L'Aimant – Chapter 33
Summary:
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
Chapter 33: Milner gets his wish for some excitement. Sam confides in Geraldine. Sam and Milner attend a funeral at Hythe.
Disclaimer:
The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.
Author's Notes:
Pelham Beach is a mile-long stretch of pebbles along Hastings sea front, extending between the (now burnt-out) Hastings Pier at the western boundary with St Leonards and the Harbour Arm breakwater at the eastern end. The harbour itself was begun in the late 19th century, but funds ran out, and it was never completed.
When the advent of the railway caused an explosion in Hastings tourism, Pelham Beach was created from land reclaimed from the sea, in order to answer the demand for more beach space.
An explosion of a different kind put paid to the partially built harbour wall during World War II. The order was given to blow it up, reasoning that the enemy would find it a useful place to land in an invasion. (Mind you, back in 1066, William the Conqueror seemed to manage well enough without.)
…
Sergeant Dale belongs to Wolseley37.
...
dancesabove seaweeded this chapter.
Previously, in "L'Aimant":
[Foyle] picked his way along the bustling corridor to the Medical Officer's cubbyhole and leant against the door jamb, knocking pointedly on the open door.
"Anybody think to test this thing for noxious substances?" he asked, by way of introduction, holding up the cellophane-bagged napkin and the green report submitted by the Hendon lab. "Can't see any mention of it from forensics."
The MO glanced up at his visitor. "Ah. Foyled again!" He smirked at his half-witticism, then donned his spectacles, holding out his hand to receive the document. "Let's have a look," he frowned. "Abbreviations on these things can be impenetrable." He scanned the page for the line pertaining to the napkin, then nodded, mumbling to himself, "K-M Neg..."
"There," he announced, letting his finger rest on the single-line result for Foyle to see. "Kastle-Meyer presumptive test." Noting Foyle's raised eyebrow, he expanded on the information. "Tested for presence of blood. But nothing found."
"No other tests done?"
"Nope." He pursed his lips in disapproval, and raised his eyes to meet his visitor's. "Indeed it would appear not, Mr Foyle."
Foyle stretched his eyes sardonically. "Right. Suggest you send this napkin back to Hendon and re-test for aconite." Foyle reached into his pocket. "Also, I'd like the contents of this jar identified."
"Aconite." The white-haired man pulled off his glasses and began to nibble on the temple tip. "Aconite would certainly induce asphyxia. But how'd you come around to that particular suspicion?"
Foyle shrugged, and pushed out his bottom lip. "Couple o' things. Just an idea, at this stage. Last time we spoke, you reckoned there were substances involved, so... humour me. Just get it tested, would you?"
Chapter 33
Wednesday, 17th January 1945
Sam stood a little way apart from it all, blinking back her upset, and turned, gazing up the beach away from the fractured seawall of the harbour arm where the men were gathered. There was a biting wind, and though it couldn't penetrate her greatcoat, still it threatened to dislodge her cap. Sam pressed down on the crown with one gloved hand, and shivered—but not from cold.
That there should be men who did such things.
Five years of police work should have steeled her to such ugliness, but today, the raw reality reached in and twisted at her innards. Even as she contemplated all the devastation of the war in Europe, and the mournful deaths from bombings on the Home Front, she couldn't credit the necessity for this. The pointless waste epitomised in this dead young woman lying like a broken puppet on the gentle slope of PelhamBeach.
She stood now, where Paul Milner had considerately left her, with her back towards the scene, but the men's sombre tones were carried across to her on the breeze. It seemed that she would not be spared the details after all.
Grindley was saying that 'the lass' looked to be about twenty-five or so. Milner passed comment on the knotting of the ligature around her neck.
Strangulation, then.
Sam wrapped her arms around her middle and let her chin drop, as if she were examining her shoes. A shore crab crawled across the toe of one tan-coloured lace-up. She could have tossed the tiny creature off. Instead she watched it with a morbid fascination. So alive. So animate. Simple creature though it was, it had the spark of life that gave it now far greater value in the world than that poor empty vessel of a once-complex being, lying spent and lifeless on the shingle beach a mere few yards behind her.
