Where Memories Lie

CHAPTER 6

1935

Bad Saarow, April 21 (Easter)

The hotel is mainly filled with Jews and we are a little surprised to see so many of them still prospering and apparently unafraid. I think they are unduly optimistic.

—William L. Shirer, Berlin Diary: The Journal of a Foreign Correspondent,

1934–1941

The flowers came just after the two police officers left, two dozen perfect pink roses, left at the front desk by a courier. Mrs. March carried them back to the office, saying, “Oh, Kristin, aren’t they lovely?”

Mr. Khan raised one arched brow but made no comment. Giles, who had come in with some paperwork, flushed a blotchy red and retreated, head tucked in like a tortoise. Kristin would have fallen through the floor if she could.

But Mrs. March oohed and aahed and fussed over the card until Kristin was forced to slip it from its envelope. “Anonymous admirer,” Kristin said, knowing it was likely to make poor Giles suspect but not about to tell the truth. The signature read simply “D,” but that was enough.

As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. March, Khan turned to her, all the civilized veneer stripped from his handsome face.

“You may have an admirer, Miss Cahill,” he said, his voice level and articulate, and all the more venomous for it. “But I promise you it isn’t me. If I find you’ve done anything to jeopardize the reputation of this salesroom, I’ll personally see you out the door. You’d better watch—”

Giles had interrupted then, looking even more miserable than before, to tell Khan that a prospective seller wished to see him.

“Why does he hate you so much?” whispered Giles when Khan had stepped into the display room.

“God, I wish I knew.” Kristin’s legs were shaking and it was all she could do not to cry. It had been Khan who’d assessed the piece, after all. She hadn’t done anything wrong—or at least nothing that a thousand other salesroom clerks hadn’t done before her. But she knew now that she would be the one to catch it if any impropriety came to light.

Her mobile began to vibrate and she knew who it was without looking. She gave Giles a pointed glance, then waited until he’d left to answer.

“I told you not to call me at work,” she hissed into the phone, wondering if he’d been watching from the street, timing his call to the flower delivery.

“No one will know who it—”

“I don’t care. He doesn’t like me talking on my mobile, and I’m in enough trouble already. And I told you I didn’t want—”

“Look, love.” He dropped his voice, Dom at his most persuasive, and she fought the warmth that began to spread through her. “I didn’t mean what I said yesterday,” he went on. “I was a little—I’d had a bad night, you know? But I’ve been thinking—” Bad night, bollocks. Strung out was more like it, and now he sounded too hyped.

She could see Khan through the half-open door, talking to a client, a chubby, balding man in an expensive-looking jacket. “Don’t think, Dom,” she whispered, hanging on to the anger. “It’s not your strong suit. And don’t send me bloody flowers.”

“Kris, please. I was screwed up. Meet me tonight. We need to talk. Something’s happened—”

“You’d better believe something’s happened. The freaking cops were here.”

“What?”

Khan had looked her way. “You heard me,” she whispered, moving farther from the door. “They wanted to know about the brooch—”

“You didn’t mention me?”

“Of course I didn’t mention you. What sort of idiot do you take me for?”

“I’m sorry, Kris. I’m sorry. Look, you have to meet me. We have to talk.” Dom’s voice was urgent. “The Gate. After ten. Please.”

“No,” Kristin repeated, but the phone went dead in her ear. She was staring at it, biting her lip, when it gave the soft bleep that meant she had a text message. After another furtive glance into the gallery, she opened the message and read the words as they scrolled down the screen.

You said you hated red.

“Is she…upset?” Gavin asked the officer who met him at the Notting Hill nick. He’d always liked this station, with its graceful lines and leafy surroundings. Like Lucan Place, it had survived the war intact. But God, he hated dealing with grieving widows. Sometimes it made him wonder if he was cut out for the job.

“No, not exactly,” the constable replied, looking back as he led Gavin towards the interview rooms. “I wouldn’t describe her as upset. I’ve put her in the best room. She’s not the sort belongs in the—well, never mind. You’d best see for yourself.” He shrugged and left Gavin at an unmarked door.

