Where Memories Lie (20 page)

“Yeah, right.” Cullen rolled his eyes. “I get the catalogs. These are new.”

Cullen, a secret audiophile? Kincaid logged the fact for future reference, then said, “My, my, Doug. You have big aspirations on a policeman’s salary.” He turned to Oliver. “And, Giles, when you add in the rest of this equipment, I suspect you seem to have even bigger ones for someone making a salesclerk’s wages. That must be some fiddle you’ve got going, if you can afford equipment like that. Maybe there’s a bit more to it than the odd percentage on a phantom bid. Did Kristin find out you had your finger in more than one pie?”

“You have no business questioning how I spend my money.” Oliver drew himself up, but Kincaid could see that he was shaking. “I have an allowance from my parents, if you must know. And none of this has anything to do with Kristin. She never came here. She never saw any of this.”

Thoughtfully, Kincaid said, “That brings us very nicely back to where we started, doesn’t it, Giles? Rejection. Jealousy. Kristin
turned you down flat that night, and not very nicely, either, according to her mum.”

“Just because you don’t have a driving license doesn’t mean you can’t drive,” chimed in Cullen. “And with all this equipment, I’d be willing to bet that hot-wiring a car is not beyond your skills. One was stolen just a few streets from here the night Kristin Cahill was killed. It was found abandoned the next day—the police assumed it was joyriders. But maybe you took it, Giles, and left it after you ran Kristin down.”

“I never hurt Kristin,” protested Giles, sounding near tears. “I loved her.”

“That’s obsession, Giles. Not love,” Kincaid said. “She didn’t even like you.” The dog lifted his head at the change in his voice, then settled back down with a grunt. “Did you get Harry Pevensey’s name from the files?” Kincaid went on. “Did you think he was Kristin’s secret lover? The one who sent her the roses?”

“I’d never heard of him until you said his name a few minutes ago.” Oliver looked round wildly, as if help might appear out of thin air, but even his dog had abandoned him. “I’m not talking to you anymore. I don’t care what you say.”

Kincaid sighed and, slipping the dog’s head from his knee, stood. “Then I think we’d better take you into the Yard. We’ll see if your prints match any of those found on the stolen car.”

“But—You can’t.” Oliver sounded more shocked than belligerent. “What about Mo?”

“Surely you have a friend or a neighbor who could look after your dog.”

“No. There’s no one. There’s this daft woman with cats downstairs, but she can’t stand him. I don’t know anyone else.”

“Your parents?”

“They’re in Hampshire.”

Kincaid glanced at his watch. “Too late for the RSPCA. I suppose we’ll have to have him impounded.”

“No!”

“They won’t put him down for twenty-four hours,” Kincaid said, disliking himself for the deliberate cruelty, but willing to use it. “Doug, ring the animal warden—”

“No, wait.” Oliver looked as though he might imitate Dominic Scott and faint on them. “I’ll tell you everything.”

They made love the first time with the ferocity of starvation, abandoning clothes in an awkward stumble to the bedroom, desperate to touch skin to skin.

The second time they had been tender, gentle in discovery, laughing a little at the wonder of it.

And much later, once more, with a lazy, sated pleasure that turned suddenly to urgency, leaving them gasping and shaken.

And in between, they had talked. He told her about his childhood in Chelsea, about his fascination with the ever-present river and his love of the Albert Bridge, about life in London before the war. She told him about a Berlin that had seemed to her enchanted in those years before the war, about her writing, and about continuing her studies, a secret she had not shared with anyone, even David.

Easily, they traded favorite foods, and books, and music, and places they had seen. And all the while they navigated around the boulders beneath the surface of the stream—David, and David’s death, and Gavin’s wife and children, as if by doing so they could make a world that contained nothing but the two of them, and they said nothing, nothing at all, about the morrow.

Erika knew now that the way she and Gavin had come together was the way it was meant to be between two people, and that for David sex with her had been little more than a duty. Her husband had been her first lover, and she had thought herself somehow lacking, or her desires unnatural.

And the other—the other didn’t bear thinking of, especially not here, not now.

Gavin had left her at dawn, even though she’d begged him to stay. “I don’t want your neighbors talking,” he said, and she’d reluctantly let him ease his warm body from hers.

