Where Memories Lie

by Deborah Crombie

  His wife. Erika. Good God.

  He had been stabbed multiple times with a double-edged blade, the reports went on, and was thought by the pathologist to have died instantly. There had been no defensive wounds.

  He had lived in Notting Hill, and the address was the same as Erika's house in Arundel Gardens. He had worked in North Hampstead, and had spent any free time at the British Museum. There was no known reason for him to have been in Chelsea on that Saturday evening.

  And then Gemma came to the photos. This-this had been Erika's husband. Even in monochrome, the crime scene photos were brutal, the blood on his shirt front starkly black against the white of the fabric and his blanched face. But even in death she could see that David Rosenthal had been striking, handsome in a fine-boned, careworn sort of way.

  Why had she never seen a photo of him in Erika's flat? Not even a wedding portrait. And Gemma, doing a quick calculation, guessed that Erika had been only in her thirties when her husband had been killed. Why had she never remarried? Had David Rosenthal been the great love of her life, never to be replaced?

  And why had she, Gemma, never thought to ask?

  Pushing back her chair, Gemma separated Gavin Hoxley's notes from the other papers. He had made jottings to himself, just as she kept running commentary in her own notebooks, and his handwriting was well formed, with a bold downstroke. It made her think he had been a careful man, but determined, perhaps even obstinate, and she smiled at her amateur analysis.

  She had just begun to read when her phone beeped, telling her she had a text message waiting, and she realized that she had been without a signal until she moved her chair. Her first thought was that she had missed some news about her mum, but the message was from Kincaid, asking if she could meet him at an address in Dean Street.

  ***

  Kincaid leaned against the lamppost in front of the French House, looking up at the cheerful blue awnings above the bar. The windows of the upstairs dining room were thrown wide to let in the air, but the French flags flying over the first floor gave only a desultory flutter in the warm air.

  He had taken off his jacket, and glanced with some dismay at the crush of customers spilling from the doorway of the bar and into the street. If it was warm outside, it would be warmer still within, and any thoughts he'd had of a cool drink and something to eat while they chatted with the staff were probably doomed to logistical failure.

  Still, he was not, like Cullen, on his way back to a stuffy office in the Yard to subpoena phone records. The thought made him grin. Cullen had wanted to be in on this interview, and hadn't hesitated to protest.

  But Cullen was good at detail-as Kincaid had reminded him-and ferreting out facts was an important part of a sergeant's job.

  And the rebellion augured well for future promotion, but in the meantime Cullen had a ways to go in developing patience, and in Kincaid's opinion, empathy. He was quick to judge, and lacked Gemma's intuitive desire to understand what made people tick.

  But then Kincaid knew that he would probably always, and perhaps unfairly, use Gemma as a benchmark for a partner's performance, and he realized how readily he had jumped on an excuse to pull Gemma in on this case. Perhaps he couldn't blame Cullen for being touchy.

  As if he had conjured her, he glanced down Dean Street and saw Gemma walking towards him. The sun glinted off her copper hair, and even in a skirt, she moved with the long, swingy stride that always made his heart lift. She saw him and smiled, and he suddenly felt distinctly unprofessional.

  When she reached him, he leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, then pulled away, studying her. "You've got a mucky streak across your forehead," he said, rubbing at it with his thumb. "What have you been doing, excavating a tomb?"

  "Nearer than you'd think," said Gemma. Pushing his hand away, she fished in her bag for a tissue and wiped at the smudge. "Did I get it?"

  "All better. Now, what were you doing at Lucan Place?"

  "Digging through file crates in the basement. I'll tell you later. What are we doing here? I could do with some lunch." She gestured at the pub.

  "You should be so lucky." He told her what they had learned from the Harrowby's warrant, and that they had then discovered that the seller of the brooch had been killed the night before. "His neighbor, the poor bloke who found the body, identified Dom Scott from Cullen's photo. Said he visited the victim yesterday, and that they had a row. When we asked Dom, he said he wanted Pevensey to take the brooch out of the sale, as it was causing Kristin trouble, and Pevensey refused."

