without the pickle) they had quiet time. Toby, of course, insisted that he was too old for naps, but Kit had found that if they read books together, Toby would usually drift off to sleep for an hour or so and be much better tempered for the remainder of the afternoon.
Now, he would make them something for tea, and they could watch
There was still a drift of snow under the eave of the house, and Kit paused to pick up a leaf that had lodged in its surface. It was golden, and completely encased in a clear coating of ice, a momentary jewel. As he turned to show his find to Toby, Tess barked suddenly. Startled, Kit dropped the leaf and looked up. A man walking along the pavement had stopped and stood watching them. Geordie gave a few halfhearted woofs, but his tail was wagging, and Kit recognized Marc, the man who'd brought Geordie to them.
'Hullo, Kit,' Marc called out. 'Hullo, Toby. Is your mum at home, by any chance?'
'No, she's still at work.'
'Oh, well, tell her I said hello,' he said, with an odd sort of smile. 'Happy New Year to you, then,' he added, and walked on.
Kit stared after him. There was something in the line of Marc's body, the length of his stride, that triggered a memory. He had seen the man a few days ago, just up the street, but had only glimpsed him from the back.
Oh, well, he thought, shrugging, perhaps Marc lived in the neighborhood, and liked to take walks. People did take walks without dogs, although Kit now found that hard to imagine.
His own charges were tugging at their leads, claiming his attention, and Toby had managed to find a muddy patch beneath the tree. Pulling in the dogs, Kit gathered up Toby and shepherded his brood into the house, the walking man already forgotten.
Oh, God, it was all such a muddle, Gemma thought, running her hands through her already disheveled hair. The files and reports on all three murder cases lay strewn across her desk as if a whirlwind had picked them up and dropped them again, a jumble of utterly useless facts. She stood abruptly, feeling that if she didn't get some air, her head would burst with frustration. Patting her jacket pocket to make sure she had her phone, she slammed out of her office. 'I'm going out for a bit,' she called out to Melody as she passed the staff room, but she didn't stop to explain.
She walked without thinking for the first few minutes, concentrating on nothing but the regular jab of the frigid air filling her lungs and the crisp step of her booted feet on the pavement.
Then, as she relaxed, bits of the reports began to shift and jostle in her mind like pieces in a child's puzzle square. She sorted them as if it were an exercise, running through each possible suspect, each discarded avenue of investigation. It was only when she reached Alex Dunn that something began to niggle at her. Her steps slowed.
A fragment of that morning's conversation with Bryony floated back to her, only half heard in her worry over Geordie. Bryony had panicked because she'd misplaced her keys, fearing she might have compromised the surgery's security. All had been well in this morning's case… but what if it had happened before? Gavin had accused Bryony of absentmindedly leaving the surgery unlocked, but what if someone Bryony knew- and trusted- had taken her keys without her knowledge? Only a few minutes would have been needed to make a copy of the key to the surgery door, then the keys would have been returned, no one the wiser.
But which of them had it been? Alex and Otto had alibis for the time of Dawn's death, as did Otto for Karl's, and Alex's involvement in Karl's death seemed unlikely. Fern they had never considered seriously, simply because she did not possess the physical size and strength to wield the knife.
That left Marc.
Gemma's blood ran cold. If anyone had access to Bryony's keys, as well as knowledge of the surgery, it was Marc. He was fit and strong; she had seen him lift their Christmas tree as if it were a twig.
And he lived alone. As far as Gemma knew, his movements on the nights of Dawn's and Karl's murders had never been checked. But why would Marc commit such crimes?
No, it just wasn't possible! The whole idea was a fabrication of her overstressed imagination-
And yet… Looking up, she realized she had come to the intersection of Kensington Park and Elgin Crescent. She was near enough. It couldn't hurt to have a friendly word with Marc, ask in a roundabout way what he'd been doing on those nights, just to set her mind at rest.
She glanced in Otto's window as she passed the cafe, seeing Wesley wiping down a table, his head bobbing to unheard music. Then she turned into Portobello Road and started down the hill.
Shortly after Kincaid's return to Scotland Yard, Cullen appeared in his office.
'I found the case- or cases, I should say, as they were tried separately,' he reported. 'Neil and Nina Byatt. Both were convicted of selling heroin, which had apparently been smuggled into the country in art objects that were shipped to Karl Arrowood, their employer.'
'And Arrowood was never charged?'
'According to the report, the investigating officers found no proof of his involvement.'
Kincaid frowned. 'I smell a deal, Sergeant, and a nasty one. No wonder Marianne Hoffman felt responsible for what happened to her two friends, but I doubt she had much influence over Karl. Were you able to locate the Byatts' son?'
'I rang a friend at Somerset House, who was able to turn up the record for me. Neil Wayne Byatt and Nina Judith Mitchell Byatt had a son in 1961. They named him Evan Marcus Byatt.'
'I wonder what happened to the boy when his parents died?'
'He was legally adopted by his maternal grandparents.'
'Good God, you're amazing, Cullen.'
'It's all in knowing what to access.'
'Mitchell?' Kincaid mused. 'I wonder if he took his grandparents' name… He'd be near forty now, wouldn't he? And hasn't Gemma mentioned someone named Mitchell?'
He reached for the phone, unable to quell a sudden uneasiness.
Although the lights were out in the dining area of the soup kitchen, Gemma heard a murmur of voices from the back. 'Anyone at home?' she called out.
'In here,' Marc answered, and as she reached the kitchen she saw that it was Bryony with him. He stood at the long, stainless steel worktable, preparing the ingredients for what looked like a chicken soup or stew. Bryony sat on a stool nearby, tearing herbs into a bowl.
'Bryony! I thought I might find you here,' Gemma improvised, seeing how she might proceed.
'Is it Geordie? He's not worse, is he?' Bryony slid from her stool, but Gemma hurriedly waved her back.
'No, no, he's fine. I just wanted to ask you something. Hullo, Marc,' she added, and he nodded at her without breaking the rhythm of his work, dismembering chicken carcasses with swift precision. Turning back to Bryony, Gemma said, 'It's about your keys. Do you remember misplacing them, even briefly, before the theft in the surgery?'
'No…' Bryony frowned, her hand poised over the bowl, and Gemma caught the strong scents of thyme and rosemary. 'It's odd, though, now you mention it. When I was searching for my keys this morning, I discovered my spare set was missing from my kitchen drawer. I can't imagine what could have happened to them.'
Who had had access to Bryony's kitchen, other than Marc? Gemma felt her pulse quicken- perhaps her suspicions had not been so far-fetched, after all. 'Have you any idea how long the keys have been missing?' she