When he’d dressed, he’d bent to kiss her once more, whispering, “This is too fine a thing to spoil,” and when she’d heard the latch of the door click behind him and his footsteps fade away in the quiet street, she had hugged her joy to herself like a pearl, and fallen instantly into a dreamless sleep.

April 1945
Thursday, 5th

“You’re right. I was jealous,” admitted Giles. “But I can’t drive. I failed my bloody test three times before I came up to London, and there’s really not much point here.” He sat in the chair with the curved wood arms, and the dog went to him and collapsed at his feet with a sigh.

“So is that your excuse for running Kristin down?” asked Cullen. “Bad driving?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m telling you that I wasn’t driving. But I knew where Kristin lived. We’d talked about it—about how she wanted to get out from under her parents—and it wasn’t that far from here.

“So that night, I wanted to see who she was meeting. I didn’t think I could hang about outside the Gate without her noticing, but I thought if I waited for her to come home, I’d see who dropped her off, and there are plenty of places along the King’s Road where you can fade into the shadows.”

“And you knew this because you’d done it before?” Kincaid asked.

Oliver scowled at him. “What do you think I am? Some sort of pervert? No, I hadn’t waited for her at night before, but I knew where her building was. I mean, if you go down the King’s Road, you can’t help but notice.” When Kincaid merely raised an eyebrow, he swallowed and went on. “But it was a stupid thing to do. It was getting cold, and I’d walked up and down enough that I thought people would start to notice me. There was a woman out with her dog who looked at me like—well, never mind. So I’d just about decided to go home when I saw her.”

“You saw Kristin?”

“Walking down the King’s Road, like she’d come from the bus stop. I wasn’t close. I’d started walking west, but I’d turned to look back. The light turned at Edith Grove, and then, just as she stepped out into the street—” Giles slid from the chair to the floor, ducking his head and wrapping his arms round the dog.

“Giles,” Kincaid prompted, and Oliver lifted his head. “What happened then?”

Giles swallowed hard. “A car pulled away from the curb in front of her building. And it just—it just—it sped up, instead of stopping at the light. And it just—hit her. She—Kristin—bounced, like she wasn’t even human, and hit the street. The car just kept going.”

Making an effort to keep the disbelief from his voice, Kincaid said, “Giles, what did you do?”

“I was—I was going to—but a man came out of one of the flats. And then I—I couldn’t—”

Cullen had no such compunction. “You mean you just left her? You just left her lying there?”

“I wasn’t—She had help.” Giles looked up, his face tear-streaked. “I couldn’t—there was nothing I could do. So I went home. And then I waited to hear. There was no one I could call. I didn’t know where they’d taken her. So I had to—I had to go in to work, knowing—”

“You little tosser,” said Cullen, not disguising his disgust. “How could you? How could you just go off and leave her?”

“I thought she’d be all right,” Giles shot back. “And then I’d have to explain what I was doing there. And she—she would think—she would never—”

“Understand,” Kincaid finished for him. If it was true, Giles Oliver had been an idiot and a coward, but he was also a witness—at this point their only witness. “The car, Giles. What was it?”

Giles shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not very good with cars.”

“You don’t know?” Cullen’s voice rose in outrage, and the dog lifted his head.

“Okay, let’s go back a bit,” said Kincaid, attempting to ratchet the tension down. “You said you walked back and forth for a bit. Did you see the car before it pulled away from the curb?”

“I—I don’t remember.”

“Think, man.”

Giles screwed up his face in concentration. “I was on the opposite side of the street. There were cars parked all along. I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s go at it a different way, then. You’re accustomed to looking at things. You saw the car pull out from the curb. You must have had some impression, even if you didn’t recognize the make. Was it light colored or dark?”

“Dark,” Giles said without hesitation.

“Okay, good. Large or small?”

“It was big. And sort of square.”

“A coupe?” Kincaid asked, deliberately leading.

Giles frowned. “No. I remember the back end looked big. It was an SUV, I think. A country sort of car. A Land Rover, maybe.”

“Anyone home?” Gemma called out as she let herself in the front door. The dogs came running to her, sniffing her legs and jumping up in excitement as if she’d been gone a week rather than most of the day.

