And Justice There Is None (27 page)

“If he misses Ian, or the cottage, he hasn’t let on. But he seems happy.” Gemma thought of all Kit had endured in the past year. “This will be his first Christmas without his mum, of course. I just hope we don’t let him down.”

By November, Mr. Pheilholz’s grocery had closed its doors, unable to compete with the new Tesco on Portobello Road
.

But it no longer mattered to Angel: she’d left her job the previous month. Karl had rented a flat in Chelsea, in a tiny Swiss-cottage mews just off the King’s Road, and Angel had moved in with him
.

At first, she’d intended to get another job, but as the weeks went by, the prospect seemed less and less inviting. Their evenings were a dizzying round of clubs and parties that lasted into the wee hours. Then there was bed to look forward to, sleeping intertwined until late in the mornings, when Karl got up to arrange the business meetings at which he liked her to play hostess. He was making a name for himself finding specialized antiques for well-off clients, and rather than expending capital on a shop, he conducted most of his transactions from the flat
.

To Angel it seemed a dream, so far removed was their life from her existence in the Colville Terrace flat. And if, in quiet moments, she missed her old friends, she pushed such thoughts away. She had made an effort, in those heady first weeks, to introduce Karl to Betty and Ronnie Thomas. She’d arranged for them to have tea in a Portobello café, but she could tell from the moment they sat down that the meeting was doomed. The café was the sort of place Karl particularly disliked, with rings on the table, cheap crockery, and the pervasive smell of chips frying in rancid oil
.

Betty eyed Angel’s new rabbit-fur coat and miniskirt with a mixture of dismay and envy. “My mum would die if she saw me in that,” she whispered, and Angel could think of no reply that would not hurt Betty’s feelings
.

The tea, when it came, was coffee-colored and tasted like motor oil, and Karl didn’t hide his distaste. Angel tried to carry the conversation, but Betty was shyly awkward, Ronnie hostile and condescending, and Karl obviously bored by the whole affair. When, after half an hour, he excused himself, pleading a business meeting, Angel was left staring at her friends across the table
.

“Karl’s awfully good-looking,” Betty began hesitantly. “And older. Are you sure—”

“He’s bad news, is what he is,” interrupted Ronnie. “Have you any idea the sort of people he knows? Or what they do? It’s nothing you’ve any business getting involved with—”

“I’ve met his friends,” Angel retorted. “They’re perfectly nice—”

“Nice! They do drugs, and worse. If you’ve any sense, you’ll walk away from him before you get yourself in real trouble. I told you when you took that bedsit that no good would come of it—”

“That’s enough, Ronnie,” Angel spat at him. “You don’t have any right to tell me what to do, and I’m not going to listen to you anymore.” Trembling with fury, she stood with as much dignity as she could muster. Every head in the restaurant had turned towards them
.

Betty’s dark eyes had filled with tears. “Angel, don’t. He didn’t mean—”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Angel threw some money on the table and stormed out
.

Huddling into her coat, she trudged up Portobello towards the tube stop. Yellow leaves rustled and whirled along the pavement, a harbinger of autumn, and she reminded herself how lucky she was not to be facing another winter with only a paraffin heater for comfort
.

She hadn’t told Betty and Ronnie that she’d moved in with Karl—God knew what Ronnie would have said then! But she had to look out for herself, move on with her life, even if it meant leaving Betty and Ronnie behind. Betty had her Colin, after all, and Ronnie … Why should she care what Ronnie thought?

What if she and Karl and their friends took a few pills? Everyone did; it was the latest rage. Blue, red, green, yellow, all the colors of the rainbow, the little capsules and tablets helped you stay up at night, then helped you go to sleep when the buzz hadn’t quite worn off. And everyone who was anyone smoked pot. No party was complete without a few joints
.

She got out of the tube at Sloane Square and walked west down the King’s Road. New boutiques—you had to be careful to say “boutique” rather than “shop”—were springing up everywhere, and as she absorbed the bustle and energy of the street, her anger began to translate itself into purpose
.

