The Blackbird (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 2)

by K. J. Frost

  “That sounds like a long time,” she says, a little sad now.

  “No, it’s not.” I get my reply in quickly. I don’t like her being sad. “I’ve got all my things to pack up and move down on Saturday,” I explain. “I want to get everything in to Aunt Dotty’s this weekend, then I can just live up here with the basics next week, and that’ll leave me the following weekend to get myself straight before I start work at Kingston. The last thing I need is to spend that last weekend driving up and down to London…”

  “I see,” she says, thoughtfully. “Well… can I help?”

  “If you want to.” I can’t think of anything better. It means I’ll get to see her, apart from anything else.

  “I could come up by train, couldn’t I? I could catch one early on Saturday morning and be in London by about nine?”

  “Yes. It’s quite straightforward. You can get a train from Hampton Court straight to Waterloo. Then you catch the underground to Lambeth North.”

  “Right…” She sounds doubtful.

  “Or I can meet you at Waterloo, if you’d prefer, and we can come back here together.”

  “I feel pathetic,” she says, “but would you mind?”

  “You’re not pathetic, and no I don’t mind at all. You’re just not used to London.”

  “No… And I don’t care if I never get used to it,” she replies.

  “Well, why don’t I meet you under the clock at Waterloo station at nine on Saturday.”

  “Do people really do that?” she says, giggling.

  “Yes. It’s a big four-sided clock on the main concourse. You can’t miss it.”

  “As long as I don’t miss you,” she murmurs.

  “Miss me? I’m six foot four, Amelie. I’m fairly hard to miss,” I joke.

  “You know what I mean,” she says, still serious.

  “You won’t miss me. I promise.”

  I make sure to get to Waterloo by eight-thirty. I know Amelie’s train isn’t due in until just before nine, but I’d rather stand here for nearly half an hour than risk her arriving first and having to wait by herself. I know she thinks her fear of London is irrational, but it’s a scary place if you’re not used to it. And despite what she thinks, I do understand that.

  I’ve spent the last few evenings packing up my belongings at my flat. Fortunately it’s rented, so most of the furniture doesn’t belong to me. I foolishly thought that would mean the packing would be a fairly simple process. However, I hadn’t accounted for the number of books I’ve accumulated over the last six years, which took two nights by themselves, and even then I haven’t finished off the task completely. Then there was the china, glasses, clothes… Needless to say, it’s taken a lot longer than I anticipated.

  I’ve hired a small van to move everything to Aunt Dotty’s house, and she’s told me over the telephone, that she spoke to Gordon Templeton, who is Amelie’s guardian, and he arranged for his gardener-handyman, Mr Jenkins, to come over and help to move some furniture around for her in the spare bedroom, which is next to the one I was using when I stayed down there. She told me she wanted me to have both rooms, so I can have some extra space, put my things out, and feel more ‘at home’, until I find somewhere more permanent to live, anyway. It’s sweet of her to have thought about it. It’s also quite typical of her.

  In addition to all that packing, I’ve also spent the last few days wondering whether it would have made more sense to have invited Amelie to come up here yesterday evening, instead of waiting until today. She could have caught the train up to town after she finished work, and I’d have met her here, before taking her for dinner – which is something I’ve been promising to do for a while now. The thing is, she knows already that my flat only has one bedroom, and while I’d have made it clear to her that I’d have slept on the sofa, I wondered if she’d have been shocked by my suggestion. So I didn’t make it. I didn’t want her to think badly of me. I didn’t have any ulterior motives, other than to spend as much time with her as possible, but…

  “Rufus?” I hear her voice and look up, just as she starts running the last dozen or so paces and throws herself into my arms.

  I manage to catch her and keep hold of her, twirling her around, and hugging her tight, before slowly lowering her to the ground. A few passing travellers stare at us, but Amelie seems oblivious, and I don’t care. Let them stare. We’re happy.

  “Hello,” I say softly, looking down at her perfect face.

