And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER TWELVE

On Christmas Eve morning, ten days after Dawn Arrowood's murder, Gemma waited outside the veterinary surgery on All Saints Road for Bryony to arrive. It was miserably cold, the weather as bleak as it had been the previous day, and the air smelled more strongly of snow. Seeking protection from the wind's probing fingers, Gemma squeezed into the slight recess in the surgery's doorway.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Bryony crossing towards her, her long stride rapidly closing the distance between them.

"Gemma! What are you doing here? Is Geordie okay?" Bryony wore a long striped scarf and matching stocking cap in yellows and purples, and managed somehow to carry it off.

"He's fine. He seems to be settling in remarkably well, in fact." Although Tess had followed the boys to bed as usual, Geordie had stayed with Gemma and Duncan, curling up on the foot of their bed as if he had always slept there.

"Are we going to have a no-furniture rule?" Kincaid had asked, bemused.

"Tess sleeps with Kit."

"True. And our dogs always slept on our beds when we were kids. I'm not objecting- it's just that you need to start as you mean to go on."

Gemma found she hadn't the heart to make the dog move. "No, let him stay. He doesn't take up that much room, and he'll keep my feet warm."

"Right." Kincaid had grinned at her. "I can see I've already been displaced in your affections." But he didn't seem to mind, really.

"I hope you didn't mind my sending Marc yesterday," Bryony was saying as she unlocked the surgery door. "But Geordie's owner- former owner- left him at the soup kitchen, and I hated to expose him to the other dogs in case some of them had contagious illnesses. And I couldn't ask the owner to take him away until I'd finished- she was barely holding herself together as it was."

"No, it was fine, and Duncan and the boys were so surprised. You'll tell Geordie's owner he's all right?" She saw that Geordie's photo was still taped to the side of the monitor. Feeling proprietary, she asked, "Do you mind if I take this?" and at Bryony's nod she peeled it off and put it in her handbag. "Your clinic went well?"

"Beyond all expectation," Bryony said, switching on the computer and readying files. "But if you didn't come about Geordie-"

"It's Mr. Farley," said Gemma. "Can you tell me what time he left on the Friday Dawn was killed?"

Bryony froze, mid-motion. "Why?"

"Just routine, really. But he did have that little disagreement with Dawn. I'm just ruling out options."

Color stained Bryony's cheeks. "I should never have said anything. I never meant for you to take it seriously, and now I feel an absolute fool."

"Why? If Mr. Farley had something to do with Dawn's death, would you protect him?"

"Of course not. But I'm sure Gavin couldn't have done something like that, and having the police poke into his business is not going to make him happy." Bryony looked away from Gemma's gaze. "It's just that he's rather cross with me already… over my holding the free clinic."

"Why does he object to it?"

"I'm not sure if it's the money or the principle that aggravates him most. I think he sees it as a useless exercise, and since those supplies went missing, he's been like an old maid over expenses. It's odd, too, as the loss didn't really amount to more than a few pounds."

"He sees helping homeless people's animals as a useless exercise?"

"You can always trust Gavin not to be politically correct. But he's right, in a way," Bryony added with a sigh. "As much as I hate to admit it. There's so much I can't do. I'm not giving up, though. And Marc's been so good…"

"He is nice, isn't he? You're a lucky woman, I should think."

"Oh, no! I don't- We don't- We're friends, that's all."

"But I thought- I'm sorry. It's just that you seem so well suited."

"It's not that I'd mind," the other woman admitted. "But Marc's very focused on his work. You know how it is…"

"Unlike Mr. Farley, I take it." Gemma glanced at her watch. "Is he coming in at all?"

"No. He's given himself a long holiday. Boss's privilege." Bryony seemed to come to a decision. "Look, I don't see any harm in telling you that he left early that Friday, before five. But I think you should ask him yourself."

"That's just what I intend to do."

"White girl, ain't got no sense," Betty muttered, kicking angrily at a tin can in the gutter and scuffing the toe of her saddle shoe. Then she felt ashamed of herself for speaking of Angel in that jeering way, even if there was no one else to hear, for she felt sure Angel never thought of her as a "black girl." Why, one day their last year in school, Mozelle Meekum, a pasty-faced bully with arms like hams, had called her a nigger, and Angel had gone and slapped that girl right up the side of the head. Got in trouble for it, too, detention after school. And never complained.

