Where Memories Lie

by Deborah Crombie

  "He didn't-"

  "A figure of speech, Sergeant. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do. You can ask Mr. Pevensey yourself."

  Smarting at the dismissal, Cullen had taken the information Khan had provided, but numerous attempts at ringing the phone number had not even got a response from an answering machine.

  Now he said, "The seller of the brooch, guv. A Mr. Harry Pevensey of Hanway Place, London. No joy with the phone number, so I thought we should go along."

  Kincaid glanced at his watch. "This is his home address you've got? Won't he be at work?"

  "It's the only address he gave Harrowby's. But he did tell Mr. Khan that he was an actor, so perhaps we can find him at home this time of day." Cullen gestured at Kincaid's unfinished paperwork. "Anything interesting?"

  "House to house, accident report, complete postmortem, forensics report on Kristin Cahill's room, and the records from her mobile phone carrier, which confirm that she had multiple calls to and from Dominic Scott, and that she had regular calls from Giles Oliver. Maybe she and Oliver were more friendly than Oliver admitted.

  "As for the house to house, no one saw or heard anything, except for the witness who went to the scene and called 999." He leaned back in his chair, ticking things off on his fingers. "Cause of death, bleeding from severe internal injuries, consistent with being hit mid-body by a car traveling at high speed. No trace evidence from the car found on her clothing or body, however.

  "Otherwise, Kristin was a normal, healthy young woman. No sign of pregnancy or nonaccident-related injuries. No signs of recent sexual activity or assault. No drugs, and blood alcohol below the legal limit."

  "And the CCTV?" Cullen asked.

  "The footage shows a dark SUV. Possibly a Land Rover. But the plates are either obscured or missing."

  "Definite premeditation, then," said Cullen. "But no one so far had a link with the car?"

  "Not unless it's your Mr. Pevensey, and I think we should give him a try before we have a word with Giles Oliver." Kincaid pulled up the knot on his tie and smoothed his hair with his fingers, a maneuver that was only marginally successful. "How did you get on last night, by the way? Gemma said you went with Melody to check out the Gate."

  "Dom Scott's story checks out to a point. The barmaid said Kristin met him there. They argued. She had a drink and then left. The barmaid, Eva, thinks he stayed until pub closing, but wouldn't swear to it. She-Eva-also said she'd seen Dom with Kristin before, but she'd also seen him with what she described as some 'dodgy' characters. If she knows more, she wasn't sharing."

  "Eva?" Kincaid grinned at him, raising an eyebrow. "Fancied you, did she?"

  ***

  "I'll give you a note excusing your tardiness," Gemma told Kit. "And if you think you can eat a bit more breakfast, we'll go to Otto's. I'll just go get changed."

  Toby had jumped up and down, making the dogs bark, but Kit had stopped her as she turned away. "Gemma, this isn't about Gran, is it?"

  "No," she assured him. "I just want to spend some time with you. But I will tell you about my visit with her last night."

  They took the car, so that Gemma could drop Kit and then Toby off at school afterwards, but Kit wished they might have walked. After yesterday's heat, the day had cooled to crispness again, the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and the brightly colored houses in Lansdowne Road looked freshly washed.

  When they reached the café in Elgin Crescent, Otto greeted Gemma with a hug and kisses on both cheeks. "Gemma! I thought you were too busy for your old friends."

  "Busier than I should be," she agreed. "But I'm taking a bit of time off this morning, and letting the boys play truant." The café was still half full, and Otto, tea towel tucked into his apron, bald head gleaming with perspiration, seemed to be managing on his own.

  "Where's Wesley?" Kit asked as they took a table by the window.

  "At one of his university classes. He will be in after lunch. And you, Kit, we are honored to see you two days in a row, and yesterday with your lady friend. Now, what can I get for you?"

  Gemma gave Kit a curious look, but waited until they had ordered bacon and eggs before she said, "You were here yesterday, Kit?"

