The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(35)

“Excuse me, Detective!” The police officer who appeared at the door was at least seventy, an enormous belly protruding over his leather belt. He struggled to catch his breath. “They found…a man with a white…van!” he panted. “Fits the description and there’s…blood on his clothes! He’s been…taken into custody!”

Durgin gave a wolfish grin. “Good job.” He glanced at Mark. “Let’s go—holding cell’s on the second floor.”

He squinted at Maggie. “Don’t you have tea with the Queen to go to? Crumpets and jam? Scones with marmalade?” He tapped absently at his chin, now sporting a dark shadow. “You look like the sort of girl who likes marmalade.”

“I do like marmalade,” Maggie answered evenly, “but only when this case is over. Detective Durgin, I want to catch this monster as much as you do. Maybe even more.”

He trained his hooded eyes on her. “More? And why is that, Miss Hope?”

Maggie raised her chin. “The victims are all women, all young, all working for SOE. Let’s just say for some of us—for me—it’s personal.”



He gave her a long look, then began walking. “Chunky or fine?” he tossed back over his shoulder.

“What?” Maggie asked, rushing to keep in step as he started his lope, leaving Mark to find an elevator.

“Marmalade. How do you like it?”

“Chunky,” she replied, catching up with him.

“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.