And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER SIX

By the winter of 1961, Angel could hardly remember a time when she hadn't been friends with Betty and Ronnie. Although Ronnie, she had to admit, had seemed different since he'd turned sixteen and left school. For one thing, he'd started referring to her and Betty as "little girls"; for another, he'd stopped listening to American pop music with them and started talking a lot of high-sounding nonsense about jazz and the black man's influence on the development of music. This in particular hurt Angel's feelings, making her feel as if she'd been deliberately excluded.

But Ronnie was smart, there was no doubt about that. He'd been taken on as an assistant at a local photographer's, and he roamed the streets of Notting Hill with the camera he'd bought with his wages. He intended to make something of himself, he told the girls, and he swore he'd never do manual labor like his dad.

"I wouldn't exactly call upholstering furniture 'manual labor,' " Betty had snapped back. "It's a skilled trade. You make him sound like a navvy."

But Ronnie had no patience with her or with his parents, and saved every shilling he made towards the day when he could move into his own flat. The girls shrugged and learned to amuse themselves without him, although Angel missed his teasing and his bright smile more than she had imagined possible.

That autumn, she had finally badgered her father into buying a television, and the novelty helped a bit to fill the gap left by Ronnie's absence. They were one of the few families in the neighborhood to own such a thing, and it held pride of place in the sitting room. The girls huddled in front of the grainy black-and-white screen, watching the latest pop idols on Oh Boy! as Angel imagined herself older, glamorous, moving in the same exalted circles as the stars on the telly.

A moan from her mother's bedroom brought her swiftly back to earth. Her mother suffered more and more often from what she called "one of her headaches." She would vomit from the pain, and only darkness and quiet seemed to bring her any relief. Her father fussed about as helplessly as a child on her mum's bad days, and Angel coped with the household tasks as best she could.

Whenever possible, she escaped to Betty's. Although Betty's family had to share a bathroom on the landing with two other families, the flat was always filled with the scents of good things cooking and the cheerful sound of Betty's mother's singing. It was Betty's mum who taught Angel to prepare West Indian dishes, and to buy yams and aubergines and the strange, slimy okra pods from the stalls in the market. "Who goin' to teach you to cook if your own mother don't, girl," she'd said, shaking her head in disapproval.

But it had never occurred to Angel that there might be anything terribly wrong with her mother until the leaden February day she came home from school and found the doctor in the sitting room, his black bag by his side.

"What is it?" she asked her father, her heart thumping with sudden fear.

"Your mum's had quite a bad headache today." Her dad looked exhausted, and for the first time she saw the deep lines scoring his cheeks. "Even worse than usual. The doctor's given her something for the pain."

"But why- What's wrong with her?"

"We don't know," answered the doctor, a portly, bald man whose patient voice belied his stern expression. "I think we shall have to take some pictures, Xrays, of your mother's brain. Then we shall see."

"Will she have to have an operation?"

"That's one possibility, but it's too early to say."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," her father told her, sounding as if he were trying to reassure himself as much as her. But Angel somehow knew, in a moment of gut-squeezing terror, that her life was about to change forever.

Anthony Trollope was buried here. And William Thackeray," Kincaid told Gemma as she bumped the car through the gates of Kensal Green Cemetery. It was just before eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, and they had been told that Dawn Arrowood's remains were to be interred in a graveside service.

"My God." Gemma stopped at the first junction of roads and tracks that traversed the place. "It's immense. I'd no idea." Kensal Green lay at the northern edge of Notting Hill, tucked against the slow curve of the Grand Union Canal on one side and the Harrow Road on the other. A sign at the gate had informed them that this was a wildlife refuge, which meant that the grass was not mown nor the graves tended unless specifically directed by the owners of a plot. Desolate and shaggy under the gray December sky, the place had an air of comfortable decay. The bouquets of plastic flowers placed on the occasional grave looked pathetic and inadequate against the rank wildness of nature.

