And Justice There Is None (33 page)

“I’ve got tea in the pot, as well,” Kit interrupted, giving Toby a warning glance. “Come in the kitchen.” As he took her arm, she noticed absently that the dining room doors were closed, but she thought no more about it.

Kit sat her down at the table and served her with a flourish, while Kincaid looked on affectionately, saying he’d had something earlier. Only halfway through her breakfast did she remember they were supposed to go to Hazel’s for Christmas dinner. A wave of exhaustion washed over her; she put down her suddenly leaden fork.

“You’ll have to go to Hazel’s without me,” she said, near tears. “I don’t think I can manage it.”

“Don’t worry,” Kit told her. “I’ve arranged everything. They’re coming here—Hazel and Tim and Holly—and you don’t have to do a thing but sit down and eat. Toby and I have even set the table. I’ll show you when you’re finished.”

Gemma’s throat tightened. “Kit, I don’t know what to say. You are so thoughtful, and so grown-up. I don’t know how I ever got along without you.”

The boy flushed with pride, then urged her to finish her breakfast with proprietary zeal. “Are you ready, then?” he asked, with barely contained excitement. “You can bring your tea.”

As they reached the dining room, a look passed between Kit and Kincaid, who said casually as he swung open the doors, “Oh, by the way, Father Christmas has been here as well.”

She had a brief impression of the table, splendidly set with
assorted dishes and glassware, a shining Christmas cracker at each place.

Then the piano filled her vision. A baby grand, its polished ebony surface reflecting every sparkle and gleam from the room. They’d moved the dining table to one side to accommodate the instrument, which had been placed facing the garden doors. “So that you can look outside when you play,” Kit explained gravely.

“But what—How did you—and on Christmas—”

“Kit was my partner in crime,” Kincaid explained, grinning. “And the piano company was delighted to cooperate in the surprise. Do you like it?”

“Like it? I—” Mesmerized, Gemma sank onto the padded bench. With one finger, she touched middle C, and the single pure tone resonated through the room.

She put her hands over her face and wept.

B
Y UNSPOKEN AGREEMENT, THEY HAD NOT DISCUSSED THE CASE AT
home over Christmas. But as they drove to the police station the next morning, Kincaid said, as if continuing a recently interrupted conversation, “We can’t rule out Alex Dunn altogether, you know. We can’t be certain that he didn’t attack Karl, then come back to see if he needed to finish the job.”

“I think Mrs. Du Ray is a reliable witness,” Gemma protested. “If she says he was frightened—”

“I’m not questioning her interpretation, just whether his fright absolves him of murder. You can kill someone in the heat of a struggle and still be horrified by the consequences.”

“Yes, of course, but say he did kill Karl—and he’s admitted intent and motive—he has an alibi for the time of Dawn’s—Bryony!” she exclaimed as they entered the station. “What are you doing here?”

“Hullo, Gemma.” Bryony rose from a seat in the reception area. “I hoped I could have a word with you, if I’m not too early. I had to come before the surgery opened.”

“No, that’s fine. Bryony, this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard.”

Bryony shook Kincaid’s hand, and Gemma noticed that her right index finger was bandaged. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”

“We’ll go in my office.”

“How’s Geordie?” Bryony asked as Gemma signed her in and led her through the security door.

“A little worn out from the excitement of Christmas, I think. We had two little ones who took it upon themselves to run him ragged in the snow.”

In spite of Karl Arrowood’s death, it had turned out to be a lovely Christmas. Hazel, in her marvelously organized way, had arrived with a car boot of food ready to reheat in the Aga. They had supped around Kit’s festive table with much jollity, and if Gemma fell asleep during the Queen’s speech, no one seemed to mind.

Then, before succumbing to bed, Gemma had at last managed a half hour alone with the piano. For that brief time, all that had mattered was the sound of the notes as they followed one another.

“—Boxing Day,” Bryony was saying to Kincaid as they reached the conference room. “Do you know, when I was a child, I thought it had to do with fighting? What a fool I felt when I found out that was the day they gave out alms from the church boxes.” She sat, twisting her plain, strong hands in her lap.

