And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER NINE

Portobello had always been a road of mixed use, the antiques shops and arcades tucked in among flats and cafés and ordinary businesses. Borough, on the other hand, was an old dockside warehouse district made fashionable by its proximity to the river and, except when the Friday-morning produce market was in session, there was nothing in its dark brick buildings and narrow streets innately friendly to the casual pedestrian. Kincaid and Doug Cullen found the address the Arrowoods had given them easily enough, however: a loft in a converted warehouse.

Charles Dodd was young, balding, with a plain, intelligent face. His black jeans and turtleneck made an interesting counterpoint to the glass-and-greenery airiness of the loft behind him.

"Charles Dodd?" Kincaid presented his warrant card. "I'm Superintendent Kincaid, and this is Sergeant Cullen. Could you spare us a few minutes?"

"What's this about?" Dodd inquired, but his manner seemed friendly enough. "I've just got home from work and I've guests arriving in a few minutes." As Dodd led them to a pair of matching white sofas, Kincaid noticed that a section of floor had been done in glass blocks that allowed a view of the high-tech kitchen on the lower floor.

"This won't take long," he assured Dodd. "Terrific flat you've got here. Good for entertaining, is it?"

"As a matter of fact, it is, and cooking's my stress relief from work."

"Last Friday evening, I understand you gave a drinks party here?"

"I did, yes. All perfectly legal, I assure you. Nothing served but wine."

"And Sean and Richard Arrowood were among your guests?"

"Those wankers?" Astonishment warred with amusement in Dodd's face. "What are they supposed to have done?"

"Their stepmother was murdered on Friday evening," said Cullen. "We need to ascertain the whereabouts of anyone who had a connection with the victim."

"You can't seriously think those two had anything to do with their stepmother's death? I read about it in the paper, a dreadful thing. But Sean and Richard couldn't slaughter a chicken between them if it meant the difference between eating and starving to death." Dodd lit a cigarette. "Oh, Sean's not so bad, really- or he wouldn't be if you could keep him away from his mother and his brother- but Richard's a parasite."

"Why invite them to your party if you dislike them?"

Dodd grimaced at Kincaid. "Work. Richard's in the same office; Sean comes along gratis. Gets awkward if you invite everyone else and leave Richard out."

"What time did they arrive on Friday?"

"Between half-five and six. We all came straight from work."

"And they stayed until what time?"

"About eight. A few of us went out to dinner then, but not Sean and Richard."

"Can you be sure they were here the entire time?"

"There were fewer than a dozen of us. I'd have noticed if they'd nipped out for a murder. Besides, Richard was hitting the wine even more heavily than usual, and I was wondering if I was going to have to chuck him out. Sean saved me the bother, in the end."

"Richard was difficult?"

"Obnoxious would be a better description. Coming on to a lady who didn't fancy him at all. Possibly a bit of overcompensation for not admitting that he prefers boys."

"Would you say Richard's behavior seemed worse than usual? Did he seem nervous, upset?"

Dodd took a moment to put his cigarette out in an art-glass ashtray. "Hard to say, really. He was certainly fretful, but then he's rather an emotional sort."

Kincaid recollected Richard Arrowood's pallid countenance and incessant sniffing. "I suspect that Richard is not unacquainted with drug dealers. Do you by any chance know who supplies his coke?"

"Not a clue. Couldn't afford this flat if I did that sort of thing," Dodd added, but his smile had become strained.

"We'll need to have a word with the other guests at your party, if you could jot their names and addresses down for us."

Dodd complied, although not happily. "This is going to do wonders for my reputation as a host," he grumbled as he gave them the finished list.

"You never know," Kincaid told him as they said good-bye. "It might add a bit of excitement to the prospect. Good food, good wine, a visit from your friendly copper."

When they reached the street, Kincaid handed Cullen the list.

Cullen groaned. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

In the year following her mother's death, Angel slowly realized that she had lost her father, as well. Gone was the gruff man who had joked and teased with her; in his place a ghost wandered about the flat, eating the meals she prepared for him in silence, sitting vacantly in front of the television.

At first she made every effort to get his attention, talking to him, asking questions, begging for stories. But gradually she learned to exist in silence, as he did, and they moved through their days as if in two parallel but unconnected universes. So it was that when she came home from school one January afternoon to find him sitting motionless in his chair, it was half an hour before she realized he was dead.

