And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Alex drove down the lane until it came to an end. After that, he left the car and walked, finding his way blindly through the marsh. But the smell of salt drove him on, until at last he sank down into a tangled clump of grass, looking out over the dark expanse of the sea.

It couldn't be true, could it, what he had imagined? He must be raving, delirious; it was an absurd fantasy. There had to have been hundreds- thousands- of young men that age in London at that time who were blond and handsome, and who had the means to wear nice clothes and drive an expensive car.

It didn't mean the money had come from the sale of the drug that had destroyed his mother- nor did it mean that the particular young man Jane had described had been Karl Arrowood.

But what difference did it make, if it were true? Alex wondered. It was an accident of genetics, that was all. It was nothing to do with him, or who he had become.

He could find out the truth, perhaps, simply by showing Jane a photograph of Karl Arrowood. But did he really want to know?

All his certainties had been torn from him, beginning with Dawn's death, and he had begun to see that if he were to survive, he must put himself back together, piece by piece. He must decide what mattered, and what did not. Was his mother important, if it came to that? Wasn't it his life with Jane that was real, those years of her care and concern that had shaped him?

He loved this place, that he knew. He loved Jane. He loved Fern, he realized, who had been such a staunch friend.

And he loved the porcelain that had spoken to him since he was a child. He thought of the blue-and-white delft bowl, now tucked into the display cabinet in his flat, and of the lives through which it had passed. All suffering faded, given time, as did all joys, but they left their imprint upon such objects, providing comfort for those who came after.

It gradually occurred to Alex that he was cold, and terribly hungry. The wind blowing off the bay tugged at his clothes, finding every tiny gap, reminding him that his flesh was subject to its whims.

It was then he realized that such things mattered desperately to him; that he wanted food and warmth and companionship. That, surely, was a good thing; a beginning. He would deal with the nightmares and the memories of Dawn and his mother as he must, but in the meantime, life would go on. He would go on.

He brushed himself off and went home to Jane.

Angel had just sent Evan home on the afternoon that Neil and Nina Byatt were arrested by Scotland Yard. It seemed that the Yard had got wind of the fact that the Russian icons Neil was selling at auction had been carefully packed with top-grade heroin. Some of the icons had gone to private buyers as well- all in all, the price of Russian art objects had skyrocketed.

After the first shock, Angel felt a rush of relief that it hadn't been Karl- and then she began to wonder why it hadn't been Karl. Neil and Nina worked for him; the artifacts came into the country through his connections. Why didn't Karl seem worried that the police might spring on him next?

After a few days, she managed to get in to see Nina during the prison's visiting hour. As Angel came in, Evan and his grandmother were leaving. The woman smelled of stale sweat and must, and very faintly, of illness- a combination of odors that Angel would forever after associate with righteousness. "God will see you in hell for this," the woman hissed at her. Evan reached out towards her, his small face pinched with misery, but his grandmother snatched him away.

Shaken, Angel sat down at the visitor's table, but Nina looked no happier to see her than had her mother. Nor did she look well. Her face was pale and drawn, her long, lustrous hair dank and flat, as if the life had drained from it.

"You have a lot of nerve, coming here," spat Nina. "More than I gave you credit for."

"But I wanted to see you. You're my friend-"

"Friend? As long as you have anything to do with Karl Arrowood, you have no friends."

"But surely we could do something to help- I could take care of Evan-"

"Don't you touch my son! You just don't see it, do you, Angel? You really don't know what's happened?"

"Nina! What are you talking about?"

"Your bloody Karl shopped us, that's what. The police must have found out about the business. They couldn't quite pin it on him because he never actually touched the stuff- He just planned everything. But they were making his life a misery, interfering with his transactions. So he made them a deal."

"A deal?" whispered Angel.

"Yeah. Neil and me, red-handed. So now they leave Karl alone, and my son will be grown before I can be with him again."

"I don't- He wouldn't-" Angel protested, but faintly. Things were adding up too fast. That's why Karl hadn't been worried: He'd known already that he had no cause for concern.

"There's got to be something I can do, Nina. I want to help you."

Nina glared at her with contempt. "It's too late for that. And it's too late for you, too, Angel."

She went straight to the shop, finding Karl alone for once. "You've got to help the Byatts," she told him. "I know what you did to them, and you've got to do something to make it right."

He looked amused. "And what exactly do you suggest?"

