Page 46 of Return Ticket

And it stirred something in her memory. Something she’d heard recently, but couldn’t quite place.

As she came back down the main road on the final stretch, she caught sight of the Land Rover, parked up on double yellows.

And just like that, she realized she was ready for war.

The Italian temper that lived in her didn’t come to the surface often, but today she was Vesuvius.

She circled the vehicle, and when she saw the window was partially down on the passenger side, she smiled. She wrote out the ticket and sealed it in its plastic sleeve, then stepped in as close to the door as she dared, and popped the fine through the window.

It skimmed through the air, fluttering a bit, and then landed on the driver’s seat.

She walked the rest of the way back to headquarters feeling a tiny bit better.

She went to find Mr. Greenberg as soon as she got back, and explained about the body.

He carefully put a red pin in his map.

This was the fourth red pin, although only the third in their borough.

The homeless man found dead in Kensington Gardens, and three women.

That seemed like a lot.

chapternineteen

James lookedat the photograph of Pamela Moresby, and knew they’d found the girl in the ditch. Her family had reported her missing the day her body had been found, and there was no question in his mind this was the same person.

Her mother’s hands began to flutter as he stared at the picture, a framed formal portrait taken in a studio. When he raised his eyes, he saw helpless terror on her face.

She said nothing, her lips working as if trying to form words.

“Mrs. Moresby, I would like you or your husband, or both of you, to come down to the pathologist’s office, to make an identification, if you could.” He spoke gently, and Hartridge sent him a quick, surprised look.

“You . . .” She swallowed. “You have a body . . .” She swallowed again and stopped talking.

“We found someone a few days ago, and their description matches your daughter’s. It would be a great help if you could come and see if you think it’s her.” He looked down at the photograph again. Pamela Moresby looked back at him, eyes serious, face serene.

“My husband’s at work. Down the shop.” Mrs. Moresby fluttered her hand again.

“Shall we go fetch him, and take him down to the pathologist?” James asked.

Mrs. Moresby gave a jerky nod and started to rock, and Hartridge stepped back, out of the room.

James guessed he’d gone to get her older daughter, who had been moving around in the kitchen since they had arrived.

The daughter preceded Hartridge into the room, stopping dead at the sight of her mother, and then folded herself down into a crouch, and grasped her mother’s hand.

She tilted her head, staring at James, and he got to his feet.

“We’ll be in touch.” He couldn’t ask this woman another thing. He would see if he could get more out of the husband. He couldn’t give his condolences, because they couldn’t be sure the body was Pamela Moresby until identification, so he merely gave a formal nod, and left.

Hartridge was waiting for him by the front door of the tiny house squeezed in between two large shops, and when they got outside, he blew out a breath.

“The sister says the victim works in a factory. She’s on the late shift some weeks. Comes home around four in the morning.” Hartridge followed behind James as he walked to the shop next door.

The green grocer’s had baskets of fruit and veg by the front entrance, and green and gold lettering above a door that tinkled as James pushed inside.

A young woman sat at a till near the door, but James spotted an older man stocking shelves who looked up at them as they stepped in.

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