Where Memories Lie

CHAPTER 12

December 1940

Monday, 9th

Last night was very bad indeed. Began soon after 5:30 pm…. I had to run from my place to the Sanctuary as the barrage was working up. It never ceased until 2:30 am. Many bombs came down…some in our district. On enquiry today I find it was around the Sion Convent, Chepstow Villas and Dawson Place…people buried.

—Vere Hodgson, Few Eggs and No Oranges: The Diaries of Vere Hodgson, 1940–1945

“First time I’ve ever had a bloke faint on me,” Gemma said, her mobile connection sounding a bit scratchy in Melody’s ear.

“Was he faking it, do you think?” Melody asked. She was still in Gemma’s office, where she had been combing Internet and newspaper files for more information on Dominic Scott.

“No, I don’t think so. He was really out for a couple of minutes, eyes rolled up in his head. Then he was disoriented when he came round. But I still wouldn’t rule him out as a suspect. It might have been pure fright at the idea that we thought he was connected, or who knows, maybe he smacked her with the car and then convinced himself she wasn’t hurt. I’ve seen stranger things.”

Melody flipped through her notes. “That’s a bit complicated, boss, as he’s another one that doesn’t drive, and has no car. He had his license revoked for drink driving, and the records show the Mercedes registered in his name was sold. Did you get anything else out of him when he came round?”

“No.” Gemma sighed. “He seemed genuinely devastated. And his mum went into protective mode, so we said we’d take a statement when he was feeling a bit better.”

“When he’s had time to get his story straight, more likely. But if he’d said anything useful in those circumstances,” Melody added, “she’d have the lawyers on you like flies.

“Ellen Miller-Scott has a history of undertaking litigation with anyone who crosses her, including her ex-husband, Dominic’s father, Stephen. Apparently the marriage only lasted a couple of years. By the time she’d finished with Steve Scott, he was willing to give up all custody of Dominic and disappear without a penny. The last trace I could find of him, he was living in Canada, running an art gallery in some little village in Quebec.”

“She must have been very persua—” Gemma cut out for a moment. When Melody could hear her again, she was saying, “…before we interview Dom Scott again, we need to check out his story. He says Kristin left him at the Gate, and that he stayed until closing.

“Melody, Duncan’s asked Cullen to go along. Would you mind meeting him there? You’ve got Dom’s photo, and besides, I’d like your take on the interview.” She added, with some hesitation, “I wouldn’t ask, but I’ve got to get to hospital…and Duncan’s got to get home to the kids…”

“Of course,” said Melody quickly, but she was torn between being flattered that Gemma wanted her opinion and annoyed at having to share the task with Doug Cullen. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was after seven. “I suppose I should go along now?”

“Cullen’s on his way from the Yard.”

Maybe she would beat him there, thought Melody, if she got her skates on. But before Gemma could disconnect, Melody said, “Listen, boss, about your mum…I—” Then she found that anything she had meant to say seemed trivial and useless, and she stuttered to a halt.

But there was a smile in Gemma’s voice as she answered, “Yeah. Thanks.”

By the time Gemma reached St. Barts, visiting hours were over and she had to bully the charge nurse into letting her into the ward, pleading she’d been delayed by urgent police business—which she supposed was true enough. The plus side to her tardiness was that her sister and father had gone, and her mum was awake, alert, and glad of the company.

“Hullo, love,” said Vi as Gemma kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

“I should be asking you that.” Feeling contrite, Gemma pulled a chair close to the bed. “I’m sorry, Mum. But there’s this case…”

Vi smiled affectionately. “There always is.”

“Never mind. Tell me about your day. I haven’t talked to Cyn since this morning. Did you have more tests?”

“Oh, it’s all a load of nonsense.” Vi sounded exasperated, more like her usual self. “But the doctor’s very bossy, and he says I have to start these treatments tomorrow.”

So quickly? Gemma felt a lurch of fear. “Chemotherapy?” she asked, trying to keep her tone matter-of-fact.

“They say it’s not so bad now,” Vi said with determined cheerfulness. “And I’d much rather hear about your day than talk about mine. Tell me about your case.”

