And Justice There Is None

CHAPTER FIVE

The insistent burring of the phone finally penetrated Gemma's consciousness. "Mummy," she heard Toby say, very near, very seriously. "The phone's ringing." Forcing her eyes open, she found her son staring at her intently from a few inches away.

"Uh-huh. Get it for me, would you, sweetie?" She propped herself up on the pillows as Toby obediently trotted over to the table and lifted the cordless phone from its cradle. A glance at the clock told her it was not yet eight. Taking the phone from Toby, she had just time to think oh God, not work, please, when she heard Kincaid's voice.

"Not still asleep, are you?" he asked with annoying cheerfulness.

She didn't dignify that with an answer. "What happened to you last night? I waited up for ages."

"Sorry about that. The prospective tenant I had lined up for the flat came round for a viewing. Apparently, he was so enthralled with the place that he couldn't bring himself to go home. By the time he left, I was afraid I'd wake you if I rang."

"Very considerate of you," Gemma said grumpily, unmollified.

"I'll make it up to you. How about if I bring over Sunday breakfast? I can stop at the bakery down the road. Bagels and cream cheese?"

"The sort with everything on them?"

"If you'll provide the coffee."

"You'll have to live with decaf."

"If I must," he said with an exaggerated sigh.

"Deal." Gemma rang off, her temper considerably improved, and pulled Toby to her for a hug.

By the time Kincaid arrived, Gemma had showered, dressed, set the small table, and made fresh coffee in the cafetière. Once they'd settled at the table with their bagels, she said, "I take it the prospective tenant accepted, then?"

"Formally. Signed a contract. And he wants in the flat right away."

Gemma eyed him warily. "What do you mean by 'right away'?"

"Next Sunday we'll be having breakfast in our new home. I've arranged the house-moving for Saturday, not that either of us has much to move."

"Saturday?" She heard the squeak of panic in her own voice.

"It'll be all right, love, I promise. The sooner the better."

Looking up from the jam-and-cream-cheese puddle he'd made on his plate, Toby asked, "What new house?"

Kincaid glanced at Gemma, eyebrows raised, and she gave him a nod of assent. "We're all going to move into a new house together, sport," he explained to the boy. "You, your mum, Kit and me. What do you think about that?"

Toby considered this for a moment. "Will Kit get to bring his dog?"

"Of course Tess can come. The house has a big garden, with a swing."

"And Sid?" Sid was the black cat Kincaid had inherited from a friend who had died. "Can he go out in the garden?"

"Sid will love the garden. He might even be able to catch a mouse."

Toby's small brow creased in a frown. "What about Holly? Can she come live with us, too?"

"No," Gemma answered quickly. "Holly has to stay with her mummy and daddy. But she'll come to visit often."

"Can I take my trucks?"

"We'll make a special place for them. Do you want to pack them now?"

"Okay," her son said with great equanimity. Leaving his bagel half finished, he scrambled down from his chair and disappeared into the tiny box room that served as his bedroom. When Gemma peeked in on him a few minutes later, she found him methodically stowing his collection of miniature lorries into his Star Wars backpack.

"What about Kit?" she asked Kincaid as she returned to the table and refilled her mug. "Have you arranged things with him?"

"Ian will drive him up from Grantchester on Saturday."

"And you're sure Ian won't change his mind?"

"As sure as one can ever be with Ian McClellan. But he seems to have pretty well burned his bridges this time. He told me he'd already booked his flight to Canada, and that the university has arranged a small apartment for him."

"As in 'bachelor pad'?"

"So I suspect. Gemma…" Kincaid scrubbed at his fingers with his napkin, avoiding her eyes. "There's been a development, with your investigation."

"Dawn Arrowood?" she asked, puzzled.

"In a way, yes. Do you remember the case I was working on a couple of months ago, before we went to Glastonbury? An antiques dealer named Marianne Hoffman was found dead outside her shop in Camden Passage. Her throat had been cut, and she had been stabbed in the chest. When I saw Dawn Arrowood's body-"

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted to check the details in the files, make sure that I wasn't just manufacturing coincidence."

"But- you're talking serial killer!"

"I think it's too early to use the term, but I also think the similarities can't be ignored. Especially considering the choice of weapon. And there's something else- it seems to me that the second murder was executed more expertly."

"As if the killer's skill is improving with practice?" Gemma shook her head. "I don't buy it, coincidence or not. I think that whoever murdered Dawn had a very personal connection with her."

"Then maybe we should be looking for a connection between Dawn Arrowood and Marianne Hoffman."

"We?"

Kincaid seemed to hesitate. "I'll be working with you and your team."

"Officially?"

"Yes."

"You've cleared this with Chief Superintendent Childs? Without discussing it with me first?"

"I'd not have consulted any other officer in charge of the Arrowood case. Did you want to be treated differently?"

