Gavin turned his attention to the man working in the next cubicle, his dark head bent over a rat's nest of papers illuminated by his green-shaded lamp.
"Excuse me," said Gavin, stepping nearer. The man pulled his attention from his work with obvious reluctance, then his gaze sharpened as he looked Gavin over. He was younger than Gavin had realized. With his curly dark hair and rather delicate, pointed face, he made Gavin think of a faun.
"Can I help you?" he asked in perfect, unaccented English, and Gavin realized he had unconsciously assumed the man was foreign.
Introducing himself, Gavin asked, "I was wondering if you knew David Rosenthal? Do you work often in this particular cubicle?"
"Abraham Krumholtz." The man half stood and shook Gavin's hand. "Yes, I knew David. At least as well as anyone could say they knew David, I suspect." Krumholtz kept his voice just above a whisper, so as not to disturb the other readers.
Gavin pulled up the empty chair and sat near enough that the pool of light from Krumholtz's lamp spilled onto his knees.
Krumholtz, however, seemed not to mind the invasion of his space, and went on quietly. "A constable came round yesterday, asking about his things. That was the first we knew. I still can't quite believe he's gone. I've worked beside him, on and off, since the end of the war. I'm a Yiddish scholar," he added, seeing Gavin's curious look at his papers. "That's what comes of being a second-generation immigrant-I'm fascinated by things my parents and grandparents took for granted."
"And David," asked Gavin, "what was David working on?"
"A memoir of his last years in Germany, and I think perhaps his escape from Germany as well. He never actually said, you understand. This I deduced over the years from bits of conversation."
"He never showed you the manuscript?"
"Oh, no. David was very…possessive…about his work."
"Do you think that David might have been naming names in his book? Some of his colleagues at work believed he had connections with some sort of vengeance organization."
It was difficult to be certain in the green-tinged light, but Gavin thought Krumholtz paled. "Look, I'm not political," he said, sounding wary. "I stay well out of these things. But David did hint, more than once, that there were many Germans who were guilty but were never implicated as collaborators. But he couldn't have intended to publish such things…"
"Why not? Surely if that were the case, the truth should be told."
Krumholtz leaned forward until their heads almost touched, and Gavin smelled peppermint on his breath. "Our government would never allow it, for one. No one wants to disturb the status quo with Germany." For the first time his voice held a bitter note. "Nor do they want anything to call into question the Home Office's record of rescuing Jews. Things are touchy enough these days with Palestine."
Gavin considered this and didn't like the implications. "Last Saturday, did David say or do anything unusual?"
Krumholtz started to shake his head, then stopped, putting a finger to the tip of his nose. "Now that you mention it, there was one thing. David had a newspaper with him, as he usually did. But as we were both tidying up, at closing time, I heard a ripping sound. When I looked over, I saw that David had torn out part of a page. When he saw me, he folded the fragment and put it into his satchel, along with the rest of the paper."
"And you didn't ask him what it was?"
"Of course not." Krumholtz smiled. "You didn't know David. One didn't ask questions. And besides, there was something a bit furtive about it. I said good night and left."
"And you didn't notice which paper he had that day?"
"No. Sorry." Krumholtz glanced back at his desk, as if his attention had been drawn too long from his work. "And there was no real pattern to what he bought-David read them all, highbrow and low."
"Thank you." Gavin stood. "If you think of anything else…" He handed a card with the station phone number to Krumholtz, who set it among his papers with a casual disregard that didn't augur well for further communication.
But as Gavin turned to go, Krumholtz stopped him, his brow creased in an expression of concern. "Look," he said, dropping his voice all the way to a whisper. "These people you mentioned. I'd leave it alone. Rumor has it that the government looks the other way. You could get into real trouble."
The address Melody had given them was in Cheyne Walk, and made Kincaid give a low whistle. "At least it's convenient," he said, "although I'd say little Kristin was out of her element."
"Not far as the crow flies, though," mused Gemma. "I wonder how she met Dominic Scott." As they curved round into Cheyne Walk, Gemma gazed out at the houseboats moored beyond Cremorne Gardens. The boats made her think of the garage flat, tiny as one of these floating homes, that she had once occupied behind her friend Hazel Cavendish's house. She felt saddened by how quickly parts of life that had seemed terribly important faded from memory, pushed out like falling dominoes by new experience. "There's not room for it all," she said aloud, and Kincaid gave her a quizzical look but went back to address hunting.
They had almost reached the Chelsea Embankment when he said, "There," and pulled the car up on the double yellows. He popped a POLICE notice in the windscreen and they got out, surveying Dominic Scott's house. It was redbricked and gabled, almost Dutch in feel, four stories with basement, and with its own small front garden surrounded by a delicate wrought-iron railing.
"I take it," Kincaid said with great understatement, "that he lives with his mum."
Gemma realized that Melody hadn't said anything about Dominic Scott's father. "Nice," she agreed, sudden nerves making her sarcastic. "Upstairs, downstairs. Maybe we should consider the servants' entrance."
He grinned back at her as he opened the gate smartly and strode to the topiary-flanked door. "Not on your bloody life."
But the woman who answered on the first ring of the bell was no starched, uniformed maid. Small enough to make Gemma feel awkward, slender, and blond, she wore jeans Gemma recognized as expensive designer label and a silky pale blue sweater. If the color of her chin-length hair owed more to art than nature, it was expensively done, and her skin was flawless. A slightly prominent nose saved her from banal prettiness, but still, the overall effect was stunning, and Gemma suspected Kincaid must be gaping.
"Can I help you?" the woman asked, gazing at them with a slightly bemused smile.
"Mrs. Miller-Scott?" asked Gemma, wishing she dared dig Kincaid in the ribs. "I'm Inspector James, and this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard."
"Please, I prefer Ms., irritating as it is. I haven't been anyone's Mrs. for a good many years. And knowing who you are doesn't tell me what you want." She was still polite, but there was a slight edge to her voice.
"It's actually your son we'd like a word with, Ms. Miller-Scott." Kincaid had apparently recovered his powers of speech. "Dominic. He does live at this address?"