Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

"My guess, from the state of the ground and the look of the blood, is two to three hours. Pathologist's on her way."

"Who found him?"

"The next-door neighbor, Mrs. Du Ray. She wants to talk to you- won't give her statement to anyone else." This bit of information seemed to sour Franks's disposition even further.

"All right," said Gemma. "But first we need a look at the body."

Once suited up, she and Kincaid made their way round the parked Mercedes. Gemma's sense of déjà vu intensified. There was only one car in the drive. Had Karl Arrowood already disposed of his murdered wife's?

The body lay a few feet in front of the car, half on its side. There were smudges in the snow near his hands and feet, as if he'd attempted to crawl towards the house. Kneeling, Gemma could see that the blood from his wounds had congealed into dark and syrupy clots, and she couldn't help but remember that Arrowood had been terrified at the sight of blood.

He had not been wearing an overcoat, in spite of the cold, but the dark jacket of his suit had been torn away at the front. His tie had been slashed loose; his once-white shirt was missing its top buttons where it had apparently been ripped open from the collar.

"He fought," she said to Kincaid, who knelt beside her.

"Multiple wounds in the throat, rather than a single clean cut," Kincaid agreed. He reached out with a gloved finger and moved aside the fabric of the shirt. "It's hard to tell with so much blood, but it looks as though there might have been an attempt at mutilating the chest."

"Why slash a man's chest? And if that was the killer's intent, why didn't he finish the job?"

"Perhaps he was interrupted," Kincaid mused. "Or perhaps he was afraid that the struggle had attracted attention. I can tell you one thing, though- if whoever did this managed to get home without notice, he had to have some way to dispose of his bloody clothes and clean himself up before he was seen by anyone. So he either lives alone-"

"Or has an unusual amount of privacy. As in Gavin Farley's workshop and shower. I think we should get a car on the way to Willesden even before we see Mrs. Du Ray."

"I blew it," Gemma raged to Kincaid as they stripped off their coveralls. "I should have prevented this." She had not liked Karl Arrowood, but to see such strength and force extinguished had shaken her badly.

"How? What could you have done differently?"

"If I knew that, I would have done it, wouldn't I? At least we can rule out Arrowood as the murderer-"

"Can we? What if someone learned he'd committed the first two murders and decided to take retribution into their own hands?"

"I suppose that's possible. But Karl Arrowood was a powerful man, quite a different proposition for the killer than two unsuspecting women-"

"Accounting for the lack of finesse. Dr. Ling may be able to tell us if the murders were committed by the same person. But if that's the case, it's quite a departure from the usual serial killer pattern."

Fully dressed again, they followed the walk to Mrs. Du Ray's porch, their footprints leaving dark gashes in the fresh snow. "Bloody hell, your sergeant's right about the crime scene," Kincaid muttered as he rang the bell. "Might as well wash everything down with a fire hose."

Mrs. Du Ray greeted Gemma with a whispered, "Oh, my dear." Her skin appeared paper-thin, the lines round mouth and eyes much more pronounced than a week earlier.

"I'm so sorry you had to deal with this, Mrs. Du Ray," she said. "It must have been a terrible shock."

"Yes." Mrs. Du Ray gave a small negative shake of her head, as if further words escaped her.

When they were seated in the warm kitchen, Gemma said, "Why don't you start from the beginning."

"After my supper, I did the washing up, then went upstairs to get ready for bed. Sometimes I put on my dressing gown and come back downstairs to watch a little television. When I glanced out the window, I noticed Karl's car standing in the drive. There was a faint light coming from the interior, as if perhaps one of the doors hadn't quite closed." Mrs. Du Ray spoke clearly and precisely, as if giving a report, but the blue veins stood out on her hands, clasped in her lap. "I thought I saw something dark in front of the car, but it had begun to snow, and I decided my eyes were deceiving me."

"What time was this?" asked Gemma, her notebook ready.

"Before nine o'clock. I'm sure of it because there was a program on at nine I wanted to see. I came downstairs again and made some cocoa, but I couldn't settle. I kept wondering if I had really seen something, or if my imagination had run wild. So I went back up and looked again, and this time there was a dark shape in the drive- I was sure of it- and I saw someone crossing the street from the churchyard.

"It was a young man, or at least that was my impression. He was bareheaded, with that floppy sort of Edwardian hairstyle you see young men wearing these days. He came into the drive, almost tiptoeing, and walked round the car. Then he froze, and went closer. I saw him bend over and reach out, then he turned and ran as if the hounds of hell were after him."

"What else did you notice about the young man?"

"He was tall, and on the slender side, I think. It's hard to tell with a coat, and the snow…"

"Did you see his face well enough that you'd recognize him again?"

"I don't know." Mrs. Du Ray seemed distressed. "I'd not want to accuse someone unfairly."

"I wouldn't worry about that at the moment," Kincaid assured her. "It sounds very much as if Mr. Arrowood was already dead. It was after this that you rang the police?"

"Well, no. I had to be sure, you see. I dressed and went out to look for myself… Poor Karl… There was so much blood." She looked up at them in appeal. "Why would someone do such a terrible thing?"

Kit lay awake for a long time after Duncan and Gemma left, listening to the rhythm of Toby's breathing. Tess was curled up at his feet, and after a few minutes, Geordie padded upstairs and jumped up on the bed, stretching out against his thigh. Resting his hand on the dog's head, Kit snuggled further down into the bedclothes and told himself he should be content. It was Christmas, after all… It was snowing… He was part of a family again…

But he had dreamed of his mother, and as hard as he tried during the day not to think of her, now his mind refused to let her go.

Had she known the poem Duncan had read tonight? It was the sort of thing she would have liked, of that he was sure, with the sound of the words making pictures that went along with the meaning.

Had his mum and Duncan celebrated Christmases together? He'd never thought much about the time they'd spent together before he was born- it made him feel decidedly odd- but now he worried at it. They had loved one another, he supposed. They had been married, had meant to be a family, but something had gone wrong. If his mum and Duncan had stayed together, would she still be alive?

He didn't want to think about that. Then Duncan wouldn't be with Gemma, and Kit genuinely loved Gemma, although even admitting that to himself made him feel disloyal to his mother.

Stroking Geordie's silky muzzle, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture the snow swirling outside, but instead remembered the last time it had snowed in Grantchester. Near their house, a gentle hill sloped down to the towpath beside the river. He and his mum had sledded down on baking pans, shouting and tumbling off together at the bottom. Her face had glowed pink with cold and happiness, and he remembered how her laughter had rung out in the clear air.

But what he recalled most was the moment they had stood at the top of the hill, holding their baking pans, looking down at the white blanket enveloping the familiar folds and hollows. The pristine expanse was undisturbed, except for the tiny, three-toed track of a bird, as sharp and crisp as a hieroglyphic, and the tidy paw prints of a cat, or fox, near the hedgerow.