"Tell the police the stuff isn't theirs-"

"You're not suggesting I lay claim to several kilos of uncut heroin myself, are you? And why do you think the police would believe me, Angel? They have hard evidence in their hands connecting the Byatts to the drug sale- They're not going to give that up for some pie-in-the-sky story."

"Nina says you set them up."

"Well, she would, wouldn't she? She and Neil refuse to take responsibility for their own carelessness."

She stared at him, furious, unconvinced. "What if I tell the police what you've done?"

"Assuming they were stupid enough to arrest me on hearsay, it still wouldn't help the Byatts." His finger touched her under the chin. "But if they did arrest me, then where would you be? Have you thought about that, Angel?"

In that instant she knew that all her protest had been a sham- she could do nothing for her friends. She hated Karl, but she hated herself even more.

"What about their little boy?" she demanded. "What will happen to Evan?"

Karl shook his head, as if disappointed in her lack of understanding. "I really don't think that's any of my concern, do you?"

Bryony rolled over and squinted at the red glow of the clock once more, then turned on her back with a sigh. Monday morning, and New Year's Eve to boot. But there was no point getting up until the central heating switched itself on at six, and she had a half-hour to go.

Beside her, Duchess lay on her back as well, her paws twitching as she ran in some tantalizing doggy dream.

What had she come to, Bryony wondered, a woman approaching thirty whose only bed companion was a large and hairy dog?

That thought, however, led her to Marc, and that was a subject too distressing for the predawn hours. Much better to think about her brief career as a murder suspect, she told herself with an attempt at humor. Superintendent Kincaid's smarmy, schoolboy sergeant had made her sound like a harpy as well as a killer- and what was even worse, she had felt inexplicably guilty. Now, even though her family had, of course, confirmed her story, she had to live with the memory of her furious, stammering humiliation as the policeman questioned her.

She knew Gavin had burned those sodding photos in the toilet, the bastard. Nor, she found, did she have any trouble believing that Gavin had been blackmailing- or attempting to blackmail- Dawn. But she could not bring herself to imagine that Gavin had killed Dawn- She couldn't go on getting up and going in to work with him, if she did.

The hot water from the boiler grumbled and clanked its way into the radiator; a moment later she heard the coffeemaker click on. No, of course Gavin hadn't killed Dawn, she thought as she threw back the covers. There simply must be some other explanation.

An hour later, somewhat fortified by a hot shower and coffee, she reached in her coat pocket for her keys and found nothing. After digging deeper with no success, she turned her coat upside down and shook it. She hadn't locked the flat this morning when she'd taken Duchess out, but she had certainly let herself in with her keys last night- had she just put them somewhere else?

Her panic mounted as she tried every likely spot in the flat. It wasn't so much her inability to lock the flat that worried her. Duchess had a big bark, and if anyone was brave enough to ignore the dog, there wasn't much to steal.

But without her keys, she wouldn't be able to get into the surgery, and that was essential. The thought of having to ring Gavin and ask him to drive over from Willesden with his own set gave her renewed energy for her search.

It was only when she been through the flat a third time that she remembered the spare keys in her kitchen drawer. A thorough turning out of the drawer, however, revealed no keys. Bryony sat down, completely baffled, and it was from that angle she saw a metallic gleam under the edge of Duchess's dog bed. Duchess watched her as she retrieved the keys, her tail innocently wagging.

"You haven't turned into a magpie, have you, girl?" Bryony said, hugging the dog in relief. The keys must have fallen from her pocket and got kicked or batted across the floor. Duchess had been known to play football occasionally with small objects.

But what had happened to the keys from the kitchen drawer? She could think of no explanation for their disappearance at all.

She knew her day was not improving when she arrived at the surgery and found Gemma James waiting for her, with Geordie. Gemma was the last person she wanted to see at the moment.

"Bryony, I'm sorry to show up so early without an appointment, but there's something wrong with Geordie's eye."

The dog cocked his head at Bryony, wagging his tail, and she could see that his left eye was indeed inflamed. "Well, let's get him inside, shall we?" she said, unlocking the door and switching on the lights. "Take him in Room One. I'll be there as soon as I find his chart."

"I feel like a mum with a new baby," Gemma said as Bryony came into the exam room. "I'd no idea whether or not it was serious, or what I should do, and I have to go to work this morning."

