by K. J. Frost
“We’re owed some luck,” I say, turning to Thompson.
“We are?”
“Yes. We are.”
I turn over her wrist, to reveal a broken watch face, the time clearly showing at ten-thirteen.
“At last,” I whisper. “Roll her body.” The urgency in my voice galvanises Thompson into action and he leans forward, rolling the body away from us, to reveal a small amount of broken glass on the ground underneath her.
“There’s some caught in her hair,” Thompson says, pointing.
“Yes.” I stand. “It’s not much, but it gives us a definite time.”
“Of what? Death, or the dumping of the body.”
“Dumping the body. But if we can find out what time she left the pub, we’ll have a significantly narrower field than usual.” I sigh. “It’s not much, but it’s something.” I look up. “Doctor?” He sidles over. “She’s all yours. Just be careful. There’s some broken glass under her head. It’s from her watch. I want the glass and the watch back at your earliest convenience.”
He glares at me. “Of course I’ll get them back to you. Why the fuss?”
“Because her watch stopped on impact,” I tell him.
“It did?”
“Yes. At ten-thirteen.”
“Is that the time of death?” Ellis asks, coming over and joining in the conversation.
“No. I think it’s the time the body was dumped.”
“Dumped?”
“Yes.” I explain the theory that the murder was committed elsewhere and, judging from the expression on his face, for once, I feel like I’ve made a positive impression on Doctor Wyatt.
“Our luck might be holding out,” Thompson says, coming into the office, carrying a smart black briefcase. I’m reminded of the fact that, when I was a sergeant, I used to carry one too. It was something suggested to me by my very first inspector – a man called Ainsworth, who was based here at Kingston and who I worked for briefly before being transferred to Scotland Yard. He liked having somewhere to put things, but didn’t want to carry anything himself. I suppose Harry’s picked that habit up from someone as well. Ellis and I have been back here for about an hour, having carried out a daybreak search of the local environs and discovered a patch of churned up earth on the far edge of the green opposite the police station. We concluded that was where our victim was raped and murdered and then left Thompson and a couple of the constables to make the rounds of the local pubs, waking the landlords and finding out if any of them recognised the description of our the young girl, who we now know, from her identity card, to have been called Janet Gibson. “She was at The Fox,” he adds. “She arrived at about eight, with a couple of friends, also in the Wrens.”
“The Fox?”
“It’s not surprising really,” Thompson says, sitting down. “It’s the closest pub to the police station.”
“And she lived in Summer Gardens.” I remember her address from her identity card. “So the police station is directly on her way home…”
“The landlord said her friends were with some soldiers, and he saw the victim talking to an RAF officer. He said it was very busy last night, and he didn’t actually see her leaving, but one minute they were there, talking, and the next time he looked up, they’d both gone.”
“Both of them?” I query.
“Yes.” He nods his head, smiling. “Both of them.”
“An RAF officer,” I reflect. “Was he sure about that?”
“Yes. Positive.”
I turn to Ellis. “Wasn’t an RAF officer seen with Ursula Franklin?”
“Yes, sir. I think you might be right,” he replies.
“And didn’t Mrs Davies at The Plough say she saw Beth Templeton with someone in the services as well?”
“Well, yes. But she wasn’t sure about which service, if you remember…”
“I don’t care. This is too much of a coincidence not to take it further.” I look back at Thompson. “Can the landlord at The Fox describe this man?”
“No. He didn’t buy any drinks. In fact, he didn’t even approach the bar, and the landlord only saw him from the back and very slightly from the side. All he could tell me was that the man’s of medium height and has dark hair.”
“Wait a minute… he didn’t buy any drinks?” I repeat.
“No. Interesting that, don’t you think?” Thompson’s staring at me.
“It’s certainly suggestive.” The problem is, without a description, it still doesn’t help very much.
“Um… suggestive of what?” Ellis asks, looking from me to Thompson and back again.
“That he had a motive for being there, that didn’t involve drinking,” Thompson says a little impatiently and Ellis nods his head slowly. “What do you want to do now?” Thompson turns to face me and I half expect him to roll his eyes, although he doesn’t.
“I think you and I should go and see her parents,” I tell him. “They’ve already been notified of the death by uniform, but I want to find out if there’s any connection to an RAF officer, and have a look around her room to see if we can find anything.” I’m determined not to let this go. Not now… Then I turn to Ellis. “And I think you should pursue the Franklin case. You were going to contact the school this morning, so you may as well get on and do that. Just because we’ve got this new lead, we mustn’t neglect the others.”
“Right, sir,” Ellis replies and pulls forward the Franklin file.
Mr and Mrs Gibson are probably both in their early fifties and they’re one of those couples who somehow manage to resemble each other. They have the same mid-brown hair, with flecks of grey, they both wear dark rimmed glasses and, while they’re dressed differently, the colours they’re wearing are almost identical.
“My husband’s just come home from the office,” Mrs Gibson explains, nodding towards his brown suit.
“Where do you work?” I ask him.
