Where Memories Lie (21 page)

Instead, she filled a mug with milk and popped it in the microwave, then took the steaming drink to the table. She wanted to think more clearly, not less.

Geordie and Tess had stayed upstairs with Kit, but Sid, who seemed to be her shadow today, had followed her. He jumped up on the table and wrapped his tail round his paws, regarding her with unblinking green eyes, and for once Gemma didn’t shoo him off. Instead, she scratched him under the chin until his eyes narrowed to slits and he began to purr. “You know everything, don’t you, boy?” she said softly, and at the sound of her voice, the cat blinked and curled his tail a bit tighter, as if containing his contentment.

As Gemma began to relax, her mind drifted randomly through the things that were worrying her. Her mum…her dad…Kristin Cahill…the poor man she hadn’t met, Harry Pevensey…Erika…and Gavin Hoxley. She kept coming back to Gavin Hoxley.
It was odd, but a day spent reading Hoxley’s notes had made her feel she knew him, and she had liked him. It seemed to her that he had cared about David Rosenthal in a personal way, as she often cared about her own cases. And he had been too good a detective to have just dropped an unsolved case, so what had happened?

She could ask Erika, of course. Erika would have known Hoxley—it was obvious from his notes that he had interviewed her. But then, Erika had never told her that David Rosenthal had been murdered. Why?

Gemma circled round to Gavin Hoxley again, and she realized she had made a decision. She would ask Erika about her husband’s death, but first she would go back to Lucan Place and find out why Hoxley had dropped David Rosenthal’s case.

As the day slid into evening, Erika found herself staring more and more often at the telephone, as if she could will it to ring, or holding her breath as she listened for the sound of footsteps in the paved yard outside her door.

Gavin hadn’t said he would ring, after all, or that he would come back to her as soon as he was able, but that he would do so had seemed as natural to her as breathing.

She did chores already done once. She made herself eat a little something, a habit from the war, when one never knew when one might get another meal, but her appetite of the morning had gone. She switched on lamps, brushed her dark hair until it crackled, and smoothed her hands down the skirt of her best dress.

By nightfall, doubt had come creeping in. Had she been a complete fool? Had she only imagined that what had happened between them was special? She was, after all, inexperienced in these things, and probably more naive than she had realized.

Had she fallen for the oldest chestnut in the world, that of the married man who claimed to be unhappy with his wife? She had
been wrong, so wrong, about David. Had she been wrong about Gavin as well?

But as the hours passed, and she played over and over the things they had said, and done, and shared, she knew in her heart that it had been real, and that knowledge chilled her to the bone.

Gemma had just drifted off to sleep when Kincaid climbed into bed beside her. When he spooned his body against hers, she could feel the chill even through the fabric of her pajamas. “Where have you been?” she said groggily. “And why are you so cold?”

“The weather’s changed. And I just had Cullen drop me at Holland Park Road, as it was late.”

“You saved him five minutes’ drive so you could freeze walking down the hill? Are you daft?” But she pushed back the covers and shrugged out of her pajama top and bottoms, tossing them onto the floor, then slid back into bed and fitted her body to his, skin to skin.

“Oh, that’s better.” He wrapped his arms round her, adding, “Shove over, you two,” to Geordie and Sid, who were occupying too much real estate on the foot of the bed.

“Now, spill,” she commanded, snuggling a little more firmly.

While their body temperatures equalized, he told her about his interview with Amir Khan, and then with Giles Oliver. “We had to take him in to print him and get an official statement, but I’d promised I’d get him back tonight so that he could look after the dog. Otherwise, I’d have had to bring Mo home with me.”

“God forbid. We’d have had Armageddon. And you are a complete pushover for that big beast,” she added sternly, but she couldn’t stop a smile. “So, do you think he did it?”

Kincaid sighed, and his breath tickled her ear. “Oliver? I can just imagine he might have hit Kristin, out of spite, if he’d had the means to hand. But I think it highly unlikely he had the bollocks to steal a car and plan to run her down, and I really can’t come up with a plausible reason why he would kill Harry Pevensey.

“And I think they must have been killed by the same person.”

“And Khan?”

“Again, he had motive to kill Kristin, and a stronger one than Giles, if she’d discovered what he was doing and threatened to give him away. But why would he have thought Kristin would tell Harry Pevensey?”

“Still, he does have an SUV. Do you think Giles could have mistaken a Volvo for a Land Rover? I mean, even I know the difference.”

“You have the advantage of Giles Oliver in more ways than one, love,” he said, with a breath of laughter that stirred her hair again. He ran a hand over the curve of her hip and cupped her breast as he added thoughtfully, “But we should know more tomorrow, when we get a report on Khan’s car. And we’ll see if there’s any trace evidence, or Giles Oliver’s prints, on the car that was stolen.”

“Was that an SUV?”

“Yes, but a Toyota. And the CCTV does indicate that the car was a Land Rover—although the film only shows it accelerating into the intersection. It doesn’t prove that was the car that hit her.”