Sam suddenly felt queasy; she bent and retched. She hadn't felt the sickness for a while. But now, this morning, suddenly, the nausea was back to claim her. Her breakfast landed only inches from her shoe, and sent her startled visitor scurrying towards the safety of the rock pool it had crawled out of. She reached out blindly for support, grasping the square, solid roof of the Wolseley with one hand, and delving hurriedly with the other for her handkerchief. Lace-trimmed. Small. Embroidered. Feminine. And utterly, entirely useless for the job of cleaning up. She needed Christopher's large, linen square for this. She needed...
Christopher.
Her feeble moment went unnoticed. The men along the beach were too engrossed in noting—documenting—the marks left on the body, the angle of the limbs, the pitiful traces of the woman's final struggle. Two constables were combing the surrounding stretch of beach, bent nearly double with the concentration of distinguishing unusual from commonplace across a dauntingly diverse expanse of multi-coloured pebbles. Sam dabbed—first at her watering eyes, then at the corners of her mouth—and straightened up at last, to wipe small beads of perspiration from her brow with the back of one trembling hand.
She leant against the car, and drew some measured breaths to overcome the queasiness.
They always kept a thermos flask inside the Wolseley. At Christopher's firm insistence, the flask of sugared tea had become the very first thing she prepared each morning on arriving at the station. She would fill it, then stow it upright in the well behind the driver's seat. Just recently, she'd noticed that, when sugar was in particularly short supply, Christopher would forego his normal two spoonfuls. And sure enough, this always meant there was enough to spare for Sam to take to work and sweeten her emergency brew. "Getting a bit of a paunch," he'd remark, patting at his midriff over his waistcoat.
Sam felt a surge of warmth spread through her as she reached into the cabin of the Wolseley for the flask. Undoing the cork stopper, she poured out a decent swig or two of tea into the metal screw-on cup. She rinsed her mouth and spat onto the pebbles, then, gratefully, she swallowed down the rest and took a few, deep, steady breaths.
Eventually, the wave of nausea subsided.
"She fought him hard." The voice of Dr Grindley drifted across to where she stood beside the car. "Blood underneath her fingernails. Poor lass. I hope she made the animal smart. And look at this: the swine pulled her head back by the hair so viciously, he bloody well detached her scalp. Natural blonde, I see; no dark roots. Anybody find a handbag yet, or reticule?"
Milner turned and shouted over his shoulder to the constables. "Try round the harbour arm, lads. In amongst the rubble. Looking for a bag of sorts..."
"Clothing torn... below…" At that, Grindley's voice dropped, and Sam no longer could distinguish what was being said.
...
"Sorry you had to see that, Sam." Paul Milner clambered awkwardly into the front passenger seat, as Dr Grindley climbed into the back.
"Well, actually, I didn't see much." Sam's attempt at reassurance rang a little hollow, considering the vivid images already formed inside her head from the snippets that she'd overheard.
Mindful of his promise to Mr Foyle, Milner tried to gauge how Sam had really taken things. "Still. It's harsh for you," he offered cautiously, and turned to study her profile. She looked rather wan, he thought. Less than the usual bloom on her cheek. But he was reassured when the half-furrow on her brow cleared and, with a small nick of her head, she stretched her eyes to show that she was ready to get back to business.
"Where to next, Sergeant?"
A gruff response from the back seat pre-empted Milner's answer.
"Mortuary, young lady. I'll be standing by to help with the post-mortem."
Samantha flushed. Young lady. The last time Grindley had addressed her as such, she'd been lying in a state of semi-undress in the bedroom of Steep Lane, abject with worry at the prospect of miscarrying their child. Still, she recalled with some affection his kindly reassurance, and his jocular exchange with Christopher:
— "So you're going to sack your wife, you miserable item?"
— "I'm doing no such thing."—
Indeed he wasn't, and he hadn't, but overall, the outcome was amounting to the same. Effectively, she'd sacked herself, and these were the closing days of her attachment to the Hastings Police Force.
With a rueful glance through the side window of the car, Sam threw the Wolseley into gear and pulled slowly away, tyres scrunching on the shingle beach.