So why had Angel, who knew the difference between what was right and what wasn't, gone off with this man who was no better than he should be, good looks be damned? There was something wrong in that young man, Betty could feel it, a cold place inside him. But Angel wouldn't believe her, not now, not as long as she was blinded by lust, and any fool could see that she was.

And poor Ronnie, furious with Angel, furious with himself. Betty saw the way he looked at Angel when Angel wasn't looking, knew what he was suffering, knew that even if she could shake the stubbornness out of him and make him speak to Angel, it was too late. He had lost her.

There was no bloody help for any of it, as far as she could see. And she had her Colin to think of now, and their future- He wouldn't like her getting mixed up in others' business. Still, if only there were something she could do…

It came to her as she neared the church, and her heart lifted a bit. Not that Angel had much use for Catholic practices… But it couldn't do any harm to light a candle for her soul… and she need never know.

Kincaid organized the notes on his desk and took another appreciative sip of coffee from a polystyrene cup. Someone had apparently upgraded the communal pot, as the coffee actually tasted more like coffee than battery acid. Perhaps the departmental secretary had received an abundance of coffee beans as a Christmas gift.

He'd just returned from an informative meeting with a mate in the drug squad. It seemed that they'd had an eye on Karl Arrowood for years- since long before Kincaid's friend's tenure on the force, in fact. But Arrowood was a clever and cautious man, and they had never been able to come up with anything concrete against him. Years ago, they'd thought to make a case, but he'd managed to slip through their fingers.

His phone rang, and he took another sip of his coffee before lifting the receiver.

"Duncan? It's Gemma." She sounded discouraged. "The report's come back on Arrowood's office computer."

"No joy, I take it?"

"Not a blinking thing. He's got himself a very good bookkeeper, but then what would you expect? There are a large number of cash transactions, but that's not illegal, and he has reason to keep cash reserves on hand. A lot of antique trading is cash only."

"How very convenient." He told her what he'd learned from the drug squad, then asked, "Did you see the vet?"

"I've just come from the surgery. He wasn't in, but I did have a word with Bryony. She says Farley left the clinic before five that Friday. He's at home today, so I thought I'd have a word with him there."

"Hang on for a few minutes. I've a meeting with the guv'nor, but let me send Cullen with you. He's come up with a few interesting tidbits on Farley. Suspected tax evasion for starters, followed by sexual harassment of a client."

"Not bad," Doug Cullen murmured as he looked round, whistling through his teeth. The houses here were semidetached, the curved, hilly street lined with mature trees. Every door sported a wreath, and every driveway a Mercedes, a Lexus, or a BMW.

"Up-and-coming Willesden- although I'm still inclined to think of it as the place the buses go home to bed," Gemma agreed. "But considering the area's upmarket status these days, I'm not surprised Mr. Farley cheats on his taxes. Here it is," she added, checking the house number against her notes.

Gavin Farley's house was pseudo-Tudor, with freshly painted trim and a well-kept garden. A new model Mercedes sat beside a workaday Vauxhall Astra in the drive. "Maybe we're in luck and Farley's wife is at home, too. Should we split up, interview them separately?" suggested Cullen.

"Let's see how it goes. It's the Astra that he drives to work- I remember seeing it in front of the surgery." The car was maroon, with a distinctive crack in the left taillamp.

Taking advantage of the wait after ringing the bell, Cullen glanced at his companion. As he'd discovered on Saturday night, the redheaded, faintly freckled Gemma James was not as formidable as her reputation had led him to believe. Nearer his age than he'd expected, she'd been friendly, if slightly wary, and this morning she'd done him the favor of not mentioning Saturday night's dinner.

Mrs. Farley, a thin, worried-looking woman of middle age, was indeed at home, and greeted them warily.

"I'm Inspector James and this is Sergeant Cullen," Gemma told her. "Could we have a word with you?"