Stopping in front of a hairdresser’s, she put her hands to the glass and peered in. Yes, it was just the sort of place she had in mind. There was no point in hanging on to the remnants of her former life any longer
.

An hour later, she emerged from the salon, her hair now the color of silver gilt, cropped close above her ears. A new op-art dress from a nearby boutique and a pair of strappy high heels completed the picture. That night Karl was taking her to the Speakeasy. It was one of the most popular clubs in town—she’d heard Cilla Black would be there that night—and she intended for every head to turn when she walked in the door
.

She had shed that dumpy little Polish girl from Portobello, like a snake shed its skin, and she meant never to look back
.

O
N
C
HRISTMAS
E
VE MORNING, TEN DAYS AFTER
D
AWN
Arrowood’s murder, Gemma waited outside the veterinary surgery on All Saints Road for Bryony to arrive. It was miserably cold, the weather as bleak as it had been the previous day, and the air smelled more strongly of snow. Seeking protection from the wind’s probing fingers, Gemma squeezed into the slight recess in the surgery’s doorway.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Bryony crossing towards her, her long stride rapidly closing the distance between them.

“Gemma! What are you doing here? Is Geordie okay?” Bryony wore a long striped scarf and matching stocking cap in yellows and purples, and managed somehow to carry it off.

“He’s fine. He seems to be settling in remarkably well, in fact.” Although Tess had followed the boys to bed as usual, Geordie had stayed with Gemma and Duncan, curling up on the foot of their bed as if he had always slept there.

“Are we going to have a no-furniture rule?” Kincaid had asked, bemused.

“Tess sleeps with Kit.”

“True. And our dogs always slept on our beds when we were kids. I’m not objecting—it’s just that you need to start as you mean to go on.”

Gemma found she hadn’t the heart to make the dog move. “No, let him stay. He doesn’t take up that much room, and he’ll keep my feet warm.”

“Right.” Kincaid had grinned at her. “I can see I’ve already been displaced in your affections.” But he didn’t seem to mind, really.

“I hope you didn’t mind my sending Marc yesterday,” Bryony was saying as she unlocked the surgery door. “But Geordie’s owner—former owner—left him at the soup kitchen, and I hated to expose him to the other dogs in case some of them had contagious illnesses. And I couldn’t ask the owner to take him away until I’d finished—she was barely holding herself together as it was.”

“No, it was fine, and Duncan and the boys were so surprised. You’ll tell Geordie’s owner he’s all right?” She saw that Geordie’s photo was still taped to the side of the monitor. Feeling proprietary, she asked, “Do you mind if I take this?” and at Bryony’s nod she peeled it off and put it in her handbag. “Your clinic went well?”

“Beyond all expectation,” Bryony said, switching on the computer and readying files. “But if you didn’t come about Geordie—”

“It’s Mr. Farley,” said Gemma. “Can you tell me what time he left on the Friday Dawn was killed?”

Bryony froze, mid-motion. “Why?”

“Just routine, really. But he did have that little disagreement with Dawn. I’m just ruling out options.”

Color stained Bryony’s cheeks. “I should never have said anything. I never meant for you to take it seriously, and now I feel an absolute fool.”

“Why? If Mr. Farley had something to do with Dawn’s death, would you protect him?”

“Of course not. But I’m sure Gavin couldn’t have done something like that, and having the police poke into his business is not going to
make him happy.” Bryony looked away from Gemma’s gaze. “It’s just that he’s rather cross with me already … over my holding the free clinic.”

“Why does he object to it?”

“I’m not sure if it’s the money or the principle that aggravates him most. I think he sees it as a useless exercise, and since those supplies went missing, he’s been like an old maid over expenses. It’s odd, too, as the loss didn’t really amount to more than a few pounds.”

“He sees helping homeless people’s animals as a useless exercise?”

“You can always trust Gavin not to be politically correct. But he’s right, in a way,” Bryony added with a sigh. “As much as I hate to admit it. There’s so much I
can’t
do. I’m not giving up, though. And Marc’s been so good …”

“He
is
nice, isn’t he? You’re a lucky woman, I should think.”

“Oh, no! I don’t—We don’t—We’re friends, that’s all.”

