And Justice There Is None

by Deborah Crombie

  Not that it mattered what she thought- Karl was entertaining clients from abroad more and more often, and their tiny Chelsea flat had not been suitable for such affairs.

  Usually these customers spoke German. Using his family's connections in Germany, Karl had found a source of Russian art objects "liberated" by the Germans during the war, particularly Russian icons. Karl arranged for them to be shipped into the country; Neil then sold the goods for him at auction, fetching a large profit.

  On the few occasions when Angel saw these icons before they went to auction, she found them terribly moving. The sad faces of the saints and the jewellike colors reminded her of the paintings she'd seen in the Polish café as a child. Of course, she knew now that those paintings had been cheap reproductions, but at the time they'd invoked wonder. Wonder had been possible then, the world still a place where the good were rewarded and the wicked punished for their transgressions.

  Karl had proved that homily false, if he had done nothing else.

  With Angel now thoroughly dependent on heroin, Karl saw no reason to keep the rest of his business dealings from her. The little stash he kept in the house was only the tip of the iceberg. Nor did he buy it just for the occasional use of his friends- he bought it to sell, in large quantities, and at an enormous profit. That money in turn fueled the antiques business, giving him the inventory to make a success of it. Money begat money, and if a few poor souls fell by the wayside because of it, Karl considered it no business of his.

  As for Angel, if she failed to please him, or stood up to him over something, he simply withheld her supply until she complied with his wishes. The longest she managed to hold out was two days, but in the end her will was no match against her craving for the drug.

  After that she managed her habit fiercely, refusing to increase her dose, but she'd finally learned the bitter lesson that she couldn't walk away- not from the drug, not from him. And she'd seen what happened to those without help or support, gaunt specters begging in doorways, or selling themselves on the street. Once, she walked in on two prostitutes shooting up in the public toilet in Hyde Park. She ran out and was promptly sick in the shrubbery, weak with horror over what lay in wait for her.

  There were days, however, more bearable than others, particularly those that involved minding Nina and Neil's six-year-old son, Evan. On one such lovely day in May, she and Evan had the house to themselves. They had returned from a lunchtime picnic in the park, and now were lazing over a puzzle, listening to the new Donovan album she'd bought.

  She'd taught Evan to sing along with an infectiously happy verse about a girl called "Marianne," and when the verse ended the usually solemn little boy laughed aloud with glee.

  "That's your name," he crowed, fingering her silver locket.

  "And it's our secret. No one can call me that but you, because you're special." No one had called her by that name since her father died, and she found the evocation of that little girl oddly comforting. She snapped open the locket, holding it out for Evan's inspection. "Look, I've put your picture here, so I can keep it close to me."

  "Where did you get the locket?" Evan touched the shiny heart.

  "It was my father's."

  "Marianne," Evan whispered, cuddling closer. "That's a pretty name. But I think I like Angel better."

  As the afternoon grew warmer, Evan fell asleep in her lap, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Angel gazed out the open window at the fresh green of the treetops and the spire of the church in the square. The album liner notes lay open beside her. In a personal appeal, Donovan admonished his listeners to give up drugs, as if it were something that one could do as easily as deciding to cut one's hair, or stop eating meat. If only it were that simple.

  What lay before her? Karl would never willingly give her a child, of that she was sure. She stroked Evan's hair from his forehead, feeling the reassuringly solid weight of his relaxed body against her own. Would she ever have a chance to love a child of her own?

  ***

  Kincaid called Doug Cullen into his office at the Yard first thing on Thursday morning, three days after Karl Arrowood's murder. "See what you can find out about a Bryony Poole," Kincaid asked. "She's a veterinarian, and Gavin Farley's assistant."

  As Cullen raised his eyebrows his spectacles rode down his nose, giving him the look of a surprised owl. "A woman? You think that's a serious possibility?"

  "She's as tall as a man, and strong," answered Kincaid. "We can't afford to overlook it. But there is a slight problem with this… um, inquiry. Bryony and Gemma have a connection- Gemma adopted a dog through her- so I think it will be better if we handle this one on our own."

