It is not merely of some importance but is of fundamental importance that justice should not only be seen to be done, but should manifestly and undoubtedly be seen to be done.
Lord Hewart, Rex v. Sussex Justices, 9 Nov. 1923 (King's Bench Reports, 1924, Vol. I, p. 259)
The decoy arrived well before dark. Her name was Wendy Chen, and she was a detective sergeant with whom Gemma had worked when at the Yard. Not only was she as slight in stature as Erika, but Gemma had remembered that she had a flair for amateur dramatics.
Now, with a white wig and some of Erika's clothes, they would have to hope that in the dark she would pass for Erika.
Melody had left to liaise with Kincaid and Cullen, and Gemma couldn't blame her for wanting to be in on the action. But even though there was now another police officer in the flat, Gemma had no intention of leaving Erika alone until this was over.
She had rung Wesley Howard and asked him to take the boys to his mum's for the evening-Kit would object to being assigned a minder, but she didn't feel comfortable leaving them on their own. She had no way of knowing if Ellen Miller-Scott had realized she had a personal connection with Erika, but she was taking no more chances with her family's safety.
And she had rung the hospital and spoken to the charge nurse, who told her that her mum was resting comfortably and had started instructing the aides in how to care for the patient in the next bed-a sign, Gemma thought, that her mum was feeling at least a bit perkier.
When she tried to check in with Cyn, her sister's phone went straight to voice mail, and her dad answered neither flat nor bakery. Like Harry Pevensey, her father refused to carry a mobile phone, and his stubbornness irritated Gemma no end. Hanging up, she came in from the garden feeling worried and aggravated in equal parts.
As Gemma didn't want anyone to go out, just in case Ellen was watching the flat, they made do with a supper of salads and meats that Erika had on hand from the deli. Neither Gemma nor Erika, however, had much appetite.
As dusk fell, Wendy put on a pair of Erika's trousers and one of the long, colorful jackets Erika favored, then fitted the wig and pulled the thick white hair up into a twist.
At Gemma's insistence, Erika had drunk her usual before-dinner glass of dry sherry, and now her cheeks were flushed pink against her pale skin. "That's not right," she said, and made Wendy sit at her dressing table while she redid the wig, but after two attempts she dropped the brush in frustration. "It's like a man trying to tie a necktie on someone else. My muscle memory isn't cooperating. And that awful wig doesn't look a thing like my hair," she added, her nose wrinkled in distaste.
"Let's try movement, then," suggested Wendy, leading her into the sitting room. "That's the most important thing. Walk across the room for me."
When Erika complied, Gemma saw that she was holding her spine stiffly upright, and moving more slowly than usual. "No, just relax," said Gemma. "Talk to me while you walk. Pretend you're going to the shops."
"That woman will never fall for this," Erika muttered as she took another few turns around the room. "She doesn't make mistakes."
"Let me try." Wendy demonstrated, holding her shoulders forward just a bit, changing the angle of her head, and adding a very slight halt to her step. The transformation was amazing.
"I don't look like that," protested Erika, incensed.
"Oh, but you do," said Gemma, laughing. "That's very good. It would fool me, at least from a distance."
"The eye sees what it expects to see," explained Wendy. "Miller-Scott had a chance to watch you last night, Erika, and maybe other times as well, so she'll have a visual imprint. That's all it takes for most people to make a quick identification if you give them the right cues."
Gemma sobered instantly at the idea that Ellen Miller-Scott might have watched Erika more than once, and nerves began to get the best of her. The time seemed to pass like treacle dripping from a jar, and she had to stop herself checking the clock every other minute. "You'll be all right, won't you?" she whispered to Wendy when Erika had gone into the kitchen. "If she believes you're Erika, she won't hesitate to run you down."
"I was a gymnast," Wendy assured her. "I can drop and roll like a champ."
When it grew so dark that Gemma could see her reflection in the garden window, she drew the shade. It would have to be soon, or Ellen wouldn't believe she could lure Erika out.
