And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

By unspoken agreement, they had not discussed the case at home over Christmas. But as they drove to the police station the next morning, Kincaid said, as if continuing a recently interrupted conversation, "We can't rule out Alex Dunn altogether, you know. We can't be certain that he didn't attack Karl, then come back to see if he needed to finish the job."

"I think Mrs. Du Ray is a reliable witness," Gemma protested. "If she says he was frightened-"

"I'm not questioning her interpretation, just whether his fright absolves him of murder. You can kill someone in the heat of a struggle and still be horrified by the consequences."

"Yes, of course, but say he did kill Karl- and he's admitted intent and motive- he has an alibi for the time of Dawn's- Bryony!" she exclaimed as they entered the station. "What are you doing here?"

"Hullo, Gemma." Bryony rose from a seat in the reception area. "I hoped I could have a word with you, if I'm not too early. I had to come before the surgery opened."

"No, that's fine. Bryony, this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard."

Bryony shook Kincaid's hand, and Gemma noticed that her right index finger was bandaged. "Is there somewhere we could talk?"

"We'll go in my office."

"How's Geordie?" Bryony asked as Gemma signed her in and led her through the security door.

"A little worn out from the excitement of Christmas, I think. We had two little ones who took it upon themselves to run him ragged in the snow."

In spite of Karl Arrowood's death, it had turned out to be a lovely Christmas. Hazel, in her marvelously organized way, had arrived with a car boot of food ready to reheat in the Aga. They had supped around Kit's festive table with much jollity, and if Gemma fell asleep during the Queen's speech, no one seemed to mind.

Then, before succumbing to bed, Gemma had at last managed a half hour alone with the piano. For that brief time, all that had mattered was the sound of the notes as they followed one another.

"-Boxing Day," Bryony was saying to Kincaid as they reached the conference room. "Do you know, when I was a child, I thought it had to do with fighting? What a fool I felt when I found out that was the day they gave out alms from the church boxes." She sat, twisting her plain, strong hands in her lap.

"What happened to you?" Gemma asked, nodding toward Bryony's injured finger.

"A Yorkshire terrier the owner assured me never bites." Bryony glanced up at them with a crooked smile, which immediately disappeared. "I heard about Karl Arrowood. Have you any idea who did it?"

Obviously, she hadn't heard about their investigation of Gavin Farley- but then it wasn't likely he'd have broadcast his troubles. "We're pursuing some leads," Gemma replied noncommittally. "What is it, Bryony? Has something else happened?"

"I didn't know what I should do. It seems petty and disloyal to come tattling like a schoolgirl, but on the other hand…" She glanced uneasily at Kincaid.

"Go on," urged Gemma. "Superintendent Kincaid is working with me on these cases. Anything you can tell me, you can tell him."

Bryony took a breath, then nodded. "When I was finishing up in the surgery on Monday, I found some photos in Gavin's desk. They were all of Dawn and Alex."

"Dawn and Alex?"

"I'd no idea Gavin knew. Now I wonder if he overheard me mention their relationship to Marc… but even so-"

"Blackmail!" Kincaid exclaimed. "That would explain a good deal. If he was blackmailing her, and she refused to play along any further-"

"But then why kill her?" protested Gemma. "It's usually the victim who murders the blackmailer, not the other way round."

"Maybe she threatened to expose him, regardless of the consequences to herself-"

"Or to Alex?" Gemma asked dubiously. "You think Dawn would have sacrificed Alex to Karl's wrath, just to get Farley off her back?"

"Perhaps. If she meant to leave Karl for Alex, it would have to come out eventually. But I admit I'm getting ahead of the evidence. We need to see those photos."

"What did you do with them?" Gemma asked Bryony.

"I left them where they were."

"Okay. Good. Don't touch them. And don't say anything to Mr. Far-"

There was a knock at the door and Melody Talbot asked, "Could I see you outside a moment, boss? Superintendent?"

Excusing themselves, they followed Melody out into the corridor. "What's up, Constable?" asked Kincaid.

"The search team found a surgical scalpel in a rubbish bin about two blocks east of the Arrowood house. It's been wiped clean, but they've sent it to forensics with a rush request."

"Farley should be at work by now," Gemma said decisively. "Have him brought in again, alibi or no alibi. And then have a team search his surgery." She related Bryony's information.

