Where Memories Lie (13 page)

“Abraham Krumholtz.” The man half stood and shook Gavin’s hand. “Yes, I knew David. At least as well as anyone could say they knew David, I suspect.” Krumholtz kept his voice just above a whisper, so as not to disturb the other readers.

Gavin pulled up the empty chair and sat near enough that the pool of light from Krumholtz’s lamp spilled onto his knees.

Krumholtz, however, seemed not to mind the invasion of his space, and went on quietly. “A constable came round yesterday, asking about his things. That was the first we knew. I still can’t quite believe he’s gone. I’ve worked beside him, on and off, since the end of the war. I’m a Yiddish scholar,” he added, seeing Gavin’s curious look at his papers. “That’s what comes of being a second-generation immigrant—I’m fascinated by things my parents and grandparents took for granted.”

“And David,” asked Gavin, “what was David working on?”

“A memoir of his last years in Germany, and I think perhaps his escape from Germany as well. He never actually said, you understand. This I deduced over the years from bits of conversation.”

“He never showed you the manuscript?”

“Oh, no. David was very…possessive…about his work.”

“Do you think that David might have been naming names in his book? Some of his colleagues at work believed he had connections with some sort of vengeance organization.”

It was difficult to be certain in the green-tinged light, but Gavin thought Krumholtz paled. “Look, I’m not political,” he said, sound
ing wary. “I stay well out of these things. But David did hint, more than once, that there were many Germans who were guilty but were never implicated as collaborators. But he couldn’t have intended to publish such things…”

“Why not? Surely if that were the case, the truth should be told.”

Krumholtz leaned forward until their heads almost touched, and Gavin smelled peppermint on his breath. “Our government would never allow it, for one. No one wants to disturb the status quo with Germany.” For the first time his voice held a bitter note. “Nor do they want anything to call into question the Home Office’s record of rescuing Jews. Things are touchy enough these days with Palestine.”

Gavin considered this and didn’t like the implications. “Last Saturday, did David say or do anything unusual?”

Krumholtz started to shake his head, then stopped, putting a finger to the tip of his nose. “Now that you mention it, there was one thing. David had a newspaper with him, as he usually did. But as we were both tidying up, at closing time, I heard a ripping sound. When I looked over, I saw that David had torn out part of a page. When he saw me, he folded the fragment and put it into his satchel, along with the rest of the paper.”

“And you didn’t ask him what it was?”

“Of course not.” Krumholtz smiled. “You didn’t know David. One didn’t ask questions. And besides, there was something a bit furtive about it. I said good night and left.”

“And you didn’t notice which paper he had that day?”

“No. Sorry.” Krumholtz glanced back at his desk, as if his attention had been drawn too long from his work. “And there was no real pattern to what he bought—David read them all, highbrow and low.”

“Thank you.” Gavin stood. “If you think of anything else…” He handed a card with the station phone number to Krumholtz, who set it among his papers with a casual disregard that didn’t augur well for further communication.

But as Gavin turned to go, Krumholtz stopped him, his brow
creased in an expression of concern. “Look,” he said, dropping his voice all the way to a whisper. “These people you mentioned. I’d leave it alone. Rumor has it that the government looks the other way. You could get into real trouble.”

The address Melody had given them was in Cheyne Walk, and made Kincaid give a low whistle. “At least it’s convenient,” he said, “although I’d say little Kristin was out of her element.”

“Not far as the crow flies, though,” mused Gemma. “I wonder how she met Dominic Scott.” As they curved round into Cheyne Walk, Gemma gazed out at the houseboats moored beyond Cremorne Gardens. The boats made her think of the garage flat, tiny as one of these floating homes, that she had once occupied behind her friend Hazel Cavendish’s house. She felt saddened by how quickly parts of life that had seemed terribly important faded from memory, pushed out like falling dominoes by new experience. “There’s not room for it all,” she said aloud, and Kincaid gave her a quizzical look but went back to address hunting.

