"These are my daughters, Anna and Maria. I have promised them the cinema. Something about spotted cows, I think?" he added, twinkling at them.

"Dogs, Daddy. Dalmatians," they chorused. "And we'll be late if we don't go."

Groaning, he let them pull him to his feet. "If you have more questions, you might speak to Wesley."

As Otto and his daughters disappeared into the kitchen, Bryony stood as well, and Marc joined her. "We've not got time for coffee, after all, I'm afraid," she said apologetically. "We- I hope you find whoever did this."

Gemma gave them each a card, asking them to ring her if they thought of anything that might help.

When they had gone, Wesley came back to her table, although he kept an experienced eye on the remaining customers. "You don't want to take what Otto says about Karl Arrowood too seriously," he told her quietly. "There's some sort of bad blood between them that goes way back. Otto thinks Karl's the devil himself."

Gemma noticed with amusement that all traces of his West Indian accent had vanished. "What sort of feud?"

"I really couldn't say. Something to do with Otto's dead wife, but that's all I know."

"An affair?"

"Could be. But it was before I came to work here, and Otto doesn't talk about it."

"I take it you do a bit of everything around here."

Wesley smiled. "Cook, bottle washer, waiter, and child minder. I like helping out with the girls."

"How old are they?"

"Seven- that's Anna, and nine- that's Maria. They're good kids."

"When did their mother die?"

"It was before I came, and I started four years ago." He looked curiously at Gemma. "Do I know you from somewhere? You seem awfully familiar- and it's not because you've thrown me in the nick."

"I used to walk a beat here, but you'd have been a mere babe," Gemma teased in turn, glad to know the feeling of past acquaintance was mutual. "Now I've been posted back to Notting Hill," she added, finding herself inexplicably confessing, "and I'm moving here as well, into a house near St. John's."

Wesley whistled. "Poncey address for a police lady."

"Terrifying." Gemma grinned. "But my kids will love it. Now, before I go, can you give me Alex Dunn's address?"

Only when she had thanked Wesley and left the café did she realize that for the first time, she had claimed Kit as her own.

"The victim's name was Dawn Arrowood," Gemma told the press gathered on the steps of Notting Hill Police Station at six o'clock. "If anyone saw anything suspicious or unusual in the vicinity of St. John's Church, Notting Hill, yesterday evening, please ring the police at this number." She gave out the number of a special line manned in the incident room. Ninety-nine percent of the calls would be cranks, but there was always a possibility that someone had actually seen something useful.

She fielded a few questions with "I'm sorry, we can't disclose that information just yet," then ducked into the station to retrieve her bag while the crowd cleared away.

Although she was leaving the station, her workday was not over. Penciled in her notebook was the number of Alex Dunn's flat in a mews just off Portobello Road. She'd already stopped there twice since getting his address, but had found the flat dark and apparently uninhabited, as were those of his neighbors.

Picking up her car from the station car park, she drove to the flat again, but Alex still hadn't returned. Gemma let the car idle for a moment, gazing at the now lit flat next door.

Should she interview Alex's neighbors now? No, they would keep, and she needed to speak to Karl Arrowood's business associate before any more time passed. She could stop on her way home, sending a constable to take a formal statement later. Turning the car round at the bottom of the mews, she headed for Tower Bridge.

The Brewery at Butler 's Wharf was a very posh address, especially for what she assumed was only a part-time London accommodation. The old brewery had been converted into elegant flats with a view of the Thames at Tower Bridge. She searched for a parking space in the warren of streets near the river, her frustration mounting. By the time she found a spot and walked back to the brewery she had little patience for the building's gilt-and-green-marble lobby. Taking the lift up to the second floor, she found the flat number Arrowood had given her and rang the bell.

Within moments, a ruddy-faced, handsome man in his fifties opened the door and beamed at her as if she were a long-expected relation. " 'Ullo. You must be the inspector from the police." His accent was heavily French but understandable, and Gemma found herself unable to resist smiling back.

"I'm Gemma James. Mr. Arrowood must have rung you."

"Yes." Andre Michel ushered her into the flat and closed the door. Tower Bridge, stunning and immense, filled the windows. "Such terrible news. Here, please sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?"

Drawing her eyes away from the view, Gemma saw that a tray on the coffee table held wine and several glasses. "Nothing for me, thank you. But you couldn't have known I was coming just now-"

"No." Michel laughed. "I would like to claim that level of clairvoyance, but alas, it is merely that I'm expecting friends this evening." The delicious aroma of garlic and herbs wafted from the kitchen Gemma could just glimpse through a door on the far side of the sitting room. "A little coq au vin, a family recipe," Michel added, seeing her glance.

"Then I'll take up as little of your time as possible, Mr. Michel." Gemma took the seat he indicated, facing the windows, but she was sorry to look away from the display of oil paintings she had noticed on the walls. "I understand you had drinks with Mr. Arrowood yesterday."

"If you don't mind?" Michel glanced at her before pouring himself a glass of red wine. "Yes, and we parted with good cheer. If I had known I was sending him home to find his poor wife, murdered… I think it a good thing sometimes that we cannot foresee the future."

"Did Mr. Arrowood seem as usual to you yesterday?"

"Karl? Karl is always business. I think he grows impatient with our French philosophy of enjoying all parts of life."

"What exactly is it you do for Mr. Arrowood? I believe he said you were a dealer?"

"A dealer, a collector, among many other things." Michel gestured back towards the paintings. "I have a knack for finding eighteenth- and nineteenth-century landscape oils, whether at auction or under sacks of turnips. It is a gift, like a pig's nose for truffles, not something for which I can take credit."

"And you sell these paintings to Mr. Arrowood?"

"Karl is one of my clients, yes. He then sells the paintings to his clients, for a much greater price." Michel gave a Gallic shrug. "That's the way the antiques business works; a little profit for everyone. But Karl is definitely at the top of the pyramid."

"Have you known Karl- Mr. Arrowood- for a long time?"

Michel laughed merrily again. "For many years. But in those days, Karl had much less finesse. He always knew what he wanted, however, and even then he made it a point to meet the right people, get invited to the right places." Sighing, he added, " London parties were something to see, then, or perhaps it's just that I was young enough to prefer that life to a good bottle of wine with friends."

"And yesterday, Mr. Michel, did Karl buy anything?"

"Two paintings, in fact, which he took away. He was particularly pleased with them."

"What time did he leave you?"

"Ah, now it gets difficult." Michel frowned in concentration. "I know it was just getting dark. The bridge lights had come on. I would say around five o'clock, but I had no reason to check the time."