A stroke, the doctor said, shaking his head and clucking in dismay. But as soon as he'd notified the undertaker, he had taken his bag and gone on to the more rewarding job of ministering to the living.

Mrs. Thomas offered to help with the funeral arrangements, while Betty and Ronnie, stunned by another death, avoided her eyes. "It's not contagious, you know," Angel hissed at them, but she soon learned that their behavior was the least of her worries.

"You'll have to know how much you can afford before we talk to the funeral director," Mrs. Thomas advised her. "You had better see the bank manager, first."

Angel knew the bank manager from the days when her father had frequented the Polish café. A heavy man given to perspiring and wiping his bald scalp with a handkerchief, there was none of the jollity Angel remembered in his manner. He, too, shook his head and clucked, making her want to scream, but she merely sat quietly and waited.

"Your father was not the best with financial matters, Miss Wolowski," the bank manager told her reluctantly. "Especially since your mother's death. Whatever savings he had, he spent on her treatment, and I'm afraid that this past year he's brought little in."

This didn't come as a great surprise, as Angel had become accustomed over the past few months to the coldness of the flat and the scarcity of the money her father had given her to buy food. Nor had he spent much time trading at his stall in the market. "But surely there must be something?"

"Perhaps enough to settle a few minor accounts. The butcher, the greengrocer. But that's all. And I'm afraid your landlord has a reputation for moving quickly on these things, so you'll need to vacate as soon as possible."

"Vacate?"

"I'm afraid so."

"But I have nowhere to go."

"Your father must have appointed a guardian of some sort for you?"

"No."

The bank manager looked distressed, whether on her behalf or his own for having to deal with her, she couldn't tell. "Well, how old are you, my dear?"

"Sixteen."

"You're of school-leaving age, then," he said with apparent relief. "I suppose you'll have to find work of some sort. I'll be more than happy to give you a reference. And there is one other thing. At the time of your mother's death, your father bought the adjoining plot at Kensal Green for himself, so that's one expense you needn't worry about."

"A burial, then, but no marker?" Angel said to Mrs. Thomas as they walked back to Westbourne Park.

"No. They're quite expensive, even the plain ones," Mrs. Thomas agreed. "But you can always add something later." Her dark eyes shone with concern. "Angel, I want you to know you're welcome to stay with us as long as you need. I'm sure your father never meant to leave you like this."

"I'll be all right, thanks. I'll find somewhere close by." It was not only that she still felt the hurt from last winter's rejection, but that things had changed and she no longer felt so at home at the Thomases'. Betty, having inherited her mother's skill with a needle, had left school to take a job with a milliner in Kensington Church Street. With the job had come new friends, a new life that did not include Angel. And Ronnie had little time for either of them. When he wasn't working at his job as a photographer's assistant, shooting weddings and family portraits, he roamed the streets with his camera, developing the black-and-white prints in the flat's bathroom and ignoring his family's complaints about the chemical odors. Angel found the Notting Hill street scenes and portraits fascinating, but felt the distance he had put between them too keenly to tell him so.

The day of her father's funeral, unlike that of her mother's, dawned clear and unseasonably mild. There was a hint of softness in the air, as if spring might be hiding round the corner, but Angel knew it for a false promise. This time she and the Thomases were the only mourners. She had made no announcement of the service because she could not afford to entertain anyone afterwards. When Ronnie took her arm as the coffin descended, she felt an unexpectedly dizzying rush of pleasure.

Within the next few weeks, with the help of the bank manager's recommendation, she found a job as a cashier at the grocer's on Portobello Road. She also found a cheap and shabby bedsit in Colville Terrace, hoping her meager wage would cover the rent.

Carefully, she sorted through the flat, knowing she could not take much with her. Her own small bed, the best armchair, her mother's antique bureau, the television, a few kitchen utensils. The rest she arranged for one of her father's friends to sell in the market, but she didn't expect the things to fetch much. She could not, however, bring herself to sell the few bits of antique jewelry left in her father's stall at the arcade, whatever their cash value. The heart-shaped silver locket she fastened round her neck; the rest she put carefully away in the bureau.

When the day came, Ronnie offered to borrow his father's van to help her move the larger items the few blocks south to Colville Terrace. They rode amicably in the front seat, arguing the merits of a new band from Tottenham that had temporarily displaced the Beatles from their number one spot on the charts.

