Page 72 of Return Ticket

He checked the time.

They hadn’t spent as long as he thought they would searching Tanner’s office, so he got Hartridge to drive to one of the Blitz witnesses before they were due at the library to meet Hatty Clark’s bridge friends.

Her house was on the way—or at least, the house she’d lived in at the time of the attack in April 1941. Her case was the one James had found after Hartridge had left with the evidence from the March attack, and he steeled himself for disappointment when he knocked on the door.

“Lucille Bourne?” he asked, when a woman opened it. Her hair was pulled neatly back in a bun, her dress covered by a flowered apron.

She nodded cautiously. “I was. I’m Lucille Hammond, now.”

In that case, they were lucky to find her at the same address, James thought. He held up his warrant card. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m here to ask you about an attack you experienced during the war. Outside a pub in Earl’s Court?”

The shock was obvious on her face, and she stepped back to let them in, offering them tea as she did.

They ended up in a sunny kitchen, watching her put on the kettle.

“You know, I haven’t thought about the attack in years,” she said as she put tea bags into a teapot. “What brings you to my door now?”

“We can’t go into the details, but we’ve come across new information that might lead to his arrest.” James didn’t want news of a deranged killer getting out. “Can you remember anything from that night?”

“How he looked, you mean?” she asked, then turned as the kettle whistled. She seemed to be thinking it over.

“He was taller than me, but normal height for a man, not heavy set but not particularly slender, either.” She poured out the tea, and handed them their teacups—delicate fine bone china with roses around the rim, on saucers with the same pattern.

“He approached you from the front?” Hartridge asked.

Lucille Hammond glanced at him, gave a nod. “I think he came out of a side street, but I was jumpy, it was dark and I was afraid, so the moment I heard footsteps, I turned to see who was there. I was facing him, with my torch switched on, and he seemed to reel back in surprise.”

“This was near a pub?” James asked.

Lucille Hammond nodded. “I was meeting some friends there after work. I was only nineteen when I was attacked.” She shook her head. “So young. When I saw the man, he looked like he was in uniform—a serviceman, I thought—and I immediately relaxed.”

“What did he do?” James asked.

“He swung something at me.” She shook her head, as if still baffled by that. “I didn’t see what. It looked short, not a stick, or anything like that, more a cosh, maybe?” She shrugged. “I leaped back, so whatever it was only caught me a glancing blow on my arm. I screamed.” She finally sat down at the table with them, took a sip of her tea. “I had a piercing scream. Honestly, they called me the banshee at school.” She gave a low chuckle. “Scared the life out of my attacker.”

James tilted his head. “What did he do?”

“He swore, I can’t remember exactly what he said, but almost like my scream brought it on, the sirens started blaring, and he was sort of frozen in place.” Lucille Hammond set her cup away from her. “And people just poured out of the pub, and I pointed at him and screamed again.” She lifted her hands. “I don’t even think I spoke an intelligible word, but somehow a few of the men understood he needed catching.”

“They didn’t catch him, though?” James asked.

She shook her head. “He turned and ran, and the sirens were still blaring, so the men had to get to shelter.” She leaned back in her chair. “My friends came out the pub, and they took me with them into the underground. When we were safe in the tunnels, I found a copper and told him what happened.”

“Did you notice hair color, eye color, anything like that?” James asked, aware this was twenty years later.

“Dark hair, maybe, but he was wearing a hat or a cap. No idea of his eye color. In the dark, it was impossible to see.” She sighed. “I honestly don’t know what he wanted.”

They thanked her for her time and got into the Wolseley before they spoke again.

“She doesn’t understand that he wanted to kill her,” Hartridge said.

“And I’m glad she doesn’t.” James was happy she’d managed to survive the encounter so unscathed.

He hoped Hatty Clark had managed to survive unscathed, too. Or wasn’t missing at all. As Hartridge drew up outside the library, he had to believe these ladies would know if she had simply left her husband, or had disappeared in suspicious circumstances.

The bridge club was set up in the reading room, a small chamber off the main library, with hard wooden chairs set around the edges of the room, and a low coffee table in the middle.

They were chatting amiably to each other when the librarian showed him and Hartridge in, which made the sudden silence at the sight of them all the more pronounced.

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