And Justice There Is None (4 page)

From the stillness of her face as she listened, Kincaid guessed that they would not be spending a romantic evening celebrating the beginning of a new era in their relationship.

“What is it?” he asked when she disconnected.

“A murder. Just up the road, near the church.”

“You’re in charge?”

She nodded. “As of now, anyway. The superintendent can’t be reached.”

“Any details?”

“A woman, found by her husband.”

“Come on. You’ll be quicker if I drive you up the road.” His adrenaline had started to flow, but as they hurried to the car, he realized with a stab of disappointment that no matter how challenging the case about to unfold, he would be merely an onlooker.

He saw the flash of blue lights to their left as they crested the hill. Kincaid pulled up behind the last of the panda cars, then followed Gemma as she greeted the constable deployed to keep back onlookers.

“What can you tell me, John?” she asked quietly.

The young man looked a bit green about the gills. “I took the call. Gentleman came home and found his wife between her car and the hedge. He called the paramedics but it was already too late—she was dead.”

“How?”

“Throat cut.” He swallowed. “There’s a lot of blood.”

“Has the pathologist been called? And the scene-of-crime lads?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Franks took command until you arrived, ma’am.”

Kincaid saw Gemma grimace, but she said merely, “All right, John, thank you. You’ll get the area cordoned off before the SOCO’s get here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Constable Paris has it in hand.” As he spoke, a female constable appeared from behind the last of the patrol cars. She began unrolling the blue-and-white tape that would delineate the crime scene.

Following Gemma as she spoke to the young woman, Kincaid was the first to see the approach of a heavyset man already clad in the requisite white crime-scene coverall. This must be Sergeant Franks, whom Gemma had mentioned with dislike and a grudging respect. Balding, middle-aged, his face creased by an expression of perpetual discontent, Franks addressed Gemma without preamble. “You’d better suit up, then, before you go any further.”

“Thanks, Gerry,” Gemma replied smoothly. “Have you a coverall handy? Make that two.” She glanced back at Kincaid, adding, “This is Superintendent Kincaid, from the Yard.”

As they slipped into the coveralls Franks produced from the boot of one of the cars, Gemma asked, “What have you got so far, Gerry?”

“Husband arrived home, expecting his wife to be ready for a dinner engagement. Her car was in the drive, but the house was dark. He went in and called out for her, had a look round, then came back out into the drive and found the body. Tried to rouse her, then called nine-nine-nine.”

“Did the paramedics touch her?”

“No, but the husband did. He’s a right mess.”

“What’s his name?”

“Karl Arrowood. Quite a bit older than his wife, I’d say, and well off. Owns a poncey antiques shop on Kensington Park Road.”

The well-off part was obvious, Kincaid thought, glancing up at the house. The lower windows were now ablaze with light, illuminating the pale yellow stucco exterior and the white classical columns flanking the porch. In the drive, two dark Mercedes sedans sat side by side.

“Where is Mr. Arrowood now?” asked Gemma.

“One of the constables took him inside for a hot cup of tea, although I’d wager a stiff drink is more his style.”

“Right. He’ll keep for a bit. I’m going to have a look at the body before the pathologist gets here. What about lights?”

“Coming with the SOC team.”

“Then we’ll have to make do. What was her name, by the way? The wife.”

“Dawn. Pretty name.” Franks shrugged. “Not much use to her now.”

Gemma turned to Kincaid. “Want to put your oar in?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

They pulled elasticized covers on over their shoes and made their way carefully along the edge of the drive nearest the house, assuming that to be the least likely area for the perpetrator to have traversed. As they passed the cars, they saw that a wrought-iron gate barred the end of the drive, meeting the hedge that ran down the drive’s far side.

“There’s no place to hide except in the hedge itself,” Gemma murmured.

The body lay in front of the outside car, a dark heap that resolved itself as they drew closer into a slender woman in a leather coat. The thick, ferrous smell of blood was heavy in the damp air.

