about to give someone a royal bollocking.'
'Like the one he gave Kristin the day she was killed?'
'Yeah. Well, I suppose…' Giles Oliver fiddled with the keys, looking suddenly uncomfortable. Did he know more about that argument than he had admitted?
'You said Mr. Khan always had it in for Kristin. Had it grown worse lately?'
An instant's calculation flickered in Oliver's eyes, then he shrugged and said, 'Look, I've never been one to get anyone into trouble…but he
Kincaid waited, but Oliver was looking uncertain now. The kid knew something he wanted to give up, but apparently wasn't prepared to do it easily. Did he feel guilty, Kincaid wondered, or did he just enjoy the drama? Either way, he was willing to play along. 'You were Kristin's closest friend here, weren't you?'
'Yeah, you could say that. I mean she talked to the girls, but not the way she talked to me.'
'So she confided in you. Did she tell you what was going on with Mr. Khan? Was there something between them?'
'Kristin and him?' Oliver looked shocked. 'No way. She couldn't stand him. Especially after-' He paused again, pushing out his lower lip.
'Come on, Giles,' Kincaid said, knowing he wouldn't stop now. 'After what?'
The keys jingled in Oliver's hand as he said in a rush, 'She caught him. Khan. Copying papers. I don't know what they were, but Kristin did, and she wouldn't tell me. Khan was furious with her, and after that he'd use any excuse to tear into her. She thought he was trying to get her fired.'
It was after five by the time Gemma emerged from the police station, blinking like a mole forced out of its burrow in daylight. She was tired and grimy, and her head hurt from squinting at papers in inadequate light. Slowly, she walked up Lucan Place towards the Brompton Road, musing over what she had learned.
Gavin Hoxley had been a good copper. He had followed every lead meticulously, and had documented his results with a thoroughness that Gemma respected. But his every avenue had led to a dead end, and as she read she had begun to feel his frustration as if it were her own.
If Hoxley's perceptions had been accurate, David Rosenthal had been an enigma, a withdrawn and reclusive man who shared little of his thoughts and feelings with his colleagues and acquaintances. Had he, Gemma wondered, shared anything with his wife?
And had he, as Hoxley had begun to suspect, been involved in some way with Jewish vengeance? Gemma could not imagine that Erika would have countenanced such behavior under any circumstances. Was that why she had never spoken about her husband or his murder?
There had been things moving in the shadows, of that she felt sure. Hoxley had merely hinted at the blocking of inquiries, but she was used to official jargon and could read between the lines.
Then, just when she had begun to think that Hoxley was making progress, the notes had stopped. She'd searched the file pages once, then again, then a third time. There was simply nothing else. David Rosenthal's murder had not been solved, nor had the case been declared officially cold. Had Rosenthal's murder been shelved because he was Jewish and therefore the crime had been considered insignificant? Or had it been just the opposite? Either implication made her equally uneasy.
She would like to have asked Kerry Boatman to trace records, and to pull Gavin Hoxley's personnel file for her, but Boatman was gone for the day, and there was no one on evening rota at the station with access to the information she wanted.
Having reached the South Ken underground station, Gemma hesitated, torn between going in one direction for Notting Hill and the other for St. Paul's.
There was, of course, the one obvious source of information about David Rosenthal's death-Erika. But she felt unsure of herself now, as if the sands of their relationship had shifted, and she wanted to know more before she asked questions that could be more painful than she had imagined.
And besides, if she didn't get to hospital, she'd have missed official visiting hours again, and would have hell to pay with the charge nurse.
St. Paul's it was, then, and a visit to her mum in St. Barts. But as she edged herself into the mass of people descending the stairs to the South Ken platform, she pulled out her mobile and rang Melody Talbot.
The brooch was beautiful, Kincaid had to admit. Giles Oliver had taken it from the small safe and placed it on a black velvet board with such care that it might have been made of eggshells rather than the hardest substance on earth.
Kincaid had admired the design and the artistry of the piece-it had undoubtedly been made by a master craftsman-and the diamonds were quite literally brilliant. Real diamonds of that size, and displayed in such a way, were unlikely to be mistaken for their cheap imitations.
But in spite of its beauty, the Goldshtein brooch left him cold. Diamonds did not fascinate him-in his mind they carried the reek of corporate corruption and of the spilled blood of innocents-but most of all, he did not understand the desire for possession.
Cullen, apparently, was no more taken than he, having merely glanced at the piece, murmured something appreciative, then fidgeted, ready to get onto the scent.
'Thanks very much,' Kincaid had told Giles Oliver, and was amused to see that Oliver seemed disappointed by their lack of reaction.
But as they passed back through the salesroom, stopping to retrieve Amir Khan's personal information from a grudging Mrs. March, Kincaid had seen that all the seats in the auction were still full and that the clerks handling the phone and online bids were busy as well. There were many people, obviously, who did not share his sentiments.
As they reached the doors, Kincaid stood aside for a dapper elderly man who was leaving as well.
'Any success?' Kincaid asked.
'Oh, I only come to look,' the man answered in an accent that still bore a trace of French. Smiling, he added, 'But that is enough.' He lifted his catalog to them in salute, and Kincaid felt suddenly a bit more optimistic about the motivation of his fellow man.
Amir Khan lived in a terraced house on the Clapham side of Wands-worth Common. It was, Kincaid knew, pricey enough real estate, as was anything near central London, but it was not what he had expected. This was suburban London, an area where the Victorian red-brown brick terraces had back gardens and were mostly occupied by families, while he had imagined the debonair Khan in a Thames-side loft conversion with a panoramic view.
It was late enough in the afternoon that cars lined both sides of the street, and they had to circle round several times before Cullen managed to maneuver the car into a space in the ASDA car park at the top of the hill. They walked back, listening to the sounds of televisions and children's voices drifting from the occasional open window. But most of these families, Kincaid thought, would be like his own, with children in after-school care and both parents working.
Khan's house was midterrace, and undistinguished except for the ornate black-and-white-tiled path that led through neatly trimmed privet hedges to the front door. There was only the one bell, which meant that Khan owned the entire house, not a flat, and that piqued Kincaid's curiosity.
Amir Khan answered the door himself. He still wore suit trousers, but his collar was open and his shirtsleeves rolled up. His perfectly barbered dark hair was tousled, and in one arm he held a chubby, red-faced infant. 'What took you so long?' he said.
