Where Memories Lie

by Deborah Crombie

  "So I have a middle-aged, moderately well-nourished, literate, possibly European, possibly Jewish, white male. Thanks, Doc."

  "Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Inspector?" Rainey looked hurt. "What did you expect, the poor man's name tattooed on his privates?"

  "More to the point," said Hoxley, "there's no tattoo on his forearm. This man was never in the camps."

  ***

  The morning dawned clear and fine, but brought Erika no peace. She had slept fitfully-shivering beneath the duvet and an extra woolen blanket, even though the night was mild-and had slipped in and out of vague dreams that left her with only an ache under her breastbone.

  She lay in bed, thinking, until the sun coming in the garden window crept across the counterpane, then she rose and forced herself to bathe and dress as if it were any ordinary Sunday. Sweeping up the white hair she still wore long and fastening it with pins, she gazed at her shadowed eyes in the dressing table mirror. Already she regretted speaking to Gemma. The confidence had left her feeling violated, and she had a sudden desire to undo it, to forget the whole matter, push it back into the recesses of her life like a wayward jack-in-the-box.

  After a meager breakfast, she made coffee-the real thing, to combat her weariness, doctor's orders be damned-and took it out into the garden. Setting the newspaper carefully on the white iron table, she sat, but when she raised the delicate china cup to her lips, her hand trembled. She set the cup down and pulled her cardigan more closely about her shoulders, but not even the brilliant sun seemed able to warm her.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to recapture the anticipation of her morning's idyll, but to one side the neighbor's children were as raucous as jackdaws, drowning out the birdsong with their shrieks, and on the other the middle-aged husband was industriously spreading organic fertilizer and whistling through his teeth.

  It was a good thing, she knew, the communal garden healthy and well tended, the children happy and well fed, but she found herself remembering the shabby comradeship of the war years, when she had been a mere tenant in the garden flat and the neighbors had come down in the raids, sharing mattresses spread on the floor and endless cups of weak tea. Back then they had been bonded by more than self-interest and the desire to discuss their property values.

  She and David had ended up in Notting Hill by a combination of necessity and happenstance, and assessing the future value of their property had been the farthest thing from their minds. All Jewish refugees had been placed by the Jewish relief organizations-a guarantee to the government by established English Jews that the incomers would not be a burden on the state. David had been found a job as secretary to an organization official, while she had been taken on that first year at Whiteleys in Bayswater, in the millinery department. Lodging had been found for them near David's employer.

  Those connections had made their transition easier, although her German accent had caused neighbors and coworkers to regard her with suspicion at first. And even then, she'd had to learn to keep quiet when her English friends gloated over the RAF's retaliation bombings in Germany. She took no pleasure in an eye for an eye, seeing only suffering piled upon suffering, but her efforts to explain that the average German family had no more control over circumstances than the English were met with glassy-eyed hostility.

  Later, after the war, when Erika had secured a university teaching position, she bought the garden flat and then the entire house, putting tenants in the upper three floors, never dreaming that she'd end up with a gold mine-a gold mine that meant nothing, as there was no one to benefit when she was gone.

  Suddenly the breeze shifted and the earthy farmyard smell of her neighbor's fertilizer hit her in a wave, bringing an unexpected rush of memory that made the bile rise in her throat. Pushing away from the table, she left her coffee untouched and hurried back into the house, swallowing and wiping at her stinging eyes.

  When she reached the sitting room she stopped, panting, and clutched a chair back for support. How had her father's brooch got from a German barn to an auction house in South Kensington? And why did it matter so much, after all this time? That had been another life, and she had been a different person, a phantom of a girl held to her now by the most tenuous of threads.

  Erika looked round the sitting room, at the beautiful cocoon she had made for herself, and saw it for a hollow shell, a facade created to hold the past at bay.

  But yesterday her life had cracked open and there could be no putting it back. She owed the truth to that long-ago girl, and that meant she would have to accept the help she had enlisted, no matter how difficult either of them found it.

