Deborah Crombie - Where Memories Lie

That decision made, he looked round, saw that he had come even with the Pizza Express, and realized that he was starving. A pizza and a glass of house red would be just the ticket while he made his phone call and waited for the Harrowby's warrant to process.

"I'll have the Chateaubriand. And the best Côtes du Rhône on the list." Harry closed the French House menu with a snap. The waiter, who had served Harry many a soup du jour and glass of plonk, raised an eyebrow.

"Mr. Pevensey-"

"It's quite all right." Harry gave him his most magnanimous smile. "And I'll be having a pudding as well."

"If you say so, Mr. Pevensey." The waiter, still looking skeptical, went to place the order, and Harry sat back in his chair, surveying the tiny first-floor dining room with a proprietary air.

The French House was an actor's pub, and Harry had been coming here as long as he had been in the business. The staff had always welcomed him, even when he could afford no more than one cheap glass of wine, and tonight he meant to treat them royally. After dinner, he would go down to the bar and order another bottle of wine, perhaps even drinks all round. And if, at the end of the evening, he was too tipsy to stagger his way from Dean Street back up to Hanway Street, he'd bloody well take a cab.

Today he had stood up for himself, for the first time in his life. His fortunes were going to change, and in anticipation of his newly liberated state, he'd taken out the money put by for next month's rent to finance his little celebration.

The waiter brought his bottle of wine and ceremoniously uncorked it. Harry took the obligatory taster's sip, then nodded, and watched the ruby liquid spill into the glass. Of all the words he could think of for red-vermillion, scarlet, ruby, garnet, claret, burgundy-at least two were related to wine and two to gems, which seemed a particularly appropriate combination.

Harry had always loved the color of red wine, and had wondered if the quality affected its richness and depth. Tonight, as he held his glass to the light, he had no doubt that he had been right.

Swirling the wine in the glass, he drank a silent toast to himself. He deserved this, and more, for all the years he had settled for second best and let himself be treated like a lapdog at the beck and call of his betters.

And they owed him, the Millers. It was a debt he'd been waiting a long time to call in. Of course, even though he'd had a very interesting chat that afternoon with a friend in the antiques trade who had told him the brooch might fetch well over the reserve, he supposed he could be generous and give Dom a percentage. After all, he didn't bear the boy any malice, and wouldn't want to see him come to serious harm from the heavies with whom he'd got himself involved.

It wouldn't hurt Dom Scott to sweat a bit, however-perhaps he'd learn the error of his ways-and besides, Harry thought it a good idea to see what the brooch actually fetched before deciding on the extent of his generosity.

He settled back in his chair, sipping his wine and enjoying the ambience of the little restaurant, with its crisp white tablecloths and the large front windows open to the fine May evening. There was no music, and no mobile phones were allowed, so that the cadence of conversation rose and fell in its own musical counterpoint. This was the way life should be lived. A pretty woman dining alone across the restaurant kept glancing away when Harry caught her eye, but her lips curved in the little smile that meant she was enjoying the attention. Perhaps, thought Harry, he had not lost all his charm, and a little flirtation would be the perfect final act to his evening.

By the time his main course arrived, he had made considerable inroads on the bottle of Côtes du Rhône, and the woman across the room had given him an enticing glance across the top of her glass.

"Another one, Mr. Pevensey?" the waiter asked.

"Yes," said Harry, with his blood singing. "I believe I will."

As the CID room emptied in the late afternoon, the air cooled and Gavin began to feel he could breathe again. He had come back from the museum and sent out a request for the previous week's newspapers. Although he thought it most logical that the paper from which David Rosenthal had torn the cutting had been Saturday's, he thought it prudent to widen his search.

Now the piles of newspapers teetering on his desk threatened to bury him. He had separated the broadsheets from the tabloids, on the assumption that something that had interested David Rosenthal would have been in a more reputable paper. But even the task of sorting through every page of the Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, and the Evening Standard proved daunting, as he had no idea what might have caught David Rosenthal's eye. A mention of Nazi war trials or criminals? Mistreatment of Jewish refugees? A hint that terrorist organizations might be operating in London? A mysterious death or murder?

Sighing, he had put the Times aside and begun on the Guardian when his superintendent's secretary appeared at his desk.

"You're working late, Gladys," he said, pushing the hair from his brow with grimy fingers.

Gladys was a well-padded girl, with a propensity for flowered prints and tightly crimped hair, but was good natured enough to rub along with the guv'nor, no mean accomplishment. Now she gave him a concerned look. "His Highness wants to see you, in his office."

"What now?" Gavin looked down at his newsprint-blackened hands and his loosened collar and tie.

"Bee under his bonnet about something. I'd go soonest, if I were you. I'm off." She favored him with a toothy smile. "Cheerio. Hope you're not for the block."

"Thanks, Gladys," Gavin muttered under his breath. He slipped into his jacket, but took the time to stop in the lav and wash his hands, pull up his tie, and comb his hair. There was no point in facing his guv'nor at more of a disadvantage than necessary. The super was a man of moods and best approached with discretion on a good day.

Francis Tyrell was an Irish Catholic who wore his ambition on one shoulder and a chip on the other, so that one's reception depended on which side one faced. Gavin knocked at the open door, and when Tyrell looked up at him with a scowl, Gavin's heart sank.

"Sir. Gladys said you wanted to see me."

Tyrell nodded towards the chair, a hard-seated, slat-backed affair that always made Gavin think he might be tied up for an execution. Occupants of the chair were not meant to be comfortable, nor were they made any more so by the superintendent's looming bulk and florid face. Tyrell's still-thick hair was of a color that many a new officer had learned at his peril was not under any circumstances to be called ginger.

"This case you're working on," Tyrell said without preamble. "This business of the murdered Jew."

The pejorative use of the word Jew raised Gavin's hackles immediately. Tyrell was known for his prejudices, but this sounded ominously political.

"David Rosenthal," Gavin corrected. "A husband, a teacher, and a scholar. Brutally stabbed as he sat in Cheyne Gardens-"

"I know the facts of the case, man," Tyrell said impatiently. "And I know that those facts are all you've got. You're wasting your time, Hoxley, and the department's resources. The man was robbed and killed. No suspects. End of story."

Gavin stared at him, shocked. Then he said, "I don't believe for a minute that this was an ordinary robbery. David Rosenthal's possessions were removed to hide his identity-"

"And you have what proof of this?" Tyrell's face was turning an unbecoming shade of puce, a clear danger signal.