Gemma glared at him, furious. "You're twisting it! You could have at least let me know what you were doing. Is that why you didn't come by last night?"

"No. But you're right, of course. I should have told you before I spoke to the guv'nor. I suppose I was afraid you might not want me messing about on your patch."

"You're bloody right!" Gemma hissed at him, careful to keep her voice lowered on Toby's account. But Kincaid looked so crushed that she felt some of her anger evaporate. "It's not that, really. It's that you'd never have done something like that without discussing it with me when we worked together."

"It would never have come up. I handled this badly, love. I'm sorry."

She folded her arms across her chest, considering him. It would be nice to work as a team again, but she didn't want to risk damaging her still tenuous authority with her staff. "What about my team?"

"You'll communicate with them directly. And I'll try not to step on your toes."

"I still don't like it."

"Can't you think of me as a bonus? A good resource?"

He always knew when to be diplomatic, she thought grudgingly, but then that was one of the things that made him good at his job. "All right. I'll hold you to that. First you can tell me everything you remember about that earlier case. And then you can go with me to see Dawn Arrowood's parents."

"Here we are." Gemma stopped the car in front of a terraced house of dark brick in East Croyden. It was an ordinary neighborhood, a universe away from the elegance of the Arrowoods' house in Notting Hill.

Gemma's face was set as she climbed from the car. Kincaid knew she was dreading this interview, but it was a necessity they couldn't avoid. The street was quiet as he rang the bell, the air filled with the scents of Sunday lunches in the oven.

The man who came to the door was in his fifties, graying, slightly heavyset, and dressed in shirt and tie as if he had just come back from an ordinary Sunday church service.

"Mr. Smith?" asked Gemma, showing her warrant card. "We'd like to talk with you and your wife, if you feel up to it."

The man nodded without speaking and led them through into the sitting room, saying, "Joanie, it's the police." Sorrow was palpable in the air. A Christmas tree in the corner and a string of cards across the mantel seemed cruelly and inappropriately cheerful.

Dawn's mother rose from the sofa, and Kincaid saw that she had been looking through a photo album. Kincaid could see that until yesterday Joan Smith might have had a shadow of her daughter's beauty; her thinness might have been expressed as elegance. But grief had sucked her dry, left her gaunt and brittle and looking more than her age.

"Have you found him?" she demanded. "The monster that killed our daughter?"

"No, Mrs. Smith, I'm sorry. I know this must be difficult for you, but we hoped you could tell us a bit about Dawn." Gemma was at her most gentle, and Kincaid was content to listen, and watch. "Could we sit down?" Gemma asked, and Mrs. Smith sank obediently back to the sofa, clutching the photo album. Kincaid saw that the crowded room was filled with pictures of Dawn from babyhood on, an adored only child.

"Could you tell us when you last saw your daughter?" Gemma directed the question towards them both, but it was the mother who answered.

"Two weeks ago. She came for Sunday lunch. She didn't often come on a weekend, because he didn't like it, but he was away on some sort of a business trip."

"Karl didn't like your daughter to visit you?" Gemma clarified, her brow creased in a frown.

"Weren't good enough, were we? Clarence manages a supermarket, and does a good job of it, but that meant nothing to Karl Arrowood. He wanted nothing to do with us."

Her husband sat beside her, watching her, and every so often he gave a slow, wounded shake of his head as she spoke, as if he were depending on her to express what he could not.

"Do you know that he never came here once? And we were never invited to their house? Not even for Christmas or holidays! Oh, Dawn would make excuses, saying he'd planned a business dinner, or that they had to go to France or to some posh country house. And she'd promise the next time would be different, but we learned she didn't mean it, that Karl would never allow it. He took our daughter away from us, and now she's dead."

"How did she meet Karl?"

"At some swank London party. She'd taken a job at the BBC, her and her friend Natalie, and they were living the high life. She'd come home and tell me about it in those days, what everyone was wearing, what was served, the latest gossip.

"We couldn't believe it at first, when she said she was going to marry this man twice her age. But we thought, well, she's a grown woman, we'll make the best of it, and at least he can afford to give her a proper wedding." Mrs. Smith pinched her lips together in renewed anger.

"But he didn't?"

"Took her away. To Nice or some such. We never even had a photo." She hugged the album to her chest, as if that lack created a physical void. "And now he's planned her funeral without consulting us. We'd thought to have a service at the crematorium here, where she grew up, where our friends and neighbors could come. But, no, he's arranged it all. A burial, in Kensal Green, on Tuesday."

"I suppose he does have that right, as her husband," said Gemma. "And as you say, he can afford it. But it does seem insensitive of him not to take your feelings into account."

Dawn's mother nodded and sniffed, as if gratified by Gemma's support.

"Did Dawn seem any different the last time you saw her?"

Mrs. Smith looked at her husband as if seeking confirmation. "Now that you mention it, she did. Sweeter, I guess you could say. She even hugged us when she left, and our Dawn was never a demonstrative girl. It seemed to me- I told Clarence so that day, didn't I?" She didn't wait for a response, but went on, "It seemed to me that she was apologizing somehow."

