"Not making much progress, are we?" Doug Cullen didn't bother to hide his exasperation.
"Too soon to say," Kincaid rejoined. He turned back to Eliza Goddard as she reentered the room. "What about your mother's things, Mrs. Goddard? Did she leave any keepsakes? Or photos?"
"I haven't touched her personal effects." Eliza's eyes sparkled with sudden tears. "I just couldn't, not this time of year. I'm not even sure yet how we're going to get through Christmas… I don't think the girls understand their grandmother isn't coming back. They keep asking what Nana's giving them for Christmas."
"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Goddard, and sorry to have to dredge all this up again. But if you could bring yourself to go through your mother's things, there might be something that would connect her with this latest murder." He couldn't recall having seen anything connecting Hoffman with either the Arrowoods or Alex Dunn, but he wanted to be absolutely sure he hadn't missed vital evidence.
"There is one thing," Eliza said hesitantly. "My mother always wore a heart-shaped silver locket. But it wasn't in the things you returned to us, and we didn't find it in the shop. I know you told us at the time there was no evidence of burglary, but- Might her killer have taken the locket?"
***
Melody Talbot sat down across from Gemma's desk and kicked her shoes off, stretching out her legs and examining them with a frown. One of her tights had ripped in the toe and she tugged at it in annoyance. "My feet will never be the same. This is the first time I've got off them in three days."
"Found anything worthwhile?" From the discouraged expression on Melody's face, Gemma had not much hope of the answer. Gerry Franks had been in earlier with an equally discouraging report. He'd pressed her to talk to Karl Arrowood again, but she was determined to wait until she'd spoken to Arrowood's first wife.
"Surely there must have been joggers round St. John's at that time of the evening, but so far we haven't turned up anyone," Melody told her. "And none of the neighbors remember seeing anything out of the ordinary."
"Nor did I," Gemma murmured, but when Melody raised a questioning brow, she shook her head.
Melody winced and wiggled her feet back into her shoes. "Anything from forensics yet?"
"No. It's early days. But try telling the media that." Gemma pushed away the remains of a packaged sandwich and tepid tea. "If Karl Arrowood came home earlier than he said, he could have simply pulled up in the drive and attacked Dawn when she came home." Had she seen one car? Gemma wondered. Or two? But even if she had seen two cars, she might have passed by while Karl was looking for his wife in the house. None of the neighbors had reported a second car in the drive, but they had better double-check. "Why don't you go round the neighbors again, make sure no one saw Karl's Mercedes."
Melody groaned and stood up. "Yes, boss." At the door she turned back. "You might want to talk to the lady next door yourself. She didn't report seeing anything particular, but she's a friendly soul. And she's taken in Dawn Arrowood's cat."
***
Mrs. Du Ray lived just the other side of the Arrowoods' hedge. The house was semidetached, and Gemma saw that although the paint round the trim and windows was peeling, the garden was neatly tended and the door brass gleamed. Any lack of care must be due to insufficient funds rather than neglect, and lack of funds in this neighborhood was enough to arouse her curiosity.
A neat, gray-haired woman greeted Gemma with a friendly smile. "Can I help you?"
"Mrs. Du Ray? I'm Inspector James from the Metropolitan Police." Gemma bent to stroke Tommy, who purred loudly and butted against her legs.
"I see you two know each other," said Mrs. Du Ray as she led Gemma through the house and into the kitchen. "I'll just put on some tea."
"My constable said you were very hospitable."
"Most people are too busy rushing about these days to take the time. Especially the young mothers chauffeuring their children about. Gymnastics and ballet lessons and piano and martial arts. It's all very well, but when do they have time to be children? But you probably have young children yourself and think I should mind my own business. I admit I'm hopelessly old-fashioned."
"Not at all," Gemma assured her. "And I'm afraid I don't have the luxury of chauffeuring my children around, nor did my parents."
"Quite." Mrs. Du Ray spooned tea leaves into a delicate flowered teapot and covered them with boiling water.
Gemma relaxed in her chair, as Melody must have done before her, glad of the respite. It was a pleasant room, clean and well kept if a bit run-down, like the house's exterior. "Have you lived here long, Mrs. Du Ray?"
