Page 26 of Return Ticket

“Eh?” Venables asked, looking between them.

“We’re going, Hartridge.” James noted down the time the body had been admitted to the hospital from the book, and then turned back to Venables. “You can go back to bed now.”

Venables looked at him, unsure, and then muttered something as he stumbled back down the passage, into the room he’d originally emerged from.

“What is thatsmell?” Hartridge waved a hand in front of his nose. “Whisky?”

“I think so.” James led the way up the stairs.

“What did he say was the cause of death?” Hartridge asked.

“Fortunately for us, he hadn’t started the post mortem, because given the state of him, you couldn’t rely on a single finding.” Which wasn’t right.

James asked the way to the superintendent’s office, and made a formal complaint.

“That’ll cost him his job,” Hartridge said as they got back into the Wolseley. “The staff I asked when I went to look for him said he’s often absent and has a drinking problem.”

“Thentheyshould have told the superintendent. If this becomes part of a criminal case, and it came out in court what kind of state he’s in while on the job, there’d be no justice for the victim.” James was aware he sounded strident, and softened his tone. “If he’d called it an accidental death, and we weren’t looking into it, then whoever’s responsible would have gotten away with killing her, and that’s not right.”

Hartridge was silent as they drove away, and James didn’t try to draw him into conversation.

He headed over the Thames to speak to a Mrs. Jenkins, who’d reported her daughter missing.

Of the eight missing reports, Mrs. Jenkins had made hers ten days ago. That would coincide with the death of victim two almost exactly.

They pulled up outside a home in East London, a tiny three story row house, sitting at the end of a long stretch of red brick houses, all with doors opening straight onto the street.

Mrs. Jenkins’ door was black and nicely painted.

James knocked and waited, aware of eyes on him and Hartridge from up and down the street.

A few curtains twitched across the road, and passers-by slowed, watching them with eyes that held more than a little hostility.

The door opened a little and he saw a sliver of a woman’s face.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Jenkins? I’m Detective Sergeant Archer, here to follow up on a missing person’s report you made over a week ago?” He held out his warrant card.

She made a sound of surprise and pulled the door open. She was standing in house slippers and had obviously just taken off her house coat at the sound of the knock, as her jumper was on a little skew, and the coat itself swayed on the coat stand.

“You have news?” she asked, breathless. “News about my Beth?”

“No,” James said, and he didn’t hide his regret. “We’re just getting more information, if you don’t mind?”

She looked suddenly deflated, but shuffled back a little more. “Come in.”

“This is Detective Constable Hartridge,” James said, as he stepped in. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“If it would get me my Beth back, I’d stand around on one leg and chat until hell froze over.” Mrs. Jenkins straightened her jumper, and her eyes snapped. “Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.” James could see she was far too upset to make them some, anyway. Best to get this done.

She led them through to the sitting room, and he sat carefully on the edge of a sofa, while Hartridge wisely chose to stand against the wall.

“Can you tell me the circumstances of Beth’s disappearance?” James had the report, but he detected a distinct lack of detail in the wording.

“You have the report the police took from me?” Mrs. Jenkins asked, looking at the folder he held in his hands.

---