by K. J. Frost
“Of course I don’t mind, Harry. Is she feeling any better?”
He smiles gently as he starts the engine and pulls away from the kerb. “A little.”
“What’s it like?”
“What?”
“Being a father.” All of a sudden, I’m intrigued by the idea of fatherhood. It’s not something I’ve ever really contemplated before, but I want to know what it’s like and how it feels. And I don’t have anyone else I can ask.
He glances across at me, smirking. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No. I’m just interested.”
He nods. “Well, it’s nothing like I expected,” he replies, pulling out onto Walton Road.
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. Julia and I had been married for over three years by the time Christopher came along and I suppose I’d expected that life would carry on just exactly as it had before, but with three of us instead of two.”
“And it’s not like that?”
He chuckles. “No. Not in the slightest. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t change a hair on his head, and I wouldn’t be without him, but I didn’t anticipate some of the changes that happened after he was born.”
“Such as?” I’m slightly worried about what he’s going to say now.
“Well, if you feel like having a lie-in, for example, you can forget it. I don’t remember the last time I woke up after six am. And your spare time isn’t your own anymore, because there’s always something that needs to be done with the baby, or with the baby’s bedroom, or the baby’s furniture. We’re lucky, we still go out on our own. We decided it was important to us that we do that – even if it’s not as often as we did before – and having Julia’s mother living just down the road is a real bonus, but the thing you notice most after you have a baby is that, actually, going out five nights a week doesn’t matter anymore, because all of sudden, the most prized commodity in your life is sleep.”
“Sleep?”
“Yes. Life seems to revolve around sleep. And nothing else matters very much. Not at the beginning anyway. Christopher was pretty good, but he still woke us up every four hours for about the first five or six weeks.”
“This sounds horrendous.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad. Let’s face it, if it was, no-one would ever do it twice, would they?”
“I suppose not.”
“And there are lots of bonuses.”
“There are?”
“Yes. I love getting home at the end of the day and reading him a story, and then putting him to bed. I love his laugh, and the way he squeals when I tickle him, and that he really can’t kick a football, even though he tries so hard. And having him has definitely brought Julia and me closer together.”
I’m surprised and he glances at me before looking back at the road, obviously seeing the expression on my face.
“Oh, there was nothing wrong before; far from it. But having a child together, makes everything a little bit more special, somehow.” He looks over at me again as we come into Kingston. “So what brought that on?” he asks.
“Nothing. As I said, I was just interested, that’s all.”
“Just interested?”
“Yes. So you can stop fishing.”
He chuckles. “As if I would.”
I shake my head at him, but we’re both smiling.
It’s just before lunch when Thompson comes into my office, knocking on the doorframe to announce himself.
“Look what I’ve got.” He’s waving a folded piece of paper in the air.
“A search warrant?” I guess.
“Oh… you’re good,” he replies, smiling.
“Shall we go and have some fun?” I get to my feet. “Franklin should be going to lunch soon. We can interrupt him and make his day.
Thompson slides the warrant into his inside jacket pocket and rubs his hands together in glee. “I can’t wait. How much help do you want?”
“Get six men to meet us at his flat.” I fetch my coat from behind the door. “We’ll go to the factory and pick him up.”
He nods and goes back into the outer office, while I struggle to pull my coat around my shoulders and put my hat on.
“Tooley’s organising the men,” Thompson says, coming back. “They’re going to wait outside the flats for us.”
“Perfect.”
We go downstairs and get into the car. “I imagine Miss Rumbold is quite likely to have kittens,” Thompson says, as he pulls the car through the archway and out onto London Road.
“She’ll be sick of the sight of us, that’s for certain.”
Sure enough, Miss Rumbold looks up from her desk as we enter and her mouth drops open.
“What now?” she says, forgetting herself and clamping her mouth shut. “I do apologise.” She stands up, clearly flustered.
“I’m sorry for intruding,” I reply, pretending that I didn’t hear her faux pas. “I’m afraid we need to see David Franklin.”
“David Franklin?”
I nod my head and she sighs, moving around her desk. “I’ll fetch him for you,” she murmurs.
As we did yesterday, we follow her, waiting outside the double doors until she comes back, with Franklin in tow. He looks bemused until he sees me, and then his face pales noticeably.
“What do you want?” he snarls.
Thompson moves forward. “We have a search warrant here.” He pulls the piece of paper from his pocket.
“To search what?” Franklin asks, adjusting his glare to Thompson.
“Your flat,” Thompson replies.
“My flat?”
“Yes, Mr Franklin,” I say, stepping towards him myself now. “It’s up to you, you can give us the key and we’ll let ourselves in, or you can come with us.”
“And if I don’t choose to do either of those things?”
“Then I’ll arrest you for obstruction, and we’ll gain access to your flat anyway.”
He swallows hard. “I don’t trust you not to wreck the place,” he says.
“Then I suggest you ask permission to come with us. It’s almost time for your lunch, so I’m sure no-one will miss you.”
