"No." Bernstein hesitated, then shrugged. "Not here, at least. But there was something. The Jewish community has dispersed somewhat since the war, but it is still fairly close knit. There is a network of sorts, so that one picks up information-not necessarily true, of course-about people that one doesn't know personally."
Gavin waited, and after a moment, Bernstein went on. "I don't like to tell tales, Inspector. But I saw David once, in the East End, talking to a man who is reputed to be involved with a…vengeance group." He pinched his lips together as if the words themselves were distasteful.
"Vengeance?"
Bernstein settled himself more solidly in his chair. "It's my opinion that we must move forward, put the past behind us. But there are those who…feel differently. Those who believe that not all who committed atrocities against the Jews during the war received justice. This man…he was pointed out to me once, as someone who espoused those…philosophies."
Tired of the circumlocution, Gavin said, "What was the man's name?"
"I don't know. I only recognized his face."
"And did you ever ask David about this man, or this meeting?"
"No." Bernstein looked uncomfortable. "He didn't see me, and I thought it best…left alone." He didn't meet Gavin's eyes. "There was something about him that repelled any attempt at confidence…You may think this fanciful, Inspector, but a bitterness hung about David Rosenthal…It made me think of the odor of charred ashes."
Kincaid had always found the truth to be the most effective measure in dealing with Chief Superintendent Denis Childs. After a brief wait in the anteroom, during which he chatted with Childs's secretary, he was called into the inner sanctum.
He found his boss looking less sanguine than usual. His doctor had put him on a fitness and slimming regime, and while Childs might have dropped a few pounds, it had not improved his temper. It seemed to Kincaid that Childs was simply one of those men who were meant to be fat. It suited his personality, and attempting to change his essential physiology was more than likely an exercise in futility.
Still, he asked, "How are you, sir?" as Childs invited him to sit, and got a grimace and a mutter in reply.
"A treadmill," Childs said. "They have me walking on a treadmill! As if one doesn't walk enough in London."
Kincaid hid a grin. "You look well."
"Ha." Childs glared at him. "I'll have to get a new wardrobe soon, and I hate shopping. But"-he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in his familiar pose-"you didn't come to see me to discuss my suits."
"No. There's been a suspicious death in Chelsea, and Lucan Place is going to be calling for a team. I'd like to take it."
Childs raised a brow. "Have you acquired telepathy, then?"
"No, sir," Kincaid said. "Although there are days when it might prove helpful."
He proceeded to explain how Gemma had met Kristin Cahill, had thought something seemed a little dodgy, and how Kristin had subsequently died.
"I take it Gemma wants you on the case?"
"Yes. But I have to admit I'm curious, too. Gemma's instincts are seldom wrong, and if this has to do with the auction house, we could be looking at something big."
"And what about Gemma? I can't see her being content to take a backseat, and I don't imagine Mark Lamb would be too happy to have her haring off after a Homicide division inquiry."
"As it happens, Gemma's taking a bit of personal time at the moment. Her mum's ill."
"Sorry to hear that," said Childs, but there was an unmistakable glint of humor in his eyes. "Ring Lucan Place, then, and get the record transfer started. And keep me informed."
Doug Cullen was less than pleased to be assigned a case on some whim of Gemma James's. Although he'd worked with Kincaid long enough now to have got over the first rash of professional jealousy, and he'd come to know Gemma well enough to like her personally, he didn't fancy being dictated to by his guv'nor's former sergeant, much less his girlfriend.
He was skeptical about the investigation's validity, as well. That was a notoriously bad stretch of road-there had been a fatality there just recently, when some idiot in a fast car had blown through World's End at three in the morning and wrapped himself round a light pole. Odds were that this girl had stepped out in front of someone equally careless-wrong place, wrong time.
But as the material began to come through from Chelsea, his certainty wavered. It had been fairly early, for one thing, not long after pub closing time, and before the staggeringly pissed emptied out of the nightclubs. And although a lack of braking wouldn't have convinced him, the preliminary accident investigation reports showed clear signs that the car had accelerated away from the curb west of Edith Grove and into the intersection.
And then there was the photo of the girl herself, a copy of a recent snapshot contributed by her parents. Kristin Cahill had been undeniably pretty, but it was more than that. There was a slightly wistful appeal in her eyes, and in the little half smile she had thrown at the camera. Finding himself wishing that he had met her, Doug began to see why Gemma might have got her knickers in a twist over the girl's death.
Still, when he and Kincaid arrived at Harrowby's an hour later to begin questioning the staff, he wasn't best pleased to find Gemma James waiting on the pavement.
"I thought I might be able to help," said Gemma, taking in Cullen's glare and the slight twitch of Kincaid's lips.
"And I thought you were going to hospital," Kincaid replied.
Gemma tamped down a twinge of guilt. "Cyn rang. She said they've taken Mum down for more tests, so there was nothing I could do until later. And since I'd met some of the staff here…" Seeing Cullen's blank look, she realized Kincaid hadn't told him about her mother. "My mum's in St. Barts," she explained to Cullen. "Having some tests."
"Oh, sorry."
Unwilling to say more, Gemma nodded her thanks and let Kincaid lead the way towards the salesroom door.
Kincaid was, after all, the senior investigating officer, and while she might tag along, she had better not charge into things like Boadicea come to conquer. What she'd have done if another team had shown up, she didn't like to think.
"I'm glad you took the case," she murmured to him.
"You were persuasive." He paused, studying her. "And as long as you're here, it might not be a bad idea for you to introduce us. Up the ante a bit if they think that something they said to you, or that Kristin said to you, brought you back."
Harrowby's seemed eerily quiet, the auctioneer's podium empty, the large television dark, the rows of chairs that had held yesterday's bidders unfilled. And gone was the composed Mrs. March who had greeted them at reception the previous day. Although neatly dressed in what appeared to be a cashmere twinset, her nose was red, her makeup smudged, and she held a ragged wad of tissues in her hand.
For a moment she looked blankly at Gemma, then recognition dawned. "You didn't say you were with the police. Yesterday." Mrs. March gave a slow, baffled shake of her head. "She's dead. Kristin's dead."
"It was a personal visit yesterday, Mrs. March," said Gemma gently, glancing at Kincaid, who seemed content to stay in the background. "But yes, we know Kristin's dead. That's why we're here. Can you tell me a bit about what happened?"