"So he fought hard?"
"Very. See these blood smears in his hair? My guess is that's how the killer finally overpowered him, by getting a grip on this nice, thick hair and forcing his head back."
"What about the wounds themselves? Can you tell if they were made by the same weapon as his wife's, or by the same perpetrator?"
"The instrument was sharp and clean-edged, that I can tell you. The killer just never managed to get really good purchase. This man died from blood loss from multiple wounds, not from a complete severing of a main artery. And I'd guess that your killer was male, and of good height, and right-handed."
"Well, that rules out a certain percentage of the population, anyway. What about the chest wound? Did the killer intend the sort of mutilation performed on Dawn Arrowood?"
"You're thinking he was interrupted? That's possible. Although the psychology of inflicting that sort of injury on both women and men is beyond my scope."
"Time of death?"
"That old chestnut?"
Again he heard the suggestion of a smile in her voice. "I'm afraid so."
Ling reached up and turned off the tape recorder. "Off the record? I'd say somewhere in the vicinity of eight p.m. Officially, I'll have to be boringly vague, say, somewhere between seven and ten. Once I've done the stomach contents, you may be able to pin it down a bit more accurately."
"Thanks," he said with genuine feeling.
"Let's go outside for a minute," the pathologist suggested. "There's no need for you to stay for the icky part, organs and so forth. I'll send you a report." When they reached the hallway, she pulled off her mask and her cap, letting her glossy black hair swing loose, and stripped off her gloves. "That reminds me. I said the same thing not long ago to Gemma. I thought she might faint on me for a moment- That's not like her, is it?"
"No." He replied noncommittally, wondering where this was going. "She must have been having a particularly bad day."
Kate Ling frowned at him. "Duncan, I've always wondered… I know it's none of my business, but are you two an item?"
"We've just moved into a house together," he answered, seeing no reason to dissemble. "Now that she doesn't work with me directly, it's a bit more politically correct."
"Oh, well," Kate said, then shrugged and flashed him a smile whose meaning he couldn't mistake. He found himself utterly and unexpectedly tongue-tied, but she rescued him. "I hope things work out for you. She is pregnant, isn't she?"
"Yes. The baby's due in May."
"Is she feeling all right? She looked a bit peaky when I saw her that day."
"She has had a problem with her placenta. Some bleeding. But she seems to be fine now."
"Good." Kate gave him a reassuring smile, but not before he'd glimpsed the flash of concern in her eyes.
***
Gemma stepped out into the late-morning daylight outside the station, blinking as if emerging from a long, if unwelcome, hibernation. It had stopped snowing during the night, but gray clouds still hovered over the rooftops, and dirty slush filled gutters and pavement.
Shivering as she waited for Kincaid to fetch the car, she thought of the morning's progress, and her spirits sank even lower.
They had kept Alex Dunn at the station until Mrs. Du Ray had been able to come in and make a positive identification, but once that formality was completed, they'd had to send him home with a caution.
The same was true of Gavin Farley, which galled Gemma considerably more. Both his in-laws and his neighbors, the Simmonses, had confirmed his alibi, insisting that Farley had not left their sight for more than five minutes during the time period in which the pathologist estimated Arrowood had been murdered. The Simmonses had also made it clear they didn't care for Farley, so it seemed unlikely that they would be inclined to protect him. Nor had the search team found anything, although with the Christmas slowdown there was no telling how long it would take to get the trace evidence results back from the Home Office lab.
Then, it had fallen to Gemma to inform Karl Arrowood's sons and his ex-wife of his murder. Sean, the younger son, had answered the door at his mother's residence.
"Inspector James!" Wariness replaced his first cheerful response. "Do come in."
"I'm afraid I have some very bad news. Your father was killed last night."
He gaped at her, shock draining the color from his face.
"Sean, do you want to sit down?"
He ignored the suggestion. "My father can't be dead. There must be some mistake. We're having lunch today, a make-up-with-Richard occasion. Dad actually rang us."
