Page 62 of Return Ticket

“I can’t help that.” Gabriella shook her head. “My mother has been living in limbo for years. She can’t get on with her life. My father needs to divorce her, so she can marry Gino.”

“I agree.” Ruby looked grave. “I’m just saying, watch your back.”

* * *

The police files between 1939 and 1955 were being stored in the basement of a government building now used by the Home Office.

James looked up at the high atrium and listened to the echo of the receptionist’s high heels on the parquet flooring as she led them to the back of the building and then down some stairs.

When he’d returned to the Met from his failed mission to see Gabriella, he’d made enquiries to find out where the old case files could be found. He’d discovered they were stored in government buildings all over London, but the most recent files down here were over a decade old, so James supposed it wasn’t surprising the receptionist had handed over the key in surprise. There probably wasn’t much traffic to this basement.

He unlocked the heavy wooden door and once he and Hartridge were through, he locked it behind them again as Hartridge flicked the light switch and a sickly, yellow glow blossomed and then flickered a few times before holding steady.

“Gloomy,” Hartridge opined.

It was.

There were rows and rows of shelves, which looked like they could be accessed from both sides, holding large evidence boxes. Along the wall, though, were filing cabinets, and James turned there first. Hopefully, this was the catalogue for where to find what lay amongst the stacks.

“The blackout laws lasted almost the whole length of the war, and we know he used the blackouts to hunt.” James ran a hand along each cabinet as he read the dates listed on the drawers. “But he also used the Blitz as a way to hide what he’d done to his victims, so let’s focus on that time period first.” He came to a stop at September 1940 and pulled out a drawer.

Hartridge took the next cabinet over, which started at December 1940, and they worked in silence for the next hour.

“I’ve got something.” Hartridge held out an open file to him. “A woman was attacked at night during the Blitz by a man in uniform. Says he came up alongside her and asked her directions to the local pub. When she turned away slightly to point in the right direction, he swung something at her head. She never saw what it was, but she caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and jerked away. He shoved her, and she screamed as she fell down. A bystander coming out of an alleyway ran to her aid, and the attacker took off.”

“That sounds exactly what we’re looking for.” James took the file, scanning through the details. “We need to speak to this woman. And the bystander, if we can.”

He saw the attending officers had found a few items near where the attack had taken place.

“Stack 7, box 45,” James said, checking the inventory list. He found the right stack and had to reach to the top shelf for box 45. He brought it back to the scarred wooden table that was set between the cabinets and the shelving units, and opened the box.

“Anything useful?” Hartridge asked.

He carefully tipped the items out. “A used ticket for the cinema. An empty book of matches from a pub. A glove. And a half-empty pack of cigarettes.” He studied the cigarettes. “During the war, I have a feeling these were expensive and I don’t think someone would have just thrown a packet away with so many left inside.”

“You think it was the killer’s?” Hartridge asked.

“Most likely, but I don’t know how they could have traced them back to an individual person.” James wondered if there were any fingerprints that could be lifted off the box, though. He used a pen to shift it to the side.

“What about the glove?” Hartridge asked.

“Same, I’d imagine.” He slid the pen into the glove and lifted it closer to the terrible light.

“No. That glove looks like the one my Dad had as part of his Air Force uniform. I played dress up it in often enough when I was younger, and that one looks just like his.” Hartridge tilted his head. “There’s a number inside, I think. Tells you who it was issued to. They’re leather, and not cheap, and if you lost yours, you had to report it and pay for a replacement. My Dad was proud to have never lost a single piece of uniform, which is how I know.”

James stared at him. “Are you being serious?”

Hartridge nodded. “Absolutely.”

“The victim said he was in uniform. It was dark, obviously, with no ambient light, so she couldn’t tell which service he represented. But this could be his.” James set the glove down. “Where’s the serial number?”

Hartridge took the pen from him, and pointed to the top of the glove opening, just inside. “Should be there.”

James held out the box and Hartridge dropped the glove back inside. Then James carefully slid everything else on the table into the box as well. “Take this to the forensic laboratory, get them to dust for prints on everything in here, and get that serial number.”

Hartridge took the box, the excitement clear on his face. “You’re going to keep looking for more cases?”

“This case was from March 1941, and the Blitz only went on for two months after that, so just to be thorough, I’ll go through the rest.” James wanted to tick all the boxes now they were on the scent.

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