"Did your daughter ever talk to you about children?"

"No. She knew how we felt, though. She was an only child. If she didn't give us grandchildren, we'd have nothing. Not that he would have let us see them," she added bitterly.

"Did Dawn tell you that Karl didn't want children?"

"No, but we suspected as much. After all, they had been married for five years…"

"Mrs. Smith…" Gemma hesitated. She didn't wish to cause Dawn's parents further distress, but she knew they had a right to know. "Your daughter was expecting a baby. She'd just had the pregnancy confirmed that afternoon."

"Oh, no," the woman whispered. "Not that, too. How could someone take that away from her- from us?" She fastened her gaze on Gemma. "Did he know?"

"Karl? He says not. Mrs. Smith, did you ever have reason to think Karl mistreated your daughter?"

"You mean, did he hit her?" Mrs. Smith's surprised expression seemed to indicate that this was one evil she hadn't attributed to her son-in-law. "No. She never… You're not thinking she told him about the baby and he-"

"We haven't ruled out any possibilities at this time," Kincaid told her. "Do you think your son-in-law could have-"

"No." Mr. Smith drew himself up, his mouth working in agitation. "No one who knew Dawnie could have done such a thing. And besides, the man was too… clean. You can't imagine him mussing his hands, or his shirt. Do you see what I mean?"

"I think so, yes," Kincaid answered soothingly. "Mrs. Smith, did Dawn have friends other than Natalie that she kept in touch with?"

"No. Natalie was her closest friend. It was only that kept him from driving them apart."

"And Dawn didn't mention anything else to you, something worrying her, or someone new in her life?"

"No." Mrs. Smith's eyes glistened with unshed tears, as if the lack of her daughter's confidences had added to her grief.

Gently, Gemma said, "If you remember anything else, Mrs. Smith, just give us a ring. We won't disturb you any further." She gave both parents her card, and thanked them.

But when she and Kincaid reached the car, she said, "You know, if Karl did abuse Dawn, she'd have kept it from her parents at all costs. To tell them, or let them see it, would have been to admit what a mistake she'd made."

Gemma arrived at work on Monday morning to find a copy of the previous day's Daily Star prominently displayed in the center of her desk. The headline screamed, "Slasher Strikes a Second Time in the Heart of Notting Hill."

"Bloody hell," she muttered as she skimmed the lurid account of Marianne Hoffman's and Dawn Arrowood's murders. "I'm going to kill the man."

"Had you not seen it, boss?" asked Melody Talbot, who had been passing by her office door. "I brought you my copy- thought you might want to have this MacCrimmon bloke drawn and quartered."

"It wouldn't do any good. The Hoffman case didn't attract all that much notice, but the record was available. All MacCrimmon had to do was put two and two together, and he's obviously quite adept at that. But I had hoped we could keep the details on the Arrowood case out of the papers for a few days."

"The throat-cutting went round the neighborhood like wildfire. I suppose the press were bound to latch on to it."

"Yes, but Tom MacCrimmon wouldn't have printed a rumor without some confirmation. Someone in the department must have given him the nod. I've heard he's free with the drinks." Gemma peered at the paper again. "There are similarities in the two cases, I have to admit." She'd spent the previous evening going over the Hoffman file. "But I'm not convinced that the Arrowood murder was random."

"What connection could there possibly be?"

"I've no idea. But I'm going to start by interviewing anyone who had recent contact with Dawn Arrowood. According to her diary, she took her cat to the vet on Friday morning. That seems as good a place to start as any."

Having found the address in Dawn's book, she presented herself at Mr. Gavin Farley's veterinary surgery on All Saints Road shortly after opening time. All Saints Road was the heart of the Notting Hill Carnival, but on this cold morning in mid-December it was hard to imagine the existence of the summer's color and activity. The surgery, its exterior painted the color of orange sherbet, provided a bright spot in otherwise drab surroundings.

A bell tinkled as Gemma pushed open the door. "Be right with you," a female voice called from behind the reception desk, then an auburn head appeared. "Sorry, receptionist's a bit late this-"

"It's Bryony, isn't it?" said Gemma. "I met you at Otto's on Saturday. Whatever are you doing here?"

"I'm Gavin's- Mr. Farley's- assistant." The young woman gazed back at her with equal surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to see Mr. Farley. According to Dawn's diary, she brought her cat in on the day she died."

"Oh, Tommy, rotten little beastie. Always getting in spats. Yes, she did bring him, and it was Gavin who saw him, not me. But what has that to do with her death?"

"I thought it possible she might have said something to Mr. Farley, confided something unusual she'd seen or heard, for instance. Could I see him?"

"Not in yet," Bryony replied with a grimace. "Doesn't take his first appointment until nine o'clock. Because I live just up the road, in Powis Square, Gavin tends to take advantage a bit."

