And Justice There Is None (10 page)

“Have you known Karl—Mr. Arrowood—for a long time?”

Michel laughed merrily again. “For many years. But in those days, Karl had much less finesse. He always knew what he wanted,
however, and even then he made it a point to meet the right people, get invited to the right places.” Sighing, he added, “London parties were something to see, then, or perhaps it’s just that I was young enough to prefer that life to a good bottle of wine with friends.”

“And yesterday, Mr. Michel, did Karl buy anything?”

“Two paintings, in fact, which he took away. He was particularly pleased with them.”

“What time did he leave you?”

“Ah, now it gets difficult.” Michel frowned in concentration. “I know it was just getting dark. The bridge lights had come on. I would say around five o’clock, but I had no reason to check the time.”

Gemma made a careful note, her pulse quickening. If Michel’s estimate was accurate, even taking into account Friday-evening traffic, Arrowood could have got home in time to kill his wife.

“But you know I cannot swear to that,” Michel added, and Gemma heard an apology in his tone.

“Is that because you’re not certain? Or because Karl Arrowood is too important to cross?” she pressed.

“The antiques business is a small world, Inspector, but Karl’s ill will would not damage my business to any great extent. Nor would I protect anyone who had committed such a terrible crime. Why do you believe Karl would do such a thing?”

“Perhaps his wife had a lover?”

Michel shrugged again. “Where I come from, that is not a matter for murder.”

“But it wouldn’t surprise you.”

“Dawn Arrowood was young and very beautiful. And she had a certain … gravity … about her … some quality that made you want to know her.”

Natalie Caine had called her luminous; Otto Popov, a lovely creature. Gemma suddenly felt a stab of regret that she’d not had a chance to know the young woman. “Thank you,” she said, standing. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Michel took her outstretched hand, holding it just a moment longer than necessary, and the look he gave her was frankly appraising.
“Are you sure you won’t stay and sample my coq au vin? If you don’t mind my saying so, you are much too lovely to be doing a policeman’s work.”

Gemma felt herself blushing furiously. “I’m very flattered, Mr. Michel. But I’m … um … otherwise engaged.” As would soon be all too obvious, she thought, with a glance down at her barely disguised belly.

S
HE MUST TELL
H
AZEL FIRST
. T
OBY’S FOUR-YEAR-OLD EXUBERANCE
would not allow him to keep the momentous news of the move to himself, and as much as she owed her friend, Gemma would not have her hear it secondhand.

The street was quiet as she parked in front of the tiny garage flat in Islington. The flat was still dark—Toby would be in the main house with Hazel, and she had not heard from Kincaid. She got out of the car, shivering against the sudden chill, and went through the wrought-iron gate into the garden that separated the flat from the main house.

She found Hazel in the kitchen with Toby and her own daughter, Holly, who was the same age as Toby, and his boon companion. “Where’s Tim?” she asked as Hazel greeted her with a hug.

“Catching up on paperwork at the office. I wish he wouldn’t do that on a weekend, but needs must. The children have had their tea”—Hazel indicated the remains of sandwiches on the table—“let me make you a cuppa before you take Toby home.”

“Please,” said Gemma gratefully, then added quietly, “Hazel, we need to talk.”

Hazel’s startled glance held a hint of alarm, but she put the kettle on without comment. Enticing the children into the sitting room with a promise of a Christmas video, Gemma glanced at the piano and sighed with regret. Hazel had allowed her to practice on the old instrument to her heart’s content. Now she would have no opportunity to play—Would she have to give up her lessons as well?

When they were seated at the kitchen table, Gemma cradled her steaming mug for warmth and met her friend’s eyes.

“You’re all right, aren’t you, Gemma?” Hazel asked. “The baby—”

“The baby’s fine. It’s just that—Well, it’s obvious we’re going to have to make some changes. There’s no room in the flat for the baby, not to mention the burden it would put on you. And Duncan’s found a house, in Notting Hill. He wants to move in right away, to get Kit settled before the holidays.”

“Right away?” Hazel repeated. Much to Gemma’s surprise, Hazel’s eyes had filled with tears. She couldn’t remember ever having seen Hazel cry.