"It was a business. By the 1830s Londoners had run out of places to bury their dead. The churchyards were all full. So they formed a corporation to find land and build cemeteries. This was the first one, and very successful it was. It was quite the rage to be buried here." Seeing Gemma's dubious glance, Kincaid added, "Honestly. I'm not joking."

"And how do you know so much about it?"

"I've been here before," he replied, but didn't elaborate.

"Do you know how to find Dawn's gravesite, then?"

"Um, I'd go to the right, and look out for cars."

"That's very helpful," she said sarcastically, but did as he suggested. She followed the road for some way before she saw a dozen cars pulled up on the verge, empty. Away in the distance she glimpsed a knot of people in dark clothes, but the track leading in that direction was barred to motor traffic.

"Looks like we walk from here." Stopping the car, Gemma looked down at her shoes and grimaced. She'd been expecting something far more civilized. "Let's just hope it doesn't rain."

"I wouldn't tempt it," Kincaid warned, laughing, as he took her umbrella from the door pocket.

They walked along the track in silence. New headstones were interspersed among the older graves and monuments, but the newer markers were of shiny black marble and lacked the grace of their older counterparts.

"Now the Victorians," Kincaid remarked softly beside her, "they knew how to celebrate death."

Never had Gemma seen so many angels: angels weeping, angels on guard, angels reaching heavenwards. The quiet of the place began to seep into her and she found herself taking a long, deep breath. Nor was the landscape as desolate as she had first thought. The gnarled trees and thickets were alive with birds of every kind, and squirrels ran busily in the long grass. To the right she began to glimpse a building through the trees, a large structure with white, classical columns.

"The Anglican chapel," Kincaid told her. "Although chapel seems a rather meager term for such a grandiose affair. I don't think it's in use."

They approached the cluster of mourners, out of courtesy stopping a few feet away. An ornate coffin rested beside a dark hole in the earth, and at its head a black-robed cleric intoned the burial service. Karl Arrowood stood beside him in a black suit and overcoat, his head bowed, his gold hair glittering with drops of moisture. Dawn's parents stood opposite, as if trying to avoid contact with the widower. Gemma also recognized a softly weeping Natalie Caine, propped up by a stocky, cheerful-faced young man that Gemma assumed must be her husband; the remaining mourners appeared to be friends of Dawn's parents. "No unusual suspects lurking about," Kincaid murmured. "Worse luck."

The priest finished, closing his book. Karl Arrowood stepped forward and laid a single white rose on the coffin. Dawn's mother burst into anguished sobbing and her husband turned her away. Several people stepped up to Karl and shook his hand. With obvious reluctance, Natalie did the same, then gave Gemma a nod of recognition as she and her husband started back towards the cars.

Gemma and Kincaid waited until everyone had paid their respects. Arrowood stood as they approached, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.

"Mr. Arrowood," said Gemma, "this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard."

"Do I take it this means the Yard has been called in? Perhaps you'll make some progress now in solving my wife's death."

"I'm investigating a different murder, Mr. Arrowood," Kincaid answered. "It took place two months ago, in Camden Passage. A woman named Marianne Hoffman was killed in the same manner as your wife. Did you know her?"

"No," said Arrowood, but he had paled. "Who was she?"

"Mrs. Hoffman sold antique jewelry from her shop in Camden Passage. She lived above the premises. Do you know of any connection your wife might have had with this woman?"

"You say this woman sold jewelry? I bought all Dawn's jewelry for her. She'd have had no reason to frequent a shop like that."

"When we spoke on Saturday, Mr. Arrowood," Gemma said, "and I told you your wife was pregnant when she died, you didn't happen to mention that you'd had a vasectomy prior to your marriage." She saw a small tick at the corner of his mouth, swiftly controlled.

"And why should I have thought such a personal matter was any of your business?"

"Because if you'd learned of the pregnancy, you would naturally have assumed that your wife had a lover. In my book, that makes an extremely strong motive for murder."

