"Flush?" repeated Gemma.

"Aye." Jimmy Dawson ground out the stub of his cigarette in the metal ashtray on the desk, and the metallic smell stung Gemma's nose. "When he comes into 'is money, like."

Chapter Ten

The stale cheese roll sat heavily in the pit of Gemma's stomach. She'd returned to the Yard just long enough to exchange information with Kincaid and grab a snack in the canteen.

Now, as she struggled to parallel park the Escort in a space a size too small, and a taxi missed removing her right front fender by centimeters, she regretted the sandwich. Visions of leisurely lunches in cheerful cafes ran through her mind as she killed the engine and took a breath. Her mother's voice spoke insistently in her ear. "Why don't you get a nice job, love? One with a bit of class. You could be a solicitor's assistant, or a hairdresser like your sister."

Gemma shook her head and got out of the car, slamming the door loudly enough to shut out any more imaginary admonitions. She'd settle for stale cheese rolls, thank you very much. Dodging traffic a little more recklessly than usual, she crossed the street and studied the entrance to the borough planning office.

The location near Holland Park, scrubbed white stone and a glossy black door gave the building an image befitting its function. Gemma adjusted her shoulder bag and opened the door. She stood in the hallway a moment, listening, sensing the threshold hum of a busy office-the murmur of voices and the faint tapping of fingers against keyboards. To her right a door stood open. Light from the bay window fronting the street illuminated the girl behind the simple desk. Except for the telephone glued to her ear, the girl might have stepped out of a Whistler portrait, dressed all in white, hair dark against milk-white skin. "Hang on a minute," she said, looking expectantly at Gemma but not bothering to remove the receiver from her ear.

"I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge of the office." Gemma showed her warrant card.

The girl shrugged and rolled her eyes. "You'll be wanting Mrs. Washburn, I expect. Up the stairs, first on the right," she said, and went back to her interrupted conversation. As Gemma reached the door she heard the girl say with exaggerated weariness, "He could go on all night, he could. I'm that worn out."

Poor thing, thought Gemma with a smile. And curiosity deficient, too-most people rated crime over sex.

She knocked on the indicated door and this time received a sharp reply. "Yes? What is it?"

Gemma's first glance at Mrs. Washburn's irritated expression did not inspire confidence in an easy interview. The woman's heavy middle-aged features were made more forbidding by dark-framed spectacles and hennaed hair.

Smiling as pleasantly as she could manage, Gemma introduced herself while handing her identification across the desk, then pulled the visitor's chair to the edge of the desk and sat down, crossing her legs.

"What do you think you're-"

"I'd like to talk to you about Jasmine Dent, Mrs. Washburn."

Mrs. Washburn sat a moment with her mouth open, whatever grievance she'd been about to air forgotten.

Score one for me, Gemma said to herself, and continued before her adversary could recover. "I understand you worked quite closely with Miss Dent, Mrs. Washburn. I'm sure you'll be able to help me." She smiled in an encouraging manner, glancing at the brass name plate on the desk's edge. "Beatrice Washburn" it stated in black, block letters. Gemma wondered if Jasmine had felt the need to demonstrate her importance in such a visible way, and if so, what had happened to it? In fact, what had happened to the personal effects Jasmine must have kept at the office?

"Well, I… Yes, of course I worked with Jasmine, such a tragedy, but I don't see how I can-"

"We have some questions regarding the circumstances of Miss Dent's death. As I'm sure you realize, interviewing friends and associates is routine procedure." Gemma leaned forward confidentially. "Since you assumed her position upon her death, Mrs. Washburn, I thought you would be most knowledgeable about Miss Dent's work and her personal relationships."

Denial carried too great a loss of face. Mrs. Washburn swallowed and took the bait. "I came here only a short time before Jasmine's illness forced her to resign, so I really didn't know her at all well."

"But she must have trained you?"

Mrs. Washburn puffed up with injured dignity. "I had considerable experience as a planning officer before I came here. I was with-"

"Surely there are always things to learn in any new situation. Every office has its own special way of doing things, its own personality, and Miss Dent would have been most familiar with it."

"She was helpful, yes, but she didn't believe personal confidences had a place in the office, and I agreed with her."

Mrs. Washburn finished the sentence with such an acid expression that Gemma guessed she might have approached Jasmine, angling for gossip, and been rebuffed. "Did Miss Dent have a special relationship with anyone else in the office?"

"It doesn't do to socialize with the clerical staff. I'm sure Jasmine was aware of that."

The old trout, thought Gemma. She'd bet all the girls in the office made faces at her behind her back. "What about Margaret Bellamy?"

"Margaret?" Irritation creased Mrs. Washburn's heavy face. "I believe Margaret did visit her at home a few times after she retired, but I don't know that they were particularly friendly before then."

Gemma stood up. "I'd like to see Margaret, if you can spare her a few minutes?"

"You're welcome to her, if you can find her." Mrs. Washburn snorted in disgust and looked at her watch. "That girl can find more excuses for taking long lunches and coming late in to work. She's half-an-hour late again and I'll have her on the carpet for it. She'll not last much longer under me, I can tell you."

"I'll wait," said Gemma, when Mrs. Washburn didn't offer. She found it very odd indeed that Mrs. Washburn hadn't asked why the police were looking into Jasmine's death. Curiosity was a natural human condition, and, to Gemma, Beatrice Washburn's lack signalled either a secret or an absorbing self-interest. "Mrs. Washburn," Gemma turned back when she reached the door, "who informed the office of Jasmine's death?"

The heavy face remained blank. "I don't know. One of the typists buzzed up and told me. Carla. You'll have to ask her." She turned back to the file on her desk before Gemma shut the door.

Gemma followed the faint sound of voices to the end of the hall, then opened the door and stuck her head round it. The conversation stopped as if it had been sliced off. Two girls sat at computer terminals, their desks shoved together to make room for the jumble of filing cabinets and drafting tables in the room. A third desk, its chair empty, stood under the window.

The girls looked up at Gemma, their warily blank faces making it evident they knew who she was. So she'd underestimated the little receptionist-the office grapevine worked, after all. "I'm looking for Margaret Bellamy," she said innocently, stepping into the room and closing the door.

The nearest girl pushed her roller chair away from her desk and swiveled toward Gemma. "Not in." She smiled tentatively, showing a chipped tooth.

"Do you think she'll be back soon? I'll wait."

The girls exchanged glances, then the first one spoke again. "She'd better be. The old ba-Mrs. Washburn'll have her knickers as it is."

"Late, is she?" Gemma crossed to the first girl and held out her hand. "I'm Gemma James."

"I'm Carla. She's Jennifer." A nod toward the other girl, who had not yet spoken.

Carla had a mop of frizzed brown hair pulled up with a band, and a square-jawed, pleasant face. Her legs, very visible under a spandex mini-skirt, looked like tree trunks. The other girl, Jennifer, Gemma pegged as carrying what she called the perfection gene. Some women were born with it-if not, there was no point in trying to achieve it: flawless skin, perfect features, fashion-model's body, hair that always did just what it was supposed to, clothes the latest trend. It would be nice if she could talk as well, thought Gemma, then chided herself for being catty.