Pentecost Alley - Anne Perry [167]
“She,” Pitt corrected.
“Oh.” Forrest shook his head. “Yes … she. Sorry, I just had it fixed in my mind all these years that it was a man. Looked like a crime rooted in sex to me, the kind of perverted sex of a man that has to hurt and humiliate before he can get any pleasure. Sort of person who has to have power over someone, see them totally helpless. Evil. Still can’t believe it was a woman. Though, s’pose it must be, if she confessed.”
“No, she didn’t confess, except to the last one, Nora Gough. In fact, she said she was in Manchester six years ago.”
Forrest’s eyes widened. “Well, it has to have been the same person. Even in London, sink that it is, we can’t have two lunatics going around doing that to women.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your case?” Pitt asked, trying not to sound accusatory, and failing.
“Me?” Forrest looked at him with surprise. “Why didn’t I tell you?”
“Yes. For heaven’s sake, it might have helped us! We should at least have known! We could have found out what they had in common and who might have known all three.”
“I didn’t tell you because … Didn’t Inspector Ewart tell you? He was on the case!”
Pitt froze.
“I took it for granted that he’d have told you,” Forrest said reasonably. “You saying he didn’t?” There was disbelief in his face and in his voice. He was watching Pitt as if he could scarcely believe him.
Pitt could scarcely believe it himself. Images of Ewart filled his mind, memories of his anger, his misery, the fear in him.
But there was no point in lying. The truth was obvious anyway.
“No, he never mentioned it.”
Now it was Forrest’s turn to sit in silence.
“Do you know Ella Baker?” Pitt asked him. “Or know of her? Have you ever heard her name?”
Forrest looked blank. “No. And I know most of the women on the streets around here. But I’ll ask Dawkins. He’s been here for years and he knows ’em all.” He rose to his feet and went out, excusing himself, and returned a few minutes later with a large, elderly sergeant with gray hair. “Dawkins, have you ever heard of a woman, a tart around here, called Ella Baker?” He turned to Pitt. “What did she look like, sir?”
“Tall, ordinary sort of face,” Pitt answered. “But very beautiful fair hair, thick and wavy.”
Dawkins thought carefully for a moment, then shook his head. “No sir. Nearest to that description is Lottie Bridger, an’ she died o’ the pox sometime early this year.”
“You’re absolutely sure, Dawkins?” Forrest urged.
“Yes sir. Never ’eard the name Ella Baker, an’ never ’ad a girl on the streets ’round ’ere like you said.”
“Thank you, Dawkins,” Forrest dismissed him. “That’s all.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” Dawkins left, looking puzzled, closing the door behind him with a sharp click.
“What does that mean?” Forrest regarded Pitt with open confusion. “Are we saying as this woman didn’t do our killing then?”
“I don’t know what we’re saying,” Pitt confessed. “Have you got records of this case I can look at?”
“Course. I’ll have them sent for.” Forrest excused himself again, and it was a long, frustrating quarter of an hour before he returned with a slim folder of papers. “This is it, sir. Isn’t a lot.”
“Thank you.” Pitt took it, opened it and read. Forrest was right; there was very little indeed, but the details were the same as in the deaths of Ada McKinley and Nora Gough. It was all set out clinically, unemotionally, in fine copperplate handwriting. The name of the victim had an air of unreality: Mary Smith. Was that really her name? Or did they simply not know what to call her? She was new in the area, new to prostitution. There was nothing else said about her, no place of origin, no family mentioned, no possessions listed.
Pitt read carefully from the description of objects found on the premises. No mention was made of anything which could be called a clue. Certainly there