"But-" Mrs. Farley looked round uncertainly. "My husband's out in his shop. I'll just go-"

"No, that's all right, Mrs. Farley. We'd like to speak to you first. It won't take a moment."

With obvious reluctance, the woman took them into the front room, but a glance towards the rear of the house had shown Cullen two preadolescent children sprawled in front of a television in a den. The boy and girl, both slightly overweight and smug-looking, glanced up at them with disinterest before turning back to their program.

Mrs. Farley perched on the edge of a chair while he and Gemma sat opposite on a sofa. Doug had learned enough from Stella to realize that the furniture and objects in the room were expensive, and also that they had been put together with a complete lack of grace and style.

"Mrs. Farley," said Gemma, "can you tell us what time your husband arrived home from his surgery on the Friday before last?"

"Friday before last? However should I remember that?" Mrs. Farley picked at the reindeer appliqué on the front of her Christmas pullover.

"You must have heard about the woman who was murdered that evening? Dawn Arrowood? That should help you place it."

"I don't have time to watch the news, what with the children's activities."

"But surely your husband must have told you about it. She was one of his clients."

The hand on the sweater grew still. "Oh, of course. Gavin was so shocked when he read it in the papers the next day. And I do recall now, about that Friday. I had to pick up Antony, our son, from a football match, and when we got back Gavin was home. That would have been half past six or so. He was already out in his workshop."

"So you can't be sure of the exact time?" asked Cullen.

"No. But I heard his shower running, so he must have been home a few minutes."

"His shower?"

"Gavin has a shower stall out in his shop. I won't let him come in the house covered in sawdust."

"What does Mr. Farley make?" Gemma's face reflected nothing but friendly interest.

"Jewelry boxes, CD holders, pen trays… things that are useful and decorative, he likes to say. He gives them to his special clients."

Cullen saw Gemma's lip twitch and made an effort to control his own expression. "Do you know if he meant to give one of his… creations… to Dawn Arrowood?"

"I've no idea," Mrs. Farley replied stiffly. "What is this about? Gavin barely knew this woman. She'd been into his surgery once or twice with her cat."

"That's odd." Gemma frowned. "We were under the impression that Mrs. Arrowood was quite a regular client of the surgery, and that Mr. Farley always made an effort to see her himself."

Mrs. Farley stood, jerking her cheerful reindeer sweater down over her bony hips. "I don't know about that. You'll have to speak to my husband. And I've things to do- the Christmas dinner… I'll just go and get Gavin."

"If you'll just point us in the right direction, Mrs. Farley, I'm sure we can find him ourselves."

"She knows he's up to something, but she's not sure how bad it is," Cullen murmured to Gemma as they made their way down a path made of concrete stepping stones. At the bottom of the garden, light seeped from the door of Farley's workshop.

"I suspect that woman has lived in fear of the sky falling every day of her married life," Gemma said pensively. "And I don't like this business about the shower."

The whine of a saw came from inside the building. Gemma waited for a pause, then pounded on the door. "Mr. Farley? It's Inspector James."

"If she knows he's a rotter," whispered Cullen, "would she still protect him?"

"With her life."

The shop door opened and a heavyset, dark-haired man stared out at them. He wore a leather apron, and had pushed safety goggles up on his forehead.

"Well, well, well," said Farley, as jolly as one of Father Christmas's elves. "To what do I owe the honor? I'd invite you to come in and make yourselves comfortable, but as you can see…" His gesture swept the small room.

The smell of resin caught at Cullen's throat. He looked round the room, making out several different saws of incomprehensible purpose, a good deal of raw wood and sawdust, and shelves full of Farley's "objects." Cullen found himself hoping not to be a recipient of Farley's generosity, and wondered why the veterinarian chose to makes boxes rather than representations of the cats and dogs he knew so intimately. Perhaps Farley didn't really like animals all that much.

"We'll manage," said Gemma, easing her way into the room without touching anything. "It's about Dawn Arrowood, Mr. Farley. On the afternoon of the day she died, she told a friend that she'd had an unpleasant encounter with you that morning. An argument."

