And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gemma lay in bed, staring at the partially opened slats of the blinds and hoping for the faint gray streaks that would presage dawn. Kincaid slept with his back to her, his breathing comfortingly steady. From the next room she could hear Toby's occasional snort; he was getting over a slight cold.

At last she gave in and tilted her head so that she could see the luminous face of the bedside clock; she groaned. It was only bloody five o'clock. Daylight was still a good two hours off, and it looked as if sleep had deserted her for the night.

Nor had they gone to bed at a reasonable hour the previous evening. Still furious with Kincaid over the business of Doug Cullen's invitation, she'd turned on him as soon as he arrived to help her pack.

"How could you? How could you accept a dinner invitation in the midst of moving house? We'll be tired, and filthy, and I've only so much time to get the new house sorted-"

"But I thought it would give you a break-"

"It's our first evening in the new house as a family!"

His face fell. "Of course, you're right. It was really stupid of me. I'll ring Doug straight away and say we can't come." He flipped open his phone and stepped outside.

Gemma knew she should be pleased at his capitulation, but her face flamed as she imagined his conversation with Cullen. When he returned a moment later, she spat, "Now I feel a right bitch. They'll have made arrangements already-"

"Gemma, they'll understand." He frowned at her. "It's not like you to be unreasonable-"

"So now I'm unreasonable?" She turned away and began rolling a wineglass in a sheet of newspaper, her fingers trembling.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." He came to stand beside her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

She hesitated, then the words boiled out in a rush. "The super called me in today. Gerry Franks complained to him that I'd been too soft on Karl Arrowood."

"Surely Lamb didn't take him seriously?"

"Not really. But he told me my management skills could use some improvement."

"So what did you do?"

She took another glass from the kitchen shelf. "At first I was going to rip Franks to shreds, but then I decided that wasn't the most helpful tack. I told him he was welcome to get off the case, but that he was a valuable asset and I'd rather we tried to work together, and that I hadn't meant to exclude him from portions of the investigation."

"Very diplomatic of you." Kincaid raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Was it true?"

"Oh, I suppose the super's right," she admitted, grimacing. "Franks is a good officer, especially with detail- he has that sort of bulldog mentality, worries at things until he gets them right. I should've managed the situation better."

"It sounds as though you've made a good start at improving things," Kincaid had said reassuringly, and thus, harmony had been more or less restored.

Now, lying awake in the predawn darkness, she found herself thinking of her ex-husband, Rob, who would have seen her confidence as an opportunity to tell her just how he would have handled things. Kincaid's supportiveness, she realized, was rare, and a trait to be appreciated- so why the hell couldn't she bring herself to tell him so?

Three hours later, hunched over her desk at the station, she'd pored over every note, every communication from the incident room, every file, wondering what she could possibly have missed. Exhausted, she groaned and dropped her head in her hands.

At the soft rap on her door, she looked up, blinking. It was Melody, carrying two coffee cups and a bag that smelled suspiciously of fresh carrot muffins.

"Latte, again? And breakfast? You must be the coffee fairy, Melody. Or coffee angel, I should say."

A blush stained Melody's plump cheeks. "I get off the tube at Notting Hill Gate. So it's no trouble to pop into the Starbucks on my way here. I know how much you like it, boss, and it seemed, especially today… I mean, I heard about Sergeant Franks talking to the super, and I think it's bloody unfair."

"Thanks. But I suppose he had a point. We don't seem to be making much progress, do we? Here, sit down, eat your muffin."

Melody sat obediently and peeled the paper wrapper from her breakfast. "Remember you asked me if I knew why Otto Popov was so certain Arrowood was guilty? Well, I went round the pubs last night, some of the more fringy ones, if you know what I mean."

"Not dressed like that?" Gemma gestured at Melody's neat skirt and jacket.

"Not on my life. I wore my leather trousers- you'd never have recognized me."

"I take it you weren't looking for a date?"

Melody grinned. "Well, I did chat up some okay-looking blokes. But I got a name, in the end, someone who might know something about Popov. A little Cockney named Bernard. I found him in a pub near the flyover, and after a couple of pints he agreed to have a chat with you, for the price of a pint and some readies."