"The Dave Clark Five?" Ronnie said contemptuously. "What sort of name is that? I'm telling you, six months from now you won't remember what they were called. The Beatles, now, they've got some potential as musicians."

That he deigned to approve of any pop band surprised her: he usually extolled only the virtues of jazz artists like Thelonious Monk and Chet Baker. "What about the Rolling Stones, then?" she suggested, aiming for a sophistication she didn't feel.

Ronnie's face lit up. "Now they've studied the old blues masters- they know their stuff," he said enthusiastically, and the relaxed atmosphere between them lasted the few minutes until they reached their destination.

"Here?" he asked incredulously as he pulled the van up in front of the new flat. By the time he had followed her up to the top-floor room, he was livid with anger.

"Angel, what you thinking of? This is a pit, a hole. A West Indian family right off the boat wouldn't be desperate enough to take this-"

"It's all I can afford, Ronnie, so just leave it-"

"Don't you know this is one of Peter Rachman's properties? He'll send his frighteners round if you don't pay your rent on time. And his dogs. And if your water goes out, or your heat, he's not known for taking care of his tenants-"

"I'll be fine," Angel insisted, fighting back tears.

"Those patches on the walls are damp, did you know that? And there's only a paraffin heater, for God's sake. You'll be lucky you don't set yourself alight-"

"Ronnie, either you can help me move this furniture, or I'll do it myself. But there's no point in you standing there criticizing me, because I've no choice."

Their glowering match lasted a full minute, then Ronnie shrugged. "All right. It's your funeral."

But by the time they had humped her things up the stairs, his anger seemed to have evaporated. He sat on the edge of the newly positioned chair, rotating his cap in his hands. "Look, Angel. I'm sorry for what I said a moment ago. It was… considering your father… anyway, I didn't mean it. I just don't understand why you can't stay with us until you work something out."

"And what exactly am I supposed to work out? I can't be a permanent parasite on your family, Ronnie. I'm grown up now- I've got to learn to manage on my own." She hoped he couldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

He stood. "All right, then. But don't say I didn't tell you."

Suddenly she felt she couldn't bear for him to turn and walk out the door. She put her hand on his arm. "Ronnie. I am grown up now. You could stay if you wanted."

She saw the naked flash of desire on his face, saw it swiftly replaced by horror.

"Angel, you're… you're like my sister. I could never… you shouldn't even think such a thing."

He did turn away then, clattering down the stairs, leaving her alone in the cold and damp-ridden room. Carefully, methodically, she lit the paraffin heater and curled up beneath a blanket on her narrow bed. Then she wept as if her heart would break.

Gemma spent the first part of Thursday morning reviewing the reports that had come back from computer forensics. There was no evidence, either in E-mail or personal files, that Karl Arrowood had intended to murder his wife- or that he had suspected her affair or her pregnancy.

Nor was there any evidence that Dawn had used the computer at all, which Gemma found interesting, but not surprising, considering Dawn's carefulness in other matters.

Unfortunately, they had not begun the investigation looking for financial discrepancies in Karl Arrowood's accounts, and she would now have to ask the computer team to go over everything once again. They would also have to look at his business computers, which she expected he would not take kindly.

"If what Otto says is true, that Arrowood sells drugs," Melody said thoughtfully, "mightn't Dawn's death be a professional matter? An irate customer? A dissatisfied partner?"

Gemma had requested that Melody go to Arrowood's shop with her as backup, first having made sure that Sergeant Franks was well buried in paperwork. "But in that case, where does Marianne Hoffman come in?" she countered.

"There is that," Melody agreed. "What about the blood work, then? Any progress there?"

"Not yet. Christmas slowdown at the Home Office. I've nagged them again." Gemma found a parking spot on Kensington Park Road, across the street from Arrowood Antiques. The shop was unobtrusively elegant, blending easily into the residences situated opposite the classical town houses of Stanley Gardens.

From the window dressing alone it was apparent the shop served an equally elegant clientele. As they entered, the door chimed melodiously and Gemma's feet sank into the plush pile of a Wilton carpet. The front room was small, holding a few choice pieces of antique furniture, objets d'art, lamps, and ornately framed watercolors, but other equally rich rooms opened out from it.

