On numerous occasions during the 1930s-even after Kristallnacht-British diplomatic observers concluded that anti-Jewish violence had passed its peak.
– Louise London, Whitehall and the Jews, 1933-1948
Gemma had sat at the hospital bedside until long after Vi drifted off, watching her mother's face, made unfamiliar by repose. When had she ever watched her mother sleep, seen the tiny tics that signaled dreams, wondered what her mum was dreaming?
What did she know of her mother's memories or desires, of her life outside of the daily routine of husband, children, and work? Had her mum imagined a different life for herself, adventures that had never come to pass, a husband or lover who expected more than familiarity and tea on the table?
Even now, lying in bed watching the splash of early morning sun on the opposite wall and enjoying the warmth of the cocker spaniel sprawled across her feet, she felt unsettled in a way that was deeper than worry over cancer and treatments, although that was bad enough.
Last night she had sensed a resignation that frightened her. What if her mum didn't want to fight this thing? Could she, who had always seemed indomitable, leave them so easily? Would she slip away, leaving Gemma to discover she had never really known her at all? And someday would her own children feel the same way about her?
She could hear the boys' voices floating up from downstairs, a medley of the usual morning laughter and complaint. They had been asleep by the time she'd got home last night, and this morning Duncan had been up early, whispering that she should have a lie-in, that he would get the boys ready for school.
But suddenly she wanted to be up, wanted to be in the midst of the clamor, wanted to spend the time she'd missed with the children the past few days. She threw back the covers and jumped out of bed, saying, "Sorry, boy," as she gave Geordie an apologetic pat. Grabbing a dressing gown, she padded barefoot down the stairs, the dog following.
She found the boys in the kitchen, dressed in their school uniforms, eating toast, and Kincaid slipping into his jacket.
"I've got to go," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll take Toby. Come on, sport," he added. "Last bite, and get your satchel."
"No, wait," said Gemma. "He can be late. You go on."
"You're sure?"
"Positive." She brushed a stray dog hair from his jacket and waved him off. "Go."
"I'll ring you."
When the door had closed behind him, she turned to the boys. "What's your first class, Kit?"
"History," he mumbled through toast and jam, making a face.
"Any papers due, or quizzes?"
"No. Just old Toady lecturing." He gave an exaggerated snore.
"Old Toady?"
"Mr. Tobias," Kit corrected, rolling his eyes. "Why would anyone want to know about the War of the Roses? Dead boring, if you ask me."
"I'm sure I don't know, but I suppose it wouldn't hurt you to miss a lecture." When Kit stared at her in surprise, she grinned back. "I have a plan."
Cullen paused at the door to Kincaid's office. His boss sat at his desk, head bent over a disordered fan of papers. His hair stood on end and the knot on his tie was pulled loose, unusual evidence of frustration so early in the day. Maybe, thought Cullen, he could improve things.
"Name and address, guv," he said, entering.
Looking up, Kincaid rubbed at his eyes. "What?"
Cullen had got the warrant first thing that morning, and had been at Harrowby's door when the salesroom opened. Mrs. March had shown him to Khan's office, and Amir Khan had offered him a seat before perusing the paperwork.
Although as immaculately turned out as he had been the previous day, Khan's handsome face looked a bit hollow, as if he was tired, and he was warily polite. Cullen, who had gone in hyped for a protest, found himself a bit disappointed.
"It's all in order," he said when Khan started through the warrant for the third time.
"I'm sure it is, Sergeant Cullen. But it's my nature to be thorough, and I have to protect the interests of our customers. Do you mind if I make a copy for our records?"
"Be my guest," Cullen said, thinking he wished the man would bloody get on with it.
Khan stood and ran the warrant through the copier on top of a file cabinet with what seemed to Cullen agonizing slowness. Then he handed the paper back and opened one of the files, taking out a card. Returning to his desk, he transcribed the information from the card onto a sheet of notepaper and handed it across.
Cullen squinted at his unexpectedly illegible handwriting. "Harry Pevensey? And that's Hanway Place?"
"Yes," said Khan, sounding slightly irritated.
"And you met this Harry Pevensey?"
"Of course." The irritation seemed to be quickly turning to annoyance. "He said he was an actor, although I suspect not a terribly successful one."
"Did you think he came by the brooch legitimately?" Cullen asked, dogged.
