"You called the police?"
"Dropped my mobile in the gutter, in God knows what. Couldn't punch the fricking keys." He dropped his hands and looked up at Kincaid. "I couldn't watch. When they put him in the bag. I thought that was only on the telly."
Kincaid glanced at Cullen, saw that he was listening alertly. It was do-or-die time. "Andy, did Harry ever say anything to you about antiques?"
"Antiques? You mean like this stuff?" Andy gestured at the furnishings.
"No. Like jewelry. Did he say anything to you about an antique brooch?"
Andy looked from Kincaid to Cullen. "What the fuck is a brooch?"
Kincaid had to suppress a smile. "A pin. This one was diamond. Art Deco. Made in Germany just before the war."
"Where the hell would Harry get something like that?" said Andy, his voice rising in incredulity.
"That's what we were wondering. Have-"
"Wait a minute." Wariness returned to Andy Monahan's face. "You said you were cops, right? But you're in plainclothes. You're detectives, aren't you? Why are you asking about a traffic accident?"
The accident investigators had given Kincaid an initial confirmation on his guess that the car had pulled out from the bay at the jog in the street. It looked from the tire marks, the officer in charge had added, as if the car had gone up on the curb in order to hit Harry Pevensey before he reached his door. "Because," Kincaid said, "we think someone deliberately ran Harry down, and we want you to help us find out who did it."
"You're saying someone wanted to kill Harry?" Andy's face hardened, and he suddenly looked his age. "You couldn't find a more harmless sod than Harry. Vain, maybe, but there was no meanness in it. What do you want to know?"
"If Harry didn't say anything to you about the brooch, did anything else happen lately that was unusual?"
"Harry didn't exactly lead the most exciting life. He was usually resting, as he liked to call it, but the last few weeks he'd had a part in a play. Some community theater. He said it was a load of pretentious bollocks, but he got a check. I can't-Wait." Andy frowned. "Yesterday morning. We both liked a lie-in, Harry and me, because we work late. But yesterday morning some git comes pounding on Harry's door. I got up and looked out-thought the fucking building was on fire. But Harry got up and let him in, and a few minutes later I heard them shouting, then the door slammed.
"I've seen him round once or twice before, this bloke. Not Harry's usual-he goes for blond actress wannabes, for the most part, with fake tits." Andy shrugged. "What they see in him, I don't know."
"Did you hear what they were arguing about, Harry and the bloke who came yesterday?" asked Cullen.
"No. Sorry."
"What did he look like, then, this bloke?"
"Young. Dark hair, dark eyes. The kind of looks that girls start heavy breathing over. And dripping with it." When Kincaid raised an eyebrow, Andy elaborated. "Money. Clothes. Shoes. Haircut. Probably fucking manicure to boot. But-" He stopped, eyeing them with caution.
"But what?" Kincaid asked.
"Look. I'm in a band. I know shit when I see it, and this guy was into something, big-time."
"Drugs?" asked Cullen.
Andy gave him a quelling look. "No. Sweeties. What do you think?"
"Any idea what Harry's connection with him was?" put in Kincaid.
"No. I didn't ask. Harry didn't tell. We didn't talk about personal stuff, Harry and me."
"Andy." Cullen was quivering like a bloodhound. With studied casualness he pulled a photo from his inside pocket and handed it across. "Have you ever seen this man?"
Andy Monahan gazed at the photo, then looked from Cullen to Kincaid, as wide-eyed as if they'd just pulled a rabbit from a hat. "Bloody hell," he said. "That's the pretty boy. Who is he, then?"
"His name," Cullen said, glancing at Kincaid with ill-concealed satisfaction, "is Dominic Scott."
CHAPTER 14
But [Tim] Llewellyn's main point, to which he returned several times, was that Sotheby's was not a police force. "We have a right to protect the anonymity of our clients. We avoid breaking the laws in the countries where we operate. Our clients seek anonymity for a variety of reasons, but it is not our job to police our clients."
– Peter Watson, Sotheby's: Inside Story
Gemma's first impulse, when she had dropped the boys at their respective schools, was to confront Erika about her husband's murder.
But then, Gemma considered a little more calmly, maybe Erika had not thought it relevant, and perhaps David Rosenthal's death had no connection at all with Kristin Cahill's.
But Gemma wouldn't know until she had the facts, and so decided she should start with the case itself, and talk to Erika when she knew enough to ask useful questions.
Kit had said that David Rosenthal had been murdered in a garden near the Albert Bridge. It would have been Chelsea's patch, then. So for the second time that week, Gemma found herself heading for Lucan Place, and an interview with Detective Inspector Kerry Boatman.
"Dominic Scott knew Harry Pevensey and Kristin Cahill. And it was Kristin who took the brooch in for sale," Cullen said as they got back into the car, sounding exultant. "And he had rows with both of them on the days they were murdered. That puts him square in the frame, alibi or no alibi, if you ask me."
Kincaid didn't like it when things seemed too pat, nor could he dismiss alibis so easily. And it didn't tell them where Harry had got the brooch, or why Amir Khan had had a row with Kristin, or why he had been so reluctant at first to cooperate with the police.
"Let's talk to Dom Scott again before we start jumping to conclusions. Does he have a job, do you think, or will we find him at home?"
"Melody said something about him being on the board of his grandfather's company," Cullen said a bit grudgingly.
"Having met him, I can't quite see him turning up for work on the dot every day in some City office. And Andy Monahan said he was sure Dom Scott was using drugs. That fits in with what the barmaid told you about his dodgy friends, but how does that fit in with Harry Pevensey, who liked his gin? And what on earth brought the two of them together?"
Kristin Cahill, and now Harry Pevensey, dead on his watch, two people perhaps not blameless, but certainly not deserving of ruthless and brutal murder. He would find out who had done this, but not by jumping the gun. When he got there, he would make sure it would stick.
Dominic Scott answered the door. This morning, however, he wore a slightly less ratty version of jeans and T-shirt than Andy Monahan, and looked infinitely more exhausted. He stared at them, recognition of Kincaid only slowly dawning in his eyes.
"You came about Kristin," he said. "Is there-have you-"
"No, we haven't any news about Kristin. We wanted to talk to you about something else. Can we come in?" Kincaid sensed Cullen's impatience, but he didn't want a repeat of yesterday's rather bizarre fainting spell, and he meant to take on Dom Scott at his own pace.
"Oh, right." Dom Scott held the door for them, then hesitated in the hall. "We can talk upstairs," he said, with a grimace at his mother's living room. "Not exactly my idea of comfort, the barrage of great art in the arctic space." He turned instead towards the stairs, and they followed, Kincaid looking round with interest.
In the stairwell, Ellen Scott-Miller had abandoned the snowy expanse and gone for a dark, cool green, against which small landscape oils glowed like little jewels.