...
It had been a grinding day for Sam, what with the body discovered on the beach first thing—Enderby from the ARP had telephoned the station in a state of shock to summon help. Then there had been the mortuary run, and then the business of assisting Paul to open up a case file on the murder—Paul had asked her to draw up a chair and help him with the typing.
Mid-afternoon, a call from Dr Grindley came in, saying that the preliminary report was ready for collection. Sam had been despatched to pick it up, and the doctor had handed her a sealed, buff, foolscap envelope marked, pointedly, 'Private and Confidential'.
Later, though, when Paul left his desk to answer nature's call, and left the papers open and accessible, Sam had made a point of reading every word of the report. Not that it all made sense, but "evidence of sexual congress peri-mortem" definitely did—her sketchy knowledge of Classics (gleaned from years of exposure to Things Ecclesiastical) stretched that far at least. In other words, the murderer had had his vile way with the victim while he was busy strangling her.
Sam chided herself as her eyes began to fill. She was not an ingénue. This wasn't her first murder, for goodness sake!
But it was her first since love had put her in the family way, and turned her emotions volatile. Another 'something different' to get used to. In fairness, the emotional lability did tend to come and go in waves. One never knew the kind of thing that might just start one off in this condition. And after all, she reasoned, this was just about as bad a situation as she ever had encountered. Hardly what one would term 'everyday fare'.
"So... what are you investigating?" A vision from the past pushed to the forefront of her mind. "I hope it's something juicy. A spy ring or a nice, grisly murder."—Sam squirmed. The image conjured in her memory was that of her very first drive with Christopher. She must have seemed a silly girl indeed to him, that day in 1940—full of bounce and chatter; thirsty for excitement; speaking of police work just as if it were a game. No wonder he had put her firmly in her place. Five years on, she'd attended many scenes of murder with him. Never, though, had wilful killing felt so startlingly close to home—an uncomfortable closeness this time, that went deeper than location.
Sam took in, then exhaled a ragged breath. The house was empty. Christopher was Lord-knew-where. And quite unusually for this stage in her life, Sam felt an overwhelming need to telephone her mother.
She bit her lip, plucked the receiver from its cradle, and began to dial.
...
Geraldine Stewart had just muddled through a funny sort of day in Lyminster. It had been about a week since Iain had decided his parishioners were in need of soul-enriching entertainment. In a bid to lift the slough of despond that inevitably followed Christmas and New Year, he and his faithful cohort Ernie Ventham had been drumming up support amongst the instrumental and vocal 'talent' in the village. Their objective? To stage a winter concert at St Stephen's Church Hall in a month's time.
Geraldine was glad to note that Ernie was assisting proceedings with a renewed buoyancy of spirit. For her and Iain, it was a joy to see the burden that had weighed so heavily on the Venthams over Christmas finally lifted: early in the New Year, a letter had at last arrived in Lyminster from a Sally Army volunteer at the 98th British General Hospital in Bari, conveying good news of their wounded-in-action son James. His recovery was apparently progressing well, and he would soon be in a sufficiently mended state to write to them himself.
This, to Geraldine, was the only favourable aspect of the 'entertainment' situation. The concert itself smacked of hare-brained schemery.
Geraldine for one had never shown an aptitude for music. At school she had been relegated to the back row of the choir, and stood there (on a precariously high wooden form) in the shadow of a very large girl with a pair of sturdy lungs and a thick blonde plait that extended the entire length of her equally sturdy back. When Miriam Rose sang "Lah", Geraldine sang "Lah". It was that simple. And during the challenging fugue that tripped merrily though the middle of "Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I", Miriam would perform with gusto, and Geraldine would bob obediently on the form beside her, mouthing soundlessly. That was about as melodic as Geraldine could manage. Whilst entirely content to applaud the efforts of other gifted people, she was very happy in her limitations. She did, however, doubt whether the denizens of Lyminster were possessed of adequate musical talent to sustain an evening's harmonic entertainment.
It was therefore a matter of some irritation when she found herself appointed by her husband to the role of overseeing the ladies' section of the choir.