"If you are suggesting that I killed Dawn, Inspector, you had better be very careful. I loved my wife, although you seem to find that difficult to believe, and I had no reason to think her unfaithful. These procedures are known to fail, and that is what I naturally assumed."

"And you'd no idea before Mrs. Arrowood's death that she was pregnant?" Gemma asked.

"No. I've told you before. I knew she hadn't been feeling well, but that possibility didn't occur to me at the time, for obvious reasons. But now that I know, I will not entertain the idea that the child was not mine."

His face was set so implacably that Gemma wondered whom he most wanted to convince- them or himself? "Speaking of children, Mr. Arrowood, have you seen your sons lately?"

"My sons? What have my children got to do with this?"

"You told me the other day that you'd made it clear to them not to expect anything from you."

"I was fed up with them begging money for this and that. I never told them specifically- Surely you're not accusing them-"

"Money can be a powerful motivator. If they thought that Dawn's death would assure them of an inheritance-"

"No! That's absurd. I know my sons. They like things to come easily because their mother has spoiled them all their lives, but neither is capable of murder." Arrowood was visibly shaken.

"Nevertheless, our near and dear ones can sometimes surprise us," Kincaid commented.

Narrowing his eyes, Karl Arrowood retorted, "If you mean to intimidate me by badgering my family, Superintendent, it won't work. I'll be in touch with my solicitor as soon as I get back to my office."

"Both your sons are of age, Mr. Arrowood. We don't need your permission to question them. But this is simply a matter of following routine lines of inquiry, and the more cooperative everyone is, the sooner we can move on."

"Are you saying I should encourage my sons to talk to you?"

"Assuming they have nothing to hide, it would make the process easier for everyone."

Arrowood's smile was bitter. "You're assuming I have some influence over my children, Mr. Kincaid. Unfortunately, that's not the case."

"I thought they might be here today," Gemma put in mildly.

"They aren't here because I didn't invite them!" Arrowood snapped at her. "Why should I have given them the opportunity to disrespect Dawn in death as they did in life?"

"Perhaps they regret their behavior-"

"With their mother's constant poison in their ears? Highly unlikely."

"I'm assuming Dawn had nothing to do with the breakup of your marriage." Thirteen years ago, Dawn would have still been at school. "In which case, why did your ex-wife dislike her so much?"

"Because Sylvia is a spiteful bitch," he countered with grim amusement. "Does that answer your question, Inspector?"

Although Gemma felt inclined to agree with his assessment, she didn't say so. "What about your colleagues, Mr. Arrowood? Surely they might have come to support you today?"

"I didn't notify anyone at the shop. I meant this occasion to be private- or as private as possible," he amended with a glance at Dawn's parents and their friends, talking with the priest some distance away.

Gemma was suddenly furious with his callous disregard of the Smiths' feelings. "It's the least you could do for them!" she snapped. "You're not the only one who has suffered a loss."

Arrowood gave her a surprised look, then said slowly, "No, I suppose you're right."

"What do you have against your wife's parents?" Gemma asked. "I understand you've only met them briefly."

His eyes had gone cold again. "The fact that they are utterly and tiresomely middle-class."

"And you blame them for that?" she retorted. "As if it were a matter of choice?"

"Isn't it?" he asked. "Dawn chose to overcome her upbringing. So did I, for that matter," he added quietly, gazing at the nearby headstones as if seeking something familiar. Then he looked back at Gemma with a crooked smile. "If you'll excuse me, I had better pay my respects to my in-laws."

"There is one more thing, Mr. Arrowood," interjected Kincaid. "Do you know an Alex Dunn?"

"Of course I know Alex. I trade with him frequently. What has he to do with anything?"

"According to several sources, your wife was having an affair with him."

If Gemma had wished to see Karl Arrowood lose his infuriatingly tight control, she was now amply rewarded.

"Alex? An affair with Dawn? That's impossible!" Arrowood reached out for the nearest support, a block of lichen-stained granite.

"Why?" Gemma asked.

