She tilted her head so that his lips found the hollow of her neck. 'I'm turned in circles now.'
'So you are.' He laughed and trailed his fingers down her belly. 'Now, tell me about Erika.'
But by that time, Gemma had lost all interest in conversation.
*** Gemma woke to find that Kincaid had been right. The day was gunmetal gray, with a sharp little wind that snaked round corners and bit. She dressed in trousers and pullover and the long buff-colored suede jacket that she'd thought put away for the season. When Kincaid had left for the Yard and the children were off to school, and she had checked in with the hospital, she walked up past her own police station and took the tube to South Kensington.
The journey to Lucan Place had come to feel familiar, and the duty sergeant greeted her with a smile of recognition. She asked to see Inspector Boatman, and within a few minutes was shown into Kerry Boatman's office.
'Gemma,' said Boatman, sitting back in her chair and pulling off glasses that had already left a mark on the bridge of her nose. 'Did you find what you were looking for yesterday?'
'Yes and no.' Gemma explained that part of David Rosenthal's case file seemed to be missing. 'The detective in charge of the case was very thorough. I can't imagine that he'd have given up on the investigation so quickly.'
Boatman frowned and rubbed at her nose. 'I don't know where else you might look. If part of the file got put in with something else, it would be like looking for the proverbial pin in a haystack. Makes me shudder just to think of it.'
'What about the detective's personnel file?' Gemma asked. 'His name was Gavin Hoxley.'
'Never heard of him. Long before my time, I'm afraid. But I can certainly have someone pull the record, if you like.' She glanced at her watch. 'I have a meeting in the super's office, but you're welcome to make yourself at home, and I'll have the file brought in to you.'
Gemma thanked her, appreciating the courtesy.
She didn't have to wait long before a uniformed constable brought her a dog-eared folder. Gemma blew at the film of dust on its surface, then opened it carefully.
The pages inside had been typed on cheap paper with a manual typewriter, and the print was smudged and smeared from handling. She took in the vital statistics. Gavin Hoxley had been a Londoner, she saw, born in this very borough, and he had seen service in the war before joining the Metropolitan Police, where he had risen quickly in the ranks.
She thumbed through the annual reviews, skimming the familiar police jargon. Then her breath caught in her throat and she stared at the page before her. She reread it once, twice more, then she slowly set the folder aside and pulled her mobile phone from her bag.
*** It was the early hours of the morning before Erika slept, and then she dreamed, not of Gavin or of David, but of her father, in fleeting glimpses that left her aching with loss. She woke with a little sob of longing, then lay in the faint gray predawn light, watching the hands of her bedside clock tick the minutes until it was time to rise.
She forced herself to eat a few bites of toast-it wouldn't do to faint-then she bathed and dressed with more than usual care. Her dress was the same she had worn yesterday, her best pale blue poplin, but to it she added white gloves, and a little hat she had bought in the spring sale at Whiteleys, an eon ago, when it had seemed that such things mattered.
And all the while she heard her mother's voice, whenever they had dressed to go out when she was a child, telling her that they were Jews, and so must never allow people to think the less of them.
Sometime in the long hours of the night, she had realized she knew nothing of Gavin except that he worked from the Chelsea Police Station, and so when she was ready she got out her London A-Z and found the station, in Lucan Place, near the Victoria and Albert.
And then she walked, because although she knew she must go, she wished she could put off arriving forever.
She crossed Hyde Park by the Broad Walk. The trees were in full leaf, the grass an impossible green. The air felt mild as a caress against her skin, and it seemed to her that even nature had betrayed her. The pinching of her best shoes against heel and toe became an anchor, a bright pinpoint of pain that kept her moving, one step after another.
The bustle of Knightsbridge came as a relief after the almost unbearable beauty of the park, and then she had reached Cromwell Road. Her steps slowed further. In front of the Natural History Museum, she stopped, her nerve deserting her. But the thought of going home, and waiting, was worse than going on, and so she walked slowly past the South Kensington tube station and crossed the Brompton Road, and then she had reached Lucan Place and there was no turning back.
Erika straightened her spine and entered the reception area of the station. The officer at the little window glanced up, his attention sharpening as he looked her over.
'Can I help you, miss?'
'It's Mrs.,' said Erika. 'Mrs. David Rosenthal. And I'd like to speak to the officer in charge of my husband's murder.'
She saw the flicker in his face, the change she had never seen in Gavin's when he realized she was a Jew. 'Just have a seat,' he told her. 'Someone will be with you.' And then he didn't meet her eyes again.
After a few moments, a young woman opened the door leading to the interior of the station and said, 'Mrs. Rosenthal? If you'll follow me?' She was plump and overly made up, with crimped hair, and she didn't meet Erika's eyes, either.
The certainty that Erika had been courting settled in her chest like a fist. She followed the woman through the door and up a worn flight of steps. Uniformed officers passed them, but they were faceless, like ghosts. The woman stopped at a door with a frosted glass pane in the upper half, gave a quick knock, then ushered Erika in and backed out, closing the door behind her.
Erika found herself facing a large, florid ginger-haired man who rose ponderously from his chair.
'Mrs. Rosenthal, is it? Do sit down.' His brief smile showed yellowed teeth, and there was no warmth in it. Erika sat obediently in the hard chair he indicated, but did not trust herself to speak.
'I'm Superintendent Tyrell,' he said, taking his own chair again, as if standing had been an inconvenience. 'You said you wanted to see Inspector Hoxley. Is there something I can help you with?'
Erika swallowed and found her voice. 'No, I-Inspector Hoxley said he'd learned something about my husband's murder. And then he didn't-I thought perhaps there was news. If I could just-'
'I think Inspector Hoxley must have been mistaken, I'm sorry to say, Mrs. Rosenthal.' He didn't sound sorry at all. 'And Inspector Hoxley won't be able to help you.'
'But I-'
'There's been an accident. Inspector Hoxley's body was found washed up on the bank of the Thames this morning.' Tyrell shook his large head and gave a little tut-tut of disapproval. 'Very unfortunate. Of course, it won't go on his record, but it looks very much as if Hoxley took his own life.'
*** When Kincaid walked into his office, he found Cullen sitting at his computer, scowling. 'Maybe I don't want my desk, after all,' he said, by way of good morning.