"Iain, honestly. I have to wonder quite what goes on in your mind. You would do better to elect me to the role of cutting sandwiches."
Iain patted at her hand across the dinner table. "My sweet. A choir is so much more than just a melding of voices. As you stand amongst the ladies in your evening finery, you will lend elegance to the whole occasion, and make me very proud."
Geraldine eyed him suspiciously. "Soft soap, if ever I heard it!"
Iain rose and stood behind her dining chair, leaning forward to wrap his arms around her middle and rest his chin upon her shoulder. "Gigi, I'd consider it a personal favour." His lips alighted on her temple. "Please?"
"Well, provided there's no question of my lending voice to these proceedings. Because therein lies the road to musical perdition."
"That will be entirely at your own discretion, Darling. I did rather hope, though, that you'd use your diplomatic skills to exert a calming influence in the ranks..."
Geraldine deposited her knife and fork. "I knew it! I'm to be a buffer between Mrs Durward and Miss Thackeray again."
"My dear, they sing like angels."
"More accurately: they fight like devils, Iain. This you know from past experience."
"But never in the restraining presence of the vicar's wife"—he lifted up her fingers to his lips and kissed her hand—"my sweet... hmm?"
With that, the telephone began to ring.
Weekends were Samantha's usual time to call, and so it was with some surprise that Geraldine picked up the receiver to hear her daughter's voice—a little tense, she thought—at the other end of the line.
"Darling? What a nice surprise..." Geraldine spoke cautiously. "How is Christopher?" She gripped the phone a little tighter for an instant.
"Oh, you know," Sam's nonchalant tone sounded forced. "He's not here, Mummy. He's off on some case in London and, um, various—I don't know—places. I may not... see him for a few days. It all depends what he turns up in his investigations."
"Why aren't you up in Town with him, Dear?" concern suffused her mother's voice. "Are you unwell?"
"No! Not that. It's just... he wouldn't let me drive him. He said there 'might be certain risks'. But I have no clue what he means by that. He has this huge chap ferrying him about, at any rate."
"I'm sure he's only being cautious, Sam..."
"I wish I could be sure of that. But never mind me. How do you feel, Mummy?"
"Surprisingly robust. Not being sick anymore, at least. Have you had any further problems, since the New Year?"
Sam had resolved to keep this morning's episode of nausea to herself. It had, after all, been only partially related to her condition.
"I'm absolutely fine, Mummy. The iron tablets have worked wonders, and I haven't keeled over once. In fact, I'm thinking of signing up for firewatching when I finish work. Someone still needs to keep a lookout. And it's only two nights a week. I'll also have a word with Alice shortly about the billeting of refugees. What else?... OH. My bike is in the shop for repair. When I no longer have the Wolseley, I shall need my own set of wheels."
"Sounds very organised, Dear. What does Christopher say?"
"He says... well, to be honest, Mummy, it isn't so much what he says as what he does. He actually tried to prevent me getting mobile in a rather sneaky fashion. But we had an—um, a heart-to-heart of sorts. He won't be trying that again."
"They're all the same, my darling." A fruity chuckle reached Samantha down the line. "The good ones are, at any rate. Did I ever tell you? In the first months when you were on the way, your father took to steering me by the neck—as if I were an imbecile or had forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other? I'm afraid I had to ease him from the habit by poking a sharp elbow in his ribs. Not that I'd advocate real violence in your case, you understand. Just a little firm reminder from the distaff side. To teach them where their jurisdiction ends..."
Sam, by now, was sitting on the hallway floor with both her knees drawn up. "I miss you, Mummy," she offered through a giggle.
"Darling, you miss Christopher. And you are going to miss your work, and all your colleagues. It'll certainly feel strange, initially. But do believe me when I tell you that in life there's always something to delight and challenge, and you're not the sort to sit around and pine, now are you?"
"No, Mummy." Sam managed a self-conscious little laugh.
"Are you lonely or miserable, Dear? You'd tell your mother if you were?"
The question met with momentary silence.
