Page 34 of Return Ticket

“What’s all this about, Ian?” James pushed his plate aside.

“While you were gone, DI Whetford came into the office, said he had a job for me.” Hartridge began to peel the label off his beer.

“A dirty job,” James guessed.

Hartridge looked up, eyes bleak. “A dirty job,” he agreed. “I’d heard the rumors, but I didn’t know for sure.”

“What game is he running?” James asked.

“He had me arrest this bloke on what he said was an anonymous tip. A bookie down the White City greyhound track. The charge was insider trading.” Hartridge blew out a breath and shook his head. “Then two hours after I had him in custody, Whetford told me to let him go, and me and Galbraith were to drive him home.”

“Did Whetford interview him first?” James asked.

Hartridge shook his head. “I thought maybe the person who phoned it in withdrew the accusation, or something.” He lifted his shoulders. “But that wasn’t it.”

He lifted his bottle, took another sip, and eventually slumped a little deeper into his chair. “On the way home, Galbraith pulled in to this little car park and started telling the bookie, Arnie Forks, that we had him bang to rights, but if he wanted it to all go away, he could pass along any tips he heard—anything dodgy going down—and any inside information on which dogs might win which race.”

James slumped a little in his chair himself.

“I honestly thought Galbraith might be playing him, you know?” Hartridge shook his head. “Like, setting a trap.”

“But he was serious,” James guessed.

Hartridge sighed. “When we dropped Forks off, Galbraith told him to remember my face, that when I came around, he better have some good info for me, or he’d be back in interview, with no easy way out next time.”

“That’s what Galbraith was trying to get out of you? What you’d gotten from Forks?”

Hartridge nodded. “Yes. I waited until I saw Forks leave the two times Galbraith sent me, and then knocked, so I could say he wasn’t there.”

“And Galbraith isn’t happy. Probably getting pressure from Whetford, who wants to keep his hands as clean as possible.” James had known Whetford was on the take, but this was more. This wasn’t looking the other way, or taking a backhander to lose evidence. This was going out and actively coercing criminals into providing inside information for his own profit.

“What do I do?” Hartridge asked. “How do I get out of this?”

“We’ll find a way.” James was not standing for it. “For now, sleep on my couch, and we’ll head out in the morning for the last four interviews—the two who were out when we came calling, and the two we didn’t get to this evening.”

“What about Davies?” Hartridge asked.

“I’ll talk to the Thames Division,” James said. “Ask them to let me know if they find a body in the river.”

“You really think he killed her and threw her in the Thames?” Hartridge stood and began clearing up.

“I don’t think he meant to kill her, but once he did, he panicked.” James could see it all too easily. “What we need to do is go over and interview Mrs. Davies while he’s at work. See what she has to say without him there.”

“She won’t say anything,” Hartridge said. “She’s too beaten down. Too scared of him.”

“Maybe,” James conceded. “But she loved her daughter. It was her who reported Tamara missing, and that did not please Davies at all. And she is obviously very worried about her.”

He washed the dishes and Hartridge dried.

The fog lifted a little, the wind blowing it seaward, and he stared out the window as the sky cleared.

“What are you thinking?” Hartridge asked.

“I’m thinking our man might be out hunting tonight, given the fog. But now it’s lifting, maybe we’ll get lucky. Let’s hope he didn’t find a victim in time.”

chapterfifteen

Gabriella madea point to get to the pub early.

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