"My father was tolerated because he made beautiful things for the wealthy, and even after Hitler came to power in 1933, the elite were reluctant to give up their luxuries. And my father was an optimist. He always wanted to believe the best of people."

"But how could he? When such terrible things were happening?" asked Kit.

Erika gazed out into the communal garden, her eyes focused on a young woman playing with her child. "After Kristallnacht not even my father and David could ignore the danger, although in David's case, it had been stubbornness, not optimism, that kept us in Berlin."

Crystal Night. Kit had read about it in school, first with interest, because the name had intrigued him, then with growing horror as he realized what it meant. But somehow he had failed to connect Erika with that terrible tale of violence and destruction.

"The Night of the Broken Glass," Erika said softly. "November tenth, 1938. The windows of thousands of Jewish shops and homes throughout Germany and Austria were smashed, Jews were beaten and killed, and over thirty thousand Jewish men were taken to concentration camps. It was called, literally, crystal-glass night, because most shopkeepers' windows were made of more expensive crystal, rather than ordinary glass.

"It's considered politically incorrect to use that term now in Germany -it's felt it romanticizes what happened." She shook her head. "But for those who lived through it, we never forgot the sound of hammers smashing crystal. To this day I can't bear to break a glass." Pulling her cardigan a little closer, she sipped her drink. The few ice cubes had melted, diluting the liquid to a gold as pale as the afternoon sunlight. "But that's enough of such talk for this beautiful day. We should-"

"No," broke in Kit. "I want to hear. What happened after that? Did they break into your father's shop? Who was David? Why didn't he want to leave?"

Erika gazed at her drink, turning the glass in her fingers, and for a moment Kit thought she wouldn't answer. Then she glanced up at him, her dark eyes crinkled with affection. "That's a hard task you've set me. Are you sure you want to be a biologist and not a journalist?"

"Don't prevaricate," said Kit, trying out a new word. The last time he'd come for tea with Gemma, Erika had challenged him to learn a new word every day, and to teach Toby a simpler one. He hadn't done so well with Toby, but was rather proud of his own progress.

"You've been swotting."

The slang sounded funny coming from Erika, who usually spoke quite formal English. "All right," she said after a moment. "Yes. My father's shop was smashed. But he had heard rumors a few hours before and had managed to hide the most valuable pieces in our house. Because we lived in one of the more elegant parts of town, our home was spared, although we hid for hours in the cellar with the maids. I didn't know where David was and I was more terrified for him than for myself." At Kit's questioning look, she added, "David was my husband. He had been my teacher at university. The Nazis had forbidden the universities to hire Jews as lecturers, so David worked as a private tutor. Most of his students were children of the wealthy whose parents could afford to give them an extra edge, and some of them rose in the Nazi elite. It made David feel he had failed. Failed them, failed himself."

The sun had moved and Erika's face was now in shadow. When she didn't go on, Kit said uncertainly, "What did he teach?"

This time Erika's smile held no humor. "Philosophy. He believed in a rational, peaceful state."

Kit suddenly felt as if he'd got in over his head, but didn't know how to backpedal gracefully. Instead, he plunged ahead. "But you got out, didn't you? You and your husband. Why did you leave your father behind?"

As soon as the words left his lips, he'd have given anything to call them back.

Finding he didn't want to loom over this woman, Gavin pulled out a chair, and the legs scraping across the lino seemed unnaturally loud.

"Mrs. Rosenthal, first I need you to tell me about your husband."

"But I've already-"

"Please."

"But I-" Her protest subsided, but he thought she clasped her hands a little more tightly. Her nails were short and neat, her only jewelry a simple gold band.

"My husband," she said on an exhaled breath, as if marshaling patience, "is named David Rosenthal. He is a lecturer at a small college in North Hampstead, a school for Jewish boys. On Saturdays it is his habit to write in the Reading Room at the British Museum."

"On the Sabbath?" asked Gavin.

The glance she gave him was sharp. "My husband is not an observant Jew, Mr. Hoxley."

"All right." He nodded. "Go on."

"When he didn't come home for his supper, I thought perhaps he had gone to a meeting, and that he had forgotten to tell me. But he never came home. Not that night. Not yesterday. And this morning he did not show up for work at his college. They rang me at my work, and I came here."

It could still be a case of a wandering husband, Gavin told himself, although he couldn't imagine a man straying from this woman. "Can you describe your husband for me?"

She closed her eyes, as if building a picture in her mind. "David…is…a good deal older than I. Forty-eight last January. He is slender-too thin-and not as tall as you, Mr. Hoxley. He has blue eyes and dark hair that is becoming gray. Salt and pepper, I think is the English term."

Gavin felt a twist in his gut, half excitement, half dread. There was no avoiding it now. "Mrs. Rosenthal, did your husband wear any jewelry?"

Her eyes flew open. "Jewelry? A trinket only, a gift from one of his students. A little Jewish symbol on a chain, a mezuzah."

She must have seen the truth in his face, because she went quite still, so still he thought for a moment she had ceased to breathe, and that stillness was more devastating than all the tears he had witnessed in his years on the force.

Then she took a breath, like a drowning swimmer coming up for air, and said, very clearly, "Mr. Hoxley. I know my husband is dead. Did he-did he…harm himself?"

The afternoon dragged. Gemma's office grew stuffy from the heat, and opening the window brought only a current of warm air mixed with exhaust fumes. The mountain of paperwork on her desk seemed unshrinking, and she slogged through it with increasing irritation.

When Melody popped her head in to say she was going home, Gemma snapped, "Fine," then called her back.

"Sorry," she said. "Headache."

Melody, still looking as fresh and crisp as she had that morning, leaned against the doorjamb. "You're not looking forward to talking to your friend."

"No." Gemma sighed. "And I-" On the verge of telling Melody about her mum, she hesitated. She knew no more than she had that morning. Having traded text messages with Cyn, all she'd learned was that the consultants were still waiting on test results. Shaking her head, she finished lamely, "I'll have to do it in person. I suppose there's no point postponing."

Melody studied her, tilting her head in a gesture Gemma had learned meant she was assessing the truthfulness of a statement. But she merely said, "Call it a day, boss. Policy implementations can wait." Grinning, she added, "Forever, as far as I'm concerned."

"Right. See you tomorrow, then," answered Gemma, cheered.

When Melody had gone, she pushed her unfinished papers into a stack and smacked her pen on top for emphasis, then rang home. No answer.

Kincaid had told her that Kit wanted to go to Erika's after school, but surely he should be home by now. She didn't like it when Kit was out of touch-she supposed that eventually they were going to have to give in and get him a mobile, although she dreaded the thought of a teenager permanently wired to the world by his thumbs.