by K. J. Frost
I know right away that we won’t be shown any further into the house, so I explain the reason for our visit, telling them about Harper’s murder and asking them both for their whereabouts on the previous evening at the appointed time.
“We were here,” Mr Cole says, very quickly, taking a slight step towards his wife.
“Both of you?” I ask, looking at her.
“Yes,” he replies, giving his wife a surreptitious glance.
“Mrs Cole?” I ask her directly.
“Yes?” she says.
“Can you confirm this?”
“Of course she can,” Cole replies on his wife’s behalf. “We were here together all evening.”
I don’t believe a word he’s saying, and I think his wife feels threatened by him, not that I blame her.
“Mr Cole,” I say quietly. “Do you own a gun of any sort?”
I haven’t asked any of our previous suspects this question, but then I haven’t seen the need to… until now.
“Yes,” he replies, quite brazenly. “I’ve got an old handgun from the last war.”
“Can I see it?” I ask.
“I don’t know where it is.”
“Really?” I can’t hide my disbelief.
“It’s probably in the attic,” his wife says, her voice barely audible. “I think we put it up there years ago, when Doris was little. I didn’t want her to find it…” Her voice fades again.
“I see.” I turn back to her husband. “Well, perhaps you could look it out for me?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I’ll see if I can find time at the weekend,” he says. “Some of us have work to do.”
“Not at the moment, it seems,” I counter.
“I’m on my lunch break, if it’s all the same to you,” he replies.
“I see. And where do you work, Mr Cole?”
“At McAndrews,” he replies, naming one of the larger factories in West Molesey. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to put my feet up for ten minutes before I have to cycle back to work again.”
“If you’ve got time to put your feet up, Mr Cole, then you’ve got time to find the gun we’re looking for. I’ll send someone round tomorrow to collect it.” I glare at him, making it clear that I’m not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. He steps back eventually, and while he doesn’t reply, I take that movement as a sign of agreement.
Mrs Cole opens the door and ushers us out, but Thompson and I don’t speak until I’ve driven the car back onto Walton Road.
“Are you alright, Rufus?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Sorry I took my time back there. I wasn’t expecting him to react like that.”
“Neither was I.”
“He seems like a pleasant chap,” he adds with ill-disguised sarcasm.
“Hmm. And he was clearly lying about what he was doing last night.”
“Yes, although I doubt we’ll ever get his wife to say anything against him.”
“Like I said,” I murmur. “She’s downtrodden.”
He shifts in his seat. “I think he’s at the top of our list at the moment, don’t you?”
“Yes. Without a doubt.”
He takes a deep breath. “Should we have been asking the others about firearms?” he asks.
“I can’t see Mrs Middlemas owning a revolver, can you?” I point out.
“Well, no,” he says. “But what about her husband? He might have had one she could have used. And there’s Mr Gibson?” He pauses. “A lot of these men will have served in the last war. Who knows what weapons they could have lying about.”
“Good point,” I reply. “As much as I really can’t see any of them firing a gun in cold blood, we ought to follow that up. Get back to all of them later on and check, will you?”
“Will do.”
Walton Road is very busy, so I park in Spencer Road, opposite The Plough, and we walk back, entering through the main door. Bert Davies is standing behind the bar, talking to an elderly man, who’s nursing a half pint of beer, with less than an inch left in the bottom of his glass. The landlord glances up and takes a moment to remember who I am, being as this is the pub where Beth Templeton was met by Ellis, disguised as an RAF officer, immediately prior to her murder. The realisation soon dawns, however, and Davies steps away from his customer.
“Inspector,” he says, nodding his head.
“Mr Davies,” I reply, walking to the furthest end of the bar and waiting for him to follow, which he does.
“What can I do to help you?” he asks, rocking back and forth slightly and looking every inch the genial publican.
“We just need to confirm something with you,” I say, leaning over the bar slightly so I can keep my voice down.
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes. Is your wife here?” I ask.
He stops rocking and looks confused. “She’s out the back,” he replies. “Do you want me to fetch her?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’d just like you to confirm where you were yesterday evening, at around seven-fifteen to seven-thirty.”
He swallows hard, his face paling noticeably. “Yesterday evening, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want to know?” he asks.
“Because we have reason to believe you were with someone, and we need you to confirm that,” I reply.
“This someone,” he says. “Has she already spoken to you?”
“Yes, she has.”
He pauses for a moment. “And she’s told you I was with her?” I nod my head. “Well, she was telling the truth,” he says quietly. “I got there at about six-thirty, or maybe a few minutes after, and left at about seven-twenty.” He leans closer still, his breath smelling of stale cigarettes, which reminds me of the fact that I only recently gave up the habit myself. Did I really smell like that? “You’re not planning on checking any of this with Joan, are you?” he asks, referring to his wife. “Only she thinks I was out doing some business with a friend of mine, picking up supplies and suchlike.” He gives me an exaggerated wink. “That’s what she thinks I do every Tuesday and Thursday evening. If she knew where I really was…” He shrugs his shoulders and offers up a knowing look.
