And Justice There Is None

by Deborah Crombie

  What if she and Karl and their friends took a few pills? Everyone did; it was the latest rage. Blue, red, green, yellow, all the colors of the rainbow, the little capsules and tablets helped you stay up at night, then helped you go to sleep when the buzz hadn't quite worn off. And everyone who was anyone smoked pot. No party was complete without a few joints.

  She got out of the tube at Sloane Square and walked west down the King's Road. New boutiques- you had to be careful to say "boutique" rather than "shop"- were springing up everywhere, and as she absorbed the bustle and energy of the street, her anger began to translate itself into purpose.

  Stopping in front of a hairdresser's, she put her hands to the glass and peered in. Yes, it was just the sort of place she had in mind. There was no point in hanging on to the remnants of her former life any longer.

  An hour later, she emerged from the salon, her hair now the color of silver gilt, cropped close above her ears. A new op-art dress from a nearby boutique and a pair of strappy high heels completed the picture. That night Karl was taking her to the Speakeasy. It was one of the most popular clubs in town- she'd heard Cilla Black would be there that night- and she intended for every head to turn when she walked in the door.

  She had shed that dumpy little Polish girl from Portobello, like a snake shed its skin, and she meant never to look back.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  From the earliest days, pubs in Portobello Road were important meeting places. Shop keepers, carpenters, upholsterers, gardeners, clerks, stallholders, indeed anyone who lived or worked in the street, could find entertainment and companionship in them. The oldest surviving public house, the Sun in Splendour, near Notting Hill Gate, was built in 1850 and advertised itself with a great rising sun with golden rays.

  – Whetlor and Bartlett,

  from Portobello

  On Christmas Eve morning, ten days after Dawn Arrowood's murder, Gemma waited outside the veterinary surgery on All Saints Road for Bryony to arrive. It was miserably cold, the weather as bleak as it had been the previous day, and the air smelled more strongly of snow. Seeking protection from the wind's probing fingers, Gemma squeezed into the slight recess in the surgery's doorway.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Bryony crossing towards her, her long stride rapidly closing the distance between them.

  "Gemma! What are you doing here? Is Geordie okay?" Bryony wore a long striped scarf and matching stocking cap in yellows and purples, and managed somehow to carry it off.

  "He's fine. He seems to be settling in remarkably well, in fact." Although Tess had followed the boys to bed as usual, Geordie had stayed with Gemma and Duncan, curling up on the foot of their bed as if he had always slept there.

  "Are we going to have a no-furniture rule?" Kincaid had asked, bemused.

  "Tess sleeps with Kit."

  "True. And our dogs always slept on our beds when we were kids. I'm not objecting- it's just that you need to start as you mean to go on."

  Gemma found she hadn't the heart to make the dog move. "No, let him stay. He doesn't take up that much room, and he'll keep my feet warm."

  "Right." Kincaid had grinned at her. "I can see I've already been displaced in your affections." But he didn't seem to mind, really.

  "I hope you didn't mind my sending Marc yesterday," Bryony was saying as she unlocked the surgery door. "But Geordie's owner- former owner- left him at the soup kitchen, and I hated to expose him to the other dogs in case some of them had contagious illnesses. And I couldn't ask the owner to take him away until I'd finished- she was barely holding herself together as it was."

  "No, it was fine, and Duncan and the boys were so surprised. You'll tell Geordie's owner he's all right?" She saw that Geordie's photo was still taped to the side of the monitor. Feeling proprietary, she asked, "Do you mind if I take this?" and at Bryony's nod she peeled it off and put it in her handbag. "Your clinic went well?"

  "Beyond all expectation," Bryony said, switching on the computer and readying files. "But if you didn't come about Geordie-"

  "It's Mr. Farley," said Gemma. "Can you tell me what time he left on the Friday Dawn was killed?"

  Bryony froze, mid-motion. "Why?"

  "Just routine, really. But he did have that little disagreement with Dawn. I'm just ruling out options."

