And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Murdered? Where?"

"In his drive."

"Oh, God." Gemma stood, and Geordie jumped down from the sofa, his cocker spaniel brow furrowed at her tone. "Surely not the same way?"

"It looks like it," Kincaid told her. "They're waiting for us."

"I'll change. You wake Kit and tell him what's happening. Will he be all right on his own with Toby?"

"I don't know that we've much choice, have we?"

Kit sat up in bed, his fair hair sticking up like sprouts. "Of course I'll be okay," he said, indignant. "But do you really have to go, on Christmas?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. But Father Christmas has been and left your stockings on the hearth. They were too heavy for him to lug all the way up the stairs."

Kit rolled his eyes at the fiction, and Kincaid winked. "If we're not back when Toby wakes up, you can take him downstairs. In the meantime, we'll both have our mobiles if you need anything." He tousled Kit's hair. Much to his surprise, the boy reached out and pressed his hand for a moment before letting it go.

Kincaid, deeply moved, was tempted to say, "I love you," but resisted the impulse. He didn't dare jeopardize the delicate emotional balance they had achieved.

Instead, he took Kit's hand and pulled him out of bed. "Come and look, son, before you go back to sleep. It's going to be a white Christmas."

The crime scene looked much as it had ten days earlier, except for the white frosting of snow. Gemma stamped against the cold as Gerry Franks came up to them.

"Bloody snow," Franks groused. "Ruins the bloody crime scene. It's hopeless." He was obviously no happier at being dragged out on Christmas Eve than they were, and he gave them a scathing look that included them in his displeasure.

The corpse itself had been protected with a makeshift shelter, but a fine sifting of powder lay beneath the covered area. Emergency lighting had been set up round the perimeter of the scene. "Any idea how long he's been here?" Gemma asked.

"My guess, from the state of the ground and the look of the blood, is two to three hours. Pathologist's on her way."

"Who found him?"

"The next-door neighbor, Mrs. Du Ray. She wants to talk to you- won't give her statement to anyone else." This bit of information seemed to sour Franks's disposition even further.

"All right," said Gemma. "But first we need a look at the body."

Once suited up, she and Kincaid made their way round the parked Mercedes. Gemma's sense of déjà vu intensified. There was only one car in the drive. Had Karl Arrowood already disposed of his murdered wife's?

The body lay a few feet in front of the car, half on its side. There were smudges in the snow near his hands and feet, as if he'd attempted to crawl towards the house. Kneeling, Gemma could see that the blood from his wounds had congealed into dark and syrupy clots, and she couldn't help but remember that Arrowood had been terrified at the sight of blood.

He had not been wearing an overcoat, in spite of the cold, but the dark jacket of his suit had been torn away at the front. His tie had been slashed loose; his once-white shirt was missing its top buttons where it had apparently been ripped open from the collar.

"He fought," she said to Kincaid, who knelt beside her.

"Multiple wounds in the throat, rather than a single clean cut," Kincaid agreed. He reached out with a gloved finger and moved aside the fabric of the shirt. "It's hard to tell with so much blood, but it looks as though there might have been an attempt at mutilating the chest."

"Why slash a man's chest? And if that was the killer's intent, why didn't he finish the job?"

"Perhaps he was interrupted," Kincaid mused. "Or perhaps he was afraid that the struggle had attracted attention. I can tell you one thing, though- if whoever did this managed to get home without notice, he had to have some way to dispose of his bloody clothes and clean himself up before he was seen by anyone. So he either lives alone-"

"Or has an unusual amount of privacy. As in Gavin Farley's workshop and shower. I think we should get a car on the way to Willesden even before we see Mrs. Du Ray."

"I blew it," Gemma raged to Kincaid as they stripped off their coveralls. "I should have prevented this." She had not liked Karl Arrowood, but to see such strength and force extinguished had shaken her badly.

"How? What could you have done differently?"

"If I knew that, I would have done it, wouldn't I? At least we can rule out Arrowood as the murderer-"

"Can we? What if someone learned he'd committed the first two murders and decided to take retribution into their own hands?"