"Thirty-five years. My husband bought this house when we were first married. Now that's he's gone, and the children are all grown up and married themselves, I suppose I could set myself up nicely in a little bungalow somewhere if I were to sell. But it's hard to contemplate leaving such familiar surroundings, and so many memories."
Gemma found it difficult to imagine such a settled existence. Had Dawn contemplated living a good portion of her life in the house next door, perhaps raising children there? Through the wide window over the sink she could see its pale stucco walls rising above the hedge.
"Did Mr. Arrowood ask you to look after Tommy?" she asked when Mrs. Du Ray had handed her a teacup of the same delicate china as the pot.
"No. But by yesterday the poor creature was begging at my door, and it was obvious he hadn't been fed. I let him in and picked up some tins of food at the market. I don't know what Dawn fed him, but he doesn't seem fussy." Mrs. Du Ray made a little face as she sipped at her tea. "As for Karl Arrowood, I went round yesterday evening. I didn't want him to think I was taking liberties by caring for his wife's cat. But when I told him, he just shrugged and said, 'Do as you please.' It wasn't that he was rude exactly, just indifferent. I suppose that's understandable under the circumstances."
"It's kind of you to take in the cat."
"It's just decent," rejoined Mrs. Du Ray. She stroked Tommy, who had made himself at home on the dining chair beside her and was industriously washing a paw. "You'd have done the same."
"Did you know Dawn well?"
"Perhaps not as well as I should." At Gemma's questioning look, Mrs. Du Ray went on more slowly. "Beautiful, young, wealthy… it didn't occur to me that the girl might need friends. But now that I think about it, she spent a good deal of time in that house alone."
"How could you tell? You can't see their drive from your house, can you, because of the hedge?" As Mrs. Du Ray began to bristle, Gemma added hurriedly, "I don't mean to imply that you were prying. I'm just wondering what you would notice in the normal course of your day."
Mrs. Du Ray went back to petting the cat, relaxing again. "You're right. You can't see the drive from the downstairs windows. But I can see it when I'm working in the front garden, and I can see it from the bedroom windows upstairs. And I did notice, just the way you do, without really thinking much about it."
"You didn't happen to be upstairs on Friday, a few minutes after six?" But she saw instantly from the woman's face that she was going to be disappointed.
"No, dear, I'm sorry. I don't usually go upstairs that time of day. I was here in the kitchen, preparing my supper. A boiled egg and toast, I remember, as I'd been out to lunch with a friend."
"And you didn't hear anything?"
"Not a sound. Until the sirens, of course, and then I went out to see what had happened."
"Did you ever hear them arguing, Karl and Dawn?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that. They seemed the perfect couple, always off to parties and dinners, and she was always dressed to the nines. But surely you don't think that Karl Arrowood had anything to do with Dawn's death? That's just not possible!"
"I know sometimes it's difficult to accept, but that is often-"
"No, no, that's not what I meant. I mean I don't believe Karl is physically capable of such a crime. I know how she died, you see. It's been whispered round the neighborhood."
"I don't understand."
/>
"Karl is terrified at the sight of blood. He can't help it, I'm sure. My husband was the same way, from his childhood."
"How do you know?"
"I cut myself badly in the garden one day- a shard of broken glass had somehow worked its way into the front border- just as Karl and Dawn came home. I must have cried out, because Dawn came over to ask if I was all right, and Karl followed her. I thought the man was going to faint when he saw the blood running down my arm. Went white as a sheet and Dawn had to hold on to him. She took him inside, then ran me to the casualty ward at the hospital. She stayed with me, too, and brought me home again when they'd bandaged me up."
"That was kind of her. Did she confide in you at all? One tends to, in that sort of situation."
"No. Nor did she ever. You'd have this lovely conversation, and then later you'd realize you hadn't learned anything about her."
"That makes her an ideal candidate for sainthood, doesn't it?" reflected Gemma softly.