They had almost reached the Chelsea Embankment when he said, “There,” and pulled the car up on the double yellows. He popped a
POLICE
notice in the windscreen and they got out, surveying Dominic Scott’s house. It was redbricked and gabled, almost Dutch in feel, four stories with basement, and with its own small front garden surrounded by a delicate wrought-iron railing.

“I take it,” Kincaid said with great understatement, “that he lives with his mum.”

Gemma realized that Melody hadn’t said anything about Dominic Scott’s father. “Nice,” she agreed, sudden nerves making her sarcastic. “Upstairs, downstairs. Maybe we should consider the servants’ entrance.”

He grinned back at her as he opened the gate smartly and strode to the topiary-flanked door. “Not on your bloody life.”

But the woman who answered on the first ring of the bell was no starched, uniformed maid. Small enough to make Gemma feel awkward, slender, and blond, she wore jeans Gemma recognized as expensive designer label and a silky pale blue sweater. If the color of her chin-length hair owed more to art than nature, it was expensively done, and her skin was flawless. A slightly prominent nose saved her from banal prettiness, but still, the overall effect was stunning, and Gemma suspected Kincaid must be gaping.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, gazing at them with a slightly bemused smile.

“Mrs. Miller-Scott?” asked Gemma, wishing she dared dig Kincaid in the ribs. “I’m Inspector James, and this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard.”

“Please, I prefer Ms., irritating as it is. I haven’t been anyone’s Mrs. for a good many years. And knowing who you are doesn’t tell me what you want.” She was still polite, but there was a slight edge to her voice.

“It’s actually your son we’d like a word with, Ms. Miller-Scott.” Kincaid had apparently recovered his powers of speech. “Dominic. He does live at this address?”

This time a definite flash of emotion disturbed the woman’s composed face, but Gemma couldn’t be sure if it had been worry or annoyance. “Yes, Dom has an apartment here. But he’s not in right now, although I expect he’ll be back soon. Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“We’d just like to have a chat with him,” Kincaid said easily. “Could we come in and wait?”

Ellen Miller-Scott shrugged, and this time the annoyance was unmistakable. “Please yourself.” As she led them into the house, it was Gemma’s turn to gape.

The exterior of the house had led her to expect the traditional, a chocolate box of color and gilt. But while the floors of the entry hall and sitting room were a dark glossy wood, the walls were a crisp white, a backdrop for the paintings that filled much of the space, gal
lery style. Gemma thought she recognized a Hockney, and a Lowry, but there were too many to take in, and all were stunning.

Splashes of colorful contemporary rugs anchored sleek leather furniture, tables held flower arrangements that must have cost a month of Gemma’s wages—probably done by the florist responsible for Kristin’s roses, which now seemed paltry in comparison—and in what seemed a perfect, if rather eccentric, counterpoint, a huge crystal chandelier hung from the Adam rose in the center of the ceiling.

“It was my father’s.” Miller-Scott had followed Gemma’s gaze. She sounded amused. “A bit incongruous, I admit, but I like it. Do sit.”

Gemma managed a strangled “Lovely,” and sank as gracefully as she could manage onto the sofa near the marble fireplace. On the backs of her bare calves the leather felt as sensuous as skin.

Not looking the least bit gobsmacked, Kincaid sat down beside her, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and smiled at their hostess. “You have quite a collection, Ms. Miller-Scott.”

She perched on the arm of the opposite sofa, a position that indicated limited tolerance of their presence, and did not offer them refreshment. “My father had a knack for knowing what would become valuable—a trait that is apparently not inheritable, if my son is any indication. Now, what is Dominic supposed to have done? I don’t suppose you send out superintendents for parking tickets.”

In spite of the bored voice, there was something in the line of the woman’s body, in the angle of her head, in the way her manicured fingers grasped her crossed knee a little too tightly, that made Gemma think she was more worried about her son than she admitted.

“We don’t
know
that your son has done anything,” Kincaid answered, with careful emphasis. “It’s merely a matter of help—”

The front door slammed. Gemma saw the ripple of shock in Ellen Miller-Scott’s body, the instinct to rise quickly controlled. Instead, she called out, “Dom! In here.”