  He felt himself color, felt stupid because of it, and blushed harder. "It wasn't a girl. I was with Erika. She wanted to go for a walk. So we stopped and had coffee, and a cake that Otto had made. Erika said it reminded her of things she used to eat in Germany."

  "Was she all right about-" Gemma glanced at Toby, who was half out of his chair, picking at something on the underside of the table. "With what happened yesterday," she amended, capturing Toby's wrists in one hand. "Stop that, lovey."

  "But somebody's left chewing gum, Mummy," he protested.

  "Yes, and that was very naughty. They should know better, and you should know better than to touch it." She scooped him off the chair and gave him a pat on the behind. "Now be a good boy and ask Otto if you can wash your hands."

  When she looked at Kit again, he frowned. "I don't know," he said. "We-She told me-I didn't know what to say."

  "What did Erika tell you, Kit?" Gemma asked, with that look that meant you had her full attention and she wouldn't let it go.

  Kit straightened his cutlery. "I'd asked her about her father. About why her father didn't get out of Germany-I know I probably shouldn't have."

  He waited for censure, but Gemma frowned and said, "Why didn't her father get out?"

  "He-" Kit fought a sudden and ridiculous urge to blink back tears. "He waited, because he didn't want to draw attention to Erika and her husband getting away. But by then it was too late." He swallowed, glad to have got through that bit without a quaver.

  "Oh, no." Gemma looked stricken. "No wonder the brooch her father made means so much to her."

  "But that's not the worst thing." Kit was determined now to tell her all of it before Toby came back. "Her husband was killed. Murdered."

  "What?"

  He glanced at Gemma, then back at the alignment of his knife. Erika had told him while they were sitting here, having coffee, and she had said it in a matter-of-fact way that he envied. Would he ever be able to tell someone his mum had been murdered without choking up and making a fool of himself? He was careful at school, often pretending that Gemma and Duncan were both his parents, and that they had always lived together. No one thought much these days about a mum having a different name.

  Hearing Toby talking to Otto in the kitchen, Kit said quietly, "Someone stabbed Erika's husband-his name was David-in a park near the Albert Bridge. No one was ever charged, and Erika said"-Kit made an effort to remember her words exactly-"she said she didn't know if she could bear another unresolved death." He had understood, because he couldn't imagine how he would feel if he didn't know who had killed his mum.

  "When?" asked Gemma. "Did she say when this happened?"

  Kit shrugged. "A long time ago. After the war. But I don't see what that can possibly have to do with the girl who was killed yesterday."

  ***

  Having tried Harry Pevensey's phone again from the office with no luck, Kincaid and Cullen had taken a car and driven to the address Khan had given Cullen.

  The first sign of trouble was the police roadblock across the bottom end of Hanway Street.

  "Bugger. Wonder what's going on," Kincaid said, but he had a bad feeling. Finding the police in attendance when one arrived to interview a possible suspect in a crime was usually not a good omen.

  Parking on Oxford Street itself was completely impossible, although he had known Cullen to risk the lives and limbs of pedestrians by pulling the car up on the pavement. "Let's try the other end, off Tottenham Court," he added hurriedly.

  From behind the wheel, Cullen gave him a look that said he didn't appreciate backseat drivers, but said merely, "Right, guv."

  When Cullen rounded the corner into Tottenham Court Road and pulled into the other end of Hanway Street, Kincaid saw immediately that the junction of Hanway Street and Hanway Place was bl
ocked as well, and on the other side of the barricade he saw the ominous blue flashing of police lights.

  Pulling up on the double yellows in front of the flamenco club on the corner, Cullen said, "Unfortunate coincidence?"

  "Don't believe in them."

  Kincaid got out of the car and, ducking round the barricade, forestalled the uniformed constable's advance with a flash of his warrant card.

  "Oh, sorry, sir." The constable, who didn't look long out of the academy, relaxed and looked a bit sheepish. "Should have realized," he said, nodding at the car and the POLICE notice Cullen had propped in the windscreen.

  "What's happened here?" asked Kincaid, uninterested in apologies. Cullen had followed and stood silently beside him.

  "You've not been called in?"