“That’s splitting hairs,” said Gemma drowsily. “So either Giles was there as a witness, or he stole a different car, a Land Rover that hasn’t been reported missing. And in that case, why would he say he saw a Land Rover?” She tilted her head so that his lips found the hollow of her neck. “I’m turned in circles now.”

“So you are.” He laughed and trailed his fingers down her belly. “Now, tell me about Erika.”

But by that time, Gemma had lost all interest in conversation.

Gemma woke to find that Kincaid had been right. The day was gunmetal gray, with a sharp little wind that snaked round corners and bit. She dressed in trousers and pullover and the long buff-colored suede jacket that she’d thought put away for the season. When Kincaid had left for the Yard and the children were off to school, and she had checked in with the hospital, she walked up past her own police station and took the tube to South Kensington.

The journey to Lucan Place had come to feel familiar, and the duty sergeant greeted her with a smile of recognition. She asked to see Inspector Boatman, and within a few minutes was shown into Kerry Boatman’s office.

“Gemma,” said Boatman, sitting back in her chair and pulling off glasses that had already left a mark on the bridge of her nose. “Did you find what you were looking for yesterday?”

“Yes and no.” Gemma explained that part of David Rosenthal’s case file seemed to be missing. “The detective in charge of the case was very thorough. I can’t imagine that he’d have given up on the investigation so quickly.”

Boatman frowned and rubbed at her nose. “I don’t know where else you might look. If part of the file got put in with something else,
it would be like looking for the proverbial pin in a haystack. Makes me shudder just to think of it.”

“What about the detective’s personnel file?” Gemma asked. “His name was Gavin Hoxley.”

“Never heard of him. Long before my time, I’m afraid. But I can certainly have someone pull the record, if you like.” She glanced at her watch. “I have a meeting in the super’s office, but you’re welcome to make yourself at home, and I’ll have the file brought in to you.”

Gemma thanked her, appreciating the courtesy.

She didn’t have to wait long before a uniformed constable brought her a dog-eared folder. Gemma blew at the film of dust on its surface, then opened it carefully.

The pages inside had been typed on cheap paper with a manual typewriter, and the print was smudged and smeared from handling. She took in the vital statistics. Gavin Hoxley had been a Londoner, she saw, born in this very borough, and he had seen service in the war before joining the Metropolitan Police, where he had risen quickly in the ranks.

She thumbed through the annual reviews, skimming the familiar police jargon. Then her breath caught in her throat and she stared at the page before her. She reread it once, twice more, then she slowly set the folder aside and pulled her mobile phone from her bag.

It was the early hours of the morning before Erika slept, and then she dreamed, not of Gavin or of David, but of her father, in fleeting glimpses that left her aching with loss. She woke with a little sob of longing, then lay in the faint gray predawn light, watching the hands of her bedside clock tick the minutes until it was time to rise.

She forced herself to eat a few bites of toast—it wouldn’t do to faint—then she bathed and dressed with more than usual care. Her dress was the same she had worn yesterday, her best pale blue poplin, but to it she added white gloves, and a little hat she had bought in the
spring sale at Whiteleys, an eon ago, when it had seemed that such things mattered.

And all the while she heard her mother’s voice, whenever they had dressed to go out when she was a child, telling her that they were Jews, and so must never allow people to think the less of them.

Sometime in the long hours of the night, she had realized she knew nothing of Gavin except that he worked from the Chelsea Police Station, and so when she was ready she got out her London A–Z and found the station, in Lucan Place, near the Victoria and Albert.

And then she walked, because although she knew she must go, she wished she could put off arriving forever.

She crossed Hyde Park by the Broad Walk. The trees were in full leaf, the grass an impossible green. The air felt mild as a caress against her skin, and it seemed to her that even nature had betrayed her. The pinching of her best shoes against heel and toe became an anchor, a bright pinpoint of pain that kept her moving, one step after another.

The bustle of Knightsbridge came as a relief after the almost unbearable beauty of the park, and then she had reached Cromwell Road. Her steps slowed further. In front of the Natural History Museum, she stopped, her nerve deserting her. But the thought of going home, and waiting, was worse than going on, and so she walked slowly past the South Kensington tube station and crossed the Brompton Road, and then she had reached Lucan Place and there was no turning back.

Erika straightened her spine and entered the reception area of the station. The officer at the little window glanced up, his attention sharpening as he looked her over.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“It’s Mrs.,” said Erika. “Mrs. David Rosenthal. And I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of my husband’s murder.”

She saw the flicker in his face, the change she had never seen in Gavin’s when he realized she was a Jew. “Just have a seat,” he told
her. “Someone will be with you.” And then he didn’t meet her eyes again.

After a few moments, a young woman opened the door leading to the interior of the station and said, “Mrs. Rosenthal? If you’ll follow me?” She was plump and overly made up, with crimped hair, and she didn’t meet Erika’s eyes, either.

The certainty that Erika had been courting settled in her chest like a fist. She followed the woman through the door and up a worn flight of steps. Uniformed officers passed them, but they were faceless, like ghosts. The woman stopped at a door with a frosted glass pane in the upper half, gave a quick knock, then ushered Erika in and backed out, closing the door behind her.