"That's nonsense. Why would I have had an argument with Mrs. Arrowood- although I did remind her again that she must keep her cat in the house, regardless of her husband's preference."

"That's not what she said. She told her friend that you came on to her, that you were sexually offensive, and that when she told you to stop, you were abusive."

"The woman must have been imagining things. I never did any such thing, and I'll thank you not to malign my professional reputation." Farley's protest seemed just a bit too polished, as if he'd been expecting the accusation.

"She can't very well argue with you now, can she?" Cullen pointed out, then added, "What about the client who brought sexual harassment charges against you two years ago, Mr. Farley?"

"Those charges were dropped! The whole thing was a complete fabrication, and I was exonerated!" Farley took a step back and pulled off his safety glasses. The rubber had left a red imprint like a brand against the pasty skin of his forehead. "She had a grudge against me. Her dog had died and she couldn't deal with it. The judge accepted that." Lowering his voice, he said confidentially, "Look, Dawn Arrowood did flirt with me, I'll admit that. She was one of those women who think every man on earth should fall at their feet. But I never crossed the line with her."

"Then you won't mind telling us where you were from the time you left the surgery that day until you arrived home," said Gemma.

"But I-" Farley glanced from Gemma to Cullen. "I went for a drink. At The Sun in Splendour. You must know it," he added, as if that somehow gave his story credibility.

Cullen had met friends there for a drink. It was a yuppie pub, frequented by well-dressed, well-off young men and women, like Dawn Arrowood. "So you left your surgery before five o'clock, checked out the action at the pub, then arrived home about, what, half past six? Then what did you do?"

"I- I'm not sure exactly what time it was. I worked out here for a while, until my wife called me for dinner."

"And do you always shower before you begin working in your shop, Mr. Farley?" asked Gemma.

"What? I don't understand."

"Shower." Gemma pointed at the cubicle, just visible at the back of the room. "Your wife said you were showering when she came in at half past six. That seemed a bit odd to me- I thought the idea was to shower when you'd finished your project."

The whites of Farley's eyes glinted. "It was my wife. She doesn't like me going to the pub, so I showered to get rid of the smell."

Had he washed away the smoke and perfume from the bar, wondered Cullen? Or Dawn Arrowood's blood? "You didn't tell your wife you'd been to the pub?"

"No. I- I said I had to work late. You're not going to tell her, are you?"

"Oh, I'm afraid you've worse problems than that, Mr. Farley," Gemma said with a sigh. "Such as explaining to your wife why the police are searching your workshop and your car."

"Another house-to-house inquiry, then?" Doug asked as they drove back to the station an hour later. They had waited for the forensics team to arrive, then cautioned Farley to keep himself available for further questioning.

"For a sighting of the Astra? Yes. And it won't be popular on Christmas Eve, I can tell you."

"Arrowood made the nine-nine-nine call at six twenty-two. Would Farley have had time to kill Dawn, then get home and into the shower by half past?"

"That's making two assumptions," said Gemma. "The first is that Farley's wife is telling the truth about the time. For all we know he's primed her and she's lying through her teeth."

"And the second?"

"The second is that Dawn had just died when Karl found her. She might have died five, ten, even fifteen minutes earlier. Her body was in a sheltered spot, which could have delayed cooling, and the pathologist certainly won't swear to an exact time on the stand."

"One thing you can say about Farley," Cullen mused. "He would certainly know how to wield a scalpel."

Gemma frowned. "I've just remembered. Bryony told me the surgery was burglarized recently. She said some supplies and instruments were missing. I wonder…"

"A scalpel?"

"It's possible," Gemma said. "I'll ask Bryony. And I'll have forensic pick up some of the surgery's scalpels for comparison, just in case we do turn up a murder weapon. It is the season of miracles, after all."

Cullen was silent, concentrating on his driving. Then he said, "How do you manage to keep your patience? Sometimes I think it will drive me bonkers, the waiting."

