by K. J. Frost
He looks at me. “You think this new victim might have changed things?”
“Not necessarily. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that the link between them doesn’t have to be obvious. It could be something as banal as them using the same hairdresser, or buying their bread from the same bakers.”
“So, the list of possible connections is endless,” he says, sighing.
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?” Thompson offers, sitting forward in his chair.
“To start with, I want you to take over something Ellis was working on. He’s established that Johnson lives at home still, and hasn’t had any serious relationships. I want you to see what else you can find out about him. Dig a little deeper, interview his friends – assuming he has any – delve into his bank accounts. He’s definitely keeping something back about the dismissal of one of his former secretaries, and as that was the role Beth Templeton was about to take up, I’d like to know what that is, and why he’s so secretive about it. And see if you can check on his whereabouts for all the murders will you? He’s a prickly character, so you may have some trouble.”
“Prickly characters are my speciality,” he replies, smiling and getting up.
“And while you’re about it, can you see if you can track down a man by the name of David Kenneth Franklin?” I ask him. “He’s known to his friends as ‘Ken’.”
“Can I assume he’s related to the first victim?” he says, tilting his head to one side.
“You can. He’s her father. When she was younger, before he ran off with a ‘young tart’ as his wife put it, he showed an unhealthy interest in Ursula.”
“Oh… did he now?” Thompson’s face darkens. “I’ll do my best to find him.”
“The last time Mrs Franklin heard, he was in Salisbury,” I add.
“Well, it’s as good a place to start as any,” he replies.
“And his parents lived locally too. They may have moved on, but it’s worth checking that as well.”
“I’ll get right on it,” he says, giving me a nod, as he leaves, closing the door behind him.
Once we’re alone, Ellis turns to me. “Does this mean we’re no longer interested in Mr Templeton?” he asks.
“I’m not sure.”
“But you didn’t mention him…” he leaves the sentence unfinished.
“I’m not ruling anyone out,” I say. “But when it comes to Gordon Templeton, we need to tread carefully and keep it quiet, so I’ll handle that side of things myself for now. I’ll go and see him in the morning and find out where he was last night.” Even asking him the question feels wrong, but I suppose I have to make sure. “And that’ll also give me a chance to ask whether Beth Templeton knew the other two victims at all.” And that feels like much more comfortable ground.
“Very good, sir,” Ellis says. “What do we do now?”
“Now, we get back out there and start wading through evidence…”
I get back to Aunt Dotty’s at about seven-thirty, which is about five hours later than I’d intended when I woke up this morning. I feel guilty for neglecting her, and her garden, but it can’t be helped.
I let myself into the house, and she comes out into the hall to meet me.
“You look exhausted,” she remarks, which makes me feel so much better.
“I am.”
“What’s happened?” She leads me into the sitting room and pours me a lethal and necessary gin and tonic, while I go over to the fire to warm my hands.
“Another murder,” I reply simply.
“Another one?” I nod in response. “Is it… is it the same?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She pales and lowers her head, and I go over to her, putting my arm around her shoulders. “I will find him,” I tell her and she turns to me.
“I know,” she replies, touching my cheek with her delicate fingertips. “I know you will.”
Chapter Twelve
The moment I awake on Saturday morning, I reflect that it’s quite remarkable what a spot of murder can do for a man. I feel so much better than I have done for the last few days. And I have to admit that, although the last time was exciting, this was much more satisfying. I bring my hands up behind my head, closing my eyes, and remembering the events of last night.
The blonde left the pub with me, believing without a doubt that I was going to see her home safely. She trusted the uniform, you see. They all do. I walked her down the road, following her directions and listening to her story about how she’d only joined the ATS a couple of days ago, and had just been issued with her uniform. She seemed rather proud of it and she looked divine, of course – so much better than she’d looked in civvies – not that she remembered seeing me on our previous encounter, I’m pleased to say. But then I was wearing my own clothes at the time, so that’s hardly surprising. When we got to the river, she told me we needed to turn left but I ignored her and, taking her hand in mine, I led her down the riverbank. To start with, she objected, but then I moved closer, turning on the charm and telling her how romantic the moonlight looked on the water. I tempted her closer to its edge, away from the road and that was when she conveniently lost her footing and clung onto my arm to stop herself from falling. She started to apologise, but I picked that moment to make my move. I caught her unawares and she was on her back before she knew what was happening. It was the work of a moment to rip open her tunic and blouse, and hitch up her skirt, and I have to say, she was wearing very tempting underwear… I noticed the panic in her eyes, of course, but by then it was too late.
I took a little longer with her than usual, which I knew was dangerous, but I was enjoying the moment too much to want it to end. It was easier this time, but I think that’s because we were lying down and not standing up. That meant I had more control and could use the weight of my body to keep her in place. Still, such luxuries won’t always be possible, so I’ll have to take my chances where I can find them.
When I’d finished, I stood for a moment, admiring my handiwork, and then walked home, undressing in my own room, before falling into bed, where I drifted off to sleep straight away…
Oh God. I sit upright in the bed and shoot out of it, running to the window, ripping open the curtains and the blackout behind, to let in the thin early morning sunlight. Then I turn and dash back across the room. How could I have been so stupid? I pluck my brother’s trousers from the chair where I left them last night, and examine them closely.
