CHAPTER EIGHT
Saturday street market has existed in Portobello Road since the 1860's. Selling meat, fish, fruit, vegetables, and flowers during the day, the costermongers were joined on Saturday nights by numerous street sellers and entertainers.
– Whetlor and Bartlett,
from Portobello
Gemma lay in bed, staring at the partially opened slats of the blinds and hoping for the faint gray streaks that would presage dawn. Kincaid slept with his back to her, his breathing comfortingly steady. From the next room she could hear Toby's occasional snort; he was getting over a slight cold.
At last she gave in and tilted her head so that she could see the luminous face of the bedside clock; she groaned. It was only bloody five o'clock. Daylight was still a good two hours off, and it looked as if sleep had deserted her for the night.
Nor had they gone to bed at a reasonable hour the previous evening. Still furious with Kincaid over the business of Doug Cullen's invitation, she'd turned on him as soon as he arrived to help her pack.
"How could you? How could you accept a dinner invitation in the midst of moving house? We'll be tired, and filthy, and I've only so much time to get the new house sorted-"
"But I thought it would give you a break-"
"It's our first evening in the new house as a family!"
His face fell. "Of course, you're right. It was really stupid of me. I'll ring Doug straight away and say we can't come." He flipped open his phone and stepped outside.
Gemma knew she should be pleased at his capitulation, but her face flamed as she imagined his conversation with Cullen. When he returned a moment later, she spat, "Now I feel a right bitch. They'll have made arrangements already-"
"Gemma, they'll understand." He frowned at her. "It's not like you to be unreasonable-"
"So now I'm unreasonable?" She turned away and began rolling a wineglass in a sheet of newspaper, her fingers trembling.
"That's not what I meant, and you know it." He came to stand beside her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"
She hesitated, then the words boiled out in a rush. "The super called me in today. Gerry Franks complained to him that I'd been too soft on Karl Arrowood."
"Surely Lamb didn't take him seriously?"
"Not really. But he told me my management skills could use some improvement."
"So what did you do?"
She took another glass from the kitchen shelf. "At first I was going to rip Franks to shreds, but then I decided that wasn't the most helpful tack. I told him he was welcome to get off the case, but that he was a valuable asset and I'd rather we tried to work together, and that I hadn't meant to exclude him from portions of the investigation."
"Very diplomatic of you." Kincaid raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Was it true?"
"Oh, I suppose the super's right," she admitted, grimacing. "Franks is a good officer, especially with detail- he has that sort of bulldog mentality, worries at things until he gets them right. I should've managed the situation better."
"It sounds as though you've made a good start at improving things," Kincaid had said reassuringly, and thus, harmony had been more or less restored.
Now, lying awake in the predawn darkness, she found herself thinking of her ex-husband, Rob, who would have seen her confidence as an opportunity to tell her just how he would have handled things. Kincaid's supportiveness, she realized, was rare, and a trait to be appreciated- so why the hell couldn't she bring herself to tell him so?
***
Three hours later, hunched over her desk at the station, she'd pored over every note, every communication from the incident room, every file, wondering what she could possibly have missed. Exhausted, she groaned and dropped her head in her hands.
At the soft rap on her door, she looked up, blinking. It was Melody, carrying two coffee cups and a bag that smelled suspiciously of fresh carrot muffins.
"Latte, again? And breakfast? You must be the coffee fairy, Melody. Or coffee angel, I should say."
A blush stained Melody's plump cheeks. "I get off the tube at Notting Hill Gate. So it's no trouble to pop into the Starbucks on my way here. I know how much you like it, boss, and it seemed, especially today… I mean, I heard about Sergeant Franks talking to the super, and I think it's bloody unfair."
"Thanks. But I suppose he had a point. We don't seem to be making much progress, do we? Here, sit down, eat your muffin."
Melody sat obediently and peeled the paper wrapper from her breakfast. "Remember you asked me if I knew why Otto Popov was so certain Arrowood was guilty? Well, I went round the pubs last night, some of the more fringy ones, if you know what I mean."
