Deborah Crombie - Where Memories Lie

By the time she woke on Tuesday morning, she knew what she must do. She dressed carefully in her best suit, even though she knew it was slightly out of fashion-it seemed she wore suits only to funerals these days-and did her hair and makeup with concentration and hands that trembled only slightly.

When she left the flat, she found the air damp and fresh, but the sky clear. It had rained in the night, washing the city clean, and she tried to find an omen in that.

She flagged a taxi, and as the cab inched its way through the busy morning traffic, Erika felt suspended in time, knowing that the end of the journey would mark an irrevocable change in her life.

The cabbie, an older West Indian with a cheerful patter, went out of his way to set her down right at Harrowby's door. Erika over-tipped him, one last delaying tactic, then she was left standing on the pavement, on her own.

She was familiar with the place, partly from Henri's descriptions of his finds at auction over the years, but she had never actually attended an auction or set foot in the salesrooms.

Examining the windows, she saw that the displays were beautifully done but held only Art Deco pottery and furniture, not jewelry. If she was going to see her brooch, her father's gift, at last, there was nothing for it but to go inside.

Superintendent Mark Lamb had been both understanding and sympathetic. Not that Gemma had expected less-he was a personal friend as well as her boss, and a generous and diplomatic administrator. He'd told her to take what time she needed, but to let him know if she were going to be out of the station for more than a day. As she turned to go, he added, "Lovely party, by the way," and she flushed at the unexpected compliment.

After that, confiding in Melody was easier, and Melody took the news in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. "I'm sure she'll be fine, boss. Now, you go and have a nice visit, and I'll-"

Whatever practical help Melody had meant to offer was cut off by the chirping of Gemma's mobile. "Sorry," said Gemma, surprised to see Erika's name come up on the caller ID.

As she answered, Erika's voice came over the line. "Gemma? I couldn't find a phone box." She sounded breathy, near panic. "I tried, but it's all mobiles these days, and I thought if I came home-But I should have rung right away-"

"Erika, what is it?" Gemma asked, dropping her bag on her desk and sinking back into her chair.

"Harrowby's. The salesrooms. I went to see the brooch-I-" Erika took a ragged breath, then began more calmly. "I wanted to see it for myself. But everything was in an uproar. The girl-the one you said you thought might know something-Kristin. I remembered the name."

Gemma felt cold. "Kristin Cahill."

"That's right. They said she was killed last night. An accident. A hit-and-run, near where she lived, in World's End. Gemma, if this had anything to do with me, with the brooch-I should never have-"

"Erika, no. Listen, I'm sure it's just coincidence, just an awful coincidence." But Gemma was mouthing words automatically, fighting nausea as she remembered Kristin Cahill's pale gamine face, and the young woman's frightened look when her boss had come into the room.

"But, Gemma-"

"I'm sure it's nothing," said Gemma firmly. "But I'll look into it. Straightaway. I promise."

Coincidence. Gemma didn't bloody believe in coincidence. Not like this-talking to a girl one day about something that seemed very slightly dodgy, having the same girl turn up dead the next.

She sat at her desk, tapping her phone on the blotter, straightening pencils and pens into neat regiments. Melody had gone to take a call, leaving Gemma to contemplate the ugly implications of Erika's story, and the more she thought, the less she liked it.

But was it possible there was more than one Kristin at Harrowby's? Erika hadn't heard a last name. Before she talked to anyone at the salesroom, Gemma had better make absolutely sure of her facts. Erika had said the accident happened in World's End, the westernmost edge of Chelsea, so the obvious place to start would be the Chelsea nick.

Harry Pevensey had never believed that the early bird got the worm. Late to bed and late to rise, that was an actor's life, and it had always suited him. He had his routines, everything just so, drapes drawn to keep out the morning's harsh intrusiveness, eye mask ditto, dressing gown to hand and kettle ready to boil, so that he could slip into the day as painlessly as his usual hangover would allow. And no less than eight hours' sleep-otherwise he'd look like hell, and no amount of makeup would make amends.

So Harry was affronted on Tuesday morning when, just as he was opening one eye and then the other, testing the intensity of the light compared to the sharpness of the knife tip between his eyes and contemplating the operation of verticality, someone began a bloody pounding on his door.

"What the hell," he muttered, sitting up with more force than necessary and wincing at the consequences. Whoever it was had bypassed the downstairs buzzer-had his wannabe rock-god neighbor, Andy Monahan, left the building's main door off the latch again? Or-Harry froze with his feet halfway into his worn slippers.

There was the wine merchant's bill he hadn't paid, and the shirt-maker's-couldn't go to auditions looking like something the cat dragged in, after all. And if they got a bit impatient, they were likely to employ less-than-civilized means of collecting their filthy lucre.

For a moment he considered putting his head back under the covers, but if they broke his door down, there would be hell to pay, and he'd have lost any chance of presenting a dignified front.

He'd got back into his slippers and donned his dressing gown when the pounding grew even louder and someone shouted, "Harry! I know you're in there. Open the fucking door!"

Recognizing the voice, Harry said, "Dom?" What was Dominic Scott doing here, and making such a racket? "Just shut up, would you?" he called out as he shuffled to the door, his head pounding like a jackhammer.

"Harry, let me-" Dom staggered in, fist raised, as Harry opened the door. He looked worse than Harry felt-unwashed hair, pasty faced, and his breath reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes, which Harry despised.

Harry closed the door, then grimaced, backing off a step. "You smell like a pub ashtray. And what do you think you're doing knocking me up at this hour? Not to mention giving the neighbors something to gossip about for weeks."

"Since when have you ever minded giving anyone cause for gossip," retorted Dom, sinking into Harry's brocaded slipper chair, a bequest from his paternal grandmother.

"And you look like shit," Harry continued, undeterred. It was a shame the boy let himself go, Harry thought, as he had looks Harry would have envied in his day. He considered booting Dom out of his favorite chair, but couldn't decide where he'd rather have him sit. He settled for taking the other armchair himself, after he'd straightened the covers on the bed. "What do you want, Dom?"

Dom leaned forward, and Harry saw that his hands were shaking. "Have you got anything, Harry? Offer a mate a drink? I'm not feeling too well."

"No. Bar's closed," said Harry, thinking longingly of the bottle of gin tucked away in his kitchen cupboard. The hair of the dog would ease his headache, but he wanted Dom Scott out of his flat as soon as possible, and he certainly wasn't inclined to share his medicinal stash.