Page 68 of Return Ticket

The headlights illuminated him and Hartridge, and there was a sudden squealing of tires as a black Mercedes sped away.

Tanner.

“He was coming back for something,” Hartridge said. “And we got here first.”

“Yes.” James felt a sudden lift in his spirits. “Let’s get a few uniforms to stand front and back here until the warrant’s issued. I don’t want him getting in for whatever it was he came for.”

It meant there was something here he wanted. And now he couldn’t get it.

The energy of that fueled him enough to get home before he crashed into bed. As he lay, looking at the ceiling, he remembered the silent tears dripping down Gabriella’s cheeks as they’d eaten dinner, and admitted he might have to take a step back when they took Tanner in. Because he wanted to hurt him.

Very, very badly.

* * *

“Where the hell were you, yesterday?” Detective Inspector Whetford loomed in James’s office, blocking the way out.

James slung his coat over his arm, the warrant he’d been waiting for finally in his hand, and considered his boss.

“Sir?” he asked.

“I came past at least three times, and you were never once in your office.” Whetford waved a hand in the direction of Hartridge’s cubby hole. “Neither was your bagman.”

He was shaking a little, and James could see he was working himself into a rage.

It could be manufactured, a way to build up a head of steam in order to punish James for his failure to fall in line on the weekend, but James thought the shakes were genuine.

“As I mentioned in the report I put on your desk last night,” James said, sure—beyond sure—that Whetford had not checked a single file on his desk for weeks, “we’ve managed to link the four murders over the last two months to murders that happened during the Blitz. Given that every day this bastard goes undetected, more women are at risk, I’ve literally worked between sixteen and eighteen hours a day since I caught the first case.”

“What?” Whetford took a step back as if James had struck him. “What case?”

“The one I’ve been involved in since before I went on leave, sir.” James had gone around Whetford to get the case, but he’d covered himself later by giving the details to the pool secretary who worked for four DIs, Whetford included.

She would have entered it into the system and Whetford would have assumed it had been a random assignment. If he’d even looked.

“You went on leave during this?” Whetford grabbed onto the one thing that was a bad look.

“Dr. Jandicott couldn’t say how that first victim died, sir, who she was, or even how long she’d been dead before she was found. It was only after I returned and the second body turned up that we established the link.” James studied Whetford, and thought his hands might be shaking a little.

“Jandicott?” The pathologist’s name seemed to take the wind out of Whetfor’s sails. “And he thinks the same person is responsible for four deaths in the last two months?”

“We both do, sir. Our reasoning is in my report.” He had used the pretext of dropping the hastily drawn-up report to Whetford’s office last night as a way to get in and set up his plan to discredit his boss, before he’d headed over to Gabriella’s. He’d slid the report under a few other files, so it looked as if he’d dropped it off earlier than he had. He’d known Whetford wouldn’t be at work. He preferred to do his business in a noisy pub, where no one could see who he talked to and hear what was said. “Have you had time to read the report yet, sir?” James asked. “If we’re right, he’s responsible for a lot more than just four deaths.”

“My God, man.” Whetford stared at him in horror. A multiple murderer was so rare as to be major news in the Met. “Why haven’t you briefed me before now?” Whetford’s neck was red.

“Sir, I went to your office a number of times, and eventually left the report when I couldn’t speak to you personally.” James rubbed a hand on his brow. “I’ve been burning the candle at both ends to catch this monster, sir. Along with Dr. Jandicott and DS Hartridge.”

Again, Jandicott’s name gave Whetford pause. He might have power over James, but Jandicott was the head pathologist and had access to far more ears than Whetford did. “Give me the short version, right now, so I can brief the Commissioner.” Whetford pulled his collar away from his neck, and James felt a quiet satisfaction at the display of nerves. Because no DI should be this out of the loop with his subordinates’ cases—and Whetford knew it.

James spelled it out in simple terms, wondering if Whetford would realize that he would fall short of even the most basic questioning by the Commissioner, but Whetford was too focused on getting the broad strokes committed to memory.

Whetford fiddled with his collar again, and the flush moved up from his neck to his cheeks. He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his brow.

“You coming down with something, sir?” James asked.

“Maybe.” Whetford coughed into the handkerchief. “Maybe I am.” He stepped back into the passageway and then finally focused on James’s coat. “You’re off again?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.” James decided not to tell him he was busy on a different case this morning. The smog had come in heavily in the early morning hours, and he felt a rising sense of pressure, that lives hung in the balance.

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