“Maggie—”
“Peter, you owe me.” She nodded. “Good day—and please give my regards to Mr. Churchill.” She turned on her heel, walking away from him, her shoes squelching in the cold mud, nearly bumping into a tall, thin woman with lank brown hair streaked with gray and thick glasses.
“So sorry,” Maggie said as she passed, inhaling the rich scent of Chanel No. 5.
“Not at all,” the woman replied.
* * *
—
“I loathe this,” Durgin said in a low voice to Staunton as they entered the room at Scotland Yard set up for the ten o’clock press conference. It was a Sunday, but neither the Met Police nor the press took the day off.
“Go on now, Sarah Bernhardt,” Staunton said, punching his arm.
Durgin went to the podium, surrounded by a thicket of microphones. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming.” There was a rumble of acknowledgment from the assembled members of the press—pale men with gray hair in dark suits—then flashes and pops of the cameras’ bulbs.
The Detective Chief Inspector winced at the flares of light but went on. “We’re continuing our investigation of Pinkie.” At their blank stares, he sighed quietly and amended, “Jimmy Greenteeth.” They brightened again. “So far we have found seven suitcases, filled with bones, on the banks of the Thames. The killer’s escalating—we’re finding more suitcases, closer together. The bones, we can now release, are of men, around eighteen to thirty years old. We believe the murders are linked, and we believe the same individual or individuals are responsible. If a male in your life is missing, please come forward to the police.”
“Why haven’t you been able to identify any of the bodies?” a burly reporter from The Times asked.
“We do have identifying dentistry,” Durgin replied. “But so far there have been no matches to any persons reported missing.”
A journalist in the back, in a double-breasted, pin-striped suit and a neatly trimmed black mustache, called, “Has anything else been found with the bones?”
Durgin shook his head. “I can’t comment.”
Another reporter, with a ruddy face and bulbous red nose, asked, “Is there any connection between the memo asking officers to report any strange smells and the murders?”
Durgin and Staunton exchanged a look, then the DCI turned back to face the assembled. “I can’t comment.”
“Seems like you can’t comment on much, Detective Chief Inspector!” came the high-pitched, nasal voice of Boris Jones from a seat off to the side. The reporters and photographers laughed, used to his antics.
“Is this for the august tabloid The Daily Enquirer?” Durgin asked. “Going for a London Press Club award, are we?” There was more laughter.
“A book, actually,” Jones replied with pride, a smile splitting his round, pale face.
“I assure you, Mr. Jones, the Met Police are working tirelessly to provide you with the answers you need.”
“Is that why you were spotted at the Tower yesterday?” Jones responded. The room stilled. Durgin was momentarily speechless.
The reporter continued. “A source tells me Reitter was moved there and that’s where he’ll stay until his execution on Wednesday. Can you confirm the Blackout Beast is at the Tower? And what business you had with him there?” Pen in hand, he flipped open a notebook. “Is there any connection between Reitter and Jimmy Greenteeth?”
“I—I can’t comment.”
Jones wasn’t finished. “Miss Margaret Hope was seen with you at the Tower yesterday. Is she working with you on this case? Was she there to visit Nicholas Reitter? Is she working on the Jimmy Greenteeth case?”
“No comment,” Durgin said. He tore his eyes from Jones’s small black ones, then addressed the whole of the assembled group. “I am asking anyone with information on missing young men to come forward to the police. We have a special telephone line dedicated to this case and will follow up all leads.”
He provided the number; pens waggled as the reporters dutifully wrote it down. “And if you know a young man who’s away, on a business trip, on holiday—check in with him. Make sure he is where he says he is.
“To the person responsible for the deaths—turn yourself in. And if anyone has information about witnessing someone throwing a suitcase into the Thames, especially in the Tower Bridge area, we urge you to come forward and contact the Incident Room at Scotland Yard.”
Once again, Durgin’s eyes scanned the room, meeting Peter Frain’s. From the back of the room, the head of MI-5 nodded his head in acknowledgment.
Jones raised his pen. “But Miss Hope—”
“We’re done. Thank you.” In the back of the room, Nicolette Quinn stood and smoothed down her skirt, then went to have a word with the detectives.
* * *
—
Nicolette was waiting in one of the meeting rooms of the Met Police. She and George Staunton sat at a wooden table marked with ancient coffee cup rings.
“Mrs. Quinn—”
“Ward Sister Quinn,” she corrected him.
“Ward Sister Quinn—thank you for coming.”
“The police said anyone with information on Jimmy Greenteeth should come forward, and I want to do my civic duty. I’m here because I was walking over Tower Bridge recently—and I saw a man throwing a suitcase from a boat.”
Staunton pulled a pen and a small notebook from his breast pocket. “Did you recognize the man?”
“No, no.”
“Can you describe him?”
“It was getting dark.”
“Can you describe the boat?”
“It was—a boat. I don’t know.”
Staunton set his jaw. “Was it big? Small?”