"The surgery!" Melody exclaimed. "It's the perfect place to clean up. He could even have worn surgical scrubs, then tossed them in the laundry. Under the circumstances, no one would think anything of a bit of blood."

"True." Gemma looked up from the rough list she'd scribbled in her notebook. "Melody, once you've got things in motion, go and interview Farley's neighbors again. See if there's any way they'll budge on his whereabouts last night."

When Melody had gone, Kincaid said, "I don't like this business about Farley, Gemma. No matter how damning the circumstantial evidence, we can't charge him unless we can budge his alibi. Nor is there any connection between this man and Marianne Hoffman, and I'm absolutely certain that these three crimes are connected."

"Maybe he was practicing?" offered Gemma.

"Hoffman as a random victim? I don't buy it. But we might as well tackle him about the scalpel while we're waiting for confirmation on the other-"

His mobile phone rang.

As he took the call, Gemma thought about what he'd said. He was right: A good defense lawyer would make mincemeat of the prosecution's case for Farley as the murderer of either Dawn or Karl Arrowood. The scalpel could have come from any one of a thousand places; Farley might have photographed Dawn and Alex with no motive other than prurient curiosity; they had only Bryony's word that he'd had a disagreement with Dawn on the day she was murdered.

Nor, as she knew from last night's experience, would they even be able to talk to Farley until his lawyer got there.

"That was Marianne Hoffman's daughter in Bedford," Kincaid said as he returned to her. "She's found some things she wants me to see. Do you mind interviewing Farley on your own, if I drive up there?"

"No, but why not send someone else?"

"Apparently, she wants to talk to me specifically. Must be my pretty face."

"Right. Go on then. I'll ring you if we make any progress." Gemma repressed a sigh as she watched him go. It was going to be a long morning.

"Thank you for coming," said Eliza Goddard as she led Kincaid into her kitchen. "I've sent the girls next door to play for a bit."

Kincaid followed her, curious about the difference in her reception of him compared to his last visit. They sat down at the table where Eliza's twins had squabbled over their coloring books, and he saw that she had placed a shoe box beside the stack of children's projects.

"You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about," he said, to give her an opening.

"Yes. I'm sorry about the other day… It's just that I had to get through Christmas. It was so hard for the girls, but Greg came, and I think that helped."

"Greg Hoffman, your stepdad?"

Nodding, she said, "He made everything seem a little more normal, more ordinary, and for a day we could pretend that Mum had just gone away. But then last night, when everyone was asleep, I forced myself to go through the box again." She glanced at the shoe box but made no move to touch it. "I think I should tell you… One of the reasons I didn't feel I could talk to you about my mother- or my father- was that she'd always cautioned me against it."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Mum said that my safety depended on never talking about my background. Of course I didn't take it seriously- you know how children are- but then after she was killed I began to wonder…"

"Do you know anything about your father? Were they divorced?"

"I always assumed so. Mum wouldn't talk about him at all. But I was curious, and one day I looked through the things she kept in the special drawer in her bureau. She caught me at it- it was the one time I remember her truly losing her temper."

"Are these the things from her drawer?" Kincaid asked, indicating the box.

Without answering, Eliza pushed it towards him.

He lifted the lid and reached for the top document. It was a birth certificate, issued in the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, in 1971. The child's name was given as Eliza Marie Thomas, the mother as Marianne Wolowski Thomas, and the father as Ronald Samuel Thomas. The address of record was Talbot Road, W. 11.

"You were born in Notting Hill," Kincaid said.

"Yes, but I don't remember the area. We must have moved away when I was a baby. That's me with my parents." She lifted a photograph and he took it by its edge.

The color had faded, but the young woman was instantly recognizable as the girl he'd seen in Edgar Vernon's photo. But here she looked older, the platinum hair darker, longer, with a fringe, and he thought he could see a new wariness in her eyes.

She stood beside a tall, dark-skinned man whose face looked vaguely familiar, and between them they held a laughing infant.

"It must have been hard for your mother," he commented. "An interracial marriage at that time."

"If it was, she never let on. Nor did it ever seem to occur to her that I should mind my skin being a different color than my schoolmates'." Eliza's voice held a trace of bitterness. "When I came home crying because I'd been taunted and teased, she'd tell me I should be proud, and that was the end of it. It was better after she married Greg."

