Where Memories Lie (8 page)

The sun had moved and Erika’s face was now in shadow. When she didn’t go on, Kit said uncertainly, “What did he teach?”

This time Erika’s smile held no humor. “Philosophy. He believed in a rational, peaceful state.”

Kit suddenly felt as if he’d got in over his head, but didn’t know how to backpedal gracefully. Instead, he plunged ahead. “But you got out, didn’t you? You and your husband. Why did you leave your father behind?”

As soon as the words left his lips, he’d have given anything to call them back.

Finding he didn’t want to loom over this woman, Gavin pulled out a chair, and the legs scraping across the lino seemed unnaturally loud.

“Mrs. Rosenthal, first I need
you
to tell
me
about your husband.”

“But I’ve already—”

“Please.”

“But I—” Her protest subsided, but he thought she clasped her hands a little more tightly. Her nails were short and neat, her only jewelry a simple gold band.

“My husband,” she said on an exhaled breath, as if marshaling
patience, “is named David Rosenthal. He is a lecturer at a small college in North Hampstead, a school for Jewish boys. On Saturdays it is his habit to write in the Reading Room at the British Museum.”

“On the Sabbath?” asked Gavin.

The glance she gave him was sharp. “My husband is not an observant Jew, Mr. Hoxley.”

“All right.” He nodded. “Go on.”

“When he didn’t come home for his supper, I thought perhaps he had gone to a meeting, and that he had forgotten to tell me. But he never came home. Not that night. Not yesterday. And this morning he did not show up for work at his college. They rang me at my work, and I came here.”

It could still be a case of a wandering husband, Gavin told himself, although he couldn’t imagine a man straying from this woman. “Can you describe your husband for me?”

She closed her eyes, as if building a picture in her mind. “David…is…a good deal older than I. Forty-eight last January. He is slender—too thin—and not as tall as you, Mr. Hoxley. He has blue eyes and dark hair that is becoming gray. Salt and pepper, I think is the English term.”

Gavin felt a twist in his gut, half excitement, half dread. There was no avoiding it now. “Mrs. Rosenthal, did your husband wear any jewelry?”

Her eyes flew open. “Jewelry? A trinket only, a gift from one of his students. A little Jewish symbol on a chain, a mezuzah.”

She must have seen the truth in his face, because she went quite still, so still he thought for a moment she had ceased to breathe, and that stillness was more devastating than all the tears he had witnessed in his years on the force.

Then she took a breath, like a drowning swimmer coming up for air, and said, very clearly, “Mr. Hoxley. I know my husband is dead. Did he—did he…harm himself?”

The afternoon dragged. Gemma’s office grew stuffy from the heat, and opening the window brought only a current of warm air mixed with exhaust fumes. The mountain of paperwork on her desk seemed unshrinking, and she slogged through it with increasing irritation.

When Melody popped her head in to say she was going home, Gemma snapped, “Fine,” then called her back.

“Sorry,” she said. “Headache.”

Melody, still looking as fresh and crisp as she had that morning, leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re not looking forward to talking to your friend.”

“No.” Gemma sighed. “And I—” On the verge of telling Melody about her mum, she hesitated. She knew no more than she had that morning. Having traded text messages with Cyn, all she’d learned was that the consultants were still waiting on test results. Shaking her head, she finished lamely, “I’ll have to do it in person. I suppose there’s no point postponing.”

Melody studied her, tilting her head in a gesture Gemma had learned meant she was assessing the truthfulness of a statement. But she merely said, “Call it a day, boss. Policy implementations can wait.” Grinning, she added, “Forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Right. See you tomorrow, then,” answered Gemma, cheered.

When Melody had gone, she pushed her unfinished papers into a stack and smacked her pen on top for emphasis, then rang home. No answer.

Kincaid had told her that Kit wanted to go to Erika’s after school, but surely he should be home by now. She didn’t like it when Kit was out of touch—she supposed that eventually they were going to have to give in and get him a mobile, although she dreaded the thought of a teenager permanently wired to the world by his thumbs.

