Where Memories Lie

by Deborah Crombie

  And besides, she thought St. Paul 's, glorious as it was, was more a commemoration of Christopher Wren than an offering to God. She turned back, and as she threaded her way towards Newgate Street, she wondered if Wren would have liked the pristine and sterile place his City had become. In his day it would have been teeming with refuse and smells and colors, and the cathedral would have risen out of the muck, a monument to higher things. What awe must have filled people as they looked at it, and what was there now to take its place?

  Giving herself a mental shake, she lengthened her stride and left St. Paul 's behind. But as she reached the hospital, its ancient walls looked grim as battlements, and she had to steel herself to walk in through the main gate.

  The courtyard, with its gentle fountain, came as a relief, and shrill childish voices echoed through the open space-familiar voices, Gemma realized, as she saw a flash of red curls bob up on the far side of the fountain. It was her niece and nephew, playing hide-and-seek, her brother-in-law watching.

  Spotting her, the children ran over, wrapping themselves around her legs with welcoming shrieks of "Auntie Gemma!" Gemma knelt to hug them, and in the process little Tiffani somehow managed to transfer chewing gum to Gemma's hair, while, with a shout of glee, Brendan clouted her in the side of the head with a plastic lorry.

  "Well," she addressed her brother-in-law, Gerry, as she disentangled herself and tried to pick the pink sticky gobs from her hair, "they're in good form, don't you think, Ger?"

  Gerry nodded agreeably from his bench. "Expect so. Can't do a thing with them, myself." He folded his hands over his paunch with an air of satisfaction. Gemma could have sworn he'd put on a stone since she'd seen him at the New Year.

  "For heaven's sake, Gerry, there are ill people here," she retorted, giving in to exasperation.

  "And your point is?" The look he gave her was not half so friendly, and left her wondering if he was really as dim as he seemed. It occurred to her that it was quite possible he thought her a self-righteous cow, and went out of his way to let the children misbehave just to irritate her.

  The children, the girl just older than Toby and the boy just younger, began to tussle over the lorry, their voices rising towards full-blown conflict. "Cyn's in with Mum?" Gemma asked, resisting the impulse to correct them.

  "And your dad."

  "Oh, lord," she breathed. "Look, I'll see you."

  "Good luck," Gerry called after her, and she couldn't be sure whether his tone was mocking or sympathetic.

  She followed the rabbit warren of tunnels that led to the King George V ward with a sinking heart and an incipient sense of panic. The hospital was undergoing renovation, the tunnels makeshift, grim affairs connecting disparate wings, and as one turn led to another, her mouth went dry.

  God, she hated hospitals in the best of circumstances, and she'd never thought to find herself visiting a loved one in this old pile. It was, Duncan had informed her, the oldest hospital in London, and when she reached the wing itself she could well believe it. It had been modernized many times over the centuries, of course, but there was an air of age and illness that no amount of refurbishment could quite erase.

  Checking the directions to her mother's ward, she took the stairs, not trusting her sudden attack of claustrophobia to the lift. A sister buzzed her into the ward, where she found her father and sister sitting sentinel on either side of her mother's bed. Her mother lay propped up against the pillows, her hair arranged in tight curls and her lips and cheeks rouged an unnaturally bright red-Cyn's doing, no doubt. Her mum was making an obvious effort to seem brisk and cheerful and, when Gemma came in, to play her usual role as mediator.

  When she kissed Gemma on the cheek, her lips felt dry as paper. "I'm so glad you've come, love. The boys-did you bring them?"

  "No, since they couldn't come in to see you." Gemma resisted the urge to elaborate, realizing that the fact that Cyn's kids were there, even in the courtyard, made her look as if she'd let her mum down. Instead, she asked, "How are you feeling, Mummy?"

  "Your dad brought me a filled roll from the bakery," her mother answered, deflecting. "Wasn't that nice? The food here's dreadful, but what can you expect?"

  Gemma took in the remains of the roll on the bedside tray, barely nibbled, and felt her own stomach clench with anxiety. Her mother was eating like a bird, and she'd lost more weight than Gemma had realized. "Have the doctors been in? What have they said?"

