And Justice There Is None

by Deborah Crombie

  "Ronnie never lost patience with her. I think at first he helped her because he felt responsible for what had happened to her, but as she got better he realized how much he loved her. They were married within six months, and little Eliza was born the next year. I think that they were truly happy… but sometimes I would see Angel watching Ronnie and the baby with the strangest look, as if she was afraid someone might snatch them away."

  "And then Ronnie was killed," Gemma said softly.

  "It was December of that year, a miserable night with a cold, blowing rain. He'd worked a wedding, over in Notting Dale, and was on his way home." Mrs. Howard stopped, folding her hands in her lap.

  "It was a hit-and-run," supplied Wesley, who Gemma was sure knew the story by heart. "He was wearing a dark overcoat, and the police said the driver must not have seen him. They never found the driver."

  "No. And Angel left us," continued his mother, "and took that poor baby with her. She said- Oh, it's all mixed up in my mind now, it's been so long- but there was something about friends who had died in prison- their name was Byatt, I do remember that, oddly enough, because we'd had a friend at school called Byatt- and Angel feeling it was her fault, that she had let it happen when she might have prevented it. They'd had a son, and she felt responsible for him. Then she said that she was terrified for us, that no one was safe around her, and that we must never try to find her."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  In North Kensington in the nineteenth century, it was left to the Church and charities to help those who fell on hard times and needed more assistance than family or neighbors could provide. As the population grew, a number of religious and philanthropic bodies became established around Portobello Road. Their aim was to help those who were sick, old or suffering the effects of poverty.

  – Whetlor and Bartlett,

  from Portobello

  Now we have a connection between the victims," Kincaid said.

  "Karl Arrowood," agreed Gemma. "I don't think there can be any doubt. But that still doesn't tell us why three murders were committed, or by whom."

  "If Karl were still alive, we could assume he was after any woman who'd ever crossed him, and put a guard on his ex-wife."

  "And what about Ronnie Thomas?" asked Gemma, ignoring the quip. She looked down at the album she held in her hands, pressed on her by Wesley as they left the flat. Ronnie's nephew had carefully mounted and preserved all his photographs. "Did Marianne think that Karl had him killed? Was that why she was so afraid?"

  Kincaid watched as a motorcyclist roared by them, his face rendered blank and anonymous by his helmet. "You know how hard those sort of cases are to solve. They would naturally assume it was manslaughter rather than homicide, given no other evidence. Gemma, are you all right?"

  The cramp had caught her by surprise, but she kept her voice even as she replied, "Fine. I just need to get off my feet for a few minutes. And I've got to get back to the station, anyway. I've a meeting with the super, though I've no idea what I should tell him at this point."

  "Let me go back to the Yard and see what I can find out about the couple who went to prison. We've got a name, we can assume that the offense was drug-related, and we have an approximate date- sixty-nine or thereabouts. I'll put Cullen on it. His research skills almost make up for his lack of bedside manner."

  "Ring me?" she asked, suddenly loath to see him go.

  "Of course." He kissed her briefly, a touch of warm lips against her cold cheek, then they went their separate ways.

  ***

  When Wesley's sisters came in with their children, he made an excuse to leave the flat. While his mum seemed to find the bedlam comforting, he felt an urgent need to sort out his thoughts.

  He walked quickly down to Portobello Road, then his feet turned him automatically to the left, towards Elgin Crescent and the café.

  They were all there: Alex, looking subdued, with new hollows under his cheekbones; Fern, hair sparkling with glitter, green eyes inscrutable; Marc, who sat back, observing, as he usually did; Bryony, animated for Marc's benefit; and even Otto, who appeared to have joined them over the remains of their sandwiches and a pot of coffee.

  "Wesley!" called out Otto. "You see, you cannot stay away, even when you have the day off. Is this a good thing?"

  "Sit down, Wes," urged Bryony. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

  They were all gazing at him expectantly.

  "It's the oddest thing," he said reluctantly, then proceeded to tell them about his aunt and uncle, and how he had learned of their unexpected connection with Karl Arrowood.

