Portobello Road, with its shoppers, tourists and those merely hanging out, offered stimulating subject-matter for photographers and artists. The flea market attracted Peter Blake, a pop artist who decorated his paintings with badges, labels, bits of signs, medals and paraphernalia. He is best known for designing the record sleeve of the Beatles' album 'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.'
– Whetlor and Bartlett,
from Portobello
It began as a dream. He was alone in the dark, cold and frightened, his stomach cramping with hunger. He lay in a bed that was damp and stank, and he desperately wanted his mother.
The dream moved on in interminable dreamtime… hours… days, he couldn't tell. Then suddenly his mother was there in the room with him, but she didn't answer when he called out to her. The room spun and he saw her clearly, sprawled on the floor beside the other bed, her red dress hiked up, one delicate sandaled foot hung in a fold of the counterpane.
Now he was out of his bed, creeping across the room on his hands and knees. He touched her. Her skin was cold; her breath came in labored snorts. She smelled of the stuff that came in bottles, and of the other… the sweet, sickly smell that made his throat close with dread. Tonight he would not be able to wake her.
It was only when he reached his bed again that he acknowledged the smell and the dampness were his fault. His mother would kill him when she woke, she had told him so, and he had no doubt that she meant it. Terror washed over him and he scrabbled at the wet bedclothes, willing himself desperately to disappear-
Alex woke sitting bolt upright in bed, gasping.
Where the hell had that dream come from? He couldn't remember having it before, but it was all horribly, intimately familiar to him in a way he didn't understand.
He'd had dreams occasionally where he had inhabited another person, another body, like an actor in a film. But he had been the little boy in the dream, or the little boy had been him.
Shivering now, he wrapped the duvet round his shoulders and stumbled into the kitchen. Taking a mug of hot, sweet tea into the sitting room, he sat on the floor, swathed in the comforter, watching wretchedly for the first intimation of dawn at his garden window.
Then the dream began again, and this time he knew he was awake. There was a man in the bedroom; he could smell the tobacco and the rank sweat. The man and his mother were together in her bed, making the sounds he couldn't bear to hear. He stuffed his fingers in his ears to shut out the noise, digging until he loosened the scabs from the last time.
There was blood, he was drowning in it, and through the haze he saw the blue swell of his mother's vein and the springing drop of scarlet as the needle went in.
After that she went away from him, her eyes skittering across his face as if it were a strange landscape. Nothing he said or did could reach her, and he knew that she went away because she did not love him.
As the memory faded into the pearly mauve of daybreak at his window, Alex saw that the dream-child's logic was flawed- but he also knew that logic mattered not at all.
All Saints Road was not a particularly cheerful place early on a Friday morning, Kincaid decided as he and Doug Cullen got out of the car in front of Gavin Farley's surgery. Most of the shops and businesses were closed, their windows covered by the rolling metal gratings that marked London as a cosmopolitan city. Nor did the rutted, mottled mixture of snow and slush lining the gutters help matters.
"That's Farley's car." Cullen indicated a maroon Astra parked at least a foot from the curb.
"I hope his veterinary skills are an improvement on his driving."
"Maybe that's why he leaves the Mercedes to his wife," Cullen replied with a grin as he swung open the surgery door.
Bryony Poole stood at the reception desk, a chart in her hand. She looked up at Kincaid with an instant smile of recognition that made him wish with a pang of guilt that he'd never thought of her as a suspect, but the information Cullen had dredged up about her relationship with a former lover had given him no choice but to see the interview through.
"Superintendent, isn't it?" Bryony said. "Can I help you? Gavin- Mr. Farley- is with a client at the moment, but I can tell him you're here."
"It's you we wanted a word with, actually, Miss Poole. Is there somewhere we could talk? This is Sergeant Cullen, by the way."
She nodded at Cullen, her expression more wary now. "I'm rather busy this morning, I'm afraid. And I really don't know what else I can tell you." Glancing towards the exam room that presumably held her boss, she added, "This has been awkward enough for me as it is…"
"It's not Farley we're interested in at the moment," said Cullen, stepping into the breach with enthusiasm. "Would you mind telling us where you were on Christmas Eve, Miss Poole?"
Bryony's half-smile froze on her face. "You're not serious?"
"We have to speak to anyone with access to a certain type of instrument-"
"A scalpel. Karl was killed with a scalpel, wasn't he?"
