by K. J. Frost
“Are you alright, Mrs Gibson?” I ask, taking a step closer to her.
“Yes, thank you,” she replies, automatically.
I don’t believe her for one minute, but I can’t force her to confide in me. I glance at Thompson and he shakes his head, seemingly in agreement.
“We’ll let you get on,” I say to Mrs Gibson, although I doubt she was doing anything. She seems to be in stasis and, for a moment, I’m reminded of how my mother was immediately after my father’s death.
Outside, once the door has closed behind us, Thompson turns to me. “Of all the relatives we saw at the time,” he murmurs, “I’d have said they’d have been the ones to cope the best. They had each other and their own bond seemed stronger than their loss.” He shakes his head. “But she seems to have given up, like she’s lost the will to live.”
“I suppose you can’t tell how someone’s going to react.” I get back into the car.
“Evidently not,” he replies, joining me.
Exiting Summer Gardens and turning right, we’re back on Summer Road and I drive almost to the end, almost to the junction with Hampton Court Way, where Kate Pendry’s parents’ house is located, on the left hand side. I can’t help but remember her reaction to the news of Janet Gibson’s death, which at the time, was so markedly different to that of the victim’s controlled parents. Miss Pendry howled out her inconsolable pain, unable to conceal from the two men standing in front of her how much she’d loved the dead woman, and how much she regretted never being able to declare that love openly and publicly as most lovers can. I remember her anger at our inadequacy and our lack of understanding. I didn’t blame her then. I don’t now. I pity her. And as we walk up the pathway, I wonder how Miss Pendry is these days, whether her pain has diminished, or deepened…
“Yes?” The woman who opens the door is very smart, if a little tweedy, and is probably in her late forties or early fifties, with suspicious grey eyes and a thin, pinched face.
I take out my warrant card and show it to her. “I’m Detective Inspector…”
“You?” she interrupts. “You… you dare to come here, after—” She stops speaking suddenly and glances around. “You’d better come in,” she says, primping her already immaculate dark brown hair and lowering her voice somewhat.
With a little trepidation, I step into the house, followed by Thompson, and the woman I assume to be Mrs Pendry closes the door behind us. Like Mrs Gibson, she offers no further hospitality and stands in front of us.
“We’d like to see your daughter,” I say quickly, before she can speak.
“I’m sure you would.” She narrows her eyes. “But she doesn’t live here anymore.”
I swallow down my surprise. “Is she with her unit?”
“No. She left the Wrens. Last I heard, she was working in one of those big factories in Central Avenue,” she says with a look of disdain. “But as for where she’s living, that’s anybody’s guess.”
“I see…” I reply, because I can’t think of anything else to say.
“Do you?” she spits. “Do you?” She takes a step nearer to me and I’m aware of Harry moving closer. “I found those… those pictures of her. And the letters.” She glares at me. “I was cleaning her room, and there they were, together with your calling card… It’s disgusting.” She adds the last word in a high pitched tone. “Her father threw her out that very day,” she continues, nodding her head, letting us know she approved of her husband’s actions. “And we haven’t seen her since.”
“You say she works in one of the factories in Central Avenue?” I confirm, ignoring the rest of her tirade, and she nods again, although I can tell she’s itching to say more. I have no intention of hearing it though and move around her, opening the door. “Thank you for your help, Mrs Pendry.”
“It’s not natural, you know,” she says, as a parting shot.
I don’t respond, and Thompson follows me down the pathway and back to the car.
“I honestly thought things couldn’t have got any worse for that poor girl,” he says once we’re on our way again. “She’d lost her lover, but couldn’t admit it to anyone. She couldn’t mourn openly, even though she was heartbroken… and then her parents do that to her?”
“It takes all sorts.” I’m trying to sound philosophical, even though I’m seething.
“Don’t you feel sorry for her?” he asks, turning to me.
“Yes. But that’s not going to help, is it?”
