Deborah Crombie - Where Memories Lie

But she knew Gemma always made an effort to include her when possible, and she had to trust Gemma's judgment on this one. She was nervous, though, as Gemma had said she might call for backup, and Melody knew little more than that Dominic Scott had apparently committed suicide, and that Joss Miller might have had some connection with David Rosenthal.

The minutes ticked by and Gemma didn't ring. Melody ate a cheese-and-pickle sandwich at her desk and drank a nasty cup of vending machine tea that tasted like pond sludge. She sorted through incoming reports, initialing the things that didn't need Gemma's perusal, then, checking the time again, she realized her access to the Guardian 's digital archives had not yet expired.

Turning back to the computer, she put in an advanced search for articles or clippings concerning Joss Miller from the war onwards. She found articles on investment mergers and art acquisitions, and a few photos similar to the one in the May 1952 edition. Her attention had begun to waver when she saw the notice of a wedding in June 1953 between Josiah Miller and the Honorable Lady Amanda Bentley.

So Miller had married a minor but well-funded title-if her memory served her, the Bentleys had been in the biscuit trade. But by that time, Joss Miller had probably been more interested in the title than in the money.

Alert again, Melody kept on with her search. Ellen Ann Miller had been born in 1955, according to the birth notices. And in 1960, the Honorable Amanda had quietly passed away, according to the obit, "after an illness."

"No fuss, no muss," Melody said aloud. Apparently Amanda Bentley had served her purpose, for Josiah Miller did not remarry, although there were occasional reports of society liaisons.

In the early seventies, photos of Ellen Ann Miller began to appear at society parties. Melody whistled through her teeth. Even in her late teens, Ellen Miller had been stunning. Not beautiful, exactly, but she had possessed a feline, predatory sexiness that practically oozed off the page.

And then, in 1978, Ellen Miller smiled out of a photo captioned High Time at the Roxy, and beside her name was that of the handsome, dark-haired young man with his arm round her shoulders. Harry Pevensey.

"This other man, killed like the girl," Erika said when Gemma had finished. "And Joseph Mueller's grandson hanged himself? Dear God, there has to be an end to it."

"So what if Joseph Mueller kept the brooch because he was afraid it might be identified, or perhaps just because he liked keeping reminders of his cruelty," Gemma mused aloud. "And when Dom was desperate for money, and his mother wouldn't help him, Dom took it and had it put up for sale." Had he found it by chance? she wondered.

"Then, when I told Kristin that you had made a claim on the brooch, she told Dom, and he panicked."

"Even if he didn't know how it had come into his family," agreed Erika, "he couldn't afford to be associated with it."

"The barmaid at the club where Dom met Kristin said they argued that night," she went on. "If he told her she had to take the brooch out of the sale, that he had to have it back, and she told him she couldn't-or wouldn't-then he must have been desperate. But I still don't see where he got a car in time to get back to Chelsea and wait for her to get home."

"And the other man, this Harry-"

"Pevensey. A washed-up actor. Dom used him to cover his connection with the transaction. He was protecting himself from the first-"

"And then you think this young man, who could kill so ruthlessly, took his own life out of guilt?" Erika shook her head. "That I find difficult to believe. The suicide is an act of a different type of character entirely."

"Perhaps not guilt, but desperation-if he meant to run you down last night, and failed-" Gemma shuddered, not only at the thought of how close Erika had been to peril, but because by sending Kit to check on Erika she might have put him in danger, too.

Erika set her cup in its saucer with a clink. "I think you're wrong, Gemma. If he failed last night, why not try again? And how would he have known that my recognition of the brooch would damn his family? Even if the sale had been traced back to him, why not claim he picked it up at an auction or an antiques stall?"

Gemma stared at her, trying to fit all that they had learned into a cohesive whole. "Unless Joss Miller kept David's manuscript," she said slowly, "and in it David revealed everything-"

"You think this young man would have put the brooch up for auction knowing its history-knowing how his grandfather had come by it?" Erika raised her delicate eyebrows in disbelief.

Gemma thought of Dominic Scott as they had first met him, white and sweating, collapsing at the news of Kristin Cahill's death.

They knew now that he had been a junkie, strung out and ill-was it conceivable that he had taken an object that he knew tainted his family, then planned and carried out two murders, and attempted a third?

Dom Scott, who had been so bullied by his mother that he had hated to go into her sitting room, with its reminders of his grandfather's success?

Dom Scott, whose grieving mother had compared him to his grandfather, even as his body hung cooling upstairs, and found fault?

"Oh, no," Gemma breathed. "We got it wrong. We got it all wrong."

"Bingo." Cullen came into Kincaid's office looking jubilant. "I've got the bastard. I found a Land Rover still registered under Joss Miller's name. And, in the property tax rolls, I found a lockup garage in Chelsea Square, also in Joss Miller's name. That's where Dom Scott will have kept the car. I've put in a request for a warrant to search the garage. We need to get any trace evidence from that Land Rover before his mum twigs and cleans it. You know she won't want her son to go down as a murderer."

Kincaid pushed back the reports he'd been poring over and sat back in his chair, frowning. "Another car. And a lockup. Of course." He shook his head. "But even assuming we found trace evidence on the car, we still couldn't put him in the driver's seat at the scene of the accident." He straightened the papers, thinking. "Not that proving him guilty would do anything other than tidy up our case results. We can't prosecute a dead man."

"No," said Cullen. "But it won't be prosecution that will worry Dom Scott's mother. Just the rumor of her family's involvement would be enough to send her into a tizzy. You know she-"

"Reputation." Kincaid sat up so quickly the chair rocked. "Nothing matters more to Ellen Miller-Scott than reputation. What if Gemma was right? What if Erika Rosenthal's husband had some proof that Joss Miller was involved in war crimes?"

"David Rosenthal has been dead for years," Cullen argued. "Whatever he knew obviously died with him."

"But what if it didn't?" Kincaid glanced at his watch. It was long past time for Gemma to have checked in. The formless anxiety that had plagued him ever since they found Dom Scott's body suddenly coalesced into a hard knot of worry, and he reached for his phone.

"Where are you?" Kincaid said sharply in Gemma's ear. "You've been ages-"

"I'm still at Erika's. I'm sorry, my signal's iffy-"

"We found the Land Rover, still registered to Joss Miller. And a lockup garage in Chelsea Square, about a seven-minute walk from the house. But I don't think Dom-"

"I know." Gemma stepped out into the garden, where her mobile reception was better. "It was Ellen."

She told him all she'd learned from Erika, then added, "What if Dom came across the brooch and chanced selling it, because he was desperate and had nowhere else to turn? He probably had no idea of its history or of its true value until he showed it to Kristin."