Continuing onwards, the strains of Mozart faded into the rhythm of a steel drum. A mime in painted face and costume enthralled watchers. In spite of herself Gemma found the cheerful, carnival atmosphere infectious. She would have to bring the children here, she resolved, one Saturday soon.

With reluctance, she left the bustle and color of the street for the more crowded and smoky confines of the arcade. At least, she thought, it was warm. Stopping at the first stall, which held a miscellany of small objects from pocket watches to penknives, she spoke to the vendor, a shriveled, heavily made-up woman with hennaed hair. "Do you know where I might find Alex Dunn?"

"His stall's right in the back, if that's what you mean, but you won't find him there today." The woman shook her head. "A terrible business, his friend being murdered and all." She leaned forward confidentially, wafting the smell of smoke and sour coffee into Gemma's face. "They're saying it's a regular Jack-the-Ripper killing. I don't know how I'm going to sleep in my own bed tonight."

There might be some others not sleeping in their own beds tonight, Gemma thought furiously, if she found out who had leaked that particular snippet. "I'm sure there's no need for you to worry," she soothed, forcing a smile. "Would you happen to know where Alex went?"

"Left this morning with young Fern Adams. Looked ghastly, he did- it was all poor Fern could do to keep him on his feet. But I've not seen hide nor hair of either of them since."

"Who's Fern Adams? Is she a friend of Alex's?"

"She's a silver vendor, has the stall next to his. Fern's family's had a stall or a barrow in the market since after the war; grew up in Portobello Courts, she did. She's a good girl, Fern, in spite of her looks." The natural suspicion that had been held in abeyance by the thrill of gossip suddenly asserted itself. "And why might you be asking all these questions, ducks?"

Gemma produced her warrant card. "It's just routine inquiries. Do you know where I could find Fern now?"

"I'd not be one to say," the woman told her, turning her attention to a waiting customer. Caution had obviously set in.

"Do you know anyone else I might speak to?" Gemma persisted, refusing to be ignored. "Friends of Alex who might know where he's gone?"

The woman scowled at her in annoyance. "I suppose you could try Otto's Café just round the corner in Elgin Crescent. I know Alex goes there, and some of the others."

As Gemma turned to leave, the woman relented and called out, "Mind you, there's no sign says Otto's. It's just that everyone knows it by that name. You can't miss it."

She recognized the café by the yellowed menu posted in the window. A babble of sound met Gemma as she opened the door. The café was packed with animated shoppers, but she spied one empty table near the back and made for it quickly. Once settled, she ordered a coffee from the young black man who appeared from the kitchen. He smiled at her when he came back with her drink, and as their eyes met, she felt the sort of instant connection she'd only experienced a few times in her life. There was nothing sexual about it; it was purely emotional, or even spiritual, as if they'd known each other in another context.

"What's your name?" she asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Wesley Howard."

"Mine's Gemma James. I've been told that Alex Dunn comes in here. Do you know him?"

Wesley's smile vanished. "Sure I know Alex. What you want wiv him?" When she showed him her warrant card, he gazed at her in surprise. "You the Bill? I would never have credited that. But you still don't tell me what you want wiv Alex."

"We'd like to interview anyone who knew Dawn Arrowood well."

"Can't say I ever met a Dawn Arrowood." Wesley was not a convincing liar.

"Alex was having an affair with her. And if you're his friend I don't believe for a minute that you didn't know about it."

"And what if I did?"

"She was killed last night, and I don't believe that news hasn't made the rounds, either."

"You're not saying as Alex had something to do wiv her murder?"

"Why? Do you think he did?"

The young man's dreadlocks trembled as he shook his head. "Man, Alex would never 'ave hurt Mrs. Arrowood. He was crazy 'bout her."

A large, bald man in a white apron came through from the kitchen, his face registering alarm as he came towards them. "Wesley, is there a problem?"

"She the Bill, Otto. I only tell her Alex would never have hurt Mrs. Arrowood."

"I am Otto Popov. How can I help you?"

"Did you know Dawn Arrowood, Mr. Popov?"

As Wesley excused himself to attend to the customers, Otto sat, the chair creaking under his weight. "I had seen her about- a lovely creature- but no, I was not personally acquainted with Mrs. Arrowood."

"But you knew about Alex's relationship with her?"

"We knew because we are his special friends. It was never really discussed, even among us, until we heard this morning of the poor lady's death."

"Have you seen Alex today?"

"It was we who had to break the news to him this morning."

"How did he take it?"

"Hard. Quite hard." Otto shook his massive head. "We all felt for him very much."

"Do you know where Alex is now?"

"I have not seen him since he left here this morning. Have you tried his stall in the arcade?"

"A vendor there told me he'd left with a young woman called Fern Adams." Seeing Otto's surprise, she added, "You know her?"

"Of course," Otto answered. "Since she was a child. She's very fond of Alex. She will look after him."

"Do you know where they might have gone?"

"No. But perhaps these people can help you."

A couple had entered the café. They stood awkwardly, as if unsure whether they should cross the room and join the conversation. The woman was tall and slender, with deep auburn hair pulled back in a plait, and strong facial bones. Gemma would have called her handsome rather than beautiful; this masculine quality was emphasized by her jeans, jumper, and heavy boots.

The man was less distinguished, tall, with short-cropped hair, and spectacles that lent him a studious air. Otto motioned them over.

"This is Bryony Poole," he told Gemma. "And Marc Mitchell. Marc runs the soup kitchen just down the road."

"Oh, I know your place," said Gemma. "By the old Portobello School. You provide a great service for the neighborhood."

"This lady is from the police," Otto continued, "and is looking for our friend Alex. She says he left the arcade this morning with Fern."

"Is this about Dawn Arrowood?" Bryony Poole asked. "It's just dreadful."

"Alex was in a terrible state this morning." Marc pulled over chairs for himself and Bryony. "And Fern seemed determined to offer help and succor."

"Was there something unusual in that?" asked Gemma.

"It's just that they hadn't been on good terms lately," volunteered Bryony. "Fern and Alex had a thing going, until he met Dawn Arrowood. So of course Fern wasn't best pleased with the whole affair."

"Do I take it that Fern hasn't given up?"

"I don't think anyone thought Alex's relationship with Dawn Arrowood would last- could last," Bryony corrected. "I mean, either her husband was going to find out, or she would decide to call it off before he did."

"Perhaps he did find out," suggested Otto. "Is it not usually the spouse in these cases?"

"You think Karl Arrowood had something to do with his wife's death?" Gemma asked, and heard the sharpness in her voice.

"That man is capable of anything," Otto growled, but when Gemma pressed him, he merely shook his head and clamped his lips together. Before she could question him further, two small girls ran in from the kitchen. They wore matching hair ribbons and dresses, and their round faces marked them immediately as Otto's progeny. He wrapped his arms around both.