And Justice There Is None

by Deborah Crombie

  The narrow aisles offered some relief from the crowd, but she knew it wouldn't be long before the shoppers were packed shoulder to shoulder there as well. Already the air was redolent with cigarette smoke, and the familiar odors of grease and coffee drifted up from the basement café.

  She unlocked the stall's protective screen and raised it up, slipped inside, and settled herself behind the glass case that held the silver spoons, magnifying glasses, and trinkets that were her bread and butter.

  Making a pretense of business, she took out her cloth and began to polish the fingerprints from a Georgian teapot she'd got for a good price from a dealer at Bermondsey yesterday. It could mean a nice profit, if the right buyer came along, but Fern found she'd lost her enthusiasm for the sale.

  The stall beside hers seemed ominously empty without Alex. She knew his stock almost as well as she knew her own, and it came as a relief when a woman stopped and admired a delicate Coalport cup and saucer on display. Fern unlocked Alex's stall- they each had the other's spare key- and took the cup and saucer down for the woman, holding it up to the lamp Alex kept for demonstrating the translucence of bone china.

  Enchanted, the woman paid the sticker price without haggling, a definite sign of a novice. Fern tucked the money into the cash apron Alex had left behind the front display case, then stood looking round the stall, remembering the first time Dawn Arrowood had come into the arcade.

  There had been something about her that had immediately drawn Fern's attention. Everything from the designer jeans to the perfect blond hair spoke of money, but Dawn's was an elegantly understated look that Fern knew she could never achieve. And yet, in spite of the woman's sleek veneer, there had been an appealing freshness about her, and Fern had flashed her a friendly smile.

  But the woman had looked past her. Curious, Fern had turned, following her gaze, to see the woman meet Alex's eyes. He had stared back, transfixed, and Fern's heart had been pierced with a sudden and sure knowledge.

  Oh, she had fought it! First his embarrassed excuses, then his irritated rejections, until at last Fern had given him no choice but to tell her outright that it was over between them. Even then she'd never quite given up hope that she might somehow win him back… and more than once she had wished Dawn Arrowood dead.

  But not like this- not murdered! And Otto had hinted this morning that her husband might have killed her because of Alex.

  Fern looked up, realizing the arcade had gone abruptly quiet. Alex stood in the street door. Water dripped from his sopping hair onto his collar; his face was blank with shock, his eyes expressionless. One of the other vendors spoke to him softly and he shook his head, then stumbled forward. Fern slipped out of the stall and went to him. "Alex! Are you all right?"

  He moved blindly forward as if unaware of her, stopping before his stall as if he had no clear idea what he was doing there.

  "Alex, let me help you," Fern urged. "You're soaking-"

  "I have to get something." Pushing her aside, he went into the stall, bumping against the porcelain-laden shelves as if they held Brighton souvenirs. He fell to his knees and rummaged behind the display case, emerging with a brightly colored teapot Fern hadn't seen before. Wrapping it in a cloth, he shoved it into a carrier bag, then stood. His eyes fell on Fern and for the first time he seemed to register her presence. "You'll watch the stall for me, won't you?"

  "Alex, what are you doing? You're soaked. If you don't look after yourself you'll catch your death-"

  "I have to go, to get away." He started to push past her but this time she stepped resolutely in front of him.

  "Where, Alex? At least tell me where you're going."

  "Don't know. I just have to get away from here, that's all."

  "You're in no fit state to look after yourself, much less drive. Let me take you." An idea took shape in her mind. If Karl Arrowood had murdered his wife because he'd found out about Alex, might not Alex be next? But not if Karl couldn't find him. "Give me your keys," she ordered. When he handed them over without protest, she called to Doris, who traded antique toys from the stall across the aisle, "Watch the stalls for me, Doris, please. I'll make it up to you."

  Taking his carrier bag and a handful of bills from her own stall, she quickly locked both screens, then shepherded him out into the street and up the hill to the mews where his Passat sat parked in front of his flat. Alex seemed to have given up all resistance; it was only when she'd bundled him into the passenger seat and buckled herself into the driver's that he mumbled, "Where are we going?"