“Shit,” I whisper. It’s worse than I thought. “Shit, shit, shit.”
There are mud stains. They’re visible, even in this light. I glance around the room, panic setting in quickly, searching for something I can use to clean them. There’s nothing. What am I going to do? I look back at the trousers and, for a moment, it seems to me as though the stains are expanding, clawing their way through the fabric, growing, mocking me. I shake my head and look back at the trousers and, sure enough, the stains are exactly as they were. I’m imagining things.
“Shit,” I repeat, and walk over to the bed, plonking myself down on the edge. I need to calm down and think. I daren’t creep downstairs this early in the morning. My mother would be bound to hear me. What should I do? Think! Think! I clasp the trousers to my chest and go through to the bathroom, which is just beside my bedroom, closing the door and locking it behind me. I glance around, but there’s still nothing immediately to hand. I crouch down and open the cupboard beneath the sink. There’s a sponge, dried and crusted, sitting just inside the door. It’ll have to do. I run a basin full of water and put the sponge in, watching it swell to life again. Glancing up, I catch sight of myself in the mirror above the sink, sweat forming on my forehead, my cheeks a pale grey colour. I need to focus…
It takes me about twenty minutes to carefully sponge the mud from the hems and the knees of George’s trousers, but then I’m faced with another problem. They’re damp. Well, actually they’re wet. What should I do with them? I have to leave them on his bed
, just in case Mother goes in there. I suppose there’s nothing for it, I’ll have to fold them up and hope she doesn’t choose today of all days to put away his uniform.
As quietly as I can, I return to my own room, lay the trousers on my bed and then fold them carefully, ensuring the wet sections aren’t visible. Then I arrange the tunic on top as usual and creep along the landing to George’s room, placing both items on the bed.
Once safely back in my own room, I sit down on the edge of my bed and take a deep breath.
I don’t care how much easier, or more exciting it might be to use a river bank, I’m never doing that again. For heaven’s sake. I nearly had a heart attack…
*****
It may be Sunday, but there’s still no peace.
I wake at seven and bathe, using the time to think about the case, which doesn’t help, being as I really don’t have too many ideas as to where we’re going to go with the investigation, especially if Thompson doesn’t manage to find out something conveniently incriminating about our friend from Hawker’s. Thinking about Thompson reminds me of my conversation with Styles yesterday, and the more I think about it, the more I realise that I’m honestly okay with the fact that he and Victoria ended up married. Whether I’d feel the same way if it wasn’t for Amelie, I have no idea, but the thought of them being together really doesn’t bother me in the slightest anymore.
Once I’m dressed, I go downstairs and am surprised to find Aunt Dotty already in the dining room.
“It’s early for you to be up on a Sunday, isn’t it?” I ask, sitting down beside her.
“No, not really. I’ve been known to get up even earlier, if I’m working on something particular – to catch the light, you know?”
I nod and help myself to tea. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around that much.”
“I didn’t expect you to be,” she replies. “You came here to work, not spend time with me.”
“Even so…” I take some toast and butter it thinly. “I will try and get back a little earlier today, if I can.”
“You must be exhausted,” she says.
“I am. But I want to help with the garden.”
“Oh… don’t worry about that. We’ll get there. What are you doing today?”
“I’ve got to go and see Gordon Templeton first, and then – assuming he doesn’t drop any bombshells on me – I’ll be going into the station.”
“How is Gordon coping?” she asks.
I don’t know how to reply to that, being as his mood changes so frequently. “I’m not sure,” I say honestly. “But then, how does anyone cope when their child is murdered?”
She nods her head a little vacantly and, after a few moments’ pause, goes back to eating her breakfast.
“This is getting beyond a joke,” Gordon Templeton says, the moment he opens the drawing room door. I’ve been waiting for him for maybe five minutes, having been told by the maid, Sarah, that he was still upstairs.
“Sir?”
“It’s Sunday morning.” He glances at the clock on the mantlepiece. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet.”
“I’m aware of that, sir,” I reply. “I’m––”
“We’re barely dressed,” he interrupts, glaring at me.
“I apologise.” I try to sound as conciliatory as possible.
“Well, having disturbed our Sunday morning, what do you want?” he asks, raising his voice still further.
Right at that moment, the door opens and Amelie comes in wearing a beautiful dark blue dress, looking from Gordon to me, a smile forming on her lips. I smile back.
“Good morning.” Her voice is soft and soothing, especially in the charged atmosphere her guardian has created.
“Good morning… Miss Cooper.” I remember, right at the last moment, not to use her first name.
“You were telling me why you’re here?” Templeton cuts into our greetings.
“Yes, sir.” I turn to him. “There was another murder last night.”
He pales and flops down on one of the sofas. Amelie comes and sits beside him. I remain standing. “Another one?” she whispers.
“Yes. There are marked similarities to Beth’s murder… and to one that happened a few weeks ago.”
“A third?”