Bryony softened a little. "Don't worry. It's usually better to panic than ignore- just like with kids."

"Bryony…" Gemma fidgeted with the dog's lead, and Bryony saw that she looked tired and strained. "Geordie's not the only reason I came. I owe you an apology for what-"

"You were just doing your job. I understand."

"No. It wasn't my call, even though I understood Superintendent Kincaid's point. But I never doubted anything you told me."

"Not even the photos?"

"Especially not the photos. And the fact that Mr. Farley must have destroyed them when he knew we might search the surgery makes me very uneasy."

"Yeah, me, too," Bryony admitted. "But he's not coming in today, so that's something. After the morning I've had, I don't think I could deal with Gavin's sulking and bullying- or gloating because he thinks he's put something over on the police. That's the worst."

"What happened to you this morning? I noticed you were late."

"I lost my keys and had a major panic," Bryony explained as she lifted Geordie up on the table. "I found them again, but after the burglary here, having my keys turn up missing gave me a fright. What if I'd left them in the surgery door, or dropped them on the pavement for anyone to find?" To her horror, she felt her eyes smart with tears.

"Let's get your temperature, Geordie," she said briskly, turning away and reaching for the thermometer. "Has he shown any unusual symptoms, besides the eye? He's eating and drinking normally?"

"Yes, but now that you mention it, he did seem a bit dozy yesterday."

"His temperature is a little elevated. That would account for it. Now, let's see that eye."

After a thorough examination of the dog's eyes, ears and mouth, Bryony said, "He's got a slight infection, but it's only the one eye. Cockers are prone to this sort of thing, because their eyes are large and exposed. If they get a bit of foreign matter lodged under the lid, the eye gets irritated and bacteria can get a start.

"I'm going to give you some ointment and some tablets you can begin as soon as you get him home. Bring him back on Wednesday if the eye hasn't improved."

As Gemma collected her medications, she said, "How's Marc, by the way?"

"Fine, I suppose…" Bryony felt an unexpected urge to share what had been eating at her the past few days. "I haven't heard a word from him since Christmas."

"Well, sometimes the holidays take people that way. I wouldn't worry too much. Bryony… I know it's none of my business, but didn't you say that Gavin is always complaining about the surgery's profitability? I think you might want to visit him at home sometime."

Bryony groaned. "Are you saying that Gavin is cheating me?"

"I'm just saying he's living quite comfortably. And, um… you might want to check over the books. It seems he's had a bit of trouble in the past with the Inland Revenue."

At first Angel was determined that she would go to Nina's trial, to defy Karl even if Nina didn't want her support. But as the time drew near, she found she hadn't the strength to face Nina's hatred again.

And Karl had been more difficult lately, always watching her, checking up on her. He'd removed the ready supply of heroin from the flat, insisting that it was a precautionary measure against being searched by the police, and instead brought her just enough for each day. What he gave her was stronger than what she'd been using, and she suspected it grew a little more so as the weeks went by. If she kept this up, would she some day lose consciousness; perhaps die from an overdose? How very convenient for him- an easy solution to the problem of the girl who knew too much.

Once, as the summer faded into autumn, she tried to visit Evan. She found him playing alone in his grandmother's front garden, but when she knelt to hug him, the boy stiffened and pulled away from her. "You took my mother away!" he shouted at her. "It's all your fault! My granny says so."

She gasped. "Evan, no! I would never hurt you like that. I love you. Look"- she opened her locket- "I still have your picture."

For a moment, she thought she had reached him. Then he spat in her face.

The trials took place in October of 1969. The court showed no leniency; Nina went to one prison, Neil to another.

At first, Angel sent Nina a card every few weeks, but each card came back, unopened. In January, she heard from a mutual friend that Nina had been ill with a bad cold and cough. Then, a few weeks later, the friend rang to tell her that Nina had died. She'd had pneumonia, but the prison doctors hadn't diagnosed it until too late.

Angel was still grappling with Nina's death when, a week later, she heard that Neil Byatt had found a way to hang himself in his cell. Poor, melancholy Neil, who had doted on his wife to the exclusion of all else, even his son, had not been able to go on without her.

It was then Angel realized she had two choices. She could follow Neil's example- or she could leave Karl, regardless of the consequences.

