And Justice There Is None

'Yes, especially as I knew she'd taken her car, and it was in the drive. She was meeting a friend at Fortnum's, and she didn't care for public transport. I thought…' For the first time he hesitated, and Gemma saw that in spite of his apparent composure, his hands were trembling. 'I thought perhaps she'd come in feeling unwell and fallen asleep, but when I checked the bedroom there was no sign she'd been there.'

'What is the name of your wife's friend?'

'Natalie. I'm afraid I don't recall her surname. She was an old school friend of Dawn's. I've never met her.'

Gemma found that a bit odd, but let it go for the moment. 'Then what did you do?' she prompted.

'I called out, had a look round the house. Then… I'm not quite sure why, I went back out into the drive. I suppose I thought she'd met a neighbor or… I don't know.' He rubbed a hand across his forehead, leaving a tiny smear of red. 'I saw something white in the drive, near the bonnet of her car. When I got closer I saw it was a carrier bag, from Harrods. And then…'

This time Gemma waited in silence.

'I thought she'd fallen… fainted, perhaps. She hadn't been feeling well lately. I tried to lift her…'

'Then you rang for help?'

'I had my mobile in my pocket. I couldn't leave her.'

'Was there anything worrying your wife, Mr. Arrowood?'

'Good God! You're not suggesting suicide?'

'No, of course not. Only that she might have been approached by someone recently, or had an argument with someone. Anything out of the ordinary.'

'No. I don't know of anything. I'm sure she'd have told me.' He drummed long fingers on the table and Gemma saw that he had blood under his fingernails. 'Look. Is that all? I've phone calls to make. Her family… I'll have to tell her family…'

A motion in the hall alerted Gemma to Talbot's return. Talbot gave her a nod of assent, then stood by for instructions.

'Mr. Arrowood, Constable Talbot is going to stay with you while we search the premises-'

'Search my house?' Arrowood scowled in disbelief. 'You're not serious?'

'I'm afraid I am. It's the first thing we do in any homicide investigation. We'll need your clothes as well, for the lab. I'll have one of the technicians bring you some clean things from upstairs.'

'But this is outrageous. You can't do this. I'm going to call my contact in the Home Office-'

'You're welcome to ring whomever you like, Mr. Arrowood, but the warrant's already been issued. I'm sorry. I know this is difficult, but it's normal procedure and we've no choice under the circumstances. Now, did your wife keep a diary of her appointments? Or an address book where I might be able to find the name of the friend she met for tea?'

She thought he might refuse, but she held his gaze and after a moment the fight seemed to seep out of him. His shoulders sagged. 'In the sitting room. On the desk by the window.'

'Thank you. Is there someone you can call to stay with you?'

'No,' he said slowly, almost as if the thought surprised him. 'No one.'

***

Gemma found the address book and diary easily enough, just where Arrowood had said; small books, covered in floral fabric and smelling of perfume. A quick look showed her that Dawn Arrowood had written only one thing in her diary for that day, at ten o'clock in the morning: Tommy to vet. Was Tommy the gray cat she had met in the hall?

Gemma paged carefully through the neat script in the address book. With helpful feminine logic, Dawn had placed All Saints Animal Hospital under V for vet. Making a note of the number, Gemma continued searching for Dawn's friend Natalie. In the W's, she found a listing for a Natalie Walthorpe, but Walthorpe had been carefully lined through and Caine had been written in after it.

After writing an evidence receipt, Gemma tucked both books in her bag for later perusal.

'Anything upstairs?' she asked the technician.

'No bloody shoes tucked neatly in the wardrobe, if that's what you're hoping,' the technician returned cheekily. 'You can have a go, if you like.'

'Thanks, I will.'

As she climbed the stairs, she felt again the brush against her leg, and looked down to find the cat padding up the stairs alongside her. 'Tommy?' she said experimentally.

The cat looked up at her and blinked, as if to acknowledge his name. 'Okay, Tommy it is.'

At the top of the stairs, she turned towards the sound of voices. She was rewarded by the sight of the master bedroom, and within it, two coveralled technicians going over every surface with tweezers and sticky tape.

'Afraid you'll have to observe from the doorway for a bit longer, guv,' one of them informed her. 'Let us know if there's anything particular you want to look at.'

With that Gemma had to be content. She stood, taking in the atmosphere of the pale yellow room. It was a gracious and elegant retreat, large and high-ceilinged, with a draped four-poster bed. The floral print of the drapes was matched by the coverlet and window coverings, a show of expensive decorating that made Gemma feel slightly claustrophobic.

Tommy the cat jumped up on the bed, curled himself into a ball, and began to purr. When the technician gave her the go-ahead, Gemma went into the room and began to look round her.

The bedside table on the right held glossy copies of Vogue and Town and Country, as well as a copy of the latest best-selling novel and a delicate alarm clock. Gemma thought of her own bedside, usually endowed with a stack of dog-eared paperbacks and a used teacup.

Peeking into the en suite bathroom, she found monogrammed, pale yellow towels, and an antique oak sideboard displaying expensive makeup and perfumes tidily arranged on lacquered trays. On the back of the door hung a fluffy toweling dressing gown. Where, Gemma wondered, was the hastily abandoned hairbrush, the jewelry taken off and left to be dealt with at a later time?

The built-in wardrobe revealed more of the same: neatly arranged women's clothes on one side, men's expensive suits on the other. Frowning in frustration, Gemma dug deeper. Shelves held handbags and stored summer clothes, the floor racks of shoes. It was only when she sat back with a sigh of exasperation that she saw the edge of the box behind the shoes. Moving the shoe rack, she pulled out the box- not cardboard, heaven forbid, but a specialty shop storage container- and removed the lid.

Here at last was some semblance of a jumble. Tattered volumes of Enid Blyton's children's books jostled against romantic novels and two dolls; a smaller, obviously hand-papered box held school reports and family photos labeled in a childish, yet recognizable, hand.

Gemma sat back, perplexed. These things had, at one time, defined the woman who had died that night. Why had Dawn Arrowood found it not only necessary to reinvent herself so completely, but to hide away the remnants of the person she had been?

***

Kincaid had tucked Toby into bed with a reading of Graham Oakley's The Church Mice Adrift, the boy's book of choice as of late, and now sat at Gemma's half-moon table, nursing a glass of the Chardonnay he'd found in her fridge.

As he looked round the room, he thought how deeply Gemma had stamped her presence on this space. It had given her safety and comfort when she had felt adrift in her life- Would he be able to provide her as much security as she'd found here? God knew they needed anchors badly enough in their jobs… and this case she'd landed tonight would test her resources; he'd known that from the outset. The media attention alone would be brutal, especially if she failed to produce a suspect in the amount of time the journalists deemed suitable.

Was he making the right choice in moving her into a house in her own patch, where there would be no escape from the presence of work, and in forcing her to do it so quickly? Yet he felt compelled to act; now that she'd agreed at last, he was afraid if he hesitated she might change her mind.