"Because- because Alex wouldn't- She couldn't- I won't even consider such a thing! Nor will I discuss it with you any further." His face was pinched with shock; the knuckles of the hand grasping the stone were white with strain. He turned away from them. "For God's sake… go."

"We will be speaking to you again, Mr. Arrowood," Gemma said, but he made no acknowledgment. Glancing back as they walked away, she saw Arrowood still standing over his wife's coffin, his head bowed, his shoulders sagging.

"Is he telling the truth?" Kincaid asked Gemma when they were once again ensconced in the warmth of the car. True to his prediction, the rain had begun again as they left the graveside.

"Which time?" Gemma's cheeks were pink from cold, her skin glowed, and damp tendrils of copper hair had escaped from her plait to curl round the edges of her face. It seemed to Kincaid in that moment that she was achingly beautiful, and he was about to tell her so when she added, "I'd swear he didn't know about his wife and Alex Dunn- Of course, that's assuming that what we've been told is true."

Disciplining himself into a professional state of mind, Kincaid wrenched his gaze away from her. "He didn't like the idea that his sons might be involved, either. If the thought had occurred to him before now, he's a bloody terrific actor."

Gemma frowned, tapping her fingertips on the steering wheel as the car bumped along towards the cemetery exit. "A good actor, yes. But somehow I think there's a vein of real grief for his wife in there somewhere."

"The human mind is a complex thing. It is possible that he could have killed her and yet still truly grieve for her."

He saw Gemma shudder as she said, "That's a hell I'd rather not contemplate. What about Alex Dunn, then? Everyone we've talked to says how much he loved her, but that doesn't mean he couldn't have murdered her. We've no idea what might have happened between them… Maybe Dawn told him she was pregnant but that she wouldn't- or couldn't- leave Karl, and Alex lost it… And if he wasn't involved in Dawn's death, why the hell has he disappeared from the face of the earth? His friends at the café and the woman in the arcade said he was terribly distraught-"

"You've requested a search warrant for his flat?"

"Melody had it in hand as we were leaving for the funeral."

"Then you'd better have her meet us there."

"Still no sign of Dunn's car," Melody had told Gemma when she'd rung the station.

As well as requesting all police forces to be on the lookout for Dunn's Volkswagen, Gemma had checked the previous address on his lease: a small flat in Kensington now occupied by someone who had never heard of him. His birth records had yielded as little. Alexander Dunn had been born in 1971 in a London hospital, to a mother listed as Julia Anne Dunn. No father was given, and the address of record, in the nether regions of Notting Hill, would have been a squalid bedsit in the early seventies. No one in the area remembered Julia Dunn, or her child.

Had he gone to university? she wondered. Would anyone know? Who had been close to Alex Dunn, except Fern and Dawn Arrowood?

She turned into the narrow mews, mentally congratulating herself as she pulled into a rare parking space. Alex Dunn's Volkswagen had not reappeared, nor was there any answer when she and Kincaid rapped on the flat's door.

There was a twitch, however, at the next-door flat's front window. "Ah, an interested neighbor," Kincaid murmured, and without consultation they retraced their steps and knocked next door. The window box was bare and the pavement round the door littered with windblown rubbish, but the door opened immediately.

The flat's occupant was a tall, rabbity man with stooped shoulders and thinning hair. He wore a meticulously darned cardigan the color of mud, liberally flecked with dandruff. "Can I help you?" he asked with an air of eager expectation.

Kincaid showed his warrant card. "We were wondering if we could have a word with you about your neighbor-"

"My tenant, actually. So what's young Dunn done?" He giggled at his own humor. "Oh, forgive me, I'm Donald Canfield. Do come in."

The murky flat smelled sourly of cabbage and unwashed flesh. Although Canfield seated them on a sofa facing a large television, Gemma could see an armchair carefully positioned by the front window, and her hopes rose.

"We wondered if you might know where we could find Mr. Dunn," Kincaid said, after refusing Canfield's offer of refreshments, much to Gemma's relief.

"It's about that woman, isn't it? The blonde, the one that got her throat slit. I saw her picture in the newspapers."

