Page 32 of Return Ticket

“Language, Yvette. And who have you got standing in the doorway?” A woman who was clearly Yvette’s mother came and stood beside her, a cigarette dangling from brightly painted lips. “Yes?”

“Police, Mrs. Henderson.” James held out his warrant card again.

“It’s about Tammy, Mum.” Yvette stared at them, hostility in every line of her body. “They’ve been listening to that pig, Davies.”

Her mother looked appalled, but she also didn’t correct her daughter, which James took to mean she agreed with her daughter’s assessment, but didn’t like her using bad language in public.

“You think Mr. Davies had something to do with Tammy’s disappearance?” he asked.

Yvette seemed to deflate. “No. I thought she’d been nabbed walking back from the bus stop.”

“Didn’t you walk together?” Hartridge asked, and it was a fair question. Their houses were in sight of each other.

“I wish I had, but I came home earlier than she did. I had to open the shop at 8 that week, you see, because we were doing stock take. So I had to call an early night. But Tammy only had to be in the office by 9, so she kept dancing.” Yvette closed her eyes, and a tear tracked its way down her cheek.

“Did you see anyone suspicious on your way home?” James asked her, making his voice gentle. “Anyone that gave you a bad feeling?”

Yvette looked at him, and then shrugged. “Plenty. But that’s every time I go out. Weren’t no different, if that’s what you mean. No one stood out more than usual.”

“Thank you.” He looked down the street, towards the Davies residence. “Would Tammy have told you if there was something wrong at home?”

Yvette took the handkerchief her mother held out to her and dabbed at her eyes. “Like her father backhanding her and her mum, you mean?”

“Yes.” James nodded. “That’s what I mean.”

“He’s a brute.” Yvette’s mother shook her head. “One of those in charge on the docks, he is. Struts around. And has a nasty temper.”

“He’d lash out on a whim,” Yvette told them. “Tammy was scared of him. And saving up to move out.”

The fog had come up while they had been talking to Yvette, and the car was almost invisible when they got back to it. They got in and sat in silence for a moment.

“You think he killed her?” Hartridge asked.

“It’s possible. She comes back, maybe a little drunk. Talks back. He’s maybe been drinking himself, hits her. Hits her harder than usual, because she dares disrespect him. And suddenly he’s looking down at the dead body of his daughter.” James could see it all too well.

“That’s . . .” Hartridge shook his head. He reached for the ignition with the key, and James shot out a hand, clamped his forearm.

“Shh,” he said. Tipped his head to the pavement, to the man walking past, head down, collar pulled up against the cold.

“Davies?” Hartridge breathed.

“Yes.” And James wondered where he was going after his chat with the police.

“Where do you think he’s put the body, if he did kill her?” Hartridge asked.

“I’m guessing he threw her into the Thames.” If he worked the docks, which Yvette’s mother seemed to suggest, then he’d know the tides, would know where to put her in that would pull her downriver.

“That’s why he knew we weren’t there with any update. He doesn’t think her body will ever be found.” Hartridge swore softly. “Bastard.”

“If we’re right,” James cautioned. “He might just be a cold one. A brute who’s loose with his fists but not responsible.”

“Sure,” Hartridge said. “But you don’t believe that.”

No. No, he didn’t.

But that didn’t get him any closer to knowing who’d killed the other three women in London.

Still . . .

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