“We won’t need to trouble your wife,” I reply.
“Thank God for that.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr Davies.” I step back slightly.
He stares at me for a moment. “Is that it? That’s all you wanted to know?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Because a police constable was shot dead yesterday evening. We’re questioning everyone who was connected with the Ellis case,” I reply.
He shakes his head. “And you actually thought Daphne Franklin might have had something to do with it? A shooting? I can think of several ways in which that woman could kill a man, including talking him to death, but she’d never shoot anyone.”
“Nonetheless, we still have to make our enquiries.”
He shrugs again, seeming to understand, then gives me a weak smile and I touch the brim of my hat in farewell.
As we’re crossing the road, Thompson turns to me. “Is it me, or do you feel slightly cleaner for being back outside again?”
I chuckle. “No, it’s not you.”
“Where to next?” he asks.
I check my watch. It’s only just after one-thirty, and although we could go back to Kingston, we’ve still got one person we need to talk to. “We’ve got a couple of hours to kill before we can even begin to hope that Kate Pendry will finish work. I don’t know about you, but I’m thirsty. So, shall we get a cup of tea, while we’re waiting?”
He nods his agreement and, leaving the car where it is, we walk along Walton Road to Lucy’s Tea Room. I have no idea whether there’s anyone called Lucy on the premises, now or at any other time, but they make a very good cup of tea, and we both have a cheese sandwich to stave off our hunger.
While we’re eating, we go over the not
es, establishing that Cole is our only real suspect at the moment, and that we’re going to focus our attention on him for the time being.
I park at the point in Central Avenue where the industrial units give way to the residential part of the road. I know from the reports on the payroll thefts, that some of the heavy manufacturing businesses down here – as in many other places at the moment – may not yet have reached the dizzy heights of Hawker’s Aviation and be running for twenty-four hours a day, but they have started to operate a double shift, with the first set of workers starting at eight in the morning and finishing at four, while their twilight counterparts continue until midnight. It’s just before four p.m., so even if Miss Pendry is working the later shift, we might still get lucky and see her coming into work.
Sure enough, within a few minutes, a deluge of factory workers starts to appear in front of us.
“We’re supposed to spot one woman among this lot?” Thompson says, craning his neck to try and see her.
I get out of the car, using the advantage of my height, and Thompson follows suit. I’m just about to admit to him the hopelessness of trying to see one person in a sea of others, when I spot her, walking towards us, her head down.
“There,” I say, pointing. Thompson follows the direction of my hand and nods his head, stepping forward and placing himself in front of Miss Pendry, who looks up at him, startled. I take in her slightly unkempt appearance, the masculine looking mid-blue trousers and white blouse, beneath a short woollen coat, all of which is at odds with how smart she looked the last time we saw her.
As Thompson brings her back to the car, a frown forms on her forehead. “Inspector?” she says, quietly. “Are you looking for me?”
“Yes, Miss Pendry.”
“I’m just on my way home,” she replies. “How can I help?”
I decide to come clean. “We’ve been to your parents’ house,” I say quietly.
“Oh. So you know then?”
“Yes. And I’m sorry.”
She shrugs her shoulders, bending her hatless blonde head and looking down at the space between us. “I don’t know why I expected anything different, but I hoped… I really hoped they might try and understand. I hoped they’d see that I loved Janet, and that I can’t help who I am.” She snorts out a half laugh. “I couldn’t have been more wrong,” she continues, pouring out her emotions as though she’s been holding them in check for so long, she simply can’t keep them in any longer. “You should have heard my father.” She rolls her eyes heavenwards and shakes her head. “You’d have thought I’d committed the worst possible crime known to man. And all I did was fall in love…” She clams up all of a sudden, seeming to remember that we’re standing on the street, surrounded by people going to and from work, and swallows hard, just about stopping herself from bursting into tears.
“I really am sorry, Miss Pendry.”
She lowers her head again, making it clear to me that it’s all become too much for her. “I assume you wanted to see me about something in particular?”
“Yes.” I take a breath. “I’m afraid I need to ask you a question. It’s purely routine, but it’s got to be done.”
“A question?”
“Yes. A policeman was shot and killed yesterday evening, and it seems his murder is connected to the Ellis case. So, we’re asking everyone who was related to the victims – in whatever capacity – to confirm their whereabouts at approximately seven-fifteen last night.”
“Shot?” she says, her face paling. “Actually shot?” I nod my head. “Here in Molesey?”
“No, in Kingston.”
“Kingston?” she repeats. “And you think this is connected with what happened to Janet and all those other girls?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask why?”
“The murderer left a message, of sorts.”
She stares at me for a moment, then blinks a few times. “I see,” she replies. “Well, I was at home all evening, but I’m afraid I can’t prove that. I was by myself, you see.” There’s such an overwhelming sadness to her tone, to her whole persona, that it’s impossible not to be touched by it.
I remember Thompson’s suggestion about the weapon and, although I know it’s a ridiculous question to be asking, I do so anyway. “Do you have access to a gun of any sort, Miss Pendry?”