  "That's awkward," Cullen said with obvious sympathy.

  "Yes." Kincaid thought of the cold back Gemma had presented to him in bed the previous night. How wise had it been to encourage her to live in her own patch? It was always risky, because one couldn't help forming friendships and alliances as Gemma had done, but he hadn't expected a situation this difficult, or this soon. This case was nightmare enough without adding personal complications.

  "There's something else I want you to look into while you're digging." He slid a copy of Eliza Goddard's birth certificate across his desk. "Ronald Thomas, Marianne Hoffman's first husband. If there's something in Hoffman's past that has a bearing on this case, maybe he can tell us what it is."

  Kincaid did not mention Eliza Goddard's request that he find her father- Scotland Yard was not, after all, in the business of private investigations.

  ***

  At Notting Hill Station, Gemma waded through her own accumulated paperwork with less than her usual alertness. She'd tossed and turned throughout the night, worrying about Bryony Poole.

  Knowing that Kincaid was justified in making inquiries and dealing with the consequences were two different things, she'd discovered. She couldn't say anything to Bryony beforehand- that would be highly unprofessional. And yet if Kincaid went to Bryony on his own, as Gemma was certain he would, it must surely seem to Bryony as if Gemma had betrayed their friendship.

  A knock on her door provided a welcome interruption to her thoughts. Gerry Franks came in with a sheaf of papers. "The lab boffins must have given up their Christmas dinners to get this done, guv."

  Gemma indicated a chair. "Let's hear it, then."

  "The paper knife was clean as a whistle. It could have been scrubbed, of course, but the blade edge showed no signs of nicks from a scuffle, and it's doubtful whether Dunn would have had a chance to get it sharpened.

  "And the paper knife is a no-show, anyway," Franks continued, "because the scalpel we lifted from the rubbish bin did show traces of Karl Arrowood's blood in the groove between the blade and the handle."

  Gemma's hopes rose. "What about prints?"

  "No prints. No fibers. No other blood." Franks looked more pained than usual. "The scalpel is of the same type Farley uses, but that doesn't get us far. Every medical supply carries them."

  "What about the surgery itself?"

  "Nothing there, either. Nor in Farley's workshop shower. And the bits of ash found in the surgery toilet were too far gone to be identified as photographs."

  "Any response from the media release?" Gemma had placed her hopes on the request for information from anyone passing in the vicinity of the rubbish bin where the scalpel had been found, as the last appeal had brought them the report of the dark-suited jogger. But that, she reminded herself, had turned out to be just a tantalizing glimpse of a lead that had never materialized.

  "Not unless you count one sighting of a space-suited alien and another of Santa Claus," Franks replied with deadpan delivery.

  Not sure if he meant to be funny, Gemma said merely, "Figures. Thanks, Gerry. We'll just have to come up with something else."

  Standing, Franks clasped his hands in parade-rest fashion and looked determinedly at a point just past Gemma's head. "Um, I understand congratulations are in order, guv."

  "Oh. Yes. Thanks. That's very
kind of you, Sergeant."

  Franks nodded with the relief of one whose duty has been performed. Gemma had told Melody her news first thing that morning, and it had required no great sacrifice on the constable's part when Gemma had asked her to do a bit of discreet gossiping. The dissemination technique had saved Gemma the awkward task of making an announcement to everyone she met.

  By early afternoon, Gemma had pored over the fine details of the forensics reports until her eyes ached. Looking up, she saw that the sun, visible for the first time in days, was making a pallid attempt to illuminate the grime on her office window. Perhaps she would go out and fetch coffee for Melody for a change, give her head a chance to clear.

  Ten minutes walking brought her to Pembridge Road, but instead of crossing over to the Starbucks, as she had meant to do, a sudden thought made her turn to the left, following Kensington Park Road. A few blocks down the hill, she stopped in front of Arrowood Antiques, gazing at the "Closed" sign hanging from the door. What would happen to the little empire of beautiful things Karl Arrowood had created?