“At the Milk Marketing Board,” he replies. “Over at Thames Ditton.” He smiles. “It’s been a lot easier for me, working there. Getting in and out of London every day was starting to take its toll.” I’m not sure why he thinks I’d be interested, but I nod my head. “When the policeman came and saw my wife,” he continues, unprompted, “she telephoned me at work, and I came straight back home again. I’d only just got there when she called.”
“I see.”
Unlike most witnesses, I’d quite like him to shut up.
“Your boss was very considerate though, wasn’t he, Walter?” Mrs Gibson joins in, then turns to me again. “He said my husband could take the whole day off… and tomorrow, if he needs to.”
“Very generous, I’m sure.” I catch Thompson’s eye and he smiles.
“We need to ask you a few questions,” he says, managing to interrupt their flow.
“Yes?” they reply in unison.
“Yes,” I say and they turn back to me again. “Can you tell us anything about your daughter’s movements last night?”
Mrs Gibson sniffles and puts a handkerchief to her nose. “She… she went out at about eight o’clock with her friends, Kate and Pauline,” she replies, and I notice Thompson making a note in his book. “They were all given a few days’ leave, you see. Janet and Kate had been best friends at school,” she adds. “And Pauline is a friend of Kate’s from her job… before they joined up.”
“Did they join the Wrens recently?” I ask.
“Oh, yes.” It’s Mr Gibson who responds. “We didn’t want Janet to do it,” he says. “Apart from the fact we were worried about who she’d be mixing with, she had a good job at the Milk Board as well. She started there when they moved the office out of London, and we didn’t think she should give up her position. But she was twenty-two and old enough to make her own decision. We couldn’t stop her…” His voice fades.
“Yes, I see. Do you know why she chose the Wrens?” I ask him. I know – and I imagine he does too – that to join that particular branch of the forces, women are supposed to live near to a
port, and East Molesey doesn’t even remotely qualify.
“It was Pauline’s idea,” he replies, a little sheepishly. “She’s from Portsmouth, you see.”
The light dawns. “And they used her address when they enlisted?” I suggest and he nods his head. What neither of us says, because I don’t think we need to, is that it seems like a very elaborate ruse… one which I have to assume was designed to get Janet and Kate as far away from Molesey – and presumably their parents – as possible. It appears the two young ladies might have wanted the chance to live a little. “So, Janet went out with Pauline and Kate last night?” I prompt, getting back to the point in hand. “What time were you expecting her back?”
They glance at each other. “She was always home by ten-thirty,” Mrs Gibson says.
“And you didn’t notice she hadn’t come home last night?” I ask.
“We retire early,” Mr Gibson explains. “We’re usually in bed by just after nine.”
I nod my head. “And this morning?”
“We assumed she was sleeping in,” his wife says, sniffling again. “I was just going to make her a cup of tea and take it up to her when the policeman called round. That was the first I knew that Janet wasn’t…” Her shoulders start to shake and her husband puts an arm around her.
I give them a moment, then ask, “Do you think we could take a look at her room?” as gently as I can.
“Why?” Mr Gibson releases his wife and sits forward a little, an air of suspicion crossing his face.
“There’s a chance she may have known her assailant,” I explain. “We need to take a look at her things, if that’s alright with you?”
The couple look at each other again. “Known him?” Mrs Gibson says, her eyes wide, her tears forgotten. “Janet wasn’t interested in men. She wasn’t that kind of girl.”
“She was a good girl,” her husband adds, making sure I’ve got the point. Which I assume is why she chose a service in which she’d be posted far away from her parents – so that she could be a ‘good girl’.
“So, she didn’t know anyone in the RAF, for example?” I ask.
“No. Certainly not,” Mr Gibson replies. “We’d stressed on her that she should avoid fraternising with service personnel.”
“Even so,” I persevere, “it would be useful to take a look at her bedroom.”
“I suppose…” Mrs Gibson says, shrugging her shoulders.
“I’ll take you up.” Mr Gibson gets to his feet, and his wife stands too.
“You stay here, Mrs Gibson,” I say quickly. “I’m sure you could do with a rest.” The last thing I need is to have both of them looking over our shoulders while we search their daughter’s room.
She nods and sits back down again as Mr Gibson leads us from the room and out into the hallway, up the stairs and around the landing to the second door. “It’s this one,” he says, opening it and standing to one side. “Do you need me to stay with you?” he asks. “Only I think I should probably get back to my wife.”
“No, that’s fine, Mr Gibson,” Thompson replies. “We’ll manage by ourselves. We won’t disturb anything, and we’ll come and let you know when we’ve finished.”
Gibson nods his head and retreats back down the stairs.
“Thank God for that,” I murmur, once he’s out of earshot.
“Well, I assumed that was why you’d suggested the wife should stay downstairs? In the hope that he’d want to return to her?”
“Yes. I couldn’t be sure it would work though.”
“With those two? I think it was a pretty fair bet…” He turns and looks around the room. “Not much here, is there?” he says.
“No.”
I follow his gaze. There’s a single bed, the head of which is underneath the window, and beside which is a bedside cabinet. Against one wall is a small bookcase, and there’s a writing desk, the surface of which is completely clear. The other wall contains a wardrobe and chest of drawers. And that’s it.