  "No, but I suspect I will be," Kincaid said through gritted teeth. He could see an accident investigation team working farther along Hanway Place.

  "Bloke got himself run down in the middle of the night," said the constable. "Bit hard to step out in front of a car along here," he added, with a puzzled shake of his head. "But could be he had a bit much to drink. Nasty business, though. Car didn't just knock him down, but ran right over him. Neighbor came along and found him, sicked up all over himself, so I heard."

  "Loquacious bastard," Cullen muttered under his breath.

  "The victim. Do you have an ID?" asked Kincaid, wishing a plague on all newly hatched constables.

  The young man frowned, his spotty forehead wrinkling with effort. "Something poncey sounding. Pevensey," he said after great deliberation, putting the accent on the middle syllable. "Harry Pevensey."

  ***

  Gavin knew there was something different about the flat as soon as he unlocked the door. After his interview with the super, he had collected the assortment of newspapers from his desk, and then, having no further excuse to tarry, had gone home.

  He stood in the hall, listening, hearing nothing but the faint ticking of the clock in the sitting room. The clock had been a wedding gift from his in-laws, a carved Bavarian piece with little male and female figures that toddled out on the hour, and he hated it.

  "Linda?" he called out tentatively, but his own voice sounded unnaturally loud and echoed back to him. The flat, he realized, was dark as well as quiet. Linda was frugal in saving on the electricity, but usually she left a small lamp burning, even if she was out.

  He set his bundle of newspapers on the shelf in the hall and walked slowly towards the sitting room, chiding himself when he realized he was tiptoeing. It was his house, for God's sake-what reason had he to be afraid?

  But when he reached the sitting room, he found it dark as well, and when he switched on the lamp, it took him a moment to work out what was wrong.

  The children's photos were missing from the side table. As was Linda's basket of darning, and the stack of women's magazines in the rack beside the sofa. Nor were there any children's shoes or scattered schoolbooks.

  The clock, however, remained, and it struck the hour, making him jump. The little painted husband and wife trundled out in their ritual parade, and it seemed to Gavin that they were mocking him.

  "Linda?" he called again. "Susie? Stuart?" But this time he didn't really expect an answer.

  He found the note in the kitchen, beside a slab of cheese and the heel end of a loaf of bread left on a plate.

  She said she had taken the children to her mother's. She didn't say if she meant for a visit or for good, but when he went into the bedroom, he found her clothes missing from the cupboard and the dressing table empty of hairbrush and cosmetics. The bed was neatly covered with the candlewick spread, and the faint scent of Linda's perfume lingered, like a ghost of all the things his marriage might have been.

  Gavin sat down on the bed, the springs creaking beneath his weight, and wondered how long it had been since they had had to be careful not to wake the children. He closed his eyes against a sudden vertigo. Had she really left him?

  He wavered between relief and terror, then laughed aloud, hearing the edge of hysteria and not caring.

  His wife and children were gone, his job at risk. What had he left to lose?

  ***

  "Bloody hell," Cullen heard Kincaid mutter. Then Kincaid snapped at the constable. "Who's in charge here?"

  The PC looked at him blankly.

  "Your SIO, man. Senior investigating officer. Don't they teach you anything these days?"

  "Sir, they just told me not to let anyone through the barricade." He gestured at the accident investigators. "I don't think CID's been called in. An accident-"

  "It wasn't an accident. And I'll be taking over this case. Now go tell the lads this is a crime scene while I get things organized." He was already pulling out his phone as the constable gave him a harried-rabbit look and sprinted for the investigators.

  "You're sure?" asked Cullen, before Kincaid could dial.

  "Of course I'm bloody sure." Kincaid turned on him, and Cullen realized he was in a blazing fury. He didn't blame the constable for hightailing it out of range. "Someone is a step ahead of us, and this poor bastard-Harry Pevensey-is dead because of it. I don't intend to let this happen again, and heads are going to roll for no one having had the sense to call in CID before now. We should have seen the body in situ. The pathologist should have seen the body. And I want the uniform who interviewed the neighbor who found him."

