The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [24]
“We are,” Jerome replied.
“The pub is that way,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction. “Which one are we going to?”
“The Flowers and Archers.”
“The Flowers and . . . oh. No. No.”
“Come on, Jazzy,” Jerome said. “We have to show your roommate here around.”
“But it’s a crime scene. You can’t go into a crime scene.”
Even as she said this, we caught the first glimpse of it all. The news trucks came first, their satellites extended. There were maybe two dozen of those. There was a whole section of sidewalk filled with reporters talking at cameras. Then there were the police cars, the police vans, and the mobile crime scene units. Then there were the people, so many people. Some sort of cordon had obviously been put up, so the people grouped around it. There had to be a hundred or more, just watching and taking pictures. We made it to the back of the crowd.
“Just let me get some pictures, and we’ll go to a real pub,” Jerome said, zipping off and squeezing through.
I stood on my toes a little to try to catch sight of the Flowers and Archers. It was just an ordinary-looking pub—black, large windows, cheerfully painted wooden arms over the door, a blackboard sign out front advertising a special. Only the dozens of police officers swarming around it like ants gave any indication of the terror that had occurred here. I suddenly felt uncomfortable. An unpleasant chill went up my back.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s stand back.”
I almost walked straight into a man who was standing right behind us. He was dressed in a suit with a slightly too-large jacket. He was completely and smoothly bald. His lack of hair highlighted his eyes, which were feverishly bright. When I apologized, the eyes grew wider, in what appeared to be shock.
“Not at all,” he replied. “Not at all.”
He stepped aside to let me pass, smiling widely.
“People are treating this like it’s a party,” Jazza said, looking at the people standing around with bottles of beer, taking photos on their phones and holding up video cameras. “Look how happy everyone seems.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Jerome said not to tell you. And I forgot when you started explaining all of the asking-out stuff.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I should have realized.”
Jerome jogged back, beaming.
“I got right up to the front of the tape,” he said. “Come on. Proper drink now.”
We went to a pub a few streets over, closer to Wexford. The pub did not disappoint. It was everything the Internet had promised—big wooden bar, a decent crowd, pint glasses. Of the three of us, only Jerome was over eighteen, plus Jazza said he owed us for taking us to the murder site—so he was put in charge of buying all the drinks. Jazza wanted a glass of wine, but I wanted a beer, because that is what I’d heard you were supposed to drink at a pub. Jerome duly went off to the bar. All the inside seats were taken, so we went outside and stood at a small table under a heat lamp. The diameter brought us face-to-face with each other, our skin glowing red under the light. Jazza made short work of her glass of wine. A pint of beer, as it turns out, is a lot of beer. But I was determined to get it down.
Jerome had more to tell us about the events of the day. “The victim,” he said, “not only had the same last name as the victim in 1888, she was the same age, forty-seven. She worked for a bank in the City, and she lived in Hampstead. Whoever this murderer is, he went to a lot of trouble to get the details right. Somehow, he got a woman with the right name of the right age to a pub nowhere near her house, and over a mile away from her work. At five in the morning. They’re saying it doesn’t look like she was bound or brought in with any struggle.”
“Jerome is going to be a journalist,” Jazza explained.
“Just listen,” Jerome said, pointing at the roof, just above the door. “Look up. It’s a CCTV camera. Most pubs have them. On that stretch alone, by the Flowers and Archers? I counted five cameras there. On Durward Street? At least six on the path the victim was walking along. If they don’t have footage of the Ripper, then