“Small,” she said emphatically.
He wrote small boat in neat letters. “Which day was this?”
She pulled out an appointment book from her handbag and flipped through. “March fifth.”
“And what were you doing there? Near Tower Bridge.”
“I had a doctor’s appointment in the area.”
“What sort of doctor?”
“Lady doctor.”
Staunton flushed. “Do you remember what the suitcase looked like?”
“It was—I don’t know—a suitcase.”
“Color? Light or dark?”
She sighed in exasperation. “It was light. Tan, maybe.”
“May I ask where you were earlier that day?”
Nicolette folded her hands. “I was at home.”
“Is there anyone who can verify that?”
“I live in a building with a café. I’m sure my tenants can vouch for my being there.”
“What did you do that day?”
“I remember I ate breakfast. And then I read the newspaper.”
“And you were alone?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied. “I’m a widow.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I have to ask. Could you give us a number where we can reach you if we have any more questions?”
She giggled as she wrote her details on Staunton’s notepad. “Surely I’m not a suspect?”
“Oh no, ma’am,” he replied. “These are just routine questions. I’d ask them of anyone who came in.”
“All right then.” She pushed the notebook back to him.
“Anything else you want to add?”
“No, that’s all.”
“You said you live near a café—which one?”
“Café Mela Rossa. In Clerkenwell.”
“Thank you, Ward Sister Quinn,” he said, writing it down. He looked up. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything more.”
Chapter Eighteen
HM Prison Holloway for Adult Women and Young Of
fenders in North London was a Victorian-era penitentiary. It looked more like a heavily fortified white castle, with towers, turrets, and crenellated walls. Durgin and Staunton passed through security and were shown by a female guard to the office of Wardeness Hilda Gallagher. “Sir Oswald Mosley and Diana Mitford are incarcerated here,” Durgin said. “I hear Churchill got them a cottage on the grounds somewhere.”
Staunton sniffed. “Must be nice.”
A heavy door opened to reveal a tall, trim woman dressed in the same dark blue serge uniform as the guards. But hers was belted, with a silver chain draped across the front.
“Good morning, Wardeness Gallagher,” Durgin said, removing his hat. Staunton did the same, his cheeks flaming the same color as his hair.
“Gentlemen.” Gallagher nodded and motioned them in, rings of iron keys at her waist clanking. She motioned for them to sit.
“We’re here to see one of your prisoners: May Frank.”
The Wardeness folded long, tapered fingers. “Nicholas Reitter’s former fiancée.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Staunton said eagerly, then turned even redder. Durgin gave him an odd look.
Durgin added, “Just a few follow-up questions for her.”
“Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s!” Staunton said in a giddy tone. Durgin lifted one eyebrow.
“Very well. My secretary will show you to a conference room and then we’ll bring her to you.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Wardeness,” Staunton said. When she stood, he rose so fast he nearly fell over. “Ma’am.”
Gallagher’s assistant, a broad-shouldered woman with thinning hair and a faint mustache, led them through a maze of small and claustrophobic corridors, where they could hear locks clanking open and shut, along with sharp voices shouting profanities. The air was thick with the scent of bleach and urine.
She led them up a black iron staircase to a low-ceilinged, whitewashed room with light from high mullioned windows, condensation gathered in the corners. The two men sat on one side of a long wooden table, and Staunton pulled at his collar.
When the assistant left, Durgin said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
“Oh, come on. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” A radiator began to clank in one corner.
Durgin looked thoroughly confused. “Who?”
“The Wardeness, Sherlock. The widow Gallagher.”
Durgin barked a laugh. “Her?”
“Hilda.” He said the name as if saying a prayer, then put a finger to his lips. “Hush, they’re coming.”
* * *
—
“I don’t care what happens to that rat bastard,” May Frank said, twisting a lock of her hair. “He let me hang at trial—tried to pin it all on me. When I never did any of the actual killing.” She was just past twenty and sallow, with limp hair and a port-wine stain on her right cheek. She wore the same uniform as the other women: a stained gray cotton dress and a darker gray cardigan, along with darned lisle stockings and worn oxfords. “He’ll be dead soon enough anyway.” Her face was dour as she sucked on her hair.
“We’re not here about Mr. Reitter, Miss Frank,” Durgin replied. “This is about Operation Pinkie.” She gave him a blank look. “The Jimmy Greenteeth murders,” he said impatiently. “Mr. Reitter is saying he knows him.”
“Oh, is he now?” She sneered, revealing a dead front tooth. “He’s playing you.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Staunton said.
“Do you remember anyone Nicholas was particularly competitive with? Someone from work, maybe?”
“He kept to himself at work, mostly.”
“What about at his flat?” Durgin rocked back in his chair. “Any fights with the neighbors?”
“He was quiet. Minded his own business.”
“When you and he weren’t trapping and murdering young women,” Staunton muttered.
Durgin ignored the comment. “What about his father?”
