Page 31 of Return Ticket

“Evening, Mrs. Davies,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you. We’re just following up on your daughter’s disappearance.”

“You found her?” Mrs. Davies grabbed the door jamb, clutching it with both hands, as if that’s the only way she had of keeping herself on her feet.

She was careful not to touch her husband, James noted.

“No, sorry. We’re just wondering if you’d heard from her since she disappeared. This was two weeks ago, is that right?” James’s gaze settled back on Davies.

“Didn’t come home after she went out drinking with her friends,” Davies said. “I told her, you go out on a boozer, you’ll come to a bad end.” He pursed his lips.

“And that’s what you think happened?” Hartridge asked, pencil out to write notes. “That she came to a bad end?”

Mrs. Davies gasped out loud, and then hurried away, and her husband looked after her, absolutely no expression on his face.

“I don’t know what happened to her. That’s your job, innit?”

“It is,” James said, nodding. “And please rest assured, Mr. Davies, we’ll leave no stone unturned.”

Davies looked up sharply at that, as if sensing the threat. “Well good, because we haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since that night.”

“And what do her friends say? Have you talked to them?” James asked.

“Don’t know who they are, do I?” He narrowed his eyes. “The wife might.” He shouted for her, and she scurried back, a handkerchief held to her face.

“Do you know the names of the friends your daughter went out with the night she disappeared?” James asked.

“I only know Yvette, who lives down the road. Yvette Henderson.” Mrs. Davies pointed down the street. “Number 12.”

“Thank you. And please let us know if you hear anything.” James passed his card to her, ignoring the hand Davies put out for it. “We’ll let you get on with your evening.”

Davies slammed the door in their faces, and they walked silently back to the pavement and got into the Wolseley.

“You didn’t like him,” Hartridge said. “Was that because he never invited us in?”

James shook his head. “Every other person we visited today immediately assumed we were there because we had some news. That the person they’d reported missing had either been spotted or found.”

“Yes.” Hartridge gave a slow nod.

“Davies didn’t act as if that was even a possibility.” James pointed to number 12, and Hartridge started the car and drove the short distance to Yvette Henderson’s.

“You’re saying he didn’t ask questions because he already knows the answers?” Hartridge sounded shocked. “You think he knows what happened to his daughter?”

“I do. I think he’s the one who did something to her.” James looked out the window at the slightly more run-down house where Mrs. Davies said her daughter’s friend lived. “Did you also notice that everyone else used the missing person’s name, some quite a few times. Davies didn’t say her name once.”

“You don’t think he’s our killer, do you?” Hartridge stared at him, then gave a shake of his head. “No. But you do think he’s responsible for this one.”

“I do.” And it pained him. James could think of no reason why Davies would be surprised and confused at their presence unless he knew his daughter was dead, and that her body wouldn’t be found.

They knocked on the door of number 12, and a young woman answered, wearing huge hoop earrings, slim-fit trousers and a soft jumper in a pale pink that matched her lipstick.

“Yeah?” she asked.

“Yvette Henderson?” James held out his warrant card.

“Oh, my God! You found Tammy?” she breathed.

“Sorry, we haven’t. We’ve just come from her parents?—”

“That bastard.” Yvette’s eyes sparked.

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