A woman- blond, middle-aged, perfectly coiffed and manicured- sat at a writing desk in view of the door. She gave Gemma a half-wattage smile. "May I help you?" she asked, and Gemma heard the unvoiced "Not that's there's anything here you can afford."

Gemma had to agree- if the lack of price tags was any indication. "Is Mr. Arrowood in?" she asked, and saw the flick of the woman's glance towards the back of the shop.

"He's just stepped ou-"

"I think he'll see us."

The woman's smile disappeared altogether at the sight of Gemma's identification. "Just a moment, please."

They waited only a few minutes before Karl Arrowood appeared, as immaculately groomed and suited as she had seen him at his wife's funeral. "Inspector James, and Constable Talbot, is it? What can I do for you?"

"We'd like a word with you, Mr. Arrowood. Your office?"

He took them into the back without demur, seating himself behind a polished, claw-footed desk and motioning them to plush-covered chairs. "I take it you haven't come to tell me you've found my wife's murderer?"

Gemma ignored the question. "Since we spoke last, Mr. Arrowood, it's come to our attention that some of your profits may come from areas other than antiques."

His gaze remained unwavering, slightly amused; his hands rested casually on his blotter. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Inspector."

"Drugs. According to our sources, you've long-standing connections with drug trafficking in the area."

The amusement grew stronger. "Sources? And what exactly are these sources? Comic books? I might be angry if I could take you seriously, Inspector." The gray eyes now held an unmistakable glint of steel. "However, I would remind you that I have a successful business here, and I would not appreciate having my reputation damaged among my customers."

"Good." Gemma smiled. "Then you have everything to gain by cooperating fully. It's not my job to follow up these allegations. I'm only interested in what bearing this new information may have on your wife's death. Could one of your customers, or your suppliers, have attacked her because of some grudge against you?"

"This is an absurd fantasy." His hands tightened, and Gemma saw him make an effort to relax them. "Which you are obviously indulging to mask your own incompetence. I'm not going to continue this discussion without a solicitor."

"You don't have to. I do have a warrant for our technicians to have a look at your office computers, however- I hope that won't be too much of an inconvenience." She glanced at her watch. "They should be here any minute."

"You can't do that!" He gripped his desk, no longer bothering to control his anger.

"I'm afraid I can." Gemma stood, followed by Melody. "Mr. Arrowood, did your wife know about your activities?"

"I've told you, there was nothing for her to know."

"And your sons, do they know? Surely you don't supply your own son with cocaine?" she asked. Kincaid had told her what he suspected about Richard Arrowood's drug habit, and she was inclined to agree.

"My son? What the devil are you talking about?"

"Didn't Richard come to you for a loan to pay off his drug debts?"

"Richard? Yes, he came to me for money, but he always needs money. I don't believe-"

"What did he tell you, when he came to you a few weeks ago?"

"Investments. He said he'd made a bad investment at work. He needed to recover the damages before it came to light."

"And you refused him?"

"Of course I refused him. He'll never make anything of himself if he doesn't learn to deal with his own mistakes."

A good theory, thought Gemma. Unfortunately, she suspected Richard Arrowood was long past benefiting from it.

Kincaid had left several messages on Eliza Goddard's answering machine, asking her to ring him back, but she had not. He urgently needed to see Marianne Hoffman's papers again, and he hoped that persuasion would be enough to convince Eliza to turn over her mother's things. If his attempt failed, however, he'd have to issue a warrant for the collection of the items.

But first, he had one more avenue to explore. He drove to Islington, leaving the car near the twisting alleyways of Camden Passage. Here, Marianne Hoffman's body had been found slumped against the door of her shop, two months earlier.

They had interviewed all the nearby shopkeepers and residents, but Kincaid remembered that the man who owned the shop next door to Hoffman's had been a particular friend. It took him a moment to pinpoint the exact location, as Christmas decorations altered the look of the shop fronts. Marianne Hoffman's premises had been taken over by someone selling antique dolls, but he recognized the cricket bats and leather golf bags in the window next to it.

Edgar Vernon sold antique sporting equipment, with the addition of old suitcases, globes, walking sticks, or anything else that might tickle the fancy of those dreaming of better Edwardian times. Today Kincaid saw a new addition carefully displayed in the front window: a set of beautifully preserved lead soldiers.

