And Justice There Is None (5 page)

Gemma paused, halted in part by the unexpected sight of so much blood in such surroundings, and in part by her surprise at Karl Arrowood’s appearance. “An older husband,” Gerry Franks had said, and she had mentally translated that into “feeble elderly gentleman.” But the man gazing at her across the kitchen was, she guessed, no older than his mid-fifties, lean and fit, with a strong, lightly suntanned face, and thick hair still as yellow as the walls of his house.

“Mr. Arrowood,” she said, collecting herself, “I’m Detective Inspector James. I’d like to speak to Constable Talbot for a moment, if you’ll excuse us.”

When Talbot had followed her into the hall, Gemma asked, “Anything?”

Talbot shook her head. “Just what he told Sergeant Franks. And he has no inclination to talk to me. I suspect he considers me beneath his notice.” She made the statement without rancor.

“Right. I’ll tackle him, then. Go check on the search warrant, then let me know the status.”

Returning to the kitchen, Gemma sat across from Karl Arrowood. His eyes, she saw, were gray, and without expression.

“Mr. Arrowood, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I don’t know how I can help you, Inspector. I’ve come home, found my wife murdered in my own drive, and all your lot seem to be able to do is offer me tea.”

“Our investigation is proceeding along normal lines, Mr. Arrowood, and one of the necessary components is a detailed description of everything you remember about finding your wife. I’m sorry, I know this must be painful for you.”

“I’ve already gone over it with your sergeant.”

“Nevertheless, I need to hear it as well. I understand you were expecting your wife to be at home when you arrived. Is that correct?”

“We had a dinner engagement at the Savoy, with customers who come over regularly from Germany. Dawn wouldn’t have been late.”

“So you were surprised when you arrived home and found the house dark?”

“Yes, especially as I knew she’d taken her car, and it was in the drive. She was meeting a friend at Fortnum’s, and she didn’t care for public transport. I thought …” For the first time he hesitated, and Gemma saw that in spite of his apparent composure, his hands were trembling. “I thought perhaps she’d come in feeling unwell and fallen asleep, but when I checked the bedroom there was no sign she’d been there.”

“What is the name of your wife’s friend?”

“Natalie. I’m afraid I don’t recall her surname. She was an old school friend of Dawn’s. I’ve never met her.”

Gemma found that a bit odd, but let it go for the moment. “Then what did you do?” she prompted.

“I called out, had a look round the house. Then … I’m not quite sure why, I went back out into the drive. I suppose I thought she’d
met a neighbor or … I don’t know.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead, leaving a tiny smear of red. “I saw something white in the drive, near the bonnet of her car. When I got closer I saw it was a carrier bag, from Harrods. And then …”

This time Gemma waited in silence.

“I thought she’d fallen … fainted, perhaps. She hadn’t been feeling well lately. I tried to lift her …”

“Then you rang for help?”

“I had my mobile in my pocket. I couldn’t leave her.”

“Was there anything worrying your wife, Mr. Arrowood?”

“Good God! You’re not suggesting suicide?”

“No, of course not. Only that she might have been approached by someone recently, or had an argument with someone. Anything out of the ordinary.”

“No. I don’t know of anything. I’m sure she’d have told me.” He drummed long fingers on the table and Gemma saw that he had blood under his fingernails. “Look. Is that all? I’ve phone calls to make. Her family … I’ll have to tell her family …”

A motion in the hall alerted Gemma to Talbot’s return. Talbot gave her a nod of assent, then stood by for instructions.

“Mr. Arrowood, Constable Talbot is going to stay with you while we search the premises—”

“Search my house?” Arrowood scowled in disbelief. “You’re not serious?”

“I’m afraid I am. It’s the first thing we do in any homicide investigation. We’ll need your clothes as well, for the lab. I’ll have one of the technicians bring you some clean things from upstairs.”

“But this is outrageous. You can’t do this. I’m going to call my contact in the Home Office—”

“You’re welcome to ring whomever you like, Mr. Arrowood, but the warrant’s already been issued. I’m sorry. I know this is difficult, but it’s normal procedure and we’ve no choice under the circumstances. Now, did your wife keep a diary of her appointments? Or an address book where I might be able to find the name of the friend she met for tea?”