So Gemma did, settling more comfortably in her chair and starting from the beginning, with Erika’s request that Gemma look into the reappearance of her missing brooch, and ending with their interview that evening with Dominic Scott.

By the time she finished, her mum’s eyes had drifted closed, and she was silent for so long that Gemma thought she had fallen asleep. She was reaching for her handbag when her mother said softly, “It must have been hard for your friend Erika, during the war. You can’t imagine what it was like, during the bombing. You never knew if you were going to get through the night. But we were family, all the neighbors, and everyone looked out after everyone else. If you had no one…”

Gemma sat back in surprise. Her mum never talked about the war.

“Of course, it was easier for children,” Vi went on, her eyes still closed. “Children adapt. We forgot, after a bit, that we had ever known anything different.” She opened her eyes and smiled at Gemma. “Little savages, weren’t we? Got up in the mornings and ran to see what had been hit the night before. And we got used to people disappearing from our lives.

“Children are such odd creatures, like sweets, hard on the outside and soft on the inside. It was only later that the memories would creep up on us.”

“I never knew.” Gemma took her mother’s hand, stroking her thumb over the soft skin between her mum’s thumb and finger. The tissue felt thin, fragile.

“Oh, I never meant you to. Don’t know why I’m going on about it now. Except…I was thinking about Kit today.” Vi met Gemma’s gaze. “He’ll be worried about me.”

“Yes,” Gemma admitted. “He is.”

Her mother gripped her hand. “It’s hard for you, isn’t it—to tell Kit that you love him.”

“I—” Gemma stared at her mum, blindsided. “I—I don’t want—I never want him to feel I’m trying—”

“Kit won’t think you’re trying to take his mother’s place,” Vi said with unexpected fierceness. “You’ve gone past that now. He loves you, and he needs to know that you are not going away.”

It wasn’t until Melody stood on the pavement outside the nightclub at Notting Hill Gate that she thought about her clothes. The street was in shadow as the setting sun dipped behind the buildings to the west. The amplifiers in the club pumped music up the stairs, pushing it out into the street in throbbing waves of sound, and the handful of girls that slipped into the doorway as Melody watched looked like butterflies in their jeans and gaudy tops.

Melody glanced down at her suit, charcoal that day, with the skirt showing an entire daring inch of thigh. Her legs were bare, at least—it had been too warm for tights—and were worth showing off a bit, but she was going to look as out of place as a polar bear at the equator. This was an occasion when her protective coloring would put her at a disadvantage, and she found that bothered her more than she expected.

“Oh, bugger,” she muttered, and slipped off her jacket. She pulled out her shirttail and unbuttoned the second button on her white shirt, then the third, then ran a hand through her dark hair, mussing her usual tidy style.

Grimacing at her own foolishness, she added, aloud, “Fat lot of good that will do.”

“Have you started talking to yourself?” said a voice behind her.

She jumped, swearing, and turned to find Doug Cullen watching her with a grin. “I was just—never mind,” she said. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“And you shouldn’t do a strip in public if you don’t want people watching.”

Melody flushed, furious with him and with herself. “It’s warm, and warmer down there.”

“You were going to steal a march on me, weren’t you?” said Cullen, giving her a considering eye.

“And you weren’t?” she challenged.

“I couldn’t,” he answered mildly. “You have Dominic Scott’s photo.”

Somehow this made her more aggravated, not less. Gritting her teeth, she said, “Yes. So let’s get it over with,” and charged towards the stairs.

But she found immediately that it was a steep, straight flight, and not made for plunging down in heels. Forced to slow down and step carefully, she felt Doug Cullen’s eyes on her back and it made her as awkward as the schoolgirl she had once been.

But as she reached the floor of the club, the pulse of the music and the liquid blue light subsumed all other perception. Even though it was still early, the floor was crowded. Melody found she had to twist and sidle to make her way through the crush of bodies.

Managing to squeeze into a space at the bar before Cullen, Melody smiled at the barmaid, a pretty girl with Scandinavian-fair hair woven into a thick plait. Melody watched her making a cocktail, graceful as a dancer as she mixed, shook, and poured.

