Where Memories Lie (23 page)

And tomorrow she had her own husband to bury. The police had released David’s body, and she had made arrangements for a service and a burial plot in the Jewish cemetery in Willesden. But tomorrow she would feel no less out of place than she did here, watching a Christian funeral for a man she had loved for a day.

Her father had not been an observant Jew. He had felt that being perceived as “too Jewish” would damage his prospects—and yet his degree of Jewishness had mattered not one jot in the end.

And David—David had felt that his God had betrayed him, had betrayed them all—what rational god, after all, would allow six million Jews to die? And David had been a rational man.

Erika watched as the service drew to a close and the mourners straggled away. She saw the large, ginger-haired Francis Tyrell glance at her, picking her out among the headstones where she stood, but after a moment’s hesitation, he turned and followed his fellow officers.

And when they were all gone, the sextons went about the business of returning the earth they had removed. Erika lowered herself to the grass and began to pull the spring weeds from the grave of a child whose name had been half rubbed from the headstone by weather and time.

The sun beat down on her head. Her vision blurred, and her fingernails grew caked with crumbly dark soil. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes. She knew the Anglican litany; she had buried enough friends during the war.

After a while, she looked up and saw that even the sextons had finished. Slowly, she stood, brushing her green-stained hands against her skirt, and walked across the rough grass.

There was no headstone, of course, only the raised mound of the grave, which would settle with time as the grass and nettles grew over it. Erika knelt, but could not bring herself to touch. It would bring her no closer.

What would she do now? David was gone, and the past with him. Whatever he had done, or tried to do, she knew it was not within her power to achieve justice for him, if Gavin had failed.

And Gavin was gone. There her mind stopped. She could not contemplate the why, or how, or what might have been. She could think only of how she would go on, who she might become. What had she left within the husk of her heart?

Reason, she told herself. Logic. The intelligence to look after herself, to make a mark in the world. And those things would have to be enough.

Gemma was waiting when Kincaid and Cullen came out of Dominic Scott’s house. “Kate’s not finished, then?” she asked.

“Not quite,” Kincaid told her. He looked tired, she thought, as if the last half hour spent with Dominic Scott’s body had drained him. “His mother said he had a problem with prescription drugs. Well, it was a bit more than that. It looks like we guessed right. He was a raging junkie, and had been for a good while. And he was self-harming, at the least.”

“Cutting?” When Kincaid nodded, she said, “Do you think his mother knew?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. I can’t gauge her. And parents have an enormous capacity for self-deception.”

“Why does it matter whether she knew or not?” asked Cullen. “It puts him squarely in the frame, and so does his suicide. He needed money to pay off his suppliers. He nicked the diamond brooch, then got his girlfriend to put it up for sale through Pevensey. Then, when you came round saying Erika had claimed it, he got the wind up. Didn’t want his name connected, so killed the girlfriend, then Pevensey, then topped himself because he felt guilty.”

“First off,” Gemma said sharply, “she wasn’t the
girlfriend
. Her name was Kristin. And it doesn’t tell us where he got the brooch, where he got the car, or what Harry Pevensey had to do with it. Or why Dom would think he couldn’t bluff it out—we still have no more than circumstantial evidence that he was even connected.”

“Maybe he just didn’t want his mum to find out,” Cullen shot back.

Kincaid shook his head. “No. There’s something we’re missing. We—”

“David Rosenthal’s murder,” said Gemma, and they both stared at her. “I’ve been thinking. Erika’s husband was killed a stone’s throw from here. In Cheyne Gardens.” She pointed east, towards the Albert Bridge. “His murder was never solved.”

“A long stone, that,” Cullen said skeptically, but Gemma cut him off.

“No, listen. The detective who was investigating the case died—accidental drowning, possibly suicide, according to the report—and David Rosenthal’s murder was never officially closed.”

“But that was more than fifty years ago,” put in Kincaid. “How can that have any bearing on this?”

“I don’t—” Gemma’s phone rang. She gave Kincaid an apologetic glance as she pulled it from her bag. When she saw that it was Melody, she answered. “Melody, can I ring you back? There’s been—”

“Boss,” Melody interrupted, “you know that issue of the
Guardian
? I thought I’d have another look. And I found something odd.”