"Samantha?" Geraldine's antennae twitched. She leant forward in her chair, listening hard for signs of life: a sigh; a ragged breath. If her daughter were unhappy, she would drop everything and get a train to Hastings, choir or no choir, she told herself determinedly. The Lyminster ladies could just carp amongst themselves. She couldn't—wouldn't—be Iain's gatekeeper while her daughter was in distress.
But Sam was back. "Sorry, Mummy. Just... it's been an awful sort of day... they found a body on the beach. A woman. Murdered. And it churned me up inside, although I should be used to it by now..."
Geraldine closed her eyes, and slid a hand down to rest upon her gently swelling belly. "You're carrying a life inside you, Darling. Not to be afraid, but it changes everything. It makes you fragile... when it doesn't make you tough. Do you need me to come over there and stay? You only need to say..."
Sam stroked the mouthpiece of the Bakelite receiver. "And you would too, wouldn't you, if I were to ask you?"
"I would. Without a second thought. Because at times like these, I picture you with dirty knees and tartan ribbons in your hair. Motherhood's a lifetime of servitude and joy, Samantha. I should say 'Welcome to the club'."
Sam smiled and leant her head against the wall. "The picture still applies, you know. You should've seen the state of me last Sunday. Up to my eyebrows in motor oil and grease. My hands are still a mess."
"My darling tomboy, you're the closest thing we've got to a mechanical genius in the family. I've not the faintest idea who you get it from. Your father actually comes to fetch me every time a light bulb goes!"
Samantha chuckled. "Mummy... you're an utter tonic. Thanks so much. I feel miles better now."
"You're very welcome, Darling."
Thursday, 18th January, 1945
DCS Fielding's funeral was held next day at Hythe. It was a quiet affair, in terms of numbers, but it managed to bring forth a few surprises. Sam and Milner wore black armbands and arrived a full hour earlier than required.
They had intended to collect Sergeant Dale, and take her to the burial. But AC Parkins confounded everyone by turning up, quite unannounced, in full dress uniform with medal ribbons, and ushered Dale instead into his own staff car for the ride out to the churchyard.
A discreet veil had been drawn over the circumstances of DCS Fielding's death. Whilst there was no doubt from the doctor's observations and the subsequent post-mortem that the man had died from a cocktail of narcotic drugs and whisky, there was no absolute proof that the overdose was taken with deliberate intent. As so often happened in these cases, the inquest had shied away from reaching a verdict of suicide, and the funeral had finally been allowed to go ahead without objections legal or ecclesiastical.
Milner scanned the mourners, looking for a likely candidate for Foyle's intended letter of sympathy. He even had a quiet word with the vicar for advice, but was informed that Fielding's son could not be located, and that his sister was deceased. That left a few acquaintances, plus the police contingent. All in all, a sorry showing for the sum of a man's life, personal and professional.
Sam stood beside the open grave, eyeing Sergeant Dale out of the corner of her eye. The object of her interest was a woman in her middle thirties, soberly uniformed and skirted in police dark-blues. And with a real police career. Patricia Dale cut a slim, no-nonsense figure, standing a little taller than Samantha, and only slightly shorter than the Assistant Commissioner himself. Parkins' manner with his female subordinate was courteous. And cool (but no more so, Samantha noted, than with Milner). Sam watched the clutch of police professionals standing at the graveside, and, had her dark eyes been lighter, a flash of emerald green might have been visible within them in that moment.
Parkins' level of acquaintance with her husband's professional and personal affairs should not have surprised Sam. He was, after all, Christopher's immediate boss. But Christopher had mentioned very little to her about the man, and on the few occasions she had ferried her husband to meetings with the AC, Christopher's expression afterwards had always been inscrutable. Perhaps she had detected a tinge of long-suffering acceptance, but this was normal for her husband in his dealings with authority.
By faulty transference, Sam had naturally assumed that, because she knew little of Parkins, Parkins knew little of her. She was, after all, a minion in his universe.
As it turned out, she now discovered just how wrong she was in her assumption.
The burial ceremony having drawn to a close, she turned to leave the graveside and found herself almost nose-to-chin with the AC, his wrinkled, normally mournful face now scrunched into a genuine enough smile.
He looked her up and down.