Squaring his shoulders, Gavin entered the room.

She was young, much younger than he’d imagined, given the age of the victim, and instantly he wondered if the possible identification was a mistake.

Glancing down at the few notes he’d made, he said, “Mrs. Rosenthal? I’m Gavin Hoxley, from Chelsea Police Station.” He’d deliberately not looked at the written report, wanting to evaluate this woman’s story without any preconceptions.

She sat on the opposite side of the scarred table, but had pushed her chair back so that she could clasp her hands in her lap. Her clothes were simple—a pale blue shirtwaist dress, probably reworked from an earlier style, and a white cardigan. But the wide belt emphasized her slender waist, and the dress’s color set off her fine, pale skin. Her dark hair was cut short and waved loosely, as if she hadn’t bothered much with styling, but the effect was the more appealing for its casualness.

“Yes, I’m Erika Rosenthal,” she said in faintly accented English, and looked up into his eyes. “What can you tell me about my husband?”

It had seemed like a good idea that morning, asking if he could visit Erika, but as Kit walked slowly up Ladbroke Grove after school, he began to have reservations. He’d never been to Erika’s house on his own, nor without an invitation, and Erika didn’t seem the sort of person you just dropped in on.

But he was curious about the missing brooch, and he didn’t want to go home and think about Gran. Adjusting his backpack, he picked up his pace, and soon turned into Arundel Gardens. He was glad Erika lived on the north side, where the houses were stuccoed and painted in colors—the plain, cream brick houses on the south side of the street never seemed as inviting. Sometimes he imagined that the more exotic houses in Lansdowne Road, with their bright colors and almost Moroccan feel, had bled a bit into the north side of Arundel Gardens, like paint running.

The afternoon was warm, and by the time he reached Erika’s door he was sweating, the wool of his school blazer scratching his shoulders beneath the straps of his bag. Slipping off the heavy pack, he let it sag from one hand as he rang the bell. He always brought home more books than he needed, but somehow he didn’t like to leave things behind.

The buzzer echoed inside the otherwise quiet flat, but there was no reply on the intercom. Kit shuffled his feet and swung his pack, suddenly aware of the distant sound of a dog barking, and nearer by, a car door slamming and the wail of a child. The spring pansies in Erika’s basement window box were looking faded and leggy, and the small yard was unswept.

He’d almost made up his mind to go when the door swung open. Erika looked out expectantly, and Kit could have sworn he saw a flicker of disappointment before she smiled and said, “Kit! What a nice surprise.”

“You shouldn’t answer the door without checking to see who it is, you know.” The words came out involuntarily and he flushed, hearing the rudeness.

But Erika merely nodded. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I was expecting—I thought it might be Gemma. Do come in. I’ll make you something cold to drink.”

As Kit followed her into the flat, he realized for the first time that he was looking down at her. He suddenly felt large and gawky, and deliberately pulled in his elbows, afraid he might knock a book or an ornament off the hall shelves.

In the sitting room, there were books and newspapers scattered about, and three empty cups on the table beside Erika’s chair. Having been taught early on by his mum to pick up, Kit stacked the cups and saucers and carried them into the kitchen. “I could help with the washing-up,” he offered when he saw the worktop and the tiny sink.

“Oh.” Erika stood still, as if she’d lost her bearings. “I can’t seem to settle to anything.” She frowned. “But I’m certain I have ginger beer in the fridge, and some ice cubes in the freezer. The glasses—”

“I’ll get the glasses.” Kit knew where they were kept. When Erika didn’t protest, he very quickly put the drinks together, even adding a sprig of mint from a pot on the kitchen table. The window overlooking the garden was open and the soft, warm air blew in like a caress. Thinking of the unexpected disorder of Erika’s sitting room, he said, “Can we sit outside?”

“Oh, of course.” She wore a heavy blue cardigan, the buttons misaligned, and hugged it to herself as if she were cold.

