And Justice There Is None

by Deborah Crombie

  But it had never occurred to Angel that there might be anything terribly wrong with her mother until the leaden February day she came home from school and found the doctor in the sitting room, his black bag by his side.

  "What is it?" she asked her father, her heart thumping with sudden fear.

  "Your mum's had quite a bad headache today." Her dad looked exhausted, and for the first time she saw the deep lines scoring his cheeks. "Even worse than usual. The doctor's given her something for the pain."

  "But why- What's wrong with her?"

  "We don't know," answered the doctor, a portly, bald man whose patient voice belied his stern expression. "I think we shall have to take some pictures, Xrays, of your mother's brain. Then we shall see."

  "Will she have to have an operation?"

  "That's one possibility, but it's too early to say."

  "I'm sure she'll be fine," her father told her, sounding as if he were trying to reassure himself as much as her. But Angel somehow knew, in a moment of gut-squeezing terror, that her life was about to change forever.

  ***

  Anthony Trollope was buried here. And William Thackeray," Kincaid told Gemma as she bumped the car through the gates of Kensal Green Cemetery. It was just before eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, and they had been told that Dawn Arrowood's remains were to be interred in a graveside service.

  "My God." Gemma stopped at the first junction of roads and tracks that traversed the place. "It's immense. I'd no idea." Kensal Green lay at the northern edge of Notting Hill, tucked against the slow curve of the Grand Union Canal on one side and the Harrow Road on the other. A sign at the gate had informed them that this was a wildlife refuge, which meant that the grass was not mown nor the graves tended unless specifically directed by the owners of a plot. Desolate and shaggy under the gray December sky, the place had an air of comfortable decay. The bouquets of plastic flowers placed on the occasional grave looked pathetic and inadequate against the rank wildness of nature.

  "It was a business. By the 1830s Londoners had run out of places to bury their dead. The churchyards were all full. So they formed a corporation to find land and build cemeteries. This was the first one, and very successful it was. It was quite the rage to be buried here." Seeing Gemma's dubious glance, Kincaid added, "Honestly. I'm not joking."

  "And how do you know so much about it?"

  "I've been here before," he replied, but didn't elaborate.

  "Do you know how to find Dawn's gravesite, then?"

  "Um, I'd go to the right, and look out for cars."

  "That's very helpful," she said sarcastically, but did as he suggested. She followed the road for some way before she saw a dozen cars pulled up on the verge, empty. Away in the distance she glimpsed a knot of people in dark clothes, but the track leading in that direction was barred to motor traffic.

  "Looks like we walk from here." Stopping the car, Gemma looked down at her shoes and grimaced. She'd been expecting something far more civilized. "Let's just hope it doesn't rain."

  "I wouldn't tempt it," Kincaid warned, laughing, as he took her umbrella from the door pocket.

  They walked along the track in silence. New headstones were interspersed among the older graves and monuments, but the newer markers were of shiny black marble and lacked the grace of their older counterparts.

  "Now the Victorians," Kincaid remarked softly beside her, "they knew how to celebrate death."

  Never had Gemma seen so many angels: angels weeping, angels on guard, angels reaching heavenwards. The quiet of the place began to seep into her and she found herself taking a long, deep breath. Nor was the landscape as desolate as she had first thought. The gnarled trees and thickets were alive with birds of every kind, and squirrels ran busily in the long grass. To the right she began to glimpse a building through the trees, a large structure with white, classical columns.

  "The Anglican chapel," Kincaid told her. "Although chapel seems a rather meager term for such a grandiose affair. I don't think it's in use."

  They approached the cluster of mourners, out of courtesy stopping a few feet away. An ornate coffin rested beside a dark hole in the earth, and at its head a black-robed cleric intoned the burial service. Karl Arrowood stood beside him in a black suit and overcoat, his head bowed, his gold hair glittering with drops of moisture. Dawn's parents stood opposite, as if trying to avoid contact with the widower. Gemma also recognized a softly weeping Natalie Caine, propped up by a stocky, cheerful-faced young man that Gemma assumed must be her husband; the remaining mourners appeared to be friends of Dawn's parents. "No unusual suspects lurking about," Kincaid murmured. "Worse luck."