When she’d served the pink concoction to the waiting customer, she turned to Melody. “What can I get you?” Her accent was as English as Melody’s own.

“We just want a word, if you don’t mind.” Melody held up her warrant card and the two photos she had pulled from her bag. “I’m DC Talbot.” She nodded at Cullen, who had maneuvered into a space beside her. “Sergeant Cullen.”

The girl looked slightly wary, but after checking that no one was waiting to be served at her end of the bar, said, “Okay. Shoot. I’m Eva, by the way.”

“Were you working Monday night?”

Eva frowned, thinking, then nodded. “Yeah. I was on. Not my usual, but I was filling in for Jake.”

Melody handed over the photos. “Did you see either of these people that night?” She wondered how the girl could remember anyone in the constant onslaught of faces at the bar, but to her surprise Eva nodded again and tapped the photos.

“Yeah. I’ve seen them before. But that night they didn’t seem to be getting on. He was waiting for her, and she was stroppy from the minute she came in. Said she didn’t want a drink, then when he ordered for her anyway, she practically downed it in one go.”

“Then what happened?” asked Doug, interrupting the flow of the girl’s narrative and irritating Melody. But Eva gave him an assessing look and smiled.

“I got busy. Next thing I saw, she was leaving, and he looked royally pissed off.”

“Did he follow her?” Melody kept her tone as casual as was possible at a half shout.

Eva shook her head. “No. Had another drink. But he was broody, and didn’t talk to me when I served him. Didn’t tip me, either. Pretty boy,” she added, with another smile at Cullen. “But I’ve seen him with some dodgy blokes.”

“Anyone you know?”

“No. Just didn’t look the sort you’d want to meet in a dark alley, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you see what time he left?” asked Cullen, raising his voice against a new influx of customers.

“No. We get really busy just after the pubs close, and I don’t remember seeing him after that.” She glanced at the raucous crowd shoving up to the bar. “Look, sorry—” She handed the photos back.

“Thanks,” said Melody. “You’ve been great. One more thing—where did they sit?”

“Front corner.” Eva gestured towards the banquette tucked up against the street side, and glancing at the photos of the couple she had never met, Melody had a moment’s vision of Dominic Scott and Kristin Cahill hunched over the table, arguing, their faces tense. Had it been about more than Dominic standing Kristin up on Saturday night?

Bringing her back to the present, Eva gave her a smile even more brilliant than the one she’d given Cullen, then said, “Why are you asking, by the way?”

Melody found she didn’t want to be the one to bring a shadow on this bright girl. “Oh, just routine. Ta. Have a good night.”

Melody raised a hand in salute, ignoring Cullen’s frown, and led the way back through the crowd and up the stairs to the street.

It was a lovely evening. The setting sun had turned the buttermilk clouds in the sky behind the Coronet Theatre to a brilliant gold, and it looked as though cherubs might bounce down from them at any moment, blowing trumpets.

As they stood side by side on the pavement, for a wild instant Melody considered asking him if he wanted to get a meal and a glass of wine at the Pizza Express up the road.

But before she could speak, Cullen said, “It’s iffy, then.” He stared out at the traffic rushing past as the light changed at Pembridge Road. “The witness report puts Kristin’s accident at not long after pub closing. Could Dominic have followed her, knowing her pattern, then run her down?”

“If that were the case, where did he get the car?” argued Melody, her goodwill dissipating. “I don’t imagine Dominic Scott grew up learning how to hot-wire joy rides on the street. And if his mum took his Mercedes away when he lost his license, I don’t imagine she gave him free access to her car for a night on the town.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Somehow this doesn’t feel like a lover’s quarrel.”

“And you’re the expert?”

Melody turned to look at him. Even though she sensed he didn’t like her, she was surprised by the meanness of the dig.

Retaliating, she said, “She fancied you, the girl at the bar, don’t you think?”

Cullen flushed. “You’re taking the piss.”

“And what if I am?” She gave him a mocking smile and slung her jacket over her shoulder as she turned away. “Don’t you have a warrant to run down?”