"Were you here when Dawn came in on Friday morning?"

"Yes, but I was in and out with clients myself, so I didn't really- Oh, sorry," she broke off as the door chimed and a woman came in with two Dalmatians straining at their leads. Bryony expertly shepherded client and dogs into an examination room, then popped back out, saying to Gemma, "Look, I won't be a moment. Make yourself at home."

Gemma had never had much occasion to visit veterinary surgeries, having never owned a pet. Her parents had been adamant that animals and bakeries didn't mix- "Can't have customers worrying about dog or cat hair in their scones and buns, now can we?" her mother had responded cheerfully whenever Gemma or her sister had pleaded for a puppy or a kitten.

She found the surgery's atmosphere reassuring, with its faint smell of dog and disinfectant, leatherette-covered banquette seating along the walls, displays of the pet foods offered for sale, and posters of raining cats and dogs decorating the walls. A photo taped to the side of the reception computer caught her eye; she moved closer to examine it.

Geordie, the caption beneath the photo read. Two-year-old neutered male cocker, blue roan. Needs good home. The dog's coat was a pale, mottled blue-gray, with dark gray patches. A blaze in the lighter color divided the dog's alert, intelligent face, and his long, silky ears were dark. He seemed to gaze back at her, head tilted, the expression in his eyes, Gemma could have sworn, one of instant recognition. The dog reminded her of the spaniel in the painting Duncan's cousin Jack had recently given her, a memento of their time in Glastonbury.

"Lovely, isn't he?" asked Bryony, coming up behind her.

"Finished already?" Gemma looked round for the Dalmatians.

"I'm going to have to x-ray one of them- seems he's eaten all the glass balls off the Christmas tree- amazing what dogs can digest- and for that I'll need Gavin's help." Bryony tapped the photo with her fingertip. "Are you interested in a dog, by any chance?"

"Why does the owner want rid of him?" Gemma asked warily.

"She's just married a man with a dreadful allergy to dogs- sends him to hospital with asthma. I think it was a close call between the dog and the husband," Bryony added, grinning, "but in the end she decided to keep the husband. But she won't let the dog go to just anyone."

"I'm just moving into a house in the area," Gemma heard herself saying. "With a garden."

"Geordie's a sweetheart. Owner's taken him through several levels of obedience classes. Do you have kids?"

"Two boys. Twelve and four."

"Perfect. Look, why don't I bring Geordie along to meet you one day this week? I've got your number from the other day- I'll ring you and make arrangements."

"But-" The chime of the front door cut Gemma off, and with a pang of regret, she realized she'd allowed herself to be maneuvered into a corner.

"Gavin," said Bryony, "this is Inspector James from the police. She'd like to have a word with you about Dawn Arrowood." Was there a touch of satisfaction in her voice?

Turning, Gemma saw a short, stocky, dark-haired man, his appearance made more solid by his white clinical tunic. He hung his overcoat on a peg, then faced her. "Such a tragedy. I couldn't believe it when I heard it on the news." He shook Gemma's hand warmly, but the glance he gave her was shrewdly assessing. "Anything I can do to help."

"Is there somewhere we could talk, Mr. Farley?"

"Come into the office, why don't you?" Gavin Farley ushered her inside, then closed the door of the small space, which contained a desk and files. Gemma slipped notebook and pen from her bag.

"Was Mrs. Arrowood a regular client, Mr. Farley?"

"More than regular, you might say. Her husband wouldn't allow her to keep the cat in the house, so the animal was always getting in scrapes- and coming off the worst in them, I suspect. Every few weeks he'd be in with an abscess, a torn ear, an infected eye. Not that we minded seeing Dawn, of course."

"Did you know Mr. Arrowood, as well?"

"No. He never came in with her, even the few times the animal was badly hurt. Seemed rather an unsympathetic character, if you ask me."

"And did you ever see Dawn outside the clinic?"

"No. I live in Willesden, so our paths weren't too likely to cross." If Farley was aware of any inference other than a casual social encounter, he disguised it well.

"And on Friday, did you notice anything unusual in her behavior?"

For the first time, Gemma sensed hesitation. "She did seem a bit more upset about the cat than usual, although it was a minor injury. In fact, I remember asking her if she was feeling all right."

"And?"

Farley's eyes flicked towards the door, then he looked back at Gemma and shrugged easily- too easily. "She said she was fine. Thanked me for asking, in fact. I still can't believe she's dead, or that someone would do such a terrible thing."

"I'm sure it must be difficult for everyone who knew her, Mr. Farley. So why do I have the feeling you're not telling me the truth?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about. Why would I lie about such a thing?"

"I don't know," answered Gemma. "But I can assure you I will find out."