  Color stained Bryony's cheeks. "I should never have said anything. I never meant for you to take it seriously, and now I feel an absolute fool."

  "Why? If Mr. Farley had something to do with Dawn's death, would you protect him?"

  "Of course not. But I'm sure Gavin couldn't have done something like that, and having the police poke into his business is not going to make him happy." Bryony looked away from Gemma's gaze. "It's just that he's rather cross with me already… over my holding the free clinic."

  "Why does he object to it?"

  "I'm not sure if it's the money or the principle that aggravates him most. I think he sees it as a useless exercise, and since those supplies went missing, he's been like an old maid over expenses. It's odd, too, as the loss didn't really amount to more than a few pounds."

  "He sees helping homeless people's animals as a useless exercise?"

  "You can always trust Gavin not to be politically correct. But he's right, in a way," Bryony added with a sigh. "As much as I hate to admit it. There's so much I can't do. I'm not giving up, though. And Marc's been so good…"

  "He is nice, isn't he? You're a lucky woman, I should think."

  "Oh, no! I don't- We don't- We're friends, that's all."

  "But I thought- I'm sorry. It's just that you seem so well suited."

  "It's not that I'd mind," the other woman admitted. "But Marc's very focused on his work. You know how it is…"

  "Unlike Mr. Farley, I take it." Gemma glanced at her watch. "Is he coming in at all?"

  "No. He's given himself a long holiday. Boss's privilege." Bryony seemed to come to a decision. "Look, I don't see any harm in telling you that he left early that Friday, before five. But I think you should ask him yourself."

  "That's just what I intend to do."

  ***

  "White girl, ain't got no sense," Betty muttered, kicking angrily at a tin can in the gutter and scuffing the toe of her saddle shoe. Then she felt ashamed of herself for speaking of Angel in that jeering way, even if there was no one else to hear, for she felt sure Angel never thought of her as a "black girl." Why, one day their last year in school, Mozelle Meekum, a pasty-faced bully with arms like hams, had called her a nigger, and Angel had gone and slapped that girl right up the side of the head. Got in trouble for it, too, detention after school. And never complained.

  So why had Angel, who knew the difference between what was right and what wasn't, gone off with this man who was no better than he should be, good looks be damned? There was something wrong in that young man, Betty could feel it, a cold place inside him. But Angel wouldn't believe her, not now, not as long as she was blinded by lust, and any fool could see that she was.

  And poor Ronnie, furious with Angel, furious with himself. Betty saw the way he looked at Angel when Angel wasn't looking, knew what he was suffering, knew that even if she could shake the stubbornness out of him and make him speak to Angel, it was too late. He had lost her.

  There was no bloody help for any of it, as far as she could see. And she had her Colin to think of now, and their future- He wouldn't like her getting mixed up in others' business. Still, if only there were something she could do…

  It came to her as she neared the church, and her heart lifted a bit. Not that Angel had much use for Catholic practices… But it couldn't do any harm to light a candle for her soul… and she need never know.

  ***

  Kincaid organized the notes on his desk and took another appreciative sip of coffee from a polystyrene cup. Someone had apparently upgraded the communal pot, as the coffee actually tasted more like coffee than battery acid. Perhaps the departmental secretary had received an abundance of coffee beans as a Chris
tmas gift.

  He'd just returned from an informative meeting with a mate in the drug squad. It seemed that they'd had an eye on Karl Arrowood for years- since long before Kincaid's friend's tenure on the force, in fact. But Arrowood was a clever and cautious man, and they had never been able to come up with anything concrete against him. Years ago, they'd thought to make a case, but he'd managed to slip through their fingers.

  His phone rang, and he took another sip of his coffee before lifting the receiver.

  "Duncan? It's Gemma." She sounded discouraged. "The report's come back on Arrowood's office computer."

  "No joy, I take it?"

  "Not a blinking thing. He's got himself a very good bookkeeper, but then what would you expect? There are a large number of cash transactions, but that's not illegal, and he has reason to keep cash reserves on hand. A lot of antique trading is cash only."