Gemma's interest quickened. "When? Where?"

"Lunchtime today, in the Ladbroke Arms. Said he wanted to meet someplace no one would notice him. But, as Bernard has a face like a monkey and smells like he hasn't bathed for years, I don't think he'll be exactly inconspicuous."

Gemma tensed when the phone on her desk rang, fearing a repeat of yesterday's summons to the superintendent's office. But it was the officer on duty in reception. "There's a young man to see you, Inspector. Says his name is Alex Dunn."

"Dunn?" Gemma repeated, before swiftly collecting herself. "Right. Put him in an interview room. I'll be down in a second." Hanging up, she said to Melody, "Come with me. I'll need backup on this."

Alex Dunn rose as they entered the room, holding his hand out as if it were an ordinary social occasion. He was about Gemma's age, good-looking in a tidy sort of way, and on first impression it seemed to Gemma that his was not the sort of appeal likely to make a woman risk a marriage.

When she had introduced herself and Melody, she switched on the recorder and gestured for him to sit again.

"Is that necessary?" he asked, with a shocked glance at the recorder. His ready confidence seemed to ebb a little.

"Oh, I think so," Gemma replied evenly. "We've been looking everywhere for you for five days. That tends to make us feel a bit official."

"I didn't know. Honestly. I was down at my aunt's in Sussex- a friend drove me there on Saturday- and it never occurred to me that anyone wanted to talk to me. I wasn't…" His voice trailed off. "Myself," he concluded.

"How could you not realize that the police would want to question you? Your mistress was murdered-"

"She was not my mistress! I mean- I suppose technically she was- but I never thought of it that way. That makes it sound- makes her sound- cheap."

"Well, however you thought of it," Gemma kept her tone tart, "you were still the person closest to her, barring her husband. Did Dawn talk about him?"

"She never talked about Karl. I think, when she was with me, that she liked to pretend Karl didn't exist. If I pressed her about it, I mean about leaving him, she would just… withdraw. Shake her head and get this closed look."

"Did she ever give you the impression that she was afraid of her husband?"

"No. And she would have told me," he insisted, but he sounded less than certain.

"And she never told you that Karl suspected she was having an affair?"

"No."

"Did you see Dawn on the day she died?"

"No. I rang her mobile from a phone box several times. But she didn't answer."

"From a phone box? Isn't that a bit cloak-and-dagger for a woman who wasn't worried about her husband?"

Alex colored. "It was to ensure my number never showed up on her itemized calls."

"Very cautious of her," commented Melody.

"Dawn was… thorough. About everything. That's just the sort of person she was."

Gemma thought of Dawn Arrowood's careful blotting out of her background, of her family, and of her neat and characterless bedroom. "Did Dawn ever talk about herself, where she came from, that sort of thing?" she asked, curious.

"Yeah, she did. Clapham, or Croyden, something like that. Her father ran a supermarket."

"He still does," Gemma murmured, but she saw that Alex didn't understand. "Go on. What else?"

"Oh, the silly things you do as a kid. Sneaking cigarettes, kisses on the playground, that sort of thing. And she talked about her friend Natalie, and how she always wanted a family like that, big and noisy and busy." He frowned. "But I don't think it would have suited her, somehow."

"Did she mention any friends other than Natalie?"

"No. There didn't seem to be anyone other than Karl's business associates. And me."

"Did she talk about wanting children?"

"Only once. When we'd- when she'd had a bit too much wine. She cried. Then, when I tried to comfort her, she got angry. Said I didn't understand, that Karl would never let her have children. I said- Well, you can guess what I said. But it was no use. And she was always very careful about that, too."

"Birth control?" When he nodded, Gemma added, "Apparently not careful enough."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't know? She didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" His voice rose. "You're not saying-"

"She was pregnant. The doctor had confirmed it that afternoon."

Dunn's eyes were dilated with shock, his face the hue of parchment. "But… I don't… How could she not tell me?"

"Maybe she meant to. But she never had the chance. Or maybe it wasn't your baby; maybe it was Karl's. His vasectomy could have failed; that's what he claims, after all. Or maybe it was someone else's altogether-"

His face bleached whiter still, and Gemma feared she might have pushed him too far.

