Page 15 of Return Ticket

“When you decide somethingisgoing on, come to me any time,” James said. He saw Hartridge look down at his now-cleared desk, cheeks flushed, and when he reached the door, he turned. “Go out the back entrance. Galbraith looked like he expected you to follow him out.” He turned and walked away. His anger at Whetford for drawing Hartridge into what was likely a compromising situation burned in his gut, and he ran down the stairs a little faster than normal, nearly barreling into Galbraith on the last landing before the ground floor.

“Easy.” Galbraith twisted away just in time, and James stopped, forcing himself to keep his face neutral.

He didn’t know what was going on, and until he did, it was better to act oblivious.

“Sorry, thought you were further ahead of me,” he said, easily. He nodded and kept going, feeling Galbraith’s cold eyes on him until he was through the door and out into reception.

He hoped Hartridge had taken his advice and gone the back way, because no doubt the moment the door closed behind him, Galbraith had jogged back up to his office to speak to his constable.

On a sudden whim, he wrapped his scarf a bit higher up his face as he turned through the arches to the back courtyard, and instead of going to where his car was parked, he headed for the building’s rear entrance, keeping close to the wall, deep in the shadows.

Hartridge came out, bundled up in his coat against the light rain that had started falling late this afternoon, head down, shoulders hunched.

“Hartridge.” Galbraith’s shout cut through, and James saw Hartridge flinch, then slowly turn back to face the detective sergeant.

He said nothing, and shrugging off the lack of response, Galbraith waved a hand to motion him under the narrow overhang, out of the weather.

Hartridge took a few steps toward him, but didn’t join him under cover.

“What did you find out?” Galbraith asked.

“Nothing.” Hartridge lifted a shoulder and took a step back. “No one was there.”

“Well keep going back until someone is there.” Galbraith’s tone was short. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Hartridge dipped his chin.

“Good.” Galbraith turned on his heel and went back inside.

James stayed still in the shadows as he watched Hartridge stared for a few moments at the door, and then turn on his heel and hurry out of the Yard.

James was still wet and still wondering what Hartridge had gotten mixed up in when he drew his car up outside Gabriella’s run-down Victorian row house in Notting Hill.

She had a tiny bedsit at the top of two steep flights of stairs, but somehow her place seemed nicer than his own. His two bedroom flat in a much nicer part of town seemed stale and empty, a depressing place to go to at the end of the day.

He and Hartridge had gotten a takeaway of fish and chips while they worked, and he hadn’t realized how late it was until just before he’d left the office. It was with relief that he saw Gabriella’s lights were still on.

“Mr. Detective.”

The voice came from the shadows as he closed his car door.

He thought for a moment it was Solomon, but then Jerome appeared, standing beside the gate that led down the narrow path to the front door.

“Hello, Jerome. How’re things?” James nodded to Gabriella’s neighbor. He was skinny and long-limbed, his shirt and pants both wildly patterned in a way James would have thought couldn’t work together, but somehow, on Jerome, they did. “You going up?”

“I am.” Jerome opened the gate, waved him in. “What’s this I hear about Gabriella getting shocked?”

“Some crazy farmer,” James said. “Doesn’t like getting fines, so he electrified his car.”

“How’d he do that, then?” Jerome asked. “How does he get into the car, if it’s buzzing?”

“Good questions,” James said. He hadn’t had time to think much about it. “He must have a switch under the chassis somewhere so he can turn it off when he wants to get back inside.”

That was something to look out for next time. If there was a next time.

He and Jerome parted ways at the top of the stairs, Jerome going into his flat, and James knocking softly on Gabriella’s door.

She opened it, standing sleepy-eyed in her bathrobe and slippers. “Come in,” she said on a yawn, and stepped back.

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