When the day came, Ronnie offered to borrow his father's van to help her move the larger items the few blocks south to Colville Terrace. They rode amicably in the front seat, arguing the merits of a new band from Tottenham that had temporarily displaced the Beatles from their number one spot on the charts.

"The Dave Clark Five?" Ronnie said contemptuously. "What sort of name is that? I'm telling you, six months from now you won't remember what they were called. The Beatles, now, they've got some potential as musicians."

That he deigned to approve of any pop band surprised her: he usually extolled only the virtues of jazz artists like Thelonious Monk and Chet Baker. "What about the Rolling Stones, then?" she suggested, aiming for a sophistication she didn't feel.

Ronnie's face lit up. "Now they've studied the old blues masters- they know their stuff," he said enthusiastically, and the relaxed atmosphere between them lasted the few minutes until they reached their destination.

"Here?" he asked incredulously as he pulled the van up in front of the new flat. By the time he had followed her up to the top-floor room, he was livid with anger.

"Angel, what you thinking of? This is a pit, a hole. A West Indian family right off the boat wouldn't be desperate enough to take this-"

"It's all I can afford, Ronnie, so just leave it-"

"Don't you know this is one of Peter Rachman's properties? He'll send his frighteners round if you don't pay your rent on time. And his dogs. And if your water goes out, or your heat, he's not known for taking care of his tenants-"

"I'll be fine," Angel insisted, fighting back tears.

"Those patches on the walls are damp, did you know that? And there's only a paraffin heater, for God's sake. You'll be lucky you don't set yourself alight-"

"Ronnie, either you can help me move this furniture, or I'll do it myself. But there's no point in you standing there criticizing me, because I've no choice."

Their glowering match lasted a full minute, then Ronnie shrugged. "All right. It's your funeral."

But by the time they had humped her things up the stairs, his anger seemed to have evaporated. He sat on the edge of the newly positioned chair, rotating his cap in his hands. "Look, Angel. I'm sorry for what I said a moment ago. It was… considering your father… anyway, I didn't mean it. I just don't understand why you can't stay with us until you work something out."

"And what exactly am I supposed to work out? I can't be a permanent parasite on your family, Ronnie. I'm grown up now- I've got to learn to manage on my own." She hoped he couldn't hear the tremor in her voice.

He stood. "All right, then. But don't say I didn't tell you."

Suddenly she felt she couldn't bear for him to turn and walk out the door. She put her hand on his arm. "Ronnie. I am grown up now. You could stay if you wanted."

She saw the naked flash of desire on his face, saw it swiftly replaced by horror.

"Angel, you're… you're like my sister. I could never… you shouldn't even think such a thing."

He did turn away then, clattering down the stairs, leaving her alone in the cold and damp-ridden room. Carefully, methodically, she lit the paraffin heater and curled up beneath a blanket on her narrow bed. Then she wept as if her heart would break.

Gemma spent the first part of Thursday morning reviewing the reports that had come back from computer forensics. There was no evidence, either in E-mail or personal files, that Karl Arrowood had intended to murder his wife- or that he had suspected her affair or her pregnancy.

Nor was there any evidence that Dawn had used the computer at all, which Gemma found interesting, but not surprising, considering Dawn's carefulness in other matters.

Unfortunately, they had not begun the investigation looking for financial discrepancies in Karl Arrowood's accounts, and she would now have to ask the computer team to go over everything once again. They would also have to look at his business computers, which she expected he would not take kindly.

"If what Otto says is true, that Arrowood sells drugs," Melody said thoughtfully, "mightn't Dawn's death be a professional matter? An irate customer? A dissatisfied partner?"

Gemma had requested that Melody go to Arrowood's shop with her as backup, first having made sure that Sergeant Franks was well buried in paperwork. "But in that case, where does Marianne Hoffman come in?" she countered.

"There is that," Melody agreed. "What about the blood work, then? Any progress there?"

"Not yet. Christmas slowdown at the Home Office. I've nagged them again." Gemma found a parking spot on Kensington Park Road, across the street from Arrowood Antiques. The shop was unobtrusively elegant, blending easily into the residences situated opposite the classical town houses of Stanley Gardens.

From the window dressing alone it was apparent the shop served an equally elegant clientele. As they entered, the door chimed melodiously and Gemma's feet sank into the plush pile of a Wilton carpet. The front room was small, holding a few choice pieces of antique furniture, objets d'art, lamps, and ornately framed watercolors, but other equally rich rooms opened out from it.

A woman- blond, middle-aged, perfectly coiffed and manicured- sat at a writing desk in view of the door. She gave Gemma a half-wattage smile. "May I help you?" she asked, and Gemma heard the unvoiced "Not that's there's anything here you can afford."

Gemma had to agree- if the lack of price tags was any indication. "Is Mr. Arrowood in?" she asked, and saw the flick of the woman's glance towards the back of the shop.

"He's just stepped ou-"

"I think he'll see us."

The woman's smile disappeared altogether at the sight of Gemma's identification. "Just a moment, please."

They waited only a few minutes before Karl Arrowood appeared, as immaculately groomed and suited as she had seen him at his wife's funeral. "Inspector James, and Constable Talbot, is it? What can I do for you?"

"We'd like a word with you, Mr. Arrowood. Your office?"

He took them into the back without demur, seating himself behind a polished, claw-footed desk and motioning them to plush-covered chairs. "I take it you haven't come to tell me you've found my wife's murderer?"

Gemma ignored the question. "Since we spoke last, Mr. Arrowood, it's come to our attention that some of your profits may come from areas other than antiques."

His gaze remained unwavering, slightly amused; his hands rested casually on his blotter. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Inspector."

"Drugs. According to our sources, you've long-standing connections with drug trafficking in the area."

The amusement grew stronger. "Sources? And what exactly are these sources? Comic books? I might be angry if I could take you seriously, Inspector." The gray eyes now held an unmistakable glint of steel. "However, I would remind you that I have a successful business here, and I would not appreciate having my reputation damaged among my customers."

"Good." Gemma smiled. "Then you have everything to gain by cooperating fully. It's not my job to follow up these allegations. I'm only interested in what bearing this new information may have on your wife's death. Could one of your customers, or your suppliers, have attacked her because of some grudge against you?"

"This is an absurd fantasy." His hands tightened, and Gemma saw him make an effort to relax them. "Which you are obviously indulging to mask your own incompetence. I'm not going to continue this discussion without a solicitor."