But he shoved back his chair, shaking with rage, and stabbed a finger at her. "She wasn't seeing anyone else. You make her sound like a slag, and it's not true! If I know anything about her, it's that she loved me. She would have left him, we would have worked something out-"

"Okay, point taken. Sit back down, Alex, please. Constable, could you get Mr. Dunn some water?"

He obeyed her, reluctantly, and when he was seated again and had sipped at the water Melody brought him, Gemma said, "Look, I'm sorry. Let's start over. Why don't you tell me about last Friday. Were you supposed to see Dawn that day?"

"No. We'd met the day before, but she'd said she had a doctor's appointment on Friday- a routine checkup- and that she was meeting Natalie for tea. And I was planning to visit my aunt, as well as getting ready for Saturday market, so… If I'd insisted she come by the flat, maybe-" He looked stricken.

"Then you'd be assuming her murder was happenstance, and we don't believe that. I believe that whoever waited for Dawn that day would have waited longer, or come back another time." As Gemma spoke, she realized how strongly she meant it.

"But- if it was Karl- And if she had left-"

"Karl might have changed his mind? From what I know of the man, that seems unlikely. And we've no proof that he killed his wife. It seems to me that you and your friends- particularly Otto- have made an awfully big assumption."

"But- Otto said- Otto was sure that it was Karl. I didn't want to believe him-"

"It always comes back to Otto, doesn't it?" Gemma glanced at Melody. "Alex, what else did Otto say?"

His stare was defiant. "Otto said Karl would kill me, too, if he found out. But that's crap, isn't it?"

"Is that why you went to Sussex?"

"It was Fern's idea. She meant well, but I feel a fool now for going along with it. As I said, I wasn't myself."

"Do you know how your friend Otto comes to know so much about Karl Arrowood? Has he told you?"

"Otto doesn't talk about himself much. But he's lived in the neighborhood a long time, knows a lot of people."

"You don't know anything about Otto's dead wife?"

"Dead?" Alex looked puzzled. "No. I just assumed they were divorced or something, I mean, you never know these days, do you?"

"Do you know someone called Marianne Hoffman?"

"Never heard of her. Why? Is she a friend of Otto's?"

Was it possible, Gemma wondered, that Otto could be the link between the Arrowoods and Hoffman? The café owner knew many people in the trade, as Alex had pointed out. And he was a powerful man, skilled, she assumed, as were most cooks, with a knife.

"Let's go back to Friday. You were getting ready for Saturday market. What does that entail?"

"Setting things out in my stall in the arcade, arranging, pricing. I'd been to an estate sale in Sussex, near my aunt's, so I had a good deal of new stock."

"And then?"

"I went back to the flat. I'd had a good day, and I wanted to celebrate, so I went to Otto's for an early dinner."

"What time was this?"

"About half past six, I think. I really wasn't paying attention."

"Was Otto at the café when you arrived?"

"He served me himself."

"Everything as usual?"

"Of course. Except…" Dunn hesitated, then went on. "We had a little disagreement. I wouldn't exactly call it an argument."

"About what?"

"He warned me about Karl. I'd found a lovely piece of porcelain I thought I might sell him, and Otto said not to take Karl for a fool. I didn't realize until then, you see, that everyone knew about Dawn." He crumpled the paper cup Melody had given him in his fingers. "How could I possibly have been so flaming stupid?"

Kincaid listened as Gemma related her interview with Alex Dunn. He'd picked her up at Notting Hill for a quick run into the City, where they had appointments with Karl Arrowood's sons. Kincaid had debated surprising them, but decided there was no point in risking possible inconvenience to himself and Gemma. He had no doubt the boys' mother would have got the wind up them already.

He had arranged to meet the elder son, Richard, in a well-known Fleet Street pub at eleven o'clock, and the younger, Sean, in the same place at half past.

They had no trouble finding a table, as the pub was just gearing up for its lunchtime business. When Richard Arrowood walked in the door at the stroke of eleven, they recognized him instantly, a pale and less substantial copy of his father.

"Mr. Arrowood," Kincaid called out.