"Sergeant Cullen. As I've said before, if we made sure that every client who brought in an item to sell had come by it legitimately, we'd have little business. People tell us what they want to tell us, and we check that information as far as we are able. In a case like this, the item speaks for itself, and it didn't really matter if Mr. Pevensey said he'd found it in a rubbish bin."
"He didn't-"
"A figure of speech, Sergeant. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do. You can ask Mr. Pevensey yourself."
Smarting at the dismissal, Cullen had taken the information Khan had provided, but numerous attempts at ringing the phone number had not even got a response from an answering machine.
Now he said, "The seller of the brooch, guv. A Mr. Harry Pevensey of Hanway Place, London. No joy with the phone number, so I thought we should go along."
Kincaid glanced at his watch. "This is his home address you've got? Won't he be at work?"
"It's the only address he gave Harrowby's. But he did tell Mr. Khan that he was an actor, so perhaps we can find him at home this time of day." Cullen gestured at Kincaid's unfinished paperwork. "Anything interesting?"
"House to house, accident report, complete postmortem, forensics report on Kristin Cahill's room, and the records from her mobile phone carrier, which confirm that she had multiple calls to and from Dominic Scott, and that she had regular calls from Giles Oliver. Maybe she and Oliver were more friendly than Oliver admitted.
"As for the house to house, no one saw or heard anything, except for the witness who went to the scene and called 999." He leaned back in his chair, ticking things off on his fingers. "Cause of death, bleeding from severe internal injuries, consistent with being hit mid-body by a car traveling at high speed. No trace evidence from the car found on her clothing or body, however.
"Otherwise, Kristin was a normal, healthy young woman. No sign of pregnancy or nonaccident-related injuries. No signs of recent sexual activity or assault. No drugs, and blood alcohol below the legal limit."
"And the CCTV?" Cullen asked.
"The footage shows a dark SUV. Possibly a Land Rover. But the plates are either obscured or missing."
"Definite premeditation, then," said Cullen. "But no one so far had a link with the car?"
"Not unless it's your Mr. Pevensey, and I think we should give him a try before we have a word with Giles Oliver." Kincaid pulled up the knot on his tie and smoothed his hair with his fingers, a maneuver that was only marginally successful. "How did you get on last night, by the way? Gemma said you went with Melody to check out the Gate."
"Dom Scott's story checks out to a point. The barmaid said Kristin met him there. They argued. She had a drink and then left. The barmaid, Eva, thinks he stayed until pub closing, but wouldn't swear to it. She-Eva-also said she'd seen Dom with Kristin before, but she'd also seen him with what she described as some 'dodgy' characters. If she knows more, she wasn't sharing."
"Eva?" Kincaid grinned at him, raising an eyebrow. "Fancied you, did she?"
"I'll give you a note excusing your tardiness," Gemma told Kit. "And if you think you can eat a bit more breakfast, we'll go to Otto's. I'll just go get changed."
Toby had jumped up and down, making the dogs bark, but Kit had stopped her as she turned away. "Gemma, this isn't about Gran, is it?"
"No," she assured him. "I just want to spend some time with you. But I will tell you about my visit with her last night."
They took the car, so that Gemma could drop Kit and then Toby off at school afterwards, but Kit wished they might have walked. After yesterday's heat, the day had cooled to crispness again, the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and the brightly colored houses in Lansdowne Road looked freshly washed.
When they reached the café in Elgin Crescent, Otto greeted Gemma with a hug and kisses on both cheeks. "Gemma! I thought you were too busy for your old friends."
"Busier than I should be," she agreed. "But I'm taking a bit of time off this morning, and letting the boys play truant." The café was still half full, and Otto, tea towel tucked into his apron, bald head gleaming with perspiration, seemed to be managing on his own.
"Where's Wesley?" Kit asked as they took a table by the window.
"At one of his university classes. He will be in after lunch. And you, Kit, we are honored to see you two days in a row, and yesterday with your lady friend. Now, what can I get for you?"
Gemma gave Kit a curious look, but waited until they had ordered bacon and eggs before she said, "You were here yesterday, Kit?"
He felt himself color, felt stupid because of it, and blushed harder. "It wasn't a girl. I was with Erika. She wanted to go for a walk. So we stopped and had coffee, and a cake that Otto had made. Erika said it reminded her of things she used to eat in Germany."
"Was she all right about-" Gemma glanced at Toby, who was half out of his chair, picking at something on the underside of the table. "With what happened yesterday," she amended, capturing Toby's wrists in one hand. "Stop that, lovey."
