Where Memories Lie

'Yeah.' Kit's expression lightened. 'Cool. Except Gemma said she seemed upset. Maybe I could stop by and see her after school?'

***

'I think we've got a live one, guv,' the desk sergeant at Chelsea Station told Hoxley when he walked into reception.

'Live what?' asked Hoxley, amused. Nearing retirement, Ben Watson was bald as a billiard ball, heavyset, and little inclined to stir himself except for the walk from desk to pub, but he kept an avuncular finger on the pulse of everything that went on in the station. He was also inordinately fond of fishing analogies, although Hoxley doubted he'd ever held a fishing rod in his life.

'Your unidentified corpus. Notting Hill rang. They've a woman reported her husband missing. Fits the description.'

Hoxley gave him his full attention. 'Address?'

'They've kept her at the station. Told them you'd be there soonest.'

Wincing, Hoxley muttered, 'Damn.' Delivering bad news was difficult enough in the familiar environment of the home, and he didn't look forward to questioning a bereaved widow in a sterile interview room. But if indeed this was his victim's wife, she would be prepared for the worst, and he would be able to put a name, and a life, to the man he had left on the postmortem table.

***

Once more outside St. Paul 's tube station, Gemma hesitated. She could go straight on to work, or she could change at Notting Hill for South Kensington and make the inquiry at Harrowby's auction house she'd promised Erika. She felt frustrated and restless, this morning's visit to hospital having proved as fruitless as the previous evening's. Her mum had been out of the ward, having a bone marrow biopsy, the charge nurse had revealed reluctantly, as if imparting state secrets. And no, she didn't know how long it would take, and there was a good possibility the patient would go to X-ray and sonography as well.

'The patient is my mother,' Gemma had snapped. The impersonalization of bureaucracy-speak irritated her just as much in the hospital as it did in the police station. But her little outburst did her no good, and after an hour's wait she gave up the vigil. Cyn would be in later in the morning, and she would have to depend on her sister for news.

Now, however, her patience frayed, she found herself particularly unwilling to sit in her cramped office, dealing with an onslaught of petty complaints from both sides of the police/public divide.

On an impulse, she pulled her mobile from her bag and dialed Melody Talbot. 'So what sort of Monday is it?' she asked.

'A fairly placid one.' Melody sounded her usual brisk self, and Gemma supposed she'd just been sleepy earlier. 'I've left a few reports for you to look over, and consigned most of the rest to the dustbin.'

'Good riddance, I'm sure.' Cheered by Melody's voice, Gemma found herself saying, 'I'm in the City, but I've got to make a stop in South Ken. Do you want to come along?'

'Business?'

'Um, I'm actually not certain.'

'Sounds intriguing,' said Melody. 'Where should I meet you?'

'Harrowby's. I'll wait for you outside.' Gemma rang off, pleased with herself for having piqued Melody's curiosity.

Half an hour later, she found Melody gazing in the windows of the venerable auction house on the Old Brompton Road. While that day Gemma had opted for trousers and a long aubergine cardigan over a soft-collared shirt, Melody wore a tailored navy suit, pressed to the nines, hemmed tastefully at the knee. Gemma thought, not for the first time, that either PC Talbot was aiming for assistant commissioner or she was trying to show up all her female colleagues. Now Gemma wasn't sure if inviting Melody along had been such a good idea.

Melody turned from inspecting an Art Deco pottery display that made Gemma's heart skip. 'What's up, boss? Have we been seconded to the Fraud squad?'

Hesitating, Gemma said, 'Actually, I'm doing a favor for a friend. Unofficially.'

'Ah.' Melody ruffled her hair, slipped off her jacket and tossed it over her arm, and unbuttoned another button on her blouse. 'Unofficial it is.'

Gemma grinned. 'Got it in one.'

'So what's the story?'

Gemma explained briefly, then added, with an uncertain glance at the window, 'Have you ever been to an auction?'

'Once or twice. Just curiosity,' Melody added quickly. 'It's not as intimidating as it looks. They want you to feel comfortable.'

'Right.' Gemma led the way into the foyer. Opposite a friendly looking gray-haired woman at a reception desk, a long table held copies of catalogs for all upcoming sales. The Art Deco jewelry was easy enough to spot: brilliant red, green, and blue gems in a geometric-patterned bracelet blazed from the cover. Finding the entry for the brooch that she'd seen at Erika's, Gemma reread the text. It was as she remembered-there was no provenance.

Holding her place, she took the book to the desk. 'I'm inquiring for a friend,' she explained, tapping the picture of the waterfall brooch with her fingertip, 'who thinks this brooch belonged to her family. It was lost during the war.'

For the first time, the woman looked uneasy. 'Mr. Khan's our jewelry expert, but he's out doing a valuation-'

Gemma wasn't going to be put off so easily. 'Is there someone else?'

'Well, there's Miss Cahill, but-' She flicked a glance at Melody, and Gemma guessed she took her for a lawyer.

'I'm sure Miss Cahill will be able to help.' Gemma smiled brightly.

The woman hesitated. Then, frowning, she used an internal phone. 'Kristin, could you come to the front, please?'

Gemma took advantage of the wait to inspect her surroundings. The reception area led into a much larger room. Modern paintings tagged with lot numbers lined the walls. A dozen people sat in the comfortably padded chairs filling the room's center, some occasionally languidly raising numbered paddles. The auctioneer stood on a podium, above which appeared the featured item on a large-screen television. His delivery was as relaxed as the bids, and Gemma thought it all rather disappointingly low key. She wondered where the jewelry was.

'No big items in this lot,' whispered Melody. A snore escaped from a large lady in the back row.

'So I was gathering.'

A side door opened and a young woman came towards the front desk, her expression anxious. She was waif slender, with short dark hair shaped to her head, and wore a crisp white blouse and narrow dark skirt as if they'd just come off the catwalk. 'Mrs. March?' she said, glancing from the receptionist to Gemma and Melody.

'These ladies have some questions regarding an item in the jewelry catalog. I told them Mr. Khan was out.' Mrs. March, as Gemma supposed, made her disapproval clear, and turned back to sorting brochures.

The young woman looked round as if expecting rescue, glanced at the auction in progress, then motioned them towards the door through which she had come. 'I'm Kristin Cahill,' she said over her shoulder. 'I'm not sure I can help you, but you'd better come into the office.' She looked as though she couldn't be long out of university.

'We won't take much of your time,' said Gemma, hoping to put her at ease.

Kristin Cahill led them through another display room, where furniture was being arranged and labeled by a crew in jeans and trainers, then into a small office. Paper, brochures, and catalogs spilled off two inelegant desks. Kristin shrugged at the absence of seating. 'Mr. Khan usually talks to clients in the showroom-'

'We're not clients. Look, it's just this.' Gemma held up the catalog, page folded back. 'I have a friend. Jakob Goldshtein, who made this piece, was her father. Her name is Erika Rosenthal. She says it was lost during her