Kit led the way through the French doors onto the small terrace that overlooked the communal garden. Pulling out one of the white wrought-iron chairs so that it faced the sun, he said, “Sit here. It will warm you.”

Erika complied, then looked up at him with a glimmer of a smile. “You’re quite bossy, you know.”

“That’s what my mum used to say,” answered Kit, taking the chair opposite.

“You never talk about your mum.”

“No,” he said, and found to his surprise that he could. “She quite liked it. Me managing her. She used to call me bossy-boots.”

“I can see why.” Erika cradled her drink, then sipped. “I like the mint.”

“My mum grew it in the garden. We always put it in our summer drinks.” He pushed away the thought of long summer evenings in the Cambridgeshire garden that ran down to the river. “Was your father really a jeweler?”

“Oh, a jeweler, yes, but so much more. He was an artist. And a bit of a magpie.” Erika gave a surprisingly throaty laugh. “He loved bright things.” Sobering, she added slowly, “I sometimes think it was a good thing he didn’t survive the first years of the war. He would have hated what Berlin became, what Germany became in those years. He liked his creature comforts, my father.”

“He—” Kit hesitated, not sure how to go on.

“Oh, he died in a camp. In 1942, as far as I was able to learn.”

“And there wasn’t anyone else?”

When she shook her head, wisps of white hair came loose from her smooth knot and danced round her face. “No. Just the two of us. My mother had died when I was younger.”

Kit nodded and they sat quietly, sipping their drinks, shared knowledge lying easily between them.

After a bit, Kit said, “What was it like, Berlin before the war?”

Erika smiled. “I always think of flowers. Our garden was full of flowers in summer. Red and pink geraniums, petunias, roses. My father was a very social man, and entertaining was good for his business. Summer seemed one long round of garden parties, shimmering dresses, laughter, the scent of cigarette smoke on the night air. But—” She gave a small sigh, then added more briskly, “But I was a child. And I’m sure if I had been older, I would have realized that even then it mattered that we were Jewish.

“My father was tolerated because he made beautiful things for the wealthy, and even after Hitler came to power in 1933, the elite were reluctant to give up their luxuries. And my father was an optimist. He always wanted to believe the best of people.”

“But how could he? When such terrible things were happening?” asked Kit.

Erika gazed out into the communal garden, her eyes focused on a young woman playing with her child. “After Kristallnacht not even my father and David could ignore the danger, although in David’s case, it had been stubbornness, not optimism, that kept us in Berlin.”

Crystal Night. Kit had read about it in school, first with interest, because the name had intrigued him, then with growing horror as he realized what it meant. But somehow he had failed to connect Erika with that terrible tale of violence and destruction.

“The Night of the Broken Glass,” Erika said softly. “November tenth, 1938. The windows of thousands of Jewish shops and homes throughout Germany and Austria were smashed, Jews were beaten and killed, and over thirty thousand Jewish men were taken to concentration camps. It was called, literally, crystal-glass night, because most shopkeepers’ windows were made of more expensive crystal, rather than ordinary glass.

“It’s considered politically incorrect to use that term now in Germany—it’s felt it romanticizes what happened.” She shook her head. “But for those who lived through it, we never forgot the sound of hammers smashing crystal. To this day I can’t bear to break a glass.” Pulling her cardigan a little closer, she sipped her drink. The few ice cubes had melted, diluting the liquid to a gold as pale as the afternoon sunlight. “But that’s enough of such talk for this beautiful day. We should—”

“No,” broke in Kit. “I want to hear. What happened after that? Did they break into your father’s shop? Who was David? Why didn’t he want to leave?”

Erika gazed at her drink, turning the glass in her fingers, and for a moment Kit thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she glanced up at him, her dark eyes crinkled with affection. “That’s a hard task you’ve set me. Are you sure you want to be a biologist and not a journalist?”

“Don’t prevaricate,” said Kit, trying out a new word. The last time he’d come for tea with Gemma, Erika had challenged him to learn a new word every day, and to teach Toby a simpler one. He hadn’t done so well with Toby, but was rather proud of his own progress.