Gemma listened, and when Melody had finished, said, “Can you send it to me? Right. Thanks. I’ll ring you back.”

She disconnected and looked at Kincaid and Cullen. “I think I just might be able to tell you.”

The photo on Gemma’s phone was black and white, obviously reproduced from old newsprint, but it was still possible to see that the man in the picture bore a strong resemblance to Ellen Miller-Scott.

“It’s Joss Miller,” Gemma told Kincaid and Cullen as she passed the phone across. “Accepting some sort of award for his philanthropic contributions to an art museum.”

“Ellen Miller-Scott’s father?” said Cullen. “But I don’t see what an old photo—”

“Wait.” Gemma grabbed her phone back and tapped the screen. “It’s not just an old photo. This picture ran in the
Guardian
on the day David Rosenthal died. Don’t you see? If David Rosenthal was looking through the newspaper for Erika’s article, he could have seen this.”

“So he saw—or
might
have seen,” Cullen emphasized, “this photo. What difference—”

“David Rosenthal never came to Chelsea. According to the detective who investigated his murder, Rosenthal had a very fixed routine. He taught at a Jewish school in North Hampstead. He lived in Notting Hill. And any free time he had, he spent in the Reading Room at the British Museum, working on a book about which he was very secretive.

“And yet he was found dead here, in Cheyne Gardens, just down the way, with his throat cut and his manuscript missing.”

“The Millers lived here in 1952?” Kincaid asked, beginning to look interested.

“Since the forties. Melody said Joss Miller prospered after the war. He bought this house, and a country place as well.”

“So you’re thinking Rosenthal came across Miller’s picture in the paper that day, and that’s why he came here, to Chelsea. To see Joss Miller?” He looked up at the town house, frowning. “But what was the connection between them? And why was Rosenthal murdered?”

“Are you thinking Miller did it?” Cullen asked, with a skeptical expression that would have done Kincaid justice.

“Why isn’t it possible?” The more Cullen argued, the more certain Gemma became. “The detective—Hoxley—came across rumors that David Rosenthal might have been involved with some questionable people. There were offshoots of Jewish terrorist organizations operating in London after the war, as well as in Europe.”

“Vengeance groups?” asked Kincaid.

Gemma nodded. “According to Hoxley’s notes, there were those who felt that the war crime tribunals had not even skimmed the surface. And a man who worked alongside Rosenthal at the British Museum said he thought Rosenthal was working on some sort of exposé.”

“You’re not suggesting that Miller was a war criminal?” Cullen laughed in disbelief. “He was English, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t know,” said Gemma. “Maybe Gavin Hoxley was just paranoid, but I got the impression from his notes that he felt our government was somehow complicit. And it seems an unlikely coinci
dence that Hoxley should die so conveniently with David Rosenthal’s murder unsolved.”

“But even so,” argued Cullen, “it still doesn’t add up. You’re saying that if Miller was a war criminal, that the powers that be would have let Rosenthal kill him. But it was Rosenthal who ended up dead. And what does any of that have to do with Kristin Cahill and Harry Pevensey?”

“I don’t know,” Gemma repeated, frustrated. “But there’s something here we’re not seeing, and I just can’t quite—”

“We can start by asking Ellen Miller-Scott if her father knew David Rosenthal,” Kincaid suggested.

“No,” Gemma said slowly, as she thought it through. “I’ve got to talk to Erika first. And I’m worried about her.” She turned, gazing at the redbrick town house, thinking of what they had found inside. “Dominic Scott is the third person connected with the Goldshtein brooch to have died. And I kept trying to ring Erika all last evening. She didn’t answer.”

Gemma stopped by Notting Hill Station, to pick up a proper print from Melody and to borrow a car from the pool. She didn’t want to take the time to walk to Arundel Gardens, nor to walk home for her own car. Melody had offered to come with her, but she’d refused again.

“I’ll ring you,” she said. “If—Well, I’ll ring you.”

She parked with unexpected ease, just across from Erika’s house, and when she glanced at her watch she saw with surprise that she had missed lunch. But she felt hollow with anxiety rather than hunger. And she had not yet made it to hospital. At the thought of her mother, the knot in her stomach tightened even further.