  "So Dominic Scott knew the guy who put the brooch up for sale, this Pevensey, as well as Kristin?" Gemma frowned. "But what has that to do with this place? If we're not having lunch," she added, and he grinned.

  "You're fixated on food. Dom Scott says that this is where he met Pevensey, that they were only casual bar acquaintances, and that when Pevensey told him he had jewelry to sell, he put him on to Kristin as a favor to them both. He seemed quite shocked to hear that Pevensey was dead."

  "He was quite shocked to hear that Kristin was dead, too," said Gemma. "Either he's a very good actor or he's having very bad luck."

  "All a bit much of a coincidence for my liking," Kincaid agreed. "I thought we should see if any of the staff here knows either of them."

  "Along with lunch and a drink?" Gemma asked, with a determination that would have done Cullen proud.

  ***

  Their hopes of sustenance were quickly dashed. The late-lunch crowd was thinning by the time they muscled their way to the bar, but the bartender still looked harried. When queried, he said briskly, "We don't do food. You'll have to go upstairs for that. And we only do beer by the half. Now, what can I get you?"

  "Information, actually." Kincaid took out his identification. Even though he had spoken quietly, he had the sudden sense of attention in the room. There was no music, and he had noticed the other patrons glancing at them as they crossed the room. The bar was small, with a clubby feel, and for the most part the clientele seemed to lean towards the flamboyant side of eccentric.

  The bartender slotted a wineglass into the rack with a clink and eyed them warily. "What sort of information?"

  "I see you have Breton cider," Kincaid said, waiting for the murmur of voices to rise again. He didn't want the barman influenced by an audience. Catching Gemma's affirmative nod, he added, "Give us two bottles, why don't you?" although inwardly he winced at the price. This one was definitely going on the Yard's tab.

  When the barman had filled their glasses and Kincaid didn't feel quite so many eyes boring into his back, he said, "Do you know a bloke by the name of Harry Pevensey?" He'd taken one of the smaller photos on Pevensey's wall out of its frame and now showed it to the barman.

  "Harry?" The barman broke into an unexpected grin. "That's Harry, all right," he said, handing the photo back. "What's our Harry supposed to have done? Held up a director for a part?" He wiped and slotted another glass. "Of course I know Harry. I've been here for donkey's years, and Harry's been coming in longer than that. He's a harmless sod."

  Kincaid sipped his cider, then centered his glass on the beer mat, suddenly reluctant to impart bad news to someone who had obviously liked Harry Pevensey. "Unfortunately, it's not what Harry's done, but what someone has done to him. He was killed last night, in front of his flat."

  The bartender stared at him, all the good-natured teasing wiped from his face. "You're taking the piss."

  "No. I'm sorry."

  "But that's not possible," he protested. "He was here, until closing, and he was in rare form."

  "Rare form?" asked Gemma. "In a good humor, was he?"

  "I don't think I've ever seen Harry so full of himself." The bartender frowned. "Jubilant, I suppose I'd call it. And flush. Had a proper dinner in the restaurant, and bought rounds for everyone in here." Thoughtfully, he added, "But he was a bit secretive about it. Said his ship had come in, that sort of thing. We all thought he'd got a part in some big production, althou
gh it didn't seem very likely. Harry was…well, Harry was all right, but it just wasn't going to happen, know what I mean?"

  Kincaid thought of Harry's flat, of the photos on the wall, the yellowing invitations, and nodded. "Did Harry have any special friends here?"

  "Special? Not really. He knew all the regulars, and vice versa, but I doubt he ever saw anyone outside the bar. He was chatting up some woman last night, but she left not long after he came down to the bar, so I suppose he didn't quite have the pull." His brow creased as he added, "Harry was a bit of a loner, really. I don't think anything ever quite lived up to the good old days-or at least what he imagined were the good old days."

  "'The good old days'?" Gemma repeated, leaning forward with such interest that the bartender reached up and smoothed what was left of his hair.

  "The seventies. Harry ran with a posh crowd then, at least according to him. Partied with the Stones, invited to all the best clubs in the West End and Chelsea." He shook his head. "No one ever quite believed him, but maybe it was true. He was quite a looker in his day, or so he was always happy to tell you. And I wasn't too bad, myself," he added, with a smile at Gemma.

