And Justice There Is None (24 page)

Her fingers closed on a smooth round shape, right in the back of the drawer. She drew it out—yes, it was the same brown glass bottle she remembered. Unscrewing the cap, she shook a few of the tablets into her hand, then, with sudden resolution, took a kitchen knife and cut one in half. Gingerly, she swallowed the tiny crescent moon
.

She regretted it instantly. Her heart thumped with fear as she waited, wondering how she would feel dying, poisoned, unable to call for help
.

After a few minutes, something began to happen. First came a cold numbness in her mouth, then warmth spread through her body and she felt a strange sort of separation from the cold and hunger. She was still aware of the sensations, she knew that they were a part of her, and yet she was somehow outside them
.

Forgetting her terror, she relaxed, snuggling deeper into the blankets. It was all right … It was going to be all right. A rosy contentment possessed her. The light from her single lamp seemed to coalesce into a luminous halo, and she hummed to herself as disconnected bits of songs floated through her brain. At last, she drifted into a deep and blissful sleep, the first in days
.

After that, she hoarded the little white tablets, saving them for the times when things seemed more than she could bear
.

Summer came at last, and with it her seventeenth birthday. The day passed unremarked except for a card sent by Betty and her mother. It was hot, even for August, and as the afternoon wore on, the shop became more and more stifling. Angel was minding the place on her own, as Mr. Pheilholz had declared it unbearable and departed for the day. She stood at the cash register, aware of every breath of air that came through the open door, watching the hands on the big wall clock move like treacle
.

The young man came in for cigarettes. She barely noticed him at first, as there was a faint buzzing in her ears and her vision seemed to be doing strange things
.

“Are you all right?” he asked as he took his change. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I … I do feel a bit odd.” Her voice seemed to come from a long way away
.

“It’s the heat. You need to sit down, get some air,” he told her decisively. “Here.” Dumping the apples from one produce crate into another, he turned over the empty one and placed it in the doorway. He then led her to it, holding her by the arm. “Sit. Put your head down.” He pulled a newspaper from the display and fanned her with it
.

After a few minutes, he asked, “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks.” Lifting her head, she took in the blond hair brushing his collar, the clear, gray eyes, the smart, uncreased jacket he wore even in the heat, and the giddiness that washed over her had nothing to do with the heat. She thought that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen
.

“Come on, then,” he ordered. “I’ll take you out for something cold to drink.”

“Can’t. Not until closing. I’m minding the shop.”

“Then shut it. It’s too hot for anyone to buy groceries, much less cook them.”

“I can’t!” she protested, horrified. “I’d lose my job.”

“And that matters?”

“Of course it matters!” she told him, but she was partly convincing herself
.

He studied her, and she gazed back, as mesmerized as a rabbit facing a snake
.

“How long till you can close, then?” he asked
.

She glanced at the clock and was surprised to find that half an hour had passed. “An hour. It’s my birthday,” she added, inexplicably, feeling a fool
.

“Is it? Then I suppose I’ll just have to wait.” Leaning against the produce case, he crossed his arms, looking about the shop with evident disdain. “What are you doing working in this lousy place, anyway?”

“It’s all I could get.” She was ashamed, seeing it through his eyes. “And it pays my rent.”

“You haven’t told me your name.”

For a moment she hesitated, then she lifted her chin. “Angel.”

“Just Angel?”

Excitement surged through her. He knew nothing of her, her parents, her background; she could reinvent herself as she chose. “That’s right. Just Angel.”

T
WO WEEKS LATER, SHE LAY BENEATH HIM IN HER NARROW BED, THE
rumpled sheets pushed back, the window open as wide as it would go. “Tell me what you want, Angel,” he urged, his breath catching in his throat. “I can give it to you. I can give you anything—fame, fortune, glory.” He had pursued her as if nothing else mattered in the world, waiting at her flat every day after work, taking her out for meals and to the cinema, buying her trinkets … and staying every night in her room. The wonder of it took her breath away. What could he possibly see in her, when he could have anyone?

His skin, glistening with perspiration, slid effortlessly against hers as he moved inside her. A sultry breeze lifted the curtains; the light from the street lamp silvered his corn-yellow hair
.

