CHAPTER 13

Gemma had sat at the hospital bedside until long after Vi drifted off, watching her mother's face, made unfamiliar by repose. When had she ever watched her mother sleep, seen the tiny tics that signaled dreams, wondered what her mum was dreaming?

What did she know of her mother's memories or desires, of her life outside of the daily routine of husband, children, and work? Had her mum imagined a different life for herself, adventures that had never come to pass, a husband or lover who expected more than familiarity and tea on the table?

Even now, lying in bed watching the splash of early morning sun on the opposite wall and enjoying the warmth of the cocker spaniel sprawled across her feet, she felt unsettled in a way that was deeper than worry over cancer and treatments, although that was bad enough.

Last night she had sensed a resignation that frightened her. What if her mum didn't want to fight this thing? Could she, who had always seemed indomitable, leave them so easily? Would she slip away, leaving Gemma to discover she had never really known her at all? And someday would her own children feel the same way about her?

She could hear the boys' voices floating up from downstairs, a medley of the usual morning laughter and complaint. They had been asleep by the time she'd got home last night, and this morning Duncan had been up early, whispering that she should have a lie-in, that he would get the boys ready for school.

But suddenly she wanted to be up, wanted to be in the midst of the clamor, wanted to spend the time she'd missed with the children the past few days. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, saying, "Sorry, boy," as she gave Geordie an apologetic pat. Grabbing a dressing gown, she padded barefoot down the stairs, the dog following.

She found the boys in the kitchen, dressed in their school uniforms, eating toast, and Kincaid slipping into his jacket.

"I've got to go," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll take Toby. Come on, sport," he added. "Last bite, and get your satchel."

"No, wait," said Gemma. "He can be late. You go on."

"You're sure?"

"Positive." She brushed a stray dog hair from his jacket and waved him off. "Go."

"I'll ring you."

When the door had closed behind him, she turned to the boys. "What's your first class, Kit?"

"History," he mumbled through toast and jam, making a face.

"Any papers due, or quizzes?"

"No. Just old Toady lecturing." He gave an exaggerated snore.

"Old Toady?"

"Mr. Tobias," Kit corrected, rolling his eyes. "Why would anyone want to know about the War of the Roses? Dead boring, if you ask me."

"I'm sure I don't know, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt you to miss a lecture." When Kit stared at her in surprise, she grinned back. "I have a plan."

Cullen paused at the door to Kincaid's office. His boss sat at his desk, head bent over a disordered fan of papers. His hair stood on end and the knot on his tie was pulled loose, unusual evidence of frustration so early in the day. Maybe, thought Cullen, he could improve things.

"Name and address, guv," he said, entering.

Looking up, Kincaid rubbed at his eyes. "What?"

Cullen had got the warrant first thing that morning, and had been at Harrowby's door when the salesroom opened. Mrs. March had shown him to Khan's office, and Amir Khan had offered him a seat before perusing the paperwork.

Although as immaculately turned out as he had been the previous day, Khan's handsome face looked a bit hollow, as if he was tired, and he was warily polite. Cullen, who had gone in hyped for a protest, found himself a bit disappointed.

"It's all in order," he said when Khan started through the warrant for the third time.

"I'm sure it is, Sergeant Cullen. But it's my nature to be thorough, and I have to protect the interests of our customers. Do you mind if I make a copy for our records?"

"Be my guest," Cullen said, thinking he wished the man would bloody get on with it.

Khan stood and ran the warrant through the copier on top of a file cabinet with what seemed to Cullen agonizing slowness. Then he handed the paper back and opened one of the files, taking out a card. Returning to his desk, he transcribed the information from the card onto a sheet of notepaper and handed it across.

Cullen squinted at his unexpectedly illegible handwriting. "Harry Pevensey? And that's Hanway Place?"

"Yes," said Khan, sounding slightly irritated.

"And you met this Harry Pevensey?"

"Of course." The irritation seemed to be quickly turning to annoyance. "He said he was an actor, although I suspect not a terribly successful one."

"Did you think he came by the brooch legitimately?" Cullen asked, dogged.

"Sergeant Cullen. As I've said before, if we made sure that every client who brought in an item to sell had come by it legitimately, we'd have little business. People tell us what they want to tell us, and we check that information as far as we are able. In a case like this, the item speaks for itself, and it didn't really matter if Mr. Pevensey said he'd found it in a rubbish bin."

"He didn't-"

"A figure of speech, Sergeant. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do. You can ask Mr. Pevensey yourself."

Smarting at the dismissal, Cullen had taken the information Khan had provided, but numerous attempts at ringing the phone number had not even got a response from an answering machine.

Now he said, "The seller of the brooch, guv. A Mr. Harry Pevensey of Hanway Place, London. No joy with the phone number, so I thought we should go along."

Kincaid glanced at his watch. "This is his home address you've got? Won't he be at work?"

"It's the only address he gave Harrowby's. But he did tell Mr. Khan that he was an actor, so perhaps we can find him at home this time of day." Cullen gestured at Kincaid's unfinished paperwork. "Anything interesting?"

"House to house, accident report, complete postmortem, forensics report on Kristin Cahill's room, and the records from her mobile phone carrier, which confirm that she had multiple calls to and from Dominic Scott, and that she had regular calls from Giles Oliver. Maybe she and Oliver were more friendly than Oliver admitted.

"As for the house to house, no one saw or heard anything, except for the witness who went to the scene and called 999." He leaned back in his chair, ticking things off on his fingers. "Cause of death, bleeding from severe internal injuries, consistent with being hit mid-body by a car traveling at high speed. No trace evidence from the car found on her clothing or body, however.

"Otherwise, Kristin was a normal, healthy young woman. No sign of pregnancy or nonaccident-related injuries. No signs of recent sexual activity or assault. No drugs, and blood alcohol below the legal limit."

"And the CCTV?" Cullen asked.

"The footage shows a dark SUV. Possibly a Land Rover. But the plates are either obscured or missing."

"Definite premeditation, then," said Cullen. "But no one so far had a link with the car?"

"Not unless it's your Mr. Pevensey, and I think we should give him a try before we have a word with Giles Oliver." Kincaid pulled up the knot on his tie and smoothed his hair with his fingers, a maneuver that was only marginally successful. "How did you get on last night, by the way? Gemma said you went with Melody to check out the Gate."