  He punched in numbers as if the phone were complicit in the cock-up.

  As Cullen listened to his boss working his way up the food chain, first at the local station, then at the Yard, with increasing ire, he was glad not to be on the receiving end. Kincaid usually managed through diplomacy, and Cullen guessed that some of his uncharacteristic burst of anger was directed towards himself.

  But how could they have prevented this chap's death when they hadn't known who he was until that morning? If Kincaid thought they could have talked the information out of Amir Khan without a warrant, he was overestimating their powers of persuasion.

  Could Khan, who had known the warrant was imminent, have decided to silence Harry Pevensey? Cullen's friend in Fraud had not got back to him-he would give him another call at the first opportunity.

  Now he studied the accident scene, and when Kincaid had ended his calls, said, "Guv, how the hell did someone manage to run this bloke over here? It's a bottleneck, and difficult enough to get a car round the bend at a crawl."

  Kincaid followed his gaze, frowning. "They didn't come round the bend. See that?" He pointed to a refurbished block of flats that faced Hanway Place's sharp right-hand jog. "They could have reversed into that little alcove, and waited. That way they had a straight shot down this section of the street."

  "Still," argued Cullen, "they wouldn't have been able to get up much speed."

  "Enough to knock him down," Kincaid said grimly. "And if it was the same car that hit Kristin, it was an SUV, and it might have been possible to reverse over him."

  "Ugh. Risky as hell."

  "So was Kristin Cahill's murder, which was one reason I thought it might not have been premeditated. But perhaps getting away with that one made him cocky."

  "Whoever it was knew Kristin Cahill's patterns, and this bloke's-Pevensey," Cullen speculated.

  "Or made a damned good guess," Kincaid said. "While we're waiting for uniform to get here with the witness's name and statement, let's see if the accident lads confirm our theory. And then we need to get into Harry Pevensey's flat."

  ***

  "Good God, the guy was an old maid," said Cullen, surveying Harry Pevensey's flat from the door. "This stuff looks like something out of my gran's."

  They had not waited for uniform to bring them a key from the victim's effects, but had got the flat number and rung a mobile locksmith.

  The flat, in a housing-authority block that had seen better days, was little more than a bedsit, one room, with a small kitchen alcove and a doorway leading to what he assumed was the bath. The furnishings, like the building, were
well worn, but what Kincaid saw was quality, carefully, perhaps even desperately, preserved.

  The bed was neatly made, the kitchen tidy. One wall held a collection of signed photographs of actors Kincaid vaguely recognized, while on the other a false mantel framed an electric fire. Propped on the mantel were postcards and invitations, some yellowing with age. A small painted secretary looked like the only possible receptacle for papers.

  "He liked his gin," said Cullen, who had gone straight for the rubbish bin in the kitchen. "Cheap stuff, for the most part."

  Kincaid had gone to examine the little gallery more closely. Several of the obviously dated photos showed a handsome, dark-haired man with more well-known stage actors, and were signed, "To Harry."

  Cullen had moved on from the kitchen and was riffling through the bills tucked into one of the secretary's compartments. "Electricity overdue. Overdue account with a local off-license-that's no surprise-and it looks like he owed his"-he held the paper up and squinted at it-"his tailor. This guy had a tailor?" He gave a dismissive glance round the flat. "Money could have been better spent, if you ask-"

  "Who the hell are you?" The raised voice came from the door, which they had left off the latch.

  Turning, Kincaid saw a young man in a T-shirt emblazoned with GOT SLIDE? and ragged jeans, staring at them belligerently. His bleached-blond hair stood up as if he'd just got out of bed, and his eyes were dark-shadowed in an oval and somewhat androgynous face.

  "The police," Kincaid said easily. "Who are you?"

  "Oh, Christ." The young man sagged against the doorjamb, as if punctured. "You know, then? Harry's dead."

  "You were Harry's friend?" Kincaid asked, thinking it unlikely, but he'd seen stranger alliances.

  "I'm his neighbor. Andy Monahan."