“A gun?” she says. “No, I don’t have a gun. But… but if I did, I’d use it on myself, not anyone else.” Her voice cracks and she looks up at me just as the first tear trickles down her cheek, and then she turns and runs towards the corner of the street.
“Dear God,” Thompson whispers and, for the first time, I become aware of him standing there.
“Restrict the notes to the bare facts,” I tell him.
“Understood,” he replies and we get back into the car.
I sit staring out of the windscreen for a moment, thinking about the changes in Kate Pendry. When we last met her, she was grieving, lamenting the chances she hadn’t taken. Now, she’s broken. She’s lost. And with no-one to help her or support her, I can’t see how she’s ever going to find her way back.
Chapter Seven
Sometimes I struggle to believe I’ve really killed someone; and other times, I feel so completely justified in my actions, I wonder that it took me so long to do it. The murder was a hot topic at the factory. Everyone had read about in the newspapers and most of them had an opinion, and weren’t shy about sharing it. I overheard quite a few people saying that it’s a sin to take a life, no matter what the circumstances. But they’re wrong. My pain is just too great, and at times like that, the end justifies the means.
I don’t feel any remorse for the life I’ve taken. Why should I? It was a justifiable action, and although none of those girls’ deaths were that particular policeman’s fault, he stood for the rest of his kind in his shameless arrogance.
The problem now is that, where I’d hoped for peace and perhaps a feeling of reconciliation, all I’ve actually got is a cold, emptiness, and I’m wondering if I’ll ever feel human again. Or if I even want to.
By the time I get home, it’s as much as I can do to just flop down into a chair, relieved that I don’t have to listen to any more stupid hypotheses about what might have happened, and why. I know the answer to both of those questions, and now I just want some peace and quiet.
*****
Thompson and I had a very quick pint at the pub before going home. I think we both needed it, but we scrupulously avoided talking about the case, and Harry spent the time telling me about his son, and his wife. It was a pleasant half hour and a much needed diversion after the day we’ve had. When we’d got back to the station earlier on, it was to discover that the search of the area has so far turned up absolutely nothing and will be resumed again tomorrow. As for Thompson and myself, we’ve got a few leads to follow up and alibis to check, but – other than Mr Cole, who feels like a potential suspect – I feel like we’ve hit a brick wall. There was, however, a message from Amelie to say that she’d arrived home safely, which made me smile after such a horrendous day.
Letting myself into the house, I call out to Aunt Dotty, that I’m home and she appears from the living room. “You’re back,” she says, seemingly relieved.
“Yes.”
“Bad day?” she asks.
“I’ve had better.”
“I’d offer you a drink,” she says, “but I think you might need to go out again later.”
“I might?”
She reaches for a piece of paper on the hall table and hands it to me. “It’s a message from Amelie,” she explains. “Evidently Gordon has managed to come home a little earlier than expected.”
“He’s back already?”
“Yes,” she replies. “Do you want to eat now and then go over?”
“Would you mind if I went and dealt with this first?” I ask. “I’d rather just get it out of the way.” Somehow I don’t think it’s going to be very pleasant having to question Amelie’s guardian ov
er his whereabouts, and I doubt I’ll be able to enjoy my meal if I’ve got the prospect of an interview with him still to come.
“Of course not,” she replies. “It’s still only seven o’clock. And it’s rabbit stew. It’ll keep almost indefinitely.
“Well, I won’t be long,” I tell her, going over to the door and opening it again. “No more than an hour, I shouldn’t think.”
She nods her head and gives me a sweet smile. “I’ll have a gin and tonic waiting for you,” she says, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
I think I might need it.
Outside once more, I go across the road to Amelie’s house, my breath clouding in front of my face. It’s turned much colder at night over the last few days and there’s a real feeling of winter in the air.
I climb up the steps to the front door, and knock twice, waiting until the Templeton maid, Sarah, answers.
“Good evening. I’ve come to see Mr Templeton.”
“Yes, sir,” she replies and I get the impression she’s been forewarned to expect me. “Mr Templeton and Miss Cooper are in the drawing room.”
She stands to one side and I enter, taking off my hat and coat and passing them to her as we make our way to the familiar room, where I first met Amelie just a few weeks ago.
Sarah opens the door and announces me, and I see Amelie sitting on the sofa, still wearing her work clothes, consisting of a smart grey skirt and blouse, although she’s removed the jacket she usually wears to her office, and replaced it with a cardigan. She smiles up at me and I return the gesture, before turning and looking at her guardian, who is standing by the fireplace. Gordon Templeton studies me carefully, perhaps still a little wary of my attentiveness to his ward, although he knows I’ve only got her best interests at heart. He steps forward and offers his hand, which I shake.
“Take a seat, Inspector,” he says, and I sit down opposite Amelie. I’m still officially ‘on duty’, so I do my best to remain professional, even though I’d much rather sit beside her and hold her hand. Or, better still, take her in my arms and kiss her. Oh dear. The thought of kissing Amelie is very distracting and I have to take a deep breath and control my wayward thoughts, focusing on the purpose of my visit.
