Page 13

chapter thirteen

It was past the end of the work day, and it was a Friday.

James knew it was the best time to catch people at home, and he was planning to try and reach every one of the eight people on his list.

They’d already visited a few places where no one was home, and they would be looping back there for another try.

They’d spoken to the hospital where Beth Jenkins worked, and as he’d suspected, all her colleagues were convinced something terrible had happened to her.

Two of the stops they’d made had allowed them to tentatively cross names off their list, as it seemed more likely that one of the women had returned to her home in Scotland without telling anyone, and another had been seriously ill.

He and Hartridge would check those out in the morning, but James’s gut feel was that the one was safe and sound with her mother in Glasgow, and the other was perhaps in hospital, perhaps dead, of the asthma that had plagued her her whole life.

The fog had been very bad the day she’d died, which had initially made James fear she was one of their victims, but her landlady, who’d reported her missing, had admitted she had been struggling with the weather conditions, and when they’d gone to her place of work, one of her colleagues had told him and Hartridge as they were leaving that the last time they’d seen her, her lips had been blue.

“This next one has a high likelihood of being one of our victims.” James pulled up beside the well-kept home on a typical suburban street. “The report was made by a Mrs. Davies. According to her, her daughter Tamara never came home after a night out.”

As he stepped out of the car he looked down the street, unsure if this neighborhood was on the rise or spiraling downward. For every neat garden and well-maintained front porch there was a house with rubbish lying around it, and overgrown grass. This part of the city was near the docks, and conveniently close to the center of town, so he guessed eventually it would be on the rise, no matter what was happening with it now.

Most of the houses were semi-detached, but the Davies home stood in its own little garden, enclosed by a neatly painted white fence.

“Handy for work,” Hartridge said, echoing his own thinking as he studied the neighborhood. “Might actually be affordable.”

“Not for long,” James predicted. “It’s got location going for it.”

Hartridge gave a nod, and James guessed they’d both be looking into this area when they got a chance.

He was renting, and Hartridge was currently housed in the Met’s single quarters barracks.

Getting his own place would be good. If he decided he wanted to stay in London, that was.

His thoughts turned almost automatically to Gabriella, and he realized he missed seeing her, even though this would only be the third evening in a row he hadn’t stopped by to visit her.

Hartridge had opened the gate, and he followed him up the stone paving to the front door.

A small dog yapped and barked from within, and Hartridge had just lifted the knocker when the door swung open.

“Yes?” The man who stood in the doorway was beefy, with thick muscle-roped arms, visible because he had turned up his shirt sleeves despite the cold weather.

James took an instant dislike to him.

He had seen the look in the man’s eyes before, when he’d worked as a constable, breaking up pub fights. This was someone who’d break a bottle over the back of your head and then kick you in the ribs when you were down.

A stone cold scrapper.

The way he stepped back at the sight of them told James he didn’t like that James was as big as he was, and a little taller. He really didn’t like it at all.

James sometimes wished he was a less threatening presence, especially when dealing with victims, but he was glad of his height and his build now.

He took his time looking down at his notebook. “Mr. Davies?” He let his Welsh burr out as he asked the question. “You a Welshman?”

Davies blinked, shook his head. “Not that I know.” He narrowed his eyes. “Who’re you, then?”

“Detective Sergeant Archer.” James extended his warrant card. “This is DC Hartridge. We’re following up on the missing person’s report your wife lodged two weeks ago.”

From the sudden frown, James guessed Davies hadn’t liked that his wife had filed the report. “Right.” Davies took another step back. “Following up how?”

“We’re just wondering if your wife had heard from the person she reported missing in the meanwhile?” James asked. “Her daughter?” He looked down at his notebook again.

When he looked back up, a woman was standing just off to the side. She was in a house dress, her hair was tied up in a scarf, and there was a fading, yellow bruise near her hairline, on her left cheek.

“Evening, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you. We’re just following up on your daughter’s disappearance.”

“You found her?” Mrs. Davies grabbed the door jamb, clutching it with both hands, as if that’s the only way she had of keeping herself on her feet.

She was careful not to touch her husband, James noted.

“No, sorry. We’re just wondering if you’d heard from her since she disappeared. This was two weeks ago, is that right?” James’s gaze settled back on Davies.

“Didn’t come home after she went out drinking with her friends,” Davies said. “I told her, you go out on a boozer, you’ll come to a bad end.” He pursed his lips.

“And that’s what you think happened?” Hartridge asked, pencil out to write notes. “That she came to a bad end?”

Mrs. Davies gasped out loud, and then hurried away, and her husband looked after her, absolutely no expression on his face.

“I don’t know what happened to her. That’s your job, innit?”

“It is,” James said, nodding. “And please rest assured, Mr. Davies, we’ll leave no stone unturned.”

Davies looked up sharply at that, as if sensing the threat. “Well good, because we haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since that night.”

“And what do her friends say? Have you talked to them?” James asked.

“Don’t know who they are, do I?” He narrowed his eyes. “The wife might.” He shouted for her, and she scurried back, a handkerchief held to her face.

“Do you know the names of the friends your daughter went out with the night she disappeared?” James asked.

