by K. J. Frost
“No. I’m Detective Inspector Stone,” I repeat.
“I see.” Millicent Templeton nods her head slowly. “You’re acting out a role, are you?”
“No. I’ve come to question you about the death of your daughter.” I know I’m being harsh, but I can’t think of any other way to get the woman to focus.
“My daughter?”
“Yes. Beth.”
“Oh… poor Beth.” She dabs her eyes with a lace handkerchief, although I’m not sure there are any tears to dry.
“Are you aware of your daughter’s movements on the night she was killed?” I ask. “Your room overlooks the front of the house. I wonder if you heard anything.”
“No.” Her reply is succinct
“Nothing?”
“No.” I glance at her bedside cabinet and see it’s laden with bottles and powders, so I think I can be fairly safe in the assumption that she takes some kind of sleeping draught. “What’s Olivia de Havilland like in real life?” she asks me.
“I have no idea.”
“Really?” She seems shocked.
“Can you tell me about your husband’s work?” I ask, trying to get back to the matter in hand.
“No.” She shakes her head, frowning now. “He works for the government. I can’t possibly talk about that. There is a war on, you know?”
Somehow I doubt Gordon Templeton tells his wife anything anyway, but it was worth a stab.
“Do you know anything about Daniel Milton?” I ask her.
“Daniel who?” she asks. “Is he one of your friends in Hollywood?”
“No.” I’m growing tired of this now, and we’re not getting anywhere at all. “Thank you for your time, Mrs Templeton.”
“Oh. Are you going so soon?”
“Yes, I’m afraid we have to.”
“Well, I suppose man like yourself must be very busy,” she says, with a coy smile. Dear God.
Outside the room, I close the door, revising my opinion of Millicent Templeton. She doesn’t enjoy ill health at all. She’s genuinely ‘touched’. I turn to find Ellis staring at me.
“I suppose there is a resemblance,” he says.
“If you value your pension, you’ll stop right there,” I tell him, as I make my way back to the top of the stairs.
“That happen often, does it, sir?” he asks, following along behind.
“Yes.”
“Quite flattering, really,” he remarks and I turn to him. “Well, Errol Flynn is very handsome.”
“I’m sure he is.” We start down the stairs. “The problem is, the only thing I really have in common with him is that we both smoke cigarettes – except he probably gets to finish his. These days, I rarely seem to find the time to buy mine, let alone light them.”
“You didn’t ask her about Ursula Franklin, and any connection between the two girls,” he says.
“No. I didn’t see the point. Apart from the fact that she’d probably have thought I was talking about some Hollywood starlet, I’m not sure we’re ever going to find a link between them.”
“You think the two murders are completely separate?” I can hear the surprise in his voice.
“I didn’t say that. But it does occur to me that these two girls come from very different backgrounds, so if there is a connection, it’s far more likely to come from the murderer, than from them.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, it could be something as tenuous as him having a thing for young brunettes, couldn’t it? Until we’ve got more information on both women, it’s impossible to say why he targeted them, but I think a connection between the victims is looking less likely.”
We go across to the drawing room and I knock once on the door, waiting until I hear Amelie beckon us to ‘come in’, before going inside.
“How did you get on?” She looks up at us, putting her book down again.
“Not very well, I’m afraid. She seemed more interested in my resemblance to Errol Flynn than anything else.”
She smirks. “Oh dear. I am sorry.”
“Not to worry. We had to speak to her anyway, being as she was in the house when the murder took place, but I doubt she could have told us much.”
“Nothing at all, I shouldn’t wonder.”
I approach her, leaving Ellis by the door. “We found a stray button,” I say quietly, not wanting to tell her where. “Do you think you could take a look at it and see if it’s familiar?”
She looks up at me, wide-eyed. “You think it might belong to the murderer?” she whispers.
“We don’t know.” I take it from my pocket and hold it out to her, and her shoulders drop almost immediately.
“I’m sorry.” She looks from the button to me. “It’s from my coat. I lost it a couple of weeks ago and sewed on the spare one… I do apologise. I hope you haven’t wasted too much time on this?”
“No. Not at all.” I hold it out to her. “Do you want it back?”
“Was it near her body?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” It’s the truth.
She shakes her head. “I think I’d rather not.”
“Of course.” I put the button back in my pocket, feeling like an insensitive flatfoot. “I’m going to need to contact Mr Templeton in London,” I add, just to compound my felonies. “Do you think you could let me have his address, or a telephone number where I can reach him?”
Amelie gets up. “Yes, certainly.” She goes over to a small bureau in an alcove behind the door and opens it, bringing out a black address book. “Everything’s written down in here,” she says, “so we all know where it is.”
She leans down and starts writing, stopping after a few moments, before turning and handing me a piece of paper. “I’ve given you the address of his London flat, as well as the telephone number there and at his office as well.” I glance down and notice how neat her handwriting is. “I’d suggest you call his office first,” she adds. “He spends most of his time there during the week.”
“Thank you,” I reply, putting the piece of paper in my inside pocket. “We’ll leave you in peace.”