"I'm sorry. There's no mistake. He was found in his drive by a neighbor."
"You mean… he was killed… like her?"
"The circumstances are quite similar, yes. Would you like me to speak to your mother? Is she here?"
"No. She and Richard have gone out for a bit." More firmly, he added, "I'll tell Mum. And Richard." His face had aged decades in five minutes.
"Is there anyone else we should inform?"
"Not that I know of. Dad's parents have been dead for years. I suppose I can ring his staff. And his business associates."
"We'll let you know when you can make funeral arrangements. Sean… there is one other thing." She hesitated, in the face of his obvious grief and shock, but knew she must ask. "Where were you and Richard yesterday evening?"
"Here," he answered without rancor. "Mother gives a monster party every Christmas Eve- a gala, she calls it. Rich and I are expected to dance attendance on all the old dears, without fail. Our mother's wrath is not something to be trifled with. Oh, God," he groaned, as if it had finally sunk in, "she's not going to want to hear this."
"I'm sorry." Gemma felt as helpless as she always did when faced with the response to sudden death. "We will be in touch, possibly with a few more questions. But we'll try to intrude as little as possible. And you can ring me if you like." She left, not envying him the task he faced.
It was still possible, of course, that one or both of the brothers had hired a professional to commit all three murders, but Doug Cullen's investigation had not turned up a shred of corroborating evidence- and she'd never really thought the idea likely. The nature of the crimes was too personal- too intimate, she was certain- to be the work of a hired killer.
Still, she'd have to send someone to get a guest list from Sylvia Arrowood tomorrow, so that they could check the boys' alibis.
When Kincaid picked her up a moment later for the drive home, she noticed that he avoided passing by St. John's Church. It was thoughtful of him: Even the idea of the bloodstained snow in Karl Arrowood's drive made her feel queasy.
It occurred to her that she hadn't eaten, except for a bite of a muffin brought to her unexpectedly by Gerry Franks, and that might account for her light-headedness.
But the very worst thing about the day became painfully clear to her as they pulled up in front of their house. She hadn't realized how fiercely she'd looked forward to spending this morning with the boys until she'd missed it, an opportunity gone forever.
Kincaid had at least checked in with Kit several times on his mobile, but she hadn't even had the chance to wish Toby a happy Christmas.
"Mummy! Kit's made French toast for breakfast, with sausages, and he's put some in the warming oven for you!" Toby looked like a little elf in his footed red flannelette pajamas, and he was jiggling up and down with excitement. "Wait till you see-"
"I've got tea in the pot, as well," Kit interrupted, giving Toby a warning glance. "Come in the kitchen." As he took her arm, she noticed absently that the dining room doors were closed, but she thought no more about it.
Kit sat her down at the table and served her with a flourish, while Kincaid looked on affectionately, saying he'd had something earlier. Only halfway through her breakfast did she remember they were supposed to go to Hazel's for Christmas dinner. A wave of exhaustion washed over her; she put down her suddenly leaden fork.
"You'll have to go to Hazel's without me,"
she said, near tears. "I don't think I can manage it."
"Don't worry," Kit told her. "I've arranged everything. They're coming here- Hazel and Tim and Holly- and you don't have to do a thing but sit down and eat. Toby and I have even set the table. I'll show you when you're finished."
Gemma's throat tightened. "Kit, I don't know what to say. You are so thoughtful, and so grown-up. I don't know how I ever got along without you."
The boy flushed with pride, then urged her to finish her breakfast with proprietary zeal. "Are you ready, then?" he asked, with barely contained excitement. "You can bring your tea."
As they reached the dining room, a look passed between Kit and Kincaid, who said casually as he swung open the doors, "Oh, by the way, Father Christmas has been here as well."
She had a brief impression of the table, splendidly set with assorted dishes and glassware, a shining Christmas cracker at each place.
Then the piano filled her vision. A baby grand, its polished ebony surface reflecting every sparkle and gleam from the room. They'd moved the dining table to one side to accommodate the instrument, which had been placed facing the garden doors. "So that you can look outside when you play," Kit explained gravely.
