Where Memories Lie (17 page)

But Cullen was good at detail—as Kincaid had reminded him—and ferreting out facts was an important part of a sergeant’s job.

And the rebellion augured well for future promotion, but in the meantime Cullen had a ways to go in developing patience, and in Kincaid’s opinion, empathy. He was quick to judge, and lacked Gemma’s intuitive desire to understand what made people tick.

But then Kincaid knew that he would probably always, and perhaps unfairly, use Gemma as a benchmark for a partner’s performance, and he realized how readily he had jumped on an excuse to pull Gemma in on this case. Perhaps he couldn’t blame Cullen for being touchy.

As if he had conjured her, he glanced down Dean Street and saw Gemma walking towards him. The sun glinted off her copper hair, and even in a skirt, she moved with the long, swingy stride that al
ways made his heart lift. She saw him and smiled, and he suddenly felt distinctly unprofessional.

When she reached him, he leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, then pulled away, studying her. “You’ve got a mucky streak across your forehead,” he said, rubbing at it with his thumb. “What have you been doing, excavating a tomb?”

“Nearer than you’d think,” said Gemma. Pushing his hand away, she fished in her bag for a tissue and wiped at the smudge. “Did I get it?”

“All better. Now, what were you doing at Lucan Place?”

“Digging through file crates in the basement. I’ll tell you later. What are we doing
here
? I could do with some lunch.” She gestured at the pub.

“You should be so lucky.” He told her what they had learned from the Harrowby’s warrant, and that they had then discovered that the seller of the brooch had been killed the night before. “His neighbor, the poor bloke who found the body, identified Dom Scott from Cullen’s photo. Said he visited the victim yesterday, and that they had a row. When we asked Dom, he said he wanted Pevensey to take the brooch out of the sale, as it was causing Kristin trouble, and Pevensey refused.”

“So Dominic Scott knew the guy who put the brooch up for sale, this Pevensey, as well as Kristin?” Gemma frowned. “But what has that to do with this place? If we’re not having lunch,” she added, and he grinned.

“You’re fixated on food. Dom Scott says that this is where he met Pevensey, that they were only casual bar acquaintances, and that when Pevensey told him he had jewelry to sell, he put him on to Kristin as a favor to them both. He seemed quite shocked to hear that Pevensey was dead.”

“He was quite shocked to hear that Kristin was dead, too,” said Gemma. “Either he’s a very good actor or he’s having very bad luck.”

“All a bit much of a coincidence for my liking,” Kincaid agreed. “I thought we should see if any of the staff here knows either of them.”

“Along with lunch and a drink?” Gemma asked, with a determination that would have done Cullen proud.

Their hopes of sustenance were quickly dashed. The late-lunch crowd was thinning by the time they muscled their way to the bar, but the bartender still looked harried. When queried, he said briskly, “We don’t do food. You’ll have to go upstairs for that. And we only do beer by the half. Now, what can I get you?”

“Information, actually.” Kincaid took out his identification. Even though he had spoken quietly, he had the sudden sense of attention in the room. There was no music, and he had noticed the other patrons glancing at them as they crossed the room. The bar was small, with a clubby feel, and for the most part the clientele seemed to lean towards the flamboyant side of eccentric.

The bartender slotted a wineglass into the rack with a clink and eyed them warily. “What sort of information?”

“I see you have Breton cider,” Kincaid said, waiting for the murmur of voices to rise again. He didn’t want the barman influenced by an audience. Catching Gemma’s affirmative nod, he added, “Give us two bottles, why don’t you?” although inwardly he winced at the price. This one was definitely going on the Yard’s tab.

When the barman had filled their glasses and Kincaid didn’t feel quite so many eyes boring into his back, he said, “Do you know a bloke by the name of Harry Pevensey?” He’d taken one of the smaller photos on Pevensey’s wall out of its frame and now showed it to the barman.