"But somebody's left chewing gum, Mummy," he protested.
"Yes, and that was very naughty. They should know better, and you should know better than to touch it." She scooped him off the chair and gave him a pat on the behind. "Now be a good boy and ask Otto if you can wash your hands."
When she looked at Kit again, he frowned. "I don't know," he said. "We-She told me-I didn't know what to say."
"What did Erika tell you, Kit?" Gemma asked, with that look that meant you had her full attention and she wouldn't let it go.
Kit straightened his cutlery. "I'd asked her about her father. About why her father didn't get out of Germany-I know I probably shouldn't have."
He waited for censure, but Gemma frowned and said, "Why didn't her father get out?"
"He-" Kit fought a sudden and ridiculous urge to blink back tears. "He waited, because he didn't want to draw attention to Erika and her husband getting away. But by then it was too late." He swallowed, glad to have got through that bit without a quaver.
"Oh, no." Gemma looked stricken. "No wonder the brooch her father made means so much to her."
"But that's not the worst thing." Kit was determined now to tell her all of it before Toby came back. "Her husband was killed. Murdered."
"What?"
He glanced at Gemma, then back at the alignment of his knife. Erika had told him while they were sitting here, having coffee, and she had said it in a matter-of-fact way that he envied. Would he ever be able to tell someone his mum had been murdered without choking up and making a fool of himself? He was careful at school, often pretending that Gemma and Duncan were both his parents, and that they had always lived together. No one thought much these days about a mum having a different name.
Hearing Toby talking to Otto in the kitchen, Kit said quietly, "Someone stabbed Erika's husband-his name was David-in a park near the Albert Bridge. No one was ever charged, and Erika said"-Kit made an effort to remember her words exactly-"she said she didn't know if she could bear another unresolved death." He had understood, because he couldn't imagine how he would feel if he didn't know who had killed his mum.
"When?" asked Gemma. "Did she say when this happened?"
Kit shrugged. "A long time ago. After the war. But I don't see what that can possibly have to do with the girl who was killed yesterday."
Having tried Harry Pevensey's phone again from the office with no luck, Kincaid and Cullen had taken a car and driven to the address Khan had given Cullen.
The first sign of trouble was the police roadblock across the bottom end of Hanway Street.
"Bugger. Wonder what's going on," Kincaid said, but he had a bad feeling. Finding the police in attendance when one arrived to interview a possible suspect in a crime was usually not a good omen.
Parking on Oxford Street itself was completely impossible, although he had known Cullen to risk the lives and limbs of pedestrians by pulling the car up on the pavement. "Let's try the other end, off Tottenham Court," he added hurriedly.
From behind the wheel, Cullen gave him a look that said he didn't appreciate backseat drivers, but said merely, "Right, guv."
When Cullen rounded the corner into Tottenham Court Road and pulled into the other end of Hanway Street, Kincaid saw immediately that the junction of Hanway Street and Hanway Place was blocked as well, and on the other side of the barricade he saw the ominous blue flashing of police lights.
Pulling up on the double yellows in front of the flamenco club on the corner, Cullen said, "Unfortunate coincidence?"
"Don't believe in them."
Kincaid got out of the car and, ducking round the barricade, forestalled the uniformed constable's advance with a flash of his warrant card.
"Oh, sorry, sir." The constable, who didn't look long out of the academy, relaxed and looked a bit sheepish. "Should have realized," he said, nodding at the car and the POLICE notice Cullen had propped in the windscreen.
"What's happened here?" asked Kincaid, uninterested in apologies. Cullen had followed and stood silently beside him.
"You've not been called in?"
"No, but I suspect I will be," Kincaid said through gritted teeth. He could see an accident investigation team working farther along Hanway Place.
"Bloke got himself run down in the middle of the night," said the constable. "Bit hard to step out in front of a car along here," he added, with a puzzled shake of his head. "But could be he had a bit much to drink. Nasty business, though. Car didn't just knock him down, but ran right over him. Neighbor came along and found him, sicked up all over himself, so I heard."
"Loquacious bastard," Cullen muttered under his breath.
"The victim. Do you have an ID?" asked Kincaid, wishing a plague on all newly hatched constables.
The young man frowned, his spotty forehead wrinkling with effort. "Something poncey sounding. Pevensey," he said after great deliberation, putting the accent on the middle syllable. "Harry Pevensey."
