But that morning, when she’d pressed her fingers to the scar on his chest, her hazel eyes round with realization, he’d known it was no dream. It was the moment he’d feared for sixteen years.
“Are you certain it was PC Lloyd?” he asked as raised voices in the detective department escalated.
Leo nodded, then winced again. She’d probably hit her head on the ground when she’d been thrown back in the blast. “Yes, I saw him just moments before—” She turned for the open door. “We can’t let Dita go out there.”
She staggered and leaned against the doorjamb just as Sergeant Lewis came through.
“Where is the doctor?” Jasper asked him.
“Treating another man outside,” he answered. Then, after eyeing Leo’s bloody ear and disheveled state, he asked, “Should I fetch him?”
“I don’t need a doctor,” she insisted, though she still clung to the jamb. “I need to find Matron Brooks. Have you seen her?”
Leo’s friend, Dita, was a matron at the Yard, assigned to search and guard female suspects as well as young children when they were brought in for questioning or held for arrest. She would have likely been in the building at the time of the explosion.
“Tomlin has her in an interview room,” Lewis answered in a low voice.
“Already?” Jasper asked, astounded by the rapidity with which the Special Irish Branch detective inspector had summoned her.
“He is questioning her?” Leo released her grip on the doorjamb and started across the department toward the collection of desks assigned to Tomlin and his detectives. From there, a corridor led to a few interview rooms.
“You cannot just barge into an interview, Leo,” Jasper told her, staying on her heels, but she didn’t slow.
Detective Inspector Bruce Tomlin and his team of investigators were not only assigned to every case that involved Irish terrorists plaguing the city, but they also worked to infiltrate and subdue political militant groups before they could wreak havoc. Undercover detectives would go so far as to assume false identities to join gangs and run with known Fenians, all to gain insight into their operations. Sometimes, they would foil a planned attack because of the intelligence they’d gathered.
Tomlin would not handle this attack against the Yard well. Especially since a Met constable appeared to have been behind it.
Lewis kept pace with Jasper. “They’re saying it was PC Lloyd. That he’s with Clan na Gael.”
“That isn’t true.” Leo threw a scolding glance over her shoulder, but it put her off balance. She shot out a hand to grip a nearby chair to steady herself.
Instinctively, Jasper reached for her to help keep her upright. But again, she shrugged him off. “I don’t need your assistance,” she snapped.
Lewis raised a brow. He and some other officers had noticed Leo’s recent absence, though the detective sergeant hadn’t commented beyond a few prodding inquiries such asHow isMiss Spencer these days?andDid Miss Spencer deliver that postmortem report yet?
Jasper fielded her current rejection of him by biting his tongue and gesturing for her to continue toward the interview rooms. Tomlin wasn’t going to take kindly to her interrupting him, but she was too bloody stubborn to be persuaded to leave off.
The corridor was mobbed with detectives speaking to people who appeared to have witnessed the blast. Some were bloodied, pressing handkerchiefs to their wounded heads; others looked unharmed but were wide-eyed with shock.
Leo staggered to a stop outside the first interview room. The door was shut, and a pane of frosted glass obscured the people inside for privacy.
“Leo—” Jasper began, but she twisted the knob without so much as a knock.
He groaned as she swept inside. Inspector Tomlin was standing next to Miss Brooks’s chair, looming over her. Detective Sergeant LaChance was seated at the small table across from Miss Brooks, who shot to her feet. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks wet.
“They’re saying it was John,” Miss Brooks said as she and Leo gravitated toward each other and then embraced. “I can’t believe it. I don’t believe it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Leo said as the matron sobbed fresh tears.
Inspector Tomlin directed his outrage toward Jasper. “Reid, get this woman out of my interview room.”
Bruce Tomlin was roughly forty years of age, with boot-black hair and an established beard cut through with gray. Standing at over six feet, he’d likely used his height to intimidate the matron into giving up anything she might know about the blast.
“Miss Spencer was injured in the explosion,” Jasper said, “and was concerned for her friend. I’m sure now that she sees Miss Brooks is well?—”
She peeled away from Leo, distraught. “You’re injured?”
“Not significantly. A ruptured eardrum, which will mend,” she replied.