"I suppose that's possible. But Karl Arrowood was a powerful man, quite a different proposition for the killer than two unsuspecting women-"

"Accounting for the lack of finesse. Dr. Ling may be able to tell us if the murders were committed by the same person. But if that's the case, it's quite a departure from the usual serial killer pattern."

Fully dressed again, they followed the walk to Mrs. Du Ray's porch, their footprints leaving dark gashes in the fresh snow. "Bloody hell, your sergeant's right about the crime scene," Kincaid muttered as he rang the bell. "Might as well wash everything down with a fire hose."

Mrs. Du Ray greeted Gemma with a whispered, "Oh, my dear." Her skin appeared paper-thin, the lines round mouth and eyes much more pronounced than a week earlier.

"I'm so sorry you had to deal with this, Mrs. Du Ray," she said. "It must have been a terrible shock."

"Yes." Mrs. Du Ray gave a small negative shake of her head, as if further words escaped her.

When they were seated in the warm kitchen, Gemma said, "Why don't you start from the beginning."

"After my supper, I did the washing up, then went upstairs to get ready for bed. Sometimes I put on my dressing gown and come back downstairs to watch a little television. When I glanced out the window, I noticed Karl's car standing in the drive. There was a faint light coming from the interior, as if perhaps one of the doors hadn't quite closed." Mrs. Du Ray spoke clearly and precisely, as if giving a report, but the blue veins stood out on her hands, clasped in her lap. "I thought I saw something dark in front of the car, but it had begun to snow, and I decided my eyes were deceiving me."

"What time was this?" asked Gemma, her notebook ready.

"Before nine o'clock. I'm sure of it because there was a program on at nine I wanted to see. I came downstairs again and made some cocoa, but I couldn't settle. I kept wondering if I had really seen something, or if my imagination had run wild. So I went back up and looked again, and this time there was a dark shape in the drive- I was sure of it- and I saw someone crossing the street from the churchyard.

"It was a young man, or at least that was my impression. He was bareheaded, with that floppy sort of Edwardian hairstyle you see young men wearing these days. He came into the drive, almost tiptoeing, and walked round the car. Then he froze, and went closer. I saw him bend over and reach out, then he turned and ran as if the hounds of hell were after him."

"What else did you notice about the young man?"

"He was tall, and on the slender side, I think. It's hard to tell with a coat, and the snow…"

"Did you see his face well enough that you'd recognize him again?"

"I don't know." Mrs. Du Ray seemed distressed. "I'd not want to accuse someone unfairly."

"I wouldn't worry about that at the moment," Kincaid assured her. "It sounds very much as if Mr. Arrowood was already dead. It was after this that you rang the police?"

"Well, no. I had to be sure, you see. I dressed and went out to look for myself… Poor Karl… There was so much blood." She looked up at them in appeal. "Why would someone do such a terrible thing?"

Kit lay awake for a long time after Duncan and Gemma left, listening to the rhythm of Toby's breathing. Tess was curled up at his feet, and after a few minutes, Geordie padded upstairs and jumped up on the bed, stretching out against his thigh. Resting his hand on the dog's head, Kit snuggled further down into the bedclothes and told himself he should be content. It was Christmas, after all… It was snowing… He was part of a family again…

But he had dreamed of his mother, and as hard as he tried during the day not to think of her, now his mind refused to let her go.

Had she known the poem Duncan had read tonight? It was the sort of thing she would have liked, of that he was sure, with the sound of the words making pictures that went along with the meaning.

Had his mum and Duncan celebrated Christmases together? He'd never thought much about the time they'd spent together before he was born- it made him feel decidedly odd- but now he worried at it. They had loved one another, he supposed. They had been married, had meant to be a family, but something had gone wrong. If his mum and Duncan had stayed together, would she still be alive?

He didn't want to think about that. Then Duncan wouldn't be with Gemma, and Kit genuinely loved Gemma, although even admitting that to himself made him feel disloyal to his mother.

Stroking Geordie's silky muzzle, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture the snow swirling outside, but instead remembered the last time it had snowed in Grantchester. Near their house, a gentle hill sloped down to the towpath beside the river. He and his mum had sledded down on baking pans, shouting and tumbling off together at the bottom. Her face had glowed pink with cold and happiness, and he remembered how her laughter had rung out in the clear air.