Kincaid had rung to tell her they had the unmarked cars in position, two at the bottom of Arundel Gardens-one either side of the Kensington Park Road T-junction, and two at the top end-either side of Ladbroke Grove. They believed Ellen would come down the curve of Landsdowne Road and cross Ladbroke Grove. Her car had been facing down the street when Erika had seen it the previous evening, and that route would give her the best visibility as well as the best chance to get up speed.
But how, Gemma wondered, did Ellen intend to get Erika out of the house and into the street? She couldn't drive the car up on the pavement, as she had with Harry Pevensey-the cars parked either side of Arundel Gardens would block her access.
"Erika-" The burr of the phone made them all start, even though they'd been prepared.
They looked at one another, then Gemma nodded. "Easy now," she whispered to Erika. "And whatever she says, agree."
"Hello?" Erika clicked the phone on, sounding only a little breathless, as if she'd had to cross the room to answer. "Yes. Yes, it is," she said, then listened intently, and Gemma heard the faint sound of a woman's voice issuing from the handset. "You do?" Erika sounded a little befuddled, and Gemma thought Wendy Chen wasn't the only one with a flair for drama. "But that's-Well, it's rather late, but-Are you sure you won't-Yes, I see." She nodded, as if the caller could see her. "Yes, all right. Five minutes, then. Across the street. Thank you," she added, then disconnected.
"Of all the bloody nerve," she said, turning to Gemma and sounding not the least bit confused. "She said she worked at Harrowby's and knew something about my brooch, but that if anyone knew she'd spoken with me, she'd get into trouble. She said she'd be waiting in a red Fiat across the street."
"Is there a red Fiat?" Gemma asked Wendy.
"Yes. She's scouted."
The knowledge that Ellen Miller-Scott had been spying on Erika made Gemma felt cold. Had she seen the unmarked cars? "I'll ring Duncan. Wendy, countdown."
"I'll just make sure my hair's on straight," said Wendy, showing her first sign of tension. "We want to be certain she's in position before I go out."
Stepping into the conservatory in order to get the best reception on her mobile, Gemma called Kincaid. "She's on her way," she said when he answered. "She said five minutes, and we're down one. She told Erika she'd be waiting in a red Fiat across the street."
"Right. Tell Sergeant Chen to be careful, but she has to give her a chance to make the attempt."
"She knows," said Gemma, but he had already rung off. She looked at her watch. Two minutes.
Hurrying into the sitting room, she found Wendy emerging from the loo, patting her hair and straightening her long jacket. "Feel like I'm going for a bloody audition," she said.
"They'll be right behind you." She glanced at her watch once more. "Showtime." Then the absence hit her.
"Wendy, where's Erika?"
"She went into the bed-"
The front door latch snicked.
"Shit." Gemma felt the blood draining from her face as she met Wendy's eyes. "She's done a bunk-"
"I'll get her," said Wendy, starting for the door.
"No." Gemma grabbed her sleeve. "We can't let Ellen see two Erikas. Stay inside."
Then she dashed for the door. If she could pull Erika back, maybe they'd still have enough on Ellen to prove intent.
But when Gemma emerged from the flat, she saw Erika just stepping in between the two cars parked in front of the building. And then Erika was in the street, and a dark shape came hurtling down the chute of Arundel Gardens, straight for her.
Gemma leaped for the pavement, shouting, as the world erupted into a barrage of sound and motion. Erika seemed to bounce back from the Land Rover's front fender, disappearing between the parked vehicles, just as two cars came screeching round from either side of Kensington Park Road, blocking both lanes of traffic.
The Land Rover braked hard, skidding. As the driver threw the car into reverse and looked back, Gemma saw her face clearly. Ellen. They had been right.
But two more cars roared round from Ladbroke Grove and pulled up behind the Land Rover. Ellen Miller-Scott was boxed in.
As Gemma ran down the steps towards Erika, the front doors on the parallel lead cars flew open and four uniformed and armored officers jumped out, shouting, "Armed police!" guns drawn as they crouched behind the shields of their doors.
Reaching Erika, Gemma knelt, mouth dry with fear for her friend, but Erika was already pulling herself up.
"Are you-"
"I'm all right. Just bruised. I-"
The far-side doors of the rear car sprang open. Cullen emerged from the front, then Melody from the back. They were wearing body armor over their street clothes, and they advanced on the passenger door of the Land Rover, guns drawn.