He went in, breathing in the sweet mustiness of old wood and leather. Vernon looked up from his desk, his expression momentarily puzzled, then gave a smile of recognition.

"Mr. Kincaid, isn't it? What can I do for you?" He was a trim man in his fifties with a small mustache and wire-rimmed spectacles.

"Mr. Vernon, if you have a few minutes, I'd like to chat with you about Marianne Hoffman again."

"I was just about to make some coffee. If you'll have a seat, it will only take me a moment."

"I'd rather poke about, if that's all right." It occurred to Kincaid that between the case and the move, he had altogether neglected his Christmas shopping. He caught sight of a silver-handled walking stick that he thought might suit his father admirably, but what about his mother?

By the time Vernon returned with a tray and cafetière, Kincaid had found the ideal thing- a badminton set, complete with original net and birds. Not exactly a seasonal gift, he supposed, but come spring he could imagine his mother setting it up between the apple trees in her back garden.

"Now sit, please." Vernon pulled a horn-and-hide chair up to his desk. "A souvenir from a safari," he explained. "And surprisingly comfortable. You said this was about Marianne? Have you discovered her killer?"

"I wish I could tell you that we had. And unfortunately, there's been another murder. In Notting Hill, the wife of an antiques dealer."

"Ah. I did wonder if there was a connection when I read about the case in the papers. Do you think it was the same killer?"

"We think it very likely. The victim's husband, Karl Arrowood, has quite a prosperous antiques business in Kensington Park Road. Do you know him?"

"I know of him, but merely by dealers' word of mouth. I've never done business with him personally- not my line."

"Do you know if Mrs. Hoffman knew him? Or his wife?"

"Not that I remember her mentioning. But, then, Marianne didn't talk much about herself."

Kincaid settled back rather gingerly into the horn curve of the chair. "Can you remember anything she did tell you about herself, or her background? I had the impression when we spoke that you were quite good friends."

"Yes." Vernon sipped at his coffee. "In fact, on reflection I'd say that Marianne was probably my closest friend, and vice versa. Not only because neither of us had anyone else, but because we were congenial spirits."

"Nothing of a romantic nature?"

Vernon smiled. "That was a complication spared us. My lover died five years ago of AIDS, you see."

"I'm sorry," Kincaid replied.

"There's no way you could have known. Anyway, the point was, Marianne had a way of letting you know she understood your feelings without making a fuss- a remarkable sort of quiet empathy. Although we saw each other off and on in the course of the day, over the years we developed a ritual of having take-away curry together on Friday nights. We would watch the telly, share a bottle of wine. I know it seems a small thing, but it astonishes me how much I miss it. And now, here I am talking your ear off just to lubricate my tongue."

"That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. Did Marianne ever say anything about her family- her parents, her background?"

"She never spoke directly of her parents, but I somehow had the feeling that her childhood was difficult- perhaps because she didn't share the usual reminiscences. Except… It's funny, now that you mention it. One Friday evening, not long before she died, we'd had a bit more wine than usual. There was this program on the telly about the sixties- pop icons, fashion, you know the sort of thing. And we began to make a game of it, bragging about who remembered most, or had done the most outlandish thing."

"One-upmanship."

"Exactly. Who crammed the most people in a mini, who waited in a queue for five days to see the Rolling Stones… Then she started to tell me about all the people she'd known, like Robert Frazer, the gallery owner, and models, artists, fashion designers. When she saw I was a bit skeptical, she got up and dug through a bureau drawer until she found this. I asked her if I could keep it." Vernon opened his desk and removed a photo he obviously treasured, handing it to Kincaid.

In the black-and-white image, a girl in a slip of a black dress gazed back at Kincaid. She was slender, with delicate features and large dark eyes enhanced by the makeup of the time. Her platinum hair was cut short and shaped to her head, giving her the irresistible appeal of the waif. And yet Kincaid could see the unmistakable resemblance to the older woman he had known only in death.

"She was stunning," he said, looking up at Vernon.

"Yes. Very much in the manner of Edie Sedgwick."

"Edie Sedgwick?"

"One of Andy Warhol's Factory girls; his lover, in fact. Edie left Warhol for Bob Dylan, who promptly abandoned her for someone else. The beginning of a tragic end."

"And you're saying that Marianne moved in the London equivalent of those circles? It is odd that she never spoke about it before that night."