Cullen watched Melody Talbot walk away. What was it about the woman that got up his nose so?

For one thing, she seemed to assume that she had the right to lead an interview, even though he was the ranking officer and it was officially his and Kincaid’s case.

She had an assurance he envied, and then there was this sense he had that she could see through him, knew all his little insecurities as well as she did her case notes—and that made him want to lash out at her. It was stupid, he knew, and if he kept it up, it would get back to Kincaid and might jeopardize his job. If he had a political bone in his body, he was going to have to be civil to her.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t come up with other ways to show her up.

He began to walk aimlessly towards Holland Park, even though he knew he should get the District and Circle train from Notting Hill Gate back to Victoria and the Yard.

He thought back to their interview at Harrowby’s that morning, and to the slightly shifty Amir Khan and the matter of the brooch. What if Kristin Cahill’s death had nothing to do with her row with her boyfriend, and everything to do with the Goldshtein brooch? Kincaid had told him that Kristin’s associate, Giles Oliver, had said that Khan had raked Kristin over the coals the day Gemma had inquired about the brooch, and that Khan had seemed to have it in for Kristin in general.

What if Kristin had known something about Amir Khan, or about the brooch, that had made it worthwhile to shut her up?

Cullen had a friend in Fraud, a chap who had been one of his classmates in the academy. Charles Lessing, like Cullen, had been saddled with the disadvantage in police work of a public school education, and that background had formed a bond between them.

He would give Charles a ring at home and see if Amir Khan had come across the sights of SO6.

That decision made, he looked round, saw that he had come even with the Pizza Express, and realized that he was starving. A pizza and a glass of house red would be just the ticket while he made his phone call and waited for the Harrowby’s warrant to process.

“I’ll have the Chateaubriand. And the best Côtes du Rhône on the list.” Harry closed the French House menu with a snap. The waiter, who had served Harry many a soup du jour and glass of plonk, raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Pevensey—”

“It’s quite all right.” Harry gave him his most magnanimous smile. “And I’ll be having a pudding as well.”

“If you say so, Mr. Pevensey.” The waiter, still looking skeptical, went to place the order, and Harry sat back in his chair, surveying the tiny first-floor dining room with a proprietary air.

The French House was an actor’s pub, and Harry had been coming here as long as he had been in the business. The staff had always welcomed him, even when he could afford no more than one cheap glass of wine, and tonight he meant to treat them royally. After dinner, he would go down to the bar and order another bottle of wine, perhaps even drinks all round. And if, at the end of the evening, he was too tipsy to stagger his way from Dean Street back up to Hanway Street, he’d bloody well take a cab.

Today he had stood up for himself, for the first time in his life. His fortunes were going to change, and in anticipation of his newly liberated state, he’d taken out the money put by for next month’s rent to finance his little celebration.

The waiter brought his bottle of wine and ceremoniously uncorked it. Harry took the obligatory taster’s sip, then nodded, and watched the ruby liquid spill into the glass. Of all the words he could think of for red—vermillion, scarlet, ruby, garnet, claret, burgundy—at least two were related to wine and two to gems, which seemed a particularly appropriate combination.

Harry had always loved the color of red wine, and had wondered if the quality affected its richness and depth. Tonight, as he held his glass to the light, he had no doubt that he had been right.

Swirling the wine in the glass, he drank a silent toast to himself. He deserved this, and more, for all the years he had settled for second best and let himself be treated like a lapdog at the beck and call of his betters.

And they owed him, the Millers. It was a debt he’d been waiting a long time to call in. Of course, even though he’d had a very interesting chat that afternoon with a friend in the antiques trade who had told him the brooch might fetch well over the reserve, he supposed he could be generous and give Dom a percentage. After all, he didn’t bear the boy any malice, and wouldn’t want to see him come to serious harm from the heavies with whom he’d got himself involved.

It wouldn’t hurt Dom Scott to sweat a bit, however—perhaps he’d learn the error of his ways—and besides, Harry thought it a good idea to see what the brooch actually fetched before deciding on the extent of his generosity.

