Chapter 3 #2
I nod and sigh. “I had some things to work out first.”
He watches me quietly for a moment. “You look good,” he finally says.
“I look like shit is what I think you meant to say,” I say quietly as I toy with the handle of my cup.
“Nah. Add a fedora to the trench coat and you’re one Maltese falcon away from passing for a hardened film noir PI.”
“Well, I certainly have the name for it,” I snort. “All I need is a twenty-a-day habit and a penchant for whiskey sours.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid.” Danny raises his cup and toasts me playfully before taking a sip of his coffee.
I shake my head. “I’d forgotten about your film obsession.”
“How are you really, Sam?” he asks seriously. “I’m sorry I had to leave before you were fully discharged from the hospital, but my job started pretty much straight away. I sometimes think getting the job was less about my qualifications and more the fact they were desperate for staff.”
“I’m not surprised they offered you the job with an immediate start,” I reply. “You’re a hell of a detective, you know you are.”
“So are you.”
“Once maybe,” I murmur, staring into my cup, “but I’ll never work for a police force again.”
Danny nods. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye properly though.”
“I probably wouldn’t have agreed to see you anyway,” I admit. “I wasn’t in a good place at that point. My recovery… ” I pause. “Well, let’s just say it took longer than expected.”
“And are you? Recovered?”
I shrug. “My broken bones are healed, and I’m more or less back to normal, just slightly less pretty and missing a spleen.”
“I didn’t mean physically.”
“You mean, have I gotten over the fact that I was attacked and almost beaten to death for being gay?” I sigh. “My life changed in ways that I couldn’t have possibly imagined that night. My life is…different now. I’m not the same person you knew, not even close.”
“I’m so sorry, Sam.”
“Don’t be. I don’t need your pity,” I tell him firmly. “It took me a long time to get my head straightened out and adjust to my new reality, but I’m content. I like it here in London and my business is doing well.”
“I’m glad.”
“Part of the reason I wanted to see you rather than talk over the phone was because I wanted to say thank you.”
“Thank you?” He blinks slowly, looking a bit confused.
“I know what you did for me, and I know what it cost you.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Danny, it wasn’t nothing. You were the first to come to the hospital to check on me, and after it all came out about my sexuality and the tongues started spewing venom, you stood up publicly and not only called them out but came out yourself in solidarity.
Don’t think I don’t understand how hard that was for you.
I know your family stopped talking to you after that. ”
“To be fair, they were hardly talking to me before.” He stares down at his cup.
“I didn’t just do it for you, Sam. I’m no martyr, so don’t go putting me up on a pedestal.
I couldn’t live like that anymore. I wasn’t ashamed of who I am, and you shouldn’t have had to be either.
We shouldn’t ever have to hide, worried about what could happen if we misread a situation or misjudge someone’s interest. What happened to you was wrong, but what came after made me ashamed of everyone around us. ”
“You and me both.” I sigh. “Still, what’s done is done. I won’t be going back.”
“You know, I’d love to introduce you to Tristan. Maybe we could grab dinner one night,” he offers.
“I’d like that.” I smile, and I realise I mean it. “Although I wouldn’t have pegged him as your type. You always went for the built, athletic types, not cute little twinks. They were always more my type.”
“No, your type was snarky with a tongue so sharp you could cut yourself on it.” He chuckles. “And why am I not surprised you know what he looks like?”
“I’m good a–”
“At your job.” He finishes my sentence with a roll of his eyes. “I see you’re still as modest as ever.”
“Speaking of being good at my job.” I slide the manila folder across the table to him. “Your suspect. Maeve Landon aka Peggy Johnson aka Iris Carter aka Harriett Walker… I could go on.”
“What?” His eyes widen as he opens the folder curiously.
“She’s a black widow,” I reply. “At least, that would be my guess. I haven’t got to the bottom of all of it yet, but the more I uncovered, the more there was.
Her birth name is Edith Anderson, born in Letchworth, October 8th, 1936.
She married in ’56, and he died two years later of unknown causes.
She then changed her name and remarried in ’59, then husband number two died too.
It’s her MO. She marries, husband dies, she changes her name and moves on. ”
“How the hell did you put this together so quickly?”