  "Somewhere safe," Fern assured him. "Somewhere no one will think to look for you."

  ***

  The crowd of curious onlookers in front of the Arrowoods' house had grown since earlier that morning. Gemma saw familiar faces- the press was out in force, and the recognition was mutual. A whisper rippled through the gathering and half a dozen reporters surged to the front.

  Putting up her umbrella against the persistent drizzle, she held up her free hand against the clamor of questions. "I'll speak to you at six this evening, in front of Notting Hill-"

  "This house belongs to Karl Arrowood, the antiques dealer," interrupted Tom MacCrimmon from the Daily Star, one of the least reputable tabloids. A woolly-headed man with a red bulbous nose like a Christmas ball, Gemma had found MacCrimmon's aggressiveness to be tempered by a sense of humor. "Was it someone in the Arrowood family who was killed?"

  "The victim's family has yet to be notified, Tom. Please let us do that before you speculate in print- or on camera," she added, seeing the telltale red eye of another reporter's video camera. "I promise I'll give you as much as I can this evening." She turned away and the constable on duty quickly lifted the tape, allowing her inside the sealed perimeter.

  Once out of the crowd's hearing range, she spoke to the officer. "Where's Mr. Arrowood?"

  "Waiting for you at the station, as per your request. Sergeant Franks took him in, and was none too gentle about it."

  "What about the forensics team?"

  "Just finishing up. Haven't found anything obvious, as far as I know."

  "Right. Just keep an eye on the crowd, will you? I need to know if any one person hangs about too long."

  ***

  Karl Arrowood had been ushered into Interview Room A, where Gemma suspected he'd worn a path in the floor with his pacing. Fully dressed in a dark suit and tie, clean-shaven, his thick corn-yellow hair neatly brushed, he showed no sign of the shock Gemma had seen last night.

  "Inspector, I do not understand why I'm being treated like a common criminal, dragged to the police station and then left to cool my heels in this revolting room."

  "I know our decor leaves a bit to be desired, but do sit down, please, Mr. Arrowood. This won't take long." Gemma had asked Melody to join them, rather than Franks. She knew Franks would be miffed at the exclusion, but she didn't think his aggressiveness would be helpful at this stage of the interview process.

  As she and Melody took their seats, she gestured towards one of the plastic chairs across the table.

  "I can't think what I can possibly tell you that we didn't discuss last night-"

  "What about your wife's family, Mr. Arrowood? Have you notified them?"

  "Yes." He grimaced and sat reluctantly. "I'm meeting them at the mortuary this morning. I've told them there was no need, that I could arrange everything, but they insisted."

  "Perhaps they need to feel involved? It does provide closure of a sort. You realize, of course, that the pathologist won't release your wife's body until she's completed her examinations."

  "I've scheduled the funeral for Tuesday, at Kensal Green. Surely that's time enough."

  "Tell me about your wife's family."

  The grimace came again, fainter but unmistakable. "They live in East Croyden. Name of Smith."

  "Any other children?"

  "No."

  "This must be quite difficult for them."

  "I suppose so," Arrowood said, as if the idea hadn't occurred to
him. "But I don't see-"

  "I'll need to talk to them, as well as to Dawn's close friends."

  "What can that possibly have to do with my wife's murder? She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, when some psychopath-" He swallowed, losing his composure for the first time.

  "That may be the case. But even if your wife's killer had no personal connection with her, he may have been watching her, and someone she knows may have noticed something odd."

  "Watching her?" Arrowood's skin paled beneath his artificial tan.

  "It's a possibility we have to consider."

  "My wife… was she sexually assaulted?"

  "No. The pathologist found no indication of that."

  Arrowood met Gemma's eyes, looked away. "Dawn… Do you think she had time to be frightened?"

  Gemma thought of the few signs of struggle on the woman's body and answered truthfully, "I think it must have been very quick."