"How old were you?"

"Eight. Greg would tell me that I was beautiful, that I was special, and that one day the other children would be sorry they weren't like me." She smiled, and Kincaid realized how right Greg Hoffman had been. Taking the photo back from him, she studied it. "I'm ashamed to admit this, but after Greg came to live with us, I used to tell people I was adopted. That way I didn't have to admit my mother had been married to a black man. Now I only wish that I had known my father."

There were other photos in the box of the chubby little girl who had been Marianne Wolowski, standing stiffly with parents who wore the formal-looking dress of the fifties, receiving a prize at school, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. In another, a bit older, she and a thin black girl in a pink dress smiled out at the camera to-gether.

Stuck to the back of the photo was a folded piece of paper. When Kincaid uncreased it, he saw that it was a school report from Colville School, dated 1957. Not only had Marianne Wolowski lived in Notting Hill when she'd given birth to her child, she had grown up there.

"Do you mind if I take this?" He indicated the birth certificate. "I'll have it returned to you as soon as I've made a copy."

"Will any of this help you?" asked Eliza. "You know, at first the why of it didn't matter so much to me- I was too busy trying to accept the fact that she was gone. But now… What makes it really difficult is that it seems to me she had finally reached a good place in her life. I don't think she was happy when I was a child- I don't mean she wasn't a good mum, but I think there was more duty in it than joy. But with my twins… She loved them so unreservedly, and there was no worry in it."

"That's the blessing of being a grandparent- or so I've heard."

She gazed out the window a moment, then turned back to him. "There's something else. Now that Mum's gone, my father is all I have left. Do you think you could find him for me?"

By late afternoon, Gemma would have been happy to murder Gavin Farley herself. The veterinarian had obviously taken his solicitor's advice to keep his mouth shut, stating flatly that he knew nothing about Dawn Arrowood's affair with Alex Dunn, nor had he ever taken photos of either of them. Not even Sergeant Franks's natural belligerence in the interview room had goaded him into any further response.

She finished writing up another discouragingly noncommittal release for the press- though fat lot of good her discretion would do. The headline of the latest edition of the Daily Star glared at her from her desktop: Slasher Strikes Again- Is There a New Ripper Abroad?

The other papers had followed suit, if slightly more sedately, and the station switchboard had rung nonstop all morning with calls from citizens concerned about their personal safety.

Melody Talbot came into her office, collapsing into a chair with a groan.

"Any luck?" Gemma asked, although the expression on Melody's face told her it was a faint hope. "Did you find the photos?"

"Not a trace. All we turned up was a bit of ash floating in the toilet. We interviewed Farley on Christmas Eve- if he'd got the wind up, he could have come in anytime on Christmas Day to destroy the evidence."

"Bloody sodding hell!" snapped Gemma, unable to contain her frustration. "The bastard!"

"Now what, boss?"

"What about Christmas Eve, then?"

"It took me all afternoon to track down Farley's neighbors. But in the meantime, I had a good natter up and down the street."

"And?"

"The upshot is, you couldn't find more reliable witnesses. Simmons is a banker; Mrs. Simmons belongs to every parents' organization imaginable. The neighbor across the street told me that the only reason the Simmonses put up with the Farleys' social invitations is that Mrs. Simmons wants to stay on good terms with Mrs. Farley, because their kids share rides to school and sports. So that's pretty well that. What about your end?"

"Now I go and give the super a progress report. But I'm not giving up on this. Get the surgery's phone records. If Farley was blackmailing Dawn, he had to have communicated with her somehow."

Superintendent Lamb listened impassively while she recited the day's events.

"What about the area where the scalpel was found?" he asked when she'd finished. "Have you had a forensics team in?"

"Yes, sir. They've gone over the rubbish bin and anything else he might have touched in the immediate vicinity. So far no prints have matched anyone involved in our inquiries. We've also had a team questioning anyone who lives nearby, and we've put out a notice asking for help from anyone who might have been passing."

"We've got to turn up something, Gemma." He nodded at the newspapers spread out on his desk. "Not to mention I've had the commissioner on the phone. Arrowood's friends have been complaining loudly about our failure to prevent his death- and I can't say I blame them."

