by K. J. Frost
“No. I suppose not.” He sits back, seemingly deflated, but then moves forward again. “Unless the first murder was a dry run.”
“A what?”
“A dry run. A practice.”
“A practice?” It seems a bit far-fetched to me, almost as far fetched as my own copy-cat theory, but then stranger things have happened, I suppose. “We can’t rule it out,” I tell him, feeling sick at the thought, and he smiles. “Let’s face it, Templeton has lied more than once. He failed to tell us Beth was adopted – I learnt about that from my aunt – and I’m pretty sure he’s not telling the truth about her and Daniel Milton either.” I straighten the papers on my desk. “He’s coming back to Molesey either tomorrow evening or Saturday morning. I’ll go and see him again and press him a little harder this time.”
As I’m locking my car, outside Aunt Dorothy’s, I glance over at Cavendish House. It’s in darkness, naturally, because of the blackout, but part of me can’t help wondering why Amelie also neglected to tell me about Beth’s adoption. It’s only seven o’clock. It’s not late, and I doubt she’ll mind if I go and call on her.
Even as I’m ringing the doorbell, I keep telling myself that the reason for my visit is purely professional, that I’m not calling round just because I want to see her again, to check up that she’s feeling better. I’m not using the case as an excuse. Of course I’m not.
The maid lets me in, taking my hat, and shows me into the drawing room, where Amelie is sitting on the sofa. She gets up to greet me, giving me a gentle smile which touches her eyes, making them sparkle.
“Good evening,” she says.
“Hello. I hope I’m not disturbing you.” She looks very elegant in mid-grey wide-legged trousers, a white blouse and a thin grey cardigan. Her outfit reminds me a little of Abigail Foster, except that Amelie doesn’t find it necessary to show off her charms in such an obvious way as her guardian’s mistress, I’m pleased to say.
“Not at all,” she replies. “I’m finding the evenings very hard, being all by myself.” Her response is somewhat unexpected, even to her, I think, and she blushes and bites her bottom lip. “But you didn’t come round to listen to my problems.” She blinks quickly. “How can I help you?”
I’m taken aback by her frankness, and I need a moment to collect my thoughts and remember why I’m here. “I… um… I came to ask about Beth’s adoption.”
Her eyes open wide. “Her what?”
“Her adoption. I was surprised you hadn’t told me about it.”
“I didn’t know about it.” She sits back down with a sigh and stares up at me, in shock.
“You didn’t?” I sit opposite her, taking in how her eyes sparkle even more in the firelight.
“No. I don’t think she did either. I’m sure she’d have said something.”
“Yes, I imagine she would.”
I suppose it makes sense that, if Millicent and Gordon Templeton had decided not to tell Beth, then they could hardly have told Amelie.
“How are you?” I ask her, changing the subject rather clumsily.
“I went back to work today,” she replies. “It seems to have helped a little.”
“Except in the evenings?”
“Yes.” She smiles again, rather beautifully. “Beth and I used to do things together in the evenings, even if it was just playing cards, or talking.”
“I’m no replacement, but would you like to talk with me?” Her loneliness bothers me – deeply.
“Seriously? You wouldn’t mind?” Her enthusiasm is touching, and beguiling.
“Not in the slightest.” I’d be happy just to sit and look at her; conversation can only make things more interesting.
“What shall we talk about?” Her smile widens slightly.
“Anything you like.”
She pauses for a moment, then takes a deep breath.
“Do you like being a policeman?” she asks.
“Yes. It’s the only thing I ever wanted to do.” I pause for a second or two. “Does that bother you?”
She looks surprised. “No. Why would it?”
“Oh… some people feel uncomfortable around policemen, that’s all.”
She nods her head, smiling again. “Well, I don’t. Not around you, anyway.”
I almost choke at her flattering reply, but cover it and smile back at her. “It does have other disadvantages too…”
“Such as?”
“Well, people can be wary around policemen. They have a tendency to think we’re always on duty.”
“And are you?” she asks.
“Not every minute of the day, no.”
There’s a moment’s pause before she speaks again. “You… you told Uncle Gordon that you used to live here… and work here…”
“Yes.”
“So, why did you leave?”
I wonder about fudging the issue, but then realise I can’t lie to her. Not about myself. I have to tell her the truth. A sanitised version of it, anyway. “The woman I was engaged to decided the grass was greener elsewhere. A change of scene seemed like a good idea.”
Amelie blushes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t. It was a perfectly legitimate question. It was also a long time ago. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, and it’s gone a very long way downstream.” I realise as I’m saying those words that they’re true. I have no feelings for Victoria anymore. It’s as though that time never happened, or if it did, it didn’t happen to me, but to someone who bore a vague resemblance to me.
“I take it the engagement ended?” Amelie asks.
“Oh yes. It was difficult to trust anyone for a while, but I’ve managed to put all that behind me now.” I’m usually a very private person, and I’m surprised by how much I’m willing to tell her, and how easy she is to talk to.
“So… you’re with someone else now?” she asks quietly.
