And Justice There Is None

by Deborah Crombie

  "I'm Sean Arrowood. I know I'm early, my meeting finished ahead of schedule- is that a problem?" The quick glance he gave his brother showed concern.

  "Not at all," Kincaid reassured him. "We were just finishing up with your brother." He nodded at Richard in dismissal, and the elder Arrowood made his escape with a look of relief. "Perhaps you can confirm some things for us," Kincaid continued to Sean. "I understand you were not on the best of terms with your stepmother?"

  Sean looked pained. "That's not exactly true. You have to understand that we didn't dislike Dawn- and that we were very distressed to hear what had happened to her- but her marriage to our dad made things particularly… difficult… with our mother. She worries about our futures, although we've told her often enough that she needn't. And Mother would have interpreted any friendliness towards Dawn on our part as… disloyal."

  "She did seem to have a bee in her bonnet," Gemma said, and she and Sean shared a small conspiratorial smile. "When did you see Dawn last?"

  "Um, I saw her quite recently, in fact, a few weeks ago. She rang and asked me to meet her for a coffee."

  "Was this usual?"

  "No," Sean admitted. "I was a bit taken aback, but curious."

  "She asked to see only you? Not you and Richard?"

  "Dawn and I got on better. And my brother sometimes has a tendency to… overreact."

  "I take it this was a delicate matter?"

  "She was concerned that Richard and I might think she had encouraged our father to treat us unfairly."

  "Did she tell you that Karl meant to cut you and Richard out of his will?"

  Sean met her eyes steadily. "Apparently, Richard had been a bit intemperate in his demands, and Father was angry. I can't say I blame him."

  "And did you tell your brother what your father meant to do?"

  "I didn't need to. Father had made his intentions quite clear, the last time Richard saw him."

  ***

  "What I don't understand," said Gemma, when they were back in the car, "is why Dawn would have wanted to intervene on Richard and Sean's behalf. They had treated her badly- or at least Richard had- Why not just say 'to hell with them'?"

  "Perhaps it wasn't so much a desire to benefit them as to ease her own conscience-"

  "She couldn't deal with Karl leaving her all his money when she knew she was betraying him?" Gemma considered the idea. "But if she meant to leave him, he'd have changed the will back in his sons' favor anyway-"

  "We don't know that she meant to leave him," Kincaid interrupted. "But our immediate concern is Richard Arrowood. If he knew his father meant to change his will, he had a good motive for killing Dawn. We need to check out that alibi." Opening his phone, he dialed Sean and Richard Arrowood's friend Charles Dodd.

  After a moment's conversation, he rang off and told Gemma, "He's out of the office on business all afternoon, according to his assistant. We'll have to try him at home later on. Um, about this lunchtime meeting you've got… I could come with you."

  "To see Bernard?" She didn't know whether to be touched or aggravated at the note of concern in his voice. "He's expecting only me, and I don't want to take a chance on scaring him off. I'll be fine. Melody says the man's a dreadful lecher, but harmless- and after Alex Dunn's landlord, a bit of straightforward lechery sounds like good, clean fun."

  ***

  She spotted him the moment she walked into the Ladbroke Arms. He sat in a corner, wearing a cap that she guessed had once been houndstooth but was now merely a mottled gray, his brown, wizened face half concealed by his pint glass. Drawing nearer, she saw that his attire was completed by a thin, grease-spotted tie and an ancient tweed jacket. She slid onto the bench, sitting no nearer to him than absolutely necessary for conversation. If his clothing was any indication, Melody had been correct about his personal hygiene.

  "You must be Bernard. I'm Inspector James." She started to show her warrant card but he waved it away.

  "No need to flash that thing about in here, luv. I'll take your word for it." He looked her up and down. "Young Melody said you was a good looker, and you've not proved her wrong."

  Gemma nodded at his glass, ignoring the compliment. "Can I get you another?"

  "I wouldn't mind, luv, wouldn't mind a bit." He lifted the glass to his lips and reduced the level by several inches.

  She fetched another pint from the bar, adding an orange juice for herself. When she returned to the table Bernard took a suspicious sniff in the direction of her glass.

