Where Memories Lie

CHAPTER 11

It was after Germany had occupied Austria in March 1938, and the dreadful events of Kristallnacht on 9 November 1938, when 269 synagogues, 1,000 Jewish shops and dwellings were burned and 30,000 arrests made, that emigration escalated. Thousands of Jews were thrown into concentration camps, and there were desperate attempts to flee. By the end of 1938 there were 38,000 German and Austrian Jewish refugees in Britain, and by 1940 about 73,000…

—Dr. Gerry Black, Jewish London: An Illustrated History

“Well, that was a great success,” Kincaid said as he eased the Rover back into traffic. He’d rung Cullen as soon as they were back in the car, learning that Giles Oliver not only had no car registered in his name, he had no driving license.

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Gemma replied mildly. “And it wasn’t a waste of time. We know where Kristin went—”

“Or at least where she told Giles she was going.”

She glanced at him—his lips were set in a straight line. He didn’t like feeling a fool. “You’re determined to be difficult,” she told him. “We at least have a place to start. And we know that there was a bloke in her life who probably sent her roses. Was that what made Khan angry, or was it me asking her about the brooch? And is Giles right? Did she meet the rose sender when she went out?”

“Or maybe Giles borrowed a neighbor’s car, license or not.”

“Do you really see Giles Oliver running someone down?”

“Vehicular homicide doesn’t require getting up close and personal. Although I have to admit I can’t see him asking for someone’s keys, much less hot-wiring the neighbor’s Volvo.” His mouth relaxed, quirking into a smile. “Now if it had been accidental assault by dog…”

“I can’t blame Kristin for resisting the dog and DJ combo,” Gemma said, but the thought made Kristin seem very real. Sobering, Gemma wondered what would have happened if Kristin had accepted Giles’s invitation. Would Giles and Mo have seen her home and kept her safe, at least for that night? “We’ll have to check with his neighbors. Someone might have seen something, however unlikely.”

“Where do you want to go, love?” Kincaid asked as they reached the King’s Road again. “We seem to be at a momentary standstill. I can drop you at the Yard, if you want to get the tube to the hospital.”

Gemma realized that for the last hour she’d hardly given her mum a thought, and with the prick of guilt all her worries came rushing back, both for her mum and for Erika. Glancing at her watch, she saw that Kit would just be getting home from school. An idea struck her and she said, “Let me make a quick call.”

She caught Kit just as he was coming into the house, spoke to him, and was ringing off when Melody beeped in, her voice filled with cat-in-the-cream satisfaction.

“You’ll never guess what I found out, boss.”

Kit felt rather pleased. He liked Gemma’s thinking that he could be helpful, and he wanted to talk to Erika again. He was curious about what had happened to her family, but felt he had put his foot in it a bit yesterday. He would have to bring it up more tactfully. Nor was he quite sure how to talk to Erika about the girl Gemma said had been killed, but he supposed he would think of something.

And, unlike yesterday, this time he had the opportunity to get out of his school clothes. Today was even warmer, so he swapped blazer and tie for jeans and T-shirt, let the dogs out into the garden for a quick pee and gave them biscuits, then set off down Lansdowne Road. When a gaggle of uniformed schoolgirls passed him and gave him the eye, giggling, he grinned at them with an unaccustomed sense of power and quickened his step.

When he rang the bell in Arundel Gardens, Erika answered immediately, and she didn’t seem at all surprised to see him.

“I’ve made lemonade,” she said. “Real lemonade, the way we used to make it in the summers in Germany when I was a child, not the fizzy stuff from a bottle.”

“Did Gemma ring you?” he asked, following her into the flat.

“She’s fussing over me. And sending you to fuss by proxy,” Erika answered, but she didn’t sound displeased. “Anyone would think I was an old biddy, although I’ve never been sure just what a biddy is. It sounds rather unpleasant.

“It’s cooler inside today than out,” she added as they reached the kitchen.

