And Justice There Is None (9 page)

“His stall’s right in the back, if that’s what you mean, but you won’t find him there today.” The woman shook her head. “A terrible business, his friend being murdered and all.” She leaned forward confidentially, wafting the smell of smoke and sour coffee into Gemma’s face. “They’re saying it’s a regular Jack-the-Ripper killing. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

There might be some others not sleeping in their own beds tonight, Gemma thought furiously, if she found out who had leaked that particular snippet. “I’m sure there’s no need for you to worry,” she soothed, forcing a smile. “Would you happen to know where Alex went?”

“Left this morning with young Fern Adams. Looked ghastly, he did—it was all poor Fern could do to keep him on his feet. But I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either of them since.”

“Who’s Fern Adams? Is she a friend of Alex’s?”

“She’s a silver vendor, has the stall next to his. Fern’s family’s had a stall or a barrow in the market since after the war; grew up in
Portobello Courts, she did. She’s a good girl, Fern, in spite of her looks.” The natural suspicion that had been held in abeyance by the thrill of gossip suddenly asserted itself. “And why might you be asking all these questions, ducks?”

Gemma produced her warrant card. “It’s just routine inquiries. Do you know where I could find Fern now?”

“I’d not be one to say,” the woman told her, turning her attention to a waiting customer. Caution had obviously set in.

“Do you know anyone else I might speak to?” Gemma persisted, refusing to be ignored. “Friends of Alex who might know where he’s gone?”

The woman scowled at her in annoyance. “I suppose you could try Otto’s Café just round the corner in Elgin Crescent. I know Alex goes there, and some of the others.”

As Gemma turned to leave, the woman relented and called out, “Mind you, there’s no sign says Otto’s. It’s just that everyone knows it by that name. You can’t miss it.”

S
HE RECOGNIZED THE CAFÉ BY THE YELLOWED MENU POSTED IN THE
window. A babble of sound met Gemma as she opened the door. The café was packed with animated shoppers, but she spied one empty table near the back and made for it quickly. Once settled, she ordered a coffee from the young black man who appeared from the kitchen. He smiled at her when he came back with her drink, and as their eyes met, she felt the sort of instant connection she’d only experienced a few times in her life. There was nothing sexual about it; it was purely emotional, or even spiritual, as if they’d known each other in another context.

“What’s your name?” she asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Wesley Howard.”

“Mine’s Gemma James. I’ve been told that Alex Dunn comes in here. Do you know him?”

Wesley’s smile vanished. “Sure I know Alex. What you want wiv him?” When she showed him her warrant card, he gazed at her in surprise. “You the Bill? I would never have credited that. But you still don’t tell me what you want wiv Alex.”

“We’d like to interview anyone who knew Dawn Arrowood well.”

“Can’t say I ever met a Dawn Arrowood.” Wesley was not a convincing liar.

“Alex was having an affair with her. And if you’re his friend I don’t believe for a minute that you didn’t know about it.”

“And what if I did?”

“She was killed last night, and I don’t believe that news hasn’t made the rounds, either.”

“You’re not saying as Alex had something to do wiv her murder?”

“Why? Do you think he did?”

The young man’s dreadlocks trembled as he shook his head. “Man, Alex would never ’ave hurt Mrs. Arrowood. He was crazy ’bout her.”

A large, bald man in a white apron came through from the kitchen, his face registering alarm as he came towards them. “Wesley, is there a problem?”

“She the Bill, Otto. I only tell her Alex would never have hurt Mrs. Arrowood.”

“I am Otto Popov. How can I help you?”

“Did you know Dawn Arrowood, Mr. Popov?”

As Wesley excused himself to attend to the customers, Otto sat, the chair creaking under his weight. “I had seen her about—a lovely creature—but no, I was not personally acquainted with Mrs. Arrowood.”

“But you knew about Alex’s relationship with her?”

“We knew because we are his special friends. It was never really discussed, even among us, until we heard this morning of the poor lady’s death.”

“Have you seen Alex today?”

“It was we who had to break the news to him this morning.”

“How did he take it?”

“Hard. Quite hard.” Otto shook his massive head. “We all felt for him very much.”

“Do you know where Alex is now?”

“I have not seen him since he left here this morning. Have you tried his stall in the arcade?”