Dominic Scott’s voice preceded him into the room. “Mum, I’m re
ally not in the mood for a family discussion at the mo—” He stopped on the threshold, frozen, as he took in the tableau.

Unlike his mother, he was dark, and he was older than Gemma had imagined, nearer thirty than twenty. His hair was slightly too long, and brushed carelessly away from his face. He wore a suit that had
not
come from Marks and Sparks, with a white dress shirt open at the neck. And in spite of the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes, he had grace, and that indefinable combination of features that makes for striking physical beauty, male or female.

Gemma felt an instant’s stab of pity for Kristin Cahill, who must have been as vulnerable as a moth flying too near a candle, and for poor Giles Oliver, who had had as much chance as a pug set against a greyhound.

Then Kincaid stood and, before Dominic’s mother could get in an explanation, said, “Hullo, Dominic. My name’s Duncan Kincaid, and this is Gemma James. We’re from the Metropolitan Police, and we’d like to talk to you about Kristin Cahill.”

“What?” Dom Scott looked from one to the other, and Gemma wondered if she had imagined the flicker of relief. What had he been expecting? “Look, I know she’s a bit pissed off with me at the moment, but this is beyond funny.” He came a few steps into the room, but stayed an uncommitted halfway between the sitting area and the door.

Oh, Christ, thought Gemma. If it was an act, he was very cool. But if not…“Dominic,” she said quietly, “tell us when you saw Kristin last.”

“Monday. Monday night. Look, what’s this about? She’s not returning my calls.”

Kristin’s phone had been found in her jeans pocket, crushed beyond recovery.

Kincaid took up Gemma’s lead. “Tell us what happened on Monday night, Dominic. Where did you see Kristin?”

Ellen Miller-Scott glanced from Kincaid to Gemma, and the
knuckles of the hand on her knee whitened. Dom took another hesitant half step forward, then ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. “At the Gate. It was only a row. I can’t believe she’s complained about it. She was still on at me about Saturday night.”

“What happened on Saturday?” Kincaid asked, as relaxed as if they were discussing what they’d had for tea.

Dom shifted and rubbed at his nose. “I—I stood her up. I was supposed to meet her at this club, and I—I never got there.”

“And that’s why you sent her the roses at work on Monday?” said Gemma.

“What? How do you—The roses were to say, ‘Sorry.’” He glanced at his mother, as if gauging her reaction, then went on. “And she—Kristin—agreed to come out that night, but she was still being a bit of a cow about the whole business, if you want the truth. If she’s gone and done something stupid—”

He stopped, perhaps reading something in their faces. “What aren’t you telling me?” he said, his voice rising.

“And that’s the last you saw of her? At the Gate?”

“I’ve just said—”

“You didn’t see her home?”

“See her home? No. She left me sitting in the Gate like a stupid git, and I thought if she was going to be bloody minded, she could—” He stopped, and Gemma saw his chest rise with a sharp, frightened intake of breath as he seemed to realize something was very, very wrong.

Gemma rose, and out of the corner of her eye saw Kincaid give her a slight nod. She said, “Dominic, someone ran Kristin down on Monday night, in the King’s Road. She’s dead.”

Dominic Scott stared at them, his dark eyes dilating to black. He lifted a hand, as if reaching for an invisible support, then crumpled to the floor as if someone had removed the bones from his body.

December 1940
Monday, 9th

“First time I’ve ever had a bloke faint on me,” Gemma said, her mobile connection sounding a bit scratchy in Melody’s ear.

“Was he faking it, do you think?” Melody asked. She was still in Gemma’s office, where she had been combing Internet and newspaper files for more information on Dominic Scott.

“No, I don’t think so. He was really out for a couple of minutes,
eyes rolled up in his head. Then he was disoriented when he came round. But I still wouldn’t rule him out as a suspect. It might have been pure fright at the idea that we thought he was connected, or who knows, maybe he smacked her with the car and then convinced himself she wasn’t hurt. I’ve seen stranger things.”

