The Cuckoo (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 1)

by K. J. Frost

  “No,” she says quickly, shaking her head at the same time. “No. I told you on Friday evening that I wanted to keep seeing you.” There’s a wavering hesitation to her voice.

  “But?”

  She pauses, looking up at me. “But I think it might be easier – for both of us – if we… if we delayed things until the case is concluded.” She looks down again, biting her lip, evidently nervous.

  “Delayed things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you saying you want us to put off seeing each other?”

  “Just until the case is over,” she says quickly. “You do understand, don’t you? You heard Uncle Gordon? He’s upset and he’s angry. He’s being particularly difficult at the moment – because of Beth – and I suppose that’s understandable, but I’d hate for him to find out about us and make trouble for you, or try and put a stop to…” Her voice fades to a whisper and, just before her head drops, I notice her eyes brimming with tears. To hell with my own hurt. This is too much.

  “Hey.” I step closer and place my finger beneath her chin, raising her face to mine once more. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “Don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry. I do understand, Amelie… and you’re probably right. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I really enjoyed our time together the other evening, and I’ve been so looking forward to doing it again.”

  She smiles and sighs at the same time. “Oh… So have I, Rufus.”

  “And we will?” I say it like a question, because I need to be sure, despite the fact that she just called me by my name for the first time, which has me almost bursting with happiness.

  “Yes,” she replies, nodding. “As soon as this is all over.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.” I’m trying to make light of the moment, because I don’t think she’s finding this any easier than I am.

  “Good.” She gazes up into my eyes, smiling and I take her hand in mine and walk her towards the main entrance, picking up my hat in passing.

  “Your uncle’s right about one thing,” I murmur, as we stop by the door.

  “What’s that?”

  “You mustn’t go out on your own at night.” Her face blanches. “Don’t be scared,” I add. I hadn’t meant to frighten her. “Just be careful.” She nods. “Do you still have my card?”

  “Yes, it’s in my handbag. Why?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you’d still got it, that’s all.” I open the door and pause for second. “If you need me – for anything at all – call me.”

  I don’t really remember the drive to the station. I spent most of it going over my conversation with Amelie, concentrating on the fact that she said she didn’t want Templeton to come between us – although, I have to say that wild horses couldn’t keep me away from her, if she was willing to see me – and trying not to focus on my job getting in the way of us being together. I love my job. I always have. But I know now that I love Amelie so much more.

  Ellis and Thompson are sitting at their desks in the main office when I go in and I call them over, into my room.

  “Close the door,” I tell them, offering them seats.

  “Good morning, sir,” Thompson says and I glance up at him. I’m not sure he’s ever called me ‘sir’ before and I’m also not sure how comfortable I feel about it. As Styles very perceptively forced me to admit yesterday, we were friends. When we last worked together, we were equals in rank, and I don’t know that I like being made to feel like his superior.

  “Morning.” I pull my chair close to the desk and look across at them. “With three murders to investigate, we’re going to need to divide our labours,” I explain, turning to Ellis. “Can you focus on the Ursula Franklin case?” I ask him. “I want you to contact Tiffin Girls’ School tomorrow and speak to the headmistress. Ask her if Ursula Franklin ever attended, and if she did, whether she was friends with Beth Templeton.”

  “They went to the same school?” Ellis’s surprise matches my own.

  “We can’t be sure, but Miss Cooper said she remembered a girl called Ursula. We need to check it out.”

  He nods in agreement.

  “So, other than Beth Templeton having possibly been at school with Ursula Franklin, was there any connection between Gordon Templeton and the other girls?” Ellis asks.

  I turn and glare at him. I thought I’d made it clear that I wanted the Templeton line of enquiry kept quiet for now. “No.” My reply is terse to put it mildly.

  Thompson sits forward in his chair. “What’s this?” he asks.

  I let out a long sigh and turn to face Thompson. “We’ve been going down the road of Gordon Templeton being a possible suspect,” I explain.

  “And you didn’t tell me this, because…?”

  “Because I wanted to keep it under wraps for now.” I hold up my hands before he can speak again. “It’s nothing personal, Harry. The man’s an MP. He’s the reason I’ve been brought in. I didn’t want the whole department to know the way my thoughts were going…”

  He pulls a face. “You thought he’d raped and murdered his own daughter?”

  “It crossed my mind. She’s not his natural daughter. She’s adopted.”

  “So? He still brought her up. Christ, Rufus… That’s disgusting.”

  I lean back, ignoring the fact that we’ve both slipped back into using each other’s Christian names. “And? You think things like that don’t happen? You think incest isn’t alive and kicking in otherwise respectable homes up and down the length of the country. Surely I don’t need to remind you that you’re currently trying to track down Ursula Franklin’s father for a similar reason… Just because something makes us want to be physically sick, just at the thought of it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there, or that we can turn a blind eye to it.”

  He falls silent.

  “Now you know that much, I suppose I should tell you, that wasn’t the only line of enquiry surrounding Gordon Templeton,” I add, still speaking in very hushed but firm tones.