“A vendor there told me he’d left with a young woman called Fern Adams.” Seeing Otto’s surprise, she added, “You know her?”

“Of course,” Otto answered. “Since she was a child. She’s very fond of Alex. She will look after him.”

“Do you know where they might have gone?”

“No. But perhaps these people can help you.”

A couple had entered the café. They stood awkwardly, as if unsure whether they should cross the room and join the conversation. The woman was tall and slender, with deep auburn hair pulled back in a plait, and strong facial bones. Gemma would have called her handsome rather than beautiful; this masculine quality was emphasized by her jeans, jumper, and heavy boots.

The man was less distinguished, tall, with short-cropped hair, and spectacles that lent him a studious air. Otto motioned them over.

“This is Bryony Poole,” he told Gemma. “And Marc Mitchell. Marc runs the soup kitchen just down the road.”

“Oh, I know your place,” said Gemma. “By the old Portobello School. You provide a great service for the neighborhood.”

“This lady is from the police,” Otto continued, “and is looking for our friend Alex. She says he left the arcade this morning with Fern.”

“Is this about Dawn Arrowood?” Bryony Poole asked. “It’s just dreadful.”

“Alex was in a terrible state this morning.” Marc pulled over chairs for himself and Bryony. “And Fern seemed determined to offer help and succor.”

“Was there something unusual in that?” asked Gemma.

“It’s just that they hadn’t been on good terms lately,” volunteered
Bryony. “Fern and Alex had a thing going, until he met Dawn Arrowood. So of course Fern wasn’t best pleased with the whole affair.”

“Do I take it that Fern hasn’t given up?”

“I don’t think anyone thought Alex’s relationship with Dawn Arrowood would last—could last,” Bryony corrected. “I mean, either her husband was going to find out, or she would decide to call it off before he did.”

“Perhaps he
did
find out,” suggested Otto. “Is it not usually the spouse in these cases?”

“You think Karl Arrowood had something to do with his wife’s death?” Gemma asked, and heard the sharpness in her voice.

“That man is capable of anything,” Otto growled, but when Gemma pressed him, he merely shook his head and clamped his lips together. Before she could question him further, two small girls ran in from the kitchen. They wore matching hair ribbons and dresses, and their round faces marked them immediately as Otto’s progeny. He wrapped his arms around both.

“These are my daughters, Anna and Maria. I have promised them the cinema. Something about spotted cows, I think?” he added, twinkling at them.

“Dogs, Daddy. Dalmatians,” they chorused. “And we’ll be late if we don’t go.”

Groaning, he let them pull him to his feet. “If you have more questions, you might speak to Wesley.”

As Otto and his daughters disappeared into the kitchen, Bryony stood as well, and Marc joined her. “We’ve not got time for coffee, after all, I’m afraid,” she said apologetically. “We—I hope you find whoever did this.”

Gemma gave them each a card, asking them to ring her if they thought of anything that might help.

When they had gone, Wesley came back to her table, although he kept an experienced eye on the remaining customers. “You don’t want to take what Otto says about Karl Arrowood too seriously,” he told her quietly. “There’s some sort of bad blood between them that goes way back. Otto thinks Karl’s the devil himself.”

Gemma noticed with amusement that all traces of his West Indian accent had vanished. “What sort of feud?”

“I really couldn’t say. Something to do with Otto’s dead wife, but that’s all I know.”

“An affair?”

“Could be. But it was before I came to work here, and Otto doesn’t talk about it.”

“I take it you do a bit of everything around here.”

Wesley smiled. “Cook, bottle washer, waiter, and child minder. I like helping out with the girls.”

“How old are they?”

“Seven—that’s Anna, and nine—that’s Maria. They’re good kids.”

“When did their mother die?”

“It was before I came, and I started four years ago.” He looked curiously at Gemma. “Do I know you from somewhere? You seem awfully familiar—and it’s not because you’ve thrown me in the nick.”

“I used to walk a beat here, but you’d have been a mere babe,” Gemma teased in turn, glad to know the feeling of past acquaintance was mutual. “Now I’ve been posted back to Notting Hill,” she added, finding herself inexplicably confessing, “and I’m moving here as well, into a house near St. John’s.”

