And Justice There Is None (31 page)

“Why slash a man’s chest? And if that was the killer’s intent, why didn’t he finish the job?”

“Perhaps he was interrupted,” Kincaid mused. “Or perhaps he was afraid that the struggle had attracted attention. I can tell you one thing, though—if whoever did this managed to get home without notice, he had to have some way to dispose of his bloody clothes and clean himself up before he was seen by anyone. So he either lives alone—”

“Or has an unusual amount of privacy. As in Gavin Farley’s workshop and shower. I think we should get a car on the way to Willesden even before we see Mrs. Du Ray.”

“I
BLEW IT
, G
EMMA RAGED TO
K
INCAID AS THEY STRIPPED OFF THEIR
coveralls. “I should have prevented this.” She had not liked Karl Arrowood, but to see such strength and force extinguished had shaken her badly.

“How? What could you have done differently?”

“If I knew that, I would have done it, wouldn’t I? At least we can rule out Arrowood as the murderer—”

“Can we? What if someone learned he’d committed the first two murders and decided to take retribution into their own hands?”

“I suppose that’s possible. But Karl Arrowood was a powerful man, quite a different proposition for the killer than two unsuspecting women—”

“Accounting for the lack of finesse. Dr. Ling may be able to tell us if the murders were committed by the same person. But if that’s the case, it’s quite a departure from the usual serial killer pattern.”

Fully dressed again, they followed the walk to Mrs. Du Ray’s porch, their footprints leaving dark gashes in the fresh snow. “Bloody hell, your sergeant’s right about the crime scene,” Kincaid muttered as he rang the bell. “Might as well wash everything down with a fire hose.”

Mrs. Du Ray greeted Gemma with a whispered, “Oh, my dear.” Her skin appeared paper-thin, the lines round mouth and eyes much more pronounced than a week earlier.

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with this, Mrs. Du Ray,” she said. “It must have been a terrible shock.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Du Ray gave a small negative shake of her head, as if further words escaped her.

When they were seated in the warm kitchen, Gemma said, “Why don’t you start from the beginning.”

“After my supper, I did the washing up, then went upstairs to get ready for bed. Sometimes I put on my dressing gown and come back downstairs to watch a little television. When I glanced out the window, I noticed Karl’s car standing in the drive. There was a faint light coming from the interior, as if perhaps one of the doors hadn’t quite closed.” Mrs. Du Ray spoke clearly and precisely, as if giving a report, but the blue veins stood out on her hands, clasped in her lap. “I thought I saw something dark in front of the car, but it had begun to snow, and I decided my eyes were deceiving me.”

“What time was this?” asked Gemma, her notebook ready.

“Before nine o’clock. I’m sure of it because there was a program on at nine I wanted to see. I came downstairs again and made some cocoa, but I couldn’t settle. I kept wondering if I had really seen something, or if my imagination had run wild. So I went back up and looked again, and this time there
was
a dark shape in the drive—I was sure of it—and I saw someone crossing the street from the churchyard.

“It was a young man, or at least that was my impression. He was bareheaded, with that floppy sort of Edwardian hairstyle you see young men wearing these days. He came into the drive, almost tiptoeing, and walked round the car. Then he froze, and went closer. I saw him bend over and reach out, then he turned and ran as if the hounds of hell were after him.”

“What else did you notice about the young man?”

“He was tall, and on the slender side, I think. It’s hard to tell with a coat, and the snow …”

“Did you see his face well enough that you’d recognize him again?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Du Ray seemed distressed. “I’d not want to accuse someone unfairly.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that at the moment,” Kincaid assured her. “It sounds very much as if Mr. Arrowood was already dead. It was after this that you rang the police?”

“Well, no. I had to be sure, you see. I dressed and went out to look for myself … Poor Karl … There was so much blood.” She looked up at them in appeal. “Why would someone do such a terrible thing?”

K
IT LAY AWAKE FOR A LONG TIME AFTER
D
UNCAN AND
G
EMMA LEFT
, listening to the rhythm of Toby’s breathing. Tess was curled up at his feet, and after a few minutes, Geordie padded upstairs and jumped up on the bed, stretching out against his thigh. Resting his hand on the dog’s head, Kit snuggled further down into the bedclothes and told
himself he should be content. It was Christmas, after all.… It was snowing.… He was part of a family again.…

But he had dreamed of his mother, and as hard as he tried during the day not to think of her, now his mind refused to let her go.