"You mean it allows people to make her into anything they want? I suppose I may have done that myself. But no. There was something genuine there, I'm sure of it. And it's a great loss to everyone who knew her." For the first time, Mrs. Du Ray showed a hint of tears.
***
"Karl Arrowood, faint at the sight of blood? You're joking." Kincaid glanced at Gemma, then focused his attention once more on the Kensington traffic. He'd dropped Cullen at the Yard before taking the motor pool Rover to pick Gemma up at Notting Hill.
"She was positive," answered Gemma. "And it's not the sort of thing you'd mistake."
"But an elderly lady-"
"Not elderly," she corrected. "Older. And sharp as a tack. And although Arrowood does seem an unlikely candidate, I've seen stranger things."
"If it's true, his phobia didn't prevent him from lifting the body of his dead wife."
"Shock might account for that. What I wonder is if he could have brought himself to cut her throat, and so decisively. There were no hesitation marks."
"Maybe he paid someone else to do it," Kincaid suggested.
"In that case, knowing what he would find, would he have touched her?"
"Has this turned you into an Arrowood apologist? I thought you were dead set on him as Dawn's killer."
"No," Gemma answered, a trifle crossly. "I mean no, I'm not ruling him out. I'm just playing devil's advocate."
"Well, let's see what the former Mrs. Arrowood has to say about him." They had reached Lower Sloane Street, a bastion of elegant and expensive red brick town houses, just below Sloane Square. Kincaid whistled under his breath. "He certainly set her up in style."
Gemma had rung ahead, suspecting that it might be difficult to pin down Karl's former wife without an appointment. Sylvia Arrowood must have been watching out for them because she opened the door before they rang the bell. She was tawny, slender, and extremely well preserved for a woman he guessed to be in her fifties. It intrigued Kincaid that she was the same physical type as Dawn Arrowood- had Karl been guilty of trading in the old model for the new?
"You must be the police," she said. "Can we do this as speedily as possible? I've an appointment." Her tone clearly said that her time was important and theirs was not.
Kincaid put on his most bland expression to hide his irritation. When he asked if they could sit down, she did not conceal hers. "We'll try to inconvenience you as little as possible, Mrs. Arrowood," he began as he took quick stock of the room.
It was filled with what he judged to be expensive antiques and objets d'art, but this was a room to be looked at, not lived in. There was something oddly off balance about it, and after a moment he realized what it was. The room was just slightly overcrowded, and he sensed this was due not to a love of the objects acquired, but to greed. Why have one priceless Georgian table, or Sèvres vase, when you could have two?
"…lovely flat," Gemma was saying.
Mrs. Arrowood perched on the edge of one of her gilded armchairs, watching them, her only acknowledgment a nod.
"You do realize why we're here?" Kincaid spoke a bit more sharply than he'd intended. "Your ex-husband's wife has been murdered."
"And why do you think that should be of particular concern to me? I never met the woman. I haven't seen Karl in years."
"How long have you been divorced?" asked Gemma with just a hint of sympathy in her voice.
"Thirteen years. Karl left me when Richard was eleven, and Sean, nine. Have you any idea what it's like to bring up boys that age on your own?"
"I can imagine," Gemma replied. "Mrs. Arrowood, we've been told that your husband had a vasectomy during his marriage to you. Is that true?"
Sylvia Arrowood stared at her. "Why on earth do you want to know that?"
"It's relevant to the case. I'm afraid I can't give out any details."
Shrugging, Sylvia said, "Well, I can't see any harm in telling you. I wanted another child after Sean, and the bastard went out, without discussing it with me, and got himself fixed. 'Just to make sure,' he said, 'that there won't be any accidents.' I never forgave him for that."
"No, I can see that." Gemma glanced at her notebook. "Mrs. Arrowood. Was your husband upset by the sight of blood?"
"How do you know about that? A shaving nick would make Karl swoon, as giddy as a girl." Sylvia smiled, but Kincaid didn't get the impression that it was in fond remembrance. "You're not thinking the bastard murdered his little wife, are you? That's absurd!"
"Why?"
