Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

"Still suffering from a bit of rebellion, I take it?"

Cullen glanced at him, as if to ascertain whether he was being teased. "I assumed most people felt that way about their parents' lifestyles."

"I don't know," Kincaid mused. "I rather envy my parents theirs. But twenty years ago, I couldn't wait to put the dust of the provinces behind me."

"And now, would you go back?"

"To live, maybe. To work in a small-town police force, after the Met- Now, that would be a bit more difficult." Kincaid thought again of taking Gemma and the children to Cheshire, sometime soon- perhaps this summer, to show off the new baby. His mum and dad were beside themselves with anticipation.

City and suburbs dropped away, revealing the rolling, winter-bleached farmland of Herefordshire. The power of the English countryside to assert itself never failed to amaze Kincaid, although he knew all too well it was more than ever under siege.

By mid-morning they had reached Bedford, a pleasant county town with a generous share of parks and the Great Ouse River running through its center. Eliza Goddard lived along the Embankment in a comfortable, semidetached Victorian house, a far cry from the tiny flat her mother had occupied above her shop in Camden Passage.

Goddard answered the bell quickly, calling back over her shoulder to quiet her children. Kincaid saw her surprise as she turned back to them, then the unconcealed mixture of wariness and distaste. "You've come about my mother, haven't you?" She did not invite them in. "Have you found out something?"

"Not exactly, Mrs. Goddard. But we would like to speak to you, if you could spare us a few moments," Kincaid said, at his most diplomatic. This woman surely had no reason to look fondly on the police: They had not only given her the terrible news of her mother's death, but had failed, after a lengthy investigation, to find her killer.

"All right." She said it reluctantly. "Just let me get the girls settled in the kitchen."

As Kincaid and Cullen followed her into the sitting room, Kincaid wondered, as he had the first time they'd met, about her parentage. Marianne Hoffman had been a slight, fair-skinned woman- her daughter had the lovely café-au-lait coloring and dark eyes indicative of mixed race. The twin daughters Eliza was shepherding into the kitchen took after their mother, each with dark hair neatly plaited into two pigtails.

"Let's get some colored paper, and you can make paper chains for the Christmas tree," he heard Eliza say. A moment later she rejoined them in the sitting room.

"How old are your daughters?" Kincaid asked her.

"Five. Going on fifteen." Eliza rolled her eyes, but her smile was indulgent.

"Identical?"

"Yes. All the child psychology books say you shouldn't dress them alike, but the authors apparently didn't consult my girls. They throw fits if I try to put them in different outfits. Maybe next year when they start school…"

Sensing Cullen's impatience, Kincaid gave him a quelling glance. "You've a great place here," he told Eliza, admiring the room's soft sage-and-cream paintwork and fabrics. Woven baskets held the children's toys neatly, and although the furniture looked casually worn, Kincaid suspected it was valuable. Gesturing at the oak sideboard, he said, "Eighteenth century?"

"Yes. My mother's passion, eighteenth-century farmhouse furniture. She never bought it to sell; she said that would've taken the joy from the hunt. But she loved finding these pieces for me, and she's the one put the room together." Eliza sat down at last, and Kincaid and Cullen followed suit.

"She traded only jewelry in her shop?"

"Oh, sometimes she'd take in a table or a lamp, but she preferred to stick with the small things." Eliza brushed at her skirt and finally met Kincaid's eyes. "Look, what is this about?"

"I'm afraid there's been another death," Kincaid answered. "Similar to your mother's. But this time in Notting Hill- the wife of an antiques dealer."

"I don't understand. What has that to do with me?"

"There might be a connection."

"You mean the same man who killed my mother might have killed this woman, too?"

"It's possible, although we hope not."

"But how can I help you?" She sounded more bewildered than angry.

"Did you ever hear your mother mention the name Karl Arrowood?"

Eliza shook her head.

"Nor Dawn Arrowood? Or Dawn Smith?"

"No."

"What about Alex Dunn?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"Do you know if your mother had any connections in Notting Hill?"

"Not that I know of specifically, although people do get around in the antiques trade. But Mum never talked about her past. Sometimes I used to imagine that her life started with me."

"What about your dad? Could he help us?"

"I never knew my dad at all."

"His name was Hoffman?"

"That was my stepdad. Greg was okay; he even officially adopted me. But Mum divorced him when I was fifteen. I still see him sometimes. He sends Christmas and birthday cards to the girls."

Kincaid had run a check on Greg Hoffman after Marianne's murder in October. A textiles salesman, he'd been out of the country at the time of his ex-wife's death, and Kincaid had never interviewed him. "Do you know why Greg and your mother broke up?"

"Mum just said she didn't want to be married anymore. I missed him," Eliza added unexpectedly, glancing towards the sound of an escalating row in the kitchen. "I hope my girls never have to be without a dad."

"What do you remember about your childhood? Anything before your mother married Greg Hoffman?"

"We lived in York when I was little. Mum had a small shop there. She only moved back to London after I married and came to Bedford."

"Mummy!" came a cry from the kitchen. "Suki tore my loop!"

"I did not. Sarah made it too big. I was fixing it!"

"Excuse me." Eliza got up with a soft sigh and went to sort out her children.

Kincaid stood and gazed out the window at the river and the park running along beside it. Three swans glided by, unperturbed by human commotion.

"Not making much progress, are we?" Doug Cullen didn't bother to hide his exasperation.

"Too soon to say," Kincaid rejoined. He turned back to Eliza Goddard as she reentered the room. "What about your mother's things, Mrs. Goddard? Did she leave any keepsakes? Or photos?"

"I haven't touched her personal effects." Eliza's eyes sparkled with sudden tears. "I just couldn't, not this time of year. I'm not even sure yet how we're going to get through Christmas… I don't think the girls understand their grandmother isn't coming back. They keep asking what Nana's giving them for Christmas."

"I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Goddard, and sorry to have to dredge all this up again. But if you could bring yourself to go through your mother's things, there might be something that would connect her with this latest murder." He couldn't recall having seen anything connecting Hoffman with either the Arrowoods or Alex Dunn, but he wanted to be absolutely sure he hadn't missed vital evidence.

"There is one thing," Eliza said hesitantly. "My mother always wore a heart-shaped silver locket. But it wasn't in the things you returned to us, and we didn't find it in the shop. I know you told us at the time there was no evidence of burglary, but- Might her killer have taken the locket?"

Melody Talbot sat down across from Gemma's desk and kicked her shoes off, stretching out her legs and examining them with a frown. One of her tights had ripped in the toe and she tugged at it in annoyance. "My feet will never be the same. This is the first time I've got off them in three days."

"Found anything worthwhile?" From the discouraged expression on Melody's face, Gemma had not much hope of the answer. Gerry Franks had been in earlier with an equally discouraging report. He'd pressed her to talk to Karl Arrowood again, but she was determined to wait until she'd spoken to Arrowood's first wife.