I turned on my phone’s voice recording app. “How long have you known William?”
“Years,” he replied. “We grew up together in Bristol. We applied to the student program together.”
“Did William have any enemies?” I said. “Anyone who would have wanted to hurt him?”
“No, everyone loved Will,” James answered. “He was always a laugh.”
We got into an elevator and rode up to the next floor, where we exited.
“What about outside the hospital?” I asked. “Did William have any hobbies? Anything that might have gotten him into trouble. Drugs or drinking?”
James checked a clipboard outside a patient’s room. “We grabbed a pint after work sometimes. William was a good boy. He never even smoked a spliff.”
“Who do you think did this to him then?”
James pretended to be intrigued by the information on the clipboard, but I could see his eyes watering. “I wish I knew. I miss my mate already. He texted me, you know? Right before it happened. I got on his case because he was late again. If he’d listened to me—” James sniffed and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his coat.
“Can I see the text?”
He pulled out his phone, but the conversation between the boys did not reveal anything at all. “You’ll find out who did it, yeah?” he asked. “We haven’t got much faith in the police, not after this whole CCTV fluke.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Behind James’s head, I caught sight of an analog clock. It was well past dinner time. I’d been gone for an hour and a half. I scribbled my number on the back of James’s hand.
“If you hear anything, give me a call.”
The lights were out in Evelyn’s flat. She wasn’t in the main room. The ingredients for dinner lay abandoned on the counter, half chopped. I felt for the thyme in my pocket. The leaves had fallen off the sprigs, making it hard to remove from my jeans.
I peeked into the bedroom. Evelyn sat half-dressed at the foot of the bed, struggling to pull her shirt off with one hand. When she spotted me, she scowled and turned away.
“Out of thyme, eh?” she asked. “Why do I get the feeling you went to Durward Street instead of the market?”
“Good instincts?”
“You lied to me.”
When she winced, I rushed over to help her with the shirt. “I’m sorry. They were talking about the CCTV cameras on the news, and I had to know for myself if they were telling the truth.”
She let me pull the shirt off and stared up at me with sad eyes. “I was worried about you. I expected you back in a few minutes, and you’re gone for two hours? Do you know how many scenarios went through my head?”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I won’t do that again.”
“And you’re done with this Ripper thing?” she asked.
William Lewis’s file fell out of my coat and landed on the floor, spewing the investigator’s notes everywhere. That night, Evelyn slept with her back to me.
5
In the morning, I did my best to convince Evelyn I was through with the Ripper case. I cooked enough food to feed a small family and washed all of Evelyn’s clothes, along with the ones I’d already worn. I cleaned the flat twice. I put fresh sheets on the bed and individually shined the tiles in the bathroom. When every surface sparkled, free of dust, but I was still polishing countertops, Evelyn must have realized she needed to get me out of there. We spent the rest of the morning at a nearby coffee shop, chatting like normal friends and people-watching. One of Evelyn’s favorite things to do was make up stories about passing strangers.
“Ooh, that girl there,” she said, jerking her chin toward a young woman strolling past the café. “She tells everyone her coat is from Burberry, but she only paid twenty quid for it. She wishes her boyfriend would propose and wants to dump him at the same time.”
“Who hurt you?” I teased. As the girl paused to hail a cab, I looked her over. “The coat is Burberry, or it’s a good fake. I can see the signature plaid inside the sleeves, and those are designer buttons. Also, she’s wearing a ring.”
Evelyn set down her tea and craned her neck to see. “Damn it. You’re right.”
“You’re awfully terrible at reading people for a bodyguard.” I watched as the girl got into her cab and drove away. “Shouldn’t you be able to tell if someone looks like a threat or not?”
“That’s a different skill,” she replied. “Besides, we’re taught not to rely on stereotypes. For all you know, that girl has a knife in her pocket and she’s on her way to stab her fiancé’s secret lover because she’s found out he cheated on her with the secretary at his office.”
“How tragically specific.”
“Look, here comes her boyfriend to stop her.”
From the shop next door came a spindly man about the same age as the cab girl. He glanced wildly up and down the street, as if searching for someone, then ran off. His shoes, not meant for athletic activity, slid off his heels with each step, so he attempted to run flat-footed, which resulted in an awkward rocking gait.
“He should have known better,” Evelyn said seriously, as if the story she’d made up for the couple was undoubtedly true. “That girl was way out of his league, and he gave it all up for the slutty secretary. Maybe she’ll forgive him.”
“Have you forgiven me?” I asked her. “For running out last night?”
We hadn’t talked about it yet. Evelyn could be hard to read when she wanted to be. Her stoic nature allowed her to hide a variety of emotions. She manipulated her entire manner—facial expressions, tone of voice, posture—to keep you from guessing what might be on her mind. This ability of hers made me often wonder about the nature of her secretive job.
As if to