But what he recalled most was the moment they had stood at the top of the hill, holding their baking pans, looking down at the white blanket enveloping the familiar folds and hollows. The pristine expanse was undisturbed, except for the tiny, three-toed track of a bird, as sharp and crisp as a hieroglyphic, and the tidy paw prints of a cat, or fox, near the hedgerow.

Kit had stood, transfixed, and it seemed to him that to make a mark upon such beauty was more than he could bear. Then his mother had called out for him to join her.

He'd put aside his hesitation and plunged out into the snow, and it had been a good time, one of the best. With that thought, he fell asleep.

According to Dr. Ling, Arrowood had been dead several hours, but she would have to use calculations involving air temperature and environmental factors to be more precise. Nor could she give them any immediate guess as to the nature of the weapon until she had cleaned up the corpse- the wounds were simply too much of a mess.

She did speculate, however, that unlike his wife, Arrowood might have lived for some time after the attack, too weak from loss of blood to do more than make a futile attempt at getting help.

None of this came as any surprise to Kincaid and Gemma. Adding to their frustration, the crime-scene officers reported no evidence of disturbance inside the house. The front door had been locked, and Arrowood's keys had been found in the drive a few feet from his body, as if he'd dropped them in the struggle.

When the responding officers arrived, they had indeed found the driver's door of the Mercedes ever so slightly ajar, and the dome lamp burning.

"He must have been jumped just as he opened the door," Kincaid said as they shed their coats in the warmth of Gemma's office.

"If that door had been closed properly, he might have lain there, covered in snow, until someone missed him."

"Apparently, since it looks as though Mrs. Du Ray's creeping figure didn't feel inclined to call for help."

"It must have been Alex Dunn," said Gemma. "The description fits him to a tee. And it means he can't have murdered Karl, if he found him already dead-"

"What if he fought with him, then came back to see if he'd been successful?"

"Then why run away, as if he were frightened by what he'd found?" argued Gemma.

"I don't see that we can get much further until we've had a word with Dunn. Why don't we send a car to bring him in, and get a forensics team started on his flat?"

"I demand my solicitor," Gavin Farley snarled as they entered the Spartan confines of the interview room, with its metal-and-laminate table and molded plastic chairs. "I'm not saying anything without my solicitor here." His hair was uncombed, and although he'd pulled on jacket and trousers, he still wore a purple satin pajama shirt, which detracted considerably from his authority.

"Surely there's no need for that," rejoined Gemma mildly. "We only want to ask you a few routine questions."

"And for that you drag me out of bed with my wife, in the middle of the night, and you frighten my children half to death? I'm telling you I won't have it. I want my solicitor." Farley folded his arms across his purple satin chest and glared.

Gemma sighed and summoned a constable. "Please take Mr. Farley to phone his solicitor, then bring him back here."

As soon as the door closed, Kincaid said, "Can't say I blame the chap. I've seldom had less reason to roust a man from his bed on Christmas Eve."

"And what about the shower in his shop, and his lying about his row with Dawn?" countered Gemma. "Besides, I think he's cleverer than he'd like us to believe."

Escorted by the constable, Farley came back in, a smug look on his face. "My solicitor's on his way. You'll have to wait until he gets here."

"Fine." Kincaid smiled at him and relaxed into his chair. "Can we get you anything? A coffee?" When Farley shook his head, Kincaid continued, "There's no reason we can't get acquainted while we wait, is there, Mr. Farley? I hear you're quite an expert in woodworking. Is this a longtime passion of yours?"

The struggle between caution and pride was evident in Farley's expression, with pride the winner. "Since I was a boy. My father had a little shop. My own son, unfortunately, only seems to be interested in videos and computer games. No respect for the handicrafts these days."

"Is it animals you carve? With such firsthand experience-"

"No, no. I need a complete break from work; otherwise, the stress…" He shrugged, as if Kincaid would understand his predicament. Just out of Farley's line of sight, Gemma rolled her eyes.

"I've never quite managed a hobby, myself," Kincaid admitted. "But it must be very nice to get away from it all, have one's own space."

"No way." The veterinarian pinched his lips together and set his jaw in a stubborn line. "I see what you're doing, and I'm not going to talk about my shop."

