by K. J. Frost
There are several files stacked up on the corner of my desk and I feel my shoulders drop. This is my least favourite part of the job: paperwork. I appreciate it’s a necessary evil, but the prospect of reading through the reports and signing them off fills me with misery.
I reach over and grab the first one, putting it down in front of me and am just about to open it when the telephone’s shrill ring assaults my eardrums.
“Saved by the bell,” I mutter, lifting up the receiver. “Stone,” I say, a little louder, taking a puff of my cigarette and reluctantly resting it in the ashtray, in case I need to write down anything.
“It’s me.” Chief Superintendent Dale doesn’t need to identify himself. I only left his office a few minutes ago, but even if I hadn’t, I’d know his voice.
“Sir?” I’m at a loss to know what I can have done wrong in the short space of time since I came back to my own desk. I know I haven’t written any more letters. I haven’t had the chance… yet.
“Can you come back up here?” he asks.
“What? Now?” I forget myself and say what I’m thinking.
“Yes. Now.” He hangs up.
One thing you learn very early on in this job is to be deferential. It is not the junior officer’s place to question his superiors. If Dale had asked me to dance through the corridors of New Scotland Yard, wearing absolutely nothing except a feather boa, my answer should have been a simple, ‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’ In reality, because I’ve never been one for unquestioningly obeying my supposed betters, my answer would probably have been something more along the lines of, ‘After you, sir.’
As it is, I look fondly at my now half-burned cigarette and get to my feet. I refuse to stub it out; to me that feels like even more of a waste, more of an admission of defeat than letting it burn. I leave my office and go along the corridor, up the stairs and into Dale’s outer office, where his secretary, Miss Ashford, tells me to go straight in. What she means is knock first, and then go in, so that’s what I do, waiting for the Chief Superintendent to call out, “Enter,” before I dare to intrude. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve stepped back in time – by about half an hour. He’s sitting at his desk, just as he was earlier, the pile of papers are exactly as they were, and he’s writing furiously.
“Sit,” he says.
“Sir.”
This time, he doesn’t make me wait for so long. Instead, he stops writing and replaces the lid on his fountain pen, putting it down carefully beside the stack of papers.
“There’s been a murder,” he says calmly.
I sit forward, on the alert, but say nothing. At this point, I’m here to listen, not talk.
“It happened this morning,” he continues. “Well, that’s to say the body was discovered this morning. The murder itself probably happened last night sometime.” He looks up at me, his eyes boring into mine. “It’s a nasty one,” he says. “Young woman.”
“How young?” I want to know details.
“I’m not sure. I wasn’t told.”
I nod my head and wait. He’s looking at me oddly now, like he’s expecting a reaction, although I’m not sure what to.
“It’s in a place called East Molesey.”
“East Molesey?” I whisper, and my stomach contracts, because I know what’s coming next.
He nods.
“So why are you telling me about it?” I ask. “Surely Kingston CID can handle it.” There, I’ve said it. I even said it before he did. But saying the name of the place is going to be an awful lot easier than going back there.
Dale smiles. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you,” he says. “Because unlike almost everyone else at Scotland Yard, you know – without having to look it up – that the nearest CID branch to East Molesey is based at Kingston upon Thames.”
“Well, I did grow up there, so I’d be slightly worried if I didn’t know such things.”
“It’s a little more than growing up there, Rufus,” he says, using my first name for probably only the third time since I’ve been here. “You trained at Kingston and worked there for the first eight years of your service… and your father worked there too, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t know why he’s asking. He knows the answer perfectly well. In a career spanning more than forty years, my father may have only made the rank of sergeant, but he was legendary. The rank was a matter of choice; his choice, that is. The award of the King’s Police Medal for conspicuous gallantry was a matter of honour. “But my having served there doesn’t really explain why we’re being called in so early in the case. If the body was only discovered this morning, surely Kingston deserve a fair crack at it first, don’t they?”