Gavin knew there was something different about the flat as soon as he unlocked the door. After his interview with the super, he had collected the assortment of newspapers from his desk, and then, having no further excuse to tarry, had gone home.
He stood in the hall, listening, hearing nothing but the faint ticking of the clock in the sitting room. The clock had been a wedding gift from his in-laws, a carved Bavarian piece with little male and female figures that toddled out on the hour, and he hated it.
"Linda?" he called out tentatively, but his own voice sounded unnaturally loud and echoed back to him. The flat, he realized, was dark as well as quiet. Linda was frugal in saving on the electricity, but usually she left a small lamp burning, even if she was out.
He set his bundle of newspapers on the shelf in the hall and walked slowly towards the sitting room, chiding himself when he realized he was tiptoeing. It was his house, for God's sake-what reason had he to be afraid?
But when he reached the sitting room, he found it dark as well, and when he switched on the lamp, it took him a moment to work out what was wrong.
The children's photos were missing from the side table. As was Linda's basket of darning, and the stack of women's magazines in the rack beside the sofa. Nor were there any children's shoes or scattered schoolbooks.
The clock, however, remained, and it struck the hour, making him jump. The little painted husband and wife trundled out in their ritual parade, and it seemed to Gavin that they were mocking him.
"Linda?" he called again. "Susie? Stuart?" But this time he didn't really expect an answer.
He found the note in the kitchen, beside a slab of cheese and the heel end of a loaf of bread left on a plate.
She said she had taken the children to her mother's. She didn't say if she meant for a visit or for good, but when he went into the bedroom, he found her clothes missing from the cupboard and the dressing table empty of hairbrush and cosmetics. The bed was neatly covered with the candlewick spread, and the faint scent of Linda's perfume lingered, like a ghost of all the things his marriage might have been.
Gavin sat down on the bed, the springs creaking beneath his weight, and wondered how long it had been since they had had to be careful not to wake the children. He closed his eyes against a sudden vertigo. Had she really left him?
He wavered between relief and terror, then laughed aloud, hearing the edge of hysteria and not caring.
His wife and children were gone, his job at risk. What had he left to lose?
"Bloody hell," Cullen heard Kincaid mutter. Then Kincaid snapped at the constable. "Who's in charge here?"
The PC looked at him blankly.
"Your SIO, man. Senior investigating officer. Don't they teach you anything these days?"
"Sir, they just told me not to let anyone through the barricade." He gestured at the accident investigators. "I don't think CID's been called in. An accident-"
"It wasn't an accident. And I'll be taking over this case. Now go tell the lads this is a crime scene while I get things organized." He was already pulling out his phone as the constable gave him a harried-rabbit look and sprinted for the investigators.
"You're sure?" asked Cullen, before Kincaid could dial.
"Of course I'm bloody sure." Kincaid turned on him, and Cullen realized he was in a blazing fury. He didn't blame the constable for hightailing it out of range. "Someone is a step ahead of us, and this poor bastard-Harry Pevensey-is dead because of it. I don't intend to let this happen again, and heads are going to roll for no one having had the sense to call in CID before now. We should have seen the body in situ. The pathologist should have seen the body. And I want the uniform who interviewed the neighbor who found him."
He punched in numbers as if the phone were complicit in the cock-up.
As Cullen listened to his boss working his way up the food chain, first at the local station, then at the Yard, with increasing ire, he was glad not to be on the receiving end. Kincaid usually managed through diplomacy, and Cullen guessed that some of his uncharacteristic burst of anger was directed towards himself.
But how could they have prevented this chap's death when they hadn't known who he was until that morning? If Kincaid thought they could have talked the information out of Amir Khan without a warrant, he was overestimating their powers of persuasion.
Could Khan, who had known the warrant was imminent, have decided to silence Harry Pevensey? Cullen's friend in Fraud had not got back to him-he would give him another call at the first opportunity.
Now he studied the accident scene, and when Kincaid had ended his calls, said, "Guv, how the hell did someone manage to run this bloke over here? It's a bottleneck, and difficult enough to get a car round the bend at a crawl."
Kincaid followed his gaze, frowning. "They didn't come round the bend. See that?" He pointed to a refurbished block of flats that faced Hanway Place's sharp right-hand jog. "They could have reversed into that little alcove, and waited. That way they had a straight shot down this section of the street."