She had put two tall glasses on a tray, along with a clear glass jug in which floated a few ice cubes and slices of lemon. When she poured Kit a glass he drank it down thirstily, finding he liked the tartness. He slid into a seat at the small table, and at Erika’s nod, poured himself another glass.

Erika sat across from him, but barely touched her own drink. He saw now that in spite of her chatter, she looked tired, and bright spots of color burned in her cheeks.

“I’m sorry about the girl who was killed,” he said, finding it suddenly easy. “And I’m sorry for what I said about your father yesterday. It wasn’t fair of me.”

“No.” She shrugged aside his apology. “It was what happened that wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair then, but you were right, you know. We should never have let my father talk us into letting him stay behind. But he was a stubborn man, and he convinced himself that if he carried on as usual and pretended we had gone to visit relatives in Tilsit, then there was less likely to be an alert for us.

“Not that the Nazis were averse to letting Jews out of the country at that point, mind you, but David was a troublemaker, and they might have thought he would stir up antagonism against the regime if he reached a country where he could speak freely.”

“But once you got out—couldn’t your dad—”

Shaking her head, Erika said, “It was 1939. By the time we were settled in London, Germany invaded Poland. After that, we lost all communication, although we tried, everyone tried. But even the news broadcasts were censored by the Nazis, and we could only guess, and listen to the tales told by those who came after us. It was only after the war, when records began to become available, that I learned my father lost his business not long after we left, and then our home. He was taken to a work camp—that was what they called them, then.”

“Sachsenhausen?”

“Yes. As far as I was able to discover, he died in Camp Z.”

Kit couldn’t imagine the not knowing, the imagining that could not have comprehended the horrors her father must have endured. At least he knew what had happened to his mum, what she had suffered, and that her death had been quick.

And what had it been like for Erika, a stranger in London, marked out by her accent as an alien, and worse, as a German? But at least she hadn’t been alone.

“Your husband. When you came to London, did he do what the Nazis thought he would do? Did he tell people what had happened?”

Erika looked out into the garden. The fig tree outside the kitchen window made moving green shapes of the sunlight, like liquid puzzle pieces, and Kit caught the scent of hyacinths through the open window. He was sweating, and drops of condensation trickled down the outside of the lemonade jug. She was quiet for so long that, once again, he had begun to wish he hadn’t asked, when she turned back to him. She studied him for a moment, her dark eyes intent, until he felt he was being measured, or tested.

Then she said, “Let’s go for a walk, shall we? In the sun. And I’ll tell you about my husband.”

The CID room stank. There were too many bodies in a small space, wearing clothes rancid with sweat from the heat. Too many fag ends put out in desktop ashtrays, too many grease-stained chip wrappers, all mixed with the pervasive odor of burnt coffee.

Gavin put down the phone for what seemed the hundredth time and rubbed at his ear, damp from contact with the heavy earpiece. His head ached and his stomach burned from too much of the same coffee whose smell permeated the air. He wondered why he had ever wished for it to be spring, and why he refused to give up on a case that was going nowhere.

Last night he had stayed late at the station, compiling every report on David Rosenthal—the detailed postmortem, the house-to-house reports from the area near the murder, his own carefully typed interviews with Erika Rosenthal and David Rosenthal’s colleagues—and he had come up with nothing.

When he had gone home at last, Linda had been awake, her hair in papers, reading a magazine in bed. She had studied him, her nose wrinkled in distaste, and he’d wondered if he still smelled of death from the mortuary, or if he somehow carried the mark of his desire for another woman. Guilt had made him brusque, and he had been careful not to touch her as he climbed into bed. He suddenly found the thought of intimacy with his own wife unimaginable, and he drifted into sleep facing away from her, clutching his pillow like a drowning man clinging to a spar.

He had awakened early and had spent the morning making phone calls to contacts at newspapers and to the few underlings in government offices he could count as reliable sources, but no one would admit to knowing anything concrete.

Yes, there were rumors—one assistant to an undersecretary at the Home Office had even said he’d heard whispers that the Haganah, the Jewish terrorist organization, had offshoots in London. But these figures seemed mythical, shadowy, as hard to pin down as wolves flitting in and out of the edge of a forest.

