Page 73 of Return Ticket

“I appreciate you coming to speak with us,” James said, sitting down close to the door. “My colleague and I are worried about Mrs. Hatty Clark, and wonder if you have anything you can tell us about her whereabouts.”

There was a moment of shifting bodies, hands gripping handbags, feet shuffling.

“Did her husband ask you to ask us?” One of the women leaned forward. She had a tight perm of mouse brown hair and bright red lipstick, and James thought he wouldn’t like to meet her down a dark alley. She had the eyes of a cut throat.

“He did make a missing persons report, but it seems it was under duress from Mrs. Clark’s mother.” James gave her an easy smile. “We want to find out if she’s come to harm, either by a stranger’s hand, or by someone she knows.”

“Someone like Mr. Clark, you mean?” A small, bird-like woman who had a lap full of knitting shifted in her chair.

“Perhaps,” James conceded.

One of the other women sighed. “We can’t keep this up, Mavis. They’re the police.”

The little one glanced over, made a moue with her mouth, and then turned back to him. “She’s staying with me.”

James breathed out a sigh of relief. “You won’t believe how happy I am to hear that. Please ask her to get in touch with me when she has a chance, so I can strike her off the missing persons list.” James took out a card and handed it to the woman.

“Easy as that?” the woman asked.

He nodded. “She can do what she likes, but if she isn’t missing, no one needs to spend time looking for her, do they?”

“Sure, and I will do that,” the woman said, taking his card with a cheeky grin.

“Good.” James walked out, feeling a lightness he didn’t anticipate.

“That’s happy news, at least.” Hartridge slid into the car.

“Yes. Clark was so shifty, I was worried the outcome would be worse.” James thought about it. “I’ll pass on the tip to Vice or Fraud. There’s something wrong about that man.”

Hartridge gave a snort, to which James guessed he didn’t believe either department would do anything about his tip, but he would pass it on, anyway.

They headed for their final interview of the day.

Shepherd’s Bush had suffered a lot of damage during the war, but Mrs. Gallagher’s house was one of the ones that had made it through unscathed. She was down a smaller street behind the new shopping center, and they couldn’t find parking.

Hartridge let James out and went to find a spot as close by as possible.

He walked up the little path to the door, and had his hand up to knock when a voice came from the side.

“Can I help you?”

He tried not to jump, and turned to find a woman crouched down in a garden bed, a little trowel in one gloved hand, with a basket full of weeds beside her.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He showed her his warrant card. “DS Archer. Are you Mrs. Gallagher?”

She rose to her feet, dusting her skirt, and then stripped off her gloves. “I am.” She suddenly took a step back and her hands clasped together. “My Johnny?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Gallagher. This is about an attack you experienced during the war. I wondered if you would mind me asking you a few questions about it?”

“Well.” She picked up the basket and walked toward where he was standing on the steps. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

He stepped aside, and she pushed the door open and invited him in.

“Do you remember the incident well?” James asked her.

“Someone tried to kill me, that’s not something that goes away, DS Archer.” Mrs. Gallagher waved him into her front room. “I’ve thought about it often these last twenty years.”

“It was March 1941, is that right?” James asked her.

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