Kincaid allowed the worst of the Monday-morning traffic to die off before he and Doug Cullen signed out a Rover from the Yard motor pool and headed north. Cullen drove, giving Kincaid the luxury of observing the London morning's ebb and flow. Daybreak had brought fitful sun, but Kincaid suspected the break in the weather would not hold.

They picked up the M1 just south of Hendon and were soon bypassing the cathedral town of St. Albans. "Didn't you tell me your family was in St. Albans?" Kincaid asked his companion. "It looks a nice place."

"Suburban hell," Cullen replied with a grimace. "Bridge nights and dinner circles and absolutely sod-all to do if you're under the age of forty. I can't imagine that my parents not only chose to live there, but considered it a great accomplishment."

"Still suffering from a bit of rebellion, I take it?"

Cullen glanced at him, as if to ascertain whether he was being teased. "I assumed most people felt that way about their parents' lifestyles."

"I don't know," Kincaid mused. "I rather envy my parents theirs. But twenty years ago, I couldn't wait to put the dust of the provinces behind me."

"And now, would you go back?"

"To live, maybe. To work in a small-town police force, after the Met- Now, that would be a bit more difficult." Kincaid thought again of taking Gemma and the children to Cheshire, sometime soon- perhaps this summer, to show off the new baby. His mum and dad were beside themselves with anticipation.

City and suburbs dropped away, revealing the rolling, winter-bleached farmland of Herefordshire. The power of the English countryside to assert itself never failed to amaze Kincaid, although he knew all too well it was more than ever under siege.

By mid-morning they had reached Bedford, a pleasant county town with a generous share of parks and the Great Ouse River running through its center. Eliza Goddard lived along the Embankment in a comfortable, semidetached Victorian house, a far cry from the tiny flat her mother had occupied above her shop in Camden Passage.

Goddard answered the bell quickly, calling back over her shoulder to quiet her children. Kincaid saw her surprise as she turned back to them, then the unconcealed mixture of wariness and distaste. "You've come about my mother, haven't you?" She did not invite them in. "Have you found out something?"

"Not exactly, Mrs. Goddard. But we would like to speak to you, if you could spare us a few moments," Kincaid said, at his most diplomatic. This woman surely had no reason to look fondly on the police: They had not only given her the terrible news of her mother's death, but had failed, after a lengthy investigation, to find her killer.

"All right." She said it reluctantly. "Just let me get the girls settled in the kitchen."

As Kincaid and Cullen followed her into the sitting room, Kincaid wondered, as he had the first time they'd met, about her parentage. Marianne Hoffman had been a slight, fair-skinned woman- her daughter had the lovely café-au-lait coloring and dark eyes indicative of mixed race. The twin daughters Eliza was shepherding into the kitchen took after their mother, each with dark hair neatly plaited into two pigtails.

"Let's get some colored paper, and you can make paper chains for the Christmas tree," he heard Eliza say. A moment later she rejoined them in the sitting room.

"How old are your daughters?" Kincaid asked her.

"Five. Going on fifteen." Eliza rolled her eyes, but her smile was indulgent.

"Identical?"

"Yes. All the child psychology books say you shouldn't dress them alike, but the authors apparently didn't consult my girls. They throw fits if I try to put them in different outfits. Maybe next year when they start school…"

Sensing Cullen's impatience, Kincaid gave him a quelling glance. "You've a great place here," he told Eliza, admiring the room's soft sage-and-cream paintwork and fabrics. Woven baskets held the children's toys neatly, and although the furniture looked casually worn, Kincaid suspected it was valuable. Gesturing at the oak sideboard, he said, "Eighteenth century?"

"Yes. My mother's passion, eighteenth-century farmhouse furniture. She never bought it to sell; she said that would've taken the joy from the hunt. But she loved finding these pieces for me, and she's the one put the room together." Eliza sat down at last, and Kincaid and Cullen followed suit.

"She traded only jewelry in her shop?"

"Oh, sometimes she'd take in a table or a lamp, but she preferred to stick with the small things." Eliza brushed at her skirt and finally met Kincaid's eyes. "Look, what is this about?"

"I'm afraid there's been another death," Kincaid answered. "Similar to your mother's. But this time in Notting Hill- the wife of an antiques dealer."

"I don't understand. What has that to do with me?"

"There might be a connection."

"You mean the same man who killed my mother might have killed this woman, too?"

"It's possible, although we hope not."

"But how can I help you?" She sounded more bewildered than angry.

"Did you ever hear your mother mention the name Karl Arrowood?"

Eliza shook her head.

"Nor Dawn Arrowood? Or Dawn Smith?"

"No."

"What about Alex Dunn?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"Do you know if your mother had any connections in Notting Hill?"

"Not that I know of specifically, although people do get around in the antiques trade. But Mum never talked about her past. Sometimes I used to imagine that her life started with me."

"What about your dad? Could he help us?"

"I never knew my dad at all."

"His name was Hoffman?"

