And Justice There Is None (8 page)

N
ATALIE
C
HAINE LIVED IN A GARDEN FLAT IN
O
NSLOW
G
ARDENS
. I
T WAS
a chic address and the flat’s entrance reflected it: shining paint and polished brass, flanked by perfect topiaries set in large Italian pots. The sound of a television came faintly from within. Gemma lifted the knocker and rapped lightly.

A woman opened the door so quickly that Gemma decided she must have been expecting someone else. Tall, slightly heavyset, with pale olive skin and a mass of frizzy dark hair pulled back with an oversized clip, she looked as if she had been crying. “Oh,” she said, her brow creasing as she studied Gemma. “I thought you were someone come about the telly. But you’re not, are you?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Gemma slipped her identification from her jacket pocket. “My name’s Gemma James. Are you Natalie Caine?” When the woman nodded, Gemma continued, “I wondered if I might have a word with you about your friend Dawn Arrowood.”

Natalie’s face crumpled in a sob. She gestured Gemma into the flat, shaking her head in apology. “Sorry. I’ve been blubbing like a baby all morning. I just can’t believe it’s true.”

Gemma sat opposite her in the sitting room. The velvet-cushioned Victorian love seat and chairs seemed incongruous with the sisal carpet and rattan blinds, but the effect was pleasing, if a little untidy—not unlike its owner. In one corner, a television gave
out sound but no picture. “That’s why I was trying to get the telly fixed,” Natalie explained. “I thought I might see something on the news.”

“Did someone ring you about Dawn?” Gemma asked.

“My mum, this morning. She heard from Dawn’s mum. Poor Joanie … And Dawn was an only. Not like me.” Natalie attempted a wavering smile. “When we were kiddies, Dawn always wanted to be at our house because she liked the hubbub, and I always wanted to be at hers because it was
quiet.”

“You’ve known each other a long time, then.”

“Since grammar school. As much as Dawn wanted to get shut of anything to do with Croyden, she kept in touch with me. Even though we weren’t exactly in her social league. I mean, Chris and I have done all right, but Dawn’s husband wouldn’t have given us the time of day.”

“Did they get on all right, Dawn and her husband?”

Natalie looked uncomfortable. “Well, I don’t want to be one to tell tales.”

A sure sign that she only needed a bit of gentle encouragement, thought Gemma. “He’s much older, isn’t he? That must have caused some problems.”

Natalie snorted.
“Trophy wife
might have been invented for Dawn. But she couldn’t see it at first. It was so romantic. All this
‘I vill take you away from thees sordid life’
stuff.”

Gemma suppressed a smile. “Did you tell her what you thought?”

“Even with your best friend, you can only go so far.… But now I wish … I don’t know. Maybe I could have done something, changed things somehow.”

“Why? Do you think her husband might have had something to do with her death?”

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean that. It’s just that, if she hadn’t been married to Karl, Dawn wouldn’t have been where she was, would she? And it wouldn’t have happened.”

“The-wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time theory,” Gemma muttered, as much to herself as to Natalie. “So you can’t think of any personal reason why someone would have wanted to harm Dawn?”

“Oh, no. She was … lovely. Luminous. You’d have to have known her.” Natalie looked as if she might break down again.

Gently, Gemma probed, “Did you know your friend was pregnant?”

Natalie hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose there’s no need to keep secrets now, is there? She wasn’t sure until yesterday. She had an appointment with her doctor before we met for tea.”

“How did she feel about that? About being pregnant?”

Again, Gemma sensed hesitation, then Natalie said slowly, “She was pleased about the baby, I think …”

“But?”

“She didn’t know how Karl would react. He’d told her from the beginning he didn’t want children.”

“That seems a bit unfair. Surely he’d have accepted the situation. And he’d not have had much choice, unless she was willing to have an abortion?”

“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that.” Natalie’s olive skin colored. “He’d had a vasectomy—at least that’s what he told Dawn.”

The missing ingredient
, thought Gemma.
A lover
. Now they were getting somewhere. “So Dawn was seeing someone else. Was this a casual affair, or something more serious?”

“She wouldn’t have just, you know, gone off with anyone.” Natalie spoke defensively. “I think she loved him. But she said there was no hope for them, because Karl would never let her go.”

“How could he have stopped her?”

