And Justice There Is None

done if you hadn't… You've been a good friend, Fern, and I've behaved abominably. To Jane and to you.'

Considering this, she said slowly, 'Yeah, I suppose you have. But under the circumstances…'

'I wanted you to know, in case… Well, I've learned it's better not to leave things unsaid.'

'What do you mean, 'in case'? In case what?' Her heart was hammering.

'It's just an expression. I could walk in front of a bus, that's all.'

'Alex, are you okay now? I mean really okay?'

'Honestly?' This time his eyes met hers. 'I don't know. I've never done this before. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel.'

'Maybe you should talk to someone. You know… a professional.'

'A shrink?' He laughed sourly. 'What would that fix? Look, there's something else I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard anything about Karl Arrowood selling drugs?'

'What?' Her voice rose to a furious squeak. 'Don't tell me you're giving me the she's-got-green-hair-she-must-know-about-drugs bit?'

'Of course not! God, Fern, I didn't mean to offend you. But you've lived in the area your whole life. You know things, hear things, in a way I never will.'

'I suppose that's true.' Her anger abated a little. 'Well, you know how Otto talks about Karl, but he's never said anything specifically about drugs. But… I have heard a few vague whispers over the years. You know, that maybe some of Karl's money was ill-gotten. But it's not like he's gone around selling heroin to the kiddies at Colville School.'

'You knew this, or suspected it, and you didn't tell me?'

'Like you'd have believed me! 'Oh, by the way, Alex, your new girlfriend's hubbie's a major drug kingpin.' Besides, I don't even know if it's true.'

They glared at one another over the forgotten coffee, a standoff.

It was Alex who broke it. 'All right. Maybe I wouldn't have believed you. But what if… What if Dawn found out, and threatened to leave him? Or threatened to expose him?'

'And he killed her? First of all, I don't buy her being married to the guy for years and not realizing what he was up to- if he was up to anything. She'd have to have been living in never-never land. And second, I don't buy that for motive. I think you're just trying to find some way around the fact that he killed her because he found out you were-'

She had clamped her mouth shut on the words, but it was too late.

***

She'd left after that, cursing herself all the way home. What the hell sort of damage had she done because she couldn't control her stupid temper?

Setting her laptop aside in disgust, she pulled over the box of items she'd brought home from the stall display case and began to sort through them. She needed to rotate some of her stock before next Saturday; the regulars got tired of seeing the same things week after week.

Spoons, thimbles, magnifying glasses; cigarette, card, and needle cases; snuffboxes, sugar nips, tea scoops, and paper knives-

Wait. She knew she had put in a lovely, engraved Victorian paper knife, with a razor-sharp edge. She went through the box again, taking each item out and setting it on the table. No paper knife. Was she losing her mind? No, she distinctly remembered transferring the knife, because she always had to be careful with the blade.

With growing horror, she remembered that just before closing, she had asked Alex to watch her stall while she went to the loo. Surely he wouldn't…

Methodically, refusing to entertain the unthinkable, she placed every item back in the box. But the image of Alex's face as she returned to the stall remained with her. At the time she'd put it down to the discomfort between them, that and her overactive imagination, but he had looked- there was no other word for it- furtive.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

By about the middle of the decade the Grove was changing rapidly. The affair of Christine Keeler and Stephen Ward had finally dampened down the fine Bohemian frenzy with which the bad boys moved among the district.

– Charlie Phillips and Mike Phillips,

from Notting Hill in the Sixties

We were terribly rude,' Gemma said as they got into her car in front of Stella's flat.

'I did my best to make up for it.' Kincaid had apologized to their hostess, then given her a peck on the cheek. Stella had looked surprised, then she'd smiled- a real smile, not the frosty, pasted-on equivalent she'd been wearing for the past hour.

'You're a charming sod,' Gemma agreed now. 'Poor Doug would've given rubies to keep us there. I imagine she's pouring boiling oil over him as we speak.'

'Doug's all right.' Although he said it as a statement, Gemma sensed that her approval mattered to him.

'Yes.'

'The best of the lot, since you left. It helps a bit.' He glanced at her. 'I shouldn't say this. But in a way I'll be sorry to see this case finished. It's been good to be together again.'

She touched her fingers to his cheek. 'Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be fed up with me soon enough.'

***

At first, she worried about the bedroom's distance from Toby, who was now an entire floor below, when she was used to hearing his breathing from the next room. But she told herself he was safe and sound, sharing with Kit, and Kincaid soon took her mind off anything but decreasing the space between them.

She slept, in their bed for the first time, deeply and luxuriously, and she awakened early with a tremendous sense of energy and a determination to put her house in order.

By early afternoon, by force of will, she had reduced the still-packed boxes to a meager half-dozen. And she'd been to the supermarket, stocking pantry and fridge with necessities as well as treats for the children. The boys had organized their room, Toby with considerable assistance from Kit, and when they'd finished sandwiches in the kitchen, she'd sent them out to the garden to burn off some energy. An arctic front had dipped down from Scotland during the night. There was the smell of snow in the cold, gray air, and to Gemma it finally felt like Christmas.

Kincaid had been shelving books, hooking up the stereo system, and, last she heard, hanging his beloved London Transport posters. The hammering had recently stopped, however, so she went into the sitting room to see what he was doing.

He stood with his back to the hearth, looking quite pleased with himself. He'd managed to get the gas fire going, 'White Christmas' played on the sound system and, above the mantel, he had hung the oil painting of the soulful-eyed hunting spaniel. Until now, they'd had no place to display the portrait. It made her think of Geordie, the cocker spaniel, and she wondered if she should tell Duncan about the commitment she'd made. No, she'd wait, she decided, at least until she heard from Bryony.

Instead, she said, 'Oh, it's lovely… Everything's lovely.' With books and posters and baskets of the children's toys, the room looked infinitely inviting. The only thing missing was the Christmas tree, and Wesley hadn't rung her. She realized she'd no way to contact him, and chided herself for not getting his phone number.

As if summoned by her thought, Wesley arrived three minutes later. Beside him stood not Bryony, but Marc Mitchell, holding the cocker spaniel in his arms.