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She began to write the ticket, but a strange dark streak along the door made her take a closer look.
She slotted her pencil back into its holder on the side of the ticket book and took a step closer.
It was blood.
It had dried and it looked as if someone had trailed a bloody hand across the door and then grabbed the handle.
Clutching her ticket book with both hands, she peered through the passenger side window.
Johnny McLad lay twisted around in the bucket seat as if to face her, one hand flung out and propped up by the gear lever, palm up. The palm was dark with blood.
She let her gaze travel from his hand, up his arm, to his head. The face that had smirked at her only two days earlier was covered in blood down the left side. His blue eyes stared at her, the left one all the more blue because of the dark red surrounding it.
She took a shuddering breath and a sharp step back. Her hands shook, and she shoved her ticket book into her satchel and leaned back against the gallery wall to steady herself.
When she was calmer, she looked up and down the street for some kind of official help.
No bobbies in sight.
A little way up, at the Italian restaurant she’d noticed on her rounds, a door creaked open and she saw the end of a broom sweeping dust onto the street.
“Mi scusi!” she called.
The broom stopped, then an old man stepped out, a white apron tied around his short, barrel-chested form. “Sì?”
“Phone the police,” she called in Italian. “There is a dead man here, and I don’t want to leave the scene unattended. Tell them to hurry.”
He stared at her, then propped the broom against the wall and walked toward her.
She said nothing, allowing that in the same situation, she would probably want to see for herself before phoning the police, as well.
The café owner was looking at her, rather than the car, suspicion in every line of him, but when he got closer his gaze flicked to the window and he stopped with an exclamation.
Then he gestured back to the café, and she gave a nod in response.
He turned on his heel and moved away at a fast clip, and Gabriella hunched a little, arms crossed over her chest.
It felt like a long time later that the café owner came back out, this time with a small espresso cup and saucer in his hand.
He held it out to her and she took it gratefully, drinking the strong coffee in small, appreciative sips.
“Good,” she told him.
“You aren’t from the old country,” he said. “Your accent is wrong.”
“I’m from Australia. It’s my mother and her family who are from the old country.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Where in Australia?”
“Melbourne.”
“My cousin Luigi went to Melbourne. He tells me it is paradise.”
Gabriella gave a snort. “It’s not bad.”
“But you are here. Not in Melbourne.”
“I wanted to have a look at the world.” She handed him back the cup and saucer. That wasn’t her real reason for being in London, but it wasn’t completely untrue.