Then, just as Kincaid jumped from the rear car's driver's seat, Gemma saw Ellen's blond head disappear from view.
"Gun!" Cullen shouted. "She's got a gun!"
Kincaid and Melody froze. Cullen, his eyes not wavering from Ellen Miller-Scott, yelled, "Put your hands up! Let me see your hands!"
Time seemed to stop between one breath and the next, and Gemma heard the blood pounding in her ears. Then she jerked into action, throwing her arms round Erika, pulling her down and shielding her with her own body, her heart contracting with terror.
Then Ellen Miller-Scott's blond head reappeared above the seat, slowly, and Doug was shouting, "Open your door! Let me see your hands! Do it now!"
The driver's door of the Land Rover swung open and Cullen screamed, "Take her! Take her!" to Kincaid.
Kincaid sprinted to the car, and then Ellen Miller-Scott was tumbling out, her wrists pinned in Kincaid's hand. He spun her round against the car, hard, and patted her down.
Diving into the passenger side, Cullen emerged holding a small, neat gun. "Bloody bitch!" he said, raising it in the air, and Gemma knew he was feeling the adrenaline dump. "She had a fucking gun! She was fucking going to shoot me!"
Ellen Miller-Scott turned her head to look back at Kincaid. "You've nothing against me." Even restrained against the Land Rover, her voice was a level drawing-room drawl. "I was defending myself against harassment. My lawyer will be in touch with your commissioner before you can draw breath."
Struggling out of Gemma's loosened grasp, Erika stood and limped towards Ellen Miller-Scott. Her hair had come free from its twist, falling in a mass of white about her shoulders, and when she raised a pointing finger, she looked like a Fury unleashed.
"That was your father's gun," she said coldly, clearly. "And you are your father's daughter. I will see you rot in hell."
CHAPTER 23
And I'm not saying love will make you happy-above all, I'm not saying that. If anything I tend to believe that it will make you unhappy; either immediately unhappy, as you are impaled by incompatibility; or unhappy later, when the woodworm has quietly been gnawing away for years and the bishop's throne collapses. But you can believe this and still insist that love is our only hope.
Julian Barnes, A History of the World in 10½ Chapters
On Friday morning, Gemma arrived at the hospital as soon as visitors were allowed on the ward. For the first time, she managed to catch the consultant as he made his rounds.
"I want you to tell me the truth," she'd said, taking him aside. "How bad is it?"
The doctor considered her, as if checking for signs of hysteria, then shrugged. He looked tired, and his skin had the slight gray tinge of someone who slept little and worked too many hours.
"Leukemia is very serious, of course," he told her. "But your mother seems to be responding to treatment. It's early days yet, and there are other options if the chemotherapy isn't successful."
With that Gemma had to be content for the moment. She waited for her mother to come back from her treatment, then sat with her while she dozed. When Vi woke, Gemma told her a bit about Erika and what had happened the night before, leaving out any mention of how close they had come to disaster. She wasn't ready to think about that quite yet.
"Will you get a conviction?" asked Vi.
"It's early days yet," Gemma told her, echoing the doctor. "We've a lot of evidence to sift through."
"And you want to be there, in the middle of it. Go," Vi scolded. "I don't need you to sit here reading silly magazines to me." She flapped a copy of Hello! at Gemma as if she were shooing a fly.
"But I want to be with-"
"Gemma, you're no better at twiddling your thumbs than I am. And I'm not going anywhere. I've stuffing in me yet."
Gemma laughed. "So you do. Okay, you've convinced me." She stood. "The nurse says I can bring Kit for a visit tomorrow. And Toby's making you a card at school today."
Patting her hair, Vi said, "I'd better have Cyn make me presentable, if I'm going to have handsome young men visiting."
But as Gemma bent to kiss her mother's cheek, Vi clasped her hand and held it. "Gemma, it's your dad I worry about. Promise me you'll look after him."
"Mum." Gemma shook her head. "Don't say things like that. You're going to get-"
"I know I am," her mum assured her. "It's just-he's got the bakery to run on his own, and with the worry on top of that-And he misses you, Gem, but he won't tell you. I shouldn't say this," she added, lowering her voice, "but you always were his favorite, and that just makes it all the harder for him."