"But what- How did you- and on Christmas-"
"Kit was my partner in crime," Kincaid explained, grinning. "And the piano company was delighted to cooperate in the surprise. Do you like it?"
"Like it? I-" Mesmerized, Gemma sank onto the padded bench. With one finger, she touched middle C, and the single pure tone resonated through the room.
She put her hands over her face and wept.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Though most people still gave counties in England as their birthplace, the inhabitants of the road were becoming more diverse as people who had been born overseas came to live in the area. A sample from the same census shows one person originated from Russia, one from Poland, eight from Ireland, one from Belgium…
– Whetlor and Bartlett,
from Portobello
By unspoken agreement, they had not discussed the case at home over Christmas. But as they drove to the police station the next morning, Kincaid said, as if continuing a recently interrupted conversation, "We can't rule out Alex Dunn altogether, you know. We can't be certain that he didn't attack Karl, then come back to see if he needed to finish the job."
"I think Mrs. Du Ray is a reliable witness," Gemma protested. "If she says he was frightened-"
"I'm not questioning her interpretation, just whether his fright absolves him of murder. You can kill someone in the heat of a struggle and still be horrified by the consequences."
"Yes, of course, but say he did kill Karl- and he's admitted intent and motive- he has an alibi for the time of Dawn's- Bryony!" she exclaimed as they entered the station. "What are you doing here?"
"Hullo, Gemma." Bryony rose from a seat in the reception area. "I hoped I could have a word with you, if I'm not too early. I had to come before the surgery opened."
"No, that's fine. Bryony, this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard."
Bryony shook Kincaid's hand, and Gemma noticed that her right index finger was bandaged. "Is there somewhere we could talk?"
"We'll go in my office."
"How's Geordie?" Bryony asked as Gemma signed her in and led her through the security door.
"A little worn out from the excitement of Christmas, I think. We had two little ones who took it upon themselves to run him ragged in the snow."
In spite of Karl Arrowood's death, it had turned out to be a lovely Christmas. Hazel, in her marvelously organized way, had arrived with a car boot of food ready to reheat in the Aga. They had supped around Kit's festive table with much jollity, and if Gemma fell asleep during the Queen's speech, no one seemed to mind.
Then, before succumbing to bed, Gemma had at last managed a half hour alone with the piano. For that brief time, all that had mattered was the sound of the notes as they followed one another.
"-Boxing Day," Bryony was saying to Kincaid as they reached the conference room. "Do you know, when I was a child, I thought it had to do with fighting? What a fool I felt when I found out that was the day they gave out alms from the church boxes." She sat, twisting her plain, strong hands in her lap.
"What happened to you?" Gemma asked, nodding toward Bryony's injured finger.
"A Yorkshire terrier the owner assured me never bites." Bryony glanced up at them with a crooked smile, which immediately disappeared. "I heard about Karl Arrowood. Have you any idea who did it?"
Obviously, she hadn't heard about their investigation of Gavin Farley- but then it wasn't likely he'd have broadcast his troubles. "We're pursuing some leads," Gemma replied noncommittally. "What is it, Bryony? Has something else happened?"
"I didn't know what I should do. It seems petty and disloyal to come tattling like a schoolgirl, but on the other hand…" She glanced uneasily at Kincaid.
"Go on," urged Gemma. "Superintendent Kincaid is working with me on these cases. Anything you can tell me, you can tell him."
Bryony took a breath, then nodded. "When I was finishing up in the surgery on Monday, I found some photos in Gavin's desk. They were all of Dawn and Alex."
"Dawn and Alex?"
"I'd no idea Gavin knew. Now I wonder if he overheard me mention their relationship to Marc… but even so-"
"Blackmail!" Kincaid exclaimed. "That would explain a good deal. If he was blackmailing her, and she refused to play along any further-"
"But then why kill her?" protested Gemma. "It's usually the victim who murders the blackmailer, not the other way round."