Melody flipped through her notes. “That’s a bit complicated, boss, as he’s another one that doesn’t drive, and has no car. He had his license revoked for drink driving, and the records show the Mercedes registered in his name was sold. Did you get anything else out of him when he came round?”

“No.” Gemma sighed. “He seemed genuinely devastated. And his mum went into protective mode, so we said we’d take a statement when he was feeling a bit better.”

“When he’s had time to get his story straight, more likely. But if he’d said anything useful in those circumstances,” Melody added, “she’d have the lawyers on you like flies.

“Ellen Miller-Scott has a history of undertaking litigation with anyone who crosses her, including her ex-husband, Dominic’s father, Stephen. Apparently the marriage only lasted a couple of years. By the time she’d finished with Steve Scott, he was willing to give up all custody of Dominic and disappear without a penny. The last trace I could find of him, he was living in Canada, running an art gallery in some little village in Quebec.”

“She must have been very persua—” Gemma cut out for a moment. When Melody could hear her again, she was saying, “…before we interview Dom Scott again, we need to check out his story. He says Kristin left him at the Gate, and that he stayed until closing.

“Melody, Duncan’s asked Cullen to go along. Would you mind meeting him there? You’ve got Dom’s photo, and besides, I’d like your take on the interview.” She added, with some hesitation, “I wouldn’t ask, but I’ve got to get to hospital…and Duncan’s got to get home to the kids…”

“Of course,” said Melody quickly, but she was torn between being flattered that Gemma wanted her opinion and annoyed at having to share the task with Doug Cullen. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was after seven. “I suppose I should go along now?”

“Cullen’s on his way from the Yard.”

Maybe she would beat him there, thought Melody, if she got her skates on. But before Gemma could disconnect, Melody said, “Listen, boss, about your mum…I—” Then she found that anything she had meant to say seemed trivial and useless, and she stuttered to a halt.

But there was a smile in Gemma’s voice as she answered, “Yeah. Thanks.”

By the time Gemma reached St. Barts, visiting hours were over and she had to bully the charge nurse into letting her into the ward, pleading she’d been delayed by urgent police business—which she supposed was true enough. The plus side to her tardiness was that her sister and father had gone, and her mum was awake, alert, and glad of the company.

“Hullo, love,” said Vi as Gemma kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

“I should be asking you that.” Feeling contrite, Gemma pulled a chair close to the bed. “I’m sorry, Mum. But there’s this case…”

Vi smiled affectionately. “There always is.”

“Never mind. Tell me about your day. I haven’t talked to Cyn since this morning. Did you have more tests?”

“Oh, it’s all a load of nonsense.” Vi sounded exasperated, more like her usual self. “But the doctor’s very bossy, and he says I have to start these treatments tomorrow.”

So quickly? Gemma felt a lurch of fear. “Chemotherapy?” she asked, trying to keep her tone matter-of-fact.

“They say it’s not so bad now,” Vi said with determined cheerful
ness. “And I’d much rather hear about your day than talk about mine. Tell me about your case.”

So Gemma did, settling more comfortably in her chair and starting from the beginning, with Erika’s request that Gemma look into the reappearance of her missing brooch, and ending with their interview that evening with Dominic Scott.

By the time she finished, her mum’s eyes had drifted closed, and she was silent for so long that Gemma thought she had fallen asleep. She was reaching for her handbag when her mother said softly, “It must have been hard for your friend Erika, during the war. You can’t imagine what it was like, during the bombing. You never knew if you were going to get through the night. But we were family, all the neighbors, and everyone looked out after everyone else. If you had no one…”

Gemma sat back in surprise. Her mum never talked about the war.

“Of course, it was easier for children,” Vi went on, her eyes still closed. “Children adapt. We forgot, after a bit, that we had ever known anything different.” She opened her eyes and smiled at Gemma. “Little savages, weren’t we? Got up in the mornings and ran to see what had been hit the night before. And we got used to people disappearing from our lives.

“Children are such odd creatures, like sweets, hard on the outside and soft on the inside. It was only later that the memories would creep up on us.”

“I never knew.” Gemma took her mother’s hand, stroking her thumb over the soft skin between her mum’s thumb and finger. The tissue felt thin, fragile.