  "Not some kind of a teetotaler, are you?" he asked.

  "Oh, no, no. It's just that I have to go back to the station, and they frown on that sort of thing. No amount of peppermint can get you past our desk sergeant."

  "Ah." Bernard seemed mollified. "Bet I could teach you a thing or two."

  "Another day?" Gemma awarded him her most winning smile. "Bernard, Constable Talbot said you knew a bit about Otto Popov."

  "I might." He looked pointedly at her handbag. "Young Melody said as how you might be inclined to make it worth my while."

  Gemma opened her wallet and removed a ten-pound note. Bernard's gaze didn't waver. After a moment she sighed and pulled out another ten. "That's all the department's resources will allow, I'm afraid."

  His hand moved and the bills disappeared faster than Gemma's eye could follow. "Right," he said. "I suppose that's enough to be going on with. Now, where were we?" He settled himself more comfortably, cradling his glass. "You want to know about Otto, you have to go back a ways, you have to know how things fit together. You see, I've been round these parts a long time, though I was born in Whitechapel. Jack the Ripper territory, that. Makes yer think, don't it, what with this murder-"

  "That's an old chestnut, Bernard. It has nothing to do with this."

  "All right, all right, don't get yer dander up." He cackled, then siphoned another inch off his pint.

  Gemma sighed again, sure that he meant to get his beer's worth out of this discussion- although how his shriveled little body could hold more than a pint or two, she couldn't imagine.

  "So what brought you to Notting Hill?" she asked.

  "It was the business, you see. I started out doing little odd jobs for dealers in Bermondsey, and during the course of things I got to know folks in Notting Hill. Now this"- he made an expansive gesture- "was the place to be in the sixties, luv. The antiques trade was just beginning to boom-"

  "But we're not talking about the sixties." Gemma was determined to nip extended reminiscence in the bud. "Otto can't have been more than a child."

  "Big fer his age, weren't he? Sixteen, seventeen, maybe, old enough to know better. But the point is, luv, that's where it starts. Otto's family was right off the boat from Russia, not a word of English. So they move into a street with some other Russian families, and they keep themselves to themselves. As did the Poles, and the Germans, and the Jews. They all had their own shops, their own cafés, and nobody mixes with anybody else.

  "Until the blacks come along, late fifties, early sixties. And all of a sudden the Poles and the Germans and the Russians find something in common, and it's the blacks that nobody else mixes with." He fixed Gemma with beady eyes that were surprisingly sharp and blue. "A combustible situation, you might say. Then along comes young Karl Arrowood-"

  "Arrowood? I thought we were talking about Otto."

  "I'll be getting to that. Where's yer patience, luv? As I were saying, along comes Karl Arrowood. Now he's a few years older than Otto, an up-and-coming boyo with a finger in more than one pie, and he figures that Otto's Russian relatives maybe have some connections he needs, so he hires him."

  "Karl hired Otto?"

  "Righto, luv. Not that Karl doesn't have a few connections of his own, mind you, German relatives that just happened to know the whereabouts of objects liberated during the war. Karl puts two and two together and before you know it, he's got a nice little import business going."

  "So that's how Karl got started?"

  "Also how he
made the acquaintance of some less than savory characters, Russian bigwigs, if you know what I mean. Now young Otto- still a kid, really- having been raked over the coals by everyone from his mum and his dad to his aunt Minnie for consorting with a bad boy like Karl, decides he wants no more to do with this business, and disappears from London for a while.

  "But Karl, now, he sees this as an act of desertion, and Karl has a memory like a bloody elephant. So years later, when Otto's come back to London and set himself up a nice little business, got married and all, Karl finds a way to make Otto work for him again."

  "How?"

  "Now, that I couldn't tell you, luv." Bernard finished the last of his pint and wiped his lips. "Thirsty work, all that talking."

  Gemma fetched another pint from the bar in record time, sloshing beer as she slid it across the table to him.

  "Careful, luv," he admonished her. "Like spilling gold, that is."

  "You must have some idea what sort of leverage Karl used on Otto," Gemma prompted him.