“Harry?” The barman broke into an unexpected grin. “That’s Harry, all right,” he said, handing the photo back. “What’s our Harry supposed to have done? Held up a director for a part?” He
wiped and slotted another glass. “Of course I know Harry. I’ve been here for donkey’s years, and Harry’s been coming in longer than that. He’s a harmless sod.”

Kincaid sipped his cider, then centered his glass on the beer mat, suddenly reluctant to impart bad news to someone who had obviously liked Harry Pevensey. “Unfortunately, it’s not what Harry’s done, but what someone has done to him. He was killed last night, in front of his flat.”

The bartender stared at him, all the good-natured teasing wiped from his face. “You’re taking the piss.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“But that’s not possible,” he protested. “He was here, until closing, and he was in rare form.”

“Rare form?” asked Gemma. “In a good humor, was he?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harry so full of himself.” The bartender frowned. “Jubilant, I suppose I’d call it. And flush. Had a proper dinner in the restaurant,
and
bought rounds for everyone in here.” Thoughtfully, he added, “But he was a bit secretive about it. Said his ship had come in, that sort of thing. We all thought he’d got a part in some big production, although it didn’t seem very likely. Harry was…well, Harry was all right, but it just wasn’t going to happen, know what I mean?”

Kincaid thought of Harry’s flat, of the photos on the wall, the yellowing invitations, and nodded. “Did Harry have any special friends here?”

“Special? Not really. He knew all the regulars, and vice versa, but I doubt he ever saw anyone outside the bar. He was chatting up some woman last night, but she left not long after he came down to the bar, so I suppose he didn’t quite have the pull.” His brow creased as he added, “Harry was a bit of a loner, really. I don’t think anything ever quite lived up to the good old days—or at least what he imagined were the good old days.”

“‘The good old days’?” Gemma repeated, leaning forward with
such interest that the bartender reached up and smoothed what was left of his hair.

“The seventies. Harry ran with a posh crowd then, at least according to him. Partied with the Stones, invited to all the best clubs in the West End and Chelsea.” He shook his head. “No one ever quite believed him, but maybe it was true. He was quite a looker in his day, or so he was always happy to tell you. And I wasn’t too bad, myself,” he added, with a smile at Gemma.

“The seventies? Really?” said Gemma, as if that were the Dark Ages, and the bartender sighed, deflated.

“Told you I’d been here for yonks.”

“What about this bloke?” Kincaid asked, taking Dom Scott’s photo from his pocket and handing it across the bar. “You recognize him?”

The bartender wiped his fingers on his apron, then took the photo, holding it at arm’s length in the classic posture of middle-aged nearsightedness. “This guy? Yeah, I’ve seen him in here with Harry a few times. I remember him particularly because I had to tell him to turn off his mobile—we don’t allow them in here.”

“So the two of them met here?”

“If by that you mean making an acquaintance, no, I don’t think so. The first time this guy came in, oh, say a month ago, he and Harry were huddled in the corner, and Harry looked none too pleased. If you want my opinion, I’d say they knew each other very well.”

They settled for sandwiches and tea from a snack bar, but Gemma managed to grab one of the two plastic tables on the pavement, and so they sat in the sun as they ate and watched the crowd flow by. It always seemed to Gemma that on warm spring days like this she could feel an extra surge of energy pulsing through the city. The colors seemed brighter, more intense, the sounds sharper. And all around them, light-starved Londoners bared as much skin as they could manage, regardless of the consequences.

She looked across at Kincaid, who had not only removed his
jacket but stuffed his tie in his pocket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The bridge of his nose was beginning to go pink, and Gemma was glad she’d learned the trick of using face cream with sunscreen—otherwise she’d be freckled, as well as the color of a lobster, if she sat out in this glorious heat much longer.

When they were down to pushing crumbs round on their plates, she said, “So where are we, then?”

He frowned and swirled the dregs in his teacup. “If the bartender is right, Dom Scott lied about having met Harry by chance at the French House.”