The first was beyond her courage. If she chose the second, she would have to do it now, or she would lose her resolution. She stuffed a few things in a bag, including the few bits of her father's jewelry she'd saved over the years, then walked round the flat, thinking how little imprint she'd made upon it. It was Karl's- the decor, the furniture, the art- in the end none of her contributions had mattered. She was insignificant.

Then Karl walked in, home hours earlier than expected.

Her heart plummeted. "What are you doing here?"

"I felt like closing the shop. And I might ask you what you're doing?" His tone held the faint amusement that had come to characterize his conversations with her, as if it were unthinkable to take her seriously.

She was suddenly furious. "I'm leaving, that's what I'm doing. Did you know that Nina and Neil are both dead?"

"Of course. Are these two things somehow connected?"

"You bloody well know they are. You sacrificed them deliberately, to save yourself, and I can't live with that- or with you- any longer."

"You won't leave," he said, still with a trace of a smile.

"I will. Are you going to try to stop me?"

"No. But if you go, I promise you you'll regret it. You have nothing, and no one, and you can't go a day without a fix. And I have friends, connections, everywhere. I'll know where you are."

It was as open a threat as he ever made, and Angel felt the fear sucking at her like quicksand. "What happened to you, Karl? There was good in you, once. And you loved me- I know you did."

His gaze softened, as if memory touched him. Then he pinched his lips together and shook his head. "You can't allow sentiment if you're going to get on, Angel. You know that. There's no room for weakness."

"Isn't there?" A small spasm of pity stirred within her, but it was too late for that. If she didn't act now, she would be lost. She picked up her bag and walked out the door.

Having stopped at the house to leave Geordie in Kit's care, Gemma pulled the car up at the station, but hesitated before getting out. She had turned Ronald Thomas's name over to Sergeant Franks with a request to search the Notting Hill database- There was nothing more she could do on that front.

But while Melody's team had gone through the Arrowoods' house looking for Karl's will with no success, and Karl's solicitor reported having only the version Karl had given him on his marriage to Dawn, dividing his estate between his wife and his children, Gemma couldn't quite silence a nagging worry over the matter. Had it been merely some remark of Karl's that had made Dawn ring up Sean Arrowood, or had she actually seen evidence that Karl meant to cut his sons from his will?

Coming to a sudden decision, she dashed into the station and picked up the Arrowoods' keys. She would not be content until she had searched the house herself.

She began in the obvious places, those she knew Melody's team had already searched: the desk and bookshelves in Karl's study, the shelves and cubbies in his wardrobe. An hour later, tired and disheveled, she sat back on her heels in front of the wardrobe. She should give it up, finish her paperwork at the station, go home early to begin preparing the quiet New Year's Eve supper she and Duncan had planned with the boys.

The house echoed around her in the unique way of empty dwellings, every creak and shift magnified. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the house were speaking to her, then she shook her head at such an absurd fancy. Unbridled imagination, that was all it was. Still… Getting up, she moved to Dawn's closet and pulled open the doors. The clothes rustled with the draft, as if drawing breath, and the scent of Dawn's perfume drifted out, elusive and evocative.

On hands and knees, Gemma squeezed into the narrow space and pulled the storage box from beneath the bottom shelf. This time she took it out into the bedroom and removed each item, one by one. She found the paper, folded neatly into a small square, in the very bottom book, an illustrated copy of Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons. It was a will, all right, signed by Karl Arrowood and duly witnessed. In it, he left his personal property to his wife, Dawn Smith Arrowood, with small provisions for his sons, Sean and Richard Arrowood. Arrowood Antiques and all its assets he gave to his son, Alexander Julian Dunn.

Gemma read the line again. Alex? Alex was Karl's son? Bloody hell!

She drew a breath, trying to piece together the sequence of events leading to Dawn's death. Had Dawn come across the will by accident? Or had she searched for it after Karl's row with Richard, trying to ascertain if he really meant to do what he'd said? Or had the row prompted her phone call to Sean, and that meeting had then led to her search for the will?

In all likelihood, she would never learn the answers to those questions. What she did know, without a doubt, was that Dawn had learned Alex was Karl's son. And then she had found that she was pregnant with Alex's child.

"Dawn knew?" As if his knees had suddenly dissolved, Alex collapsed onto his sofa.

"She didn't tell you?" Gemma asked.

"No! How long did she- had she- I mean-"

"You don't seem surprised to learn that Karl was your father."

