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He was right, so she took the offered arm, and let him walk her home.
Hopefully tomorrow would be less exciting.
chaptertwenty-one
“DS Archer?”
James was just leaving the hospital, and he and Hartridge stopped at the sight of the uniformed officer hailing them.
He recognized PS Yates from the Notting Hill nick. “Yates.”
“Just had a stabbing on my patch,” Yates said. “A Gabriella Farnsworth—”
James was aware of a sudden drop in temperature, a sudden roaring in his ears. “Miss Farnsworth was stabbed?” He would never know how his voice came out as calmly as it did.
“Not a scratch on her. Her companion, Mr. Rodney, he’s the one got hurt. Attacker ran off when he was interrupted.”
The tight grip the air seemed to have on him suddenly loosened.
“Did she see who it was?” Hartridge sounded excited.
Yates was shaking his head. “He chose a really dark spot, and he wore a mask and knitted cap. I reckon he knew what he was about. She said it might be related to that Chelsea case . . .?” Yates looked a little uncertain, as if he didn’t know whether to believe what she had told him.
“Yes.” James sounded grim. “She’s been followed. We think the man who stabbed two people over the last week and a half is nervous she saw him.”
“Hell.” Yates winced. “Lucky for her two blokes came along and stopped him. Sounds like he took one look at them and legged it.”
“You here to interview her friend who was stabbed?” Hartridge asked.
James was relieved one of them was thinking, because he would have let Yates go in, his only thought to go straight to Gabriella.
“You want to come with me?” Yates asked.
“If he got a good look, that would be one of our best leads,” James admitted.
He turned on his heel and followed Yates in.
A tall black man with dreadlocks and very sharp clothes was leaning against the wall in the corridor outside the victim’s door, eyes closed, arms and legs crossed.
“Excuse me,” Yates asked, looking down at his notebook. “Are you Solomon Harriot?”
Harriot opened his eyes slowly, although if James were to guess, there was nothing relaxed about him.
“I am.”
“Police Sergeant Yates.” Yates held out a hand, and Solomon straightened up and shook it. “How is your uncle?”
“The doctor’s in with him. They patched him up. The knife didn’t go too deep, but he’ll have a scar.” Solomon was taking them all in. “Did you speak to Gabriella?”
“I did.” Yates looked down at his notes again. “Can you tell me what you saw, sir?”
“Me’n George were walking toward the club, and we saw a scuffle up ahead, and then there was Gabriella, shoving some bloke away from my uncle, who was lying on the ground.” He looked across at James. “There was no shouting, you know? That was the strange part of it. And then suddenly she was shouting at him, and he sort of froze a minute, like he couldn’t believe it. Then she saw us and he took one look behind him and scarpered.”
“Did you get a good look at his face?” Hartridge asked.
Solomon shook his head. “I didn’t. I asked my uncle if he did, but it was a really dark bit of street, you know, and he covered his mouth and nose. Bastard planned exactly where he was going to jump out.”
Yates nodded. “Miss Farnsworth and your friend, Mr. Mohan, showed me where it happened. He chose the darkest stretch of road.”