"We know-or at least we think we know-that Harry Pevensey gave Kristin Cahill the brooch to sell. So far that's the only connection we've found between the two victims-"
"Except for Dominic Scott," put in Kincaid, frowning. "Dom Scott's relationship with Kristin may have been pretty straightforward-rich bloke meets pretty girl in bar and decides to slum it. But if we assume the bartender at the French House is reliable, Dom didn't tell us the truth about how he knew Harry Pevensey. So there's something we've missed there, but I still can't see Dominic Scott as a killer, no matter the motive. And none of this explains where Harry Pevensey got the brooch, unless he really did pick it up at an estate sale, as Khan suggested."
Cullen shrugged. "If Amir Khan is such a good actor-and I'm still not entirely convinced-maybe Dominic Scott isn't the useless twit he seems. Could he have stolen it? He does have access to homes of the rich and famous, I'd assume."
"You sound like a telly series," Kincaid said, grinning. "But you could be right. Say Dom Scott has a nasty drug habit and desperately needs money to pay off his suppliers. He realizes he has a ready-made opportunity in having a girlfriend who works for an auction house. So he steals the brooch, perhaps from some friend of the family, then recruits Harry, however they may be connected, to put the piece up for sale, because he wouldn't want his name associated with stolen goods-"
"But Kristin would have known, because he would have had to introduce her to Harry. And then when the brooch's provenance was called into question by Gemma, he tried to make sure he wouldn't be linked to the brooch, by killing them."
"Still doesn't solve the problem of the car. But, like Oliver, he could have stolen one or borrowed one." Kincaid ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit when thinking that he had never been quite able to conquer.
"And," he went on, "if we start assuming that Scott is not a complete twit and could have planned a theft and two premeditated and risky murders, we have to wonder if he really did meet Kristin by chance."
"Time to put him on the hot plate again?" asked Cullen.
"I think-" Kincaid's mobile rang, and when he saw that it was Gemma, he answered.
Before he could speak, she said, "Duncan, we need to talk."
"We're just going to have another word with Dom Scott in Cheyne Walk. Meet us there, why don't you?"
"No." Erika stared at the superintendent, who seemed to be receding to a great distance. "I don't-" Her voice came out a whisper. She tried again. "I don't believe it. He can't be dead." If she didn't believe, it wouldn't be true. "I just spoke with him. Two days ago. He said he had a-a lead. And he was going to follow-"
"Mrs. Rosenthal, he was doing his job," Superintendent Tyrell said with a great show of patience. "That doesn't mean that all was well. In confidence," he added, lowering his voice, "there were domestic…difficulties. And the war. He served, you know, and for some men, it only takes a small thing to tip the balance-"
A rush of anger filled the void within her. "I do not believe for one minute that Gavin Hoxley was the sort of man who would commit suicide." She stood so that she could look down at Tyrell. "There must be some other explanation."
Tyrell laced his fingers across his paunch and looked at her with a sudden speculation that made her feel unclean. "Mrs. Rosenthal. You do realize that if it ever were to come out that Gavin Hoxley had crossed the line with a witness, it would ruin his reputation. I'm sure you wouldn't want that. Nor would you want to cause more grief to his family. His wife and children have suffered enough as it is, don't you think?" He fixed her with pale blue eyes that made her think of the dead fish on the market stall.
It was blackmail, no matter how politely it was couched. And she was helpless against it. Gavin was lost to her. Even in death she could not touch him, could not help him.
Everything that had mattered to her was slipping away, dissolving like mist when she clutched at it. Erika made a last desperate effort. "But my husband-what about my husband's murder?"
Tyrell smiled. "Someone else will look into it, Mrs. Rosenthal. I promise you."
Gemma hailed a cab and within minutes was standing on the Embankment across from Cheyne Walk. She stared out at the river, framed between the Albert and Battersea bridges. The day was still overcast, and the water looked dull and impenetrable.
The report on Gavin Hoxley's death said his body had washed ashore farther downstream, near Chelsea Bridge. That didn't mean that was where it had gone in, however, but there would have been no way of calculating tide and current unless one knew when he had gone in.
She looked east. According to his personnel file, Hoxley had lived in Tedworth Square, near the top of the Royal Hospital Gardens. Had he, as the report inferred, simply walked down Tite Street and jumped in the river? The report said there had been no marks on his body to suggest an altercation, and that the balance of his mind may have been disturbed due to domestic problems. No postmortem had been ordered.
It seemed to Gemma a very cavalier judgment, even for a time when procedures may not have been as stringent-and if that was the case, Gavin Hoxley had been an anomaly. If his work on David Rosenthal's murder had been anything to go by, she couldn't have done a better job herself.
She watched a number 11 bus trundle down the Embankment, and suddenly felt a weird sense of displacement, as if time had rippled. Gavin Hoxley had surely stood here, watching the buses go past, admiring the delicate tracery of the Albert Bridge, puzzling over a crime he couldn't solve. In the hours spent reading his notes, she'd come to feel she knew him, and now she experienced a sharp and personal sense of loss.
Silly, Gemma told herself. Gavin Hoxley had been dead for more than fifty years. But somehow that made no difference.
And because Gavin Hoxley had died, she thought, David Rosenthal's murder investigation had been shelved. Or…had it perhaps been the other way round?
Hearing a shout, Gemma turned and saw Kincaid and Doug Cullen getting out of a car in Cheyne Walk. She waved, then walked back to the crossing and waited for the light.
When she reached them, she said, "Anything new?"
"More a lack of anything new," Kincaid answered. "We keep coming back to the fact that Dom Scott and the brooch are the only two links between the victims. We thought maybe Dom stole the brooch and used Harry to sell it so he wouldn't be connected. Then when Erika came forward he had to cover his tracks."
"So you're just stirring it?"
"Basically, yeah." He shrugged. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"
Gemma hesitated, looking up at the house. "It's complicated. I'll tell you after." She mounted the steps and pushed the bell.
The door flew open before Gemma's finger left the buzzer.
Ellen Miller-Scott stared out at them. Gone was the salon polish they had seen before. Her blond hair was disheveled, her face bare of makeup and tear-streaked. "But I just called," she said on a sob. "How did you-You've got to help me-He-I can't-"