Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [149]
“Forbes accepted,” Pitt said briefly. “Complete control.”
Narraway nodded. “I think the carter was a colleague, not an employee. Dunkeld would never be fool enough to trust anyone with that sort of power over him.”
“I’m not sure what I think,” Pitt said thoughtfully. “I’m not certain if the plan originally was Dunkeld’s or the other man’s, or even if it changed halfway through, when Minnie died. Perhaps each of them thought the plan was theirs, and in fact there were two?” He saw the wry look in Narraway’s face. “But I am absolutely certain that I want to find the man who killed that girl, whoever she was. If we don’t care about justice for her as much as for Minnie, or Julius Sorokine, or the Prince of Wales, then we are the wrong people for this job.”
Narraway’s face was wry, and for a minute uncharacteristically gentle. “There are plenty of wrong people in jobs, Pitt, but I admire the sentiment, even if we may not be able to live up to it. I’ve sent orders to every police station in the city within an hour’s travel of the Palace to see if they know of a prostitute missing from her usual patch, if any brothel’s lost a girl, or any street woman known as missing, whatever the reason.”
“We can’t sit here and wait!” Pitt protested. “How long is it going to take before someone reports her, or any police station cares? It could be—”
“Hours,” Narraway cut across him. “Or less.”
“Days,” Pitt contradicted him. “Or not at all.”
“I don’t think you understand the importance, Pitt,” Narraway observed drily. “One has only to mention bombers or anarchists and even the busiest and least sympathetic policeman will take notice. If there is any report at all, we will have it before dark.”
Pitt had to be content. Narraway forbade him to leave, and it was as dusk was beginning to close in that the report came. It was still barely dark when they alighted at the police station on the Vauxhall Bridge Road, less than three miles from the Palace.
Narraway did not waste time or energy on niceties. He introduced himself and came immediately to the point. “You reported a prostitute missing, possibly dead,” he said to the constable on duty. “I need to see your superintendent.”
“He’s busy with—”
“Now,” Narraway said grimly.
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me, Constable, unless you wish to be charged with treason,” Narraway snapped.
In less than five minutes a local dignitary had been hurried out, and they were in Superintendent Bayliss’s office where he stood uncomfortably, a pile of papers on his desk, and a mug of gently steaming tea.
“Who is missing?” Narraway asked quietly. “When, and from where? Describe her.”
“I don’t know what she looks like,” Bayliss began, then changed his mind. “Charming enough, I’m told. Brown hair, nicely built.”
“When was she last seen, and where?”
“About a week ago, Bessborough Street, just short of the Vauxhall Bridge, sir. There’s a house there that looks perfectly respectable, but it’s a rather good brothel. Caters to the carriage trade.”
“Who brought in the report?”
“Constable Upfield.”
“Get him. I need him to take us there, in an hour. They’ll be open for business, and I want a local man who knows them to be with us.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about, sir?” Bayliss asked reasonably.
“No, I can’t, and you would prefer not to know.”
“If it’s on my watch, sir, I need to know, whether I like it or not.”
“It’s not on your watch. This is Special Branch business. Get me Constable Upfield.”
“He’s off duty…sir.”
“Then get him back on,” Narraway snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
It was a long night of questioning, arguing, threatening. It was after midnight by the time they elicited the information that Kate, the missing girl, had gone out to see a client in the mews. He had wanted to look at what he was buying and she was willing to oblige. This particular man had had very precise tastes. Apparently he had already tried one or two other houses, and found nothing to his liking. However, Kate suited him, according to the boot boy, and she had gone with him.
“Gone?” Pitt said quickly.