Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

By the time he reached the churchyard, the snow was coming down heavily, obscuring his view of the pale house across the street. But the car was in the drive, and he knew if he waited long enough, Karl was bound to come out.

Then he would know what to do.

Karl tightened the knot in his tie and shot his cuffs without taking his gaze from his face in the mirror. He had accepted the invitation to Christmas Eve dinner at the last moment, reluctantly, only because he'd realized he could not bear to stay in the house alone.

Why did it not show? he wondered as he examined his reflection. How could one go on looking so ordinary, muscle, bone and flesh forming an impervious shell over the devastation within? Nothing had prepared him for this- not even Angel.

It had been years since he'd thought of her, the loss put away along with the family and childhood he no longer acknowledged. Would she have laughed to see him now? Nothing he had thought of value mattered any longer, and too late he had realized the worth of those things held too lightly.

Death had taken Dawn's physical presence from him- Her betrayal had stolen his memories of her. And it was not only her he had lost, but his dream of continuance, of sharing himself with kindred blood and spirit, of leaving a legacy for the future. She had taken his hopes for Alex from him as well.

He switched out the lights and went slowly down the stairs, out into the cold air that pierced his lungs like grief.

"Look. It's snowing." Kincaid had come in from letting Geordie out into the garden one last time. They had sent the boys to bed, with much protest on Kit's part, and Tess had scrambled up with them.

Gemma came to stand beside him and he slipped an arm round her waist. A white veil of swirling flakes now obscured the garden. "I can't believe it," she murmured, her head against his shoulder. "I don't ever remember it snowing on Christmas Eve. It's like the poem you read earlier."

"Lovely, isn't it?" Kincaid had read "A Child's Christmas in Wales" aloud to them all after dinner, and he still felt the pleasure of the words on his tongue.

"Do you know it all by heart?"

"Only bits and pieces, now. I had it memorized when I was younger." His family had read not only Dylan Thomas every Christmas Eve, but the American poet Clement Moore's "The Night Before Christmas," from his father's treasured volume, illustrated by Arthur Rackam. For A Christmas Carol, they had each taken several parts, so that it became more like a play. Then they had read the nativity story from Luke; the familiar wording still gave him chills. And they had sung carols, accompanied by his dad on piano.

All in all, an ideal picture, if selective memory removed his and Juliet's incessant squabbling over who was to read what; the pinching during the carols; the year he foolishly attempted a solo of "Silent Night" just as his voice had begun to change.

As they grew older, of course, he and his sister had begun to beg off, planning engagements with their friends on Christmas Eve, until by their late teens all that remained of the family traditions had been attendance at midnight mass.

Not until recently had he realized how much the ritual and the structure of those childhood Christmases had mattered to him. He wanted to create something similar for their children, but he suspected that Gemma had been more enchanted by his attempt than the boys. Feeling her shiver against him, he said softly, "Let's go back to the fire. This is a night to be in, not out. I'm glad we decided not to go to church."

"I wanted to be here, in our home," said Gemma, curling up in the corner of the sofa. Geordie jumped up beside her and rested his head on her knee with a contented groan, making them both laugh.

Geordie had made it abundantly clear that he was Gemma's dog. He was friendly and affectionate with everyone else- he'd even made inroads with Sid- but Gemma he followed from room to room, watching her with alert adoration.

"Does that mean that you're happy?"

"Utterly contented. Well, almost…" He saw the flash of her smile in the firelight. "I was looking at the nursery, after I put Toby to bed, and thinking about cots."

"Cots?"

"Toby never had a proper cot, just a bassinet, then one of those portable cots you use for traveling. I want a real nursery for this baby, with all the trimmings."

"A boy nursery or a girl nursery?"

"Don't be sly. I'm not going to admit a preference."

"There's nothing wrong with having a wish, you know. It won't jinx you. Or make you love the baby any less if it turns out to be the opposite."

"It makes me feel disloyal, somehow. But if you really want to know, I'd like a girl. I dream of little girls. I stop and look at little girls' clothes in the shops."

"I suspected as much."

"What about you, then?"

"A girl, of course, if only to balance out the household a bit. Shall we talk about names?"

Gemma's hand went to her belly in the protective gesture that tugged at his heart. "No… It's too soon. I-"

The phone rang, shattering their peace like glass breaking.

"Damn." A glance at his watch told him it was almost eleven, and his heart sank. There was never a good reason for the phone to ring this time of night.

It was worse than he feared. He came back into the firelit room, knowing Gemma's face would be tense with waiting, hating to be the one to tell her.

"It's Karl Arrowood. He's been murdered."

Murdered? Where?"

"In his drive."

"Oh, God." Gemma stood, and Geordie jumped down from the sofa, his cocker spaniel brow furrowed at her tone. "Surely not the same way?"

"It looks like it," Kincaid told her. "They're waiting for us."

"I'll change. You wake Kit and tell him what's happening. Will he be all right on his own with Toby?"

"I don't know that we've much choice, have we?"

Kit sat up in bed, his fair hair sticking up like sprouts. "Of course I'll be okay," he said, indignant. "But do you really have to go, on Christmas?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. But Father Christmas has been and left your stockings on the hearth. They were too heavy for him to lug all the way up the stairs."

Kit rolled his eyes at the fiction, and Kincaid winked. "If we're not back when Toby wakes up, you can take him downstairs. In the meantime, we'll both have our mobiles if you need anything." He tousled Kit's hair. Much to his surprise, the boy reached out and pressed his hand for a moment before letting it go.

Kincaid, deeply moved, was tempted to say, "I love you," but resisted the impulse. He didn't dare jeopardize the delicate emotional balance they had achieved.

Instead, he took Kit's hand and pulled him out of bed. "Come and look, son, before you go back to sleep. It's going to be a white Christmas."

The crime scene looked much as it had ten days earlier, except for the white frosting of snow. Gemma stamped against the cold as Gerry Franks came up to them.

"Bloody snow," Franks groused. "Ruins the bloody crime scene. It's hopeless." He was obviously no happier at being dragged out on Christmas Eve than they were, and he gave them a scathing look that included them in his displeasure.

The corpse itself had been protected with a makeshift shelter, but a fine sifting of powder lay beneath the covered area. Emergency lighting had been set up round the perimeter of the scene. "Any idea how long he's been here?" Gemma asked.