And Justice There Is None

by Deborah Crombie

  After a few days, she managed to get in to see Nina during the prison's visiting hour. As Angel came in, Evan and his grandmother were leaving. The woman smelled of stale sweat and must, and very faintly, of illness- a combination of odors that Angel would forever after associate with righteousness. "God will see you in hell for this," the woman hissed at her. Evan reached out towards her, his small face pinched with misery, but his grandmother snatched him away.

  Shaken, Angel sat down at the visitor's table, but Nina looked no happier to see her than had her mother. Nor did she look well. Her face was pale and drawn, her long, lustrous hair dank and flat, as if the life had drained from it.

  "You have a lot of nerve, coming here," spat Nina. "More than I gave you credit for."

  "But I wanted to see you. You're my friend-"

  "Friend? As long as you have anything to do with Karl Arrowood, you have no friends."

  "But surely we could do something to help- I could take care of Evan-"

  "Don't you touch my son! You just don't see it, do you, Angel? You really don't know what's happened?"

  "Nina! What are you talking about?"

  "Your bloody Karl shopped us, that's what. The police must have found out about the business. They couldn't quite pin it on him because he never actually touched the stuff- He just planned everything. But they were making his life a misery, interfering with his transactions. So he made them a deal."

  "A deal?" whispered Angel.

  "Yeah. Neil and me, red-handed. So now they leave Karl alone, and my son will be grown before I can be with him again."

  "I don't- He wouldn't-" Angel protested, but faintly. Things were adding up too fast. That's why Karl hadn't been worried: He'd known already that he had no cause for concern.

  "There's got to be something I can do, Nina. I want to help you."

  Nina glared at her with contempt. "It's too late for that. And it's too late for you, too, Angel."

  ***

  She went straight to the shop, finding Karl alone for once. "You've got to help the Byatts," she told him. "I know what you did to them, and you've got to do something to make it right."

  He looked amused. "And what exactly do you suggest?"

  "Tell the police the stuff isn't theirs-"

  "You're not suggesting I lay claim to several kilos of uncut heroin myself, are you? And why do you think the police would believe me, Angel? They have hard evidence in their hands connecting the Byatts to the drug sale- They're not going to give that up for some pie-in-the-sky story."

  "Nina says you set them up."

  "Well, she would, wouldn't she? She and Neil refuse to take responsibility for their own carelessness."

  She stared at him, furious, unconvinced. "What if I tell the police what you've done?"

  "Assuming they were stupid enough to arrest me on hearsay, it still wouldn't help the Byatts." His finger touched her under the chin. "But if they did arrest me, then where would you be? Have you thought about that, Angel?"

  In that instant she knew that all her protest had been a sham- she could do nothing for her friends. She hated Karl, but she hated herself even more.

  "What about their little boy?" she demanded. "What will happen to Evan?"

  Karl shook his head, as if disappointed in her lack of understanding. "I really don't think that's any of my concern, do you?"

  ***

  Bryony rolled over and squinted at the red glow of the clock once more, then turned on her back with a sigh. Monday morning, and New Year's Eve to boot. But there was no point getting up until the central heating switched itself on at six, and she had a half-hour to go.

  Beside her, Duchess lay on her back as well, her paws twitching as she ran in some tantalizing doggy dream.

  What had she come to, Bryony wondered, a woman approaching thirty whose only bed companion was a large and hairy dog?

  That thought, however, led her to Marc, and that was a subject too distressing for the predawn hours. Much better to think about her brief career as a murder suspect, she told herself with an attempt at humor. Superintendent Kincaid's smarmy, schoolboy sergeant had made her sound like a harpy as well as a killer- and what was even worse, she had felt inexplicably guilty. Now, even though her family had, of course, confirmed her story, she had to live with the memory of her furious, stammering humiliation as the policeman questioned her.