“Maybe the bartender didn’t see the first meeting.”

“Even so, the unhappy, huddled-in-the-corner conversation he described argues for more than a brief—or casual—acquaintance, wouldn’t you say?”

“Could they have been lovers, Harry and Dom?” Gemma countered.

“Not according to Harry’s neighbor, who said Harry liked girls.” Kincaid shrugged. “But then again, Andy the wannabe rock star may not be the most reliable source. Maybe he and Harry were better friends than he admitted. It could be Harry liked anyone who paid him attention, but I can’t see what would have been in it for Dom.”

“The bartender said Harry claimed to have had connections with a fast crowd in the seventies. That probably meant drugs—maybe Harry still dabbled,” Gemma suggested.

“Could Harry have been supplying Dom with drugs?” Kincaid asked, then shook his head. “But if that were the case, from the looks of his flat, it was a poor living. And that doesn’t explain what Harry was celebrating last night, or where he got the funds, or what he was doing with Erika’s brooch—” His mobile rang, and with a glance at the caller ID, he mouthed, “Cullen,” as he answered.

She watched him as he said, “Right. Right. Okay, meet you there,” feeling a small stab of jealousy. Ridiculous, really, when the severing of the partnership had been her choice, not his, and she should
consider that she had the best of both worlds now. But sometimes it seemed that the almost instantaneous communion they’d felt when they worked a case together got lost in the domestic shuffle, and that it had been easier to share their disparate personal lives when they’d worked together than the other way round.

Oh, well, she’d made her bed, as her dad would say, and she doubted she’d won any points with Doug Cullen by sticking her nose in this case.

“Woolgathering?” said Kincaid, and she realized he’d disconnected.

“Knitting with it.” She smiled. “What did the fair Doug have to say?”

“Harry Pevensey had no mobile phone account with a provider—not even a pay as you go. And Ellen Miller-Scott’s Mercedes is in the garage, and has been for more than a week. So dead end on both those fronts.”

“So what’s next?” Gemma asked.

“I think we’ll pay another call on Mr. Khan at Harrowby’s. These two deaths, Kristin’s and Harry Pevensey’s, have to be connected, and the two points of contact are Dom Scott and the brooch. Dom seems to be a nonstarter as far as the car goes, so I want to talk to Amir Khan again. We know he had an argument with Kristin the day she died, but it’s only an assumption that it was about the brooch. And we’ve assumed that it was Giles who was jealous when Dom Scott sent her roses at work, but what if it was Khan?”

“She was a very pretty girl, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time a woman has fallen for her good-looking boss.” Gemma gave him a sly look.

“Or vice versa. And I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you want to come to Harrowby’s with us?”

Considering, Gemma shook her head. “Thanks, but no. I think I’ll go back to Lucan Place for a bit.”

“You never told me what you were doing there.”

“No.” A little reluctantly, Gemma said, “I discovered that Erika’s husband was murdered, and I feel an idiot for not having known.”

“Erika never told you?” Kincaid looked as surprised as Gemma had felt.

“I’d no idea. It happened in 1952. So far I don’t see any possible connection with the brooch or our murders, but I haven’t finished reading the case file. So I think I’ll go back to Lucan Place for a bit before I go to see Mum, and leave you and Doug to the charms of the handsome Mr. Khan.”

Standing, she leaned over and touched her cheek to his, feeling sun-warmed skin and the slight friction of beginning stubble. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Mrs. March greeted Kincaid and Cullen with a smile of pleasure, as if they’d become old friends. It was a part of her job, making the regular clients feel welcome, and it came naturally to her. “It’s Mr. Kincaid, isn’t it? Is there any news…” Then her face fell, as the thought of the reason for their presence overcame her instinctual response.

“No. But we wondered if we might have a word with Mr. Khan.” A quick glance into the main arena of the salesroom revealed an auction in progress, and as Kincaid focused on the large overhead television, he saw that it was jewelry being sold. The seats were full, and the bidding seemed to be quite brisk.

