"Kit! Rise and shine!" His dad's voice came from the second floor. Kit imagined him standing at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt, fresh from the shower and smelling of soap, his hair still damp and combed with a neatness that would last only until it was dry.
Gemma would be down soon, helping Toby dress-or at least arguing with him over his choices-and then there would be breakfast, and a kitchen full of chatter and barking dogs. Suddenly the day seemed a good deal brighter.
Dumping Tess unceremoniously onto the floor, Kit threw back the covers. "I'm up," he shouted back.
***
When Gemma came into the kitchen, Kincaid already had coffee on and was putting out cereal boxes for the boys. But when he held out a mug, she shook her head.
"No time. Toby was determined to wear his Spider-Man T-shirt with holes in it rather than his uniform this morning. And I want to get in early, see what's up, then dash to hosp-"
Kincaid was shaking his head.
"What?" asked Gemma, stopping a quick grab for juice.
"You can't keep on delegating to Melody and ducking out of the job. You're going to have to tell your super and Melody about your mum, request some time-"
"But I don't want-I don't like to-" She ran a hand through her shorter hair and the bareness of her neck made her feel vulnerable. She still missed the weight of her long plait on her back. "I don't like airing my personal business at work. In five minutes it will be all over the station and everyone will be giving me sympathetic looks."
"Would you rather they thought you were slipping out for trysts with the milkman?"
Gemma couldn't help smiling. "Trysts? Who on earth says trysts? And no, I don't suppose I want anyone thinking I'm having them-whatever they are-with the milkman." She sighed. "I'll have a word with Mark first thing. And then Melody."
He came round the table and pulled her into a hug, and she let herself relax against him, taking momentary comfort from the warm solidity of his body. "A wise choice," he whispered in her ear. "And besides, I'm better than the milkman."
"And how do you know that?" she whispered back.
***
He'd put her off, telling her he wanted her to make a positive identification of the body before he discussed details. But instead of sending Erika Rosenthal to the mortuary with a WPC, as would have been his usual custom, Gavin ordered a car and took her himself. If anyone had questioned his reasoning, he would have said it was because he thought he might learn more, and that he wanted no delay in confirming the identity of his victim, and both rationalizations were, in part, true.
But the core of it was that he felt protective, that he didn't want her to face the body on the mortuary slab alone. And then there were the barely admitted thoughts-that he could sit next to her in the back of the car, that her arm might touch his, that the day was warm and her dark hair might blow round her face in the draft from the open window.
She didn't speak as they drove along the Embankment, but sat beside him with her pale blue skirt draped demurely over her knees and her hands clasped once more in her lap. And when they crossed the river at Waterloo, she stared out at the sunlight flickering on the water as if she were any young woman on an outing on a beautiful spring day. Except there was a tension in her he could sense, as if every cell in her body were holding itself in check.
The desire to place his hand over hers became so intense that in order to distract himself he leaned forward and spoke to the driver, suggesting where the officer might wait while they were inside Guy's, and he must have spoken more sharply than he intended because she glanced at him, startled, then looked away.
The car left them at the main gate, and as they crossed the courtyard and entered the corridors that led to the morgue, Gavin allowed himself to guide her by touching her elbow lightly. If she were aware of his touch, she did not object. Nor did she comment on the elusively sweet smell of decay, never quite masked by the antiseptics.
Then they had reached the morgue, and having made sure the body was ready for viewing, Gavin took her in.
The gurney had been moved near the door, and Dr. Rainey's assistant carefully folded back the sheet to reveal the face. The flesh had sunk since the postmortem, making forehead, cheekbones, and chin more prominent, but the features were still recognizable to Gavin, and to Erika Rosenthal as well.
She put a hand to her mouth, the first involuntary gesture he had seen her make. Then she nodded once and dropped her hand to her side. "That's David," she whispered, then she spoke again, more loudly, "Yes, that's my husband," as if Gavin might not have heard her. Or as if, Gavin thought, she needed to lay claim to him.