  “God, what else is going on in that brain of yours?”

  “The thought that, even if he wasn’t directly responsible for his daughter’s death, he may be the reason for it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He’s got secrets… personal ones. He’s been having an extra-marital affair for the last seven years, with a woman who’s young enough to be his daughter.” Thompson raises his eyebrows. “And he’s also got access to government information. Both of those facts make him a prime target for blackmail…”

  Thompson nods his head. “I see. I prefer that train of thought…”

  “I don’t particularly like either of them any more.”

  “Why?” Ellis pipes up.

  “Because of the other victims. If we ignore the possibility of him being the culprit and focus on him being a blackmail target, why would someone use two complete strangers as bait? And, even if we accept the wild theory that someone blackmailed him, saying they were going to keep killing randomly until he came across with whatever it was they wanted, surely they’d have killed his daughter first, not second.”

  “You’re right,” Thompson says. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not the culprit though… does it?” Ellis looks up at me. “Even if the thought is disgusting.”

  “Except I really don’t think he is,” I reply.

  “Is that because you’re seeing his daughter, or his ward, or whatever Miss Cooper is?” Ellis asks and then gives the impression that he’d rather like to take back his words. I glare at him, barely controlling my temper and Thompson looks from me to Ellis.

  “Regardless of what the inspector does, or doesn’t do, in his private life,” he says, “it makes no sense for Templeton to have killed the other two women.”

  “Except we’d been thinking he might have used Ursula Franklin as a dry run,” Ellis replies, glancing at me a little warily now
.

  “But then what about Gloria Middlemas?” Thompson has the bit between his teeth now, thank goodness.

  “Well, I suppose it’s the perfect place to hide a murder; in a bunch of other, similar murders.” Ellis is persistent, if nothing else.

  “I’d go along with it, if he’d just murdered his daughter… but to rape her?” Thompson says, shaking his head.

  “But as the inspector said, she’s not his daughter…”

  My head’s starting to spin. “Okay,” I interrupt. “Let’s leave Gordon Templeton on the table for now, but maybe move him a little further away from the centre.” They both nod. “How are we getting on with Mr Johnson?”

  “There’s not a lot I can do until tomorrow,” Thompson replies. “I can’t access his bank accounts at the weekend, so all we know at the moment is that he lives at home still, likes to go fishing in his spare time…”

  “And goes drinking in The Swan,” I add. “Not to mention occasionally frequenting The Fox and The Plough.”

  “He does?” Thompson replies. I glance at Ellis, but he’s looking down at his hands and I decide not to mention the events of Friday evening, despite his earlier comment.

  “Yes. I was in The Swan myself on Friday. I saw him. And, when we questioned him before, he told us he lives in Hansler Grove and sometimes goes to the other local pubs.”

  “I see…” Thompson goes quiet all of a sudden.

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  “I was just thinking…”

  “What?”

  “Well, that’s one thing all the women do have in common, isn’t it?”

  I stare at him, hoping for enlightenment.

  “They’d all been drinking before their deaths.”

  “That was something I’d already considered,” I point out. “But we can’t be sure it applies to Gloria Middlemas. We’ve got no information as to her whereabouts on the evening of her death.” Not being able to speak to her mother has proved a drawback in that department.

  “Yes we have,” Thompson replies. “She was in The Rose and Crown in Bridge Road.”

  “She was?” I can’t hide my surprise.

  “Yes.” He nods.

  “How do you know that?”

  “When you told me take charge of traffic control, I knew you didn’t really mean it, so I made a few enquiries of my own, asking around the local pubs over there.”

  “Oh… you did, did you?” He looks worried. “Well done. That’s excellent work, Harry.” He smiles and I sit right forward on my chair. “What did the landlord of The Rose and Crown have to say for himself?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid.” Thompson pulls his notebook from his pocket. “He saw the deceased with a man. They were talking near to the coat rack, but when he looked up again, they’d gone.”

  “Don’t tell me… he can’t describe the man?” It seems to be a common theme in this case.

  “No,” Thompson replies. “His view was blocked by another customer.”

  I suppose we can’t argue with that. “Well, I think in light of that, we should look at putting men into all of the local pubs each evening, in plain clothes.”

  “I agree,” Thompson replies. “How many are there?”

  “Pubs? Six… maybe seven.” I turn to Ellis. “You’re the Molesey man. Draw up a list, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replies.

  “You’ll have to get permission from the Chief Superintendent for the additional manpower,” Thompson points out.

  “Yes, I know. Unfortunately that’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I doubt he’d appreciate me disturbing his Sunday. As it is, we’re barely speaking.”

  Thompson smirks. “Is there a reason for that?”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it helps that I’ve reported him to the Chief Constable.”

  “You’ve what? Dear God, you’ve only been here five minutes.”

  “I didn’t do it for the sheer hell of it. He went behind my back and warned Gordon Templeton that I was investigating him. He put his personal friendship ahead of the job… for all the wrong reasons. I had no choice.”