“What happened to you?” Gemma asked, nodding toward Bryony’s injured finger.

“A Yorkshire terrier the owner assured me
never
bites.” Bryony glanced up at them with a crooked smile, which immediately disappeared. “I heard about Karl Arrowood. Have you any idea who did it?”

Obviously, she hadn’t heard about their investigation of Gavin Farley—but then it wasn’t likely he’d have broadcast his troubles. “We’re pursuing some leads,” Gemma replied noncommittally. “What is it, Bryony? Has something else happened?”

“I didn’t know what I should do. It seems petty and disloyal to come tattling like a schoolgirl, but on the other hand …” She glanced uneasily at Kincaid.

“Go on,” urged Gemma. “Superintendent Kincaid is working with me on these cases. Anything you can tell me, you can tell him.”

Bryony took a breath, then nodded. “When I was finishing up in the surgery on Monday, I found some photos in Gavin’s desk. They were all of Dawn and Alex.”

“Dawn and Alex?”

“I’d no idea Gavin knew. Now I wonder if he overheard me mention their relationship to Marc … but even so—”

“Blackmail!” Kincaid exclaimed. “That would explain a good deal. If he was blackmailing her, and she refused to play along any further—”

“But then why kill her?” protested Gemma. “It’s usually the victim who murders the blackmailer, not the other way round.”

“Maybe she threatened to expose him, regardless of the consequences to herself—”

“Or to Alex?” Gemma asked dubiously. “You think Dawn would have sacrificed Alex to Karl’s wrath, just to get Farley off her back?”

“Perhaps. If she meant to leave Karl for Alex, it would have to come out eventually. But I admit I’m getting ahead of the evidence. We need to see those photos.”

“What did you do with them?” Gemma asked Bryony.

“I left them where they were.”

“Okay. Good. Don’t touch them. And don’t say anything to Mr. Far—”

There was a knock at the door and Melody Talbot asked, “Could I see you outside a moment, boss? Superintendent?”

Excusing themselves, they followed Melody out into the corridor. “What’s up, Constable?” asked Kincaid.

“The search team found a surgical scalpel in a rubbish bin about two blocks east of the Arrowood house. It’s been wiped clean, but they’ve sent it to forensics with a rush request.”

“Farley should be at work by now,” Gemma said decisively. “Have him brought in again, alibi or no alibi. And then have a team search his surgery.” She related Bryony’s information.

“The surgery!” Melody exclaimed. “It’s the perfect place to clean up. He could even have worn surgical scrubs, then tossed them in the
laundry. Under the circumstances, no one would think anything of a bit of blood.”

“True.” Gemma looked up from the rough list she’d scribbled in her notebook. “Melody, once you’ve got things in motion, go and interview Farley’s neighbors again. See if there’s any way they’ll budge on his whereabouts last night.”

When Melody had gone, Kincaid said, “I don’t like this business about Farley, Gemma. No matter how damning the circumstantial evidence, we can’t charge him unless we can budge his alibi. Nor is there any connection between this man and Marianne Hoffman, and I’m absolutely certain that these three crimes are connected.”

“Maybe he was practicing?” offered Gemma.

“Hoffman as a random victim? I don’t buy it. But we might as well tackle him about the scalpel while we’re waiting for confirmation on the other—”

His mobile phone rang.

As he took the call, Gemma thought about what he’d said. He was right: A good defense lawyer would make mincemeat of the prosecution’s case for Farley as the murderer of either Dawn or Karl Arrowood. The scalpel could have come from any one of a thousand places; Farley might have photographed Dawn and Alex with no motive other than prurient curiosity; they had only Bryony’s word that he’d had a disagreement with Dawn on the day she was murdered.

Nor, as she knew from last night’s experience, would they even be able to talk to Farley until his lawyer got there.

“That was Marianne Hoffman’s daughter in Bedford,” Kincaid said as he returned to her. “She’s found some things she wants me to see. Do you mind interviewing Farley on your own, if I drive up there?”

“No, but why not send someone else?”

“Apparently, she wants to talk to me specifically. Must be my pretty face.”

“Right. Go on then. I’ll ring you if we make any progress.” Gemma repressed a sigh as she watched him go. It was going to be a long morning.

