"Do you know anything about Alex, Mr. Canfield?" she asked. "Who his friends are, or if he has family?"
"No. He tends to keep himself to himself," Canfield said stiffly, and Gemma read the history of rejection in his expression.
"Is he a good tenant, then?" she pressed, daring him to find something good to say about Alex Dunn. "Neat? Timely with his rent?"
"Well, yes." Canfield admitted it reluctantly. "Although I don't know as I want a tenant in my property that's been involved in a murder…"
"We don't know that he is involved in Mrs. Arrowood's death, Mr. Canfield," she said, knowing perfectly well that the man wouldn't miss the excitement for the world. A flash of black and orange outside the front window heralded the arrival of a panda car and Melody Talbot.
Kincaid stood and thanked Mr. Canfield, shaking his hand, but Gemma pretended not to see the limp digits proffered in her direction.
***
"Nasty little pervert," she muttered, knowing Canfield was watching them avidly from the window. It made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. "Maybe he developed an obsession with Dawn, watching her coming and going next door and knowing what they were up to-"
"He could have followed her easily enough and learned where she lived," Kincaid agreed. "Then lain in wait for her that evening-"
"Right," replied Gemma, rolling her eyes. "Canfield doesn't look fit enough to have attacked a kitten. And if he was out murdering Dawn, how would he have known what time Alex left his flat? Still, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to run a check on him."
Melody, having been obliged to turn the panda car round and seek a parking space outside the mews, reappeared at the top of the road. "I've got the warrant," she called out as she neared them. "And a locksmith coming."
"I'd assume Mr. Canfield has a key," Kincaid told her. "But let me give it a try." He carried a small set of professional lock picks, and Gemma knew he enjoyed an opportunity to practice his skills.
"I don't think it's very likely we'll find him here," he said quietly as he bent over the lock. "As Canfield saw him leave in his car, and the car hasn't been returned. Besides, there's no smell."
Gemma grimaced at his reassurance. "Might have topped himself somewhere else, though," she offered.
"Then what happened to the girl who was driving? The one with the interesting hair?"
"Fern Adams."
Kincaid glanced up at her, one ear still tuned to the sound of the tumblers he was manipulating.
"His ex-girlfriend. The one his friends at the café said was determined to help. And a witness saw Alex leave the arcade with her."
"Then where are they now?" asked Melody. "Do you have an address for her?"
"No. I know she lives nearby, but Dunn's car hasn't been spotted anywhere in the district."
"Got it!" Kincaid exclaimed as the door swung open.
He entered cautiously, calling out and turning on light switches with his handkerchief. There was no reply, and it was soon apparent that the flat was unoccupied.
The bedroom was at the front, sharing a wall with Mr. Canfield's sitting room, Gemma realized with distaste. A pair of trousers lay across the unmade bed as if they had been carelessly tossed; the dressing table held a hairbrush, a bowl of pocket change, and two lovely blue-and-white vases; the two bedside tables held stacks of antiques magazines and Christie's catalogues. In the wardrobe, Gemma found two suitcases and a duffle bag along with neatly folded and hung clothes. There was no indication that Dunn had packed for a trip. Nor could any room have looked less like the scene of an illicit love affair.
A dark, glossy green tile surrounded the tub, men's toiletries were ranged round the sink, and the bath gave off the faint but unmistakably masculine scent of soap and aftershave. There was no sign of regular occupation by a woman.
"He uses an expensive electric razor," Kincaid commented. "You'd think that if he'd meant to go away, he'd have taken it."
Everything in the sitting area had been painted a warm cream, including the cabinets in the kitchen at one end. Gemma wondered if Alex had been trying to wipe out any trace left by his landlord, as she couldn't imagine the decoration being the product of Donald Canfield's imagination, but the most practical reason for the vanilla hue of the walls and carpet was obvious: It displayed Alex's collection at its best.