  The priest finished, closing his book. Karl Arrowood stepped forward and laid a single white rose on the coffin. Dawn's mother burst into anguished sobbing and her husband turned her away. Several people stepped up to Karl and shook his hand. With obvious reluctance, Natalie did the same, then gave Gemma a nod of recognition as she and her husband started back towards the cars.

  Gemma and Kincaid waited until everyone had paid their respects. Arrowood stood as they approached, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.

  "Mr. Arrowood," said Gemma, "this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard."

  "Do I take it this means the Yard has been called in? Perhaps you'll make some progress now in solving my wife's death."

  "I'm investigating a different murder, Mr. Arrowood," Kincaid answered. "It took place two months ago, in Camden Passage. A woman named Marianne Hoffman was killed in the same manner as your wife. Did you know her?"

  "No," said Arrowood, but he had paled. "Who was she?"

  "Mrs. Hoffman sold antique jewelry from her shop in Camden Passage. She lived above the premises. Do you know of any connection your wife might have had with this woman?"

  "You say this woman sold jewelry? I bought all Dawn's jewelry for her. She'd have had no reason to frequent a shop like that."

  "When we spoke on Saturday, Mr. Arrowood," Gemma said, "and I told you your wife was pregnant when she died, you didn't happen to mention that you'd had a vasectomy prior to your marriage." She saw a small tick at the corner of his mouth, swiftly controlled.

  "And why should I have thought such a personal matter was any of your business?"

  "Because if you'd learned of the pregnancy, you would naturally have assumed that your wife had a lover. In my book, that makes an extremely strong motive for murder."

  "If you are suggesting that I killed Dawn, Inspector, you had better be very careful. I loved my wife, although you seem to find that difficult to believe, and I had no reason to think her unfaithful. These procedures are known to fail, and that is what I naturally assumed."

  "And you'd no idea before Mrs. Arrowood's death that she was pregnant?" Gemma asked.

  "No. I've told you before. I knew she hadn't been feeling well, but that possibility didn't occur to me at the time, for obvious reasons. But now that I know, I will not entertain the idea that the child was not mine."

  His face was set so implacably that Gemma wondered whom he most wanted to convince- them or himself? "Speaking of children, Mr. Arrowood, have you seen your sons lately?"

  "My sons? What have my children got to do with this?"

  "You told me the other day that you'd made it clear to them not to expect anything from you."

  "I was fed up with them begging money for this and that. I never told them specifically- Surely you're not accusing them-"

  "Money can be a powerful motivator. If they thought that Dawn's death would assure them of an inheritance-"

  "No! That's absurd. I know my sons. They like things to come easily because their mother has spoiled them all their lives, but neither is capable of murder." Arrowood was visibly shaken.

  "Nevertheless, our near and dear ones can sometimes surprise us," Kincaid commented.

  Narrowing his eyes, Karl Arrowood retorted, "If you mean to intimidate me by badgering my family, Superintendent, it won't work. I'll be in touch with
my solicitor as soon as I get back to my office."

  "Both your sons are of age, Mr. Arrowood. We don't need your permission to question them. But this is simply a matter of following routine lines of inquiry, and the more cooperative everyone is, the sooner we can move on."

  "Are you saying I should encourage my sons to talk to you?"

  "Assuming they have nothing to hide, it would make the process easier for everyone."

  Arrowood's smile was bitter. "You're assuming I have some influence over my children, Mr. Kincaid. Unfortunately, that's not the case."

  "I thought they might be here today," Gemma put in mildly.

  "They aren't here because I didn't invite them!" Arrowood snapped at her. "Why should I have given them the opportunity to disrespect Dawn in death as they did in life?"

  "Perhaps they regret their behavior-"

  "With their mother's constant poison in their ears? Highly unlikely."

