Deborah Crombie - And Justice There Is None

But while Melody's team had gone through the Arrowoods' house looking for Karl's will with no success, and Karl's solicitor reported having only the version Karl had given him on his marriage to Dawn, dividing his estate between his wife and his children, Gemma couldn't quite silence a nagging worry over the matter. Had it been merely some remark of Karl's that had made Dawn ring up Sean Arrowood, or had she actually seen evidence that Karl meant to cut his sons from his will?

Coming to a sudden decision, she dashed into the station and picked up the Arrowoods' keys. She would not be content until she had searched the house herself.

She began in the obvious places, those she knew Melody's team had already searched: the desk and bookshelves in Karl's study, the shelves and cubbies in his wardrobe. An hour later, tired and disheveled, she sat back on her heels in front of the wardrobe. She should give it up, finish her paperwork at the station, go home early to begin preparing the quiet New Year's Eve supper she and Duncan had planned with the boys.

The house echoed around her in the unique way of empty dwellings, every creak and shift magnified. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the house were speaking to her, then she shook her head at such an absurd fancy. Unbridled imagination, that was all it was. Still… Getting up, she moved to Dawn's closet and pulled open the doors. The clothes rustled with the draft, as if drawing breath, and the scent of Dawn's perfume drifted out, elusive and evocative.

On hands and knees, Gemma squeezed into the narrow space and pulled the storage box from beneath the bottom shelf. This time she took it out into the bedroom and removed each item, one by one. She found the paper, folded neatly into a small square, in the very bottom book, an illustrated copy of Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons . It was a will, all right, signed by Karl Arrowood and duly witnessed. In it, he left his personal property to his wife, Dawn Smith Arrowood, with small provisions for his sons, Sean and Richard Arrowood. Arrowood Antiques and all its assets he gave to his son, Alexander Julian Dunn.

Gemma read the line again. Alex? Alex was Karl's son? Bloody hell!

She drew a breath, trying to piece together the sequence of events leading to Dawn's death. Had Dawn come across the will by accident? Or had she searched for it after Karl's row with Richard, trying to ascertain if he really meant to do what he'd said? Or had the row prompted her phone call to Sean, and that meeting had then led to her search for the will?

In all likelihood, she would never learn the answers to those questions. What she did know, without a doubt, was that Dawn had learned Alex was Karl's son. And then she had found that she was pregnant with Alex's child.

"Dawn knew?" As if his knees had suddenly dissolved, Alex collapsed onto his sofa.

"She didn't tell you?" Gemma asked.

"No! How long did she- had she- I mean-"

"You don't seem surprised to learn that Karl was your father."

"When I saw my aunt Jane, she described the man my mother was seeing when she was pregnant with me. I wasn't absolutely sure, but now… Oh, my God…" He stood and began to pace, running his fingers through his thick hair until it stood up in hedgehog prickles. "Poor Dawn. She must have been terrified, devastated. She'd chosen the worst person imaginable to fall in love with, the one person Karl could never forgive- and then she found she was carrying Karl's grandchild."

"It's possible she was drawn to you because of some resemblance, some similarity. Karl saw something of himself in you, obviously, that he didn't find in his acknowledged sons."

"It was the love of antiques. He told me once that he felt a kinship with me, because I recognized the value of beautiful things. He wanted to teach me; every time I came into the shop, he would have something new to show me." Alex frowned. "But if he knew I was his son, why didn't he come forward years ago?"

"Perhaps he lost track of you as a child, and it was only meeting you that triggered some spark of familiarity. He certainly had the resources to go on from there. Or it might have been his disappointment with Sean and Richard that made him search for you, and lo and behold, you were right on his doorstep."

"But if he knew about me- and he must have, if he took my mum to see Jane while she was pregnant with me- why did he let such terrible things happen to my mum? And me, until Jane took me in."

"I don't suppose there's any way you can know that, now," Gemma said softly. "But perhaps he meant to make amends. He left his business to you. I've just found the will. Dawn had hidden it among her things."

"His business? Arrowood Antiques? You're not serious!"

"Absolutely. The document was dated in mid-October, which I believe is about the time he had a huge row with Richard."

"But if he knew about Dawn and me, he'd have changed it, surely. Maybe he never-"

"I told him. The day of Dawn's funeral." Seeing Alex's appalled expression, she added hastily, "We had no choice. We still considered him a major suspect at that point."

"And he- was he terribly angry?"

Thinking back over their graveside interview with Karl, Gemma felt an acute sense of loss, as well as renewed guilt over her failure to prevent Karl's death. "He seemed more shocked than angry," she told Alex. "I remember noticing that he said, 'Oh no, not Alex- It couldn't be Alex,' rather than, 'Not Dawn,' and I thought at the time it was odd."

"He was kind to me… in spite of whatever else he may have done. I wish…"

"If the will is valid, you'll have the legacy he meant for you-"

"A business built on drugs? An inheritance he must have intended to change when he learned about Dawn and me?" Alex sounded aghast.

"Karl had a week between the time he learned about you and Dawn, and his death. And if he made another will, we didn't find it."

A shudder ran through Alex's lanky body. "Do you really think I could bear to profit by their deaths? And in spite of my dishonesty- and Dawn's? No." He shook his head vehemently. "I don't want any part of it."

She spent the first night in a shabby room in Earl's Court, far from Karl's usual haunts. Her money would scarcely stretch to cover a meal or two and a few more nights in similar accommodations, but by the second day that was the least of her worries.

Her body ached as if she had a bad case of flu; she was chilled and burning by turns, shaking and sick- and it was growing worse by the hour. Nothing would help her but a fix. But even if she'd had enough money to make a buy, her only connections were friends of Karl's, and contacting anyone associated with him was a risk she could not take.

She lay on the bed, shivering, as the shadows of the early winter dusk filled the room. The chills grew harder. Drawing her knees up into a fetal curl, she pulled the pillow over her head, but nothing offered relief.

At last, when it was fully dark, she gathered her few things and left the hotel. Too unsteady to walk, too nauseated to risk tube or bus, she hailed a taxi, regardless of the cost.

By the time she reached Notting Hill, it was all she could do to fumble the coins into the driver's hand and climb out onto the pavement. The street looked just as she remembered it- crumbling stucco, peeling paint, uncollected rubbish piled on the stoops- but her heart clenched in a faint spasm of hope. This place held no connection with Karl, no memories of him. And as he'd never known this part of her life, he would have no reason to look for her here.

She climbed the stairs, clinging to the railing and breathing a silent prayer that they would still be here. Where else could she turn?