"Maybe she threatened to expose him, regardless of the consequences to herself-"
"Or to Alex?" Gemma asked dubiously. "You think Dawn would have sacrificed Alex to Karl's wrath, just to get Farley off her back?"
"Perhaps. If she meant to leave Karl for Alex, it would have to come out eventually. But I admit I'm getting ahead of the evidence. We need to see those photos."
"What did you do with them?" Gemma asked Bryony.
"I left them where they were."
"Okay. Good. Don't touch them. And don't say anything to Mr. Far-"
There was a knock at the door and Melody Talbot asked, "Could I see you outside a moment, boss? Superintendent?"
Excusing themselves, they followed Melody out into the corridor. "What's up, Constable?" asked Kincaid.
"The search team found a surgical scalpel in a rubbish bin about two blocks east of the Arrowood house. It's been wiped clean, but they've sent it to forensics with a rush request."
"Farley should be at work by now," Gemma said decisively. "Have him brought in again, alibi or no alibi. And then have a team search his surgery." She related Bryony's information.
"The surgery!" Melody exclaimed. "It's the perfect place to clean up. He could even have worn surgical scrubs, then tossed them in the laundry. Under the circumstances, no one would think anything of a bit of blood."
"True." Gemma looked up from the rough list she'd scribbled in her notebook. "Melody, once you've got things in motion, go and interview Farley's neighbors again. See if there's any way they'll budge on his whereabouts last night."
When Melody had gone, Kincaid said, "I don't like this business about Farley, Gemma. No matter how damning the circumstantial evidence, we can't charge him unless we can budge his alibi. Nor is there any connection between this man and Marianne Hoffman, and I'm absolutely certain that these three crimes are connected."
"Maybe he was practicing?" offered Gemma.
"Hoffman as a random victim? I don't buy it. But we might as well tackle him about the scalpel while we're waiting for confirmation on the other-"
His mobile phone rang.
As he took the call, Gemma thought about what he'd said. He was right: A good defense lawyer would make mincemeat of the prosecution's case for Farley as the murderer of either Dawn or Karl Arrowood. The scalpel could have come from any one of a thousand places; Farley might
have photographed Dawn and Alex with no motive other than prurient curiosity; they had only Bryony's word that he'd had a disagreement with Dawn on the day she was murdered.
Nor, as she knew from last night's experience, would they even be able to talk to Farley until his lawyer got there.
"That was Marianne Hoffman's daughter in Bedford," Kincaid said as he returned to her. "She's found some things she wants me to see. Do you mind interviewing Farley on your own, if I drive up there?"
"No, but why not send someone else?"
"Apparently, she wants to talk to me specifically. Must be my pretty face."
"Right. Go on then. I'll ring you if we make any progress." Gemma repressed a sigh as she watched him go. It was going to be a long morning.
***
"Thank you for coming," said Eliza Goddard as she led Kincaid into her kitchen. "I've sent the girls next door to play for a bit."
Kincaid followed her, curious about the difference in her reception of him compared to his last visit. They sat down at the table where Eliza's twins had squabbled over their coloring books, and he saw that she had placed a shoe box beside the stack of children's projects.
"You said there was something you wanted to talk to me about," he said, to give her an opening.
"Yes. I'm sorry about the other day… It's just that I had to get through Christmas. It was so hard for the girls, but Greg came, and I think that helped."
"Greg Hoffman, your stepdad?"
Nodding, she said, "He made everything seem a little more normal, more ordinary, and for a day we could pretend that Mum had just gone away. But then last night, when everyone was asleep, I forced myself to go through the box again." She glanced at the shoe box but made no move to touch it. "I think I should tell you… One of the reasons I didn't feel I could talk to you about my mother- or my father- was that she'd always cautioned me against it."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Mum said that my safety depended on never talking about my background. Of course I didn't take it seriously- you know how children are- but then after she was killed I began to wonder…"
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