  She knew Gavin had burned those sodding photos in the toilet, the bastard. Nor, she found, did she have any trouble believing that Gavin had been blackmailing- or attempting to blackmail- Dawn. But she could not bring herself to imagine that Gavin had killed Dawn- She couldn't go on getting up and going in to work with him, if she did.

  The hot water from the boiler grumbled and clanked its way into the radiator; a moment later she heard the coffeemaker click on. No, of course Gavin hadn't killed Dawn, she thought as she threw back the covers. There simply must be some other explanation.

  ***

  An hour later, somewhat fortified by a hot shower and coffee, she reached in her coat pocket for her keys and found nothing. After digging deeper with no success, she turned her coat upside down and shook it. She hadn't locked the flat this morning when she'd taken Duchess out, but she had certainly let herself in with her keys last night- had she just put them somewhere else?

  Her panic mounted as she tried every likely spot in the flat. It wasn't so much her inability to lock the flat that worried her. Duchess had a big bark, and if anyone was brave enough to ignore the dog, there wasn't much to steal.

  But without her keys, she wouldn't be able to get into the surgery, and that was essential. The thought of having to ring Gavin and ask him to drive over from Willesden with his own set gave her renewed energy for her search.

  It was only when she been through the flat a third time that she remembered the spare keys in her kitchen drawer. A thorough turning out of the drawer, however, revealed no keys. Bryony sat down, completely baffled, and it was from that angle she saw a metallic gleam under the edge of Duchess's dog bed. Duchess watched her as she retrieved the keys, her tail innocently wagging.

  "You haven't turned into a magpie, have you, girl?" Bryony said, hugging the dog in relief. The keys must have fallen from her pocket and got kicked or batted across the floor. Duchess had been known to play football occasionally with small objects.

  But what had happened to the keys from the kitchen drawer? She could think of no explanation for their disappearance at all.

  ***

  She knew her day was not improving when she arrived at the surgery and found Gemma James waiting for her, with Geordie. Gemma was the last person she wanted to see at the moment.

  "Bryony, I'm sorry to show up so early without an appointment, but there's something wrong with Geordie's eye."

  The dog cocked his head at Bryony, wagging his tail, and she could see that his left eye was indeed inflamed. "Well, let's get him inside, shall we?" she said, unlocking the door and switching on the lights. "Take him in Room One. I'll be there as soon as I find his chart."

  "I feel like a mum with a new baby," Gemma said as Bryony came into the exam room. "I'd no idea whether or not it was serious, or what I should do, and I have to go to work this morning."

  Bryony softened a little. "Don't worry. It's usually better to panic than ignore- just like with kids."

  "Bryony…" Gemma fidgeted with the dog's lead, and Bryony saw that she looked tired and strained. "Geordie's not the only reason I came. I owe you an apology for what-"

  "You were just doing your job. I understand."

  "No. It wasn't my call, even though I understood Superintendent Kincaid's point. But I never doubted anything you told me."

  "Not even the photos?"

  "Especially not the photos. And the fact that Mr. Farley must have destroyed them when he knew we might search the surgery makes me very uneasy."

  "Yeah, me, too," Bryony admitted. "But he's not coming in today, so that's something. After the morning I've had, I don't
think I could deal with Gavin's sulking and bullying- or gloating because he thinks he's put something over on the police. That's the worst."

  "What happened to you this morning? I noticed you were late."

  "I lost my keys and had a major panic," Bryony explained as she lifted Geordie up on the table. "I found them again, but after the burglary here, having my keys turn up missing gave me a fright. What if I'd left them in the surgery door, or dropped them on the pavement for anyone to find?" To her horror, she felt her eyes smart with tears.

  "Let's get your temperature, Geordie," she said briskly, turning away and reaching for the thermometer. "Has he shown any unusual symptoms, besides the eye? He's eating and drinking normally?"

  "Yes, but now that you mention it, he did seem a bit dozy yesterday."

  "His temperature is a little elevated. That would account for it. Now, let's see that eye."