  With decision, she pulled out her phone and rang the station. "Is there still no word from Arrowood's solicitor on the terms of his will?" she asked Melody. The senior partner in the firm representing Arrowood was away for the holiday, and no one else in the office knew of a document with a date more recent than that of Karl's marriage to Dawn.

  "No, boss. They say they've left word for the senior partner, but he hasn't rung back."

  "Then have the house searched again. If Arrowood left a copy there, we might have missed it the first time round." And if he had, she wondered as she rang off, had his wife seen it? What had prompted Dawn to contact Sean Arrowood?

  Thoughtfully, she continued down the hill to Elgin Crescent. Otto's Café appeared empty. There were, however, still lunch dishes on a few of the tables, and a lovely, garlicky smell emanated from the kitchen.

  Before Gemma could call out, Otto appeared from the back, wiping his hands on his apron. "Inspector! This is an unexpected pleasure."

  "Hullo, Otto," replied Gemma, inordinately pleased at her reception.

  "Can I get you something? It was quiet today- the customers are either on holiday or still recovering from their Christmas dinners- and I have made a nice borscht."

  "Thank you, no. I had something at the office. Is Wesley not here?" she asked, only then realizing how much she'd been looking forward to seeing the young man.

  "No. He takes a few days at Christmas, as the business is slow, and he has family visiting."

  "It's just that I wanted to thank him again for bringing our Christmas tree- and you, Otto, for contributing your van."

  "It was successful, then? Wesley was very pleased with himself as Father Christmas."

  "Otto, there is another reason I'm here. I wanted to talk to you about Karl Arrowood, if you don't mind." She'd had an officer check Otto's whereabouts at the time of Karl's murder: He had taken his daughters to their grandparents' for Christmas Eve festivites.

  "I have heard the news," Otto replied somberly. He pulled out a chair for her and took another himself. "You know, I had thought for a long time that nothing would please me more than that man's death, but now I find it is not so. Whether this is a good thing or a bad one, I cannot tell. It also means I was wrong in accusing him of murdering his young wife, and for that I'm sorry."

  "You knew Karl for a long time. Everyone talks about his successes, but no one ever mentions where he came from, or how he got started in his business. Did he grow up here in Notting Hill?"

  "He never talked about these things himself, even when I worked with him. But I know a little from the neighborhood gossip, and from my mother and her circle of friends. It was their way of making themselves at home in a strange country, to learn everything they could about everyone," Otto added with a smile. "Karl's family was German. They came here as refugees right after the war, so that Karl was born here, in Notting Hill. I don't think he ever considered himself to be anything other than English."

  "They were Jewish?"

  "Yes. His father was a grocer, if my memory serves me. They would have had little, and Karl certainly had no exposure to fine things through his upbringing. But the antiques market was growing rapidly in those days, and I always assumed he had worked for a stallholder or a dealer as a boy." He gave a shrug of regret. "I'm sorry I can't tell you more."

  It occurred to Gemma that she knew someone else in the neighborhood who had come to England as a German refugee just after the war. And it was, as Otto had said, a close-knit community. Was it stretching probability too much to think more information might be forthcoming from a different quarter?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Portobello Road, with its shoppers, tourists and those merely hanging out, offered stimulating subject-matter for photographers and artists. The flea market attracted Peter Blake, a pop artist who decorated his paintings with badges, labels, bits of signs, medals and paraphernalia. He is best known for designing the record sleeve of the Beatles' album 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'

  – Whetlor and Bartlett,

  from Portobello

  It began as a dream. He was alone in the dark, cold and frightened, his stomach cramping with hunger. He lay in a bed that was damp and stank, and he desperately wanted his mother.

  The dream moved on in interminable dreamtime… hours… days, he couldn't tell. Then suddenly his mother was there in the room with him, but she didn't answer when he called out to her. The room spun and he saw her clearly, sprawled on the floor beside the other bed, her red dress hiked up, one delicate sandaled foot hung in a fold of the counterpane.

