CHAPTER 15

They settled for sandwiches and tea from a snack bar, but Gemma managed to grab one of the two plastic tables on the pavement, and so they sat in the sun as they ate and watched the crowd flow by. It always seemed to Gemma that on warm spring days like this she could feel an extra surge of energy pulsing through the city. The colors seemed brighter, more intense, the sounds sharper. And all around them, light-starved Londoners bared as much skin as they could manage, regardless of the consequences.

She looked across at Kincaid, who had not only removed his jacket but stuffed his tie in his pocket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. The bridge of his nose was beginning to go pink, and Gemma was glad she'd learned the trick of using face cream with sunscreen-otherwise she'd be freckled, as well as the color of a lobster, if she sat out in this glorious heat much longer.

When they were down to pushing crumbs round on their plates, she said, "So where are we, then?"

He frowned and swirled the dregs in his teacup. "If the bartender is right, Dom Scott lied about having met Harry by chance at the French House."

"Maybe the bartender didn't see the first meeting."

"Even so, the unhappy, huddled-in-the-corner conversation he described argues for more than a brief-or casual-acquaintance, wouldn't you say?"

"Could they have been lovers, Harry and Dom?" Gemma countered.

"Not according to Harry's neighbor, who said Harry liked girls." Kincaid shrugged. "But then again, Andy the wannabe rock star may not be the most reliable source. Maybe he and Harry were better friends than he admitted. It could be Harry liked anyone who paid him attention, but I can't see what would have been in it for Dom."

"The bartender said Harry claimed to have had connections with a fast crowd in the seventies. That probably meant drugs-maybe Harry still dabbled," Gemma suggested.

"Could Harry have been supplying Dom with drugs?" Kincaid asked, then shook his head. "But if that were the case, from the looks of his flat, it was a poor living. And that doesn't explain what Harry was celebrating last night, or where he got the funds, or what he was doing with Erika's brooch-" His mobile rang, and with a glance at the caller ID, he mouthed, "Cullen," as he answered.

She watched him as he said, "Right. Right. Okay, meet you there," feeling a small stab of jealousy. Ridiculous, really, when the severing of the partnership had been her choice, not his, and she should consider that she had the best of both worlds now. But sometimes it seemed that the almost instantaneous communion they'd felt when they worked a case together got lost in the domestic shuffle, and that it had been easier to share their disparate personal lives when they'd worked together than the other way round.

Oh, well, she'd made her bed, as her dad would say, and she doubted she'd won any points with Doug Cullen by sticking her nose in this case.

"Woolgathering?" said Kincaid, and she realized he'd disconnected.

"Knitting with it." She smiled. "What did the fair Doug have to say?"

"Harry Pevensey had no mobile phone account with a provider-not even a pay as you go. And Ellen Miller-Scott's Mercedes is in the garage, and has been for more than a week. So dead end on both those fronts."

"So what's next?" Gemma asked.

"I think we'll pay another call on Mr. Khan at Harrowby's. These two deaths, Kristin's and Harry Pevensey's, have to be connected, and the two points of contact are Dom Scott and the brooch. Dom seems to be a nonstarter as far as the car goes, so I want to talk to Amir Khan again. We know he had an argument with Kristin the day she died, but it's only an assumption that it was about the brooch. And we've assumed that it was Giles who was jealous when Dom Scott sent her roses at work, but what if it was Khan?"

"She was a very pretty girl, and it certainly wouldn't be the first time a woman has fallen for her good-looking boss." Gemma gave him a sly look.

"Or vice versa. And I'll take that as a compliment. Do you want to come to Harrowby's with us?"

Considering, Gemma shook her head. "Thanks, but no. I think I'll go back to Lucan Place for a bit."

"You never told me what you were doing there."

"No." A little reluctantly, Gemma said, "I discovered that Erika's husband was murdered, and I feel an idiot for not having known."

"Erika never told you?" Kincaid looked as surprised as Gemma had felt.

"I'd no idea. It happened in 1952. So far I don't see any possible connection with the brooch or our murders, but I haven't finished reading the case file. So I think I'll go back to Lucan Place for a bit before I go to see Mum, and leave you and Doug to the charms of the handsome Mr. Khan."

Standing, she leaned over and touched her cheek to his, feeling sun-warmed skin and the slight friction of beginning stubble. "I'll see you tonight."

Mrs. March greeted Kincaid and Cullen with a smile of pleasure, as if they'd become old friends. It was a part of her job, making the regular clients feel welcome, and it came naturally to her. "It's Mr. Kincaid, isn't it? Is there any news…" Then her face fell, as the thought of the reason for their presence overcame her instinctual response.

"No. But we wondered if we might have a word with Mr. Khan." A quick glance into the main arena of the salesroom revealed an auction in progress, and as Kincaid focused on the large overhead television, he saw that it was jewelry being sold. The seats were full, and the bidding seemed to be quite brisk.

"Is this the Art Deco jewelry?" In his concentration on Kristin Cahill's death, he hadn't realized the sale was coming up so soon.

"Yes, but if it's the Goldshtein brooch you're concerned about, Mr. Khan removed it from the sale this morning. After you came," she added, with a disapproving glance at Doug, as if he were personally responsible for upsetting their routine. "Mr. Khan felt that since the house had been forced to compromise the seller's privacy, he couldn't in good conscience offer the item without checking with the seller, and I understand that he was not able to get in touch."

No, not unless he had the ability to commune with ghosts, Kincaid thought, but he quelled any comment. He wanted to be the one to tell Khan that Harry Pevensey was dead. That was the only way he could attempt to gauge Khan's reaction. "Could you tell Mr. Khan we'd like to see him?" he asked.

"Oh, but you can't." Mrs. March again gave Cullen an accusing look. "He left at lunchtime. Said he wasn't feeling well, although I really can't imagine that. Mr. Khan is never ill."

"How very coincidental," Cullen muttered, but Kincaid smiled and said, "Do you have a home address for him?"

Mrs. March drew herself up, all her earlier bonhomie gone. "I can't give you that. Not without speaking to one of the directors."

"Then I suggest you make a phone call, Mrs. March. You can tell your director that we will get the address-it's just a matter of how much inconvenience it causes the firm."

"It's most irregular." Mrs. March gave an offended sniff, but began thumbing through a phone list. Kincaid didn't like bullying her, but he suspected that delaying tactics had already cost one life.