Except that Kit hadn’t asked for a phone, and that made her wonder if he had enough friends. Since Christmas he had been getting on better, at least with his studies, but he still seemed to spend most of his time at home on his own or with Wesley.

Wesley—there was a thought. She rang Wesley, asking if he could pick Toby up from his after-school care. That would leave her free to go straight to Erika’s, and possibly track down Kit in the process.

It was cooler outside than in, and the brisk walk down Ladbroke Grove cleared her aching head. The fruit trees were in bloom, and a rainbow of late tulips brightened front gardens and window boxes. It seemed to her that this time of year London was bursting at its seams, life pushing through the cracked cocoon of winter, and her spirits always lifted along with the city’s pulse.

The wind had picked up by the time she reached Erika’s house in Arundel Gardens, cooling the back of her neck where it had gone damp from the heat, swirling bits of debris about her ankles.

She rang the bell, and after a long wait, it was Kit rather than Erika who opened the door.

“Hi,” he said, looking unusually pleased to see her, and her desire to scold him over not checking in vanished. “We were in the garden. I thought I heard the bell. I’ll make you something to drink if you want to go out.”

There was more to his offer than manners. “Is everything all right?” Gemma asked, touching his shoulder briefly as they walked towards the kitchen.

“Yes. But she’s waiting for you.”

Taking the hint, she left him and went out through the French doors into the garden. Erika rose, a little slowly, from her seat at the garden table and came to meet her.

“I thought it must be you,” she said, her expression anxious. “Did you find out—”

But Gemma was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry, no. They won’t release any information about the seller. Their jewelry expert believes the piece is authentic, and they’re not required to give provenance. The expert is a man named Amir Khan.” Gemma pulled out a chair for herself as Erika sank back into hers. Kit had come out and set down a drink for her, then stepped back, listening quietly. “The
girl who took the piece in—Kristin—might have told me more, but Khan came in and shut her up.”

“Is there any point in you going back, having another word with her on her own?” asked Erika.

Gemma shook her head. “I don’t think so. She’ll have been well warned. He—Mr. Khan—said that you’d have to get a lawyer. And that if it were a matter of proving that an item was looted by the Nazis, the case could drag on forever. I’m afraid he’s right,” she added gently. “You may have to let it—”

“Oh, no,” broke in Erika, and the fire was back in her eyes. “I’ve let it go long enough. And it wasn’t the Nazis who stole the brooch from me.”

Kristin fidgeted through dinner, earning a concerned glance from her mother and an irritated “Will you sit still, for heaven’s sake?” from her dad.

When she did little more than push her food round her plate, her mum shook her head. “Kristin, you need to eat.”

“I had lunch out.” It was an easy lie, so she embroidered. “With some mates from work. At Carluccio’s.” Right, she thought. Who exactly would she have gone to Carluccio’s with, even if she could afford it? Giles?

Before her mother’s look of interest turned into questions about what she’d eaten, she said, “And I’m going out tonight. Just for a bit.” She glared at her dad, daring him to criticize. That was one of the worst things about being forced to live at home—her parents still treated her like a teenager, even though she was more than a year out of university.

She’d never introduced them to Dom, nor told them anything about him. She could just imagine what her dad, a supervisor at Abbey Mills Pumping Station who had worked hard to put his only daughter through university, would have to say about a man
who lived on inherited money. That was grief she didn’t need.

Her mobile rang. When she saw that it was Giles, she quickly pressed Ignore. Her father looked up from his pork chop, frowning. “I’ve told you not to bring that thing to the table.”

But before Kristin could defend herself, the home phone rang. Her mum was closest and answered it, receiving a second scowl from her dad. “I thought we’d agreed. No phone calls during—”

“It’s your friend Giles, darling,” her mother interrupted, smiling as she handed Kristin the phone.

“Bugger,” Kristin muttered under her breath. Giles was already waffling on in her ear. “…wasn’t fair what Khan did to you today. Don’t know what gets into him, but I’m sure you didn’t deserve it.”

