"Did your daughter ever talk to you about children?"

"No. She knew how we felt, though. She was an only child. If she didn't give us grandchildren, we'd have nothing. Not that he would have let us see them," she added bitterly.

"Did Dawn tell you that Karl didn't want children?"

"No, but we suspected as much. After all, they had been married for five years…"

"Mrs. Smith…" Gemma hesitated. She didn't wish to cause Dawn's parents further distress, but she knew they had a right to know. "Your daughter was expecting a baby. She'd just had the pregnancy confirmed that afternoon."

"Oh, no," the woman whispered. "Not that, too. How could someone take that away from her- from us?" She fastened her gaze on Gemma. "Did he know?"

"Karl? He says not. Mrs. Smith, did you ever have reason to think Karl mistreated your daughter?"

"You mean, did he hit her?" Mrs. Smith's surprised expression seemed to indicate that this was one evil she hadn't attributed to her son-in-law. "No. She never… You're not thinking she told him about the baby and he-"

"We haven't ruled out any possibilities at this time," Kincaid told her. "Do you think your son-in-law could have-"

"No." Mr. Smith drew himself up, his mouth working in agitation. "No one who knew Dawnie could have done such a thing. And besides, the man was too… clean. You can't imagine him mussing his hands, or his shirt. Do you see what I mean?"

"I think so, yes," Kincaid answered soothingly. "Mrs. Smith, did Dawn have friends other than Natalie that she kept in touch with?"

"No. Natalie was her closest friend. It was only that kept him from driving them apart."

"And Dawn didn't mention anything else to you, something worrying her, or someone new in her life?"

"No." Mrs. Smith's eyes glistened with unshed tears, as if the lack of her daughter's confidences had added to her grief.

Gently, Gemma said, "If you remember anything else, Mrs. Smith, just give us a ring. We won't disturb you any further." She gave both parents her card, and thanked them.

But when she and Kincaid reached the car, she said, "You know, if Karl did abuse Dawn, she'd have kept it from her parents at all costs. To tell them, or let them see it, would have been to admit what a mistake she'd made."

Gemma arrived at work on Monday morning to find a copy of the previous day's Daily Star prominently displayed in the center of her desk. The headline screamed, "Slasher Strikes a Second Time in the Heart of Notting Hill."

"Bloody hell," she muttered as she skimmed the lurid account of Marianne Hoffman's and Dawn Arrowood's murders. "I'm going to kill the man."

"Had you not seen it, boss?" asked Melody Talbot, who had been passing by her office door. "I brought you my copy- thought you might want to have this MacCrimmon bloke drawn and quartered."

"It wouldn't do any good. The Hoffman case didn't attract all that much notice, but the record was available. All MacCrimmon had to do was put two and two together, and he's obviously quite adept at that. But I had hoped we could keep the details on the Arrowood case out of the papers for a few days."

"The throat-cutting went round the neighborhood like wildfire. I suppose the press were bound to latch on to it."

"Yes, but Tom MacCrimmon wouldn't have printed a rumor without some confirmation. Someone in the department must have given him the nod. I've heard he's free with the drinks." Gemma peered at the paper again. "There are similarities in the two cases, I have to admit." She'd spent the previous evening going over the Hoffman file. "But I'm not convinced that the Arrowood murder was random."

"What connection could there possibly be?"

"I've no idea. But I'm going to start by interviewing anyone who had recent contact with Dawn Arrowood. According to her diary, she took her cat to the vet on Friday morning. That seems as good a place to start as any."

Having found the address in Dawn's book, she presented herself at Mr. Gavin Farley's veterinary surgery on All Saints Road shortly after opening time. All Saints Road was the heart of the Notting Hill Carnival, but on this cold morning in mid-December it was hard to imagine the existence of the summer's color and activity. The surgery, its exterior painted the color of orange sherbet, provided a bright spot in otherwise drab surroundings.

A bell tinkled as Gemma pushed open the door. "Be right with you," a female voice called from behind the reception desk, then an auburn head appeared. "Sorry, receptionist's a bit late this-"

"It's Bryony, isn't it?" said Gemma. "I met you at Otto's on Saturday. Whatever are you doing here?"

"I'm Gavin's- Mr. Farley's- assistant." The young woman gazed back at her with equal surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I've come to see Mr. Farley. According to Dawn's diary, she brought her cat in on the day she died."

"Oh, Tommy, rotten little beastie. Always getting in spats. Yes, she did bring him, and it was Gavin who saw him, not me. But what has that to do with her death?"

"I thought it possible she might have said something to Mr. Farley, confided something unusual she'd seen or heard, for instance. Could I see him?"

"Not in yet," Bryony replied with a grimace. "Doesn't take his first appointment until nine o'clock. Because I live just up the road, in Powis Square, Gavin tends to take advantage a bit."

"Were you here when Dawn came in on Friday morning?"

"Yes, but I was in and out with clients myself, so I didn't really- Oh, sorry," she broke off as the door chimed and a woman came in with two Dalmatians straining at their leads. Bryony expertly shepherded client and dogs into an examination room, then popped back out, saying to Gemma, "Look, I won't be a moment. Make yourself at home."

Gemma had never had much occasion to visit veterinary surgeries, having never owned a pet. Her parents had been adamant that animals and bakeries didn't mix- "Can't have customers worrying about dog or cat hair in their scones and buns, now can we?" her mother had responded cheerfully whenever Gemma or her sister had pleaded for a puppy or a kitten.

She found the surgery's atmosphere reassuring, with its faint smell of dog and disinfectant, leatherette-covered banquette seating along the walls, displays of the pet foods offered for sale, and posters of raining cats and dogs decorating the walls. A photo taped to the side of the reception computer caught her eye; she moved closer to examine it.

Geordie, the caption beneath the photo read. Two-year-old neutered male cocker, blue roan. Needs good home. The dog's coat was a pale, mottled blue-gray, with dark gray patches. A blaze in the lighter color divided the dog's alert, intelligent face, and his long, silky ears were dark. He seemed to gaze back at her, head tilted, the expression in his eyes, Gemma could have sworn, one of instant recognition. The dog reminded her of the spaniel in the painting Duncan's cousin Jack had recently given her, a memento of their time in Glastonbury.

"Lovely, isn't he?" asked Bryony, coming up behind her.

"Finished already?" Gemma looked round for the Dalmatians.

"I'm going to have to x-ray one of them- seems he's eaten all the glass balls off the Christmas tree- amazing what dogs can digest- and for that I'll need Gavin's help." Bryony tapped the photo with her fingertip. "Are you interested in a dog, by any chance?"

"Why does the owner want rid of him?" Gemma asked warily.

"She's just married a man with a dreadful allergy to dogs- sends him to hospital with asthma. I think it was a close call between the dog and the husband," Bryony added, grinning, "but in the end she decided to keep the husband. But she won't let the dog go to just anyone."