This time a definite flash of emotion disturbed the woman's composed face, but Gemma couldn't be sure if it had been worry or annoyance. "Yes, Dom has an apartment here. But he's not in right now, although I expect he'll be back soon. Is he in some sort of trouble?"
"We'd just like to have a chat with him," Kincaid said easily. "Could we come in and wait?"
Ellen Miller-Scott shrugged, and this time the annoyance was unmistakable. "Please yourself." As she led them into the house, it was Gemma's turn to gape.
The exterior of the house had led her to expect the traditional, a chocolate box of color and gilt. But while the floors of the entry hall and sitting room were a dark glossy wood, the walls were a crisp white, a backdrop for the paintings that filled much of the space, gallery style. Gemma thought she recognized a Hockney, and a Lowry, but there were too many to take in, and all were stunning.
Splashes of colorful contemporary rugs anchored sleek leather furniture, tables held flower arrangements that must have cost a month of Gemma's wages-probably done by the florist responsible for Kristin's roses, which now seemed paltry in comparison-and in what seemed a perfect, if rather eccentric, counterpoint, a huge crystal chandelier hung from the Adam rose in the center of the ceiling.
"It was my father's." Miller-Scott had followed Gemma's gaze. She sounded amused. "A bit incongruous, I admit, but I like it. Do sit."
Gemma managed a strangled "Lovely," and sank as gracefully as she could manage onto the sofa near the marble fireplace. On the backs of her bare calves the leather felt as sensuous as skin.
Not looking the least bit gobsmacked, Kincaid sat down beside her, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and smiled at their hostess. "You have quite a collection, Ms. Miller-Scott."
She perched on the arm of the opposite sofa, a position that indicated limited tolerance of their presence, and did not offer them refreshment. "My father had a knack for knowing what would become valuable-a trait that is apparently not inheritable, if my son is any indication. Now, what is Dominic supposed to have done? I don't suppose you send out superintendents for parking tickets."
In spite of the bored voice, there was something in the line of the woman's body, in the angle of her head, in the way her manicured fingers grasped her crossed knee a little too tightly, that made Gemma think she was more worried about her son than she admitted.
"We don't know that your son has done anything," Kincaid answered, with careful emphasis. "It's merely a matter of help-"
The front door slammed. Gemma saw the ripple of shock in Ellen Miller-Scott's body, the instinct to rise quickly controlled. Instead, she called out, "Dom! In here."
Dominic Scott's voice preceded him into the room. "Mum, I'm really not in the mood for a family discussion at the mo-" He stopped on the threshold, frozen, as he took in the tableau.
Unlike his mother, he was dark, and he was older than Gemma had imagined, nearer thirty than twenty. His hair was slightly too long, and brushed carelessly away from his face. He wore a suit that had not come from Marks and Sparks, with a white dress shirt open at the neck. And in spite of the pallor of his skin and the dark circles under his eyes, he had grace, and that indefinable combination of features that makes for striking physical beauty, male or female.
Gemma felt an instant's stab of pity for Kristin Cahill, who must have been as vulnerable as a moth flying too near a candle, and for poor Giles Oliver, who had had as much chance as a pug set against a greyhound.
Then Kincaid stood and, before Dominic's mother could get in an explanation, said, "Hullo, Dominic. My name's Duncan Kincaid, and this is Gemma James. We're from the Metropolitan Police, and we'd like to talk to you about Kristin Cahill."
"What?" Dom Scott looked from one to the other, and Gemma wondered if she had imagined the flicker of relief. What had he been expecting? "Look, I know she's a bit pissed off with me at the moment, but this is beyond funny." He came a few steps into the room, but stayed an uncommitted halfway between the sitting area and the door.
Oh, Christ, thought Gemma. If it was an act, he was very cool. But if not…"Dominic," she said quietly, "tell us when you saw Kristin last."
"Monday. Monday night. Look, what's this about? She's not returning my calls."
Kristin's phone had been found in her jeans pocket, crushed beyond recovery.
Kincaid took up Gemma's lead. "Tell us what happened on Monday night, Dominic. Where did you see Kristin?"
Ellen Miller-Scott glanced from Kincaid to Gemma, and the knuckles of the hand on her knee whitened. Dom took another hesitant half step forward, then ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "At the Gate. It was only a row. I can't believe she's complained about it. She was still on at me about Saturday night."
"What happened on Saturday?" Kincaid asked, as relaxed as if they were discussing what they'd had for tea.
Dom shifted and rubbed at his nose. "I-I stood her up. I was supposed to meet her at this club, and I-I never got there."
"And that's why you sent her the roses at work on Monday?" said Gemma.
"What? How do you-The roses were to say, 'Sorry.'" He glanced at his mother, as if gauging her reaction, then went on. "And she-Kristin-agreed to come out that night, but she was still being a bit of a cow about the whole business, if you want the truth. If she's gone and done something stupid-"
He stopped, perhaps reading something in their faces. "What aren't you telling me?" he said, his voice rising.
"And that's the last you saw of her? At the Gate?"
"I've just said-"
"You didn't see her home?"
"See her home? No. She left me sitting in the Gate like a stupid git, and I thought if she was going to be bloody minded, she could-" He stopped, and Gemma saw his chest rise with a sharp, frightened intake of breath as he seemed to realize something was very, very wrong.
Gemma rose, and out of the corner of her eye saw Kincaid give her a slight nod. She said, "Dominic, someone ran Kristin down on Monday night, in the King's Road. She's dead."
Dominic Scott stared at them, his dark eyes dilating to black. He lifted a hand, as if reaching for an invisible support, then crumpled to the floor as if someone had removed the bones from his body.
CHAPTER 12
December 1940
Monday, 9th
Last night was very bad indeed. Began soon after 5:30 pm… I had to run from my place to the Sanctuary as the barrage was working up. It never ceased until 2:30 am. Many bombs came down…some in our district. On enquiry today I find it was around the Sion Convent, Chepstow Villas and Dawson Place…people buried.
– Vere Hodgson, Few Eggs and No Oranges: The Diaries of Vere Hodgson, 1940-1945
"First time I've ever had a bloke faint on me," Gemma said, her mobile connection sounding a bit scratchy in Melody's ear.
"Was he faking it, do you think?" Melody asked. She was still in Gemma's office, where she had been combing Internet and newspaper files for more information on Dominic Scott.
"No, I don't think so. He was really out for a couple of minutes, eyes rolled up in his head. Then he was disoriented when he came round. But I still wouldn't rule him out as a suspect. It might have been pure fright at the idea that we thought he was connected, or who knows, maybe he smacked her with the car and then convinced himself she wasn't hurt. I've seen stranger things."
Melody flipped through her notes. "That's a bit complicated, boss, as he's another one that doesn't drive, and has no car. He had his license revoked for drink driving, and the records show the Mercedes registered in his name was sold. Did you get anything else out of him when he came round?"