And Justice There Is None

carve. Miriam Wolowski, it read. Went to Sleep January 9, 1963. Many of the other headstones said the same, Angel noticed, and she felt a hot anger that people couldn't speak the truth. 'Asleep' implied that a person would wake up, would come back to you: That was something her mother would never do.

Her father had managed to provide a few cold meats and tea for the mourners, but no one stayed long. When the last guest had left, Angel looked round the neglected flat, at her father, gaunt and hollow-eyed, collapsed in his chair, and wondered how she would bear it.

She did the washing up, mechanically, and when her father fell into a doze in front of the television, she slipped out the door.

All the Thomases were home, even Ronnie, which was unusual these days, and they, too, were gathered round the television. As Mrs. Thomas patted the sofa beside her, Betty made an awkward attempt at normality. 'There's a new group from Liverpool on tonight. They're supposed to be super.'

But Angel had more important things on her mind. 'Mrs. T, could I talk to you?'

'Of course, child.'

'I mean, in the kitchen?'

'I suspect you could use a proper cup of tea, after this afternoon,' said Mrs. Thomas, rising and leading Angel to the scrubbed, square table. To the others, she called back, 'Now, you tell us when those boys come on.'

When she'd made Angel a steaming cup of milky tea, she sat and picked up the sewing that was her constant companion. 'Now, what's worrying you, child?'

Angel swallowed hard. 'Mrs. T, now that my mother's gone, could I come and live with you?'

Mrs. Thomas stared at her. 'What you be thinkin', girl? That's the craziest thing I ever heard!'

'I could share with Betty; she wouldn't mind. And I don't eat mu-'

'That's got nothing to do with it, Angel. We feed you mos' the time as it is, and that's never been a burden. But you have to think about your poor father. Who would look after him in his time of need? And what would people say, a nice white girl boarding with a black family?' She shook her head in dismay. 'You have to think on your place in life, girl, and that's something that's jus' not done.'

'But-'

'You know I love you like my own child, and so does Clive. You were the first person who ever showed us a kindness when we came here, and we've never forgot that. But that doesn't mean you don't have to do what's right, and you know it, too.'

Angel could only nod, desperately trying to keep the tears at bay. Of course, Mrs. Thomas was right; she had known it in her heart, but the rejection bit deep, and with it, her last small flicker of hope winked out.

***

Jane Dunn put down the phone and stood staring at the glass ornament she still held in her hand. She'd bought a Christmas tree that morning from a local nursery, one of her customers, choosing the largest fir available. Now it rose bravely towards the kiln roof, hung with a multitude of tiny white lights, and decorated with the hand-blown glass ornaments she'd bought Alex on a trip to the Black Forest when he was ten. Did she hope the tree would cheer him? Or her?

What it had done was bring back a rush of memories of his childhood; Alex as a solemn yet charming little boy, possessing the gravity of those children who are brought up in the company of adults. Jane had had no experience with mothering, after all, had not known how to treat him except as a friend and companion.

Her sister, Julia, had appeared without warning one day at her door, holding the small, towheaded boy by the hand. Julia had left years before, after a blazing row with their father over her irresponsible behavior. She'd slammed out of the house, taking nothing with her, vowing never to come back.

Their parents had died of grief. Jane knew this as well as she knew herself, even though the coroner's certificates had read heart failure and stroke. The loss of their volatile, favored, younger daughter had been more than the Dunns could bear.

They had left Jane the house, the land, and a little money. She had set out to find a way to support herself- and she had vowed she would never love anyone, or anything, as much as her parents had loved Julia.

Jane hung the ornament on the tree, watching it swing until it fell still. Was this how she had failed Alex? For she had come to feel, in the last three days, that she had failed him, that she had not given him the core of emotional strength he needed.

Or was this his mother's legacy, the fatal crack in the porcelain not seen until now? Years ago, Julia, hollow- eyed and emaciated, had pushed her frightened child away from her, promising Jane she'd come back for him in a few days. For months afterwards, Alex had stood every day at the end of the drive, watching, waiting, but his mother never returned.

Jane had spent much time and money at first trying to trace her sister, but gradually it had seemed less urgent. She and Alex settled into their life together, and by the time he started school she had given up the search altogether. When Alex questioned her as he grew older, she'd told him his mother was dead.

With a last look at the Christmas tree, she left the sitting room and went out into the drive. The early December dusk would settle in soon, and Alex had not returned. Every day he left the house after breakfast, walking as if he could escape his grief, returning only as it grew dark. In the evenings he ate whatever she'd prepared for supper without seeming to notice what it was, and then he began to drink.

As Alex had enjoyed his wine but had never been more than a moderate drinker, this worried Jane greatly, but she didn't know how stop him. Unable to sleep, she began checking on him in the middle of the night. Once, near dawn, she'd found him poring over his boyhood collections, as if he found some solace in touching the birds' eggs, the nests, the bent and tarnished spoons; and once, asleep, his body wrapped around a pottery teapot as if he were cradling a child.

During the day, her every attempt at conversation or confidence had been met with the same blank stare, as if she spoke a language Alex could no longer comprehend. But now she knew she must try to reach him.

Fern had rung from London, saying that the police were looking urgently for him, and that they had even threatened her with arrest if she didn't reveal his whereabouts.

Whatever Alex had seen, or done, or knew, she must convince him to go back to London and face up to it. If she let him go on in this way, she would be compounding her own failure. Nor could she go on watching him disintegrate before her eyes. It came to her, with the cold breeze that eddied off the marsh, that time and familiarity had betrayed her, concealing the fact that she had long ago broken her own vow.

***

Gemma rang down to the incident room and summoned Gerry Franks. When he appeared, his sneer more apparent than usual, she settled back in her chair and laced her fingers together.

'I've just had a word with the guv'nor, Gerry,' she began conversationally. 'He tells me you're unhappy with my handling of the Arrowood case. I'd like to know why you didn't come to me first if there was something you thought needed to be addressed.'

'Figured you had more important things to do than listen to your sergeant,' he said. Watching the swift calculation cross his face, she knew that diplomacy was not going to be enough. 'What do I have to offer compared to Scotland Yard?'

'You're a good, experienced officer and I depend on you more than I've let you know,' she replied. 'I'm sorry if I've made you feel you were left out of the loop. We've no hope of solving a case this difficult without working as a team, communicating and cooperating, and I intend to do a better job of both. What about you?'

'What about Arrowood, then? We've danced round him like butterflies on a bloody daisy.'

'Karl Arrowood is a powerful man, and we'd be mad to antagonize him more than absolutely necessary. Not to mention the fact that we have half a dozen other strong leads that need following up, including finding Alex Dunn, and we cannot leave out the possible connection with Marianne Hoffman's murder. If you don't feel you can work