Kincaid felt the bile rise in the back of his throat as he squatted, using his pocket torch to illuminate Dawn Arrowood’s motionless form. As Gemma bent over, examining the corpse without touching it, he saw the sheen of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip. “You okay?” he asked softly, keeping the jab of fear from his voice
with an effort. Gemma had almost suffered a miscarriage six weeks previously, the result of her harrowing rescue of a young mother and infant on the slopes of Glastonbury Tor. Although now under doctor’s orders to take it easy, she had not been willing to take leave from work, and he found himself hovering over her like a broody hen.

“Shouldn’t have had the curry for lunch.” Gemma attempted a smile. “But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sick it up in front of Gerry Franks.”

“Not to mention it plays hell with the crime scene,” he rejoined, feeling a surge of relief that it was merely nausea that was troubling her.

He turned his attention back to the victim. Young—perhaps in her early thirties—blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that was now in partial disarray, a delicate, high-cheekboned face that he suspected had been strikingly beautiful in life; all marred now by the savage gash beneath her chin. The torchlight picked up the white gleam of cartilage in the wound.

The woman’s blouse had been sliced open and pulled back, and beneath the splash of blood from her throat, Kincaid thought he could make out another wound in her chest, but the poor light made it impossible to be sure. “There was no hesitation here. This bloke meant business.”

“You’re assuming it was a man?”

“Not likely to be a woman’s crime, is it? Either physically or emotionally. We’ll see what the pathologist says.”

“Did I hear someone take my name in vain?” called a voice from across the drive.

“Kate!” Kincaid said warmly as another white-suited figure came towards them. They had worked with Dr. Kate Ling on several previous cases, and he thought highly of her skill—not to mention her looks.

“Superintendent. Good to see you. Sounds like you’ve got yourself a real media circus in the making here.”

“Not my case, actually,” he told her, cursing himself for putting Gemma in such an awkward position. “Inspector James is Senior Investigating Officer. I’m just tagging along.”

“Oh,
Inspector
is it now,” Ling said, smiling. “Congratulations, Gemma. Let’s see what you’ve got here.”

Kincaid and Gemma stepped back as Ling knelt beside the body.

“Her blood’s pooled beneath her body, so she hasn’t been moved,” the pathologist said, as much to herself as to them. “No obvious signs of sexual interference. No hesitation marks on the throat. No readily apparent defense wounds.” She looked up at Gemma. “No weapon?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Well, I’ll be able to tell you a bit more about what was used here when I get her on the table, but the wound’s very clean and deep.” She probed the chest with gloved fingers. “There seems to be a puncture wound here as well.”

“What about time of death?” asked Gemma.

“I’d say very recent. She’s still warm to the touch.”

“Bloody hell,” Gemma whispered. “I walked right by this house not more than an hour ago. Do you suppose …”

“Did you see anything?” Kincaid asked.

Gemma shook her head. “No. But then I wasn’t looking, and now I wonder what I might have missed.” She turned to Kate Ling. “When can you perform the postmortem?”

“Tomorrow morning, first thing,” Ling said with a sigh. “So much for getting my nails done.” She stood as voices heralded the arrival of the technicians who would photograph the body and the crime scene, and gather every scrap of physical evidence from the area. “Right, I’ll get out of the way and let them do their job. When they get ready to bag the body, have them deliver it to the morgue at St. Charles Hospital. It’s nearby, and convenient for me.” Ling gave Kincaid a jaunty wave and disappeared the way she had come.

“And I’ll get out of your way,” Kincaid said as he saw Gemma glance at him and hesitate.

“Will you check on Toby, and let Hazel know what’s happened? I’ve no idea when I’ll get home.”

“I’ll stay with Toby myself. Don’t worry.” He touched her arm lightly, then made his way back to the street. But rather than getting in his car, he stood, watching from a distance as Gemma directed her
team. As she climbed the front steps and entered the house, he would have given anything to be beside her.

“B
LOODY SODDING HELL!
D
OUG
C
ULLEN FUMED, STOMPING INTO HIS
” flat and dropping his briefcase in the hall. He’d been reading his case files on the bus, as was his usual habit on his nightly commute home from the Yard, when he’d come across a scrawled note from Kincaid criticizing the conclusions he’d drawn after interviewing a suspect’s associate.

I think there’s more here than meets the eye, Doug. This one warrants another interview. Be patient this time, see if you can get under his skin
.