  "Well, Otto'd gone and made himself vulnerable, hadn't he?"

  "His wife, you mean?"

  "A pale little thing, Otto's wife, always looked a bit sickly. Didn't surprise me when she snuffed it."

  "You're saying Karl had something to do with the death of Otto's wife?"

  "Now I wouldn't go that far," Bernard answered cagily, tempting Gemma to throttle him with his greasy tie. "Some sort of illness. Heart, I think they said. But I didn't know the poor mite myself, and I wasn't exactly in Otto's personal confidence."

  Gemma glared at him. "I don't believe you, Bernard, and I definitely don't buy that you don't know what happened to Otto's wife. Why won't you tell me?"

  Bernard put his finger to the side of his nose, looking for a moment like a wizened Saint Nick. "God didn't miss me when he went to handing out the brains, luv. Now, there's conversation, and then there's stupidity, and I reckon as 'ow I know the difference 'tween the two."

  ***

  Having had a few things to attend to at the new house, Kincaid decided to stay in Notting Hill and grab a sandwich in the station canteen. As he sat down, he noticed Sergeant Franks at a nearby table. The man nodded at him, his knowing look verging on a sneer, before getting up and leaving the room.

  It was obvious from his behavior that Franks was aware of Kincaid's personal relationship with Gemma, causing Kincaid to wonder if there was more to Franks's complaint than she'd let on. But if that were the case, why hadn't she told him?

  He debated whether he should have a word with Superintendent Lamb, an old mate of his from police college, but he was concerned that his interference would only make Gemma's situation more difficult in the long term- not to mention the fact that Gemma would kill him if she found out.

  He felt frustratingly handicapped, not least by his inability to understand Gemma's emotional swings. There was, for instance, the matter of Cullen's dinner party. After he'd rung and canceled, she had decided she wanted to go after all and had had him call back and accept.

  If he failed to understand her reasoning in this or any other matter, how could he predict what would help her to cope? Walking on a minefield would be easier, he sometimes thought. Then he looked up and saw her standing in the doorway, and knew that she was worth whatever it took.

  She smiled at him and came across to his table.

  "Have a seat," he said. "I got you a prawn mayonnaise in case you hadn't eaten."

  Gemma made a face. "I've gone off prawn mayonnaise."

  "I thought that was your favorite."

  "Last week. But I'll manage, thanks." She opened the plastic container and nibbled at a corner of the sandwich.

  "I take it you survived your encounter unscathed?"

  "I rather liked him, actually. Though I would send him out to the dry cleaners, clothes and all." She related Bernard's story while she ate, taking an occasional sip of Kincaid's cold tea.

  "It sounds as though we've enough now for a useful conversation with Otto Popov," Kincaid remarked as she finished.

  "And Karl Arrowood?"

  "Otto first. The more pieces we can fill in before we tackle Karl, the better. Russian Mafia?" He raised a dubious eyebrow.

  "I assume that's what Bernard meant, cagey old devil. And that would go a ways towards explaining why everyone's so bloody terrified of Karl."

  ***

  They found Otto wiping down tables after the last of the lunchtime customers. He smiled when he saw Gemma, but she noticed that his expression became neutrally wary as she introduced him to Kincaid.

  "Otto, this is Superintendent Kincaid from Scotland Yard. He's working with me on this investigation."

  "Please, sit." Otto pulled out two chairs for them. "Anything I can do. A coffee on the house?"

  "No, we're fine, really," Gemma replied. "Could you join us for a moment?"

  Otto sat, his bulk balanced with surprising grace on the small chair. "Young Alex is back, have you heard?"

  "He came to see me this morning. Apparently, Fern took him to his aunt's in Sussex for a few days, but she was afraid to tell anyone where he was. Otto, both Alex and Fern have said that you warned them Alex might be in danger from Karl Arrowood. Why did you think that?"

  "Karl is a dangerous man. Everyone knows that. One hears stories."

  "I think it's more than that," Gemma probed gently. "I think you've had personal experience with Karl. First, a long time ago, when you put him in touch with some Russian, um, colleagues. Then, more recently, before your wife died."