Nor could he see any reason why, if David Rosenthal had supported such people, they would have had reason to kill him. Unless…Unless David had fallen out with their ideals, and had threatened to expose them.

Frustrated with the endless loop of questions, Gavin pushed back from his desk. David Rosenthal had kept more than one part of his life hidden from his wife and his colleagues. It was past time he paid a visit to the British Museum.

Having appropriated Gemma’s desk, Melody leaned back in the chair and prepared to enjoy her disclosures. Although Kristin Cahill had apparently thrown away the card that came with the flowers, Mrs. March had remembered the name on the florist’s delivery van.

It was indeed an upmarket floral design shop in Knightsbridge, and Melody had put on her best posh voice when she made the phone call, the accent she tried her best to rub out of her daily existence. When she explained her mission, the salesclerk, sounding decidedly frosty, informed her that they were not in the habit of giving out their customers’ private information.

Melody explained, very politely, that they could of course get a warrant, but that would entail disrupting the business considerably, and that the presence of the police would certainly be of interest to the shop’s clientele. And besides, she added, who was to say that the recipient of the bouquet in question hadn’t told a friend or coworker who had sent them?

Having been assured of discretion, the florist hesitated. “How do I know you are who you say you are?” she asked. “You could be some journalist prying into our clients’ private lives.”

The thought made Melody smile, but she schooled her expression back into earnest sincerity and asked the woman to ring her back at the station number. That done, the florist reluctantly gave her the name.

Melody stared at the name she had scribbled, her eyes wide, then began checking references on the Internet. When she was satisfied and had printed a photo, she rang Gemma.

“His name,” she said, “is Dominic Scott. His grandfather was Joss Miller, a financier who made his fortune rebuilding London after the Blitz, often using less than respectable methods.

“Kristin Cahill was definitely dabbling outside of her sphere—or stratosphere might be more accurate. Dominic Scott’s mother, Ellen, who goes by the awkward hyphenate of Miller-Scott, has devoted herself to turning her father into a saint through philanthropy and arts patronage, especially now that she no longer has to reckon with the old man himself. He died two years ago from liver cancer.”

“So what about the grandson?” asked Gemma.

“Dominic, on the other hand, has a bit of a rep as a bad boy. A few run-ins on minor charges—public intoxication, creating a disturbance, that sort of thing. But it doesn’t seem to amount to more than spoiled rich-boy antics.”

“And this was Kristin’s mysterious boyfriend?” asked Gemma, sounding suitably impressed.

“Unless Dominic Scott was sending flowers to a stranger.”

Gavin took the bus to Bloomsbury, not being able to bear the thought of sweltering on the tube. He sat on the top deck by an open window, watching the spring green of Hyde Park, then the bustle of Oxford Street, and by the time he alighted at Tottenham Court Road, his head had cleared. A breeze picked up as he walked the last few streets to the museum, drying his damp hair and collar.

The Reading Room itself was dark and cool, an oasis from the unrelenting glare of the sun. This was an unfamiliar world to Gavin, and as he looked round the curving vault, its walls lined with a bulwark of books, the lamps in the cubicles illuminating heads bent over books and papers, a wave of inadequacy swept over him. David Rosenthal had been like these men, educated, a scholar. How could he, Gavin, have entertained, even for a moment, the fantasy that Erika Rosenthal could fancy him, a plodding policeman?

But plod he was, and he had a job to do. Although the librarian agreed to show him the cubicle that David Rosenthal had used, he assured him that he would find nothing personal of interest.

“The cubicles are used by more than one reader,” the librarian explained, “and David was always careful to take his materials with him.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to see it,” Gavin had insisted.

But the librarian had been right. Having been led halfway round the room, then left on his own, Gavin contemplated the empty chair, the scarred but clean surface of the desk, the darkened lamp. There was nothing here, no hiding places, no secret messages, no trace of the man who had spent his precious free time here instead of with his wife.

