Hazel looked down, lacing her sturdy fingers round her cup, and for a moment Gemma thought she had gone too far. Then Hazel shrugged and murmured, "As much as I'd like that, it doesn't seem to be in the cards just now." Then, smiling, she abruptly changed the subject. "Tell me about the house."
"Oh, I can't wait for you to see it. It's absolutely lovely," Gemma told her, and proceeded to describe it room by room as they finished their tea.
When Tim came in, Gemma collected Toby and took him home to bed. But as she tucked in her son, she couldn't help feeling that something was troubling her friend, and that she had missed a chance to learn what it was.
***
Alex had squeezed his eyes tight shut as Fern drove south, as if he could close out reality, and Fern didn't disturb him. It was not until she left the M25 for the M20 West that he stirred and looked around.
"You're going to Aunt Jane's." It was a statement, not a question.
"It seemed a good idea. No one would think to look for you there."
"Why should anyone look for me?"
Fern glanced at him before focusing on the road again. "You know what Otto said."
"Otto's full of crap. And what would Karl Arrowood want with me, now that Dawn's gone?"
"What if he killed her, and now he means to kill you, too?"
"I don't believe that. No sane person would do-" His voice cracked. "No sane person would do something like this." He stared straight ahead, not meeting Fern's eyes. It came to her that Alex couldn't allow himself to believe that Karl Arrowood had killed his wife because of her affair with him, because that would make Alex responsible for her death.
"Why are you doing this?" There was no gratitude in Alex's voice- not that she had expected any, and yet his coldness shook her.
She shrugged. "You're my friend. I wanted to help."
"There's nothing you or anyone else can do to help."
What answer could she give to this? When she glanced at him a moment later he had closed his eyes again. She drove on, struggling to find comfort in the fact that he had not, at least, told her to turn around and drive back to London.
Although it was not yet noon, clouds had rolled in from the west, bringing a twilight gloom and the promise of more rain. When the ancient town of Rye appeared on the horizon, perched on its sandstone bluff overlooking the marsh, Fern slowed and began looking for the turning she only vaguely remembered from the one time Alex had brought her here.
"Next on the right," he told her, his eyes open again.
She followed his instructions, down one lane and then another until she reached the house tucked in a wooded close at the edge of the downs. Behind the house rose the dark hill, both protecting and threatening; before it stretched the wide, flat expanse of Romney Marsh. The house had been an oasthouse, its twin kilns, with their odd tilted caps, long since converted to living quarters.
Fern coasted to a stop in the drive and killed the engine. When Alex didn't stir, she got out and went to find his aunt, Jane Dunn.
There was a light in the front window, and smoke curling from the chimney, but a brisk knock on the door brought no answer. Fern had raised her hand to knock again when she saw Jane coming round the corner of the house, wearing an Arran jumper and mud-streaked wellies, her dark, chin-length hair beaded with moisture.
"I thought I heard a car," Jane called out. "Fern, whatever are you doing here? Have you got Alex with you?"
As Jane took her hand in a welcoming clasp, Fern blurted, "I have brought Alex. But something terrible's happened."
Jane gazed at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"I don't know if you knew- Alex was seeing someone else. She was married, and now she's dead. I mean someone murdered her, last night."
"But that's dreadful!" Jane looked from Fern to the car. "I'm not sure I understand, though, why you've brought Alex here."
"I-" In the face of Jane's competent manner, Fern suddenly felt her fears might sound silly. "I was worried about him. I didn't know what else to do."
"In a bad way, is he? I'm sure you did the right thing." Jane gave Fern's arm a reassuring squeeze and started towards the car.
Alex got out and came slowly to meet her. Fern saw Jane speak to him and start to put an arm round his shoulders, but he flinched away from the contact. This Fern found gratifying- at least she wasn't the only one he couldn't bear.
Jane led the way into the house. The two hop-drying kilns had been combined into a pleasant, open-plan living area, with small, high windows that failed to make the most of the existing daylight.
After standing for a moment as if unsure what to do with himself, Alex slumped down on the sofa nearest the fireplace.
When Jane had the fire going and had brought them all coffee in earthenware mugs, she sat down beside Alex. "Do you want to talk about it, love? Fern says a friend of yours was killed last night."
His face contorted. "I told Otto it was a lie. She couldn't be dead. So I went there, to the house. There were police all round, and one of the neighbors said Karl came home and found her in the drive. Her… her throat had been cut."
Fern gave a small cry of surprise, but Jane remained calmly watching Alex. "Do you know anything about this?" she asked. "Who might have done this? Or why?"
"How could anyone hurt her?" Alex protested. "I can't go on, you know, not without her. I can't bear it."
Unable to listen any longer, Fern went out. She walked round in the drive, taking in Jane's greenhouses and the spade left standing against the house when Jane had been interrupted at some gardening task. Gazing out across the marsh, she breathed the damp earthy-smelling air and tried to blot out Alex's grief. When Dawn had been alive, Fern had been able to fantasize that Alex's affair with Dawn was merely a passing infatuation, that he would come to his senses and return to her. Now there was no questioning the depth of his feelings for Dawn Arrowood. Her death had not given Alex back to Fern, but had taken him from her in a way she could never have imagined. And if Alex was unable to go on, how then could she?
At the sharp click of the front door closing, she turned back to the house. Jane came across the drive towards her.
"I've persuaded him to stay," Jane told her. "Not that it matters much to him where he is, at this point."
"I don't think he should come back to London. If Dawn Arrowood was killed by her husband because he found out about Alex, Alex could be next."
"Surely you can't be serious."
"That's what our friend Otto says, and he's known Karl Arrowood for a long time. Is it worth taking a risk?"
Jane seemed about to argue with her, then she sighed. "I suppose you're right. What about you? Will you stay with him?"
With sudden resolution Fern said, "I'll take the train back to London, if you'll run me to the station. If anyone asks, I'll say I haven't seen him. And the sooner I go, the better."
"I think you're overreacting, but I don't see what harm it can do. I'll just get my keys while you say good-bye to Alex."
"Why don't you tell him for me?" Fern asked, suddenly feeling that she would rather face a murderer herself than the look in Alex's eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the nineteenth century Notting Dale was still known as the Potteries after the area's gravel pits and the Norland Pottery Works on Walmer Road. It was also known as the Piggeries- the district had 3000 pigs, 1000 humans, and 260 hovels.
– Charlie Phillips and Mike Phillips,
from Notting Hill in the Sixties
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, a
nd 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."
And Justice There Is None Page 8