“Yes.” I look at them both, sitting together, the trauma of the last few days written all over their faces, and I wonder when I last looked like that, when the world last had the capacity to shock me. I have a feeling it’s been years. “I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the local newspaper. I believe it was widely reported.”
Templeton raises his face to mine. “We don’t have the newspaper delivered here,” he says, considerably calmer.
“Oh?”
He shrugs. “I find it easier if my wife is kept unaware of what’s happening in the world. She has a couple of women’s magazines that she reads, but they’re just filled with gossip; nothing important.” For a brief moment, I wonder whether the real reason is that Templeton’s name sometimes makes the newspapers, and he prefers his wife not to know what he’s doing. But then maybe I’m being uncharitable.
I glance at Amelie. “I sometimes read the newspaper in my lunch break,” she says, leaning back into the sofa, “but I must admit, I tend to avoid anything gruesome. I’m afraid I don’t remember the case either.”
“Not to worry.” I pause, just for second. “I’m afraid I have to ask you if Beth knew either of the other victims. They’re both local and we need to ascertain if there was a link between them.”
They stare at me. “What were their names?” Templeton asks eventually.
“The first victim was Ursula Franklin,” I reply. “And the most recent one was Gloria Middlemas. Miss Franklin was in the WAAFs, and Miss Middlemas was a member of the ATS.”
“Neither of the names is familiar.” Templeton’s response is a little dismissive and not unexpected.
Amelie seems to be thinking. She’s gone very quiet and is looking at me, her brow furrowed.
“Miss Cooper?”
“It might be nothing,” she says.
“Tell me anyway,” I urge her.
“Well, there was someone called Ursula at our school. I can’t remember her surname, because she was a couple of years above us… but it’s not the most common name, is it?” She looks up at me, and smiles. “Although we had houses at our school, and one of them was St Ursula’s. I wasn’t in that house. I was in St. Barbara’s, and so was Beth, but that’s how I remembered the name…” She stops talking and bites her lip. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to ramble on.”
“Don’t worry.” I smile at her. “Which school was this?”
“Tiffin Girls’ School.”
“And was this Ursula friends with Beth?” I ask, wishing now that I’d asked this question of her before today. I’d never anticipated that they might have attended the same school, and could kick myself.
She shakes her head. “No, not especially. They may have spoken, but I don’t remember them being friends. As I say, she was older…”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll contact the school and speak to their teachers… check the records.”
She nods her head, relaxing a little.
Templeton gets to his feet again and I wonder if I’m about to be dismissed. “Three women have been killed, Inspector, my daughter being one of them. What exactly is being done about this?” he asks.
“Everything that can be,” I reply.
Templeton looks as though he wants to argue that ‘everything’ isn’t enough, but thinks better of it, perhaps because of Amelie’s presence.
“While I’m here,” I say, filling the brief silence and building up to the question I’ve dreaded asking, “I need to ask where you were on Friday night from approximately nine pm onwards.” I decide to give the doctor’s timings my usual latitude.
He glares at me for a moment, his face reddening. “I beg your pardon?” he blusters. “Are you suggesting what I think you’r
e suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, sir. It’s a routine question that’s all.” That’s sort of true. It is a routine question – that we ask all suspects in cases like this.
He looks fit to burst, but takes a breath. “I was here,” he replies. “I don’t like leaving Millicent on her own for too long and Sarah had asked for the evening off, so I stayed at home. Amelie wasn’t here, you see, she’d gone out…” He stops speaking suddenly. “Dear God,” he says, clasping his hand to his mouth and turning to Amelie. “If I’d known there was a madman out there, I’d never have let you go…”
I’m about to tell him that she was perfectly safe, because she was with me, when Amelie jumps to her feet and goes to him.
“You mustn’t fret, Uncle Gordon,” she says. “I wasn’t alone. I was with someone from the factory.”
“A young man, I assume?” Gordon asks.
Amelie neither confirms, nor denies his assumption. She just looks away and although I know it’s unreasonable of me, I feel unaccountably hurt that, while I was quite willing to admit we’d been together, she’s evidently not… even now.
“Well, I think it’s best if you stay in after dark,” he tells her, looking down into her eyes and running the tips of his fingers down her cheek. “At least until this lunatic has been caught.”
I turn away, unwilling to witness the way he’s fawning over her.
“I’ll be leaving,” I murmur.
“Let me show you out,” Amelie says.
“You really don’t need to.” I turn back to see that she’s pulled away from him and is walking towards me, her head tilted to one side, her eyes revealing her confusion. “It’s fine, Miss Cooper. I can find my own way,” I reiterate.
“Even so…” She’s not giving up.
Sighing, I open the door and allow her to pass through ahead of me, then close it behind us.
“Are you angry with me?” she asks, before I’ve even turned around.
“No.” She’s standing right behind me and, as I turn, I find I’m looking down into her eyes. That wasn’t a lie. I’m not angry. I am disappointed though, as well as feeling hurt and bewildered. I suppose I may as well ask the question that’s rattling around my head, and get it over with… “Would you prefer not to see me again – personally, I mean?”