  She smiles up at me. “Hello,” she replies.

  I take a few moments to admire her. Beneath her black beret, which seems to be her standard head-gear – although the colour varies, depending on her outfit – her short mid-brown hair curls softly against her flushed cheeks. She’s wearing grey wide-legged trousers and a fitted matching jacket, with a sweater underneath. She looks stylish, as ever, and utterly gorgeous.

  “You look lovely,” I say, with complete sincerity, bending to kiss her on her cheek. Her amber coloured eyes are gleaming and focused on mine.

  “So do you,” she replies.

  “I look a mess, and I feel like I’m covered in dust.”

  “You never look a mess, Rufus. I’ve never known anyone tidier than you. Even now, you still look… perfect.” She looks me up and down, then smiles and tips my fedora, tilting it to one side, as though to make me ‘imperfect’.

  “Feel better for that?” I ask her, straightening it on my head again.

  “Hmm. Much.”

  She’s adorable. Completely adorable. Somehow, I resist the ever-present urge to kiss her and take her hand instead, leading her towards the underground, because as much as I want to claim my first kiss with her, I didn’t plan for it to be at Waterloo station. I’ve got something a lot more intimate in mind for that occasion.

  “We’ve only got to go one stop,” I tell her. “So it won’t take us long to get back to my flat.”

  “One stop?” She looks up at me.

  “Yes.” I’m not sure what’s wrong.

  “God, I feel really pathetic now,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “You’re busy trying to pack up your flat and I dragged you out because I’m too scared to go one stop on the underground.”

  I turn towards her. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I offered. And I don’t mind at all. Not if it means I get to spend more time with you.”

  She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze as I lead her down onto the platform. Luckily it’s not too busy, but there are still enough people to make her feel uneasy and she stands close beside me.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her softly.

  “I just get scared that someone’s going to push me onto the rails,” she replies, and I put my arm around her.

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

  She nestles into me, regardless of the renewed stares.

  “Are you all packed up?” she asks, looking up at me.

  “Not quite. I’ve still got a few more books to deal with, and then I’m just about finished. I think.”

  “And have you collected the van yet?”

  “Yes. I did that last night. I don’t have to return it until Monday morning, so as long as I get it back sometime tomorrow it’ll be fine.”

  “Are you staying in Molesey overnight then?” she asks, with a note of hope in her voice.

  “Yes, but I’m leaving very early in the morning so I can get back up here and spend the day getting rid of rubbish.”

  She nods, smiling, and I pull her closer to me as the train arrives.

  “I thought you said it was just a few books,” Amelie says, looking at the pile on the living room floor.

  “That is a few,” I reply, smiling over at her. She takes off her jacket, throwing it onto the sofa and coming across to me.

  “I need to have words with you about your descriptive abilities. For a policeman, you’re absolutely shocking…” She smiles beautifully and I’m tempted yet again to lean down and kiss her, just as she turns away, with her hands placed firmly on h
er hips. “Well, I suppose we’d better get on with it,” she says and kneels down, picking up the first couple of books in the pile. “Do you have a box?” she asks, looking up at me again.

  “Yes.” I go through to the bedroom and return with one, which I place beside her.

  “It’s a lot messier than the last time I was here,” she comments, as she starts packing, obviously remembering her brief visit a couple of weeks ago, when we stopped off here on our way to Taunton. She admired my tidiness then. In contrast, the flat looks like a whirlwind just passed through it at the moment.

  “That might be because I’m in the process of moving.”

  “Well, I’m thinking I could probably have been more use if I’d come up here last night,” she says, adding a couple more books to her box, while I go through to the kitchen and start to check the cupboards. I’ve left myself with a few basic supplies to get through next week, but other than that, I need to make sure I’ve packed everything else.

  “I was going to suggest it,” I reply without thinking.

  “You were?”

  “Um… Yes.” I can feel myself blushing and am relieved she can’t see me.

