And Justice There Is None (12 page)

H
AVING FOUND THE ADDRESS IN
D
AWN’S BOOK, SHE PRESENTED HERSELF
at Mr. Gavin Farley’s veterinary surgery on All Saints Road shortly after opening time. All Saints Road was the heart of the Notting Hill Carnival, but on this cold morning in mid-December it was hard to imagine the existence of the summer’s color and activity. The surgery, its exterior painted the color of orange sherbet, provided a bright spot in otherwise drab surroundings.

A bell tinkled as Gemma pushed open the door. “Be right with
you,” a female voice called from behind the reception desk, then an auburn head appeared. “Sorry, receptionist’s a bit late this—”

“It’s Bryony, isn’t it?” said Gemma. “I met you at Otto’s on Saturday. Whatever are you doing here?”

“I’m Gavin’s—Mr. Farley’s—assistant.” The young woman gazed back at her with equal surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see Mr. Farley. According to Dawn’s diary, she brought her cat in on the day she died.”

“Oh, Tommy, rotten little beastie. Always getting in spats. Yes, she did bring him, and it was Gavin who saw him, not me. But what has that to do with her death?”

“I thought it possible she might have said something to Mr. Farley, confided something unusual she’d seen or heard, for instance. Could I see him?”

“Not in yet,” Bryony replied with a grimace. “Doesn’t take his first appointment until nine o’clock. Because I live just up the road, in Powis Square, Gavin tends to take advantage a bit.”

“Were you here when Dawn came in on Friday morning?”

“Yes, but I was in and out with clients myself, so I didn’t really—Oh, sorry,” she broke off as the door chimed and a woman came in with two Dalmatians straining at their leads. Bryony expertly shepherded client and dogs into an examination room, then popped back out, saying to Gemma, “Look, I won’t be a moment. Make yourself at home.”

Gemma had never had much occasion to visit veterinary surgeries, having never owned a pet. Her parents had been adamant that animals and bakeries didn’t mix—“Can’t have customers worrying about dog or cat hair in their scones and buns, now can we?” her mother had responded cheerfully whenever Gemma or her sister had pleaded for a puppy or a kitten.

She found the surgery’s atmosphere reassuring, with its faint smell of dog and disinfectant, leatherette-covered banquette seating along the walls, displays of the pet foods offered for sale, and posters of raining cats and dogs decorating the walls. A photo taped to the side of the reception computer caught her eye; she moved closer to examine it.

Geordie
, the caption beneath the photo read.
Two-year-old neutered male cocker, blue roan. Needs good home
. The dog’s coat was a pale, mottled blue-gray, with dark gray patches. A blaze in the lighter color divided the dog’s alert, intelligent face, and his long, silky ears were dark. He seemed to gaze back at her, head tilted, the expression in his eyes, Gemma could have sworn, one of instant recognition. The dog reminded her of the spaniel in the painting Duncan’s cousin Jack had recently given her, a memento of their time in Glastonbury.

“Lovely, isn’t he?” asked Bryony, coming up behind her.

“Finished already?” Gemma looked round for the Dalmatians.

“I’m going to have to x-ray one of them—seems he’s eaten all the glass balls off the Christmas tree—amazing what dogs can digest—and for that I’ll need Gavin’s help.” Bryony tapped the photo with her fingertip. “Are you interested in a dog, by any chance?”

“Why does the owner want rid of him?” Gemma asked warily.

“She’s just married a man with a dreadful allergy to dogs—sends him to hospital with asthma. I think it was a close call between the dog and the husband,” Bryony added, grinning, “but in the end she decided to keep the husband. But she won’t let the dog go to just anyone.”

“I’m just moving into a house in the area,” Gemma heard herself saying. “With a garden.”

“Geordie’s a sweetheart. Owner’s taken him through several levels of obedience classes. Do you have kids?”

“Two boys. Twelve and four.”

“Perfect. Look, why don’t I bring Geordie along to meet you one day this week? I’ve got your number from the other day—I’ll ring you and make arrangements.”

“But—” The chime of the front door cut Gemma off, and with a pang of regret, she realized she’d allowed herself to be maneuvered into a corner.

“Gavin,” said Bryony, “this is Inspector James from the police. She’d like to have a word with you about Dawn Arrowood.” Was there a touch of satisfaction in her voice?