“Like Sergeant James,” Cullen mimicked Kincaid’s unspoken parenthetical comment. The inestimable Sergeant Gemma James, who had apparently never made a mistake in her entire career at the Yard, and who had, as Kincaid so often reminded him, a special talent for interviewing people.

Cullen went into the kitchen and stared morosely into his barren fridge. He had meant to get off the bus a stop early and buy a six-pack at the off-license, but it had completely slipped his mind. Filling a glass with water from the tap, he gazed out the window at the traffic moving on the damp, greasy tarmac of Euston Road.

Of course he’d heard the scuttlebutt round the office about Kincaid’s relationship with his former partner, and he was tempted to put Kincaid’s veneration of her down to personal bias. But even if Sergeant James had been the most exemplary detective, did that mean he had always to be measured by her standard?

Cullen was introspective enough to realize that a good deal of his ire towards Gemma James had to do with his doubts about his own performance. Of course he was a good detective, he knew that, and he knew he’d never have landed this job at the Yard if his record hadn’t spoken well of him. He was analytical, thorough, good at task management, but he also knew that his weakness lay in his impatience in interviewing witnesses and suspects. He wanted results quickly, and
he wanted them in black and white—neither of which was very likely in police work.

Part of that he put down to his rather sheltered upbringing in suburban St. Albans, the only son of a City lawyer, part to an addiction to American cop shows on the telly, where the tough guys always got their man by the end of the hour.

But surely he could learn patience, just like anything else. And the fair, schoolboy looks that so plagued him gave him a ready advantage—people tended to trust him. If he could make himself sit and listen, even the most hardened criminals, he was learning, had a vulnerable spot for sympathy.

And wasn’t that what his guv’nor was telling him, if he could get round his resentment of Gemma James? She was an ordinary mortal, after all, one who had probably muddled through her first few months as Kincaid’s sergeant in much the same way he had. Perhaps if he were to meet her, see her as a person, it would lay the ghost of her perfection to rest in his mind. And he had to admit to a good measure of plain old-fashioned curiosity.

Wandering back into the sitting room, he tidied automatically, mulling over possibilities. It was not likely that a chance errand would send him to Notting Hill Police Station any time soon, nor could he foresee any upcoming social encounters … unless he were to manufacture an occasion. His girlfriend, Stella, was always on at him about his lack of enthusiasm for her dinner parties—but what if he were to suggest one?

Not here, though. He looked round his flat with distaste. At Bloomsbury’s northern edge, the small flat in an ugly, concrete sixties building had been a good value for London but lacked any charm or comfort. To make matters worse, Stella, a buyer for a trendy home furnishings shop, had decorated it for him in neutrals and grays. She insisted that the color scheme and the boxy lines of the furniture harmonized with the building’s architectural style. After her efforts, he hadn’t the heart to tell her that he found it all extremely depressing.

Stella’s flat, then, in Ebury Street, near the Yard. He would jolly her into it at dinner tonight, even if it meant the trade-off of committing
himself to one of her friends’ country-house weekends—and that was a fate he considered almost worse than death.

T
HE HOUSE SMELLED OF FLOWERS, THE SWEETNESS OF THE SCENT A
painful contrast to the acrid smell of blood. A console table held an enormous arrangement of fresh blooms, and glimpses into the rooms on either side showed equally sumptuous bouquets. Walls the color of goldenrod accentuated the richness of the dark furniture, the elegance of the silk draperies falling to pools on the carpets, the discreet lighting on the paintings that hung on the walls.

The touch of something soft against her ankle made Gemma gasp, but when she looked down she saw that it was only a gray cat, materializing as if by magic. She knelt to stroke it and the beast butted against her knees, purring gratefully. Was this Dawn Arrowood’s pet? Gemma wondered. Missing its mistress—or perhaps merely craving its supper.

She heard voices from the back of the house, an intermittent murmur of conversation. Giving the cat a last pat, Gemma followed the sound down the corridor. The large kitchen was as elegant as the other rooms, lined with cream-colored cabinets and copper accessories. At a table in the breakfast area sat Constable Melody Talbot, and beside her a man in a white, blood-soaked shirt.