"Dawn Arrowood. Had you seen her with Mr. Dunn?"

"Oh, yes. She came here to his flat for months, almost always in the daytime. I did wonder if she was married. I heard them, too, if you know what I mean," he added, with a sly glance at Gemma. "Walls in these old houses aren't what they should be. And she was very… enthusiastic." He giggled again.

Repelled, Gemma scowled and looked away.

Kincaid had no such scruples. "Did you ever hear them arguing, as well?"

"No, no, I can't say as I did. Although that's not true of the other one."

"What other one?" asked Gemma.

"The little girl with the streaked hair. Oh, they had some terrific rows, she and Alex, when Alex first started seeing the blond woman. But she hasn't been around for months, until the other day."

"The other day?"

"Saturday. The day after the murder. The girl came here with Alex. Then they got straight into his car and drove away. Funny thing was, she was driving."

"Did you see them come back?"

Canfield pursed his lips in disappointment. "I left just after that, I'm afraid. A visit to my sister in Warwickshire. I just returned last night. I didn't know, you see, that it was the blond woman who had been murdered. I'd have stayed here, otherwise, even if it did get up my sister's nose."

"What about the evening before, Mr. Canfield?" asked Kincaid. "Were you here then?"

"Yes, yes, I was."

"Did the blond woman visit Alex that afternoon or evening?"

Again came the little moue of disappointment. "Not that I saw. But I'm a busy man, of course, and I might have missed her."

"Of course," Kincaid agreed. "What about Alex? Did you see him coming or going that evening?"

"I know he came home around five: I looked out when I heard his car. Then he left again just as the news came on the telly, but walking this time."

"What were you watching?"

"Channel One. I always prefer Channel One."

That would have been half past six, then, if the man was to be relied upon, thought Gemma. And if Dawn had died a few minutes earlier, it seemed unlikely that Alex Dunn could have killed her.

"Do you know anything about Alex, Mr. Canfield?" she asked. "Who his friends are, or if he has family?"

"No. He tends to keep himself to himself," Canfield said stiffly, and Gemma read the history of rejection in his expression.

"Is he a good tenant, then?" she pressed, daring him to find something good to say about Alex Dunn. "Neat? Timely with his rent?"

"Well, yes." Canfield admitted it reluctantly. "Although I don't know as I want a tenant in my property that's been involved in a murder…"

"We don't know that he is involved in Mrs. Arrowood's death, Mr. Canfield," she said, knowing perfectly well that the man wouldn't miss the excitement for the world. A flash of black and orange outside the front window heralded the arrival of a panda car and Melody Talbot.

Kincaid stood and thanked Mr. Canfield, shaking his hand, but Gemma pretended not to see the limp digits proffered in her direction.

"Nasty little pervert," she muttered, knowing Canfield was watching them avidly from the window. It made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. "Maybe he developed an obsession with Dawn, watching her coming and going next door and knowing what they were up to-"

"He could have followed her easily enough and learned where she lived," Kincaid agreed. "Then lain in wait for her that evening-"

"Right," replied Gemma, rolling her eyes. "Canfield doesn't look fit enough to have attacked a kitten. And if he was out murdering Dawn, how would he have known what time Alex left his flat? Still, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to run a check on him."

Melody, having been obliged to turn the panda car round and seek a parking space outside the mews, reappeared at the top of the road. "I've got the warrant," she called out as she neared them. "And a locksmith coming."

"I'd assume Mr. Canfield has a key," Kincaid told her. "But let me give it a try." He carried a small set of professional lock picks, and Gemma knew he enjoyed an opportunity to practice his skills.

"I don't think it's very likely we'll find him here," he said quietly as he bent over the lock. "As Canfield saw him leave in his car, and the car hasn't been returned. Besides, there's no smell."

Gemma grimaced at his reassurance. "Might have topped himself somewhere else, though," she offered.

"Then what happened to the girl who was driving? The one with the interesting hair?"

"Fern Adams."