She looks up at me and hesitates, then says, “I’ll show you to the door.”
This time, I don’t refuse her, mainly because I like the idea of spending just a few more minutes in her company. Ellis and I retrieve our hats from the hall table and Ellis opens the door, going down the steps and waiting by the car. This leaves Amelie and I alone just inside the front door.
“How are you?” I know it’s a personal question, but I want to make up for my earlier tactlessness. Besides, I’d like to know.
She smiles up at me. “Better than I was yesterday, thank you. I miss Beth, and I keep seeing her body every time I close my eyes, but I’m going back to work tomorrow, so hopefully that will help. I’ll be busy and won’t have time to think too much.”
That doesn’t sound like she’s much better to me. “It’s probably best to keep busy,” I say, wondering at the banality of the statement. I turn to leave, but then a thought strikes me and I swing back around to her. “Can you think of any reason why Beth might have had a change of heart regarding Daniel Milton?” I ask.
She stares at me, paling slightly. “I didn’t know she had,” she whispers and I notice tears forming in her eyes again.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shakes her head. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that Beth and I were close. I thought she shared everything with me, but if she’d changed her mind about Daniel, then it seems perhaps she didn’t.”
I take a step closer. “You don’t know that,” I reply softly and she looks up into my eyes, seemingly confused. “It might have been a very recent decision, one she hadn’t had a chance to discuss with you. She only spoke to Daniel about it on the afternoon of her death.” I’m probably telling her more than I should, but I don’t care.
“She did?”
I nod. “So don’t worry about it.”
She smiles. “Than
k you,” she says. “And I’m sorry I keep getting so upset in front of you.”
“Please, don’t apologise.” I reach into my inside pocket and pull out one of my cards and a pen. “This is my card,” I tell her, going over to the hall table and writing on the back of it. “The number on the front is Scotland Yard, so don’t call that, because I’m not there.” She smiles a little wider. “But I’ve written down the number for the station at Kingston, and also my aunt’s telephone number as well. It’s underneath.” I point it out, because there wasn’t space on the card to write Dotty’s name.
“Your aunt’s?” she queries as I hand the card to her. She looks down at it for a moment, then back at me.
“I’m staying with her. She only lives around the corner. If you want to talk… I mean, if you remember anything else about Beth, or the case, then just call me.”
“You’re very kind,” she replies, clutching my card as we go back to the door.
I smile down at her and put my hat on my head, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to bend and kiss her, before going down the steps and getting into the car. When I look back, she’s still standing on the doorstep, watching. More than anything, I want to go back to her, hold her in my arms and take away that lost, lonely look she’s suddenly got in her eyes.
“What’s next then, sir?” Ellis asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“Back to the station,” I reply, reluctantly starting the car and reversing out of the driveway.
When we get back to the station, we go straight into the main office. Off to one side, Styles and Thompson are gathered together with a group of other men, in heated discussion, so Ellis and I wander over to his desk.
“Did you finish typing up the notes?” I ask him.
“Yes. They’re all on your desk,” he replies.
“Good.” A peel of laughter from the other side of the room interrupts my train of thought.
“What’s going on over there?” Ellis wonders out loud.
“No idea,” I reply, feeling irritated by the intrusion. “The button’s a non-starter, so how about the other evidence? Is that all collated?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. I think we need to sit down and compare these two cases much more closely,” I tell him. “I want to cross-reference everything, in as much detail as we can, and see if we really are looking at a potential serial killer, or if it’s just one huge and rather unbelievable coincidence.”
“You want us to do that together, sir?” He seems to be surprised.
“Yes, Ellis. Two pairs of eyes are better than one, and I’d appreciate your insight. Besides, you’ve got to learn the job somehow, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just pop into my office and get the files, will you? We’ll work out here for the time being. There isn’t really enough space in there for us to spread everything out.”
“Will do, sir,” he replies and disappears into my room.
In his absence, I shift a couple of the desks around, making us a larger workspace, so we can lay out the evidence. As I’m doing this, I become aware of a feeling of being watched, and I glance up and across the room. Sure enough, Thompson’s eyes are fixed on mine, and he gives me a nod and a slight smile. I stare through him and out of the window behind, to the buildings beyond, before returning to my task. I may be well and truly over Victoria, and I’m happy to admit – even if only to myself – that I’m much more interested in Amelie Cooper than I ever was in my former fiancée, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven Harry Thompson. I don’t trust the man. I never will.
Ellis and I spend a busy – if not very fruitful – couple of hours comparing information from the two cases. It becomes clear that the modus operandi is too similar for the murders not to be linked, but other than that, and the fact that both victims had been drinking in public houses, it’s hard to find any tangible connections. We need more evidence, more information. The problem is: where to find it. Actually, the problem is, where to start looking for it.
“I’m going up to London tomorrow,” I announce, leaning back in my chair and stretching my arms above my head. “I want to see Gordon Templeton again. And I’m not waiting until the weekend.”
“Very good, sir,” Ellis replies.
