handsome, and who had the means to wear nice clothes and drive an expensive car.
It didn't mean the money had come from the sale of the drug that had destroyed his mother- nor did it mean that the particular young man Jane had described had been Karl Arrowood.
But what difference did it make, if it were true? Alex wondered. It was an accident of genetics, that was all. It was nothing to do with him, or who he had become.
He could find out the truth, perhaps, simply by showing Jane a photograph of Karl Arrowood. But did he really want to know?
All his certainties had been torn from him, beginning with Dawn's death, and he had begun to see that if he were to survive, he must put himself back together, piece by piece. He must decide what mattered, and what did not. Was his mother important, if it came to that? Wasn't it his life with Jane that was real, those years of her care and concern that had shaped him?
He loved this place, that he knew. He loved Jane. He loved Fern, he realized, who had been such a staunch friend.
And he loved the porcelain that had spoken to him since he was a child. He thought of the blue-and-white delft bowl, now tucked into the display cabinet in his flat, and of the lives through which it had passed. All suffering faded, given time, as did all joys, but they left their imprint upon such objects, providing comfort for those who came after.
It gradually occurred to Alex that he was cold, and terribly hungry. The wind blowing off the bay tugged at his clothes, finding every tiny gap, reminding him that his flesh was subject to its whims.
It was then he realized that such things mattered desperately to him; that he wanted food and warmth and companionship. That, surely, was a good thing; a beginning. He would deal with the nightmares and the memories of Dawn and his mother as he must, but in the meantime, life would go on. He would go on.
He brushed himself off and went home to Jane.
*** Angel had just sent Evan home on the afternoon that Neil and Nina Byatt were arrested by Scotland Yard. It seemed that the Yard had got wind of the fact that the Russian icons Neil was selling at auction had been carefully packed with top-grade heroin. Some of the icons had gone to private buyers as well- all in all, the price of Russian art objects had skyrocketed.
After the first shock, Angel felt a rush of relief that it hadn't been Karl- and then she began to wonder why it hadn't been Karl. Neil and Nina worked for him; the artifacts came into the country through his connections. Why didn't Karl seem worried that the police might spring on him next?
After a few days, she managed to get in to see Nina during the prison's visiting hour. As Angel came in, Evan and his grandmother were leaving. The woman smelled of stale sweat and must, and very faintly, of illness- a combination of odors that Angel would forever after associate with righteousness. 'God will see you in hell for this,' the woman hissed at her. Evan reached out towards her, his small face pinched with misery, but his grandmother snatched him away.
Shaken, Angel sat down at the visitor's table, but Nina looked no happier to see her than had her mother. Nor did she look well. Her face was pale and drawn, her long, lustrous hair dank and flat, as if the life had drained from it.
'You have a lot of nerve, coming here,' spat Nina. 'More than I gave you credit for.'
'But I wanted to see you. You're my friend-'
'Friend? As long as you have anything to do with Karl Arrowood, you have no friends.'
'But surely we could do something to help- I could take care of Evan-'
'Don't you touch my son! You just don't see it, do you, Angel? You really don't know what's happened?'
'Nina! What are you talking about?'
'Your bloody Karl shopped us, that's what. The police must have found out about the business. They couldn't quite pin it on him because he never actually touched the stuff- He just planned everything. But they were making his life a misery, interfering with his transactions. So he made them a deal.'
'A deal?' whispered Angel.
'Yeah. Neil and me, red-handed. So now they leave Karl alone, and my son will be grown before I can be with him again.'
'I don't- He wouldn't-' Angel protested, but faintly. Things were adding up too fast. That's why Karl hadn't been worried: He'd known already that he had no cause for concern.
'There's got to be something I can do, Nina. I want to help you.'
Nina glared at her with contempt. 'It's too late for that. And it's too late for you, too, Angel.'
*** She went straight to the shop, finding Karl alone for once. 'You've got to help the Byatts,' she told him. 'I know what you did to them, and you've got to do something to make it right.'
He looked amused. 'And what exactly do you suggest?'
'Tell the police the stuff isn't theirs-'
'You're not suggesting I lay claim to several kilos of uncut heroin myself, are you? And why do you think the police would believe me, Angel? They have hard evidence in their hands connecting the Byatts to the drug sale- They're not going to give that up for some pie-in-the-sky story.'
'Nina says you set them up.'
'Well, she would, wouldn't she? She and Neil refuse to take responsibility for their own carelessness.'
She stared at him, furious, unconvinced. 'What if I tell the police what you've done?'
'Assuming they were stupid enough to arrest me on hearsay, it still wouldn't help the Byatts.' His finger touched her under the chin. 'But if they did arrest me, then where would you be? Have you thought about that, Angel?'
In that instant she knew that all her protest had been a sham- she could do nothing for her friends. She hated Karl, but she hated herself even more.
'What about their little boy?' she demanded. 'What will happen to Evan?'
Karl shook his head, as if disappointed in her lack of understanding. 'I really don't think that's any of my concern, do you?'
*** Bryony rolled over and squinted at the red glow of the clock once more, then turned on her back with a sigh. Monday morning, and New Year's Eve to boot. But there was no point getting up until the central heating switched itself on at six, and she had a half-hour to go.
Beside her, Duchess lay on her back as well, her paws twitching as she ran in some tantalizing doggy dream.
What had she come to, Bryony wondered, a woman approaching thirty whose only bed companion was a large and hairy dog?
That thought, however, led her to Marc, and that was a subject too distressing for the predawn hours. Much better to think about her brief career as a murder suspect, she told herself with an attempt at humor. Superintendent Kincaid's smarmy, schoolboy sergeant had made her sound like a harpy as well as a killer- and what was even worse, she had felt inexplicably guilty. Now, even though her family had, of course, confirmed her story, she had to live with the memory of her furious, stammering humiliation as the policeman questioned
