"Do you know anything about your father? Were they divorced?"
"I always assumed so. Mum wouldn't talk about him at all. But I was curious, and one day I looked through the things she kept in the special drawer in her bureau. She caught me at it- it was the one time I remember her truly losing her temper."
"Are these the things from her drawer?" Kincaid asked, indicating the box.
Without answering, Eliza pushed it towards him.
He lifted the lid and reached for the top document. It was a birth certificate, issued in the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, in 1971. The child's name was given as Eliza Marie Thomas, the mother as Marianne Wolowski Thomas, and the father as Ronald Samuel Thomas. The address of record was Talbot Road, W. 11.
"You were born in Notting Hill," Kincaid said.
"Yes, but I don't remember the area. We must have moved away when I was a baby. That's me with my parents." She lifted a photograph and he took it by its edge.
The color had faded, but the young woman was instantly recognizable as the girl he'd seen in Edgar Vernon's photo. But here she looked older, the platinum hair darker, longer, with a fringe, and he thought he could see a new wariness in her eyes.
She stood beside a tall, dark-skinned man whose face looked vaguely familiar, and between them they held a laughing infant.
"It must have been hard for your mother," he commented. "An interracial marriage at that time."
"If it was, she never let on. Nor did it ever seem to occur to her that I should mind my skin being a different color than my schoolmates'." Eliza's voice held a trace of bitterness. "When I came home crying because I'd been taunted and teased, she'd tell me I should be proud, and that was the end of it. It was better after she married Greg."
"How old were you?"
"Eight. Greg would tell me that I was beautiful, that I was special, and that one day the other children would be sorry they weren't like me." She smiled, and Kincaid realized how right Greg Hoffman had been. Taking the photo back from him, she studied it. "I'm ashamed to admit this, but after Greg came to live with us, I used to tell people I was adopted. That way I didn't have to admit my mother had been married to a black man. Now I only wish that I had known my father."
There were other photos in the box of the chubby little girl who had been Marianne Wolowski, standing stiffly with parents who wore the formal-looking dress of the fifties, receiving a prize at school, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. In another, a bit older, she and a thin black girl in a pink dress smiled out at the camera to-gether.
Stuck to the back of the photo was a folded piece of paper. When Kincaid uncreased it, he saw that it was a school report from Colville School, dated 1957. Not only had Marianne Wolowski lived in Notting Hill when she'd given birth to her child, she had grown up there.
"Do you mind if I take this?" He indicated the birth certificate. "I'll have it returned to you as soon as I've made a copy."
"Will any of this help you?" asked Eliza. "You know, at first the why of it didn't matter so much to me- I was too busy trying to accept the fact that she was gone. But now… What makes it really difficult is that it seems to me she had finally reached a good place in her life. I don't think she was happy when I was a child- I don't mean she wasn't a good mum, but I think there was more duty in it than joy. But with my twins… She loved them so unreservedly, and there was no worry in it."
"That's the blessing of being a grandparent- or so I've heard."
She gazed out the window a moment, then turned back to him. "There's something else. Now that Mum's gone, my father is all I have left. Do you think you could find him for me?"
***
By late afternoon, Gemma would have been happy to murder Gavin Farley herself. The veterinarian had obviously taken his solicitor's advice to keep his mouth shut, stating flatly that he knew nothing about Dawn Arrowood's affair with Alex Dunn, nor had he ever taken photos of either of them. Not even Sergeant Franks's natural belligerence in the interview room had goaded him into any further response.
She finished writing up another discouragingly noncommittal release for the press- though fat lot of good her discretion would do. The headline of the latest edition of the Daily Star glared at her from her desktop: Slasher Strikes Again- Is There a New Ripper Abroad?
The other papers had followed suit, if slightly more sedately, and the station switchboard had rung nonstop all morning with calls from citizens concerned about their personal safety.
Melody Talbot came into her office, collapsing into a chair with a groan.
"Any luck?" Gemma asked, although the expression on Melody's face told her it was a faint hope. "Did you find the photos?"
"Not a trace. All we turned up was a bit of ash floating in the toilet. We interviewed Farley on Christmas Eve- if he'd got the wind up, he could have come in anytime on Christmas Day to destroy the evidence."
"Bloody sodding hell!" snapped Gemma, unable to contain her frustration. "The bastard!"
"Now what, boss?"
"What about Christmas Eve, then?"
"It took me all afternoon to track down Farley's neighbors. But in the meantime, I had a good natter up and down the street."
"And?"
"The upshot is, you couldn't find more reliable witnesses. Simmons is a banker; Mrs. Simmons belongs to every parents' organization imaginable. The neighbor across the street told me that the only reason the Simmonses put up with the Farleys' social invitations is that Mrs. Simmons wants to stay on good terms with Mrs. Farley, because their kids share rides to school and sports. So that's pretty well that. What about your end?"
"Now I go and give the super a progress report. But I'm not giving up on this. Get the surgery's phone records. If Farley was blackmailing Dawn, he had to have communicated with her somehow."
***
Superintendent Lamb listened impassively while she recited the day's events.
"What about the area where the scalpel was found?" he asked when she'd finished. "Have you had a forensics team in?"