  "The seventies? Really?" said Gemma, as if that were the Dark Ages, and the bartender sighed, deflated.

  "Told you I'd been here for yonks."

  "What about this bloke?" Kincaid asked, taking Dom Scott's photo from his pocket and handing it across the bar. "You recognize him?"

  The bartender wiped his fingers on his apron, then took the photo, holding it at arm's length in the classic posture of middle-aged nearsightedness. "This guy? Yeah, I've seen him in here with Harry a few times. I remember him particularly because I had to tell him to turn off his mobile-we don't allow them in here."

  "So the two of them met here?"

  "If by that you mean making an acquaintance, no, I don't think so. The first time this guy came in, oh, say a month ago, he and Harry were huddled in the corner, and Harry looked none too pleased. If you want my opinion, I'd say they knew each other very well."

  CHAPTER 15

  …class pervaded almost everything that took place at Sotheby's. If people came from the right background they would start as porters, to introduce them to the objects, or maybe, if they were women, they would be put at reception, where they were felt to be more presentable. But this was only for a short time, after which they would be promoted on a fast track directly to the specialist departments, as cataloguers, prior to becoming junior experts.

  – Peter Watson, Sotheby's: Inside Story

  They settled for sandwiches and tea from a snack bar, but Gemma managed to grab one of the two plastic tables on the pavement, and so they sat in the sun as they ate and watched the crowd flow by. It always seemed to Gemma that on warm spring days like this she could feel an extra surge of energy pulsing through the city. The colors seemed brighter, more intense, the sounds sharper. And all around them, light-starved Londoners bared as much skin as they could manage, regardless of the consequences.

  She looked across at Kincaid, who had not only removed his jacket but stuffed his tie in his pocket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The bridge of his nose was beginning to go pink, and Gemma was glad she'd learned the trick of using face cream with sunscreen-otherwise she'd be freckled, as well as the color of a lobster, if she sat out in this glorious heat much longer.

  When they were down to pushing crumbs round on their plates, she said, "So where are we, then?"

  He frowned and swirled the dregs in his teacup. "If the bartender is right, Dom Scott lied about having met Harry by chance at the French House."

  "Maybe the bartender didn't see the first meeting."

  "Even so, the unhappy, huddled-in-the-corner conversation he described argues for more than a brief-or casual-acquaintance, wouldn't you say?"

  "Could they have been lovers, Harry and Dom?" Gemma countered.

  "Not according to Harry's neighbor, who said Harry liked girls." Kincaid shrugged. "But then again, Andy the wannabe rock star may not be the most reliable source. Maybe he and Harry were better friends than he admitted. It could be Harry liked anyone who paid him attention, but I can't see what would have been in it for Dom."

  "The bartender said Harry claimed to have had connections with a fast crowd in the seventies. That probably meant drugs-maybe Harry still dabbled," Gemma suggested.

  "Could Harry have been supplying Dom with drugs?" Kincaid asked, then shook his head. "But if that were the case, from the looks of his flat, it was a poor living. And that doesn't explain what Harry was celebrating last night, or where he got the funds, or what he was doing with Erika's brooch-" His mobile rang, and with a glance at the caller ID, he mouthed, "Cullen," as he answered.

  She watched him as he said, "Right. Right. Okay, meet you there," feeling a small stab of jealousy. Ridiculous, really, when the severing of the partnership had been her choice, not his, and she should consider that she had the best of both worlds now. But sometimes it seemed that the almost instantaneous communion they'd felt when they worked a case together got lost in the domestic shuffle, and that it had been easier to share their disparate personal lives when they'd worked together than the other way round.

  Oh, well, she'd made her bed, as her dad would say, and she doubted she'd won any points with Doug Cullen by sticking her nose in this case.

  "Woolgathering?" said Kincaid, and she realized he'd disconnected.

  "Knitting with it." She smiled. "What did the fair Doug have to say?"

