"Wesley!"
He crossed the street to join her. "Police ladies have to be doing their own shopping, now?" he asked, grinning.
"I was looking for you." She fell in beside him. "Wesley, last Friday evening, did Otto leave the café for any reason?"
"On a Friday? No way he would do that. Even early, we have plenty customers. Some regulars, they like their dinners early, before the evening-out business starts."
"Including Alex?"
"Sometimes he comes early. That night he did."
"And there's no way Otto could have slipped out for a few minutes without your noticing?"
Wesley laughed aloud. "Otto, he's a little hard to miss, 'case you hadn't noticed. Especially in the kitchen, he be slammin' and bangin' and swearin' at the pots. Gives things more flavor, he says."
"You're absolutely certain?"
" 'Course I'm certain! You're not thinking Otto trotted out in his apron and murdered Miz Arrowood, then came back to finish off his veal osso bucco? That's downright daft!"
"No, I admit it's not very likely."
"Part of the job, accusing people who have shown you hospitality?"
"That's unfair, Wesley," she retorted, stung. "I'm not accusing Otto of anything, just ruling him out. And I don't like it any better than you do."
He glanced at her, frowning. "Why all of a sudden you think Otto would have done such a thing?"
"I'm afraid I can't say. But you could ask him yourself."
"Like the confessional, is it, conversation with the police?"
"Something like that, yes."
"That's good, then," said Wesley, apparently mollified, and they continued walking in companionable silence.
Suddenly Gemma spotted a few wrapped Christmas trees at one of the flower stalls. "Oh, my gosh! I completely forgot about a tree!"
"A Christmas tree? This be for your new home?"
"Yes. We're moving in on Saturday."
"I'll find you a good tree, if you want, and bring it to you. A big one." He chuckled. "A black Father Christmas, how you like that?"
CHAPTER NINE
Much of the housing around Portobello remained poor up to and beyond the Second World War, when it was still not unusual for homes to have a shared lavatory, no bathroom, and cooking facilities on the landing.
– Whetlor and Bartlett,
from Portobello
Portobello had always been a road of mixed use, the antiques shops and arcades tucked in among flats and cafés and ordinary businesses. Borough, on the other hand, was an old dockside warehouse district made fashionable by its proximity to the river and, except when the Friday-morning produce market was in session, there was nothing in its dark brick buildings and narrow streets innately friendly to the casual pedestrian. Kincaid and Doug Cullen found the address the Arrowoods had given them easily enough, however: a loft in a converted warehouse.
Charles Dodd was young, balding, with a plain, intelligent face. His black jeans and turtleneck made an interesting counterpoint to the glass-and-greenery airiness of the loft behind him.
"Charles Dodd?" Kincaid presented his warrant card. "I'm Superintendent Kincaid, and this is Sergeant Cullen. Could you spare us a few minutes?"
"What's this about?" Dodd inquired, but his manner seemed friendly enough. "I've just got home from work and I've guests arriving in a few minutes." As Dodd led them to a pair of matching white sofas, Kincaid noticed that a section of floor had been done in glass blocks that allowed a view of the high-tech kitchen on the lower floor.
"This won't take long," he assured Dodd. "Terrific flat you've got here. Good for entertaining, is it?"
"As a matter of fact, it is, and cooking's my stress relief from work."
"Last Friday evening, I understand you gave a drinks party here?"
"I did, yes. All perfectly legal, I assure you. Nothing served but wine."
"And Sean and Richard Arrowood were among your guests?"
"Those wankers?" Astonishment warred with amusement in Dodd's face. "What are they supposed to have done?"
"Their stepmother was murdered on Friday evening," said Cullen. "We need to ascertain the whereabouts of anyone who had a connection with the victim."
"You can't seriously think those two had anything to do with their stepmother's death? I read about it in the paper, a dreadful thing. But Sean and Richard couldn't slaughter a chicken between them if it meant the difference between eating and starving to death." Dodd lit a cigarette. "Oh, Sean's not so bad, really- or he wouldn't be if you could keep him away from his mother and his brother- but Richard's a parasite."