“Let’s just say I have access to certain resources that you don’t,” I say carefully.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Then don’t.” I shake my head. “Now this is the important part. Edith had an older brother, now deceased, but he was arrested in 1984 and charged with multiple counts of fraud and forgery, for which he served time.”
“He was a forger?” Danny says as he studies a couple of passport photos of a younger version of the woman currently calling herself Maeve Landon.
“A very good one by all accounts, but found amongst the things in his flat was a ledger of all the identities he’d created for his clients. Honestly, I don’t know why he felt the need to document everything, but it certainly made the prosecution’s case easier.”
“So, he had a list of all his sister’s aliases?” Danny looks up from the photos.
“Yep, but get this. Before she got married to husband number one, she worked as a chemist’s assistant.”
“Did she now? Do you think the brother knew she was bumping off her husbands?” Danny scans down the list of names on the paper in front of him.
“I would imagine he did, or at least suspected, if he was creating new identities for her every couple of years,” I answer. “But I doubt he had much of a conscience. He lived in Bethnal Green and apparently had ties to the Krays.”
He scratches his chin thoughtfully, and I chuckle. “What?”
“You always scratch your chin like that when you’re trying to puzzle something out.” I smile and shake my head. “I’d forgotten you did that.”
“I suppose as bad habits go, there are worse ones.”
“Anyway.” I draw his attention back to the notes.
“Here’s where it gets interesting. When the brother was arrested, the police were running down the names on his list to build a case and came across Edith as her then-current alias, Harriet Walker.
They dug a little further and found her husband had died only a few weeks earlier under suspicious circumstances, but before they could arrest her, she disappeared.
It seemed her brother had already created her new identity but hadn’t listed it.
I went back through all the death certificates and reports for the dead husbands, and although a couple of them were listed as deaths from unknown causes, most of them came back death by poisoning.
Do you want to guess her poison of choice? ”
“Arsenic?”
“Bingo. And you know what poisoners are like, they find an MO and they stick to it like glue, even at the risk of getting caught. It’s like a compulsion.”
“Jesus Christ, that would make her a serial killer.” Danny sits back in my chair. “But why Delores?”
“It’s possible she was just an easy target.” I shrug. “Just because Edith stopped marrying her victims, doesn’t mean she went dormant. If you start looking, the bodies will probably start piling up.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come and work with me?” Danny asks hopefully. “I know they’d snap you up in a heartbeat.”
“No thanks.” I shake my head. “I’m content doing what I do. Like I said, this”—I nod at the file—“is only a very rough outline. There’s a lot more legwork on this case. It’s probably going to take quite some time to unravel all the details.”
“Thanks for this, Sam,” he says earnestly. “I’m seriously impressed.”
I shrug again. “You’d have got there eventually, I just sped up the process.”
“I need to call my partner.” He drains the last of his coffee and tidies all the paperwork back into the folder.
“Ah, the fiery, red-haired Detective Madeleine Wilkes.”
“Will you stop spying on me?” He sighs. “If you want to know what’s going on in my life, pick up the phone and ask.”
“Can’t help it, force of habit.”
He pushes himself up from the table and picks up the folder. “Thank you again, Sam. I owe you.”
I stand too, leaving my coffee almost untouched. “Trust me, you don’t owe me a damn thing.”
“Okay, but at least let me buy you dinner soon and then you can meet Tristan.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Well, I need to get going.” Danny tucks the folder under his arm. “We need to pull the original investigation into Edith Anderson, and we need to track down Maeve Landon and invite her to join us for a chat.”
“A chat?” I repeat in amusement.
“Did I say chat?” Danny says flatly. “I meant arrest her bony arse.”
I have to admit, now that I’ve gotten past the first hurdle of meeting up, I realise how much I’ve missed him and, more importantly, missed working with him.
Finding a potential serial killer certainly beats photographing cheating MPs in compromising positions, and I find I’m not in any rush to return to my small office and lonely bottle of whiskey.
“Mind if I tag along?” I grin. “I have no intention of joining the Met, but I’m curious to see how this all plays out.”
“By all means.” Danny chuckles. “Be my guest.”