Page 47 of Return Ticket

“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.

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