"I know, sir." It took an effort of will, as well as clenched teeth, to stop Gemma venting her frustration. The super didn't care how hard they'd tried; he wanted results. She realized suddenly that this was the first time she'd had to assume responsibility for failure in a difficult case without Kincaid as a buffer.

"I'm not criticizing your work," Lamb added with uncomfortable proximity to her thoughts. "But perhaps you need to put the pieces back in the box, shake them up and dump them out again, to see if they settle a different way. Sometimes we get so attached to one idea that we can't see another under our nose."

"Superintendent Kincaid's following up something different, sir. Some information pertaining to the first victim, Marianne Hoffman."

"And you're still convinced these cases are related?"

"I don't discount coincidence, of course. But in this instance, my gut feeling is that there must be a link, if only we could see it."

Lamb nodded. "Perhaps. Any more problems with Sergeant Franks, by the way?"

"Not at the moment." Although she'd had her reasons for asking Franks to lead this morning's interview with Gavin Farley, Franks seemed to have taken it as a personal commendation and had been almost solicitous to her for the remainder of the day. She knew she walked a fine line between gaining his cooperation and compromising her authority, but for the moment it was working.

"And your liaison with Scotland Yard?"

"Fine, sir," Gemma answered, feeling awkward. She was certain that Lamb was aware of her personal relationship with Kincaid, but he'd never said anything directly.

Lamb smiled, confirming her suspicions. "I hear congratulations of a sort are in order." She must have gaped at him, because he added, "On your move. Duncan and I are old friends. I wish you luck in putting up with him on a regular basis."

Swallowing, Gemma grabbed at her opportunity. "There is one other thing, sir. It's just that I'm pregnant. The baby's due in May, but I won't be taking more than minimum leave. And it will in no way-"

"Congratulations! That's wonderful news." Lamb looked genuinely delighted. "Although I hate to lose you for even a short while, you take as much time as you need, Gemma. Will I be getting an invitation?"

"An invitation?"

"To the wedding, of course."

Gemma felt the blood drain from her face, then rush back in like petrol set alight. This was the one response she hadn't expected, and she was utterly unprepared.

"Oh, I'm far too stubborn to make a good candidate for marriage," she heard herself saying lightly. And besides, she thought, he hasn't asked me.

When Gemma sat down in her office to change into her boots, she found that her hands were shaking. So much worry expended, so much dread over confessing her condition, and it had turned out to be no problem at all. Of course it remained to be seen how things at work would develop in the long term, but she had passed the first hurdle.

She felt suddenly exhilarated, and was glad that when Kincaid had rung asking if he should pick her up, she'd said she'd walk home. It wasn't far, and the cold air might clear her head of the giddy rush brought on by relief.

It was dark when she came out of the station, the remaining snow gleaming pale gold in the glow of the sodium lamps. In spots the slush was glazing over; she had better tread carefully.

She'd buttoned the top of her coat and started towards Ladbroke Grove when a voice called softly from the shadows. "Inspector."

Surprised, Gemma turned. A small figure wearing a peacoat stepped forward, and in the light she saw that it was Fern Adams. Fern wore a striped Peruvian cap over her spiky hair, and her face was unadorned by jewelry except for the sparkle of a tiny stud in her left nostril.

"Can I speak to you for a minute, Inspector? It's just that I thought…"

Glancing back at the station, Gemma immediately rejected it as intimidating, but it was too cold to stand about chatting on the pavement. She gestured towards the Ladbroke Arms across the street. "Let's go in the pub, shall we?"

The pub was busy, the noise level reflecting holiday hysteria, but they managed to find a table in the back. When Gemma offered to buy Fern a drink, the girl seconded her request for orange juice.

When Gemma came back from the bar, Fern said, "I don't drink much," as if she felt an apology were needed. "Personal reasons."

"Nor me," Gemma said, "at the moment. Did you want to see me about something in particular?"

"It's Alex. I heard about last night… about Karl Arrowood… and I- There's something I thought you should know. Alex told me about finding the body, and about watching the house beforehand. He told me about taking my knife. And he said that you knew all about it. But there's something he didn't tell you." Fern glanced up, and before her eyes flicked away Gemma saw that they were green. "He didn't go home last night after he found Karl, like he said. He came straight to my flat, a little after nine. He had a tiny bit of blood on his finger, where he'd reached out to touch the body, and he scrubbed and scrubbed at it in my sink."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because there was nothing else. Nothing! Because I know that Alex didn't kill Karl. He was so upset- he said he'd never seen anyone he knew dead before… and he said it made him think of Dawn."

