The bustle of Knightsbridge came as a relief after the almost unbearable beauty of the park, and then she had reached Cromwell Road. Her steps slowed further. In front of the Natural History Museum, she stopped, her nerve deserting her. But the thought of going home, and waiting, was worse than going on, and so she walked slowly past the South Kensington tube station and crossed the Brompton Road, and then she had reached Lucan Place and there was no turning back.

Erika straightened her spine and entered the reception area of the station. The officer at the little window glanced up, his attention sharpening as he looked her over.

"Can I help you, miss?"

"It's Mrs.," said Erika. "Mrs. David Rosenthal. And I'd like to speak to the officer in charge of my husband's murder."

She saw the flicker in his face, the change she had never seen in Gavin's when he realized she was a Jew. "Just have a seat," he told her. "Someone will be with you." And then he didn't meet her eyes again.

After a few moments, a young woman opened the door leading to the interior of the station and said, "Mrs. Rosenthal? If you'll follow me?" She was plump and overly made up, with crimped hair, and she didn't meet Erika's eyes, either.

The certainty that Erika had been courting settled in her chest like a fist. She followed the woman through the door and up a worn flight of steps. Uniformed officers passed them, but they were faceless, like ghosts. The woman stopped at a door with a frosted glass pane in the upper half, gave a quick knock, then ushered Erika in and backed out, closing the door behind her.

Erika found herself facing a large, florid ginger-haired man who rose ponderously from his chair.

"Mrs. Rosenthal, is it? Do sit down." His brief smile showed yellowed teeth, and there was no warmth in it. Erika sat obediently in the hard chair he indicated, but did not trust herself to speak.

"I'm Superintendent Tyrell," he said, taking his own chair again, as if standing had been an inconvenience. "You said you wanted to see Inspector Hoxley. Is there something I can help you with?"

Erika swallowed and found her voice. "No, I-Inspector Hoxley said he'd learned something about my husband's murder. And then he didn't-I thought perhaps there was news. If I could just-"

"I think Inspector Hoxley must have been mistaken, I'm sorry to say, Mrs. Rosenthal." He didn't sound sorry at all. "And Inspector Hoxley won't be able to help you."

"But I-"

"There's been an accident. Inspector Hoxley's body was found washed up on the bank of the Thames this morning." Tyrell shook his large head and gave a little tut-tut of disapproval. "Very unfortunate. Of course, it won't go on his record, but it looks very much as if Hoxley took his own life."

When Kincaid walked into his office, he found Cullen sitting at his computer, scowling. "Maybe I don't want my desk, after all," he said, by way of good morning.

Glancing up, Cullen included him in the frown. "I doubt you do. And you look happier than anyone has a right to be."

Kincaid merely raised an eyebrow. "No joy, I take it."

"None. Bloody eff-all. No trace on Khan's Volvo. Nothing in the house. His journalist friend confirms his story, and refused to let us see any of the paperwork without a warrant, which I'm processing now." He shrugged. "Not that I think we'll come up with anything. Khan's far too careful."

"Well, he would have to be, if he's done what he said." Kincaid gave Cullen a move it nod, then sat at his desk while Cullen took the straight-backed visitor's chair. "What about Giles Oliver?"

"No match on the prints. No trace on the stolen car. Do you think we can at least charge him on the phantom bidding scam?"

"He didn't actually admit it," Kincaid reminded him. "And even if he had, we'd have a tough time proving anything. If it makes you feel any better," he added, "I think that if Giles Oliver can't resist easy money, he'll screw up in a big way eventually. But it won't be our problem. So." Kincaid stretched his legs out, in order to think more comfortably. "If Oliver and Khan look like nonstarters, where does that leave us?"

"We know-or at least we think we know-that Harry Pevensey gave Kristin Cahill the brooch to sell. So far that's the only connection we've found between the two victims-"

"Except for Dominic Scott," put in Kincaid, frowning. "Dom Scott's relationship with Kristin may have been pretty straightforward-rich bloke meets pretty girl in bar and decides to slum it. But if we assume the bartender at the French House is reliable, Dom didn't tell us the truth about how he knew Harry Pevensey. So there's something we've missed there, but I still can't see Dominic Scott as a killer, no matter the motive. And none of this explains where Harry Pevensey got the brooch, unless he really did pick it up at an estate sale, as Khan suggested."

Cullen shrugged. "If Amir Khan is such a good actor-and I'm still not entirely convinced-maybe Dominic Scott isn't the useless twit he seems. Could he have stolen it? He does have access to homes of the rich and famous, I'd assume."

"You sound like a telly series," Kincaid said, grinning. "But you could be right. Say Dom Scott has a nasty drug habit and desperately needs money to pay off his suppliers. He realizes he has a ready-made opportunity in having a girlfriend who works for an auction house. So he steals the brooch, perhaps from some friend of the family, then recruits Harry, however they may be connected, to put the piece up for sale, because he wouldn't want his name associated with stolen goods-"

"But Kristin would have known, because he would have had to introduce her to Harry. And then when the brooch's provenance was called into question by Gemma, he tried to make sure he wouldn't be linked to the brooch, by killing them."

"Still doesn't solve the problem of the car. But, like Oliver, he could have stolen one or borrowed one." Kincaid ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit when thinking that he had never been quite able to conquer.

"And," he went on, "if we start assuming that Scott is not a complete twit and could have planned a theft and two premeditated and risky murders, we have to wonder if he really did meet Kristin by chance."

"Time to put him on the hot plate again?" asked Cullen.

"I think-" Kincaid's mobile rang, and when he saw that it was Gemma, he answered.

Before he could speak, she said, "Duncan, we need to talk."

"We're just going to have another word with Dom Scott in Cheyne Walk. Meet us there, why don't you?"

"No." Erika stared at the superintendent, who seemed to be receding to a great distance. "I don't-" Her voice came out a whisper. She tried again. "I don't believe it. He can't be dead." If she didn't believe, it wouldn't be true. "I just spoke with him. Two days ago. He said he had a-a lead. And he was going to follow-"

"Mrs. Rosenthal, he was doing his job," Superintendent Tyrell said with a great show of patience. "That doesn't mean that all was well. In confidence," he added, lowering his voice, "there were domestic…difficulties. And the war. He served, you know, and for some men, it only takes a small thing to tip the balance-"

A rush of anger filled the void within her. "I do not believe for one minute that Gavin Hoxley was the sort of man who would commit suicide." She stood so that she could look down at Tyrell. "There must be some other explanation."

Tyrell laced his fingers across his paunch and looked at her with a sudden speculation that made her feel unclean. "Mrs. Rosenthal. You do realize that if it ever were to come out that Gavin Hoxley had crossed the line with a witness, it would ruin his reputation. I'm sure you wouldn't want that. Nor would you want to cause more grief to his family. His wife and children have suffered enough as it is, don't you think?" He fixed her with pale blue eyes that made her think of the dead fish on the market stall.