Page 8 of Return Ticket

Gabriella staredat the familiar Land Rover, then looked down the street to see if the shouty man was going to come at her again.

There was no sign of him.

The mud-sprayed car was parked on double yellows and partially blocking the entrance to a delivery zone behind a row of shops. There was no question a ticket was warranted.

She filled out the form with quick, efficient strokes of her pen, and slid the fixed penalty notice into its plastic sleeve. The wind had come up, chill, with a hint of bite, and she looked up at the dull gray sky and thought it looked like rain.

“Miss Farnsworth.”

The hail came from her left, and she turned and smiled when she saw Detective Constable Hartridge coming toward her.

“Nice to see you,” Hartridge said as he came to a stop beside her. His gaze went to the Land Rover, then flicked to her clipboard and pen.

“Nice to see you, too,” she said. She tilted her head. “You’ve been assigned the case of the woman in the rubble?”

He gave a nod. “It’s just been officially declared a suspicious death.”

Gabriella stepped up to the Land Rover and leaned over to stick the plastic sleeve on the windscreen. She put her hand down on the metal bonnet for balance.

Her whole arm seemed to fly upward, pushed by an invisible force, and suddenly she was lying on the pavement, icy pins and needles prickling her arm, as if she had shoved it into freezing water.

She lay, looking up at the darkening sky, and wondered what had happened.

She heard Hartridge give a shout, and he staggered briefly into view before collapsing beside her.

Voices were rising around them, and Hartridge got up on one knee, and looked down at her.

He looked pale, and he was sweating, but she couldn’t understand what was going on.

Suddenly James was on her other side, his hand on her arm, his head turned as he shouted over his shoulder.

The first words she could understand were from an older gentleman, with white, flyaway hair, wearing a tweed suit complete with waistcoat, who pushed James aside.

“Let me through, then.” A stethoscope was produced and shoved beneath her jacket, over her heart.

She blinked, and drew in what felt like her first proper breath since she’d gone flying, although that couldn’t be right.

“Did the same to me, Doctor,” Hartridge was saying over her. “But I’m a lot bigger.”

“Her heart rate is stabilizing,” the doctor said, then focused on her. “Can you sit up?”

She struggled weakly to comply, and then felt James’s hand on her back, easing her up.

“What . . .?”

“That Land Rover has been electrified,” the doctor said. He tut-tutted. “Nasty business.” His nicotine-stained fingers came to rest at the pulse at her throat, and he checked his watch. The pungent smell of tobacco enveloped her as he leaned closer. “You need to go home and rest. I don’t think the electric current was strong enough to do lasting harm,” he said. “But if you start to feel dizzy or lightheaded, go to the hospital immediately.” He stood up and hefted his bag. “I’m in a hurry, I’m afraid, but she seems to be recovering.” He walked away, and was swallowed by what Gabriella realized was a sizable crowd.

“The car was electrified?” She was still sitting down, and being at ground level, so to speak, she realized she could hear a faint hum coming from the vehicle. Mr. Shouty Man had set a trap.

“I’ve taken down the number plate,” Hartridge said. “We’ll find out who he is.”

“Are you all right?” she asked, suddenly remembering that he flew backward, too.

“Better than you.” He grinned. “Got a bit more heft to me.”

James’s grip on her hand tightened, and she realized he’d been holding it for a while. She turned to him and lifted her other hand, and guessing what she wanted, he pulled her to her feet.

For a brief moment she wondered if her legs would hold her, and then she found her footing. She straightened up.

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