Lovely examples of blue-and-white porcelain were scattered about the room on small tables, shelves, and desk, and one wall held a glass display cabinet filled with colorful Art Deco pieces that made her gasp in delight.
French doors led out to a small enclosed garden. A flagstone patio held pots of now withered geraniums and a white iron table with two chairs. Gemma imagined Alex and Dawn sitting there on a warm evening, engrossed in one another, and felt a twinge of sadness.
"Another dead end," Melody said with a sigh of discouragement.
"Not entirely," countered Gemma. "It at least lets us rule out the possibility that Dunn came back here and killed himself in despair over Dawn's death."
"Dunn didn't disappear until Saturday morning," Kincaid pointed out. "If he killed Dawn on Friday night, then returned to the flat, he certainly hasn't left any obvious evidence."
"We'll get forensic in, just in case. But in the meantime," Gemma added, "I'm going to find Fern Adams."
***
Gemma combined an information-seeking stop at Otto's Café with a belated lunch, served to her by the cheerful Wesley. Kincaid had returned to the Yard to begin background checks on Karl Arrowood's sons.
Otto, Wesley told her as he served her a bowl of steaming lentil soup, was out for the day. He didn't elaborate. Was he regretting his forthrightness when they had spoken before? Gemma wondered.
"Perhaps you can help me," she said when she'd finished her soup and he'd come to take away her dish. "Have you seen Fern Adams since she left here on Saturday?"
"No. That's a bit odd, too. She's usually in here every day for a coffee."
"Nor Alex?" Gemma knew that constables inquiring after Alex would have asked here, but she wanted to hear for herself what Wesley had to say.
Wesley shook his head, his mobile face portraying worry. "You'd think the man had vanished into a bloody great hole. No one's heard a thing from him. Do you think- He wouldn't- He was that upset…"
"I'd be more concerned if he hadn't left his flat with Fern- we've a witness who saw them. It's Fern I'd like to talk to now. Do you know where I could find her?"
"She lives in Portobello Court. I don't remember the flat number, but I can tell you where it is." He gave Gemma detailed directions. "Don't mistake me," Wesley added, "Miz Arrowood's murder was a terrible thing, only I didn't know her. But if anything's happened to Alex or Fern… They're like family."
"Do you have family of your own?"
"My mother." Wesley's face split in a brilliant smile. "She lives down Westbourne Park." Sobering, he added, "My dad's been gone a few years now. Heart attack."
"You stay with your mum?"
"Can't afford nothing else, you know what it's like," answered Wesley with no hint of complaint. "But even if I could, I'd not want to leave my mum on her own. She's a good woman, my mother."
Gemma said good-bye and walked thoughtfully back up Portobello Road. Would her children have such care for her when they were grown?
***
Portobello Court was the first modern block of flats built by the Council after the war, containing such sought-after amenities as indoor plumbing and separate kitchens, and she knew that many flats had been occupied by the same families since the fifties.
Following Wesley's directions, she climbed the stairs to the first floor and knocked on what she hoped was the right door. A door across the corridor opened and an elderly lady peered out at her, shaking her head.
"You looking for that girl? Rings in her nose, and Lord knows where else. Don't know what the world's coming to."
"Do you know where she is?"
"Been holed up in the flat for days, far as I know
. Don't know how she expects to make a living if she doesn't get out and scour the countryside. That's what it takes to turn a profit, you know. My husband was in the trade, had a stall next to her daddy."
With some assurance that Fern was at home, Gemma turned and knocked again, more loudly, and this time she was rewarded by the sound of shuffling and the click of a latch.
The young woman who gazed out at her did indeed have a ring through her nose, and another through her eyebrow, but her small, pale face was devoid of makeup, and the multihued strands of her hair looked flattened and neglected.
"Miss Adams? I'd like to talk to you about Alex Dunn."
"What about him?" The sight of Gemma's warrant card had not prompted the woman to open the door wider.
"Do you happen to know where he is?"
"Why should I?"
The door of the flat opposite creaked open an inch.