"Yes, sir. They've gone over the rubbish bin and anything else he might have touched in the immediate vicinity. So far no prints have matched anyone involved in our inquiries. We've also had a team questioning anyone who lives nearby, and we've put out a notice asking for help from anyone who might have been passing."
"We've got to turn up something, Gemma." He nodded at the newspapers spread out on his desk. "Not to mention I've had the commissioner on the phone. Arrowood's friends have been complaining loudly about our failure to prevent his death- and I can't say I blame them."
"I know, sir." It took an effort of will, as well as clenched teeth, to stop Gemma venting her frustration. The super didn't care how hard they'd tried; he wanted results. She realized suddenly that this was the first time she'd had to assume responsibility for failure in a difficult case without Kincaid as a buffer.
"I'm not criticizing your work," Lamb added with uncomfortable proximity to her thoughts. "But perhaps you need to put the pieces back in the box, shake them up and dump them out again, to see if they settle a different way. Sometimes we get so attached to one idea that we can't see another under our nose."
"Superintendent Kincaid's following up something different, sir. Some information pertaining to the first victim, Marianne Hoffman."
"And you're still convinced these cases are related?"
"I don't discount coincidence, of course. But in this instance, my gut feeling is that there must be a link, if only we could see it."
Lamb nodded. "Perhaps. Any more problems with Sergeant Franks, by the way?"
"Not at the moment." Although she'd had her reasons for asking Franks to lead this morning's interview with Gavin Farley, Franks seemed to have taken it as a personal commendation and had been almost solicitous to her for the remainder of the day. She knew she walked a fine line between gaining his cooperation and compromising her authority, but for the moment it was working.
"And your liaison with Scotla
nd Yard?"
"Fine, sir," Gemma answered, feeling awkward. She was certain that Lamb was aware of her personal relationship with Kincaid, but he'd never said anything directly.
Lamb smiled, confirming her suspicions. "I hear congratulations of a sort are in order." She must have gaped at him, because he added, "On your move. Duncan and I are old friends. I wish you luck in putting up with him on a regular basis."
Swallowing, Gemma grabbed at her opportunity. "There is one other thing, sir. It's just that I'm pregnant. The baby's due in May, but I won't be taking more than minimum leave. And it will in no way-"
"Congratulations! That's wonderful news." Lamb looked genuinely delighted. "Although I hate to lose you for even a short while, you take as much time as you need, Gemma. Will I be getting an invitation?"
"An invitation?"
"To the wedding, of course."
Gemma felt the blood drain from her face, then rush back in like petrol set alight. This was the one response she hadn't expected, and she was utterly unprepared.
"Oh, I'm far too stubborn to make a good candidate for marriage," she heard herself saying lightly. And besides, she thought, he hasn't asked me.
***
When Gemma sat down in her office to change into her boots, she found that her hands were shaking. So much worry expended, so much dread over confessing her condition, and it had turned out to be no problem at all. Of course it remained to be seen how things at work would develop in the long term, but she had passed the first hurdle.
She felt suddenly exhilarated, and was glad that when Kincaid had rung asking if he should pick her up, she'd said she'd walk home. It wasn't far, and the cold air might clear her head of the giddy rush brought on by relief.
It was dark when she came out of the station, the remaining snow gleaming pale gold in the glow of the sodium lamps. In spots the slush was glazing over; she had better tread carefully.
She'd buttoned the top of her coat and started towards Ladbroke Grove when a voice called softly from the shadows. "Inspector."
Surprised, Gemma turned. A small figure wearing a peacoat stepped forward, and in the light she saw that it was Fern Adams. Fern wore a striped Peruvian cap over her spiky hair, and her face was unadorned by jewelry except for the sparkle of a tiny stud in her left nostril.
"Can I speak to you for a minute, Inspector? It's just that I thought…"
Glancing back at the station, Gemma immediately rejected it as intimidating, but it was too cold to stand about chatting on the pavement. She gestured towards the Ladbroke Arms across the street. "Let's go in the pub, shall we?"
The pub was busy, the noise level reflecting holiday hysteria, but they managed to find a table in the back. When Gemma offered to buy Fern a drink, the girl seconded her request for orange juice.
When Gemma came back from the bar, Fern said, "I don't drink much," as if she felt an apology were needed. "Personal reasons."
"Nor me," Gemma said, "at the moment. Did you want to see me about something in particular?"
"It's Alex. I heard about last night… about Karl Arrowood… and I- There's something I thought you should know. Alex told me about finding the body, and about watching the house beforehand. He told me about taking my knife. And he said that you knew all about it. But there's something he didn't tell you." Fern glanced up, and before her eyes flicked away Gemma saw that they were green. "He didn't go home last night after he found Karl, like he said. He came straight to my flat, a little after nine. He had a tiny bit of blood on his finger, where he'd reached out to touch the body, and he scrubbed and scrubbed at it in my sink."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because there was nothing else. Nothing! Because I know that Alex didn't kill Karl. He was so upset- he said he'd never seen anyone he knew dead before… and he said it made him think of Dawn."
"What time did he leave your flat?"