"What is this about?" Arrowood asked as he sat down, adjusting his perfectly creased trouser leg at the knee. "I don't have much time."

"You are surely aware that your stepmother has been murdered? Brutally, I might add."

"So? What has that to do with me?"

"Did you know Dawn well?" Gemma asked pleasantly, but Kincaid saw the tick in her jaw that meant she was clenching her teeth.

"My father had us round for drinks a few times when they were first married, and once for a meal. She didn't cook, of course, just had something brought in." From the contempt in Richard Arrowood's voice, she might have served them fish and chips.

"And your mother cooks, I take it?" Gemma's smile was vicious.

"My mother has nothing to do with this," Arrowood retorted.

"I wonder," Kincaid interposed. "Is there a particular reason why you disliked your stepmother so much? I understood that your mother and father had been divorced for several years before he married Dawn."

"That didn't make her any less of a money-grubbing bitch," said Arrowood, sniffing, and Kincaid revised his estimate of the young man's character. Not only was Richard Arrowood arrogant, rude, and unpleasant, he was astoundingly stupid.

"I would have thought your father had enough to go round."

"Not once the fair Dawnie got her paws on it. I had some debts." The young man's cheeks flushed with remembered anger. "You know, the sort of thing anyone starting out in the City encounters. But Father wouldn't lift a finger. He said helping me would threaten Dawn's security."

"Does one encounter debts, Mr. Arrowood? I always rather thought one acquired them." Kincaid watched him realize he'd been insulted, and bridle.

"Look here, you can't speak to me this way-"

"I can, you know. May I remind you that this is a murder inquiry, and that you may be under suspicion?"

"Suspicion? But that's absurd." His bravado seemed to evaporate suddenly. "I haven't seen Dawn in ages-"

"Would you mind telling us where you were last Friday evening?"

"Friday? I- I was at a drinks party. A bloke from work had several of us round to his flat in Borough Market. My brother was there, too."

"What time was this party?"

"We went straight from work. Half-five, maybe."

"And how long did you stay?"

"Until a group of us went out to dinner. Around eight, I suppose."

"And you were there all the time?"

"Of course I was bloody there! Look, you can't-"

"We'll need your friend's name and address. And of course we'll confirm this with your brother."

Richard looked from Gemma to Kincaid. His forehead was damp with sweat, and he sniffed again, brushing the back of his hand across his nose. "I don't think you can speak to me like this without a solicitor," he said, but without much conviction.

"You are, of course, entitled to a solicitor at any time, Mr. Arrowood. But this is just a friendly conversation, a routine inquiry, and I don't think you'd want it to look as though you'd something to hide. Just a bit of advice."

"I-" A look of relief flooded Arrowood's face, and following his gaze, Kincaid saw that his brother had arrived, a few minutes ahead of schedule. Again, the resemblance to their father was unmistakable, but Sean Arrowood was a bit stockier, a bit darker, and he came to the table with a smile and an outstretched hand.

"I'm Sean Arrowood. I know I'm early, my meeting finished ahead of schedule- is that a problem?" The quick glance he gave his brother showed concern.

"Not at all," Kincaid reassured him. "We were just finishing up with your brother." He nodded at Richard in dismissal, and the elder Arrowood made his escape with a look of relief. "Perhaps you can confirm some things for us," Kincaid continued to Sean. "I understand you were not on the best of terms with your stepmother?"

Sean looked pained. "That's not exactly true. You have to understand that we didn't dislike Dawn- and that we were very distressed to hear what had happened to her- but her marriage to our dad made things particularly… difficult… with our mother. She worries about our futures, although we've told her often enough that she needn't. And Mother would have interpreted any friendliness towards Dawn on our part as… disloyal."

"She did seem to have a bee in her bonnet," Gemma said, and she and Sean shared a small conspiratorial smile. "When did you see Dawn last?"

"Um, I saw her quite recently, in fact, a few weeks ago. She rang and asked me to meet her for a coffee."

"Was this usual?"

"No," Sean admitted. "I was a bit taken aback, but curious."

"She asked to see only you? Not you and Richard?"