"When I saw my aunt Jane, she described the man my mother was seeing when she was pregnant with me. I wasn't absolutely sure, but now… Oh, my God…" He stood and began to pace, running his fingers through his thick hair until it stood up in hedgehog prickles. "Poor Dawn. She must have been terrified, devastated. She'd chosen the worst person imaginable to fall in love with, the one person Karl could never forgive- and then she found she was carrying Karl's grandchild."

"It's possible she was drawn to you because of some resemblance, some similarity. Karl saw something of himself in you, obviously, that he didn't find in his acknowledged sons."

"It was the love of antiques. He told me once that he felt a kinship with me, because I recognized the value of beautiful things. He wanted to teach me; every time I came into the shop, he would have something new to show me." Alex frowned. "But if he knew I was his son, why didn't he come forward years ago?"

"Perhaps he lost track of you as a child, and it was only meeting you that triggered some spark of familiarity. He certainly had the resources to go on from there. Or it might have been his disappointment with Sean and Richard that made him search for you, and lo and behold, you were right on his doorstep."

"But if he knew about me- and he must have, if he took my mum to see Jane while she was pregnant with me- why did he let such terrible things happen to my mum? And me, until Jane took me in."

"I don't suppose there's any way you can know that, now," Gemma said softly. "But perhaps he meant to make amends. He left his business to you. I've just found the will. Dawn had hidden it among her things."

"His business? Arrowood Antiques? You're not serious!"

"Absolutely. The document was dated in mid-October, which I believe is about the time he had a huge row with Richard."

"But if he knew about Dawn and me, he'd have changed it, surely. Maybe he never-"

"I told him. The day of Dawn's funeral." Seeing Alex's appalled expression, she added hastily, "We had no choice. We still considered him a major suspect at that point."

"And he- was he terribly angry?"

Thinking back over their graveside interview with Karl, Gemma felt an acute sense of loss, as well as renewed guilt over her failure to prevent Karl's death. "He seemed more shocked than angry," she told Alex. "I remember noticing that he said, 'Oh no, not Alex- It couldn't be Alex,' rather than, 'Not Dawn,' and I thought at the time it was odd."

"He was kind to me… in spite of whatever else he may have done. I wish…"

"If the will is valid, you'll have the legacy he meant for you-"

"A business built on drugs? An inheritance he must have intended to change when he learned about Dawn and me?" Alex sounded aghast.

"Karl had a week between the time he learned about you and Dawn, and his death. And if he made another will, we didn't find it."

A shudder ran through Alex's lanky body. "Do you really think I could bear to profit by their deaths? And in spite of my dishonesty- and Dawn's? No." He shook his head vehemently. "I don't want any part of it."

She spent the first night in a shabby room in Earl's Court, far from Karl's usual haunts. Her money would scarcely stretch to cover a meal or two and a few more nights in similar accommodations, but by the second day that was the least of her worries.

Her body ached as if she had a bad case of flu; she was chilled and burning by turns, shaking and sick- and it was growing worse by the hour. Nothing would help her but a fix. But even if she'd had enough money to make a buy, her only connections were friends of Karl's, and contacting anyone associated with him was a risk she could not take.

She lay on the bed, shivering, as the shadows of the early winter dusk filled the room. The chills grew harder. Drawing her knees up into a fetal curl, she pulled the pillow over her head, but nothing offered relief.

At last, when it was fully dark, she gathered her few things and left the hotel. Too unsteady to walk, too nauseated to risk tube or bus, she hailed a taxi, regardless of the cost.

By the time she reached Notting Hill, it was all she could do to fumble the coins into the driver's hand and climb out onto the pavement. The street looked just as she remembered it- crumbling stucco, peeling paint, uncollected rubbish piled on the stoops- but her heart clenched in a faint spasm of hope. This place held no connection with Karl, no memories of him. And as he'd never known this part of her life, he would have no reason to look for her here.

She climbed the stairs, clinging to the railing and breathing a silent prayer that they would still be here. Where else could she turn?

It was Ronnie who answered her tentative knock. "Angel? What you doing here?"

As he gazed at her in surprise, she took in the changes in him, visible in the lines of his face and the way he held himself. Boyish brashness had matured into a quiet assurance.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his shock turning quickly to concern. "You're trembling-"

"I- I need- I can't-" Words failed her. How could she tell him what she had become?