  "Harry Pevensey had no mobile phone account with a provider-not even a pay as you go. And Ellen Miller-Scott's Mercedes is in the garage, and has been for more than a week. So dead end on both those fronts."

  "So what's next?" Gemma asked.

  "I think we'll pay another call on Mr. Khan at Harrowby's. These two deaths, Kristin's and Harry Pevensey's, have to be connected, and the two points of contact are Dom Scott and the brooch. Dom seems to be a nonstarter as far as the car goes, so I want to talk to Amir Khan again. We know he had an argument with Kristin the day she died, but it's only an assumption that it was about the brooch. And we've assumed that it was Giles who was jealous when Dom Scott sent her roses at work, but what if it was Khan?"

  "She was a very pretty girl, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time a woman has fallen for her good-looking boss." Gemma gave him a sly look.

  "Or vice versa. And I'll take that as a compliment. Do you want to come to Harrowby's with us?"

  Considering, Gemma shook her head. "Thanks, but no. I think I'll go back to Lucan Place for a bit."

  "You never told me what you were doing there."

  "No." A little reluctantly, Gemma said, "I discovered that Erika's husband was murdered, and I feel an idiot for not having known."

  "Erika never told you?" Kincaid looked as surprised as Gemma had felt.

  "I'd no idea. It happened in 1952. So far I don't see any possible connection with the brooch or our murders, but I haven't finished reading the case file. So I think I'll go back to Lucan Place for a bit before I go to see Mum, and leave you and Doug to the charms of the handsome Mr. Khan."

  Standing, she leaned over and touched her cheek to his, feeling sun-warmed skin and the slight friction of beginning stubble. "I'll see you tonight."

  ***

  Mrs. March greeted Kincaid and Cullen with a smile of pleasure, as if they'd become old friends. It was a part of her job, making the regular clients feel welcome, and it came naturally to her. "It's Mr. Kincaid, isn't it? Is there any news…" Then her face fell, as the thought of the reason for their presence overcame her instinctual response.

  "No. But we wondered if we might have a word with Mr. Khan." A quick glance into the main arena of the salesroom revealed an auction in progress, and as Kincaid focused on the large overhead television, he saw that it was jewelry being sold. The seats were full, and the bidding seemed to be quite brisk.

  "Is this the Art Deco jewelry?" In his concentration on Kristin Cahill's death, he ha
dn't realized the sale was coming up so soon.

  "Yes, but if it's the Goldshtein brooch you're concerned about, Mr. Khan removed it from the sale this morning. After you came," she added, with a disapproving glance at Doug, as if he were personally responsible for upsetting their routine. "Mr. Khan felt that since the house had been forced to compromise the seller's privacy, he couldn't in good conscience offer the item without checking with the seller, and I understand that he was not able to get in touch."

  No, not unless he had the ability to commune with ghosts, Kincaid thought, but he quelled any comment. He wanted to be the one to tell Khan that Harry Pevensey was dead. That was the only way he could attempt to gauge Khan's reaction. "Could you tell Mr. Khan we'd like to see him?" he asked.

  "Oh, but you can't." Mrs. March again gave Cullen an accusing look. "He left at lunchtime. Said he wasn't feeling well, although I really can't imagine that. Mr. Khan is never ill."

  "How very coincidental," Cullen muttered, but Kincaid smiled and said, "Do you have a home address for him?"

  Mrs. March drew herself up, all her earlier bonhomie gone. "I can't give you that. Not without speaking to one of the directors."

  "Then I suggest you make a phone call, Mrs. March. You can tell your director that we will get the address-it's just a matter of how much inconvenience it causes the firm."

  "It's most irregular." Mrs. March gave an offended sniff, but began thumbing through a phone list. Kincaid didn't like bullying her, but he suspected that delaying tactics had already cost one life.

  A dazzle of color caught his eye from the television screen in the main room. Focusing, he saw that the piece was a bracelet, a wide band set in a glittering chevron pattern made up of red, green, and blue stones, all appearing seductively larger than life. Such baubles had inspired envy and greed at the very least, he thought. What would people have been willing to do for the diamond brooch Gemma had described?