Where Memories Lie (7 page)

“The
patient
is my mother,” Gemma had snapped. The impersonalization of bureaucracy-speak irritated her just as much in the hospital as it did in the police station. But her little outburst did her no good, and after an hour’s wait she gave up the vigil. Cyn would be in later in the morning, and she would have to depend on her sister for news.

Now, however, her patience frayed, she found herself particularly unwilling to sit in her cramped office, dealing with an onslaught of petty complaints from both sides of the police/public divide.

On an impulse, she pulled her mobile from her bag and dialed Melody Talbot. “So what sort of Monday is it?” she asked.

“A fairly placid one.” Melody sounded her usual brisk self, and Gemma supposed she’d just been sleepy earlier. “I’ve left a few reports for you to look over, and consigned most of the rest to the dustbin.”

“Good riddance, I’m sure.” Cheered by Melody’s voice, Gemma found herself saying, “I’m in the City, but I’ve got to make a stop in South Ken. Do you want to come along?”

“Business?”

“Um, I’m actually not certain.”

“Sounds intriguing,” said Melody. “Where should I meet you?”

“Harrowby’s. I’ll wait for you outside.” Gemma rang off, pleased with herself for having piqued Melody’s curiosity.

Half an hour later, she found Melody gazing in the windows of the venerable auction house on the Old Brompton Road. While that day Gemma had opted for trousers and a long aubergine cardigan over a soft-collared shirt, Melody wore a tailored navy suit, pressed to the nines, hemmed tastefully at the knee. Gemma thought, not for the first time, that either PC Talbot was aiming for assistant commissioner or
she was trying to show up all her female colleagues. Now Gemma wasn’t sure if inviting Melody along had been such a good idea.

Melody turned from inspecting an Art Deco pottery display that made Gemma’s heart skip. “What’s up, boss? Have we been seconded to the Fraud squad?”

Hesitating, Gemma said, “Actually, I’m doing a favor for a friend. Unofficially.”

“Ah.” Melody ruffled her hair, slipped off her jacket and tossed it over her arm, and unbuttoned another button on her blouse. “Unofficial it is.”

Gemma grinned. “Got it in one.”

“So what’s the story?”

Gemma explained briefly, then added, with an uncertain glance at the window, “Have you ever been to an auction?”

“Once or twice. Just curiosity,” Melody added quickly. “It’s not as intimidating as it looks. They want you to feel comfortable.”

“Right.” Gemma led the way into the foyer. Opposite a friendly looking gray-haired woman at a reception desk, a long table held copies of catalogs for all upcoming sales. The Art Deco jewelry was easy enough to spot: brilliant red, green, and blue gems in a geometric-patterned bracelet blazed from the cover. Finding the entry for the brooch that she’d seen at Erika’s, Gemma reread the text. It was as she remembered—there was no provenance.

Holding her place, she took the book to the desk. “I’m inquiring for a friend,” she explained, tapping the picture of the waterfall brooch with her fingertip, “who thinks this brooch belonged to her family. It was lost during the war.”

For the first time, the woman looked uneasy. “Mr. Khan’s our jewelry expert, but he’s out doing a valuation—”

Gemma wasn’t going to be put off so easily. “Is there someone else?”

“Well, there’s Miss Cahill, but—” She flicked a glance at Melody, and Gemma guessed she took her for a lawyer.

“I’m sure Miss Cahill will be able to help.” Gemma smiled brightly.

The woman hesitated. Then, frowning, she used an internal phone. “Kristin, could you come to the front, please?”

Gemma took advantage of the wait to inspect her surroundings. The reception area led into a much larger room. Modern paintings tagged with lot numbers lined the walls. A dozen people sat in the comfortably padded chairs filling the room’s center, some occasionally languidly raising numbered paddles. The auctioneer stood on a podium, above which appeared the featured item on a large-screen television. His delivery was as relaxed as the bids, and Gemma thought it all rather disappointingly low key. She wondered where the jewelry was.

“No big items in this lot,” whispered Melody. A snore escaped from a large lady in the back row.