“You’ve been swotting.”

The slang sounded funny coming from Erika, who usually spoke quite formal English. “All right,” she said after a moment. “Yes. My father’s shop was smashed. But he had heard rumors a few hours before and had managed to hide the most valuable pieces in our house. Because we lived in one of the more elegant parts of town, our home was spared, although we hid for hours in the cellar with the maids. I didn’t know where David was and I was more terrified for him than for myself.” At Kit’s questioning look, she added, “David was my husband. He had been my teacher at university. The Nazis had forbidden the universities to hire Jews as lecturers, so David worked as a private tutor. Most of his students were children of the wealthy whose parents could afford to give them an extra edge, and some of them rose in the Nazi elite. It made David feel he had failed. Failed them, failed himself.”

The sun had moved and Erika’s face was now in shadow. When she didn’t go on, Kit said uncertainly, “What did he teach?”

This time Erika’s smile held no humor. “Philosophy. He believed in a rational, peaceful state.”

Kit suddenly felt as if he’d got in over his head, but didn’t know how to backpedal gracefully. Instead, he plunged ahead. “But you got out, didn’t you? You and your husband. Why did you leave your father behind?”

As soon as the words left his lips, he’d have given anything to call them back.

Finding he didn’t want to loom over this woman, Gavin pulled out a chair, and the legs scraping across the lino seemed unnaturally loud.

“Mrs. Rosenthal, first I need you to tell me about your husband.”

“But I’ve already—”

“Please.”

“But I—” Her protest subsided, but he thought she clasped her hands a little more tightly. Her nails were short and neat, her only jewelry a simple gold band.

“My husband,” she said on an exhaled breath, as if marshaling patience, “is named David Rosenthal. He is a lecturer at a small college in North Hampstead, a school for Jewish boys. On Saturdays it is his habit to write in the Reading Room at the British Museum.”

“On the Sabbath?” asked Gavin.

The glance she gave him was sharp. “My husband is not an observant Jew, Mr. Hoxley.”

“All right.” He nodded. “Go on.”

“When he didn’t come home for his supper, I thought perhaps he had gone to a meeting, and that he had forgotten to tell me. But he never came home. Not that night. Not yesterday. And this morning he did not show up for work at his college. They rang me at my work, and I came here.”

It could still be a case of a wandering husband, Gavin told himself, although he couldn’t imagine a man straying from this woman. “Can you describe your husband for me?”

She closed her eyes, as if building a picture in her mind. “David…is…a good deal older than I. Forty-eight last January. He is slender—too thin—and not as tall as you, Mr. Hoxley. He has blue eyes and dark hair that is becoming gray. Salt and pepper, I think is the English term.”

Gavin felt a twist in his gut, half excitement, half dread. There was no avoiding it now. “Mrs. Rosenthal, did your husband wear any jewelry?”

Her eyes flew open. “Jewelry? A trinket only, a gift from one of his students. A little Jewish symbol on a chain, a mezuzah.”

She must have seen the truth in his face, because she went quite still, so still he thought for a moment she had ceased to breathe, and that stillness was more devastating than all the tears he had witnessed in his years on the force.

Then she took a breath, like a drowning swimmer coming up for air, and said, very clearly, “Mr. Hoxley. I know my husband is dead. Did he—did he…harm himself?”

The afternoon dragged. Gemma’s office grew stuffy from the heat, and opening the window brought only a current of warm air mixed with exhaust fumes. The mountain of paperwork on her desk seemed unshrinking, and she slogged through it with increasing irritation.

When Melody popped her head in to say she was going home, Gemma snapped, “Fine,” then called her back.

“Sorry,” she said. “Headache.”

Melody, still looking as fresh and crisp as she had that morning, leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re not looking forward to talking to your friend.”

