The address Melody had given them was in Cheyne Walk, and made Kincaid give a low whistle. 'At least it's convenient,' he said, 'although I'd say little Kristin was out of her element.'
'Not far as the crow flies, though,' mused Gemma. 'I wonder how she met Dominic Scott.' As they curved round into Cheyne Walk, Gemma gazed out at the houseboats moored beyond Cremorne Gardens. The boats made her think of the garage flat, tiny as one of these floating homes, that she had once occupied behind her friend Hazel Cavendish's house. She felt saddened by how quickly parts of life that had seemed terribly important faded from memory, pushed out like falling dominoes by new experience. 'There's not room for it all,' she said aloud, and Kincaid gave her a quizzical look but went back to address hunting.
They had almost reached the Chelsea Embankment when he said, 'There,' and pulled the car up on the double yellows. He popped a POLICE notice in the windscreen and they got out, surveying Dominic Scott's house. It was redbricked and gabled, almost Dutch in feel, four stories with basement, and with its own small front garden surrounded by a delicate wrought-iron railing.
'I take it,' Kincaid said with great understatement, 'that he lives with his mum.'
Gemma realized that Melody hadn't said anything about Dominic Scott's father. 'Nice,' she agreed, sudden nerves making her sarcastic. 'Upstairs, downstairs. Maybe we should consider the servants' entrance.'
He grinned back at her as he opened the gate smartly and strode to the topiary-flanked door. 'Not on your bloody life.'
But the woman who answered on the first ring of the bell was no starched, uniformed maid. Small enough to make Gemma feel awkward, slender, and blond, she wore jeans Gemma recognized as expensive designer label and a silky pale blue sweater. If the color of her chin-length hair owed more to art than nature, it was expensively done, and her skin was flawless. A slightly prominent nose saved her from banal prettiness, but still, the overall effect was stunning, and Gemma suspected Kincaid must be gaping.
'Can I help you?' the woman asked, gazing at them with a slightly bemused smile.
'Mrs. Miller-Scott?' asked Gemma, wishing she dared dig Kincaid in the ribs. 'I'm Inspector James, and this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard.'
'Please, I prefer Ms., irritating as it is. I haven't been anyone's Mrs. for a good many years. And knowing who you are doesn't tell me what you want.' She was still polite, but there was a slight edge to her voice.
'It's actually your son we'd like a word with, Ms. Miller-Scott.' Kincaid had apparently recovered his powers of speech. 'Dominic. He does live at this address?'
This time a definite flash of emotion disturbed the woman's composed face, but Gemma couldn't be sure if it had been worry or annoyance. 'Yes, Dom has an apartment here. But he's not in right now, although I expect he'll be back soon. Is he in some sort of trouble?'
'We'd just like to have a chat with him,' Kincaid said easily. 'Could we come in and wait?'
Ellen Miller-Scott shrugged, and this time the annoyance was unmistakable. 'Please yourself.' As she led them into the house, it was Gemma's turn to gape.
The exterior of the house had led her to expect the traditional, a chocolate box of color and gilt. But while the floors of the entry hall and sitting room were a dark glossy wood, the walls were a crisp white, a backdrop for the paintings that filled much of the space, gallery style. Gemma thought she recognized a Hockney, and a Lowry, but there were too many to take in, and all were stunning.
Splashes of colorful contemporary rugs anchored sleek leather furniture, tables held flower arrangements that must have cost a month of Gemma's wages-probably done by the florist responsible for Kristin's roses, which now seemed paltry in comparison-and in what seemed a perfect, if rather eccentric, counterpoint, a huge crystal chandelier hung from the Adam rose in the center of the ceiling.
'It was my father's.' Miller-Scott had followed Gemma's gaze. She sounded amused. 'A bit incongruous, I admit, but I like it. Do sit.'
Gemma managed a strangled 'Lovely,' and sank as gracefully as she could manage onto the sofa near the marble fireplace. On the backs of her bare calves the leather felt as sensuous as skin.
Not looking the least bit gobsmacked, Kincaid sat down beside her, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and smiled at their hostess. 'You have quite a collection, Ms. Miller-Scott.'
She perched on the arm of the opposite sofa, a position that indicated limited tolerance of their presence, and did not offer them refreshment. 'My father had a knack for knowing what would become valuable-a trait that is apparently not inheritable, if my son is any indication. Now, what is Dominic supposed to have done? I don't suppose you send out superintendents for parking tickets.'
In spite of the bored voice, there was something in the line of the woman's body, in the angle of her head, in the way her manicured fingers grasped her crossed knee a little too tightly, that made Gemma think she was more worried about her son than she admitted.
'We don't
The front door slammed. Gemma saw the ripple of shock in Ellen Miller-Scott's body, the instinct to rise quickly controlled. Instead, she called out, 'Dom! In here.'
Dominic Scott's voice preceded him into the room. 'Mum, I'm really not in the mood for a family discussion at the mo-' He stopped on the threshold, frozen, as he took in the tableau.
Unlike his mother, he was dark, and he was older than Gemma had imagined, nearer thirty than twenty. His hair was slightly too long, and brushed carelessly away from his face. He wore a suit that had
Gemma felt an instant's stab of pity for Kristin Cahill, who must have been as vulnerable as a moth flying too near a candle, and for poor Giles Oliver, who had had as much chance as a pug set against a greyhound.
Then Kincaid stood and, before Dominic's mother could get in an explanation, said, 'Hullo, Dominic. My name's Duncan Kincaid, and this is Gemma James. We're from the Metropolitan Police, and we'd like to talk to you about Kristin Cahill.'
'What?' Dom Scott looked from one to the other, and Gemma wondered if she had imagined the flicker of relief. What had he been expecting? 'Look, I know she's a bit pissed off with me at the moment, but this is beyond funny.' He came a few steps into the room, but stayed an uncommitted halfway between the sitting area and the door.
Oh, Christ, thought Gemma. If it was an act, he was very cool. But if not…'Dominic,' she said quietly, 'tell us when you saw Kristin last.'
'Monday. Monday night. Look, what's this about? She's not returning my calls.'
Kristin's phone had been found in her jeans pocket, crushed beyond recovery.
Kincaid took up Gemma's lead. 'Tell us what happened on Monday night, Dominic. Where did you see Kristin?'
Ellen Miller-Scott glanced from Kincaid to Gemma, and the knuckles of the hand on her knee whitened. Dom took another hesitant half step forward, then ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. 'At the Gate. It was only a row. I can't believe she's complained about it. She was still on at me about Saturday night.'
'What happened on Saturday?' Kincaid asked, as relaxed as if they were discussing what they'd had for tea.
Dom shifted and rubbed at his nose. 'I-I stood her up. I was supposed to meet her at this club, and I-I never got there.'
'And that's why you sent her the roses at work on Monday?' said Gemma.