  "I keep seeing-" Blinking, Arrowood gave a sharp shake of his head, as if discarding an instant of weakness. "There's no point dwelling on it. It's just that she told me once she thought she would die young. She was always worried about cancer, things like that. But this…"

  "Mr. Arrowood, did you know your wife was pregnant?"

  "What?"

  "The postmortem revealed that your wife was about six weeks pregnant."

  "But that's- No, I'd no idea. I knew she hadn't been well lately, but that possibility never occurred to me…" He seemed to wilt, his body settling into the curvature of the plastic chair.

  "I'm very sorry." Thinking of her own case of prolonged denial, Gemma said, "Perhaps she hadn't realized herself."

  Karl Arrowood contemplated this for a moment. "Perhaps not. But I rather hope she knew. She very much wanted a child."

  Gemma thought again of the children's books and dolls, carefully hidden away. "And you didn't?"

  "No. I've two grown sons already that are trouble enough." His lips had curled in obvious distaste.

  Two grown sons who might be counting on their father's money, thought Gemma, and might not have appreciated a young stepmother mucking up their prospects. "I'll need their names and addresses, please. And their mother? Is she living?"

  "Sylvia? There have been times I wished she weren't"- his smile held grim humor- "but yes, she's living. And living well, I might add, in Chelsea."

  "Did you provide for your sons in a will, Mr. Arrowood? Or did Dawn inherit your estate?"

  He glared at her. "I've poured money down those boys' throats since they were children, with no thanks and less result. Of course I've left the bulk of my estate to Dawn; she was my wife."

  "And your sons knew this?"

  "I never particularly discussed it with them. But what you're suggesting is absurd-"

  "Absurd or not, these things happen, and we have to explore every possibility. Did Dawn work, Mr. Arrowood?"

  "My wife had no need to work."

  How very antiquated of you, thought Gemma, exchanging a glance with Melody, but she asked merely, "Then what did she do with her days?"

  "She had the house to manage. She helped in the shop occasionally. She saw her friends."

  "Any friends in particular, other than Natalie?"

  "I didn't keep her social calendar," Arrowood answered so sharply that Gemma suspected he hadn't a clue what had filled the long hours of his wife's day.

  "And yesterday, I believe you said you had just arrived home from a meeting when you found your wife?"

  "I'd had drinks at Butler 's Wharf with a European dealer."

  "His name?"

  Arrowood's eyes widened in surprise, but he shrugged and answered, "Andre Michel."

  Gemma wrote down the man's name and London address, as well as the time Karl Arrowood claimed he'd left his friend, although she knew there was no way to prove how long the drive from Tower Bridge to Notting Hill would have taken in evening traffic; nor, once he arrived home, would it have taken Arrowood more than five minutes to murder his wife and call for help.

  "Mr. Arrowood, did you notice anything odd about your wife's movements or behavior in the past few days? Did Dawn give you any indication that she might be frightened?"

  "She did seem a bit distracted yesterday morning. But I thought it was just because the damn cat was off-color."

  "That's Tommy?"

  "Rotten little beast. I've told Dawn a thousand times to keep that cat out of the…" Arrowood trailed off, as if realizing he'd have no more opportunities to chastise his wife. The muscles in his strong face sagged abruptly, and he rubbed a hand across his mouth. "I can't believe she's really gone."

  ***

  Kincaid had risen with Gemma and seen her off in a gray dawn that presaged rain. She'd been pale and pinched with exhaustion, but he knew it would serve no purpose to nag her about getting more rest.

  After fixing Toby his favorite breakfast of fried eggs, Kincaid deposited the boy at Hazel's and drove to his office through a steady downpour. He had always liked the Yard on a Saturday. Although the place was never truly quiet, the normal cacophony of activity was reduced to a hum, the ringing of telephones intermittent rather than constant, and he often took advantage of the opportunity to catch up on unfinished business. First, he called the prospective tenant he had lined up for his flat and arranged a viewing; then he rang Denis Childs, telling him they would be occupying the Notting Hill house as soon as possible.