Kincaid glanced up at her, one ear still tuned to the sound of the tumblers he was manipulating.

"His ex-girlfriend. The one his friends at the café said was determined to help. And a witness saw Alex leave the arcade with her."

"Then where are they now?" asked Melody. "Do you have an address for her?"

"No. I know she lives nearby, but Dunn's car hasn't been spotted anywhere in the district."

"Got it!" Kincaid exclaimed as the door swung open.

He entered cautiously, calling out and turning on light switches with his handkerchief. There was no reply, and it was soon apparent that the flat was unoccupied.

The bedroom was at the front, sharing a wall with Mr. Canfield's sitting room, Gemma realized with distaste. A pair of trousers lay across the unmade bed as if they had been carelessly tossed; the dressing table held a hairbrush, a bowl of pocket change, and two lovely blue-and-white vases; the two bedside tables held stacks of antiques magazines and Christie's catalogues. In the wardrobe, Gemma found two suitcases and a duffle bag along with neatly folded and hung clothes. There was no indication that Dunn had packed for a trip. Nor could any room have looked less like the scene of an illicit love affair.

A dark, glossy green tile surrounded the tub, men's toiletries were ranged round the sink, and the bath gave off the faint but unmistakably masculine scent of soap and aftershave. There was no sign of regular occupation by a woman.

"He uses an expensive electric razor," Kincaid commented. "You'd think that if he'd meant to go away, he'd have taken it."

Everything in the sitting area had been painted a warm cream, including the cabinets in the kitchen at one end. Gemma wondered if Alex had been trying to wipe out any trace left by his landlord, as she couldn't imagine the decoration being the product of Donald Canfield's imagination, but the most practical reason for the vanilla hue of the walls and carpet was obvious: It displayed Alex's collection at its best.

Lovely examples of blue-and-white porcelain were scattered about the room on small tables, shelves, and desk, and one wall held a glass display cabinet filled with colorful Art Deco pieces that made her gasp in delight.

French doors led out to a small enclosed garden. A flagstone patio held pots of now withered geraniums and a white iron table with two chairs. Gemma imagined Alex and Dawn sitting there on a warm evening, engrossed in one another, and felt a twinge of sadness.

"Another dead end," Melody said with a sigh of discouragement.

"Not entirely," countered Gemma. "It at least lets us rule out the possibility that Dunn came back here and killed himself in despair over Dawn's death."

"Dunn didn't disappear until Saturday morning," Kincaid pointed out. "If he killed Dawn on Friday night, then returned to the flat, he certainly hasn't left any obvious evidence."

"We'll get forensic in, just in case. But in the meantime," Gemma added, "I'm going to find Fern Adams."

Gemma combined an information-seeking stop at Otto's Café with a belated lunch, served to her by the cheerful Wesley. Kincaid had returned to the Yard to begin background checks on Karl Arrowood's sons.

Otto, Wesley told her as he served her a bowl of steaming lentil soup, was out for the day. He didn't elaborate. Was he regretting his forthrightness when they had spoken before? Gemma wondered.

"Perhaps you can help me," she said when she'd finished her soup and he'd come to take away her dish. "Have you seen Fern Adams since she left here on Saturday?"

"No. That's a bit odd, too. She's usually in here every day for a coffee."

"Nor Alex?" Gemma knew that constables inquiring after Alex would have asked here, but she wanted to hear for herself what Wesley had to say.

Wesley shook his head, his mobile face portraying worry. "You'd think the man had vanished into a bloody great hole. No one's heard a thing from him. Do you think- He wouldn't- He was that upset…"

"I'd be more concerned if he hadn't left his flat with Fern- we've a witness who saw them. It's Fern I'd like to talk to now. Do you know where I could find her?"

"She lives in Portobello Court. I don't remember the flat number, but I can tell you where it is." He gave Gemma detailed directions. "Don't mistake me," Wesley added, "Miz Arrowood's murder was a terrible thing, only I didn't know her. But if anything's happened to Alex or Fern… They're like family."