"After midnight. I made him tea- that's all I had- and eventually he calmed down."
Fern was leaving something out. "Then why didn't he tell us he came to you?"
"I don't know. That's why I wanted to talk to you. I think he has some crazy idea of protecting my honor or something. Today he kept muttering about not wanting me to be involved. Unless…" Fern straightened the stack of coasters, then pushed them away. "Unless he didn't want to admit he'd been with me because it would seem like he'd been disloyal to her memory."
"Dawn?"
"It was hard enough to measure up to her when she was alive- but now she can never be less than perfect, can she?" Fern asked her bitterly. "There's no way I can compete with a ghost."
***
"Okay." Kit shuffled a stack of small, oblong cards. "Are you ready for another one? What plant did the monk Gregor Mendel use for his experiments in genetics?"
"That's not fair," said Gemma from the sink, where she and Kincaid were doing the washing-up from dinner. "You haven't given us any choices for the answer."
"That makes it too easy," protested Kit. "Just guess."
Kincaid dried a saucepan with a flourish. "I don't have to guess. I know the answer. Sweet peas."
"Oh, majorly unfair," howled Kit. "I'm going to find a harder question."
"What? You want us to guess but you don't want us to get it right?" teased Kincaid. "Why don't you take Toby upstairs for his bath while we finish up in the kitchen? That way we'll have more story time."
Toby was under the table, playing with a new tugboat and singing to himself, utterly oblivious to the history of biology going on over his head.
Gemma and Kincaid were taking turns reading to Toby before bed, a practice Gemma had acquired from Kincaid in the time they had known him. It was something her family had not done, so that she enjoyed old books as much as new, and often found herself wishing she'd had the comfort of such a bedtime ritual as a child. She found it touching that since they'd moved into the house, Kit, who of course was allowed to stay up a good deal later, seemed to find some reason to come upstairs just in time to curl up on his bed for the night's offering.
As the boys trooped upstairs after the expected grumbling, Gemma thought about the success of Kit's Christmas gifts. The science questions were an obvious hit; the lead soldiers were proudly arrayed on his desktop, where he could continually rearrange their formations; and although he hadn't said anything directly about the photo of his mother, Gemma noticed that he'd put it on his nightstand.
"I haven't had a chance to tell you what happened today," she told Kincaid as she hung up the dishcloth. "I came out to Superintendent Lamb."
He gave her a quizzical look. "Came out?"
She patted her stomach. "I am now officially pregnant. I can bulge as much as I like."
"That's terrific, love," he exclaimed, giving her a hug. "I take it he was politically correct?"
"More than." Remembering what else Lamb had said, her smile faded. She was not going to mention that! "Fern Adams came to see me just as I was leaving the station," she added, wanting to change the subject. "She wanted me to know that Alex came to her flat after he left the crime scene last night."
"Why tell you? It doesn't provide him an alibi."
"I'm not sure. She's a bit of an odd duck, and something of a loner. I had the feeling she wanted a chance to plead Alex's innocence… and that maybe she just wanted to talk to someone."
"You do tend to radiate empathy like the pied piper," said Kincaid.
Hearing an odd note in his voice, Gemma turned to look at him. "What?"
"I'm just wondering about Bryony Poole. Has it occurred to you that she's as tall as a man, and probably as fit? And that she might have made up the business about the photos of Dawn and Alex just to put suspicion on Farley?"
"You're not saying you think Bryony could be the killer? I don't believe it! And even if she were physically capable, what motive could she possibly have?"
"If we knew that, we'd be laughing, wouldn't we? Maybe she was in love with Karl-"
"That's ridi
culous. She's crazy about Marc Mitchell, and besides that, it doesn't account for Marianne Hoffman."
"True. I just think the idea is worth considering. And can we afford to overlook anything at this point?"
There was no arguing with that, but Gemma didn't feel any happier with the idea of investigating someone she'd come to think of as a friend.
Not even half an hour of The House at Pooh Corner improved her temper, and she went to bed still cross with Kincaid. Glad enough to have Geordie's warm body as a barrier between them, she found herself wondering if combining home and work was really such a good idea.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By the mid sixties Portobello Road was on the tourist map. The antique stalls had attracted the attention of the picture post in the fifties. By 1966, Reader's Digest was writing in glowing terms of the bargains to be had in Portobello Road, claiming there were '20,000 potential customers, antique dealers and American store buyers' every Saturday.
– Whetlor and Bartlett,
from Portobello
By the spring of 1968, Angel had long since come to know the girl Karl had hired to work in his shop as friend rather than rival. Her name was Nina Byatt, and she was married, with a small son. Nina's husband, Neil, a taciturn, bearded man, now worked with Karl, taking selected items round to the auction houses.
These days Karl kept the shop stocked with things Indian and Oriental along with the more traditional antiques, catering to the new fascination with meditation and the exotic.
The shop flourished, as did everything Karl touched. He moved them from the flat in Chelsea to a town house in Belgravia, in Chester Square, an exclusive address befitting his growing status. But Angel found the severe, gray brick house unwelcoming, the neighborhood cold and unfriendly compared to their Chelsea mews. Nor did it suit the farmhouse furniture she had begun to covet.
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