Page 19

chapter nineteen

James looked at the photograph of Pamela Moresby, and knew they’d found the girl in the ditch. Her family had reported her missing the day her body had been found, and there was no question in his mind this was the same person.

Her mother’s hands began to flutter as he stared at the picture, a framed formal portrait taken in a studio. When he raised his eyes, he saw helpless terror on her face.

She said nothing, her lips working as if trying to form words.

“Mrs. Moresby, I would like you or your husband, or both of you, to come down to the pathologist’s office, to make an identification, if you could.” He spoke gently, and Hartridge sent him a quick, surprised look.

“You . . .” She swallowed. “You have a body . . .” She swallowed again and stopped talking.

“We found someone a few days ago, and their description matches your daughter’s. It would be a great help if you could come and see if you think it’s her.” He looked down at the photograph again. Pamela Moresby looked back at him, eyes serious, face serene.

“My husband’s at work. Down the shop.” Mrs. Moresby fluttered her hand again.

“Shall we go fetch him, and take him down to the pathologist?” James asked.

Mrs. Moresby gave a jerky nod and started to rock, and Hartridge stepped back, out of the room.

James guessed he’d gone to get her older daughter, who had been moving around in the kitchen since they had arrived.

The daughter preceded Hartridge into the room, stopping dead at the sight of her mother, and then folded herself down into a crouch, and grasped her mother’s hand.

She tilted her head, staring at James, and he got to his feet.

“We’ll be in touch.” He couldn’t ask this woman another thing. He would see if he could get more out of the husband. He couldn’t give his condolences, because they couldn’t be sure the body was Pamela Moresby until identification, so he merely gave a formal nod, and left.

Hartridge was waiting for him by the front door of the tiny house squeezed in between two large shops, and when they got outside, he blew out a breath.

“The sister says the victim works in a factory. She’s on the late shift some weeks. Comes home around four in the morning.” Hartridge followed behind James as he walked to the shop next door.

The green grocer’s had baskets of fruit and veg by the front entrance, and green and gold lettering above a door that tinkled as James pushed inside.

A young woman sat at a till near the door, but James spotted an older man stocking shelves who looked up at them as they stepped in.

“Mr. Moresby?” He reached for his warrant card.

From the look on the man’s face, he knew exactly why they were here.

“Pam,” he said. “My Pam?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moresby. Is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

Moresby shook his head. “Here’s fine.”

James cleared his throat. “We have found a body that matches your daughter’s description. It would be a great help if you could come with us to make an identification.” He watched Moresby carefully, as the man set down the basket of tins he’d been stacking and stared at the floor.

He drew in a breath. “You’ve been to see Eunice?”

James nodded. “I’ve spoken to your wife. She told us where to find you. Can we take you with us now?”

He gave a quick jerk of his head in agreement, and then slowly untied his apron, pulling it over his head and folding it neatly.

The girl at the till had been listening in, and she moved away from her post to take it from him. “I’ll sort things here, Mr. Moresby. You don’t worry about the shop.”

“Close it down, Maureen. Just . . . just close it down.” He looked around the shop with blind eyes, and then began to shuffle toward the door.

Hartridge got there before him, held it open, and they accompanied a broken man to the morgue.

* * *

“I don’t know how she ended up in Fulham.” Mr. Moresby sat outside the morgue, his head in his hands, while Hartridge went to get him a cup of tea.

“She wouldn’t have gone that way?” James asked.

Moresby shook his head. “The place she worked was ten minutes by bus, straight home. But the buses weren’t running like usual that night. That’s what we worked out after. When we realized she didn’t come home. Because of the fog, you see?”

“So she might have decided to walk?” James asked.

Moresby gave a nod. “Maybe. If there was no bus . . .” His shoulders shook and Hartridge arrived with tea.

James sat with Moresby in silence while he sipped it.

“You think someone offered her a lift?” he asked at last.

“It’s possible.” James stood. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Moresby. DC Hartridge has arranged for someone to take you home when you’re ready.”

Moresby nodded, looking down into his mug and hunching his shoulders.

James left, feeling like he was fleeing the scene, even though he still had three other people to interview, two who hadn’t been home when they’d called, and one final person they hadn’t had a chance to visit yet. He also needed to start looking into Pamela Moresby’s last movements.

He and Hartridge were silent as they drove away, until eventually James shook himself out of his funk and looked up the next address on their list.

“I know it’s wrong, but I hope this next one isn’t a match,” Hartridge said as he pulled up outside the row house.

James gave a grunt of agreement. There was no one home, and the curtains were pulled tight.

James tapped Hartridge’s shoulder, and pointed to the house on the left. He took the house on the right.

A young woman opened to his knock, a baby held across her body.

“Yes?” she asked on a whisper, lifting a finger to her lips.

“I’m looking for Mr. Clark. Does he still live next door to you?” he whispered back, lifting up his warrant card.

She blinked at the sight of the card, then gave a slow nod. “As far as I know, but he hasn’t been around much recently. I heard him last night through the walls, running a bath, but this one keeps me pretty busy, so I can’t remember when last I actually laid eyes on him.” She gently altered the baby’s position. “He in trouble, or something?”

“He filed a missing person’s report for a Hatty Clark, and we wanted to follow up with him about it. Do you know Hatty?” James asked.

“Hatty’s his wife. But he told me she’d left for the Midlands. To be with her mum. Said his mother-in-law was poorly, and Hatty had gone to look after her. That’s why it didn’t register so much, you see, not seeing him about. I thought he was eating down the pub most nights, with Hatty not there to make him his dinner.”

James looked down at the report and frowned. “All right, I’ll have to follow up another time. Unless you know where I might find him? Do you know where he works?”

“He’s in sales for soap and shampoo and such. For the big supermarkets. Gives me samples sometimes, which is much appreciated. I’m not sure where his office is, but his local is the King’s Arms, down the road. So if you want to catch him later, that’s most likely where he’ll be.” The baby made the cutest sound James had ever heard, stretched and yawned, and then opened impossibly blue eyes.

The woman smiled down at her child, and James felt a lift of the darkness that had clung to him since Pamela Moresby was identified by her father. He hadn’t even known how much it weighed on him until now.

“Thank you for your help. It’s much appreciated.” He left, looking over to where Hartridge was waiting at the car. “Any luck?” he asked as he joined him.

“Clark works in the City,” Hartridge said as he got into the driver’s side. “He’s a salesman. And the wife keeps the house, but the neighbor thought she was just away visiting her mum, not missing.”

“I heard the same story,” James said. “Also, he’s probably eating at the King’s Arms every evening, with his wife gone.”

“You think he made up the story about her mother because he thought she’d left him?” Hartridge asked.

James thought about it. “Possible. She disappears and he thinks she’s had enough, so he makes up a story to explain her absence. Too proud to tell the truth. Only to realize she didn’t take anything with her and she’s not with her mother or anyone else. So he files a report, but doesn’t update the neighbors.”

“Or he’s done away with her, and this is his way of covering his tracks.”

“Or he’s done away with her,” James agreed. Either way, they needed to speak to Larry Clark.