"Do you have family of your own?"

"My mother." Wesley's face split in a brilliant smile. "She lives down Westbourne Park." Sobering, he added, "My dad's been gone a few years now. Heart attack."

"You stay with your mum?"

"Can't afford nothing else, you know what it's like," answered Wesley with no hint of complaint. "But even if I could, I'd not want to leave my mum on her own. She's a good woman, my mother."

Gemma said good-bye and walked thoughtfully back up Portobello Road. Would her children have such care for her when they were grown?

Portobello Court was the first modern block of flats built by the Council after the war, containing such sought-after amenities as indoor plumbing and separate kitchens, and she knew that many flats had been occupied by the same families since the fifties.

Following Wesley's directions, she climbed the stairs to the first floor and knocked on what she hoped was the right door. A door across the corridor opened and an elderly lady peered out at her, shaking her head.

"You looking for that girl? Rings in her nose, and Lord knows where else. Don't know what the world's coming to."

"Do you know where she is?"

"Been holed up in the flat for days, far as I know. Don't know how she expects to make a living if she doesn't get out and scour the countryside. That's what it takes to turn a profit, you know. My husband was in the trade, had a stall next to her daddy."

With some assurance that Fern was at home, Gemma turned and knocked again, more loudly, and this time she was rewarded by the sound of shuffling and the click of a latch.

The young woman who gazed out at her did indeed have a ring through her nose, and another through her eyebrow, but her small, pale face was devoid of makeup, and the multihued strands of her hair looked flattened and neglected.

"Miss Adams? I'd like to talk to you about Alex Dunn."

"What about him?" The sight of Gemma's warrant card had not prompted the woman to open the door wider.

"Do you happen to know where he is?"

"Why should I?"

The door of the flat opposite creaked open an inch.

"Do you think I might come in?" Gemma gave a pointed glance at the obvious eavesdropper.

"Yeah, I suppose. Old cow," Fern added under her breath, but she stepped back, allowing Gemma into the flat. Boxes and tag-ends of furniture cluttered the space. Gemma could see no rhyme or reason for the arrangement of items- a set of mahogany side chairs faced a wall, a matching settee had its back cozily against the television, side tables stood adrift among lamps and pictures. A glimpse out the glass balcony doors revealed an equally unprepossessing view; large men's underclothing hung out on a makeshift clothesline, and there were a few drooping potted plants.

Gemma gestured at the boxes. "Are you moving?"

"No. My dad travels- the auction circuit. He brings things home, and so do I. This is about as sorted as we get." Fern cleared a chair of several old tasseled lampshades, which Gemma took as an invitation to sit.

"Have you been traveling this week?"

"Yeah." Fern rubbed at a spot on the back of her hand, a liar's gesture. When Gemma didn't speak, she added, "Estate sales, country markets, you know the sort of thing."

"What about Alex? Is he traveling as well?"

Fern shrugged with great casualness. "Dunno. Haven't seen him."

"But you have seen him since Dawn Arrowood died. The two of you left the arcade together."

The girl's startled glance met Gemma's, then she looked deliberately away. "I took him home for a cuppa. He was a bit wobbly and all. Why do you want to know about Alex, anyway?"

"I understand he and Dawn were quite close. She might have told him something that would help us find her killer."

"You mean, like, if someone had been bothering her?"

"Exactly. Or maybe he noticed someone hanging round her. Or, say if her husband had threatened her, she might have told Alex." When Fern nodded without comment, Gemma added, "Would Alex have told you?"

"Not likely. Dawn Arrowood wasn't exactly a topic of discussion between us."

"Not even on Saturday morning? You must have talked about her murder."

"He wouldn't believe it at first, when Otto told him. But then he went to her house. It was crawling with coppers and one of the neighbors told him her throat had been cut. After that he was, like, a zombie or something."

"And after you brought him back here for a cup of tea?"

Fern shrugged again. "I suppose he went home."

"You let your good friend go home alone in a terrible state of shock?"

