"A book. But I never saw it. David was always secretive, even before the war. I suppose it was part of his character, the hoarding of emotions, both good and bad."

Gavin thought of the empty satchel found by David Rosenthal's body. "You must have had some idea what it was about, this book."

"Oh, yes. There were only certain things that occupied his mind, other than the necessities of everyday living. I think he was writing about the war, a personal indictment of all those who perpetrated, or allowed, such violence."

Gavin considered. "Do you mean you think he was naming names?"

"It's possible. I know he thought there were many who had escaped censure after the war. And he hated collaborators most. Somehow it was easier for him to understand those driven by hatred than those who allowed suffering because they were afraid or greedy. Or perhaps, Inspector…" She met his eyes once more. "Perhaps he despised himself most of all. For surviving."

Erika had thanked Gemma and Kit as graciously as possible, but she had been fretting to have them gone. She needed to think about what Gemma had told her, and she was already regretting her outburst about the brooch. It had been the shock. She'd never meant to reveal so much.

Gemma had been kind to undertake the task, but Erika realized that it had been cowardice that had led her to ask Gemma to do something she should have done herself. She'd always prided herself on her ability to face things-now she saw that her pride had been merely hubris. Why, when she had faced so much, had she failed at this one thing?

By the time she woke on Tuesday morning, she knew what she must do. She dressed carefully in her best suit, even though she knew it was slightly out of fashion-it seemed she wore suits only to funerals these days-and did her hair and makeup with concentration and hands that trembled only slightly.

When she left the flat, she found the air damp and fresh, but the sky clear. It had rained in the night, washing the city clean, and she tried to find an omen in that.

She flagged a taxi, and as the cab inched its way through the busy morning traffic, Erika felt suspended in time, knowing that the end of the journey would mark an irrevocable change in her life.

The cabbie, an older West Indian with a cheerful patter, went out of his way to set her down right at Harrowby's door. Erika over-tipped him, one last delaying tactic, then she was left standing on the pavement, on her own.

She was familiar with the place, partly from Henri's descriptions of his finds at auction over the years, but she had never actually attended an auction or set foot in the salesrooms.

Examining the windows, she saw that the displays were beautifully done but held only Art Deco pottery and furniture, not jewelry. If she was going to see her brooch, her father's gift, at last, there was nothing for it but to go inside.

CHAPTER 8

Superintendent Mark Lamb had been both understanding and sympathetic. Not that Gemma had expected less-he was a personal friend as well as her boss, and a generous and diplomatic administrator. He'd told her to take what time she needed, but to let him know if she were going to be out of the station for more than a day. As she turned to go, he added, "Lovely party, by the way," and she flushed at the unexpected compliment.

After that, confiding in Melody was easier, and Melody took the news in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. "I'm sure she'll be fine, boss. Now, you go and have a nice visit, and I'll-"

Whatever practical help Melody had meant to offer was cut off by the chirping of Gemma's mobile. "Sorry," said Gemma, surprised to see Erika's name come up on the caller ID.

As she answered, Erika's voice came over the line. "Gemma? I couldn't find a phone box." She sounded breathy, near panic. "I tried, but it's all mobiles these days, and I thought if I came home-But I should have rung right away-"

"Erika, what is it?" Gemma asked, dropping her bag on her desk and sinking back into her chair.

"Harrowby's. The salesrooms. I went to see the brooch-I-" Erika took a ragged breath, then began more calmly. "I wanted to see it for myself. But everything was in an uproar. The girl-the one you said you thought might know something-Kristin. I remembered the name."

Gemma felt cold. "Kristin Cahill."

"That's right. They said she was killed last night. An accident. A hit-and-run, near where she lived, in World's End. Gemma, if this had anything to do with me, with the brooch-I should never have-"

"Erika, no. Listen, I'm sure it's just coincidence, just an awful coincidence." But Gemma was mouthing words automatically, fighting nausea as she remembered Kristin Cahill's pale gamine face, and the young woman's frightened look when her boss had come into the room.

"But, Gemma-"

"I'm sure it's nothing," said Gemma firmly. "But I'll look into it. Straightaway. I promise."

Coincidence. Gemma didn't bloody believe in coincidence. Not like this-talking to a girl one day about something that seemed very slightly dodgy, having the same girl turn up dead the next.

She sat at her desk, tapping her phone on the blotter, straightening pencils and pens into neat regiments. Melody had gone to take a call, leaving Gemma to contemplate the ugly implications of Erika's story, and the more she thought, the less she liked it.

But was it possible there was more than one Kristin at Harrowby's? Erika hadn't heard a last name. Before she talked to anyone at the salesroom, Gemma had better make absolutely sure of her facts. Erika had said the accident happened in World's End, the westernmost edge of Chelsea, so the obvious place to start would be the Chelsea nick.

Harry Pevensey had never believed that the early bird got the worm. Late to bed and late to rise, that was an actor's life, and it had always suited him. He had his routines, everything just so, drapes drawn to keep out the morning's harsh intrusiveness, eye mask ditto, dressing gown to hand and kettle ready to boil, so that he could slip into the day as painlessly as his usual hangover would allow. And no less than eight hours' sleep-otherwise he'd look like hell, and no amount of makeup would make amends.

So Harry was affronted on Tuesday morning when, just as he was opening one eye and then the other, testing the intensity of the light compared to the sharpness of the knife tip between his eyes and contemplating the operation of verticality, someone began a bloody pounding on his door.

"What the hell," he muttered, sitting up with more force than necessary and wincing at the consequences. Whoever it was had bypassed the downstairs buzzer-had his wannabe rock-god neighbor, Andy Monahan, left the building's main door off the latch again? Or-Harry froze with his feet halfway into his worn slippers.

There was the wine merchant's bill he hadn't paid, and the shirt-maker's-couldn't go to auditions looking like something the cat dragged in, after all. And if they got a bit impatient, they were likely to employ less-than-civilized means of collecting their filthy lucre.