And Justice There Is None (3 page)

“But we still couldn’t afford—”

“It’s a reasonable rent.”

“But what about your flat?”

“I’d lease it for a good deal more than the mortgage, I imagine.”

“What about child-minding for Toby? Without Hazel—”

“There’s a good infant school just down the road from the station. And a good comprehensive for Kit not too far away. Now, any other objections?” He grasped her shoulders and looked down into her eyes.

“No … it’s just … it seems too good to be true.”

“You can’t hold the future at bay forever, love. And we won’t disappoint you. I promise.”

Perhaps he was right … No! She knew he was right. When Toby’s father had left her, alone with a new infant and no support, she had resolved never to depend on anyone again. But Kincaid had never failed her in any way—why should she not trust him in this, as well? Gemma let herself relax into his arms.

“Blue-and-yellow dishes in the kitchen,” she murmured against his chest. “And a bit of paint in the bedrooms, don’t you think?”

He nuzzled her hair. “Is that a yes?”

She felt herself teetering on the edge of a precipice. Once committed, the safety of her old life would be gone. There could be no
turning back. But she no longer had the luxury of putting off the decision until she had exorcised the very last smidgen of doubt. With that realization came a most unexpected flood of relief, and an unmistakable fizz of excitement.

“Yes,” she told him. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

M
OISTURE RINGED THE STREET LAMPS ALONG
P
ARK
L
ANE AS THE
December dusk faded into dull evening. The air felt dense, as if it might collapse in upon itself, and the smattering of Christmas lights made only a pallid affront to the gloom.

Bloody Friday traffic
, thought Dawn Arrowood. Suddenly claustrophobic, she cracked the window of her Mercedes and inched into the long tailback at Hyde Park Corner. She’d known better than to drive into the West End, but she hadn’t been able to face the thought of the crowded tube, with the inevitable pushing and shoving and the too-intimate exposure to unwashed bodies.

Not on this day, of all days.

She had armored herself as best she could: a visit to Harrods before the doctor, tea with Natalie at Fortnum & Mason’s afterwards. Had she thought these distractions could cushion the news she feared, make it somehow easier?

Nor had her old friend Natalie’s ready comfort changed things one jot.

She was pregnant. Full stop. Fact.

And she would have to tell Karl.

Her husband had made it quite, quite clear, before their marriage five years ago, that he did not want a second family. Twenty-five years her senior, with two unsatisfactory grown children and a troublesome ex-wife, Karl had firmly declared he’d no intention of repeating the experience.

For a moment, Dawn allowed herself the weakness of imagining he would change his mind once he heard her news, but she knew that for the fantasy it was. Karl never changed his mind, nor did he take kindly to having his wishes ignored.

The traffic light changed at last, and as she swung into Bayswater Road, she shook a cigarette from the packet in the console. She would quit, she promised herself, but not yet … not until she’d worked out a plan.

If she insisted on having this child, what could Karl do? Turn her out with nothing? The thought terrified her. She’d come a long way from her childhood in a terraced house in East Croyden, and she had no intention of going back. That Natalie had understood, at least. You have legal recourse, Natalie had said, but Dawn had shaken her head. Karl kept a very expensive lawyer on retainer, and she felt certain neither he nor his solicitor would be deterred by the small matter of her legal rights.

And of course this was assuming she could somehow convince him the baby was his.

The shudder of fear that passed through her body was instinctive, uncontrollable.

Alex. Should she tell Alex? No, she didn’t dare. Alex would insist she leave Karl, insist they could live happily ever after in his tiny mews flat off the Portobello Road, insist that Karl would let her go.

No, she would have to cut Alex off, for his own sake, somehow convince him it had only been a passing fling. She hadn’t realized when she’d begun the affair with Alex just how dangerous was the course upon which she’d embarked—nor had she known that she’d chosen the one lover her husband would never forgive.

