Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

"An ordinary day, then."

"Except that Dawn always tolerated Gavin; she managed to ignore his advances graciously, if you know what I mean. But yesterday she seemed a little edgy, and when she came out of the examining room she looked like thunder. Didn't even hear me when I said good-bye."

"Maybe Gavin finally went too far."

Bryony shrugged. "I've always assumed Gavin's all bark and no bite."

"Could she have been upset about the cat?"

"It was just the usual abscessed bite. Tommy gets in fights, the little bugger." Bryony filled a second bowl of soup for a frail young man whose retriever looked in better shape than he did.

"Marc," she said slowly, "I've been meaning to ask you something, then with everything that's happened this morning it flew right out of my mind." She glanced at him, trying to gauge his responsiveness, then forced herself to go on. "Could I set up a weekly clinic for your clients' animals?"

"Here?"

She nodded. "I thought maybe on Sunday afternoons."

"But, Bryony, you know they couldn't pay."

"Of course not. But I could fund it myself in the beginning- it's my time that's the most expensive factor- then, if it takes off, I thought I could solicit donations in the neighborhood."

"But Bryony, it's too much-"

"I could only do vaccinations and minor injuries and illnesses, I know that, but surely that's better than no care at all."

"No, I mean it's too much for you. I don't think you realize how much of your time and energy this could take-"

"How can you say that to me ? You live and breathe for this place; you sleep on a mattress upstairs; you barely have enough money to buy the occasional coffee-" Bryony felt the color stain her cheeks as she realized she'd gone too far. "Oh, Marc, I'm so sorry. I'd no right to say those things-"

"No, you're absolutely right. I sounded a self-righteous prig, telling you you weren't up to the task, and I owe you an apology." One of his rare smiles lit his face. "I think it's a splendid idea, and that you're equally splendid for thinking of it. When shall we start?"

Gemma left the car in the police station car park, knowing that the likelihood of parking anywhere near Portobello Road on a Saturday would be nil. As she walked along Ladbroke Road towards the market, she found that although the rain had stopped it was bitterly cold, and the bare branches of the trees were pearled with droplets.

By the time she reached the top end of Portobello Road, she was shivering, and she looked in envy at the one-way tide of shoppers, their brisk steps and bright eyes revealing an insatiable appetite for a bargain. But here the narrow, curving street held only flats and a few posh shops; they had a ways to go before reaching the stalls and arcades packed with imagined treasures.

She came to a complete halt in front of the entrance to the Manna Café, run by St. Peter's Church. Why not have some lunch and a hot drink to warm her up? Edging her way through the milling pedestrians, she crossed the pretty little courtyard and pulled open the café door, relaxing instantly as the warmth and cooking aromas enveloped her.

A half hour later, having devoured a hot bacon sandwich, she nursed a cup of tea and thought about what she had learned. Karl Arrowood was certainly shaping up odds-on favorite for prime suspect, and that was without taking into account the statistical likelihood that he had murdered his wife. If he'd had a vasectomy, and he'd suspected or discovered that his wife was pregnant, that certainly gave him motive. Opportunity was a given; he could even have been waiting for Dawn when she arrived home. What Gemma needed was corroboration, and if Arrowood had threatened his wife, Dawn might have told her lover.

When her waitress, a woman with pale Fräulein-like plaits wrapped round her head, brought her bill, Gemma said, "Do you by any chance know a porcelain dealer called Alex? Youngish, I think, and nice-looking?"

"That'd be Alex Dunn," the girl said in an accent nearer East London than East Germany. "I know he lives up the road, in one of the mews, but I've no idea which flat."

"Do you know where he trades in the market, then?"

"Um, I think his stall's in the arcade just down the road on the left, before you get to Elgin Crescent. Just ask anyone in the arcade. They'll point him out for you."

Gemma thanked her and left, feeling fortified to continue her search. As she walked on, the crowd grew ever thicker, and music drifted towards her. Reaching the intersection of Portobello and Chepstow Villas, the official beginning of Portobello Market, she paused to listen to the string quartet that was busking on the corner. A past acquaintance having made her kindly disposed towards buskers, she fished a pound coin from her bag and tossed it in the open violin case.

Continuing onwards, the strains of Mozart faded into the rhythm of a steel drum. A mime in painted face and costume enthralled watchers. In spite of herself Gemma found the cheerful, carnival atmosphere infectious. She would have to bring the children here, she resolved, one Saturday soon.

With reluctance, she left the bustle and color of the street for the more crowded and smoky confines of the arcade. At least, she thought, it was warm. Stopping at the first stall, which held a miscellany of small objects from pocket watches to penknives, she spoke to the vendor, a shriveled, heavily made-up woman with hennaed hair. "Do you know where I might find Alex Dunn?"

"His stall's right in the back, if that's what you mean, but you won't find him there today." The woman shook her head. "A terrible business, his friend being murdered and all." She leaned forward confidentially, wafting the smell of smoke and sour coffee into Gemma's face. "They're saying it's a regular Jack-the-Ripper killing. I don't know how I'm going to sleep in my own bed tonight."

There might be some others not sleeping in their own beds tonight, Gemma thought furiously, if she found out who had leaked that particular snippet. "I'm sure there's no need for you to worry," she soothed, forcing a smile. "Would you happen to know where Alex went?"

"Left this morning with young Fern Adams. Looked ghastly, he did- it was all poor Fern could do to keep him on his feet. But I've not seen hide nor hair of either of them since."

"Who's Fern Adams? Is she a friend of Alex's?"

"She's a silver vendor, has the stall next to his. Fern's family's had a stall or a barrow in the market since after the war; grew up in Portobello Courts, she did. She's a good girl, Fern, in spite of her looks." The natural suspicion that had been held in abeyance by the thrill of gossip suddenly asserted itself. "And why might you be asking all these questions, ducks?"

Gemma produced her warrant card. "It's just routine inquiries. Do you know where I could find Fern now?"

"I'd not be one to say," the woman told her, turning her attention to a waiting customer. Caution had obviously set in.

"Do you know anyone else I might speak to?" Gemma persisted, refusing to be ignored. "Friends of Alex who might know where he's gone?"

The woman scowled at her in annoyance. "I suppose you could try Otto's Café just round the corner in Elgin Crescent. I know Alex goes there, and some of the others."

As Gemma turned to leave, the woman relented and called out, "Mind you, there's no sign says Otto's. It's just that everyone knows it by that name. You can't miss it."

She recognized the café by the yellowed menu posted in the window. A babble of sound met Gemma as she opened the door. The café was packed with animated shoppers, but she spied one empty table near the back and made for it quickly. Once settled, she ordered a coffee from the young black man who appeared from the kitchen. He smiled at her when he came back with her drink, and as their eyes met, she felt the sort of instant connection she'd only experienced a few times in her life. There was nothing sexual about it; it was purely emotional, or even spiritual, as if they'd known each other in another context.