“Y-yes,” Silvana said.
“Which branch?”
Her lips parted briefly before pressing together in a determined line. “I am afraid you will have to go now.” She wrung her hands. “I need to go to a doctor’s appointment.”
“Which branch, Mrs. Genovese?” Maggie pressed. Usually, families of men in the military were overcome with pride and knew every detail about their loved ones’ activities. But Silvana remained silent.
“We just wanted to ask,” Durgin said, “if you saw anyone acting suspicious at the Wigmore. Anyone who had access to the violin.”
“No, nothing. I know nothing.” She stood. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must go.”
“Of course,” Durgin said, also rising, hat in hand.
Maggie rose as well. “Thank you.”
Durgin pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to the woman. “If you think of anything else—no matter how small—please let us know, Mrs. Genovese. It might be important. Maestro Genovese’s violin is irreplaceable. He’s heartbroken over its loss.”
“I know,” she said, sounding emotional for the first time. “And I am truly sorry. But I am afraid I cannot tell you anything more.”
Chapter Twelve
At Terroni, a Britalian delicatessen on Clerkenwell Road, Maggie and Durgin sat at a tiny marble-topped table, cupping their hands around warm mugs. A plate of half-eaten crostata di mele and two forks sat between them. The pastry had been stale and the apples, fanned in a circle of thick slices, bitter. Behind the shop’s taped windows, a Union Jack was displayed proudly as the backdrop for empty glass bottles, which had once held imported olive oil. Outside, the cold gray clouds grew even darker as the sun began to set, and through the glass Maggie could hear the rattle of a barrel organ and the raucous shouts of street hawkers.
“Something’s not right,” Durgin said, taking a sip of tea. “With either woman.”
Maggie nodded. “Is that what your gut tells you?” While she believed in logic, evidence, and science, she had to admit Durgin’s hunches were rarely, if ever, wrong.
He smiled despite the circumstance. “Yes, Miss Hope. And does my gut dovetail with your more logical calculations?”
“Mrs. Basso did seem oddly unconcerned about her husband’s not coming home for the night and not showing up for work. And then she brushed off the missing suitcase. Anyone else would be out of her mind with worry.”
Durgin rubbed his nose. “And Giacomo’s aunt seemed annoyed at the intrusion—which I understand, of course—”
“That didn’t bother me as much as she didn’t want to discuss Giacomo. What aunt doesn’t want to brag about her famous nephew?”
“She was defensive, even.”
Maggie nodded. “She’s clearly hiding something. Did you notice there were no photographs of Francesco in uniform? Unheard of these days, if a family has someone in the military. And she didn’t even know what branch he was in.”
“The only time she seemed moved at all was at the mention of Genovese’s missing violin.”
“Do you think she stole it?” Maggie asked, nearly burning her tongue on the thick, dark liquid.
“I don’t get the feeling she’s a thief—but there is something wrong. I can look up the son and see where he’s stationed—if he has a record. Maybe he stole the violin when he was home on leave? And she’s covering for him?”
“Could very well be.” Maggie put her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out Vera’s card, with her name engraved on the front and her address handwritten on the back. “What’s that?” Durgin asked.
“Vera’s calling card. Sometimes I go to her monthly book club.”
“What’s this month’s book?”
“Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. You know, ‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…’ ”
“Funny how everyone thinks it’s Mrs. Danvers who’s so ominous. A woman can’t be a murderer. Of course it was the husband.”
And what do you know of that? Maggie thought. She’d never told Durgin about the things she’d done in SOE. The people she’d killed. What would he think of me? Would he find me a monster?
“So, are you going to go? To the book club?”
“Of course! Mrs. Vera Baines is England, you know?” Maggie said, staring at the people passing by with umbrellas tucked under their arms. “With her bulldog walking stick, stoicism, and bravery.”
“I’m sure she’s an excellent ARP warden,” Durgin offered. “And I’m glad you’re going. You deserve a bit of fun. I know coming back hasn’t been easy for you.”
Maggie’s stomach rumbled. “Do you want to have dinner here, in Clerkenwell?”
“I’m afraid,” Durgin said, lifting his mug and draining its contents, “I must return to the office.”
“Surely you can spare the time for a bite to eat?”
“I wish I could.” He stood, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. “But duty calls.”
“Maybe when you’re done?”
His eyes darkened. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be. But you’re welcome to come to the office, if you’d like.”
“You’re working on the Jimmy Greenteeth case?” At Durgin’s nod, Maggie shuddered. “Then no, no thank you.”
“Just so you know,” he said, throwing his coat over his shoulders and clapping on his hat, “we’re now referring to the case as ‘Operation Pinkie.’ ”
“Graham Greene? Brighton Rock?”
“See, I knew you’d understand. That’s why we’re so good together!”
“You think?”
“I wish you’d help me with this case, Maggie.”
“I’m sorry, James, I need to keep my distance,” she said as she stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, inhaling mint and wool and bergamot. “But from the case, not from you.”