“Normally, I’d agree with you,” Dale replies, swinging around in his chair, getting up and walking over to the window. He clasps his hands behind his back and balances on the balls of his feet. Even raising himself up like that, I know that if I stood, I’d be roughly four inches taller than him. I remain seated. “The victim worked for Hawker Aviation at Kingston,” he explains, turning to me.
“And?” I still can’t see that gives us a good enough reason to go barging into a local murder on day one.
“And her father is an MP,” he adds, frowning. “An MP with friends in high places, evidently. He’s telephoned directly from Westminster this morning and pulled strings. The order has come down from on high.” He rolls his eyes upwards. “We’re involved, Stone, like it or not.” I note that I’m not ‘Rufus’ any longer.
“What gives him the right to start dictating police policy?” I ask, forgetting the rule about my superiors and ‘betters’, yet again.
Dale glares at me for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “I’m not saying I necessarily agree with what he’s done,” he says. “Personally I can’t abide people who abuse their positions of power to achieve their own ends, but it’s his daughter. I think in his shoes, I’d probably pull a few strings too.” He softens his voice as he’s speaking and I remember that he’s got teenage girls – two of them, if memory serves.
“Yes, sir,” I say quietly. “I assume I’m supposed to leave immediately?”
“If not sooner, yes.”
“And am I allowed to point out that I no longer have a sergeant to take with me?” I ask.
“You are,” he replies. “I’ve spoken to my opposite number at Kingston…” He walks back to his desk and looks down at a piece of paper on which he seems to have scribbled some notes. “A man by the name of Meredith? Do you know him?” He glances up at me.
“Yes, sir.” I feel my heart drop to my boots. I know Meredith well. “We’ve crossed swords in the past,” I add.
“Oh.” He gives me a long look. “Well, try not to cross swords with him again. He’s going to ensure you’re assigned a sergeant when you get there.”
“Very good, sir. I suppose I’d better pop home, pack a few things, and be on my way then,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Yes. Any idea where you’ll be staying?” he asks. “We may need to contact you.”
“I’ll probably go to my Aunt Dorothy’s.” I write down her address on the piece of paper he shoves across the desk just before he sits down again. “She’s as mad as a march hare,” I mutter, chuckling to myself, “but she has a heart of gold. Everyone in the family calls her ‘Dotty’ – with very good reason.”
“Very well,” he says, taking the piece of paper from me, and glancing at it. “She’s not related to Sir Samuel Lytle, is she?” He looks up at me again.
“Yes. He was her husband. He died about two years ago.”
“Well… You do move in exalted circles, Stone,” he murmurs and looks down at the piece of paper once more. “So this should really say ‘Lady Dorothy Lytle’, shouldn’t it?”
I shrug. “She doesn’t bother with the ‘Lady’ part. She never did, even when Uncle Sam was alive.”
“I see.” He places the piece of paper in the top drawer of his desk and rests his elbows on its surface, looking up
at me. “You’re a good man, Stone. I expect you to behave yourself.”
“Behave myself?” I try not to smirk.
“Yes. You’re prone to being a little… unorthodox,” he says, struggling for the right word. “Our colleagues at Kingston may not appreciate that.”
“Well, that’s tough,” I reply, ignoring his closed eyes and shaking head. “They’ve called me in, so they can take what they get.” I go over to the door and let my hand rest on the handle. “Besides,” I add, “as you said earlier, I worked there for eight years. At least a few of them are probably going to remember me. I very much doubt they’ll be surprised to discover that I haven’t changed… one damn bit.”
It’s only a short drive back to my small flat in Lambeth. I could probably afford something nicer, but I like it here. I like my neighbours too and, before I go inside, I knock on Mrs Henshaw’s door. She answers quickly, just like she always does.
“What are you doing here at this time of day?” she asks, looking me up and down, and smiling. She does that every time she sees me.
“I’ve got to go away, Mrs Henshaw,” I explain.
“I wish you’d learn to call me Gladys,” she replies. “You’ve been living here for six years now.”