"Dawn and I got on better. And my brother sometimes has a tendency to… overreact."

"I take it this was a delicate matter?"

"She was concerned that Richard and I might think she had encouraged our father to treat us unfairly."

"Did she tell you that Karl meant to cut you and Richard out of his will?"

Sean met her eyes steadily. "Apparently, Richard had been a bit intemperate in his demands, and Father was angry. I can't say I blame him."

"And did you tell your brother what your father meant to do?"

"I didn't need to. Father had made his intentions quite clear, the last time Richard saw him."

"What I don't understand," said Gemma, when they were back in the car, "is why Dawn would have wanted to intervene on Richard and Sean's behalf. They had treated her badly- or at least Richard had- Why not just say 'to hell with them'?"

"Perhaps it wasn't so much a desire to benefit them as to ease her own conscience-"

"She couldn't deal with Karl leaving her all his money when she knew she was betraying him?" Gemma considered the idea. "But if she meant to leave him, he'd have changed the will back in his sons' favor anyway-"

"We don't know that she meant to leave him," Kincaid interrupted. "But our immediate concern is Richard Arrowood. If he knew his father meant to change his will, he had a good motive for killing Dawn. We need to check out that alibi." Opening his phone, he dialed Sean and Richard Arrowood's friend Charles Dodd.

After a moment's conversation, he rang off and told Gemma, "He's out of the office on business all afternoon, according to his assistant. We'll have to try him at home later on. Um, about this lunchtime meeting you've got… I could come with you."

"To see Bernard?" She didn't know whether to be touched or aggravated at the note of concern in his voice. "He's expecting only me, and I don't want to take a chance on scaring him off. I'll be fine. Melody says the man's a dreadful lecher, but harmless- and after Alex Dunn's landlord, a bit of straightforward lechery sounds like good, clean fun."

She spotted him the moment she walked into the Ladbroke Arms. He sat in a corner, wearing a cap that she guessed had once been houndstooth but was now merely a mottled gray, his brown, wizened face half concealed by his pint glass. Drawing nearer, she saw that his attire was completed by a thin, grease-spotted tie and an ancient tweed jacket. She slid onto the bench, sitting no nearer to him than absolutely necessary for conversation. If his clothing was any indication, Melody had been correct about his personal hygiene.

"You must be Bernard. I'm Inspector James." She started to show her warrant card but he waved it away.

"No need to flash that thing about in here, luv. I'll take your word for it." He looked her up and down. "Young Melody said you was a good looker, and you've not proved her wrong."

Gemma nodded at his glass, ignoring the compliment. "Can I get you another?"

"I wouldn't mind, luv, wouldn't mind a bit." He lifted the glass to his lips and reduced the level by several inches.

She fetched another pint from the bar, adding an orange juice for herself. When she returned to the table Bernard took a suspicious sniff in the direction of her glass.

"Not some kind of a teetotaler, are you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, no. It's just that I have to go back to the station, and they frown on that sort of thing. No amount of peppermint can get you past our desk sergeant."

"Ah." Bernard seemed mollified. "Bet I could teach you a thing or two."

"Another day?" Gemma awarded him her most winning smile. "Bernard, Constable Talbot said you knew a bit about Otto Popov."

"I might." He looked pointedly at her handbag. "Young Melody said as how you might be inclined to make it worth my while."

Gemma opened her wallet and removed a ten-pound note. Bernard's gaze didn't waver. After a moment she sighed and pulled out another ten. "That's all the department's resources will allow, I'm afraid."

His hand moved and the bills disappeared faster than Gemma's eye could follow. "Right," he said. "I suppose that's enough to be going on with. Now, where were we?" He settled himself more comfortably, cradling his glass. "You want to know about Otto, you have to go back a ways, you have to know how things fit together. You see, I've been round these parts a long time, though I was born in Whitechapel. Jack the Ripper territory, that. Makes yer think, don't it, what with this murder-"

"That's an old chestnut, Bernard. It has nothing to do with this."

"All right, all right, don't get yer dander up." He cackled, then siphoned another inch off his pint.

Gemma sighed again, sure that he meant to get his beer's worth out of this discussion- although how his shriveled little body could hold more than a pint or two, she couldn't imagine.