  ***

  Kit and Toby had just come back from taking the dogs for a walk down the street. The sun had come out, briefly, and Kit had taken advantage of the warmest part of the day. Once the sun passed its zenith, the afternoon would cool quickly.

  The boys had developed a routine for their days together, and Kit had just begun to realize how much he would miss it when his school term started the following week.

  After Duncan and Gemma left for work, he made Toby eggs for breakfast, then they took the dogs for a run in the big garden. Before lunch they played indoor games, then after their cheese-and-pickle sandwiches (Toby's without the pickle) they had quiet time. Toby, of course, insisted that he was too old for naps, but Kit had found that if they read books together, Toby would usually drift off to sleep for an hour or so and be much better tempered for the remainder of the afternoon.

  Now, he would make them something for tea, and they could watch Blue Peter on the telly.

  There was still a drift of snow under the eave of the house, and Kit paused to pick up a leaf that had lodged in its surface. It was golden, and completely encased in a clear coating of ice, a momentary jewel. As he turned to show his find to Toby, Tess barked suddenly. Startled, Kit dropped the leaf and looked up. A man walking along the pavement had stopped and stood watching them. Geordie gave a few halfhearted woofs, but his tail was wagging, and Kit recognized Marc, the man who'd brought Geordie to them.

  "Hullo, Kit," Marc called out. "Hullo, Toby. Is your mum at home, by any chance?"

  "No, she's still at work."

  "Oh, well, tell her I said hello," he said, with an odd sort of smile. "Happy New Year to you, then," he added, and walked on.

  Kit stared after him. There was something in the line of Marc's body, the length of his stride, that triggered a memory. He had seen the man a few days ago, just up the street, but had only glimpsed him from the back.

  Oh, well, he thought, shrugging, perhaps Marc lived in the neighborhood, and liked to take walks. People did take walks without dogs, although Kit now found that hard to imagine.

  His own charges were tugging at their leads, claiming his attention, and Toby had managed to find a muddy patch beneath the tree. Pulling in the dogs, Kit gathered up Toby and shepherded his brood into the house, the walking man already forgotten.

  ***

  Oh, God, it was all such a muddle, Gemma thought, running her hands through her already disheveled hair. The files and reports on all three murder cases lay strewn across her desk as if a whirlwind had picked them up and dropped them again, a jumble of utterly useless facts. She stood abruptly, feeling that if she didn't get some air, her head would burst with frustration. Patting her jacket pocket to make sure she had her phone, she slammed out of her office. "I'm going out for a bit," she called out to Melody as she passed the staff room, but she didn't stop to explain.

  She walked without thinking for the first few minutes, concentrating on nothing but the regular jab of the frigid air filling her lungs and the crisp step of her booted feet on the pavement.

  Then, as she relaxed, bits of the reports began to shift and jostle in her mind like pieces in a child's puzzle square. She sorted them as if it were an exercise, running through each possible suspect, each discarded avenue of investigation. It was only when she reached Alex Dunn that something began to niggle at her. Her steps slowed.

  Alex was Bryony's friend
, Kincaid had said. He could have taken the scalpel from the surgery… On the pretext of a visit, perhaps, Gemma added to herself, as could any of Bryony's friends. But the scalpel had disappeared at night, in an obvious theft…

  A fragment of that morning's conversation with Bryony floated back to her, only half heard in her worry over Geordie. Bryony had panicked because she'd misplaced her keys, fearing she might have compromised the surgery's security. All had been well in this morning's case… but what if it had happened before? Gavin had accused Bryony of absentmindedly leaving the surgery unlocked, but what if someone Bryony knew- and trusted- had taken her keys without her knowledge? Only a few minutes would have been needed to make a copy of the key to the surgery door, then the keys would have been returned, no one the wiser.

  But which of them had it been? Alex and Otto had alibis for the time of Dawn's death, as did Otto for Karl's, and Alex's involvement in Karl's death seemed unlikely. Fern they had never considered seriously, simply because she did not possess the physical size and strength to wield the knife.

  That left Marc.

