Mark blinked. “And what did he do?”
“I saw him walk to a van and get in, and then he took off in the direction of Park Square. I was close enough to use my torch—the license plate started with an E.”
“Are you sure about the plate, ma’am?” Mark asked.
“I may be old, young man,” the woman snapped, “but I’m not blind and deaf. Nor dumb in either sense, thank you very much.”
“No, ma’am.” Mark had the grace to look embarrassed. “Of course not. Sorry, ma’am.”
“You’re Mrs. Vera Baines,” Maggie exclaimed, remembering the file she’d read in Mark’s office. “You found the other young woman, too—Miss Joanna Metcalf.”
Vera Baines appraised the redhead. “I did.”
“And you know this area well.”
“I do. I’ve lived here all my life. Raised my children here. And I’m taking it personally that this sort of horrible thing is happening on my streets, in my neighborhood, on my watch. Two poor dead girls! We need to catch whoever’s doing this—before anyone else gets hurt.”
Durgin stared down at her. “We’re doing everything we can, Mrs. Baines. Please let me know if you remember anything else.” He handed her his card.
She took it, then placed it in her handbag for safekeeping. She looked shrewdly at Maggie. “So many girls coming and going now, what with the war on.” She sighed. “So many girls—who can keep track of them all? I don’t know them the way I might have a few years ago. It’s not like the old days, you know.”
“These girls,” Maggie asked, thinking hard, “the ones new to the neighborhood—where do they stay?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere. Anyone with a spare bedroom can rent it out these days, and most do. Some of the larger old houses have been turned into efficiency flats. There are women’s hotels, boardinghouses….Everyone’s trying to turn a profit from this war, it seems.”
“I like your cane,” Maggie offered impulsively, admiring its silver bulldog’s head and silver tip.
“Young lady, it is not a cane—it’s a walking stick. There’s a vast difference, you know.”
“My apologies,” Maggie said hastily. “Of course it’s a walking stick. And a handsome one at that. Does he have a name?”
At this, Vera smiled. “Her name is Lady. Named after my beloved childhood pet. She was a good dog. But enough about walking sticks—go catch this monster!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Baines,” Maggie called as the older woman was escorted out.
Mark murmured to Frain, “This second victim’s injuries parallel the wounds made to Jack the Ripper’s second victim.”
Maggie started. How would Mark know that?
Mark caught her look of surprise. “Bit of a Ripperologist in my spare time,” he said with a crooked smile.
“Our Jack seems to have left a calling card.” Durgin pointed to a piece of bark removed from a tree trunk and brought into the tent. The writing in white paint read: Catch me if you can! Yours, Jack the R.
“Take the bark to the lab,” Frain ordered the officers surrounding them. “And get the body to the coroner’s.”
They went outside. Maggie took a deep breath, grateful for the fresh air. “I have other business to attend to,” she heard Frain tell Mark. “You two and Detective Durgin will take it from here. The three of you will use Standish’s office at MI-Five as a home base for the duration of the case.” He strode back to the street, the tails of his long coat flapping in the wind.
Durgin looked down at the two MI-5 agents. “We can meet them at the coroner’s for the postmortem. I’ll show you Metcalf’s body and then we’ll go over Leighton’s.” His gaze raked over Maggie. “Unless you have a tea party or a debutante ball to go to? Or perhaps an office with a desk, for that matter?”
She wasn’t about to let him affect her. “I’ve checked in with my ladies-in-waiting and apparently I have the all-clear for today.” She gave a grim smile. “Lead on, please, DCI Durgin.”
—
The sky might have been gray and the wind chill, but to the man it was a beautiful morning.
He wore green sunglasses in a tortoiseshell frame and a Burberry coat as he walked down the stairs. As he reached the pavement, a red ball bounced across his path. He bent to pick it up, then looked into the face of a four-year-old—smiling when he saw the toddler’s bright eyes and light locks. “Is this yours?” he asked, offering the ball.
The boy held out mitten-covered hands gravely. Behind him stood his mother, a heavyset woman with a patched wool coat and a strained smile.
“Well, here you go, son!” He handed the ball to the child, then straightened, noticing the woman was carrying willow baskets on each arm, heavy with onions and potatoes. “May I help you with those, ma’am?” he asked with a tip of his hat.
“Thank you.” She gave a grunt of relief as she handed them over.
As they all walked together, he asked the woman, “Long queues at the shops today?”
“And not much left when you get to the front of them.” At a drab yellow-brick building, she stopped. “This is us. Thank you so much for your help.”
The boy hung behind his mother’s skirt, shy.
“My pleasure,” he replied with sincerity. “A boy with his mum—it’s a lovely sight to behold.” He looked down to the child. “You be good for your mother, young man—do you hear? She’s making incredible sacrifices for you. You’re a lucky, lucky boy.”
He gave the lad a pat on the head and was off, whistling the tune of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” as he made his way through the Marylebone streets to Regent’s Park. The wind picked up, and he bent against it, pulling down the brim of his hat so it wouldn’t blow away.
When he reached the entrance to the park, he was pleased to see the police had already set up a tent. He took some bread crumbs wrapped in a handkerchief in his pocket and found a bench—not too near and not too far from the flurry of activity—where he could feed the pigeons as well as watch the proceedings.
He put his gloved middle finger to his mouth and began chewing on it, savoring the rusty tang of the blood that had collected in the leather’s seam. The taste reminded him of his previous night’s adventure, the way he’d ripped the girl—slain her, annihilated her. For years, women had treated him like a mouse—well, who were the animals now? When he had gone to the hunting shop to buy a knife, he’d told the salesman he was after “small prey.”
As the man in the green sunglasses gnawed at his fingertips, he thought with joy of Brynn Parry—the animal still down in the basement, awaiting him. One of the police officers nodded to him as he passed. With a thrill of adrenaline, the man realized he could sit on his bench and feed the pigeons as long as he wanted, and no one would suspect a thing. He liked that. He liked feeling powerful, being the man who knew the most. He was the hunter, lying in wait.
He recognized Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin as he strode up the path, as well as MI-5’s Peter Frain, from the newspapers. But who was the man with the white streak in his hair? And who was the redheaded girl? His eyes narrowed. That hair! Even in the overcast, the slut’s coppery hair glowed like Little Red Riding Hood’s cape, like a matador’s mantle, like fresh red blood. His lip curled. The arrogant whore must like the attention her hair brought her or she’d cover it up or cut it off. Flaunting it, that’s what she was doing. Flaunting.