by K. J. Frost
“What was on that piece of paper?” Amelie asks, sitting down opposite us and taking a sip of tea before looking up at me.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should tell her. I know the threat is aimed at me. I even know why, and I’ve got a reasonable idea who’s responsible. And I did just say I wouldn’t treat her like a child…
I reach into my pocket and hand it across to her. She puts her cup down carefully on the table and unfolds the page, laying it on her lap. A few seconds later, she looks back up at me.
“Rufus?” she whispers, with a heart stopping level of fear in her voice.
“What is it?” Aunt Dotty says. “Show me.”
Amelie stands and passes the piece of paper to Dotty, who glances at it, and then rests her hand on my arm. “You’ve got to do something about this,” she says. “Whoever wrote this needs locking up.”
“I know. And I will do something about it, don’t worry.” I take the paper back, refold it and replace it in my pocket. “Now, will you two be alright while I find something to cover the window?”
“We’ll be absolutely fine,” Aunt Dotty replies. “There’s some wood out in the potting shed, down the left hand side, I think. With any luck, that should fit.”
After a little groping around in the darkened shed, I find several pieces of wood which I think might do the job, and go through the house and out to the front, using the one that fits best and holding it in place with a couple of small nails hammered into the frame.
“It’ll do for tonight,” I announce, going back into the sitting room. “I’ll telephone a glazier in the morning.”
“Thank you, dear,” Aunt Dotty says, looking up at me from beneath her bandages.
“I feel awful about this,” I reply, as I go over to her, sitting right beside her. “He was after me… and look what he did to you.”
“Oh.” She cups my face in her hand. “Don’t you worry. Worse things happen at sea.”
“Do they?”
She smiles. “Probably. Although I’ve never really understood the point of that saying.”
“No. Neither have I.”
“I should be going,” Amelie says suddenly, sitting forward in her seat.
“I’ll see you home,” I reply, getting up again.
“You don’t have to.” She stands and looks at me.
“After what happened here tonight, I think I do.” I stare at her and eventually she nods her head, just once.
“I hope you feel better tomorrow, Dotty,” she says with a light smile.
“I’m sure I will, my dear,” Dotty replies, and I escort Amelie from the room. As we get to the door, I turn around and look at my aunt.
“Can I trust you for a few minutes while I take Amelie home?”
“I should think so,” she says, and her eyes twinkle. Quite why, I have no idea. It’s not like there’s any mischief to be made between myself and Amelie, not anymore.
I close the sitting room door and find Amelie waiting for me in the dimly lit hallway.
“You didn’t bring a coat, did you?” She shakes her head and I go over to the end of the stairs, picking up my own. “Here, put this around your shoulders,” I say, taking it to her.
“I’ll be fine.” God, she’s obstinate. Beautiful, but obstinate.
“Are you determined to fight me on everything now? It’s a coat, Amelie. That’s all.”
She lowers her eyes and turns around so I can place it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome.”
I put on my hat and pick up my keys, switching off the light and holding the door open, so she can pass through it ahead of me.
Our short walk is conducted in silence and, within a minute or two, we’re at her front door.
“Goodnight,” I say quickly, wanting this moment – this evening – to be over.
She looks up at me. “I—” she falters.
“You what?” I ask after a few seconds’ pause, when it becomes clear she’s not going to continue with whatever it was she was saying.
“I—I just wanted to say, look after yourself,” she whispers.
“Why? Do you even care what happens to me?” I can’t help myself. The words are out of my mouth before I’ve even had time to think about them, but I suppose it’s how I feel.
“Yes,” she replies, as though I’ve hurt her deeply with my question. There’s a sadness in her eyes that tears at my soul, and as much as I’m hurting too, I can’t bear it any longer. I can’t live like this. I have to try…
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step closer and cupping her face with my hand. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t even flinch at my touch.
“What for?”
“For all of it. I’m sorry for not telling you the things you wanted to know. I’m sorry for doing the job I do, which means I can’t always be completely open with you about everything. I’m sorry if I said or did anything to hurt you. And I’m sorry for disappointing you. I’m sorry about your father, and the letter, and your uncle, and his mistress. I was doing what I thought was right, and if I got it wrong, then I got it wrong, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, except to apologise and to beg you to forgive me… and to ask that you’ll give me another chance. Give us another chance. Please…” I hear my voice own crack and she blurs before me.
“Rufus,” she whispers and I blink, clearing my sight as I put my finger over her lips, silencing her.
“No,” I say softly. “Not yet. Please, can you just sleep on whatever it is you’re thinking. Just so we both know you’re really sure about it. And… and maybe we can talk again tomorrow, or the day after?”
She stares at me, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Then she nods her head and shrugs off my coat, handing it back to me, before she turns and goes inside, her head bowed.
Chapter Nine
It turned out her name was Ellen. Not that it matters, because I won’t be seeing her again. I stayed the night in the end, which I suppose some people might call deplorable. Others might call it progress, compared to my recent efforts, but it didn’t feel that way to me, because after she’d gone to sleep with a satisfied smile on her face, I spent the night lying awake, remembering how it used to be. And the only reason I didn’t go home was because I was too tired to face the walk. It had nothing to do with Ellen. Nothing at all.