"I'll go see him," Gemma said. "Tomorrow. I promise."
Ellen Miller-Scott had done exactly what they expected, but not even the most high-powered of solicitors had been able to engineer an immediate release for a woman who had attempted a hit-and-run in front of police officers.
When Gemma arrived at the Yard, Ellen was still "helping the police with their inquiries," which meant that she was sitting in an interview room with Kincaid and Cullen, backed by her solicitor, coolly refusing to answer any questions.
Rather than join this frustrating and unproductive party, Gemma had Melody escort Erika into the Yard, where Gemma took her detailed statement herself.
"Was I right about the gun?" Erika asked. "I had seen it in my dreams for more than fifty years."
"It is a Walther PPK," Gemma told her. "And it dates from the early thirties, when they were very popular in Germany with both police and civilian shooters. And it certainly is not legally registered to Ellen Miller-Scott, nor to her father, so I would say it's a pretty good bet he brought it back from Germany."
"But you can't prove it."
"No," Gemma said, gently. "I wish we could. But we have a warrant to search the Cheyne Walk house this afternoon. We may find other things."
"Do you think he kept it-David's book-all these years?"
"If he did," Gemma said, "will you read it?"
Erika paled, but after a moment said, "Yes. I suppose I must. I owe that much to David. And to the others."
They found the pages, tucked into a brown pasteboard file, in the safe in Joss Miller's office. David Rosenthal's name was at the top, and every margin of the thin onionskin paper was covered with tiny black script-it looked as if David had feared he would never find room to put down everything he had to tell.
In places on the top page, the ink was smeared by small brown teardrops-the unmistakable splatter of blood. Gemma could only guess that David Rosenthal had been holding his manuscript in his hands when Joseph Mueller stabbed him.
Gemma and Kincaid found other pieces of jewelry in the safe as well, although none as exquisite as Jakob Goldshtein's diamond brooch. When Dominic Scott had needed money, he had gone for the prize.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Ellen Miller-Scott had been more careful than her father. There was nothing in the house that obviously tied her to the killing of Kristin Cahill or Harry Pevensey. But as the SOCOs began their minute examination, Cullen rang to say that the lab had found blood and tissue matches from both victims on the front of the Land Rover, and that the steering wheel bore only Ellen Miller-Scott's prints.
"She can say she wiped the wheel after Dom drove the car, to protect him," said Gemma.
"She could," Kincaid agreed. "And she probably will. But that doesn't mean anyone will believe her. Let's leave them to it," he added, nodding at the techs.
As they let themselves out into the cool evening, Gemma took a last look back at the house. "Could she have saved him, do you think?"
"Dom?" Kincaid shrugged and shook his head. "I doubt we'll ever know for certain. But my guess is that she might have seen Dom's death as the solution to a very big problem. A necessary sacrifice."
Dusk had fallen while they were inside, and the lights had come on along the river. Instead of going to the car, Gemma took Kincaid's hand and they walked across the road.
They stood on the Embankment in silence, between the Battersea Bridge to the west and the Albert Bridge to the east, gazing at the river making its slow muddy way towards the North Sea.
All the victims, past and present, thought Gemma-David, Gavin, Kristin, Harry, and poor Dominic-were a drop in the ocean compared to the millions of lives taken by those like Joss Miller and his daughter, but that made their loss no less significant, nor the things they had cared about any less important.
The wind that blew off the river felt more like March than May. Gemma shivered, and Kincaid put his arm round her shoulders. She leaned against him, looking away from the sunset, and said, "Erika told me that Gavin Hoxley loved the lights on the Albert Bridge."
Doug Cullen found himself leaving the main entrance of the Yard at the same time as Melody Talbot. "Back to Notting Hill, then?" he asked, as casually as he could manage.
"Yeah. Seems a bit dull, though, after yesterday." She smiled at him, satisfaction still bright in her eyes, and he wondered how he could ever have thought her not pretty.
"As ditchwater," he agreed, trying for an air of insouciance he didn't feel.