* * *
—
Dr. Theodore Merton performed a series of chest compressions, while his patient, a seventy-four-year-old woman named Mrs. Anna Bristol, hovered between life and death.
Dorothy stood in the doorway, watching, unsure if she could help. But it was too late. Mrs. Bristol’s life left her body, the animation in her eyes fading.
“Time of death, twenty-one hundred hours,” Dr. Merton declared. His shoulders were hunched and tufts of silver hair stuck straight up on his head. He looked to Nicolette. “Thank you for your assistance, Ward Sister.”
“Of course, Dr. Merton,” she replied briskly as she exited.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Bristol died,” Dorothy offered as she and Nicolette walked down the hallway. “You and Dr. Merton did everything you could.”
“I could have done more if Dr. Merton had let me. You know, I studied to be a doctor. I probably know more than he does.”
“What happened?”
“Do you see many female doctors roaming the halls, Nurse Wilson?”
“No, I don’t suppose I do,” Dorothy conceded. “What was the cause of death? She’d only just been admitted!”
Nicolette waved her hands in a vague circle, her pale pink fingernail polish catching the light. “We’re running out of beds with all the new soldiers and sailors arriving.”
Dorothy’s eyes and mouth were wide with shock. “What?”
“Better now than later, if you get my drift, love.”
“I—I—”
Nicolette rolled her eyes. “Oh, calm yourself, it was just a joke,” she snapped. “A bad example of the gallows humor we sometimes use in the medical profession. Sometimes I forget how young you are, how inexperienced.” She looked hard at Dorothy. “You’re extremely talented,” she said. “I think you really have a bright future here. But you need to toughen up.”
“Really?” Dorothy looked pleased, her round cheeks flushing. “A bright future?”
“Absolutely.”
Just as the orderlies wheeled Mrs. Bristol’s body down the hallway, Nicolette was called away. “Get something to eat, Nurse Wilson,” she chided Dorothy over her shoulder. “It’s going to be a long night.” Dorothy nodded, but something gnawed at her more than hunger.
She looked both ways before slipping back into Mrs. Bristol’s room. She walked directly to the waste bin, pulling out an IV line. There was also an empty vial, labeled NITROGLYCERIN. She took Mrs. Bristol’s file to the window to read by the fading light.
Nitroglycerin was nowhere to be found in the chart. If administered without necessity, Dorothy knew it could be fatal, mimicking the symptoms of a heart attack. Who would have made such a mistake? Dorothy checked the chart once again. The nurse on duty prior to Nicolette Quinn was Reina Spector; in fact, the room still smelled faintly of her Chanel No. 5 perfume. “What are you up to, Nurse Spector?” Dorothy murmured, pocketing the drip line.
* * *
—
When Durgin slid into his desk chair at Scotland Yard, Staunton raised an eyebrow. “Where in Hades have you been?”
“Paid a call on Mrs. Silvana Genovese, Giacomo Genovese’s aunt, in Clerkenwell.”
“About the stolen violin? Learn anything?”
“Only that she was acting…odd. I also looked in on Renata Basso, also of Clerkenwell.”
“Should I know the name?”
“She’s the wife of a Carmine Basso, someone Maggie works with at the One-Oh-Seventh.”
“I thought our Maggie had washed her hands of police business.”
“He’s been MIA at work and he’s a CO who’s received some white feathers. Understandably, she was concerned.”
“Think he could be one of Jimmy Greenteeth’s skeletons?”
“I’m not sure. His wife didn’t seem to be worried. Said he was out. But something just wasn’t right.” Durgin shook his head.
“Don’t suppose you asked about his teeth?”
“Silver fillings in the top back molars.”
Staunton nodded. “I’ll cross-check the dental work of the skulls.” He went to a metal file cabinet and opened one of the drawers. “I hope police outings aren’t the only ones you’re taking that lass on.”
Durgin threw up his hands. “She called me! She wanted to go!”
“All right, then,” Staunton said gently, taking out a file and turning back to the DCI. “What about when you’re not working on cases?”
Durgin gave him a half smile. “And when’s that?”
“Miss Hope deserves a man who’ll be there for her.”
“She knows how important my work is to me.”
“She can respect your work without being drawn in, too.”
“True, I just—”
“Yes?” Staunton’s eyes were kind, but his expression was firm.
“I just don’t know if I have anything more to give. My divorce with Janet was…”
“Bad. I remember. I didn’t mind having you stay with me, but those were a rough few weeks.”
“And you know I’ll never forget what you did for me.”
“But look, are you afraid of hurting her? Or are you afraid of getting hurt? Because either way, you’re doing yourself, and that young lady, a disservice.”
Durgin scowled and turned back to his desk. “Thank you, George. Can we get back to work now?”
“Oh, if it’s work you want—” Staunton passed an envelope to Durgin. The return address was HM Prison Brixton, in Lambeth, London. “This came for you today.”
Durgin tore open the envelope. In architectural lettering, it read:
I CAN HELP YOU.
—The Blackout Beast
“Staunton,” he said, looking up. “We may have a new lead on Operation Pinkie—from Nicholas Reitter himself.”