She thought he might refuse, but she held his gaze and after a
moment the fight seemed to seep out of him. His shoulders sagged. “In the sitting room. On the desk by the window.”

“Thank you. Is there someone you can call to stay with you?”

“No,” he said slowly, almost as if the thought surprised him. “No one.”

G
EMMA FOUND THE ADDRESS BOOK AND DIARY EASILY ENOUGH, JUST
where Arrowood had said; small books, covered in floral fabric and smelling of perfume. A quick look showed her that Dawn Arrowood had written only one thing in her diary for that day, at ten o’clock in the morning:
Tommy to vet
. Was Tommy the gray cat she had met in the hall?

Gemma paged carefully through the neat script in the address book. With helpful feminine logic, Dawn had placed All Saints Animal Hospital under V for vet. Making a note of the number, Gemma continued searching for Dawn’s friend Natalie. In the W’s, she found a listing for a Natalie Walthorpe, but Walthorpe had been carefully lined through and Caine had been written in after it.

After writing an evidence receipt, Gemma tucked both books in her bag for later perusal.

“Anything upstairs?” she asked the technician.

“No bloody shoes tucked neatly in the wardrobe, if that’s what you’re hoping,” the technician returned cheekily. “You can have a go, if you like.”

“Thanks, I will.”

As she climbed the stairs, she felt again the brush against her leg, and looked down to find the cat padding up the stairs alongside her. “Tommy?” she said experimentally.

The cat looked up at her and blinked, as if to acknowledge his name. “Okay, Tommy it is.”

At the top of the stairs, she turned towards the sound of voices. She was rewarded by the sight of the master bedroom, and within it, two coveralled technicians going over every surface with tweezers and sticky tape.

“Afraid you’ll have to observe from the doorway for a bit longer, guv,” one of them informed her. “Let us know if there’s anything particular you want to look at.”

With that Gemma had to be content. She stood, taking in the atmosphere of the pale yellow room. It was a gracious and elegant retreat, large and high-ceilinged, with a draped four-poster bed. The floral print of the drapes was matched by the coverlet and window coverings, a show of expensive decorating that made Gemma feel slightly claustrophobic.

Tommy the cat jumped up on the bed, curled himself into a ball, and began to purr. When the technician gave her the go-ahead, Gemma went into the room and began to look round her.

The bedside table on the right held glossy copies of
Vogue
and
Town and Country
, as well as a copy of the latest best-selling novel and a delicate alarm clock. Gemma thought of her own bedside, usually endowed with a stack of dog-eared paperbacks and a used teacup.

Peeking into the en suite bathroom, she found monogrammed, pale yellow towels, and an antique oak sideboard displaying expensive makeup and perfumes tidily arranged on lacquered trays. On the back of the door hung a fluffy toweling dressing gown. Where, Gemma wondered, was the hastily abandoned hairbrush, the jewelry taken off and left to be dealt with at a later time?

The built-in wardrobe revealed more of the same: neatly arranged women’s clothes on one side, men’s expensive suits on the other. Frowning in frustration, Gemma dug deeper. Shelves held handbags and stored summer clothes, the floor racks of shoes. It was only when she sat back with a sigh of exasperation that she saw the edge of the box behind the shoes. Moving the shoe rack, she pulled out the box—not cardboard, heaven forbid, but a specialty shop storage container—and removed the lid.

Here at last was some semblance of a jumble. Tattered volumes of Enid Blyton’s children’s books jostled against romantic novels and two dolls; a smaller, obviously hand-papered box held school reports and family photos labeled in a childish, yet recognizable, hand.

Gemma sat back, perplexed. These things had, at one time, defined the woman who had died that night. Why had Dawn Arrowood
found it not only necessary to reinvent herself so completely, but to hide away the remnants of the person she had been?

K
INCAID HAD TUCKED
T
OBY INTO BED WITH A READING OF
G
RAHAM
Oakley’s
The Church Mice Adrift
, the boy’s book of choice as of late, and now sat at Gemma’s half-moon table, nursing a glass of the Chardonnay he’d found in her fridge.