Although she had seemed shy when we were in the pub, it transpired that once we got into her bedroom, there was no holding her back and she was happy to take the lead, which I found a diverting change. Maybe that’s why I was able to go through with it this time – because it was so different to anything I’m used to. When I was with ‘her’, I had always had to make the first move. I suppose that’s not surprising really, considering the fact that, until her first time with me, she’d never done anything like that before. Why would she have done? Until I got hold of her, she was one of life’s innocents.
I recall the time it took me to persuade her that it would be alright, that I’d look after her, that no-one would ever find out – even if what we were doing was considered completely immoral to most people. Of course, once I’d convinced her, and she’d got her first taste, there was no turning back – for either of us. The die was cast.
And then I lost her… And nothing can fill the void she’s left in my life.
*****
The glazier said he’d come round straight away. I don’t know whether it was the fact that I mentioned my job – and my rank – but he seemed very eager to please, which was a relief, being as I’ve got a lot to do today. Once I’d finished talking to him, I went and checked on Aunt Dotty. For once, she’d taken my advice and had stayed in bed, so I took her up a cup of tea, prepared by Ethel, who seems to have stopped swooning for the time being at least, and has decided to be extra helpful. Dotty was sitting up in the middle of her bed, wearing a pale yellow bed jacket, and greeted me warmly. As soon as I was sure she was alright, I made my excuses a
nd came back downstairs, partly because I didn’t want to talk about Amelie, and I feared she might, but mainly because I need to telephone Thompson to let him know that I’ll be late in to work.
Sergeant Tooley answers the phone on the second ring with an official greeting.
“Tooley?” I say by way of reply.
“Yes?” He sounds a little confused.
“It’s Inspector Stone.”
“Oh. Yes, sir?”
“Can you put me through to Sergeant Thompson, please?”
“Yes, right away, sir.”
I hear a click on the line, which appears to go dead, and then there’s another click before I hear Thompson’s voice.
“Rufus?”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?” he says.
I take a few minutes to explain the events of the previous evening.
“Is your aunt alright?” he asks once I’ve finished my story.
“Yes. It’ll take more than a brick through the window to bother Aunt Dotty.”
“And Miss Cooper?”
“She was shocked at the time, but she was better by the time I took her home.”
There’s a slight pause, then he continues, “And should I read anything into her presence at your house last night?”
“Not really, no.” I glance up at myself in the mirror and realise that’s not necessarily true. “Her uncle told her about the letter,” I add.
“Oh hell,” he murmurs.
“Hmm. My only solace at the time was that at least she couldn’t break up with me again, but then the incident happened with the brick, and she seemed to forget all about it.”
“I suppose things like that do rather concentrate the mind,” he comments. “So, you walked her home?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a start,” he says, trying to sound encouraging.
I don’t tell him that I then apologised – for everything I could think of, on the spur of the moment – in the hope of getting her to see how much I want her back, and that I’ll do whatever it takes to achieve that. I’m still wondering whether I should have let her speak when she tried to, except I’m also haunted by the look in her eyes, and I’ve spent half the night mulling over whether she might have said she wanted to try again with me. But then I keep asking myself, what if she just wanted to tell me that she appreciated my apologies, but that nothing had changed as far as she was concerned? If that’s the case, all I can hope is that, by giving her some time to think, she might just reconsider.
“I don’t suppose you got a look at who was responsible for throwing the brick?” Thompson continues, clearly working out for himself that my silence means I’m not going to say anything further about Amelie.
“No. I heard footsteps, but I couldn’t even tell what direction they were running to – or from. They might not have even been connected to what happened.”
“Even so, I think we both know who’s probably responsible, don’t we?” he replies.
“Mr Cole?” I suggest.
“Precisely.” He clears his throat. “Do you want me to pay him a visit?”
“No. Not by yourself. I’ve just got to wait for the glazier to mend the window, and then we can go and see Mr Cole together, at the factory where he works.”
“As long as you’re sure?”
“I am. How did you get on with Mr Gibson?” I ask him.
I hear him huff, “Unbelievable couple,” and I can picture him shaking his head. “Evidently Mr Gibson doesn’t know where his gun is either.” I thought it was bad enough that Mrs Gibson didn’t know the whereabouts of the weapon, but to discover that her husband is also living in ignorance is beyond belief.
“You’re not serious.”
“I am. He said he’ll look for it and get his wife to telephone me as soon as he finds it. I did make a point of telling them how urgent it was.”
“How can he not know where it is?” I ask, still incredulous.
“Mrs Gibson was there as well,” he explains. “They both seemed fairly convinced that they’d put it in the shed when he came back from the war. Janet was about two years old then, and according to Mrs Gibson, she was into everything…”
“So they thought they’d put a dangerous weapon in the shed?” I’m even more stunned by that revelation.