He falls silent, then murmurs, “No, I suppose not.”
“We’ll try and see her later.” I soften my voice. “Somehow. It’s going to be difficult, being as we’ve got no address.”
“No,” Thompson replies. “And she hasn’t been living anywhere long enough to come up on any registers yet. It can only have been a matter of days, possibly weeks.”
“We’ll just have to go and sit ourselves in Central Avenue this afternoon when the factories close and hope for the best. If that doesn’t work, I’ll get Tooley to send a couple of PCs out tomorrow to scout around and see if they can find where she’s employed.”
Thompson nods his head and settles back into the seat as I turn the car around and drive us back the way we’ve just come, turning right at the junction onto Esher Road. We cross the bridge again, then turn left at the police station, putting us on Walton Road. “Where to next?” he asks.
“You’re going to like this one,” I tell him, smiling and trying to forget the episode we’ve both just experienced.
“I am?”
“Yes. We’re going to see Mrs Franklin.”
He twists in his seat. “I didn’t get to meet her during the original investigation,” he says. “Is there a reason you’re smiling like that?”
“No. Not at all.” I can’t stop the smile from becoming a grin.
“Why don’t I believe you?”
I glance at him. “I’ve got no idea.”
I turn left into Avern Road and park outside Mrs Franklin’s run-down property.
“Why am I feeling slightly afraid?” Thompson says, getting out of the car and looking across it at me.
“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of,” I tell him. “I’ll look after you.”
His brow furrows into a frown and he follows me to the front door, which is at the side of the property. I knock and we wait until Mrs Franklin pulls the door open and I hear Thompson cough beside me. The last time I met this woman, she was wearing a pale pink dressing gown, which left very little to the imagination. This time, the only difference is the colour of the garment in question, which is a sort of mid-blue.
“Inspector,” she says coquettishly.
“Mrs Franklin.” I take her offered hand, shaking it, rather than kissing it, as I think she expected.
“Who have you brought with you?” Her eyes are already raking up and down Thompson, from head to toe.
“This is Sergeant Thompson,” I reply and she offers him her hand in the same seductive fashion. Wise man that he is, he takes my lead and gives her a firm handshake. For a moment, she looks a little disconcerted, but she soon rallies.
“Look at me, forgetting my manners,” she simpers. “Please, do come in.”
We go through the rigmarole of getting into her house, made complicated by the position of the staircase, relative to the front door. Eventually though, with a little to-ing and fro-ing, we manage it, and she shows us into her living room, which is still overly cluttered. “Do sit,” she says, planting herself at one end of the small sofa and crossing her legs to reveal an excessive amount of thigh. The only other seat in the room is a chair. Thompson looks at me and I square my shoulders, pulling rank for the first time and striding over to it, sitting down firmly in the safety of its soft cushions. Thompson gives me a quick glare, then turns and sits on the sofa beside Mrs Franklin, perching himself on the edge of the seat, as far away from her as possible. I’m almost tempted to laugh, but I don’t.
“I’m not sure whether I mentioned this before
,” Mrs Franklin says, speaking before I get the chance, “but you do look ever so much like that actor.” Her eyes are fixed on me. “What’s his name?” she muses, a provocative smile formed on her painted lips. “He was in that Robin Hood film…”
“Oh, you mean Claude Rains,” Thompson says, smirking and I try not to smile.
“No, not him, the other one,” she replies.
“Alan Hale?” Thompson suggests. Is he serious?
“No… Errol Flynn.” She sounds triumphant. “That’s the one. You do look like him.”
“It has been mentioned,” I point out, and sit forward in my chair, hoping my action will quell the topic.
“He’s very handsome,” she continues, fluttering her eyelashes at me.
“Mrs Franklin.” I raise my voice slightly. “We need to speak to you.”
“Oh yes?”
I take my chance and quickly explain the reason for our visit. As she listens, her demeanour changes from seductive flirtation to barely controlled rage.
