And Justice There Is None

She put my picture in it. It was still there.' There was a note of wonder in his voice. 'But then, I didn't know that until after I'd killed her.'

He is utterly mad. Gemma put a hand on the worktop to steady herself, trying frantically to think of something within reach she could use for a weapon. If she could only distract him long enough to switch on her phone and dial 999, the open connection would lead the police to her. But how could she do so without him hurting Bryony, or her?

'Are you telling me God chose you as his means of retribution?' She willed him to keep talking. 'Did you kill Marianne to punish her?'

'And Karl. He must have cared about her, once. But I had no way of making sure that he knew, and understood, what had happened. So then I thought of his wife. I saw her on the telly with him- so young, so blond, and I knew he must love her, if he were capable of loving anyone.'

'But Dawn Arrowood had never hurt anyone! How could you take such an innocent life?'

'I was sorry about that.' Marc spoke with chilling sincerity. 'She was so beautiful- a little like my mother. But then my mother died gasping for breath, her lungs filled with fluid. Dawn was a lamb, a necessary sacrifice. I'm sure she would have understood.'

'That's why you pierced the victims' lungs- because of your mother?' A horrid fascination gripped Gemma.

'And their throats-'

'My father hanged himself.'

'And Karl? You had to make Karl suffer first.'

Marc smiled at her, as if pleased with a bright pupil. 'I sensed you were perceptive.'

'Did he know who you were, when you killed him?'

'I told him. He had to know. Then he fought me, but it didn't matter in the end.'

Bryony moaned, as if the flat assurance of Marc's words had pushed her past the bounds of endurance.

As Marc's eyes flicked towards Bryony, Gemma lunged at him. If she had any conscious thought, it was that she might knock him down, giving her a chance to use the phone before he could recover.

But in a flash of movement, his hands grabbed her, swinging her round. Her hip hit the steel table, hard, and the impact loosened his grip. As she fell to the floor she felt a tearing pain.

Had the knife caught her? Pushing herself up, she grabbed for Marc's ankles, but the pain bit again, fierce and insistent. She cried out, and Bryony scooted towards her along the floor.

'Gemma! What is it? Are you okay?'

'Get back,' Marc hissed at Bryony.

Bryony stopped, her face very white. 'Gemma, you're bleeding.'

Gemma felt a wet, spreading warmth. When she touched the floor beneath her, her hand came away red and sticky.

'Marc,' she whispered. He had knelt beside her, looking suddenly as bewildered as a child. 'Something's wrong. You have to get someone- an ambulance-'

'I didn't mean- I never wanted to hurt you, Gemma,' he whispered. 'Let me help you. I can make it better.' He lifted her shoulders, cradling her in his arms, and gently began to rock her.

***

The tires screeched as Cullen pulled into the curb, and Kincaid leapt out before the car had stopped rolling. Kincaid had ordered Melody to dispatch officers to the address on Portobello Road, but he and Cullen arrived first. The lights were out in the front of the soup kitchen, but the door swung open to his touch.

'Gemma!' he called out. There was no point in stealth- Mitchell would have heard the car, and the door.

'Here! Back here!' came an answering voice, high with panic. Not Gemma- but it struck a faint chord of recognition. Bryony.

He ran for the back.

The scene that met his eyes seemed drawn from hell. Gemma lay on the floor, cradled tenderly in Marc Mitchell's arms. A few feet away, Bryony, bound hand and foot, tried to push herself upright. The harsh light gleamed from the blade of an abandoned knife near Mitchell's side.

For an instant, Kincaid thought Mitchell held Gemma by force, then the hot-iron stench of blood reached his nostrils. She's hurt, dear God. How badly? Her face was paper-white; her eyelids fluttered as she tried to focus on his face. 'Duncan,' she whispered. 'I can't…'

He's stabbed her, he thought. The bastard's stabbed her. Then, where her coat had fallen open, he saw the bright stain of fresh blood soaking through her trousers. With a cold and terrifying certainty, he knew what was happening. Gemma was hemorrhaging.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Notting Hill has changed further and faster than almost anywhere else you can name in London. The impetus for that change came from the Caribbean immigrants in the sixties and by the richest of ironies, the same changes made it impossible for them to hold on to the ground which had been gained at such cost. On the other hand, change is fundamental to the nature of city life. People ebb and flow like the tides, buildings decay, are rebuilt and renovated, turned to other uses. The big wheel turns.

– Charlie Phillips and Mike Phillips,

from Notting Hill in the Sixties

Later, Gemma would remember the events of that night only in snatches. Kincaid's voice, jerking her back into consciousness. Opening her eyes, feeling Marc's muscles tense beneath her… A flash of light from the blade of the knife as Kincaid scooped it up from the floor… His voice again, steady and confi-dent. 'Ease her down, Marc. Good man. Gently, gently…' Then the warmth of Marc's body slipping away from her. Cold… She was so cold… The dimness began to steal over her again, but she forced her eyes open once more.

Marc stood in the doorway, Cullen on one side, a uniformed officer on the other. Resisting them, he turned back to look at her, and the yearning despair she saw on his face would stay etched in her memory forever.

***

After that came a darkness filled with pain and jostling, punctuated with a loud wailing her fogged brain only gradually identified as sirens. Then words jumped out at her from a blur of bright lights and gurneys… Placental abruption… Fetal distress… Internal bleeding… Cesarean…

'No, please,' she had tried to protest. 'It's too soon.' But her body would not respond, and she knew now that her plea would not have mattered.

After the delivery, they held their tiny son in their arms as his respiration failed.

A priest came and said kind and comforting words. None of them penetrated Gemma's anguish. Then they took her child away.

***

After the first two days of Gemma's stay in hospital, Kincaid sent Toby to Hazel's, hoping that the familiar environment and Holly's company would ease the child's distress. Toby missed his mother terribly, and neither Kincaid nor Kit seemed to be able to comfort him.

The house seemed echoingly empty without her presence, a constant reminder to Kincaid that he had almost lost her. And now, although she seemed to be recovering well enough physically, she had refused to talk about the baby at all.