And Justice There Is None (39 page)

“But if he knew about me—and he must have, if he took my mum to see Jane while she was pregnant with me—why did he let such terrible things happen to my mum? And me, until Jane took me in.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you can know that, now,” Gemma said softly. “But perhaps he meant to make amends. He left his business to you. I’ve just found the will. Dawn had hidden it among her things.”

“His business? Arrowood Antiques? You’re not serious!”

“Absolutely. The document was dated in mid-October, which I believe is about the time he had a huge row with Richard.”

“But if he knew about Dawn and me, he’d have changed it, surely. Maybe he never—”

“I told him. The day of Dawn’s funeral.” Seeing Alex’s appalled expression, she added hastily, “We had no choice. We still considered him a major suspect at that point.”

“And he—was he terribly angry?”

Thinking back over their graveside interview with Karl, Gemma felt an acute sense of loss, as well as renewed guilt over her failure to prevent Karl’s death. “He seemed more shocked than angry,” she told Alex. “I remember noticing that he said, ‘Oh no, not Alex—It couldn’t be Alex,’ rather than, ‘Not Dawn,’ and I thought at the time it was odd.”

“He was kind to me … in spite of whatever else he may have done. I wish …”

“If the will is valid, you’ll have the legacy he meant for you—”

“A business built on drugs? An inheritance he
must
have intended to change when he learned about Dawn and me?” Alex sounded aghast.

“Karl had a week between the time he learned about you and Dawn, and his death. And if he made another will, we didn’t find it.”

A shudder ran through Alex’s lanky body. “Do you really think I could bear to profit by their deaths? And in spite of my dishonesty—and Dawn’s? No.” He shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want any part of it.”

She spent the first night in a shabby room in Earl’s Court, far from Karl’s usual haunts. Her money would scarcely stretch to cover a meal or two and a few more nights in similar accommodations, but by the second day that was the least of her worries
.

Her body ached as if she had a bad case of flu; she was chilled and burning by turns, shaking and sick—and it was growing worse by the hour. Nothing would help her but a fix. But even if she’d had enough money to make a buy, her only connections were friends of Karl’s, and contacting anyone associated with him was a risk she could not take
.

She lay on the bed, shivering, as the shadows of the early winter dusk filled the room. The chills grew harder. Drawing her knees up into
a fetal curl, she pulled the pillow over her head, but nothing offered relief
.

At last, when it was fully dark, she gathered her few things and left the hotel. Too unsteady to walk, too nauseated to risk tube or bus, she hailed a taxi, regardless of the cost
.

By the time she reached Notting Hill, it was all she could do to fumble the coins into the driver’s hand and climb out onto the pavement. The street looked just as she remembered it—crumbling stucco, peeling paint, uncollected rubbish piled on the stoops—but her heart clenched in a faint spasm of hope. This place held no connection with Karl, no memories of him. And as he’d never known this part of her life, he would have no reason to look for her here
.

She climbed the stairs, clinging to the railing and breathing a silent prayer that they would still be here. Where else could she turn?

It was Ronnie who answered her tentative knock. “Angel? What you doing here?”

As he gazed at her in surprise, she took in the changes in him, visible in the lines of his face and the way he held himself. Boyish brashness had matured into a quiet assurance
.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his shock turning quickly to concern. “You’re trembling—”

“I—I need—I can’t—” Words failed her. How could she tell him what she had become?

But he had seen it often enough to know the signs. Gently, he took her hand and pushed up the sleeve of her sweater. “Oh, Jesus Christ.” He looked up at her, dark eyes meeting hers. “I should never have let you go, Angel. Did he do this to you?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “Never mind that now. I’m going to help you, don’t you worry. You just trust me. Everything is going to be all right.”

G
EMMA FOUND
S
ERGEANT
F
RANKS WAITING IN HER OFFICE WHEN SHE
returned from Alex’s flat, his blunt face reflecting an odd combination of triumph and hesitation.

“What is it, Sergeant?” she asked, motioning him to a seat.

