“Bitter or sweet?”
She matched him, step for step. “Bitter. Dark and bitter, Detective Chief Inspector.”
—
Mark had caught up by the time they reached the second floor. Outside the large taped windows, the wind had picked up and the snow was beginning to fall in earnest.
“I’m going in alone,” Durgin announced.
“Detective,” Mark said as a flunky handed Durgin a file. “I don’t know if you realize this, but I’ve been catching domestic terrorists—IRA as well as Nazi—for years. And it’s also how Miss Hope started off in this crazy business. The details of her most recent cases are classified to the likes of me, but I wager she’s seen more action than you could ever imagine.”
Durgin paged through the file, eyebrows drawn together. “Mr. Standish, Miss Hope.” He made an astonishingly graceful courtly bow. “I don’t want a woman in there. That is all.” He turned to enter the interrogation room.
“What?” Maggie called after him. “This is my case too!”
“Sorry, Miss Tiger, no skirts allowed. You”—he jabbed his chin toward Mark—“if you insist, you may sit in.”
“I want to show you something.” Maggie began to pull her blouse out of her skirt’s waistband.
Durgin drew himself up to his full height, looking aghast. “Miss Hope—that’s neither appropriate nor necessary.”
Maggie didn’t stop until she’d uncovered her ribs. “See this scar?” she hissed, pointing to the still-raw bullet gash on her side.
Durgin’s eyes were steely. “Hard to miss.”
“I lived through that.” She dropped her blouse and tucked it back in.
“And what happened to the person who shot you?”
Maggie met his eyes. “I killed him. He’s dead.” It was a simple statement of fact. “I’d like you both to keep that in mind as we conduct this inquiry. I have strengths and experience you may not anticipate. Don’t make assumptions.”
“She’s good on a motorcycle, too, Detective, if it comes to it. Can make those big jumps.” Mark made a soaring movement with his fingers, whistling through his teeth.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Durgin stated, unsmiling. “I’m going to take Standish in with me—and you, Miss Tiger, will remain outside.”
“But—”
“I do not doubt your expertise, Miss Hope, but I know men like this. And all my hard-won knowledge informs me he’ll be more forthcoming without a lady present. That’s my experience of more than twenty years. It’s not personal—just my ken. Now, are you going to make this about the case? Or are you going to make it all about you?”
“Fine,” Maggie muttered. “Have it your way.”
“But, please, watch through the one-way mirror. And listen.” Maggie got the distinct feeling Durgin wasn’t the sort of man who said please often. “I want to hear what you think when we’re done.”
“Of course.”
As Durgin took a seat and Mark entered the room, the Detective Chief Inspector told the MI-5 agent, “And when we’re in there, take my lead. We’re doing this my way.”
—
The interview room was small, with a scratched wooden table and three dented metal folding chairs. Durgin and Mark both sat on one side.
They waited as two officers led in a large man with his hands cuffed behind him. The suspect had sloping shoulders, a shiny, bald head, and a prominent Roman nose. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms with protruding veins. He slumped into the chair on the opposite side, appraising the two men through slit eyes. The police officers departed, leaving behind a folder and a pen. From behind the thick mirrored glass, Maggie watched.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Durgin and this is MI-Five Agent Standish. Please state your name and your date of birth.”
“Billy Fishman,” the man said in a low rumble. “Born six of February, eighteen ninety-nine.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Fishman?” Mark asked, as he leafed through the file.
There was only silence and the creak of the chairs. It was cold in the room and Mark’s nose began to drip. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew hard.
Detective Durgin took the file from him and flipped through it, pen in hand. “We have a witness who says she saw you coming out of Regent’s Park at one A.M. She said you got into a van. Mr. Fishman, what were you doing in Regent’s Park in the dead of night?”
Fishman looked straight into the mirrored window with flat, expressionless eyes; Maggie could feel her skin crawl. “I was takin’ a piss.”
“When you were arrested,” Durgin continued, still looking at the file, “our officer reports you had blood on your hands. Underneath your fingernails.”
Fishman glared. “I work with meat.”
“What do you do?” Mark asked. “Are you a butcher?”
“No,” the man snapped. “I transport the meat from the slaughterhouses to the shops. That’s why I got me a van.”
Durgin finally looked up. “Do you often urinate in Regent’s Park?”
The man shrugged powerful shoulders. “Sometimes.”
“And where did you go exactly?”
“I dunno. The Queen Mary Garden, maybe.”
“Ah,” Durgin mused, as though trying to picture it. “You stopped your van, and you went all the way into the park, at night, to take a piss in the Queen Mary Garden? May I ask why the wall wasn’t good enough for you?”
Silence.
Mark leaned in. “A girl was murdered and her body was dumped in the park last night. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing! I don’t know nothing about no girl!”
“Wait—who do you know, then?” Durgin appraised him from beneath his eyebrows. “Come on, tell the truth and shame the devil.”
Agitated now, Fishman shook his head. “Can’t tell you—but I didn’t kill no girl. Didn’t even see no girl.”
Durgin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. “Guards!” he thundered.
Fishman’s heavy-lidded eyes widened. “Wait!”
The detective waved the guards off. He closed the door, turning back to the suspect.
Fishman looked down at the metal table. “There weren’t no girl—but there was a—well, a man.”
Durgin leaned back against the wall, waiting. He folded his arms theatrically.
“Men—men like me—we go in the park at night. Hoping to…you know…find a bloke.” Fishman glared up at them. “You gonna arrest me now?”
“Who’s the bloke?” Mark asked impassively, making notes.
“Hell if I know! We didn’t exactly go courtin’.”
“What did this man you met look like?”
“Small—’bout five foot six, thin, posh. Maybe sixty. Wearing a real nice coat. Tweed. A toff.”
Durgin banged on the door. “Let him go,” he ordered the guards. “And check out his story about meeting up with a man—small, thin, upper-crust.”
“Are you going to arrest him?” Fishman grumbled. “You never arrest the posh fellas.”
“We’ll bring him in for questioning, too. Unlike most of my fellow officers, I don’t give a damn what you do, or when, or with whom. But I do care about murder.” Durgin locked eyes with the manacled man. “And if you’re holding anything back about that, I swear to you, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
—
Philby, Sarah, and Hugh entered the tiny cottage, Hugh ducking to get through the front door. The main room had a low ceiling with rough-hewn beams, an open stone fireplace, worn but clean wide-plank floors covered with colorful braided rugs, and plain, sturdy furniture. A few framed pictures and a shelf of books gave the place a homey air.
“There’s a bedroom upstairs,” Philby explained.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa down here,” Hugh said, while Sarah suppressed a smile.
“Let’s sit down first,” Philby suggested, and they did, in overstuffed armchairs. “Your new identities.” He opened his briefcase and handed each agent a thick file. “I want you to memorize these and then burn them.” Philby looked first to Hugh, speaking in perfect French, “From now on, you will be known as Hubert Taillier. And you will speak only French.”
He fixed his eyes on Sarah. “And your new identity is Sabine Severin.”