I smile at her. She understands what I do for a living and it doesn’t seem to bother her, but I know from the experience of my parents, that people can react strangely to discovering they’ve got a policeman living in their midst. I’ve learned to be on my guard. “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I say, ignoring her request.
“It’s a case, is it?” she whispers, conspiratorially.
“Something like that.”
“Okay, dearie. I’ll keep an eye on the place. Don’t you worry.”
“Thanks.” She has a spare key and has done this before when I’ve gone away on cases, picking up my post and watering the solitary plant I’ve managed not to kill over the years.
I start walking away. “Maybe you could find yourself a nice young lady while you’re gone,” she calls, chuckling heartily. “Handsome man like you, living by yourself. Now that’s a crime worth investigating if ever there was one.”
I laugh and turn around, walking backwards towards my own front door. “To keep you happy, I’ll see what I can do,” I reply, although I know I won’t do anything of the sort.
“A sweet little brunette would suit you perfectly.” Her whole body starts shaking as she gets a fit of the giggles.
“I’ll bear that in mind. Any particular eye colour?” I ask, turning and putting the key in the lock.
“No. I’ll leave that to you,” she replies.
“Righty-ho.”
She gives me a wave and goes back indoors. I let myself in, bend to pick up the morning’s post and leaf quickly through it. There’s nothing important, so I dump it on the table in the hall, going through to my bedroom and finding a suitcase from on top of the wardrobe. I’ve got no idea how long I’m going to be away for, so I pack a handful of shirts and a spare suit. All my suits are dark blue or dark grey pinstripe. However, I don’t really have space for a spare hat, so I pack a blue suit, which is the same colour as the one I’m wearing now, and matches the Fedora I threw on the bed when I came in here. I add underwear and some casual clothes for the weekend – just in case I get some time to myself – plus my shaving gear and a toothbrush, and close the case again.
I’m about to leave the flat when a thought occurs to me, and I go through to the living room. As usual, it’s neat and tidy in here – which is because I live alone and, apart from allowing my cigarettes to burn to nothing, I’m a neat and tidy kind of person – and I pick up the telephone receiver, asking the operator to connect me to a very familiar number.
“Chief Superintendent Dale, please,” I say politely.
“One moment, please.” The slightly nasal voice on the end typifies the telephonists employed at the Yard, and I wait while the connection is made.
“Dale,” says the voice on the end of the line.
“It’s me,” I reply, repeating his greeting from earlier, out of sheer facetiousness.
“Where are you?” he asks and I smile. He knew who it was.
“I’m at home. I’m just about to leave.”
“And? What’s stopping you?”
“Do you have the address of where the murder took place?” I ask him.
“Yes.”
“Could you give it to me?” I sigh, unable to believe I had to ask that, rather than him offering the information.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to go straight there.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I don’t want to waste precious time stopping off at Kingston, so I’m just going to head straight for the scene… if you could give me the address.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?” he asks.
“Sir…” I say, testily. “The victim’s been lying dead for several hours already. I need to get there before they do something really stupid, like move the body.”
“Yes… I suppose…” I hear a shuffling of papers. “Here it is,” he says. “Cavendish House, Beauchamp Road.”
“Okay. I know exactly where that is.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It’s the biggest house in the road. It’s impossible to miss it…”
“Well, try not to rub them up the wrong way,” he pleads.
“Who? The family, or the local force?”
“Both,” he says with emphasis.
“The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,” I reply, putting the phone down and smiling to myself.
Chapter Four
The bread’s a little stale and, even after I’ve toasted it, I still find it dry and chewy. It might have helped if Mother had bothered to go to the baker’s yesterday, but she didn’t, and now there’s not a great deal I can do about it. I hear her footsteps on the stairs and, wanting to avoid another confrontation with her, I quickly drink down the last of my tea and get up from the kitchen table, placing my used crockery in the sink.
“I suppose you’re leaving that for me to deal with, as well as having to make your father’s porridge,” she says, entering the room in her pink dressing gown, carrying two cups and saucers – the relics of the tea that I made earlier and took up before I had my bath and got dressed.