“Oh, I never meant you to. Don’t know why I’m going on about it now. Except…I was thinking about Kit today.” Vi met Gemma’s gaze. “He’ll be worried about me.”

“Yes,” Gemma admitted. “He is.”

Her mother gripped her hand. “It’s hard for you, isn’t it—to tell Kit that you love him.”

“I—” Gemma stared at her mum, blindsided. “I—I don’t want—I never want him to feel I’m trying—”

“Kit won’t think you’re trying to take his mother’s place,” Vi said with unexpected fierceness. “You’ve gone past that now. He loves you, and he needs to know that
you
are not going away.”

It wasn’t until Melody stood on the pavement outside the nightclub at Notting Hill Gate that she thought about her clothes. The street was in shadow as the setting sun dipped behind the buildings to the west. The amplifiers in the club pumped music up the stairs, pushing it out into the street in throbbing waves of sound, and the handful of girls that slipped into the doorway as Melody watched looked like butterflies in their jeans and gaudy tops.

Melody glanced down at her suit, charcoal that day, with the skirt showing an entire daring inch of thigh. Her legs were bare, at least—it had been too warm for tights—and were worth showing off a bit, but she was going to look as out of place as a polar bear at the equator. This was an occasion when her protective coloring would put her at a disadvantage, and she found that bothered her more than she expected.

“Oh, bugger,” she muttered, and slipped off her jacket. She pulled out her shirttail and unbuttoned the second button on her white shirt, then the third, then ran a hand through her dark hair, mussing her usual tidy style.

Grimacing at her own foolishness, she added, aloud, “Fat lot of good that will do.”

“Have you started talking to yourself?” said a voice behind her.

She jumped, swearing, and turned to find Doug Cullen watching her with a grin. “I was just—never mind,” she said. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people.”

“And you shouldn’t do a strip in public if you don’t want people watching.”

Melody flushed, furious with him and with herself. “It’s warm, and warmer down there.”

“You were going to steal a march on me, weren’t you?” said Cullen, giving her a considering eye.

“And you weren’t?” she challenged.

“I couldn’t,” he answered mildly. “You have Dominic Scott’s photo.”

Somehow this made her more aggravated, not less. Gritting her teeth, she said, “Yes. So let’s get it over with,” and charged towards the stairs.

But she found immediately that it was a steep, straight flight, and not made for plunging down in heels. Forced to slow down and step carefully, she felt Doug Cullen’s eyes on her back and it made her as awkward as the schoolgirl she had once been.

But as she reached the floor of the club, the pulse of the music and the liquid blue light subsumed all other perception. Even though it was still early, the floor was crowded. Melody found she had to twist and sidle to make her way through the crush of bodies.

Managing to squeeze into a space at the bar before Cullen, Melody smiled at the barmaid, a pretty girl with Scandinavian-fair hair woven into a thick plait. Melody watched her making a cocktail, graceful as a dancer as she mixed, shook, and poured.

When she’d served the pink concoction to the waiting customer, she turned to Melody. “What can I get you?” Her accent was as English as Melody’s own.

“We just want a word, if you don’t mind.” Melody held up her warrant card and the two photos she had pulled from her bag. “I’m DC Talbot.” She nodded at Cullen, who had maneuvered into a space beside her. “Sergeant Cullen.”

The girl looked slightly wary, but after checking that no one was waiting to be served at her end of the bar, said, “Okay. Shoot. I’m Eva, by the way.”

“Were you working Monday night?”

Eva frowned, thinking, then nodded. “Yeah. I was on. Not my usual, but I was filling in for Jake.”

Melody handed over the photos. “Did you see either of these people that night?” She wondered how the girl could remember anyone in the constant onslaught of faces at the bar, but to her surprise Eva nodded again and tapped the photos.

“Yeah. I’ve seen them before. But that night they didn’t seem to be getting on. He was waiting for her, and she was stroppy from the minute she came in. Said she didn’t want a drink, then when he ordered for her anyway, she practically downed it in one go.”