The traffic picked up speed and too soon, it seemed, she reached Notting Hill Gate. The crush of evening commuters poured into the tube station entrance like lemmings drawn to the sea, newspapers and Christmas shopping clutched in their arms, rushing home to their suburban lives of babies and telly and take-away suppers. The image brought a jab of envy and regret, and with it the too-ready tears that had plagued her of late. Dawn swiped angrily at her lower lashes—she wouldn’t have time to do her makeup over. She was late as it was, and Karl would expect her to be ready when he arrived home to collect her for their dinner engagement.

Appearances were Karl’s currency, and she now knew all too well
that she’d been acquired just as ruthlessly as one of his eighteenth-century oils or a particularly fine piece of china. What she’d been naïve enough to think was love had been merely possessiveness, she the jewel chosen with the setting in mind.

And what a setting it was, the house at the leafy summit of Notting Hill, across the street from the faded elegance of St. John’s Church. Once Dawn had loved this Victorian house with its pale yellow stucco, its superbly proportioned rooms and beautiful appointments, and for a moment she mourned the passing of such an innocent pleasure.

Tonight the windows were dark as she turned into the drive, the blank panes mirroring her car lights. She had managed to beat Karl home, then; she would have a few minutes’ respite. Turning off the engine, she reached for her parcels, then paused, squeezing her eyes shut. Damn Karl! Damn Alex! In spite of them, she would find a way to deal with this, to keep the child she wanted more than she had ever wanted anything.

She slid out of the car, keys in one hand, bags in the other, ducking away from the wet fingers of the hedge that lined the drive.

A sound stopped her. The cat, she thought, relaxing, then remembered she’d left Tommy in the house, despite Karl’s strictures to the contrary. Tommy had been ill and she hadn’t wanted to leave him out unsupervised, in case he got into a scrap with another cat.

There it was again. A rustle, a breath, something out of place in the damp stillness. Panic gripped her, squeezing her heart, paralyzing her where she stood.

Forcing herself to think, she clasped her keys more tightly in her hand. The house just across the drive suddenly seemed an impossible distance. If she could only reach the safety of the door, she could lock herself in, ring for help. She held her breath and slid a foot forward—

The arms came round her from behind, a gloved hand pressing cruelly against her mouth. Too late, she struggled, tugging futilely at the arm pinning her chest, stomping down on an instep. Too late, she prayed for the flicker of Karl’s headlamps turning into the drive.

Her attacker’s breath sobbed raggedly in her ear; his grip tightened. The carrier bags fell unnoticed from her numb fingers. Then the pressure on her chest vanished, and in that instant’s relief, pain seared her throat.

She felt a fiery cold, then the swift and enveloping darkness folded round her like a cloak. In the last dim flicker of consciousness, she thought she heard him whisper, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

She sat on the stoop, idly swishing her skirt between her knees, listening to the faint sound of the new Cliff Richard song drifting from the open window across the street. This was not how she had imagined spending her twelfth birthday, but her parents did not believe in making a big fuss of such occasions. Nor did they think she needed her own record player, which was the one gift she desperately wanted. “A frivolous expense,” her father had called it, and none of her arguments had swayed him
.

Sighing gustily, she hugged her knees and traced her name on the dusty step with her finger. She was bored, bored, bored, and hot, filled with a new and strange sort of discontent
.

Perhaps when her mother came home from visiting friends, she could wheedle permission to see a new film at the cinema, as a special birthday treat. At least it would be cooler in the dark, and she could spend her pocket money on sweets from the concessionaire
.

She was wondering if Radio Luxembourg would play the new Elvis record tonight when an engine sputtered nearby. A lorry pulled up to the
curb in front of the house next door. The lorry’s open back held mattresses, an orange sofa, a chair covered with a bright flower print, all jumbled together, all blistering in the hot August sun
.

The driver’s door opened and a man climbed out and stood gazing up at the house. He wore a white shirt and a dark tie, and his skin was the deep color of the bittersweet chocolate her mother used for baking
.