He settled back in his chair, sipping his wine and enjoying the ambience of the little restaurant, with its crisp white tablecloths and the large front windows open to the fine May evening. There was no music, and no mobile phones were allowed, so that the cadence of conversation rose and fell in its own musical counterpoint. This was the way life should be lived. A pretty woman dining alone across the restaurant kept glancing away when Harry caught her eye, but her lips curved in the little smile that meant she was enjoying the attention. Perhaps, thought Harry, he had not lost all his charm, and a little flirtation would be the perfect final act to his evening.

By the time his main course arrived, he had made considerable inroads on the bottle of Côtes du Rhône, and the woman across the room had given him an enticing glance across the top of her glass.

“Another one, Mr. Pevensey?” the waiter asked.

“Yes,” said Harry, with his blood singing. “I believe I will.”

As the CID room emptied in the late afternoon, the air cooled and Gavin began to feel he could breathe again. He had come back from the museum and sent out a request for the previous week’s newspapers. Although he thought it most logical that the paper from which David Rosenthal had torn the cutting had been Saturday’s, he thought it prudent to widen his search.

Now the piles of newspapers teetering on his desk threatened to bury him. He had separated the broadsheets from the tabloids, on the assumption that something that had interested David Rosenthal would have been in a more reputable paper. But even the task of sorting through every page of the Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, and the Evening Standard proved daunting, as he had no idea what might have caught David Rosenthal’s eye. A mention of Nazi war trials or criminals? Mistreatment of Jewish refugees? A hint that terrorist organizations might be operating in London? A mysterious death or murder?

Sighing, he had put the Times aside and begun on the Guardian when his superintendent’s secretary appeared at his desk.

“You’re working late, Gladys,” he said, pushing the hair from his brow with grimy fingers.

Gladys was a well-padded girl, with a propensity for flowered prints and tightly crimped hair, but was good natured enough to rub along with the guv’nor, no mean accomplishment. Now she gave him a concerned look. “His Highness wants to see you, in his office.”

“What now?” Gavin looked down at his newsprint-blackened hands and his loosened collar and tie.

“Bee under his bonnet about something. I’d go soonest, if I were you. I’m off.” She favored him with a toothy smile. “Cheerio. Hope you’re not for the block.”

“Thanks, Gladys,” Gavin muttered under his breath. He slipped into his jacket, but took the time to stop in the lav and wash his hands, pull up his tie, and comb his hair. There was no point in facing his guv’nor at more of a disadvantage than necessary. The super was a man of moods and best approached with discretion on a good day.

Francis Tyrell was an Irish Catholic who wore his ambition on one shoulder and a chip on the other, so that one’s reception depended on which side one faced. Gavin knocked at the open door, and when Tyrell looked up at him with a scowl, Gavin’s heart sank.

“Sir. Gladys said you wanted to see me.”

Tyrell nodded towards the chair, a hard-seated, slat-backed affair that always made Gavin think he might be tied up for an execution. Occupants of the chair were not meant to be comfortable, nor were they made any more so by the superintendent’s looming bulk and florid face. Tyrell’s still-thick hair was of a color that many a new officer had learned at his peril was not under any circumstances to be called ginger.

“This case you’re working on,” Tyrell said without preamble. “This business of the murdered Jew.”

The pejorative use of the word Jew raised Gavin’s hackles immediately. Tyrell was known for his prejudices, but this sounded ominously political.

“David Rosenthal,” Gavin corrected. “A husband, a teacher, and a scholar. Brutally stabbed as he sat in Cheyne Gardens—”

“I know the facts of the case, man,” Tyrell said impatiently. “And I know that those facts are all you’ve got. You’re wasting your time, Hoxley, and the department’s resources. The man was robbed and killed. No suspects. End of story.”

Gavin stared at him, shocked. Then he said, “I don’t believe for a minute that this was an ordinary robbery. David Rosenthal’s possessions were removed to hide his identity—”

“And you have what proof of this?” Tyrell’s face was turning an unbecoming shade of puce, a clear danger signal.

“I have a number of leads, sir—”

“You have a desk full of moldy newspapers, and about as much hope of finding anything as a blind man looking for a tit. Drop it, Gavin.”

