Page 8 of Ticket Out

Gabriella looked through the post,stacking it into piles on the narrow table in the foyer.

The letter she had been hoping for since she’d gotten her bedsit and begun sending out enquiries was not among the pile.

She took the few letters that had come for her from home, along with Mr. Rodney’s post, and began to climb the stairs with her groceries.

It was still beautifully light, even though it was after five, and she liked the way the sun shone through the stain glass to pool in colorful puddles of light on the landing.

She and Mr. Rodney were on the third floor, and with the way the stairs creaked, he could hear her coming from about the first floor landing.

He was waiting for her outside his door, expression amused, as if her very arrival was cause for delight.

“Letters!” he exclaimed as she held them out to him. “And from home!”

She had noticed the letters were from Trinidad, and she hoped this time it wasn’t bad news. Once or twice he had received word an old friend or relative had passed away, and she could tell it wore on him that he couldn’t go to the funerals, or spend time with others who had known the departed, and honor their memory.

“You look sad today, Gabby.” Mr. Rodney may be old, and not very mobile, but he was sharp.

She lifted her hands. “Bad day at work.”

“Someone shouted at you? Threatened you?” He was always outraged when she told him stories of how people reacted to getting a fine.

She hesitated, then decided to tell him the truth. He wasn’t a child, and he would be more hurt to find out she had kept something from him. “I found a man dead in a car.”

“Dead, how?” He stepped closer, shocked.

“I don’t know. Violently. The police won’t say what happened to him. I just saw lots of blood.”

“You have had a shock.” He studied her closely. “They didn’t let you go home?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t think to ask. I just carried on with my rounds.”

He clicked his tongue. “You need to take care of yourself, girl.”

“I will, Mr. Rodney. I’ll get an early night tonight. Are you off to the club for dinner?”

“I am. Solomon’s coming to fetch me at six.” He already had his coat over his arm, and his hat in his hand.

She thought about joining them. She had an open invitation from Mr. Rodney to attend the Calypso Club in Notting Hill, she loved the music, and the spicy Caribbean food they served was reasonably-priced and delicious. But she had bought groceries, and she was looking forward to a quiet night.

She set her paper bag of groceries down, and was getting out her key when Solomon came bounding up the stairs.

Mr. Rodney’s nephew was as tall and broad as Detective Sergeant Archer, she thought as she turned to him. His dreadlocks spilled over the colorful jacket he wore, the opposite of the dark suit DS Archer had been wearing.

“Gabby! Looking good!”

She laughed. Felt even more tempted to go with them to the club. “Not as good as you, Solomon.”

“True, that. But then, I am who I am.” He spread his hands out and sent her a wicked grin.

He was involved in something illegal.

She knew it.

Both because Mr. Rodney worried his nephew would get into trouble with the police, and also because she had seen him with his group of friends at the club, talking quietly together, clearly planning and organizing their business.

If she were to guess, she’d say he was selling dope to the party boys and girls in the West End, using his friends who worked for British Transport to deliver the goods.

And looking at the expensive leather shoes he wore, he wasn’t doing badly out of it, either.

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