CHAPTER FOUR

Opinions vary as to the start of the antiques trade in Portobello Road. One theory is that when the Caledonian Market, well known in prewar days as the place to buy a secondhand wardrobe or bedstead, closed in 1948, some of the displaced antique stalls set up in Portobello Road.

– Whetlor and Bartlett,

from Portobello

Gemma checked the address of Dawn Arrowood's friend in the A to Zed she kept in her car, locating the flat near the South Ken tube station. Near enough that she thought she would drive there unannounced, and informal enough to justify her going alone.

The rain began to slacken as she pulled away from the station, and it seemed natural to her that she should drive down the hill and stop for a moment in front of the house on St. John's Gardens.

It looked larger than she remembered from the previous eve-ning. More solid and prosperous. She thought of her parents' flat over the bakery, the cheap digs she had shared with a friend in her first days on the force, the tatty semidetached in Leyton she had bought with Rob, and now her tiny garage flat. Doubt flooded through her. Was she up to this house, with the expectations and commitment it represented?

Then she thought of her friend Erika Rosenthal's home a few blocks away, and of the sense of contentment and homecoming she'd experienced in those rooms. It came to her that with this house she was being offered a chance to create that life for herself; she would be a fool to pass it by.

She closed her eyes, gathering herself for her next task, and in that instant she had a vision. Distant and silent, as if viewed through the opposite end of a telescope: They were all together in the house, she and Kincaid, the boys, and a child whose face she could not see. The image vanished as abruptly as a bubble popping, but the sense of home and family stayed with her like a half-remembered dream.


***

Natalie Caine lived in a garden flat in Onslow Gardens. It was a chic address and the flat's entrance reflected it: shining paint and polished brass, flanked by perfect topiaries set in large Italian pots. The sound of a television came faintly from within. Gemma lifted the knocker and rapped lightly.

A woman opened the door so quickly that Gemma decided she must have been expecting someone else. Tall, slightly heavyset, with pale olive skin and a mass of frizzy dark hair pulled back with an oversized clip, she looked as if she had been crying. "Oh," she said, her brow creasing as she studied Gemma. "I thought you were someone come about the telly. But you're not, are you?"

"No, I'm afraid not." Gemma slipped her identification from her jacket pocket. "My name's Gemma James. Are you Natalie Caine?" When the woman nodded, Gemma continued, "I wondered if I might have a word with you about your friend Dawn Arrowood."

Natalie's face crumpled in a sob. She gestured Gemma into the flat, shaking her head in apology. "Sorry. I've been blubbing like a baby all morning. I just can't believe it's true."

Gemma sat opposite her in the sitting room. The velvet-cushioned Victorian love seat and chairs seemed incongruous with the sisal carpet and rattan blinds, but the effect was pleasing, if a little untidy- not unlike its owner. In one corner, a television gave out sound but no picture. "That's why I was trying to get the telly fixed," Natalie explained. "I thought I might see something on the news."

"Did someone ring you about Dawn?" Gemma asked.

"My mum, this morning. She heard from Dawn's mum. Poor Joanie… And Dawn was an only. Not like me." Natalie attempted a wavering smile. "When we were kiddies, Dawn always wanted to be at our house because she liked the hubbub, and I always wanted to be at hers because it was quiet."

"You've known each other a long time, then."

"Since grammar school. As much as Dawn wanted to get shut of anything to do with Croyden, she kept in touch with me. Even though we weren't exactly in her social league. I mean, Chris and I have done all right, but Dawn's husband wouldn't have given us the time of day."

"Did they get on all right, Dawn and her husband?"

Natalie looked uncomfortable. "Well, I don't want to be one to tell tales."

A sure sign that she only needed a bit of gentle encouragement, thought Gemma. "He's much older, isn't he? That must have caused some problems."

Natalie snorted. "Trophy wife might have been invented for Dawn. But she couldn't see it at first. It was so romantic. All this 'I vill take you away from thees sordid life' stuff."

Gemma suppressed a smile. "Did you tell her what you thought?"

"Even with your best friend, you can only go so far… But now I wish… I don't know. Maybe I could have done something, changed things somehow."

"Why? Do you think her husband might have had something to do with her death?"

"Oh, no! I didn't mean that. It's just that, if she hadn't been married to Karl, Dawn wouldn't have been where she was, would she? And it wouldn't have happened."

"The-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time theory," Gemma muttered, as much to herself as to Natalie. "So you can't think of any personal reason why someone would have wanted to harm Dawn?"

"Oh, no. She was… lovely. Luminous. You'd have to have known her." Natalie looked as if she might break down again.