"There's something else that's just occurred to me," Vernon added, frowning. "I often go to Portobello early on a Saturday, to see what I can pick up for the shop, but Marianne would never go with me, in all the time I knew her. She'd make some excuse or other, and sometimes she'd ask me to look out for something for her, so that it was obvious she knew the area, and the market, well. After a while, I stopped asking her to go, just took her little quirk for granted."

"An interesting aversion. What about her ex-husband, then? We never interviewed him. I believe he was in Thailand at the time of her death."

"A nice chap. They stayed good friends. I believe Greg's back in London at the moment; he stopped in for a bit not too long ago. He was quite devastated by Marianne's death."

"Have you any idea why they divorced?"

"She told me once that she was better off on her own. But I always suspected that she had lost someone very special to her, the way I had."

"You've been extremely helpful, Mr. Vernon. Could I borrow this photo for a short time? I'll have someone run it back to you as soon as I've made a copy. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to do some Christmas shopping."

Kincaid bought the walking stick and the badminton set, wondering briefly how he was going to get them to Cheshire in time for the holiday. Then he hesitated, gazing at the lead soldiers in the window. "I didn't think you sold militaria."

"Toy soldiers are a particular passion of mine, and I can never pass up a good set. That one's a beauty."

"I'll take it," Kincaid decided impulsively. "For my son. He's twelve."

"A perfect age. You won't regret it."

As Kincaid took his tidily wrapped packages and bid Vernon a happy Christmas, he congratulated himself on his purchases. That left Toby, for whom he intended to buy a new Church Mice book, and Gemma.

For Gemma he had something entirely different in mind.

Gemma's mobile phone rang as she and Melody returned to the station. Expecting Kincaid with a report on his morning's activities, she was surprised to find Bryony Poole on the line.

"Gemma? Remember I said I'd ring about the dog? Could you come by the soup kitchen on Portobello Road? I've brought Geordie round for a lunchtime visit. The clients get a kick out of it."

"Right. I could use a break." Gemma had been wanting to talk to Bryony again, and this would give her a good opportunity.

Leaving Melody at the station, she drove the short distance to Portobello Road, finding a spot to put the car south of the point where the fruit-and-veg stalls lining the bottom half of the road made parking impossible. Walking on from there, she reached the double entrance to the old Portobello School. The soup kitchen was just to one side, in a nondescript building.

Gemma opened the door and peered in a bit gingerly. She'd been in the Sally Army facility up the road, of course, when she was on the beat, but she'd no idea what sort of place this was. What she saw reassured her. In the front of a clean, spare room, an assortment of people sat eating at long wooden tables. Towards the rear, Bryony and her friend Marc served a few stragglers from a buffet line. Bryony waved. "I'm on my lunch break," she explained as Gemma came up. "I tell Marc I come to help out, but it's really his food I'm after."

"Right," agreed Marc. "And I'll be moving on to the Savoy any day. Would you like something, Gemma?"

Gemma saw that it was not soup, but a thick vegetable-and-bean stew. It smelled delicious and she suddenly remembered that she had once again neglected breakfast. "Yes, please."

"Let me introduce you to Geordie, first," said Bryony. "So that you can be getting acquainted." She motioned Gemma round the buffet table. The cocker spaniel lay near Bryony, his head on his paws, watching her intently. But when Gemma knelt down beside him, he stood, his stump of a tail wagging.

"That's what I love about cockers," Bryony told Gemma. "Their entire bodies wriggle. No dissembling."

"Hullo, boy," Gemma said softly, holding out her hand. Geordie snuffled her fingers, gave them a lick, his tail wagging harder, then looked up at her expectantly, as if to say, "What's next?"

Laughing, Gemma stroked his head and rubbed his silky ears. The dog promptly curled up with his head against her knee and gazed up at her devotedly.

"I'd say you've made a conquest." Bryony's pleasure was evident.

"He is lovely," Gemma admitted. "But I couldn't take him until the weekend," she heard herself adding. "We'll be moving on Saturday. And that's if his owner agrees, of course." Surely she had completely lost her mind, she thought, but she found she didn't care.

"I'll vouch for you," said Bryony. "If you come back to the clinic with me after lunch, we'll fill out the adoption paperwork. I'll ring you on Sunday and we can make arrangements."