  “Why didn’t you?” I’m aware that her voice is much closer than it should be and I turn to find that she’s standing in the doorway, leaning against it, with her arms folded across her chest.

  I go over, standing right in front of her. “Because I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “What idea would that be?” she says, her lips twitching upwards. For someone who’s as young and inexperienced as she is, she certainly knows how to flirt. It’s not calculated, it’s charming; beguiling even, because I’m absolutely certain she has no idea she’s even doing it.

  “That I might have had some kind of ulterior motive for luring you to my flat on a cold Friday night in November.”

  “Didn’t you?” she asks, tilting her head to one side.

  “Possibly.” It’s a real struggle not to smile.

  “But you assumed I’d disapprove?”

  “Would you have?” I ask.

  She moves closer, unfolds her arms and places her hand flat on my chest. Her touch burns a hole there, scorching my heart. “No,” she murmurs softly. “You know I wouldn’t.” For a second, I struggle to breathe. “You know I’d have been happy to come and… help you pack.”

  The smile she’s been holding back forms on her lips and she goes to turn away, but I grab hold of her, pulling her back into me, placing my arms around her waist and holding her there. She looks up into my eyes and I lean down so my mouth is beside her ear.

  “And if I wanted more than your packing skills, Amelie? What then?”

  I hear her gulp and she leans back, looking at me again. “I make a reasonably good cup of tea, if that helps,” she replies, although there’s a crack in her voice that wasn’t there before.

  “Do you? Well, that’s useful to know.” I let go of her and put a little space between us, for my benefit, if nothing else. “Do you tease all the men in your life?” I ask her, staring into her eyes.

  “There are no other men in my life,” she replies. “There never have been. I—It’s just you.”

  “So you only tease me?”

  Her lips twitch up at the corners again, but her eyes are on fire. “Who says I was teasing?”

  “Oh… so you really can make tea then?” I reply, smiling down at her.

  “That’s not what I meant,” she says.

  “Really?” I take a chance and move closer to her again. “What did you mean then?”

  She sucks in a breath, her eyes still locked on mine. “I meant I’d have stayed the night… if you’d wanted me to.”

  Well… I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect her to say it, not so boldly. I didn’t expect her to mean it, either. And she meant it.

  “With one of us sleeping on the sofa,” she clarifies suddenly, and blushes, like she’s just realised the implication of her words.

  I laugh. “Hmm… I was going to suggest that myself.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. If I’d asked you to come here, I was going to suggest you sleep in my room, and I’d have taken the sofa. And I didn’t want you come and help with packing, or with making tea. I—I wanted to take you out to dinner, so we could talk, so I could spend some more time with you, that was all…”

  “That’s a lovely thing to say.” She rests her hand on my chest again and I place mine on her hips. “It’s a lovely idea too. And I wish you had asked. I wouldn’t have been shocked. And I would have said ‘yes’.” She moves a little closer, so our bodies are touching. It’s sweet torture, at least as far as I’m concerned, anyway. “I trust you, Rufus,” she murmurs.

  “Given our situation at this precise moment, do you really think you should?” I whisper, our lips barely an inch or two apart. She looks into my eyes, then lets her gaze drop to my mouth, before our eyes lock once more and she inclines her head just slightly.

  I close the gap between us and my lips graze against hers, just as the telephone rings and Amelie jumps, giving out a slight squeal of shock.

  “Damn,” I mutter under my breath and let go of her. “Are you okay?” I ask and she nods her head, taking a deep breath.

  I leave her where she is and go through to the living room, finding the telephone underneath an open newspaper I’ve been using to wrap up china and glasses.

  “Hello?”

  “Rufus? It’s Dorothy.”

  “Hello, Aunt Dotty.” Her timing is appalling, but I can’t tell her that. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just wondered if you’d be back in time for lunch,” she says. “And whether Amelie will be with you?”

  “Yes to both questions,” I reply. “I imagine we’ll be away from here in a couple of hours.” Well, we will if we can concentrate on the job in hand, anyway. “So we should be with you by about one to one-thirty.”