“No.” I get my reply in quickly, desperate for her not to get the wrong impression. “No, I’m not. I’m not with anyone at all. That’s not what I meant when I said that. I… I don’t suppose…” I’m suddenly fumbling my words, but it’s been years since I’ve done this, and I wasn’t very good at it, even then. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come out with me tomorrow evening?” The words pour out of me in a rush. “We could go for a drink, if you’d like… if I promise to be better company than I’ve been this evening, that is.”
She smiles. “You’ve been perfect company,” she says. “And I’d love to come out with you.”
“You would?” I can’t disguise my surprise, or my delight, and I scold myself. I seriously need to remember that I’m in my thirties. I’m an adult now. I need to behave like one.
“Yes.” Her smile widens. “Where would you like to meet?”
“Here,” I reply firmly. “I’ll come and pick you up… around eight o’clock, if that’s alright with you?”
“That’s fine with me,” she says, and the intense sparkling in her eyes makes all the embarrassment worthwhile.
As I’m walking home, I wonder what on earth just possessed me. Not only is she very young – thirteen years younger than me, to be precise – and incredibly beautiful, and therefore way out of this mere mortal’s league, but she’s also involved in the case. How can I even consider getting romantically involved with her? She may not be a suspect, but she’s a witness and my current behaviour would be frowned upon by my superiors, of that I have absolutely no doubt.
Then it dawns on me that, while my thoughts have been turning to romance, hers may be on a totally different trajectory. She probably sees me as someone to talk to, a possible friend, a confidant, rather than someone with the potential to claim her heart. The age gap worries me a little, but I imagine it puts her off completely. Let’s face it, by the time she’s thirty and no doubt still as lovely as she is today, I’d be in my mid-forties and almost certainly greying and wearing a little rough around the edges.
Even so, as I put my key in the lock and turn around to glimpse at the shadow of her house, I know I’ll risk the outrage of my bosses, I’ll risk making a fool of myself, and I’ll risk a broken heart, if it means putting a smile back on her face again.
Chapter Ten
“It’s Charlotte Brontë,” my mother says, for the third time, raising her voice a little louder.
“No, it’s not. Not only did she not write The Mill on the Floss, but it doesn’t fit.”
She lowers her knitting to her lap. “Tell me how many letters it is again?”
I let out a sigh. “It’s three words. Four, then four, then five.” My mother closes her eyes for a moment, deep in thought, and I tap my pencil against the newspaper and muse. I don’t know why she bothers trying to help with the crossword. She’s absolutely useless at it. All she does is shout out ridiculous words that can’t possibly fit into the spaces provided, and then argue that they must have arranged the crossword incorrectly when she gets it wrong. I’m not that interested in the puzzle myself; I’m only killing time with her because I can’t go out and kill any more women… not yet, anyway.
“Who can it be?” she mumbles under her breath. “What about Jane Austen? Jane has four letters…”
Is she serious? “Yes, but Austen has six.” I’m doing my best to sound more patient than I feel. “It’s very odd.”
“What is?” Mother picks up her knitting again, evidently defeated.
“The Mill on the Floss was written by George Eliot.”
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense at all. George has six letters.”
“I know.” Does she think I’m stupid? I let my head rest against the back of the seat in exasperation, just as the light dawns.“Oh… of course. George Eliot was a pen name.”
“A what?”
“A pen name.”
“So what was the author’s real name?” she asks, her needles clacking more quickly now.
“I can’t remember. I shall have to look it up.”
“That’s cheating, Kenneth.”
“No it isn’t.”
I put down the newspaper and pencil on the arm of the chair and get up, going over to the bookcase, where there’s an encyclopaedia. Pulling it out, I thumb quickly through the pages until I find what I’m looking for. “Mary Anne Evans,” I say triumphantly, returning the book to its place.
“I don’t know why you’re sounding so pleased. You still cheated.”
I ignore her jibe and fill in the answer, wondering to myself whether I could justify strangling my mother, just to shut her up.
*****
“The Chief Superintendent wants to see you,” Ellis announces as soon as I get into the office.
“He does?” I wonder whether Uncle Frank has spoken to him already, or whether he’s got something else he needs to talk to me about. “Very well. I’ll go up there now. Don’t disappear on me. I want to go over to the Hawker’s factory this morning. I’d like to speak to Mr Johnson again. Preferably by himself, this time. It dawned on me that he wasn’t telling us everything about his previous secretaries.”
“Is that relevant, considering the victim hadn’t started working for him yet?”
“Maybe not, but I don’t like people keeping things from me, and besides, I’d like to know if he’s ever been to the pubs in Molesey. We know Ursula Franklin spent the evening at The Swan and Beth Templeton was briefly in The Plough – it could be something worth following up. You never know…”
He shrugs, looking pretty unconvinced. “Okay, sir.”
I take the stairs slowly and wait in the outer office while Meredith’s secretary goes to tell him I’m there.
Once admitted, I stand in front of the Chief Superintendent’s desk until he looks up at me.