"So what brought you to Notting Hill?" she asked.

"It was the business, you see. I started out doing little odd jobs for dealers in Bermondsey, and during the course of things I got to know folks in Notting Hill. Now this"- he made an expansive gesture- "was the place to be in the sixties, luv. The antiques trade was just beginning to boom-"

"But we're not talking about the sixties." Gemma was determined to nip extended reminiscence in the bud. "Otto can't have been more than a child."

"Big fer his age, weren't he? Sixteen, seventeen, maybe, old enough to know better. But the point is, luv, that's where it starts. Otto's family was right off the boat from Russia, not a word of English. So they move into a street with some other Russian families, and they keep themselves to themselves. As did the Poles, and the Germans, and the Jews. They all had their own shops, their own cafés, and nobody mixes with anybody else.

"Until the blacks come along, late fifties, early sixties. And all of a sudden the Poles and the Germans and the Russians find something in common, and it's the blacks that nobody else mixes with." He fixed Gemma with beady eyes that were surprisingly sharp and blue. "A combustible situation, you might say. Then along comes young Karl Arrowood-"

"Arrowood? I thought we were talking about Otto."

"I'll be getting to that. Where's yer patience, luv? As I were saying, along comes Karl Arrowood. Now he's a few years older than Otto, an up-and-coming boyo with a finger in more than one pie, and he figures that Otto's Russian relatives maybe have some connections he needs, so he hires him."

"Karl hired Otto?"

"Righto, luv. Not that Karl doesn't have a few connections of his own, mind you, German relatives that just happened to know the whereabouts of objects liberated during the war. Karl puts two and two together and before you know it, he's got a nice little import business going."

"So that's how Karl got started?"

"Also how he made the acquaintance of some less than savory characters, Russian bigwigs, if you know what I mean. Now young Otto- still a kid, really- having been raked over the coals by everyone from his mum and his dad to his aunt Minnie for consorting with a bad boy like Karl, decides he wants no more to do with this business, and disappears from London for a while.

"But Karl, now, he sees this as an act of desertion, and Karl has a memory like a bloody elephant. So years later, when Otto's come back to London and set himself up a nice little business, got married and all, Karl finds a way to make Otto work for him again."

"How?"

"Now, that I couldn't tell you, luv." Bernard finished the last of his pint and wiped his lips. "Thirsty work, all that talking."

Gemma fetched another pint from the bar in record time, sloshing beer as she slid it across the table to him.

"Careful, luv," he admonished her. "Like spilling gold, that is."

"You must have some idea what sort of leverage Karl used on Otto," Gemma prompted him.

"Well, Otto'd gone and made himself vulnerable, hadn't he?"

"His wife, you mean?"

"A pale little thing, Otto's wife, always looked a bit sickly. Didn't surprise me when she snuffed it."

"You're saying Karl had something to do with the death of Otto's wife?"

"Now I wouldn't go that far," Bernard answered cagily, tempting Gemma to throttle him with his greasy tie. "Some sort of illness. Heart, I think they said. But I didn't know the poor mite myself, and I wasn't exactly in Otto's personal confidence."

Gemma glared at him. "I don't believe you, Bernard, and I definitely don't buy that you don't know what happened to Otto's wife. Why won't you tell me?"

Bernard put his finger to the side of his nose, looking for a moment like a wizened Saint Nick. "God didn't miss me when he went to handing out the brains, luv. Now, there's conversation, and then there's stupidity, and I reckon as 'ow I know the difference 'tween the two."

Having had a few things to attend to at the new house, Kincaid decided to stay in Notting Hill and grab a sandwich in the station canteen. As he sat down, he noticed Sergeant Franks at a nearby table. The man nodded at him, his knowing look verging on a sneer, before getting up and leaving the room.

It was obvious from his behavior that Franks was aware of Kincaid's personal relationship with Gemma, causing Kincaid to wonder if there was more to Franks's complaint than she'd let on. But if that were the case, why hadn't she told him?

He debated whether he should have a word with Superintendent Lamb, an old mate of his from police college, but he was concerned that his interference would only make Gemma's situation more difficult in the long term- not to mention the fact that Gemma would kill him if she found out.

