"I see you're here about last night's hit-and-run," said Boatman, glancing down at a scribbled note by her phone. "That's a bit odd, as it's not on your patch." There was no hint of hostility in her voice, just interest.
"The victim-It was Kristin Cahill? The girl who worked at Harrowby's?" asked Gemma.
"Yes." Boatman consulted her notes again. "Twenty-three years old, a junior sales assistant for the last year at Harrowby's. She lived with her parents in a flat at World's End."
Since Erika's phone call, Gemma had been sure of the victim's identity, but she felt a stab of regret at the confirmation. "I met her yesterday," she told Boatman. "I was making an inquiry, unofficially, for a friend." She went on to explain about Erika and the brooch, and that she had felt Kristin was slightly uncomfortable with her questions. "Then this morning my friend went to Harrowby's. She wanted to see the brooch for herself, and to talk to someone more senior. When she heard about Kristin, she rang me. And I just felt it was…odd."
Kerry Boatman studied her for a moment. "It seems your instincts may have been right. I've just had the preliminary from the accident scene investigation. Nothing concrete, of course, but from the tire marks, it looks as though the car that hit Kristin Cahill accelerated, rather than braked. And that, before it accelerated, it was parked at the curb near Kristin's building."
"Someone was waiting for her?"
"It seems possible, yes."
"Any witnesses?"
"No one saw anything. The pub had cleared out, the street was empty. But someone who lived opposite the scene said they heard the squeal of tires. A Mr. Madha. It was he who went out to investigate, and called 999."
"Did she-was she-"
"The ambulance service transported her, but she was pronounced dead on admittance. Internal bleeding, a smashed pelvis, and severe head injuries."
Gemma shut her eyes, as if she might shut out the vision of the graceful girl's broken body. When she looked up again, she found the other officer watching her with evident compassion. "It's difficult," said Boatman, "when you've met someone, however briefly."
"If I could be sure that it wasn't something I said or did, some question I asked…"
"Well." Boatman sighed. "That won't be for us to determine. It's out of our remit now. I'll be turning it over to a Murder Investigation Team from the Yard."
CHAPTER 9
The United Kingdom was the first refuge for perhaps half the 2,200 refugee scholars who had emigrated from Germany by 1938.
– Louise London, Whitehall and the Jews, 1933-1948
Gemma had her mobile in hand as she walked out the door of Lucan Place. She'd thanked Inspector Boatman and taken her leave as quickly as was polite. "If there's anything you can tell the team, once an SIO is assigned," Boatman had added. "We still can't be sure at this point that it wasn't drink-driving-related manslaughter, or that she wasn't a random victim, if it was homicide. But if it should have some connection with your inquiry…"
Gemma had responded with no small irony that she would certainly be in touch.
MIT. The Metropolitan Police's Murder Investigation Teams, sometimes called Major Investigation Teams. But no matter the nomenclature, this was Kincaid's job, his territory-why not his team?
He answered on the first ring. "Hullo, love. What's up? Are you at hosp-"
"No. No, I haven't made it yet. Something's come up. The girl I met yesterday at Harrowby's, Kristin Cahill-she's been killed in a hit-and-run. Manslaughter at the least, homicide at the worst. Chelsea is calling in the Yard. I want you to request the case."
There was silence on the line. She could almost see him thinking, his brow creased in a slight frown. "Look," she said. "I know it's slightly irregular, but-"
"Slightly? Gemma, I've a personal involvement-"
"No, what you have is a bit of background information that would give you an advantage. You never met Kristin Cahill. And who else," she added, "would take what I have to say as seriously?"
"But that's just it, isn't it?" he argued. "You're too close-"
"I met this girl. I asked questions that might have got her into trouble. I want to know, one way or the other. And I want justice for her, even if her death had nothing to do with my questions about the Goldshtein brooch. She was twenty-three years old, for heaven's sake, just starting out in her life," Gemma added vehemently. "And I liked her."
She was still standing on the pavement outside Lucan Place, and a shopping-laden woman passing by gave her a curious glance. Gemma started back toward the Fulham Road, and dropped her voice. "Duncan-"
"I don't like it," Kincaid broke in. "But I'm never going to hear the end of it, otherwise, am I? And what exactly do you suggest I tell Chief Superintendent Childs?"
Although Gavin now had some idea of what had been in David Rosenthal's satchel, he was no closer to knowing why it had been taken, or what Rosenthal had been doing in Cheyne Walk.
He had been to the school in North Hampstead where David had taught. Rosenthal "kept himself to himself," his fellow teachers had said, with a wariness that made Gavin wonder what they might have said had he not been an outsider, a gentile, as well as a policeman.
He met the head last, who invited him into his office. Saul Bernstein was younger than Gavin had expected, perhaps only in his thirties, a chubby man who seemed to be compensating for his lack of years with an air of gravitas and a billowing pipe.
The day had turned unseasonably hot for May, and the small room was stuffy but nonetheless pleasant, with its odor of books and pipe tobacco. The sound of boys playing at some game drifted in through the open window.
"Did no one like David Rosenthal?" asked Gavin, when he'd taken the proffered seat on the far side of Bernstein's desk.
"Like?" Bernstein sounded slightly puzzled. "I wouldn't say that David's colleagues didn't like him. Everyone is still quite shocked, you know-David's death is not the sort of thing one expects-"
"Murder," Gavin interrupted, suddenly wanting to shake this man's complacency. "David Rosenthal was murdered. Violently. I'd say someone disliked him intensely."
"Quite." Bernstein paled a little, and set the pipe in an ashtray. "But I assure you it wasn't anyone here. As I said, it wasn't a question of David's colleagues disliking him. David was civil, considerate, uninterested in petty staff squabbles, and did his job with dedication. And that was all. I don't think I've ever met anyone who seemed less interested in the approval of his peers."
"What about the approval of his students?"
"David was a good teacher, as I've said. Very thorough, and well prepared. But I doubt he would have noticed whether or not his students liked him."
"David Rosenthal wore a tiny gold mezuzah on a chain round his neck. It was the only thing not taken when he was killed. His wife said that one of his students gave it to him."
Bernstein frowned. "We don't allow the boys to give gifts to the teachers, or vice versa. It too easily creates a climate of favoritism. And misunderstandings."
"And did David have any misunderstandings with anyone? Any arguments?"