“No.” Gemma sighed. “And I—” On the verge of telling Melody about her mum, she hesitated. She knew no more than she had that morning. Having traded text messages with Cyn, all she’d learned was that the consultants were still waiting on test results. Shaking her head, she finished lamely, “I’ll have to do it in person. I suppose there’s no point postponing.”

Melody studied her, tilting her head in a gesture Gemma had learned meant she was assessing the truthfulness of a statement. But she merely said, “Call it a day, boss. Policy implementations can wait.” Grinning, she added, “Forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Right. See you tomorrow, then,” answered Gemma, cheered.

When Melody had gone, she pushed her unfinished papers into a stack and smacked her pen on top for emphasis, then rang home. No answer.

Kincaid had told her that Kit wanted to go to Erika’s after school, but surely he should be home by now. She didn’t like it when Kit was out of touch—she supposed that eventually they were going to have to give in and get him a mobile, although she dreaded the thought of a teenager permanently wired to the world by his thumbs.

Except that Kit hadn’t asked for a phone, and that made her wonder if he had enough friends. Since Christmas he had been getting on better, at least with his studies, but he still seemed to spend most of his time at home on his own or with Wesley.

Wesley—there was a thought. She rang Wesley, asking if he could pick Toby up from his after-school care. That would leave her free to go straight to Erika’s, and possibly track down Kit in the process.

It was cooler outside than in, and the brisk walk down Ladbroke Grove cleared her aching head. The fruit trees were in bloom, and a rainbow of late tulips brightened front gardens and window boxes. It seemed to her that this time of year London was bursting at its seams, life pushing through the cracked cocoon of winter, and her spirits always lifted along with the city’s pulse.

The wind had picked up by the time she reached Erika’s house in Arundel Gardens, cooling the back of her neck where it had gone damp from the heat, swirling bits of debris about her ankles.

She rang the bell, and after a long wait, it was Kit rather than Erika who opened the door.

“Hi,” he said, looking unusually pleased to see her, and her desire to scold him over not checking in vanished. “We were in the garden. I thought I heard the bell. I’ll make you something to drink if you want to go out.”

There was more to his offer than manners. “Is everything all right?” Gemma asked, touching his shoulder briefly as they walked towards the kitchen.

“Yes. But she’s waiting for you.”

Taking the hint, she left him and went out through the French doors into the garden. Erika rose, a little slowly, from her seat at the garden table and came to meet her.

“I thought it must be you,” she said, her expression anxious. “Did you find out—”

But Gemma was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, no. They won’t release any information about the seller. Their jewelry expert believes the piece is authentic, and they’re not required to give provenance. The expert is a man named Amir Khan.” Gemma pulled out a chair for herself as Erika sank back into hers. Kit had come out and set down a drink for her, then stepped back, listening quietly. “The girl who took the piece in—Kristin—might have told me more, but Khan came in and shut her up.”

“Is there any point in you going back, having another word with her on her own?” asked Erika.

Gemma shook her head. “I don’t think so. She’ll have been well warned. He—Mr. Khan—said that you’d have to get a lawyer. And that if it were a matter of proving that an item was looted by the Nazis, the case could drag on forever. I’m afraid he’s right,” she added gently. “You may have to let it—”

“Oh, no,” broke in Erika, and the fire was back in her eyes. “I’ve let it go long enough. And it wasn’t the Nazis who stole the brooch from me.”

Kristin fidgeted through dinner, earning a concerned glance from her mother and an irritated “Will you sit still, for heaven’s sake?” from her dad.

When she did little more than push her food round her plate, her mum shook her head. “Kristin, you need to eat.”

“I had lunch out.” It was an easy lie, so she embroidered. “With some mates from work. At Carluccio’s.” Right, she thought. Who exactly would she have gone to Carluccio’s with, even if she could afford it? Giles?

Before her mother’s look of interest turned into questions about what she’d eaten, she said, “And I’m going out tonight. Just for a bit.” She glared at her dad, daring him to criticize. That was one of the worst things about being forced to live at home—her parents still treated her like a teenager, even though she was more than a year out of university.

