Page 35 of Ticket Out

“Devenish?” Hartridge asked, voice eager.

“No, it’s that foreigner that does the painting restoration,” Mrs. Pinter said. “He works at the back of the gallery. Night owl. He’s at it from around this time of the afternoon until long after I’ve gone home.”

How long after, James wondered? Could this man be a possible witness to what happened—at least to the man in the car? He’d died during the work week, whereas Patty had been killed over the weekend.

The car drove past them, the driver watching them with alarm, and drew to a stop outside the gallery.

“No one else can get through,” Hartridge commented. “His car is blocking the way.”

“No one else uses it. The lane is only for the shops and Mr. Devenish owns them all.” Mrs. Pinter tossed her hair.

“Why don’t you like him, Mrs. Pinter?” James watched the man get reluctantly out of the car. He kept his head down, scurrying around the side of the vehicle to get a leather satchel from the back seat.

“He’s rude. I only went over to say hello the first time he came in, and he slammed the door to the workshop in my face.” Mrs. Pinter sniffed. “It runs along the whole back of the gallery and my shop, you see. Mr. Devenish took what was probably the storeroom of my shop and broke through the wall into the gallery storeroom to make it all one space. So I can hear him moving around in there, coughing and banging things about.” She indicated the door she’d come through. “Mr. Devenish had to have this door put in so I could get to the bins, because there’s no access to the alleyway from my shop since he bricked up my storeroom door, other than through the front, and I can’t go that way with my rubbish. Not with customers coming in.”

“And you say this painting restorer is a foreigner? Where’s he from?”

“Germany or Austria or something.” She sent the man, who was still eyeing them nervously as he unlocked the door at the back of the building, an acid look. “I must be going, I might have customers, standing out here passing the time of day. Good afternoon to you.” She marched back to the door and slammed it shut behind her.

“I wanted to ask her what his name was,” Hartridge said.

“We can ask him ourselves.” James was already moving to the door the man had disappeared behind. He knocked, and after a delay that made him think the man was standing just behind it, panicking, it eventually opened.

“Ja?” His accent was strong.

James held out his warrant card, and Hartridge did the same. “Detective Sergeant Archer, and Detective Constable Hartridge. We’re looking for Mr. Devenish.”

The man’s eyes wheeled a little in his head. “I haven’t seen Herr Devenish,” he said. “Not for two, three days.”

“And you are, sir?” James asked politely.

“Herr Fischer,” he said.

“From?”

“Switzerland.”

“And you work for Mr. Devenish?” Hartridge asked.

“I restore art.” Mr. Fischer was fighting to stay still, James thought. As if he were willing himself to look calm, when he was anything but.

James would love an excuse to look inside the workshop, but he had no probable cause. Still . . . “Is it all right if I come in and have a look to see if Mr. Devenish is here?”

“Nein.” Mr. Fischer shook his head. “I don’t have permission to say this is all right, you understand?”

James gave an inward sigh. “I understand.” He pulled out a card. “Could you please ask Mr. Devenish to contact me urgently if you see him. My number is on that card.”

Mr. Fischer scrutinized it, then gave a reluctant nod. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” James moved back and before he had taken one step away, the door was shut and a bolt rammed into place on the inside.

They waited until they were back in the alley before they spoke.

“Something very fishy going on, if you ask me,” Hartridge said.

“Very,” James agreed. “I’m not sure what, but that chap looked like he was about to faint with nerves at any moment.”

“Maybe he’s one of those people who had a bad time in the war,” Hartridge said. “They get very twitchy around police.”

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