Gavin turned his attention to the man working in the next cubicle, his dark head bent over a rat’s nest of papers illuminated by his green-shaded lamp.

“Excuse me,” said Gavin, stepping nearer. The man pulled his attention from his work with obvious reluctance, then his gaze sharpened as he looked Gavin over. He was younger than Gavin had realized. With his curly dark hair and rather delicate, pointed face, he made Gavin think of a faun.

“Can I help you?” he asked in perfect, unaccented English, and Gavin realized he had unconsciously assumed the man was foreign.

Introducing himself, Gavin asked, “I was wondering if you knew David Rosenthal? Do you work often in this particular cubicle?”

“Abraham Krumholtz.” The man half stood and shook Gavin’s hand. “Yes, I knew David. At least as well as anyone could say they knew David, I suspect.” Krumholtz kept his voice just above a whisper, so as not to disturb the other readers.

Gavin pulled up the empty chair and sat near enough that the pool of light from Krumholtz’s lamp spilled onto his knees.

Krumholtz, however, seemed not to mind the invasion of his space, and went on quietly. “A constable came round yesterday, asking about his things. That was the first we knew. I still can’t quite believe he’s gone. I’ve worked beside him, on and off, since the end of the war. I’m a Yiddish scholar,” he added, seeing Gavin’s curious look at his papers. “That’s what comes of being a second-generation immigrant—I’m fascinated by things my parents and grandparents took for granted.”

“And David,” asked Gavin, “what was David working on?”

“A memoir of his last years in Germany, and I think perhaps his escape from Germany as well. He never actually said, you understand. This I deduced over the years from bits of conversation.”

“He never showed you the manuscript?”

“Oh, no. David was very…possessive…about his work.”

“Do you think that David might have been naming names in his book? Some of his colleagues at work believed he had connections with some sort of vengeance organization.”

It was difficult to be certain in the green-tinged light, but Gavin thought Krumholtz paled. “Look, I’m not political,” he said, sounding wary. “I stay well out of these things. But David did hint, more than once, that there were many Germans who were guilty but were never implicated as collaborators. But he couldn’t have intended to publish such things…”

“Why not? Surely if that were the case, the truth should be told.”

Krumholtz leaned forward until their heads almost touched, and Gavin smelled peppermint on his breath. “Our government would never allow it, for one. No one wants to disturb the status quo with Germany.” For the first time his voice held a bitter note. “Nor do they want anything to call into question the Home Office’s record of rescuing Jews. Things are touchy enough these days with Palestine.”

Gavin considered this and didn’t like the implications. “Last Saturday, did David say or do anything unusual?”

Krumholtz started to shake his head, then stopped, putting a finger to the tip of his nose. “Now that you mention it, there was one thing. David had a newspaper with him, as he usually did. But as we were both tidying up, at closing time, I heard a ripping sound. When I looked over, I saw that David had torn out part of a page. When he saw me, he folded the fragment and put it into his satchel, along with the rest of the paper.”

“And you didn’t ask him what it was?”

“Of course not.” Krumholtz smiled. “You didn’t know David. One didn’t ask questions. And besides, there was something a bit furtive about it. I said good night and left.”

“And you didn’t notice which paper he had that day?”

“No. Sorry.” Krumholtz glanced back at his desk, as if his attention had been drawn too long from his work. “And there was no real pattern to what he bought—David read them all, highbrow and low.”

“Thank you.” Gavin stood. “If you think of anything else…” He handed a card with the station phone number to Krumholtz, who set it among his papers with a casual disregard that didn’t augur well for further communication.

But as Gavin turned to go, Krumholtz stopped him, his brow creased in an expression of concern. “Look,” he said, dropping his voice all the way to a whisper. “These people you mentioned. I’d leave it alone. Rumor has it that the government looks the other way. You could get into real trouble.”

The address Melody had given them was in Cheyne Walk, and made Kincaid give a low whistle. “At least it’s convenient,” he said, “although I’d say little Kristin was out of her element.”