  ***

  "Drink up." Kincaid set a cup of hot tea on the kitchen table. Gemma seemed to hesitate for a moment, then sank into a chair and wrapped her hands round the mug. Bringing his own mug to the table, Kincaid sat down opposite and studied her.

  She still wore her clothes from the night before, a filmy spring skirt in a soft green print, with a matching green-and-cream beaded cardigan over a lacy camisole. But her makeup had long since rubbed off, the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks standing out starkly against skin translucently pale, while the combination of exhaustion and last night's mascara had left dark smudges beneath her eyes.

  Absently, she reached up to pull her thick copper hair, recently cut, into the plait she could no longer make. Frowning, she settled for tucking disheveled strands behind one ear and returned her hands to her cup.

  Geordie settled himself against her feet with a gusty, doggy sigh, and her face relaxed a bit. "Are the boys up?" she asked, sipping her tea.

  "No, but they will be soon. So talk." It was unlike her not to have rung him from hospital, and when he'd tried her mobile it had been switched off. He'd finally drifted off to sleep at the presage of dawn, awaking to find it full light and Gemma still gone, still not answering her mobile.

  He'd showered and dressed and was pacing the kitchen by the time she came in. She'd given him a quick hug, her face turned away, murmuring, "Sorry, sorry. I should have rung. But it was hospital regs, and then when I left, I wasn't sure you'd be up." It was a fragile excuse, merely confirming that she hadn't wanted to talk on the phone, and that meant the news was bad.

  Reaching across to free one of her hands from the cup, Kincaid squeezed it encouragingly. "Gemma, what's happened? Your mum-"

  "Leukemia." She met his eyes for the first time. "The consultant says they think she has leukemia."

  He sat back, his grip loosening. "What? But-how could she-"

  "She'd been complaining about being tired. For my mum, that meant exhausted. All the symptoms were there, the bruising, the breathlessness, if anyone had noticed." Her voice was bitter.

  "Surely you're not blaming yourself, Gem? There's no way you could have known."

  "If I'd seen her more often, I might have-And Dad, he should have seen-If he'd told me-" Her eyes glazed with unshed tears.

  "You'd have been a bit worried, maybe. You'd have tried to convince her to see a doctor. She'd have refused. So don't go there. The important thing is what happens now."

  After a moment, she nodded. "They're moving her this morning to St. Barts, to the cancer specialty ward. The consultant said they would do more tests. And then…He said they'd see."

  "He doesn't know your mum," Kincaid said briskly, covering his own dismay. In his experience, doctors were usually encouraging past all reasonable hope. He grasped Gemma's hand again. "What will we tell the boys?"

  "I hate to worry Kit, but he'll have to know the truth. And Toby…for now, let's just say Gran's not feeling well. I don't think they'll be able to see her. Her immune system is vulnerable." She looked at him, stricken. "That means…She could…Anything could-"

  "You need to get some sleep," Kincaid interrupted gently. "Things won't seem so insurmountable when you've had some rest. I'll talk to the boys, if you want-"

  "No." She was already shaking her head. "I should do it. And this afternoon, when she's settled, I'll g
o to St. Barts-"

  "What about Cynthia?"

  "Oh, Cyn will be there, with bells on." One corner of Gemma's mouth quirked into a reluctant smile. "If she can rope Gerry into minding the kids." She made no secret of the fact that she thought her sister's husband was a lout.

  "And your dad?"

  Gemma's face went still. "I don't know. I tried to ring him this morning, but he didn't answer. Cyn said she'd talk to him. Better her than me, anyway."

  Kincaid thought back to her father's abrupt visit the night before. "I never realized your dad disliked me quite so much."

  "Oh, it's not you, specifically. It's everything. This"-her gesture encompassed the house-"my job. He thinks I've got above my station."

  "And he's not comfortable with things being out of order on his patch?" Kincaid could see that, he supposed. "But your mum-why didn't he stay with her, last night?"

  "Because he wouldn't have known what to do."

