Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

"That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. Did Marianne ever say anything about her family- her parents, her background?"

"She never spoke directly of her parents, but I somehow had the feeling that her childhood was difficult- perhaps because she didn't share the usual reminiscences. Except… It's funny, now that you mention it. One Friday evening, not long before she died, we'd had a bit more wine than usual. There was this program on the telly about the sixties- pop icons, fashion, you know the sort of thing. And we began to make a game of it, bragging about who remembered most, or had done the most outlandish thing."

"One-upmanship."

"Exactly. Who crammed the most people in a mini, who waited in a queue for five days to see the Rolling Stones… Then she started to tell me about all the people she'd known, like Robert Frazer, the gallery owner, and models, artists, fashion designers. When she saw I was a bit skeptical, she got up and dug through a bureau drawer until she found this. I asked her if I could keep it." Vernon opened his desk and removed a photo he obviously treasured, handing it to Kincaid.

In the black-and-white image, a girl in a slip of a black dress gazed back at Kincaid. She was slender, with delicate features and large dark eyes enhanced by the makeup of the time. Her platinum hair was cut short and shaped to her head, giving her the irresistible appeal of the waif. And yet Kincaid could see the unmistakable resemblance to the older woman he had known only in death.

"She was stunning," he said, looking up at Vernon.

"Yes. Very much in the manner of Edie Sedgwick."

"Edie Sedgwick?"

"One of Andy Warhol's Factory girls; his lover, in fact. Edie left Warhol for Bob Dylan, who promptly abandoned her for someone else. The beginning of a tragic end."

"And you're saying that Marianne moved in the London equivalent of those circles? It is odd that she never spoke about it before that night."

"There's something else that's just occurred to me," Vernon added, frowning. "I often go to Portobello early on a Saturday, to see what I can pick up for the shop, but Marianne would never go with me, in all the time I knew her. She'd make some excuse or other, and sometimes she'd ask me to look out for something for her, so that it was obvious she knew the area, and the market, well. After a while, I stopped asking her to go, just took her little quirk for granted."

"An interesting aversion. What about her ex-husband, then? We never interviewed him. I believe he was in Thailand at the time of her death."

"A nice chap. They stayed good friends. I believe Greg's back in London at the moment; he stopped in for a bit not too long ago. He was quite devastated by Marianne's death."

"Have you any idea why they divorced?"

"She told me once that she was better off on her own. But I always suspected that she had lost someone very special to her, the way I had."

"You've been extremely helpful, Mr. Vernon. Could I borrow this photo for a short time? I'll have someone run it back to you as soon as I've made a copy. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to do some Christmas shopping."

Kincaid bought the walking stick and the badminton set, wondering briefly how he was going to get them to Cheshire in time for the holiday. Then he hesitated, gazing at the lead soldiers in the window. "I didn't think you sold militaria."

"Toy soldiers are a particular passion of mine, and I can never pass up a good set. That one's a beauty."

"I'll take it," Kincaid decided impulsively. "For my son. He's twelve."

"A perfect age. You won't regret it."

As Kincaid took his tidily wrapped packages and bid Vernon a happy Christmas, he congratulated himself on his purchases. That left Toby, for whom he intended to buy a new Church Mice book, and Gemma.

For Gemma he had something entirely different in mind.

Gemma's mobile phone rang as she and Melody returned to the station. Expecting Kincaid with a report on his morning's activities, she was surprised to find Bryony Poole on the line.

"Gemma? Remember I said I'd ring about the dog? Could you come by the soup kitchen on Portobello Road? I've brought Geordie round for a lunchtime visit. The clients get a kick out of it."

"Right. I could use a break." Gemma had been wanting to talk to Bryony again, and this would give her a good opportunity.

Leaving Melody at the station, she drove the short distance to Portobello Road, finding a spot to put the car south of the point where the fruit-and-veg stalls lining the bottom half of the road made parking impossible. Walking on from there, she reached the double entrance to the old Portobello School. The soup kitchen was just to one side, in a nondescript building.

Gemma opened the door and peered in a bit gingerly. She'd been in the Sally Army facility up the road, of course, when she was on the beat, but she'd no idea what sort of place this was. What she saw reassured her. In the front of a clean, spare room, an assortment of people sat eating at long wooden tables. Towards the rear, Bryony and her friend Marc served a few stragglers from a buffet line. Bryony waved. "I'm on my lunch break," she explained as Gemma came up. "I tell Marc I come to help out, but it's really his food I'm after."

"Right," agreed Marc. "And I'll be moving on to the Savoy any day. Would you like something, Gemma?"

Gemma saw that it was not soup, but a thick vegetable-and-bean stew. It smelled delicious and she suddenly remembered that she had once again neglected breakfast. "Yes, please."

"Let me introduce you to Geordie, first," said Bryony. "So that you can be getting acquainted." She motioned Gemma round the buffet table. The cocker spaniel lay near Bryony, his head on his paws, watching her intently. But when Gemma knelt down beside him, he stood, his stump of a tail wagging.

"That's what I love about cockers," Bryony told Gemma. "Their entire bodies wriggle. No dissembling."

"Hullo, boy," Gemma said softly, holding out her hand. Geordie snuffled her fingers, gave them a lick, his tail wagging harder, then looked up at her expectantly, as if to say, "What's next?"

Laughing, Gemma stroked his head and rubbed his silky ears. The dog promptly curled up with his head against her knee and gazed up at her devotedly.

"I'd say you've made a conquest." Bryony's pleasure was evident.

"He is lovely," Gemma admitted. "But I couldn't take him until the weekend," she heard herself adding. "We'll be moving on Saturday. And that's if his owner agrees, of course." Surely she had completely lost her mind, she thought, but she found she didn't care.

"I'll vouch for you," said Bryony. "If you come back to the clinic with me after lunch, we'll fill out the adoption paperwork. I'll ring you on Sunday and we can make arrangements."

Geordie followed Gemma as they settled at a table near the buffet with their bowls of stew, settling himself near her feet with a sigh. "I've never had a dog before," Gemma confessed. "I mean, not personally. My older son- stepson- has a terrier, but he hasn't lived with us until now. I mean my son, not the dog- Oh, it's too complicated to explain!"

"The dog is much simpler," Bryony answered, laughing. "Feed him, walk him, give him regular baths and lots of attention. That's all there is to it."

"Essentials," said Marc, looking round at the people finishing their meals, several with dogs at their feet. "Food and care. That's what keeps a good many of these folks on the street- they simply can't cope with anything more complicated than that."

"No cell phones and computerized banking?"

"Right. Overload. Their circuits just can't handle it."

A black woman stood and carried her dishes to the washing-up stack. She wore green wellies and what must have once been an expensive business suit beneath a worn man's overcoat.