"Not dressed like that?" Gemma gestured at Melody's neat skirt and jacket.
"Not on my life. I wore my leather trousers- you'd never have recognized me."
"I take it you weren't looking for a date?"
Melody grinned. "Well, I did chat up some okay-looking blokes. But I got a name, in the end, someone who might know something about Popov. A little Cockney named Bernard. I found him in a pub near the flyover, and after a couple of pints he agreed to have a chat with you, for the price of a pint and some readies."
Gemma's interest quickened. "When? Where?"
"Lunchtime today, in the Ladbroke Arms. Said he wanted to meet someplace no one would notice him. But, as Bernard has a face like a monkey and smells like he hasn't bathed for years, I don't think he'll be exactly inconspicuous."
***
Gemma tensed when the phone on her desk rang, fearing a repeat of yesterday's summons to the superintendent's office. But it was the officer on duty in reception. "There's a young man to see you, Inspector. Says his name is Alex Dunn."
"Dunn?" Gemma repeated, before swiftly collecting herself. "Right. Put him in an interview room. I'll be down in a second." Hanging up, she said to Melody, "Come with me. I'll need backup on this."
Alex Dunn rose as they entered the room, holding his hand out as if it were an ordinary social occasion. He was about Gemma's age, good-looking in a tidy sort of way, and on first impression it seemed to Gemma that his was not the sort of appeal likely to make a woman risk a marriage.
When she had introduced herself and Melody, she switched on the recorder and gestured for him to sit again.
"Is that necessary?" he asked, with a shocked glance at the recorder. His ready confidence seemed to ebb a little.
"Oh, I think so," Gemma replied evenly. "We've been looking everywhere for you for five days. That tends to make us feel a bit official."
"I didn't know. Honestly. I was down at my aunt's in Sussex- a friend drove me there on Saturday- and it never occurred to me that anyone wanted to talk to me. I wasn't…" His voice trailed off. "Myself," he concluded.
"How could you not realize that the police would want to question you? Your mistress was murdered-"
"She was not my mistress! I mean- I suppose technically she was- but I never thought of it that way. That makes it sound- makes her sound- cheap."
"Well, however you thought of it," Gemma kept her tone tart, "you were still the person closest to her, barring her husband. Did Dawn talk about him?"
"She never talked about Karl. I think, when she was with me, that she liked to pretend Karl didn't exist. If I pressed her about it, I mean about leaving him, she would just… withdraw. Shake her head and get this closed look."
"Did she ever give you the impression that she was afraid of her husband?"
"No. And she would have told me," he insisted, but he sounded less than certain.
"And she never told you that Karl suspected she was having an affair?"
"No."
"Did you see Dawn on the day she died?"
"No. I rang her mobile from a phone box several times. But she didn't answer."
"From a phone box? Isn't that a bit cloak-and-dagger for a woman who wasn't worried about her husband?"
Alex colored. "It was to ensure my number never showed up on her item
ized calls."
"Very cautious of her," commented Melody.
"Dawn was… thorough. About everything. That's just the sort of person she was."
Gemma thought of Dawn Arrowood's careful blotting out of her background, of her family, and of her neat and characterless bedroom. "Did Dawn ever talk about herself, where she came from, that sort of thing?" she asked, curious.
"Yeah, she did. Clapham, or Croyden, something like that. Her father ran a supermarket."
"He still does," Gemma murmured, but she saw that Alex didn't understand. "Go on. What else?"
"Oh, the silly things you do as a kid. Sneaking cigarettes, kisses on the playground, that sort of thing. And she talked about her friend Natalie, and how she always wanted a family like that, big and noisy and busy." He frowned. "But I don't think it would have suited her, somehow."
"Did she mention any friends other than Natalie?"
"No. There didn't seem to be anyone other than Karl's business associates. And me."
"Did she talk about wanting children?"