"That was my stepdad. Greg was okay; he even officially adopted me. But Mum divorced him when I was fifteen. I still see him sometimes. He sends Christmas and birthday cards to the girls."

Kincaid had run a check on Greg Hoffman after Marianne's murder in October. A textiles salesman, he'd been out of the country at the time of his ex-wife's death, and Kincaid had never interviewed him. "Do you know why Greg and your mother broke up?"

"Mum just said she didn't want to be married anymore. I missed him," Eliza added unexpectedly, glancing towards the sound of an escalating row in the kitchen. "I hope my girls never have to be without a dad."

"What do you remember about your childhood? Anything before your mother married Greg Hoffman?"

"We lived in York when I was little. Mum had a small shop there. She only moved back to London after I married and came to Bedford."

"Mummy!" came a cry from the kitchen. "Suki tore my loop!"

"I did not. Sarah made it too big. I was fixing it!"

"Excuse me." Eliza got up with a soft sigh and went to sort out her children.

Kincaid stood and gazed out the window at the river and the park running along beside it. Three swans glided by, unperturbed by human commotion.

"Not making much progress, are we?" Doug Cullen didn't bother to hide his exasperation.

"Too soon to say," Kincaid rejoined. He turned back to Eliza Goddard as she reentered the room. "What about your mother's things, Mrs. Goddard? Did she leave any keepsakes? Or photos?"

"I haven't touched her personal effects." Eliza's eyes sparkled with sudden tears. "I just couldn't, not this time of year. I'm not even sure yet how we're going to get through Christmas… I don't think the girls understand their grandmother isn't coming back. They keep asking what Nana's giving them for Christmas."

"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Goddard, and sorry to have to dredge all this up again. But if you could bring yourself to go through your mother's things, there might be something that would connect her with this latest murder." He couldn't recall having seen anything connecting Hoffman with either the Arrowoods or Alex Dunn, but he wanted to be absolutely sure he hadn't missed vital evidence.

"There is one thing," Eliza said hesitantly. "My mother always wore a heart-shaped silver locket. But it wasn't in the things you returned to us, and we didn't find it in the shop. I know you told us at the time there was no evidence of burglary, but- Might her killer have taken the locket?"

Melody Talbot sat down across from Gemma's desk and kicked her shoes off, stretching out her legs and examining them with a frown. One of her tights had ripped in the toe and she tugged at it in annoyance. "My feet will never be the same. This is the first time I've got off them in three days."

"Found anything worthwhile?" From the discouraged expression on Melody's face, Gemma had not much hope of the answer. Gerry Franks had been in earlier with an equally discouraging report. He'd pressed her to talk to Karl Arrowood again, but she was determined to wait until she'd spoken to Arrowood's first wife.

"Surely there must have been joggers round St. John's at that time of the evening, but so far we haven't turned up anyone," Melody told her. "And none of the neighbors remember seeing anything out of the ordinary."

"Nor did I," Gemma murmured, but when Melody raised a questioning brow, she shook her head.

Melody winced and wiggled her feet back into her shoes. "Anything from forensics yet?"

"No. It's early days. But try telling the media that." Gemma pushed away the remains of a packaged sandwich and tepid tea. "If Karl Arrowood came home earlier than he said, he could have simply pulled up in the drive and attacked Dawn when she came home." Had she seen one car? Gemma wondered. Or two? But even if she had seen two cars, she might have passed by while Karl was looking for his wife in the house. None of the neighbors had reported a second car in the drive, but they had better double-check. "Why don't you go round the neighbors again, make sure no one saw Karl's Mercedes."

Melody groaned and stood up. "Yes, boss." At the door she turned back. "You might want to talk to the lady next door yourself. She didn't report seeing anything particular, but she's a friendly soul. And she's taken in Dawn Arrowood's cat."

Mrs. Du Ray lived just the other side of the Arrowoods' hedge. The house was semidetached, and Gemma saw that although the paint round the trim and windows was peeling, the garden was neatly tended and the door brass gleamed. Any lack of care must be due to insufficient funds rather than neglect, and lack of funds in this neighborhood was enough to arouse her curiosity.

A neat, gray-haired woman greeted Gemma with a friendly smile. "Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Du Ray? I'm Inspector James from the Metropolitan Police." Gemma bent to stroke Tommy, who purred loudly and butted against her legs.

"I see you two know each other," said Mrs. Du Ray as she led Gemma through the house and into the kitchen. "I'll just put on some tea."

"My constable said you were very hospitable."

"Most people are too busy rushing about these days to take the time. Especially the young mothers chauffeuring their children about. Gymnastics and ballet lessons and piano and martial arts. It's all very well, but when do they have time to be children? But you probably have young children yourself and think I should mind my own business. I admit I'm hopelessly old-fashioned."

"Not at all," Gemma assured her. "And I'm afraid I don't have the luxury of chauffeuring my children around, nor did my parents."