"Why invite them to your party if you dislike them?"
Dodd grimaced at Kincaid. "Work. Richard's in the same office; Sean comes along gratis. Gets awkward if you invite everyone else and leave Richard out."
"What time did they arrive on Friday?"
"Between half-five and six. We all came straight from work."
"And they stayed until what time?"
"About eight. A few of us went out to dinner then, but not Sean and Richard."
"Can you be sure they were here the entire time?"
"There were fewer than a dozen of us. I'd have noticed if they'd nipped out for a murder. Besides, Richard was hitting the wine even more heavily than usual, and I was wondering if I was going to have to chuck him out. Sean saved me the bother, in the end."
"Richard was difficult?"
"Obnoxious would be a better description. Coming on to a lady who didn't fancy him at all. Possibly a bit of overcompensation for not admitting that he prefers boys."
"Would you say Richard's behavior seemed worse than usual? Did he seem nervous, upset?"
Dodd took a moment to put his cigarette out in an art-glass ashtray. "Hard to say, really. He was certainly fretful, but then he's rather an emotional sort."
Kincaid recollected Richard Arrowood's pallid countenance and incessant sniffing. "I suspect that Richard is not unacquainted with drug dealers. Do you by any chance know who supplies his coke?"
"Not a clue. Couldn't afford this flat if I did that sort of thing," Dodd added, but his smile had become strained.
"We'll need to have a word with the other guests at your party, if you could jot their names and addresses down for us."
Dodd complied, although not happily. "This is going to do wonders for my reputation as a host," he grumbled as he gave them the finished list.
"You never know," Kincaid told him as they said good-bye. "It might add a bit of excitement to the prospect. Good food, good wine, a visit from your friendly copper."
When they reached the street, Kincaid handed Cullen the list.
Cullen groaned. "Does this mean what I think it does?"
***
In the year following her mother's death, Angel slowly realized that she had lost her father, as well. Gone was the gruff man who had joked and teased with her; in his place a ghost wandered about the flat, eating the meals she prepared for him in silence, sitting vacantly in front of the television.
At first she made every effort to get his attention, talking to him, asking questions, begging for stories. But gradually she learned to exist in silence, as he did, and they moved through their days as if in two parallel but unconnected universes. So it was that when she came home from school one January afternoon to find him sitting motionless in his chair, it was half an hour before she realized he was dead.
A stroke, the doctor said, shaking his head and clucking in dismay. But as soon as he'd notified the undertaker, he had taken his bag and gone on to the more rewarding job of ministering to the living.
Mrs. Thomas offered to help with the funeral arrangements, while Betty and Ronnie, stunned by another death, avoided her eyes. "It's not contagious, you know," Angel hissed at them, but she soon learned that their behavior was the least of her worries.
"You'll have to know how much you can afford before we talk to the funeral director," Mrs. Thomas advised her. "You had better see the bank man
ager, first."
Angel knew the bank manager from the days when her father had frequented the Polish café. A heavy man given to perspiring and wiping his bald scalp with a handkerchief, there was none of the jollity Angel remembered in his manner. He, too, shook his head and clucked, making her want to scream, but she merely sat quietly and waited.
"Your father was not the best with financial matters, Miss Wolowski," the bank manager told her reluctantly. "Especially since your mother's death. Whatever savings he had, he spent on her treatment, and I'm afraid that this past year he's brought little in."
This didn't come as a great surprise, as Angel had become accustomed over the past few months to the coldness of the flat and the scarcity of the money her father had given her to buy food. Nor had he spent much time trading at his stall in the market. "But surely there must be something?"
"Perhaps enough to settle a few minor accounts. The butcher, the greengrocer. But that's all. And I'm afraid your landlord has a reputation for moving quickly on these things, so you'll need to vacate as soon as possible."
"Vacate?"
"I'm afraid so."
