“Yeah, I think so,” answered Kit, displaying none of his usual enthusiasm for food or for a visit to their friend Otto’s café. “Couldn’t we look just a bit longer?”
“Maybe after lunch-” Gemma broke off, realizing that the tinny sound she’d been hearing above the noise of the mob was her mobile phone. It was Duncan, she saw as she fished it from her bag, and she had a sudden sinking feeling that it was not good news.
She answered, and when she’d heard him out, said, “I’ll have to get in touch with Winnie. I’ll ring you when I’ve connected with her, and you can meet us there.”
“Gemma, you don’t have to come,” Kincaid protested. “You said the house is right across the street from Winnie’s church. Why don’t I just ask her to pop over and meet me?”
She thought of the boys, and of another missed piano lesson, and for a moment she was tempted to agree. But then she recalled Fanny Liu’s frightened face and the comfort Fanny had seemed to derive from her presence, and she felt ashamed of her selfishness. “Yes,” she said reluctantly. “I think I do.”
When she rang off, both boys were watching her.
“You have to go, right?” Kit said flatly.
“Yes,” she admitted ruefully. “But maybe we can grab a bite of lunch first.”
“And the cabinet?”
“What about next Saturday?”
“Next Saturday? But-” Kit shrugged and turned away, studying the display of antique jewelry on a street stall table with great concentration, but she’d seen the flash of panic in his eyes. Was he so worried about Monday’s hearing at the family court that he feared there wouldn’t be another Saturday?
Gently she said, “Kit, there’s no reason we can’t do this next Saturday. Maybe Duncan can-”
“Gemma-” Kit was pointing at the jewelry display.
“-come with us. You know he wanted-”
“Gemma, look.”
“At the jewelry? Whatever for?” But frowning, she followed his gaze, and then she saw what he had seen.
The glass-fronted display case lay on its back, covering most of the table’s surface. But the cabinet, although large, was shallow, and its interior was divided into dozens of small, square compartments. In the case’s current position, the compartments formed pockets, each of which held a small display of jewelry, but if it were stood upright, it would make a perfect specimen cabinet.
Their exchange had drawn the dealer’s attention. Gemma gave Kit’s shoulder a warning squeeze and said as casually as she could manage, “This for sale?”
The man lit a cigarette and squinted at her through narrowed eyes. “Well, now, that depends, luv. I’d have to find something else to put my stock in. Just how much are you willing to offer?”
The three detectives and Bill Farrell sat huddled round the video monitor in the room they’d been temporarily assigned at Borough High Street Station. After Bell’s phone call, they’d left Kate Ling to finish the postmortem. Ling had promised to let them know immediately if she found anything else significant; otherwise, she’d get the report to them as soon as the lab results came back. Kincaid, for his part, had been just as glad for an excuse to miss out on the sawing and slicing.
The CCTV tape had been loaded into the VCR, and even with the videotape in pause mode, the black-and-white image on the television screen looked blotchy and faded. Kincaid silently cursed the cheap security measures that encouraged reusing videotapes until they were bloody well useless.
“This is from the building across the street and a few yards to the east of the warehouse’s front entrance,” said the DS in charge of running the tape. “We were lucky to find a private camera scanning more than the building’s foyer, but as this is a credit reporting business, they tend to be a bit paranoid about external security. Unfortunately, the view isn’t great, as you can see.”
It took Kincaid a moment to match what he was seeing on the screen with his memory of the warehouse entrance. Then he realized that the camera’s field of vision ended at the western edge of the warehouse door. This meant that not only could they not see the side door, but they had no view of the street on which it faced.
“Any luck finding a view of the side door?” he asked.
“No, sorry.” The sergeant, a young Asian woman, sounded as if she took the failure personally. “There’s nothing there except the shelter, and they said that although they’d considered a security camera, they hadn’t managed to work it into their budget.” She picked up the remote control and continued more briskly, “Now, we’re just coming up to the critical time, if you’ll bear with me.” The time stamp in the screen’s bottom corner read 9:55. As she rolled the tape, a figure popped into view on the left-hand side of the screen and moved quickly across – a man, head down, coat collar pulled up high – then vanished on the right. “A harmless pedestrian,” said the sergeant, “but then things get more interesting.” She fast-forwarded the tape until 10:00 showed on the screen, then slowed to normal speed.
This time the figures came from the right, walking more slowly, and stopped before the warehouse door. Although their backs were to the camera, they were recognizable as male and female. The woman wore a short skirt with some sort of blousy jacket; the man was several inches taller and wore what looked like a set of motorcycle leathers. There was something oddly lumpy about the back of the man’s head, but Kincaid couldn’t quite make out what it was.
The couple shuffled and bumped against each other, as if they were a bit tipsy, while the woman dug in her handbag, and the man threw an arm briefly across the woman’s shoulders. Something glinted in her hand as she let the bag drop to her side, and then, for just an instant, she turned round and surveyed the street.
The sergeant froze the frame and they all gazed at the face looking eerily back at them, as if the woman were aware of their regard. The image was blurred and grainy, but still an identifiable likeness.
At first, Kincaid thought that she was too young to fit their profile, but as he studied her face more closely, he decided she could be in her early twenties, maybe even older. Although it was hard to be certain because of the poor quality of the image, she appeared to be white, and brunette. Her lips were pursed in a pout of concentration.
“Anyone recognize her?” the sergeant asked. When no one responded, she said, “We’ve printed photos from this frame – it’s the best shot – and so far none of our regular beat officers have recognized her, either. That makes it less likely she’s a hooker, but doesn’t rule it out altogether. I had my doubts about the skirt anyway – doesn’t look short enough for a girl on the game.”
“Were those keys in her hand?” Kincaid asked.
“She did pull something from her handbag. It might have been keys or lock picks, but it could just as well have been a small torch or even a light saber.”
“A warrior princess.” Kincaid grinned, then just as quickly sobered as he thought of what might have happened to this woman. “Okay, what next?” he asked.
“Go forward again, slowly, Sarah,” instructed Maura Bell.
As the tape jerked into motion, the woman turned back to her companion. Having evidently decided the coast was clear, they both stepped forward into the doorway. After a moment, the shadows round them seemed to darken. Then the couple disappeared.
The man’s face had never been visible to the camera.
“We’ve got two more hours of tape before the fire,” explained Sarah, “and neither of them comes out again – at least not by this door.” She pointed the remote at the screen. “I’m going to fast-forward again. You’ll see a few pedestrians, then, at a few minutes past ten, this man.” A few jerky figures crossed the screen without giving the doorway so much as a glance; then, as the tape slowed, a man in a dark coat came into view, again from the right. His head swiveled towards the doorway as he passed. He seemed to hesitate for an instant, then went on. “And that’s it,” said Sarah, “until the fire brigade arrives two hours later.” The camera had never caught the man’s face, and nothing else distinguished him.