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“Switzerland was neutral in the war, but it’s a possibility.” James didn’t think so, though. “More likely, Devenish is up to something, and Fischer’s up to his neck in it. And somehow, that’s led to two bodies been left on his doorstep.”
“Do you think Devenish killed them both?” Hartridge asked.
James glanced at him. “I’d certainly like to ask him about that. But leaving the bodies outside his gallery seems a bit of a strange move. More likely he’s got on the wrong side of some dangerous people, and one of them is leaving him a message.”
“Like a warning, you mean?” Hartridge asked.
James gave a nod. “Or a threat.”
chaptersixteen
DS Archer foundher on her rounds.
Gabriella had left a message for him during her tea break, calling him from a pay phone near a café where she often stopped for a cup of weak, disappointing coffee. She’d expected him to come back to her flat later, or leave a message for her at the traffic warden center.
He must have seen the surprise on her face that he’d tracked her down.
“I had to call in to the Yard and they told me you’d left a message. We were close by.”
Clematis Lane was just down the road, and she guessed that’s where he’d come from. He was accompanied by a younger officer, also in plain clothes, who he introduced as DC Hartridge.
She had just finished writing a FPN for a lorry parked on double yellows, and she tucked her ticket book into her satchel.
She was suddenly hesitant to tell him about the van. It was conjecture, but he had insisted she let him know if she felt unsafe at any point.
“You want a cuppa?” he asked her after a moment’s silence.
She gave a nod, and they moved to a small café tucked back from the street. Gabriella had never gone inside before, but it was neat and smelled of pies.
DC Hartridge gave a deep, appreciative sniff. “We missed lunch,” he said to Archer.
“We did.” Archer turned to her. “What would you like?”
“Just coffee, if they have it. Otherwise a cup of tea.” She had never taken to tea, but she realized soon after her arrival she would have to develop a taste for it. Mr. Rodney loved coffee, but he had also adopted a love for tea, she guessed to assimilate with the English, and she drank it with him.
“You sure? It’s on the Met.”
She shook her head. She’d brought sourdough sandwiches from home, and had eaten them over an hour ago.
When they were all settled at a table, Hartridge and Archer digging in to plates of meat pie and chips and her delicately sipping yet more weak, disappointing coffee, she finally realized she needed to stop prevaricating.
“I think a white van followed me last night.”
Archer stopped with a forkful of pie close to his mouth, and set it back on his plate. “Where?”
“I was waiting for a bus on Cromwell Rd and this bloke in a white van drove past, then he turned around, came back and offered me a lift.”
Archer leaned forward. “Did you see him?”
She lifted a shoulder. “He was in shadow, and he had one of those soft tweed caps pulled low over his forehead. My impression was he was in his mid to late twenties. He had a jacket on with wide lapels, and I think he was trying to disguise his voice.”
“You said no?” Hartridge asked.
She nodded. “I said no. And he tried to persuade me to change my mind.”
“Did he try to force you in?” Archer’s gaze was fixed on her face.
She shook her head. “There was someone else at the bus stop—” no need to go into what Tony was doing there “—and he stepped forward and told him to get lost, and the man drove off very fast.”