"But I have nowhere to go."
"Your father must have appointed a guardian of some sort for you?"
"No."
The bank manager looked distressed, whether on her behalf or his own for having to deal with her, she couldn't tell. "Well, how old are you, my dear?"
"Sixteen."
"You're of school-leaving age, then," he said with apparent relief. "I suppose you'll have to find work of some sort. I'll be more than happy to give you a reference. And there is one other thing. At the time of your mother's death, your father bought the adjoining plot at Kensal Green for himself, so that's one expense you needn't worry about."
"A burial, then, but no marker?" Angel said to Mrs. Thomas as they walked back to Westbourne Park.
"No. They're quite expensive, even the plain ones," Mrs. Thomas agreed. "But you can always add something later." Her dark eyes shone with concern. "Angel, I want you to know you're welcome to stay with us as long as you need. I'm sure your father never meant to leave you like this."
"I'll be all right, thanks. I'll find somewhere close by." It was not only that she still felt the hurt from last winter's rejection, but that things had changed and she no longer felt so at home at the Thomases'. Betty, having inherited her mother's skill with a needle, had left school to take a job with a milliner in Kensington Church Street. With the job had come new friends, a new life that did not include Angel. And Ronnie had little time for either of them. When he wasn't working at his job as a photographer's assistant, shooting weddings and family portraits, he roamed the streets with his camera, developing the black-and-white prints in the flat's bathroom and ignoring his family's complaints about the chemical odors. Angel found the Notting Hill street scenes and portraits fascinating, but felt the distance he had put between them too keenly to tell him so.
The day of her father's funeral, unlike that of her mother's, dawned clear and unseasonably mild. There was a hint of softness in the air, as if spring might be hiding round the corner, but Angel knew it for a false promise. This time she and the Thomases were the only mourners. She had made no announcement of the service because she could not afford to entertain anyone afterwards. When Ronnie took her arm as the coffin descended, she felt an unexpectedly dizzying rush of pleasure.
Within the next few weeks, with the help of the bank manager's recommendation, she found a job as a cashier at the grocer's on Portobello Road. She also found a cheap and shabby bedsit in Colville Terrace, hoping her meager wage would cover the rent.
Carefully, she sorted through the flat, knowing she could not take much with her. Her own small bed, the best armchair, her mother's antique bureau, the television, a few kitchen utensils. The rest she arranged for one of her father's friends to sell in the market, but she didn't expect the things to fetch much. She could not, however, bring herself to sell the few bits of antique jewelry left in her father's stall at the arcade, whatever their cash value. The heart-shaped silver locket she fastened round her neck; the rest she put carefully away in the bureau.
When the day came, Ronnie offered to borrow his father's van to help her move the larger items the few blocks south to Colville Terrace. They rode amicably in the front seat, arguing the merits of a new band from Tottenham that had temporarily displaced the Beatles from their number one spot on the charts.
"The Dave Clark Five?" Ronnie said contemptuously. "What sort of name is that? I'm telling you, six months from now you won't remember what they were called. The Beatles, now, they've got some potential as musicians."
That he deigned to approve of any pop band surprised her: he usually extolled only the virtues of jazz artists like Thelonious Monk and Chet Baker. "What about the Rolling Stones, then?" she suggested, aiming for a sophistication she didn't feel.
Ronnie's face lit up. "Now they've studied the old blues masters- they know their stuff," he said enthusiastically, and the relaxed atmosphere between them lasted the few minutes until they reached their destination.
"Here?" he asked incredulously as he pulled the van up in front of the new flat. By the time he had followed her up to the top-floor room, he was livid with anger.
"Angel, what you thinking of? This is a pit, a hole. A West Indian family right off the boat wouldn't be desperate enough to take this-"
"It's all I can afford, Ronnie, so just leave it-"
"Don't you know this is one of Peter Rachman's properties? He'll send his frighteners round if you don't pay your rent on time. And his dogs. And if your water goes out, or your heat, he's not known for taking care of his tenants-"
"I'll be fine," Angel insisted, fighting back tears.
