Deborah Crombie - Where Memories Lie

Kincaid shook his head. "No. There's something we're missing. We-"

"David Rosenthal's murder," said Gemma, and they both stared at her. "I've been thinking. Erika's husband was killed a stone's throw from here. In Cheyne Gardens." She pointed east, towards the Albert Bridge. "His murder was never solved."

"A long stone, that," Cullen said skeptically, but Gemma cut him off.

"No, listen. The detective who was investigating the case died-accidental drowning, possibly suicide, according to the report-and David Rosenthal's murder was never officially closed."

"But that was more than fifty years ago," put in Kincaid. "How can that have any bearing on this?"

"I don't-" Gemma's phone rang. She gave Kincaid an apologetic glance as she pulled it from her bag. When she saw that it was Melody, she answered. "Melody, can I ring you back? There's been-"

"Boss," Melody interrupted, "you know that issue of the Guardian ? I thought I'd have another look. And I found something odd."

Gemma listened, and when Melody had finished, said, "Can you send it to me? Right. Thanks. I'll ring you back."

She disconnected and looked at Kincaid and Cullen. "I think I just might be able to tell you."

The photo on Gemma's phone was black and white, obviously reproduced from old newsprint, but it was still possible to see that the man in the picture bore a strong resemblance to Ellen Miller-Scott.

"It's Joss Miller," Gemma told Kincaid and Cullen as she passed the phone across. "Accepting some sort of award for his philanthropic contributions to an art museum."

"Ellen Miller-Scott's father?" said Cullen. "But I don't see what an old photo-"

"Wait." Gemma grabbed her phone back and tapped the screen. "It's not just an old photo. This picture ran in the Guardian on the day David Rosenthal died. Don't you see? If David Rosenthal was looking through the newspaper for Erika's article, he could have seen this."

"So he saw-or might have seen," Cullen emphasized, "this photo. What difference-"

"David Rosenthal never came to Chelsea. According to the detective who investigated his murder, Rosenthal had a very fixed routine. He taught at a Jewish school in North Hampstead. He lived in Notting Hill. And any free time he had, he spent in the Reading Room at the British Museum, working on a book about which he was very secretive.

"And yet he was found dead here, in Cheyne Gardens, just down the way, with his throat cut and his manuscript missing."

"The Millers lived here in 1952?" Kincaid asked, beginning to look interested.

"Since the forties. Melody said Joss Miller prospered after the war. He bought this house, and a country place as well."

"So you're thinking Rosenthal came across Miller's picture in the paper that day, and that's why he came here, to Chelsea. To see Joss Miller?" He looked up at the town house, frowning. "But what was the connection between them? And why was Rosenthal murdered?"

"Are you thinking Miller did it?" Cullen asked, with a skeptical expression that would have done Kincaid justice.

"Why isn't it possible?" The more Cullen argued, the more certain Gemma became. "The detective-Hoxley-came across rumors that David Rosenthal might have been involved with some questionable people. There were offshoots of Jewish terrorist organizations operating in London after the war, as well as in Europe."

"Vengeance groups?" asked Kincaid.

Gemma nodded. "According to Hoxley's notes, there were those who felt that the war crime tribunals had not even skimmed the surface. And a man who worked alongside Rosenthal at the British Museum said he thought Rosenthal was working on some sort of exposé."

"You're not suggesting that Miller was a war criminal?" Cullen laughed in disbelief. "He was English, for God's sake."

"I don't know," said Gemma. "Maybe Gavin Hoxley was just paranoid, but I got the impression from his notes that he felt our government was somehow complicit. And it seems an unlikely coincidence that Hoxley should die so conveniently with David Rosenthal's murder unsolved."

"But even so," argued Cullen, "it still doesn't add up. You're saying that if Miller was a war criminal, that the powers that be would have let Rosenthal kill him. But it was Rosenthal who ended up dead. And what does any of that have to do with Kristin Cahill and Harry Pevensey?"

"I don't know," Gemma repeated, frustrated. "But there's something here we're not seeing, and I just can't quite-"

"We can start by asking Ellen Miller-Scott if her father knew David Rosenthal," Kincaid suggested.

"No," Gemma said slowly, as she thought it through. "I've got to talk to Erika first. And I'm worried about her." She turned, gazing at the redbrick town house, thinking of what they had found inside. "Dominic Scott is the third person connected with the Goldshtein brooch to have died. And I kept trying to ring Erika all last evening. She didn't answer."

Gemma stopped by Notting Hill Station, to pick up a proper print from Melody and to borrow a car from the pool. She didn't want to take the time to walk to Arundel Gardens, nor to walk home for her own car. Melody had offered to come with her, but she'd refused again.

"I'll ring you," she said. "If-Well, I'll ring you."

She parked with unexpected ease, just across from Erika's house, and when she glanced at her watch she saw with surprise that she had missed lunch. But she felt hollow with anxiety rather than hunger. And she had not yet made it to hospital. At the thought of her mother, the knot in her stomach tightened even further.

Reaching Erika's door, she rang the bell. Her heart gave a little skip. She waited a moment, then rang again, punching at the button, then trying the door, but it was firmly locked. Why had she never thought to ask Erika for a key in case of an emergency?

The shade was pulled down in the bedroom that faced on the little yard, so she could see nothing inside. She had taken out her mobile to ring Melody for reinforcements when the door swung open and Erika looked out at her.

"Gemma, my dear, whatever is the matter?"

Gemma's knees went wobbly with relief. "Are you all right?" she asked in a rush.

"Of course," said Erika, looking bemused. "I was out in the garden. And you look as if you're about to collapse on my doorstep from heatstroke. Come in."

"But where were you last night?" Gemma asked as she followed her into the house. "I rang and rang."

Erika led her into the kitchen. "Sit, and I'll get you some water." When she had handed Gemma a glass filled from the tap, she said, "I was out at a university dinner. For some reason they saw fit to trot me out for an award, but I have to admit I enjoyed being made much of. But why should you have worried?"

"Erika, last night…how did you get home from your dinner?"

Erika looked more puzzled than ever. "I took a taxi. The cabbie fussed over me as if I were doddering and waited until I got in my door. Why should it matter?"

"But before you got in, did you see anything unusual?"

"No, I can't recall-" Erika's eyes widened in surprise. "Wait. There was a car idling a few doors down, but I didn't think anything of it-"

"What sort of car?"

"Oh, one of those big square ones. Like a Land Rover."

Gemma felt as if all her muscles had turned to jelly. "Thank God for that cabbie."

"Gemma, what on earth is this about?" Then the penny dropped, and Erika looked frightened. "Does this have something to do with that poor girl?"