“So I was gathering.”

A side door opened and a young woman came towards the front desk, her expression anxious. She was waif slender, with short dark hair shaped to her head, and wore a crisp white blouse and narrow dark skirt as if they’d just come off the catwalk. “Mrs. March?” she said, glancing from the receptionist to Gemma and Melody.

“These ladies have some questions regarding an item in the jewelry catalog. I told them Mr. Khan was out.” Mrs. March, as Gemma supposed, made her disapproval clear, and turned back to sorting brochures.

The young woman looked round as if expecting rescue, glanced at the auction in progress, then motioned them towards the door through which she had come. “I’m Kristin Cahill,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m not sure I can help you, but you’d better come into the office.” She looked as though she couldn’t be long out of university.

“We won’t take much of your time,” said Gemma, hoping to put her at ease.

Kristin Cahill led them through another display room, where furniture was being arranged and labeled by a crew in jeans and trainers, then into a small office. Paper, brochures, and catalogs spilled off two inelegant desks. Kristin shrugged at the absence of seating. “Mr. Khan usually talks to clients in the showroom—”

“We’re not clients. Look, it’s just this.” Gemma held up the catalog, page folded back. “I have a friend. Jakob Goldshtein, who made this piece, was her father. Her name is Erika Rosenthal. She says it was lost during her escape from Germany before the war, and she had no idea of its whereabouts until she saw your catalog. There’s no provenance listed. Can you tell us where—”

Kristin was already shaking her head. “Oh, no. Mr. Khan said provenance wasn’t required. The piece is stamped with Jakob Goldshtein’s mark, and his work has become quite collectible in the last twenty years—”

“But surely you must have provenance,” interrupted Gemma, although out of the corner of her eye she saw Melody give a slight shake of her head.

“It’s never that simple,” said Kristin. “With antiquities, we never have complete provenance, and even with more recent pieces we seldom have a complete record.”

“But perhaps the seller—”

“We can’t divulge the seller’s details. Look, I took that brooch in myself, but Mr. Khan would kill me—”

The office door swung open. A tall, slender man in an impeccably bespoke suit came in, quirking his eyebrow at Kristin. “And what have you done to deserve that, Miss Cahill?”

Kristin looked down at the nearest desk and shuffled some papers. “Nothing, Mr. Khan. These ladies had some questions about the Goldshtein brooch, but I was just saying—”

“A lovely piece, isn’t it? The curved lines are unusual for Art Deco, but Goldshtein did move in that direction towards the end of his career. All I can tell you is that the seller was very fortunate to
have come across such a find. It does happen, you know. Cash in the attic.” He gave a sardonic smile.

Melody spoke for the first time. “Mr. Khan, I take it?”

He held out a perfectly manicured hand with the long fingers of a pianist. “Amir Khan. May I—”

“Gemma James.” Gemma handed him a card. “Inspector. Metropolitan Police. And this is PC Talbot. But this is a personal matter, Mr. Khan, for the moment.”

Khan looked unfazed. “How very interesting, Inspector”—he glanced at her card—“James. But—”

“What if the piece was looted?” broke in Melody.

Khan’s lips turned down in an expression of distaste. Gemma thought she saw a flicker in his dark eyes—was it alarm? But he sounded as unperturbed as ever when he spoke. “Now
that
happens much less than the media would have you believe. But if that was the case, I’d suggest that your friend get a solicitor.”

1935
Bad Saarow, April 21 (Easter)

The flowers came just after the two police officers left, two dozen perfect pink roses, left at the front desk by a courier. Mrs. March carried them back to the office, saying, “Oh, Kristin, aren’t they lovely?”

Mr. Khan raised one arched brow but made no comment. Giles, who had come in with some paperwork, flushed a blotchy red and retreated, head tucked in like a tortoise. Kristin would have fallen through the floor if she could.

But Mrs. March oohed and aahed and fussed over the card until Kristin was forced to slip it from its envelope. “Anonymous admirer,”
Kristin said, knowing it was likely to make poor Giles suspect but not about to tell the truth. The signature read simply “D,” but that was enough.