“You check the wardrobe and chest of drawers,” I tell Thompson. “I’ll do the rest.”
He crosses the room and starts delving carefully through her clothes, while I go to her bedside cabinet and discover an address book, which contains details for Pauline and Kate. I hand it to Thompson and he makes a note of their addresses before giving it back again. After that, I go over to the desk and sit on the chair in front of it, pulling on the drawer, to find it’s locked.
“Damn,” I say under my breath.
“What?” Thompson asks.
“It’s locked.”
“Interesting,” he replies and comes over.
“Yes. But I can hardly break it open, can I?”
He smiles. “No need,” he says and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys. “I usually find one of these works for most things.” I stand and allow him to take my place, and he gets to work, starting with the smallest of the keys on his ring. On his third attempt, we hear the tell-tale click and the drawer is released.
“Well done,” I say to him as he gets up.
“Now you can see if she’s as innocent as they think she is. I’ll bet you a pint she’s not… the locked drawer being the giveaway.”
He goes back to searching her clothing, while I sit down and pull the drawer out a little further. I’m faced with an Aladdin’s cave of papers and photographs, and I grab a handful and put them on top of the desk, working my way through them. It doesn’t take me more than five minutes to ascertain that Mr and Mrs Gibson were absolutely right.
“She wasn’t interested in men,” I say out loud.
“Seriously?” He comes over from the wardrobe and stands beside me, looking down at the papers and photographs I’ve laid out before me. “Oh,” he says softly.
“Yes.”
Displayed in front of us are a number of pictures of a semi-clad or naked woman, some in more revealing poses than others.
I pick up one of the letters, and then another, quickly skimming through the contents and trying not to blush.
“Who are they from?” Thompson asks.
“Kate Pendry,” I reply. “Presumably that’s Janet’s friend.”
“And?”
“And it seems the two of them had an intimate romantic liaison…” I check the dates on some of the letters. “Going back over at least four years. Obviously we’ve only got Kate’s letters, but it looks as though Janet wanted the relationship to continue as it was, but Kate was feeling the pressure to conform and settle down… with a man.”
Thompson moves away and sits down on the edge of the bed. “God, I hate our bloody job sometimes,” he says, letting his head drop into his hands.
“I know.” I gather up all the papers and photographs and everything else out of the drawer.
“What are you doing?” Thompson looks up, studying me.
“Taking these with us,” I reply.
“As evidence?” He’s clearly shocked. “Have a heart, for Christ’s sake.”
I turn to face him. “No, not as evidence. Nothing that we’ve seen today goes into the case notes. Understood?”
He nods. “So why are you taking the papers away?”
“Because her parents think she was still their innocent girl. They’ve suffered enough and I’m not about to let them be disillusioned. More importantly, she didn’t want them to know, or she wouldn’t have locked her secrets away so carefully. Let’s face it, Harry, we didn’t manage to protect her while she was alive; the very least we can do is to guard her privacy now she’s dead.”
“Give them here,” he says quietly. “I’ll put them in my briefcase.”
I quickly bundle all the papers together and hand them over. “Don’t lose them,” I say to him.
“No.”
He opens his black briefcase, puts the documents inside and closes it again, then looks up at me.
“I keep thinking,” he says.
“What about?”
“About their last few minutes. About how it must feel to
be utterly and completely in someone else’s power… to have that done to you and not be able to fight back…”
“Stop it, Harry.”
“How? How do I stop it?” I can hear the emotion in his voice. It matches my own, but one of us needs to stay grounded.
“I don’t know how, but try. You’ll drive yourself mad, and it won’t help us catch him.”
“We will catch him, won’t we?” he asks.
“Yes, we will.” I get to my feet and he copies my action, standing in front of me.
“Then, when we do, will you do me a favour, Rufus?”
It’s not the first time he’s used my Christian name, I doubt it will be the last, and I find I don’t mind so much anymore. “What’s that?” I ask.
“Don’t leave me alone with him.”
Kate Pendry’s address is just around the corner and we’re assuming that Pauline might be staying with her, being as Mr and Mrs Gibson mentioned that Janet went out with both of her friends last night. We’ve agreed that Thompson will go and interview them, without mentioning our discovery in Janet’s bedroom and that, once he’s finished with them, he’ll get a car from the Walton Road station to bring him back to Kingston. I want to get back there myself to see how Ellis is getting on and find out if anything else has come in.
“I’ll come over later on this morning,” Ellis is saying into the telephone. “Thank you very much for your help.” He puts the phone down and looks up at me as I cross the room. “That was Miss Watson.”
“And?”
“She’s the headmistress of the school,” he replies.
“I gathered that. What did she have to say?”
“Ursula Franklin did attend.” He looks down at his notes. “She was three years above Beth Templeton, and the two of them weren’t particular friends.”
“So not very helpful then.”
“Well, she’s going to look out the reports for both girls and I’m going over there to pick them up.”
I nod. “I suppose it may prove useful.”
“She said she remembered Ursula was always prone to getting into trouble, while Beth was a quiet girl, who doted on her father.”
“Really?” My ears prick up.
