Page 38 of Secrets in the Dark
He frowned. “Well, hmm. I was alone. I was watching the water when I looked down the embankment and saw her. As I said or wrote or both, I thought that she was sleeping. I went over to wake her up and I thought right away that she had to be a tourist, probably an American—you know, being a bit showy, maybe, wanting to tell friends at home what she’d done. In fact, I looked around, thinking she’d want a photo, that it was something she was doing for social media. There were people up on the street...and maybe...”
“Maybe?” Mason asked.
“Maybe there was a guy watching.”
“But he was wearing a dark hoodie?” Della asked dryly.
“No, he was in a T-shirt and...”
“And?” Mason prompted.
“Well, I guess I didn’t think much about it before. But he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and carrying a briefcase. You know, like a man might use for work as a banker or such, like an accountant or a barrister. Except, what bloke goes to a job like that wearing a T-shirt. In fact, I remember the T-shirt. It was one of those you buy at a concert. There’s a new group out now, The Slackers, and I think they had a concert recently and you know how they sell T-shirts at concerts. I... I mean I noticed him but didn’t think anything of it until now. Until...” He paused again, making a face, shaking his head. “Well, of course, the Ripper murder is all over the media. Oh! I also thought that someone had been arrested in those killings. That the bloke was an American—not to be offensive, but not surprising.”
“We’re not offended,” Mason said. “But you should also know that sick killers come from every country and they might be of any ethnicity.”
“Yeah, right. There was that Russian that they didn’t want to admit to because the Russians wanted to believe that all such sick people were only American. What was his name? Chink-o-something.
“Chikatilo,” Della said. “Among others,” she added sweetly.
“I’m sorry. I just wish that I could help.”
“Can you give us more of a description?” Mason asked.
“Dark hair,” Hudson said thoughtfully. “I don’t know—he was at a distance. Maybe six feet tall, with an average build, I think. I was paying attention to the woman. I went to her and I nudged her, speaking softly—didn’t want to scare her. Odd, I never thought that she was drunk. Drunks fall and pass out in awkward positions. I thought she was sleeping because she looked so sweet and beautiful and she was lying there in such a restful position. Then, of course, I realized that she was dead and I panicked and I pulled out my cell and ran back to the street, calling for the police. Naturally, I went to the station and told them what I’d seen. I didn’t mention the bloke in the T-shirt because my concentration was on the woman and... Well, I had worked late the night before and I was so shaken and... “
His voice trailed and he lifted his hands.
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could tell you more. Maybe...well, maybe whoever discovered the other women on the embankment can tell you more,” Hudson finished.
“Maybe. But, of course, we thank you—”
“Did you want to have some lunch? I can call Cindy over.”
“I think we’ll skip it for now. As you said, we have others we need to speak with,” Mason told him, rising, waiting for Della and Hudson to do the same.
“Right, yes,” Della said. “And thank you so much. Of course, if you think of anything, please reach us through Detective Inspector Edmund Taylor—any police station will get you in touch.”
“Of course,” Hudson said, shrugging. He seemed an easy man, capable of being charming, listening. Bartender at a pub might be the perfect profession for him since he seemed entirely affable and ready to converse or not as a patron might want.
“But again, I thought you got the killer,” Hudson said. “How could the same guy be at it again? Oh, and I thought that killers killed in a certain way. Isn’t this—different?”
“We think this killer might have had some practice, copying another killer,” Mason said honestly. “Again, thank you for your time.”
“Right. Thank you,” Della said, turning to head for the door.
Mason followed her.
Outside, she turned to him. “I don’t know if he’s the man who is killing again now, but he killed that first girl!” she announced.
“Della, he’s probably more than a bit of a chauvinistic ass, but that—”
She shook her head strenuously. “No, Mason, I’m sure of it. He was making up that story about a man in a T-shirt with a briefcase. And he reported that he touched her, nudged her, trying to wake her. That would explain if anyone found his print, a hair, anything that might forensically attach him to the killing. Mason, I don’t know about the rest of the murders, but I’d bet a year’s pay that he was guilty of the first. So, what do we do about it?”
Seven
Della wasn’t sure about the way that Mason was looking at her and she felt that she had to explain herself. “Mason, I’m serious. And not because he acts like women should be kept in the kitchen. It’s the way he was describing the person watching and the way he found the body.”
She was glad that Mason nodded. “I don’t believe that we can be certain, that’s all. The police questioned him—”