“That’s what I said. Why couldn’t she just walk out, file for divorce? But she said it was more complicated than that. And then I told her not to be so bloody materialistic, that she could do without Karl’s money. She was pretty—more than pretty—she was smart, capable. She could make it on her own. I even told her I’d help her get her job back; we both worked for the BBC before she married Karl, and I’m still there. I could just kick myself now for being so hard on her! I didn’t know I’d never get to see her again.”

“Was she angry?”

“No. That would have been easier. But she just shook her head and kept saying that I didn’t understand, that there were things I
didn’t know. She looked almost … frightened. You don’t think … when you asked did I think Karl had something to do with her death …”

“We haven’t ruled out the possibility of anyone’s involvement, but it’s early days yet. What can you tell me about Dawn’s boyfriend?”

“Not much. I know his name’s Alex, and that he sells porcelain in Portobello Market. I’ve never met him.”

“It’s a small world, the market. He shouldn’t be too difficult to trace. Did he know about Dawn’s pregnancy?”

“I doubt Dawn had said anything to him. She didn’t know what she was going to do.”

Glancing at her watch, Gemma saw that it was just after noon. The Portobello Market would still be in full swing, giving her a good opportunity to track down Alex the porcelain dealer.

As she thanked Natalie for her help and took her leave, Natalie stopped her with a touch, her eyes filling again with tears. “Could you let me know when you find out who did this? I don’t want to hear it on the news.”

“It’s a promise,” Gemma answered, and vowed to keep it.

B
RYONY STOOD BESIDE
M
ARC AT THE SERVING TABLE, LADLING HOT
vegetable soup into bowls. He added wheat rolls and apples to the trays before passing them on to the hungry and indigent waiting patiently in the queue. Clients, he preferred to call them, as he was providing them a service, and feeling the term identified them in a more positive way than saying “the homeless” or “the needy.”

How like Marc, she thought, to show such sensitivity to the delicate nuances of self-respect. Here, he was in his element, always ready with an interested expression, or a kind word. And they responded, these “clients.” For many he provided the first step towards rejoining mainstream life, but he had no less patience for those who would never leave the streets and the meager existence they provided.

Through the glass-fronted doors, Bryony could see those shoppers
who’d been resolute enough to make it to the bottom end of the Portobello Road, and now milled round the graffiti-decorated pedestrian mall that had been built adjacent to the Motorway flyover. Marc’s soup kitchen was only a few doors from the old Portobello School, with its two entrances marked separately for girls and boys.

“You’re quiet today,” he commented, when the last person had moved through the queue, a withered woman who favored him with a beatific toothless smile. “I’m sure we always have a bigger crowd on Saturdays when you come.”

“Sorry. It’s this business about Dawn Arrowood and Alex.”

“I know,” he replied somberly. “I haven’t quite taken it in myself. But you know what really worries me? Fern. Now poor old Fern thinks she’s going to save the day with Alex, and I doubt very much that’s going to happen. And I’m not sure how convincingly sympathetic she can be, considering the fact that she despised Dawn Arrowood.”

“I can’t say I blame her, under the circumstances. And she never had a chance to get to know Dawn—not that
I
knew her well, but she seemed a really nice person.”

“I doubt that would have mattered to Fern. I only hope Alex won’t slap her down too hard.”

“Fern’s a grown woman—there’s no law that says she can’t make a fool of herself.” Bryony heard her words hit a bit too close to home and flushed. The memory of Gavin’s dig yesterday about her efforts to impress Marc still stung. “I just can’t believe that Dawn is dead. She was right there in the clinic yesterday morning, worrying over her cat, with Gavin putting on his usual dog-and-pony show for her—you know how he is with pretty women—”

“An ordinary day, then.”

“Except that Dawn always tolerated Gavin; she managed to ignore his advances graciously, if you know what I mean. But yesterday she seemed a little edgy, and when she came out of the examining room she looked like thunder. Didn’t even hear me when I said good-bye.”

“Maybe Gavin finally went too far.”

Bryony shrugged. “I’ve always assumed Gavin’s all bark and no bite.”

“Could she have been upset about the cat?”

“It was just the usual abscessed bite. Tommy gets in fights, the little bugger.” Bryony filled a second bowl of soup for a frail young man whose retriever looked in better shape than he did.