  Otto stared at them, his dark eyes unreadable.

  "Did you work for Karl in his importing business?"

  "Importing, pah!" Otto spat, stung. "He cheats people, Karl Arrowood. That is all he has ever done. I swore I would never again work for such a man!"

  "Then you must have had a very good reason for doing so. Did it have something to do with your wife?"

  His eyes were like pebbles now, cold and flat. "You will please leave my wife out of this."

  Gemma met his gaze evenly. "You had nothing to do with Karl for what, twenty years? You made a life for yourself, a good business, you married, then all of a sudden you connect again with a man you obviously despise. We will find out why, eventually, but I would rather hear it from you."

  Otto stared at Gemma, then at Kincaid, as if assessing them both. At last he said, "I have nothing to hide. For myself I do not care, only for my wife's name and my daughters' memories of her. You understand?" When they nodded assurance, he went on. "Karl Arrowood is an evil man. He hated me, merely because when I was a boy I decided I no longer wished to be involved in his… activities. He waited for years, like a spider, until he saw his opportunity. My wife, Katrina, was never strong. She had problems with drugs when she was younger, but she had been better, much better, for a long time. Then after Anna was born, and then Maria, Katrina was depressed, and Karl saw his chance. He made available to her little gifts, and soon she was back to her old ways.

  "Of course I did not know at first, and then when I realized what was happening, it was some time before I learned the source. I thought I would kill him, then, but he was too smart for that. Who would take care of Katrina, and the girls, he asked me, if I went to prison? And then he told me that if I didn't do as he wished, he would cut off Katrina's supply. He didn't need me to make his contacts by then, he wanted merely my compliance. And I had no choice. My Katrina was more and more desperate.

  "What would have happened eventually, I do not know. But Katrina died, an overdose, and Karl had no more hold over me. Now do you see why I warned Alex to beware? Karl is ruthless. If he had found out about Alex, he would not have let it go unpunished."

  "Heroin? Arrowood?"

  "But of course. His business is the perfect vehicle. He buys antiques for cash, which are then sold legitimately. Even if his profits are only on paper, it doesn't matter. He has laundered his money."

  "Mr. Popov," Kincaid leaned forward, "if Karl Arrowood did such a terrible thing
to you, to your wife, why didn't you go to the authorities?"

  "My girls know nothing of this, of their mother's problem. They will know nothing."

  "But what if you found a way to make Arrowood suffer as you suffered, and no one need ever know?"

  "You mistake me, Mr. Kincaid. First of all, I do not think Karl Arrowood cares enough for any living thing to suffer at its loss. Secondly, I would never harm an innocent such as Dawn Arrowood, never. Although I will not lie to you- If I had the opportunity to kill Karl without my daughters being harmed in any way, I would do it in an instant."

  "Otto," Gemma said, "you realize we will have to check your alibi for that night. Were you here in the café?"

  "On a Friday night? Of course."

  "And Wesley?"

  "Yes, he was here. I suppose you will have to ask him, but how can you be sure he is not protecting me?" His brow creased as he considered the matter. "There is always the dishwasher, of course. Although his English is somewhat lacking, he can vouch for us both."

  "Is Wesley here now?"

  "No, he has gone to the produce stall to replenish a few things for tonight's menu, then he will walk the girls home from school. If you go now, perhaps you can catch him before he meets them. And of course, you would not want to give me the chance to fit him up ahead of time." Although a faint twinkle had returned to Otto's eyes, Gemma reminded herself that he was a capable man with the most powerful of motives, and that very few alibis were foolproof.

  ***

  "Why don't you go back to the Yard?" Gemma suggested as she and Kincaid left the café. "Talk to your mates in the drug squad, see if they know anything about this. I'll find Wesley."

  "Right, then. I'll ring you if I learn anything. Otherwise I'll see you tonight." He lifted his hand in a wave and disappeared round the corner into Kensington Park Road.

  Gemma headed the other way, down Portobello, keeping an eye out for Wesley's dark dreadlocks. She spotted him soon enough, coming out of the fishmonger's, his arms laden with carrier bags.