Gently, Gemma probed, "Did you know your friend was pregnant?"

Natalie hesitated a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose there's no need to keep secrets now, is there? She wasn't sure until yesterday. She had an appointment with her doctor before we met for tea."

"How did she feel about that? About being pregnant?"

Again, Gemma sensed hesitation, then Natalie said slowly, "She was pleased about the baby, I think…"

"But?"

"She didn't know how Karl would react. He'd told her from the beginning he didn't want children."

"That seems a bit unfair. Surely he'd have accepted the situation. And he'd not have had much choice, unless she was willing to have an abortion?"

"Well, it's a bit more complicated than that." Natalie's olive skin colored. "He'd had a vasectomy- at least that's what he told Dawn."

The missing ingredient, thought Gemma. A lover. Now they were getting somewhere. "So Dawn was seeing someone else. Was this a casual affair, or something more serious?"

"She wouldn't have just, you know, gone off with anyone." Natalie spoke defensively. "I think she loved him. But she said there was no hope for them, because Karl would never let her go."

"How could he have stopped her?"

"That's what I said. Why couldn't she just walk out, file for divorce? But she said it was more complicated than that. And then I told her not to be so bloody materialistic, that she could do without Karl's money. She was pretty- more than pretty- she was smart, capable. She could make it on her own. I even told her I'd help her get her job back; we both worked for the BBC before she married Karl, and I'm still there. I could just kick myself now for being so hard on her! I didn't know I'd never get to see her again."

"Was she angry?"

"No. That would have been easier. But she just shook her head and kept saying that I didn't understand, that there were things I didn't know. She looked almost… frightened. You don't think… when you asked did I think Karl had something to do with her death…"

"We haven't ruled out the possibility of anyone's involvement, but it's early days yet. What can you tell me about Dawn's boyfriend?"

"Not much. I know his name's Alex, and that he sells porcelain in Portobello Market. I've never met him."

"It's a small world, the market. He shouldn't be too difficult to trace. Did he know about Dawn's pregnancy?"

"I doubt Dawn had said anything to him. She didn't know what she was going to do."

Glancing at her watch, Gemma saw that it was just after noon. The Portobello Market would still be in full swing, giving her a good opportunity to track down Alex the porcelain dealer.

As she thanked Natalie for her help and took her leave, Natalie stopped her with a touch, her eyes filling again with tears. "Could you let me know when you find out who did this? I don't want to hear it on the news."

"It's a promise," Gemma answered, and vowed to keep it.


***

Bryony stood beside Marc at the serving table, ladling hot vegetable soup into bowls. He added wheat rolls and apples to the trays before passing them on to the hungry and indigent waiting patiently in the queue. Clients, he preferred to call them, as he was providing them a service, and feeling the term identified them in a more positive way than saying "the homeless" or "the needy."

How like Marc, she thought, to show such sensitivity to the delicate nuances of self-respect. Here, he was in his element, always ready with an interested expression, or a kind word. And they responded, these "clients." For many he provided the first step towards rejoining mainstream life, but he had no less patience for those who would never leave the streets and the meager existence they provided.

Through the glass-fronted doors, Bryony could see those shoppers who'd been resolute enough to make it to the bottom end of the Portobello Road, and now milled round the graffiti-decorated pedestrian mall that had been built adjacent to the Motorway flyover. Marc's soup kitchen was only a few doors from the old Portobello School, with its two entrances marked separately for girls and boys.

"You're quiet today," he commented, when the last person had moved through the queue, a withered woman who favored him with a beatific toothless smile. "I'm sure we always have a bigger crowd on Saturdays when you come."

"Sorry. It's this business about Dawn Arrowood and Alex."

"I know," he replied somberly. "I haven't quite taken it in myself. But you know what really worries me? Fern. Now poor old Fern thinks she's going to save the day with Alex, and I doubt very much that's going to happen. And I'm not sure how convincingly sympathetic she can be, considering the fact that she despised Dawn Arrowood."

"I can't say I blame her, under the circumstances. And she never had a chance to get to know Dawn- not that I knew her well, but she seemed a really nice person."

"I doubt that would have mattered to Fern. I only hope Alex won't slap her down too hard."

"Fern's a grown woman- there's no law that says she can't make a fool of herself." Bryony heard her words hit a bit too close to home and flushed. The memory of Gavin's dig yesterday about her efforts to impress Marc still stung. "I just can't believe that Dawn is dead. She was right there in the clinic yesterday morning, worrying over her cat, with Gavin putting on his usual dog-and-pony show for her- you know how he is with pretty women-"

"An ordinary day, then."