As soon as the door closed behind Mrs. March, Khan turned to her, all the civilized veneer stripped from his handsome face.

“You may have an admirer, Miss Cahill,” he said, his voice level and articulate, and all the more venomous for it. “But I promise you it isn’t me. If I find you’ve done anything to jeopardize the reputation of this salesroom, I’ll personally see you out the door. You’d better watch—”

Giles had interrupted then, looking even more miserable than before, to tell Khan that a prospective seller wished to see him.

“Why does he hate you so much?” whispered Giles when Khan had stepped into the display room.

“God, I wish I knew.” Kristin’s legs were shaking and it was all she could do not to cry. It had been Khan who’d assessed the piece, after all. She hadn’t done anything wrong—or at least nothing that a thousand other salesroom clerks hadn’t done before her. But she knew now that she would be the one to catch it if any impropriety came to light.

Her mobile began to vibrate and she knew who it was without looking. She gave Giles a pointed glance, then waited until he’d left to answer.

“I told you not to call me at work,” she hissed into the phone, wondering if he’d been watching from the street, timing his call to the flower delivery.

“No one will know who it—”

“I don’t care.
He
doesn’t like me talking on my mobile, and I’m in enough trouble already. And I told you I didn’t want—”

“Look, love.” He dropped his voice, Dom at his most persuasive, and she fought the warmth that began to spread through her. “I didn’t mean what I said yesterday,” he went on. “I was a little—I’d had a bad night, you know? But I’ve been thinking—”
Bad night, bol
locks
. Strung out was more like it, and now he sounded too hyped.

She could see Khan through the half-open door, talking to a client, a chubby, balding man in an expensive-looking jacket. “Don’t think, Dom,” she whispered, hanging on to the anger. “It’s not your strong suit. And don’t send me bloody flowers.”

“Kris, please. I was screwed up. Meet me tonight. We need to talk. Something’s happened—”

“You’d better believe something’s happened. The freaking cops were here.”

“What?”

Khan had looked her way. “You heard me,” she whispered, moving farther from the door. “They wanted to know about the brooch—”

“You didn’t mention me?”

“Of course I didn’t mention you. What sort of idiot do you take me for?”

“I’m sorry, Kris. I’m sorry. Look, you have to meet me. We have to talk.” Dom’s voice was urgent. “The Gate. After ten. Please.”

“No,” Kristin repeated, but the phone went dead in her ear. She was staring at it, biting her lip, when it gave the soft bleep that meant she had a text message. After another furtive glance into the gallery, she opened the message and read the words as they scrolled down the screen.

You said you hated red
.

“Is she…upset?” Gavin asked the officer who met him at the Notting Hill nick. He’d always liked this station, with its graceful lines and leafy surroundings. Like Lucan Place, it had survived the war intact. But God, he hated dealing with grieving widows. Sometimes it made him wonder if he was cut out for the job.

“No, not exactly,” the constable replied, looking back as he led Gavin towards the interview rooms. “I wouldn’t describe her as
upset.
I’ve put her in the best room. She’s not the sort belongs in the—
well, never mind. You’d best see for yourself.” He shrugged and left Gavin at an unmarked door.

Squaring his shoulders, Gavin entered the room.

She was young, much younger than he’d imagined, given the age of the victim, and instantly he wondered if the possible identification was a mistake.

Glancing down at the few notes he’d made, he said, “Mrs. Rosenthal? I’m Gavin Hoxley, from Chelsea Police Station.” He’d deliberately not looked at the written report, wanting to evaluate this woman’s story without any preconceptions.

She sat on the opposite side of the scarred table, but had pushed her chair back so that she could clasp her hands in her lap. Her clothes were simple—a pale blue shirtwaist dress, probably reworked from an earlier style, and a white cardigan. But the wide belt emphasized her slender waist, and the dress’s color set off her fine, pale skin. Her dark hair was cut short and waved loosely, as if she hadn’t bothered much with styling, but the effect was the more appealing for its casualness.