“Then what happened?” asked Doug, interrupting the flow of the girl’s narrative and irritating Melody. But Eva gave him an assessing look and smiled.

“I got busy. Next thing I saw, she was leaving, and he looked royally pissed off.”

“Did he follow her?” Melody kept her tone as casual as was possible at a half shout.

Eva shook her head. “No. Had another drink. But he was broody, and didn’t talk to me when I served him. Didn’t tip me, either. Pretty boy,” she added, with another smile at Cullen. “But I’ve seen him with some dodgy blokes.”

“Anyone you know?”

“No. Just didn’t look the sort you’d want to meet in a dark alley, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you see what time he left?” asked Cullen, raising his voice against a new influx of customers.

“No. We get really busy just after the pubs close, and I don’t remember seeing him after that.” She glanced at the raucous crowd shoving up to the bar. “Look, sorry—” She handed the photos back.

“Thanks,” said Melody. “You’ve been great. One more thing—where did they sit?”

“Front corner.” Eva gestured towards the banquette tucked up
against the street side, and glancing at the photos of the couple she had never met, Melody had a moment’s vision of Dominic Scott and Kristin Cahill hunched over the table, arguing, their faces tense. Had it been about more than Dominic standing Kristin up on Saturday night?

Bringing her back to the present, Eva gave her a smile even more brilliant than the one she’d given Cullen, then said, “Why are you asking, by the way?”

Melody found she didn’t want to be the one to bring a shadow on this bright girl. “Oh, just routine. Ta. Have a good night.”

Melody raised a hand in salute, ignoring Cullen’s frown, and led the way back through the crowd and up the stairs to the street.

It was a lovely evening. The setting sun had turned the buttermilk clouds in the sky behind the Coronet Theatre to a brilliant gold, and it looked as though cherubs might bounce down from them at any moment, blowing trumpets.

As they stood side by side on the pavement, for a wild instant Melody considered asking him if he wanted to get a meal and a glass of wine at the Pizza Express up the road.

But before she could speak, Cullen said, “It’s iffy, then.” He stared out at the traffic rushing past as the light changed at Pembridge Road. “The witness report puts Kristin’s accident at not long after pub closing. Could Dominic have followed her, knowing her pattern, then run her down?”

“If that were the case, where did he get the car?” argued Melody, her goodwill dissipating. “I don’t imagine Dominic Scott grew up learning how to hot-wire joy rides on the street. And if his mum took his Mercedes away when he lost his license, I don’t imagine she gave him free access to her car for a night on the town.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. Somehow this doesn’t feel like a lover’s quarrel.”

“And you’re the expert?”

Melody turned to look at him. Even though she sensed he didn’t like her, she was surprised by the meanness of the dig.

Retaliating, she said, “She fancied you, the girl at the bar, don’t you think?”

Cullen flushed. “You’re taking the piss.”

“And what if I am?” She gave him a mocking smile and slung her jacket over her shoulder as she turned away. “Don’t you have a warrant to run down?”

Cullen watched Melody Talbot walk away. What was it about the woman that got up his nose so?

For one thing, she seemed to assume that she had the right to lead an interview, even though he was the ranking officer and it was officially his and Kincaid’s case.

She had an assurance he envied, and then there was this sense he had that she could see through him, knew all his little insecurities as well as she did her case notes—and that made him want to lash out at her. It was stupid, he knew, and if he kept it up, it would get back to Kincaid and might jeopardize his job. If he had a political bone in his body, he was going to have to be civil to her.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t come up with other ways to show her up.

He began to walk aimlessly towards Holland Park, even though he knew he should get the District and Circle train from Notting Hill Gate back to Victoria and the Yard.

He thought back to their interview at Harrowby’s that morning, and to the slightly shifty Amir Khan and the matter of the brooch. What if Kristin Cahill’s death had nothing to do with her row with her boyfriend, and everything to do with the Goldshtein brooch? Kincaid had told him that Kristin’s associate, Giles Oliver, had said that Khan had raked Kristin over the coals the day Gemma had inquired about the brooch, and that Khan had seemed to have it in for Kristin in general.