“Not far as the crow flies, though,” mused Gemma. “I wonder how she met Dominic Scott.” As they curved round into Cheyne Walk, Gemma gazed out at the houseboats moored beyond Cremorne Gardens. The boats made her think of the garage flat, tiny as one of these floating homes, that she had once occupied behind her friend Hazel Cavendish’s house. She felt saddened by how quickly parts of life that had seemed terribly important faded from memory, pushed out like falling dominoes by new experience. “There’s not room for it all,” she said aloud, and Kincaid gave her a quizzical look but went back to address hunting.

They had almost reached the Chelsea Embankment when he said, “There,” and pulled the car up on the double yellows. He popped a POLICE notice in the windscreen and they got out, surveying Dominic Scott’s house. It was redbricked and gabled, almost Dutch in feel, four stories with basement, and with its own small front garden surrounded by a delicate wrought-iron railing.

“I take it,” Kincaid said with great understatement, “that he lives with his mum.”

Gemma realized that Melody hadn’t said anything about Dominic Scott’s father. “Nice,” she agreed, sudden nerves making her sarcastic. “Upstairs, downstairs. Maybe we should consider the servants’ entrance.”

He grinned back at her as he opened the gate smartly and strode to the topiary-flanked door. “Not on your bloody life.”

But the woman who answered on the first ring of the bell was no starched, uniformed maid. Small enough to make Gemma feel awkward, slender, and blond, she wore jeans Gemma recognized as expensive designer label and a silky pale blue sweater. If the color of her chin-length hair owed more to art than nature, it was expensively done, and her skin was flawless. A slightly prominent nose saved her from banal prettiness, but still, the overall effect was stunning, and Gemma suspected Kincaid must be gaping.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, gazing at them with a slightly bemused smile.

“Mrs. Miller-Scott?” asked Gemma, wishing she dared dig Kincaid in the ribs. “I’m Inspector James, and this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard.”

“Please, I prefer Ms., irritating as it is. I haven’t been anyone’s Mrs. for a good many years. And knowing who you are doesn’t tell me what you want.” She was still polite, but there was a slight edge to her voice.

“It’s actually your son we’d like a word with, Ms. Miller-Scott.” Kincaid had apparently recovered his powers of speech. “Dominic. He does live at this address?”

This time a definite flash of emotion disturbed the woman’s composed face, but Gemma couldn’t be sure if it had been worry or annoyance. “Yes, Dom has an apartment here. But he’s not in right now, although I expect he’ll be back soon. Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“We’d just like to have a chat with him,” Kincaid said easily. “Could we come in and wait?”

Ellen Miller-Scott shrugged, and this time the annoyance was unmistakable. “Please yourself.” As she led them into the house, it was Gemma’s turn to gape.

The exterior of the house had led her to expect the traditional, a chocolate box of color and gilt. But while the floors of the entry hall and sitting room were a dark glossy wood, the walls were a crisp white, a backdrop for the paintings that filled much of the space, gallery style. Gemma thought she recognized a Hockney, and a Lowry, but there were too many to take in, and all were stunning.

Splashes of colorful contemporary rugs anchored sleek leather furniture, tables held flower arrangements that must have cost a month of Gemma’s wages—probably done by the florist responsible for Kristin’s roses, which now seemed paltry in comparison—and in what seemed a perfect, if rather eccentric, counterpoint, a huge crystal chandelier hung from the Adam rose in the center of the ceiling.

“It was my father’s.” Miller-Scott had followed Gemma’s gaze. She sounded amused. “A bit incongruous, I admit, but I like it. Do sit.”

Gemma managed a strangled “Lovely,” and sank as gracefully as she could manage onto the sofa near the marble fireplace. On the backs of her bare calves the leather felt as sensuous as skin.

Not looking the least bit gobsmacked, Kincaid sat down beside her, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and smiled at their hostess. “You have quite a collection, Ms. Miller-Scott.”