Reaching Erika’s door, she rang the bell. Her heart gave a little skip. She waited a moment, then rang again, punching at the button, then trying the door, but it was firmly locked. Why had she never thought to ask Erika for a key in case of an emergency?

The shade was pulled down in the bedroom that faced on the little yard, so she could see nothing inside. She had taken out her mobile to ring Melody for reinforcements when the door swung open and Erika looked out at her.

“Gemma, my dear, whatever is the matter?”

Gemma’s knees went wobbly with relief. “Are
you
all right?” she asked in a rush.

“Of course,” said Erika, looking bemused. “I was out in the garden. And you look as if you’re about to collapse on my doorstep from heatstroke. Come in.”

“But where were you last night?” Gemma asked as she followed her into the house. “I rang and rang.”

Erika led her into the kitchen. “Sit, and I’ll get you some water.” When she had handed Gemma a glass filled from the tap, she said, “I was out at a university dinner. For some reason they saw fit to trot me out for an award, but I have to admit I enjoyed being made much of. But why should you have worried?”

“Erika, last night…how did you get home from your dinner?”

Erika looked more puzzled than ever. “I took a taxi. The cabbie fussed over me as if I were doddering and waited until I got in my door. Why should it matter?”

“But before you got in, did you see anything unusual?”

“No, I can’t recall—” Erika’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait. There
was
a car idling a few doors down, but I didn’t think anything of it—”

“What sort of car?”

“Oh, one of those big square ones. Like a Land Rover.”

Gemma felt as if all her muscles had turned to jelly. “Thank God for that cabbie.”

“Gemma, what on earth is this about?” Then the penny dropped, and Erika looked frightened. “Does this have something to do with that poor girl?”

“It might do,” said Gemma. “I think I’d better start from the
beginning.” She reconsidered, and said, “Or better yet, I need you to start from the beginning.” She sipped at her water, warm as a bath straight from the tap. “Erika, why did you never tell me that your husband was murdered?”

“David?”

“Unless you were married more than once,” Gemma answered a little tartly, and realized she felt hurt by Erika’s silence.

Sinking into the chair across from Gemma, Erika said, “It never occurred to me. It was so long ago, and I thought that part of my life long buried—why should I have burdened you? And why should it matter to anyone now?”

“Would your husband have read the
Guardian
the day he was killed?”

“My article.” Erika closed her eyes. “Yes. David would have bought the paper. It was my first published piece, and David was dutiful, if not deeply interested. But I still don’t understand.”

Gemma pulled the print Melody had made her from her bag and handed it across the table.

“Oh, dear God.” Erika stared at the page. “Where did you—How did you—”

“It was in the
Guardian,
on that very same day. In the society page.”

“But this—” She looked at the photo again and pushed it away, as if it were contaminated. “That’s Joseph Mueller. Why does it say his name is something else?” She had gone pale as the white lilies in the vase on the kitchen table. “I never thought to see that face again.”

“Who was he, Erika? How did you know him?”

“He was German,” Erika insisted, her voice shaking. “What is he doing in an English newspaper, with an English name?”

“He
is
English,” Gemma assured her. “His name was Joss Miller. He was a financier, and an art collector, and he just died two years ago.”

Erika stared at her, her face contorted, then turned her head and spat. “That is lies, all lies. This man was a German, and a trafficker in human lives. He took money from Jews, promising to get them safely out of Germany. And if we had no communication with others he said he had helped escape, we assumed it was because they didn’t dare write to us. But now I wonder if anyone whose money he took ever came out of Germany.”

“But you did,” said Gemma, frowning.

“Only by the grace of God and the kindness of a German farmer. I went back, after the war, but I couldn’t find the farm. Perhaps it was destroyed. Perhaps my memory was faulty. I never knew the family’s name, but I fear they cannot have gone unpunished.”

“Punished for what? I don’t understand.”

“No. You could not.” Erika seemed to shrink into her chair. “But I suppose I must tell you, because it has to do with the brooch, and if my silence is in some way responsible for that girl’s death—”

Gemma bit her lip. She had never had the chance to tell Erika about Harry Pevensey, but now was not the time. “Please,” she said, leaning forward and touching Erika’s hand. “What happened?”