“Marc,” she said slowly, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, then with everything that’s happened this morning it flew right out of my mind.” She glanced at him, trying to gauge his responsiveness, then forced herself to go on. “Could I set up a weekly clinic for your clients’ animals?”

“Here?”

She nodded. “I thought maybe on Sunday afternoons.”

“But, Bryony, you know they couldn’t pay.”

“Of course not. But I could fund it myself in the beginning—it’s my time that’s the most expensive factor—then, if it takes off, I thought I could solicit donations in the neighborhood.”

“But Bryony, it’s too much—”

“I could only do vaccinations and minor injuries and illnesses, I know that, but surely that’s better than no care at all.”

“No, I mean it’s too much for you. I don’t think you realize how much of your time and energy this could take—”

“How can
you
say that to
me?
You live and breathe for this place; you sleep on a mattress upstairs; you barely have enough money to buy the occasional coffee—” Bryony felt the color stain her cheeks as she realized she’d gone too far. “Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry. I’d no right to say those things—”

“No, you’re absolutely right. I sounded a self-righteous prig, telling you you weren’t up to the task, and I owe you an apology.” One of his rare smiles lit his face. “I think it’s a splendid idea, and that you’re equally splendid for thinking of it. When shall we start?”

G
EMMA LEFT THE CAR IN THE POLICE STATION CAR PARK, KNOWING
that the likelihood of parking anywhere near Portobello Road on a Saturday would be nil. As she walked along Ladbroke Road towards the market, she found that although the rain had stopped it was
bitterly cold, and the bare branches of the trees were pearled with droplets.

By the time she reached the top end of Portobello Road, she was shivering, and she looked in envy at the one-way tide of shoppers, their brisk steps and bright eyes revealing an insatiable appetite for a bargain. But here the narrow, curving street held only flats and a few posh shops; they had a ways to go before reaching the stalls and arcades packed with imagined treasures.

She came to a complete halt in front of the entrance to the Manna Café, run by St. Peter’s Church. Why not have some lunch and a hot drink to warm her up? Edging her way through the milling pedestrians, she crossed the pretty little courtyard and pulled open the café door, relaxing instantly as the warmth and cooking aromas enveloped her.

A half hour later, having devoured a hot bacon sandwich, she nursed a cup of tea and thought about what she had learned. Karl Arrowood was certainly shaping up odds-on favorite for prime suspect, and that was without taking into account the statistical likelihood that he had murdered his wife. If he’d had a vasectomy, and he’d suspected or discovered that his wife was pregnant, that certainly gave him motive. Opportunity was a given; he could even have been waiting for Dawn when she arrived home. What Gemma needed was corroboration, and if Arrowood had threatened his wife, Dawn might have told her lover.

When her waitress, a woman with pale Fräulein-like plaits wrapped round her head, brought her bill, Gemma said, “Do you by any chance know a porcelain dealer called Alex? Youngish, I think, and nice-looking?”

“That’d be Alex Dunn,” the girl said in an accent nearer East London than East Germany. “I know he lives up the road, in one of the mews, but I’ve no idea which flat.”

“Do you know where he trades in the market, then?”

“Um, I think his stall’s in the arcade just down the road on the left, before you get to Elgin Crescent. Just ask anyone in the arcade. They’ll point him out for you.”

Gemma thanked her and left, feeling fortified to continue her
search. As she walked on, the crowd grew ever thicker, and music drifted towards her. Reaching the intersection of Portobello and Chepstow Villas, the official beginning of Portobello Market, she paused to listen to the string quartet that was busking on the corner. A past acquaintance having made her kindly disposed towards buskers, she fished a pound coin from her bag and tossed it in the open violin case.

Continuing onwards, the strains of Mozart faded into the rhythm of a steel drum. A mime in painted face and costume enthralled watchers. In spite of herself Gemma found the cheerful, carnival atmosphere infectious. She would have to bring the children here, she resolved, one Saturday soon.

With reluctance, she left the bustle and color of the street for the more crowded and smoky confines of the arcade. At least, she thought, it was warm. Stopping at the first stall, which held a miscellany of small objects from pocket watches to penknives, she spoke to the vendor, a shriveled, heavily made-up woman with hennaed hair. “Do you know where I might find Alex Dunn?”