"Then what about the thefts from your surgery, Mr. Farley?" Kincaid inquired, all innocence. "Surely you want the help of the police with that? I understand you have some supplies and medications missing?"

"How did you- That's a purely internal matter."

"You're not accusing Miss Poole, are you?" asked Gemma sharply.

"I- No! She was merely negligent, but I don't see why it's any of your business."

"If some unauthorized person came into your clinic and stole your property, Mr. Farley, it should have been reported to the police," said Kincaid. "Was there by any chance a scalpel among the items missing?"

Gavin Farley's mouth dropped open. "Yes, but- I- You can't think-" He gaped at them, fishlike, his pupils dilating into black orbs.

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and a constable brought in a man in a neat pinstriped suit.

"Miles!" Farley exclaimed, shooting from his chair and clasping the man's hand fervently.

"Hullo, Gavin." The solicitor disengaged his hand and turned to the two detectives. "I'm Miles Kelly, Mr. Farley's solicitor." He was in his mid-thirties, Kincaid guessed, dark-haired, with a strong face. In spite of his suit and crisp white shirt- the obligatory solicitor's badge- the dark blue shadow on his chin revealed that he hadn't taken the time to shave. "What seems to be the problem here?"

"I take it Mr. Farley has made you aware of our investigations," Gemma answered, "and of his involvement with the woman who was murdered just over a week ago-"

"She was my client, for God's sake!" Farley interrupted. "I keep telling you-"

"Gavin, calm down." Kelly turned back to Gemma. "Inspector, he rang me yesterday to say you were having his house searched. As all the documents were in order, I told him that cooperation was the only appropriate response."

"Very wise of you, Mr. Kelly," Kincaid said. "And he followed your instructions. The problem is that there was another murder, hours ago, and we'd like to ascertain Mr. Farley's whereabouts during the time in question."

"Another murder?" Farley's voice seeped out in a whisper. "Where- Who-"

"Karl Arrowood," Gemma informed him tersely. "Are you sure you never met Dawn's husband, Mr. Farley?"

"No. Never. I wouldn't have known the man if I'd passed him in the street."

"Then why should you mind telling us where you were last evening?"

"I- It's a violation of my privacy. Why should I tell you, if I had nothing to do with this? You can't just go about-"

"Gavin," interrupted Miles Kelly, "don't be difficult. Tell them what they want to know, and then we can all go home."

Farley stared at his solicitor as if he might protest, then gave a shrug of acquiescence. "I was at home. All evening. With my wife, and my mother- and father-in-law. Our next-door neighbors stopped in for a drink as well."

"What time did your in-laws arrive?" asked Gemma.

"Around half-past six. My wife always has them for Christmas Eve dinner, then on Christmas day we go to my parents' in Henley."

"And they left when?"

"About half-past nine, I believe. I didn't know there was any reason to make note of the time."

Gemma ignored his sarcasm. "And you didn't leave your house at all in the interim? Not even to go to your shop?"

"No."

"Mr. Farley, if this is the truth, you could have saved us all a good deal of time and trouble by telling us so in the first place. And you could have let your solicitor stay in his bed on Christmas Day."

"We've got confirmation from the wife," Gemma told Kincaid, looking at the report Gerry Franks had just sent up. "For whatever that's worth. Sergeant Franks has a team lined up to question the in-laws and the neighbors as soon as it's a civilized hour."

"Daybreak?" That would not be long in coming- it was almost five now.

"Right. The initial search of the house and shop, and of Farley's car, haven't revealed anything obvious. Of course, we won't know for certain until forensics has had a chance to go over things again."

They were holding Farley temporarily, pending confirmation of his alibi, but they wouldn't be able to keep him for long without something concrete.

"What about Alex Dunn?" asked Kincaid.

"Downstairs, in another interview room. They roused him out of an apparently sound sleep, and there was no visible evidence in his house or his car. They did find a silver-handled paper knife," she added, "in his coat pocket. It's apparently quite sharp, but there was no sign of its having been used. It's gone to forensics." Standing, she gathered her notebook.

"Gemma, before we go downstairs… Why don't you let me take the postmortem? You look exhausted. And it's a good division of labor."