“I’m so sorry, Hazel. I know I’m not giving you proper notice, but this has all been so sudden—”

“Oh, no, it’s not that. And it’s not that I haven’t been expecting this—it was inevitable. It’s just that I’m going to miss you. And Holly will be inconsolable without Toby.”

“We’ll visit often, I promise.” Gemma found herself in the unexpected position of comforting the friend who had always provided such comfort for her. “And you and Holly can come to Notting Hill. The kids can play in the garden while we catch up on things.”

“I know. Now you’re going to be the one with the big house full of kids,” Hazel said, teasing, but Gemma detected the wistfulness in her voice.

“Hazel, why don’t you and Tim have another child?” she asked, wondering why it had never occurred to her before.

Hazel looked down, lacing her sturdy fingers round her cup, and for a moment Gemma thought she had gone too far. Then Hazel shrugged and murmured, “As much as I’d like that, it doesn’t seem to be in the cards just now.” Then, smiling, she abruptly changed the subject. “Tell me about the house.”

“Oh, I can’t wait for you to see it. It’s absolutely lovely,” Gemma told her, and proceeded to describe it room by room as they finished their tea.

When Tim came in, Gemma collected Toby and took him home to bed. But as she tucked in her son, she couldn’t help feeling that
something was troubling her friend, and that she had missed a chance to learn what it was.

A
LEX HAD SQUEEZED HIS EYES TIGHT SHUT AS
F
ERN DROVE SOUTH, AS
if he could close out reality, and Fern didn’t disturb him. It was not until she left the M25 for the M20 West that he stirred and looked around.

“You’re going to Aunt Jane’s.” It was a statement, not a question.

“It seemed a good idea. No one would think to look for you there.”

“Why should anyone look for me?”

Fern glanced at him before focusing on the road again. “You know what Otto said.”

“Otto’s full of crap. And what would Karl Arrowood want with me, now that Dawn’s gone?”

“What if he killed her, and now he means to kill you, too?”

“I don’t believe that. No sane person would do—” His voice cracked. “No sane person would do something like this.” He stared straight ahead, not meeting Fern’s eyes. It came to her that Alex couldn’t allow himself to believe that Karl Arrowood had killed his wife because of her affair with him, because that would make Alex responsible for her death.

“Why are you doing this?” There was no gratitude in Alex’s voice—not that she had expected any, and yet his coldness shook her.

She shrugged. “You’re my friend. I wanted to help.”

“There’s nothing you or anyone else can do to help.”

What answer could she give to this? When she glanced at him a moment later he had closed his eyes again. She drove on, struggling to find comfort in the fact that he had not, at least, told her to turn around and drive back to London.

Although it was not yet noon, clouds had rolled in from the west, bringing a twilight gloom and the promise of more rain. When the ancient town of Rye appeared on the horizon, perched on its sandstone
bluff overlooking the marsh, Fern slowed and began looking for the turning she only vaguely remembered from the one time Alex had brought her here.

“Next on the right,” he told her, his eyes open again.

She followed his instructions, down one lane and then another until she reached the house tucked in a wooded close at the edge of the downs. Behind the house rose the dark hill, both protecting and threatening; before it stretched the wide, flat expanse of Romney Marsh. The house had been an oasthouse, its twin kilns, with their odd tilted caps, long since converted to living quarters.

Fern coasted to a stop in the drive and killed the engine. When Alex didn’t stir, she got out and went to find his aunt, Jane Dunn.

There was a light in the front window, and smoke curling from the chimney, but a brisk knock on the door brought no answer. Fern had raised her hand to knock again when she saw Jane coming round the corner of the house, wearing an Arran jumper and mud-streaked wellies, her dark, chin-length hair beaded with moisture.

“I thought I heard a car,” Jane called out. “Fern, whatever are you doing here? Have you got Alex with you?”

As Jane took her hand in a welcoming clasp, Fern blurted, “I
have
brought Alex. But something terrible’s happened.”

Jane gazed at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if you knew—Alex was seeing someone else. She was married, and now she’s dead. I mean someone murdered her, last night.”

“But that’s dreadful!” Jane looked from Fern to the car. “I’m not sure I understand, though, why you’ve brought Alex here.”