She perched on the arm of the opposite sofa, a position that indicated limited tolerance of their presence, and did not offer them refreshment. “My father had a knack for knowing what would become valuable—a trait that is apparently not inheritable, if my son is any indication. Now, what is Dominic supposed to have done? I don’t suppose you send out superintendents for parking tickets.”

In spite of the bored voice, there was something in the line of the woman’s body, in the angle of her head, in the way her manicured fingers grasped her crossed knee a little too tightly, that made Gemma think she was more worried about her son than she admitted.

“We don’t know that your son has done anything,” Kincaid answered, with careful emphasis. “It’s merely a matter of help—”

The front door slammed. Gemma saw the ripple of shock in Ellen Miller-Scott’s body, the instinct to rise quickly controlled. Instead, she called out, “Dom! In here.”

Dominic Scott’s voice preceded him into the room. “Mum, I’m really not in the mood for a family discussion at the mo—” He stopped on the threshold, frozen, as he took in the tableau.

Unlike his mother, he was dark, and he was older than Gemma had imagined, nearer thirty than twenty. His hair was slightly too long, and brushed carelessly away from his face. He wore a suit that had not come from Marks and Sparks, with a white dress shirt open at the neck. And in spite of the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes, he had grace, and that indefinable combination of features that makes for striking physical beauty, male or female.

Gemma felt an instant’s stab of pity for Kristin Cahill, who must have been as vulnerable as a moth flying too near a candle, and for poor Giles Oliver, who had had as much chance as a pug set against a greyhound.

Then Kincaid stood and, before Dominic’s mother could get in an explanation, said, “Hullo, Dominic. My name’s Duncan Kincaid, and this is Gemma James. We’re from the Metropolitan Police, and we’d like to talk to you about Kristin Cahill.”

“What?” Dom Scott looked from one to the other, and Gemma wondered if she had imagined the flicker of relief. What had he been expecting? “Look, I know she’s a bit pissed off with me at the moment, but this is beyond funny.” He came a few steps into the room, but stayed an uncommitted halfway between the sitting area and the door.

Oh, Christ, thought Gemma. If it was an act, he was very cool. But if not…“Dominic,” she said quietly, “tell us when you saw Kristin last.”

“Monday. Monday night. Look, what’s this about? She’s not returning my calls.”

Kristin’s phone had been found in her jeans pocket, crushed beyond recovery.

Kincaid took up Gemma’s lead. “Tell us what happened on Monday night, Dominic. Where did you see Kristin?”

Ellen Miller-Scott glanced from Kincaid to Gemma, and the knuckles of the hand on her knee whitened. Dom took another hesitant half step forward, then ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “At the Gate. It was only a row. I can’t believe she’s complained about it. She was still on at me about Saturday night.”

“What happened on Saturday?” Kincaid asked, as relaxed as if they were discussing what they’d had for tea.

Dom shifted and rubbed at his nose. “I—I stood her up. I was supposed to meet her at this club, and I—I never got there.”

“And that’s why you sent her the roses at work on Monday?” said Gemma.

“What? How do you—The roses were to say, ‘Sorry.’” He glanced at his mother, as if gauging her reaction, then went on. “And she—Kristin—agreed to come out that night, but she was still being a bit of a cow about the whole business, if you want the truth. If she’s gone and done something stupid—”

He stopped, perhaps reading something in their faces. “What aren’t you telling me?” he said, his voice rising.

“And that’s the last you saw of her? At the Gate?”

“I’ve just said—”

“You didn’t see her home?”

“See her home? No. She left me sitting in the Gate like a stupid git, and I thought if she was going to be bloody minded, she could—” He stopped, and Gemma saw his chest rise with a sharp, frightened intake of breath as he seemed to realize something was very, very wrong.

Gemma rose, and out of the corner of her eye saw Kincaid give her a slight nod. She said, “Dominic, someone ran Kristin down on Monday night, in the King’s Road. She’s dead.”

Dominic Scott stared at them, his dark eyes dilating to black. He lifted a hand, as if reaching for an invisible support, then crumpled to the floor as if someone had removed the bones from his body.