He felt frustratingly handicapped, not least by his inability to understand Gemma's emotional swings. There was, for instance, the matter of Cullen's dinner party. After he'd rung and canceled, she had decided she wanted to go after all and had had him call back and accept.

If he failed to understand her reasoning in this or any other matter, how could he predict what would help her to cope? Walking on a minefield would be easier, he sometimes thought. Then he looked up and saw her standing in the doorway, and knew that she was worth whatever it took.

She smiled at him and came across to his table.

"Have a seat," he said. "I got you a prawn mayonnaise in case you hadn't eaten."

Gemma made a face. "I've gone off prawn mayonnaise."

"I thought that was your favorite."

"Last week. But I'll manage, thanks." She opened the plastic container and nibbled at a corner of the sandwich.

"I take it you survived your encounter unscathed?"

"I rather liked him, actually. Though I would send him out to the dry cleaners, clothes and all." She related Bernard's story while she ate, taking an occasional sip of Kincaid's cold tea.

"It sounds as though we've enough now for a useful conversation with Otto Popov," Kincaid remarked as she finished.

"And Karl Arrowood?"

"Otto first. The more pieces we can fill in before we tackle Karl, the better. Russian Mafia?" He raised a dubious eyebrow.

"I assume that's what Bernard meant, cagey old devil. And that would go a ways towards explaining why everyone's so bloody terrified of Karl."

They found Otto wiping down tables after the last of the lunchtime customers. He smiled when he saw Gemma, but she noticed that his expression became neutrally wary as she introduced him to Kincaid.

"Otto, this is Superintendent Kincaid from Scotland Yard. He's working with me on this investigation."

"Please, sit." Otto pulled out two chairs for them. "Anything I can do. A coffee on the house?"

"No, we're fine, really," Gemma replied. "Could you join us for a moment?"

Otto sat, his bulk balanced with surprising grace on the small chair. "Young Alex is back, have you heard?"

"He came to see me this morning. Apparently, Fern took him to his aunt's in Sussex for a few days, but she was afraid to tell anyone where he was. Otto, both Alex and Fern have said that you warned them Alex might be in danger from Karl Arrowood. Why did you think that?"

"Karl is a dangerous man. Everyone knows that. One hears stories."

"I think it's more than that," Gemma probed gently. "I think you've had personal experience with Karl. First, a long time ago, when you put him in touch with some Russian, um, colleagues. Then, more recently, before your wife died."

Otto stared at them, his dark eyes unreadable.

"Did you work for Karl in his importing business?"

"Importing, pah!" Otto spat, stung. "He cheats people, Karl Arrowood. That is all he has ever done. I swore I would never again work for such a man!"

"Then you must have had a very good reason for doing so. Did it have something to do with your wife?"

His eyes were like pebbles now, cold and flat. "You will please leave my wife out of this."

Gemma met his gaze evenly. "You had nothing to do with Karl for what, twenty years? You made a life for yourself, a good business, you married, then all of a sudden you connect again with a man you obviously despise. We will find out why, eventually, but I would rather hear it from you."

Otto stared at Gemma, then at Kincaid, as if assessing them both. At last he said, "I have nothing to hide. For myself I do not care, only for my wife's name and my daughters' memories of her. You understand?" When they nodded assurance, he went on. "Karl Arrowood is an evil man. He hated me, merely because when I was a boy I decided I no longer wished to be involved in his… activities. He waited for years, like a spider, until he saw his opportunity. My wife, Katrina, was never strong. She had problems with drugs when she was younger, but she had been better, much better, for a long time. Then after Anna was born, and then Maria, Katrina was depressed, and Karl saw his chance. He made available to her little gifts, and soon she was back to her old ways.

"Of course I did not know at first, and then when I realized what was happening, it was some time before I learned the source. I thought I would kill him, then, but he was too smart for that. Who would take care of Katrina, and the girls, he asked me, if I went to prison? And then he told me that if I didn't do as he wished, he would cut off Katrina's supply. He didn't need me to make his contacts by then, he wanted merely my compliance. And I had no choice. My Katrina was more and more desperate.

