Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

Picking up her car from the station car park, she drove to the flat again, but Alex still hadn't returned. Gemma let the car idle for a moment, gazing at the now lit flat next door.

Should she interview Alex's neighbors now? No, they would keep, and she needed to speak to Karl Arrowood's business associate before any more time passed. She could stop on her way home, sending a constable to take a formal statement later. Turning the car round at the bottom of the mews, she headed for Tower Bridge.

The Brewery at Butler 's Wharf was a very posh address, especially for what she assumed was only a part-time London accommodation. The old brewery had been converted into elegant flats with a view of the Thames at Tower Bridge. She searched for a parking space in the warren of streets near the river, her frustration mounting. By the time she found a spot and walked back to the brewery she had little patience for the building's gilt-and-green-marble lobby. Taking the lift up to the second floor, she found the flat number Arrowood had given her and rang the bell.

Within moments, a ruddy-faced, handsome man in his fifties opened the door and beamed at her as if she were a long-expected relation. " 'Ullo. You must be the inspector from the police." His accent was heavily French but understandable, and Gemma found herself unable to resist smiling back.

"I'm Gemma James. Mr. Arrowood must have rung you."

"Yes." Andre Michel ushered her into the flat and closed the door. Tower Bridge, stunning and immense, filled the windows. "Such terrible news. Here, please sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?"

Drawing her eyes away from the view, Gemma saw that a tray on the coffee table held wine and several glasses. "Nothing for me, thank you. But you couldn't have known I was coming just now-"

"No." Michel laughed. "I would like to claim that level of clairvoyance, but alas, it is merely that I'm expecting friends this evening." The delicious aroma of garlic and herbs wafted from the kitchen Gemma could just glimpse through a door on the far side of the sitting room. "A little coq au vin, a family recipe," Michel added, seeing her glance.

"Then I'll take up as little of your time as possible, Mr. Michel." Gemma took the seat he indicated, facing the windows, but she was sorry to look away from the display of oil paintings she had noticed on the walls. "I understand you had drinks with Mr. Arrowood yesterday."

"If you don't mind?" Michel glanced at her before pouring himself a glass of red wine. "Yes, and we parted with good cheer. If I had known I was sending him home to find his poor wife, murdered… I think it a good thing sometimes that we cannot foresee the future."

"Did Mr. Arrowood seem as usual to you yesterday?"

"Karl? Karl is always business. I think he grows impatient with our French philosophy of enjoying all parts of life."

"What exactly is it you do for Mr. Arrowood? I believe he said you were a dealer?"

"A dealer, a collector, among many other things." Michel gestured back towards the paintings. "I have a knack for finding eighteenth- and nineteenth-century landscape oils, whether at auction or under sacks of turnips. It is a gift, like a pig's nose for truffles, not something for which I can take credit."

"And you sell these paintings to Mr. Arrowood?"

"Karl is one of my clients, yes. He then sells the paintings to his clients, for a much greater price." Michel gave a Gallic shrug. "That's the way the antiques business works; a little profit for everyone. But Karl is definitely at the top of the pyramid."

"Have you known Karl- Mr. Arrowood- for a long time?"

Michel laughed merrily again. "For many years. But in those days, Karl had much less finesse. He always knew what he wanted, however, and even then he made it a point to meet the right people, get invited to the right places." Sighing, he added, " London parties were something to see, then, or perhaps it's just that I was young enough to prefer that life to a good bottle of wine with friends."

"And yesterday, Mr. Michel, did Karl buy anything?"

"Two paintings, in fact, which he took away. He was particularly pleased with them."

"What time did he leave you?"

"Ah, now it gets difficult." Michel frowned in concentration. "I know it was just getting dark. The bridge lights had come on. I would say around five o'clock, but I had no reason to check the time."

Gemma made a careful note, her pulse quickening. If Michel's estimate was accurate, even taking into account Friday-evening traffic, Arrowood could have got home in time to kill his wife.

"But you know I cannot swear to that," Michel added, and Gemma heard an apology in his tone.

"Is that because you're not certain? Or because Karl Arrowood is too important to cross?" she pressed.

"The antiques business is a small world, Inspector, but Karl's ill will would not damage my business to any great extent. Nor would I protect anyone who had committed such a terrible crime. Why do you believe Karl would do such a thing?"

"Perhaps his wife had a lover?"

Michel shrugged again. "Where I come from, that is not a matter for murder."

"But it wouldn't surprise you."

"Dawn Arrowood was young and very beautiful. And she had a certain… gravity… about her… some quality that made you want to know her."

Natalie Caine had called her luminous; Otto Popov, a lovely creature. Gemma suddenly felt a stab of regret that she'd not had a chance to know the young woman. "Thank you," she said, standing. "You've been very helpful."

Michel took her outstretched hand, holding it just a moment longer than necessary, and the look he gave her was frankly appraising. "Are you sure you won't stay and sample my coq au vin? If you don't mind my saying so, you are much too lovely to be doing a policeman's work."

Gemma felt herself blushing furiously. "I'm very flattered, Mr. Michel. But I'm… um… otherwise engaged." As would soon be all too obvious, she thought, with a glance down at her barely disguised belly.

She must tell Hazel first. Toby's four-year-old exuberance would not allow him to keep the momentous news of the move to himself, and as much as she owed her friend, Gemma would not have her hear it secondhand.

The street was quiet as she parked in front of the tiny garage flat in Islington. The flat was still dark- Toby would be in the main house with Hazel, and she had not heard from Kincaid. She got out of the car, shivering against the sudden chill, and went through the wrought-iron gate into the garden that separated the flat from the main house.

She found Hazel in the kitchen with Toby and her own daughter, Holly, who was the same age as Toby, and his boon companion. "Where's Tim?" she asked as Hazel greeted her with a hug.

"Catching up on paperwork at the office. I wish he wouldn't do that on a weekend, but needs must. The children have had their tea"- Hazel indicated the remains of sandwiches on the table- "let me make you a cuppa before you take Toby home."

"Please," said Gemma gratefully, then added quietly, "Hazel, we need to talk."

Hazel's startled glance held a hint of alarm, but she put the kettle on without comment. Enticing the children into the sitting room with a promise of a Christmas video, Gemma glanced at the piano and sighed with regret. Hazel had allowed her to practice on the old instrument to her heart's content. Now she would have no opportunity to play- Would she have to give up her lessons as well?

When they were seated at the kitchen table, Gemma cradled her steaming mug for warmth and met her friend's eyes.

"You're all right, aren't you, Gemma?" Hazel asked. "The baby-"

"The baby's fine. It's just that- Well, it's obvious we're going to have to make some changes. There's no room in the flat for the baby, not to mention the burden it would put on you. And Duncan 's found a house, in Notting Hill. He wants to move in right away, to get Kit settled before the holidays."