  Gemma's blood ran cold. If anyone had access to Bryony's keys, as well as knowledge of the surgery, it was Marc. He was fit and strong; she had seen him lift their Christmas tree as if it were a twig.

  And he lived alone. As far as Gemma knew, his movements on the nights of Dawn's and Karl's murders had never been checked. But why would Marc commit such crimes?

  No, it just wasn't possible! The whole idea was a fabrication of her overstressed imagination-

  And yet… Looking up, she realized she had come to the intersection of Kensington Park and Elgin Crescent. She was near enough. It couldn't hurt to have a friendly word with Marc, ask in a roundabout way what he'd been doing on those nights, just to set her mind at rest.

  She glanced in Otto's window as she passed the café, seeing Wesley wiping down a table, his head bobbing to unheard music. Then she turned into Portobello Road and started down the hill.

  ***

  Shortly after Kincaid's return to Scotland Yard, Cullen appeared in his office.

  "I found the case- or cases, I should say, as they were tried separately," he reported. "Neil and Nina Byatt. Both were convicted of selling heroin, which had apparently been smuggled into the country in art objects that were shipped to Karl Arrowood, their employer."

  "And Arrowood was never charged?"

  "According to the report, the investigating officers found no proof of his involvement."

  Kincaid frowned. "I smell a deal, Sergeant, and a nasty one. No wonder Marianne Hoffman felt responsible for what happened to her two friends, but I doubt she had much influence over Karl. Were you able to locate the Byatts' son?"

  "I rang a friend at Somerset House, who was able to turn up the record for me. Neil Wayne Byatt and Nina Judith Mitchell Byatt had a son in 1961. They named him Evan Marcus Byatt."

  "I wonder what happened to the boy when his parents died?"

  "He was legally adopted by his maternal grandparents."

  "Good God, you're amazing, Cullen."

  "It's all in knowing what to access."

  "Mitchell?" Kincaid mused. "I wonder if he took his grandparents' name… He'd be near forty now, wouldn't he? And hasn't Gemma mentioned someone named Mitchell?"

  He reached for the phone, unable to quell a sudden uneasiness.

  ***

  Although the lights were out in the dining area of the soup kitchen, Gemma heard a murmur of voices from the back. "Anyone at home?" she called out.

  "In here," Marc answered, and as she reached the kitchen she saw that it was Bryony with him. He stood at the long, stainless steel worktable, preparing the ingredients for what looked like a chicken soup or stew. Bryony sat on a stool nearby, tearing herbs into a bowl.

  "Bryony! I thought I might find you here," Gemma improvised, seeing how she might proceed.

  "Is it Geordie? He's not worse, is he?" Bryony slid from her stool, but Gemma hurriedly waved her back.

  "No, no, he's fine. I just wanted to ask you something. Hullo, Marc," she added, and he nodded at her without breaking the rhythm of his work, dismembering chicken carcasses with swift precision. Turning back to Bryony, Gemma said, "It's about your keys. Do you remember misplacing them, even briefly, before the theft in the surgery?"

  "No…" Bryony frowned, her hand poised over the bowl, and Gemma caught the strong scents of thyme and rosemary. "It's odd, though, now you mention it. When I was searching for my keys this morning, I discovered my spare set was missing from my kitchen drawer. I can't imagine what could have happened to them."

  Who had had access to Bryony's kitchen, other than Marc? Gemma felt her pulse quicken- perhaps her suspicions had not been so far-fetched, after all. "Have you any idea how long the keys have been missing?" she asked Bryony.

  "Absolutely none. I haven't used them in ages, and it's not the sort of thing you think to check on a regular basis, is it?"

  "No," Gemma agreed, glancing at Marc, who still seemed to be concentrating on his chopping. "Is that a New Year's Day feast you're preparing?" she asked, with studied casualness. "For your clients?"

  He looked up at her and she thought she saw a flicker of wariness in his eyes- or had it been amusement? "It is. Not that many of them have much to celebrate, other than having endured another twelve months. Unlike some, who don't know the meaning of lack." There was a bite to his voice she hadn't heard before.