  "Oh, more tests. You know doc-"

  "We don't really need to be talking about that, do we now?" her dad cut in, speaking for the first time. "We're here to cheer your mother up."

  "Surely Mummy is the one to decide whether she wants to-"

  "It's all right, love." Her mother forced a smile. "I'm sure they know what they're doing."

  Gemma bit her lip. The last thing her mum needed to hear were the statistics Gemma had read on the shockingly bad quality of hospital care or the chance of secondary infection.

  Her sister, who had been remarkably quiet, looked up from examining her long pink nails and gave her a very slight shake of the head. In spite of the fact that she didn't often see Cyn these days, and that they had fought like demons growing up, they shared an ingrained understanding of the family dynamic. That one gesture spoke volumes-things were bad, and their mother meant to keep it from their father, with his full cooperation. Vi Walters had spent her life protecting her husband from upsets, and she wasn't about to let a little thing like illness change matters.

  "Right, then." Gemma stood and kissed her mother again, more gently this time. "I'll come in the morning, Mum, see how you're getting on." With her father manning the bakery, she might have a chance of learning the truth.

  ***

  Melody Talbot's mobile rang on Monday morning one minute before her alarm was due to ring. Muzzily, she groaned as the horrible buzzing noise went on.

  "What?" she mumbled when she managed to get the phone right side up and pressed to her ear.

  "Melody? Are you okay?" Gemma's voice.

  Melody came fully awake, ignoring the pain that shot through her head as she sat fully upright. "Boss. Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right. What's up?" Her father had called a command performance yesterday at the Kensington town house, as a result of which, Melody, normally a moderate drinker at most, had come home and polished off the better part of a bottle of red wine.

  "Could you handle the incoming for me this morning? Just for a bit. I've some personal business. Shouldn't take long."

  Frowning, Melody answered, "Okay. No problem. I'll be in as soon as I can." Delegating wasn't one of Gemma's strong points, nor was it like her to skive off work, especially on a Monday morning. Tentatively, Melody said, "Is there anything else I can-"

  "No. I'll ring you as soon as I'm on my way back to the station. And thanks."

  The mobile went dead. Slowly, Melody disconnected and sat up, throwing back the duvet. Pain shot through her head and she winced. But it was nothing that a cocktail of aspirin and paracetamol and a hot shower wouldn't fix, and it was a minor distraction compared to the warm glow she felt knowing Gemma depended on her.

  ***

  Kincaid had volunteered to get the children off to school, giving Gemma an early start. It was a duty they rotated, depending on whose workload was most demanding, but as Notting Hill Police Station was a short walk for Gemma, and Toby's infant school just next door, the morning routine fell to Gemma more often than not.

  In truth, Kincaid enjoyed the extra hour with Toby and Kit. Although he tried to spend some time on his own with the boys on the weekends, he'd found there was a special closeness about mornings in the kitchen.

  He'd made soft-boiled eggs and toast, with juice for Toby and hot milk with a splash of coffee for Kit. It was a house rule that the boys sat at the table, even if only for five minutes, and he wasn't sure if the restriction made them eat at light speed or if they would inhale their food under any circumstances.

  This morning, however, Toby had dawdled, picki
ng pieces from his eggshell, then dipping them in the yolk and drawing on the plate. Kincaid suspected he'd picked up on Gemma's worry, even though he'd been told only that Gran wasn't feeling well. "Enough," Kincaid said to him. "Go wash and get your lessons." These morning boys, freshly scrubbed and brushed and in their school uniforms, looked slightly alien to him, like someone else's children. By afternoon their hair would be tousled, their shirttails half out, their ties askew, and they would look comfortably themselves again.

  When Toby had slipped from the table and gone pounding up the stairs, Kincaid scooped out the remainder of his egg, mixed it with the toast crusts, and set it on the floor for the dogs.

  "Gemma would throw a wobbly," said Kit, taking his cornflakes bowl to the sink.

  "I'll bet she does the same thing when I'm not here."

  Kit gave him a half smile. "I'm not supposed to tell you." He lingered while Kincaid rinsed his own plate, and when Kincaid looked up he said tentatively, "About Gran. Is she going to be all right?"