“I feel we may have got off on the wrong foot,” he says, attempting a smile.
“Really?” I’m not giving an inch of ground and just stare down at him.
“Yes.” He looks a little more doubtful now. “You need to understand…”
“I don’t need to understand anything… sir.” I add the salutation as an afterthought. “Your interference could have jeopardised my case. I have no intention of allowing that to happen again. And, before you say anything else, I may as well tell you, I’ve already spoken to the Chief Constable. I’ve got no idea what he’s going to do, but I’ve made the complaint. The ball is in his court now.”
Meredith’s face pales.
“Was there anything else?” I ask.
He shakes his head and I turn and leave the room, and try very hard not to think about how Uncle Frank might react if he knew I was taking Amelie for a drink this evening…
We’re shown along the oak panelled corridor of the Hawker’s offices until we reach one which is engraved with the name ‘Mr K. Johnson’. Our guide, a young woman, probably in her late twenties, knocks on the door and waits until Mr Johnson himself opens it and comes out, pulling the door to behind him.
“Inspector?” he says, looking at me and dismissing the girl with a nod of his head.
“Mr Johnson.” I wait for him to invite us into his office, but he doesn’t, which seems odd. “Can we talk?”
“Yes,” he says, but then remains where he is.
I refuse to take the hint that he’s not inviting us into his realm. “Is there a reason why you won’t allow us into your office?” I ask outright.
“Yes. I’m working on highly secretive designs. No-one is allowed to see them, outside of my team.”
“But I won’t understand them, Mr Johnson. And I can be trusted.”
“There are no exceptions.” I can see he’s getting a little hot under the collar, which interests me. His fuse is shorter than the average, I would say. Maybe his problem with his previous secretaries is simply that he likes things ‘just so’, exactly as Amelie said… and perhaps he’s not very good at hiding his feelings, if he believes his standards have been compromised.
“Very well,” I reply. “I meant to ask you the last time I was here… do you ever frequent any of the public houses in East Molesey?” He blinks quickly behind his spectacles and his face seems to pale.
“Yes. I live in Hansler Grove, so I usually go to The Swan.”
“Not The Fox? That’s closer isn’t it?” I know it is, but I’m intrigued now.
“Yes, and I do go there sometimes, but I prefer The Swan.”
“I see.” I nod my head as though deep in thought. “And what about The Plough?” I enquire.
“I might have been there once or twice,” he replies, a little evasively.
“On Monday evening, for example?”
“Excuse me.” He raises his voice and takes a single step towards me. “What is the meaning of your questions?”
“Just routine enquiries,” I reply, soothingly, noting that he hasn’t answered me. “Am I right in thinking you haven’t been here very long, Mr Johnson?”
“I’ve lived in Molesey nearly all my life.” He takes a breath, calming slightly, and then his expression alters. “Oh, you mean at Hawker’s? I’ve worked here since I left university, but I only moved into this department about six months ago.”
“In which case, you shouldn’t find it too difficult to remember why you had to dismiss your previous two secretaries.”
He definitely pales this time and swallows hard. “I explained this the other day,” he says. “They made too many mistakes.”
“No. That’s not what you said,” I reply, slowly. “You told us that you let the last one go because she made mistakes, and you couldn’t remember anything about the first one. I find that hard to believe.”
He scratches his head, looking flustered. “Well, I can’t remember now. It’s months ago. And I really can’t see what business it is of yours. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy.”
And with that, he goes back into his office and slams the door in my face.
“Are you going to stand for that?” Ellis asks.
I turn to him and
smile. “For the moment, yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I start to walk away and Ellis falls into step beside me. “I’ll wager a month’s salary that he let the first secretary go because of some sexual misdemeanour. There’s no other reason for that level of agitation. The only question is, whether the offence was his, or hers.”
He looks at me for a moment. “Surely if it was hers, he’d tell us, wouldn’t he?”
“That rather depends…”
“On what?”
“On his personal situation. If his secretary made an advance to him and he acted on it, but he’s a married man, or he’s engaged to some young lady, for example, he’d probably want it kept quiet, wouldn’t you think?”
“Oh… I see.”
We walk in silence for a moment, coming to the outer door of the design department.
“Does this help the investigation?” he asks.
“Well, again, that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether it really was his secretary who made the advance. If it was, then he’s probably of very little interest to us. But if it was him who made the first move and she refused him, then we may be looking at a frustrated sexual predator… a man whose amorous overtures have been rebuffed, and I’d say he might not handle that very well.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because, apart from his obvious short temper, if the scenario I’m creating is true – which we obviously don’t know yet – he chose to dismiss her from her post, rather than be an adult, apologise and put it behind him. And that makes him a very interesting character, from our point of view.”
“Oh… I hadn’t thought of that.”
I hold the door open for Ellis to pass through. “It also suggests something else,” I say, and he stops and turns to me.
“What’s that?”
“That the sexual advance he made may have been too unsavoury to be brushed under the carpet and forgotten about.”