But he had seen it often enough to know the signs. Gently, he took her hand and pushed up the sleeve of her sweater. "Oh, Jesus Christ." He looked up at her, dark eyes meeting hers. "I should never have let you go, Angel. Did he do this to you?" When she didn't answer, he said, "Never mind that now. I'm going to help you, don't you worry. You just trust me. Everything is going to be all right."

Gemma found Sergeant Franks waiting in her office when she returned from Alex's flat, his blunt face reflecting an odd combination of triumph and hesitation.

"What is it, Sergeant?" she asked, motioning him to a seat.

"Those phone records you were wanting, guv- I've got them. And you were right, Farley did make a number of calls to Dawn Arrowood, and the calls grew more frequent over the last few weeks before her death." Franks shifted in his chair, straightening his back as if it hurt him. "With that in hand, and you being out of the station this morning, I took the liberty of having Mr. Farley brought in, along with his shadow."

"Mr. Kelly?"

Franks nodded. "I told Mr. Farley we had records of his calls to Mrs. Arrowood, and I'm sorry to say his answer to that was as obstructive as ever. So… I practiced a bit of a deception on the man."

Gemma raised a noncommittal eyebrow, and after a moment, Franks went on. "I told him that Mrs. Arrowood had been no fool, and that she had recorded all their conversations, including the one the day before she died, in which he demanded that she say her cat was ill and that she bring it to the surgery."

"But if she didn't really record the calls, how did you know-"

"A good guess, guv. He did ring her that day, I had proof of that. The cat being ill the very next morning seemed a bit too convenient, if you know what I mean."

"So did he deny it?"

"No, funny enough. I suggested that he'd told her to bring money to the surgery, then when she didn't, he arranged to meet her again that evening. That knocked him for a loop. Mr. Kelly couldn't shut him up after that."

"You must have guessed right about the call. I can't imagine anything else putting the fear of God into him."

Franks allowed himself a small smile. "He said two thousand pounds was nothing to her, pin money, and he needed it to pay some debts. But she came to the surgery empty-handed, stalling him. Then when he got angry with her, she told him to go to hell, she'd tell her husband herself and he could do whatever he liked with his photos."

"Did he admit he met her again?"

"No. He says he went for a drink after work, trying to work out what to do, but he decided he'd no choice but to hope she was bluffing. When he heard she'd been killed, he thought she really had told Karl, and that Karl had killed her."

"But she didn't tell him, and he didn't kill her. So we're right back where we started."

"Afraid so, guv." Franks actually sounded as if he was sorry to disappoint her. "There is one other thing, though. You remember the name you asked me to run through our database?"

"Ronald Thomas?"

"That's the one. Well, it rang a bell somehow, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought I remembered the case. When I found the record, I was sure." Here Franks hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

"What is it, Gerry?"

He cleared his throat. "I was new on the beat then. It was the winter of seventy-one, a miserable wet night, visibility like the inside of a waterfall. There was a hit-and-run, at the bottom of Kensington Park Road."

"Oh, no," Gemma breathed with dawning comprehension. "Ronald Thomas?"

Franks nodded. "Torn up bad, he was. My first fatality accident. There were no witnesses, and we never found the responsible party."

"But you were sure it was an accident?"

"We had no reason to think otherwise. I was given charge of the death notification, and of interviewing the next of kin. But the widow-"

"That would have been Marianne Thomas?"

"I remember I was surprised at first," Franks said, coloring slightly, "to find she was white, I mean. In those days it wasn't so common. But she was so distraught I couldn't get a word of sense out of her, had to talk to the sister instead. She- Marianne Thomas- kept saying it was her fault, that she should never have come back, that she should have known he'd find her."

"He?"

"That's what I asked her. But then she stopped crying and went silent as death. After that she just rocked her baby and shook her head, over and over."

"And you didn't follow up?"

"Nothing to follow up," Franks said defensively. "She wasn't the one hurt, after all, and we had nothing else to go on, without her giving us a name, or some reason why someone would have wanted to hurt her husband."

"You said you talked to the sister- you mean Ron Thomas's sister? Do you remember her name?"

"I've printed you a copy of the file." Franks gestured to the manila folder on her desk. "It was Betty Howard, and the address was in Westbourne Park Road, here in Notting Hill."

Gemma met Kincaid in front of the rather shabby terrace in Westbourne Park Road, just a few yards from the veterinary surgery on All Saint's Road. She had told him about Ronald Thomas's death, and about finding Karl's will.