"Only once. When we'd- when she'd had a bit too much wine. She cried. Then, when I tried to comfort her, she got angry. Said I didn't understand, that Karl would never let her have children. I said- Well, you can guess what I said. But it was no use. And she was always very careful about that, too."
"Birth control?" When he nodded, Gemma added, "Apparently not careful enough."
"What do you mean?"
"You didn't know? She didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?" His voice rose. "You're not saying-"
"She was pregnant. The doctor had confirmed it that afternoon."
Dunn's eyes were dilated with shock, his face the hue of parchment. "But… I don't… How could she not tell me?"
"Maybe she meant to. But she never had the chance. Or maybe it wasn't your baby; maybe it was Karl's. His vasectomy could have failed; that's what he claims, after all. Or maybe it was someone else's altogether-"
His face bleached whiter still, and Gemma feared she might have pushed him too far.
But he shoved back his chair, shaking with rage, and stabbed a finger at her. "She wasn't seeing anyone else. You make her sound like a slag, and it's not true! If I know anything about her, it's that she loved me. She would have left him, we would have worked something out-"
"Okay, point taken. Sit back down, Alex, please. Constable, could you get Mr. Dunn some water?"
He obeyed her, reluctantly, and when he was seated again and had sipped at the water Melody brought him, Gemma said, "Look, I'm sorry. Let's start over. Why don't you tell me about last Friday. Were you supposed to see Dawn that day?"
"No. We'd met the day before, but she'd said she had a doctor's appointment on Friday- a routine checkup- and that she was meeting Natalie for tea. And I was planning to visit my aunt, as well as getting ready for Saturday market, so… If I'd insisted she come by the flat, maybe-" He looked stricken.
"Then you'd be assuming her murder was happenstance, and we don't believe that. I believe that whoever waited for Dawn that day would have waited longer, or come back another time." As Gemma spoke, she realized how strongly she meant it.
"But- if it was Karl- And if she had left-"
"Karl might have changed his mind? From what I know of the man, that seems unlikely. And we've no proof that he killed his wife. It seems to me that you and your friends- particularly Otto- have made an awfully big assumption."
"But- Otto said- Otto was sure that it was Karl. I didn't want to believe him-"
"It always comes back to Otto, doesn't it?" Gemma glanced at Melody. "Alex, what else did Otto say?"
His stare was defiant. "Otto said Karl would kill me, too, if he found out. But that's crap, isn't it?"
"Is that why you went to Sussex?"
"It was Fern's idea. She meant well, but I feel a fool now for going along with it. As I said, I wasn't myself."
"Do you know how your friend Otto comes to know so much about Karl Arrowood? Has he told you?"
"Otto doesn't talk about himself much. But he's lived in the neighborhood a long time, knows a lot of people."
"You don't know anything about Otto's dead wife?"
"Dead?" Alex looked puzzled. "No. I just assumed they were divorced or something, I mean, you never know these days, do you?"
"Do you know someone called Marianne Hoffman?"
"Never heard of her. Why? Is she a friend of Otto's?"
Was it possible, Gemma wondered, that Otto could be the link between the Arrowoods and Hoffman? The café owner knew many people in the trade, as Alex had pointed out. And he was a powerful man, skilled, she assumed, as were most cooks, with a knife.
"Let's go back to Friday. You were getting ready for Saturday market. What does that entail?"
"Setting things out in my stall in the arcade, arranging, pricing. I'd been to an estate sale in Sussex, near my aunt's, so I had a good deal of new stock."
"And then?"
"I went back to the flat. I'd had a good day, and I wanted to celebrate, so I went to Otto's for an early dinner."
"What time was this?"
"About half past six, I think. I really wasn't paying attention."
"Was Otto at the café when you arrived?"
"He served me himself."
"Everything as usual?"
"Of course. Except…" Dunn hesitated, then went on. "We had a little disagreement. I wouldn't exactly call it an argument."
"About what?"
