Death on a Cold Street 11

Lockaman glanced at his pocket watch. A sturdy construction, suitable furnishing of a soldier, a man of action, but most certainly out of place in the pocket of such a fastidiously attired gentleman.

The boy was late, and Lockaman was irked.

The respectable suburban street was his only lead. The day he'd introduced himself, the girl had obviously just secured a position in one of the large house of the town's well-to-do citizens. It was more than possible she had retreated there, hoping to hide from him.

When he saw the skinny tow-headed child skip between the sparse suburban traffic, he sniffed and replaced his watch.

"Sorry, Mister, I don't come this ways often, it took longer than I thought."

Lockaman had no time to find another informant; the boy would have to do. "If you expect me to pay, you do the job. Watch this street, day and night if you have to. If you see the woman, note which house she goes to and how long she stays. Then get a message to me through the café."

"What, all night?" The boy looked crestfallen. He had thought this a nice little number, following a pretty lady of a summers day was a less risky occupation than dipping pockets. But watching all night? Even the thought made his feet freeze.

###

Tipping his chair back to a more comfortable angle, Magnus braced his foot on the veranda railing. He was feeling rather pleased with himself, after all he had managed, somewhat surprisingly, to secure the elusive Fröken Larsson and make his mother and daughter happy. Although the explanation for removing the new and much liked governess might require some thought.

He fully expected the young woman to attempt another disappearance, but Magnus was ready, hence the night guard duty on the veranda.

His little chat with Sigyn Larsson, or Christina Eklund, or…whatever, had been less than illuminating. She denied everything, obviously believing that if she smiled prettily and charmingly claimed innocence, the situation could disappear. After all, didn't most men lose their resolve in such circumstances?

"I don't understand, I did not deceive you, I don't even know you. I used my mother's name to hide from a man. He was…" She looked down, with apparent modestly. "...pursuing me in a most unseemly way. I was forced to leave my lodgings to avoid him. Your mother was kind enough to take me in…"

Magnus had snapped. "I am a policeman, I am not a fool. It was my office you were brought to after you were attacked. It was I who…" In his mind he saw once more the pinned breast. "…who saw to your wound first. I'm well aware of exactly the kind of woman you are!"

The girl had blanched.

"Your real name is Sigyn Larsson, you were mistress of Harald Knudsen. But now it seems you are Christina Dahl, my daughter's governess. Oh, and between, you were Christina Eklund." Magnus found it hard to keep the sneer from his voice. "I need you back in Idegranstad; I want a statement and a description of your attacker." Leaning in close, he added harshly, "And I want to know why yours was the throat that was not cut."

She had surrendered then, the offended innocence was gone, and he saw only the blank face of an impassive doll.

A night bird sang out, brought him back, he glanced down to the picnic table by the water.

His unexpectedly tender reaction to the child had shocked him, it still confused him. Of course he cared; she was his…and Brigitte's after all, but...

The gentle rustle of leaves and soft tumble of the river's flow lulled him. The subject of his loss had never seemed so simple to him before. His guilt, the regrets, all seemed such a waste.

She was gone; there were few happy memories to cherish, the marriage had been a disaster. Brigitte had expected a fairytale of sweetness and romance. Real life had come as a shock; he had come as a shock. The memory of their child's conception did nothing but shame him. Weeks of excuses, pretended illness, anything she could do to avoid their bed, ended with frustration overcoming him. Up to that point he had been the soul of gentleness, eager to have her desire him. Desperate to have her adore him physically as he adored her. He tried everything, even seeking out the counsel of Idegranstad's most renowned madam.

It only made things worse, accusations flew. The ensuing quarrel culminated in a vigorous carnal act. Magnus was left wretched by his boorish need. He forced her, plain and simple.

When she found herself to be carrying their child, Brigitte's delicate health and Magnus's mortification resulted in his permanent withdrawal from their bedroom. Her death punished him further, his wickedness now writ in stone.

Yet he was the father of a beautiful child, had he counted her as punishment also?

The muffled creaking of floorboards should not have startled him, but it did. The sound ceased for a moment, a shadow crossed the glass door, there was a loud click as the handle was turned.

The woman with too many names slipped quietly out, shutting the door carefully behind her.

Magnus watched, slightly amused. Where did she think she was going as she slipped into the night? The hour was past twelve, they were miles from the city. Did she propose to walk the open roads? The foolish girl was still wearing her light summer frock; the knitted jacket would do little to stave off the early morning chill when it came. Her battered valise looked heavy too.

"Going somewhere?"

Startled, she bolted.

Magnus sprang after her, catching her with little effort. "Did you think I'd forget how you steal away so easily?" He gripped her arms tightly. "I'm not prepared to lose you quite so easily again."

