When Toby had slipped from the table and gone pounding up the stairs, Kincaid scooped out the remainder of his egg, mixed it with the toast crusts, and set it on the floor for the dogs.

"Gemma would throw a wobbly," said Kit, taking his cornflakes bowl to the sink.

"I'll bet she does the same thing when I'm not here."

Kit gave him a half smile. "I'm not supposed to tell you." He lingered while Kincaid rinsed his own plate, and when Kincaid looked up he said tentatively, "About Gran. Is she going to be all right?"

The fear of loss always hovered very near the surface for Kit, and although Kincaid would have preferred not to worry him, they'd had to tell him all that they knew.

Kincaid knew he couldn't sugarcoat it. "We'll know more after this morning. But the disease is treatable, and Gran's a fighter." He tried to block out Gemma's description of her mum on yesterday afternoon's visit.

"I've been looking it up," said Kit. "Leukemia. It's cancer of the blood and bone marrow, and it can spread all over the body, even into the brain. She'll need radiation and chemotherapy, and if those don't work-"

"Kit, stop. You're jumping the gun here." Kincaid turned and grasped his son's shoulders. "We don't know how far advanced the cancer is. And Gran's never been ill. That must give her a better chance."

"But if the treatments don't work, the best option for bone marrow replacement is from a sibling, and Gran doesn't have brothers or sisters."

Kincaid saw the unvoiced echo in his son's eyes. And neither do I.

Damn and blast the Internet. Sometimes it was a bigger curse than a blessing, especially with a bright and vulnerable child. Did Kit feel they had failed him by not providing him with a half brother or sister? Kincaid tried to shrug off the thought. That was a subject that had been dropped the last few months, and it had eased a tension in his relationship with Gemma.

He heard Toby singing to himself as he thumped back down the stairs, dragging his backpack behind him. To Kit, he said, "Listen, sport, we're all going to be late. We'll talk more tonight." Then, as a distraction, he added, "Did Gemma tell you about Erika's long-lost brooch turning up for auction?"

"Yeah." Kit's expression lightened. "Cool. Except Gemma said she seemed upset. Maybe I could stop by and see her after school?"

"I think we've got a live one, guv," the desk sergeant at Chelsea Station told Hoxley when he walked into reception.

"Live what?" asked Hoxley, amused. Nearing retirement, Ben Watson was bald as a billiard ball, heavyset, and little inclined to stir himself except for the walk from desk to pub, but he kept an avuncular finger on the pulse of everything that went on in the station. He was also inordinately fond of fishing analogies, although Hoxley doubted he'd ever held a fishing rod in his life.

"Your unidentified corpus. Notting Hill rang. They've a woman reported her husband missing. Fits the description."

Hoxley gave him his full attention. "Address?"

"They've kept her at the station. Told them you'd be there soonest."

Wincing, Hoxley muttered, "Damn." Delivering bad news was difficult enough in the familiar environment of the home, and he didn't look forward to questioning a bereaved widow in a sterile interview room. But if indeed this was his victim's wife, she would be prepared for the worst, and he would be able to put a name, and a life, to the man he had left on the postmortem table.

Once more outside St. Paul 's tube station, Gemma hesitated. She could go straight on to work, or she could change at Notting Hill for South Kensington and make the inquiry at Harrowby's auction house she'd promised Erika. She felt frustrated and restless, this morning's visit to hospital having proved as fruitless as the previous evening's. Her mum had been out of the ward, having a bone marrow biopsy, the charge nurse had revealed reluctantly, as if imparting state secrets. And no, she didn't know how long it would take, and there was a good possibility the patient would go to X-ray and sonography as well.

"The patient is my mother," Gemma had snapped. The impersonalization of bureaucracy-speak irritated her just as much in the hospital as it did in the police station. But her little outburst did her no good, and after an hour's wait she gave up the vigil. Cyn would be in later in the morning, and she would have to depend on her sister for news.

Now, however, her patience frayed, she found herself particularly unwilling to sit in her cramped office, dealing with an onslaught of petty complaints from both sides of the police/public divide.

On an impulse, she pulled her mobile from her bag and dialed Melody Talbot. "So what sort of Monday is it?" she asked.

"A fairly placid one." Melody sounded her usual brisk self, and Gemma supposed she'd just been sleepy earlier. "I've left a few reports for you to look over, and consigned most of the rest to the dustbin."

"Good riddance, I'm sure." Cheered by Melody's voice, Gemma found herself saying, "I'm in the City, but I've got to make a stop in South Ken. Do you want to come along?"

"Business?"

"Um, I'm actually not certain."

"Sounds intriguing," said Melody. "Where should I meet you?"

"Harrowby's. I'll wait for you outside." Gemma rang off, pleased with herself for having piqued Melody's curiosity.

Half an hour later, she found Melody gazing in the windows of the venerable auction house on the Old Brompton Road. While that day Gemma had opted for trousers and a long aubergine cardigan over a soft-collared shirt, Melody wore a tailored navy suit, pressed to the nines, hemmed tastefully at the knee. Gemma thought, not for the first time, that either PC Talbot was aiming for assistant commissioner or she was trying to show up all her female colleagues. Now Gemma wasn't sure if inviting Melody along had been such a good idea.

Melody turned from inspecting an Art Deco pottery display that made Gemma's heart skip. "What's up, boss? Have we been seconded to the Fraud squad?"

Hesitating, Gemma said, "Actually, I'm doing a favor for a friend. Unofficially."

"Ah." Melody ruffled her hair, slipped off her jacket and tossed it over her arm, and unbuttoned another button on her blouse. "Unofficial it is."

Gemma grinned. "Got it in one."

"So what's the story?"

Gemma explained briefly, then added, with an uncertain glance at the window, "Have you ever been to an auction?"

"Once or twice. Just curiosity," Melody added quickly. "It's not as intimidating as it looks. They want you to feel comfortable."

"Right." Gemma led the way into the foyer. Opposite a friendly looking gray-haired woman at a reception desk, a long table held copies of catalogs for all upcoming sales. The Art Deco jewelry was easy enough to spot: brilliant red, green, and blue gems in a geometric-patterned bracelet blazed from the cover. Finding the entry for the brooch that she'd seen at Erika's, Gemma reread the text. It was as she remembered-there was no provenance.

Holding her place, she took the book to the desk. "I'm inquiring for a friend," she explained, tapping the picture of the waterfall brooch with her fingertip, "who thinks this brooch belonged to her family. It was lost during the war."

For the first time, the woman looked uneasy. "Mr. Khan's our jewelry expert, but he's out doing a valuation-"

Gemma wasn't going to be put off so easily. "Is there someone else?"

"Well, there's Miss Cahill, but-" She flicked a glance at Melody, and Gemma guessed she took her for a lawyer.