by K. J. Frost
Chapter One
Early November 1939
Her lips brush against mine. Her hands caress my skin, like a soft silken torture, and I feel my breathing become more ragged as she moves closer, our bodies touching. She writhes into me and I groan, cupping her breasts and tweaking her delicate nipples between my forefingers and thumbs as she squeals her pleasure, letting me roll her onto her back and move my hand down between her long, slender legs to find that perfect spot. Releasing a sweet sigh as I touch her, she breathes hard into my mouth, our lips meeting again, her body thrashing as the ecstasy builds, sweat starting to form on her porcelain pure skin…
I start awake and glance around the moonlit room. The sheets are crumpled and damp, the book I was reading before I turned off the light and opened the curtains to let in a little air, lies halfway down the bed. A shirt hangs ghostly on the wardrobe door, ready for me to wear tomorrow, and the picture on the wall – the one of a deer in Richmond Park – sways just slightly in the chill breeze that creeps through the gaps in the sash window. I’m alone. Again. I feel the tantalising sting of frustration, the familiar realisation that her touch, her moans, her sighs, were all a beautiful dream, right before the sense of loss overwhelms me once more. I know I was never supposed to have her. I know she was never meant to be mine, that my thoughts about her were always impure, always taboo, never acceptable or proper. But they were mine, and so was she, for a brief while. She wanted me, even if she shouldn’t have, just as much as I wanted her. And she loved me too. I never thought love like that was possible, but it was. It was with her, anyway. Yes, it was forbidden, but we didn’t care. What we had was too strong, too profound, to be bound by convention.
I’ve tried other women. God knows, I’ve tried. But no-one can ever compare to what I had with my precious girl. She was perfect. She was too perfect. And without her, I’ll never have it that good again. I’ll never be happy again either.
And it’s all his fault.
*****
As I walk up the stairs to the third floor, I have the strangest sensation of having been here before. Of course, that’s because I have been here before. Many times. Being summoned to Chief Superintendent Dale’s office is nothing new to me. The difference, I suppose, is that, for the first time since I’ve worked at Scotland Yard, I actually don’t mind. I don’t mind anything much these days. And that’s because of Amelie. I can’t help smiling, even at the thought of her. Her beautiful face, her perfect full lips, shining amber eyes, soft smooth skin… I could go on, but I suppose I’d better knock on the Chief Super’s door, rather than standing and staring at it, with a dreamy, lovesick expression on my face.
“Enter,” he calls and I let myself in, closing the door behind me.
“There was no sign of Miss Ashford,” I say, commenting on his empty outer office – a most unusual circumstance.
“Her mother’s not very well,” the Chief Superintendent replies, not bothering to look up from the papers on his desk. “So Miss Ashford has taken the rest of the day off to visit her.”
I nod my head, even though he’s not looking at me and stand, waiting for him to tell me what he expects me to do. I’ve always known that it doesn’t pay to make assumptions. If I move forward and sit down, he’ll probably tell me to wait to be asked.
“Sit,” he says at last, glancing up at me, a slightly bemused expression on his face, as though he’s wondering why I’ve remained standing for so long. You can’t win in this job.
I comply and take a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs facing him.
“You asked to see me, sir?” I say, rather stating the obvious.
“Yes.” He pulls out a sheet of paper from beneath the file he’s been writing in. “I’ve received your official transfer notification,” he replies. “And I’ve spoken to the Chief Constable…” He glances down at the document. “What’s his name…?” he muses. I decide against helping him out, as I’m sure my assistance won’t be appreciated. “Lane,” he says at last.
“Yes, sir?” I don’t know why I’m sounding surprised. I knew this was coming. Uncle Frank – the aforementioned Chief Constable Lane – had already asked me if I’d be willing to transfer back to Kingston before I left there last Friday, at the end of one of the most awful cases I ever hope to have to deal with. Well… no-one wants to discover that the man they’re working with, the sergeant they’ve entrusted to labour by their side through thick and thin, is actually a five-times rapist and murderer. No-one needs that responsibility hanging over them – nor the seemingly ever-present sense of guilt that they could have done more; should have seen it sooner…
“Yes,” he says, looking at me with a kindly expression on his face, almost as though he knows the tortured thoughts I’ve just been trying to eradicate from my mind, the ones that return most nights when I’m struggling to sleep, when even the memories of Amelie’s sweet smiles aren’t enough to save me. “You’re sure this is what you want?” he asks, unexpectedly.
“Yes. It is.” I give my answer without the slightest hesitation.
“But you were so reluctant to go back there when I sent you to investigate that… that case,” he says, stumbling slightly over his words.
“I know. I had… um… personal reasons for not wanting to go.” I’m stumbling a little myself now.
He smiles. “Oh. I wondered.” He stares at me for a moment. “And those personal reasons don’t apply anymore?” he asks.