"I offered to stay with him, but he didn't want me."

Gemma studied her for a moment. "All right, Fern, that's enough of the games. Alex's landlord saw the two of you leave in Alex's car that morning, with you driving. Where did you go?"

"Don't know what you're on about," Fern retorted, but Gemma had glimpsed the flash of fear in her eyes.

"Yes, you do. Do you also know that you could face charges for interfering with a police investigation?"

"I don't know where he is!"

"I don't believe that. You left together in Alex's car on Saturday morning, and neither Alex nor his car has been seen since. We've put out a bulletin on his car registration; we will find it, but the sooner we talk to Alex the better for him."

"But he hasn't done anything-"

"Why would he disappear like this, unless he had something to do with Dawn's death?"

"Because he's in danger!" Fern scowled at Gemma, but her lip was trembling.

"Alex? Why should Alex be in danger?"

"Otto knows Karl Arrowood, and he says that if Karl killed his wife, Alex could be next."

"If Alex has some evidence that Dawn was murdered by her husband, he needs to give it to the police as soon as possible. Tell me where he is."

"No. I can't tell you because I don't know. I took him for a drive, then I took him back to the flat." Fern's hands were balled into fists now, and in spite of her frustration with the girl, Gemma found something about her defiance endearing.

With a sigh, she said, "I hope Alex appreciates your loyalty."

Something flickered in Fern's face- an instant of doubt? Hesitation? Then it was gone and her lips were clamped in a stubborn line. "I'm telling you, I don't know where he is."

"All right, Fern." Gemma stood, tucked her notebook in her bag, and handed Fern her card. "But I'll be back. And in the meantime, you think about whether you really want Alex to go to jail for evading the police and impeding a murder inquiry."

As soon as she reached the station, Gemma organized a twenty-four-hour watch on Fern Adams's flat and requested access to Fern's phone records. She had absolutely no doubt that Fern knew where Alex Dunn was, and that the young woman would contact him.

When her own phone rang with a summons to Superintendent Lamb's office, she thought nothing of it; her super regularly called her in to discuss cases in progress.

But to her astonishment, Lamb cleared his throat and said, "Gemma, Sergeant Franks has been to see me. I thought you should know that the sergeant has expressed some concern over your progress on this case. He feels that not enough pressure has been put on Karl Arrowood, as the obvious suspect in the murder of his wife-"

"Sir. You know that we don't have one single bit of concrete evidence. I can't confront Karl Arrowood with nothing but dicey forensics and supposition, and I certainly can't make a case to the CPS-"

"I realize that, Gemma. I'm not questioning your judgment. In fact, it seems that as well as being wealthy, Arrowood has quite a reputation for supporting charitable causes like helping the homeless. The Commissioner has had calls from a friend of Mr. Arrowood's in the Home Office, and from two prominent MP's, expressing concern for Arrowood, and he has in turn been breathing down my neck. We're certainly not going to make any rash charges at this point, although our clearance rate is under scrutiny-" He stopped and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "But you know all that, and that's not why I called you in here. My immediate concern is your communication with Sergeant Franks-"

"But sir, you must know that Franks resents all the female officers. He's done his best to undermine my authority since I started here."

"I also know that Gerry Franks is an experienced and able officer, and you're not doing yourself any favors by allowing personal- or gender-related- differences to sabotage your working relationship. He could be a valuable resource to you, and I don't have to tell you that we need this department to run as efficiently as possible. See what you can do to remedy the problem, eh?" It was clearly a dismissal.

"Right." Gemma stood. "Thank you, sir. If that's all-"

When Lamb nodded, she left the office, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. She had gone out of her way to defer to Gerry Franks, trying to allow him to retain some of his dignity, and this was the thanks she got. Of course she'd been aware of his thinly concealed insubordination, but this was absolutely the last straw. She would have to find a way to deal with him. And then her own doubts flooded over her.

Had she done everything possible? Had she let her concern with her pregnancy and her future cloud her judgment? And if that were the case, how could she repair the damage?