"Do you…would you like some time-"
"No. No. Tell me how he died."
"Your husband was found in Chelsea, in a garden across from the Embankment. Someone stabbed him, Mrs. Rosenthal. Repeatedly, in the chest. He didn't try to protect himself. And then it looks as though your husband's killer emptied his pockets and his satchel."
She turned away from the gurney, and he saw that her eyes were dry. "Can we go, please?"
"Of course." He led her out, and her footsteps beside his were unfaltering. But when they reached the courtyard, she stopped suddenly and looked round, as if she had lost her bearings.
"Here." Gavin led her to a bench. "Just sit for a bit."
She sank down beside him and closed her eyes. After a moment, she said, "I'll have to make arrangements straightaway. He can't be embalmed, you know. Or cremated. Even though David was not an observant Jew, these are things that would have mattered to him. So burial must take place as soon as possible."
"Yes, I know. But it will be several days before the authorities will release his…body."
Turning, she met his eyes. "How do you know these things, Mr. Hoxley?"
"When I was a child in Chelsea, our neighbors were Jewish. We were close, and I was a curious boy. I wanted to know why they did things differently."
"A curious boy grown into a curious man. And one without prejudice, I think." Her gaze probed him. "Will you find out who did this to my husband? And why?"
"If I can." He didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened by her approbation. "But you'll have to help me. Tell me why you were afraid your husband had committed suicide."
The breeze stirred her skirt, then feathered a tendril of hair across her cheek. "My husband…my husband felt his obligations deeply, Inspector. There were…debts…in his life he could never fulfill-at least not in his eyes." She sighed. "And David was a deeply disillusioned man. Before the war he was a firebrand. He spoke out against the Nazis, putting himself at risk. He couldn't believe that so barbaric a philosophy would be taken seriously by Germans, by the world, and he certainly did not believe that they could prevail."
"He was right, in the end," said Gavin, his mind skittering away from the bloody fields of France.
"Yes. But victory came too late for David, and at too great a cost. He couldn't forgive. Or find anything worthwhile in the present." Had that included his wife? Gavin wondered, then felt a rush of guilt as he realized just how often he had looked at his own wife, and his children, and thought the same. Had Linda and the children known they were being measured and found wanting?
Too quickly, he said, "You mentioned your husband went to the British Museum to work. Do you know what he was writing?"
"A book. But I never saw it. David was always secretive, even before the war. I suppose it was part of his character, the hoarding of emotions, both good and bad."
Gavin thought of the empty satchel found by David Rosenthal's body. "You must have had some idea what it was about, this book."
"Oh, yes. There were only certain things that occupied his mind, other than the necessities of everyday living. I think he was writing about the war, a personal indictment of all those who perpetrated, or allowed, such violence."
Gavin considered. "Do you mean you think he was naming names?"
"It's possible. I know he thought there were
many who had escaped censure after the war. And he hated collaborators most. Somehow it was easier for him to understand those driven by hatred than those who allowed suffering because they were afraid or greedy. Or perhaps, Inspector…" She met his eyes once more. "Perhaps he despised himself most of all. For surviving."
***
Erika had thanked Gemma and Kit as graciously as possible, but she had been fretting to have them gone. She needed to think about what Gemma had told her, and she was already regretting her outburst about the brooch. It had been the shock. She'd never meant to reveal so much.
Gemma had been kind to undertake the task, but Erika realized that it had been cowardice that had led her to ask Gemma to do something she should have done herself. She'd always prided herself on her ability to face things-now she saw that her pride had been merely hubris. Why, when she had faced so much, had she failed at this one thing?
By the time she woke on Tuesday morning, she knew what she must do. She dressed carefully in her best suit, even though she knew it was slightly out of fashion-it seemed she wore suits only to funerals these days-and did her hair and makeup with concentration and hands that trembled only slightly.