As he looked round the room, he thought how deeply Gemma had stamped her presence on this space. It had given her safety and comfort when she had felt adrift in her life—Would he be able to provide her as much security as she’d found here? God knew they needed anchors badly enough in their jobs … and this case she’d landed tonight would test her resources; he’d known that from the outset. The media attention alone would be brutal, especially if she failed to produce a suspect in the amount of time the journalists deemed suitable.

Was he making the right choice in moving her into a house in her own patch, where there would be no escape from the presence of work, and in forcing her to do it so quickly? Yet he felt compelled to act; now that she’d agreed at last, he was afraid if he hesitated she might change her mind.

And then there was Kit to consider. His son’s school term ended in a week, and when Kit made the move from Grantchester to London, Kincaid wanted them to begin as they meant to go on—as a family. He still harbored the fear that his ex-wife’s widower, Ian McClellan, who remained Kit’s legal guardian, might change his mind about leaving the boy in Kincaid’s care when Ian took up a teaching post in Canada in the new year.

And then there were his ex-wife’s parents, who felt they should have charge of their grandson. Eugenia Potts was both selfish and hysterical, and when forced to stay in her care, Kit had run away. Since then, Ian had allowed the grandparents only one supervised visit a month, which was coming up the Friday after Christmas. Eugenia had chosen the stuffy formality of afternoon tea at Brown’s
Hotel for their meeting—not the outing of choice for a twelve-year-old boy.

Nor would Eugenia be happy to see Kincaid, whom she despised, or to learn about Kit’s new living arrangements. Over them hung the specter that Eugenia might actually undertake the legal action she threatened on a regular basis, and attempt to wrest Kit’s guardianship for herself.

Well, they would just have to deal with that when the time came. If Kincaid’s job had not taught him that there were few guarantees of stability in life, he should have learned it from his ex-wife’s tragic death.

Thinking of the young woman they had seen that night, her life so unexpectedly snuffed out, Kincaid got up and poured the remains of his wine down the sink. He turned off all but the bedside lamp, then opened the blind and stood looking into the darkened garden. What worried him most was that he had seen a murder like this once before, less than two months ago.

A
WARM, MOIST CURRENT OF DOG BREATH WOKE HER
. B
RYONY
opened one eye and tried to focus on the lolling pink tongue of Duchess, her golden retriever mix, inches from her face.

“What is it, girl? What time is it?” Turning over, she peered at her alarm clock. Was it seven already? “Shit,” she muttered, rolling out of bed and giving Duchess a hasty caress as she headed for the loo. She’d meant to be at the café before now. Several of them had formed a habit of meeting for early coffee and croissants before the Saturday morning trading got into full swing, and she was dying to tell someone about her project—especially Marc, if the truth be told. Whether or not her plan would work depended on him.

When she’d scrubbed her face and pulled on jeans, boots and sweater, she took Duchess for a quick constitutional in the postage stamp of Powis Square, then set off for Elgin Crescent.

A blanket of cloud hovered over the rooftops, obscuring the light of the rising sun, but at least it had not yet begun to rain. Bryony’s
long strides devoured the distance from her flat to the café, and by the time she pushed open the door she’d worked up a rosy glow.

Her friends sat in the back, gathered round two tables: Wesley, his ebullient dreadlocks sedated by a cap; Fern Adams, whose punk dress and makeup belied her knowledge of the antique silver she traded in the market; Marc, who flashed Bryony the quick smile he seemed to reserve just for her; and Otto, apron-clad, coffee pot in hand. Only Alex Dunn was missing.

They all looked up at her with solemn faces as she came in, and no one offered a greeting.

“What?” Bryony joked. “Did someone die?”

When no one answered, she gazed at them with dawning horror. “Oh, no,” she whispered, sinking into the nearest chair. “Has something happened? Not Alex—”

Otto upended a cup from the stack on the table and poured her a coffee, but it was Wesley who answered. “It’s Dawn Arrowood, the lady that Alex was, um, seeing. She was killed last night. Murdered.”

“Mrs. Arrowood? But that’s not possible! She was just in the surgery yesterday, with her cat. Gavin saw them.” The pretty blond woman, so devoted to her cat, was one of the hospital’s regular clients. “I can’t believe it. What happened?”