“I still want to follow up this blackmail angle, and with any luck, he might be able to tell me why Beth changed her mind about Daniel Milton, and why she decided she could no longer trust her own father. Whether he’ll want to tell me is another matter of course.”
Ellis smiles. “I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade him, sir,” he says.
“Then you have more faith in my powers than I do.”
“What would you like me to be doing tomorrow?” he asks.
“I imagine I’ll be back here by early afternoon. But in the morning, I’d like you to go back to The Plough. We still haven’t been notified that Mrs Davies is back from her mother’s yet. We need to speak to her, so if she hasn’t returned, get an address for the mother. We’ll have to go and interview her there – wherever it is. We can’t afford to wait forever for the woman to come home.”
I get back to Aunt Dotty’s at about seven and let myself in. It’s considerably easier than having to run the gauntlet of Ethel’s coquettish smirks and coy giggles.
“It’s only me,” I call out, perhaps a little unnecessarily.
There’s no reply, so I put coat and hat over the end of the stairs, and make my way through to the living room. Inside, Aunt Dotty is sitting on the sofa by the fire, staring at the bright flames as they lick their way around the burning logs. She’s holding a handkerchief to her nose and has clearly been crying.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, going over and crouching down in front of her. The only time I’ve ever seen Aunt Dotty cry was at Uncle Sam’s funeral, so whatever it is, must be bad.
She turns her face to look at me. “I didn’t realise,” she murmurs, and lets her hands drop into her lap. I take them in mine, feeling her soft, delicate skin beneath my fingers.
“Didn’t realise what?”
“That the murder victim was Gordon’s girl,” she says.
It takes a few seconds for the penny to drop. “You knew her?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“You know Gordon Templeton?”
“We knew his parents. Well, that’s to say Sam knew his father. And we knew Gordon as a boy. The adult friendship with him was more Sam’s than mine,” she replies, in a somewhat muddled fashion, looking away and avoiding my gaze. She’s hiding something, but I’m not entirely sure what. Even so, I’m not going to push. Both Uncle Sam and Aunt Dotty were born and raised in Molesey, only moving away when Sam’s job took them around the world. She returned here just under a year ago, having spent the first year or so after Sam’s death winding up his affairs in London and selling their house up there, all of which I helped her with. Being as the Templetons have lived here for generations, it’s perfectly understandable that she and Sam would have known Gordon’s parents, and in turn that they would have known Gordon as a child, and that the friendship may have continued into adulthood. I wonder, therefore, why she’s being so evasive, and why she won’t look me in the eye.
“I’m sorry,” I say, returning my attention to her.
“She was raped, Rufus.” She makes it sound as though this is news to me; as though I wasn’t the one who told her that last night. Somehow, I suppose discovering a personal connection to the victim makes it so much more real.
“Yes.”
“You saw her… afterwards?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She swallows and blows her nose, and then surprises me by leaning forward and putting her arms around me. “My poor boy,” she says and we sit together like that, listening to the crackling fire while she sobs quietly on my shoulder.
Chapter Eight
Dinner is yet another unidentifiable disaster, after which I happily escape my mother by doing the washing up. While sc
rubbing the black residue from the bottom of the casserole dish, I take some time to think. I’ve had quite a good day at work, but I daren’t risk going out again. Not yet. It’s still too soon and I don’t want to take any chances. Besides, I’ve already decided that the next time around I’m going to plan it more carefully, although after the way I was spoken to at lunchtime, I’m definitely going to focus on finding another woman in uniform. She has to be a virgin of course… not that I’ll be able to tell that from a distance, so I suppose I’ll just have to find someone young and hope for the best.
I hold up the casserole dish to the light, checking it’s clean, before placing it on the draining board.
I’ll wait another couple of days, no longer, and then I’ll go back to the pub, to see what I can find.
*****
I have to admit, the bed at Aunt Dotty’s is incredibly comfortable. It was an effort to drag myself up this morning – not helped by the fact that she and I sat up talking fairly late last night. Fortunately we didn’t bring too much alcohol into the conversation, or I’d have been bed-bound. She didn’t want to talk about the case, or about Gordon Templeton, so we gossiped. Among other things, she told me about the butcher’s boy, who’s just enlisted, only for it to be discovered that the girl he’s been walking out with, who works in the chemist’s, is three months pregnant. I called that cause and effect and I think Aunt Dotty agreed. Either way, the sympathies of the village are with Nora, and young Billy is evidently being decried as a scoundrel. Rightly so.
Aunt Dotty waves me goodbye as I set off for London. Her tears of yesterday seem to have been forgotten, and she’s resolved to try and start work on the garden today. I reiterated over breakfast that I’ll lend a hand at the weekend and she should stick to just clearing the borders, to which she just gave me one of her hardest glares, which really isn’t very hard at all.
My journey is uneventful and I manage to find a parking space not far from Templeton’s flat, which is also close to the Houses of Parliament. As Amelie suggested, I find a phone box and call his office first. A man answers, but he’s not Templeton.
