"What about Kit?" she asked Kincaid as she returned to the table and refilled her mug. "Have you arranged things with him?"

"Ian will drive him up from Grantchester on Saturday."

"And you're sure Ian won't change his mind?"

"As sure as one can ever be with Ian McClellan. But he seems to have pretty well burned his bridges this time. He told me he'd already booked his flight to Canada, and that the university has arranged a small apartment for him."

"As in 'bachelor pad'?"

"So I suspect. Gemma…" Kincaid scrubbed at his fingers with his napkin, avoiding her eyes. "There's been a development, with your investigation."

"Dawn Arrowood?" she asked, puzzled.

"In a way, yes. Do you remember the case I was working on a couple of months ago, before we went to Glastonbury? An antiques dealer named Marianne Hoffman was found dead outside her shop in Camden Passage. Her throat had been cut, and she had been stabbed in the chest. When I saw Dawn Arrowood's body-"

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I wanted to check the details in the files, make sure that I wasn't just manufacturing coincidence."

"But- you're talking serial killer!"

"I think it's too early to use the term, but I also think the similarities can't be ignored. Especially considering the choice of weapon. And there's something else- it seems to me that the second murder was executed more expertly."

"As if the killer's skill is improving with practice?" Gemma shook her head. "I don't buy it, coincidence or not. I think that whoever murdered Dawn had a very personal connection with her."

"Then maybe we should be looking for a connection between Dawn Arrowood and Marianne Hoffman."

"We?"

Kincaid seemed to hesitate. "I'll be working with you and your team."

"Officially?"

"Yes."

"You've cleared this with Chief Superintendent Childs? Without discussing it with me first?"

"I'd not have consulted any other officer in charge of the Arrowood case. Did you want to be treated differently?"

Gemma glared at him, furious. "You're twisting it! You could have at least let me know what you were doing. Is that why you didn't come by last night?"

"No. But you're right, of course. I should have told you before I spoke to the guv'nor. I suppose I was afraid you might not want me messing about on your patch."

"You're bloody right!" Gemma hissed at him, careful to keep her voice lowered on Toby's account. But Kincaid looked so crushed that she felt some of her anger evaporate. "It's not that, really. It's that you'd never have done something like that without discussing it with me when we worked together."

"It would never have come up. I handled this badly, love. I'm sorry."

She folded her arms across her chest, considering him. It would be nice to work as a team again, but she didn't want to risk damaging her still tenuous authority with her staff. "What about my team?"

"You'll communicate with them directly. And I'll try not to step on your toes."

"I still don't like it."

"Can't you think of me as a bonus? A good resource?"

He always knew when to be diplomatic, she thought grudgingly, but then that was one of the things that made him good at his job. "All right. I'll hold you to that. First you can tell me everything you remember about that earlier case. And then you can go with me to see Dawn Arrowood's parents."

"Here we are." Gemma stopped the car in front of a terraced house of dark brick in East Croyden. It was an ordinary neighborhood, a universe away from the elegance of the Arrowoods' house in Notting Hill.

Gemma's face was set as she climbed from the car. Kincaid knew she was dreading this interview, but it was a necessity they couldn't avoid. The street was quiet as he rang the bell, the air filled with the scents of Sunday lunches in the oven.

The man who came to the door was in his fifties, graying, slightly heavyset, and dressed in shirt and tie as if he had just come back from an ordinary Sunday church service.

"Mr. Smith?" asked Gemma, showing her warrant card. "We'd like to talk with you and your wife, if you feel up to it."

The man nodded without speaking and led them through into the sitting room, saying, "Joanie, it's the police." Sorrow was palpable in the air. A Christmas tree in the corner and a string of cards across the mantel seemed cruelly and inappropriately cheerful.

Dawn's mother rose from the sofa, and Kincaid saw that she had been looking through a photo album. Kincaid could see that until yesterday Joan Smith might have had a shadow of her daughter's beauty; her thinness might have been expressed as elegance. But grief had sucked her dry, left her gaunt and brittle and looking more than her age.

"Have you found him?" she demanded. "The monster that killed our daughter?"

"No, Mrs. Smith, I'm sorry. I know this must be difficult for you, but we hoped you could tell us a bit about Dawn." Gemma was at her most gentle, and Kincaid was content to listen, and watch. "Could we sit down?" Gemma asked, and Mrs. Smith sank obediently back to the sofa, clutching the photo album. Kincaid saw that the crowded room was filled with pictures of Dawn from babyhood on, an adored only child.

"Could you tell us when you last saw your daughter?" Gemma directed the question towards them both, but it was the mother who answered.

"Two weeks ago. She came for Sunday lunch. She didn't often come on a weekend, because he didn't like it, but he was away on some sort of a business trip."

"Karl didn't like your daughter to visit you?" Gemma clarified, her brow creased in a frown.

"Weren't good enough, were we? Clarence manages a supermarket, and does a good job of it, but that meant nothing to Karl Arrowood. He wanted nothing to do with us."

Her husband sat beside her, watching her, and every so often he gave a slow, wounded shake of his head as she spoke, as if he were depending on her to express what he could not.

"Do you know that he never came here once? And we were never invited to their house? Not even for Christmas or holidays! Oh, Dawn would make excuses, saying he'd planned a business dinner, or that they had to go to France or to some posh country house. And she'd promise the next time would be different, but we learned she didn't mean it, that Karl would never allow it. He took our daughter away from us, and now she's dead."

"How did she meet Karl?"

"At some swank London party. She'd taken a job at the BBC, her and her friend Natalie, and they were living the high life. She'd come home and tell me about it in those days, what everyone was wearing, what was served, the latest gossip.

"We couldn't believe it at first, when she said she was going to marry this man twice her age. But we thought, well, she's a grown woman, we'll make the best of it, and at least he can afford to give her a proper wedding." Mrs. Smith pinched her lips together in renewed anger.

"But he didn't?"

"Took her away. To Nice or some such. We never even had a photo." She hugged the album to her chest, as if that lack created a physical void. "And now he's planned her funeral without consulting us. We'd thought to have a service at the crematorium here, where she grew up, where our friends and neighbors could come. But, no, he's arranged it all. A burial, in Kensal Green, on Tuesday."

"I suppose he does have that right, as her husband," said Gemma. "And as you say, he can afford it. But it does seem insensitive of him not to take your feelings into account."

Dawn's mother nodded and sniffed, as if gratified by Gemma's support.

"Did Dawn seem any different the last time you saw her?"

Mrs. Smith looked at her husband as if seeking confirmation. "Now that you mention it, she did. Sweeter, I guess you could say. She even hugged us when she left, and our Dawn was never a demonstrative girl. It seemed to me- I told Clarence so that day, didn't I?" She didn't wait for a response, but went on, "It seemed to me that she was apologizing somehow."