going to announce her discomfort to Kate Ling. Something must have given her away, however, because when Kate glanced up from the postmortem table, she asked, 'Are you feeling all right, Gemma?'
'Late night. Not enough sleep,' Gemma offered in explanation. It was true enough. After leaving the technicians to finish their search of the Arrowood house, she had set up and staffed the incident room, arranging for the correlation of information in a database, and designed the questionnaire that would be used in the house- to-house inquiries begun this morning. Fortunately, they had been able to use Notting Hill Station itself because of the proximity of the crime, rather than having to set up a mobile incident room, an undertaking always beset with problems. She'd put Gerry Franks in charge, which left her free to conduct interviews.
And she had dealt with the press, refusing to release any details until Dawn Arrowood's family had been informed of her death. By evening, however, the tabloids would be in full cry, and she needed to make use of them, asking anyone who had seen anything odd in the neighborhood of the crime to come forward.
Only then had she allowed herself to go home and slip into bed beside Kincaid, where she had lain awake into the small hours of the morning thinking about the momentous decision she had made.
'Gemma,' said Kate Ling, drawing her attention back to the matter at hand. 'Here's something you might find interesting. Did anyone mention that the victim was about six weeks pregnant?'
'No.' Gemma thought of the dolls and the Enid Blyton books, saved perhaps for a longed-for child? 'Her husband did say she hadn't been feeling well.'
'Perhaps he didn't know?' Kate raised an eyebrow.
'And if not, why not?' Gemma mused. 'Have you come across anything else that might be helpful?'
'Well, it's as we thought last night; there's no evidence of any sort of sexual interference. So it looks like you can rule out sexual motivation for the crime.'
'What about the chest wound?'
'A single stab, which penetrated the left lung. From the angle, I'd say it was done last, after she fell to the ground.'
'Can you tell if the killer was male or female?'
'Male, I'd say. Or a very tall woman.'
'Left- or right-handed?'
'Right.'
'Any ideas about the weapon?'
'Something quite sharp and clean-edged. A razor, or possibly a scalpel.'
'Oh, God. We can't let the press get hold of that.'
'No. You'll have a Jack-the-Ripper panic on your hands, and that you don't need.' Kate gave her another assessing glance. 'You can take off now, if you want. I'll get the organs off to the lab, and let you know the results.'
'Thanks.' Gemma gave the other woman a grateful smile, sensing that they had connected for the first time on a personal level. But as she left the hospital, she also wondered just how much Kate Ling had guessed about her condition. Glancing down at her rapidly thickening waist, she knew she wouldn't be able to keep her secret much longer.
'I'm going after him.' Fern pushed her coffee away and stood up.
'It might not be a good idea to try to talk to him now,' Marc advised her gently. 'Especially not in front of the Arrowoods' house-'
'I'm not going there. He'll go back to his stall, when he's sure it's true. I know him.' She turned away from the pity in their faces, and for a moment she hated them for it. She did know him, better than anyone, and she
Rounding the corner into Portobello Road, she ducked her head against the rain and battled the flood of shoppers coming down the hill as if she were a salmon swimming upstream, turning into the arcade where she and Alex had their stalls.
The narrow aisles offered some relief from the crowd, but she knew it wouldn't be long before the shoppers were packed shoulder to shoulder there as well. Already the air was redolent with cigarette smoke, and the familiar odors of grease and coffee drifted up from the basement cafe.
She unlocked the stall's protective screen and raised it up, slipped inside, and settled herself behind the glass case that held the silver spoons, magnifying glasses, and trinkets that were her bread and butter.
Making a pretense of business, she took out her cloth and began to polish the fingerprints from a Georgian teapot she'd got for a good price from a dealer at Bermondsey yesterday. It could mean a nice profit, if the right buyer came along, but Fern found she'd lost her enthusiasm for the sale.
The stall beside hers seemed ominously empty without Alex. She knew his stock almost as well as she knew her own, and it came as a relief when a woman stopped and admired a delicate Coalport cup and saucer on display. Fern unlocked Alex's stall- they each had the other's spare key- and took the cup and saucer down for the woman, holding it up to the lamp Alex kept for demonstrating the translucence of bone china.
Enchanted, the woman paid the sticker price without haggling, a definite sign of a novice. Fern tucked the money into the cash apron Alex had left behind the front display case, then stood looking round the stall, remembering the first time Dawn Arrowood had come into the arcade.
There had been something about her that had immediately drawn Fern's attention. Everything from the designer jeans to the perfect blond hair spoke of money, but Dawn's was an elegantly understated look that Fern knew she could never achieve. And yet, in spite of the woman's sleek veneer, there had been an appealing freshness about her, and Fern had flashed her a friendly smile.
But the woman had looked past her. Curious, Fern had turned, following her gaze, to see the woman meet Alex's eyes. He had stared back, transfixed, and Fern's heart had been pierced with a sudden and sure knowledge.
Oh, she had fought it! First his embarrassed excuses, then his irritated rejections, until at last Fern had given him no choice but to tell her outright that it was over between them. Even then she'd never quite given up hope that she might somehow win him back… and more than once she had wished Dawn Arrowood dead.
But not like this- not murdered! And Otto had hinted this morning that her husband might have killed her because of Alex.
Fern looked up, realizing the arcade had gone abruptly quiet. Alex stood in the street door. Water dripped from his sopping hair onto his collar; his face was blank with shock, his eyes expressionless. One of the other vendors spoke to him softly and he shook his head, then stumbled forward. Fern slipped out of the stall and went to him. 'Alex! Are you all right?'
He moved blindly forward as if unaware of her, stopping before his stall as if he had no clear idea what he was doing there.
'Alex, let me help you,' Fern urged. 'You're soaking-'
'I have to get something.' Pushing her aside, he went into the stall, bumping against the porcelain-laden shelves as if they held Brighton souvenirs. He fell to his knees and rummaged behind the display case, emerging with a brightly colored teapot Fern hadn't seen before. Wrapping it in a cloth, he shoved it into a carrier bag, then stood. His eyes fell on Fern and for the first time he seemed to register her presence. 'You'll watch the stall for me, won't you?'
'Alex, what are you doing? You're soaked. If you don't look after yourself you'll catch your death-'
'I have to go, to get away.' He started to push past her but this time she stepped resolutely in front of him.
'Where, Alex? At least tell me where you're going.'
'Don't know. I just have to get away from here, that's all.'
'You're in no fit state to look after yourself, much less drive. Let me take you.' An idea took shape in her mind. If Karl Arrowood had murdered his wife because he'd found out about Alex, might not Alex be next? But not if Karl couldn't find him. 'Give me your keys,' she ordered. When he handed them over without protest, she called to Doris, who traded antique toys from the stall across the aisle, 'Watch the stalls for me, Doris, please. I'll make it up to you.'
