"I can see you wouldn't want to lose out on the money, after all you've done," said Cullen.
Khan gave him an unfriendly glance. "Money would be welcome, especially now that Sophie isn't working. But so far I've not seen a penny, nor do I have any guarantee that I will. It's just that I'd like all my effort to count for something.
"It's a bloody racket," he went on, shaking his head in disgust. "Buy something from a barrow boy at a market, mark it up twenty, fifty, a hundred times, and call it a priceless antique. It's bollocks."
"You're not saying it's all worthless?" said Cullen, sounding as if he'd been told there was no Father Christmas.
"No, of course not. But you have to know what you're doing, and you should never trust an auction house-at least not ours. Kristin liked to sneer a bit at her mum's little antiques shop, but from what Kristin said, her mum is an honest trader and makes an honest living at it."
"And the Goldshtein brooch?"
"Oh, that's real enough. The hallmark and the work are unmistakable," Khan answered with a shrug. "Although I never thought to see an authentic Goldshtein that had not been cataloged. But these things do happen, even if not as often as the salesrooms and the telly auction shows would like you to think. But my guess, with a piece like that, would be that someone had it tucked away. I doubt it's been floating about unidentified on the market for years."
"And you had no previous connection with the seller, Harry Pevensey?" Kincaid asked.
"No. Although I didn't buy the story about the car boot sale-Pevensey just didn't seem the type to go digging about in car park stalls-but you can't exactly call a client a liar if you want to keep the business."
"And Kristin? Do you know what her connection was with Pevensey?"
"She didn't say, and I didn't ask, although I thought it was an unlikely liaison. Kristin was a bit of a social climber, and Pevensey was obviously not going anywhere but down, no matter what sort of profit he might have made on the brooch." Khan frowned. "You'll have talked to him, now that you have the warrant? What did he say?"
"We didn't have the chance to ask," Kincaid answered levelly. "Someone ran Harry Pevensey down last night, just like Kristin. He's dead."
"Dead?" Khan stared at them blankly, then his face hardened and he stood. "You bastards. You came here, to my home, accepting my hospitality, and all the while you meant to trick me into making some kind of admission? You think I killed that poor sod?" There was nothing icy about his rage now, and Kincaid saw him glance at the open kitchen window and make an obvious effort to lower his voice. "Have you put me in the frame for Kristin, too?"
"Mr. Khan." Kincaid stood, but more slowly. "You must realize, from what you yourself have told us, that you had a great deal to lose if Kristin Cahill reported your undercover activities to the directors of your firm. And if she had some connection with Harry Pevensey, he might have been able to compromise you as well." He lifted his jacket from the back of the lawn chair, feeling suddenly weary. He would find no enjoyment in bursting the bubble of this man's family life, and if Khan were genuine, he admired what he had set out to accomplish.
"But Kristin Cahill and Harry Pevensey died very nasty deaths," he went on, "and if what you've told us is true, you should certainly know that the job sometimes requires doing things one doesn't personally like.
"We'll need to talk to your wife, and your journalist colleague, and we'll need to check over your house and your car."
Khan met his eyes for a long moment, then nodded. "You can do whatever you like. But if I were you, I'd spend my time looking for the person who really killed Kristin Cahill. She was young and a bit shallow-like most of us at that age-and she didn't deserve what happened to her."
If Gavin had stopped to wonder why he hadn't rung first, he would have had to admit that he was afraid she would turn him away. He had walked from the empty flat in Tedworth Square, up Sydney Street and Onslow Street, then through Knightsbridge and across the park by the Broad Walk. He was sweating and his feet ached, but he hadn't been able to bear the thought of the tube or a bus in this heat. And choosing a destination, rather than letting his body do it for him, was, again, more of an admission than he was willing to make.
He had walked a beat as a constable, and the rhythm of his stride seemed somehow to connect him with that phantom Gavin who had walked the bombed-out streets after the war and seen potential in the destruction. When had he lost that gift?
When he reached Notting Hill Gate, he wavered, and at the last moment delayed again, taking the fork into Pembridge Road and turning down Portobello. He loved walking down the twisty hill as evening came on. The shops were closed, the street quiet, and the colors of the buildings always seemed most intense when the light was fading. It made him think of villages he had seen in France during the war, as if a small piece of a foreign country had been set down in the midst of staid London like the wrong piece in a puzzle.
But when he reached Westbourne Grove he turned left, without more debate, and from the open windows of the flats above the shops came the sound of voices in languages he didn't recognize, and the odors of strange foods cooking.
The assault of the unfamiliar on his senses seemed to galvanize him, and a wave of giddy recklessness carried him into Kensington Park Road and round the corner into Arundel Gardens. Finding the address, he rang Erika Rosenthal's bell with an only slightly trembling heart.
But Erika answered the door as naturally as if she had been expecting him. "Inspector. Please come in."
He shivered slightly as he followed her into the flat-the air had cooled suddenly as the darkness came on. But she saw it and said, "Here. Please sit down. I think there might be some sherry, if you'd like."
Taking the chair she had indicated, he looked round the lamp-lit room, exhaling in relief as a dread he only now acknowledged eased away. This room, this flat, felt as if it were Erika's alone, and he sensed no hovering shade of David Rosenthal.
An open book and an empty teacup sat on a table beside the other chair, and beside it, a basket of sewing. A worn rug that had once been of good quality covered most of the bare floorboards, glass-fronted cases on either side of the fireplace held books, and the mantel top held a collection of colorful and eccentrically carved wooden animals. He knew instinctively that they were Erika's.
"From Bavaria," she said, having come back into the room and seen his gaze. "My mother brought them to me when I was a child. One of the few things I managed to save when I went back to Berlin after the war, as they weren't considered of any value by the Nazis or the looters."
"And that?" he asked, nodding at the small grand piano that took up most of the remainder of the sitting room.
Erika handed him a small crystal glass, and as he took it he felt ham-fisted, clumsy. But the sherry was dry and gold and, when he sipped it, tasted like distilled sunlight.
"The piano?" She sat in the chair beside the open book, crossing her ankles beneath the bell made by the skirt of her pale blue shirtwaist dress. "I worked the neighborhood watch during the war. When a house was bombed, we tried to find relatives to take any undamaged possessions. Sometimes the owners had been killed, or sometimes families had left London and we had no way to contact them. The piano was the only thing left standing in a house on Ladbroke Road. No one wanted it, and so some of the men made a sort of pallet with wheels and rolled it here for me.