"It was in fact the same brand you use, Miss Poole," said Cullen. "The same type of scalpel that was stolen from this surgery."
"And since you haven't been able to pin anything on Gavin, you thought you'd try me! That's simply beastly! I wish I'd never told Gemma about the thefts- or about Gavin's row with Dawn."
"Or the photos?" Cullen interjected stubbornly.
"Oh, yes. I made a right fool of myself over that, didn't I? Well, I don't care what you think. I saw those photos. I know Gavin was spying on Dawn and Alex, and I'm not crazy. What I don't understand is why you think I'd have told you any of those things if I were guilty? And why on earth would I have wanted to hurt either Dawn or Karl Arrowood?"
"You might have told us because you thought it would throw suspicion on Mr. Farley, as it did. And as for motive, you do have a bit of temper, Miss Poole," Cullen told her. "There was a matter of a former boyfriend, I believe, who charged you with assault after you pushed him down the stairs-"
"And do you know that he dropped the charges because no judge would touch the case? I came home after taking my final exams at veterinary college- I had literally studied night and day for months- to find my so-called fiancé in my bed, in my flat, with a prostitute. I threw them both down the stairs, and their clothes after them." Bryony folded her arms tightly across her chest and glared at them, but her eyes had filled with furious tears.
"I think I might have done the same," Kincaid said, remembering the fury he'd felt when he'd learned of Vic's affair with Ian McClellan- and he had not been unfortunate enough to catch them in the act.
"It was not a good time in my life, but I didn't go around murdering anyone, and I certainly haven't done so now." Bryony scribbled something on a pad, tore the page loose and thrust it at Kincaid, ignoring Cullen's outstretched hand. "This is my parents' address and phone number in Wimbledon. I arrived there late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and stayed until mid-morning on Christmas. I'm sure my parents and my assorted relatives will be able to vouch for me. Now, if you don't mind, I have a surgery scheduled this morning, and I'd like to get to work."
"You've been very cooperative, Miss Poole," said Kincaid, "and we appreciate that, as well as your previous help."
"Obviously," Bryony spat back. "Do give Gemma my best, won't you?" Her sarcasm was scathing. "I'm sure you can see yourselves out."
"How would you like to go to Wimbledon this afternoon, Doug?" Kincaid asked as they reached the car.
"But it's bound to be a wild-goose chase, isn't it? If she was really with her family in Wimbledon, she couldn't very well have just popped out for a quick murder," Cullen protested.
"We still have to follow through on it, but rather you than me. And I have other things on my agenda."
One of which was his commitment to take Kit to meet his grandparents for tea- an outing neither of them was anticipating with any enthusiasm; the other was to try to salvage things with Gemma over the matter of Bryony Poole.
When she pulled up to the curb outside Alex Dunn's mews flat, Gemma saw that the boot of his Volkswagen stood open. Before she could ring the bell he came out, carrying a duffel bag.
"Inspector James!"
"Hello, Alex. Do you have a minute?" She looked from the bag in his hand to the car. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Just down to see my aunt in Sussex for a day or two. Is that a problem?"
"No. Not as long as we can get in touch with you if we should need to. You won't leave the country, will you?" she asked with a half-smile.
"You can have my passport, if you like."
She shook her head. "That's not necessary. But a phone number would be helpful."
"Would you like to come in? Have a coffee or something?" Beneath his unfailing politeness, she sensed impatience.
"No, that's all right, thanks." She held out the small, brown paper package she'd brought with her. "This is Fern's knife. I thought you might want to return it to her yourself."
"Oh, right." Taking the package from her, he looked around vaguely before stuffing it in the pocket of his bag.
"Is there some particular reason you're going to visit your aunt? She's not ill, is she?"
"Jane? No, of course not. It's just that it's where I grew up. My aunt Jane raised me." He seemed to focus on her a little more clearly. "Um, I take it the knife got a clean bill of health?"
"Yes."
"Right. I'll just give you that address." He wrote it for her on the back of one of his business cards.
As she said good-bye and returned to the office, she realized something odd: Alex Dunn seemed suddenly to have lost all interest in his lover's murder.
It was almost noon before Gemma managed to get away from the station again for the little outing she'd planned. First, she bought the best bottle of sherry the corner store possessed and had it wrapped in a decorative gift bag.