  Thompson nods. “You’re related to the Chief Constable, aren’t you?”

  Ellis perks up. “You are?”

  “No. Not related as such. He was a friend of my father’s, that’s all.”

  “So almost related then.” Thompson smiles.

  “You’re not going out again?” Aunt Dotty looks up from her book as I get to my feet. It’s just gone seven thirty and we’ve already eaten, and she knows I wouldn’t go to bed this early.

  “Yes. I’m just going to pop to the pub.”

  “Oh. I see. It’s not work then.”

  “No.” God, I hate lying to her. “I doubt I’ll be late, but don’t wait up for me.” I go over to the door and open it.

  “Have fun,” she twinkles.

  She obviously thinks I’m going out with a woman, even though I’ve still told her nothing about Amelie. Tonight, she couldn’t be further from the truth.

  I put on my hat and leave the house quietly, going down the steps and out onto the pavement. I’ve decided already to go back to The Swan, simply because that’s where Mr Johnson seems to go most often. I don’t know why, but that feels significant.

  It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to get there. It’s less busy than it was on Friday, and once inside, I make my way over to the bar, ordering a pint.

  “You had the same idea then?” The familiar voice makes me jump and I turn to see Harry Thompson sitting on one of the bar stools.

  “Looks that way,” I reply, giving the barmaid the required money and moving along the bar to a vacant seat beside him. “Even if we don’t have any official sanction to be here, I decided there was no harm in making sure.”

  Thompson nods. “I felt the same. I decided I’d come along and just look like an ordinary bloke, having a drink.”

  “Well, now I suppose we look like two ordinary blokes having a drink.”

  “You’ve never looked ordinary,” he jokes. “Not in your suits.”

  “I can go and sit elsewhere, if I’m showing you up.”

  He smiles. “I think I can cope.”

  “Why did you choose this pub?” I ask him.

  “For the same reason as you, I imagine. You saw Mr Johnson in here on Friday.” He glances around. “I don’t know what the man looks like though. Is he here?”

  I follow his gaze. “No.”

  “Do you really think it’s him?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know. He’s the best suspect we’ve got, but there’s a lot about him that doesn’t fit.”

  “I’ll start looking into him more closely tomorrow,” he says, sitting upright. “That might help.”

  The door opens and we both turn in unison. It’s not Johnson. It’s a couple of soldiers, who approach the bar and place their order, giving us an unfriendly look at the same time.

  “I get that a lot,” Thompson remarks.

  “What? That ‘why aren’t you in uniform?’ look,” I reply.

  He nods. “Yes. It’s bloody frustrating.”

  “I know. I’ve put in four letters requesting permission to enlist. They’ve all been turned down, and I’ve been told not to bother again.”

  “Same here,” he replies. “We had a batch of reservists leave in the first couple of weeks of the war. A lot of them were sergeants, and since then the only ranks who’ve been given permission are constables.” He pauses. “I’ve got two younger brothers,” he says and I remember he used to talk about them all the time. “Fred’s already had his call up papers, and I imagine Vic will get his any day now. He’s only twenty-one…” His voice fades and then he looks up at me. “I’m their big brother, and I’m the one who’s sitting safe at home.”

  I take a long gulp of my beer. “It’s not your fault, Harry, and I’m sure they don’t resent you for it. And anyway, someone has to stay and keep the peace,” I tell him, surprised to be quoting Superintenden
t Dale at him. “I just wish it wasn’t either of us.”

  He clinks his glass against mine and we both take a drink.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the bus home, someone’s left a newspaper behind. It’s a copy of yesterday’s late evening edition, the headline screaming, ‘Molesey killer strikes again!’. For some reason – perhaps the perceived sensibilities of their readership – they haven’t called him a rapist. And that rankles with me. If they’re going to print the story, they might as well get the facts straight. And if I’m going to get myself a name as a serial killer – and rapist – I may as well start living up to expectations.

  I smile as I get off the bus and wave the driver goodbye, walking home with a spring in my step. Because it’s Sunday, my mother won’t have cooked – which is a blessed relief. She and Father will have eaten their main meal at lunchtime, and she’ll have made sandwiches for their tea, and I’m late enough to have missed that.

  “What sort of time do you call this?” she whines as I close the front door behind me.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say. “I got held up. You know how busy we are at the moment.”

  “Yes… what with the war and everything,” she replies, her voice laced with sarcasm.

  I’m not in the mood for an argument. “I’ve got a headache coming on,” I lie. “I’m going to go up to bed.”

  “And leaving me to do all the clearing up… as usual.” Her voice echoes around my head.

  “Sorry.” I’m already halfway up the stairs.

  I close the door of my bedroom and sit down on the bed, lying back and putting my head on the pillow. All I have to do is wait…

  It’s maybe an hour and a half before I hear her come up the stairs. My mother always goes to bed early on Sundays and, because she’ll have read to him right after they had their tea, I know my father will have fallen asleep ages ago. I just need to give Mother time to get ready for bed and nod off, and then I can go out again.