Kincaid organized the notes on his desk and took another appreciative sip of coffee from a polystyrene cup. Someone had apparently upgraded the communal pot, as the coffee actually tasted more like coffee than battery acid. Perhaps the departmental secretary had received an abundance of coffee beans as a Christmas gift.
He'd just returned from an informative meeting with a mate in the drug squad. It seemed that they'd had an eye on Karl Arrowood for years- since long before Kincaid's friend's tenure on the force, in fact. But Arrowood was a clever and cautious man, and they had never been able to come up with anything concrete against him. Years ago, they'd thought to make a case, but he'd managed to slip through their fingers.
His phone rang, and he took another sip of his coffee before lifting the receiver.
'Duncan? It's Gemma.' She sounded discouraged. 'The report's come back on Arrowood's office computer.'
'No joy, I take it?'
'Not a blinking thing. He's got himself a very good bookkeeper, but then what would you expect? There are a large number of cash transactions, but that's not illegal, and he has reason to keep cash reserves on hand. A lot of antique trading is cash only.'
'How very convenient.' He told her what he'd learned from the drug squad, then asked, 'Did you see the vet?'
'I've just come from the surgery. He wasn't in, but I did have a word with Bryony. She says Farley left the clinic before five that Friday. He's at home today, so I thought I'd have a word with him there.'
'Hang on for a few minutes. I've a meeting with the guv'nor, but let me send Cullen with you. He's come up with a few interesting tidbits on Farley. Suspected tax evasion for starters, followed by sexual harassment of a client.'
'Not bad,' Doug Cullen murmured as he looked round, whistling through his teeth. The houses here were semidetached, the curved, hilly street lined with mature trees. Every door sported a wreath, and every driveway a Mercedes, a Lexus, or a BMW.
'Up-and-coming Willesden- although I'm still inclined to think of it as the place the buses go home to bed,' Gemma agreed. 'But considering the area's upmarket status these days, I'm not surprised Mr. Farley cheats on his taxes. Here it is,' she added, checking the house number against her notes.
Gavin Farley's house was pseudo-Tudor, with freshly painted trim and a well-kept garden. A new model Mercedes sat beside a workaday Vauxhall Astra in the drive. 'Maybe we're in luck and Farley's wife is at home, too. Should we split up, interview them separately?' suggested Cullen.
'Let's see how it goes. It's the Astra that he drives to work- I remember seeing it in front of the surgery.' The car was maroon, with a distinctive crack in the left taillamp.
Taking advantage of the wait after ringing the bell, Cullen glanced at his companion. As he'd discovered on Saturday night, the redheaded, faintly freckled Gemma James was not as formidable as her reputation had led him to believe. Nearer his age than he'd expected, she'd been friendly, if slightly wary, and this morning she'd done him the favor of not mentioning Saturday night's dinner.
Mrs. Farley, a thin, worried-looking woman of middle age, was indeed at home, and greeted them warily.
'I'm Inspector James and this is Sergeant Cullen,' Gemma told her. 'Could we have a word with you?'
'But-' Mrs. Farley looked round uncertainly. 'My husband's out in his shop. I'll just go-'
'No, that's all right, Mrs. Farley. We'd like to speak to you first. It won't take a moment.'
With obvious reluctance, the woman took them into the front room, but a glance towards the rear of the house had shown Cullen two preadolescent children sprawled in front of a television in a den. The boy and girl, both slightly overweight and smug-looking, glanced up at them with disinterest before turning back to their program.
Mrs. Farley perched on the edge of a chair while he and Gemma sat opposite on a sofa. Doug had learned enough from Stella to realize that the furniture and objects in the room were expensive, and also that they had been put together with a complete lack of grace and style.
'Mrs. Farley,' said Gemma, 'can you tell us what time your husband arrived home from his surgery on the Friday before last?'
'Friday before last? However should I remember that?' Mrs. Farley picked at the reindeer applique on the front of her Christmas pullover.
'You must have heard about the woman who was murdered that evening? Dawn Arrowood? That should help you place it.'
'I don't have time to watch the news, what with the children's activities.'
'But surely your husband must have told you about it. She was one of his clients.'
The hand on the sweater grew still. 'Oh, of course. Gavin was so shocked when he read it in the papers the next day. And I do recall now, about that Friday. I had to pick up Antony, our son, from a football match, and when we got back Gavin was home. That would have been half past six or so. He was already out in his workshop.'
'So you can't be sure of the exact time?' asked Cullen.
'No. But I heard his shower running, so he must have been home a few minutes.'
'His shower?'
'Gavin has a shower stall out in his shop. I won't let him come in the house covered in sawdust.'
'What does Mr. Farley make?' Gemma's face reflected nothing but friendly interest.
'Jewelry boxes, CD holders, pen trays… things that are useful
Cullen saw Gemma's lip twitch and made an effort to control his own expression. 'Do you know if he meant to give one of his… creations… to Dawn Arrowood?'
'I've no idea,' Mrs. Farley replied stiffly. 'What is this about? Gavin barely knew this woman. She'd been into his surgery once or twice with her cat.'
'That's odd.' Gemma frowned. 'We were under the impression that Mrs. Arrowood was quite a regular client of the surgery, and that Mr. Farley always made an effort to see her himself.'
Mrs. Farley stood, jerking her cheerful reindeer sweater down over her bony hips. 'I don't know about that. You'll have to speak to my husband. And I've things to do- the Christmas dinner… I'll just go and get Gavin.'
'If you'll just point us in the right direction, Mrs. Farley, I'm sure we can find him ourselves.'
'She knows he's up to something, but she's not sure how bad it is,' Cullen murmured to Gemma as they made their way down a path made of concrete stepping stones. At the bottom of the garden, light seeped from the door of Farley's workshop.
'I suspect that woman has lived in fear of the sky falling every day of her married life,' Gemma said pensively. 'And I don't like this business about the shower.'
The whine of a saw came from inside the building. Gemma waited for a pause, then pounded on the door. 'Mr. Farley? It's Inspector James.'
'If she knows he's a rotter,' whispered Cullen, 'would she still protect him?'
'With her life.'