She’d never introduced them to Dom, nor told them anything about him. She could just imagine what her dad, a supervisor at Abbey Mills Pumping Station who had worked hard to put his only daughter through university, would have to say about a man who lived on inherited money. That was grief she didn’t need.

Her mobile rang. When she saw that it was Giles, she quickly pressed Ignore. Her father looked up from his pork chop, frowning. “I’ve told you not to bring that thing to the table.”

But before Kristin could defend herself, the home phone rang. Her mum was closest and answered it, receiving a second scowl from her dad. “I thought we’d agreed. No phone calls during—”

“It’s your friend Giles, darling,” her mother interrupted, smiling as she handed Kristin the phone.

“Bugger,” Kristin muttered under her breath. Giles was already waffling on in her ear. “…wasn’t fair what Khan did to you today. Don’t know what gets into him, but I’m sure you didn’t deserve it.”

“Thanks, Giles. That’s nice of you.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “But I have to—”

“Thought you might want to go out for a coffee, talk about it. Or—or you could come to the flat. We could listen to—”

“Thanks, but I can’t, really.” There was no way she was going to his flat. The thought of being alone with Giles was bad enough—although she couldn’t imagine he’d get up the nerve to make a move—but she certainly wasn’t spending the evening with that dog he was always going on about. She knew what effort it must have taken him to invite her, however, and tried to be kind. Excusing herself, she left the dining room and retreated to her bedroom. “I’m going out already, Giles,” she said when she was out of her parents’ hearing. “Meeting someone at the Gate, in Notting Hill.”

“You’re meeting him, aren’t you? The bloke who sent you the roses.”

“You’re starting to sound like my father, Giles,” she said, all inclination to be gentle vanishing. “And besides, it’s none of your business. Look, I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” She started to hang up, then put the phone back to her ear. “And by the way, don’t call me at home—

“—And sod you,” she added, tossing the phone on the bed. Now she had to get out quickly, before her mum started asking questions about her friend. Leaving her work clothes in a heap on the floor, she changed into jeans and a slightly tatty rose-colored cardigan. This was one night she didn’t intend to tart herself up for Dominic Scott. Nor did she intend to wait if he wasn’t there.

She’d told herself a hundred times that she was only going to finish what she’d tried to say that afternoon, but there was a small, traitorous part of her that knew it wasn’t true—a part that imagined the roses were real, that she would see him and he would look into her eyes and everything would be all right.

Serve her bloody well right if he didn’t turn up, she thought as she walked up the road towards Earl’s Court tube station, head down against the wind.

When she emerged at Notting Hill Gate a few minutes later, it was well past ten, but the streets were still busy with late shoppers and patrons coming and going from the restaurants and pubs. Waiting to cross at the light, she saw the woman beside her start to step out into the path of a 52 bus barreling round the corner into Pembridge Road. Kristin grabbed the shoulder of her jacket and yanked her back, feeling the draft rock her as the bus passed.

“Christ!” she said, loosing her hold, her heart pounding. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

“Sorry,” the woman mumbled, without looking at her, and when the light changed she walked on, head still down.

Some people, Kristin thought, shaking her head, but then she was crossing Notting Hill Gate, and the door to one side of the Gate Cinema yawned before her.

There was no bouncer, as Monday was a light crowd, but it was only as she started down the stairs into the club that she remembered it was salsa night. The driving beat of Latin music rose up to meet her, and as she reached the basement she saw that instead of the usual milling bodies, couples were dancing in sync, touching. Her heart sank. That temptation was a complication she didn’t need, and she wondered if Dom had remembered and had chosen the club because of it.

She pushed her way through the knot of people blocking the bottom of the stairs, into the purple-blue glow of the light from the bar. One of the bartenders, a pretty blond girl, waved at her, but she shook her head and kept looking.

Then she saw him, sitting alone, in the corner farthest from the bar and the dance floor. He’d washed his hair and dressed with obvious care, and she wondered if the pallor of his face was simply a reflection of the lights from the bar.