"Still," argued Cullen, "they wouldn't have been able to get up much speed."
"Enough to knock him down," Kincaid said grimly. "And if it was the same car that hit Kristin, it was an SUV, and it might have been possible to reverse over him."
"Ugh. Risky as hell."
"So was Kristin Cahill's murder, which was one reason I thought it might not have been premeditated. But perhaps getting away with that one made him cocky."
"Whoever it was knew Kristin Cahill's patterns, and this bloke's-Pevensey," Cullen speculated.
"Or made a damned good guess," Kincaid said. "While we're waiting for uniform to get here with the witness's name and statement, let's see if the accident lads confirm our theory. And then we need to get into Harry Pevensey's flat."
"Good God, the guy was an old maid," said Cullen, surveying Harry Pevensey's flat from the door. "This stuff looks like something out of my gran's."
They had not waited for uniform to bring them a key from the victim's effects, but had got the flat number and rung a mobile locksmith.
The flat, in a housing-authority block that had seen better days, was little more than a bedsit, one room, with a small kitchen alcove and a doorway leading to what he assumed was the bath. The furnishings, like the building, were well worn, but what Kincaid saw was quality, carefully, perhaps even desperately, preserved.
The bed was neatly made, the kitchen tidy. One wall held a collection of signed photographs of actors Kincaid vaguely recognized, while on the other a false mantel framed an electric fire. Propped on the mantel were postcards and invitations, some yellowing with age. A small painted secretary looked like the only possible receptacle for papers.
"He liked his gin," said Cullen, who had gone straight for the rubbish bin in the kitchen. "Cheap stuff, for the most part."
Kincaid had gone to examine the little gallery more closely. Several of the obviously dated photos showed a handsome, dark-haired man with more well-known stage actors, and were signed, "To Harry."
Cullen had moved on from the kitchen and was riffling through the bills tucked into one of the secretary's compartments. "Electricity overdue. Overdue account with a local off-license-that's no surprise-and it looks like he owed his"-he held the paper up and squinted at it-"his tailor. This guy had a tailor?" He gave a dismissive glance round the flat. "Money could have been better spent, if you ask-"
"Who the hell are you?" The raised voice came from the door, which they had left off the latch.
Turning, Kincaid saw a young man in a T-shirt emblazoned with GOT SLIDE? and ragged jeans, staring at them belligerently. His bleached-blond hair stood up as if he'd just got out of bed, and his eyes were dark-shadowed in an oval and somewhat androgynous face.
"The police," Kincaid said easily. "Who are you?"
"Oh, Christ." The young man sagged against the doorjamb, as if punctured. "You know, then? Harry's dead."
"You were Harry's friend?" Kincaid asked, thinking it unlikely, but he'd seen stranger alliances.
"I'm his neighbor. Andy Monahan."
"You found him?" said Kincaid, remembering the name the local station had given him.
"Christ," said Andy Monahan again, blanching so that the dark smudges under his eyes were more pronounced.
Kincaid crossed the room in a swift stride and, taking Monahan firmly by the arm, guided him to a chair. "Here, sit." To Cullen he added, "Get him some water." It was a distraction, but often a successful one, and he didn't want anyone sicking up in Pevensey's flat.
Monahan took the glass Cullen brought and drank it steadily down, then leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. "Sorry. It's just that I think I'll see that-see him-for the rest of my life."
"Why don't you tell us what happened," Kincaid suggested, perching on the arm of the other chair. "Start at the beginning. Were you and Harry friends?"
"Not exactly. But he was all right. He'd feed my cat for me when I was away on a gig. He liked to talk, when he was into the gin, about the times he'd acted with Hugh Laurie, and Nigel Havers, and oh, he even said he'd done a play once with Emma Thompson and Ken Branagh. It was probably bollocks, but I didn't mind."
"Harry was an actor?"
"Yeah. But not a very lucky one, obviously." Monahan gestured round the flat. "I mean, I'm one to talk, but he was like, old. Fifties. I'm just starting out."
"You're a musician?" Kincaid asked.
"Guitarist. Been playing since I was twelve. Band's called Snogging Maggie, but it's not, honestly, as good as it could be."
Snogging Maggie? Kincaid thought. He didn't even want to go there. A closer look had made him revise his estimate of Andy Monahan's age. He might be in his late twenties-it was the blond hair and the prettiness that made him seem younger. And he suspected that it was shock that had prompted the confessional state.