"Except that Dawn always tolerated Gavin; she managed to ignore his advances graciously, if you know what I mean. But yesterday she seemed a little edgy, and when she came out of the examining room she looked like thunder. Didn't even hear me when I said good-bye."

"Maybe Gavin finally went too far."

Bryony shrugged. "I've always assumed Gavin's all bark and no bite."

"Could she have been upset about the cat?"

"It was just the usual abscessed bite. Tommy gets in fights, the little bugger." Bryony filled a second bowl of soup for a frail young man whose retriever looked in better shape than he did.

"Marc," she said slowly, "I've been meaning to ask you something, then with everything that's happened this morning it flew right out of my mind." She glanced at him, trying to gauge his responsiveness, then forced herself to go on. "Could I set up a weekly clinic for your clients' animals?"

"Here?"

She nodded. "I thought maybe on Sunday afternoons."

"But, Bryony, you know they couldn't pay."

"Of course not. But I could fund it myself in the beginning- it's my time that's the most expensive factor- then, if it takes off, I thought I could solicit donations in the neighborhood."

"But Bryony, it's too much-"

"I could only do vaccinations and minor injuries and illnesses, I know that, but surely that's better than no care at all."

"No, I mean it's too much for you. I don't think you realize how much of your time and energy this could take-"

"How can you say that to me? You live and breathe for this place; you sleep on a mattress upstairs; you barely have enough money to buy the occasional coffee-" Bryony felt the color stain her cheeks as she realized she'd gone too far. "Oh, Marc, I'm so sorry. I'd no right to say those things-"

"No, you're absolutely right. I sounded a self-righteous prig, telling you you weren't up to the task, and I owe you an apology." One of his rare smiles lit his face. "I think it's a splendid idea, and that you're equally splendid for thinking of it. When shall we start?"


***

Gemma left the car in the police station car park, knowing that the likelihood of parking anywhere near Portobello Road on a Saturday would be nil. As she walked along Ladbroke Road towards the market, she found that although the rain had stopped it was bitterly cold, and the bare branches of the trees were pearled with droplets.

By the time she reached the top end of Portobello Road, she was shivering, and she looked in envy at the one-way tide of shoppers, their brisk steps and bright eyes revealing an insatiable appetite for a bargain. But here the narrow, curving street held only flats and a few posh shops; they had a ways to go before reaching the stalls and arcades packed with imagined treasures.

She came to a complete halt in front of the entrance to the Manna Café, run by St. Peter's Church. Why not have some lunch and a hot drink to warm her up? Edging her way through the milling pedestrians, she crossed the pretty little courtyard and pulled open the café door, relaxing instantly as the warmth and cooking aromas enveloped her.

A half hour later, having devoured a hot bacon sandwich, she nursed a cup of tea and thought about what she had learned. Karl Arrowood was certainly shaping up odds-on favorite for prime suspect, and that was without taking into account the statistical likelihood that he had murdered his wife. If he'd had a vasectomy, and he'd suspected or discovered that his wife was pregnant, that certainly gave him motive. Opportunity was a given; he could even have been waiting for Dawn when she arrived home. What Gemma needed was corroboration, and if Arrowood had threatened his wife, Dawn might have told her lover.

When her waitress, a woman with pale Fräulein-like plaits wrapped round her head, brought her bill, Gemma said, "Do you by any chance know a porcelain dealer called Alex? Youngish, I think, and nice-looking?"

"That'd be Alex Dunn," the girl said in an accent nearer East London than East Germany. "I know he lives up the road, in one of the mews, but I've no idea which flat."

"Do you know where he trades in the market, then?"

"Um, I think his stall's in the arcade just down the road on the left, before you get to Elgin Crescent. Just ask anyone in the arcade. They'll point him out for you."

Gemma thanked her and left, feeling fortified to continue her search. As she walked on, the crowd grew ever thicker, and music drifted towards her. Reaching the intersection of Portobello and Chepstow Villas, the official beginning of Portobello Market, she paused to listen to the string quartet that was busking on the corner. A past acquaintance having made her kindly disposed towards buskers, she fished a pound coin from her bag and tossed it in the open violin case.

Continuing onwards, the strains of Mozart faded into the rhythm of a steel drum. A mime in painted face and costume enthralled watchers. In spite of herself Gemma found the cheerful, carnival atmosphere infectious. She would have to bring the children here, she resolved, one Saturday soon.

With reluctance, she left the bustle and color of the street for the more crowded and smoky confines of the arcade. At least, she thought, it was warm. Stopping at the first stall, which held a miscellany of small objects from pocket watches to penknives, she spoke to the vendor, a shriveled, heavily made-up woman with hennaed hair. "Do you know where I might find Alex Dunn?"