“Is this the Art Deco jewelry?” In his concentration on Kristin Cahill’s death, he hadn’t realized the sale was coming up so soon.

“Yes, but if it’s the Goldshtein brooch you’re concerned about, Mr. Khan removed it from the sale this morning. After
you
came,” she added, with a disapproving glance at Doug, as if he were personally responsible for upsetting their routine. “Mr. Khan felt that since the house had been forced to compromise the seller’s privacy, he couldn’t in good conscience offer the item without checking
with the seller, and I understand that he was not able to get in touch.”

No, not unless he had the ability to commune with ghosts, Kincaid thought, but he quelled any comment. He wanted to be the one to tell Khan that Harry Pevensey was dead. That was the only way he could attempt to gauge Khan’s reaction. “Could you tell Mr. Khan we’d like to see him?” he asked.

“Oh, but you can’t.” Mrs. March again gave Cullen an accusing look. “He left at lunchtime. Said he wasn’t feeling well, although I really can’t imagine that. Mr. Khan is never ill.”

“How very coincidental,” Cullen muttered, but Kincaid smiled and said, “Do you have a home address for him?”

Mrs. March drew herself up, all her earlier bonhomie gone. “I can’t give you that. Not without speaking to one of the directors.”

“Then I suggest you make a phone call, Mrs. March. You can tell your director that we
will
get the address—it’s just a matter of how much inconvenience it causes the firm.”

“It’s most irregular.” Mrs. March gave an offended sniff, but began thumbing through a phone list. Kincaid didn’t like bullying her, but he suspected that delaying tactics had already cost one life.

A dazzle of color caught his eye from the television screen in the main room. Focusing, he saw that the piece was a bracelet, a wide band set in a glittering chevron pattern made up of red, green, and blue stones, all appearing seductively larger than life. Such baubles had inspired envy and greed at the very least, he thought. What would people have been willing to do for the diamond brooch Gemma had described?

“And in the meantime,” he added, “I’d very much like to see the Goldshtein brooch.”

It was Giles Oliver who led them back to Khan’s office. He was less red faced and puffy eyed than when Kincaid and Gemma had seen
him at his flat the previous day, but not much more attractive. Mrs. March had fetched him from one of the phone stations on the auction floor, and he looked none too pleased.

“I see you felt well enough to come back to work,” said Kincaid as the auctioneer’s voice faded behind them.

“Can’t afford to lose my job.” Oliver unlocked the office with a key from a key ring Mrs. March had given him. “It’s not as if I can take off whenever I bloody well please.”

“Like Mr. Khan.”

Oliver gave Kincaid a resentful glance. “And he locked the office, so that every time I need a document, I have to get the key. Damn nuisance, and for what? Daft, if you ask me.”

“Do you not usually keep it locked?”

“No. But usually he or I or Kris—” He stopped, looking stricken, clutching the keys in his fist. “Christ. I just can’t—I keep thinking she’ll walk in the room, or that I hear her voice.”

“I expect it will get easier.” Kincaid’s sympathy was genuine, and Oliver’s posture relaxed a little.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I can stay on here, after what’s happened. And it was bad enough without Khan going round like a simmering volcano after you served that warrant this morning.” He nodded at Cullen, who looked as if he’d just received a compliment.

Kincaid sat on the edge of a desk and crossed his ankles, deliberately inviting Oliver’s confidence, while Cullen leaned against a file cabinet, doing his best to look unobtrusive. “He was upset, then?” Kincaid asked.

“Maybe I should have said ‘gliding round like a glacier,’” said Oliver. “He was icy, the way he gets when he’s about to give someone a royal bollocking.”

“Like the one he gave Kristin the day she was killed?”

“Yeah. Well, I suppose…” Giles Oliver fiddled with the keys, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Did he know more about that argument than he had admitted?