"So tell us about last night."
Andy gripped the frayed knees of his jeans. "We had a gig in Guildford. Total shit. By the time we got back to town, it must have been going on two. The guys dropped me off at the top of the street-you can't get the van through if there's anyone parked.
"We were drinking a bit. Nick and me. Not George, who was driving," he assured them, as if he thought they would run his friend in. "So I was a bit pissed, you know, and when I saw-I thought it was some old bit of rubbish-I thought he was-I pushed at him with my toe-" Andy covered his face with his hands, rubbing at his cheekbones to ease what Kincaid suspected was the ache of tears. "Puked all over my fricking Strat case, didn't I?" he said through his fingers. "Jesus Christ. Harry."
"You called the police?"
"Dropped my mobile in the gutter, in God knows what. Couldn't punch the fricking keys." He dropped his hands and looked up at Kincaid. "I couldn't watch. When they put him in the bag. I thought that was only on the telly."
Kincaid glanced at Cullen, saw that he was listening alertly. It was do-or-die time. "Andy, did Harry ever say anything to you about antiques?"
"Antiques? You mean like this stuff?" Andy gestured at the furnishings.
"No. Like jewelry. Did he say anything to you about an antique brooch?"
Andy looked from Kincaid to Cullen. "What the fuck is a brooch?"
Kincaid had to suppress a smile. "A pin. This one was diamond. Art Deco. Made in Germany just before the war."
"Where the hell would Harry get something like that?" said Andy, his voice rising in incredulity.
"That's what we were wondering. Have-"
"Wait a minute." Wariness returned to Andy Monahan's face. "You said you were cops, right? But you're in plainclothes. You're detectives, aren't you? Why are you asking about a traffic accident?"
The accident investigators had given Kincaid an initial confirmation on his guess that the car had pulled out from the bay at the jog in the street. It looked from the tire marks, the officer in charge had added, as if the car had gone up on the curb in order to hit Harry Pevensey before he reached his door. "Because," Kincaid said, "we think someone deliberately ran Harry down, and we want you to help us find out who did it."
"You're saying someone wanted to kill Harry?" Andy's face hardened, and he suddenly looked his age. "You couldn't find a more harmless sod than Harry. Vain, maybe, but there was no meanness in it. What do you want to know?"
"If Harry didn't say anything to you about the brooch, did anything else happen lately that was unusual?"
"Harry didn't exactly lead the most exciting life. He was usually resting, as he liked to call it, but the last few weeks he'd had a part in a play. Some community theater. He said it was a load of pretentious bollocks, but he got a check. I can't-Wait." Andy frowned. "Yesterday morning. We both liked a lie-in, Harry and me, because we work late. But yesterday morning some git comes pounding on Harry's door. I got up and looked out-thought the fucking building was on fire. But Harry got up and let him in, and a few minutes later I heard them shouting, then the door slammed.
"I've seen him round once or twice before, this bloke. Not Harry's usual-he goes for blond actress wannabes, for the most part, with fake tits." Andy shrugged. "What they see in him, I don't know."
"Did you hear what they were arguing about, Harry and the bloke who came yesterday?" asked Cullen.
"No. Sorry."
"What did he look like, then, this bloke?"
"Young. Dark hair, dark eyes. The kind of looks that girls start heavy breathing over. And dripping with it." When Kincaid raised an eyebrow, Andy elaborated. "Money. Clothes. Shoes. Haircut. Probably fucking manicure to boot. But-" He stopped, eyeing them with caution.
"But what?" Kincaid asked.
"Look. I'm in a band. I know shit when I see it, and this guy was into something, big-time."
"Drugs?" asked Cullen.
Andy gave him a quelling look. "No. Sweeties. What do you think?"
"Any idea what Harry's connection with him was?" put in Kincaid.
"No. I didn't ask. Harry didn't tell. We didn't talk about personal stuff, Harry and me."
"Andy." Cullen was quivering like a bloodhound. With studied casualness he pulled a photo from his inside pocket and handed it across. "Have you ever seen this man?"
Andy Monahan gazed at the photo, then looked from Cullen to Kincaid, as wide-eyed as if they'd just pulled a rabbit from a hat. "Bloody hell," he said. "That's the pretty boy. Who is he, then?"
"His name," Cullen said, glancing at Kincaid with ill-concealed satisfaction, "is Dominic Scott."