"Me? Patient?" Gemma gave a snort of derision. "Kincaid would fall over himself laughing if he heard that. He's the one never gets his feathers ruffled, while he's always on at me about staying calm. But…" Her smile faded. "It gets easier as you go along, somehow. There's a place you get to, if you can put your mind in neutral, where sometimes things click into place." She gave a little shrug. "I know that sounds like rubbish… And of course you have to have the right bits of information floating round in your head for it to happen…"

"Trust the process, rather than forcing it? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah, I suppose so." She gave him a conspiratorial smile. "But in the meantime, I'm going Christmas shopping."

How had she ended up in the last-minute Christmas crush, just like any man? Gemma wondered, but she suspected that indecision had fueled her procrastination as much as busyness. She shoved and elbowed her way to the nearest department store, riding the escalator up to the toy department with a torrent of shoppers.

She saw the perfect gift for Toby immediately. It was a fireman's kit, complete with a little bunker coat and hat, and a set of bright red, two-way radios with a base station. Toby would love it, she knew, but then she'd never expected any difficulty finding something that catered to a four-year-old's interests.

Kit, however, was a different matter. Teetering on the edge of adolescence, too old for most toys, but not yet ready to graduate to the teenage realm of music, clothes, and cash. She wandered through the aisles, chewing on a fingernail as she deliberated, rejecting one item after another. At last something caught her eye- a boxed set of science questions. It contained hundreds of cards (hours of fun for home or car, the label promised her) and it was just the sort of thing Kit would find irresistible.

But was that enough, she wondered as she rode back down to the ground floor with her purchases. Then a thought occurred to her and she stopped at the bottom of the escalator, blocking the traffic behind her until someone gave her a not-so-gentle nudge. In one of the boxes Kit had brought from Grantchester, she'd glimpsed an unframed photo of his mother. The lens had caught Vic laughing into the camera, full of life and energy.

Would she be barging too forcefully into Kit's emotional territory if she took the photo and framed it for him? And was he ready for such an ever-present reminder of his loss?

Well, she'd never know unless she made the attempt. She would do it, she decided, and went straightaway to the stationery department before she could change her mind. Choosing a lovely silver frame in what she hoped was the correct size, she watched in satisfaction as the clerk wrapped it in tissue.

That left Duncan, she thought as she reached the street once more, and his gift was the most difficult of all. It must be something special, something that would symbolize this new stage of their life together- but what? She walked along the street, looking in shop window after shop window. A few items prompted her to go inside, but in the end everything seemed too ordinarily personal, too practical, or revoltingly sappy.

She'd almost given up when she saw it, in the window of a housewares and pottery boutique. A hand-painted ceramic plaque, with a border of dark green leaves in which nestled berries the same brilliant scarlet as their front door, and in its center, in bold black on a white ground, their house number. It was perfect.

When she came out of the shop minutes later, humming the Christmas song that had been playing over the loudspeaker, the 59 bus was just pulling in to the bus stop. The gods were definitely smiling.

On reaching Notting Hill again, she felt so full of seasonal cheer that she made another spur-of-the-moment decision. Getting off the bus, she went into the elegant bakery just round the corner from Elgin Crescent.

They had just the thing, Christmas cakes with thick and creamy icing and interiors dark and rich with spices. They were the sort of cakes one had when the edge had worn off Christmas dinner, to be consumed with cups of strong tea while listening to the Queen's speech.

When the bakery had boxed the cakes for her, she balanced her parcels carefully and set out for Marc Mitchell's soup kitchen on Portobello Road.

To her relief, the light was still on and the door unlocked. "Marc?" she called out.

"Back here!"

She followed the sound of his voice to the kitchen at the rear of the eating area.

"Sorry, I couldn't leave this," he apologized. He was stirring a large pot of something that smelled delicious on an industrial-size gas range. "Cranberry relish, for tomorrow's dinner."

"What's in it?" asked Gemma, sniffing. She set her parcels down in a clear spot on the table.

"Cranberries, obviously." He wiped the steam from his brow. "And honey, vinegar, cracked pepper, mustard seeds, and diced chili peppers. I always hated the jellied stuff from a tin, so this is my rebellion." Nodding at a dozen freshly washed glass jars drying on a cloth, he added, "I mean to put some up for gifts as well."