"You just want some time alone with Kate Ling," she retorted, only half teasing. But she was too tired to feel really jealous, and besides- there was no point in their both going to the morgue, and she could be more useful directing things here. "Okay," she agreed. "That's at what- eight? I'm going to stop at the loo before we begin with Alex."

Duncan was right again, she thought as she examined herself in the mirror of the ladies' toilet. She did look exhausted, and she wasn't sure how long her reserves would hold out. This pregnancy was sapping more energy than she'd bargained for, even into the second trimester.

Turning sideways, she saw that, even in jeans and sweater, the bulge was becoming obvious. And only then did she realize that in daydreaming about the nursery the previous evening, she'd finally, truly, accepted this baby on a personal level- now she must do it on a professional one.

When Superintendent Lamb came back on Boxing Day, she would tell him first thing. As if the child had somehow sensed her resolution, she felt the faintest flutter of movement in her abdomen.

"I did go to the churchyard," Alex said immediately. He looked ghastly- pale, with dark hollows under his eyes, and his once-glossy hair unwashed. "I don't know what I was thinking- I suppose I wasn't thinking, really."

"There was a silver knife in your coat," Gemma told him. "Did you take it with you deliberately?"

"I- Yes. It's Fern's. I took it from her stall on Saturday. I should say that I stole it, shouldn't I? Except that I meant to return it."

"Why did you take the knife?"

"I thought I might kill Arrowood with it."

Gemma and Kincaid stared at him as the tape recorder whirred in the sudden silence. "And did you?" asked Gemma, recovering. "Did you kill Karl Arrowood with it?"

"No." Alex met their eyes, looked away. "I- I didn't have the nerve, in the end. I watched the house for two nights, waiting for him to come out. I felt I had to confront him, tell him who I was, what she'd meant to me. And then… then I was going to put it in the lap of the gods. That sounds absurd now, but it seemed to make sense at the time. I hadn't really imagined myself… hurting him, you know? I mean, I never even got into a fight at school, so what did I think I was going to do?"

"What happened last night?" Gemma prompted.

"I got to the house a little after eight. His Mercedes was in the drive, so I hid in the trees by the church and waited. I hadn't counted on the cold, and the snow. After a while, my hands and feet went numb, and my vision started doing funny things. I'd think the light was on inside the car, and then I'd think I'd imagined it.

"But he didn't come out of the house, and finally I crossed the street to see if I was right about the light. I can't tell you why it seemed so important to me at the time, to see if I was imagining things. And then when I reached the car and saw that the dome lamp really was on, I thought I saw something on the pavement in front of the car-" Alex rubbed the back of his hand against his brow and took a ragged breath.

"Was he dead?" asked Gemma.

"He was… cold. I don't know how I could have thought I could- His throat looked like mince. I ran. I don't mean that I decided to run- I just found myself running. And then I was sick.

"I know I should have called the police straightaway, but I wasn't… And afterwards… afterwards, I didn't know how I would explain what I'd done, or why I'd been there in the first place."

"What did you do then?"

"I went back to my flat. I had a few drinks. I suppose I must have gone to sleep." Alex met Gemma's gaze bleakly. "This means he didn't kill her, doesn't it? That all this time, I've been hating him, and hating myself because I felt responsible for what I thought he'd done… and all this time it was someone else."

"Alex, did you see anything last night?" she urged. "Anything odd or suspicious around Arrowood's house, or the church?"

"No." He looked devastated by his failure. "I didn't see anything at all."

"Nice musculature," commented Kate Ling. The corners of her eyes crinkled in a slight smile as she glanced at Kincaid. She was masked and gowned, and had Karl Arrowood's naked body laid out on her table, his mutilated throat exposed to her lamp.

"If you're trying to shock me with pathologist's humor, you won't succeed," Kincaid replied, grinning.

"Well, I am entitled to notice that he was a nice-looking man- I mean that in a professional way, of course. And it's obvious he took pride in himself. I'd say he worked out at a gym several times a week. He had regular manicures, too, which make the defense wounds on his right hand all the more obvious. See the cuts in his fingertips, and across his palm?"

"So he fought hard?"