  "What about you, though? Surely you must take some time for yourself? I know you fed the homeless on Christmas Day- did you at least treat yourself on Christmas Eve?"

  Bryony looked from Gemma to Marc with a puzzled frown- perhaps she had wondered how Marc had spent Christmas Eve, as well. The blue light from the fluorescent fixtures bleached the red from her auburn hair and gave a faint gray cast to her skin.

  "And I was beginning to feel a bit neglected," said Marc. "I thought I was the only one you hadn't questioned about Christmas Eve, and about the night Dawn Arrowood was killed. I was here, alone, on both occasions."

  Bryony gave a startled laugh. "I'm sure that's not what Gemma meant."

  Using the flat of his knife, Marc scraped the chicken pieces and chopped vegetables from the steel table into an enormous pot. "Isn't it?" he asked lightly.

  "But Gemma, you can't seriously be suggesting that Marc had something to do with the Arrowoods' deaths? That's-"

  Gemma held up her hand to silence Bryony's protest. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. How had she not seen it before? "Marc. You said your grandmother raised you. How did you lose your parents?"

  He met her eyes. "Oh, I think you know. So does Bryony, in fact, because Wesley just told everyone the whole story half an hour ago. Bryony, bring me your herbs," he added, with a nod towards the pot.

  Before Gemma could call out an instinctive warning, Bryony had slipped from her stool and gone to him. Marc's arm snaked round her; with the other he held the knife to her long, slender throat. The bowl of herbs slid from Bryony's grasp and shattered on the floor.

  "Marc. Don't-" Gemma jerked as her phone began to ring. She reached automatically towards her pocket, then froze when Marc shook his head.

  "I wouldn't do that, Gemma." His grip tightened on Bryony until she whimpered. "You wouldn't want me to cut her, would you? Switch the phone off."

  Gemma took the phone from her pocket. The insistent ringing stopped as she turned it off, and she let it fall back into her pocket. Praying that he wouldn't take the phone from her, she tried to keep her voice calm. "I'll do whatever you say, Marc. Just don't hurt her." Visions of Dawn and Karl Arrowoods' mutilated bodies swam before her eyes, and she heard the pulse pound in her ears. He was insane, she had been unforgivably stupid, and now he held Bryony's life in his hands.

  ***

  Otto's café was empty except for an older woman drinking a cup of tea, her greyhound stretched out beside her chair.

  "Anyone here?" Kincaid called, and Otto emerged from the ki
tchen.

  "What can I do for you gentlemen? It's Superintendent Kincaid, is it not?"

  "Otto, is there anyone called Mitchell that comes in here? You know, one of the regular group?"

  "You must be thinking of Marc Mitchell. They were all in earlier this afternoon, Marc, Bryony, Alex and Fern. Wesley was telling everyone the latest developments."

  "Marc, the chap who runs the soup kitchen? Jesus." Kincaid had met the man when he'd come to their house, but if he'd been told his last name, it hadn't registered. "Where is his place?"

  "Just down Portobello Road, before you get to the flyover. Next to the old Portobello School entrance."

  "It's the perfect situation," Cullen said, excitement tightening his voice. "He lives alone, has facilities for washing things, and a kitchen where a trace of blood wouldn't be amiss. And if Wesley told him we'd learned about his parents, he'd know it was only a matter of time until we made the connection-"

  "Whose parents?" asked Otto, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

  But Kincaid had taken out his phone and was dialing Gemma again. This time the call went directly to voice mail. "Why in bloody hell would she have switched her phone off?" he muttered as he hung up. He dialed again, this time Notting Hill Station. When he had Melody Talbot on the line, he asked without preamble, "Where's Gemma? Is she there?"

  "No." Melody sounded surprised, and a little worried. "She went out about an hour ago. She didn't say where she was going. Have you any idea where she is?"

  Kincaid told himself Gemma could have gone anywhere- to run an errand, check on the children, to buy herself a coffee- but none of his logical suppositions lessened the dread that gripped him.

  ***

  "I'm not mad, you know," Marc said as if he'd read her thoughts.