And Justice There Is None

red, green, yellow, all the colors of the rainbow, the little capsules and tablets helped you stay up at night, then helped you go to sleep when the buzz hadn't quite worn off. And everyone who was anyone smoked pot. No party was complete without a few joints.

She got out of the tube at Sloane Square and walked west down the King's Road. New boutiques- you had to be careful to say 'boutique' rather than 'shop'- were springing up everywhere, and as she absorbed the bustle and energy of the street, her anger began to translate itself into purpose.

Stopping in front of a hairdresser's, she put her hands to the glass and peered in. Yes, it was just the sort of place she had in mind. There was no point in hanging on to the remnants of her former life any longer.

An hour later, she emerged from the salon, her hair now the color of silver gilt, cropped close above her ears. A new op-art dress from a nearby boutique and a pair of strappy high heels completed the picture. That night Karl was taking her to the Speakeasy. It was one of the most popular clubs in town- she'd heard Cilla Black would be there that night- and she intended for every head to turn when she walked in the door.

She had shed that dumpy little Polish girl from Portobello, like a snake shed its skin, and she meant never to look back.

CHAPTER TWELVE

From the earliest days, pubs in Portobello Road were important meeting places. Shop keepers, carpenters, upholsterers, gardeners, clerks, stallholders, indeed anyone who lived or worked in the street, could find entertainment and companionship in them. The oldest surviving public house, the Sun in Splendour, near Notting Hill Gate, was built in 1850 and advertised itself with a great rising sun with golden rays.

– Whetlor and Bartlett,

from Portobello

On Christmas Eve morning, ten days after Dawn Arrowood's murder, Gemma waited outside the veterinary surgery on All Saints Road for Bryony to arrive. It was miserably cold, the weather as bleak as it had been the previous day, and the air smelled more strongly of snow. Seeking protection from the wind's probing fingers, Gemma squeezed into the slight recess in the surgery's doorway.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Bryony crossing towards her, her long stride rapidly closing the distance between them.

'Gemma! What are you doing here? Is Geordie okay?' Bryony wore a long striped scarf and matching stocking cap in yellows and purples, and managed somehow to carry it off.

'He's fine. He seems to be settling in remarkably well, in fact.' Although Tess had followed the boys to bed as usual, Geordie had stayed with Gemma and Duncan, curling up on the foot of their bed as if he had always slept there.

'Are we going to have a no-furniture rule?' Kincaid had asked, bemused.

'Tess sleeps with Kit.'

'True. And our dogs always slept on our beds when we were kids. I'm not objecting- it's just that you need to start as you mean to go on.'

Gemma found she hadn't the heart to make the dog move. 'No, let him stay. He doesn't take up that much room, and he'll keep my feet warm.'

'Right.' Kincaid had grinned at her. 'I can see I've already been displaced in your affections.' But he didn't seem to mind, really.

'I hope you didn't mind my sending Marc yesterday,' Bryony was saying as she unlocked the surgery door. 'But Geordie's owner- former owner- left him at the soup kitchen, and I hated to expose him to the other dogs in case some of them had contagious illnesses. And I couldn't ask the owner to take him away until I'd finished- she was barely holding herself together as it was.'

'No, it was fine, and Duncan and the boys were so surprised. You'll tell Geordie's owner he's all right?' She saw that Geordie's photo was still taped to the side of the monitor. Feeling proprietary, she asked, 'Do you mind if I take this?' and at Bryony's nod she peeled it off and put it in her handbag. 'Your clinic went well?'

'Beyond all expectation,' Bryony said, switching on the computer and readying files. 'But if you didn't come about Geordie-'

'It's Mr. Farley,' said Gemma. 'Can you tell me what time he left on the Friday Dawn was killed?'

Bryony froze, mid-motion. 'Why?'

'Just routine, really. But he did have that little disagreement with Dawn. I'm just ruling out options.'

Color stained Bryony's cheeks. 'I should never have said anything. I never meant for you to take it seriously, and now I feel an absolute fool.'

'Why? If Mr. Farley had something to do with Dawn's death, would you protect him?'

'Of course not. But I'm sure Gavin couldn't have done something like that, and having the police poke into his business is not going to make him happy.' Bryony looked away from Gemma's gaze. 'It's just that he's rather cross with me already… over my holding the free clinic.'

'Why does he object to it?'

'I'm not sure if it's the money or the principle that aggravates him most. I think he sees it as a useless exercise, and since those supplies went missing, he's been like an old maid over expenses. It's odd, too, as the loss didn't really amount to more than a few pounds.'

'He sees helping homeless people's animals as a useless exercise?'

'You can always trust Gavin not to be politically correct. But he's right, in a way,' Bryony added with a sigh. 'As much as I hate to admit it. There's so much I can't do. I'm not giving up, though. And Marc's been so good…'

'He is nice, isn't he? You're a lucky woman, I should think.'

'Oh, no! I don't- We don't- We're friends, that's all.'

'But I thought- I'm sorry. It's just that you seem so well suited.'

'It's not that I'd mind,' the other woman admitted. 'But Marc's very focused on his work. You know how it is…'

'Unlike Mr. Farley, I take it.' Gemma glanced at her watch. 'Is he coming in at all?'

'No. He's given himself a long holiday. Boss's privilege.' Bryony seemed to come to a decision. 'Look, I don't see any harm in telling you that he left early that Friday, before five. But I think you should ask him yourself.'

'That's just what I intend to do.'

***

'White girl, ain't got no sense,' Betty muttered, kicking angrily at a tin can in the gutter and scuffing the toe of her saddle shoe. Then she felt ashamed of herself for speaking of Angel in that jeering way, even if there was no one else to hear, for she felt sure Angel never thought of her as a 'black girl.' Why, one day their last year in school, Mozelle Meekum, a pasty-faced bully with arms like hams, had called her a nigger, and Angel had gone and slapped that girl right up the side of the head. Got in trouble for it, too, detention after school. And never complained.

So why had Angel, who knew the difference between what was right and what wasn't, gone off with this man who was no better than he should be, good looks be damned? There was something wrong in that young man, Betty could feel it, a cold place inside him. But Angel wouldn't believe her, not now, not as long as she was blinded by lust, and any fool could see that she was.

And poor Ronnie, furious with Angel, furious with himself. Betty saw the way he looked at Angel when Angel wasn't looking, knew what he was suffering, knew that even if she could shake the stubbornness out of him and make him speak to Angel, it was too late. He had lost her.