"Very. See these blood smears in his hair? My guess is that's how the killer finally overpowered him, by getting a grip on this nice, thick hair and forcing his head back."

"What about the wounds themselves? Can you tell if they were made by the same weapon as his wife's, or by the same perpetrator?"

"The instrument was sharp and clean-edged, that I can tell you. The killer just never managed to get really good purchase. This man died from blood loss from multiple wounds, not from a complete severing of a main artery. And I'd guess that your killer was male, and of good height, and right-handed."

"Well, that rules out a certain percentage of the population, anyway. What about the chest wound? Did the killer intend the sort of mutilation performed on Dawn Arrowood?"

"You're thinking he was interrupted? That's possible. Although the psychology of inflicting that sort of injury on both women and men is beyond my scope."

"Time of death?"

"That old chestnut?"

Again he heard the suggestion of a smile in her voice. "I'm afraid so."

Ling reached up and turned off the tape recorder. "Off the record? I'd say somewhere in the vicinity of eight p.m. Officially, I'll have to be boringly vague, say, somewhere between seven and ten. Once I've done the stomach contents, you may be able to pin it down a bit more accurately."

"Thanks," he said with genuine feeling.

"Let's go outside for a minute," the pathologist suggested. "There's no need for you to stay for the icky part, organs and so forth. I'll send you a report." When they reached the hallway, she pulled off her mask and her cap, letting her glossy black hair swing loose, and stripped off her gloves. "That reminds me. I said the same thing not long ago to Gemma. I thought she might faint on me for a moment- That's not like her, is it?"

"No." He replied noncommittally, wondering where this was going. "She must have been having a particularly bad day."

Kate Ling frowned at him. "Duncan, I've always wondered… I know it's none of my business, but are you two an item?"

"We've just moved into a house together," he answered, seeing no reason to dissemble. "Now that she doesn't work with me directly, it's a bit more politically correct."

"Oh, well," Kate said, then shrugged and flashed him a smile whose meaning he couldn't mistake. He found himself utterly and unexpectedly tongue-tied, but she rescued him. "I hope things work out for you. She is pregnant, isn't she?"

"Yes. The baby's due in May."

"Is she feeling all right? She looked a bit peaky when I saw her that day."

"She has had a problem with her placenta. Some bleeding. But she seems to be fine now."

"Good." Kate gave him a reassuring smile, but not before he'd glimpsed the flash of concern in her eyes.

Gemma stepped out into the late-morning daylight outside the station, blinking as if emerging from a long, if unwelcome, hibernation. It had stopped snowing during the night, but gray clouds still hovered over the rooftops, and dirty slush filled gutters and pavement.

Shivering as she waited for Kincaid to fetch the car, she thought of the morning's progress, and her spirits sank even lower.

They had kept Alex Dunn at the station until Mrs. Du Ray had been able to come in and make a positive identification, but once that formality was completed, they'd had to send him home with a caution.

The same was true of Gavin Farley, which galled Gemma considerably more. Both his in-laws and his neighbors, the Simmonses, had confirmed his alibi, insisting that Farley had not left their sight for more than five minutes during the time period in which the pathologist estimated Arrowood had been murdered. The Simmonses had also made it clear they didn't care for Farley, so it seemed unlikely that they would be inclined to protect him. Nor had the search team found anything, although with the Christmas slowdown there was no telling how long it would take to get the trace evidence results back from the Home Office lab.

Then, it had fallen to Gemma to inform Karl Arrowood's sons and his ex-wife of his murder. Sean, the younger son, had answered the door at his mother's residence.

"Inspector James!" Wariness replaced his first cheerful response. "Do come in."

"I'm afraid I have some very bad news. Your father was killed last night."

He gaped at her, shock draining the color from his face.

"Sean, do you want to sit down?"

He ignored the suggestion. "My father can't be dead. There must be some mistake. We're having lunch today, a make-up-with-Richard occasion. Dad actually rang us."

"I'm sorry. There's no mistake. He was found in his drive by a neighbor."

"You mean… he was killed… like her?"

"The circumstances are quite similar, yes. Would you like me to speak to your mother? Is she here?"