"His stall's right in the back, if that's what you mean, but you won't find him there today." The woman shook her head. "A terrible business, his friend being murdered and all." She leaned forward confidentially, wafting the smell of smoke and sour coffee into Gemma's face. "They're saying it's a regular Jack-the-Ripper killing. I don't know how I'm going to sleep in my own bed tonight."

There might be some others not sleeping in their own beds tonight, Gemma thought furiously, if she found out who had leaked that particular snippet. "I'm sure there's no need for you to worry," she soothed, forcing a smile. "Would you happen to know where Alex went?"

"Left this morning with young Fern Adams. Looked ghastly, he did- it was all poor Fern could do to keep him on his feet. But I've not seen hide nor hair of either of them since."

"Who's Fern Adams? Is she a friend of Alex's?"

"She's a silver vendor, has the stall next to his. Fern's family's had a stall or a barrow in the market since after the war; grew up in Portobello Courts, she did. She's a good girl, Fern, in spite of her looks." The natural suspicion that had been held in abeyance by the thrill of gossip suddenly asserted itself. "And why might you be asking all these questions, ducks?"

Gemma produced her warrant card. "It's just routine inquiries. Do you know where I could find Fern now?"

"I'd not be one to say," the woman told her, turning her attention to a waiting customer. Caution had obviously set in.

"Do you know anyone else I might speak to?" Gemma persisted, refusing to be ignored. "Friends of Alex who might know where he's gone?"

The woman scowled at her in annoyance. "I suppose you could try Otto's Café just round the corner in Elgin Crescent. I know Alex goes there, and some of the others."

As Gemma turned to leave, the woman relented and called out, "Mind you, there's no sign says Otto's. It's just that everyone knows it by that name. You can't miss it."


***

She recognized the café by the yellowed menu posted in the window. A babble of sound met Gemma as she opened the door. The café was packed with animated shoppers, but she spied one empty table near the back and made for it quickly. Once settled, she ordered a coffee from the young black man who appeared from the kitchen. He smiled at her when he came back with her drink, and as their eyes met, she felt the sort of instant connection she'd only experienced a few times in her life. There was nothing sexual about it; it was purely emotional, or even spiritual, as if they'd known each other in another context.

"What's your name?" she asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Wesley Howard."

"Mine's Gemma James. I've been told that Alex Dunn comes in here. Do you know him?"

Wesley's smile vanished. "Sure I know Alex. What you want wiv him?" When she showed him her warrant card, he gazed at her in surprise. "You the Bill? I would never have credited that. But you still don't tell me what you want wiv Alex."

"We'd like to interview anyone who knew Dawn Arrowood well."

"Can't say I ever met a Dawn Arrowood." Wesley was not a convincing liar.

"Alex was having an affair with her. And if you're his friend I don't believe for a minute that you didn't know about it."

"And what if I did?"

"She was killed last night, and I don't believe that news hasn't made the rounds, either."

"You're not saying as Alex had something to do wiv her murder?"

"Why? Do you think he did?"

The young man's dreadlocks trembled as he shook his head. "Man, Alex would never 'ave hurt Mrs. Arrowood. He was crazy 'bout her."

A large, bald man in a white apron came through from the kitchen, his face registering alarm as he came towards them. "Wesley, is there a problem?"

"She the Bill, Otto. I only tell her Alex would never have hurt Mrs. Arrowood."

"I am Otto Popov. How can I help you?"

"Did you know Dawn Arrowood, Mr. Popov?"

As Wesley excused himself to attend to the customers, Otto sat, the chair creaking under his weight. "I had seen her about- a lovely creature- but no, I was not personally acquainted with Mrs. Arrowood."

"But you knew about Alex's relationship with her?"

"We knew because we are his special friends. It was never really discussed, even among us, until we heard this morning of the poor lady's death."

"Have you seen Alex today?"

"It was we who had to break the news to him this morning."

"How did he take it?"

"Hard. Quite hard." Otto shook his massive head. "We all felt for him very much."

"Do you know where Alex is now?"

"I have not seen him since he left here this morning. Have you tried his stall in the arcade?"

"A vendor there told me he'd left with a young woman called Fern Adams." Seeing Otto's surprise, she added, "You know her?"

"Of course," Otto answered. "Since she was a child. She's very fond of Alex. She will look after him."

"Do you know where they might have gone?"

"No. But perhaps these people can help you."

A couple had entered the café. They stood awkwardly, as if unsure whether they should cross the room and join the conversation. The woman was tall and slender, with deep auburn hair pulled back in a plait, and strong facial bones. Gemma would have called her handsome rather than beautiful; this masculine quality was emphasized by her jeans, jumper, and heavy boots.