“No.” I’m not about to tell him that I’d born a grudge for the previous six years against a friend and former colleague who I’d caught in a very compromising position with my then fiancée, Victoria. Needless to say, I wasn’t impressed at the time, and ended both the engagement and the friendship, moving away from Kingston and transferring to Scotland Yard, where I gained a fairly quick promotion to the rank of Inspector. However, on my return to my old stomping ground a few weeks ago, I discovered that my colleague and averred enemy, a sergeant named Harry Thompson, had been as much in the dark about my fiancée’s entanglements as I was. She’d kept our engagement from him, and until my untimely arrival on the scene – only just avoiding an awkward interruption of their liaison – he was innocent of the fact that she was even seeing anyone at all, let alone that the ‘someone’ might be his best friend. When they’d met, she’d allowed him to assume she was as single as he was, and he had acted accordingly. Over the course of my recent stay in Kingston, I’ve realised that, if any wrongs were committed on that evening, they were Victoria’s entirely. Harry and I have reforged our friendship now and are both looking forward to working together again – as soon as I’m transferred back there.
Dale looks at me for a little longer, until it becomes clear I’m not about to give him any further details about my personal life.
“So, you’re definitely happy with this?” he asks, tapping the piece of paper with his forefinger.
I nod my head. “Yes, sir.”
He lets out a sigh. “That’s just as well,” he replies, “because I’m not being given any choice in the matter, it seems. I’ve been told to expedite your transfer and get you back there as soon as I can.”
He slams the paper down on his desk and huffs. He’s obviously not happy himself, but that’s not my problem.
“So how long do you think it’ll take?” I ask him.
He looks up again. “Two weeks,” he replies firmly. “I have a feeling your Chief Constable was hoping for something quicker, but you’ve still got a few things to finish up here. And I’d like there to be a proper handover to Inspector Dobson.”
“Dobson? He’s taking over?”
; “Yes.” He says the word with a challenging tone to his voice and I know better than to query the fact that Dobson has only just been promoted and isn’t ready to handle cases by himself yet. I worked with him a few times when he was still a sergeant and he’s a little hot headed, a bit too quick to take action, without thinking through the consequences. Still, that’s not my problem either, I suppose.
“Well, two weeks will give me time to pack up my flat and get my things moved in to my aunt’s house in East Molesey,” I tell Dale, not that he probably cares very much about my plan to move in with Aunt Dotty, at least for the time being, until I get settled. The look he gives me confirms that.
“As long as you clear your desk of all the outstanding reports and paperwork and ensure that Dobson’s been brought up to speed on everything you’ve been working on, then two weeks is fine,” he says, dismissively. Part of me feels a little hurt by that. Not that long ago, when I put in my last request to be allowed to enlist, Dale sat in this very office and told me he couldn’t afford to lose me. Now, it seems I’m persona non grata. Still, I suppose that was only to be expected, in the circumstances. Uncle Frank’s actions have rather left him in the lurch and I very much doubt that Dale appreciates the fact that my family connection with the Chief Constable has enabled me to be seen to undermine him. That’s not the case at all – this was all Uncle Frank’s idea – but I can see how it probably feels from Dale’s point of view.
“I’ll make sure everything’s up to date,” I tell him and get up, assuming the meeting to be at an end.
He stands, just as I do, and offers me his hand. I’m a bit taken aback and hesitate for a moment before reaching out and shaking his, with a firm grip.
“It’s been a privilege, Rufus,” he murmurs, seemingly embarrassed. “And if you ever want to come back, just say the word.”
“Thank you, sir.” I’m astounded and I’m fairly sure it shows.
“And don’t let that other business worry you,” he adds, coming around to my side of the desk. We both know what he’s talking about. The murders I failed to solve in time to prevent five women from being killed… well, raped and killed… by a sergeant who was working under my command. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says firmly.
I don’t reply. To me, it was. It was my fault. It always will be. I just need to find a way to live with that. And with myself.
“It’s so good to hear your voice,” I say into the receiver.
“You only spoke to me last night,” Amelie replies and I can hear the smile in her tone.
“I know, but that’s too long ago.”
“Yes it is.” My skin tingles and I wish she could be here, beside me, on my small sofa, in my flat in Lambeth. I wish I could hold her in my arms and banish all the dark thoughts. I wish I could kiss her and forget. “Are you alright?” she asks.
“No.” I can’t hide anything from her. We might not have known each other for very long, but she’s already got a sixth sense when it comes to my moods.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I do… and yet I don’t. I know that talking to her about it will help. It’ll help me, anyway. But I’m not sure she’s ready for me to unburden myself on her, not considering that one of the women who died at the hands of that awful man was her sister – well, the closest thing she could ever have to a sister. Her grief is still very raw and it’s unreasonable of me to expect her to listen to my problems when she has so many of her own.
“I—I don’t know.” I have to be honest with her.
“Is this about the murder case?” she asks.
“Are you psychic as well as beautiful?”
She laughs. “No. I just know you.” It’s odd. Despite our comparatively short friendship – if ‘friendship’ is the right word – she does know me. Probably better than anyone else. I’ve been wondering why that might be, but I realised the other night, while I was struggling to sleep and thinking about her, that it’s because I allow her to see the real me. I don’t often do that. In fact, I never do it. I usually hold something in reserve. But not with Amelie.
