It seemed to Gemma that the human need to keep watch over the dead was beyond reason-rooted in the knowledge that once the loved ones left your sight, they were lost to you forever. She couldn't imagine how she would feel if it were Kit or Toby.

Just as quickly as that thought flickered across her mind, she tried to shut it out-you couldn't do the job if you saw your own family in every victim. But because she had known Dom Scott, she was more vulnerable. Her mind strayed to her own mum. How hard must it be for her mother, who worried about her, not to tell her so? And now that their roles were reversed, could she do as well?

Kincaid's gentle voice drew Gemma's attention back to Ellen. "You can't think that your decision had any bearing on your son's actions," he said. "You did what any parent might have done."

"But-What if-" Ellen went back to rubbing at her fingers, her eyes blank.

"What about this morning, Ellen?" asked Gemma. "Did you talk to Dom this morning?"

Ellen gave Gemma a startled glance, as if she'd forgotten her presence, although Gemma sat near enough to touch. "I-We had a row," she said, haltingly. "There was a company meeting and he didn't want-Dom was always-I told him to get ready whether he wanted to go or not, that he couldn't spend the rest of his life moping over that girl."

Gemma saw Kincaid's eyes widen, but Ellen didn't seem to realize she'd said anything offensive.

"I took a shower," she said, "thinking he'd cool off, be reasonable about it, but when I went back upstairs-He was-I couldn't-" She put a hand over her mouth, then wailed, "Oh, dear God. I can't believe it. He can't be dead-Dom-"

"You did the right thing, ringing for help," Kincaid assured her hurriedly, and Gemma hoped Cullen had called for a family liaison officer. They couldn't leave her on her own when she was this distraught. "Ellen," Kincaid went on. "I know this is difficult, but we need to ask you some things. You said Dominic was upset about Kristin Cahill's death. Did he talk to you about Harry Pevensey?"

"Who?" Ellen looked bewildered.

"Harry Pevensey. The man who was killed yesterday. Did Dom not tell you?"

"I don't understand. Who was he?" She looked utterly bewildered. "What do you mean, he was killed?"

"Someone ran him down. Just like Kristin Cahill," said Gemma.

"But-What does that have to do with Dom?"

Kincaid leaned forward. "That's what we were hoping you could tell us. Harry Pevensey put a brooch up for sale at Harrowby's through Kristin Cahill. And it was Dom who introduced them."

"A brooch?" Ellen Miller-Scott fastened on the word. "Dom wouldn't-Dom didn't know what a brooch was. He had no interest in art, or collecting"-her gaze strayed to the paintings-"or any of the things our family-my father-had worked so hard to achieve. The business-" She shook her head. "Dom just couldn't seem to learn the simplest things. My father-I'm glad he didn't live to see this-"

Gemma stared at her, reminding herself that people who were in shock often said things they didn't mean, but that didn't stop her feeling a wave of revulsion for the woman sitting beside her.

"So Dom never spoke to you about Har-" Kincaid had begun, when the sound of voices came from the front door.

Doug Cullen came in, saying, "Guv, the pathologist is here. It's Dr. Ling. She's gone straight up. And family liaison's here as well."

Gemma found herself more ready than usual to leave the bereaved in the competent hands of the family liaison officer. This one, who followed Cullen into the room, was a good-looking man about Gemma's age with curly dark hair.

As Gemma stood, he gave her a quick smile, then focused on Ellen. "Mrs. Miller-Scott? I'm Mark Lombardi. I'm very sorry for your loss." He glanced at Kincaid, said, "Sir?" and at Kincaid's nod of assent, took Gemma's place. "Mrs. Miller-Scott, can I get you anything? A cup of tea?"

"But I-" Ellen protested. "My son. What are they doing?"

As Lombardi said, "Why don't we go into the kitchen, and I'll explain everything to you," Kincaid motioned Gemma into the hallway.

"Looks like she's in good hands." He nodded towards Lombardi. "And I suspect she does better with men. Let's go see what Kate has to say."

"I-You go on." Gemma didn't usually willingly leave Kincaid at the mercy of Kate Ling's flirtatious banter, but she suddenly found she was not eager to see Dominic Scott's body again.

"Are you all right?" Kincaid asked, his brow creasing in instant concern, a habit held over from the days of her precarious pregnancy.

"I'm fine, really," she reassured him. "Just need a breath of air. Tell Kate I'll say hello when she comes down."

The crime scene techs arrived right on Kate's heels, and Gemma let them in as she let herself out. She stood for a moment on the steps, imagining the routine going on inside. The sun had come out, but the wind was still cold, and she shivered. Pulling her jacket a bit tighter, she crossed the road again, and when she reached the Embankment, looked down at the sun sparking off the broad curve of the river.

How, she wondered, could a mother care more for her dead father's opinion than for her son, whose pathetically grotesque body still hung suspended from a beam in her house?

Kate Ling stood in the door of Dominic Scott's apartment, white coveralls slung over her arm like a party wrap. "Duncan," she said as she turned to him. "You've made my day."

"Not my call, I promise. But I'm glad it's you." He was, too, as she was a good friend, and never hard on the eyes. She was perfectly turned out, as always, in tight buff trousers and a crisp white shirt, and her dark, shining hair swung straight as broom bristles round her delicate face.

Kate nodded at the room as the techs came in and started to work. "Looks to me like something just got up this poor bugger's nose."

Kincaid had yet to see Kate Ling ruffled by death-she saved her compassion for the living, and had been tactfully kind to them both when Gemma had lost the baby. "I daresay," he answered. "This poor bugger is connected to two homicides."

"You think he was the perpetrator?" Kate asked, her words punctuated by the repeated flash of the camera.

"It would explain this." But even as he said it, Kincaid wasn't sure that he believed it. It had taken ruthlessness as well as a capacity for risk to murder Kristin Cahill and Harry Pevensey, and he wasn't sure either of those things squared with the taking of one's own life, whether out of despair, fear, or guilt.

"Have enough, Joe?" Kate asked the photographer.

"Couple more, Doc." The photographer shot a few more angles, then gave her a nod of assent. "All yours, then."

"Okay, let's get him down," Kate called out to the mortuary attendants who had come in with her, and slipped on her coverall.

They were already suited, and had brought a folding ladder-they looked, Kincaid thought, like painters. And like painters, they efficiently spread a cloth on the floor, and went to work.

It was a job Kincaid did not envy. One climbed up on the ladder, and while Kate and the other attendant lifted Dom Scott's body enough to take the tension off the makeshift rope, he untied it from the beam. Then Kate and her partner gently eased the body down onto the cloth.

"Nice-looking lad," she said, studying the congested face. "And nice taste in ties." She touched the silk with a gloved fingertip. "Hermès. One of these would set you back a month's wages."

Kincaid raised an inquiring eyebrow, wondering at her sartorial knowledge, as well as what she considered his month's wages, but she merely quirked a corner of her mouth. He knew nothing of her personal life, except that she was not married, or at least if she was, she wore no ring.