The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(82)
“Nonsense. You will be a consummate professional and rattle him hard enough to shake a confession out of him. Understand?” He walked to her and loosened her scarf, so the bruises on her neck were exposed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Maggie raised one hand and rubbed absently at the purple marks. She was torn between her feelings—on the one hand, wanting to run and hide, and on the other, wanting to intimidate Max the way he’d attempted to terrify her. She decided cool professionalism was in everyone’s best interest, including her own.
Maggie and Durgin entered together. Max looked up from the table. “You!” he rasped when he recognized Maggie. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, revealing a missing front tooth.
“And imagine my surprise at finding you here, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie replied coolly as she took a seat. “But when we saw Miss Daphne Plunket’s injuries and she identified you as her attacker—after a drink at the Punch and Judy pub, of all places—I knew we had to ask you a few questions.” She opened the file. “For the record, I am Miss Margaret Hope, with MI-Five. My colleague is Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, of Scotland Yard.”
“You’re the lead on this, right?” Max looked to Durgin. “You’re the man, I can talk to you. You can tell her to leave, right?”
“Oh no, Mr. Thornton,” Durgin answered placidly. “Perish the thought! I assure you Miss Hope is running this investigation.”
Max tried to fold his hands, but couldn’t. They twitched in his lap. “I want my solicitor!”
“I’m sure you do,” responded Durgin impassively.
Maggie went through the file. “Daphne Plunket was choked and nearly raped—and has identified you as her attacker. What happened that night?”
“We went out to a pub, then things got—a bit out of hand.” Max looked to Durgin, muttering, “You know how it goes. Women.”
“Miss Plunket was nearly strangled, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie reminded him. “That’s not ‘out of hand,’ that’s assault and attempted murder.”
“I want my solicitor,” he repeated.
“And then she was nearly murdered, with her left carotid artery severed. Why did you try to kill her, Mr. Thornton?”
His mouth gaped open in shock. “But I didn’t! She ran away and I went back to Number Ten. Mr. Greene was there. He’s my witness.”
“And what about the dates of—” Maggie knew them by heart. “March twentieth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-ninth?”
“Nothing to do with me.” He shrugged, looking unconcerned, but his hands would not keep still.
“What do you know about Brynn Parry?”
“Who? Look, I want my solicitor.”
“Brynn Parry, ATS officer. From Wales.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about. And I’m sure I have alibis for all of those as well. I’ll say it one last time, I want my solicitor.”
Maggie knew they were at an impasse. “Guards!” she called, not without a certain satisfaction. Two burly men in uniform appeared. “Please take Mr. Thornton back to his cell—to await his lawyer.”
Max gave Maggie a vicious look as he left. She met his cold eyes, unflinching.
When the sound of footsteps had quieted, Durgin asked, “Getting hungry? I can run out and get us some fish and chips? Or, at least, what’s passing for fish these days?”
“No!” Maggie cried, appalled. Even through her interview with Max, she hadn’t forgotten the package and its bloody contents.
“Sorry.” Durgin frowned. “Do you want to go home? I can have one of my men—”
“No,” Maggie answered, her tone not inviting opposition. “I’m staying.”
“Very well, then—but you really should eat something. We have a lot of work in front of us.”
“Coffee,” she decided. It had been a long day. She couldn’t bear the thought of food, but surely she could manage coffee. “I don’t care how bad it is, as long as it’s hot and caffeinated.”
“Coffee, check,” Durgin said, rising and reaching for her coat, helping her into it. “Ah, the glamour—the long hours, the bad pay, the dead ends…But it’ll all be worth it when we catch the Beast.”
—
The man in the smudged sunglasses leaned against the wall of the building opposite New Scotland Yard on Victoria Street, hat pulled down over his eyes, a newspaper obscuring his face. But he wasn’t interested in the day’s lead story, about Nazis losing even more ground in Russia. He was waiting for the redhead to appear. She’d been there all day. He knew after his little gift she’d go running to her DCI. Yes, and there she was, her red hair like a beacon, walking swiftly, her shoulders hunched over, her head down. Submissive, good. That was the way he liked them. Had she shrieked when she’d opened the package? Had she cried? Had she felt frightened and alone? As he watched the whore walk down the stairs with the detective, he hoped so, he really did.
Once again, as in the park, she turned and looked at him, looked straight through him—almost as if she could read his thoughts.
He turned away and tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked on, cursing under his breath.