The man was less distinguished, tall, with short-cropped hair, and spectacles that lent him a studious air. Otto motioned them over.

"This is Bryony Poole," he told Gemma. "And Marc Mitchell. Marc runs the soup kitchen just down the road."

"Oh, I know your place," said Gemma. "By the old Portobello School. You provide a great service for the neighborhood."

"This lady is from the police," Otto continued, "and is looking for our friend Alex. She says he left the arcade this morning with Fern."

"Is this about Dawn Arrowood?" Bryony Poole asked. "It's just dreadful."

"Alex was in a terrible state this morning." Marc pulled over chairs for himself and Bryony. "And Fern seemed determined to offer help and succor."

"Was there something unusual in that?" asked Gemma.

"It's just that they hadn't been on good terms lately," volunteered Bryony. "Fern and Alex had a thing going, until he met Dawn Arrowood. So of course Fern wasn't best pleased with the whole affair."

"Do I take it that Fern hasn't given up?"

"I don't think anyone thought Alex's relationship with Dawn Arrowood would last- could last," Bryony corrected. "I mean, either her husband was going to find out, or she would decide to call it off before he did."

"Perhaps he did find out," suggested Otto. "Is it not usually the spouse in these cases?"

"You think Karl Arrowood had something to do with his wife's death?" Gemma asked, and heard the sharpness in her voice.

"That man is capable of anything," Otto growled, but when Gemma pressed him, he merely shook his head and clamped his lips together. Before she could question him further, two small girls ran in from the kitchen. They wore matching hair ribbons and dresses, and their round faces marked them immediately as Otto's progeny. He wrapped his arms around both.

"These are my daughters, Anna and Maria. I have promised them the cinema. Something about spotted cows, I think?" he added, twinkling at them.

"Dogs, Daddy. Dalmatians," they chorused. "And we'll be late if we don't go."

Groaning, he let them pull him to his feet. "If you have more questions, you might speak to Wesley."

As Otto and his daughters disappeared into the kitchen, Bryony stood as well, and Marc joined her. "We've not got time for coffee, after all, I'm afraid," she said apologetically. "We- I hope you find whoever did this."

Gemma gave them each a card, asking them to ring her if they thought of anything that might help.

When they had gone, Wesley came back to her table, although he kept an experienced eye on the remaining customers. "You don't want to take what Otto says about Karl Arrowood too seriously," he told her quietly. "There's some sort of bad blood between them that goes way back. Otto thinks Karl's the devil himself."

Gemma noticed with amusement that all traces of his West Indian accent had vanished. "What sort of feud?"

"I really couldn't say. Something to do with Otto's dead wife, but that's all I know."

"An affair?"

"Could be. But it was before I came to work here, and Otto doesn't talk about it."

"I take it you do a bit of everything around here."

Wesley smiled. "Cook, bottle washer, waiter, and child minder. I like helping out with the girls."

"How old are they?"

"Seven- that's Anna, and nine- that's Maria. They're good kids."

"When did their mother die?"

"It was before I came, and I started four years ago." He looked curiously at Gemma. "Do I know you from somewhere? You seem awfully familiar- and it's not because you've thrown me in the nick."

"I used to walk a beat here, but you'd have been a mere babe," Gemma teased in turn, glad to know the feeling of past acquaintance was mutual. "Now I've been posted back to Notting Hill," she added, finding herself inexplicably confessing, "and I'm moving here as well, into a house near St. John's."

Wesley whistled. "Poncey address for a police lady."

"Terrifying." Gemma grinned. "But my kids will love it. Now, before I go, can you give me Alex Dunn's address?"

Only when she had thanked Wesley and left the café did she realize that for the first time, she had claimed Kit as her own.


***

"The victim's name was Dawn Arrowood," Gemma told the press gathered on the steps of Notting Hill Police Station at six o'clock. "If anyone saw anything suspicious or unusual in the vicinity of St. John's Church, Notting Hill, yesterday evening, please ring the police at this number." She gave out the number of a special line manned in the incident room. Ninety-nine percent of the calls would be cranks, but there was always a possibility that someone had actually seen something useful.

She fielded a few questions with "I'm sorry, we can't disclose that information just yet," then ducked into the station to retrieve her bag while the crowd cleared away.

Although she was leaving the station, her workday was not over. Penciled in her notebook was the number of Alex Dunn's flat in a mews just off Portobello Road. She'd already stopped there twice since getting his address, but had found the flat dark and apparently uninhabited, as were those of his neighbors.