“Yes, I’m Erika Rosenthal,” she said in faintly accented English, and looked up into his eyes. “What can you tell me about my husband?”

It had seemed like a good idea that morning, asking if he could visit Erika, but as Kit walked slowly up Ladbroke Grove after school, he began to have reservations. He’d never been to Erika’s house on his own, nor without an invitation, and Erika didn’t seem the sort of person you just dropped in on.

But he was curious about the missing brooch, and he didn’t want to go home and think about Gran. Adjusting his backpack, he picked up his pace, and soon turned into Arundel Gardens. He was glad Erika lived on the north side, where the houses were stuccoed and painted in colors—the plain, cream brick houses on the south side of the street never seemed as inviting. Sometimes he imagined that the
more exotic houses in Lansdowne Road, with their bright colors and almost Moroccan feel, had bled a bit into the north side of Arundel Gardens, like paint running.

The afternoon was warm, and by the time he reached Erika’s door he was sweating, the wool of his school blazer scratching his shoulders beneath the straps of his bag. Slipping off the heavy pack, he let it sag from one hand as he rang the bell. He always brought home more books than he needed, but somehow he didn’t like to leave things behind.

The buzzer echoed inside the otherwise quiet flat, but there was no reply on the intercom. Kit shuffled his feet and swung his pack, suddenly aware of the distant sound of a dog barking, and nearer by, a car door slamming and the wail of a child. The spring pansies in Erika’s basement window box were looking faded and leggy, and the small yard was unswept.

He’d almost made up his mind to go when the door swung open. Erika looked out expectantly, and Kit could have sworn he saw a flicker of disappointment before she smiled and said, “Kit! What a nice surprise.”

“You shouldn’t answer the door without checking to see who it is, you know.” The words came out involuntarily and he flushed, hearing the rudeness.

But Erika merely nodded. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that I was expecting—I thought it might be Gemma. Do come in. I’ll make you something cold to drink.”

As Kit followed her into the flat, he realized for the first time that he was looking down at her. He suddenly felt large and gawky, and deliberately pulled in his elbows, afraid he might knock a book or an ornament off the hall shelves.

In the sitting room, there were books and newspapers scattered about, and three empty cups on the table beside Erika’s chair. Having been taught early on by his mum to pick up, Kit stacked the cups and saucers and carried them into the kitchen. “I could help with the
washing-up,” he offered when he saw the worktop and the tiny sink.

“Oh.” Erika stood still, as if she’d lost her bearings. “I can’t seem to settle to anything.” She frowned. “But I’m certain I have ginger beer in the fridge, and some ice cubes in the freezer. The glasses—”

“I’ll get the glasses.” Kit knew where they were kept. When Erika didn’t protest, he very quickly put the drinks together, even adding a sprig of mint from a pot on the kitchen table. The window overlooking the garden was open and the soft, warm air blew in like a caress. Thinking of the unexpected disorder of Erika’s sitting room, he said, “Can we sit outside?”

“Oh, of course.” She wore a heavy blue cardigan, the buttons misaligned, and hugged it to herself as if she were cold.

Kit led the way through the French doors onto the small terrace that overlooked the communal garden. Pulling out one of the white wrought-iron chairs so that it faced the sun, he said, “Sit here. It will warm you.”

Erika complied, then looked up at him with a glimmer of a smile. “You’re quite bossy, you know.”

“That’s what my mum used to say,” answered Kit, taking the chair opposite.

“You never talk about your mum.”

“No,” he said, and found to his surprise that he could. “She quite liked it. Me managing her. She used to call me
bossy-boots
.”

“I can see why.” Erika cradled her drink, then sipped. “I like the mint.”

“My mum grew it in the garden. We always put it in our summer drinks.” He pushed away the thought of long summer evenings in the Cambridgeshire garden that ran down to the river. “Was your father really a jeweler?”