He narrows his eyes at me and opens his mouth to say something, but then thinks better of it and mumbles, “Give me a minute,” before disappearing into the reception.
“Go with him, can you?” I say to Thompson, who follows him through the door.
They return a few minutes later.
“I can take an hour,” Franklin says huffily. “No more.” He glares at me. “I’m giving up my lunch break for this.”
“My heart bleeds for you,” I reply and lead the way through the main entrance, with Franklin behind me and Thompson bringing up the rear.
Franklin sits in the back of the car and I get in beside him. I doubt he’s going to abscond and, if he did, I’m not sure there’s much I could do about it in my condition, but I’m hoping that my presence is enough to ensure he’ll be sensible and stay put.
It’s only a short journey to the shops in Central Avenue and Thompson parks up outside, letting Franklin out. There’s a police van parked further down the road and, as we move across the pavement, the back doors open and several uniformed men climb out, joining us.
The row of shops consists of a newsagents at one end and a chemists at the other, and in between, there’s a greengrocers, a general store, a fish and chip shop and a small butchers. There’s almost everything here you could need to service the houses and factories that have built up in this area.
“This way,” Franklin says, leading us to one end of the parade of shops.
He opens a door at the side of the building and we’re faced with a narrow flight of stairs, leading up.
“After you, Mr Franklin.” I usher him into his own flat.
He huffs and moves forward, climbing the stairs ahead of me.
At the top, there’s another door, which doesn’t have a lock, and Franklin just
pushes on it, passing through and into a dark hallway. I find a light switch and flick it on, revealing a linoleum floor and greying walls, with four doors leading off to other rooms.
“Where’s the living room?” I ask Franklin and he takes me down to the furthest end of the hallway, pushing the door open.
Inside, there’s a small electric fire placed in front of a worn brown sofa, a plate, cup and saucer lying on the floor at one end. There’s a mirror on the wall, and two pictures of seaside scenes, neither of which is hanging straight, and both of which I imagine were here when Franklin moved in. The carpet is deep red and has threadbare patches, and there’s a dark wood sideboard along the furthest wall. The windows, which look out onto the front of the building, are grimy, disguised by yellowing and frayed net curtains.
“What are you looking for?” Franklin asks, turning to face me.
“A gun,” I reply, blankly.
He smirks. “Well, you’ll have trouble finding one here. I told you already, I don’t own a gun.”
“And you’ve never lied to a police officer before?”
He pauses, then shakes his head and waves his arms expansively. “Help yourselves,” he says, and flops down onto the sofa, lying back and resting his hands across his chest.
Something about his demeanour tells me we’re barking up the wrong tree here, but we have to make sure. And in any case, just because the gun isn’t here doesn’t mean he’s innocent. He’s canny enough to have disposed of it elsewhere. Still, we have to start somewhere.
I prop myself up against the wall and wait, leaving Thompson and the men to do the searching. With the use of only one arm, there’s not a lot I can do anyway and I want to watch Franklin’s reactions. That said, he’s not really doing very much. He’s picked up a newspaper that was lying on the end of the sofa and is reading it, his legs crossed nonchalantly, as though he hasn’t a care in the world.
Two uniformed men work around us, searching their way through the living room, checking the sideboard thoroughly, then moving Franklin and tipping the sofa up to look beneath it. After that, they go around the edge of the room, ascertaining that the carpet is well secured. I could get them to pull it up and raise the floorboards as well, but there’s something about Franklin’s attitude that tells me it would be a waste of time.
Eventually, after about forty minutes, Thompson comes in and shakes his head, just once.
“Nothing?” I say out loud, just to check.
“No, sir.”
Franklin gets to his feet and comes to stand in front of me, closer than feels comfortable, and I’m aware of Thompson moving further into the room.
“Call yourself a detective?” Franklin mocks. “You let a murderer roam the streets for weeks, right under your own nose, and now someone’s killed a copper… and you can’t even find the smoking gun.”
I turn away, struggling not to react to the truth behind his words. This case does feel like it’s going nowhere, and I’m running out of leads – not that I had that many in the first place. It feels as though he knows that just as well as I do, and is goading me.
“Let’s go,” Thompson says, stepping between Franklin and myself, and gesturing that he should move.
In a stony silence, we take Franklin back to the factory and, as he slams the door behind him on getting out of the police car, I get out more slowly and resume my seat next to Thompson.
“Are you alright?” he asks, looking at me.
“Not really.”
“Something will turn up,” he replies.
I wish I had his confidence.
“Have we got anything else?” I ask him, trying to disguise my desperation.
“We haven’t heard anything from the Gibsons yet. He was going to have a look for his gun, if you remember?”
I nod my head. “I suppose we could go over there, while we’re in this neck of the woods.”
Thompson puts the car in gear and pulls out of the factory car park, heading from West to East Molesey.
I knock on the door of the Gibsons’ house in Summer Gardens and we wait until, after a few moments, Mrs Gibson answers.
