Kincaid stood and thanked Mr. Canfield, shaking his hand, but Gemma pretended not to see the limp digits proffered in her direction.

"Nasty little pervert," she muttered, knowing Canfield was watching them avidly from the window. It made the hairs rise on the back of her neck. "Maybe he developed an obsession with Dawn, watching her coming and going next door and knowing what they were up to-"

"He could have followed her easily enough and learned where she lived," Kincaid agreed. "Then lain in wait for her that evening-"

"Right," replied Gemma, rolling her eyes. "Canfield doesn't look fit enough to have attacked a kitten. And if he was out murdering Dawn, how would he have known what time Alex left his flat? Still, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to run a check on him."

Melody, having been obliged to turn the panda car round and seek a parking space outside the mews, reappeared at the top of the road. "I've got the warrant," she called out as she neared them. "And a locksmith coming."

"I'd assume Mr. Canfield has a key," Kincaid told her. "But let me give it a try." He carried a small set of professional lock picks, and Gemma knew he enjoyed an opportunity to practice his skills.

"I don't think it's very likely we'll find him here," he said quietly as he bent over the lock. "As Canfield saw him leave in his car, and the car hasn't been returned. Besides, there's no smell."

Gemma grimaced at his reassurance. "Might have topped himself somewhere else, though," she offered.

"Then what happened to the girl who was driving? The one with the interesting hair?"

"Fern Adams."

Kincaid glanced up at her, one ear still tuned to the sound of the tumblers he was manipulating.

"His ex-girlfriend. The one his friends at the café said was determined to help. And a witness saw Alex leave the arcade with her."

"Then where are they now?" asked Melody. "Do you have an address for her?"

"No. I know she lives nearby, but Dunn's car hasn't been spotted anywhere in the district."

"Got it!" Kincaid exclaimed as the door swung open.

He entered cautiously, calling out and turning on light switches with his handkerchief. There was no reply, and it was soon apparent that the flat was unoccupied.

The bedroom was at the front, sharing a wall with Mr. Canfield's sitting room, Gemma realized with distaste. A pair of trousers lay across the unmade bed as if they had been carelessly tossed; the dressing table held a hairbrush, a bowl of pocket change, and two lovely blue-and-white vases; the two bedside tables held stacks of antiques magazines and Christie's catalogues. In the wardrobe, Gemma found two suitcases and a duffle bag along with neatly folded and hung clothes. There was no indication that Dunn had packed for a trip. Nor could any room have looked less like the scene of an illicit love affair.

A dark, glossy green tile surrounded the tub, men's toiletries were ranged round the sink, and the bath gave off the faint but unmistakably masculine scent of soap and aftershave. There was no sign of regular occupation by a woman.

"He uses an expensive electric razor," Kincaid commented. "You'd think that if he'd meant to go away, he'd have taken it."

Everything in the sitting area had been painted a warm cream, including the cabinets in the kitchen at one end. Gemma wondered if Alex had been trying to wipe out any trace left by his landlord, as she couldn't imagine the decoration being the product of Donald Canfield's imagination, but the most practical reason for the vanilla hue of the walls and carpet was obvious: It displayed Alex's collection at its best.

Lovely examples of blue-and-white porcelain were scattered about the room on small tables, shelves, and desk, and one wall held a glass display cabinet filled with colorful Art Deco pieces that made her gasp in delight.

French doors led out to a small enclosed garden. A flagstone patio held pots of now withered geraniums and a white iron table with two chairs. Gemma imagined Alex and Dawn sitting there on a warm evening, engrossed in one another, and felt a twinge of sadness.

"Another dead end," Melody said with a sigh of discouragement.

"Not entirely," countered Gemma. "It at least lets us rule out the possibility that Dunn came back here and killed himself in despair over Dawn's death."

"Dunn didn't disappear until Saturday morning," Kincaid pointed out. "If he killed Dawn on Friday night, then returned to the flat, he certainly hasn't left any obvious evidence."

"We'll get forensic in, just in case. But in the meantime," Gemma added, "I'm going to find Fern Adams."

Gemma combined an information-seeking stop at Otto's Café with a belated lunch, served to her by the cheerful Wesley. Kincaid had returned to the Yard to begin background checks on Karl Arrowood's sons.

Otto, Wesley told her as he served her a bowl of steaming lentil soup, was out for the day. He didn't elaborate. Was he regretting his forthrightness when they had spoken before? Gemma wondered.

"Perhaps you can help me," she said when she'd finished her soup and he'd come to take away her dish. "Have you seen Fern Adams since she left here on Saturday?"

"No. That's a bit odd, too. She's usually in here every day for a coffee."

"Nor Alex?" Gemma knew that constables inquiring after Alex would have asked here, but she wanted to hear for herself what Wesley had to say.

Wesley shook his head, his mobile face portraying worry. "You'd think the man had vanished into a bloody great hole. No one's heard a thing from him. Do you think- He wouldn't- He was that upset…"

"I'd be more concerned if he hadn't left his flat with Fern- we've a witness who saw them. It's Fern I'd like to talk to now. Do you know where I could find her?"

"She lives in Portobello Court. I don't remember the flat number, but I can tell you where it is." He gave Gemma detailed directions. "Don't mistake me," Wesley added, "Miz Arrowood's murder was a terrible thing, only I didn't know her. But if anything's happened to Alex or Fern… They're like family."

"Do you have family of your own?"

"My mother." Wesley's face split in a brilliant smile. "She lives down Westbourne Park." Sobering, he added, "My dad's been gone a few years now. Heart attack."

"You stay with your mum?"

"Can't afford nothing else, you know what it's like," answered Wesley with no hint of complaint. "But even if I could, I'd not want to leave my mum on her own. She's a good woman, my mother."

Gemma said good-bye and walked thoughtfully back up Portobello Road. Would her children have such care for her when they were grown?

Portobello Court was the first modern block of flats built by the Council after the war, containing such sought-after amenities as indoor plumbing and separate kitchens, and she knew that many flats had been occupied by the same families since the fifties.

Following Wesley's directions, she climbed the stairs to the first floor and knocked on what she hoped was the right door. A door across the corridor opened and an elderly lady peered out at her, shaking her head.

"You looking for that girl? Rings in her nose, and Lord knows where else. Don't know what the world's coming to."

"Do you know where she is?"

"Been holed up in the flat for days, far as I know. Don't know how she expects to make a living if she doesn't get out and scour the countryside. That's what it takes to turn a profit, you know. My husband was in the trade, had a stall next to her daddy."

With some assurance that Fern was at home, Gemma turned and knocked again, more loudly, and this time she was rewarded by the sound of shuffling and the click of a latch.