  Then, after a token shuffling of papers, he came to the conclusion that he could no longer delay acting on the disquiet that had niggled at him since the previous evening, despite his fear that Gemma would feel he was undermining her authority. Retrieving Marianne Hoffman's file, he read it from beginning to end. When he had finished, he picked up the phone and rang Denis Childs back, requesting permission to liaise with Notting Hill CID in the investigation of the murder of Dawn Arrowood.

  ***

  She just couldn't figure out what made her new neighbor tick. Betty, her name was, Betty Thomas. If you spoke to her, she smiled and answered in her soft Caribbean accent, but that was all. If you tried to continue the conversation, she'd dig her toe in the pavement and look away, and after a minute you'd give up.

  The father was an upholsterer, she'd learned that much, and the family came from Trinidad, in the West Indies. They kept themselves to themselves, but sometimes on the warm evenings she could smell their cooking, so different from the food her own family ate.

  The summer days were warm and long, the air filled with the smell of the moldering rubbish that piled up on the pavements, and the rats grew fatter than the neighborhood cats. She took to gazing out her window, elbows on the sill, making up stories to herself about the Thomases and a rather pimply boy across the street called Eddie Langley. Everyone else she knew had to share a bedroom with brothers and sisters or grandparents, sometimes even aunts and uncles, but that only made her feel lonelier. Her mother hadn't been able to have any more children because of some sort of female problem that was never properly explained, and her grandparents had died in Poland during the war.

  She felt connectionless, as if her little family had failed to pass some basic but secret test. She began to imagine that she was adopted, that somewhere she had another family, not Polish, not Jewish, and much more glamorous than the family in which fate had chosen to place her. Taking refuge in the library, she devoured biographies of film stars and long romantic novels with invariably tragic endings. In that way the summer passed, and it was not until the start of school in the autumn that she thought much about Betty Thomas again.

  The previous year the old school on Portobello Road had been reorganized as boys only and renamed Isaac Newton. Girls were shunted out of the neighborhood to the comprehensive in Holland Park, and she and Betty Thomas were placed in the same class.

  It seemed only natural that the girls should fall in together on the long walk home that first day, silently at first, then in desultory conversation.

  "She's all ri
ght, don't you think, the new teacher?" Betty offered in her soft voice. "But the subjects, we did them two years ago in Trinidad."

  "What's it like there? Trinidad."

  "Warm. Like this, but more so, all the time. But a lot of the folks are poor, and my daddy, he thought he could do better here. Now he says we shoulda stayed at home."

  "Do you want to go back?"

  Betty shrugged. "Not for me to say."

  "There are some nice things here," she said, feeling a bit defensive. "And school will be easy for you if you've already done the subjects." It was a clear day, just hot enough to make the pleated woolen uniform skirt itchy on bare thighs, and as they walked on she began to perspire. "It's not fair, the boys getting to stay at the old school. And my mother wouldn't give me bus fare, said she wouldn't waste the money when I had two good feet."

  "My mother said I mus' be havin' a fever to even think such a thing." Betty rolled her eyes in imitation, and both girls giggled.

  Emboldened, she asked, "Why won't you ever talk to me at home?"

  "Your family don't like coloreds living next door. Though my daddy, he says the Polish Jews are better than some."

  "It's not that they don't like it," she said, torn between embarrassment and a desire to defend her parents. "It's just that they're afraid of trouble, like what happened over in Elgin Crescent last year. But I don't really see what that has to do with us."

  Betty gave her a skeptical glance. "You don't mind if the other kids in the neighborhood won't talk to you?"

  Shrugging, she answered, "I'm used to being alone. And besides, I'd rather talk to you."

  They walked in silence for a bit, then Betty stopped and looked full at her, as if she'd come to a decision. "When I saw you, that first day, I thought you looked like the painting of an angel they had in our old church, in Trinidad."

  "Me? An angel?" No one had ever said anything like that about her before. Her oval face was ordinary; her soft brown hair neither strikingly blond nor brunette; her eyes were too pale for beauty. A warm glow began in her midriff and spread outwards. "I wish I could see the painting," she said wistfully.