"Do you think I might come in?" Gemma gave a pointed glance at the obvious eavesdropper.
"Yeah, I suppose. Old cow," Fern added under her breath, but she stepped back, allowing Gemma into the flat. Boxes and tag-ends of furniture cluttered the space. Gemma could see no rhyme or reason for the arrangement of items- a set of mahogany side chairs faced a wall, a matching settee had its back cozily against the television, side tables stood adrift among lamps and pictures. A glimpse out the glass balcony doors revealed an equally unprepossessing view; large men's underclothing hung out on a makeshift clothesline, and there were a few drooping potted plants.
Gemma gestured at the boxes. "Are you moving?"
"No. My dad travels- the auction circuit. He brings things home, and so do I. This is about as sorted as we get." Fern cleared a chair of several old tasseled lampshades, which Gemma took as an invitation to sit.
"Have you been traveling this week?"
"Yeah." Fern rubbed at a spot on the back of her hand, a liar's gesture. When Gemma didn't speak, she added, "Estate sales, country markets, you know the sort of thing."
"What about Alex? Is he traveling as well?"
Fern shrugged with great casualness. "Dunno. Haven't seen him."
"But you have seen him since Dawn Arrowood died. The two of you left the arcade together."
The girl's startled glance met Gemma's, then she looked deliberately away. "I took him home for a cuppa. He was a bit wobbly and all. Why do you want to know about Alex, anyway?"
"I understand he and Dawn were quite close. She might have told him something that would help us find her killer."
"You mean, like, if someone had been bothering her?"
"Exactly. Or maybe he noticed someone hanging round her. Or, say if her husband had threatened her, she might have told Alex." When Fern nodded without comment, Gemma added, "Would Alex have told you?"
"Not likely. Dawn Arrowood wasn't exactly a topic of discussion between us."
"Not even on Saturday morning? You must have talked about her murder."
"He wouldn't believe it at first, when Otto told him. But then he went to her house. It was crawling with coppers and one of the neighbors told him her throat had been cut. After that he was, like, a zombie or something."
"And after you brought him back here for a cup of tea?"
Fern shrugged again. "I suppose he went home."
"You let your good friend go home alone in a terrible state of shock?"
"I offered to stay with him, but he didn't want me."
Gemma studied her for a moment. "All right, Fern, that's enough of the games. Alex's landlord saw the two of you leave in Alex's car that morning, with you driving. Where did you go?"
"Don't know what you're on about," Fern retorted, but Gemma had glimpsed the flash of fear in her eyes.
"Yes, you do. Do you also know that you could face charges for interfering with a police investigation?"
"I don't know where he is!"
"I don't believe that. You left together in Alex's car on Saturday morning, and neither Alex nor his car has been seen since. We've put out a bulletin on his car registration; we will find it, but the sooner we talk to Alex the better for him."
"But he hasn't done anything-"
"Why would he disappear like this, unless he had something to do with Dawn's death?"
"Because he's in danger!" Fern scowled at Gemma, but her lip was trembling.
"Alex? Why should Alex be in danger?"
"Otto knows Karl Arrowood, and he says that if Karl killed his wife, Alex could be next."
"If Alex has some evidence that Dawn was murdered by her husband, he needs to give it to the police as soon as possible. Tell me where he is."
"No. I can't tell you because I don't know. I took him for a drive, then I took him back to the flat." Fern's hands were balled into fists now, and in spite of her frustration with the girl, Gemma found something about her defiance endearing.
With a sigh, she said, "I hope Alex appreciates your loyalty."
Something flickered in Fern's face- an instant of doubt? Hesitation? Then it was gone and her lips were clamped in a stubborn line. "I'm telling you, I don't know where he is."
"All right, Fern." Gemma stood, tucked her notebook in her bag, and handed Fern her card. "But I'll be back. And in the meantime, you think about whether you really want Alex to go to jail for evading the police and impeding a murder inquiry."