She hadn’t stayed long at the hospital. Her mum had been obviously exhausted, and Gemma felt she was doing more harm than good by keeping her from resting.

And she felt guilty for having let her temper get the better of her with her dad, and even worse for having inflicted an emotional outburst on her mother. That was the last thing her mum had needed.

“In here” came Kit’s answer from the kitchen. The house was warm from the day’s heat and smelled tantalizingly of baking dough and spices. Pizza.

Giving Geordie’s ears a last fondle, she followed her nose. Kit stood at the fridge, examining the contents as if he were looking for buried treasure.

“Where is everyone?” Gemma asked.

“I thought we had more milk,” Kit said, then shut the fridge door and turned to her. “Wes had to go. Toby’s watching a cartoon in the study. I said he could, if he finished his lessons. Duncan rang and said he’d been held up—he tried to ring you but your phone was off.”

“Oh, damn.” Gemma realized she’d switched her phone off at the hospital and had forgotten to switch it on again. “Did he say why?”

“Just that he’d ring you later. Do you want some pizza?” Kit asked. “It’s Pizza Express from the freezer.”

“Oh, Kit.” This seemed to be Gemma’s day for feeling contrite. She had left the children to fend for themselves, and had been so caught up in her own worries that she hadn’t even thought to check in. “I
am
sorry. We expect you to do too much, and you never complain.” Impulsively, she went to him and slipped an arm round his shoulders in a hug.

He ducked his head in a way that reminded her of Toby, but smiled. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “Really. I don’t mind.”

She let go before he reached complete embarrassment overload, but couldn’t resist ruffling his hair.

“Get off,” he said, bouncing away from her with a grin. “Toby and I were going to take the dogs for a walk before it got dark. Do you want to come?”

Gemma hesitated, then shook her head. “Um, no, but thanks. I’ll think I’ll stay here and have a bit of your pizza.”

While Kit got the dogs’ leads, she fetched Toby from the study, switching off some American cop show on the telly while giving him a hug and as much of a cuddle as he’d allow.

“I was watching that.” Her son pulled away from her with a scowl, a sure sign of a five-year-old’s temper tantrum brewing.

“You’re a bit stroppy today, sport,” she said, using Duncan’s nickname for him.

“I’m not stroppy,” Toby protested. “Whatever it is.”

Gemma pretended to think hard. “Obstreperous.”

“You’re silly, Mummy,” said Toby, not mollified. “I’m not that, either.” He punched at her with his fist, but she caught him by both wrists.

“Enough of that.” And enough of things he shouldn’t be watching on the telly, she added to herself. She’d have to speak to Kit about it, as Toby was obviously changing the channel when Kit left the room, but she hated to nag Kit when he made such an effort. It was a case once more of giving Kit more responsibility than he should have to bear, not to mention her falling down on her parenting.

Swinging Toby round, she tickled him until he squealed, then marched him from the room. “You go with Kit to walk the dogs, and when you get back we’ll have a special treat. A game.”

“Can we play Giant Snakes and Ladders?”

Gemma cursed herself. That was Toby’s latest favorite, and required more energy than a marathon, especially when you added barking dogs and a cat interested in anything spread out on the floor. “Of course,” she said, hoping that dinner would revive her a bit.

But when the boys and dogs had gone out in a flurry of motion, she decided she wasn’t hungry after all, and instead poured herself a glass of white wine from the fridge, popped a CD in the kitchen player, sank into a chair and kicked off her shoes.

Closing her eyes, she tried to shut out the replay of her row with her dad and her worry over her mum. She wiggled her toes and held the wine in her mouth before she swallowed, tasting all the flavors.

After a moment, the music began to do its work. She’d put on Barb Jungr, one of her favorite singers, but it wasn’t Jungr’s smoky voice that caught her attention now, but the sweet, spare notes of the piano accompaniment.

God, how long had it been since she’d played the piano? She’d canceled lesson after lesson, and without that discipline, had practiced less and less. How had she let something she loved so much slip away from her?

