returned to our small conclave when Prentice comes back. “Nothing doing,” he says, shaking his head. “Just like all the others.”

  “Do you think he wears gloves?” I ask.

  “Not necessarily. I don’t know about you, but I think it would be odd to wear gloves while he was… well… you know.” I can sense his blushes, and he continues, “Maybe he’s just careful about what he touches…” His voice fades, but even so, there’s something chillingly matter-of-fact about Prentice’s words.

  “Thank you for your time, Edgar,” I reply.

  He nods his head and leaves without another word, passing Ellis and the doctor, who are just coming in.

  “You’ve got another one then?” Wyatt says. He looks even more dishevelled than the last time I saw him, but I suppose we’ve all just been dragged out of beds, so it’s excusable.

  “Looks like it,” I reply. “Over in that corner.” I nod in the direction of the body. “I doubt you’ll be able to tell me anything in this light, but I can’t do much about that, so just do what you can and then I’ll take a look and you can remove the body and get on.”

  He nods and moves away, and I turn to Ellis.

  “What’s happened?” he asks.

  “Thompson will update you,” I tell him. I’m watching Wyatt. In the dull pre-dawn light, I can see him crouched beside the victim.

  He’s no more than a few minutes, performing nothing more than a cursory inspection, before coming back over to me, his place taken by the photographer, who’s guided by Thompson, but keeps his work to a minimum, because of the necessity of using a flash gun.

  “As before,” Wyatt says bluntly.

  “Exactly?” I ask.

  “From what I can see in this light, yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you can give me an idea as to the time of death?” I ask, more in hope than expectation.

  “Of course I bloody can’t,” he says moodily. “I can barely see the woman.”

  “Very well.”

  I can’t complain this time. He’s right. It’s still murky out here. To expect details from him at this stage is unreasonable.

  “Give me a few minutes,” I say to him, “and I’ll let you take the body away.”

  He nods and moves towards the building, leaning against it.

  “Thompson?” He looks up at me from his conversation with the photographer, who’s already finished his work. “You come with me.”

  He follows me over to the back corner of the area, where the body is lying between the outer wall and the large waste bin. I manage to squeeze between her and the wall, and crouch down beside her.

  “She was in the Wrens,” Thompson points out, noting her uniform.

  “Yes.” Neither of us voices the fact that
members of that service are more commonly seen around ports, and that it’s unusual to find one of their number here, where there isn’t a Naval base for miles.

  As with the other victims, her clothes have been torn, revealing her breasts, and her skirt has been pulled up. There’s something different here, though. Her underwear seems tidier and, while her tunic and blouse are open, they seem more ‘arranged’ than at the previous scenes.

  “Something’s not right,” I say to Thompson.

  “What?” He crouches beside me.

  “It’s too… staged.”

  “You think it’s a copycat?” he asks.

  “No. I think it’s the same man, but I think the rape and murder took place somewhere else, and the body was dumped here.” I turn to look at him. “Let’s face it, he’d have been taking a hell of a risk attacking her out here. He could have been interrupted at any time.”

  “Yes. All it would have needed was for someone to call the police for some reason, and this place would have been alive.”

  “Exactly. But if he killed her elsewhere, it would have only taken a matter of a few minutes to dump her and arrange the body…”

  “Why arrange the body though? Why not just dump her?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Maybe it’s a matter of pride with him…”

  “Pride?” Thompson almost spits out the word.

  “In doing his ‘job’ well,” I remark. “He’s got standards.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Not yet,” I muse as I lean over and move her hair to one side.

  “She was pretty,” Thompson says.

  “They all were. He’s choosy.”

  “And she’s in uniform.” He’s musing himself now.

  “And I can smell alcohol on her breath,” I add. I’m closer than he is, so it’s easier for me to detect.

  “We don’t know where she was drinking though,” he points out.

  “Won’t take us long to find out though, will it?”

  “No,” he replies. “I’ll make that my first job of the day.”

  I’m about to get up when I notice her arm is caught behind her head, so I move it and reveal a leather-strapped wrist watch.