"I've brought a couple of cakes." Gemma indicated the box. "They're teacakes, really, but I thought-"

"That's the one thing I was missing. You're brilliant." Giving the pot a last stir, he turned off the flame. "There. When the cranberries pop, it's finished. Now we wait for it to cool a bit." Lifting the lid on the cake box, he whistled. "They're too gorgeous to eat. I've got some tinned puddings donated by one of the supermarkets, but they're nothing compared with this."

A little embarrassed, Gemma changed the subject. "What else have you got on your menu? Bryony said you'd been planning for weeks."

"Two turkeys. Brussels sprouts, of course. Potatoes. Oh, and a case of nonalcoholic champagne, donated as well. Can't serve the real stuff, even if I could afford it. And look-" he showed her a box containing several dozen cylinders wrapped in brightly colored foil. "I've made crackers. They won't pop, but they've got paper hats in and some sweets."

"It all sounds lovely. I suppose you've got lots of help."

"Bryony's coming. Between us we can manage, although it might get a bit wild. She's a tremendous help."

Seeing a chance to play the matchmaker, Gemma observed, "She thinks you're pretty terrific, too."

Marc gave her a look she couldn't interpret and went back to his relish, giving the pot a desultory stir. "I know she does. It's just that it's a bit… awkward."

"Awkward?" Gemma echoed.

Marc gestured round the room. "You see this place? I used the last of my grandmother's savings to start this. So I have no money- I mean none. If I have a cup of coffee at Otto's, it's squeezed out of the kitchen funds. I can't even take Bryony to the cinema, for heaven's sake, much less out to dinner at a nice restaurant."

"But-"

"I have nothing to offer her, and my chance of someday getting a job that would earn a fraction of what she makes is slim to nonexistent. Bryony deserves better than-"

"Marc, she doesn't care. She admires you for what you do-"

"I sleep on a cot in the upstairs room. How fast do you think admiration would turn to resentment if she had to share those circumstances?"

"But why should she? She has her own job, her own career, a flat. You could…" Gemma hesitated, certain she was getting in over her head.

"Stay in her flat? Let her buy groceries? Let her pay for her own Christmas gift?" He shook his head adamantly. "That's not right."

"Isn't that a little old-fashioned?"

"I suppose it is. I've spent most of my adult life looking after my grandmother- she was bedridden the last few years and had to have twenty-four-hour care- so I missed out on a good bit of the sexual revolution. But it's more than that… You see, I can't do what I do and live any other way. It's partly focus-"

"You can't afford to be distracted by a relationship? Sort of like a monk?"

He gave a snort of laughter. "Well, I suppose you could say that, although my grandmother would turn in her grave. She was nonconformist to the core. But the main thing is, I can't spend my days with these people who have nothing, and live at a different level. Mortgages, furniture, cars, clothing- all these things we take so much for granted mean nothing to them. And if I go there, if I live on that plane, I can't connect with them." He lifted his hands, palms up.

"I see," said Gemma, and she did. She could think of no argument to convince him his position was unreasonable, nor, she found, did she really want to. As Bryony had said, he had a unique ability to reach out to the homeless people he served. Who was she to question the source of that gift, or its importance?

Bryony locked the surgery door and closed the blinds, then washed down the two examining rooms. She'd run later than expected, of course, because of emergencies. A holiday always seemed to bring on a rush of last-minute calls, and any holiday involving candy more so, due to people's apparent inability to restrict their pets' access to it.

Not to mention the fact that Gavin had rung during the busiest stint, incoherent with fury, shouting something about the police turning his house and his car upside down because Dawn Arrowood had told some friend he'd had a row with her the morning she died.

At least Gemma had protected her, thought Bryony, but surely the police didn't actually think Gavin had anything to do with Dawn's murder?

As if I would argue with a client, Gavin had raged heatedly in her ear. Bryony had soothed him as best she could before rushing back to her patients.

Had she done the right thing in telling Gemma about what she'd heard? And what about the thefts at the surgery? Gavin hadn't mentioned that, and if Gemma had questioned him about the incident, he would certainly guess that Bryony had told her.

She put up the mop bucket with a thump of irritation. This was not the day for worrying about things it was too late to change. She still had her bit of holiday shopping to do, but first she had to update her charts. Determined to concentrate, she sat down at Gavin's desk to work.

