Where All the Dead Lie

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Memphis tucked his chin lower into his jacket to avoid the wind that was blowing down the back of his neck. Visiting Frankland Prison wasn’t his favorite thing to do on a good day, much less one with lousy weather. But this was all a part of the job. Standing in line, awaiting his turn to move through the security gates into the relative warmth of the prison proper. No special preferences for a viscount here.

His detective constable, Penelope Micklebury, was obviously miserable, her nose bright red and her teeth chattering. The day was raw, the snow building rapidly. The weather forecaster said this could be a huge storm before nightfall. He was worried about Taylor, all alone back in Scotland. He could fly back up there if needs be, but if the airports closed, the train was the only option, and in heavy weather, they too could stop running. She’d be lonely, and isolated, and probably mad at him for leaving her. At least, he hoped she would be.

The thought made him feel terrible. He shouldn’t be thinking of Taylor today. This was Evan’s day. He’d visited her last night, knelt on her grave, begged for her forgiveness. He hated that he was in love with another woman, hated that he was sullying his wife’s memory. But it had been three years. When would be the right time to move on? His heart already had. It was his head that was giving him problems.

And right now, he had to get his head in the game. They were going to interview a former associate of Roger Waterstone, now known as the prophet Urq. He’d offered to give information in exchange for consideration on his extensive sentence.

The queue began to move.

“Finally. Do me a favor, Pen. You talk. This fine young gentleman might open up to you more than me.”

“Of course,” she answered, cool and collected. He pretended not to see her smile. Letting her take the lead on the interview was a first for them. But she’d earned it. Pen was turning into an excellent investigator.

“Shall we?” he asked, pointing toward the gated guardhouse.

They moved past the gates and were admitted to the outer ring of the prison. They showed their identifications, signed forms. After five more checkpoints and innumerable corridors, they were led to a small room with a steel door.

A young redheaded guard unlocked it for them.

“He’s all yours,” the man-child said. “If he gives you any guff, just give a holler. We’ll get you out of there straightaway.”

Wonderful. Brilliant.

They went into the room. A young man dressed in gray was led in. His head was shaved. He looked cold.

He sat at the table and lit a cigarette.

Memphis and Pen sat across. Pen made a show of taking out her notebook, setting up her pen, before she cleared her throat and dove in.

“Mr. Madison. Thank you for volunteering to talk with us. You know why we’re here. Tell us about your friend Roger.”

The man-no, he was just a boy, really-had wide blue eyes. He smoked the cigarette as if he’d just learned, not inhaling, but pulling the smoke into his mouth, holding it and blowing a stream that dissipated the moment it hit the chilled prison air.

“You have to promise me that I’ll get out of here. I don’t belong here. All I did was steal some oranges from the take-away. There’s people in here done much worse.”

“We will make a recommendation. You have our word. Now, tell us about Roger Waterstone.”

“Not Roger. Urq. He’s batshit. He seems all fine, but once you’re in, he drops the mask. But by then, you’re on the pipe, and it’s too hard to walk away. Nothing’s free, you know. Nothing’s ever free. I wanted to get straight, so he kicked me out.”

Puff. Blow. Puff. Blow.

“Kicked you out of the church?”

“Out of the house, innit. The house on Baker Street. The one no one’s supposed to know about.”

Memphis’s cell phone rang. He cursed. He wasn’t supposed to have it in here. Pen shot him a look. He jumped up, apologizing, and stepped out of the room.

The phone number was instantly recognizable. It was the house phone at Dulsie.

Ignoring the guard’s steely glare, he answered. It was Trixie.

“I think you’d best come back, my lord. Something is terrible wrong with Miss Jackson.”