“But I thought—I’m sorry. It’s just that you seem so well suited.”

“It’s not that I’d mind,” the other woman admitted. “But Marc’s very focused on his work. You know how it is …”

“Unlike Mr. Farley, I take it.” Gemma glanced at her watch. “Is he coming in at all?”

“No. He’s given himself a long holiday. Boss’s privilege.” Bryony seemed to come to a decision. “Look, I don’t see any harm in telling you that he left early that Friday, before five. But I think you should ask him yourself.”

“That’s just what I intend to do.”

“White girl, ain’t got no sense,” Betty muttered, kicking angrily at a tin can in the gutter and scuffing the toe of her saddle shoe. Then she felt ashamed of herself for speaking of Angel in that jeering way, even if there was no one else to hear, for she felt sure Angel never thought of her as a “black girl.” Why, one day their last year in school, Mozelle Meekum, a pasty-faced bully with arms like hams, had called her a nigger, and Angel had gone and slapped that girl right up the side of the head. Got in trouble for it, too, detention after school. And never complained
.

So why had Angel, who knew the difference between what was right and what wasn’t, gone off with this man who was no better than he should be, good looks be damned? There was something wrong in that young man, Betty could feel it, a cold place inside him. But Angel wouldn’t believe her, not now, not as long as she was blinded by lust, and any fool could see that she was
.

And poor Ronnie, furious with Angel, furious with himself. Betty saw the way he looked at Angel when Angel wasn’t looking, knew what he was suffering, knew that even if she could shake the stubbornness out of him and make him speak to Angel, it was too late. He had lost her
.

There was no bloody help for any of it, as far as she could see. And she had her Colin to think of now, and their future—He wouldn’t like her getting mixed up in others’ business. Still, if only there were something she could do.…

It came to her as she neared the church, and her heart lifted a bit. Not that Angel had much use for Catholic practices … But it couldn’t do any harm to light a candle for her soul … and she need never know
.

K
INCAID ORGANIZED THE NOTES ON HIS DESK AND TOOK ANOTHER
appreciative sip of coffee from a polystyrene cup. Someone had apparently upgraded the communal pot, as the coffee actually tasted more like coffee than battery acid. Perhaps the departmental secretary had received an abundance of coffee beans as a Christmas gift.

He’d just returned from an informative meeting with a mate in the drug squad. It seemed that they’d had an eye on Karl Arrowood for years—since long before Kincaid’s friend’s tenure on the force, in fact. But Arrowood was a clever and cautious man, and they had never been able to come up with anything concrete against him. Years ago, they’d thought to make a case, but he’d managed to slip through their fingers.

His phone rang, and he took another sip of his coffee before lifting the receiver.

“Duncan? It’s Gemma.” She sounded discouraged. “The report’s come back on Arrowood’s office computer.”

“No joy, I take it?”

“Not a blinking thing. He’s got himself a very good bookkeeper, but then what would you expect? There are a large number of cash transactions, but that’s not illegal, and he has reason to keep cash reserves on hand. A lot of antique trading is cash only.”

“How very convenient.” He told her what he’d learned from the drug squad, then asked, “Did you see the vet?”

“I’ve just come from the surgery. He wasn’t in, but I did have a word with Bryony. She says Farley left the clinic before five that Friday. He’s at home today, so I thought I’d have a word with him there.”

“Hang on for a few minutes. I’ve a meeting with the guv’nor, but let me send Cullen with you. He’s come up with a few interesting tidbits on Farley. Suspected tax evasion for starters, followed by sexual harassment of a client.”

“N
OT BAD,”
D
OUG
C
ULLEN MURMURED AS HE LOOKED ROUND
, whistling through his teeth. The houses here were semidetached, the curved, hilly street lined with mature trees. Every door sported a wreath, and every driveway a Mercedes, a Lexus, or a BMW.

“Up-and-coming Willesden—although I’m still inclined to think of it as the place the buses go home to bed,” Gemma agreed. “But considering the area’s upmarket status these days, I’m not surprised Mr. Farley cheats on his taxes. Here it is,” she added, checking the house number against her notes.