Picking up her car from the station car park, she drove to the flat again, but Alex still hadn't returned. Gemma let the car idle for a moment, gazing at the now lit flat next door.

Should she interview Alex's neighbors now? No, they would keep, and she needed to speak to Karl Arrowood's business associate before any more time passed. She could stop on her way home, sending a constable to take a formal statement later. Turning the car round at the bottom of the mews, she headed for Tower Bridge.

The Brewery at Butler 's Wharf was a very posh address, especially for what she assumed was only a part-time London accommodation. The old brewery had been converted into elegant flats with a view of the Thames at Tower Bridge. She searched for a parking space in the warren of streets near the river, her frustration mounting. By the time she found a spot and walked back to the brewery she had little patience for the building's gilt-and-green-marble lobby. Taking the lift up to the second floor, she found the flat number Arrowood had given her and rang the bell.

Within moments, a ruddy-faced, handsome man in his fifties opened the door and beamed at her as if she were a long-expected relation. " 'Ullo. You must be the inspector from the police." His accent was heavily French but understandable, and Gemma found herself unable to resist smiling back.

"I'm Gemma James. Mr. Arrowood must have rung you."

"Yes." Andre Michel ushered her into the flat and closed the door. Tower Bridge, stunning and immense, filled the windows. "Such terrible news. Here, please sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?"

Drawing her eyes away from the view, Gemma saw that a tray on the coffee table held wine and several glasses. "Nothing for me, thank you. But you couldn't have known I was coming just now-"

"No." Michel laughed. "I would like to claim that level of clairvoyance, but alas, it is merely that I'm expecting friends this evening." The delicious aroma of garlic and herbs wafted from the kitchen Gemma could just glimpse through a door on the far side of the sitting room. "A little coq au vin, a family recipe," Michel added, seeing her glance.

"Then I'll take up as little of your time as possible, Mr. Michel." Gemma took the seat he indicated, facing the windows, but she was sorry to look away from the display of oil paintings she had noticed on the walls. "I understand you had drinks with Mr. Arrowood yesterday."

"If you don't mind?" Michel glanced at her before pouring himself a glass of red wine. "Yes, and we parted with good cheer. If I had known I was sending him home to find his poor wife, murdered… I think it a good thing sometimes that we cannot foresee the future."

"Did Mr. Arrowood seem as usual to you yesterday?"

"Karl? Karl is always business. I think he grows impatient with our French philosophy of enjoying all parts of life."

"What exactly is it you do for Mr. Arrowood? I believe he said you were a dealer?"

"A dealer, a collector, among many other things." Michel gestured back towards the paintings. "I have a knack for finding eighteenth- and nineteenth-century landscape oils, whether at auction or under sacks of turnips. It is a gift, like a pig's nose for truffles, not something for which I can take credit."

"And you sell these paintings to Mr. Arrowood?"

"Karl is one of my clients, yes. He then sells the paintings to his clients, for a much greater price." Michel gave a Gallic shrug. "That's the way the antiques business works; a little profit for everyone. But Karl is definitely at the top of the pyramid."

"Have you known Karl- Mr. Arrowood- for a long time?"

Michel laughed merrily again. "For many years. But in those days, Karl had much less finesse. He always knew what he wanted, however, and even then he made it a point to meet the right people, get invited to the right places." Sighing, he added, " London parties were something to see, then, or perhaps it's just that I was young enough to prefer that life to a good bottle of wine with friends."

"And yesterday, Mr. Michel, did Karl buy anything?"

"Two paintings, in fact, which he took away. He was particularly pleased with them."

"What time did he leave you?"

"Ah, now it gets difficult." Michel frowned in concentration. "I know it was just getting dark. The bridge lights had come on. I would say around five o'clock, but I had no reason to check the time."

Gemma made a careful note, her pulse quickening. If Michel's estimate was accurate, even taking into account Friday-evening traffic, Arrowood could have got home in time to kill his wife.

"But you know I cannot swear to that," Michel added, and Gemma heard an apology in his tone.

"Is that because you're not certain? Or because Karl Arrowood is too important to cross?" she pressed.

"The antiques business is a small world, Inspector, but Karl's ill will would not damage my business to any great extent. Nor would I protect anyone who had committed such a terrible crime. Why do you believe Karl would do such a thing?"

"Perhaps his wife had a lover?"

Michel shrugged again. "Where I come from, that is not a matter for murder."

"But it wouldn't surprise you."

"Dawn Arrowood was young and very beautiful. And she had a certain… gravity… about her… some quality that made you want to know her."