Erika gripped Gemma’s hand, then let hers fall to her lap. Her eyes lost focus. After a moment she began to speak, so softly that Gemma had to strain to hear.

“I told Kit, just a little. About how my father’s work was patronized by the wealthy Germans, and how he did not believe that we would be touched by the madness being spouted by the Nazis. But by 1938, it became evident even to my father that things were out of control, that there was no surety of safety for any Jew. And I had married David.

“David had been a lecturer at the university, in philosophy—we Germans had always been great believers in philosophy, much good it did us—and after the Nazis banned Jews from faculty positions in all the German universities, David tutored students privately. Many Jewish professors did—it was a way round the restrictions.”

Gemma thought of the difference in ages between Erika and her husband. “You were David’s student?”

“Yes.” Erika gave a ghost of a smile. “The age-old story. Naive young girl falls in love with wise older man. And David was a radical, who spoke out against Hitler’s regime, and that recklessness made him all the more appealing. As for him, I think he was flattered by my attention, and he saw himself as furthering my political and intellectual education. I don’t think he was ever in love with me, but of course I didn’t know that then.

“But David’s outspokenness made my father even more concerned for our safety, and he made arrangements to get us out of the country. It would cost, we were told, but there was a man who would take us out through the Netherlands and from there into England. My father said we should go first, and that he would follow when he knew we were safe.

“There was another couple, older, friends of my father’s, who would go with us. They vouched for this man, Mueller”—Erika did not glance at the photo—“and they paid him handsomely, as did my father.

“When we parted, my father gave me the diamond brooch, the last thing he had made, to keep secretly. Not even David knew of it.”

Now she looked up and met Gemma’s eyes. “He was a big, handsome man, this Mueller, with a Berliner accent. He said he had many connections. He had a small van, with the markings of a carpet firm, and he had papers showing that he and his helper were salesmen. We rode in the back, with instructions to cover ourselves with the carpets if we were stopped.

“The first night we stopped at a traveler’s hotel. We were allowed out only to relieve ourselves in the darkest part of the night, and once back in the van we were given a little black bread. David and the other man, Saul, began to complain, but when they saw Mueller’s face, they stopped.”

Gemma had to still the impulse to stand and move about. She didn’t dare even to drink from the glass of water, for fear of halting Erika’s story.

“The next night,” Erika went on, “we stopped at a farm very near the Dutch border. As I said, I was never sure of the exact location. Once it was dark, we were taken out of the van and led into the barn. We thought we would be fed and allowed to sleep in the straw. But that was not the case.” Erika paused, clasping her hands together, and Gemma held her breath, fighting a wave of nausea.

When Erika continued, her voice was a thread of sound. “Mueller had a gun. His helper held the gun on the others while Mueller raped me. Then Mueller held the gun. Then they did the same with Sarah. When Saul tried to stop them, Mueller shot him. When they were finished with Sarah, he shot her.”

Gemma swallowed. The smell of the lilies was sickly sweet, overpowering. She realized she had tears running down her cheeks, but Erika’s eyes were dry. “And David?” Gemma managed to croak.

“David did nothing,” Erika said without intonation. “Mueller found the brooch when they stripped me. To this day, I don’t know why they didn’t shoot us then. Perhaps they weren’t finished with me. Perhaps they enjoyed humiliating David. Or perhaps, having found the brooch, they thought they might somehow get more money from my father if they kept us alive.

“They tied us up, on the floor of the barn, beside Saul’s and Sarah’s bodies. I suppose they went into the farmhouse to drink. We heard laughter and shouting.”

She took a little gulping breath. “David didn’t speak to me. Not a word, all that night. Just before dawn, the farmer came out and untied us. He gave us some money and told us in which direction to run, towards the border. I have always been afraid that he and his family must have died for his kindness.

“We ran, stumbling in the dark, hiding at any sound, and by daylight we found we were in Holland. Some people fed us and helped
us get to a Jewish aid organization. From there we came to London. We were penniless, and I was…injured.” She met Gemma’s eyes, then looked away. “I had started to bleed after they raped me, and it only got worse. By the time we reached London, I had lost my baby. A girl. I was very ill. For a time they thought I might not live. And the doctors told me I would have no more children.”