“I did question it,” he replies. “But neither of them was completely sure.”
“Dear God…” I shake my own head now. “Our only saving grace is that I’m fairly sure they’ve got nothing to do with Harper’s murder.”
“That’s what I thought,” he says. “And if they don’t know where the weapon is, it’s unlikely anyone else will have been able to find it either.”
“Exactly.” There’s a knocking on the door. “That’ll be the glazier,” I say to Thompson. “Can you come over here for eleven o’clock?” I suggest, hazarding a guess at how long it’ll take for the window to be repaired.
“Of course,” he replies.
“Thank you. Then we can go and pay Mr Cole a visit and see what he’s got to say for himself.”
“I’ll be there.”
I replace the receiver and answer the door, to find a burly man standing before me, clutching a cloth cap in one hand and a wooden tool box in the other.
“You sent for me?” he says, diffidently.
“If you’re Mr Woods, then yes, I did.”
He nods his head and glances to his left. “I take it this is the window?”
“Yes.” He takes a couple of steps backwards and assesses the damage.
“Shouldn’t take too long,” he says, putting his toolbox down on the path and placing his cap back on his head. Without another word, he goes out through the gate to his van, which is parked behind my car.
I decide to leave him to it and go back inside.
By the time Mr Woods has finished his task, Aunt Dotty has dressed and come downstairs, adamant that she can’t stay in bed a moment longer.
“I’m going quietly insane up there,” she says.
“Well, at least put your feet up on the sofa,” I suggest.
“Will you stop fussing if I do?”
“I can’t guarantee it, no.”
She smiles up at me as she sits down.
“You can go to work, you know?” she says.
“I’m going to have to, as soon as Thompson arrives, I’m afraid. I’ve got to find out who did this, as well as following up on Harper’s murder.”
“Harper?” she queries.
“The policeman who was shot.”
She nods, then stops. “I must remember not to move my head,” she says.
“I’ll get Ethel to bring you some coffee,” I reply, ringing the bell by the mantelpiece.
“And then you’ll go?”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Yes. You need to get on with solving crimes, not spend your time looking after me. I’ll be absolutely fine, Rufus.”
“I know you will.” I pause for a moment. “But if anything happens, you will call me, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will.”
At that moment, Ethel comes in and I order the coffee for Dotty, and as she’s leaving again, I hear a vehicle pull up outside and turn to see the familiar shape of a black Wolseley parking behind my car.
“That’s my lift,” I tell Aunt Dotty, going over to her and gently kissing her cheek. “Remember… call if you need me.”
“Yes, dear,” she replies. “And perhaps later you can tell me what happened when you took Amelie home last night?”
I turn to face her. “Or perhaps not,” I reply and she scowls at me as best as she can.
I shake my head and go out into the hall, picking up my coat and hat, on my way out of the front door.
Thompson is sitting behind the wheel, with the engine still running.
“Good morning,” I say, getting into the car beside him.
“Rufus,” he replies, pulling away from the kerb.
He dri
ves down to West Molesey and straight to the factory estate, parking outside McAndrews, a manufacturer of nuts and bolts. On the way, he asks after Aunt Dotty, and makes a point of not talking about Amelie. It makes a pleasant change not to be quizzed, especially as I’ve got nothing to say, having no idea what’s going on myself. What happens next is entirely up to Amelie.
“I imagine they’ve seen an increase in production in this place,” he says, looking up at the anonymous brick and glass building as we both get out of the car.
“Even if a fairly large percentage of their workforce has been called up,” I reply, closing the door and walking towards the factory entrance. Companies like this have long been employers of a lot of the young men in the area, but since the beginning of the war, those same young men have been disappearing in their droves to join the armed forces.
Thompson nudges me and points towards a doorway that appears to lead to a staff cloakroom. “Judging from that,” he says, “I reckon they’ve found plenty of replacements.”
Sure enough, hanging from the pegs in the cloakroom, I can see row upon row of women’s coats, scarves and hats. It was bound to happen, I suppose.
We turn to the door marked ‘Reception’ and I push it open, removing my hat at the same time. A middle-aged woman with gold rimmed spectacles and blonde hair looks up from her typewriter.
“Can I help?” she says, smiling.
“Yes. I’d like to see Mr Cole, if possible.”
“It’s not lunchtime for another hour yet,” she replies, glancing up at the clock on the wall behind me.
I reach into my jacket and pull out my warrant card. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to interrupt his day,” I say as her eyes widen.
“Oh.” She’s flustered now. “He’s the foreman, you see,” she continues. “He’s not supposed to leave the factory floor…” She gets to her feet. “Excuse me a moment.” She almost curtseys and then goes over to a door in the corner of the room, which has the word ‘Private’ etched into a frosted glass panel. She knocks once and enters, pulling it closed behind her, and I turn to look at Thompson, who raises his eyebrows. I think we’re both surprised that Cole is the foreman here. A man with his temperament doesn’t seem very well suited to a position of such responsibility.