She knew from previous visits that her friend Erika Rosenthal liked sherry. Gemma had discovered quite by chance, while investigating a burglary a few months previously, that the elderly victim was Dr. Rosenthal, a noted historian. Erika was also a German Jew who had come to Notting Hill shortly after the war, and as far as Gemma knew had been there ever since. She lived in a pale gray brick town house in Arundel Gardens, not terribly far from Otto's Café.
"Gemma James! How lovely."
"I've brought you a little gift," said Gemma, smiling at the sight of her friend's beaming, wizened-apple face.
"Sherry! Even more lovely. Come in by the sitting room fire and we'll pour a glass."
"Just the tiniest bit for me, please." The room was just as she remembered it, filled with books and paintings, fresh flowers, and, of course, the piano.
Handing her a half-inch of amber liquid in a crystal glass, Dr. Rosenthal examined her with bright, shoe-button eyes. "You're pregnant, aren't you, my dear? I thought as much the last time I saw you, but it was too soon to be sure."
"I suppose I am beginning to show! The baby's due in May." One of Dr. Rosenthal's specialties was the history of Celtic goddess cults, and Gemma couldn't help wondering if the woman had absorbed more than facts in her study.
"It's more that certain glow, actually," Dr. Rosenthal said. "And then there's the sherry. I won't mind if you don't drink it, although in my experience a sip or two of sherry never did anyone any harm."
"It certainly hasn't done you any damage," observed Gemma, laughing. "I do have some other news, if you haven't worked it out just by looking at me."
"I confess I am utterly baffled."
"I've moved house. It's just a few blocks from here. Or I should say, we've moved house- my son and I, my… friend, and his son, along with two dogs and a cat."
"You're taking on the settled life, I see. That's quite a challenge, with your job, and another child on the way. Congratulations. But I find it hard to believe that with all that, you've found time to make a purely social call," Dr. Rosenthal added with a twinkle. "Go on, ask away. I don't mind. In fact, it's rather gratifying to be considered useful."
"There is something I thought you might be able to help me with. A family called Arrowood came to this area, just after the war. They were German immigrants-"
"But they weren't named Arrowood at all. It was Pheilholz. Their only son Anglicized the name, and I think it broke his parents' hearts to see their heritage tossed away."
"You knew them?"
"Oh, we weren't close friends, but I met them often enough in those days, at the German cafés and the social clubs. They were a nice couple, hardworking, very firm in their values. They owned a small grocery in Portobello Road."
"And the son, Karl? Did you know him?"
"This is your case, the murder of Karl Arrowood? I thought of you when I saw it in the news."
"I've been investigating Karl's death, as well as his wife's," Gemma admitted. "But we seem to be making very little progress."
"So you thought you would go back and start at the beginning. Very wise. Karl was a beautiful child, and I think he was much loved by his parents, but that's not always a guarantee that the child will grow up as the parents wish. He jeered at their stodginess, their lack of ambition. It was fine things Karl wanted, and he seemed willing to go to any lengths to get them. The boy was involved in scrape after scrape, each a little more serious than the last, until his father told him he was no longer welcome in their house. I don't believe they were ever reconciled."
"There were rumors of Karl's involvement in the drug trade when he was quite young, but nothing was ever proved."
"Ah…" Dr. Rosenthal sighed. "Here I have to admit my memory fails me. There was something about drugs, and prison, but it wasn't Karl who went to prison… and there was a girl in it somewhere… There always is, isn't there?" Lifting her shoulders in a shrug, she continued, "He disappeared from the neighborhood altogether for a time, and it was a good many years- not until after his parents were both gone, as a matter of fact- before he came back."
"But he did come back in the end, didn't he?" pressed Gemma. "He could have opened that shop anywhere in London… say, Kensington, or Mayfair… Do you suppose it was pride, wanting to show anyone who remembered him as a child what a success he'd become? Or was there something else that drew him back to Notting Hill?"
If one had to choose somewhere to sit and wait for an hour, thought Kincaid, Brown's Hotel was not a bad place to be on a Friday afternoon.
At the stroke of three, he had delivered an unsmiling and abnormally brushed and polished Kit for his meeting with his grandparents. Robert Potts, Kincaid's former father-in-law, had greeted Kincaid with his usual strained courtesy; his wife had merely nodded an acknowledgment of his presence, not disguising her loathing. They had not invited Kincaid to join them for tea- not that he had expected them to do so.