Geordie followed Gemma as they settled at a table near the buffet with their bowls of stew, settling himself near her feet with a sigh. "I've never had a dog before," Gemma confessed. "I mean, not personally. My older son- stepson- has a terrier, but he hasn't lived with us until now. I mean my son, not the dog- Oh, it's too complicated to explain!"

"The dog is much simpler," Bryony answered, laughing. "Feed him, walk him, give him regular baths and lots of attention. That's all there is to it."

"Essentials," said Marc, looking round at the people finishing their meals, several with dogs at their feet. "Food and care. That's what keeps a good many of these folks on the street- they simply can't cope with anything more complicated than that."

"No cell phones and computerized banking?"

"Right. Overload. Their circuits just can't handle it."

A black woman stood and carried her dishes to the washing-up stack. She wore green wellies and what must have once been an expensive business suit beneath a worn man's overcoat.

"Take Evelyn, for example," said Marc. "She was in insurance. An executive of some sort. One day she just quit."

"Thank you, Mr. Marc," Evelyn called out as she collected her bundles from the pile by the door. "Lord bless you."

"See you tomorrow," Marc answered.

As Gemma ate her stew, Marc pointed out some of the other regulars to her. Some had simply lost jobs and not been able to meet their commitments, some had fallen victim to drugs, others were mentally ill.

"You know them all?" Gemma asked, pushing her empty bowl away.

"Most. Some- especially those with families- have a good chance of getting off the streets. Others, like Evelyn, have found a niche and have no intention of leaving it."

"But that's dreadful."

"It is and it isn't." Marc shrugged. "Again, it's down to basics, and their perspective is quite a bit different than yours. It depends on whether they can manage to sleep warm and dry, and get enough to eat. I try to take care of their minor medical needs, the things they absolutely won't go to hospital for. And Bryony- did she tell you what she's doing?"

Bryony colored. "It's just an idea I had, a free weekly clinic to treat the animals. Minor things, of course, as Marc said; that's all you can do." Glancing at Marc, she added with a grimace, "I'm going to have to be really careful about accounting for my supplies after that incident at the surgery a couple of weeks ago. Gavin was on at me again about it this morning."

"What happened?" asked Gemma.

"When I got to the surgery that morning, the door was unlocked. There were some things missing- not drugs, just small items: instruments, bandages. Some flea-control preparations, which bring a good price. Gavin said I must have left the surgery unlocked when I closed up the day before, although I know I didn't. He's taking the loss out of my paycheck."

Gemma raised an eyebrow. "Seems a bit unfair. Bryony, I know you said you were in and out with clients when Dawn came in last Friday, but did you see her when she left? I just had the impression, when I was talking to Gavin yesterday, that perhaps something had gone on between them."

Bryony looked uncomfortable. "It's not good politics to tell tales on one's boss."

"So there was something."

"I don't know what; I didn't actually hear anything except raised voices through the cubicle wall. But when Dawn left she looked furious. When I said good-bye, she didn't even notice."

"But you must have a theory as to what caused the row. Was there something going on between them?"

"Only in Gav's dreams! He always flirted with her and she took it good-naturedly enough, you know, without encouraging him. My guess is he went too far. Either that or she was less tolerant that day and told him she'd had enough."

Dawn had certainly had good reason to be less tolerant that day, thought Gemma, facing a doctor's appointment she must have dreaded, not to mention the sick cat-

"Sid!" she exclaimed. "I completely forgot about Sid!" Realizing how daft she must sound, she amended, "Sid's our cat. Will Geordie be all right with him?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine," reassured Bryony. "So far, I haven't seen anyone or anything that Geordie didn't like. I'd say the future of the relationship is entirely up to the other party."

"The kids will be thrilled, I'm sure, but I don't know what Duncan will say," Gemma confessed to Melody.

"Tell him the dog's a Christmas present. Then he can't complain without looking like Scrooge."

"You're devious," Gemma said, laughing. "Remind me to come to you for advice more often." She nodded at the sheaf of papers in Melody's hand. "Have you got something else for me?"

"The blood work's come back, boss."

"Anything helpful?"

"Inconclusive. More on the negative side than the positive, if you ask me. It looks like Arrowood picked up his wife, just like he said, but that doesn't prove incontrovertibly that he didn't hold her from behind first, until she bled out."