  "How very convenient." He told her what he'd learned from the drug squad, then asked, "Did you see the vet?"

  "I've just come from the surgery. He wasn't in, but I did have a word with Bryony. She says Farley left the clinic before five that Friday. He's at home today, so I thought I'd have a word with him there."

  "Hang on for a few minutes. I've a meeting with the guv'nor, but let me send Cullen with you. He's come up with a few interesting tidbits on Farley. Suspected tax evasion for starters, followed by sexual harassment of a client."

  ***

  "Not bad," Doug Cullen murmured as he looked round, whistling through his teeth. The houses here were semidetached, the curved, hilly street lined with mature trees. Every door sported a wreath, and every driveway a Mercedes, a Lexus, or a BMW.

  "Up-and-coming Willesden- although I'm still inclined to think of it as the place the buses go home to bed," Gemma agreed. "But considering the area's upmarket status these days, I'm not surprised Mr. Farley cheats on his taxes. Here it is," she added, checking the house number against her notes.

  Gavin Farley's house was pseudo-Tudor, with freshly painted trim and a well-kept garden. A new model Mercedes sat beside a workaday Vauxhall Astra in the drive. "Maybe we're in luck and Farley's wife is at home, too. Should we split up, interview them separately?" suggested Cullen.

  "Let's see how it goes. It's the Astra that he drives to work- I remember seeing it in front of the surgery." The car was maroon, with a distinctive crack in the left taillamp.

  Taking advantage of the wait after ringing the bell, Cullen glanced at his companion. As he'd discovered on Saturday night, the redheaded, faintly freckled Gemma James was not as formidable as her reputation had led him to believe. Nearer his age than he'd expected, she'd been friendly, if slightly wary, and this morning she'd done him the favor of not mentioning Saturday night's dinner.

  Mrs. Farley, a thin, worried-looking woman of middle age, was indeed at home, and greeted them warily.

  "I'm Inspector James and this is Sergeant Cullen," Gemma told her. "Could we have a word with you?"

  "But-" Mrs. Farley looked round uncertainly. "My husband's out in his shop. I'll just go-"

  "No, that's all right, Mrs. Farley. We'd like to speak to you first. It won't take a moment."

  With obvious reluctance, the woman took them into the front room, but a glance towards the rear of the house had shown Cullen two preadolescent children sprawled in front of a television in a den. The boy and girl, both slightly overweight and smug-looking, glanced up at them with disinterest before turning back to their program.

  Mrs. Farley perched on the edge of a chair while he and Gemma sat opposite on a sofa. Doug had learned enough from Stella to realize that the furniture and objects in the room were expensive, and also that they had been put together with a complete lack of grace and style.

  "Mrs. Farley," said Gemma, "can you tell us what time your husband arrived home from his surgery on the Friday before last?"

  "Friday before last? However should I remember that?" Mrs. Farley picked at the reindeer appliqué on the front of her Christmas pullover.

  "You must have heard about the woman who was murdered that evening? Dawn Arrowood? That should help you place it."

  "I don't have time to watch the news, what with the children's activities."

  "But surely your husband must have told you about it. She was one of his clients."

  The hand on the sweater grew still. "Oh, of course. Gavin was so shocked when he read it in the papers the next day. And I do recall now, about that Friday. I had to pick up Antony, our son, from a football match, and when we got back Gavin was home. That would have been half past six or so. He was already out in his workshop."

  "So you can't be sure of the exact time?" asked Cullen.

  "No. But I heard his shower running, so he must have been home a few minutes."

  "His shower?"

  "Gavin has a shower stall out in his shop. I won't let him come in the house covered in sawdust."

  "What does Mr. Farley make?" Gemma's face reflected nothing but friendly interest.

  "Jewelry boxes, CD holders, pen trays… things that are useful and decorative, he likes to say. He gives them to his special clients."

  Cullen saw Gemma's lip twitch and made an effort to control his own expression. "Do you know if he meant to give one of his… creations… to Dawn Arrowood?"