"Mrs Foyle. How are you? Still in post, I see? And your husband serving his secondment duties."
"Sir!" Sam saluted smartly. "That's correct. But, um, I shall be stepping down at the end of the month."
Parkins smile broadened. "Yes, indeed. So I understand. And your replacement is to be procured from other Whitehall duties."
"That's right, Sir. My replacement is Georgina Rose. Perhaps you know her?"
Parkins eyelids lowered, and his lips suppressed amusement. "I regret that I do not, Mrs Foyle. But provided her appointment satisfies your husband, that will do for me."
Sam's face lit up. "Oh absolutely, Sir. Tickety—erm, most acceptable, thank you."
"Splendid." He inclined his head as a preliminary to parting. "I must leave you with a passenger for the return journey," he added, indicating Dale, who was conversing quietly with Milner. "Sergeant Dale requires a lift back into Hythe."
"No trouble at all, Sir."
Nodding once, Parkins made to move away. His elevated position in the ranks had schooled him to expect that any interview he initiated would last for as long as he chose to conduct it, and end only when he pronounced it terminated. Christopher Foyle had broken that rule on one occasion by virtually walking out on a discussion, and now, by Jove, he found that he had reckoned without Samantha Foyle, who appeared to be doing the exact opposite by prolonging theirs.
"So, Sir," Sam rose strategically on her toes to bring herself to Parkins' eye level. "How do you like having women on the Force? Great progress, don't you think?" she pressed him cheerfully.
AC Parkins was not accustomed to eye-to-eye discussions of important matters with young women, whether they were on the Force or off it. Now, as he met Samantha's clear-eyed, earnest gaze, he found himself in sympathy with DCS Foyle's patent failure to stay professionally detached from the forthright and engaging package that stood before him—on her toes, into the bargain. This, to his mind, was the most powerful argument against the mixing of the sexes professionally.
His opinions on the subject of women in police uniform had only ever been expressed in camera and between men. His views on the matter—struggling as he was with shortages of personnel—could best be summarised with the phrase "a necessary evil".
"My dear, I..." Parkins hesitated, resisting his first inclination, which had been to patronise. "The war has rendered it necessary for us to appoint women. My preference would be for a Force comprised entirely of men."
Sam frowned, but nodded understandingly. "Mmm, yes, Sir. I can quite see how it might rock the boat. But my husband and Mr Milner have always treated me as a valued member of the team. I think it's just a question of custom. Once you're used to us, we women sort of blend in, really."
Parkins smiled indulgently at that. "Samantha. If I may point out... You have married your superior, and are now proposing to leave your job."
"Um." Sam blinked, taken aback for an instant, but the interruption was a brief one. "Yes, but not from choice... The leaving, I mean to say. And our marriage was... oh... a one-in-a-million stroke of good fortune."
Sam beamed at him in satisfaction.
"Ah." Parkins struggled for a moment with the logic. "Good fortune for DCS Foyle, certainly. But had you been a serving policewoman, it would not have been propitious for our staffing levels on the Force. We should have lost ourselves a constable."
Sam frowned, considering whether he might not have a point.
Parkins pursed his lips. He had no idea how much Samantha knew of his exchanges with her husband, but he could not resist the opportunity to test her gently.
"So, my dear, would you care to tell me why, if you are anxious to promote a feminine presence on and around the Force, you have decided to leave your post?"
All thought of pregnancy fled Sam's mind as she answered quite truthfully, "Well. Um. Actually. It seems as if, the minute that we married, my husband found that having me at work was a distraction."
"My dear," Parkins smiled patiently, "I rest my case. These are the kinds of difficulties I predict."
"Yes, but… you and my husband are all old-fashioned chivalry, aren't you? It's your upbringing."
Parkins blinked, then gaped. A bullet straight between the eyes: Foyle's wife had just called him an old fogey to his face!
"And besides," Sam was in full flow now, "with my husband, it's simple concern for his wife's well-being, rather than over my being a woman. Now, just look over there, Sir."
Parkins found himself steered by the elbow and following the girl's gaze to where DS Milner now stood underneath a tree with Sergeant Dale. The two were conversing earnestly and animatedly, face to face. Dale had her finger raised to emphasise a point, and Milner was nodding with interest. It had every appearance of a meeting of equals.