“I—” In the face of Jane’s competent manner, Fern suddenly felt her fears might sound silly. “I was worried about him. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“In a bad way, is he? I’m sure you did the right thing.” Jane gave Fern’s arm a reassuring squeeze and started towards the car.

Alex got out and came slowly to meet her. Fern saw Jane speak to him and start to put an arm round his shoulders, but he flinched away from the contact. This Fern found gratifying—at least she wasn’t the only one he couldn’t bear.

Jane led the way into the house. The two hop-drying kilns had been combined into a pleasant, open-plan living area, with small, high windows that failed to make the most of the existing daylight.

After standing for a moment as if unsure what to do with himself, Alex slumped down on the sofa nearest the fireplace.

When Jane had the fire going and had brought them all coffee in earthenware mugs, she sat down beside Alex. “Do you want to talk about it, love? Fern says a friend of yours was killed last night.”

His face contorted. “I told Otto it was a lie. She couldn’t be dead. So I went there, to the house. There were police all round, and one of the neighbors said Karl came home and found her in the drive. Her … her throat had been cut.”

Fern gave a small cry of surprise, but Jane remained calmly watching Alex. “Do you know anything about this?” she asked. “Who might have done this? Or why?”

“How could anyone hurt her?” Alex protested. “I can’t go on, you know, not without her. I can’t bear it.”

Unable to listen any longer, Fern went out. She walked round in the drive, taking in Jane’s greenhouses and the spade left standing against the house when Jane had been interrupted at some gardening task. Gazing out across the marsh, she breathed the damp earthy-smelling air and tried to blot out Alex’s grief. When Dawn had been alive, Fern had been able to fantasize that Alex’s affair with Dawn was merely a passing infatuation, that he would come to his senses and return to her. Now there was no questioning the depth of his feelings for Dawn Arrowood. Her death had not given Alex back to Fern, but had taken him from her in a way she could never have imagined. And if Alex was unable to go on, how then could she?

At the sharp click of the front door closing, she turned back to the house. Jane came across the drive towards her.

“I’ve persuaded him to stay,” Jane told her. “Not that it matters much to him where he is, at this point.”

“I don’t think he should come back to London. If Dawn Arrowood was killed by her husband because he found out about Alex, Alex could be next.”

“Surely you can’t be serious.”

“That’s what our friend Otto says, and he’s known Karl Arrowood for a long time. Is it worth taking a risk?”

Jane seemed about to argue with her, then she sighed. “I suppose you’re right. What about you? Will you stay with him?”

With sudden resolution Fern said, “I’ll take the train back to London, if you’ll run me to the station. If anyone asks, I’ll say I haven’t seen him. And the sooner I go, the better.”

“I think you’re overreacting, but I don’t see what harm it can do. I’ll just get my keys while you say good-bye to Alex.”

“Why don’t you tell him for me?” Fern asked, suddenly feeling that she would rather face a murderer herself than the look in Alex’s eyes.

T
HE INSISTENT BURRING OF THE PHONE FINALLY PENETRATED
Gemma’s consciousness. “Mummy,” she heard Toby say, very near, very seriously. “The phone’s ringing.” Forcing her eyes open, she found her son staring at her intently from a few inches away.

“Uh-huh. Get it for me, would you, sweetie?” She propped herself up on the pillows as Toby obediently trotted over to the table and lifted the cordless phone from its cradle. A glance at the clock told her it was not yet eight. Taking the phone from Toby, she had just time to think
oh God, not work, please
, when she heard Kincaid’s voice.

“Not still asleep, are you?” he asked with annoying cheerfulness.

She didn’t dignify that with an answer. “What happened to you last night? I waited up for ages.”

“Sorry about that. The prospective tenant I had lined up for the flat came round for a viewing. Apparently, he was so enthralled with the place that he couldn’t bring himself to go home. By the time he left, I was afraid I’d wake you if I rang.”

“Very considerate of you,” Gemma said grumpily, unmollified.

“I’ll make it up to you. How about if I bring over Sunday breakfast? I can stop at the bakery down the road. Bagels and cream cheese?”