“Those phone records you were wanting, guv—I’ve got them. And you were right, Farley did make a number of calls to Dawn Arrowood, and the calls grew more frequent over the last few weeks before her death.” Franks shifted in his chair, straightening his back as if it hurt him. “With that in hand, and you being out of the station this morning, I took the liberty of having Mr. Farley brought in, along with his shadow.”

“Mr. Kelly?”

Franks nodded. “I told Mr. Farley we had records of his calls to Mrs. Arrowood, and I’m sorry to say his answer to that was as obstructive as ever. So … I practiced a bit of a deception on the man.”

Gemma raised a noncommittal eyebrow, and after a moment, Franks went on. “I told him that Mrs. Arrowood had been no fool, and that she had recorded all their conversations, including the one the day before she died, in which he demanded that she say her cat was ill and that she bring it to the surgery.”

“But if she didn’t really record the calls, how did you know—”

“A good guess, guv. He
did
ring her that day, I had proof of that. The cat being ill the very next morning seemed a bit too convenient, if you know what I mean.”

“So did he deny it?”

“No, funny enough. I suggested that he’d told her to bring money to the surgery, then when she didn’t, he arranged to meet her again that evening. That knocked him for a loop. Mr. Kelly couldn’t shut him up after that.”

“You must have guessed right about the call. I can’t imagine anything else putting the fear of God into him.”

Franks allowed himself a small smile. “He said two thousand pounds was nothing to her, pin money, and he needed it to pay some debts. But she came to the surgery empty-handed, stalling him. Then when he got angry with her, she told him to go to hell, she’d tell her husband herself and he could do whatever he liked with his photos.”

“Did he admit he met her again?”

“No. He says he went for a drink after work, trying to work out what to do, but he decided he’d no choice but to hope she was
bluffing. When he heard she’d been killed, he thought she really
had
told Karl, and that Karl had killed her.”

“But she didn’t tell him, and he didn’t kill her. So we’re right back where we started.”

“Afraid so, guv.” Franks actually sounded as if he was sorry to disappoint her. “There is one other thing, though. You remember the name you asked me to run through our database?”

“Ronald Thomas?”

“That’s the one. Well, it rang a bell somehow, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought I remembered the case. When I found the record, I was sure.” Here Franks hesitated, looking uncomfortable.

“What is it, Gerry?”

He cleared his throat. “I was new on the beat then. It was the winter of seventy-one, a miserable wet night, visibility like the inside of a waterfall. There was a hit-and-run, at the bottom of Kensington Park Road.”

“Oh, no,” Gemma breathed with dawning comprehension. “Ronald Thomas?”

Franks nodded. “Torn up bad, he was. My first fatality accident. There were no witnesses, and we never found the responsible party.”

“But you were sure it was an accident?”

“We had no reason to think otherwise. I was given charge of the death notification, and of interviewing the next of kin. But the widow—”

“That would have been Marianne Thomas?”

“I remember I was surprised at first,” Franks said, coloring slightly, “to find she was white, I mean. In those days it wasn’t so common. But she was so distraught I couldn’t get a word of sense out of her, had to talk to the sister instead. She—Marianne Thomas—kept saying it was her fault, that she should never have come back, that she should have known
he’d
find her.”

“He?”

“That’s what I asked her. But then she stopped crying and went silent as death. After that she just rocked her baby and shook her head, over and over.”

“And you didn’t follow up?”

“Nothing to follow up,” Franks said defensively. “She wasn’t the one hurt, after all, and we had nothing else to go on, without her giving us a name, or some reason why someone would have wanted to hurt her husband.”

“You said you talked to the sister—you mean Ron Thomas’s sister? Do you remember her name?”

“I’ve printed you a copy of the file.” Franks gestured to the manila folder on her desk. “It was Betty Howard, and the address was in Westbourne Park Road, here in Notting Hill.”

G
EMMA MET
K
INCAID IN FRONT OF THE RATHER SHABBY TERRACE IN
Westbourne Park Road, just a few yards from the veterinary surgery on All Saint’s Road. She had told him about Ronald Thomas’s death, and about finding Karl’s will.

