The cab pulled up in front of police headquarters, and Ian paid the driver while Dickerson alighted from the cab and opened an umbrella. The rain had started again—a thin, perfunctory drizzle washing away the remnants of snow still clinging to the cobblestones.
An air of expectation greeted them inside. Evidently word had gotten around, and eyes followed them as Ian and the sergeant entered the main room. Threading through the desks and filing cabinets, they proceeded down the narrow hallway toward the holding cells. The floorboards creaked as they entered the cellblock, containing a dozen or so cramped but relatively comfortable compartments.
Seated on the bunk in the first one was a small, rather elderly man in a tweed hunting jacket. He looked up and smiled expectantly when he saw Ian.
“Detective Inspector Hamilton, I presume?”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Whitaker Titterington the Third.”
“I see,” said Ian as Sergeant Dickerson let them both into the cell, opening the thick metal gate and clanking it closed behind them.
“Please, won’t you sit down?” inquired Whitaker Titterington III, indicating a chair in the corner of the cell.
Ian complied, leaving Sergeant Dickerson standing rather stiffly by the door, as if he expected the prisoner to leap up and flee at any moment. “So, Mr. Titterington, you claim to be responsible for the death of Mr. Robert Tierney on the night of Friday last?”
“I am indeed.”
“Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“Are you going to hold me overnight?” he asked eagerly.
“If we find it necessary.”
“Oh, it is most necessary, I assure you.”
“Perhaps you can tell me how and why you came to kill Mr. Tierney.”
“Certainly. It was during a bar fight.”
“Over what, exactly?”
“He insulted me.”
“What did he say?”
“He called me a henpecked bantam cock.”
“And so what did you do?”
“Well, I killed him.”
“How, exactly?”
Titterington looked down at his shoes. “I, uh, strangled him.”
“With your bare hands?”
“Yes.”
Ian rose from his chair. “Mr. Titterington, I should arrest you for lying to a policeman and wasting our time, but since you seem to be so keen to be incarcerated, I’m going to let you off with a warning.” He turned to Sergeant Dickerson. “Would you be so kind as to let this gentleman go so he can return home?”
The sergeant blinked twice, then unlocked the metal cell gate and swung it open.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Titterington,” said Ian.
“Oh, no, this isn’t right at all,” their visitor said, wringing his hands. “I’m a cold-blooded killer! Think of the ravage I could wreak upon society, the innocent lives I could destroy!”
“Feel free to return if the urge to kill strikes you again.”
The little man continued to protest. “But—”
“Good day, Mr. Titterington,” said Ian as the sergeant led him away.
Ian closed the cell door behind him and made his way back through the corridor to the main room of the station house, where Dickerson was waiting.
“I’m sorry, sir, I thought—”
“There are a great many crackpots in this town, and a few will inevitably confess to crimes they did not commit. Apart from hardly being capable of strangling someone like Robert Tierney, he doesn’t even know what method the killer used.”
“Right—he didn’t know there were ligature involved,” Dickerson answered sheepishly.
“Now you see the value of keeping certain details from the general public.”
“Sorry, sir.”
Ian laid a hand on his shoulder. “Never mind, Sergeant—live and learn, eh?”
“But why would he confess t’crime he didn’t commit?”
“A desire for publicity, perhaps, to be thought of as more dangerous and grander than he is. He might wish to escape a nagging wife, or debts—or any number of unpleasant situations.”
“But to risk bein’ hanged, sir?”
“I suspect he didn’t really think it through. He probably thought the real criminal would be caught before the hangman’s noose reached his own neck.”
Dickerson shivered. “I still don’ get why bloke’d do sommit like that.”
“There are all sorts in this world, Sergeant.” Ian yawned and stretched. “I’m going home. Why don’t you do the same? It’s been a long day.”
“Thank you, sir—good night, sir.”
“Good night, Sergeant.”
Ian left the station house, ignoring the amused looks from the other constables, who had observed Mr. Titterington’s abrupt exit.
“He looks like a ruthless killer, all right,” murmured one of the beat cops.
“Can’t believe you let him go,” said another. “Cold-blooded murderer if ever I saw one.” Several others snickered and looked away.
Let them have their fun, Ian thought. He suspected this killer would not be a wild-eyed, drooling monster. When he did catch the strangler, they might all be in for a surprise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ian stepped into the street and drew his cloak closer before turning in the direction of his flat.
“That were quick,” said a voice behind him. He turned to see Derek McNair standing in the shadows beneath the building’s overhanging eaves.
“When did you get here?”
“I been followin’ you fer a while. Long enough t’get bloody cold—I can ’ardly feel me fingers.” He took a step forward, the gaslight reflecting cold and pale on his dark hair.
Ian frowned. “Why the blazes aren’t you wearing a hat?”
“I ain’t got one.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t stolen one.” Ian plucked the tweed cap from his own head and tossed it at the boy. “Here, put that on.”
“Much obliged, Guv’nur,” Derek replied in mock subservience.
Ian shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the wind cold and sharp on his bare head. He shivered and started off down the street.
“Oiy—wait up!” Derek cried, running after him. “I ain’t told ye why I was waitin’ fer ye.”
“I presume you can walk and talk at the same time,” Ian said without slowing his pace.
“’Course I can,” Derek replied, scurrying along at his side.
“It won’t do, you know—you can’t get away with stealing forever. Sooner or later you’ll get nicked and end up in prison.”
“How else am I ta live?”
“That’s not my concern.”
“So d’you wanna hear what I got ta say or not?”
“I’m not stopping you,” Ian said as he stepped over a pile of horse manure.
“What’s it worth to ye?”
“Depends on what it is.”
“How ’bout a hot meal?”
“Most places are closed now.”
“Yer place, then.”
Ian looked down at the boy, taking in his secondhand coat and threadbare trousers, his filthy face and grubby hands with their blackened nails. There were children like him all over the city, but Derek was here, now. To turn his back on the lad would be worse than hard-hearted; it would be heartless. “Very well,” he said. “You can sleep on the sofa.”
Derek tried to mask his surprise and delight at the offer, but an extra skip in his step gave him away. “I ain’t slept indoors in weeks.”
“You do have family, I believe?”
“My father’s a poor excuse for a da, and I dunno if me mum’s alive or dead. I ain’t seen her in a while.”