Erika found herself facing a large, florid ginger-haired man who rose ponderously from his chair.

“Mrs. Rosenthal, is it? Do sit down.” His brief smile showed yellowed teeth, and there was no warmth in it. Erika sat obediently in the hard chair he indicated, but did not trust herself to speak.

“I’m Superintendent Tyrell,” he said, taking his own chair again, as if standing had been an inconvenience. “You said you wanted to see Inspector Hoxley. Is there something I can help you with?”

Erika swallowed and found her voice. “No, I—Inspector Hoxley said he’d learned something about my husband’s murder. And then he didn’t—I thought perhaps there was news. If I could just—”

“I think Inspector Hoxley must have been mistaken, I’m sorry to say, Mrs. Rosenthal.” He didn’t sound sorry at all. “And Inspector Hoxley won’t be able to help you.”

“But I—”

“There’s been an accident. Inspector Hoxley’s body was found washed up on the bank of the Thames this morning.” Tyrell shook his large head and gave a little tut-tut of disapproval. “Very unfortunate. Of course, it won’t go on his record, but it looks very much as if Hoxley took his own life.”

When Kincaid walked into his office, he found Cullen sitting at his computer, scowling. “Maybe I don’t want my desk, after all,” he said, by way of good morning.

Glancing up, Cullen included him in the frown. “I doubt you do. And you look happier than anyone has a right to be.”

Kincaid merely raised an eyebrow. “No joy, I take it.”

“None. Bloody eff-all. No trace on Khan’s Volvo. Nothing in the house. His journalist friend confirms his story, and refused to let us see any of the paperwork without a warrant, which I’m processing now.” He shrugged. “Not that I think we’ll come up with anything. Khan’s far too careful.”

“Well, he would have to be, if he’s done what he said.” Kincaid gave Cullen a
move it
nod, then sat at his desk while Cullen took the straight-backed visitor’s chair. “What about Giles Oliver?”

“No match on the prints. No trace on the stolen car. Do you think we can at least charge him on the phantom bidding scam?”

“He didn’t actually admit it,” Kincaid reminded him. “And even if he had, we’d have a tough time proving anything. If it makes you feel any better,” he added, “I think that if Giles Oliver can’t resist easy money, he’ll screw up in a big way eventually. But it won’t be our problem. So.” Kincaid stretched his legs out, in order to think more comfortably. “If Oliver and Khan look like nonstarters, where does that leave us?”

“We know—or at least we think we know—that Harry Pevensey gave Kristin Cahill the brooch to sell. So far that’s the only connection we’ve found between the two victims—”

“Except for Dominic Scott,” put in Kincaid, frowning. “Dom Scott’s relationship with Kristin may have been pretty straightforward—rich bloke meets pretty girl in bar and decides to slum it. But if we assume the bartender at the French House is reliable, Dom didn’t tell us the truth about how he knew Harry Pevensey. So there’s
something we’ve missed there, but I still can’t see Dominic Scott as a killer, no matter the motive. And none of this explains where Harry Pevensey got the brooch, unless he really did pick it up at an estate sale, as Khan suggested.”

Cullen shrugged. “If Amir Khan is such a good actor—and I’m still not entirely convinced—maybe Dominic Scott isn’t the useless twit
he
seems. Could he have stolen it? He does have access to homes of the rich and famous, I’d assume.”

“You sound like a telly series,” Kincaid said, grinning. “But you could be right. Say Dom Scott has a nasty drug habit and desperately needs money to pay off his suppliers. He realizes he has a ready-made opportunity in having a girlfriend who works for an auction house. So he steals the brooch, perhaps from some friend of the family, then recruits Harry, however they may be connected, to put the piece up for sale, because he wouldn’t want his name associated with stolen goods—”

“But Kristin would have known, because he would have had to introduce her to Harry. And then when the brooch’s provenance was called into question by Gemma, he tried to make sure he wouldn’t be linked to the brooch, by killing them.”

“Still doesn’t solve the problem of the car. But, like Oliver, he could have stolen one or borrowed one.” Kincaid ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit when thinking that he had never been quite able to conquer.

“And,” he went on, “if we start assuming that Scott is
not
a complete twit and could have planned a theft and two premeditated and risky murders, we have to wonder if he really did meet Kristin by chance.”

“Time to put him on the hot plate again?” asked Cullen.

“I think—” Kincaid’s mobile rang, and when he saw that it was Gemma, he answered.

Before he could speak, she said, “Duncan, we need to talk.”

“We’re just going to have another word with Dom Scott in Cheyne Walk. Meet us there, why don’t you?”

“No.” Erika stared at the superintendent, who seemed to be receding to a great distance. “I don’t—” Her voice came out a whisper. She tried again. “I don’t believe it. He can’t be dead.” If she didn’t believe, it wouldn’t be true. “I just spoke with him. Two days ago. He said he had a—a lead. And he was going to follow—”