A woman slid from the passenger side, her pumps clicking against the pavement as she touched the ground. Like her husband, she was smartly dressed, her shirtwaist dress crisply pressed, and as she stood beside him she looked up at the house with an expression of dismay. He smiled and touched her arm, then turned towards the bed of the lorry and called out something
.

From amid the boxes and bundles emerged a girl of about her own age with thin, bare, brown legs and a pink ruffled dress. Next came a boy, a year or two older, tall and gangly. It seemed to her that the family had blown in on the hot wind from somewhere infinitely more exotic than this dingy London neighborhood of terraced houses with peeling plasterwork; somewhere filled with colors and fragrances she had only imagined. They trooped up the steps together and into the house, and the street seemed suddenly lifeless without them
.

When it became apparent that they were not going to reappear right away, she hugged herself in frustration. She would tell someone, then, but who? Her mother wouldn’t be back for an hour or two, but her father would be at the café, his usual custom after a good morning’s trading at his jewelry stall
.

Leaping from the steps, she ran. Down Westbourne Park into Portobello, nimbly dodging the fruit-and-veg stalls, then round the corner into Elgin Crescent. She came to a halt in front of the café, pressing her nose against the glass as she caught her breath. Yes, there he was, just visible at his favorite table in the back. Smoothing her dress, she slipped through the open door into the café’s dim interior. The patrons sat in shirtsleeves, men reading Polish newspapers and filling the hot, still air with a heavy cloud of smoke from their pipes and cigarettes
.

She coughed involuntarily and her father looked up, frowning. “What are you doing here, little one? Is something wrong?”

He always thought something was wrong. She supposed he worried so because of his time in the war, although he never talked about that. In 1946, newly demobbed, her father had arrived in England with her mother, determined to put the war behind him and make a life for himself as a jeweler and silversmith
.

In spite of her precipitous arrival nine months later, he had done well. Better than some of the other men in the café, she knew, but still he clung to the things that reminded him of the old country: the smell of borscht and pierogi, the dark paneling hung with Polish folk art, and the company of buxom waitresses with hennaed hair
.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” she answered, sliding onto the banquette beside him. “And I’m not little. I wish you wouldn’t call me that, Poppy.”

“So, why does my very grown-up daughter come rushing through the door like a dervish?”

“We have new neighbors in the house next door.”

“And what’s so special about that?” he asked, still teasing
.

“They’re West Indian,” she whispered, aware of the turning of heads. “A father and mother and two children, a boy and a girl, about my age.”

Her father considered her news for a moment in his deliberate way, then shook his head. “Trouble. It will mean trouble.”

“But they look very nice—”

“It doesn’t matter. Now you go home and wait for your mother, and stay away from these people. I don’t want you getting hurt. Promise me.”

Hanging her head, she muttered, “Yes, Poppy,” but she did not meet his eyes
.

She walked home slowly, her excitement punctured by her father’s response. Surely he was wrong: nothing would happen. She knew there had been trouble when West Indian families had moved into other parts of the neighborhood, rioting even, on Blenheim Crescent, just round the corner from the café. But she’d known most of their neighbors since she was a baby; she couldn’t imagine them doing the sort of things she’d heard the grown-ups whispering about
.

But when she reached Westbourne Park, she saw a crowd gathered
in front of the house next door. Silent and watchful, they stood round the lorry, and there was no sign of the new family
.

For a moment she hesitated, remembering her father’s instructions; then a dark face appeared at an upstairs window and the crowd shifted with a rumble of menace
.

Without another thought for her promise, she pushed her way through to the back of the lorry, scooped up the biggest box she could carry, and marched up the steps. With a defiant glance back at the crowd, she turned and rapped on the door
.

A
S THEY DESCENDED THE STAIRS FROM THE TOP FLOOR OF THE
house, Kincaid heard the faint but insistent ringing of a telephone. The sound seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the coat rack, and Gemma swore under her breath as she crossed the room and plunged her hand into the pocket of her jacket, retrieving her phone.