got, the less he seemed to have to say to them, or they to him.
Stuart was twelve, conceived in the first flush of his courtship with Linda, when the threat of war lent an urgency to lovemaking that had long since vanished. Susan was a product of a brief leave from the front two years later, procreation fueled this time by a desperate need to leave something of himself behind if he did not come back.
But he had survived, and if the truth be told, he found his children a disappointment. The son he had imagined as his companion, the boy he would teach to play football and take for long afternoons of idling along the Thames, was thin and serious, his nose always in a book, and didn't seem to know the difference between rugger and cricket.
And Susan, the princess he had longed to hold and tickle, was a solid, stodgy girl who giggled like a hyena with her girlfriends but only gave him a blank stare from her mother's opaque brown eyes.
He felt the weight of it all then, so suddenly that his body sagged and he touched his shoulder to the wall for support. It had been a bad day-they'd followed up on a report of an unpleasant smell from a neighboring flat, and on forcing entry had found a man sitting in a chair in the dingy bed-sitter, looking quite relaxed except for the fact that his brains were splattered in an arc on the wall behind him, and his service revolver lay where it had fallen in his lap.
The neighbors, now thronging round with interest, told Gavin the man had been a decorated war hero, but had returned to find his family gone and no jobs available for a man partially crippled at D-Day. Since then the man, one Terence Billings, had kept himself to himself, getting by, they supposed, on his pension.
'What was it?' Gavin had asked his team when they'd finished their report and retired to the pub nearest the station, squeezing into the corner table with foaming pints. 'What do you suppose was the final straw?'
'Probably couldn't get fags at the corner shop,' said PC Will Collins, shaking his head.
'Maybe his cat died,' offered Gavin's sergeant, John Rogers, only half in jest. All of them had seen the most trivial things push people over the edge into despair. And all of them had served on the front-all knew the man in the chair could just as easily have been them, and it was this bond, shared but unspoken, that kept them there, smoking and drinking too much beer, until long after they should have been home.
'What is it, Gav? Are you all right?' Linda's voice hovered between censure and concern.
He thought of her as he'd first met her, how he'd loved her for her piss-and-vinegar pluck. He'd thought she could take on anything, but she hadn't signed on to be a policeman's wife, and it had brought her to this-a sharp-faced shadow of that long-ago girl.
And the children-was he the one at fault? Had he failed them all? And if so, what had he accomplished by it? He'd certainly done nothing to make life better for the man in the chair today, or others like him.
'Gav? You look like you've seen a ghost.' His wife came to him and lifted her hand, brushing the backs of her fingers against his cheek.
The gesture was so unexpected, the gentleness of it so long forgotten, that he felt tears spring to his eyes. He closed his hand over hers. The pressure of his grip brought her body lightly against his, her weight delicate and warm. Swallowing, he whispered, 'I'm sorry-I've made a mess of things-I-'
The clang of the phone made them jerk apart, like guilty teenagers. Their eyes met for a moment, then, unable to resist, he glanced towards the telephone. It sat like a black beast on the table at the end of the hall, pulsing with insistent sound.
'I suppose I should get that,' he said.
'You always do,' answered his wife, slipping her hand from his.
*** Gavin walked down Tite Street towards the river from the flat in Tedworth Square, angling into Royal Hospital Road, stopping for a moment as he reached the Embankment to glance west at the sparkling outline of the Albert Bridge framed against an orange-and-purple-streaked sky. A year ago the bridge had been draped with electric lights for the Festival of Britain, and the sight still made his breath catch in his throat. Airy and insubstantial, it added to the odd sense of disconnectedness he'd felt since leaving the flat.
He'd protested, of course, but the duty sergeant at Chelsea Station had insisted he was the nearest ranking CID officer available, and Gavin had sighed and acquiesced.
Now he wondered if he had left a part of himself behind, the self that might have stayed and caressed his wife. Had he seen a glimmer of understanding in her eyes as she watched him go? Or had he taken the wrong turning at an irrevocable fork?
Nonsense, that was; utter rubbish. He had a job to do. He shook himself and, turning away, headed east into the gathering darkness.
The constable, a dark-uniformed silhouette, was waiting near the gate that led into a heavily wooded garden at the end of Cheyne Walk. 'Inspector Hoxley.'
Gavin recognized him as he spoke, a young constable named Simms, and the tightness in the man's voice made the hair rise on Gavin's neck. This was more than a wino sleeping it off in the park. 'Anyone else here yet?' he asked.
'No, sir. I didn't like to leave it-him-sir, but I was afraid you wouldn't see me if I didn't wait near the gates.'
'All right, then, Simms, let's see what you've found.'
He followed the flickering light of Simms's torch as the constable picked his way through the gate and along a gravel path that shone faintly. Around a curve, the outline of a bench loomed out of the dimness, and beneath that, another form, dark with a glint of white.
There was no mistaking the shape of a human body, or the awkwardness of death. 'Hold the light, man,' said Gavin as the torch wavered. As he glanced back, the light bobbed upwards, and he saw that the constable looked dangerously corpselike himself.
Too young to have been in the war, Gavin reminded himself-this might even be the man's first body. 'If you're going to be sick, get right away,' he cautioned, but his tone was gentle.
'No, sir, I'll be all right.' Simms straightened and steadied the torch.
Pushing back his hat, Gavin thought that if this were the young man's first death, he'd got off easy. More than likely one of the pensioners had sat on the bench for a smoke and a view of the river, and his heart had clapped out.
But as he looked more closely, he saw that the figure was not clothed in the traditional navy uniform of the Chelsea pensioner, but in a black suit. Frowning, he knelt, and the smell of blood hit him in a foul wave.
'Christ,' he muttered, swallowing, then barked at Simms, 'Give me the torch.' He held it closer, the light illuminating a slender man, his body twisted so that his chest and face were turned upwards. One arm was flung out, as if he had reached for something-the bench, perhaps, to stop himself falling. His thick, wavy hair was streaked with gray, but his clean-shaven face took a few years from his age-he might, Gavin thought, have been in his late forties or early fifties. Where his dark coat fell open, great gouts of blood stained the white of his shirt.
'Any identification?' Gavin asked, glancing at Simms.
'No, sir. I just had a quick look in his pockets for a wallet, but there was nothing, not even coins.'
'You didn't move him?'
'No, sir.' Simms sounded affronted. 'I did find an old briefcase, a soft one, like a satchel, by the side of the bench, but there was nothing in that, either.'
'Odd,' Gavin said aloud, turning back to the corpse. An odd place for a robbery, and although the