Had she known the poem Duncan had read tonight? It was the sort of thing she would have liked, of that he was sure, with the sound of the words making pictures that went along with the meaning.

Had his mum and Duncan celebrated Christmases together? He’d never thought much about the time they’d spent together before he was born—it made him feel decidedly odd—but now he worried at it. They
had
loved one another, he supposed. They had been married, had meant to be a family, but something had gone wrong. If his mum and Duncan had stayed together, would she still be alive?

He didn’t want to think about that. Then Duncan wouldn’t be with Gemma, and Kit genuinely loved Gemma, although even admitting that to himself made him feel disloyal to his mother.

Stroking Geordie’s silky muzzle, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture the snow swirling outside, but instead remembered the last time it had snowed in Grantchester. Near their house, a gentle hill sloped down to the towpath beside the river. He and his mum had sledded down on baking pans, shouting and tumbling off together at the bottom. Her face had glowed pink with cold and happiness, and he remembered how her laughter had rung out in the clear air.

But what he recalled most was the moment they had stood at the top of the hill, holding their baking pans, looking down at the white blanket enveloping the familiar folds and hollows. The pristine expanse was undisturbed, except for the tiny, three-toed track of a bird, as sharp and crisp as a hieroglyphic, and the tidy paw prints of a cat, or fox, near the hedgerow.

Kit had stood, transfixed, and it seemed to him that to make a mark upon such beauty was more than he could bear. Then his mother had called out for him to join her.

He’d put aside his hesitation and plunged out into the snow, and
it had been a good time, one of the best. With that thought, he fell asleep.

A
CCORDING TO
D
R
. L
ING
, A
RROWOOD HAD BEEN DEAD SEVERAL
hours, but she would have to use calculations involving air temperature and environmental factors to be more precise. Nor could she give them any immediate guess as to the nature of the weapon until she had cleaned up the corpse—the wounds were simply too much of a mess.

She did speculate, however, that unlike his wife, Arrowood might have lived for some time after the attack, too weak from loss of blood to do more than make a futile attempt at getting help.

None of this came as any surprise to Kincaid and Gemma. Adding to their frustration, the crime-scene officers reported no evidence of disturbance inside the house. The front door had been locked, and Arrowood’s keys had been found in the drive a few feet from his body, as if he’d dropped them in the struggle.

When the responding officers arrived, they had indeed found the driver’s door of the Mercedes ever so slightly ajar, and the dome lamp burning.

“He must have been jumped just as he opened the door,” Kincaid said as they shed their coats in the warmth of Gemma’s office.

“If that door had been closed properly, he might have lain there, covered in snow, until someone missed him.”

“Apparently, since it looks as though Mrs. Du Ray’s creeping figure didn’t feel inclined to call for help.”

“It must have been Alex Dunn,” said Gemma. “The description fits him to a tee. And it means he can’t have murdered Karl, if he found him already dead—”

“What if he fought with him, then came back to see if he’d been successful?”

“Then why run away, as if he were frightened by what he’d found?” argued Gemma.

“I don’t see that we can get much further until we’ve had a word with Dunn. Why don’t we send a car to bring him in, and get a forensics team started on his flat?”

“I
DEMAND MY SOLICITOR
, G
AVIN
F
ARLEY SNARLED AS THEY ENTERED
the Spartan confines of the interview room, with its metal-and-laminate table and molded plastic chairs. “I’m not saying anything without my solicitor here.” His hair was uncombed, and although he’d pulled on jacket and trousers, he still wore a purple satin pajama shirt, which detracted considerably from his authority.

“Surely there’s no need for that,” rejoined Gemma mildly. “We only want to ask you a few routine questions.”

“And for that you drag me out of bed with my wife, in the middle of the night, and you frighten my children half to death? I’m telling you I won’t have it. I want my solicitor.” Farley folded his arms across his purple satin chest and glared.

Gemma sighed and summoned a constable. “Please take Mr. Farley to phone his solicitor, then bring him back here.”