"So if Dawn told Alex about the will, he had the perfect motive for killing Karl," Kincaid mused. "And for killing Dawn, for that matter, because she knew that he knew. Perhaps the paper knife was a blind," he added, warming to his theme, "and he intended all along to use a scalpel. Alex is Bryony's friend- he could easily have taken a scalpel from the surgery-"

"But we know he can't have murdered Dawn," Gemma protested. "Because of Otto's and Mr. Canfield's evidence. And I'd swear he didn't know about the will. Not to mention the fact that Alex has no connection with Marianne Hoffman." She looked up at the terraced house before them, its once ornate plasterwork now worn and chipped at the edges. "It's flat C we want."

In contrast to the building's deteriorating plaster and stained stucco, the green paint on the front door was fresh, and as they entered the foyer they were met by the aroma of exotic spices. It became clear as they climbed that the scents emanated from the top floor, and Gemma's mouth watered involuntarily.

The occupant of flat C was middle-aged and pleasantly stocky, with abundant graying hair tied up in a bright Caribbean scarf.

"Mrs. Howard?" asked Kincaid. When she nodded in the affirmative, he introduced himself and Gemma, explaining that they wanted to talk to her about her brother.

"Ronnie? After all this time?" She shook her head in consternation, but guided them into her sitting room, gesturing at them to sit as she sank into a large armchair. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't leave my kitchen for long. I'm cooking a stew- two of my daughters are here visiting."

As they sat down, footsteps came from the rear of the flat. "That should be my son," said Mrs. Howard. "He can look after-"

Wesley came into the room and stopped dead, staring in astonishment at Gemma.

"Wesley," said his mother, "these people are from the police. Can you see to the lunch while I talk to them? Your sisters will be back from the shops soon."

"Mama, this is the lady I told you about, the one-"

"You made my angels!" exclaimed Gemma. "It was so kind of you, Mrs. Howard. They're lovely." At first she had registered merely a jumble of color and shapes in the flat- now she saw that there was a sewing machine and many scraps and bolts of colorful fabrics.

"You didn't know this was my mother?" asked Wesley, looking utterly baffled. "You didn't come to see me?"

"No, it's something else entirely," said Gemma. "We wanted to talk to your mother about your uncle, Ronald Thomas."

"The stew can wait, Mama." Wesley moved a bolt of red beaded satin from a chair and sat down. "I want to hear this, too."

"Didn't you tell me you had an uncle that was a photographer?" asked Gemma. "Was it by any chance this uncle?"

"Yeah. He was brilliant, my uncle Ronnie. But what you want to know about him for?"

"It's his wife, actually," Kincaid explained. "We thought your mother might be able to tell us something about her background."

"Angel?" whispered Mrs. Howard. When they looked at her in surprise, she said, "That's what we called her. It was me started it, when we were kids, and I've wondered since if I cursed her somehow. I never knew anyone whose life was less blessed."

Gemma glanced at Kincaid, who gave her a barely perceptible nod of encouragement. "Mrs. Howard, were you aware that your sister-in-law is dead?"

"Oh, no." Mrs. Howard clutched a hand to her breast. "Not Angel, too?"

"How did it happen?" asked Wesley. "Was she ill?"

"She was murdered, two months before Dawn Arrowood," Gemma replied gently. "And in the same way. Since Dawn's death, we've been trying to find a connection between the two victims."

Mrs. Howard stood abruptly. "You'll excuse me. I have to see to my stew." She disappeared into the kitchen, and after a moment they heard her sobbing.

Frowning, Wesley told them, "You have to understand. They were, like, best friends. Sisters, almost. She's said for years that one day Angel would come back."

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell her about her friend's death. I suppose if they had lost contact, there's no way your mother could have known."

"I'd better see to her."

As Wesley joined his mother, Gemma took the opportunity to look round the room, curious as to its use. On closer inspection, she saw that there were rolls of wire framing interspersed among the bolts of fabric.

"She'll be all right," Wesley said softly as he returned from the kitchen. "It's just the shock. She's making us some coffee." Apparently having noticed Gemma's interest in his mother's materials, he added, "My mother makes costumes for Carnival, did I tell you that? She started back in the seventies when Carnival was a steel band going round the streets with a few kiddies following behind. Now it's big business- she works on the costumes all year."

