“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m glad I didn’t. He was very nice. We’d chatted for a time.” She bit her lip. “He’d been to visit his son.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked to hold them back. “Well. You see. I’m still very emotional about the crash.”

“It’s not unusual. God knows—” He stopped.

“Like my shoulder, that will heal too,” she said, trying for a lighter tone. “With time.”

He said nothing, weaving his way through traffic, giving her space to recover. The tension in his mind brought the voice of Hamish to the forefront, so loud it seemed to fill the motorcar.

They had reached Chelsea. Her house was just three streets away. He was searching for words now, unable to think for the other voice, realizing that time was slipping away.

Two streets now.

He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He had steeled himself against any feelings, and the wall was high, insurmountable.

One street.

“Running,” he said finally, “is no solution.”

She sighed. “No. But I don’t know what else to do.”

They had reached her house. He slowed the motorcar, stopped, was getting out to open her door, and the moment was lost.

“At least,” she said, smiling brightly, “it isn’t raining this time. Thank you, Ian. This was very kind of you.”

And she strode up the walk, opening her door, disappearing inside.

He stood there, Hamish hammering at him, and then turned and got in his motorcar.

Afterward, he wasn’t sure how he got as far as Windsor without knowing it. He had to turn around and drive back to London.

Chief Superintendent Bowles had given some thought to the trap he intended to lay for the murderer they knew only as Billy.

He said, as Rutledge reported to him, “Good, you’re early.”

“How is Cummins?”

“Out of the woods, but not thanks to Billy. He came damned close to severing an artery. We’ve got to stop this maniac, and you’re to be the bait. At least that’s the current thinking—that it’s you he’s after.”

“I don’t think he’s a maniac.”

“Stands to reason that he is. Hunting people like an animal. Then taking his knife to them.”

Rutledge let it go. Instead, he asked Bowles, “Was there any information on that man Hood, who is our witness for Bynum’s killing?”

“The address he gave us was false, a stationer’s shop. Like many of his kind, he doesn’t want to be found.”

So, Rutledge thought, little more than he’d known already. “Have you spoken to Gibson or one of the older sergeants? The man may have a past. I’ve seen him before or dealt with him somewhere.”