Maggie was amused to see people in matching uniforms keeping to their own, just like the park’s pigeons, ducks, and geese. Under an ancient oak tree in the distance, a busking violinist played the melody of Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique, while a man being pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse tossed coins into his case.
“Ah, there he is,” Frain said, catching sight of a man in a gray mackintosh pacing the walk near the park’s entrance, causing a flock of strutting pigeons to scatter. “Detective!” he called. Then, to Maggie and Mark, “Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, to be precise.”
The detective whirled, then strode toward them in thick-soled shoes, pigeons startling and taking flight in his wake. Durgin was tall and lean, like a distance runner, Maggie thought, and his gray-blue eyes burned with an intense, almost maniacal energy. His full curly brown hair was clipped, his eyebrows were bushy, and the diagonals of his widow’s peak only emphasized the severe lines of his forehead and sharp cheekbones. Maggie guessed he was in his mid to late thirties. He was certainly not the reedy, tweedy, upper-class sort of man, such as those in Mr. Churchill’s office, whom she was used to.
“He’s a pioneer in fingerprinting,” Frain continued over the flaps of pigeon wings. “A legend at the Yard. You’ll learn a lot from him.”
Durgin called, “Glad you could join us, Director General,” in a thick Glasgow burr. He took in Frain’s and Mark’s polished shoes and camel-hair coats, and Maggie’s handbag and pumps with a withering squint. “This is your crack team—here to save the day?”
But Frain was unflappable. “This is Mr. Standish, one of MI-Five’s senior agents,” he replied, introducing Mark, “and our associate, Miss Hope, who will be…consulting.”
Durgin didn’t greet them. Instead, the policeman turned on his heel and walked at a terrific pace down one of the paths, past a red-and-white proscenium for a Punch and Judy show, past an empty band shell, and a row of box-trimmed holly bushes. “I’ve told you how I feel about this, Frain,” Durgin threw over his shoulder. “I’m not pleased, not pleased at all. This case should be the Yard’s—”
“It’s sensitive,” Frain countered easily, matching the detective’s stride, while Maggie and Mark hastened to keep up.
“Just because we don’t all wear Cleverley shoes—” Durgin shot back.
“I understand, Detective, and I respect your and your department’s expertise. However—”
“I know, I know—‘there’s a war on, you know.’?” The Detective Chief Inspector gave Frain a piercing glance from beneath his remarkable eyebrows. “Believe me, I know. Thing is, you think the war started in ’thirty-nine—whereas we at the Yard know the war never, ever begins or ends.”
As they walked farther into the park, the hum of traffic faded and the birds’ chirping grew louder. On the battered grass near one of the lakes was a cordoned-off area with a canvas tent where bobbies in uniform were turning away gawkers. One officer strong-armed a journalist, pinning his arms behind him and cuffing him, while another smashed his camera.
Detective Durgin stopped, turned, and shot them a warning glare. “Prepare yourself.” He gave Maggie a particularly hard stare. “And absolutely no vomiting on my crime scene, young lady. I must insist.”
“No, sir,” Maggie replied. “No vomiting. Of course not, sir.”
As they walked past more officers and then ducked into the tent, Durgin closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. Then he gestured to a woman’s prone body, lying on a makeshift cot and splattered with dried blood. The victim was a slender woman in her twenties, with black hair and high cheekbones. She wore a gray flannel skirt, blouse, and Fair Isle sweater. Her head was turned to the left, her colorful scarf lying loosely around her slashed throat. In the shadows of the tent, Maggie could see not only was the woman’s abdomen ripped open but her intestines had been deliberately placed over her right shoulder.
Oh, God. Maggie recoiled in horror, but fought the instinctive urge to turn away, to close her eyes, to run from the tent and throw up the morning’s tea and roll now churning in her stomach.
Instead, she forced her gaze to the woman’s innocent-looking face. You were so young, Maggie thought, her heart heavy. So very young. A surge of anger cut through her. And someone killed you deliberately. Murdered you. But why?
“As you can see,” Durgin said softly, “she wasn’t merely killed—she’s been slaughtered.” The rusty, thick scent of blood was overwhelming.
“Our victim, Miss Doreen Leighton, was found early this morning by the neighborhood’s ARP warden. She alerted the police.” Durgin noted Maggie’s pallor. “You all right?” he asked. “Would you like to return to your Swiss boarding school now?”
“I didn’t come down with the last shower, Detective Durgin,” she countered, squaring her shoulders. There was no time for being emotional. Feelings would come later, in private. “I know my way around blood and bodies.”
“Believe me,” Mark interposed. “Miss Hope has earned her stripes.”
Detective Durgin shrugged, his face still skeptical. “Steady on then, Tiger.”
Maggie found anger helped quell her grief and horror. “That’s Miss Tiger to you, Detective.”
Durgin looked to Frain. “The victim was dead when we arrived. Looks to have been dead for some time, at least twelve hours.” He pointed to the girl’s neck. “Here you can see the first incision, and then the second cuts….” From his inside jacket pocket, Detective Durgin withdrew a magnifying glass and bent low over the woman. He looked through the thick glass at the bruises on her throat.
“Killer wore gloves.” Durgin’s face was stone.
“There’s not much blood.”
“She was killed somewhere else and then moved here. She’s not wearing a coat—she was killed indoors.”
“No signs of a struggle.”
“No, she’s clean,” Durgin agreed. “She didn’t put up a fight.”
“She knew her attacker then?” Maggie asked.
“Possibly. I believe we’re looking for a man. Single. Young. Sadistic tendencies. Wishing he could be doing more with his life. He’s enraged with the cards life’s dealt him. And he despises women—probably had an abusive or absent mother. Look how he carefully arranged her body, her organs. Like she’s a doll. Like she’s a prop. Like she’s a, a thing to him.” Durgin said it softly.
Maggie was baffled. “How could you possibly know all that—just from looking at a body?”
Durgin continued to stare down at the corpse. “He’s arrogant. He’s young, but he’s experienced. This isn’t his first, or his second, murder. But now something’s set him off.”
“But how do you know that?” Maggie insisted.
“I get inside their heads. I think like them, create what I call a profile. It’s a new way to look at perpetrators.” He turned back to the body. “Look at his confidence. He’s been doing this for a while. His cuts are fearless. Even cocky. Only a young man cuts with that sort of arrogance.”
“Any witnesses?”
“I have my men canvassing the area, asking questions. Ah,” he said, as an older woman ducked into the tent to join them. “And this is the ARP warden I mentioned, Mrs. Baines. She has a few things to add.”
Although she had one hand on the head of her silver bulldog walking stick, the woman’s spine was ramrod straight and Maggie could see a lifetime of discipline in her posture. “I was on my patrol at around one this morning, when I saw a man come out of the park, onto the Outer Circle.”
“What did he look like, Mrs. Baines?” Mark asked, taking out a Moleskine notebook and fountain pen from his breast pocket.
“He was big—a big man. Bald,” she explained. “No hat. And he was wearing an apron.”
“An apron?”
“The kind a butcher wears. White, but with stains. Bloodstains, I’d imagine.”