“Yes, you do,” I murmur.
“I know you think I’m still grieving for Beth,” she replies, her voice more firm and assertive, “and I am. I expect I will be for a long time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you. It doesn’t mean I can’t listen to your problems. If you need me to, that is…”
“Oh God… I need you to.” I blurt out the words, without thinking.
“Then tell me,” she replies and the softness in her voice feels like it’s reverberating through my whole body, as though her lips are right by my ear, like she’s here in person, not nearly twenty miles away, in the little village where we both grew up, thirteen years apart, never knowing each other until this tragedy brought us together.
“I feel like it’s my fault,” I tell her, my voice a barely audible whisper.
“It isn’t.”
“It feels like it is,” I reiterate, and she sighs.
“You told me to forgive myself when I felt guilty over Beth, and you need to do the same. You couldn’t have done any more than you did. You worked tirelessly to catch him, Rufus…”
“Yes, and all the time, he was right under my nose, leading me astray. I should’ve seen it sooner. I could have prevented at least one, if not two of those women from being killed, if I’d just paid more attention.” I can’t control the emotion in my voice and it cracks, right at the end of my speech.
“Don’t,” she says, sniffing. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”
“Are you crying?” There’s silence on the end of the line, punctuated by a slight sob. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she whimpers.
“Please don’t cry, Amelie.” God, this is awful. “I wish I hadn’t said anything now.”
“Why? I want to know what’s wrong with you,” she says, between gulps. “I want to help you.”
“And I don’t want to upset you. I don’t want you to cry. Not when I’m not there.” I pause, just for a second. “I hate the thought of you crying by yourself, and not being there to hold you in my arms and make it better.”
“I feel the same about you,” she says. “Without the crying bit, obviously.” I hear her suck in a breath. “I don’t like to think of you sitting in your flat by yourself, worrying about things you can’t change, blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault. You’re no more responsible for those women’s deaths than I am for what happened to Beth. You did nothing wrong, Rufus. Not in any way. Kenneth Ellis is to blame. Not you.” The renewed strength in her voice is quite breathtaking.
“I don’t think I’ve ever needed anyone, or anything, as much as I need you right now,” I tell her, with absolute honesty.
“That’s entirely mutual,” she replies, and I’m almost sure I can hear her smiling this time. “I could do with a hug.”
“Hmm. Me too.”
We’ve never been this open with each other before and it feels good. I’m tempted to tell her I’m in love with her – something I’ve been trying to find the right moment to do for so long now – but it doesn’t seem right to do that over the telephone. I want her in front of me, preferably in my arms, by ourselves, and somewhere romantic, when I tell her how deeply I feel for her, how much I care.
“I’m so worried about you,” she says.
“You mustn’t worry,” I reply. “There’s really no need. I’m fine.” I’m not, but I don’t like the idea of her being distressed in any way.
“How can you tell me not to worry? Surely you were worried about me when Ellis was following me from work and making phone calls to my home and office, weren’t you? That’s why you hid me down at your mother’s house in Somerset, wasn’t it? Because you were worried about me?” She’s getting upset again and I know it’s because she’s remembering her fear – as well as my own – over those few days when Ellis decided to use her as a distraction, to draw me away from investigating the case and ge
t me to focus elsewhere, by following her from work, and making anonymous, threatening phone calls. I did indeed hide her at my mother and Aunt Issa’s house in Somerset, and I only brought her back from there last weekend, once I knew Ellis had confessed and was safely locked up, and she was completely safe. There’s no way I’d put Amelie in danger. Ever.
“Of course I was worried about you,” I say gently. “I was terrified, if you must know.”
“But I’m not supposed to feel the same about you?” she asks, calming slightly.
“I’m not saying that. I’m just saying I don’t like the idea of you being worried, that’s all.”
“Well, I care about you… so I’m entitled to worry,” she murmurs.
“You care?” Did she really just say that? I hope so, and that I’m not hearing things.
“Yes,” she replies, sounding shy now.
“Well, that’s nice to know,” I tease, taking pity on her, because I can imagine how uncomfortable she is at the moment, confessing her feelings into a telephone.
“Why? Don’t you then?” she asks.
“Don’t I what?” I try to keep a note of innocence to my voice.
“Care?” she whispers. The doubt in her voice almost breaks my heart.
“You know I care, Amelie.” I drop the teasing. God, why can’t she be here? Then I could hold her in my arms, look her in the eye, and show her how much I care. “Very much,” I add.
There’s a moment of silence, which neither of us feels the need to fill. It’s not awkward. It’s right. It’s even necessary.
“I spoke to my boss today,” I say eventually, wanting to talk about something other than Ellis, the murder case, and how I feel about her – because I’d rather do that face to face.
“And? What did he say?” she asks, her voice coming alive with interest.
“Well, he wasn’t overly happy about my transfer, but he’s approved it.”
“So you’ll be moving back here?” I can hear her excitement.
“Yes. In two weeks – well a little under two weeks. I’m due to start back at Kingston on the twentieth of November.”