  After a thorough examination of the dog's eyes, ears and mouth, Bryony said, "He's got a slight infection, but it's only the one eye. Cockers are prone to this sort of thing, because their eyes are large and exposed. If they get a bit of foreign matter lodged under the lid, the eye gets irritated and bacteria can get a start.

  "I'm going to give you some ointment and some tablets you can begin as soon as you get him home. Bring him back on Wednesday if the eye hasn't improved."

  As Gemma collected her medications, she said, "How's Marc, by the way?"

  "Fine, I suppose…" Bryony felt an unexpected urge to share what had been eating at her the past few days. "I haven't heard a word from him since Christmas."

  "Well, sometimes the holidays take people that way. I wouldn't worry too much. Bryony… I know it's none of my business, but didn't you say that Gavin is always complaining about the surgery's profitability? I think you might want to visit him at home sometime."

  Bryony groaned. "Are you saying that Gavin is cheating me?"

  "I'm just saying he's living quite comfortably. And, um… you might want to check over the books. It seems he's had a bit of trouble in the past with the Inland Revenue."

  ***

  At first Angel was determined that she would go to Nina's trial, to defy Karl even if Nina didn't want her support. But as the time drew near, she found she hadn't the strength to face Nina's hatred again.

  And Karl had been more difficult lately, always watching her, checking up on her. He'd removed the ready supply of heroin from the flat, insisting that it was a precautionary measure against being searched by the police, and instead brought her just enough for each day. What he gave her was stronger than what she'd been using, and she suspected it grew a little more so as the weeks went by. If she kept this up, would she some day lose consciousness; perhaps die from an overdose? How very convenient for him- an easy solution to the problem of the girl who knew too much.

  Once, as the summer faded into autumn, she tried to visit Evan. She found him playing alone in his grandmother's front garden, but when she knelt to hug him, the boy stiffened and pulled away from her. "You took my mother away!" he shouted at her. "It's all your fault! My granny says so."

  She gasped. "Evan, no! I would never hurt you like that. I love you. Look"- she opened her locket- "I still have your picture."

  For a moment, she thought she had reached him. Then he spat in her face.

  ***

  The trials took place in October of 1969. The court showed no leniency; Nina went to one prison, Neil to another.

  At first, Angel sent Nina a card every few weeks, but each card came back, unopened. In January, she heard from a mutual friend that Nina had been ill with a bad cold and cough. Then, a few weeks later, the friend rang to tell her that Nina had died. She'd had pneumonia, but the prison doctors hadn't diagnosed it until too late.

  Angel was still grappling with Nina's death when, a week later, she heard that Neil Byatt had found a way to hang himself in his cell. Poor, melancholy Neil, who had doted on his wife to the exclusion of all else, even his son, had not been able to go on without her.

  It was then Angel realized she had two choices. She could follow Neil's example- or she could leave Karl, regardless of the consequences.

  The first was beyond her courage. If she chose the second, she would have to do it now, or she would lose her resolution. She stuffed a few things in a bag, including the few bits of her father's jewelry she'd saved over the years, then walked round the flat, thinking how little imprint she'd made upon it. It was Karl's- the decor, the furniture, the art- in the end none of her contributions had mattered. She was insignificant.

  Then Karl walked in, home hours earlier than expected.

  Her heart plummeted. "What are you doing here?"

  "I felt like closing the shop. And I might ask you what you're doing?" His tone held the faint amusement that had come to characterize his conversations with her, as if it were unthinkable to take her seriously.

  She was suddenly furious. "I'm leaving, that's what I'm doing. Did you know that Nina and Neil are both dead?"

  "Of course. Are these two things somehow connected?"

  "You bloody well know they are. You sacrificed them deliberately, to save yourself, and I can't live with that- or with you- any longer."

  "You won't leave," he said, still with a trace of a smile.

  "I will. Are you going to try to stop me?"