"Those patches on the walls are damp, did you know that? And there's only a paraffin heater, for God's sake. You'll be lucky you don't set yourself alight-"
"Ronnie, either you can help me move this furniture, or I'll do it myself. But there's no point in you standing there criticizing me, because I've no choice."
Their glowering match lasted a full minute, then Ronnie shrugged. "All right. It's your funeral."
But by the time they had humped her things up the stairs, his anger seemed to have evaporated. He sat on the edge of the newly positioned chair, rotating his cap in his hands. "Look, Angel. I'm sorry for what I said a moment ago. It was… considering your father… anyway, I didn't mean it. I just don't understand why you can't stay with us until you work something out."
"And what exactly am I supposed to work out? I can't be a permanent parasite on your family, Ronnie. I'm grown up now- I've got to learn to manage on my own." She hoped he couldn't hear the tremor in her voice.
He stood. "All right, then. But don't say I didn't tell you."
Suddenly she felt she couldn't bear for him to turn and walk out the door. She put her hand on his arm. "Ronnie. I am grown up now. You could stay if you wanted."
She saw the naked flash of desire on his face, saw it swiftly replaced by horror.
"Angel, you're… you're like my sister. I could never… you shouldn't even think such a thing."
He did turn away then, clattering down the stairs, leaving her alone in the cold and damp-ridden room. Carefully, methodically, she lit the paraffin heater and curled up beneath a blanket on her narrow bed. Then she wept as if her heart would break.
***
Gemma spent the first part of Thursday morning reviewing the reports that had come back from computer forensics. There was no evidence, either in E-mail or personal files, that Karl Arrowood had intended to murder his wife- or that he had suspected her affair or her pregnancy.
Nor was there any evidence that Dawn had used the computer at all, which Gemma found interesting, but not surprising, considering Dawn's carefulness in other matters.
Unfortunately, they had not begun the investigation looking for financial discrepancies in Karl Arrowood's accounts, and she would now have to ask the computer
team to go over everything once again. They would also have to look at his business computers, which she expected he would not take kindly.
"If what Otto says is true, that Arrowood sells drugs," Melody said thoughtfully, "mightn't Dawn's death be a professional matter? An irate customer? A dissatisfied partner?"
Gemma had requested that Melody go to Arrowood's shop with her as backup, first having made sure that Sergeant Franks was well buried in paperwork. "But in that case, where does Marianne Hoffman come in?" she countered.
"There is that," Melody agreed. "What about the blood work, then? Any progress there?"
"Not yet. Christmas slowdown at the Home Office. I've nagged them again." Gemma found a parking spot on Kensington Park Road, across the street from Arrowood Antiques. The shop was unobtrusively elegant, blending easily into the residences situated opposite the classical town houses of Stanley Gardens.
From the window dressing alone it was apparent the shop served an equally elegant clientele. As they entered, the door chimed melodiously and Gemma's feet sank into the plush pile of a Wilton carpet. The front room was small, holding a few choice pieces of antique furniture, objets d'art, lamps, and ornately framed watercolors, but other equally rich rooms opened out from it.
A woman- blond, middle-aged, perfectly coiffed and manicured- sat at a writing desk in view of the door. She gave Gemma a half-wattage smile. "May I help you?" she asked, and Gemma heard the unvoiced "Not that's there's anything here you can afford."
Gemma had to agree- if the lack of price tags was any indication. "Is Mr. Arrowood in?" she asked, and saw the flick of the woman's glance towards the back of the shop.
"He's just stepped ou-"
"I think he'll see us."
The woman's smile disappeared altogether at the sight of Gemma's identification. "Just a moment, please."
They waited only a few minutes before Karl Arrowood appeared, as immaculately groomed and suited as she had seen him at his wife's funeral. "Inspector James, and Constable Talbot, is it? What can I do for you?"
And Justice There Is None Page 16