When he saw her, he smiled and stood, beckoning her over, and when she reached him he kissed her, brushing his lips against her cheek.

Kristin shivered and pulled away. “I came to talk, Dom.” She sat on the banquette, putting a good foot of space between them.

“Let me get you a drink.”

“No, I don’t want—”

But the barmaid came by and Dom signaled her, ordering her a mojito. He was drinking, Kristin saw, neat whisky, never a good sign.

“You look gorgeous.” He ran a hand down her arm.

“You think?” she retorted. “You should have seen me on Saturday.”

“Look, love, things just got a bit out of control. I—”

“They’re only as out of control as you want them to be, Dom, and I’m—”

The barmaid brought her drink and Kristin took it, giving the girl an absent smile. She took a drink, tasting mint and lime and feeling the kick of the rum as it went down. Dutch courage. She needed Dutch courage.

“Drink up,” Dom said quietly, and she saw then that in spite of the whisky he was sober, and there was no affection in his gray eyes. “And tell me about the cops.”

Kristin swallowed. The fear she’d damped down since that morning came back in a rush. “She said it was personal, the inspector, that she was doing a favor for a friend, a woman named Erika Rosenthal. She said the brooch had belonged to her friend and it was lost during the war. She wanted to know who was selling it.”

“You’re sure you didn’t tell her?” Dom’s voice rose.

“No. Of course not,” she said, thinking how perilously close she had come to spilling everything. There had been something sympathetic about the inspector, with her open face and coppery hair. “And Khan read them the lawyer act. But I don’t—”

“You have to take it out of the sale.” Dom was sweating now, the calm of a moment before gone, and when he raised his glass, his hand shook.

“Take it out of the sale?” Kristin stared at him. “Are you mad? You know I can’t take it out of the sale. Only Harry can do that.”

“Harry’s convinced himself his twenty percent will keep the wolves from the door. He—”

“Twenty percent?” Kristin’s voice shot up. “You offered Harry twenty percent, against me risking the wrath of Khan for my four percent bringing-in fee?”

“I’d have made it up to you, Kris. But now—”

“Now, nothing. You and Harry work it out between you.” She set down her glass, miraculously empty. “As far as I’m concerned, I don’t know you—or Harry—from Adam, and I took in that brooch in good faith. And if it sells, you can keep my bloody four percent.”

She stood, the room spinning as the alcohol hit her system. The rhythm of the samba playing on the DJ’s turntable seemed almost tangible in the air. Steadying herself with a hand on the back of the banquette, she leaned over and kissed Dom, very lightly, on the cheek. “’Bye, Dom. Have a nice life.”

When she reached the street, she looked back, but he hadn’t followed, and she didn’t know if she felt relief or despair.

Quickly, she walked round the corner into Kensington Church Street and started south, and when a 49 bus came along she got on. It would take her through South Ken, and she had a sudden desire to see the familiar museums and to pass by the showroom. It was, she told herself, all she had left.

But when the bus trundled past the Old Brompton Road, she stayed on, resisting the impulse to stop and look in the showroom windows. After all, if Khan found out she’d known there was something dodgy about that brooch, he would fire her in a heartbeat, and then there would be nothing at all.

It was only as the bus neared the King’s Road that she realized Dom had changed his mind about the sale even before she’d told him about the cops. She got off, still thinking, walking slowly towards World’s End. The road was empty, the pub dark—somehow it had got to be past closing time.

She waited to cross at the light, pulling her cardigan up around her throat, wondering just what she would say to Khan if Harry Pevensy did pull the brooch from the sale. Khan would hold her responsible, and there would be hell to pay. She felt suddenly exhausted and a bit dizzy, as if the alcohol had taken an unexpected toll on her empty stomach.

The light changed. As Kristin stepped off the curb, she heard the high-pitched squeal of tires on tarmac. Turning towards the sound, she saw a blur of motion, oncoming, and had the odd impression of lights reflecting off a smooth expanse of metal.

Her brain sent flight signals to her body, too late. And at the moment of impact, she felt nothing at all.