"You must let me go, I can't go back. He'll find me." She whispered urgently. "He said he would come back." She twisted in his grasp to release herself.

But Magnus wasn't letting go. "For a moment there you almost had me, does dewy eyed innocence always work?" He pulled her closer, but she kicked him in the shins and lunged out of his grip, made it almost to the gate, but Magnus was there before her. Anger replacing confidence, he grabbed her about the waist, pulling her into the shadows.

"Hello? Who's out there?" Etta Brun called from the upstairs window.

"Damn." Magnus pulled Christina further back and called, "Just me, Mama, patrolling the perimeter." His father's oft used phrase for his last pipe of the evening, met with his mother's soft chuckle.

"Well, don't forget to put out the porch light when you come in."

"I won't." He grunted as Christina kicked out again. "Goodnight, Mama." Not hesitating, he tugged her back against him. Tighter this time, he forced her back, towards the boathouse, out of sight of the house.

She fought, kicked, clawed, even tried to bite his hand as it covered her protesting mouth. But there was no contest in the struggle; Magnus was much taller, stronger.

Swinging her round, he sought to hold her against the shed wall, but he stumbled in the dark corner, they fell to the ground. She attempted to scramble out of his reach, but he caught her skirts and hauled her back.

"Just stop!" he hissed. Straddling her, he used his body to contain her squirming form.

"I-have-done-nothing!" Her futile attempts to beat at his chest punctuating her words. "You-have-no-right!"

"Done nothing?" He caught her clawing hands, holding them away from his body. "You withhold vital information from the police, change your name with your linen. Lied to my mother, deceived her into thinking you a fit person to be my daughter's governess." He grunted as she made a concerted effort to throw him off. Magnus thrust her hands above her head, bringing his face dangerously close to hers, he sneered. "So you, Fröken, have cheated, lied and brought vice to my family. What the Hell did you think you could achieve by this deception?"

All that effort to disappear, and at every turn men were there to dash her hopes of freedom. "I swear, didn't know you, it was a job, a way out. Your mother was kind." She relaxed, Magnus's grip slackened. Christina took the chance and twisted her hands away from his and went for his face.

The jumble of bodies heaved in a tussle, but Magnus had her pinned again with relative ease.

"I was scared, I needed a safe place," she bit out. "But what do you care, you're a hypocrite, like the rest." Closing her eyes she sighed hoarsely. She knew men, knew the change in his breathing. "Did you like what you saw; did it make you want to touch?" she whispered spitefully.

Professional composure was what he needed; it was not what he felt. He wanted reason, calm, but the blood sang in his veins

He was close, head bent to hers, a couple of inches and he could touch her lips with his, he could just drop his hand, cup that breast, perhaps brush his thumb over the pierced flesh…would it peak?

With a jolt he sat back.

Abruptly dragging her up, he pushed her into the boathouse and shut the door on her. Leaning his forehead against the battered wood, he growled, "I'll arrange for protective custody, somewhere for you to stay safely." Humiliation seeped through him.

He could have…the Devil take it, he almost had! What was he thinking?

"NO! You can't go make me go back, he'll find me…" She thumped the door hopelessly, sinking to her knees, dejected.

When had she realised the suave John Bateman had been the same man who'd cut her? When had she known he was a hunter, and he'd found her for Harald's wife?

Not when he bought her ices, not when he had entered her room. Perhaps when he'd touched her like a lover?

No, not even then.

Maybe when he refused her kiss, or was the threat hidden in his promise to return, was it then? But she knew it now, knew he had other plans for her. Plans that would once more have her enslaved.

Magnus sat, leaning his back against the peeling door. Resting his head in his hands, he tried to force his mind back to the investigation. "Bateman, the Englishman at the hotel, what is he to you?"

"Nothing…he…he just…" Fru Hincks would have told him all she knew and things she didn't. Could this man really protect her from Bateman or Fru Knudsen for that matter? Or would he be just like Harald, like Bateman, bargain protection for right to use her body? "He wanted…he was just a man."

He leaned back, looked up at the stars.

Why did she always lie?

"So, he was just a customer then?" He heard her move, followed by a muffled, catching sob. "Was the man who cut you just an angry client, one who likes hurting women?" He breathed out a long tired sigh. In his head, the connections were snaking around each other, meeting, then sliding away. This girl, Harald Knudsen, the wife, a secretive Englishman, three dead women, all waiting for the ribbons of thought to link them.

"He seemed kind…" She sniffed, pulled the sleeves of her knitted jacket, down over her hands, like a child. She was such a fool. "I didn't know it was him, his face was covered, he was hunched like an old man." It was almost a whine.

Magnus could not get the idea straight in his head. "The man who cut you, was Bateman?" he said with angry disgust. "And you let him into your bed?"

"You don't understand…"