“Are… are you suggesting I had anything to do with this?” she splutters. “Me?”
“No,” I say quietly. “But we have to question all the relatives of Sergeant Ellis’ victims. It’s…”
“It’s shocking, that’s what it is,” she interrupts. “As if I’d do any such thing.”
She glares at me, and then glances down, noticing how exposed she is and pulling her dressing down around herself indignantly. I can’t say I’m not relieved at the adjustment.
“I’m not suggesting you did, Mrs Franklin,” I reply with as much patience as I can muster. “But I do need to ask the question.” Although she’s continuing to stare at me, I give as good as I get and eventually, she seems to relent, guessing I suppose, that we’re not going to leave without an answer.
“You want to know where I was yesterday evening?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“At what time?” she says, tilting her head to one side.
“Around seven-fifteen,” I reply.
She pauses for a moment and glances down at her lap. “I—I was with a gentleman,” she says.
Strangely enough, I’m not that surprised. “Can you give us his name?”
“His name?”
“Yes. His name.” It’s a simple enough request.
“Do I have to?” she asks.
“Yes, Mrs Franklin. You do.”
She huffs out a sigh. “Bert Davies,” she replies eventually.
I try to keep my face as passive as I can. “The landlord of The Plough?” I ask, just to make sure.
“Yes,” she confirms. “We have an… arrangement.”
“An arrangement?” I query.
She looks across at me, defiantly. “Yes. An arrangement. Tuesdays at six-thirty and Thursdays at six. He usually stays for about forty-five minutes each time.”
“Can I assume his wife isn’t aware of this… arrangement?” I ask.
“Of course she isn’t,” she replies, as though she’s started to doubt my sanity. “The pub’s normally fairly quiet at that time of the evening, so he’s able to slip out. As far as I know, he tells Joan that he’s got business to take care of and she minds the bar in his absence.”
I get to my feet and Thompson follows suit. “Will Mr Davies confirm your story?” I ask.
Mrs Franklin stands and folds her arms across her ample bosom. “Yes. But I doubt he’ll thank you for asking the question in front of Joan.”
“We are capable of being a little more subtle than that,” I point out, making towards the hallway. Unlike the last time I was here, she doesn’t seem quite so keen to keep us on the premises and closes the door with a loud bang behind us.
“For one awful moment,” Thompson says as we walk back to the car, “I didn’t think we were going to make it out of there alive.”
I laugh. “I wouldn’t have let her do you any harm,” I tell him. “Although there was a time when I was thinking about sending you in there single-handed,” I confess, getting into the car and starting the engine.
“You were? What did I do to deserve that fate?” he asks.
“Does sleeping with my fiancée sound familiar?” I glance across at him and his face pales.
“I thought we’d put that behind us,” he says. “I thought you understood…”
“I do. And we have put it behind us. But at the time I last came to see Mrs Franklin, we hadn’t. It seemed like fitting punishment to me.”
“You must have really hated me,” he replies, smiling. “I’m relieved we sorted out our differences before you got the chance to make good on that idea.”
I nod my head and pull away from the kerb. “So am I. No-one deserves that fate, although I might still find a way to make you suffer.”
“What for?”
“For comparing me to Alan Hale.”
“I like Alan Hale,” he reasons, grinning mischievously.
“So do I. He’s a fine actor. But I don’t think you can honestly say there’s any resemblance.”
“Oh, I don’t know. In a certain light…”
I glance at him. He’s struggling not to laugh. And I’m damned if I’m going to give him the satisfaction.
We’ve been at this for hours now and, as much as I’d like to take a break, we also need to get it over and done with. So, I turn right out of Avern Road, back onto Walton Road and then take the second on the left, into Dennis Road.
“We’re going to see Mr and Mrs Cole?” Thompson queries. “We’re not going to check up on Bert Davies first?”