“So if Dawn told Alex about the will, he had the perfect motive for killing Karl,” Kincaid mused. “And for killing Dawn, for that matter, because she knew that he knew. Perhaps the paper knife was a blind,” he added, warming to his theme, “and he intended all along to use a scalpel. Alex is Bryony’s friend—he could easily have taken a scalpel from the surgery—”

“But we know he can’t have murdered Dawn,” Gemma protested. “Because of Otto’s and Mr. Canfield’s evidence. And I’d swear he didn’t know about the will. Not to mention the fact that Alex has no connection with Marianne Hoffman.” She looked up at the terraced house before them, its once ornate plasterwork now worn and chipped at the edges. “It’s flat C we want.”

In contrast to the building’s deteriorating plaster and stained stucco, the green paint on the front door was fresh, and as they entered the foyer they were met by the aroma of exotic spices. It became clear as they climbed that the scents emanated from the top floor, and Gemma’s mouth watered involuntarily.

The occupant of flat C was middle-aged and pleasantly stocky, with abundant graying hair tied up in a bright Caribbean scarf.

“Mrs. Howard?” asked Kincaid. When she nodded in the affirmative, he introduced himself and Gemma, explaining that they wanted to talk to her about her brother.

“Ronnie? After all this time?” She shook her head in consternation, but guided them into her sitting room, gesturing at them to sit as she sank into a large armchair. “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t leave my kitchen for long. I’m cooking a stew—two of my daughters are here visiting.”

As they sat down, footsteps came from the rear of the flat. “That should be my son,” said Mrs. Howard. “He can look after—”

Wesley came into the room and stopped dead, staring in astonishment at Gemma.

“Wesley,” said his mother, “these people are from the police. Can you see to the lunch while I talk to them? Your sisters will be back from the shops soon.”

“Mama, this is the lady I told you about, the one—”

“You made my angels!” exclaimed Gemma. “It was so kind of you, Mrs. Howard. They’re lovely.” At first she had registered merely a jumble of color and shapes in the flat—now she saw that there was a sewing machine and many scraps and bolts of colorful fabrics.

“You didn’t know this was my mother?” asked Wesley, looking utterly baffled. “You didn’t come to see me?”

“No, it’s something else entirely,” said Gemma. “We wanted to talk to your mother about your uncle, Ronald Thomas.”

“The stew can wait, Mama.” Wesley moved a bolt of red beaded satin from a chair and sat down. “I want to hear this, too.”

“Didn’t you tell me you had an uncle that was a photographer?” asked Gemma. “Was it by any chance this uncle?”

“Yeah. He was brilliant, my uncle Ronnie. But what you want to know about him for?”

“It’s his wife, actually,” Kincaid explained. “We thought your mother might be able to tell us something about her background.”

“Angel?” whispered Mrs. Howard. When they looked at her in surprise, she said, “That’s what we called her. It was me started it, when we were kids, and I’ve wondered since if I cursed her somehow. I never knew anyone whose life was less blessed.”

Gemma glanced at Kincaid, who gave her a barely perceptible nod of encouragement. “Mrs. Howard, were you aware that your sister-in-law is dead?”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Howard clutched a hand to her breast. “Not Angel, too?”

“How did it happen?” asked Wesley. “Was she ill?”

“She was murdered, two months before Dawn Arrowood,” Gemma replied gently. “And in the same way. Since Dawn’s death, we’ve been trying to find a connection between the two victims.”

Mrs. Howard stood abruptly. “You’ll excuse me. I have to see to my stew.” She disappeared into the kitchen, and after a moment they heard her sobbing.

Frowning, Wesley told them, “You have to understand. They were, like, best friends. Sisters, almost. She’s said for years that one day Angel would come back.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell her about her friend’s death. I suppose if they had lost contact, there’s no way your mother could have known.”

“I’d better see to her.”

As Wesley joined his mother, Gemma took the opportunity to look round the room, curious as to its use. On closer inspection, she saw that there were rolls of wire framing interspersed among the bolts of fabric.

“She’ll be all right,” Wesley said softly as he returned from the kitchen. “It’s just the shock. She’s making us some coffee.” Apparently having noticed Gemma’s interest in his mother’s materials, he added, “My mother makes costumes for Carnival, did I tell you that? She started back in the seventies when Carnival was a steel band going round the streets with a few kiddies following behind. Now it’s big business—she works on the costumes all year.”