The truth was that he had been scared shitless. All the firearms training in the world hadn't prepared him for the adrenaline rush of jumping out of a car and aiming the bloody gun at a real person. Then, when he'd seen the weapon in Ellen Miller-Scott's hand, his guts had turned to water.
But Melody-Melody had been practically bouncing with excitement, her face shining, and yet she had held her gun on Ellen Miller-Scott with the steadiness of a rock.
"You were good last night," he told her, and when Melody gave him a surprised glance, he wondered if he had sounded grudging.
But she smiled again and said, "So were you. A regular cowboy."
He shrugged, as if he did things like that every day, and an awkward silence fell between them.
But before he could think of what else to say, Melody broke it. "We should maybe sort of celebrate or something. Want to get a drink?"
Doug stared at her-the efficient and sarcastic Melody Talbot was asking him out? Trying to stutter an acceptance, he said, "I-"
But then he thought of Maura Bell, and of the last time he had made a fool of himself, imagining that a woman fancied him.
He wasn't going to risk that humiliation again, not any time soon, and not with someone who could rip him to shreds if it suited her. "I, uh-I have to be somewhere," he amended. "Some other time?"
He saw an unexpected flash of disappointment in her face, quickly concealed, but before he could figure out how to take back his refusal, she said evenly, "Right." This time her smile was brittle. "See you, then," she added, tossing the words back at him as she turned and walked away.
"What will you do about the brooch?" asked Gemma. It was late on Saturday morning, and she was in Erika's sitting room, drinking the strong and bitter-and, Erika had added fiercely, not decaffeinated-coffee that Erika had made them.
Early that morning, Gemma had taken Kit to see her mother, and then they'd ridden the tube to Leyton High Road. Her father, caught unawares in the midst of serving a customer, had looked ridiculously pleased to see them. Kit volunteered to stay and help out, with touching enthusiasm, and before Gemma left she had taken her dad aside.
"We'll get through this," she said. "I'm taking some time off work. I can help out in the mornings for a bit, and maybe Kit can come in after school. And Mum's going to be okay."
As her father's face worked with emotion, she saw how perilously close he had come to collapse.
It wasn't in his nature to accept with grace, but he nodded, then turned away, patting at his eyes with his apron, and Gemma vowed to do better by them both. If he couldn't move towards her, she would have to move towards him.
"The brooch?" repeated Erika thoughtfully. "I went to Harrowby's first thing this morning. Your nice Mr. Khan showed it to me. Very charming fellow."
Gemma waited, wondering if she would ever see the charming side of Amir Khan, and after a moment, Erika went on, "It is a beautiful thing, even more so than I remembered. And Mr. Khan gave me the number of Harry Pevensey's cousin, his next of kin. When I rang her, she offered it to me, as a gift. She said she thought it should go to its rightful owner. It was very generous of her."
"Then you-"
"Yes, I told her I would take it, but not to keep. There's too much pain attached to it. That's not what my father intended when he made it."
"But it's worth-"
"Nothing. Or everything," said Erika. "I'm going to give it to the Victoria and Albert. The museum has a fine jewelry collection, and my father would have been proud to see it there."
"I would like my father to be proud of me." The confession caught Gemma unawares. "He told me that I was hurting my mother by not marrying Duncan."
"Well." Erika sipped at her coffee without wincing. "I am not a psychologist, but it may be that your father is projecting his own wishes onto your mother, perhaps in part because he cannot fully admit them.
"But you shouldn't let your decisions be influenced by what will make your father or your mother happy, but rather by what will make you and Duncan happy."
Gemma twisted her cup in her hands. "But I'm…afraid." There, she had said it. "Why isn't Duncan afraid? There are so many things that could go wrong. I don't want to-"
"You cannot stand still. And Duncan knows all about fear. He lost Kit's mother. He almost lost you. And he lost the baby that was his as well as yours. I suspect that is when he made the leap that you are afraid to make. And what, after all, have you to lose?"
"Myself," Gemma said softly. "I don't want to be like my mum. I don't want to orbit around someone else's sun."
"Are you sure it's not the other way round with your parents? That it's your father who orbits your mother?" asked Erika. "And besides," she added with emphasis, "you are not your mother, and Duncan is certainly not your father."