  "I've no idea," Mrs. Farley replied stiffly. "What is this about? Gavin barely knew this woman. She'd been into his surgery once or twice with her cat."

  "That's odd." Gemma frowned. "We were under the impression that Mrs. Arrowood was quite a regular client of the surgery, and that Mr. Farley always made an effort to see her himself."

  Mrs. Farley stood, jerking her cheerful reindeer sweater down over her bony hips. "I don't know about that. You'll have to speak to my husband. And I've things to do- the Christmas dinner… I'll just go and get Gavin."

  "If you'll just point us in the right direction, Mrs. Farley, I'm sure we can find him ourselves."

  ***

  "She knows he's up to something, but she's not sure how bad it is," Cullen murmured to Gemma as they made their way down a path made of concrete stepping stones. At the bottom of the garden, light seeped from the door of Farley's workshop.

  "I suspect that woman has lived in fear of the sky falling every day of her married life," Gemma said pensively. "And I don't like this business about the shower."

  The whine of a saw came from inside the building. Gemma waited for a pause, then pounded on the door. "Mr. Farley? It's Inspector James."

  "If she knows he's a rotter," whispered Cullen, "would she still protect him?"

  "With her life."

  The shop door opened and a heavyset, dark-haired man stared out at them. He wore a leather apron, and had pushed safety goggles up on his forehead.

  "Well, well, well," said Farley, as jolly as one of Father Christmas's elves. "To what do I owe the honor? I'd invite you to come in and make yourselves comfortable, but as you can see…" His gesture swept the small room.

  The smell of resin caught at Cullen's throat. He looked round the room, making out several different saws of incomprehensible purpose, a good deal of raw wood and sawdust, and shelves full of Farley's "objects." Cullen found himself hoping not to be a recipient of Farley's generosity, and wondered why the veterinarian chose to makes boxes rather than representations of the cats and dogs he knew so intimately. Perhaps Farley didn't really like animals all that much.

  "We'll manage," said Gemma, easing her way into the room without touching anything. "It's about Dawn Arrowood, Mr. Farley. On the afternoon of the day she died, she told a friend that she'd had an unpleasant encounter with you that morning. An argument."

  "That's nonsense. Why would I have had an argument with Mrs. Arrowood- although I did remind her again that she must keep her cat in the house, regardless of her husband's preference."

  "That's not what she said. She told her friend that you came on to her, that you were sexually offensive, and that when she told you to stop, you were abusive."

>   "The woman must have been imagining things. I never did any such thing, and I'll thank you not to malign my professional reputation." Farley's protest seemed just a bit too polished, as if he'd been expecting the accusation.

  "She can't very well argue with you now, can she?" Cullen pointed out, then added, "What about the client who brought sexual harassment charges against you two years ago, Mr. Farley?"

  "Those charges were dropped! The whole thing was a complete fabrication, and I was exonerated!" Farley took a step back and pulled off his safety glasses. The rubber had left a red imprint like a brand against the pasty skin of his forehead. "She had a grudge against me. Her dog had died and she couldn't deal with it. The judge accepted that." Lowering his voice, he said confidentially, "Look, Dawn Arrowood did flirt with me, I'll admit that. She was one of those women who think every man on earth should fall at their feet. But I never crossed the line with her."

  "Then you won't mind telling us where you were from the time you left the surgery that day until you arrived home," said Gemma.

  "But I-" Farley glanced from Gemma to Cullen. "I went for a drink. At The Sun in Splendour. You must know it," he added, as if that somehow gave his story credibility.

  Cullen had met friends there for a drink. It was a yuppie pub, frequented by well-dressed, well-off young men and women, like Dawn Arrowood. "So you left your surgery before five o'clock, checked out the action at the pub, then arrived home about, what, half past six? Then what did you do?"

  "I- I'm not sure exactly what time it was. I worked out here for a while, until my wife called me for dinner."

  "And do you always shower before you begin working in your shop, Mr. Farley?" asked Gemma.