"Quite." Mrs. Du Ray spooned tea leaves into a delicate flowered teapot and covered them with boiling water.

Gemma relaxed in her chair, as Melody must have done before her, glad of the respite. It was a pleasant room, clean and well kept if a bit run-down, like the house's exterior. "Have you lived here long, Mrs. Du Ray?"

"Thirty-five years. My husband bought this house when we were first married. Now that's he's gone, and the children are all grown up and married themselves, I suppose I could set myself up nicely in a little bungalow somewhere if I were to sell. But it's hard to contemplate leaving such familiar surroundings, and so many memories."

Gemma found it difficult to imagine such a settled existence. Had Dawn contemplated living a good portion of her life in the house next door, perhaps raising children there? Through the wide window over the sink she could see its pale stucco walls rising above the hedge.

"Did Mr. Arrowood ask you to look after Tommy?" she asked when Mrs. Du Ray had handed her a teacup of the same delicate china as the pot.

"No. But by yesterday the poor creature was begging at my door, and it was obvious he hadn't been fed. I let him in and picked up some tins of food at the market. I don't know what Dawn fed him, but he doesn't seem fussy." Mrs. Du Ray made a little face as she sipped at her tea. "As for Karl Arrowood, I went round yesterday evening. I didn't want him to think I was taking liberties by caring for his wife's cat. But when I told him, he just shrugged and said, 'Do as you please.' It wasn't that he was rude exactly, just indifferent. I suppose that's understandable under the circumstances."

"It's kind of you to take in the cat."

"It's just decent," rejoined Mrs. Du Ray. She stroked Tommy, who had made himself at home on the dining chair beside her and was industriously washing a paw. "You'd have done the same."

"Did you know Dawn well?"

"Perhaps not as well as I should." At Gemma's questioning look, Mrs. Du Ray went on more slowly. "Beautiful, young, wealthy… it didn't occur to me that the girl might need friends. But now that I think about it, she spent a good deal of time in that house alone."

"How could you tell? You can't see their drive from your house, can you, because of the hedge?" As Mrs. Du Ray began to bristle, Gemma added hurriedly, "I don't mean to imply that you were prying. I'm just wondering what you would notice in the normal course of your day."

Mrs. Du Ray went back to petting the cat, relaxing again. "You're right. You can't see the drive from the downstairs windows. But I can see it when I'm working in the front garden, and I can see it from the bedroom windows upstairs. And I did notice, just the way you do, without really thinking much about it."

"You didn't happen to be upstairs on Friday, a few minutes after six?" But she saw instantly from the woman's face that she was going to be disappointed.

"No, dear, I'm sorry. I don't usually go upstairs that time of day. I was here in the kitchen, preparing my supper. A boiled egg and toast, I remember, as I'd been out to lunch with a friend."

"And you didn't hear anything?"

"Not a sound. Until the sirens, of course, and then I went out to see what had happened."

"Did you ever hear them arguing, Karl and Dawn?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. They seemed the perfect couple, always off to parties and dinners, and she was always dressed to the nines. But surely you don't think that Karl Arrowood had anything to do with Dawn's death? That's just not possible!"

"I know sometimes it's difficult to accept, but that is often-"

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I mean I don't believe Karl is physically capable of such a crime. I know how she died, you see. It's been whispered round the neighborhood."

"I don't understand."

"Karl is terrified at the sight of blood. He can't help it, I'm sure. My husband was the same way, from his childhood."

"How do you know?"

"I cut myself badly in the garden one day- a shard of broken glass had somehow worked its way into the front border- just as Karl and Dawn came home. I must have cried out, because Dawn came over to ask if I was all right, and Karl followed her. I thought the man was going to faint when he saw the blood running down my arm. Went white as a sheet and Dawn had to hold on to him. She took him inside, then ran me to the casualty ward at the hospital. She stayed with me, too, and brought me home again when they'd bandaged me up."

"That was kind of her. Did she confide in you at all? One tends to, in that sort of situation."

"No. Nor did she ever. You'd have this lovely conversation, and then later you'd realize you hadn't learned anything about her."

"That makes her an ideal candidate for sainthood, doesn't it?" reflected Gemma softly.

"You mean it allows people to make her into anything they want? I suppose I may have done that myself. But no. There was something genuine there, I'm sure of it. And it's a great loss to everyone who knew her." For the first time, Mrs. Du Ray showed a hint of tears.

"Karl Arrowood, faint at the sight of blood? You're joking." Kincaid glanced at Gemma, then focused his attention once more on the Kensington traffic. He'd dropped Cullen at the Yard before taking the motor pool Rover to pick Gemma up at Notting Hill.

"She was positive," answered Gemma. "And it's not the sort of thing you'd mistake."

"But an elderly lady-"

"Not elderly," she corrected. "Older. And sharp as a tack. And although Arrowood does seem an unlikely candidate, I've seen stranger things."

"If it's true, his phobia didn't prevent him from lifting the body of his dead wife."