Natalie Caine had called her luminous; Otto Popov, a lovely creature. Gemma suddenly felt a stab of regret that she'd not had a chance to know the young woman. "Thank you," she said, standing. "You've been very helpful."

Michel took her outstretched hand, holding it just a moment longer than necessary, and the look he gave her was frankly appraising. "Are you sure you won't stay and sample my coq au vin? If you don't mind my saying so, you are much too lovely to be doing a policeman's work."

Gemma felt herself blushing furiously. "I'm very flattered, Mr. Michel. But I'm… um… otherwise engaged." As would soon be all too obvious, she thought, with a glance down at her barely disguised belly.


***

She must tell Hazel first. Toby's four-year-old exuberance would not allow him to keep the momentous news of the move to himself, and as much as she owed her friend, Gemma would not have her hear it secondhand.

The street was quiet as she parked in front of the tiny garage flat in Islington. The flat was still dark- Toby would be in the main house with Hazel, and she had not heard from Kincaid. She got out of the car, shivering against the sudden chill, and went through the wrought-iron gate into the garden that separated the flat from the main house.

She found Hazel in the kitchen with Toby and her own daughter, Holly, who was the same age as Toby, and his boon companion. "Where's Tim?" she asked as Hazel greeted her with a hug.

"Catching up on paperwork at the office. I wish he wouldn't do that on a weekend, but needs must. The children have had their tea"- Hazel indicated the remains of sandwiches on the table- "let me make you a cuppa before you take Toby home."

"Please," said Gemma gratefully, then added quietly, "Hazel, we need to talk."

Hazel's startled glance held a hint of alarm, but she put the kettle on without comment. Enticing the children into the sitting room with a promise of a Christmas video, Gemma glanced at the piano and sighed with regret. Hazel had allowed her to practice on the old instrument to her heart's content. Now she would have no opportunity to play- Would she have to give up her lessons as well?

When they were seated at the kitchen table, Gemma cradled her steaming mug for warmth and met her friend's eyes.

"You're all right, aren't you, Gemma?" Hazel asked. "The baby-"

"The baby's fine. It's just that- Well, it's obvious we're going to have to make some changes. There's no room in the flat for the baby, not to mention the burden it would put on you. And Duncan 's found a house, in Notting Hill. He wants to move in right away, to get Kit settled before the holidays."

"Right away?" Hazel repeated. Much to Gemma's surprise, Hazel's eyes had filled with tears. She couldn't remember ever having seen Hazel cry.

"I'm so sorry, Hazel. I know I'm not giving you proper notice, but this has all been so sudden-"

"Oh, no, it's not that. And it's not that I haven't been expecting this- it was inevitable. It's just that I'm going to miss you. And Holly will be inconsolable without Toby."

"We'll visit often, I promise." Gemma found herself in the unexpected position of comforting the friend who had always provided such comfort for her. "And you and Holly can come to Notting Hill. The kids can play in the garden while we catch up on things."

"I know. Now you're going to be the one with the big house full of kids," Hazel said, teasing, but Gemma detected the wistfulness in her voice.

"Hazel, why don't you and Tim have another child?" she asked, wondering why it had never occurred to her before.

Hazel looked down, lacing her sturdy fingers round her cup, and for a moment Gemma thought she had gone too far. Then Hazel shrugged and murmured, "As much as I'd like that, it doesn't seem to be in the cards just now." Then, smiling, she abruptly changed the subject. "Tell me about the house."

"Oh, I can't wait for you to see it. It's absolutely lovely," Gemma told her, and proceeded to describe it room by room as they finished their tea.

When Tim came in, Gemma collected Toby and took him home to bed. But as she tucked in her son, she couldn't help feeling that something was troubling her friend, and that she had missed a chance to learn what it was.


***

Alex had squeezed his eyes tight shut as Fern drove south, as if he could close out reality, and Fern didn't disturb him. It was not until she left the M25 for the M20 West that he stirred and looked around.

"You're going to Aunt Jane's." It was a statement, not a question.

"It seemed a good idea. No one would think to look for you there."

"Why should anyone look for me?"

Fern glanced at him before focusing on the road again. "You know what Otto said."

"Otto's full of crap. And what would Karl Arrowood want with me, now that Dawn's gone?"

"What if he killed her, and now he means to kill you, too?"

"I don't believe that. No sane person would do-" His voice cracked. "No sane person would do something like this." He stared straight ahead, not meeting Fern's eyes. It came to her that Alex couldn't allow himself to believe that Karl Arrowood had killed his wife because of her affair with him, because that would make Alex responsible for her death.

"Why are you doing this?" There was no gratitude in Alex's voice- not that she had expected any, and yet his coldness shook her.

She shrugged. "You're my friend. I wanted to help."

