Page 41 of Return Ticket

“Wembley Stadium. He’s the go-to man for greyhound racing.” Hartridge glanced at his watch.

He had a point.

It was already after 8 in the morning, so they didn’t have time to drive out to Wembley and back.

“All right. Let’s go sit somewhere and talk about what we’re going to do about Whetford,” James said. “I’ve only had one piece of toast for breakfast.”

“I didn’t have breakfast at all. I was hiding from Galbraith.” Hartridge looked like the world was suddenly a better place.

“Let’s find somewhere close to Hyde Park Corner. We can walk to Norris’s nick when it’s time.” James merged with the traffic and headed for St. James’ Park.

He had thought of a plan, but it had a flaw—he didn’t know how high up the corruption went.

If he tapped the wrong shoulder, he could be landing both himself and Hartridge in even more trouble.

So maybe the solution was to assume everyone was bent. Right up to the Police Commissioner himself.

chapterseventeen

James calledDr. Jandicott first thing on Monday morning.

He relaxed a little when the pathologist told him no body had been found after Saturday night’s fog, and he asked if he could come round to discuss the body found in the market garden.

Then he called the Met’s river police, Thames Division, and asked for the boat patrols to keep an eye out for the body of a young woman, gone missing near the docks. He didn’t give any details, just in case someone there had loose lips and connections to the dock workers, and Thames Division promised they’d let him know if they found anything.

“I think I’ve found Catherine Lithlow.” Hartridge knocked on his door and entered. “She’s a patient at St Mary Abbots Hospital on Marloes Rd.” He was more cheerful this morning. It was as if a weight had been lifted.

James knew it was because they had discussed a plan to get them out from under Whetford’s heel yesterday, before the CND march. He wanted to warn him that they still had to implement it, and there was a chance it wouldn’t work, but he let it go.

This wasn’t the place to talk about it, anyway.

“Catherine Lithlow,” he said instead, trying to remember who that was. “The woman with asthma?”

James recalled the pinched, nervous landlady who’d submitted the missing persons report, corroborated by Ms. Lithlow’s boss, that she would never up and leave, especially not without taking her things or giving notice. “Why hasn’t she sent word to her work and landlady?”

“She was hit by a car in the fog. They think she had an asthma attack and stumbled into the road. She was unconscious until yesterday.”

James shook his head. “That’s a story. Well, send a uniform round to confirm it’s her, and then tell them to let her workplace and landlady know.” It felt good to cross a name off their list. “Also, get someone to call Glasgow again, see if they can track down Fiona McTavish’s mother, and find out if she’s seen her.”

“Will do.” Hartridge disappeared.

James got his things together and walked out to the small office Hartridge had next to his own and poked his head in. “While you set the wheels in motion on those two, I’m going across to see Dr. Jandicott. I’ll swing back afterward and we can go interview the last four on our list.”

Hartridge almost seemed his old self as he waved in confirmation, the phone tucked under his chin.

James closed his door, and found Whetford bearing down on him.

He arranged his face into a friendly expression. “Morning, sir.”

“Archer, I thought I told you it was all hands yesterday. That wasn’t a suggestion, it was a direct order.” Whetford’s eyes were red-rimmed, and James wondered for the first time if he was on the drink. He looked terrible.

“I did help yesterday, sir.” James inserted just enough indignation to sound hurt. “I called the front desk to let them know the traffic was too backed up for Hartridge and I to make it to the Yard on time after we followed up on a lead we got on Saturday evening, and so we went to the nearest nick on the march route. Helped out Sergeant Darle in Piccadilly. We were on the line at St. James’ Park.”

“What?” It was the last thing Whetford had expected to hear. “We were expecting you here, man.”

“Sorry, sir, but the march caused so much traffic chaos, we would never have made it back here.” He lifted his shoulders. “They needed us just as much at St. James, sir. Sergeant Darle kitted us up, and we were on duty until after 5 in the evening.”

“And you called this in, you say?” Whetford was left flatfooted, but James didn’t think for a moment that he was appeased. He hadn’t wanted James and Hartridge here because they were needed. He had been trying to set them up for something.

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