Mrs. Howard returned with a tray holding mugs of milky coffee, her eyes red but dry. "I just can't believe it," she said as she handed round their drinks. "I thought I would have felt it if something happened to her- especially something so terrible."

"Wesley said you were best friends," prompted Gemma.

"Next-door neighbors. We moved into this building in 1959, straight off the boat from Trinidad. It was mostly Polish around here then and we weren't welcomed, except by Angel. Her parents were furious with her, but after a while they got used to us, and so did everyone else. She made a difference- There were other black families, immigrants like us, who had bottles thrown at their doors, and worse. But Angel told off the crowd that very first day, and after that we never had any serious trouble.

"Then when school began that autumn, we were in the same class, and after that we were like twins…"

"Why did you say she was cursed?" asked Kincaid.

Mrs. Howard shook her head. "So much death, no one should have to bear, both her parents gone by the time she was seventeen. She nursed her mother through a terrible cancer, right to the end. After Mrs. Wolowski passed, I remember Angel asking my mother if she could live with us. But my mother said no, Angel had to look after her father.

"When her father died a year later, Mama tried to take her in, but Angel refused. She was so stubborn, and her pride had been hurt. And there was Ronnie, criticizing her one minute and paying her no attention the next. I can't say I blame her for turning down my mother's offer, but she had no one else, and not a penny to her name. She took a job in a grocer's and moved into a flea-bitten bedsit. Ronnie was so furious when he saw the place that he wouldn't speak to her for weeks.

"Oh, he was cruel to her in those days. It was only later I understood it was because he loved her and he didn't dare admit it to himself, much less anyone else. Angel was only seventeen, and Ron was twenty- a great gap at that age. And she was white."

Intrigued by the story, Gemma asked, "How did they end up married, then?"

"Ah, that was a good few years later, after Angel had left us… or I should say, we let her go. She met a man- a boy, really, but to us at that age he seemed terribly sophisticated. What was his name? Hans… Kurt? Something like that. We only met him the once, but Ronnie despised him-"

"Karl? Was it Karl?" said Wesley, beating Gemma to it.

"You know, I think it was. But she would never talk about him, even after. That's not the man you were telling me was killed, Wesley?"

"We don't know," Gemma told her. "Please go on, Mrs. Howard."

"Well, as I said, she disappeared with this Karl, and we thought we would never see her again. Then one day five or six years later, she turns up at our door. She was in a bad way, so sick. I'd never seen anybody that sick. She'd left him, and she had nothing, nowhere to go, no one to help her."

"What was wrong with her?"

Mrs. Howard looked away as if she was ashamed. "It was the drug. He got her started on it."

"Heroin?" Wesley sounded as if the idea of anyone his parents' age using heroin astonished him.

"She was so desperate. We took her in- or Ronnie did. I was married to my Colin by then, but we were living here with my parents while we saved up for a flat. But Ronnie had a little place of his own, so he took her there." Mrs. Howard sat quietly for a moment, her eyes wet with tears. "I had never seen my brother like that. He was so strong with her, but gentle, even when she fought him. The first few days were terrible. We thought she might die, but she begged us not to call anyone.

"Ronnie never lost patience with her. I think at first he helped her because he felt responsible for what had happened to her, but as she got better he realized how much he loved her. They were married within six months, and little Eliza was born the next year. I think that they were truly happy… but sometimes I would see Angel watching Ronnie and the baby with the strangest look, as if she was afraid someone might snatch them away."

"And then Ronnie was killed," Gemma said softly.

"It was December of that year, a miserable night with a cold, blowing rain. He'd worked a wedding, over in Notting Dale, and was on his way home." Mrs. Howard stopped, folding her hands in her lap.

"It was a hit-and-run," supplied Wesley, who Gemma was sure knew the story by heart. "He was wearing a dark overcoat, and the police said the driver must not have seen him. They never found the driver."

"No. And Angel left us," continued his mother, "and took that poor baby with her. She said- Oh, it's all mixed up in my mind now, it's been so long- but there was something about friends who had died in prison- their name was Byatt, I do remember that, oddly enough, because we'd had a friend at school called Byatt- and Angel feeling it was her fault, that she had let it happen when she might have prevented it. They'd had a son, and she felt responsible for him. Then she said that she was terrified for us, that no one was safe around her, and that we must never try to find her."