Page 14

chapter fourteen

The pub was loud.

James and Hartridge stood outside it, and shared a look.

If they went in, Davies might notice them, and given the building’s proximity to the docks, he guessed the place was full of Davies’ fellow dock workers.

They would be severely outnumbered.

“I think a strategic retreat is in order,” James said. “We won’t learn anything here, anyway.” If they had followed Davies to the dock, or if he’d acted suspiciously in the vicinity of the river, James would have kept eyes on him, but it looked like he was just off to spend the night with his mates.

Hartridge nodded, and James thought he relaxed a little.

“We have two names left on the list.” And so far, Mrs. Jenkins had been the only one they’d spoken to whose daughter seemed a viable match. “It’s only seven. Let’s knock on a few more doors.”

The fog was almost impossibly thick now, especially by the river. It caught the back of James’s throat and he coughed as he almost walked into the side of the Wolseley.

People walked past, stumbling around a little as they headed for the diffused light of the pub’s lit up windows, and he got inside the car with a sense of relief.

“Maybe we should call it a night?” Hartridge said. “Driving in this will be dangerous.”

James didn’t want to, but as Hartridge started the engine and turned on the headlights, he could barely see the road in front of them. It would be reckless to continue.

“Let’s drive to the barracks to get you home,” James said, eventually. “I’ll continue on to the Yard to pick up my car.”

Hartridge nodded, not even trying to protest that he didn’t need a lift home.

When they finally reached the tall, austere post-war block that housed the single officers of the Met, Hartridge was leaning forward in his seat, eyes glued to the road.

“Whew, that was dicey.” Hartridge dropped his hands from the wheel and shook out his shoulders. “I’m glad that’s over.”

James still had to drive to New Scotland Yard and get his own car, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He got out of the Wolseley and walked around the front to the driver’s side. Hartridge opened the door and stood, his gaze going to the front of the barracks. He froze in place, eyes on someone hovering by the entrance.

“Who is it?” James kept his voice soft, and the thick fog dampened the sound even more.

Hartridge looked at him, then turned back. “I think it’s Galbraith,” he said on an exhale.

“Come to do what, exactly?” James was tired of guessing.

Hartridge sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“Then get in the back, keep low, and come home with me tonight.” He slid behind the wheel, and after a moment’s hesitation, he heard Hartridge quietly open the door behind him and get in.

He drove the five minutes to the Yard, parked in a dark corner, and the two of them got into James’s Morris.

Hartridge said nothing as he drove home, swinging by to get fish and chips along the way.

He ate far too much fish and chips he thought as he handed the wrapped package of their dinner to Hartridge. They drove home with the scent of vinegar filling the car.

When they got up to his flat, he found plates and cutlery, and they ate in silence, both hungry after their long day.

Eventually, though, Hartridge set down his beer and leaned back.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding toward the decimated dinner. “Galbraith would have probably given me a hiding.”

James lifted his brows. That wouldn’t surprise him, knowing what little he did of Galbraith. And if Hartridge fought back, he could be accused of striking a superior.

“What’s all this about, Ian?” James pushed his plate aside.

“While you were gone, DI Whetford came into the office, said he had a job for me.” Hartridge began to peel the label off his beer.

“A dirty job,” James guessed.

Hartridge looked up, eyes bleak. “A dirty job,” he agreed. “I’d heard the rumors, but I didn’t know for sure.”

“What game is he running?” James asked.

“He had me arrest this bloke on what he said was an anonymous tip. A bookie down the White City greyhound track. The charge was insider trading.” Hartridge blew out a breath and shook his head. “Then two hours after I had him in custody, Whetford told me to let him go, and me and Galbraith were to drive him home.”

“Did Whetford interview him first?” James asked.

Hartridge shook his head. “I thought maybe the person who phoned it in withdrew the accusation, or something.” He lifted his shoulders. “But that wasn’t it.”

He lifted his bottle, took another sip, and eventually slumped a little deeper into his chair. “On the way home, Galbraith pulled in to this little car park and started telling the bookie, Arnie Forks, that we had him bang to rights, but if he wanted it to all go away, he could pass along any tips he heard—anything dodgy going down—and any inside information on which dogs might win which race.”

James slumped a little in his chair himself.

“I honestly thought Galbraith might be playing him, you know?” Hartridge shook his head. “Like, setting a trap.”

“But he was serious,” James guessed.

Hartridge sighed. “When we dropped Forks off, Galbraith told him to remember my face, that when I came around, he better have some good info for me, or he’d be back in interview, with no easy way out next time.”

“That’s what Galbraith was trying to get out of you? What you’d gotten from Forks?”

Hartridge nodded. “Yes. I waited until I saw Forks leave the two times Galbraith sent me, and then knocked, so I could say he wasn’t there.”

“And Galbraith isn’t happy. Probably getting pressure from Whetford, who wants to keep his hands as clean as possible.” James had known Whetford was on the take, but this was more. This wasn’t looking the other way, or taking a backhander to lose evidence. This was going out and actively coercing criminals into providing inside information for his own profit.

“What do I do?” Hartridge asked. “How do I get out of this?”

“We’ll find a way.” James was not standing for it. “For now, sleep on my couch, and we’ll head out in the morning for the last four interviews—the two who were out when we came calling, and the two we didn’t get to this evening.”

“What about Davies?” Hartridge asked.

“I’ll talk to the Thames Division,” James said. “Ask them to let me know if they find a body in the river.”

“You really think he killed her and threw her in the Thames?” Hartridge stood and began clearing up.

“I don’t think he meant to kill her, but once he did, he panicked.” James could see it all too easily. “What we need to do is go over and interview Mrs. Davies while he’s at work. See what she has to say without him there.”

“She won’t say anything,” Hartridge said. “She’s too beaten down. Too scared of him.”

“Maybe,” James conceded. “But she loved her daughter. It was her who reported Tamara missing, and that did not please Davies at all. And she is obviously very worried about her.”

He washed the dishes and Hartridge dried.

The fog lifted a little, the wind blowing it seaward, and he stared out the window as the sky cleared.

“What are you thinking?” Hartridge asked.

“I’m thinking our man might be out hunting tonight, given the fog. But now it’s lifting, maybe we’ll get lucky. Let’s hope he didn’t find a victim in time.”