Page 38 of Ticket Out

He rang the bell, with Hartridge standing just behind him, and a maid opened it.

He introduced himself and held up his warrant card. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Devenish, please.”

“Young Master Devenish? Not Sir Reginald?” The maid, who looked as if she were in her late forties, shook her head. “He hasn’t lived here since he went off to university.”

“Is Sir Reginald in? We are looking for Mr. Devenish’s address.”

“I’ll just see if he’s in,” the maid said, looking unsure whether to shut the door in their faces or not. Eventually, politeness won out over suspicion, and she invited them to wait in the hallway.

She disappeared down a passageway, and after a few minutes, an old man came out to greet them. He was what James thought of as part of the civil service set. Tweed suit, highly polished shoes, silk kerchief in his pocket, folded just so. He looked close to retirement age, but James had a suspicion that a lot of these old men of a certain class and standing only went when they were pushed, and not a moment before. They enjoyed too much power to let go without a fight.

“New Scotland Yard, eh?” he asked, looking at James’s warrant card. “What’s this about?”

“We need to speak to your son, Paul. He may have information on the identity of a murder victim in a case we’re investigating,” James said.

Sir Reginald looked at them out of cold, watery blue eyes. “Rubbish,” he said. “Paul’s not involved in any murder.”

“We’re not accusing him of anything, sir,” James said, “but we have strong evidence that the car the victim was found in is owned by your son. We weren’t able to catch him at his gallery, could you give us a home address for him?”

Sir Reginald blinked at him, fussing with his jacket sleeve. “I’d have to look it up. I haven’t been round to his flat very often.” He slowly turned toward the long sideboard in the hallway and walked over to a black leather address book, and paged through it. “Here you go.”

Hartridge bent close and wrote the address down.

“If he should get in touch with you, sir, please let him know to contact us urgently.” James set his card down next to the phone.

“His lordship didn’t like that at all,” Hartridge commented as they walked toward the Wolseley.

“No.” James wondered if it was just a refusal to believe his son was involved in anything dodgy, or whether he knew there was something going on, and didn’t want to admit it.

They drove to the address Sir Reginald had given them but no one came to the door.

Devenish was nowhere to be found.

“He’s got questions to answer on the first body, and about Patty,” James said as they drove back to the Yard. “But we can’t wait any longer. It’s been a week since we found him. It’s time to go to the press with a picture of the victim in the car.”

It weighed on James that someone, somewhere, was missing the victim, not realizing they were dead.

And if Devenish had known all along who he was, James would make sure he was charged with obstructing an investigation. No matter how rich his father was, or how much power he wielded in Whitehall.

chaptereighteen

Gabriella sawJohnny McLad’s face everywhere as she walked her rounds, staring out at her from every newsagent she passed.

She hoped DS Archer found someone who knew who he was.

It had been a week since she’d found his body.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

She turned reluctantly onto Clematis Lane. There was no one parked in front of the gallery, but even so, she slowed as she approached it, nervous of crossing in front of the narrow alley between the gift shop and The Cat’s Meow. The boutique had been closed since Patty died, and Gabriella wondered if she had been the only member of staff.

She had just passed the gallery’s closed door, when the woman who she’d seen outside the gift shop before, studying the front window display, came flying out and almost fell down the few steps that led up to her shop.

“They’re killing each other.” She grabbed Gabriella’s hand. “I’m so glad to find a uniformed officer. You have to help.”

“I’m not the police,” Gabriella said, although she’d had been mistaken for a copper more than once. “Who’s killing who?”

She regretted asking the moment the words were out of her mouth.

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