And Justice There Is None

location, as Christmas decorations altered the look of the shop fronts. Marianne Hoffman's premises had been taken over by someone selling antique dolls, but he recognized the cricket bats and leather golf bags in the window next to it.

Edgar Vernon sold antique sporting equipment, with the addition of old suitcases, globes, walking sticks, or anything else that might tickle the fancy of those dreaming of better Edwardian times. Today Kincaid saw a new addition carefully displayed in the front window: a set of beautifully preserved lead soldiers.

He went in, breathing in the sweet mustiness of old wood and leather. Vernon looked up from his desk, his expression momentarily puzzled, then gave a smile of recognition.

'Mr. Kincaid, isn't it? What can I do for you?' He was a trim man in his fifties with a small mustache and wire- rimmed spectacles.

'Mr. Vernon, if you have a few minutes, I'd like to chat with you about Marianne Hoffman again.'

'I was just about to make some coffee. If you'll have a seat, it will only take me a moment.'

'I'd rather poke about, if that's all right.' It occurred to Kincaid that between the case and the move, he had altogether neglected his Christmas shopping. He caught sight of a silver-handled walking stick that he thought might suit his father admirably, but what about his mother?

By the time Vernon returned with a tray and cafetiere, Kincaid had found the ideal thing- a badminton set, complete with original net and birds. Not exactly a seasonal gift, he supposed, but come spring he could imagine his mother setting it up between the apple trees in her back garden.

'Now sit, please.' Vernon pulled a horn-and-hide chair up to his desk. 'A souvenir from a safari,' he explained. 'And surprisingly comfortable. You said this was about Marianne? Have you discovered her killer?'

'I wish I could tell you that we had. And unfortunately, there's been another murder. In Notting Hill, the wife of an antiques dealer.'

'Ah. I did wonder if there was a connection when I read about the case in the papers. Do you think it was the same killer?'

'We think it very likely. The victim's husband, Karl Arrowood, has quite a prosperous antiques business in Kensington Park Road. Do you know him?'

'I know of him, but merely by dealers' word of mouth. I've never done business with him personally- not my line.'

'Do you know if Mrs. Hoffman knew him? Or his wife?'

'Not that I remember her mentioning. But, then, Marianne didn't talk much about herself.'

Kincaid settled back rather gingerly into the horn curve of the chair. 'Can you remember anything she did tell you about herself, or her background? I had the impression when we spoke that you were quite good friends.'

'Yes.' Vernon sipped at his coffee. 'In fact, on reflection I'd say that Marianne was probably my closest friend, and vice versa. Not only because neither of us had anyone else, but because we were congenial spirits.'

'Nothing of a romantic nature?'

Vernon smiled. 'That was a complication spared us. My lover died five years ago of AIDS, you see.'

'I'm sorry,' Kincaid replied.

'There's no way you could have known. Anyway, the point was, Marianne had a way of letting you know she understood your feelings without making a fuss- a remarkable sort of quiet empathy. Although we saw each other off and on in the course of the day, over the years we developed a ritual of having take-away curry together on Friday nights. We would watch the telly, share a bottle of wine. I know it seems a small thing, but it astonishes me how much I miss it. And now, here I am talking your ear off just to lubricate my tongue.'

'That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. Did Marianne ever say anything about her family- her parents, her background?'

'She never spoke directly of her parents, but I somehow had the feeling that her childhood was difficult- perhaps because she didn't share the usual reminiscences. Except… It's funny, now that you mention it. One Friday evening, not long before she died, we'd had a bit more wine than usual. There was this program on the telly about the sixties- pop icons, fashion, you know the sort of thing. And we began to make a game of it, bragging about who remembered most, or had done the most outlandish thing.'

'One-upmanship.'

'Exactly. Who crammed the most people in a mini, who waited in a queue for five days to see the Rolling Stones… Then she started to tell me about all the people she'd known, like Robert Frazer, the gallery owner, and models, artists, fashion designers. When she saw I was a bit skeptical, she got up and dug through a bureau drawer until she found this. I asked her if I could keep it.' Vernon opened his desk and removed a photo he obviously treasured, handing it to Kincaid.

In the black-and-white image, a girl in a slip of a black dress gazed back at Kincaid. She was slender, with delicate features and large dark eyes enhanced by the makeup of the time. Her platinum hair was cut short and shaped to her head, giving her the irresistible appeal of the waif. And yet Kincaid could see the unmistakable resemblance to the older woman he had known only in death.

'She was stunning,' he said, looking up at Vernon.

'Yes. Very much in the manner of Edie Sedgwick.'

'Edie Sedgwick?'

'One of Andy Warhol's Factory girls; his lover, in fact. Edie left Warhol for Bob Dylan, who promptly abandoned her for someone else. The beginning of a tragic end.'

'And you're saying that Marianne moved in the London equivalent of those circles? It is odd that she never spoke about it before that night.'

'There's something else that's just occurred to me,' Vernon added, frowning. 'I often go to Portobello early on a Saturday, to see what I can pick up for the shop, but Marianne would never go with me, in all the time I knew her. She'd make some excuse or other, and sometimes she'd ask me to look out for something for her, so that it was obvious she knew the area, and the market, well. After a while, I stopped asking her to go, just took her little quirk for granted.'

'An interesting aversion. What about her ex-husband, then? We never interviewed him. I believe he was in Thailand at the time of her death.'

'A nice chap. They stayed good friends. I believe Greg's back in London at the moment; he stopped in for a bit not too long ago. He was quite devastated by Marianne's death.'

'Have you any idea why they divorced?'

'She told me once that she was better off on her own. But I always suspected that she had lost someone very special to her, the way I had.'

'You've been extremely helpful, Mr. Vernon. Could I borrow this photo for a short time? I'll have someone run it back to you as soon as I've made a copy. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to do some Christmas shopping.'

Kincaid bought the walking stick and the badminton set, wondering briefly how he was going to get them to Cheshire in time for the holiday. Then he hesitated, gazing at the lead soldiers in the window. 'I didn't think you sold militaria.'

'Toy soldiers are a particular passion of mine, and I can never pass up a good set. That one's a beauty.'

'I'll take it,' Kincaid decided impulsively. 'For my son. He's twelve.'

'A perfect age. You won't regret it.'

As Kincaid took his tidily wrapped packages and bid Vernon a happy Christmas, he congratulated himself on his purchases. That left Toby, for whom he intended to buy a new Church Mice book, and Gemma.

For Gemma he had something entirely different in mind.

***

Gemma's mobile phone rang as she and Melody returned to the station. Expecting Kincaid with a report on his morning's activities, she was surprised to find Bryony Poole on the line.

'Gemma? Remember I said I'd ring about the dog? Could you come by the soup kitchen on Portobello Road? I've brought Geordie round for a lunchtime visit. The clients get a kick out of it.'

'Right. I could use a break.' Gemma had been wanting to talk to Bryony again, and this would give her a good