emigrated from Germany by 1938.
– Louise London, Whitehall and the Jews, 1933-1948
Gemma had her mobile in hand as she walked out the door of Lucan Place. She'd thanked Inspector Boatman and taken her leave as quickly as was polite. 'If there's anything you can tell the team, once an SIO is assigned,' Boatman had added. 'We still can't be sure at this point that it wasn't drink-driving-related manslaughter, or that she wasn't a random victim, if it was homicide. But if it should have some connection with your inquiry…'
Gemma had responded with no small irony that she would certainly be in touch.
MIT. The Metropolitan Police's Murder Investigation Teams, sometimes called Major Investigation Teams. But no matter the nomenclature, this was Kincaid's job, his territory-why not his team?
He answered on the first ring. 'Hullo, love. What's up? Are you at hosp-'
'No. No, I haven't made it yet. Something's come up. The girl I met yesterday at Harrowby's, Kristin Cahill- she's been killed in a hit-and-run. Manslaughter at the least, homicide at the worst. Chelsea is calling in the Yard. I want you to request the case.'
There was silence on the line. She could almost see him thinking, his brow creased in a slight frown. 'Look,' she said. 'I know it's slightly irregular, but-'
'Slightly? Gemma, I've a personal involvement-'
'No, what you have is a bit of background information that would give you an advantage. You never met Kristin Cahill. And who else,' she added, 'would take what I have to say as seriously?'
'But that's just it, isn't it?' he argued. 'You're too close-'
'I met this girl. I asked questions that might have got her into trouble. I want to know, one way or the other. And I want justice for her, even if her death had nothing to do with my questions about the Goldshtein brooch. She was twenty-three years old, for heaven's sake, just starting out in her life,' Gemma added vehemently. 'And I liked her.'
She was still standing on the pavement outside Lucan Place, and a shopping-laden woman passing by gave her a curious glance. Gemma started back toward the Fulham Road, and dropped her voice. 'Duncan-'
'I don't like it,' Kincaid broke in. 'But I'm never going to hear the end of it, otherwise, am I? And what exactly do you suggest I tell Chief Superintendent Childs?'
*** Although Gavin now had some idea of what had been in David Rosenthal's satchel, he was no closer to knowing why it had been taken, or what Rosenthal had been doing in Cheyne Walk.
He had been to the school in North Hampstead where David had taught. Rosenthal 'kept himself to himself,' his fellow teachers had said, with a wariness that made Gavin wonder what they might have said had he not been an outsider, a gentile, as well as a policeman.
He met the head last, who invited him into his office. Saul Bernstein was younger than Gavin had expected, perhaps only in his thirties, a chubby man who seemed to be compensating for his lack of years with an air of gravitas and a billowing pipe.
The day had turned unseasonably hot for May, and the small room was stuffy but nonetheless pleasant, with its odor of books and pipe tobacco. The sound of boys playing at some game drifted in through the open window.
'Did no one like David Rosenthal?' asked Gavin, when he'd taken the proffered seat on the far side of Bernstein's desk.
'Like?' Bernstein sounded slightly puzzled. 'I wouldn't say that David's colleagues didn't like him. Everyone is still quite shocked, you know-David's death is not the sort of thing one expects-'
'Murder,' Gavin interrupted, suddenly wanting to shake this man's complacency. 'David Rosenthal was murdered. Violently. I'd say someone disliked him intensely.'
'Quite.' Bernstein paled a little, and set the pipe in an ashtray. 'But I assure you it wasn't anyone here. As I said, it wasn't a question of David's colleagues disliking him. David was civil, considerate, uninterested in petty staff squabbles, and did his job with dedication. And that was all. I don't think I've ever met anyone who seemed less interested in the approval of his peers.'
'What about the approval of his students?'
'David was a good teacher, as I've said. Very thorough, and well prepared. But I doubt he would have noticed whether or not his students liked him.'
'David Rosenthal wore a tiny gold mezuzah on a chain round his neck. It was the only thing not taken when he was killed. His wife said that one of his students gave it to him.'
Bernstein frowned. 'We don't allow the boys to give gifts to the teachers, or vice versa. It too easily creates a climate of favoritism. And misunderstandings.'
'And did David have any misunderstandings with anyone? Any arguments?'
'No.' Bernstein hesitated, then shrugged. 'Not here, at least. But there was something. The Jewish community has dispersed somewhat since the war, but it is still fairly close knit. There is a network of sorts, so that one picks up information-not necessarily true, of course-about people that one doesn't know personally.'
Gavin waited, and after a moment, Bernstein went on. 'I don't like to tell tales, Inspector. But I saw David once, in the East End, talking to a man who is reputed to be involved with a…vengeance group.' He pinched his lips together as if the words themselves were distasteful.
'Vengeance?'
Bernstein settled himself more solidly in his chair. 'It's my opinion that we must move forward, put the past behind us. But there are those who…feel differently. Those who believe that not all who committed atrocities against the Jews during the war received justice. This man…he was pointed out to me once, as someone who espoused those…philosophies.'
Tired of the circumlocution, Gavin said, 'What was the man's name?'
'I don't know. I only recognized his face.'
'And did you ever ask David about this man, or this meeting?'
'No.' Bernstein looked uncomfortable. 'He didn't see me, and I thought it best…left alone.' He didn't meet Gavin's eyes. 'There was something about him that repelled any attempt at confidence…You may think this fanciful, Inspector, but a bitterness hung about David Rosenthal…It made me think of the odor of charred ashes.'
*** Kincaid had always found the truth to be the most effective measure in dealing with Chief Superintendent Denis Childs. After a brief wait in the anteroom, during which he chatted with Childs's secretary, he was called into the inner sanctum.
He found his boss looking less sanguine than usual. His doctor had put him on a fitness and slimming regime, and while Childs might have dropped a few pounds, it had not improved his temper. It seemed to Kincaid that Childs was simply one of those men who were meant to be fat. It suited his personality, and attempting to change his essential physiology was more than likely an exercise in futility.
Still, he asked, 'How are you, sir?' as Childs invited him to sit, and got a grimace and a mutter in reply.
'A treadmill,' Childs said. 'They have me walking on a treadmill! As if one doesn't walk enough in London.'
Kincaid hid a grin. 'You look well.'
'Ha.' Childs glared at him. 'I'll have to get a new wardrobe soon, and I hate shopping. But'-he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in his familiar pose-'you didn't come to see me to discuss my suits.'
'No. There's been a suspicious death in Chelsea, and Lucan Place is going to be calling for a team. I'd like to take it.'