"There's nothing you or anyone else can do to help."

What answer could she give to this? When she glanced at him a moment later he had closed his eyes again. She drove on, struggling to find comfort in the fact that he had not, at least, told her to turn around and drive back to London.

Although it was not yet noon, clouds had rolled in from the west, bringing a twilight gloom and the promise of more rain. When the ancient town of Rye appeared on the horizon, perched on its sandstone bluff overlooking the marsh, Fern slowed and began looking for the turning she only vaguely remembered from the one time Alex had brought her here.

"Next on the right," he told her, his eyes open again.

She followed his instructions, down one lane and then another until she reached the house tucked in a wooded close at the edge of the downs. Behind the house rose the dark hill, both protecting and threatening; before it stretched the wide, flat expanse of Romney Marsh. The house had been an oasthouse, its twin kilns, with their odd tilted caps, long since converted to living quarters.

Fern coasted to a stop in the drive and killed the engine. When Alex didn't stir, she got out and went to find his aunt, Jane Dunn.

There was a light in the front window, and smoke curling from the chimney, but a brisk knock on the door brought no answer. Fern had raised her hand to knock again when she saw Jane coming round the corner of the house, wearing an Arran jumper and mud-streaked wellies, her dark, chin-length hair beaded with moisture.

"I thought I heard a car," Jane called out. "Fern, whatever are you doing here? Have you got Alex with you?"

As Jane took her hand in a welcoming clasp, Fern blurted, "I have brought Alex. But something terrible's happened."

Jane gazed at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know if you knew- Alex was seeing someone else. She was married, and now she's dead. I mean someone murdered her, last night."

"But that's dreadful!" Jane looked from Fern to the car. "I'm not sure I understand, though, why you've brought Alex here."

"I-" In the face of Jane's competent manner, Fern suddenly felt her fears might sound silly. "I was worried about him. I didn't know what else to do."

"In a bad way, is he? I'm sure you did the right thing." Jane gave Fern's arm a reassuring squeeze and started towards the car.

Alex got out and came slowly to meet her. Fern saw Jane speak to him and start to put an arm round his shoulders, but he flinched away from the contact. This Fern found gratifying- at least she wasn't the only one he couldn't bear.

Jane led the way into the house. The two hop-drying kilns had been combined into a pleasant, open-plan living area, with small, high windows that failed to make the most of the existing daylight.

After standing for a moment as if unsure what to do with himself, Alex slumped down on the sofa nearest the fireplace.

When Jane had the fire going and had brought them all coffee in earthenware mugs, she sat down beside Alex. "Do you want to talk about it, love? Fern says a friend of yours was killed last night."

His face contorted. "I told Otto it was a lie. She couldn't be dead. So I went there, to the house. There were police all round, and one of the neighbors said Karl came home and found her in the drive. Her… her throat had been cut."

Fern gave a small cry of surprise, but Jane remained calmly watching Alex. "Do you know anything about this?" she asked. "Who might have done this? Or why?"

"How could anyone hurt her?" Alex protested. "I can't go on, you know, not without her. I can't bear it."

Unable to listen any longer, Fern went out. She walked round in the drive, taking in Jane's greenhouses and the spade left standing against the house when Jane had been interrupted at some gardening task. Gazing out across the marsh, she breathed the damp earthy-smelling air and tried to blot out Alex's grief. When Dawn had been alive, Fern had been able to fantasize that Alex's affair with Dawn was merely a passing infatuation, that he would come to his senses and return to her. Now there was no questioning the depth of his feelings for Dawn Arrowood. Her death had not given Alex back to Fern, but had taken him from her in a way she could never have imagined. And if Alex was unable to go on, how then could she?

At the sharp click of the front door closing, she turned back to the house. Jane came across the drive towards her.

"I've persuaded him to stay," Jane told her. "Not that it matters much to him where he is, at this point."

"I don't think he should come back to London. If Dawn Arrowood was killed by her husband because he found out about Alex, Alex could be next."

"Surely you can't be serious."

"That's what our friend Otto says, and he's known Karl Arrowood for a long time. Is it worth taking a risk?"

Jane seemed about to argue with her, then she sighed. "I suppose you're right. What about you? Will you stay with him?"

With sudden resolution Fern said, "I'll take the train back to London, if you'll run me to the station. If anyone asks, I'll say I haven't seen him. And the sooner I go, the better."

"I think you're overreacting, but I don't see what harm it can do. I'll just get my keys while you say good-bye to Alex."

"Why don't you tell him for me?" Fern asked, suddenly feeling that she would rather face a murderer herself than the look in Alex's eyes.

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