“But, sir, I have reason to believe that Rosenthal saw something in the newspaper the day he died, something that sent him to Chelsea. And I think that either he met someone or he was waiting for someone—”

“I don’t give a fig what you think. You don’t have a shred of evidence, and that’s the end of it.”

“But—”

“Inspector, unless you want to lose your job, you’ll leave this alone.”

Gavin made an effort to stop an angry retort. This was beyond a reprimand, and certainly beyond issues of CID manpower.

Superintendent Tyrell shifted in his chair and looked, for the first time, uncomfortable. “You’re a good copper, Hoxley. Don’t make a balls-up of this. This is coming straight from the top. I can’t ignore it, and you’d be a fool to.”

“The top?” Gavin still wasn’t quite believing what he was hearing.

“Whitehall, man. So save us all a load of grief. Go home, and forget you ever heard of David Rosenthal.”

The gig had finished a little before midnight. They’d played in a public hall in Guildford, and Andy Monahan thought for the hundredth time that they were going to have to take a stand, the three of them, and tell Tam, their agent, not to take any more bookings in places like that.

The room had been filled with teenagers intent on snogging; drinking anything they could get their hands on; or smoking, inhaling, or ingesting likewise. There had been a few kids, up towards the front, who had actually listened to the music, but at the end of the evening he always felt they might as well have been playing for sheep.

Tam called these bread-and-butter bookings, but in Andy’s opinion they didn’t generate enough income to be worth the time and disappointment. And it was time they might have spent playing in a club where someone who mattered might have heard them.

They’d had to load up their own equipment, of course, then cross their fingers as usual and hope that George’s van made it back to London in one piece. As Andy hadn’t been driving, he’d drunk his share of the bottle of vodka going round in the back, but rather than making him mellow, by the time they reached Oxford Street, he was more pissed off than he’d been when they left Guildford.

George slowed at Hanway Street and pulled into the curb. “Close enough, mate?” he asked. “Don’t want to try to get the van round that corner.” Hanway Street made a sharp right into Hanway Place, where Andy lived in a housing-authority flat, and if anyone had parked illegally, the van would have to be backed out into Oxford Street, no mean feat even for the entirely sober.

“Yeah, thanks.” Andy climbed out, cradling his Stratocaster in its case. His amps he would leave in the van, as they had another gig tomorrow night—or tonight, he reminded himself, glancing at his watch, which showed it had just gone two.

Nick, who had drunk more than his fair share of the vodka, leaned out the window and intoned with great seriousness. “Chill, Andrew. You’ve got to chill, man.”

Andy’s frustration flared like a lit fuse. “Fuck you, man,” he shouted back, and aimed a vicious kick at the side of George’s van. But George was already pulling away, and the attempted blow only made him lose his balance. “Fucking morons,” he muttered, teetering for a moment, then righting himself, holding the Strat case to his chest as if it were a child.

Maybe it was time he started looking for another band, one that really wanted to make music. And maybe he’d drunk a bit more than he’d thought, he decided as he trod carefully up the narrow street. Had to watch where you put your feet, people were always leaving bloody rubbish on the pavement. He’d stepped over a paper McDonald’s bag, a broken beer bottle, and what smelled suspiciously like a puddle of urine, when he saw what looked like a large plastic bin liner lying in the middle of the street, just after the bend. A bin liner with things spilling out, even worse. But it was an odd shape, with what looked like arms and legs, except the angles were wrong.

Andy slowed, squinting, wishing he wasn’t too vain to wear his glasses to a gig. Reaching the bundle, he pushed at it with his toe and met a slightly yielding resistance, and then the shape resolved into a human form, a man in a dark suit, lying in the street. Drunk, Andy thought fuzzily, but no one could lie like that, even if they’d passed out, legless. And the face—the face was turned away from him, but he could see that its shape was wrong, too, as if it had been mashed by a giant hand. Worse still, even distorted, it was a face Andy recognized.

Dear God. Andy backed up until his heels hit the curb, sat down with a graceless thud, and vomited right down the front of his Stratocaster case.