“I only know Yvette, who lives down the road. Yvette Henderson.” Mrs. Davies pointed down the street. “Number 12.”

“Thank you. And please let us know if you hear anything.” James passed his card to her, ignoring the hand Davies put out for it. “We’ll let you get on with your evening.”

Davies slammed the door in their faces, and they walked silently back to the pavement and got into the Wolseley.

“You didn’t like him,” Hartridge said. “Was that because he never invited us in?”

James shook his head. “Every other person we visited today immediately assumed we were there because we had some news. That the person they’d reported missing had either been spotted or found.”

“Yes.” Hartridge gave a slow nod.

“Davies didn’t act as if that was even a possibility.” James pointed to number 12, and Hartridge started the car and drove the short distance to Yvette Henderson’s.

“You’re saying he didn’t ask questions because he already knows the answers?” Hartridge sounded shocked. “You think he knows what happened to his daughter?”

“I do. I think he’s the one who did something to her.” James looked out the window at the slightly more run-down house where Mrs. Davies said her daughter’s friend lived. “Did you also notice that everyone else used the missing person’s name, some quite a few times. Davies didn’t say her name once.”

“You don’t think he’s our killer, do you?” Hartridge stared at him, then gave a shake of his head. “No. But you do think he’s responsible for this one.”

“I do.” And it pained him. James could think of no reason why Davies would be surprised and confused at their presence unless he knew his daughter was dead, and that her body wouldn’t be found.

They knocked on the door of number 12, and a young woman answered, wearing huge hoop earrings, slim-fit trousers and a soft jumper in a pale pink that matched her lipstick.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Yvette Henderson?” James held out his warrant card.

“Oh, my God! You found Tammy?” she breathed.

“Sorry, we haven’t. We’ve just come from her parents?—”

“That bastard.” Yvette’s eyes sparked.

“Language, Yvette. And who have you got standing in the doorway?” A woman who was clearly Yvette’s mother came and stood beside her, a cigarette dangling from brightly painted lips. “Yes?”

“Police, Mrs. Henderson.” James held out his warrant card again.

“It’s about Tammy, Mum.” Yvette stared at them, hostility in every line of her body. “They’ve been listening to that pig, Davies.”

Her mother looked appalled, but she also didn’t correct her daughter, which James took to mean she agreed with her daughter’s assessment, but didn’t like her using bad language in public.

“You think Mr. Davies had something to do with Tammy’s disappearance?” he asked.

Yvette seemed to deflate. “No. I thought she’d been nabbed walking back from the bus stop.”

“Didn’t you walk together?” Hartridge asked, and it was a fair question. Their houses were in sight of each other.

“I wish I had, but I came home earlier than she did. I had to open the shop at 8 that week, you see, because we were doing stock take. So I had to call an early night. But Tammy only had to be in the office by 9, so she kept dancing.” Yvette closed her eyes, and a tear tracked its way down her cheek.

“Did you see anyone suspicious on your way home?” James asked her, making his voice gentle. “Anyone that gave you a bad feeling?”

Yvette looked at him, and then shrugged. “Plenty. But that’s every time I go out. Weren’t no different, if that’s what you mean. No one stood out more than usual.”

“Thank you.” He looked down the street, towards the Davies residence. “Would Tammy have told you if there was something wrong at home?”

Yvette took the handkerchief her mother held out to her and dabbed at her eyes. “Like her father backhanding her and her mum, you mean?”

“Yes.” James nodded. “That’s what I mean.”

“He’s a brute.” Yvette’s mother shook her head. “One of those in charge on the docks, he is. Struts around. And has a nasty temper.”

“He’d lash out on a whim,” Yvette told them. “Tammy was scared of him. And saving up to move out.”

The fog had come up while they had been talking to Yvette, and the car was almost invisible when they got back to it. They got in and sat in silence for a moment.

“You think he killed her?” Hartridge asked.

“It’s possible. She comes back, maybe a little drunk. Talks back. He’s maybe been drinking himself, hits her. Hits her harder than usual, because she dares disrespect him. And suddenly he’s looking down at the dead body of his daughter.” James could see it all too well.

“That’s . . .” Hartridge shook his head. He reached for the ignition with the key, and James shot out a hand, clamped his forearm.

“Shh,” he said. Tipped his head to the pavement, to the man walking past, head down, collar pulled up against the cold.

“Davies?” Hartridge breathed.

“Yes.” And James wondered where he was going after his chat with the police.

“Where do you think he’s put the body, if he did kill her?” Hartridge asked.

“I’m guessing he threw her into the Thames.” If he worked the docks, which Yvette’s mother seemed to suggest, then he’d know the tides, would know where to put her in that would pull her downriver.

“That’s why he knew we weren’t there with any update. He doesn’t think her body will ever be found.” Hartridge swore softly. “Bastard.”

“If we’re right,” James cautioned. “He might just be a cold one. A brute who’s loose with his fists but not responsible.”

“Sure,” Hartridge said. “But you don’t believe that.”

No. No, he didn’t.

But that didn’t get him any closer to knowing who’d killed the other three women in London.

Still . . .

He leaned forward, looking for the silhouette of Davies in the fog. “Let’s follow him.”