  “Marvellous,” she says. “I’ll get Ethel to make us some soup for lunch, and then Amelie can stay for dinner as well, if you like?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “And you’re still staying the night?”

  “Yes, but I’m getting up very early, so don’t even think about plying me with alcohol.”

  “Spoilsport.” I can hear the laughter in her voice and can imagine her plotting all kinds of mischief. She’s matchmaking again. I know she is. Not that Amelie and I need much assistance in that department, it seems. We just need a few minutes’ peace and quiet.

  I end the call with Aunt Dotty and turn around to find Amelie is kneeling on the floor behind me, silently packing up the remainder of my books.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, looking down at her.

  “About what?” she asks.

  “The interruption.”

  She smiles and raises her eyes to mine. “Sorry I screamed. I was… well, I was preoccupied at the time and wasn’t expecting the telephone to ring.”

  “Neither was I.” I crouch down beside her. “Just out of interest, what were you preoccupied with?” I tease.

  “You,” she replies without a second’s hesitation.

  “Well, it was entirely mutual,” I reply and kiss her gently on the cheek. She sighs to my touch and I feel rather gratified by that, and by her words. Is it possible that I’m not the only one who’s in love here? Is that too much to hope for? She’s never said anything about love, but she’s hinted at a future together; she seems to like being with me. She says she trusts me, and all of that has to count for something, doesn’t it?

  “Is anything wrong?” she asks, interrupting my train of thought.

  “No,” I reply quickly, and I get to my feet, going over to the door that leads into the hall. “I’m going to start taking my clothes down to the van,” I tell her, turning to face her again. “If you felt like putting your tea-making skills to the test, I certainly wouldn’t complain.”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “I’ll just finish packin
g these and I’ll put the kettle on,” she says.

  I smile over at her. “Do you think it will suit you?” I ask, smirking.

  “Are you going to make jokes all day? Or is there any chance of you actually doing something useful?” She rolls her eyes at me.

  “No. Not with you here distracting me.”

  “Would it be better if I left then?” she asks, tilting her head to one side and smiling.

  “No.” I’m suddenly serious again. “Never.”

  I wonder if that was too much, but what the hell. I love her. One day, I might even get around to telling her that.

  We’ve spent most of the journey discussing my reading habits, into which Amelie has gained some insight, having packed at least a few of my books. I have quite diverse tastes, but I think what surprised her – given my profession – was that I have a liking for detective fiction. It transpired that Amelie’s literary leanings are similar to mine, but what astonished her even more than my tastes, was my confessed inability to ever work out with any degree of accuracy who the murderer will be. It seems she’s quite good at that herself, which was rather embarrassing, and gave rise to a significant amount of teasing on her part. I wasn’t complaining. Being teased by Amelie is rapidly becoming one of my greatest pleasures.

  As I park the van outside Aunt Dotty’s house at just before one-thirty, I reflect to myself that I can’t remember having so much fun at any time in my life, with any other person. I feel like Amelie makes me complete; like she’s the other half of myself and when I’m not with her, I feel empty. No, it’s more than that. I feel fragmented. I know almost everyone thinks I’m moving back to Kingston because I’ve been transferred by the Chief Constable; that I’m following orders. But I could have said ‘no’. I could have refused. I was given the choice. I chose to move out of London. And even if I hadn’t been given that choice, I’d have made the request myself. I told Amelie that when I went to collect her from Aunt Issa and my mother’s house in Taunton, although we didn’t go into any great detail at the time, as to my reasons. I also didn’t tell her that, if necessary, I’d have given up my role in Scotland Yard, my life in London – such as it was – and my chances of further promotion to be with her. I didn’t tell her that, if I’d had to, I’d even have been willing to take a temporary demotion, rather than wait for an Inspector’s position to come up at Kingston. I didn’t explain that she’s the reason I’m doing all of this. Because she’s the reason for… well, everything.