Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

"It's Mr. Farley," said Gemma. "Can you tell me what time he left on the Friday Dawn was killed?"

Bryony froze, mid-motion. "Why?"

"Just routine, really. But he did have that little disagreement with Dawn. I'm just ruling out options."

Color stained Bryony's cheeks. "I should never have said anything. I never meant for you to take it seriously, and now I feel an absolute fool."

"Why? If Mr. Farley had something to do with Dawn's death, would you protect him?"

"Of course not. But I'm sure Gavin couldn't have done something like that, and having the police poke into his business is not going to make him happy." Bryony looked away from Gemma's gaze. "It's just that he's rather cross with me already… over my holding the free clinic."

"Why does he object to it?"

"I'm not sure if it's the money or the principle that aggravates him most. I think he sees it as a useless exercise, and since those supplies went missing, he's been like an old maid over expenses. It's odd, too, as the loss didn't really amount to more than a few pounds."

"He sees helping homeless people's animals as a useless exercise?"

"You can always trust Gavin not to be politically correct. But he's right, in a way," Bryony added with a sigh. "As much as I hate to admit it. There's so much I can't do. I'm not giving up, though. And Marc's been so good…"

"He is nice, isn't he? You're a lucky woman, I should think."

"Oh, no! I don't- We don't- We're friends, that's all."

"But I thought- I'm sorry. It's just that you seem so well suited."

"It's not that I'd mind," the other woman admitted. "But Marc's very focused on his work. You know how it is…"

"Unlike Mr. Farley, I take it." Gemma glanced at her watch. "Is he coming in at all?"

"No. He's given himself a long holiday. Boss's privilege." Bryony seemed to come to a decision. "Look, I don't see any harm in telling you that he left early that Friday, before five. But I think you should ask him yourself."

"That's just what I intend to do."

"White girl, ain't got no sense," Betty muttered, kicking angrily at a tin can in the gutter and scuffing the toe of her saddle shoe. Then she felt ashamed of herself for speaking of Angel in that jeering way, even if there was no one else to hear, for she felt sure Angel never thought of her as a "black girl." Why, one day their last year in school, Mozelle Meekum, a pasty-faced bully with arms like hams, had called her a nigger, and Angel had gone and slapped that girl right up the side of the head. Got in trouble for it, too, detention after school. And never complained.

So why had Angel, who knew the difference between what was right and what wasn't, gone off with this man who was no better than he should be, good looks be damned? There was something wrong in that young man, Betty could feel it, a cold place inside him. But Angel wouldn't believe her, not now, not as long as she was blinded by lust, and any fool could see that she was.

And poor Ronnie, furious with Angel, furious with himself. Betty saw the way he looked at Angel when Angel wasn't looking, knew what he was suffering, knew that even if she could shake the stubbornness out of him and make him speak to Angel, it was too late. He had lost her.

There was no bloody help for any of it, as far as she could see. And she had her Colin to think of now, and their future- He wouldn't like her getting mixed up in others' business. Still, if only there were something she could do…

It came to her as she neared the church, and her heart lifted a bit. Not that Angel had much use for Catholic practices… But it couldn't do any harm to light a candle for her soul… and she need never know.

Kincaid organized the notes on his desk and took another appreciative sip of coffee from a polystyrene cup. Someone had apparently upgraded the communal pot, as the coffee actually tasted more like coffee than battery acid. Perhaps the departmental secretary had received an abundance of coffee beans as a Christmas gift.

He'd just returned from an informative meeting with a mate in the drug squad. It seemed that they'd had an eye on Karl Arrowood for years- since long before Kincaid's friend's tenure on the force, in fact. But Arrowood was a clever and cautious man, and they had never been able to come up with anything concrete against him. Years ago, they'd thought to make a case, but he'd managed to slip through their fingers.

His phone rang, and he took another sip of his coffee before lifting the receiver.

"Duncan? It's Gemma." She sounded discouraged. "The report's come back on Arrowood's office computer."

"No joy, I take it?"

"Not a blinking thing. He's got himself a very good bookkeeper, but then what would you expect? There are a large number of cash transactions, but that's not illegal, and he has reason to keep cash reserves on hand. A lot of antique trading is cash only."

"How very convenient." He told her what he'd learned from the drug squad, then asked, "Did you see the vet?"

"I've just come from the surgery. He wasn't in, but I did have a word with Bryony. She says Farley left the clinic before five that Friday. He's at home today, so I thought I'd have a word with him there."

"Hang on for a few minutes. I've a meeting with the guv'nor, but let me send Cullen with you. He's come up with a few interesting tidbits on Farley. Suspected tax evasion for starters, followed by sexual harassment of a client."

"Not bad," Doug Cullen murmured as he looked round, whistling through his teeth. The houses here were semidetached, the curved, hilly street lined with mature trees. Every door sported a wreath, and every driveway a Mercedes, a Lexus, or a BMW.

"Up-and-coming Willesden- although I'm still inclined to think of it as the place the buses go home to bed," Gemma agreed. "But considering the area's upmarket status these days, I'm not surprised Mr. Farley cheats on his taxes. Here it is," she added, checking the house number against her notes.

Gavin Farley's house was pseudo-Tudor, with freshly painted trim and a well-kept garden. A new model Mercedes sat beside a workaday Vauxhall Astra in the drive. "Maybe we're in luck and Farley's wife is at home, too. Should we split up, interview them separately?" suggested Cullen.

"Let's see how it goes. It's the Astra that he drives to work- I remember seeing it in front of the surgery." The car was maroon, with a distinctive crack in the left taillamp.

Taking advantage of the wait after ringing the bell, Cullen glanced at his companion. As he'd discovered on Saturday night, the redheaded, faintly freckled Gemma James was not as formidable as her reputation had led him to believe. Nearer his age than he'd expected, she'd been friendly, if slightly wary, and this morning she'd done him the favor of not mentioning Saturday night's dinner.

Mrs. Farley, a thin, worried-looking woman of middle age, was indeed at home, and greeted them warily.

"I'm Inspector James and this is Sergeant Cullen," Gemma told her. "Could we have a word with you?"

"But-" Mrs. Farley looked round uncertainly. "My husband's out in his shop. I'll just go-"

"No, that's all right, Mrs. Farley. We'd like to speak to you first. It won't take a moment."

With obvious reluctance, the woman took them into the front room, but a glance towards the rear of the house had shown Cullen two preadolescent children sprawled in front of a television in a den. The boy and girl, both slightly overweight and smug-looking, glanced up at them with disinterest before turning back to their program.

Mrs. Farley perched on the edge of a chair while he and Gemma sat opposite on a sofa. Doug had learned enough from Stella to realize that the furniture and objects in the room were expensive, and also that they had been put together with a complete lack of grace and style.