"What time did he leave your flat?"

"After midnight. I made him tea- that's all I had- and eventually he calmed down."

Fern was leaving something out. "Then why didn't he tell us he came to you?"

"I don't know. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I think he has some crazy idea of protecting my honor or something. Today he kept muttering about not wanting me to be involved. Unless…" Fern straightened the stack of coasters, then pushed them away. "Unless he didn't want to admit he'd been with me because it would seem like he'd been disloyal to her memory."

"Dawn?"

"It was hard enough to measure up to her when she was alive- but now she can never be less than perfect, can she?" Fern asked her bitterly. "There's no way I can compete with a ghost."

"Okay." Kit shuffled a stack of small, oblong cards. "Are you ready for another one? What plant did the monk Gregor Mendel use for his experiments in genetics?"

"That's not fair," said Gemma from the sink, where she and Kincaid were doing the washing-up from dinner. "You haven't given us any choices for the answer."

"That makes it too easy," protested Kit. "Just guess."

Kincaid dried a saucepan with a flourish. "I don't have to guess. I know the answer. Sweet peas."

"Oh, majorly unfair," howled Kit. "I'm going to find a harder question."

"What? You want us to guess but you don't want us to get it right?" teased Kincaid. "Why don't you take Toby upstairs for his bath while we finish up in the kitchen? That way we'll have more story time."

Toby was under the table, playing with a new tugboat and singing to himself, utterly oblivious to the history of biology going on over his head.

Gemma and Kincaid were taking turns reading to Toby before bed, a practice Gemma had acquired from Kincaid in the time they had known him. It was something her family had not done, so that she enjoyed old books as much as new, and often found herself wishing she'd had the comfort of such a bedtime ritual as a child. She found it touching that since they'd moved into the house, Kit, who of course was allowed to stay up a good deal later, seemed to find some reason to come upstairs just in time to curl up on his bed for the night's offering.

As the boys trooped upstairs after the expected grumbling, Gemma thought about the success of Kit's Christmas gifts. The science questions were an obvious hit; the lead soldiers were proudly arrayed on his desktop, where he could continually rearrange their formations; and although he hadn't said anything directly about the photo of his mother, Gemma noticed that he'd put it on his nightstand.

"I haven't had a chance to tell you what happened today," she told Kincaid as she hung up the dishcloth. "I came out to Superintendent Lamb."

He gave her a quizzical look. "Came out?"

She patted her stomach. "I am now officially pregnant. I can bulge as much as I like."

"That's terrific, love," he exclaimed, giving her a hug. "I take it he was politically correct?"

"More than." Remembering what else Lamb had said, her smile faded. She was not going to mention that! "Fern Adams came to see me just as I was leaving the station," she added, wanting to change the subject. "She wanted me to know that Alex came to her flat after he left the crime scene last night."

"Why tell you? It doesn't provide him an alibi."

"I'm not sure. She's a bit of an odd duck, and something of a loner. I had the feeling she wanted a chance to plead Alex's innocence… and that maybe she just wanted to talk to someone."

"You do tend to radiate empathy like the pied piper," said Kincaid.

Hearing an odd note in his voice, Gemma turned to look at him. "What?"

"I'm just wondering about Bryony Poole. Has it occurred to you that she's as tall as a man, and probably as fit? And that she might have made up the business about the photos of Dawn and Alex just to put suspicion on Farley?"

"You're not saying you think Bryony could be the killer? I don't believe it! And even if she were physically capable, what motive could she possibly have?"

"If we knew that, we'd be laughing, wouldn't we? Maybe she was in love with Karl-"

"That's ridiculous. She's crazy about Marc Mitchell, and besides that, it doesn't account for Marianne Hoffman."

"True. I just think the idea is worth considering. And can we afford to overlook anything at this point?"

There was no arguing with that, but Gemma didn't feel any happier with the idea of investigating someone she'd come to think of as a friend.

Not even half an hour of The House at Pooh Corner improved her temper, and she went to bed still cross with Kincaid. Glad enough to have Geordie's warm body as a barrier between them, she found herself wondering if combining home and work was really such a good idea.