  "I'm assuming Dawn had nothing to do with the breakup of your marriage." Thirteen years ago, Dawn would have still been at school. "In which case, why did your ex-wife dislike her so much?"

  "Because Sylvia is a spiteful bitch," he countered with grim amusement. "Does that answer your question, Inspector?"

  Although Gemma felt inclined to agree with his assessment, she didn't say so. "What about your colleagues, Mr. Arrowood? Surely they might have come to support you today?"

  "I didn't notify anyone at the shop. I meant this occasion to be private- or as private as possible," he amended with a glance at Dawn's parents and their friends, talking with the priest some distance away.

  Gemma was suddenly furious with his callous disregard of the Smiths' feelings. "It's the least you could do for them!" she snapped. "You're not the only one who has suffered a loss."

  Arrowood gave her a surprised look, then said slowly, "No, I suppose you're right."

  "What do you have against your wife's parents?" Gemma asked. "I understand you've only met them briefly."

  His eyes had gone cold again. "The fact that they are utterly and tiresomely middle-class."

  "And you blame them for that?" she retorted. "As if it were a matter of choice?"

  "Isn't it?" he asked. "Dawn chose to overcome her upbringing. So did I, for that matter," he added quietly, gazing at the nearby headstones as if seeking something familiar. Then he looked back at Gemma with a crooked smile. "If you'll excuse me, I had better pay my respects to my in-laws."

  "There is one more thing, Mr. Arrowood," interjected Kincaid. "Do you know an Alex Dunn?"

  "Of course I know Alex. I trade with him frequently. What has he to do with anything?"

  "According to several sources, your wife was having an affair with him."

  If Gemma had wished to see Karl Arrowood lose his infuriatingly tight control, she was now amply rewarded.

  "Alex? An affair with Dawn? That's impossible!" Arrowood reached out for the nearest support, a block of lichen-stained granite.

  "Why?" Gemma asked.

  "Because- because Alex wouldn't- She couldn't- I won't even consider such a thing! Nor will I discuss it with you any further." His face was pinched with shock; the knuckles of the hand grasping the stone were white with strain. He turned away from them. "For God's sake… go."

  "We will be speaking to you again, Mr. Arrowood," Gemma said, but he made no acknowledgment. Glancing back as they walked away, she saw Arrowood still standing over his wife's coffin, his head bowed, his shoulders sagging.

  ***

  "Is he telling the truth?" Kincaid asked Gemma when they were once again ensconced in the warmth of the car. True to his prediction, the rain had begun again as they left the graveside.

  "Which time?" Gemma's cheeks were pink from cold, her skin glowed, and damp tendrils of copper hair had escaped from her plait to curl round the edges of her face. It seemed to Kincaid in that moment that she was achingly beautiful, and he was about to tell her so when she added, "I'd swear he didn't know about his wife and Alex Dunn- Of course, that's assuming that what we've been told is true."

  Disciplining himself into a professional state of mind, Kincaid wrenched his gaze away from her. "He didn't like the idea that his sons might be involved, either. If the thought had occurred to him before now, he's a bloody terrific actor."

  Gemma frowned, tapping her fingertips on the steering wheel as the car bumped along towards the cemetery exit. "A good actor, yes. But somehow I think there's a vein of real grief for his wife in there somewhere."

  "The human mind is a complex thing. It is possible that he could have killed her and yet still truly grieve for her."

  He saw Gemma shudder as she said, "That's a hell I'd rather not contemplate. What about Alex Dunn, then? Everyone we've talked to says how much he loved her, but that doesn't mean he couldn't have murdered her. We've no idea what might have happened between them… Maybe Dawn told him she was pregnant but that she wouldn't- or couldn't- leave Karl, and Alex lost it… And if he wasn't involved in Dawn's death, why the hell has he disappeared from the face of the earth? His friends at the café and the woman in the arcade said he was terribly distraught-"

  "You've requested a search warrant for his flat?"

  "Melody had it in hand as we were leaving for the funeral."

  "Then you'd better have her meet us there."