When she left the flat, she found the air damp and fresh, but the sky clear. It had rained in the night, washing the city clean, and she tried to find an omen in that.
She flagged a taxi, and as the cab inched its way through the busy morning traffic, Erika felt suspended in time, knowing that the end of the journey would mark an irrevocable change in her life.
The cabbie, an older West Indian with a cheerful patter, went out of his way to set her down right at Harrowby's door. Erika over-tipped him, one last delaying tactic, then she was left standing on the pavement, on her own.
She was familiar with the place, partly from Henri's descriptions of his finds at auction over the years, but she had never actually attended an auction or set foot in the salesrooms.
Examining the windows, she saw that the displays were beautifully done but held only Art Deco pottery and furniture, not jewelry. If she was going to see her brooch, her father's gift, at last, there was nothing for it but to go inside.
CHAPTER 8
In those days all auction houses maintained the fiction that every artwork that came on the block was sold. Nowadays, if a painting or other object is "bought in"-that is to say, if it fails to reach its reserve, the minimum price the seller will accept-the auctioneer calls out, "Pass."
– Peter Watson,
Sotheby's: Inside Story
Superintendent Mark Lamb had been both understanding and sympathetic. Not that Gemma had expected less-he was a personal friend as well as her boss, and a generous and diplomatic administrator. He'd told her to take what time she needed, but to let him know if she were going to be out of the station for more than a day. As she turned to go, he added, "Lovely party, by the way," and she flushed at the unexpected compliment.
After that, confiding in Melody was easier, and Melody took the news in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. "I'm sure she'll be fine, boss. Now, you go and have a nice visit, and I'll-"
Whatever practical help Melody had meant to offer was cut off by the chirping of Gemma's mobile. "Sorry," said Gemma, surprised to see Erika's name come up on the caller ID.
As she answered, Erika's voice came over the line. "Gemma? I couldn't find a phone box." She sounded breathy, near panic. "I tried, but it's all mobiles these days, and I thought if I came home-But I should have rung right away-"
"Erika, what is it?" Gemma asked, dropping her bag on her desk and sinking back into her chair.
"Harrowby's. The salesrooms. I went to see the brooch-I-" Erika took a ragged breath, then began more calmly. "I wanted to see it for myself. But everything was in an uproar. The girl-the one you said you thought might know something-Kristin. I remembered the name."
Gemma felt cold. "Kristin Cahill."
"That's right. They said she was killed last night. An accident. A hit-and-run, near where she lived, in World's End. Gemma, if this had anything to do with me, with the brooch-I should never have-"
"Erika, no. Listen, I'm sure it's just coincidence, just an awful coincidence." But Gemma was mouthing words automatically, fighting nausea as she remembered Kristin Cahill's pale gamine face, and the young woman's frightened look when her boss had come into the room.
"But, Gemma-"
"I'm sure it's nothing," said Gemma firmly. "But I'll look into it. Straightaway. I promise."
***
Coincidence. Gemma didn't bloody believe in coincidence. Not like this-talking to a girl one day about something that seemed very slightly dodgy, having the same girl turn up dead the next.
She sat at her desk, tapping her phone on the blotter, straightening pencils and pens into neat regiments. Melody had gone to take a call, leaving Gemma to contemplate the ugly implications of Erika's story, and the more she thought, the less she liked it.
But was it possible there was more than one Kristin at Harrowby's? Erika hadn't heard a last name. Before she talked to anyone at the salesroom, Gemma had better make absolutely sure of her facts. Erika had said the accident happened in World's End, the westernmost edge of Chelsea, so the obvious place to start would be the Chelsea nick.
***
Harry Pevensey had never believed that the early bird got the worm. Late to bed and late to rise, that was an actor's life, and it had always suited him. He had his routines, everything just so, drapes drawn to keep out the morning's harsh intrusiveness, eye mask ditto, dressing gown to hand and kettle ready to boil, so that he could slip into the day as painlessly as his usual hangover would allow. And no less than eight hours' sleep-otherwise he'd look like hell, and no amount of makeup would make amends.