***
As soon as she reached the station, Gemma organized a twenty-four-hour watch on Fern Adams's flat and requested access to Fern's phone records. She had absolutely no doubt that Fern knew where Alex Dunn was, and that the young woman would contact him.
When her own phone rang with a summons to Superintendent Lamb's office, she thought nothing of it; her super regularly called her in to discuss cases in progress.
But to her astonishment, Lamb cleared his throat and said, "Gemma, Sergeant Franks has been to see me. I thought you should know that the sergeant has expressed some concern over your progress on this case. He feels that not enough pressure has been put on Karl Arrowood, as the obvious suspect in the murder of his wife-"
"Sir. You know that we don't have one single bit of concrete evidence. I can't confront Karl Arrowood with nothing but dicey forensics and supposition, and I certainly can't make a case to the CPS-"
"I realize that, Gemma. I'm not questioning your judgment. In fact, it seems that as well as being wealthy, Arrowood has quite a reputation for supporting charitable causes like helping the homeless. The Commissioner has had calls from a friend of Mr. Arrowood's in the Home Office, and from two prominent MP's, expressing concern for Arrowood, and he has in turn been breathing down my neck. We're certainly not going to make any rash charges at this point, although our clearance rate is under scrutiny-" He stopped and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "But you know all that, and that's not why I called you in here. My immediate concern is your communication with Sergeant Franks-"
"But sir, you must know that Franks resents all the female officers. He's done his best to undermine my authority since I started here."
"I also know that Gerry Franks is an experienced and able officer, and you're not doing yourself any favors by allowing personal- or gender-related- differences to sabotage your working relationship. He could be a valuable resource to you, and I don't have to tell you that we need this department to run as efficiently as possible. See what you can do to remedy the problem, eh?" It was clearly a dismissal.
"Right." Gemma stood. "Thank you, sir. If that's all-"
When Lamb nodded, she left the office, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. She had gone out of her way to defer to Gerry Franks, trying to allow him to retain some of his dignity, and this was the thanks she got. Of course she'd been aware of his thinly concealed insubordination, but this was absolutely the last straw. She would have to find a way to deal with him. And then her own doubts flooded over her.
Had she done everything possible? Had she let her concern with her pregnancy and her future cloud her judgment? And if that were the case, how could
she repair the damage?
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the Caribbeans began to arrive in the fifties and early sixties Notting Hill was still depressed and underdeveloped. This was the sort of London no one cared for, or cared about. Its devastation wasn't the result of bombing, so the mythology which the wartime and post war propagandists assembled around the East End passed it by; and unlike the East End's acres of crumbling Victorian warrens, it contained a stock of large well-built homes.
– Charlie Phillips and Mike Phillips,
from Notting Hill in the Sixties
She watched her mother fade away, day by day, month by month. The doctor's X rays had revealed a tumor in the front part of her brain, growing down into her nasal passage; surgical removal was deemed impossible. There were medications, of course, that might slow the tumor's growth, but as they made her mother violently ill and did not appear to affect the tumor, they were quickly stopped.
And yet, her father refused to give up hope. "Maybe today there will be some improvement," he would say every morning, long after Angel knew that the only possible improvement to her mother's condition was death.
She did the necessary sickroom nursing without complaint, but she loathed it. She hated the dark bed, the heavy brown-and-rose wallpaper, the smell of sickness, her mother's silent acquiescence. Most of all, she hated her mother. How could her mother abandon her, and with so little fuss? Did her mother not love her at all? Didn't parting from one's only child deserve a bit of drama, at least some railing at God?
But her mother only smiled her gentle smile, drifting in and out of her morphine-induced dreams, and when she began to fret from the pain, the doctor would increase her dosage.
As the tumor pressed its way forward, her face began to sag as if it were a plastic mask left too long before the fire; one eye socket slid down and canted sideways, her nose twisted, her forehead bulged. The pain intensified then; a simple touch would make her cry out, so that Angel could hardly bear to bathe her.
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