"Not just because he couldn't bear anything to do with blood. Karl's much too cruel for something so clean and quick. He likes to torture his victims slowly. And why would he do such a thing… unless she was having an affair?" Sylvia seemed to read confirmation in their expressions. "I see. Well, I can tell you, he'd have made her pay, all right, if he found out. But he'd have drawn it out- it's much more likely he'd have turned her out in the street with nothing, sent her back to whatever grotty suburb she came from. By the time he married her he didn't need money," she added bitterly. "He could afford to go slumming."
"Maybe he loved her," Gemma suggested.
Sylvia looked at her as if the comment were too absurd to deserve an answer.
"Mrs. Arrowood," Kincaid interjected, "are your sons close to their father?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Let's see, the elder, that would be Richard? He must be twenty-four now, and his brother, twenty-two?"
"I congratulate you on your math, Superintendent."
"And has either of them followed in their father's footsteps?"
"If by that you mean the antiques trade, no. They both work in the City. Richard's in insurance. Sean's in banking."
"Could you give me their addresses? Just routine," he added, seeing her instant wariness. No point in getting the wind up her any more than necessary at this point.
When she had complied, with obvious reluctance, he thanked her and they said good-bye.
"If one of the sons did it, they'd have to have known, or at least suspected, that Karl hadn't made any provision for them," Gemma observed when they were back in the car. "And what about Marianne Hoffman?"
"Maybe he left money to her, too," Kincaid suggested, and Gemma gave him a quelling look. "Okay, that's a bit far-fetched, I admit. But I think it's certainly worthwhile having a word with Arrowood's sons."
CHAPTER SIX
Then in 1833, in response to a crisis caused by the scandalous overcrowding of graves in London's churchyards, fifty-six acres of land between the canal and Harrow Road to the west of the lane were purchased to create Kensal Green Cemetery, the first burial ground to be specifically built for the purpose in London.
– Whetlor and Bartlett,
from Portobello
By the winter of 1961, Angel could hardly remember a time when she hadn't been friends with Betty and Ronnie. Although Ronnie, she had to admit, had seemed different since he'd turned sixteen and left school. For one thing, he'd started referring to her and Betty as "little girls"; for anoth
er, he'd stopped listening to American pop music with them and started talking a lot of high-sounding nonsense about jazz and the black man's influence on the development of music. This in particular hurt Angel's feelings, making her feel as if she'd been deliberately excluded.
But Ronnie was smart, there was no doubt about that. He'd been taken on as an assistant at a local photographer's, and he roamed the streets of Notting Hill with the camera he'd bought with his wages. He intended to make something of himself, he told the girls, and he swore he'd never do manual labor like his dad.
"I wouldn't exactly call upholstering furniture 'manual labor,' " Betty had snapped back. "It's a skilled trade. You make him sound like a navvy."
But Ronnie had no patience with her or with his parents, and saved every shilling he made towards the day when he could move into his own flat. The girls shrugged and learned to amuse themselves without him, although Angel missed his teasing and his bright smile more than she had imagined possible.
That autumn, she had finally badgered her father into buying a television, and the novelty helped a bit to fill the gap left by Ronnie's absence. They were one of the few families in the neighborhood to own such a thing, and it held pride of place in the sitting room. The girls huddled in front of the grainy black-and-white screen, watching the latest pop idols on Oh Boy! as Angel imagined herself older, glamorous, moving in the same exalted circles as the stars on the telly.
A moan from her mother's bedroom brought her swiftly back to earth. Her mother suffered more and more often from what she called "one of her headaches." She would vomit from the pain, and only darkness and quiet seemed to bring her any relief. Her father fussed about as helplessly as a child on her mum's bad days, and Angel coped with the household tasks as best she could.
Whenever possible, she escaped to Betty's. Although Betty's family had to share a bathroom on the landing with two other families, the flat was always filled with the scents of good things cooking and the cheerful sound of Betty's mother's singing. It was Betty's mum who taught Angel to prepare West Indian dishes, and to buy yams and aubergines and the strange, slimy okra pods from the stalls in the market. "Who goin' to teach you to cook if your own mother don't, girl," she'd said, shaking her head in disapproval.
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