Page 39 of Return Ticket

“Man asked you a question,” Solomon said. “Or what?”

As if aware of the dangerous ground he was walking, he suddenly shook his head. “Never mind.”

“You don’t come back here,” Solomon said. “And if you do, understand this. You mess with our friend, you mess with us. And, Mr. High and Mighty, you don’t want to mess with us.”

George stepped back, and Mr. Jaguar closed the door probably harder than he meant to, started the engine, and then, when Solomon stepped onto the pavement, rode off in a screech of tires.

“Thank you. Really. That was so great of you.” Gabriella nudged George. “I was really nervous.”

“Didn’t stop you confronting him,” George said.

She shrugged. “I considered creeping in the back way, not speaking to him, but I’d have known he was out here, lurking, and I wanted to find out what was going on.”

“Next time, come find us,” Solomon said. “But I respect you for fighting your own battles.”

She blew out a breath. “And hopefully, thanks to you three, that’s one battle won.”

chaptersixteen

James wantedto spend Sunday with Gabriella.

He didn’t care what they did.

He woke early and got dressed, checking his watch as he ate toast, wondering if it was too soon to go round to her flat.

He had no idea if she slept in or not. The two times he’d spent the night with her had been under fraught circumstances, and they didn’t really count.

He had spent the whole of Saturday at New Scotland Yard with Hartridge, going through any like crimes, after he’d come to the conclusion their killer was too efficient to be doing this for the first time.

They had gone back five years, and while there had been a few that looked similar, they had not managed to find anything that was close enough to be a sure thing.

He shook his shoulders, trying to put that all aside. He needed a break, and he needed Gabriella.

As he pulled on a jacket and got his wallet and keys, his telephone rang, and he turned to look at it with trepidation.

It could be Gabriella, ringing him up from the phone box on the corner of her street, inviting him to breakfast, or it could be work.

He lifted the receiver.

“Archer.” DI Whetford’s voice was clipped. “There’s a nuclear disarmament march today. Seems like a lot of rank and file have come down with the flu, and uniform are stretched too thin, so the Met is having to offer up our detectives. Sorry if you had plans today, but you’ll need to come down and suit up by ten.”

James kept his voice steady with some effort. “Ten?” he asked. It was seven thirty now.

“They’re marching into the city from Aldermaston. Ten’s the earliest they’ll get here, by Uniform’s estimates.” Whetford cleared his throat. “Get hold of DC Hartridge and make sure he comes, too.”

That seemed like a very specific request.

“I’ll be happy to stop by and let him know, but won’t he already have heard, if everyone is being called in?”

“Perhaps.” Whetford’s tone was sharp. “But as your bagman, he’s your responsibility.”

James leaned against the wall, wondering what game Whetford was playing. “Sure, I’ll swing round, see if I can give him a lift.”

“You do that, Archer.” Whetford cut the call short.

Whetford was James’s immediate superior, but someone senior from uniform branch could just as easily have rung him up. And Whetford never stirred himself to any effort unless there was something in it for him.

This felt like a set up, or a trap, even though James had read the paper that morning, and the march had been mentioned. It was definitely happening today, and they definitely needed all hands on deck.

---