  ***

  "Still no sign of Dunn's car," Melody had told Gemma when she'd rung the station.

  As well as requesting all police forces to be on the lookout for Dunn's Volkswagen, Gemma had checked the previous address on his lease: a small flat in Kensington now occupied by someone who had never heard of him. His birth records had yielded as little. Alexander Dunn had been born in 1971 in a London hospital, to a mother listed as Julia Anne Dunn. No father was given, and the address of record, in the nether regions of Notting Hill, would have been a squalid bedsit in the early seventies. No one in the area remembered Julia Dunn, or her child.

  Had he gone to university? she wondered. Would anyone know? Who had been close to Alex Dunn, except Fern and Dawn Arrowood?

  She turned into the narrow mews, mentally congratulating herself as she pulled into a rare parking space. Alex Dunn's Volkswagen had not reappeared, nor was there any answer when she and Kincaid rapped on the flat's door.

  There was a twitch, however, at the next-door flat's front window. "Ah, an interested neighbor," Kincaid murmured, and without consultation they retraced their steps and knocked next door. The window box was bare and the pavement round the door littered with windblown rubbish, but the door opened immediately.

  The flat's occupant was a tall, rabbity man with stooped shoulders and thinning hair. He wore a meticulously darned cardigan the color of mud, liberally flecked with dandruff. "Can I help you?" he asked with an air of eager expectation.

  Kincaid showed his warrant card. "We were wondering if we could have a word with you about your neighbor-"

  "My tenant, actually. So what's young Dunn done?" He giggled at his own humor. "Oh, forgive me, I'm Donald Canfield. Do come in."

  The murky flat smelled sourly of cabbage and unwashed flesh. Although Canfield seated them on a sofa facing a large television, Gemma could see an armchair carefully positioned by the front window, and her hopes rose.

  "We wondered if you might know where we could find Mr. Dunn," Kincaid said, after refusing Canfield's offer of refreshments, much to Gemma's relief.

  "It's about that woman, isn't it? The blonde, the one that got her throat slit. I saw her picture in the newspapers."

  "Dawn Arrowood. Had you seen her with Mr. Dunn?"

  "Oh, yes. She came here to his flat for months, almost always in the daytime. I did wonder if she was married. I heard them, too, if you know what I mean," he added, with a sly glance at Gemma. "Walls in these old houses aren't what they should be. And she was very… enthusiastic." He giggled again.

  Repelled, Gemma scowled and looked away.

  Kincaid had no such scruples. "Did you ever hear them arguing
, as well?"

  "No, no, I can't say as I did. Although that's not true of the other one."

  "What other one?" asked Gemma.

  "The little girl with the streaked hair. Oh, they had some terrific rows, she and Alex, when Alex first started seeing the blond woman. But she hasn't been around for months, until the other day."

  "The other day?"

  "Saturday. The day after the murder. The girl came here with Alex. Then they got straight into his car and drove away. Funny thing was, she was driving."

  "Did you see them come back?"

  Canfield pursed his lips in disappointment. "I left just after that, I'm afraid. A visit to my sister in Warwickshire. I just returned last night. I didn't know, you see, that it was the blond woman who had been murdered. I'd have stayed here, otherwise, even if it did get up my sister's nose."

  "What about the evening before, Mr. Canfield?" asked Kincaid. "Were you here then?"

  "Yes, yes, I was."

  "Did the blond woman visit Alex that afternoon or evening?"

  Again came the little moue of disappointment. "Not that I saw. But I'm a busy man, of course, and I might have missed her."

  "Of course," Kincaid agreed. "What about Alex? Did you see him coming or going that evening?"

  "I know he came home around five: I looked out when I heard his car. Then he left again just as the news came on the telly, but walking this time."

  "What were you watching?"

  "Channel One. I always prefer Channel One."

  That would have been half past six, then, if the man was to be relied upon, thought Gemma. And if Dawn had died a few minutes earlier, it seemed unlikely that Alex Dunn could have killed her.