Page 50 of A Shop Girl’s Christmas (Pennington’s Department Store #3)
Early the following morning, Stephen strode along the street housing Bath’s police station, his mind focused and his body sated. The condition of his heart was another matter entirely, but now was not the time to think about how he was supposed to leave Bath and Cornelia. They had joined together heart, body and soul. He didn’t doubt the same sad thoughts had troubled her since he’d left the evening before.
As soon as they’d found the strength to move after their lovemaking, they had dressed in haste, Cornelia brushing and rearranging her hair with lightning speed, before ushering him downstairs and through the front door. Her beautiful blue eyes had filled with panic and guilt as she remembered Alfred and Francis.
If their separation hadn’t been so bloody heartbreaking, their tripping, fumbling and racing back to normality would have been almost comical.
As it was, there was nothing funny about not being with her.
He reached the station steps and looked up at its facade. A large Georgian building, the age-blackened stone and smeared sash windows gave a gloomy welcome. Although not precisely imposing, the station certainly had a presence that went some way towards reassuring the city folk that, even if some criminals escaped capture, others wouldn’t. One in particular, the man who’d taken Lillian Carter’s life and the lives of two others, would not, Stephen promised himself now.
He purposefully climbed the steps and pushed open one of the station’s double doors. The interior, with its dark wood-panelled walls and dusty electric lamps was depressingly dismal. A row of chairs lined one wall, where several members of the public sat looking tense or fearful.
He walked to the counter and the duty sergeant raised his head.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Good morning.’ Stephen glanced over the sergeant’s shoulder towards the offices beyond. ‘I’m here to speak with Sergeant Whitlock on the authority of Inspector King of Scotland Yard.’
Looking decidedly unimpressed, the duty sergeant asked, ‘Might I ask about what, sir?’
Stephen cleared his throat. ‘My name is Stephen Gower. I’m sure if you tell Sergeant Whitlock I am waiting to speak to him on the instructions of Inspector King, that will suffice.’
The sergeant cast his suspicious gaze over Stephen’s face, before nodding towards the row of seats he’d noticed on his way in. ‘Take a seat. I’ll see if Sergeant Whitlock is available.’
Stephen flashed his most amiable smile. ‘Appreciated.’
He walked to the chairs but didn’t sit, his body tight with tension. As soon as he’d returned home after leaving Cornelia’s, his mother had appeared at the top of the stairs, holding a hand-delivered message for him. Her eyes had been filled with concern, having decided that Stephen was involved in some form of espionage that explained why he’d left the house masquerading as a down-and-out.
Inspector King’s instructions had been simple and to the point. Be at Bath police station by eight a.m. and ask for Whitlock.
‘Mr Gower?’
Stephen turned.
A stout man in his early fifties came forward, hand outstretched. ‘Sergeant Whitlock. Won’t you come through to the interview room?’
Stephen shook his hand. ‘Of course.’
He followed Whitlock through some corridors to an empty interview room. They each took a seat either side of a steel grey table.
Whitlock leaned back and laced his hands over his slightly protruding stomach. ‘So, your former inspector has told me the situation and is of the opinion that you are on the trail of a murderer. A man who has killed a number of times, if your findings are accurate.’
The sergeant’s scepticism wasn’t lost on Stephen and he fought to keep his temper under control. ‘That’s correct.’
Whitlock gave a wry smile, his eyes dancing with amusement. ‘Sir, I have to be honest with you. These claims seem far-fetched, to say the least. Neither you nor Inspector King can expect me to—’
‘What we expect, sir, is your complete co-operation.’ Stephen leaned forward, his hand curled into a fist on top of the table. ‘Trust me, Inspector King would not be pleased to find that you consider the women, whose names we’ve given you, of such little importance that you prefer to discuss the merits of my investigation rather than ensuring their safety.’
‘Is that right? Well, let me tell you something, Mr Gower. I only have so many officers I can risk sending out on a fool’s errand. My inspector has asked me to ensure—’
‘These women are forewarned, thus forearmed? That it would be a good idea to find and arrest a suspected killer?’
Whitlock glanced at the paper he’d put on the table and cleared his throat. ‘Do we even have a description of the suspect? A guarantee that he’ll be where you think he should be? Otherwise—’
‘I can’t possibly provide a guarantee he’ll be there when we decide to surprise—’
‘We?’ Whitlock huffed a laugh. ‘There will be no we , Gower. You are not working for Scotland Yard, or any constabulary, come to that. I understand you are under investigation for you part in—’
‘Now, that’s where you’re wrong.’ Stephen reached into his inside pocket and removed the second of the two telegrams he’d received from Inspector King. ‘My inspector thought you might want to read this.’
He slid the telegram across the table and leaned back, crossing his arms. Seconds ticked by while Whitlock read.
Whitlock coughed. ‘I see. So, as of today, you are reinstated to your former rank as sergeant at Scotland Yard.’
‘I am.’
Whitlock pushed the telegram back across the desk and stood. ‘Then I suppose you and I need to assemble a team.’ He threw Stephen a pointed glare. ‘Under my authority, of course.’
Stephen raised his eyebrows, prepared for another showdown. ‘You’ll act on the information you’ve been given?’
‘Indeed, I will.’ Whitlock gave a firm nod. ‘Never let it be said that I’m not a fair man. Let’s go and get this bastard.’
*
It didn’t take Stephen long to warm to the sergeant and gain respect for his work. In less than three hours, Whitlock had briefed his team and had officers in place, ready to apprehend their suspect in Victoria Park. One group had been sent ahead to scour the area, noting anything suspicious. News soon came back that the park appeared quiet, but one stretch in particular was known to the public as a no-go area.
They would start there.
The latest victim, and the previous victim before Lillian, had now been linked to the same group of charity workers Lillian was associated with. The remaining three had been contacted with strict instructions not to leave their homes until the suspect was caught. The killer had managed to take the lives of three of the group… he would not take any more.
Once the area was surrounded with uniformed and plain-clothes officers, Stephen and Whitlock took the lead. Although still doubtful that they’d be fortunate enough to find their suspect in the disused building, Stephen could do little else but act on the intelligence of Whitlock’s colleagues.
If they didn’t find who they were looking for today, the net was definitely closing in. He just hoped and prayed the son of a bitch hadn’t been forewarned and was now halfway across the county.
Just as they were within a few feet of the door hanging lopsided on its hinges, four men, including one aptly described as a giant, rushed out. They charged straight for Stephen and Whitlock, clearly intent on battering them to the ground.
Stephen raised his cudgel, tensed and ready. If he died, so be it, but he would not go down without a fight.
The suspect punched him hard in the face. Pain exploded around Stephen’s eyes even as adrenaline rushed through his body. With a roar, he raised the cudgel and swung it, smacking his assailant square in the jaw.
Blood spurted. ‘You fucker!’
Stephen leapt on top of him, snatched a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and deftly secured the man’s wrists behind his back.
Breathing heavily, Stephen looked around. What could have been chaos was more of a well-co-ordinated victory, and he tipped a nod of approval to where Whitlock was fastening handcuffs on a second man.
Police officers were everywhere.
The suspects contained and secured.
They’d never stood a chance.