“We might as well stop off at the Coles’,” I point out, “being as their house in on the way.”
“Okay,” he replies. “What are they like?”
“I only met the mother,” I explain. Doris Cole was the last victim and we arrested Ellis the very next evening, so I called around to see them as a courtesy the morning after he’d been taken into custody. “Mr Cole was at work when I visited, but I spent about half an hour talking to his wife.”
“And?”
I park the car outside their house, which is a fairly neat, small end of terrace property. “Downtrodden,” I say simply.
Thompson raises his eyebrows. “So Cole could be our first really likely suspect?” he asks.
“That’s my train of thought, yes.”
We both get out and go up the path to the front door, which like Mrs Franklin’s, is at the side of the house. I knock twice and, within a few moments the door is snatched open and we’re faced with a large, powerfully built man, with slicked-back dark hair and a ruddy complexion.
“Yes?” He looks me up and down before turning his gaze upon Thompson. “What do you want?”
I retrieve my warrant card from my inside pocket and hold it up to him. “I’m Detective Inspector Stone. And this is…”
“You’re Stone?” he says, interrupting my introduction.
“Yes,” I reply, and before I can react, he lunges at me, stepping out of the house and grabbing me by the lapels of my coat. He turns me around then pushes me up against the side of the house, breathing heavily.
“You bastard,” he thunders. “How dare you show your face around here?”
I’m aware of him raising his fist, just as Thompson steps forward and holds him back. “That’s enough, Mr Cole,” he says firmly, and I feel the weight of the man being lifted from me, as Thompson hauls him away. I stand, regaining my balance, but then Cole breaks free and lurches forward once more.
This time, I’m more prepared, and I side-step his advance, grabbing his arm and pushing it up his back, pressing him face-first into the wall. Thompson joins me, and between us, we hold him in place.
“Let me go,” Cole cries at the top of his voice.
“Charlie?” A female voice sounds from inside the house and then Mrs Cole appears in the doorway, peering around to see what’s going on. She has light brown hair, which she wears in loose curls, and has an attractive, if worn, face. “What’s all this about?” she says, looking
at her husband’s prone figure.
“Get back indoors, Hazel,” he says firmly.
She glances at me and I give her a quick nod, at which, she disappears again and once I know she’s gone, I return my attention to Mr Cole. “Are you going to calm down?” I ask him.
“Why should I?” he replies, making an attempt to struggle against us both.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll arrest you for assaulting a police officer,” Thompson says, pushing against Cole’s back for emphasis.
“I haven’t assaulted him,” Cole retorts. “Not yet, anyway.”
I’m aware of Thompson stiffening beside me. “Are you making threats, Mr Cole?”
Cole seems to think for a moment, then sags slightly. “Why shouldn’t I threaten him? Why shouldn’t he know how it feels? He failed her, didn’t he? He let my girl down. He should’ve caught that bloke long before he had the chance to do what he did to my poor Doris…” His voice fades and I release my grip on him, just a little. I decide it’s best not to apologise to him, because to do so will probably only inflame the situation. Instead I ignore his remarks and turn him around, letting go of his arm. He rolls his shoulder somewhat dramatically and looks up into my eyes.
“We need to speak with you and your wife,” I tell him. “It’s entirely up to you whether we do so here, or at the police station.”
“I don’t want to go to the police station.” The female voice coming from just inside the house takes us all by surprise and we turn to see Mrs Cole appear in the doorway once more.
“I thought I told you to get inside,” Mr Cole says, scowling.
She doesn’t reply, but stands her ground.
“If you don’t wish to come to the police station,” I say, addressing myself to Mrs Cole, “then perhaps we could come inside and ask our questions, and then we can be on our way.”
Mrs Cole steps back into the house, as though to invite us in, and after a few moments’ hesitation, her husband pushes himself off the wall and follows her inside. Taking his lead, we walk in after him and Mrs Cole closes the door behind us all.