  ***

  In the end, Kristin hadn't gone home with the bloke from the dance floor. Partly caution had kicked in through the haze of music and alcohol, partly guilt, and very largely embarrassment. She hadn't wanted to admit that she still lived at home, that her parents were expecting her. Silly, really, as no one young with an ordinary job could afford to live on her own in central London these days, and it wasn't as if she had a curfew or anything. It was just that she knew her mum would wake in the night, and if Kristin hadn't come in, her mum wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Hardwired, the worrying, her mum told her apologetically. Just because your kids were grown didn't mean you automatically stopped.

  She'd been tempted, though. He-she'd never learned his name-had nuzzled and stroked her while they danced, until she was breathless and wobbly kneed. But when the lights came up for last call, she'd excused herself to the loo and fled up the stairs into the cool night air. Then, her feet pinching in her impossibly high heels, shivering in her flimsy dress, she'd cursed Dominic Scott all the way up the hill to her bus stop.

  There were no messages on her phone-voice or text-nor were there any when she woke late that morning, her head throbbing. She groaned, shielding her eyes from the sun spilling in through her bedroom window. Then she rolled over and lobbed her mobile at the far wall in a fit of pique. Damn Dominic. If he thought she was going to take being treated like this, he was bloody well wrong.

  She threw on jeans and hoodie and laced up trainers, then, staggering to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face and swallowed a couple of paracetamol. For a moment, she contemplated makeup, then decided she didn't care and settled for running a brush through her short hair.

  Her parents had gone out to Sunday lunch, saving her having to explain her intentions. She let herself out of the flat and started east on the King's Road. Walking made her feel better, gave her a chance to sort out her thoughts. At Edith Grove she turned towards the river, only absently aware of the Sunday walkers and the pewter glint of sun on the Thames. This way she avoided passing the World's End, the pub where she had met Dom Scott, a junction point between her world and his. It had seemed bridgeable, then, the gap between her parents' council flat and his mum's great house on Cheyne Walk.

  Of course, she hadn't met Ellen Miller-Scott. Nor had she known that Dom didn't actually work, only put on expensive suits and made the occasional command appearance at his mother's board meetings. The family business, referred to with the hushed reverence accorded a religious institution. It was not, she had learned, Dom's father's business, but his grandfather's, Ellen's father's. And although he was expected to take it over, Ellen seemed little inclined to let Dom do anything. It was only lately that Kristin had begun to wonder if Dom was actually capable of holding down a real job.

  How hard could it be, investment banking? As far as she could figure, they took people's money, and when it didn't look like things were going to work out, they dumped the poor sods in the shit. Dom could do that in a heartbeat.

  Her steps slowed as she neared the end of Cheyne Walk. What exactly would she say to him? That she'd had it? That she should have gone home with the lovely guy from the club last night? That she should go out with Giles, the anorak from work who fancied her like mad? (She tried to ignore the little voice that said she didn't fancy Giles at all, no matter how hard she'd tried.) That Dominic Scott was going to ruin her life, and her career, if she didn't put a stop to it?

  Kristin rang the bell at Dominic's house, heard it chime musically. Suddenly she felt queasy and almost turned away, but the door swung open.

  It wasn't Dom. Ellen Miller-Scott stared at her, one perfect eyebrow raised quizzically. She wore designer yoga gear in pale gray, and Kristin felt sure the outfit had never seen a particle of sweat. Her blond hair was flawless, her makeup understatedly glowing.

  "I want to talk to Dom," Kristin blurted out, sounding to her own ears like a petulant child.

  "I'm sorry, darling, he's not here." Ellen smiled. "I rather fancied he was with you. Can I give him a message?"

  Kristin felt a painful flush of color rise to the roots of her hair. "I'll ring him. Or I'll tell him when he rings me." Bitch. She could feel the woman laughing at her humiliation, was sure she would have snickered at Kristin's attack of middle-class morals last night. "Thanks," she forced out, turning on her heel.

  "You're welcome," Ellen called after her, silvery sweet.

