Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

Once inside, she sat on the edge of her bed, looking round at the neat shelves and storage boxes with her usual sense of relief. This was her island in the storm of her father's chaos; here her silver was arranged and catalogued, and nothing was ever, ever out of place.

She could have moved out years ago, of course, as her mum had done, and left him to his own devices. It wasn't that she couldn't afford to live on her own; she made a reasonable living with her trading, enough for a little studio or maisonette, maybe not in Notting Hill itself, but at least on the fringe.

But then who would get her dad his tea, or look after him when he'd had a night on the tiles? Or make certain the rent and the rates got paid? As much as she liked Marc Mitchell, she'd no desire to see her dad frequenting Marc's soup kitchen, and she had no doubt that was where he'd end up.

Of course, if she ever got into a serious relationship, she'd have to come up with another solution, and it had occurred to her that her refusal to give up on Alex gave her an easy out. Unrequited affection required no action, nor any tough decisions. Had she loved him as much when she thought he loved her?

Shying away from the question, she got out her laptop and began entering the day's transactions. She liked keeping track of her merchandise, and of what sold and what didn't. "Prissy accountancy," her dad called it. She argued that it was merely practical, but the truth was that it made her feel secure.

Tonight, however, nothing kept her mind off Alex. She was worried about his safety and frustrated by the fact that she could do nothing to remedy the situation- nor could she talk to him about it, as she had discovered that morning in the arcade.

They'd always been comfortable together; even after Dawn came on the scene, they had still managed to get through Saturday trading with a certain amount of shoptalk and banter. But today had been awful, a long, awkward day of aborted conversations and unaccustomed silences, after which Alex had locked up on the stroke of five and hurried out as if he couldn't bear another moment of her company.

Then, an hour later, he had rung her at home, hesitantly asking if she'd come round to his flat.

Baffled by his behavior, but determined not to jump at his beck and call, she'd made a date for nine o'clock. But as the time passed she grew increasingly uneasy, and as she walked up the hill to his mews, she had to make herself slow her pace. When she arrived to find him looking just as usual, she felt a ridiculous surge of relief.

"Coffee?" he asked cheerfully. "No alcohol for me, I'm afraid, but if you'd rather I can give you a glass of wine."

"No, coffee's fine." She wasn't sure she wanted to know why he wasn't drinking, and he didn't volunteer any explanation. She stood silently as he made the coffee in his drip pot, then watched in shock as he put one of his treasured Clarice Cliff coffeepots and two matching cups on a tray. This was not stuff you used, for heaven's sake- breaking just one of the cups would cost you a month's wages.

"Alex, what are you thinking of? You can't seriously mean to drink out of those?"

"And why not? I distinctly remember you serving punch out of a Georgian bowl at your friend Alicia's wedding."

"Yeah, but that's different. You can't really hurt silver. But this stuff…"

"So what do you suggest I save it for? Isn't this special occasion enough?"

"Oh, please. I seem to recall us having coffee out of polystyrene cups this morning. Since when is having a cup of coffee with me an occasion?"

"Now."

Staring at him, she said, "Okay, cut the bullshit, Alex. What's this really about?"

"It's not bullshit. I mean, you don't know, do you? When something might- Anyway, there is something I wanted to say, and it's… awkward. I never thanked you for what you did last Saturday. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't… You've been a good friend, Fern, and I've behaved abominably. To Jane and to you."

Considering this, she said slowly, "Yeah, I suppose you have. But under the circumstances…"

"I wanted you to know, in case… Well, I've learned it's better not to leave things unsaid."

"What do you mean, 'in case'? In case what?" Her heart was hammering.

"It's just an expression. I could walk in front of a bus, that's all."

"Alex, are you okay now? I mean really okay?"

"Honestly?" This time his eyes met hers. "I don't know. I've never done this before. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel."

"Maybe you should talk to someone. You know… a professional."

"A shrink?" He laughed sourly. "What would that fix? Look, there's something else I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything about Karl Arrowood selling drugs?"

"What?" Her voice rose to a furious squeak. "Don't tell me you're giving me the she's-got-green-hair-she-must-know-about-drugs bit?"

"Of course not! God, Fern, I didn't mean to offend you. But you've lived in the area your whole life. You know things, hear things, in a way I never will."

"I suppose that's true." Her anger abated a little. "Well, you know how Otto talks about Karl, but he's never said anything specifically about drugs. But… I have heard a few vague whispers over the years. You know, that maybe some of Karl's money was ill-gotten. But it's not like he's gone around selling heroin to the kiddies at Colville School."

"You knew this, or suspected it, and you didn't tell me?"

"Like you'd have believed me! 'Oh, by the way, Alex, your new girlfriend's hubbie's a major drug kingpin.' Besides, I don't even know if it's true."

They glared at one another over the forgotten coffee, a standoff.

It was Alex who broke it. "All right. Maybe I wouldn't have believed you. But what if… What if Dawn found out, and threatened to leave him? Or threatened to expose him?"

"And he killed her? First of all, I don't buy her being married to the guy for years and not realizing what he was up to- if he was up to anything. She'd have to have been living in never-never land. And second, I don't buy that for motive. I think you're just trying to find some way around the fact that he killed her because he found out you were-"

She had clamped her mouth shut on the words, but it was too late.

She'd left after that, cursing herself all the way home. What the hell sort of damage had she done because she couldn't control her stupid temper?

Setting her laptop aside in disgust, she pulled over the box of items she'd brought home from the stall display case and began to sort through them. She needed to rotate some of her stock before next Saturday; the regulars got tired of seeing the same things week after week.

Spoons, thimbles, magnifying glasses; cigarette, card, and needle cases; snuffboxes, sugar nips, tea scoops, and paper knives-

Wait. She knew she had put in a lovely, engraved Victorian paper knife, with a razor-sharp edge. She went through the box again, taking each item out and setting it on the table. No paper knife. Was she losing her mind? No, she distinctly remembered transferring the knife, because she always had to be careful with the blade.

With growing horror, she remembered that just before closing, she had asked Alex to watch her stall while she went to the loo. Surely he wouldn't…

Methodically, refusing to entertain the unthinkable, she placed every item back in the box. But the image of Alex's face as she returned to the stall remained with her. At the time she'd put it down to the discomfort between them, that and her overactive imagination, but he had looked- there was no other word for it- furtive.