"What would have happened eventually, I do not know. But Katrina died, an overdose, and Karl had no more hold over me. Now do you see why I warned Alex to beware? Karl is ruthless. If he had found out about Alex, he would not have let it go unpunished."

"Heroin? Arrowood?"

"But of course. His business is the perfect vehicle. He buys antiques for cash, which are then sold legitimately. Even if his profits are only on paper, it doesn't matter. He has laundered his money."

"Mr. Popov," Kincaid leaned forward, "if Karl Arrowood did such a terrible thing to you, to your wife, why didn't you go to the authorities?"

"My girls know nothing of this, of their mother's problem. They will know nothing."

"But what if you found a way to make Arrowood suffer as you suffered, and no one need ever know?"

"You mistake me, Mr. Kincaid. First of all, I do not think Karl Arrowood cares enough for any living thing to suffer at its loss. Secondly, I would never harm an innocent such as Dawn Arrowood, never. Although I will not lie to you- If I had the opportunity to kill Karl without my daughters being harmed in any way, I would do it in an instant."

"Otto," Gemma said, "you realize we will have to check your alibi for that night. Were you here in the café?"

"On a Friday night? Of course."

"And Wesley?"

"Yes, he was here. I suppose you will have to ask him, but how can you be sure he is not protecting me?" His brow creased as he considered the matter. "There is always the dishwasher, of course. Although his English is somewhat lacking, he can vouch for us both."

"Is Wesley here now?"

"No, he has gone to the produce stall to replenish a few things for tonight's menu, then he will walk the girls home from school. If you go now, perhaps you can catch him before he meets them. And of course, you would not want to give me the chance to fit him up ahead of time." Although a faint twinkle had returned to Otto's eyes, Gemma reminded herself that he was a capable man with the most powerful of motives, and that very few alibis were foolproof.

"Why don't you go back to the Yard?" Gemma suggested as she and Kincaid left the café. "Talk to your mates in the drug squad, see if they know anything about this. I'll find Wesley."

"Right, then. I'll ring you if I learn anything. Otherwise I'll see you tonight." He lifted his hand in a wave and disappeared round the corner into Kensington Park Road.

Gemma headed the other way, down Portobello, keeping an eye out for Wesley's dark dreadlocks. She spotted him soon enough, coming out of the fishmonger's, his arms laden with carrier bags.

"Wesley!"

He crossed the street to join her. "Police ladies have to be doing their own shopping, now?" he asked, grinning.

"I was looking for you." She fell in beside him. "Wesley, last Friday evening, did Otto leave the café for any reason?"

"On a Friday? No way he would do that. Even early, we have plenty customers. Some regulars, they like their dinners early, before the evening-out business starts."

"Including Alex?"

"Sometimes he comes early. That night he did."

"And there's no way Otto could have slipped out for a few minutes without your noticing?"

Wesley laughed aloud. "Otto, he's a little hard to miss, 'case you hadn't noticed. Especially in the kitchen, he be slammin' and bangin' and swearin' at the pots. Gives things more flavor, he says."

"You're absolutely certain?"

" 'Course I'm certain! You're not thinking Otto trotted out in his apron and murdered Miz Arrowood, then came back to finish off his veal osso bucco? That's downright daft!"

"No, I admit it's not very likely."

"Part of the job, accusing people who have shown you hospitality?"

"That's unfair, Wesley," she retorted, stung. "I'm not accusing Otto of anything, just ruling him out. And I don't like it any better than you do."

He glanced at her, frowning. "Why all of a sudden you think Otto would have done such a thing?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. But you could ask him yourself."

"Like the confessional, is it, conversation with the police?"

"Something like that, yes."

"That's good, then," said Wesley, apparently mollified, and they continued walking in companionable silence.

Suddenly Gemma spotted a few wrapped Christmas trees at one of the flower stalls. "Oh, my gosh! I completely forgot about a tree!"

"A Christmas tree? This be for your new home?"

"Yes. We're moving in on Saturday."

"I'll find you a good tree, if you want, and bring it to you. A big one." He chuckled. "A black Father Christmas, how you like that?"