So Harry was affronted on Tuesday morning when, just as he was opening one eye and then the other, testing the intensity of the light compared to the sharpness of the knife tip between his eyes and contemplating the operation of verticality, someone began a bloody pounding on his door.
"What the hell," he muttered, sitting up with more force than necessary and wincing at the consequences. Whoever it was had bypassed the downstairs buzzer-had his wannabe rock-god neighbor, Andy Monahan, left the building's main door off the latch again? Or-Harry froze with his feet halfway into his worn slippers.
There was the wine merchant's bill he hadn't paid, and the shirt-maker's-couldn't go to auditions looking like something the cat dragged in, after all. And if they got a bit impatient, they were likely to employ less-than-civilized means of collecting their filthy lucre.
For a moment he considered putting his head back under the covers, but if they broke his door down, there would be hell to pay, and he'd have lost any chance of presenting a dignified front.
He'd got back into his slippers and donned his dressing gown when the pounding grew even louder and someone shouted, "Harry! I know you're in there. Open the fucking door!"
Recognizing the voice, Harry said, "Dom?" What was Dominic Scott doing here, and making such a racket? "Just shut up, would you?" he called out as he shuffled to the door, his head pounding like a jackhammer.
"Harry, let me-" Dom staggered in, fist raised, as Harry opened the door. He looked worse than Harry felt-unwashed hair, pasty faced, and his breath reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes, which Harry despised.
Harry closed the door, then grimaced, backing off a step. "You smell like a pub ashtray. And what do you think you're doing knocking me up at this hour? Not to mention giving the neighbors something to gossip about for weeks."
"Since when have you ever minded giving anyone cause for gossip," retorted Dom, sinking into Harry's brocaded slipper chair, a bequest from his paternal grandmother.
"And you look like shit," Harry continued, undeterred. It was a shame the boy let himself go, Harry thought, as he had looks Harry would have envied in his day. He considered booting Dom out of his favorite chair, but couldn't decide where he'd rather have him sit. He settled for taking the othe
r armchair himself, after he'd straightened the covers on the bed. "What do you want, Dom?"
Dom leaned forward, and Harry saw that his hands were shaking. "Have you got anything, Harry? Offer a mate a drink? I'm not feeling too well."
"No. Bar's closed," said Harry, thinking longingly of the bottle of gin tucked away in his kitchen cupboard. The hair of the dog would ease his headache, but he wanted Dom Scott out of his flat as soon as possible, and he certainly wasn't inclined to share his medicinal stash.
"Coffee, then? Or even tea?"
Harry glanced at his filled kettle, his favorite cup set out beside it, along with the tea caddy, and sighed. "All right. One cup. But then you'd better make it quick." Not that he had anywhere to go, but the young man's behavior was making him anxious. Dom Scott was used to demanding, not pleading, which made Harry suspect there was a serious spanner in the works.
He made the tea while Dom fidgeted in the chair like a fretful child, pulling at his shirt cuffs, tugging at his already disarrayed dark hair. Harry had seen the signs before, and they weren't good, nor did they bode well for their joint scheme.
While the tea brewed, he excused himself to the loo, running a brush through his hair and examining his face-definitely the worse for wear-in the fly-specked mirror. Visions floated through his mind. Unsuccessful auditions. Bad parts in unheated village theaters. Mothers' unions, God forbid. Bill collectors who wouldn't, couldn't, be put off.
No, he was not going to let go of the merry-go-round. Not now, boyo. He could deal with Dominic Scott, a spoiled little tosser who didn't have half his mother's bollocks.
Harry went back into the sitting room with a smile and a new and steely resolve. He poured Dom's tea into a china cup that he hated to trust to the boy's twitchy fingers, then poured his own and sat on the arm of a chair, ankles crossed, as if he hadn't a care in the world.
Where Memories Lie Page 9