“Oh, a jeweler, yes, but so much more. He was an artist. And a bit of a magpie.” Erika gave a surprisingly throaty laugh. “He loved bright things.” Sobering, she added slowly, “I sometimes think it was a good thing he didn’t survive the first years of the war. He would
have hated what Berlin became, what Germany became in those years. He liked his creature comforts, my father.”

“He—” Kit hesitated, not sure how to go on.

“Oh, he died in a camp. In 1942, as far as I was able to learn.”

“And there wasn’t anyone else?”

When she shook her head, wisps of white hair came loose from her smooth knot and danced round her face. “No. Just the two of us. My mother had died when I was younger.”

Kit nodded and they sat quietly, sipping their drinks, shared knowledge lying easily between them.

After a bit, Kit said, “What was it like, Berlin before the war?”

Erika smiled. “I always think of flowers. Our garden was full of flowers in summer. Red and pink geraniums, petunias, roses. My father was a very social man, and entertaining was good for his business. Summer seemed one long round of garden parties, shimmering dresses, laughter, the scent of cigarette smoke on the night air. But—” She gave a small sigh, then added more briskly, “But I was a child. And I’m sure if I had been older, I would have realized that even then it mattered that we were Jewish.

“My father was tolerated because he made beautiful things for the wealthy, and even after Hitler came to power in 1933, the elite were reluctant to give up their luxuries. And my father was an optimist. He always wanted to believe the best of people.”

“But how could he? When such terrible things were happening?” asked Kit.

Erika gazed out into the communal garden, her eyes focused on a young woman playing with her child. “After Kristallnacht not even my father and David could ignore the danger, although in David’s case, it had been stubbornness, not optimism, that kept us in Berlin.”

Crystal Night. Kit had read about it in school, first with interest, because the name had intrigued him, then with growing horror as he realized what it meant. But somehow he had failed to connect Erika
with that terrible tale of violence and destruction.

“The Night of the Broken Glass,” Erika said softly. “November tenth, 1938. The windows of thousands of Jewish shops and homes throughout Germany and Austria were smashed, Jews were beaten and killed, and over thirty thousand Jewish men were taken to concentration camps. It was called, literally, crystal-glass night, because most shopkeepers’ windows were made of more expensive crystal, rather than ordinary glass.

“It’s considered politically incorrect to use that term now in Germany—it’s felt it romanticizes what happened.” She shook her head. “But for those who lived through it, we never forgot the sound of hammers smashing crystal. To this day I can’t bear to break a glass.” Pulling her cardigan a little closer, she sipped her drink. The few ice cubes had melted, diluting the liquid to a gold as pale as the afternoon sunlight. “But that’s enough of such talk for this beautiful day. We should—”

“No,” broke in Kit. “I want to hear. What happened after that? Did they break into your father’s shop? Who was David? Why didn’t he want to leave?”

Erika gazed at her drink, turning the glass in her fingers, and for a moment Kit thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she glanced up at him, her dark eyes crinkled with affection. “That’s a hard task you’ve set me. Are you sure you want to be a biologist and not a journalist?”

“Don’t prevaricate,” said Kit, trying out a new word. The last time he’d come for tea with Gemma, Erika had challenged him to learn a new word every day, and to teach Toby a simpler one. He hadn’t done so well with Toby, but was rather proud of his own progress.

“You’ve been swotting.”

The slang sounded funny coming from Erika, who usually spoke quite formal English. “All right,” she said after a moment. “Yes. My father’s shop was smashed. But he had heard rumors a few hours before and had managed to hide the most valuable pieces in our house.
Because we lived in one of the more elegant parts of town, our home was spared, although we hid for hours in the cellar with the maids. I didn’t know where David was and I was more terrified for him than for myself.” At Kit’s questioning look, she added, “David was my husband. He had been my teacher at university. The Nazis had forbidden the universities to hire Jews as lecturers, so David worked as a private tutor. Most of his students were children of the wealthy whose parents could afford to give them an extra edge, and some of them rose in the Nazi elite. It made David feel he had failed. Failed them, failed himself.”