“I have to, Mother. I’m going to be late for work if I don’t leave now.” Does she think I can sit around here all day?
“Then you should’ve got up earlier, shouldn’t you?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother to argue with her. There’s no point. I never win. Instead, I duck around her and go down the hallway, putting on my coat and hat.
“You’ll be back at the usual time?” she calls as I open the front door.
“I can’t see why not, but I’ll phone if there’s a problem.”
Even from this distance, I can hear her tutting. She’s not a great fan of the telephone, but bowed to George’s insistence that we really should have one, just in case Father was taken ill again and we weren’t at home. Of course, if it had been me trying to persuade her, she’d never have listened. But, as it was George…
I don’t bother to wait for her to reply, but go outside into a fine, if chilly, autumn morning. Pulling the door closed, I stand for a moment on the step and look up at the clear blue sky, contrasted against the tawny russet leaves of the ash tree that stands outside our house, on the other side of the low garden wall. Still, as much as I’d like to stand here and appreciate nature’s beauty and grandeur, I’ve got a bus to catch.
With an uncharacteristic spring in my step, I walk to the junction with Seymour Road and turn left, going along until I come to Walton Road. The bus stop is just a hundred yards or so along on the left, on the opposite side of the road and, as I cross, I can see the bus approaching in the distance. Just in time.
I manage to get a seat by the window, the one beside me being taken by an elderly gentleman who boarded just after me, and I take advantag
e of the opportunity to look out and admire the scenery. I know I mustn’t dwell any longer on what I did last night. I can’t afford to do that. I need to focus on the present and on the future, just in case I say or do the wrong thing in front of my work colleagues. It wouldn’t do to make anyone suspicious, not when the murder is bound to be the talk of the office before long. No… as much as I cherish the memories, thinking about the past won’t benefit me at all.
As the bus trundles over Hampton Court Bridge, I glance up at the famous Tudor palace, with its many varied chimneys, impressive gateway and lavish gardens. The setting of the palace leads my eye down to the murky waters of the River Thames that flows beside it, wending its way from Gloucestershire to the North Sea, a couple of pleasure cruisers moored on its banks. The bus stops at Hampton Court Green and the elderly gentleman gets off. Several more passengers climb aboard, but there aren’t enough seats and I notice that two of the newcomers are middle-aged women, travelling together and presumably going to Kingston to do their shopping.
“Please, have my seat.” I stand and touch the brim of my hat with my right hand.
“Oh. That’s very kind,” one of them replies, giving me a smile.
“Thank you, young man,” the other adds, and they both sit, holding their empty shopping baskets on their laps, as they start to gossip, none too quietly, about someone called Prudence, who it would seem has not been living up to her name. I stifle the smile that’s threatening to break out on my lips, and wish that I could make the young lady’s acquaintance.
*****
Now that I’ve reached Roehampton Vale, I’m even more pleased that I decided to go straight to the scene of the crime. I mean, it makes sense from the point of view of the investigation, but it also delays going to Kingston just a little bit longer, which is good because I’m starting to have my doubts about the kind of reception I’m going to get at the London Road station. They almost certainly won’t be as euphoric as Aunt Dotty, who seemed thrilled at the prospect of having me to stay for a few days when I telephoned her just before leaving home. I wonder if my former colleagues might see – and possibly resent – me as the ‘local boy done good’, as it were. I don’t feel that way myself, but then I probably have a different perspective. When I left Kingston six years ago, I was a sergeant, fairly newly inducted into the CID. Now I’m an inspector and, as Dale was keen to point out, I’m quite young to have achieved that rank. I shake my head; there’s no point in worrying about the reception I may or may not receive. Even when I worked at Kingston before, there were a few of the men who resented me – Meredith being among their number – based on the fact that they believed I was using my father’s reputation to further my own career. I wasn’t. Joining the police force was all I ever wanted to do, and it’s all I’ve ever known. It wouldn’t have occurred to me to take advantage of my father’s good name, besides which, he’d never have allowed me to.
