If Hoxley's perceptions had been accurate, David Rosenthal had been an enigma, a withdrawn and reclusive man who shared little of his thoughts and feelings with his colleagues and acquaintances. Had he, Gemma wondered, shared anything with his wife?
And had he, as Hoxley had begun to suspect, been involved in some way with Jewish vengeance? Gemma could not imagine that Erika would have countenanced such behavior under any circumstances. Was that why she had never spoken about her husband or his murder?
There had been things moving in the shadows, of that she felt sure. Hoxley had merely hinted at the blocking of inquiries, but she was used to official jargon and could read between the lines.
Then, just when she had begun to think that Hoxley was making progress, the notes had stopped. She'd searched the file pages once, then again, then a third time. There was simply nothing else. David Rosenthal's murder had not been solved, nor had the case been declared officially cold. Had Rosenthal's murder been shelved because he was Jewish and therefore the crime had been considered insignificant? Or had it been just the opposite? Either implication made her equally uneasy.
She would like to have asked Kerry Boatman to trace records, and to pull Gavin Hoxley's personnel file for her, but Boatman was gone for the day, and there was no one on evening rota at the station with access to the information she wanted.
Having reached the South Ken underground station, Gemma hesitated, torn between going in one direction for Notting Hill and the other for St. Paul's.
There was, of course, the one obvious source of information about David Rosenthal's death-Erika. But she felt unsure of herself now, as if the sands of their relationship had shifted, and she wanted to know more before she asked questions that could be more painful than she had imagined.
And besides, if she didn't get to hospital, she'd have missed official visiting hours again, and would have hell to pay with the charge nurse.
St. Paul's it was, then, and a visit to her mum in St. Barts. But as she edged herself into the mass of people descending the stairs to the South Ken platform, she pulled out her mobile and rang Melody Talbot.
The brooch was beautiful, Kincaid had to admit. Giles Oliver had taken it from the small safe and placed it on a black velvet board with such care that it might have been made of eggshells rather than the hardest substance on earth.
Kincaid had admired the design and the artistry of the piece-it had undoubtedly been made by a master craftsman-and the diamonds were quite literally brilliant. Real diamonds of that size, and displayed in such a way, were unlikely to be mistaken for their cheap imitations.
But in spite of its beauty, the Goldshtein brooch left him cold. Diamonds did not fascinate him-in his mind they carried the reek of corporate corruption and of the spilled blood of innocents-but most of all, he did not understand the desire for possession.
Cullen, apparently, was no more taken than he, having merely glanced at the piece, murmured something appreciative, then fidgeted, ready to get onto the scent.
"Thanks very much," Kincaid had told Giles Oliver, and was amused to see that Oliver seemed disappointed by their lack of reaction.
But as they passed back through the salesroom, stopping to retrieve Amir Khan's personal information from a grudging Mrs. March, Kincaid had seen that all the seats in the auction were still full and that the clerks handling the phone and online bids were busy as well. There were many people, obviously, who did not share his sentiments.
As they reached the doors, Kincaid stood aside for a dapper elderly man who was leaving as well.
"Any success?" Kincaid asked.
"Oh, I only come to look," the man answered in an accent that still bore a trace of French. Smiling, he added, "But that is enough." He lifted his catalog to them in salute, and Kincaid felt suddenly a bit more optimistic about the motivation of his fellow man.
Amir Khan lived in a terraced house on the Clapham side of Wands-worth Common. It was, Kincaid knew, pricey enough real estate, as was anything near central London, but it was not what he had expected. This was suburban London, an area where the Victorian red-brown brick terraces had back gardens and were mostly occupied by families, while he had imagined the debonair Khan in a Thames-side loft conversion with a panoramic view.
It was late enough in the afternoon that cars lined both sides of the street, and they had to circle round several times before Cullen managed to maneuver the car into a space in the ASDA car park at the top of the hill. They walked back, listening to the sounds of televisions and children's voices drifting from the occasional open window. But most of these families, Kincaid thought, would be like his own, with children in after-school care and both parents working.
Khan's house was midterrace, and undistinguished except for the ornate black-and-white-tiled path that led through neatly trimmed privet hedges to the front door. There was only the one bell, which meant that Khan owned the entire house, not a flat, and that piqued Kincaid's curiosity.
Amir Khan answered the door himself. He still wore suit trousers, but his collar was open and his shirtsleeves rolled up. His perfectly barbered dark hair was tousled, and in one arm he held a chubby, red-faced infant. "What took you so long?" he said.
There was such a thing as being too dependable, thought Melody, when the first thing your boss said on finding you at the office after five o'clock was "Oh, I knew you'd still be there."
She was, of course, finishing up paperwork that Gemma would normally have been doing herself, and she felt the tiniest twinge of resentment. Not that Gemma could help her mother being ill, but Melody felt unsettled and would like to have been out doing something other than tackling Gemma's latest request, which meant ringing up newspaper morgues trying to track down copies of every paper printed on the day David Rosenthal had died in May 1952.
She sighed as she pulled out her phone list. As much as she liked working with Gemma, maybe she should put in a request for a transfer to an MIT-a Murder Investigation Team at Scotland Yard. As much as she hated to admit it, she was beginning to envy Doug Cullen his job.
For a moment, Melody let the idea take hold, then shook her head. If this job was risky, that one would be akin to running blindfolded into oncoming traffic. It was definitely out of bounds, and if she knew what was good for her, she wouldn't kick at the traces.
"I take it you were expecting us?" Kincaid asked as Khan motioned them inside.
"I'd have been an idiot not to. And I couldn't talk at work, although my taking the afternoon off will probably fuel the gossip mill for a month." Khan's Oxbridge accent had softened round the edges, and his tone lacked the animosity Kincaid had heard when they'd met in the salesroom. Khan's expression was still tense, however. "Let's not stand about having a convention on the doorstep." Shifting the baby on his hip, he called up the stairs, "Soph!"
There was the sound of quick footsteps, and a woman came round the landing carrying another child, this one a sleepy-eyed toddler with her thumb in her mouth. "Just now changed," she said, and gave them a cheerful smile.
She was fair-skinned, with a pleasant face and a mass of brown hair that curled in corkscrews. "Hullo. I'm Sophie. And this," she said, jiggling the child on her hip, who promptly hid her face against her mother's breast, "is Isabella, and that," she said, nodding at the baby, "is Adrianna, as Ka probably hasn't bothered to tell you. You must be the police."