As if he had conjured her, he glanced down Dean Street and saw Gemma walking towards him. The sun glinted off her copper hair, and even in a skirt, she moved with the long, swingy stride that always made his heart lift. She saw him and smiled, and he suddenly felt distinctly unprofessional.

When she reached him, he leaned over and brushed his lips against her cheek, then pulled away, studying her. "You've got a mucky streak across your forehead," he said, rubbing at it with his thumb. "What have you been doing, excavating a tomb?"

"Nearer than you'd think," said Gemma. Pushing his hand away, she fished in her bag for a tissue and wiped at the smudge. "Did I get it?"

"All better. Now, what were you doing at Lucan Place?"

"Digging through file crates in the basement. I'll tell you later. What are we doing here? I could do with some lunch." She gestured at the pub.

"You should be so lucky." He told her what they had learned from the Harrowby's warrant, and that they had then discovered that the seller of the brooch had been killed the night before. "His neighbor, the poor bloke who found the body, identified Dom Scott from Cullen's photo. Said he visited the victim yesterday, and that they had a row. When we asked Dom, he said he wanted Pevensey to take the brooch out of the sale, as it was causing Kristin trouble, and Pevensey refused."

"So Dominic Scott knew the guy who put the brooch up for sale, this Pevensey, as well as Kristin?" Gemma frowned. "But what has that to do with this place? If we're not having lunch," she added, and he grinned.

"You're fixated on food. Dom Scott says that this is where he met Pevensey, that they were only casual bar acquaintances, and that when Pevensey told him he had jewelry to sell, he put him on to Kristin as a favor to them both. He seemed quite shocked to hear that Pevensey was dead."

"He was quite shocked to hear that Kristin was dead, too," said Gemma. "Either he's a very good actor or he's having very bad luck."

"All a bit much of a coincidence for my liking," Kincaid agreed. "I thought we should see if any of the staff here knows either of them."

"Along with lunch and a drink?" Gemma asked, with a determination that would have done Cullen proud.

Their hopes of sustenance were quickly dashed. The late-lunch crowd was thinning by the time they muscled their way to the bar, but the bartender still looked harried. When queried, he said briskly, "We don't do food. You'll have to go upstairs for that. And we only do beer by the half. Now, what can I get you?"

"Information, actually." Kincaid took out his identification. Even though he had spoken quietly, he had the sudden sense of attention in the room. There was no music, and he had noticed the other patrons glancing at them as they crossed the room. The bar was small, with a clubby feel, and for the most part the clientele seemed to lean towards the flamboyant side of eccentric.

The bartender slotted a wineglass into the rack with a clink and eyed them warily. "What sort of information?"

"I see you have Breton cider," Kincaid said, waiting for the murmur of voices to rise again. He didn't want the barman influenced by an audience. Catching Gemma's affirmative nod, he added, "Give us two bottles, why don't you?" although inwardly he winced at the price. This one was definitely going on the Yard's tab.

When the barman had filled their glasses and Kincaid didn't feel quite so many eyes boring into his back, he said, "Do you know a bloke by the name of Harry Pevensey?" He'd taken one of the smaller photos on Pevensey's wall out of its frame and now showed it to the barman.

"Harry?" The barman broke into an unexpected grin. "That's Harry, all right," he said, handing the photo back. "What's our Harry supposed to have done? Held up a director for a part?" He wiped and slotted another glass. "Of course I know Harry. I've been here for donkey's years, and Harry's been coming in longer than that. He's a harmless sod."

Kincaid sipped his cider, then centered his glass on the beer mat, suddenly reluctant to impart bad news to someone who had obviously liked Harry Pevensey. "Unfortunately, it's not what Harry's done, but what someone has done to him. He was killed last night, in front of his flat."

The bartender stared at him, all the good-natured teasing wiped from his face. "You're taking the piss."

"No. I'm sorry."

"But that's not possible," he protested. "He was here, until closing, and he was in rare form."

"Rare form?" asked Gemma. "In a good humor, was he?"

"I don't think I've ever seen Harry so full of himself." The bartender frowned. "Jubilant, I suppose I'd call it. And flush. Had a proper dinner in the restaurant, and bought rounds for everyone in here." Thoughtfully, he added, "But he was a bit secretive about it. Said his ship had come in, that sort of thing. We all thought he'd got a part in some big production, although it didn't seem very likely. Harry was…well, Harry was all right, but it just wasn't going to happen, know what I mean?"

Kincaid thought of Harry's flat, of the photos on the wall, the yellowing invitations, and nodded. "Did Harry have any special friends here?"

"Special? Not really. He knew all the regulars, and vice versa, but I doubt he ever saw anyone outside the bar. He was chatting up some woman last night, but she left not long after he came down to the bar, so I suppose he didn't quite have the pull." His brow creased as he added, "Harry was a bit of a loner, really. I don't think anything ever quite lived up to the good old days-or at least what he imagined were the good old days."

"'The good old days'?" Gemma repeated, leaning forward with such interest that the bartender reached up and smoothed what was left of his hair.

"The seventies. Harry ran with a posh crowd then, at least according to him. Partied with the Stones, invited to all the best clubs in the West End and Chelsea." He shook his head. "No one ever quite believed him, but maybe it was true. He was quite a looker in his day, or so he was always happy to tell you. And I wasn't too bad, myself," he added, with a smile at Gemma.

"The seventies? Really?" said Gemma, as if that were the Dark Ages, and the bartender sighed, deflated.

"Told you I'd been here for yonks."

"What about this bloke?" Kincaid asked, taking Dom Scott's photo from his pocket and handing it across the bar. "You recognize him?"

The bartender wiped his fingers on his apron, then took the photo, holding it at arm's length in the classic posture of middle-aged nearsightedness. "This guy? Yeah, I've seen him in here with Harry a few times. I remember him particularly because I had to tell him to turn off his mobile-we don't allow them in here."

"So the two of them met here?"

"If by that you mean making an acquaintance, no, I don't think so. The first time this guy came in, oh, say a month ago, he and Harry were huddled in the corner, and Harry looked none too pleased. If you want my opinion, I'd say they knew each other very well."