  The fear of loss always hovered very near the surface for Kit, and although Kincaid would have preferred not to worry him, they'd had to tell him all that they knew.

  Kincaid knew he couldn't sugarcoat it. "We'll know more after this morning. But the disease is treatable, and Gran's a fighter." He tried to block out Gemma's description of her mum on yesterday afternoon's visit.

  "I've been looking it up," said Kit. "Leukemia. It's cancer of the blood and bone marrow, and it can spread all over the body, even into the brain. She'll need radiation and chemotherapy, and if those don't work-"

  "Kit, stop. You're jumping the gun here." Kincaid turned and grasped his son's shoulders. "We don't know how far advanced the cancer is. And Gran's never been ill. That must give her a better chance."

  "But if the treatments don't work, the best option for bone marrow replacement is from a sibling, and Gran doesn't have brothers or sisters."

  Kincaid saw the unvoiced echo in his son's eyes. And neither do I.

  Damn and blast the Internet. Sometimes it was a bigger curse than a blessing, especially with a bright and vulnerable child. Did Kit feel they had failed him by not providing him with a half brother or sister? Kincaid tried to shrug off the thought. That was a subject that had been dropped the last few months, and it had eased a tension in his relationship with Gemma.

  He heard Toby singing to himself as he thumped back down the stairs, dragging his backpack behind him. To Kit, he said, "Listen, sport, we're all going to be late. We'll talk more tonight." Then, as a distraction, he added, "Did Gemma tell you about Erika's long-lost brooch turning up for auction?"

  "Yeah." Kit's expression lightened. "Cool. Except Gemma said she seemed upset. Maybe I could stop by and see her after school?"

  ***

  "I think we've got a live one, guv," the desk sergeant at Chelsea Station told Hoxley when he walked into reception.

  "Live what?" asked Hoxley, amused. Nearing retirement, Ben Watson was bald as a billiard ball, heavyset, and little inclined to stir himself except for the walk from desk to pub, but he kept an avuncular finger on the pulse of everything that went on in the station. He was also inordinately fond of fishing analogies, although Hoxley doubted he'd ever held a fishing rod in his life.

  "Your unidentified corpus. Notting Hill rang. They've a woman reported her husband missing. Fits the description."

  Hoxley gave him his full attention. "Address?"

  "They've kept her at the station. Told them you'd be there soonest."

  Wincing, Hoxley muttered, "Damn." Delivering bad news was difficult enough in the familiar environment of the home, and he didn't look forward to questioning a bereaved widow in a sterile interview room. But if indeed this was his victim's wife, she would be prepared for the worst, and he would be able to put a name, and a life, to the man he had left on the postmortem table.

  ***

  Once more outside St. Paul 's tube station, Gemma hesitated. She could go straight on to work, or she could change at Notting Hill for South Kensington and make the inquiry at Harrowby's auction house she'd promised Erika. She felt frustrated and restless, this morning's visit to hospital having proved as fruitless as the previous evening's. Her mum had been out of the ward, having a bone marrow biopsy, the charge nurse had revealed reluctantly, as if imparting state secrets. And no, she didn't know how long it would take, and there was a good possibility the patient would go to X-ray and sonography as well.

  "The patient is my mother," Gemma had snapped. The impersonalization of bureaucracy-speak irritated her just as much in the hospital as it did in the police station. But her little outburst did her no good, and after an hour's wait she gave up the vigil. Cyn would be in later in the morning, and she would have to depend on her sister for news.

  Now, however, her patience frayed, she found herself particularly unwilling to sit in her cramped office, dealing with an onslaught of petty complaints from both sides of the police/public divide.

  On an impulse, she pulled her mobile from her bag and dialed Melody Talbot. "So what sort of Monday is it?" she asked.

  "A fairly placid one." Melody sounded her usual brisk self, and Gemma supposed she'd just been sleepy earlier. "I've left a few reports for you to look over, and consigned most of the rest to the dustbin."

  "Good riddance, I'm sure." Cheered by Melody's voice, Gemma found herself saying, "I'm in the City, but I've got to make a stop in South Ken. Do you want to come along?"

  "Business?"