Parkins suppressed a smile. But Samantha hadn't finished yet.
"And don't you think it will be difficult to go back to how things were… I mean when the war is over, Sir? I mean, I've had opportunities my mother never had, and if I have a daughter, I should hope to see her with a good career, or following a profession."
"My dear," Parkins drew his cap from underneath his arm and set it on his head with practised ease, "It has been most interesting to meet you. And I sincerely hope that you do have a daughter. Please give my regards to your husband. Now, if you will excuse me..."
...
"A murder. Very nasty one. Assaulted and then strangled. Girl. Mid-twenties. Blonde." Milner couldn't bring himself to mention the other detail of the incident, but as it turned out, he need not have censored his account.
"Sexual assault?" Patricia Dale looked steadily up at DS Milner. "Because if so, we have two similars, still unsolved, on our books. Not my cases, obviously, being uniform, but I attended both scenes. And I'm not ashamed to tell you that I wept at both."
"Two?" Milner suppressed a pang of professional envy at the greater levels of excitement being experienced along the coast.
"Plus one I've heard about at Ramsgate in the last nine months. All fair-haired women in their twenties. A filthy business."
Milner's voice emerged in a harsh whisper. "How on earth could this news not have reached us down in Hastings? This means we have a pattern... a serial killer on our hands."
"I don't know, Mr Milner." Sergeant Dale faced him, arms folded. "Fielding would've been responsible for alerting your superior. You'd better ask your Mr Foyle."
Milner pushed his hat back from his brow and rubbed his forehead. "I'm certain he knows nothing of these murders, Pat,"—his tone was breathless with a mix of shock tinged with excitement—"or he would've passed the information on to me."
"Then I'd say there's been a serious breakdown of communication somewhere," Dale offered gravely.
They began to walk back to the Wolseley, where Sam was waiting.
"Listen," she continued, "AC Parkins needs to push off back to London, so I'd be grateful for a lift back to the station in your car. Come in, and then I'll let you have the carbon copies of the case files."
"That would be a godsend, Pat. Appreciate it. Thank you."
"No one to object now, is there?" grinned Sergeant Dale. "Fielding, rest his soul, could be a bear. We would've had to jump through hoops before he'd share his case notes outside of his jurisdiction." She glanced over her shoulder at the mound of earth beside the grave. "Well, the old devil isn't here to guard his papers now."
Milner gave a quiet smile. "What was he like to work for?" He'd met the man but once, and had come away with the impression that he had got the better deal of it at Hastings.
Dale gave a harsh laugh, and raised one eyebrow as she looked up at him. "Took one look at me, the day I was transferred across from London, and growled, 'Just my bloody luck. Two sugars in my tea, girl!'"
"And you said?" Milner stared at her incredulously.
"Nothing. Sent a constable in with his tea, as ordered. But made damn sure he got no biscuit. If I let stuff like that bother me too much, I couldn't drag myself out of bed in a morning. Different battle every day, Mr Milner. It's made me tough, believe me.
"Mind you, to be fair: Soon as he found out I could do the job and field some of his load, things settled down. He saw that I was married—from the ring,"—she waved her left hand—"and asked me where my husband was. I told him, 'Best guess: France, Sir'. And that seemed to break the ice. He never called me 'girl' again."
"How did he like you crying at a murder scene?" Milner ventured tentatively.
Dale gave him an even look. "Oh, don't mistake me—when I say I cried, I didn't mean I broke down, bawling. But then, that was the strangest thing, with Fielding. All he said was, 'Congratulations on the waterworks, Dale. I haven't got it in me, any more.' Suppose that should have set alarm bells ringing."
They turned to contemplate the grave together.
So what had been the final straw, for Fielding? Milner himself was no stranger to the stark depths of depression. One thing was certain: his own sanity had been saved from its destructive force by the timely offer of a hand to help him climb out of the pit of self-absorption. A hand that helped him feel he made a difference. A hand that had belonged to Mr Foyle.
****** TBC ******
More soon.
GiuC