It didn’t explain how the murderer had gained access to the building, and Kincaid still harbored a strong feeling that Yarwood was somehow involved.

It hadn’t escaped him that he’d been asked to look after Yarwood’s interests, but if Yarwood’s bosses had thought that appealing to their connections at Scotland Yard would guarantee favoritism, they’d been much mistaken. As far as Kincaid was concerned, his brief was simply to make sure Michael Yarwood was not accused without grounds.

Kincaid also realized that Ling’s description of the victim could fit the profile of Winnie’s friend’s missing flatmate. He’d have to ring Gemma as soon as they were finished at the hospital and arrange to get a sample of the woman’s DNA for the lab. He could put in a sample request through official channels, of course, as a report had been filed, but out of consideration for Winnie he preferred to take care of it in person.

And he had to admit his curiosity had been aroused by Gemma’s description of the house and the missing woman’s odd lifestyle. If there was any chance the woman in the warehouse might turn out to be Elaine Holland, he wanted to see both house and flatmate for himself.

As Dr. Ling began the Y-incision that would allow her to remove and examine the victim’s internal organs, Maura Bell’s phone rang. She stepped back, shielding the phone and speaking quietly so as not to disturb the procedure, but when she rang off her face shone with barely suppressed excitement.

“That was Borough station,” she said. “About the CCTV footage. They’ve found something.”

Congratulating herself on her luck, Gemma slipped the car into a parking space in Pembridge Gardens, just off the top of Portobello Road. A spot so near Portobello Market on a Saturday morning was not to be passed up, although the location meant she’d have a struggle with Toby when they walked past the library. He’d begun to read simple books on his own, and their usual Saturday visits to the library were the highlight of his week, but today they had another agenda.

Having let the boys skip breakfast at home in the interests of speed, she distracted Toby with a reminder of her promise to buy them hot cocoa and croissants from the street stall at Mr. Christian’s Deli. That way they could eat and shop at the same time.

Soon they joined the lemminglike flood of pedestrians pouring into the top of Portobello Road. With one hand firmly gripping Toby and the other her handbag, Gemma relaxed into the flow, letting herself enjoy the color and bustle of the crowd. Beside her, Kit looked happier than she’d seen him in weeks.

She loved the view from the top end of Portobello Road, and it was never more beautiful than on a sunny autumn morning. Below them the street curved gently, lined on both sides with houses and shop fronts painted every color of the rainbow.

It made her feel she’d been picked up out of ordinary London and plunked down in the middle of somewhere more exotic – a village in Italy, or maybe the south of France – except that this, too, was typical of London, where it was not unusual for colorful and eccentric pockets to butt up against sedate Victorian villas. Snatches of music came from the buskers farther down the road, fading in and out, as if someone were twirling the dial on a cosmic radio, and the odor of garlic cooking wafted up from a basement kitchen as they passed.

It took Gemma a moment to put a name to the feeling that welled up inside her. With a start of surprise she realized it was contentment. It wasn’t only the view she loved, but all of Portobello, and Notting Hill, and the house she shared with Duncan and the boys. She loved the connections they had made – friends, neighbors, shopkeepers – and it came to her that she had never before felt so at home. Not in Islington, not even in Leyton where she had grown up.

Her parents had known that sense of community, of belonging, she was sure, but she’d always been focused on moving on, getting out, making her own life. Then, during her marriage to Rob, her pregnancy, Toby’s babyhood, she’d always been looking round the corner, anticipating what came next. Her life had been a litany of afters - after the wedding, after the baby, after she returned to work, after the divorce, after the promotion. Even living in Hazel’s garage flat, her perceptions had been colored by the knowledge that it could only be a stopgap, a temporary measure.

But now… now she didn’t want to move on. Perhaps it was partly her worry over Kit; perhaps it was the sense of life’s fragility that still lingered from her miscarriage; or perhaps it was watching the collapse of her friend Hazel’s seemingly perfect marriage.

Whatever the reason, she knew only that she wanted fiercely to hold on to things just the way they were and not take any risks that might bring about change.

The crowd thickened as Gemma and the boys crossed Chepstow Villas and entered the heart of Portobello’s antiques market, and she gripped Toby’s hand a little tighter. When Kit veered off to the right, towards the antique sporting goods shop that was one of his favorites, she pulled him back firmly. “Food first. Then we shop.”

A few minutes later, armed with hot drinks in paper cups and flaky chocolate croissants, they started a thorough perusal of the street stalls and arcades.

Gemma hadn’t expected finding an antique specimen cabinet would be easy, but three hours and four arcades later, she was beginning to despair. As the clock crept towards noon, the heat in the arcades had become suffocating, the crowds aggravating rather than exhilarating. Kit’s face had grown longer and longer, and Toby was whining because he was hungry and because she’d refused to buy him an outrageously expensive Matchbox car. If she hadn’t been so hot and tired, she’d have laughed at the look on his face when she’d tried to explain that the toys were not meant to be played with, only looked at. The concept of collecting made no sense to a five-year-old.

“What do you say we take a break for lunch?” she said, sighing with relief as they emerged once more onto the pavement. “We could go to Otto’s. Is Wes working today?”

“Yeah, I think so,” answered Kit, displaying none of his usual enthusiasm for food or for a visit to their friend Otto’s café. “Couldn’t we look just a bit longer?”

“Maybe after lunch-” Gemma broke off, realizing that the tinny sound she’d been hearing above the noise of the mob was her mobile phone. It was Duncan, she saw as she fished it from her bag, and she had a sudden sinking feeling that it was not good news.

She answered, and when she’d heard him out, said, “I’ll have to get in touch with Winnie. I’ll ring you when I’ve connected with her, and you can meet us there.”

“Gemma, you don’t have to come,” Kincaid protested. “You said the house is right across the street from Winnie’s church. Why don’t I just ask her to pop over and meet me?”

She thought of the boys, and of another missed piano lesson, and for a moment she was tempted to agree. But then she recalled Fanny Liu’s frightened face and the comfort Fanny had seemed to derive from her presence, and she felt ashamed of her selfishness. “Yes,” she said reluctantly. “I think I do.”

When she rang off, both boys were watching her.

“You have to go, right?” Kit said flatly.

“Yes,” she admitted ruefully. “But maybe we can grab a bite of lunch first.”

“And the cabinet?”

“What about next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday? But-” Kit shrugged and turned away, studying the display of antique jewelry on a street stall table with great concentration, but she’d seen the flash of panic in his eyes. Was he so worried about Monday’s hearing at the family court that he feared there wouldn’t be another Saturday?

Gently she said, “Kit, there’s no reason we can’t do this next Saturday. Maybe Duncan can-”