"Shock might account for that. What I wonder is if he could have brought himself to cut her throat, and so decisively. There were no hesitation marks."

"Maybe he paid someone else to do it," Kincaid suggested.

"In that case, knowing what he would find, would he have touched her?"

"Has this turned you into an Arrowood apologist? I thought you were dead set on him as Dawn's killer."

"No," Gemma answered, a trifle crossly. "I mean no, I'm not ruling him out. I'm just playing devil's advocate."

"Well, let's see what the former Mrs. Arrowood has to say about him." They had reached Lower Sloane Street, a bastion of elegant and expensive red brick town houses, just below Sloane Square. Kincaid whistled under his breath. "He certainly set her up in style."

Gemma had rung ahead, suspecting that it might be difficult to pin down Karl's former wife without an appointment. Sylvia Arrowood must have been watching out for them because she opened the door before they rang the bell. She was tawny, slender, and extremely well preserved for a woman he guessed to be in her fifties. It intrigued Kincaid that she was the same physical type as Dawn Arrowood- had Karl been guilty of trading in the old model for the new?

"You must be the police," she said. "Can we do this as speedily as possible? I've an appointment." Her tone clearly said that her time was important and theirs was not.

Kincaid put on his most bland expression to hide his irritation. When he asked if they could sit down, she did not conceal hers. "We'll try to inconvenience you as little as possible, Mrs. Arrowood," he began as he took quick stock of the room.

It was filled with what he judged to be expensive antiques and objets d'art, but this was a room to be looked at, not lived in. There was something oddly off balance about it, and after a moment he realized what it was. The room was just slightly overcrowded, and he sensed this was due not to a love of the objects acquired, but to greed. Why have one priceless Georgian table, or Sèvres vase, when you could have two?

"…lovely flat," Gemma was saying.

Mrs. Arrowood perched on the edge of one of her gilded armchairs, watching them, her only acknowledgment a nod.

"You do realize why we're here?" Kincaid spoke a bit more sharply than he'd intended. "Your ex-husband's wife has been murdered."

"And why do you think that should be of particular concern to me? I never met the woman. I haven't seen Karl in years."

"How long have you been divorced?" asked Gemma with just a hint of sympathy in her voice.

"Thirteen years. Karl left me when Richard was eleven, and Sean, nine. Have you any idea what it's like to bring up boys that age on your own?"

"I can imagine," Gemma replied. "Mrs. Arrowood, we've been told that your husband had a vasectomy during his marriage to you. Is that true?"

Sylvia Arrowood stared at her. "Why on earth do you want to know that?"

"It's relevant to the case. I'm afraid I can't give out any details."

Shrugging, Sylvia said, "Well, I can't see any harm in telling you. I wanted another child after Sean, and the bastard went out, without discussing it with me, and got himself fixed. 'Just to make sure,' he said, 'that there won't be any accidents.' I never forgave him for that."

"No, I can see that." Gemma glanced at her notebook. "Mrs. Arrowood. Was your husband upset by the sight of blood?"

"How do you know about that? A shaving nick would make Karl swoon, as giddy as a girl." Sylvia smiled, but Kincaid didn't get the impression that it was in fond remembrance. "You're not thinking the bastard murdered his little wife, are you? That's absurd!"

"Why?"

"Not just because he couldn't bear anything to do with blood. Karl's much too cruel for something so clean and quick. He likes to torture his victims slowly. And why would he do such a thing… unless she was having an affair?" Sylvia seemed to read confirmation in their expressions. "I see. Well, I can tell you, he'd have made her pay, all right, if he found out. But he'd have drawn it out- it's much more likely he'd have turned her out in the street with nothing, sent her back to whatever grotty suburb she came from. By the time he married her he didn't need money," she added bitterly. "He could afford to go slumming."

"Maybe he loved her," Gemma suggested.

Sylvia looked at her as if the comment were too absurd to deserve an answer.

"Mrs. Arrowood," Kincaid interjected, "are your sons close to their father?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Let's see, the elder, that would be Richard? He must be twenty-four now, and his brother, twenty-two?"

"I congratulate you on your math, Superintendent."

"And has either of them followed in their father's footsteps?"

"If by that you mean the antiques trade, no. They both work in the City. Richard's in insurance. Sean's in banking."

"Could you give me their addresses? Just routine," he added, seeing her instant wariness. No point in getting the wind up her any more than necessary at this point.

When she had complied, with obvious reluctance, he thanked her and they said good-bye.

"If one of the sons did it, they'd have to have known, or at least suspected, that Karl hadn't made any provision for them," Gemma observed when they were back in the car. "And what about Marianne Hoffman?"

"Maybe he left money to her, too," Kincaid suggested, and Gemma gave him a quelling look. "Okay, that's a bit far-fetched, I admit. But I think it's certainly worthwhile having a word with Arrowood's sons."