Page 21 of Return Ticket

“How many people have access to the allotment?” James asked. “How does it work?”

“There’s twenty plots,” Mr. Stanhope said. “See the markers? That’s how we divide it up. But it keeps flooding with all these storms we’ve been having, so we dug this trench through the middle, so all of us only give up a little land, you see?”

“And no one knows who the victim could be?” James asked.

Mr. Stanhope lifted his shoulders. “Not everyone saw her. Only me, Mrs. Henderson, Jimmy and Patrick. The others weren’t here until after the ambulance took her away.”

He would have to come back with a picture of her, show it around. But first, they could check her against the list of eight names they had on their missing list.

The last two days had been frustrating, but at least they’d been able to take two names off the list they’d compiled.

“Thank you for your time,” James said.

“You’re all right,” Mr. Stanhope said. “Better than the other copper who came. You at least look like you want to find out who she was. T’other one didn’t care, either way.”

That was the impression James had got, as well, but he didn’t say it. He thanked the gardener again, and then led the way out of the gate.

“We don’t have the case officially,” he said to Hartridge as they walked toward the local station, “but Officer Wilcox is so disinterested, we’ll have free rein.”

“Where are we going now?” Hartridge asked.

“To find out where the body was taken, and who performed the autopsy.” James wished it could have been Dr. Jandicott, but he was the lead pathologist for the Met, and this case had not been assigned to New Scotland Yard headquarters. It was being handled by the local station.

The walk to the Hammersmith nick was short and relatively pleasant. The weather had cleared, and although the air was cold, the wind had dropped and the sun was shining. It was as good as it was going to get on a London morning in autumn.

Once inside the station, James got the same sense of grievance and hostility in person as he’d gotten over the phone the day before from Constable Wilcox.

The man didn’t want to stir himself to actively investigate the case, but he didn’t want James to have it, either.

“Do you think it will look bad on your file if I take this over?” James asked him.

“Why would you say that?” Wilcox stood in a sudden movement, like a fox scenting the hounds.

“Because I’ve read your report so far, and you don’t appear to have much curiosity about the victim or her death, but you seem very focused on stopping me from looking into it. I can’t think of any other reason.” James usually took the diplomatic route where he could, but he was tired of the hoops Wilcox had forced him to jump through since yesterday.

“A slapper took the wrong customer into a dark corner, and got herself dead. It happens.” Wilcox shrugged.

Beside him, James sensed Hartridge stiffen.

“A slapper? So you know her as a local prostitute, do you?” James took out his notebook and got his pencil ready. “What’s her name, because it isn’t in your report?”

Wilcox drew in a whistling breath through his nose. “I’ve never seen her before, but how else did she get there?”

“So she’s not a known prostitute?” James kept the pencil hovering over the page.

“I just said I didn’t know.” Wilcox made a face. “But if you’re so keen, fine, take the case.” He scooped up a thin file on his desk, shoved it at James. “Knock yourself out, laddie.”

“Thanks.” James ignored the disrespect and tucked the file under his arm. “Where’s the body? When did you attend the post mortem?”

Now Wilcox looked a little nervous. “Eh?”

“Who’s the pathologist, and where’s the victim now?”

Wilcox glanced at the door, and then back.

“You don’t know, do you?” James could scarcely believe it.

“I’ve got other work, you know.” Wilcox pushed off from his desk and walked out to the station’s front desk. Leaned in close to the sergeant on duty and then came back. “She was taken to Royal Masonic in Ravenscourt.”

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