When her pen ran dry halfway through her task, she absently opened the desk drawer and rummaged for a new one. As her fingers closed round a pen, she looked down, catching a glimpse of what looked like the edge of a photograph in the very back compartment. Aware that she was snooping, Bryony started to close the drawer. Then curiosity overcame her scruples and she pulled the drawer out to its fullest extent, freeing the photograph.

She gazed at the glossy square in her hand and her stomach plummeted. The camera had captured Dawn Arrowood in an achingly unguarded moment, her expression rapt, her head tilted towards Alex as he spoke in her ear.

Setting the photo on the desktop, Bryony jerked hard at the drawer and scrabbled at the back. Her fingers closed on more slick squares: Alex with his arm thrown protectively round Dawn's shoulders as she stepped in the door of his flat… Alex and Dawn in his stall at the market, his fingers brushing her cheek…

There were other images, and while none of them were actually sexually compromising, they left no doubt as to the relationship between the couple, and they had all obviously been snapped without their knowledge. Had Gavin taken these? She thought suddenly of the camera she'd seen recently in the backseat of his car, and felt another lurch of nausea.

Why would Gavin have followed Alex and Dawn, spying on them? And why had he kept these photos? If Dawn's husband had seen them… She thought of the raised voices she'd heard in the examining room that day, and could not escape the obvious conclusion. Gavin had been blackmailing Dawn.

Fern knocked at Bryony's door three times, with no answer but the chorus of Duchess's barking. Now, convinced of Bryony's absence, she paced up and down the west side of Powis Square, determined to keep the building in sight until Bryony returned.

She'd thought of trying the surgery, but surely Bryony wouldn't be working so late on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and even if she were, she'd have to walk home this way.

Fern stopped at the bottom of the square, gazing across the street at the welcoming gates of the Tabernacle. The redbrick Victorian building housed the community center, and offered everything from dance and aerobics classes to coffeehouse to concert venue. And it provided a safe haven for many teens. Certainly it had done so for Fern.

But there was no help there now, and Fern turned away. She walked up to the top of the square again, keeping her eyes focused on Bryony's lavender door. Just exactly how Bryony could help her, she hadn't worked out- she knew only that she must talk to someone or go mad with worry.

After her row with Alex on Saturday night, and her discovery of the missing paper knife, she'd tried repeatedly to reach him. But he'd refused to answer door or telephone, although his car was still parked in the mews. She'd even gone so far as to appeal to Alex's odious landlord to let her into the flat with his key, but the man had refused, hinting that he might reconsider if she made it worth his while.

On Sunday, still doubting her own judgment over the paper knife, Fern had tracked down the owner of the antiques arcade and borrowed his key, claiming she'd accidentally left behind something she must have for a sale.

But ransacking her stall had not turned up the missing paper knife, leaving her two possibilities- that some passing customer had lifted it while her attention was distracted, or that Alex had stolen it. While she would have preferred the shoplifting hypothesis, her eye was sharp and her reflexes fast- she'd foiled every attempt at theft since she'd been in the trade.

That left Alex, and the question that had kept her from sleep for two days. If he had stolen the knife, whom did he mean to hurt- himself? Or someone else?

Fern stamped her feet against the cold and her own frustration. Where the hell was Bryony? And if Bryony didn't come home, who else could she talk to? Otto had taken his girls to their grandparents for Christmas Eve dinner, and Wesley had gone to his family as well. Her own dad was useless, poor sod couldn't help himself, much less anyone else. She'd tried the soup kitchen on her way here, thinking to find Bryony there, or at least Marc, but the place had been dark and locked up tight as a drum.

That left the holier-than-thou policewoman who had come to her flat- what was her name? Inspector James? No, she'd make a fool of herself if she did that, and of Alex, and he would never speak to her again. There must be some other way.

The street lamps came on, casting their sickly yellow glow on the pavement. Fern shoved her hands deep into her pockets, suppressing a shiver. Something damp touched her forehead, then the tip of her nose, like a caress from icy, invisible fingers. It was snowing.