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She was unharmed.
She suddenly seemed to realize she was running as if to meet him in some kind of romantic embrace, and pulled herself up short, stumbling to a stop in front of him.
“I was worried he’d come back for you.” Gabriella looked at the bolt cutters in his hand. “He did!”
James saw a woman walking at a more sedate pace behind her, a large handbag over her shoulder. He thought he had glimpsed her putting something that looked very much like a revolver inside it as she approached.
“This is Mrs. Everett. She called the police for me, and very kindly said she’d come with me to make sure you were alright.” Gabriella turned toward the woman with a grateful smile.
They’d come armed, James realized. Armed for their own protection, and his.
He decided he would pretend he hadn’t seen the gun slipped into the handbag.
“When he saw me coming at him, he ran.”
“A coward,” Mrs. Everett said with a decisive nod. “They always turn out to be cowards.”
“Mrs. Everett saved my life,” Gabriella said. “If she hadn’t opened her door, he’d have got me.”
Mrs. Everett looked at Gabriella indulgently, James noted with surprise, even though she had the look of a retired school mistress. Her demeanor was far more composed than he would have expected in the circumstances.
“The bobbies have arrived.” She was looking beyond him, down the same street Mr. Big had gone.
James reached in his pocket for his warrant card, and was holding it out for them by the time they reached the little group.
“Mrs. Everett,” one of them said respectfully, clearly recognizing the woman. “Everything alright?”
“I don’t believe so, unfortunately, Constable Anders, but I think the immediate danger seems to have passed.” She looked at him. “Detective Sergeant Archer may be in need of medical help.”
James had been feeling more and more unsteady as he stood in the street, and he turned in surprise at her words, sure he was putting up a good enough front.
The quick movement was his undoing.
It felt as if his brain crashed against the side of his skull, and a black curtain came down over his eyes.
chaptertwenty-eight
Gabriella did notlike Detective Inspector Whetford.
He leered, and spoke to her as if she were stupid.
She had already spent some time looking through a book of known criminals, but hadn’t found any image that looked like Mr. Knife, although she had only had the briefest glimpse of his full face. Mrs. Everett had not recognized anyone, either, and had been sent home.
DC Hartridge stood against the wall of the interview room, head down, taking notes, his ears turning red at the tips.
They had gone over everything a few times now, and Gabriella pushed her chair back and stood.
“I’m not done with you, missy.” DI Whetford leaned back in his chair, his lips pinched as he stared up at her.
“I’m sorry, inspector, but I’ve told you everything I can, and my hand is hurting too much now for me to concentrate on anything else.” She held her hands out together, and even she winced at the purple and black bruising on her left hand in contrast to her right. It was puffy and swollen.
Whetford eyed her hand in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were also injured.” He spoke stiffly, as if put on the spot. “All right, I suppose we’ve covered most of the ground we need to. Hartridge, take her to the hospital, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” Hartridge pushed off from the wall and opened the door, and, cradling her hand against her chest, Gabriella escaped.
She decided the Met might as well drive her to the hospital—it would save her bus fare—and she let Hartridge lead her to a car and help her in.
She said nothing about Whetford, and neither did Hartridge, although she had a feeling he was embarrassed by his superior.