'Wesley!'
He crossed the street to join her. 'Police ladies have to be doing their own shopping, now?' he asked, grinning.
'I was looking for you.' She fell in beside him. 'Wesley, last Friday evening, did Otto leave the cafe for any reason?'
'On a Friday? No way he would do that. Even early, we have plenty customers. Some regulars, they like their dinners early, before the evening-out business starts.'
'Including Alex?'
'Sometimes he comes early. That night he did.'
'And there's no way Otto could have slipped out for a few minutes without your noticing?'
Wesley laughed aloud. 'Otto, he's a little hard to miss, 'case you hadn't noticed. Especially in the kitchen, he be slammin' and bangin' and swearin' at the pots. Gives things more flavor, he says.'
'You're absolutely certain?'
' 'Course I'm certain! You're not thinking Otto trotted out in his apron and murdered Miz Arrowood, then came back to finish off his veal osso bucco? That's downright daft!'
'No, I admit it's not very likely.'
'Part of the job, accusing people who have shown you hospitality?'
'That's unfair, Wesley,' she retorted, stung. 'I'm not accusing Otto of anything, just ruling him out. And I don't like it any better than you do.'
He glanced at her, frowning. 'Why all of a sudden you think Otto would have done such a thing?'
'I'm afraid I can't say. But you could ask him yourself.'
'Like the confessional, is it, conversation with the police?'
'Something like that, yes.'
'That's good, then,' said Wesley, apparently mollified, and they continued walking in companionable silence.
Suddenly Gemma spotted a few wrapped Christmas trees at one of the flower stalls. 'Oh, my gosh! I completely forgot about a tree!'
'A Christmas tree? This be for your new home?'
'Yes. We're moving in on Saturday.'
'I'll find you a good tree, if you want, and bring it to you. A big one.' He chuckled. 'A black Father Christmas, how you like that?'
CHAPTER NINE
Much of the housing around Portobello remained poor up to and beyond the Second World War, when it was still not unusual for homes to have a shared lavatory, no bathroom, and cooking facilities on the landing.
– Whetlor and Bartlett,
from
Portobello had always been a road of mixed use, the antiques shops and arcades tucked in among flats and cafes and ordinary businesses. Borough, on the other hand, was an old dockside warehouse district made fashionable by its proximity to the river and, except when the Friday-morning produce market was in session, there was nothing in its dark brick buildings and narrow streets innately friendly to the casual pedestrian. Kincaid and Doug Cullen found the address the Arrowoods had given them easily enough, however: a loft in a converted warehouse.
Charles Dodd was young, balding, with a plain, intelligent face. His black jeans and turtleneck made an interesting counterpoint to the glass-and-greenery airiness of the loft behind him.
'Charles Dodd?' Kincaid presented his warrant card. 'I'm Superintendent Kincaid, and this is Sergeant Cullen. Could you spare us a few minutes?'
'What's this about?' Dodd inquired, but his manner seemed friendly enough. 'I've just got home from work and I've guests arriving in a few minutes.' As Dodd led them to a pair of matching white sofas, Kincaid noticed that a section of floor had been done in glass blocks that allowed a view of the high-tech kitchen on the lower floor.
'This won't take long,' he assured Dodd. 'Terrific flat you've got here. Good for entertaining, is it?'
'As a matter of fact, it is, and cooking's my stress relief from work.'
'Last Friday evening, I understand you gave a drinks party here?'
'I did, yes. All perfectly legal, I assure you. Nothing served but wine.'
'And Sean and Richard Arrowood were among your guests?'
'Those wankers?' Astonishment warred with amusement in Dodd's face. 'What are they supposed to have done?'
'Their stepmother was murdered on Friday evening,' said Cullen. 'We need to ascertain the whereabouts of anyone who had a connection with the victim.'
'You can't seriously think those two had anything to do with their stepmother's death? I read about it in the paper, a dreadful thing. But Sean and Richard couldn't slaughter a chicken between them if it meant the difference between eating and starving to death.' Dodd lit a cigarette. 'Oh, Sean's not so bad, really- or he wouldn't be if you could keep him away from his mother and his brother- but Richard's a parasite.'
'Why invite them to your party if you dislike them?'
Dodd grimaced at Kincaid. 'Work. Richard's in the same office; Sean comes along gratis. Gets awkward if you invite everyone else and leave Richard out.'
'What time did they arrive on Friday?'
'Between half-five and six. We all came straight from work.'
'And they stayed until what time?'
'About eight. A few of us went out to dinner then, but not Sean and Richard.'
'Can you be sure they were here the entire time?'
'There were fewer than a dozen of us. I'd have noticed if they'd nipped out for a murder. Besides, Richard was hitting the wine even more heavily than usual, and I was wondering if I was going to have to chuck him out. Sean saved me the bother, in the end.'
'Richard was difficult?'
'Obnoxious would be a better description. Coming on to a lady who didn't fancy him at all. Possibly a bit of overcompensation for not admitting that he prefers boys.'
'Would you say Richard's behavior seemed worse than usual? Did he seem nervous, upset?'
Dodd took a moment to put his cigarette out in an art-glass ashtray. 'Hard to say, really. He was certainly fretful, but then he's rather an emotional sort.'
Kincaid recollected Richard Arrowood's pallid countenance and incessant sniffing. 'I suspect that Richard is not unacquainted with drug dealers. Do you by any chance know who supplies his coke?'
'Not a clue. Couldn't afford this flat if I did that sort of thing,' Dodd added, but his smile had become strained.
'We'll need to have a word with the other guests at your party, if you could jot their names and addresses down for us.'
Dodd complied, although not happily. 'This is going to do wonders for my reputation as a host,' he grumbled as he gave them the finished list.
'You never know,' Kincaid told him as they said good-bye. 'It might add a bit of excitement to the prospect. Good food, good wine, a visit from your friendly copper.'
When they reached the street, Kincaid handed Cullen the list.
Cullen groaned. 'Does this mean what I think it does?'