  Kristin started back the way she had come, eyes on her feet, face still burning. It was only when someone knocked into her shoulder, hard, that she looked up and saw Dom coming towards her along Cheyne Walk. Her heart did its usual flip-flop, regardless of her wishes. He hadn't seen her.

  She had an instant to take in the too-long hair, unwashed, brushed back from his face, the suit jacket and dress shirt over jeans and trainers, worn with a disregard that spoke not of style but of his having thrown on the first things within reach on the floor. Where the hell had he spent the night?

  Then he looked up and saw her. "Kristin!" He paled, a hard feat for someone whose skin already looked like putty. Reaching her, he touched her shoulder, then her face, gazing at her with a painful intensity. "What are you doing here? I tried to ring you-"

  "You did not." She stepped back. "I checked my messages. You left me stranded at that fucking club-"

  "I can explain-"

  "No, you can't." The words seemed to come from an unexpected place within her. "There's no excuse, Dom. I deserve better than that."

  He stared at her. Passersby parted around them, as if they were the Rock of Gibraltar in a moving sea. "No, you're right," he said slowly, and a fear she couldn't explain shot through her.

  Her resolution failed. "Look, I didn't mean-"

  "No. You're right. There's no excuse." He was still looking at her with that gobsmacked expression, his gray eyes wide. "No excuse for expecting you to deal with me being fucked up. I'm not worth it." He touched her cheek again, and she shuddered with a sinking dread. "I think maybe we shouldn't see each other for a bit, while I try to straighten things out," he went on. "If there's anything, you know, with the job, Harry can let me know. That's for the best, don't you think, love?" He waited, head slightly bowed, as if expecting absolution.

  "You bastard." Planting her feet a little more firmly, Kristin pulled back her arm and smacked him across the face as hard as she could.

  ***

  It wasn't until Kincaid had gone up to check on Gemma after her bath that he thought to ask her about Erika.

  Gemma lay curled under the duvet, Geordie snuggled beside her. "Sometimes I think this dog is out to replace me," he said, sitting on the bed and fondling one of Geordie's dark gray ears.

  "He can't do the washing-up, so I think you're safe," Gemma answered drowsily as he pulled the duvet up around her shoulders a bit more firmly.

  "You never told me what Erika wanted last night."

  "Oh." Gemma blinked and pulled herself up a little. "She lost a valuable brooch during the war, and it's turned up for auction at Harrowby's.
She wants me to look into it."

  Frowning, Kincaid said, "How are you going to manage that, with your mum ill? Can't you tell her it's too much?"

  "I can't not help Erika. I'll manage somehow. I could stop at Harrowby's in the morning, once I've been to check on Mum."

  "You can't ask questions officially unless Erika's filed a complaint," he protested.

  "I'm sure I'll think of something," Gemma said firmly. "Official or not."

  CHAPTER 5

  …auctioneering was for centuries regarded as a rather raffish-even dishonourable-activity.

  – Peter Watson,

  Sotheby's: Inside Story

  Gemma took the Central Line straight to St. Paul 's tube station, glad that it was Sunday and the crowds were light, and grateful that for once the weekend tube closures hadn't affected her travel. Emerging into the sunlight, she walked west up Newgate Street, worry over her mum running like a treadmill in her head.

  That afternoon, she had got on the Internet and looked up types of leukemia, treatments, and prognoses. The prospects had terrified her.

  But as she passed an opening leading to St. Paul 's Churchyard, she glanced up and stopped, transfixed. A slice of the cathedral appeared in the narrow gap, the great dome dead center, like a jewel in the eye of the needle, glowing in the setting sun.

  A man bumped into her and she murmured, "Sorry," but still she hesitated, then on an impulse turned and walked down into the churchyard itself. The weekday City bankers were absent, and she guessed it was mostly tourists who sat on the cathedral steps, faces turned to catch the last of the afternoon warmth. The days were lengthening. It would be summer before she knew it, and for just an instant the passage of time seemed inexorably fast.

  A sudden hollow feeling possessed her, and for a moment she considered going in, then chided herself. She hadn't any idea how to pray, and would feel silly trying.