The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [99]
“How exactly are you going to get him to talk to you?” Callum asked as he unbuckled himself.
“We have ways,” Stephen said.
“We? I am part of that we. I don’t know our ways.”
They got out and continued their conversation outside of the car, but I couldn’t hear it that well. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I was in the back, and I was dressed in my alligator pajamas. Getting out seemed like the logical idea, but the door didn’t open. Stephen came back and released me. The three of us marched into the station. At the front desk, Stephen asked for Sergeant Maybrick in such a firm and entitled way that the front desk officer raised an eyebrow. He looked at Stephen, then at Callum, and finally at me. I seemed to be the weak link in this overall picture.
“And you are?” he asked.
“Just ring him.”
“He’s quite busy at the moment.”
“This has to do with the Ripper case,” Stephen said, leaning over the counter. “Time is somewhat of the essence. Pick up that phone.”
The word Ripper really had an amazing effect on people. The desk officer picked up the phone instantly. A minute later, a man emerged from the elevator down the hall. He was at least an inch or two taller than Stephen and probably twice his weight. There were sweat marks under the arms of his white uniform shirt, and the epaulettes on his shoulder had a lot more stripes than Stephen’s.
“I understand you have some information for me?” he said.
His accent, I now could recognize, was Cockney—serious London.
“I need you to tell me everything you remember about the deaths of the six officers at King William Street in 1993,” Stephen replied. Even to my ears, this demand sounded ridiculous.
“And who are you exactly, Constable?” the sergeant said.
Stephen took a notepad from his belt, opened it, scrawled something, and passed the paper to the sergeant.
“Ring this number,” he said. “Tell them you have Constable Stephen Dene with you. Tell them I need you to give me some information.”
Sergeant Maybrick took the paper and stared Stephen straight in the eye.
“If you’re wasting my time, son—”
“Ring the number,” Stephen said.
The sergeant folded the paper in half and sharpened the fold by running his fingers along it several times.
“Ellis,” he said to the man behind the desk, “you see these three stay here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant stepped down the hall and took out his phone. Stephen folded his arms over his chest, but from the way he clenched and unclenched his fists, I could tell that he wasn’t entirely sure this was going to work. The desk officer studied us. Callum turned toward the wall to hide his alarmed expression.
“What number is that?” he hissed in Stephen’s direction.
“One of our overlords,” Stephen whispered. “And he’s not going to be happy I gave out his number.”
The conversation was a brief one. Sergeant Maybrick marched back down the hall in our direction, past the curious desk officer.
“Outside,” he said, walking right past us to the door.
Once outside, he moved away from the building. He had a coughing fit, then took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.
“What are you?” he asked. “Special Branch? CID?”
“I’m not authorized to tell you that,” Stephen said.
“Then I really don’t want to know. You sure you want me to tell you this with her here?”
I guess my pajamas didn’t inspire much confidence. Or the fact that I was hopping on my toes to keep warm.
“I do,” Stephen said.
“King William Street was a nasty business, one I was glad to have behind me.” Sergeant Maybrick shook his head and took a long drag of his cigarette. “Call came in that shots had been fired and officers were down. We didn’t know what they were doing down there or why. Four of us responded in the ARV. We were directed to a building on King William Street—Regis House. There was a door in the basement that