  "No. But if you go, I promise you you'll regret it. You have nothing, and no one, and you can't go a day without a fix. And I have friends, connections, everywhere. I'll know where you are."

  It was as open a threat as he ever made, and Angel felt the fear sucking at her like quicksand. "What happened to you, Karl? There was good in you, once. And you loved me- I know you did."

  His gaze softened, as if memory touched him. Then he pinched his lips together and shook his head. "You can't allow sentiment if you're going to get on, Angel. You know that. There's no room for weakness."

  "Isn't there?" A small spasm of pity stirred within her, but it was too late for that. If she didn't act now, she would be lost. She picked up her bag and walked out the door.

  ***

  Having stopped at the house to leave Geordie in Kit's care, Gemma pulled the car up at the station, but hesitated before getting out. She had turned Ronald Thomas's name over to Sergeant Franks with a request to search the Notting Hill database- There was nothing more she could do on that front.

  But while Melody's team had gone through the Arrowoods' house looking for Karl's will with no success, and Karl's solicitor reported having only the version Karl had given him on his marriage to Dawn, dividing his estate between his wife and his children, Gemma couldn't quite silence a nagging worry over the matter. Had it been merely some remark of Karl's that had made Dawn ring up Sean Arrowood, or had she actually seen evidence that Karl meant to cut his sons from his will?

  Coming to a sudden decision, she dashed into the station and picked up the Arrowoods' keys. She would not be content until she had searched the house herself.

  She began in the obvious places, those she knew Melody's team had already searched: the desk and bookshelves in Karl's study, the shelves and cubbies in his wardrobe. An hour later, tired and disheveled, she sat back on her heels in front of the wardrobe. She should give it up, finish her paperwork at the station, go home early to begin preparing the quiet New Year's Eve supper she and Duncan had planned with the boys.

  The house echoed around her in the unique way of empty dwellings, every creak and shift magnified. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the house were speaking to her, then she shook her head at such an absurd fancy. Unbridled imagination, that was all it was. Still… Getting up, she moved to Dawn's closet and pulled open the doors. The clothes rustled with the draft, as if drawing breath, and the scent of Dawn's perfume drifted out, elusive and evocative.

  On hands and knees, Gemma squeezed into the narrow space and pulled the storage box from beneath the bottom shelf. This time she took it out into the bedroom and removed each item, one by one. She fou
nd the paper, folded neatly into a small square, in the very bottom book, an illustrated copy of Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons. It was a will, all right, signed by Karl Arrowood and duly witnessed. In it, he left his personal property to his wife, Dawn Smith Arrowood, with small provisions for his sons, Sean and Richard Arrowood. Arrowood Antiques and all its assets he gave to his son, Alexander Julian Dunn.

  Gemma read the line again. Alex? Alex was Karl's son? Bloody hell!

  She drew a breath, trying to piece together the sequence of events leading to Dawn's death. Had Dawn come across the will by accident? Or had she searched for it after Karl's row with Richard, trying to ascertain if he really meant to do what he'd said? Or had the row prompted her phone call to Sean, and that meeting had then led to her search for the will?

  In all likelihood, she would never learn the answers to those questions. What she did know, without a doubt, was that Dawn had learned Alex was Karl's son. And then she had found that she was pregnant with Alex's child.

  ***

  "Dawn knew?" As if his knees had suddenly dissolved, Alex collapsed onto his sofa.

  "She didn't tell you?" Gemma asked.

  "No! How long did she- had she- I mean-"

  "You don't seem surprised to learn that Karl was your father."

  "When I saw my aunt Jane, she described the man my mother was seeing when she was pregnant with me. I wasn't absolutely sure, but now… Oh, my God…" He stood and began to pace, running his fingers through his thick hair until it stood up in hedgehog prickles. "Poor Dawn. She must have been terrified, devastated. She'd chosen the worst person imaginable to fall in love with, the one person Karl could never forgive- and then she found she was carrying Karl's grandchild."