Page 28

chapter twenty-eight

“So, Tanner’s client is the Honorable Mrs. Fitzgerald.” James looked up from the folder in his hands and frowned.

He was inside Tanner’s office, which was messy, but the furniture and fittings looked expensive. From a few of the bank statements he’d found, the man liked the finer things, but didn’t quite yet have the income to pay for them.

“A lady?” Hartridge shook his head. “That’ll go down well.”

It would be more difficult to hold her to account, but James was aware she herself hadn’t done anything wrong so far. It had been her husband and her private detective who’d stepped over the line.

James jotted down her phone number and address from the file, and then gave a quick read of the contents. “Tanner’s job was to find out which house her husband had been visiting when he’d gotten the parking fine. Doesn’t say he’s to threaten anyone, or anything else. So there’s nothing to charge her with.” Even her husband, who James could see from the file was Mr. Reginald Fitzgerald, hadn’t done enough to warrant a charge. He’d followed Gabriella around, but he hadn’t touched her.

That had been Tanner.

And Tanner had waved a gun at a police officer. There was no getting around that.

“I think this is probably what he was after.” James slid the file into an envelope to take into evidence. “Let’s put a note on the door informing him there’s a warrant out for his arrest, and telling him where to hand himself in.”

He checked the time.

They hadn’t spent as long as he thought they would searching Tanner’s office, so he got Hartridge to drive to one of the Blitz witnesses before they were due at the library to meet Hatty Clark’s bridge friends.

Her house was on the way—or at least, the house she’d lived in at the time of the attack in April 1941. Her case was the one James had found after Hartridge had left with the evidence from the March attack, and he steeled himself for disappointment when he knocked on the door.

“Lucille Bourne?” he asked, when a woman opened it. Her hair was pulled neatly back in a bun, her dress covered by a flowered apron.

She nodded cautiously. “I was. I’m Lucille Hammond, now.”

In that case, they were lucky to find her at the same address, James thought. He held up his warrant card. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m here to ask you about an attack you experienced during the war. Outside a pub in Earl’s Court?”

The shock was obvious on her face, and she stepped back to let them in, offering them tea as she did.

They ended up in a sunny kitchen, watching her put on the kettle.

“You know, I haven’t thought about the attack in years,” she said as she put tea bags into a teapot. “What brings you to my door now?”

“We can’t go into the details, but we’ve come across new information that might lead to his arrest.” James didn’t want news of a deranged killer getting out. “Can you remember anything from that night?”

“How he looked, you mean?” she asked, then turned as the kettle whistled. She seemed to be thinking it over.

“He was taller than me, but normal height for a man, not heavy set but not particularly slender, either.” She poured out the tea, and handed them their teacups—delicate fine bone china with roses around the rim, on saucers with the same pattern.

“He approached you from the front?” Hartridge asked.

Lucille Hammond glanced at him, gave a nod. “I think he came out of a side street, but I was jumpy, it was dark and I was afraid, so the moment I heard footsteps, I turned to see who was there. I was facing him, with my torch switched on, and he seemed to reel back in surprise.”

“This was near a pub?” James asked.

Lucille Hammond nodded. “I was meeting some friends there after work. I was only nineteen when I was attacked.” She shook her head. “So young. When I saw the man, he looked like he was in uniform—a serviceman, I thought—and I immediately relaxed.”

“What did he do?” James asked.

“He swung something at me.” She shook her head, as if still baffled by that. “I didn’t see what. It looked short, not a stick, or anything like that, more a cosh, maybe?” She shrugged. “I leaped back, so whatever it was only caught me a glancing blow on my arm. I screamed.” She finally sat down at the table with them, took a sip of her tea. “I had a piercing scream. Honestly, they called me the banshee at school.” She gave a low chuckle. “Scared the life out of my attacker.”

James tilted his head. “What did he do?”

“He swore, I can’t remember exactly what he said, but almost like my scream brought it on, the sirens started blaring, and he was sort of frozen in place.” Lucille Hammond set her cup away from her. “And people just poured out of the pub, and I pointed at him and screamed again.” She lifted her hands. “I don’t even think I spoke an intelligible word, but somehow a few of the men understood he needed catching.”

“They didn’t catch him, though?” James asked.

She shook her head. “He turned and ran, and the sirens were still blaring, so the men had to get to shelter.” She leaned back in her chair. “My friends came out the pub, and they took me with them into the underground. When we were safe in the tunnels, I found a copper and told him what happened.”

“Did you notice hair color, eye color, anything like that?” James asked, aware this was twenty years later.

“Dark hair, maybe, but he was wearing a hat or a cap. No idea of his eye color. In the dark, it was impossible to see.” She sighed. “I honestly don’t know what he wanted.”

They thanked her for her time and got into the Wolseley before they spoke again.

“She doesn’t understand that he wanted to kill her,” Hartridge said.

“And I’m glad she doesn’t.” James was happy she’d managed to survive the encounter so unscathed.

He hoped Hatty Clark had managed to survive unscathed, too. Or wasn’t missing at all. As Hartridge drew up outside the library, he had to believe these ladies would know if she had simply left her husband, or had disappeared in suspicious circumstances.

The bridge club was set up in the reading room, a small chamber off the main library, with hard wooden chairs set around the edges of the room, and a low coffee table in the middle.

They were chatting amiably to each other when the librarian showed him and Hartridge in, which made the sudden silence at the sight of them all the more pronounced.

“I appreciate you coming to speak with us,” James said, sitting down close to the door. “My colleague and I are worried about Mrs. Hatty Clark, and wonder if you have anything you can tell us about her whereabouts.”

There was a moment of shifting bodies, hands gripping handbags, feet shuffling.