Turning, Gemma saw a short, stocky, dark-haired man, his appearance made more solid by his white clinical tunic. He hung his
overcoat on a peg, then faced her. “Such a tragedy. I couldn’t believe it when I heard it on the news.” He shook Gemma’s hand warmly, but the glance he gave her was shrewdly assessing. “Anything I can do to help.”

“Is there somewhere we could talk, Mr. Farley?”

“Come into the office, why don’t you?” Gavin Farley ushered her inside, then closed the door of the small space, which contained a desk and files. Gemma slipped notebook and pen from her bag.

“Was Mrs. Arrowood a regular client, Mr. Farley?”

“More than regular, you might say. Her husband wouldn’t allow her to keep the cat in the house, so the animal was always getting in scrapes—and coming off the worst in them, I suspect. Every few weeks he’d be in with an abscess, a torn ear, an infected eye. Not that we minded seeing Dawn, of course.”

“Did you know Mr. Arrowood, as well?”

“No. He never came in with her, even the few times the animal was badly hurt. Seemed rather an unsympathetic character, if you ask me.”

“And did you ever see Dawn outside the clinic?”

“No. I live in Willesden, so our paths weren’t too likely to cross.” If Farley was aware of any inference other than a casual social encounter, he disguised it well.

“And on Friday, did you notice anything unusual in her behavior?”

For the first time, Gemma sensed hesitation. “She did seem a bit more upset about the cat than usual, although it was a minor injury. In fact, I remember asking her if she was feeling all right.”

“And?”

Farley’s eyes flicked towards the door, then he looked back at Gemma and shrugged easily—too easily. “She said she was fine. Thanked me for asking, in fact. I still can’t believe she’s dead, or that someone would do such a terrible thing.”

“I’m sure it must be difficult for everyone who knew her, Mr. Farley. So why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me the truth?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Why would I lie about such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” answered Gemma. “But I can assure you I will find out.”

K
INCAID ALLOWED THE WORST OF THE
M
ONDAY
-
MORNING TRAFFIC TO
die off before he and Doug Cullen signed out a Rover from the Yard motor pool and headed north. Cullen drove, giving Kincaid the luxury of observing the London morning’s ebb and flow. Daybreak had brought fitful sun, but Kincaid suspected the break in the weather would not hold.

They picked up the M1 just south of Hendon and were soon bypassing the cathedral town of St. Albans. “Didn’t you tell me your family was in St. Albans?” Kincaid asked his companion. “It looks a nice place.”

“Suburban hell,” Cullen replied with a grimace. “Bridge nights and dinner circles and absolutely sod-all to do if you’re under the age of forty. I can’t imagine that my parents not only chose to live there, but considered it a great accomplishment.”

“Still suffering from a bit of rebellion, I take it?”

Cullen glanced at him, as if to ascertain whether he was being teased. “I assumed most people felt that way about their parents’ lifestyles.”

“I don’t know,” Kincaid mused. “I rather envy my parents theirs. But twenty years ago, I couldn’t wait to put the dust of the provinces behind me.”

“And now, would you go back?”

“To live, maybe. To work in a small-town police force, after the Met—Now, that would be a bit more difficult.” Kincaid thought again of taking Gemma and the children to Cheshire, sometime soon—perhaps this summer, to show off the new baby. His mum and dad were beside themselves with anticipation.

City and suburbs dropped away, revealing the rolling, winter-bleached farmland of Herefordshire. The power of the English countryside to assert itself never failed to amaze Kincaid, although he knew all too well it was more than ever under siege.

By mid-morning they had reached Bedford, a pleasant county town with a generous share of parks and the Great Ouse River running through its center. Eliza Goddard lived along the Embankment in a comfortable, semidetached Victorian house, a far cry from the tiny flat her mother had occupied above her shop in Camden Passage.

Goddard answered the bell quickly, calling back over her shoulder to quiet her children. Kincaid saw her surprise as she turned back to them, then the unconcealed mixture of wariness and distaste. “You’ve come about my mother, haven’t you?” She did not invite them in. “Have you found out something?”

“Not exactly, Mrs. Goddard. But we would like to speak to you, if you could spare us a few moments,” Kincaid said, at his most diplomatic. This woman surely had no reason to look fondly on the police: They had not only given her the terrible news of her mother’s death, but had failed, after a lengthy investigation, to find her killer.