As soon as the door closed, Kincaid said, “Can’t say I blame the chap. I’ve seldom had less reason to roust a man from his bed on Christmas Eve.”

“And what about the shower in his shop, and his lying about his row with Dawn?” countered Gemma. “Besides, I think he’s cleverer than he’d like us to believe.”

Escorted by the constable, Farley came back in, a smug look on his face. “My solicitor’s on his way. You’ll have to wait until he gets here.”

“Fine.” Kincaid smiled at him and relaxed into his chair. “Can we get you anything? A coffee?” When Farley shook his head, Kincaid continued, “There’s no reason we can’t get acquainted while we wait, is there, Mr. Farley? I hear you’re quite an expert in woodworking. Is this a longtime passion of yours?”

The struggle between caution and pride was evident in Farley’s expression, with pride the winner. “Since I was a boy. My father had a
little shop. My own son, unfortunately, only seems to be interested in videos and computer games. No respect for the handicrafts these days.”

“Is it animals you carve? With such firsthand experience—”

“No, no. I need a complete break from work; otherwise, the stress …” He shrugged, as if Kincaid would understand his predicament. Just out of Farley’s line of sight, Gemma rolled her eyes.

“I’ve never quite managed a hobby, myself,” Kincaid admitted. “But it must be very nice to get away from it all, have one’s own space.”

“No way.” The veterinarian pinched his lips together and set his jaw in a stubborn line. “I see what you’re doing, and I’m not going to talk about my shop.”

“Then what about the thefts from your surgery, Mr. Farley?” Kincaid inquired, all innocence. “Surely you want the help of the police with that? I understand you have some supplies and medications missing?”

“How did you—That’s a purely internal matter.”

“You’re not accusing Miss Poole, are you?” asked Gemma sharply.

“I—No! She was merely negligent, but I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

“If some unauthorized person came into your clinic and stole your property, Mr. Farley, it should have been reported to the police,” said Kincaid. “Was there by any chance a scalpel among the items missing?”

Gavin Farley’s mouth dropped open. “Yes, but—I—You can’t think—” He gaped at them, fishlike, his pupils dilating into black orbs.

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and a constable brought in a man in a neat pinstriped suit.

“Miles!” Farley exclaimed, shooting from his chair and clasping the man’s hand fervently.

“Hullo, Gavin.” The solicitor disengaged his hand and turned to the two detectives. “I’m Miles Kelly, Mr. Farley’s solicitor.” He was in his mid-thirties, Kincaid guessed, dark-haired, with a strong face.
In spite of his suit and crisp white shirt—the obligatory solicitor’s badge—the dark blue shadow on his chin revealed that he hadn’t taken the time to shave. “What seems to be the problem here?”

“I take it Mr. Farley has made you aware of our investigations,” Gemma answered, “and of his involvement with the woman who was murdered just over a week ago—”

“She was my client, for God’s sake!” Farley interrupted. “I keep telling you—”

“Gavin, calm down.” Kelly turned back to Gemma. “Inspector, he rang me yesterday to say you were having his house searched. As all the documents were in order, I told him that cooperation was the only appropriate response.”

“Very wise of you, Mr. Kelly,” Kincaid said. “And he followed your instructions. The problem is that there was another murder, hours ago, and we’d like to ascertain Mr. Farley’s whereabouts during the time in question.”

“Another murder?” Farley’s voice seeped out in a whisper. “Where—Who—”

“Karl Arrowood,” Gemma informed him tersely. “Are you sure you never met Dawn’s husband, Mr. Farley?”

“No. Never. I wouldn’t have known the man if I’d passed him in the street.”

“Then why should you mind telling us where you were last evening?”

“I—It’s a violation of my privacy. Why should I tell you, if I had nothing to do with this? You can’t just go about—”

“Gavin,” interrupted Miles Kelly, “don’t be difficult. Tell them what they want to know, and then we can all go home.”

Farley stared at his solicitor as if he might protest, then gave a shrug of acquiescence. “I was at home. All evening. With my wife, and my mother- and father-in-law. Our next-door neighbors stopped in for a drink as well.”

“What time did your in-laws arrive?” asked Gemma.

“Around half-past six. My wife always has them for Christmas Eve dinner, then on Christmas day we go to my parents’ in Henley.”