"Difficult to do without getting some blood spatter on his clothes. And if he'd dumped some sort of protective covering anywhere in the neighborhood, we'd have found it by now." Gemma tried to keep the discouragement from her voice- this was no more than she'd expected. Six days and virtually no progress.

"So what do we do now?"

"We keep working on the drug angle with Arrowood. Which means we talk to Alex Dunn again."

They found Alex Dunn at home, packing bubble-wrapped china into a box. He seemed tired, and edgier than he had on Tuesday. Gemma suspected that he'd come into the station buffered by a surge of adrenaline that had since worn off.

"This is a Sèvres dinner service I found for a client in Nottingham," he told them. "That's a good deal of my business, selling to private clients. I keep an eye out at auction for them, or pick up things from other dealers that I know they want."

Gemma found her eye drawn once again to the bright dishes she'd noticed on her first visit. "Is that pottery, or china?"

"Pottery. Made by a woman named Clarice Cliff, mainly in the twenties and thirties, the heyday of Art Deco. She started work in the potteries at thirteen, and by the time she was in her late teens she was designing her own wares."

Moving closer to study the pieces, Gemma saw that although they all had the same bright, bold look, there was infinite variation in the patterns.

"It's not really my field," Alex continued, "but I fell in love with the first piece I saw and I've been collecting it ever since. And Dawn loved it. I was going to give her that teapot"- he nodded towards a piece dominated by red-roofed houses against a deep yellow ground- "for Christmas."

"Is the pottery expensive?" Gemma asked, with a private sigh of regret.

"Very."

"Would Karl have noticed?"

"Yes. Anything to do with antiques, Karl noticed. And he would certainly be aware of the value of Clarice Cliff pottery, even if it's not the sort of thing he stocks in his shop."

"So Karl is successful because he's good at what he does?"

Alex gave her a puzzled look. "The antiques trade is no business for fools, and Karl has a particularly good eye for finding pieces that will bear a huge markup. Not to mention the connections with clients who can pay the markup."

"We've been told Karl has other clients- and other uses for his business- as in laundering the money he makes in drug transactions."

"Drugs? You're joking." Alex's bark of laughter died as he read their faces. "But that's daft! Why would Karl need to do something like that? He's got more money than God."

"Maybe you're putting the cart before the horse. Maybe the drugs came first, or at least simultaneously. Did Dawn never mention anything like that to you?"

"Are you saying Dawn was aware of it?"

"We don't know. That's why we're asking you."

"I'm the last person you should've come to. Apparently there were a lot of things Dawn didn't tell me." He stuffed a wrapped teapot into the box so violently that Gemma repressed a gasp.

"You knew her better than anyone," she said. "How do you think she would have felt about Karl's involvement in drugs?"

"A week ago, I'd have thought she'd have left him in horror if she found out." Alex said it savagely. "Now I'm not so sure. It's not the sort of thing we sat around and discussed. 'Oh, by the way, dear, how do you feel about drug trafficking?' "

"So what did you talk about?" Gemma asked. She needed to penetrate the bitter shell the young man had erected.

"Whatever you talk about with your significant other, assuming you have one. Food, music, movies, stupid television programs, the state of the world."

"But the problem with an affair is that you don't talk about the ordinary, everyday things, because you don't share them. What to have for dinner, the size of the gas bill, your child's cough."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Alex told her hotly. "Do you have any idea what I'd have given for even one day of conversations like that? You don't appreciate it, do you? Either of you?"

Gemma said softly, "No. You're right. I'm sorry."

"The funny thing is… She was so beautiful, the kind of woman men dream about. But it was the ordinary things I loved most about her. She had a passion for ginger ice cream. And flowers. They had a fortune in flowers delivered to the house every week, but she could go bonkers over a geranium in a pot on the patio, or a late rose blooming beside the pavement."

"But that's a good thing, isn't it?" said Melody. "That she had that capacity for enjoying life?"

"Is it? I'm not so sure." He stared at them belligerently. Then his anger seemed to dissipate and he knelt again beside his packing box. "Of course you're right. If I were a good person, I'd wish her every bit of joy given her by anything- or anyone- instead of envying what she might have shared with someone else.

"And what I said before, it was just the doubt eating at me. I knew her. Even if she didn't tell me she was pregnant, I'm absolutely certain that if she found out Karl was selling drugs, she would have left him in an instant."