She was lost, and she knew that he knew it, but she didn’t care. “I want you to love me.” Digging her fingertips into his shoulders, she whispered against his cheek, tasting the salt like blood. “I want you to love me, just me. More than anyone, or anything, ever.”

K
IT
M
C
C
LELLAN LOADED THE LAST OF HIS BOXES INTO HIS DAD’S
—make that his stepdad’s—Volvo. He had learned, since his mum had died the previous April, that the man he had always known as his father was actually not his dad at all, and that his real dad had not known of his existence until his mum’s death. It was all quite confusing, but he had gradually got used to it, and now everything was going to change again.

His stepfather, Ian, was taking a teaching post in Canada, and Kit was going to live with his real father, Duncan, Duncan’s girlfriend, Gemma, and her son, Toby, in a house in a part of London Kit had never even seen. It was what he had wanted, to be a real family, and Gemma was going to have a baby in the spring, a new brother or sister for him.

It was also terrifying, and it meant leaving the pink cottage in the little village of Grantchester where he had spent his whole life, and where he had last seen his mum.

That morning he’d said good-bye to his friend Nathan Winter, who had been his mother’s friend as well, and who had fostered Kit’s love of biology. Much to Kit’s embarrassment, Nathan had given him a crushing hug, and it had been all Kit could do to keep from blubbing like a baby. “You know you can come visit any time the pavement gets too much for you,” Nathan had teased, and Kit thought with a pang of the long, slow days spent by the river that flowed past his back garden.

“Are you ready, Kit?” called Ian.

Swallowing hard, Kit took one last look at the cottage, its “For Sale” sign already posted in the front garden. “All set.”

He opened the car door and summoned Tess with a whistle. “Ready for a ride, girl?” he asked the little terrier who had been his constant companion since he’d found her hiding in a box behind a supermarket, just days after his mum’s death.

Tess bounded into the car, licking his face excitedly as he climbed in beside her.

They made the drive in silence, Kit watching out the window with avid interest as they reached London and drove west along Hyde Park. He could bring Tess to the park, Duncan had said, whenever he liked, so they must be getting close to the house.

He had a fleeting impression of ugly, square buildings round the Notting Hill Gate tube stop. They swung to the right, entering streets lined with sedate rows of terraced houses. Next, a church, its brick dark with age; then they were running down a hill and drawing to a stop before a solid-looking brown brick house with a red door and white trim.

“You’ll come to Canada on your summer break,” Ian reminded him. “I’ll make all the arrangements.”

Kit nodded absently, for Duncan had come out the front door, and Toby stood at the garden gate, calling excitedly to him. His new life had begun.

H
AZEL HAD HELPED HER PACK WITH SUCH CHEERFUL COMPETENCE
that Gemma decided she must have imagined that her friend was distressed over her leaving. But Gemma herself found it hard to say good-bye to the tiny flat: It was the first home she had been able to call entirely her own. And then there was Hazel’s piano—when would she ever be able to play again? Making an excuse for a last trip into the big house, she dashed into the sitting room and stood for a moment gazing at the instrument, then touched the keys briefly in farewell.

“Don’t worry if you’ve forgotten something,” Hazel assured her as Gemma squeezed into the car with the collected bundles. “Holly and I will come over tomorrow and help you get settled.”

“I’ll need it, I’m sure,” Gemma called out as she waved and drove off. Duncan had taken Toby with him in the van he’d fixed to transport the things from his flat—and Sid the cat. They would meet her at the new house.

After a week’s relentless drizzle, Saturday had dawned clear and unseasonably warm, a perfect day for moving, and as Gemma neared Notting Hill she found herself singing along with the old Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young tune “Our House” on the radio. She laughed aloud with sudden, unanticipated joy.

They were all waiting for her—Duncan, Toby, and Kit, with Tess bounding round and barking madly.

“I take it she likes the house.” Gemma gave Kit a welcoming hug.

Toby tugged at her, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “Mummy, Mummy, have you seen the garden? Have you seen my room? Sid’s shut in the loo.” The poor cat must be utterly traumatized, thought Gemma, but before she could check on him, Toby grabbed her hand and yanked her towards the stairs. “Come see my room, Mummy. Kit’s going to share with me!”