“All right.” She said it reluctantly. “Just let me get the girls settled in the kitchen.”

As Kincaid and Cullen followed her into the sitting room, Kincaid wondered, as he had the first time they’d met, about her parentage. Marianne Hoffman had been a slight, fair-skinned woman—her daughter had the lovely café-au-lait coloring and dark eyes indicative of mixed race. The twin daughters Eliza was shepherding into the kitchen took after their mother, each with dark hair neatly plaited into two pigtails.

“Let’s get some colored paper, and you can make paper chains for the Christmas tree,” he heard Eliza say. A moment later she rejoined them in the sitting room.

“How old are your daughters?” Kincaid asked her.

“Five. Going on fifteen.” Eliza rolled her eyes, but her smile was indulgent.

“Identical?”

“Yes. All the child psychology books say you shouldn’t dress them alike, but the authors apparently didn’t consult my girls. They throw fits if I try to put them in different outfits. Maybe next year when they start school …”

Sensing Cullen’s impatience, Kincaid gave him a quelling glance.
“You’ve a great place here,” he told Eliza, admiring the room’s soft sage-and-cream paintwork and fabrics. Woven baskets held the children’s toys neatly, and although the furniture looked casually worn, Kincaid suspected it was valuable. Gesturing at the oak sideboard, he said, “Eighteenth century?”

“Yes. My mother’s passion, eighteenth-century farmhouse furniture. She never bought it to sell; she said that would’ve taken the joy from the hunt. But she loved finding these pieces for me, and she’s the one put the room together.” Eliza sat down at last, and Kincaid and Cullen followed suit.

“She traded only jewelry in her shop?”

“Oh, sometimes she’d take in a table or a lamp, but she preferred to stick with the small things.” Eliza brushed at her skirt and finally met Kincaid’s eyes. “Look, what is this about?”

“I’m afraid there’s been another death,” Kincaid answered. “Similar to your mother’s. But this time in Notting Hill—the wife of an antiques dealer.”

“I don’t understand. What has that to do with me?”

“There might be a connection.”

“You mean the same man who killed my mother might have killed this woman, too?”

“It’s possible, although we hope not.”

“But how can I help you?” She sounded more bewildered than angry.

“Did you ever hear your mother mention the name Karl Arrowood?”

Eliza shook her head.

“Nor Dawn Arrowood? Or Dawn Smith?”

“No.”

“What about Alex Dunn?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Do you know if your mother had
any
connections in Notting Hill?”

“Not that I know of specifically, although people do get around in the antiques trade. But Mum never talked about her past. Sometimes I used to imagine that her life started with me.”

“What about your dad? Could he help us?”

“I never knew my dad at all.”

“His name was Hoffman?”

“That was my stepdad. Greg was okay; he even officially adopted me. But Mum divorced him when I was fifteen. I still see him sometimes. He sends Christmas and birthday cards to the girls.”

Kincaid had run a check on Greg Hoffman after Marianne’s murder in October. A textiles salesman, he’d been out of the country at the time of his ex-wife’s death, and Kincaid had never interviewed him. “Do you know why Greg and your mother broke up?”

“Mum just said she didn’t want to be married anymore. I missed him,” Eliza added unexpectedly, glancing towards the sound of an escalating row in the kitchen. “I hope my girls never have to be without a dad.”

“What do you remember about your childhood? Anything before your mother married Greg Hoffman?”

“We lived in York when I was little. Mum had a small shop there. She only moved back to London after I married and came to Bedford.”

“Mummy!” came a cry from the kitchen. “Suki tore my loop!”

“I did not. Sarah made it too big. I was fixing it!”

“Excuse me.” Eliza got up with a soft sigh and went to sort out her children.

Kincaid stood and gazed out the window at the river and the park running along beside it. Three swans glided by, unperturbed by human commotion.

“Not making much progress, are we?” Doug Cullen didn’t bother to hide his exasperation.

“Too soon to say,” Kincaid rejoined. He turned back to Eliza Goddard as she reentered the room. “What about your mother’s things, Mrs. Goddard? Did she leave any keepsakes? Or photos?”

“I haven’t touched her personal effects.” Eliza’s eyes sparkled with sudden tears. “I just couldn’t, not this time of year. I’m not even sure yet how we’re going to get through Christmas … I don’t think the girls understand their grandmother isn’t coming back. They keep asking what Nana’s giving them for Christmas.”