“You said Mr. Khan always had it in for Kristin. Had it grown worse lately?”

An instant’s calculation flickered in Oliver’s eyes, then he shrugged and said, “Look, I’ve never been one to get anyone into trouble…but he
had
been harder on her the last few weeks.”

Kincaid waited, but Oliver was looking uncertain now. The kid knew something he wanted to give up, but apparently wasn’t prepared to do it easily. Did he feel guilty, Kincaid wondered, or did he just enjoy the drama? Either way, he was willing to play along. “You were Kristin’s closest friend here, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, you could say that. I mean she talked to the girls, but not the way she talked to me.”

“So she confided in you. Did she tell you what was going on with Mr. Khan? Was there something between them?”

“Kristin and him?” Oliver looked shocked. “No way. She couldn’t stand him. Especially after—” He paused again, pushing out his lower lip.

“Come on, Giles,” Kincaid said, knowing he wouldn’t stop now. “After what?”

The keys jingled in Oliver’s hand as he said in a rush, “She caught him. Khan. Copying papers. I don’t know what they were, but Kristin did, and she wouldn’t tell me. Khan was furious with her, and after that he’d use any excuse to tear into her. She thought he was trying to get her fired.”

It was after five by the time Gemma emerged from the police station, blinking like a mole forced out of its burrow in daylight. She was tired and grimy, and her head hurt from squinting at papers in inadequate light. Slowly, she walked up Lucan Place towards the Brompton Road, musing over what she had learned.

Gavin Hoxley had been a good copper. He had followed every lead meticulously, and had documented his results with a thorough
ness that Gemma respected. But his every avenue had led to a dead end, and as she read she had begun to feel his frustration as if it were her own.

If Hoxley’s perceptions had been accurate, David Rosenthal had been an enigma, a withdrawn and reclusive man who shared little of his thoughts and feelings with his colleagues and acquaintances. Had he, Gemma wondered, shared anything with his wife?

And had he, as Hoxley had begun to suspect, been involved in some way with Jewish vengeance? Gemma could not imagine that Erika would have countenanced such behavior under any circumstances. Was that why she had never spoken about her husband or his murder?

There had been things moving in the shadows, of that she felt sure. Hoxley had merely hinted at the blocking of inquiries, but she was used to official jargon and could read between the lines.

Then, just when she had begun to think that Hoxley was making progress, the notes had stopped. She’d searched the file pages once, then again, then a third time. There was simply nothing else. David Rosenthal’s murder had not been solved, nor had the case been declared officially cold. Had Rosenthal’s murder been shelved because he was Jewish and therefore the crime had been considered insignificant? Or had it been just the opposite? Either implication made her equally uneasy.

She would like to have asked Kerry Boatman to trace records, and to pull Gavin Hoxley’s personnel file for her, but Boatman was gone for the day, and there was no one on evening rota at the station with access to the information she wanted.

Having reached the South Ken underground station, Gemma hesitated, torn between going in one direction for Notting Hill and the other for St. Paul’s.

There was, of course, the one obvious source of information about David Rosenthal’s death—Erika. But she felt unsure of herself now, as if the sands of their relationship had shifted, and she wanted
to know more before she asked questions that could be more painful than she had imagined.

And besides, if she didn’t get to hospital, she’d have missed official visiting hours again, and would have hell to pay with the charge nurse.

St. Paul’s it was, then, and a visit to her mum in St. Barts. But as she edged herself into the mass of people descending the stairs to the South Ken platform, she pulled out her mobile and rang Melody Talbot.

The brooch was beautiful, Kincaid had to admit. Giles Oliver had taken it from the small safe and placed it on a black velvet board with such care that it might have been made of eggshells rather than the hardest substance on earth.

Kincaid had admired the design and the artistry of the piece—it had undoubtedly been made by a master craftsman—and the diamonds were quite literally brilliant. Real diamonds of that size, and displayed in such a way, were unlikely to be mistaken for their cheap imitations.