•   •   •

“T
HANK YOU FOR COMING
,”
SAID
E
LIZA
G
ODDARD AS SHE LED
Kincaid into her kitchen. “I’ve sent the girls next door to play for a bit.”

Kincaid followed her, curious about the difference in her reception of him compared to his last visit. They sat down at the table where Eliza’s twins had squabbled over their coloring books, and he saw that she had placed a shoe box beside the stack of children’s projects.

“You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about,” he said, to give her an opening.

“Yes. I’m sorry about the other day.… It’s just that I had to get through Christmas. It was so hard for the girls, but Greg came, and I think that helped.”

“Greg Hoffman, your stepdad?”

Nodding, she said, “He made everything seem a little more normal, more ordinary, and for a day we could pretend that Mum had just gone away. But then last night, when everyone was asleep, I forced myself to go through the box again.” She glanced at the shoe box but made no move to touch it. “I think I should tell you.… One of the reasons I didn’t feel I could talk to you about my mother—or my father—was that she’d always cautioned me against it.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Mum said that my safety depended on never talking about my background. Of course I didn’t take it seriously—you know how children are—but then after she was killed I began to wonder …”

“Do you know anything about your father? Were they divorced?”

“I always assumed so. Mum wouldn’t talk about him at all. But I was curious, and one day I looked through the things she kept in the special drawer in her bureau. She caught me at it—it was the one time I remember her truly losing her temper.”

“Are these the things from her drawer?” Kincaid asked, indicating the box.

Without answering, Eliza pushed it towards him.

He lifted the lid and reached for the top document. It was a birth certificate, issued in the Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, in
1971. The child’s name was given as Eliza Marie Thomas, the mother as Marianne Wolowski Thomas, and the father as Ronald Samuel Thomas. The address of record was Talbot Road, W. 11.

“You were born in Notting Hill,” Kincaid said.

“Yes, but I don’t remember the area. We must have moved away when I was a baby. That’s me with my parents.” She lifted a photograph and he took it by its edge.

The color had faded, but the young woman was instantly recognizable as the girl he’d seen in Edgar Vernon’s photo. But here she looked older, the platinum hair darker, longer, with a fringe, and he thought he could see a new wariness in her eyes.

She stood beside a tall, dark-skinned man whose face looked vaguely familiar, and between them they held a laughing infant.

“It must have been hard for your mother,” he commented. “An interracial marriage at that time.”

“If it was, she never let on. Nor did it ever seem to occur to her that I should mind my skin being a different color than my schoolmates’.” Eliza’s voice held a trace of bitterness. “When I came home crying because I’d been taunted and teased, she’d tell me I should be proud, and that was the end of it. It was better after she married Greg.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight. Greg would tell me that I was beautiful, that I was special, and that one day the other children would be sorry they weren’t like me.” She smiled, and Kincaid realized how right Greg Hoffman had been. Taking the photo back from him, she studied it. “I’m ashamed to admit this, but after Greg came to live with us, I used to tell people I was adopted. That way I didn’t have to admit my mother had been married to a black man. Now I only wish that I had known my father.”

There were other photos in the box of the chubby little girl who had been Marianne Wolowski, standing stiffly with parents who wore the formal-looking dress of the fifties, receiving a prize at school, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. In another, a bit older, she and a thin black girl in a pink dress smiled out at the camera together.

Stuck to the back of the photo was a folded piece of paper. When Kincaid uncreased it, he saw that it was a school report from Colville School, dated 1957. Not only had Marianne Wolowski lived in Notting Hill when she’d given birth to her child, she had grown up there.

“Do you mind if I take this?” He indicated the birth certificate. “I’ll have it returned to you as soon as I’ve made a copy.”

“Will any of this help you?” asked Eliza. “You know, at first the why of it didn’t matter so much to me—I was too busy trying to accept the fact that she was gone. But now … What makes it really difficult is that it seems to me she had finally reached a good place in her life. I don’t think she was happy when I was a child—I don’t mean she wasn’t a good mum, but I think there was more duty in it than joy. But with my twins … She loved them so unreservedly, and there was no worry in it.”