“Oh… Inspector Stone,” she says, sounding deflated.
“Yes. I’m sorry to trouble you, but we were wondering if your husband had managed to locate his army revolver yet?”
“He’s just come home for his lunch,” she says, unexpectedly, and steps to one side. “Would you like to talk to him yourself?”
Her voice is very monotone. She was never the most animated of people, but it’s as though she’s lost what little expressiveness she did possess.
“Thank you.” Thompson and I enter the house and she closes the door behind us, then leads us through to the very tidy kitchen, where Mr Gibson is standing by the sink, washing his hands. The small table in the centre of the room is laid for two and I can smell something fishy cooking.
“Inspector Stone,” Gibson says, with only marginally more enthusiasm than his wife.
“Yes, sir.” I repeat my enquiry about his gun and he turns, picking up a towel from the worktop and drying his hands, slowly and methodically.
“I’ve had a good look around,” he replies. “And I’m still convinced it was in the garden shed the last time I saw it, but I can’t seem to find it now.”
“My sergeant told me you thought you might have stored it there. Do you really think that was wise?”
“Yes.” He nods his head, seemingly surprised by my response, as though a garden shed is the perfectly natural place to keep a dangerous weapon.
“You thought that was safe, did you?”
Gibson flushes slightly. “Well, probably not,” he replies. “But the shed was kept padlocked at all times and no-one’s ever broken into it.”
“We didn’t like having it in the house, did we?” his wife says, stepping forward and standing beside him.
“I put it up in the rafters of the shed,” he adds. “It seemed like a safe place at the time.”
Compared to where, I wonder.
Mrs Gibson suddenly turns to her husband. “Are you sure we didn’t throw it away when we had that big clear out last spring?” she asks.
He scratches his head. “I don’t remember,” he replies.
She looks back at me again. “It was just wrapped up in a cloth bag,” she says, as though that makes a difference.
“When was the last time you actually saw it?” I ask.
They turn to look at each other. “Well, I suppose it was when I came back from Flanders,” Mr Gibson says meekly.
“So, over twenty years ago.” He nods. “And you think you might have thrown it away sometime in the spring?”
“I don’t recall doing so,” he replies. “But it’s possible.”
I let out a long, deep sigh. “Very well. If it should turn up, please can you let me know?”
They both nod in perfect unison, and I make my way towards the door.
“How’s your arm?” Mrs Gibson enquires, following me.
I turn and look down at her. “It’s not too bad, thank you.”
She takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t right, you know,” she says, very quietly. “What that man did to you. We read about it, and it wasn’t right.”
Her husband comes to join us. “The papers said he did it for revenge… because he’d lost his daughter.” He takes his wife’s hand in his. “We just wanted you to know that we don’t feel the same way, Inspector. Not at all.”
“No, not at all,” his wife echoes.
I smile down at the pair of them, my earlier dismay temporarily forgotten. “Thank you,” I reply. “I do appreciate that.” I genuinely do.
“I’ll show you out,” Mr Gibson offers, diffusing what could otherwise have become an awkward moment, and leading Thompson and I to the front door.
Once we’re back in the car, Thompson turns to me. “See? You’re not the villain of the piece to everyone.”
“Just to a few of them… and myself, then.”
He
shakes his head, but remains silent until we’re back on Esher Road. “We’re not going to follow up on Gibson’s gun, are we?” he asks eventually.
I turn to look at him. “Do you think either of them could have held a gun to Harper’s face and pulled the trigger?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
“They don’t have it in them, do they?” Thompson confirms.
“No, but I suppose it does mean there’s a potential stray weapon on the loose somewhere.”
“Stray?” he queries. “Surely it’s most likely that they threw it away.”
“They don’t seem too sure about that. And there’s always the chance that someone else has taken it in the meantime.”
“That would be a huge coincidence, Rufus,” he replies. “I mean, you’re suggesting that someone discovered the gun, when they themselves had forgotten about it, and that this person used it to kill a policeman in a fit of rage over the death of their daughter?”
“Not necessarily their daughter, no. There were four other victims.”
“Even so. What are the chances?”
“Almost non-existent,” I admit, and he nods his head. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to forget about it.”
We arrive back at the station early in the afternoon and I go straight through to my office, but before I’ve even had the chance to hang up my coat, I notice Tooley walk over to Thompson and the two of them exchanging words. Tooley glances up at me a couple of times during the course of their conversation and it makes me wonder whether I’m the subject, or whether I’m just being paranoid. After a few minutes, Tooley moves away, and Thompson glances over at me, before looking down again. That was very odd indeed.
I go and sit at my desk. There’s a file in front of me, relating to the Chambers case. Inside are the sworn statements of Chambers himself, plus Mason and Booth. It seems that, in my absence, Pearce and Wells have interviewed all three men, and they’ve all confessed. I get up and go out into the main office, looking for either of the two officers. They’re both standing together, talking to another man, whose name I don’t know yet.