“Did her husband ask you to ask us?” One of the women leaned forward. She had a tight perm of mouse brown hair and bright red lipstick, and James thought he wouldn’t like to meet her down a dark alley. She had the eyes of a cut throat.

“He did make a missing persons report, but it seems it was under duress from Mrs. Clark’s mother.” James gave her an easy smile. “We want to find out if she’s come to harm, either by a stranger’s hand, or by someone she knows.”

“Someone like Mr. Clark, you mean?” A small, bird-like woman who had a lap full of knitting shifted in her chair.

“Perhaps,” James conceded.

One of the other women sighed. “We can’t keep this up, Mavis. They’re the police.”

The little one glanced over, made a moue with her mouth, and then turned back to him. “She’s staying with me.”

James breathed out a sigh of relief. “You won’t believe how happy I am to hear that. Please ask her to get in touch with me when she has a chance, so I can strike her off the missing persons list.” James took out a card and handed it to the woman.

“Easy as that?” the woman asked.

He nodded. “She can do what she likes, but if she isn’t missing, no one needs to spend time looking for her, do they?”

“Sure, and I will do that,” the woman said, taking his card with a cheeky grin.

“Good.” James walked out, feeling a lightness he didn’t anticipate.

“That’s happy news, at least.” Hartridge slid into the car.

“Yes. Clark was so shifty, I was worried the outcome would be worse.” James thought about it. “I’ll pass on the tip to Vice or Fraud. There’s something wrong about that man.”

Hartridge gave a snort, to which James guessed he didn’t believe either department would do anything about his tip, but he would pass it on, anyway.

They headed for their final interview of the day.

Shepherd’s Bush had suffered a lot of damage during the war, but Mrs. Gallagher’s house was one of the ones that had made it through unscathed. She was down a smaller street behind the new shopping center, and they couldn’t find parking.

Hartridge let James out and went to find a spot as close by as possible.

He walked up the little path to the door, and had his hand up to knock when a voice came from the side.

“Can I help you?”

He tried not to jump, and turned to find a woman crouched down in a garden bed, a little trowel in one gloved hand, with a basket full of weeds beside her.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” He showed her his warrant card. “DS Archer. Are you Mrs. Gallagher?”

She rose to her feet, dusting her skirt, and then stripped off her gloves. “I am.” She suddenly took a step back and her hands clasped together. “My Johnny?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Gallagher. This is about an attack you experienced during the war. I wondered if you would mind me asking you a few questions about it?”

“Well.” She picked up the basket and walked toward where he was standing on the steps. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

He stepped aside, and she pushed the door open and invited him in.

“Do you remember the incident well?” James asked her.

“Someone tried to kill me, that’s not something that goes away, DS Archer.” Mrs. Gallagher waved him into her front room. “I’ve thought about it often these last twenty years.”

“It was March 1941, is that right?” James asked her.

She nodded. “I was working for the Ministry of Agriculture during the war, and I was on my way home. We’d had some crisis and I was late getting on my way, so it was already dark.” She clasped her hands together loosely, and James saw she was wearing a massive diamond ring.

“My husband was away, fighting in the war, and so when what looked like an officer came up to me, I honestly didn’t feel even a twinge of nerves.” Her lips quirked to one side. “He asked me for directions to the pub, and I turned to point the way.” She shrugged. “That’s when he swung at me.”

She stood suddenly, as if she couldn’t remain still, and James thought her agitation was telling. Even after all this time, the memory affected her.

“With his fist?” James asked.

She shook her head. “Something else. I felt the air pass by my cheek as I jerked back, and something, maybe the way he held it, or his angle, told me it was a hammer or something like a hammer.” She leaned against the wall and looked out the front window, then turned to him. “If he had managed to land that blow, I have no doubt I wouldn’t be here, talking to you now.”

James thought she was probably right. “What happened next.”

“He shoved me to the ground, and it was like my throat was paralyzed, my voice was gone.” She grimaced. “And then, when I hit the ground, I suddenly drew in a huge breath and screamed.”

James saw her hands were fisted by her side. On the mantelpiece, near where she stood, was a series of photographs of her, with what looked like her husband and children.

“Someone came to the rescue?” he asked.

She smiled for the first time since they had begun speaking. “Someone came to the rescue. A woman coming home, like me, cutting through an alleyway to the main road.”

“A woman?” James thought the bystander had been a man, but he realized now that the report hadn’t specified.

“Jessica Tate. Still my friend, to this very day.” Mrs. Gallagher smiled again. “She was like a dervish, swinging her handbag like it was a mace from the Medieval period.”

“And he ran off?” James asked.

“He ran, but when he realized Jessica was a woman, and a small one at that, he paused.” Mrs. Gallagher caught his eye, gave a nod when she saw he understood what she was saying.

“You think he was going to come back?” he asked.

“Until Jessica’s screaming roused a couple more people,” Mrs. Gallagher said with a nod, “definitely.”

“To finish the job?” James asked.

Mrs. Gallagher shook her head. “To pick up his glove, which he’d dropped.”

“It was definitely his?” he asked. Excitement prickled down his arms.

She nodded. “Definitely. He wanted it so badly, but when Jessica’s antics brought more people, he gave up and ran.”

“That is very helpful. Thank you very much.” James stood. “Did you notice anything about him regarding the way he looked?”

“Dark hair, brown eyes, medium build,” she said, without a moment’s hesitation. “He stood over me with murder in his eyes, DS Archer. His face is burned into my memory.”

He gave a nod, and she took him out to the hall and opened the front door.

James saw Hartridge doing a slow drive past, and gave him a wave.

“Why have you come to ask me about this now?” Mrs. Gallagher asked.

“We have some new information,” James said. “And the case was never closed.”

“That’s good,” she said. “I’m pleased to hear it. And I hope you get the bastard.”