“Thanks, Giles. That’s nice of you.” She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “But I have to—”

“Thought you might want to go out for a coffee, talk about it. Or—or you could come to the flat. We could listen to—”

“Thanks, but I can’t, really.” There was no way she was going to his flat. The thought of being alone with Giles was bad enough—although she couldn’t imagine he’d get up the nerve to make a move—but she certainly wasn’t spending the evening with that dog he was always going on about. She knew what effort it must have taken him to invite her, however, and tried to be kind. Excusing herself, she left the dining room and retreated to her bedroom. “I’m going out already, Giles,” she said when she was out of her parents’ hearing. “Meeting someone at the Gate, in Notting Hill.”

“You’re meeting
him,
aren’t you? The bloke who sent you the roses.”

“You’re starting to sound like my father, Giles,” she said, all inclination to be gentle vanishing. “And besides, it’s none of your business. Look, I’ll see you at work tomorrow.” She started to hang up, then put the phone back to her ear. “And by the way, don’t call me at home—

“—And sod you,” she added, tossing the phone on the bed. Now
she had to get out quickly, before her mum started asking questions about her
friend
. Leaving her work clothes in a heap on the floor, she changed into jeans and a slightly tatty rose-colored cardigan. This was one night she didn’t intend to tart herself up for Dominic Scott. Nor did she intend to wait if he wasn’t there.

She’d told herself a hundred times that she was only going to finish what she’d tried to say that afternoon, but there was a small, traitorous part of her that knew it wasn’t true—a part that imagined the roses were real, that she would see him and he would look into her eyes and everything would be all right.

Serve her bloody well right if he didn’t turn up, she thought as she walked up the road towards Earl’s Court tube station, head down against the wind.

When she emerged at Notting Hill Gate a few minutes later, it was well past ten, but the streets were still busy with late shoppers and patrons coming and going from the restaurants and pubs. Waiting to cross at the light, she saw the woman beside her start to step out into the path of a 52 bus barreling round the corner into Pembridge Road. Kristin grabbed the shoulder of her jacket and yanked her back, feeling the draft rock her as the bus passed.

“Christ!” she said, loosing her hold, her heart pounding. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

“Sorry,” the woman mumbled, without looking at her, and when the light changed she walked on, head still down.

Some people,
Kristin thought, shaking her head, but then she was crossing Notting Hill Gate, and the door to one side of the Gate Cinema yawned before her.

There was no bouncer, as Monday was a light crowd, but it was only as she started down the stairs into the club that she remembered it was salsa night. The driving beat of Latin music rose up to meet her, and as she reached the basement she saw that instead of the usual milling bodies, couples were dancing in sync, touching. Her heart sank. That temptation was a complication she didn’t need, and
she wondered if Dom had remembered and had chosen the club because of it.

She pushed her way through the knot of people blocking the bottom of the stairs, into the purple-blue glow of the light from the bar. One of the bartenders, a pretty blond girl, waved at her, but she shook her head and kept looking.

Then she saw him, sitting alone, in the corner farthest from the bar and the dance floor. He’d washed his hair and dressed with obvious care, and she wondered if the pallor of his face was simply a reflection of the lights from the bar.

When he saw her, he smiled and stood, beckoning her over, and when she reached him he kissed her, brushing his lips against her cheek.

Kristin shivered and pulled away. “I came to talk, Dom.” She sat on the banquette, putting a good foot of space between them.

“Let me get you a drink.”

“No, I don’t want—”

But the barmaid came by and Dom signaled her, ordering her a mojito. He was drinking, Kristin saw, neat whisky, never a good sign.

“You look gorgeous.” He ran a hand down her arm.

“You think?” she retorted. “You should have seen me on Saturday.”

“Look, love, things just got a bit out of control. I—”

“They’re only as out of control as you want them to be, Dom, and I’m—”

The barmaid brought her drink and Kristin took it, giving the girl an absent smile. She took a drink, tasting mint and lime and feeling the kick of the rum as it went down.
Dutch courage
. She needed Dutch courage.

“Drink up,” Dom said quietly, and she saw then that in spite of the whisky he was sober, and there was no affection in his gray eyes. “And tell me about the cops.”