It must present Eugenia quite a challenge, deciding whom she hated more, him or Ian McClellan, but Kincaid did not find the thought amusing. This monthly meeting with Kit had been Ian's method of forestalling her suing for the legal right to have her grandson for regular visitations, but Kincaid had no confidence that the arrangement would satisfy her indefinitely. One would think the court would take into account the fact that the woman was obviously mentally unbalanced, and that Kit despised her, but it wasn't a chance Kincaid was willing to take.
He found a comfortable chair and immersed himself in the book he'd brought with him, determined not to borrow trouble unnecessarily. Still, the minutes crawled, until at last Kit appeared from the lounge. In his navy school blazer and tie, with his hair neatly combed, Kit looked unexpectedly grown-up. But as he drew near, Kincaid saw that the boy's lip was trembling and his eyes were red with unspilled tears.
Kincaid jumped up. "Kit! What's wrong?"
Kit shook his head mutely.
"Where are your grandparents?"
"They left. She didn't want to see you. She-" He shook his head again, unable to go on.
Kincaid put an arm round his shoulders. "Let's go, shall we?" He helped Kit into the anorak he had held for him, then shepherded him out into the frosty air. What on earth had Eugenia done to upset his usually stoic son so badly? "Why don't we walk down to Piccadilly," he suggested. "We could get the bus from there, rather than the tube."
After a few minutes, when Kit seemed calmer, Kincaid said, "Now. Tell me what this is all about."
"She- she said I couldn't live with you, that you had no right to keep me. She said that she was going to get a lawyer, and that the court would have to grant her custody since I had no responsible parent."
"She's threatened lawyers before. I wouldn't pay it too much attention," Kincaid said soothingly. But the boy's jaw was still tightly clenched, and he wouldn't meet Kincaid's eyes. "That's not all, is it? What else did she say?"
"She said that if I'd been a proper son, I'd have taken better care of my mother, and she wouldn't have died."
A sudden rush of fury left Kincaid shaking. He took a breath to calm himself. "Kit. That is absolute nonsense. Do you hear me? I know how well you looked after your mum, because she told me. And I know that you could not have saved her, no matter what you did. Are we clear on that?"
Kit nodded, but Kincaid was unconvinced. What he did know was that he had to put a stop to Eugenia Potts's poison, and that meant he had to keep her from seeing Kit, full stop. But Eugenia was correct in one thing- he had no legal rights over Kit. There was only one way to remedy the situation- he would have to prove his paternity.
"I want you to tell me about my mother." Alex Dunn sat in Jane's sitting room, in front of the unlit Christmas tree. He'd had to stop once on the way down, so buffeted by memories he'd been unable to drive. Then he'd found the cottage empty, and had waited impatiently for Jane to return.
"Your mother?" Jane repeated blankly.
"Is she really dead?"
"I expect so. Why, Alex?"
"When I was little, you said she couldn't take care of me because she was ill. That wasn't true, was it? She was a drug addict."
"Alex- What- How do you-"
"Why do you always lie to me? All my life I've carried around this rosy, consumptive image of my sainted mother handing me over to you with her blessing, and it was all a lie. She didn't give a damn what happened to me."
"Alex, that's not true. She did care. That's why she brought you to me. And for God's sake, you can't tell a five-year-old that his mother's an addict!"
"You could have told me later, when I was older."
"When you were what? Twelve? Sixteen? Twenty? How would I have decided when to shatter your life? And besides," she added more calmly, "stories have a way of generating their own reality. After a while, I almost came to believe it myself. Who's told you this, Alex?"
"No one. I dreamed it. And then I started to remember."
Jane's face went ashen. "Oh, God. I'm sorry, Alex. You used to have nightmares when you were little. I thought they'd stopped years ago."
"Did she really bring me here, to the cottage? Or was that a lie, too?"
"She did. It was the last time I saw her. I tried to find her for years after that, but she'd vanished without a trace."
"Then what about my father? Was he just another junkie, a one-night stand?"
"I honestly don't know, Alex. But there was a man… She came down here with him once, when she was pregnant with you. It was after Mum and Dad had died. She hadn't even known." Jane shook her head, as if remembering her own amazement. "But I think she was clean then, at least for a while. She looked good, and she seemed happy."
"Who was he? What was his name?"
"I don't know. He waited for her in the car. I never met him. All I can tell you is that his car was expensive, and I thought that perhaps he would take care of her."
Alex felt unable to contain the sudden and inexplicable dread that had lodged in his gut. "This man- What did he look like?"