“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing. “We need a plan. First we tour the house, then we start on the boxes. I’ll take the kitchen, you boys can start on your bedrooms, and Duncan can take the sitting room.”

“Yes, ma’am. I take it we save our bedroom for last?” Kincaid grinned and winked at her over the boys’ heads.

B
Y MID
-
AFTERNOON
G
EMMA HAD MADE A LIST OF ESSENTIALS THEY
would need to buy, including new linens for the boys’ beds and a set of dishes for the kitchen. Her few mismatched bits and Duncan’s bachelor plates were not going to do for a real kitchen, and she had seen exactly the thing in a catalogue: a blue-and-yellow French farmhouse design, perfect for the blue-and-yellow kitchen.

She was humming happily as she confronted the oil-fired cooker, thinking she would make them all a pot of tea, when her cell phone rang.

It was Melody Talbot, calling from Notting Hill Police Station. “Sorry to interrupt your moving day, boss, but we’ve had a call that might add up to something. A Miss Granger, who lives near the Arrowoods, was out jogging the night Dawn was killed. She’s been out of town on business and just now saw the media appeal.”

“Go on,” Gemma encouraged as she filled her chipped teakettle. Not expecting much, she only half listened, mentally adding “new kettle” to her shopping list.

“Well, it seems Miss Granger passed another jogger that night, going the opposite way on Ladbroke Grove. That would mean he was going north, away from St. John’s Gardens. His hood was up, which she thought was a bit odd because it had stopped drizzling, and when she looked back she saw that he was leaving a trail of dark footprints. She shrugged it off at the time, thinking he must have run through a puddle or something, but now …”

“Jesus …” Gemma set the kettle down on the very edge of the stove, then grabbed it as it tipped. “Blood? You’re thinking it was blood?”

“His shoes would have been soaked, wouldn’t they, if he stood behind Dawn?”

“And his hood was up to conceal his face. Could this Miss Granger describe his clothes?”

“Ordinary jogger’s things; a dark nylon tracksuit.”

“Did you get a full statement?”

“I’m going to her flat myself, right now. Boss, does this rule out Karl?”

They’d assumed that if Karl had murdered his wife, he had parked in his own drive, killed Dawn, then rung the police. But what if he had parked his car elsewhere, changed into jogging clothes, run to the house where he waited for his wife and killed her, then run back to his car, disposing of his bloody outer garments and weapon before driving to the house and calling for help—and all in the few minutes’ leeway the traffic between Tower Bridge and Notting Hill
might have allowed him? Implausible, improbable, and bloody unlikely.

“I’d say so,” Gemma responded grimly, “unless he’s Superman.”

B
Y EVENING
G
EMMA WAS HAPPY ENOUGH TO HAVE A SOAK IN THE
roll-top tub—the highlight of their new bathroom—and ready enough to leave the boxes behind for a civilized dinner. They’d ordered pizza for the boys, a treat, apparently, of royal proportions, and assured Kit that he could reach them on their mobile phones.

“Have you met Cullen’s girlfriend?” Gemma asked Kincaid as they drove towards Victoria. “And what is she doing with a flat in Belgravia?”

“Her father owns the building, I think Doug said.”

“Oh, charming.”

Kincaid snorted. “Your prejudices are showing. I’m sure she’s perfectly nice. Doug says she works for a home furnishings shop.”

“Worse yet,” Gemma muttered.

But when they reached Ebury Street, she found she was actually a little nervous about meeting Doug Cullen. “What’s he like, really?” she asked, tucking her arm through Kincaid’s as they climbed the stairs to the first-floor flat.

“A nice chap. Don’t worry, you’ll like him.”

And indeed she did, at first sight. Cullen exuded a sort of perpetual naïveté, his fresh-faced, public-school looks made only slightly more severe by the wire-rimmed spectacles he kept pushing up his nose.

In contrast to Cullen’s comforting ordinariness, Stella Fairchild-Priestly wore a cropped pink angora top and black capri trousers that bared her rhinestone-studded navel—or at least Gemma assumed the sparkling gems were rhinestones. The girl’s pale hair was expensively and trendily cut, her makeup salon perfect, her nails a frosted pink that matched her sweater. “Hi, I’m Stella,” she said with a brilliant smile, and Gemma felt instantly frumpy, fat, and ancient.