"He warned me about Karl. I'd found a lovely piece of porcelain I thought I might sell him, and Otto said not to take Karl for a fool. I didn't realize until then, you see, that everyone knew about Dawn." He crumpled the paper cup Melody had given him in his fingers. "How could I possibly have been so flaming stupid?"
***
Kincaid listened as Gemma related her interview with Alex Dunn. He'd picked her up at Notting Hill for a quick run into the City, where they had appointments with Karl Arrowood's sons. Kincaid had debated surprising them, but decided there was no point in risking possible inconvenience to himself and Gemma. He had no doubt the boys' mother would have got the wind up them already.
He had arranged to meet the elder son, Richard, in a well-known Fleet Street pub at eleven o'clock, and the younger, Sean, in the same place at half past.
They had no trouble finding a table, as the pub was just gearing up for its lunchtime business. When Richard Arrowood walked in the door at the stroke of eleven, they recognized him instantly, a pale and less substantial copy of his father.
"Mr. Arrowood," Kincaid called out.
"What is this about?" Arrowood asked as he sat down, adjusting his perfectly creased trouser leg at the knee. "I don't have much time."
"You are surely aware that your stepmother has been murdered? Brutally, I might add."
"So? What has that to do with me?"
"Did you know Dawn well?" Gemma asked pleasantly, but Kincaid saw the tick in her jaw that meant she was clenching her teeth.
"My father had us round for drinks a few times when they were first married, and once for a meal. She didn't cook, of course, just had something brought in." From the contempt in Richard Arrowood's voice, she might have served them fish and chips.
"And your mother cooks, I take it?" Gemma's smile was vicious.
"My mother has nothing to do with this," Arrowood retorted.
"I wonder," Kincaid interposed. "Is there a particular reason why you disliked your stepmother so much? I understood that your mother and father had been divorced for several years before he married Dawn."
"That didn't make her any less of a money-grubbing bitch," said Arrowood, sniffing, and Kincaid revised his estimate of the young man's character. Not only was Richard Arrowood arrogant, rude, and unpleasant, he was astoundingly stupid.
"I would have thought your father had enough to go round."
"Not once the fair Dawnie got her paws on it. I had some debts." The young man's cheeks flushed with remembered an
ger. "You know, the sort of thing anyone starting out in the City encounters. But Father wouldn't lift a finger. He said helping me would threaten Dawn's security."
"Does one encounter debts, Mr. Arrowood? I always rather thought one acquired them." Kincaid watched him realize he'd been insulted, and bridle.
"Look here, you can't speak to me this way-"
"I can, you know. May I remind you that this is a murder inquiry, and that you may be under suspicion?"
"Suspicion? But that's absurd." His bravado seemed to evaporate suddenly. "I haven't seen Dawn in ages-"
"Would you mind telling us where you were last Friday evening?"
"Friday? I- I was at a drinks party. A bloke from work had several of us round to his flat in Borough Market. My brother was there, too."
"What time was this party?"
"We went straight from work. Half-five, maybe."
"And how long did you stay?"
"Until a group of us went out to dinner. Around eight, I suppose."
"And you were there all the time?"
"Of course I was bloody there! Look, you can't-"
"We'll need your friend's name and address. And of course we'll confirm this with your brother."
Richard looked from Gemma to Kincaid. His forehead was damp with sweat, and he sniffed again, brushing the back of his hand across his nose. "I don't think you can speak to me like this without a solicitor," he said, but without much conviction.
"You are, of course, entitled to a solicitor at any time, Mr. Arrowood. But this is just a friendly conversation, a routine inquiry, and I don't think you'd want it to look as though you'd something to hide. Just a bit of advice."
"I-" A look of relief flooded Arrowood's face, and following his gaze, Kincaid saw that his brother had arrived, a few minutes ahead of schedule. Again, the resemblance to their father was unmistakable, but Sean Arrowood was a bit stockier, a bit darker, and he came to the table with a smile and an outstretched hand.
And Justice There Is None Page 14