turned to Kate Ling. 'When can you perform the postmortem?'
'Tomorrow morning, first thing,' Ling said with a sigh. 'So much for getting my nails done.' She stood as voices heralded the arrival of the technicians who would photograph the body and the crime scene, and gather every scrap of physical evidence from the area. 'Right, I'll get out of the way and let them do their job. When they get ready to bag the body, have them deliver it to the morgue at St. Charles Hospital. It's nearby, and convenient for me.' Ling gave Kincaid a jaunty wave and disappeared the way she had come.
'And I'll get out of your way,' Kincaid said as he saw Gemma glance at him and hesitate.
'Will you check on Toby, and let Hazel know what's happened? I've no idea when I'll get home.'
'I'll stay with Toby myself. Don't worry.' He touched her arm lightly, then made his way back to the street. But rather than getting in his car, he stood, watching from a distance as Gemma directed her team. As she climbed the front steps and entered the house, he would have given anything to be beside her.
'Bloody sodding hell!' Doug Cullen fumed, stomping into his flat and dropping his briefcase in the hall. He'd been reading his case files on the bus, as was his usual habit on his nightly commute home from the Yard, when he'd come across a scrawled note from Kincaid criticizing the conclusions he'd drawn after interviewing a suspect's associate.
'Like Sergeant James,' Cullen mimicked Kincaid's unspoken parenthetical comment. The inestimable Sergeant Gemma James, who had apparently never made a mistake in her entire career at the Yard, and who had, as Kincaid so often reminded him, a special talent for interviewing people.
Cullen went into the kitchen and stared morosely into his barren fridge. He had meant to get off the bus a stop early and buy a six-pack at the off-license, but it had completely slipped his mind. Filling a glass with water from the tap, he gazed out the window at the traffic moving on the damp, greasy tarmac of Euston Road.
Of course he'd heard the scuttlebutt round the office about Kincaid's relationship with his former partner, and he was tempted to put Kincaid's veneration of her down to personal bias. But even if Sergeant James had been the most exemplary detective, did that mean he had always to be measured by her standard?
Cullen was introspective enough to realize that a good deal of his ire towards Gemma James had to do with his doubts about his own performance. Of course he was a good detective, he knew that, and he knew he'd never have landed this job at the Yard if his record hadn't spoken well of him. He was analytical, thorough, good at task management, but he also knew that his weakness lay in his impatience in interviewing witnesses and suspects. He wanted results quickly, and he wanted them in black and white- neither of which was very likely in police work.
Part of that he put down to his rather sheltered upbringing in suburban St. Albans, the only son of a City lawyer, part to an addiction to American cop shows on the telly, where the tough guys always got their man by the end of the hour.
But surely he could learn patience, just like anything else. And the fair, schoolboy looks that so plagued him gave him a ready advantage- people tended to trust him. If he could make himself sit and listen, even the most hardened criminals, he was learning, had a vulnerable spot for sympathy.
And wasn't that what his guv'nor was telling him, if he could get round his resentment of Gemma James? She was an ordinary mortal, after all, one who had probably muddled through her first few months as Kincaid's sergeant in much the same way he had. Perhaps if he were to meet her, see her as a person, it would lay the ghost of her perfection to rest in his mind. And he had to admit to a good measure of plain old-fashioned curiosity.
Wandering back into the sitting room, he tidied automatically, mulling over possibilities. It was not likely that a chance errand would send him to Notting Hill Police Station any time soon, nor could he foresee any upcoming social encounters… unless he were to manufacture an occasion. His girlfriend, Stella, was always on at him about his lack of enthusiasm for her dinner parties- but what if he were to suggest one?
Not here, though. He looked round his flat with distaste. At Bloomsbury's northern edge, the small flat in an ugly, concrete sixties building had been a good value for London but lacked any charm or comfort. To make matters worse, Stella, a buyer for a trendy home furnishings shop, had decorated it for him in neutrals and grays. She insisted that the color scheme and the boxy lines of the furniture harmonized with the building's architectural style. After her efforts, he hadn't the heart to tell her that he found it all extremely depressing.
Stella's flat, then, in Ebury Street, near the Yard. He would jolly her into it at dinner tonight, even if it meant the trade-off of committing himself to one of her friends' country-house weekends- and that was a fate he considered almost worse than death.
The house smelled of flowers, the sweetness of the scent a painful contrast to the acrid smell of blood. A console table held an enormous arrangement of fresh blooms, and glimpses into the rooms on either side showed equally sumptuous bouquets. Walls the color of goldenrod accentuated the richness of the dark furniture, the elegance of the silk draperies falling to pools on the carpets, the discreet lighting on the paintings that hung on the walls.
The touch of something soft against her ankle made Gemma gasp, but when she looked down she saw that it was only a gray cat, materializing as if by magic. She knelt to stroke it and the beast butted against her knees, purring gratefully. Was this Dawn Arrowood's pet? Gemma wondered. Missing its mistress- or perhaps merely craving its supper.
She heard voices from the back of the house, an intermittent murmur of conversation. Giving the cat a last pat, Gemma followed the sound down the corridor. The large kitchen was as elegant as the other rooms, lined with cream-colored cabinets and copper accessories. At a table in the breakfast area sat Constable Melody Talbot, and beside her a man in a white, blood-soaked shirt.
Gemma paused, halted in part by the unexpected sight of so much blood in such surroundings, and in part by her surprise at Karl Arrowood's appearance. 'An older husband,' Gerry Franks had said, and she had mentally translated that into 'feeble elderly gentleman.' But the man gazing at her across the kitchen was, she guessed, no older than his mid-fifties, lean and fit, with a strong, lightly suntanned face, and thick hair still as yellow as the walls of his house.
'Mr. Arrowood,' she said, collecting herself, 'I'm Detective Inspector James. I'd like to speak to Constable Talbot for a moment, if you'll excuse us.'
When Talbot had followed her into the hall, Gemma asked, 'Anything?'
Talbot shook her head. 'Just what he told Sergeant Franks. And he has no inclination to talk to me. I suspect he considers me beneath his notice.' She made the statement without rancor.
'Right. I'll tackle him, then. Go check on the search warrant, then let me know the status.'
Returning to the kitchen, Gemma sat across from Karl Arrowood. His eyes, she saw, were gray, and without expression.
'Mr. Arrowood, I'd like to ask you a few questions.'
'I don't know how I can help you, Inspector. I've come home, found my wife murdered in my own drive, and all your lot seem to be able to do is offer me tea.'
'Our investigation is proceeding along normal lines, Mr. Arrowood, and one of the necessary components is a detailed description of everything you remember about finding your wife. I'm sorry, I know this must be painful for you.'
'I've already gone over it with your sergeant.'
'Nevertheless, I need to hear it as well. I understand you were expecting your wife to be at home when you arrived. Is that correct?'
'We had a dinner engagement at the Savoy, with customers who come over regularly from Germany. Dawn wouldn't have been late.'
'So you were surprised when you arrived home and found the house dark?'
