CHAPTER 18

Gemma had just drifted off to sleep when Kincaid climbed into bed beside her. When he spooned his body against hers, she could feel the chill even through the fabric of her pajamas. "Where have you been?" she said groggily. "And why are you so cold?"

"The weather's changed. And I just had Cullen drop me at Holland Park Road, as it was late."

"You saved him five minutes' drive so you could freeze walking down the hill? Are you daft?" But she pushed back the covers and shrugged out of her pajama top and bottoms, tossing them onto the floor, then slid back into bed and fitted her body to his, skin to skin.

"Oh, that's better." He wrapped his arms round her, adding, "Shove over, you two," to Geordie and Sid, who were occupying too much real estate on the foot of the bed.

"Now, spill," she commanded, snuggling a little more firmly.

While their body temperatures equalized, he told her about his interview with Amir Khan, and then with Giles Oliver. "We had to take him in to print him and get an official statement, but I'd promised I'd get him back tonight so that he could look after the dog. Otherwise, I'd have had to bring Mo home with me."

"God forbid. We'd have had Armageddon. And you are a complete pushover for that big beast," she added sternly, but she couldn't stop a smile. "So, do you think he did it?"

Kincaid sighed, and his breath tickled her ear. "Oliver? I can just imagine he might have hit Kristin, out of spite, if he'd had the means to hand. But I think it highly unlikely he had the bollocks to steal a car and plan to run her down, and I really can't come up with a plausible reason why he would kill Harry Pevensey.

"And I think they must have been killed by the same person."

"And Khan?"

"Again, he had motive to kill Kristin, and a stronger one than Giles, if she'd discovered what he was doing and threatened to give him away. But why would he have thought Kristin would tell Harry Pevensey?"

"Still, he does have an SUV. Do you think Giles could have mistaken a Volvo for a Land Rover? I mean, even I know the difference."

"You have the advantage of Giles Oliver in more ways than one, love," he said, with a breath of laughter that stirred her hair again. He ran a hand over the curve of her hip and cupped her breast as he added thoughtfully, "But we should know more tomorrow, when we get a report on Khan's car. And we'll see if there's any trace evidence, or Giles Oliver's prints, on the car that was stolen."

"Was that an SUV?"

"Yes, but a Toyota. And the CCTV does indicate that the car was a Land Rover-although the film only shows it accelerating into the intersection. It doesn't prove that was the car that hit her."

"That's splitting hairs," said Gemma drowsily. "So either Giles was there as a witness, or he stole a different car, a Land Rover that hasn't been reported missing. And in that case, why would he say he saw a Land Rover?" She tilted her head so that his lips found the hollow of her neck. "I'm turned in circles now."

"So you are." He laughed and trailed his fingers down her belly. "Now, tell me about Erika."

But by that time, Gemma had lost all interest in conversation.

Gemma woke to find that Kincaid had been right. The day was gunmetal gray, with a sharp little wind that snaked round corners and bit. She dressed in trousers and pullover and the long buff-colored suede jacket that she'd thought put away for the season. When Kincaid had left for the Yard and the children were off to school, and she had checked in with the hospital, she walked up past her own police station and took the tube to South Kensington.

The journey to Lucan Place had come to feel familiar, and the duty sergeant greeted her with a smile of recognition. She asked to see Inspector Boatman, and within a few minutes was shown into Kerry Boatman's office.

"Gemma," said Boatman, sitting back in her chair and pulling off glasses that had already left a mark on the bridge of her nose. "Did you find what you were looking for yesterday?"

"Yes and no." Gemma explained that part of David Rosenthal's case file seemed to be missing. "The detective in charge of the case was very thorough. I can't imagine that he'd have given up on the investigation so quickly."

Boatman frowned and rubbed at her nose. "I don't know where else you might look. If part of the file got put in with something else, it would be like looking for the proverbial pin in a haystack. Makes me shudder just to think of it."

"What about the detective's personnel file?" Gemma asked. "His name was Gavin Hoxley."

"Never heard of him. Long before my time, I'm afraid. But I can certainly have someone pull the record, if you like." She glanced at her watch. "I have a meeting in the super's office, but you're welcome to make yourself at home, and I'll have the file brought in to you."

Gemma thanked her, appreciating the courtesy.

She didn't have to wait long before a uniformed constable brought her a dog-eared folder. Gemma blew at the film of dust on its surface, then opened it carefully.

The pages inside had been typed on cheap paper with a manual typewriter, and the print was smudged and smeared from handling. She took in the vital statistics. Gavin Hoxley had been a Londoner, she saw, born in this very borough, and he had seen service in the war before joining the Metropolitan Police, where he had risen quickly in the ranks.

She thumbed through the annual reviews, skimming the familiar police jargon. Then her breath caught in her throat and she stared at the page before her. She reread it once, twice more, then she slowly set the folder aside and pulled her mobile phone from her bag.

It was the early hours of the morning before Erika slept, and then she dreamed, not of Gavin or of David, but of her father, in fleeting glimpses that left her aching with loss. She woke with a little sob of longing, then lay in the faint gray predawn light, watching the hands of her bedside clock tick the minutes until it was time to rise.

She forced herself to eat a few bites of toast-it wouldn't do to faint-then she bathed and dressed with more than usual care. Her dress was the same she had worn yesterday, her best pale blue poplin, but to it she added white gloves, and a little hat she had bought in the spring sale at Whiteleys, an eon ago, when it had seemed that such things mattered.

And all the while she heard her mother's voice, whenever they had dressed to go out when she was a child, telling her that they were Jews, and so must never allow people to think the less of them.

Sometime in the long hours of the night, she had realized she knew nothing of Gavin except that he worked from the Chelsea Police Station, and so when she was ready she got out her London A-Z and found the station, in Lucan Place, near the Victoria and Albert.

And then she walked, because although she knew she must go, she wished she could put off arriving forever.

She crossed Hyde Park by the Broad Walk. The trees were in full leaf, the grass an impossible green. The air felt mild as a caress against her skin, and it seemed to her that even nature had betrayed her. The pinching of her best shoes against heel and toe became an anchor, a bright pinpoint of pain that kept her moving, one step after another.