For a moment he considered putting his head back under the covers, but if they broke his door down, there would be hell to pay, and he'd have lost any chance of presenting a dignified front.

He'd got back into his slippers and donned his dressing gown when the pounding grew even louder and someone shouted, "Harry! I know you're in there. Open the fucking door!"

Recognizing the voice, Harry said, "Dom?" What was Dominic Scott doing here, and making such a racket? "Just shut up, would you?" he called out as he shuffled to the door, his head pounding like a jackhammer.

"Harry, let me-" Dom staggered in, fist raised, as Harry opened the door. He looked worse than Harry felt-unwashed hair, pasty faced, and his breath reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes, which Harry despised.

Harry closed the door, then grimaced, backing off a step. "You smell like a pub ashtray. And what do you think you're doing knocking me up at this hour? Not to mention giving the neighbors something to gossip about for weeks."

"Since when have you ever minded giving anyone cause for gossip," retorted Dom, sinking into Harry's brocaded slipper chair, a bequest from his paternal grandmother.

"And you look like shit," Harry continued, undeterred. It was a shame the boy let himself go, Harry thought, as he had looks Harry would have envied in his day. He considered booting Dom out of his favorite chair, but couldn't decide where he'd rather have him sit. He settled for taking the other armchair himself, after he'd straightened the covers on the bed. "What do you want, Dom?"

Dom leaned forward, and Harry saw that his hands were shaking. "Have you got anything, Harry? Offer a mate a drink? I'm not feeling too well."

"No. Bar's closed," said Harry, thinking longingly of the bottle of gin tucked away in his kitchen cupboard. The hair of the dog would ease his headache, but he wanted Dom Scott out of his flat as soon as possible, and he certainly wasn't inclined to share his medicinal stash.

"Coffee, then? Or even tea?"

Harry glanced at his filled kettle, his favorite cup set out beside it, along with the tea caddy, and sighed. "All right. One cup. But then you'd better make it quick." Not that he had anywhere to go, but the young man's behavior was making him anxious. Dom Scott was used to demanding, not pleading, which made Harry suspect there was a serious spanner in the works.

He made the tea while Dom fidgeted in the chair like a fretful child, pulling at his shirt cuffs, tugging at his already disarrayed dark hair. Harry had seen the signs before, and they weren't good, nor did they bode well for their joint scheme.

While the tea brewed, he excused himself to the loo, running a brush through his hair and examining his face-definitely the worse for wear-in the fly-specked mirror. Visions floated through his mind. Unsuccessful auditions. Bad parts in unheated village theaters. Mothers' unions, God forbid. Bill collectors who wouldn't, couldn't, be put off.

No, he was not going to let go of the merry-go-round. Not now, boyo. He could deal with Dominic Scott, a spoiled little tosser who didn't have half his mother's bollocks.

Harry went back into the sitting room with a smile and a new and steely resolve. He poured Dom's tea into a china cup that he hated to trust to the boy's twitchy fingers, then poured his own and sat on the arm of a chair, ankles crossed, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

"All right, Dom. What seems to be the problem?"

Dom gulped his tea until his cup was empty, then stared at him as if he'd suddenly lost the power of speech. Then he swallowed visibly and said, "Harry, we have to take the brooch out of the sale."

"What? Take it out of the sale?" Harry had expected him to try cutting his percentage, but not this. "Are you mad?"

"No. Look, I'm telling you. It has to come out."

"Why on earth would you want to do that? We're talking about a more-than-six-figure profit, and you're the one needed-"

Dom was shaking his head. "The police have been round. They talked to Kristin. They're asking questions about the brooch. Some woman says it was stolen from her during the war."

"Stolen?" Harry thought swiftly. "What did Kristin tell them?"

"Nothing. But she could lose her job. I asked her to take the brooch out, but she says she can't. She says you're the only one who can withdraw it."

"I bought it at a car boot sale," Harry said with an offhand shrug. "So why should it matter to me what some woman says?"

Dom twisted the teacup until it fell from his fingers and bounced on the threadbare Axminster carpet. "Harry, you don't underst-"

"No. You don't understand." For the first time in his life, Harry Pevensey knew he had the advantage. "The brooch stays in the sale. And maybe, if you're a really good boy, I'll give you a percentage of the profit."

Gemma had always liked the Lucan Place Police Station. Like Notting Hill, it was one of the few prewar buildings still functioning as an active station, and like Notting Hill, it had a warmth and grace most of the newer stations lacked.

It was also just a few streets from the South Kensington tube station, not far from Harrowby's, another rather uncomfortable coincidence, it seemed to Gemma.

She identified herself at reception and asked to see the officer in charge of the hit-and-run accident investigation. While the duty officer gave her a curious look, she was told she could see Inspector Boatman, and was soon shown into an office not unlike her own.

The officer who stood to greet her was female, short, stocky, dark haired, and somewhere in her indeterminate thirties, Gemma guessed. She wore a serviceable suit and no makeup, but when she smiled and held out her hand to Gemma, any notion of her as unattractive vanished.

"You're Inspector James?" she asked. "I'm Kerry Boatman. Have a seat." Like Gemma's, her desk was cluttered with paperwork, but the visitors' chairs were clear and looked as though they had seen much use. Spaced among the files on Boatman's desk, however, were a half-dozen photos, showing, from the sideways angle Gemma could see, various poses of a balding man, two toothy little girls, and a large tabby cat. Gemma, on the other hand, displayed nothing personal in her office, feeling it was inappropriate to cross those professional boundaries, but she suddenly felt a little ache of envy under her breastbone.

"I see you're here about last night's hit-and-run," said Boatman, glancing down at a scribbled note by her phone. "That's a bit odd, as it's not on your patch." There was no hint of hostility in her voice, just interest.

"The victim-It was Kristin Cahill? The girl who worked at Harrowby's?" asked Gemma.

"Yes." Boatman consulted her notes again. "Twenty-three years old, a junior sales assistant for the last year at Harrowby's. She lived with her parents in a flat at World's End."

Since Erika's phone call, Gemma had been sure of the victim's identity, but she felt a stab of regret at the confirmation. "I met her yesterday," she told Boatman. "I was making an inquiry, unofficially, for a friend." She went on to explain about Erika and the brooch, and that she had felt Kristin was slightly uncomfortable with her questions. "Then this morning my friend went to Harrowby's. She wanted to see the brooch for herself, and to talk to someone more senior. When she heard about Kristin, she rang me. And I just felt it was…odd."

Kerry Boatman studied her for a moment. "It seems your instincts may have been right. I've just had the preliminary from the accident scene investigation. Nothing concrete, of course, but from the tire marks, it looks as though the car that hit Kristin Cahill accelerated, rather than braked. And that, before it accelerated, it was parked at the curb near Kristin's building."