But with the job, and Duncan, and the boys, and the dogs—as if to remind her of his presence, Sid chose that moment to pad into the kitchen and jump up on the table—and the cat, Gemma amended, she seemed to have little time for herself.

And yet, even with more in her life than she could manage well, she still felt the sting of loss, and cataloging the practical difficulties they’d have faced in caring for another child made not a whit of difference.

Pure selfishness, she told herself firmly. And she had been selfish enough lately.

With that reminder, she exchanged her glass for her mobile and rang Erika’s number. It was past time she checked on Erika rather than sending Kit as an emissary, and she had questions she needed to ask.

But Erika’s number rang on unanswered. Gemma drank a bit more wine, then dialed again, but there was still no reply, not even the answer phone. Although Gemma knew Erika was careless in remembering to switch the machine on, she felt frustrated by her inability to leave a message, and a little uneasy.

She was wondering how she might convince her very independent friend that she should get a mobile phone when her own phone rang. She jumped, sloshing her wine, and answered a little breathlessly.

It was not Erika, however, but Melody Talbot.

“Boss,” said Melody, “before you ask, yes, I’m still at the office, but I really am going home.

“But there was something a bit odd. I was looking through those newspapers you asked me to collect for you. Did you know that Erika Rosenthal had a piece in the
Guardian
the day David Rosenthal was killed?”

Erika moved through the day as if held to the earth by the slenderest of tethers.

She rose at her usual time, even though she’d been given a temporary bereavement leave from her job in the administrative offices at Whiteleys department store. Finding she was ravenous, she’d made tea, with two pieces of toast and two soft-boiled eggs, an unheard-of indulgence with rationing still in effect, but she felt reckless with hunger. If she had nothing to eat the rest of the week she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Carrying her plate and cup out into the garden, she sat on the
stone wall in the one spot penetrated by the morning sun. In spite of her hunger, she ate slowly, savoring every taste and texture as if it were for the first time—the buttery richness of the egg yolk, the crunchiness of the toast, the earthy astringency of the tea.

And she, who had lived in her own mind for so long, found that she wanted to share every thought, every impression, every instant of experience with Gavin. He would understand. He would know what she meant, what she felt, almost before she knew herself, and the perfection of it made her eyes fill with the tears she had not cried for her husband.

David. She knew that somewhere within her she carried a kernel of grief for the man she had lived with for almost fifteen years, and that most of all she would mourn what might have existed between them, and for the long, barren waste of their marriage.

But now she felt distanced, as if a stranger had lived that life, or as if it were a distant memory, something seen from the wrong end of a telescope. David had been lost to her long ago, and she knew now that grief had been woven into the very fabric of her life.

As she did the washing-up and went about her daily routine, she wondered if a time would come when she would feel guilt for having taken another man so precipitously into her bed. But she couldn’t imagine that her union with Gavin Hoxley could ever seem an act of disloyalty, and she didn’t want to think of consequences, or of the obstacles that stood between them.

Not now. Not yet. Nothing could take this moment, this hour, this day, from her. She had been waiting for it her whole life.

Gemma had survived Giant Snakes and Ladders, had put Toby to bed, had had a bath herself, had said good night to Kit, who was reading in his room, and Kincaid still had not rung. She tried calling him, but his phone went straight to voice mail, and she didn’t leave a message. Something must have happened, and he would let her know when he could.

Nor had she had any success reaching Erika, although she kept trying until she felt it was too late to call. She told herself she was being paranoid, that Erika had every right to go out of an evening, or to leave the phone unanswered if it suited her. But no amount of rationalizing quieted the little tickle of worry.

Had Erika’s story in the
Guardian
had some bearing on David Rosenthal’s death? But Melody had told her that it was an opinion piece, something about the shifting role of women in the postwar workplace, which sounded so like Erika that it made Gemma smile. She couldn’t imagine it had been more than coincidence. But, she couldn’t stop reminding herself, the two other people who’d had a connection with Erika’s brooch were dead.

In pajamas and dressing gown, Gemma went downstairs and idled restlessly at the piano, trying to pick out a tune that teased at her memory, but her fingers seemed disconnected from her brain. Giving up after a few discordant notes, she wandered into the kitchen and contemplated the wine still in the fridge, but it had lost its appeal.