Wesley whistled. “Poncey address for a police lady.”

“Terrifying.” Gemma grinned. “But my kids will love it. Now, before I go, can you give me Alex Dunn’s address?”

Only when she had thanked Wesley and left the café did she realize that for the first time, she had claimed Kit as her own.

“T
HE VICTIM’S NAME WAS
D
AWN
A
RROWOOD
, G
EMMA TOLD THE
press gathered on the steps of Notting Hill Police Station at six o’clock. “If anyone saw anything suspicious or unusual in the vicinity of St. John’s Church, Notting Hill, yesterday evening, please ring the police at this number.” She gave out the number of a special line manned in the incident room. Ninety-nine percent of the calls would
be cranks, but there was always a possibility that someone had actually seen something useful.

She fielded a few questions with “I’m sorry, we can’t disclose that information just yet,” then ducked into the station to retrieve her bag while the crowd cleared away.

Although she was leaving the station, her workday was not over. Penciled in her notebook was the number of Alex Dunn’s flat in a mews just off Portobello Road. She’d already stopped there twice since getting his address, but had found the flat dark and apparently uninhabited, as were those of his neighbors.

Picking up her car from the station car park, she drove to the flat again, but Alex still hadn’t returned. Gemma let the car idle for a moment, gazing at the now lit flat next door.

Should she interview Alex’s neighbors now? No, they would keep, and she needed to speak to Karl Arrowood’s business associate before any more time passed. She could stop on her way home, sending a constable to take a formal statement later. Turning the car round at the bottom of the mews, she headed for Tower Bridge.

The Brewery at Butler’s Wharf was a very posh address, especially for what she assumed was only a part-time London accommodation. The old brewery had been converted into elegant flats with a view of the Thames at Tower Bridge. She searched for a parking space in the warren of streets near the river, her frustration mounting. By the time she found a spot and walked back to the brewery she had little patience for the building’s gilt-and-green-marble lobby. Taking the lift up to the second floor, she found the flat number Arrowood had given her and rang the bell.

Within moments, a ruddy-faced, handsome man in his fifties opened the door and beamed at her as if she were a long-expected relation. “ ’Ullo. You must be the inspector from the police.” His accent was heavily French but understandable, and Gemma found herself unable to resist smiling back.

“I’m Gemma James. Mr. Arrowood must have rung you.”

“Yes.” Andre Michel ushered her into the flat and closed the door. Tower Bridge, stunning and immense, filled the windows. “Such terrible news. Here, please sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?”

Drawing her eyes away from the view, Gemma saw that a tray on the coffee table held wine and several glasses. “Nothing for me, thank you. But you couldn’t have known I was coming just now—”

“No.” Michel laughed. “I would like to claim that level of clairvoyance, but alas, it is merely that I’m expecting friends this evening.” The delicious aroma of garlic and herbs wafted from the kitchen Gemma could just glimpse through a door on the far side of the sitting room. “A little coq au vin, a family recipe,” Michel added, seeing her glance.

“Then I’ll take up as little of your time as possible, Mr. Michel.” Gemma took the seat he indicated, facing the windows, but she was sorry to look away from the display of oil paintings she had noticed on the walls. “I understand you had drinks with Mr. Arrowood yesterday.”

“If you don’t mind?” Michel glanced at her before pouring himself a glass of red wine. “Yes, and we parted with good cheer. If I had known I was sending him home to find his poor wife, murdered … I think it a good thing sometimes that we cannot foresee the future.”

“Did Mr. Arrowood seem as usual to you yesterday?”

“Karl? Karl is always business. I think he grows impatient with our French philosophy of enjoying all parts of life.”

“What exactly is it you do for Mr. Arrowood? I believe he said you were a dealer?”

“A dealer, a collector, among many other things.” Michel gestured back towards the paintings. “I have a knack for finding eighteenth- and nineteenth-century landscape oils, whether at auction or under sacks of turnips. It is a gift, like a pig’s nose for truffles, not something for which I can take credit.”

“And you sell these paintings to Mr. Arrowood?”

“Karl is one of my clients, yes. He then sells the paintings to his clients, for a much greater price.” Michel gave a Gallic shrug. “That’s the way the antiques business works; a little profit for everyone. But Karl is definitely at the top of the pyramid.”