  "Um, I'm actually not certain."

  "Sounds intriguing," said Melody. "Where should I meet you?"

  "Harrowby's. I'll wait for you outside." Gemma rang off, pleased with herself for having piqued Melody's curiosity.

  Half an hour later, she found Melody gazing in the windows of the venerable auction house on the Old Brompton Road. While that day Gemma had opted for trousers and a long aubergine cardigan over a soft-collared shirt, Melody wore a tailored navy suit, pressed to the nines, hemmed tastefully at the knee. Gemma thought, not for the first time, that either PC Talbot was aiming for assistant commissioner or she was trying to show up all her female colleagues. Now Gemma wasn't sure if inviting Melody along had been such a good idea.

  Melody turned from inspecting an Art Deco pottery display that made Gemma's heart skip. "What's up, boss? Have we been seconded to the Fraud squad?"

  Hesitating, Gemma said, "Actually, I'm doing a favor for a friend. Unofficially."

  "Ah." Melody ruffled her hair, slipped off her jacket and tossed it over her arm, and unbuttoned another button on her blouse. "Unofficial it is."

  Gemma grinned. "Got it in one."

  "So what's the story?"

  Gemma explained briefly, then added, with an uncertain glance at the window, "Have you ever been to an auction?"

  "Once or twice. Just curiosity," Melody added quickly. "It's not as intimidating as it looks. They want you to feel comfortable."

  "Right." Gemma led the way into the foyer. Opposite a friendly looking gray-haired woman at a reception desk, a long table held copies of catalogs for all upcoming sales. The Art Deco jewelry was easy enough to spot: brilliant red, green, and blue gems in a geometric-patterned bracelet blazed from the cover. Finding the entry for the brooch that she'd seen at Erika's, Gemma reread the text. It was as she remembered-there was no provenance.

  Holding her place, she took the book to the desk. "I'm inquiring for a friend," she explained, tapping the picture of the waterfall brooch with her fingertip, "who thinks this brooch belonged to her family. It was lost during the war."

  For the first time, the woman looked uneasy. "Mr. Khan's our jewelry expert, but he's out doing a valuation-"

  Gemma wasn't going to be put off so easily. "Is there someone else?"

  "Well, there's Miss Cahill, but-" She flicked a glance at Melody, and Gemma guessed she took her for a lawyer.

  "I'm sure Miss Cahill will be able to help." Gemma smiled brightly.

  The woman hesitated. Th
en, frowning, she used an internal phone. "Kristin, could you come to the front, please?"

  Gemma took advantage of the wait to inspect her surroundings. The reception area led into a much larger room. Modern paintings tagged with lot numbers lined the walls. A dozen people sat in the comfortably padded chairs filling the room's center, some occasionally languidly raising numbered paddles. The auctioneer stood on a podium, above which appeared the featured item on a large-screen television. His delivery was as relaxed as the bids, and Gemma thought it all rather disappointingly low key. She wondered where the jewelry was.

  "No big items in this lot," whispered Melody. A snore escaped from a large lady in the back row.

  "So I was gathering."

  A side door opened and a young woman came towards the front desk, her expression anxious. She was waif slender, with short dark hair shaped to her head, and wore a crisp white blouse and narrow dark skirt as if they'd just come off the catwalk. "Mrs. March?" she said, glancing from the receptionist to Gemma and Melody.

  "These ladies have some questions regarding an item in the jewelry catalog. I told them Mr. Khan was out." Mrs. March, as Gemma supposed, made her disapproval clear, and turned back to sorting brochures.

  The young woman looked round as if expecting rescue, glanced at the auction in progress, then motioned them towards the door through which she had come. "I'm Kristin Cahill," she said over her shoulder. "I'm not sure I can help you, but you'd better come into the office." She looked as though she couldn't be long out of university.

  "We won't take much of your time," said Gemma, hoping to put her at ease.

  Kristin Cahill led them through another display room, where furniture was being arranged and labeled by a crew in jeans and trainers, then into a small office. Paper, brochures, and catalogs spilled off two inelegant desks. Kristin shrugged at the absence of seating. "Mr. Khan usually talks to clients in the showroom-"