Chapter Thirteen
Friday, March 5, 1943
Five days until Nicholas Reitter’s execution
The next morning was raw and misty, the thick clouds overhead the color of gunmetal. It wasn’t cold enough to kill the smell of cat urine and rotting garbage. At the prison gate, Durgin gave the guard his name and identification. The guard examined his papers, whistling an old prison rhyme. Durgin knew the words by heart:
Deep in my dungeon, I welcome you here
Deep in my dungeon I worship your fear
Deep in my dungeon I dwell
I do not know if I wish you well.
The large, crumbling prison had been established in 1820, with a capacity of just over eight hundred inmates. It was a drab building, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence. Its walls were stained with soot, and thick iron bars covered the windows. The prison was notorious for its enormous wheel, which prisoners were forced to push as they walked to grind the grain for their bread.
Before Reitter’s arrival, Brixton’s most famous inmate had been Oswald Mosley, founder of the British Union of Fascists. He’d been interned in Brixton three years prior. Other inmates were mostly prisoners of war, conscientious objectors, and debtors. Most were serving short sentences or awaiting trial, deportation, or extradition. Reitter was the only prisoner on death row.
When Governor Oliver Turner arrived, Durgin shook his hand. “We spoke on the telephone last night, Governor. Thank you for letting me visit on such short notice.”
“Welcome, Detective Chief Inspector,” Turner said in a flat Salford accent. He was almost six feet tall, with piercing eyes, a Roman nose, and wispy chalk-white hair. “Let’s get the formalities out of the way, shall we?”
Oliver Turner’s office was small and plainly furnished; the only decorations on the blackened walls were the official photographs of the King and Prime Minister. He sat at a large metal desk while Durgin took a hard-backed chair opposite. “I’ve read a lot about you, Detective Chief Inspector,” he said. Durgin grimaced in acknowledgment. “What made Reitter do it, do you think?”
Durgin looked past Turner, through the taped windows to the dark sky outside. “He had problems with women, Governor. Probably still does.”
“What do you think made him so angry, though?”
“I don’t know for sure, of course, but in court he mentioned his mother. She punished him when he was young—abnormal, sadistic punishments.”
“But he didn’t have a criminal record before he started killing,” Turner said. “He was educated, employed, fairly good-looking…”
“Perhaps there are things in his past we don’t know about. And just because he didn’t get caught doesn’t mean he didn’t do anything.”
“Well,” Turner said, rubbing large hands together, “it doesn’t matter now, does it? Just five days until his execution. Will you be there?”
“Yes,” Durgin replied. “He killed six of my men. I owe it to them to go.”
Turner cleared his throat. “During your visit, Reitter will stay in his cell. You will be able to speak to him through the barred door. Of course you’ll be a few feet away from the bars and you won’t pass him anything—and I mean anything. Understood?”
“Of course, Governor.”
“I have to say it,” Turner said by way of apology. “And you think he might actually have some information or insight about Jimmy Greenteeth? Or do you think he just wants to see us jump through hoops?”
“It’s…unclear,” Durgin said. “Let’s just say I’m willing to talk to him even on the off chance he can give us something helpful. Men are dying…” His voice trailed off. “And we have no leads.”
Turner rose. “Good luck, then, Detective Chief Inspector.”
Durgin did as well. “Thank you, Go
vernor.”
* * *
—
A guard escorted Durgin along the prison’s corridors, past inmates in brown uniforms with stained towels slung over their shoulders. The two men passed through the general population and then through a gate to the high-security wing, segregated from the rest of the prison. The hallway was empty save for a janitor sweeping the floor. “Right this way, Detective Chief Inspector,” the guard said as he unlocked the doors.
They turned down a long corridor with linoleum floors that echoed with loud moaning. The guard escorting Durgin jerked a thumb at one cell’s occupant, a young blond boy bound in a straitjacket, as they passed. “He’s under twenty-four-hour watch after he found a paper clip and hid it behind his teeth. Used it to try to mess with his wrists.”
“But surely there’s nothing he can use in the cell?”
The guard shook his head. “He’s got a taste for blood—been biting his arm, trying to rip his veins out with his teeth.”
Durgin followed the guard to the end of the hall. The last cell had an iron bed frame bolted to the floor, a shabby mattress topping it, a wooden chair, and a fixed cupboard. Against the wall was a radiator. Above, a high, barred window allowed only a slice of misty sky. The only other objects were a chamber pot, a water jug, and a mug. There were no books, no papers, nothing. WHATEVER IS PROFOUND LOVES MASKS—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE was scratched from the paint of the wall.
The guard brought a chair from the corner to two feet in front of the bars. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thank you.” But Durgin remained standing. The guard left, his footsteps echoing.
Reitter stepped from a shadowed corner to the middle of the cell, never taking his eye from Durgin’s. Half of his face was horribly scarred and he wore a black eye patch. “You received my letter.” His voice was low and sonorous, almost purring.
“I did,” Durgin replied. His eyes swept Reitter’s empty cell. “How do you even know about the suitcase murders?”
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