"No. She and Richard have gone out for a bit." More firmly, he added, "I'll tell Mum. And Richard." His face had aged decades in five minutes.

"Is there anyone else we should inform?"

"Not that I know of. Dad's parents have been dead for years. I suppose I can ring his staff. And his business associates."

"We'll let you know when you can make funeral arrangements. Sean… there is one other thing." She hesitated, in the face of his obvious grief and shock, but knew she must ask. "Where were you and Richard yesterday evening?"

"Here," he answered without rancor. "Mother gives a monster party every Christmas Eve- a gala, she calls it. Rich and I are expected to dance attendance on all the old dears, without fail. Our mother's wrath is not something to be trifled with. Oh, God," he groaned, as if it had finally sunk in, "she's not going to want to hear this."

"I'm sorry." Gemma felt as helpless as she always did when faced with the response to sudden death. "We will be in touch, possibly with a few more questions. But we'll try to intrude as little as possible. And you can ring me if you like." She left, not envying him the task he faced.

It was still possible, of course, that one or both of the brothers had hired a professional to commit all three murders, but Doug Cullen's investigation had not turned up a shred of corroborating evidence- and she'd never really thought the idea likely. The nature of the crimes was too personal- too intimate, she was certain- to be the work of a hired killer.

Still, she'd have to send someone to get a guest list from Sylvia Arrowood tomorrow, so that they could check the boys' alibis.

When Kincaid picked her up a moment later for the drive home, she noticed that he avoided passing by St. John's Church. It was thoughtful of him: Even the idea of the bloodstained snow in Karl Arrowood's drive made her feel queasy.

It occurred to her that she hadn't eaten, except for a bite of a muffin brought to her unexpectedly by Gerry Franks, and that might account for her light-headedness.

But the very worst thing about the day became painfully clear to her as they pulled up in front of their house. She hadn't realized how fiercely she'd looked forward to spending this morning with the boys until she'd missed it, an opportunity gone forever.

Kincaid had at least checked in with Kit several times on his mobile, but she hadn't even had the chance to wish Toby a happy Christmas.

"Mummy! Kit's made French toast for breakfast, with sausages, and he's put some in the warming oven for you!" Toby looked like a little elf in his footed red flannelette pajamas, and he was jiggling up and down with excitement. "Wait till you see-"

"I've got tea in the pot, as well," Kit interrupted, giving Toby a warning glance. "Come in the kitchen." As he took her arm, she noticed absently that the dining room doors were closed, but she thought no more about it.

Kit sat her down at the table and served her with a flourish, while Kincaid looked on affectionately, saying he'd had something earlier. Only halfway through her breakfast did she remember they were supposed to go to Hazel's for Christmas dinner. A wave of exhaustion washed over her; she put down her suddenly leaden fork.

"You'll have to go to Hazel's without me," she said, near tears. "I don't think I can manage it."

"Don't worry," Kit told her. "I've arranged everything. They're coming here- Hazel and Tim and Holly- and you don't have to do a thing but sit down and eat. Toby and I have even set the table. I'll show you when you're finished."

Gemma's throat tightened. "Kit, I don't know what to say. You are so thoughtful, and so grown-up. I don't know how I ever got along without you."

The boy flushed with pride, then urged her to finish her breakfast with proprietary zeal. "Are you ready, then?" he asked, with barely contained excitement. "You can bring your tea."

As they reached the dining room, a look passed between Kit and Kincaid, who said casually as he swung open the doors, "Oh, by the way, Father Christmas has been here as well."

She had a brief impression of the table, splendidly set with assorted dishes and glassware, a shining Christmas cracker at each place.

Then the piano filled her vision. A baby grand, its polished ebony surface reflecting every sparkle and gleam from the room. They'd moved the dining table to one side to accommodate the instrument, which had been placed facing the garden doors. "So that you can look outside when you play," Kit explained gravely.

"But what- How did you- and on Christmas-"

"Kit was my partner in crime," Kincaid explained, grinning. "And the piano company was delighted to cooperate in the surprise. Do you like it?"

"Like it? I-" Mesmerized, Gemma sank onto the padded bench. With one finger, she touched middle C, and the single pure tone resonated through the room.

She put her hands over her face and wept.