  Now he was out of his bed, creeping across the room on his hands and knees. He touched her. Her skin was cold; her breath came in labored snorts. She smelled of the stuff that came in bottles, and of the other… the sweet, sickly smell that made his throat close with dread. Tonight he would not be able to wake her.

  It was only when he reached his bed again that he acknowledged the smell and the dampness were his fault. His mother would kill him when she woke, she had told him so, and he had no doubt that she meant it. Terror washed over him and he scrabbled at the wet bedclothes, willing himself desperately to disappear-

  Alex woke sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping.

  Where the hell had that dream come from? He couldn't remember having it before, but it was all horribly, intimately familiar to him in a way he didn't understand.

  He'd had dreams occasionally where he had inhabited another person, another body, like an actor in a film. But he had been the little boy in the dream, or the little boy had been him.

  Shivering now, he wrapped the duvet round his shoulders and stumbled into the kitchen. Taking a mug of hot, sweet tea into the sitting room, he sat on the floor, swathed in the comforter, watching wretchedly for the first intimation of dawn at his garden window.

  Then the dream began again, and this time he knew he was awake. There was a man in the bedroom; he could smell the tobacco and the rank sweat. The man and his mother were together in her bed, making the sounds he couldn't bear to hear. He stuffed his fingers in his ears to shut out the noise, digging until he loosened the scabs from the last time.

  There was blood, he was drowning in it, and through the haze he saw the blue swell of his mother's vein and the springing drop of scarlet as the needle went in.

  After that she went away from him, her eyes skittering across his face as if it were a strange landscape. Nothing he said or did could reach her, and he knew that she went away because she did not love him.

  As the memory faded into the pearly mauve of daybreak at his window, Alex saw that the dream-child's logic was flawed- but he also knew that logic mattered not at all.

  ***

  All Saints Road was not a particularly cheerful place early on a Friday morning, Kincaid decided as he and Doug Cullen got out of the car in front of Gavin Farley's surgery. Most of the shops and businesses were closed, their window
s covered by the rolling metal gratings that marked London as a cosmopolitan city. Nor did the rutted, mottled mixture of snow and slush lining the gutters help matters.

  "That's Farley's car." Cullen indicated a maroon Astra parked at least a foot from the curb.

  "I hope his veterinary skills are an improvement on his driving."

  "Maybe that's why he leaves the Mercedes to his wife," Cullen replied with a grin as he swung open the surgery door.

  Bryony Poole stood at the reception desk, a chart in her hand. She looked up at Kincaid with an instant smile of recognition that made him wish with a pang of guilt that he'd never thought of her as a suspect, but the information Cullen had dredged up about her relationship with a former lover had given him no choice but to see the interview through.

  "Superintendent, isn't it?" Bryony said. "Can I help you? Gavin- Mr. Farley- is with a client at the moment, but I can tell him you're here."

  "It's you we wanted a word with, actually, Miss Poole. Is there somewhere we could talk? This is Sergeant Cullen, by the way."

  She nodded at Cullen, her expression more wary now. "I'm rather busy this morning, I'm afraid. And I really don't know what else I can tell you." Glancing towards the exam room that presumably held her boss, she added, "This has been awkward enough for me as it is…"

  "It's not Farley we're interested in at the moment," said Cullen, stepping into the breach with enthusiasm. "Would you mind telling us where you were on Christmas Eve, Miss Poole?"

  Bryony's half-smile froze on her face. "You're not serious?"

  "We have to speak to anyone with access to a certain type of instrument-"

  "A scalpel. Karl was killed with a scalpel, wasn't he?"

  "It was in fact the same brand you use, Miss Poole," said Cullen. "The same type of scalpel that was stolen from this surgery."

  "And since you haven't been able to pin anything on Gavin, you thought you'd try me! That's simply beastly! I wish I'd never told Gemma about the thefts- or about Gavin's row with Dawn."