Page 33 of Return Ticket

He leaned forward, looking for the silhouette of Davies in the fog. “Let’s follow him.”

chapterfourteen

The pub was loud.

James and Hartridge stood outside it, and shared a look.

If they went in, Davies might notice them, and given the building’s proximity to the docks, he guessed the place was full of Davies’ fellow dock workers.

They would be severely outnumbered.

“I think a strategic retreat is in order,” James said. “We won’t learn anything here, anyway.” If they had followed Davies to the dock, or if he’d acted suspiciously in the vicinity of the river, James would have kept eyes on him, but it looked like he was just off to spend the night with his mates.

Hartridge nodded, and James thought he relaxed a little.

“We have two names left on the list.” And so far, Mrs. Jenkins had been the only one they’d spoken to whose daughter seemed a viable match. “It’s only seven. Let’s knock on a few more doors.”

The fog was almost impossibly thick now, especially by the river. It caught the back of James’s throat and he coughed as he almost walked into the side of the Wolseley.

People walked past, stumbling around a little as they headed for the diffused light of the pub’s lit up windows, and he got inside the car with a sense of relief.

“Maybe we should call it a night?” Hartridge said. “Driving in this will be dangerous.”

James didn’t want to, but as Hartridge started the engine and turned on the headlights, he could barely see the road in front of them. It would be reckless to continue.

“Let’s drive to the barracks to get you home,” James said, eventually. “I’ll continue on to the Yard to pick up my car.”

Hartridge nodded, not even trying to protest that he didn’t need a lift home.

When they finally reached the tall, austere post-war block that housed the single officers of the Met, Hartridge was leaning forward in his seat, eyes glued to the road.

“Whew, that was dicey.” Hartridge dropped his hands from the wheel and shook out his shoulders. “I’m glad that’s over.”

James still had to drive to New Scotland Yard and get his own car, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He got out of the Wolseley and walked around the front to the driver’s side. Hartridge opened the door and stood, his gaze going to the front of the barracks. He froze in place, eyes on someone hovering by the entrance.

“Who is it?” James kept his voice soft, and the thick fog dampened the sound even more.

Hartridge looked at him, then turned back. “I think it’s Galbraith,” he said on an exhale.

“Come to do what, exactly?” James was tired of guessing.

Hartridge sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“Then get in the back, keep low, and come home with me tonight.” He slid behind the wheel, and after a moment’s hesitation, he heard Hartridge quietly open the door behind him and get in.

He drove the five minutes to the Yard, parked in a dark corner, and the two of them got into James’s Morris.

Hartridge said nothing as he drove home, swinging by to get fish and chips along the way.

He ate far too much fish and chips he thought as he handed the wrapped package of their dinner to Hartridge. They drove home with the scent of vinegar filling the car.

When they got up to his flat, he found plates and cutlery, and they ate in silence, both hungry after their long day.

Eventually, though, Hartridge set down his beer and leaned back.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding toward the decimated dinner. “Galbraith would have probably given me a hiding.”

James lifted his brows. That wouldn’t surprise him, knowing what little he did of Galbraith. And if Hartridge fought back, he could be accused of striking a superior.

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