"But what if…" Gemma forced herself to admit the thing that terrified her most. "What happened the other night…It was Doug in the line of fire, but it could have been Duncan…What if I lost him?"
"Then," said Erika, "you have to consider the alternative to taking the risk. And that is many long nights of lonely suppers and cold beds. And teetering on the fence doesn't protect you from pain; it merely gives you more to regret."
Gemma slid round on the piano bench just a little, running her fingers lightly over the keys. There was a chime of sound, so faint she thought she might have imagined it, but it seemed to reverberate through her body.
Without looking at Erika, she said, "I got a call today. From Duncan's cousin Jack's wife. My friend Winnie, the Anglican priest. She's pregnant."
"Ah. How do you feel about that?"
"I'm not sure. Happy. Sad. Jealous. Confused."
"Yes." Erika nodded. "I expect so. Have you told Duncan?"
"Not yet. I was in the City, visiting my mum."
"Then you should go and tell him now. It's cause for celebration."
"I should, shouldn't I?" Gemma felt a sudden, unexpected fizz of exhilaration, like champagne bubbles in her blood, and almost laughed aloud. Winnie was pregnant.
She stood and went to Erika, dropping down on one knee so that she could look up into her face. For an instant, she saw the young woman Gavin Hoxley had loved, and who had taken the leap of loving him back, regardless of the consequences. "Will you be all right?"
"I'm not sure I know what all right is." Erika smiled, and the twinkle was back in her dark eyes. "But I think I will ask my friend Henri to dinner."
Gemma walked down Arundel Gardens, feeling the slight spring as her heels connected with the pavement. The sun shone in a blue and perfectly cloudless sky, and the air seemed to have texture to it, so that she almost felt as if she were swimming in its crystal clarity.
When she reached Portobello Road she bought flowers from the corner stall, two dozen red tulips, imagining, as she watched the vendor wrap them, the bright splash of color they would make against the white wall of the sitting room when she put them on the bookcase. Then, a bit farther along, she chose strawberries and asparagus, taking her time, as if finding the perfect specimens was the most important thing in the world. The street was crowded, the shoppers brought out in force by the beautiful day, but for once she didn't mind the jostling, and the colors of people's clothing and stall awnings seemed unnaturally bright.
With the flowers cradled under one arm, she swung the carrier bag from the fruit and veg stall in the other hand, making her way farther down the road, glancing desultorily into shop windows. She thought she might buy shoes, or an inexpensive bracelet under the Westway, something entirely frivolous, entirely out of character.
But just before the Westway, her eye was caught by a print on a photographer's stall. She bought it without deliberation, handing over a note with a smile, then walked away, examining her find. The house she thought she recognized as one nearby, but its cream brickwork and the French blue of a bay window on the first floor served merely as a backdrop for the graceful curved limbs of an apple tree that filled the frame, bursting with white blossom.
It was an ordinary scene, simple and uncomplicated, full of promise.
Duncan met her in the hall, taking her bags and the paper cone of flowers. "I'd have bought them for you," he said.
"I know." She followed him into the kitchen. "But I wanted to buy them myself. Kit stayed with Dad at the bakery. Where are Toby and the dogs?"
"I've fed Toby lunch and sent them outside again. They're like dervishes in the house today. Spring fever. Shall I get a vase, or do you want-" He stopped, looking puzzled. "What is it? Did I miss a spot shaving? Egg on my face?"
Gemma found that her hands were trembling. She took a breath, hoping her voice wouldn't squeak. "No. It's just…I was wondering…I was wondering if we might invite Winnie and Jack up for a weekend. Sometime this summer. And Hazel. And your family, of course."
He frowned. "What-"
"I was wondering if Winnie could, you know, officiate. In a parish that wasn't her patch. At a…wedding."
"A wedding?" He stared at her, the tulips tilting dangerously in his grasp, forgotten. In his eyes she saw a flare of delight, and herself reflected, infinitely, like an image in a hall of mirrors.
"A wedding. If you wanted…That is…"
"I think," he said slowly, setting the flowers on the table, "that something of the sort could be arranged."