“What about him?”
“What kind of relationship did they have?”
“Nick’s father took off when he was young. His mother raised him.”
Durgin asked gently, “Did he ever try to find his father?”
“No.”
“And what’s his mother like?”
“Don’t know.” May shrugged. “Never met her.”
“You were engaged to be married and you never met her?” Durgin’s tone was incredulous.
May shrugged. “Nick said she was fanatically religious. He said she’d just try to convert me.”
“You never thought not meeting your fiancé’s mother was…odd?”
“Not really.” May thought for a moment, looking up at the misty windows. “My father thought it was strange, though. He’s a practicing psychoanalyst—trained in Vienna. He thought Nick’s lack of family…peculiar.”
“What specifically did he think was strange?”
“He’s a Freudian—thinks everything has to do with mothers.”
“What about Mr. Reitter’s friends?”
“He had no friends.”
“None?”
“He worked with a man named Charlie.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t remember. Wilson something? Charlie Wilson, maybe? He’s working for the government now. Whitehall.”
“Did Mr. Reitter have any enemies?”
“Not many people liked him,” May said, “but he could be pleasant enough when he wanted to be. Mostly he could just slip by unnoticed.”
“Excellent quality in a sequential murderer,” Staunton murmured.
“But surely in private he’d vent about people—someone at work?” Durgin leaned forward. “An ex-girlfriend perhaps?”
“Wait a minute. You really think he knows Jimmy Greenteeth?”
“That’s what he’s telling us, Miss Frank.”
“How rich.”
Durgin raised one eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Nick’s biggest ambition was to be legendary. To go down in history alongside Jack the Ripper for punishing women. Seeing this ‘Greenteeth’ get so much publicity must be killing him.” Her eyes opened wide as she realized what she’d said. “So to speak.”
“So, let me put it this way: can you think of anyone in Reitter’s life who might want to try to outdo him?”
“I’m sorry, detectives, I am.” May pulled at the cuff of her sweater, where a loose thread threatened to unravel. “But I really have no idea.”
* * *
—
As Durgin and Staunton navigated the narrow corridors back to the entrance of the prison, Durgin said, “Why don’t you just ask her if she’d like to have a cup of tea sometime?”
“Who?” Staunton tried to look innocent.
“Why, Hilda, of course,” Durgin replied in a mocking tone. “And don’t ever think of doing undercover work. Your glowing face gives you away.”
“No, no—I couldn’t possibly…We’re working. So now what?”
“I’m going to pay a call on Reitter’s mother.” As they neared the door to the Wardeness’s office, Durgin nudged Staunton. “Go in,” Durgin insisted with a grin. “Talk to her. I’ll visit his mum on my own. And then I’ll look up this Charlie Wilson. He’s probably at sea, but you can check. We’ll meet up back at the Yard this afternoon.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Ask the Wardeness to tea.” Durgin started down the hallway, then glanced over his shoulder. Staunton was still staring at the door. “Go on, then!”
* * *
—
The East End, Jack the Ripper’s former hunting ground, had been decimated during the Blitz. Mountains of rubble framed the few still-standing buildings, punctuated by cordoned-off areas and signs reading CITY OF LONDON POLICE: DANGER UNEXPLODED BOMB. Dur
gin slipped and skidded on a patch of black ice, grabbing on to a light pole to keep from falling.
He finally found the address he was looking for, a narrow door between a tobacconist and a pawn shop, and rang the bell to apartment 3A. He waited, then rang the bell again, and then again. Finally, a young woman materialized, peered through the glass, and opened the flimsy wooden door. When he got a better look at her, Durgin realized she was a girl—most likely not even thirteen, with thick hair in disarray and a toddler on one hip. Seeing him, she squinted shadowed eyes in suspicion. “Yeah—what do you want?”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin,” he replied, showing his identification. “And I’m looking for Imelda Reitter.”
The child began to whimper and shifted in the girl’s arms. “Nobody ’ere by that name,” she said, blowing at a stray wisp of hair.
“Is your mother here?”
“Me mum’s long gone,” the girl said. Then, seeing Durgin’s look to the child, “He’s not mine—my younger brother. Dad died at Dunkirk and Mum took off not long after. This one ’ere,” she said, bouncing the baby to soothe him, “is one of four she left me to take care of. So if you don’t have any money for us—or food—bugger off.” She put out an arm to close the door.
Durgin stuck his foot in before it could close. “As I said, I’m looking for a woman named Imelda Reitter.” He pulled out a few bills from his wallet and passed them over.
The girl grabbed at them, then stuffed them down the front of her dress. “She’s our landlady.”
“Where do you send your rent?”
“Don’t post it. She comes the first of every month.”
“Does she live in the building?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she lives?” he pressed.
“Not a bastard clue. Maybe Clerkenwell.”
“Where in Clerkenwell?”
“No idea.”
“All right,” he said, changing tactics. “What does she look like?”
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