within those parameters, I can ask to have you transferred off the case.' Pausing to let the threat sink in, she added pleasantly, 'But I'd like you to stay, Sergeant. You're an asset to this investigation, and I'd be hard put to replace you.'
She saw him struggling between his anger with her and the salve to his vanity. When he cleared his throat and sat up a bit straighter, she knew vanity had won. 'This Hoffman woman. Might help if I had a look at the file.'
'I'll send a copy down to you. In the meantime, I'd like you to go through the house-to-house reports once more. Someone has
When he left, he stopped at the door and gave her a brusque nod. It seemed a token of grudging respect, and she thought it might be a while before he realized he'd been assigned to paperwork Siberia.
Reaching for the phone to ring Melody Talbot, Gemma realized her hands were trembling. It was then that the pain struck. A radiating web, it encircled her abdomen, squeezing, making her gasp for breath. How long it lasted she didn't know, but at last it receded, leaving her shaken and sweating.
She waited, deliberately slowing her breathing, alert to the slightest sensation, but the cramping didn't come back. She moved, gingerly at first, then ran her hands over the gentle swell of her abdomen. Had she felt a flutter, a faint tickle of movement? Surely it was too soon, she thought, but the sensation reassured her.
She was all right, the baby was all right, everything was going to be all right.
Melody came into her office balancing two Starbucks cups. 'Decaf latte,' she announced. 'Just the way you like it.'
'You must be able to read minds.' Gemma wrapped her hands round the cup gratefully.
Sitting with her own coffee, Melody studied her. 'You okay, Gemma? You seem a bit pale.'
'I'm fine. Really. Melody, do you know Otto Popov, the man who runs the little cafe on Elgin Crescent?'
'A nice bloke. Russian, but that you must have gathered. First generation, as I think his parents came over after the war, when he was a child.'
'Any idea why he would want to see Karl Arrowood blamed for his wife's death?'
'None… but…'
'But what? Out with it, Melody. I need to know.'
'Um, I don't know why it would have anything to do with Arrowood, but I have heard vague rumors about Otto… Something to do with the Russian Mafia. I wouldn't give any credence to that sort of talk. In my opinion, it's just prejudice combined with idle gossip.'
'Know anyone who'd know more?'
'As in 'off the record'?' Melody thought for a moment. 'Yeah. Maybe. I'll see what I can do. And in the meantime, you've got media vultures waiting in the anteroom for their afternoon bulletin.'
'We are still pursuing multiple leads,' Gemma told the gathered reporters, sensing their disappointment in the lack of new developments. She plowed on, looking directly into the eye of the Channel 4 video camera and ignoring Tom MacCrimmon's probing gaze. 'If anyone in the neighborhood of St. John's Church last Friday evening saw anything out of the ordinary, please ring this number.' Her hope of a response was dwindling; it had been two days and not one legit call had been received.
Excusing herself, she pushed through the group and out the front entrance, but MacCrimmon was right behind her.
'Buy you a drink, Inspector?' he asked, looking as innocent as a puppy.
'You think I'd have a drink with you after that headline the other day?'
'Just doing my job. Surely you're not cross with me for that? Come on'- he gestured towards the pub across the street- 'you look like you could use a break.'
'Thanks very much,' she replied acidly, although it was hard to stay angry in the face of his good-natured cheek. Still, she wasn't about to be seen in the pub with a tabloid journalist. 'Look, Tom, I don't have anything more for you than I've said. But I promise I'll let you know when I do, if you keep a civil pen in your head in the meantime.'
'That's a hard thing to ask of me, Inspector,' he said with a grin. 'But I'll do my best.'
'I'm sure you will,' Gemma muttered, leaving him on the steps. She hurried on to the car park and locked herself in her car, starting the engine with a sigh of relief. Her interview with the super and her meeting with Gerry Franks had affected her more than she cared to admit; she was glad of the refuge.
Her phone rang and she answered swiftly, seeing that it was Kincaid. 'I'm so glad it's you. You won't believe what happened to me this afternoon-'
Static cut them off. When she could hear him again, he was saying, '-reason for ringing. Doug Cullen and his girlfriend have invited us for dinner on Saturday night-'
'Saturday? We're
'All the better. Kit can watch Toby, and we won't have to cook. A nice gesture on Cullen's part, I thought. I'll tell him about seven, all right? See you tonight, love.'
The phone went dead, but Gemma sat for a long moment with it pressed to her ear, thinking thoughts of murder.
He walked around the edge of the little town of Rye, perched on its sandstone cliff, as he had for the past three days. Here three rivers met, and at one time the sea had lapped at the town's base, but the courses of the rivers had changed and the sea had retreated, now a silver thread on the southern horizon.
Between the town and the sea lay the marsh, sheep-dotted, thick with seabirds. Alex knew every footpath through its reaches; it was the territory of his solitary childhood and of his dreams. If he stumbled occasionally as some memory of Dawn pierced the connection between muscles and brain, his body seemed to right itself and plod on of its own accord.
But to his surprise, it was Karl's face he saw vividly now. In spite of his reputation as a sharp businessman, Karl Arrowood had always seemed to treat him fairly- had, in fact, gone out of his way to share his knowledge of antiques and to refer business to him. Alex realized that he'd never seriously allowed himself to contemplate his betrayal of a friend, or Karl's reaction if he'd learned the truth- nor had he paid attention to Dawn's increasing uneasiness about her husband. How could he have been so stupid? So blind?
In the distance he could see the cloverleaf towers of Henry VIII's Camber Castle, floating like a mirage, and beyond that rose the low green hill that hid the ancient Cinque Port of Winchelsea in its folds.
When he reached Winchelsea Beach he stood, looking out over the gray, rolling water, unaware of the cold until his hands and feet lost all sensation.
Then he turned back the way he had come, reaching Rye as dusk settled over its cobbled streets and red tile roofs. Feeling invisible in the dying light, he climbed up into the town. From the lookout on Watchbell Street he could see lights wink on along the quay and the Channel, and somehow his very isolation gave him strength.
At last the cold and dark drove him down again, and he made his way home, drifting through the footpaths as insubstantially as a ghost. Smoke curled from Jane's chimney, and as he stepped into the house he smelled something savory baking in the oven, but when he called out there was no answer. Jane must be in the greenhouse, tending the potted cyclamens and azaleas she had carefully nurtured for the Christmas market.
Another scent drew him forward, into the sitting room, something green and sharp and fresh. Alex stood rooted, gazing at the tree that filled the room, the glass star at its tip sparkling against the dark vault of the kiln. His life seemed to telescope before him, compounding his loss. There was Dawn, his childhood, and something beyond memory that even now he could not bear to look at directly.
Alex fell to his knees before the tree, overcome by great, wrenching sobs that tore at his throat and pierced his chest.
Suddenly Jane was there, smelling of cold and earth. 'Oh, Alex,' she whispered. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.' She tried to put an arm round him but he pulled away.
'No.
