Shortly after Kincaid's return to Scotland Yard, Cullen appeared in his office.
"I found the case- or cases, I should say, as they were tried separately," he reported. "Neil and Nina Byatt. Both were convicted of selling heroin, which had apparently been smuggled into the country in art objects that were shipped to Karl Arrowood, their employer."
"And Arrowood was never charged?"
"According to the report, the investigating officers found no proof of his involvement."
Kincaid frowned. "I smell a deal, Sergeant, and a nasty one. No wonder Marianne Hoffman felt responsible for what happened to her two friends, but I doubt she had much influence over Karl. Were you able to locate the Byatts' son?"
"I rang a friend at Somerset House, who was able to turn up the record for me. Neil Wayne Byatt and Nina Judith Mitchell Byatt had a son in 1961. They named him Evan Marcus Byatt."
"I wonder what happened to the boy when his parents died?"
"He was legally adopted by his maternal grandparents."
"Good God, you're amazing, Cullen."
"It's all in knowing what to access."
"Mitchell?" Kincaid mused. "I wonder if he took his grandparents' name… He'd be near forty now, wouldn't he? And hasn't Gemma mentioned someone named Mitchell?"
He reached for the phone, unable to quell a sudden uneasiness.
Although the lights were out in the dining area of the soup kitchen, Gemma heard a murmur of voices from the back. "Anyone at home?" she called out.
"In here," Marc answered, and as she reached the kitchen she saw that it was Bryony with him. He stood at the long, stainless steel worktable, preparing the ingredients for what looked like a chicken soup or stew. Bryony sat on a stool nearby, tearing herbs into a bowl.
"Bryony! I thought I might find you here," Gemma improvised, seeing how she might proceed.
"Is it Geordie? He's not worse, is he?" Bryony slid from her stool, but Gemma hurriedly waved her back.
"No, no, he's fine. I just wanted to ask you something. Hullo, Marc," she added, and he nodded at her without breaking the rhythm of his work, dismembering chicken carcasses with swift precision. Turning back to Bryony, Gemma said, "It's about your keys. Do you remember misplacing them, even briefly, before the theft in the surgery?"
"No…" Bryony frowned, her hand poised over the bowl, and Gemma caught the strong scents of thyme and rosemary. "It's odd, though, now you mention it. When I was searching for my keys this morning, I discovered my spare set was missing from my kitchen drawer. I can't imagine what could have happened to them."
Who had had access to Bryony's kitchen, other than Marc? Gemma felt her pulse quicken- perhaps her suspicions had not been so far-fetched, after all. "Have you any idea how long the keys have been missing?" she asked Bryony.
"Absolutely none. I haven't used them in ages, and it's not the sort of thing you think to check on a regular basis, is it?"
"No," Gemma agreed, glancing at Marc, who still seemed to be concentrating on his chopping. "Is that a New Year's Day feast you're preparing?" she asked, with studied casualness. "For your clients?"
He looked up at her and she thought she saw a flicker of wariness in his eyes- or had it been amusement? "It is. Not that many of them have much to celebrate, other than having endured another twelve months. Unlike some, who don't know the meaning of lack." There was a bite to his voice she hadn't heard before.
"What about you, though? Surely you must take some time for yourself? I know you fed the homeless on Christmas Day- did you at least treat yourself on Christmas Eve?"
Bryony looked from Gemma to Marc with a puzzled frown- perhaps she had wondered how Marc had spent Christmas Eve, as well. The blue light from the fluorescent fixtures bleached the red from her auburn hair and gave a faint gray cast to her skin.
"And I was beginning to feel a bit neglected," said Marc. "I thought I was the only one you hadn't questioned about Christmas Eve, and about the night Dawn Arrowood was killed. I was here, alone, on both occasions."
Bryony gave a startled laugh. "I'm sure that's not what Gemma meant."
Using the flat of his knife, Marc scraped the chicken pieces and chopped vegetables from the steel table into an enormous pot. "Isn't it?" he asked lightly.
"But Gemma, you can't seriously be suggesting that Marc had something to do with the Arrowoods' deaths? That's-"
Gemma held up her hand to silence Bryony's protest. The last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. How had she not seen it before? "Marc. You said your grandmother raised you. How did you lose your parents?"
He met her eyes. "Oh, I think you know. So does Bryony, in fact, because Wesley just told everyone the whole story half an hour ago. Bryony, bring me your herbs," he added, with a nod towards the pot.
Before Gemma could call out an instinctive warning, Bryony had slipped from her stool and gone to him. Marc's arm snaked round her; with the other he held the knife to her long, slender throat. The bowl of herbs slid from Bryony's grasp and shattered on the floor.
"Marc. Don't-" Gemma jerked as her phone began to ring. She reached automatically towards her pocket, then froze when Marc shook his head.
"I wouldn't do that, Gemma." His grip tightened on Bryony until she whimpered. "You wouldn't want me to cut her, would you? Switch the phone off."
Gemma took the phone from her pocket. The insistent ringing stopped as she turned it off, and she let it fall back into her pocket. Praying that he wouldn't take the phone from her, she tried to keep her voice calm. "I'll do whatever you say, Marc. Just don't hurt her." Visions of Dawn and Karl Arrowoods' mutilated bodies swam before her eyes, and she heard the pulse pound in her ears. He was insane, she had been unforgivably stupid, and now he held Bryony's life in his hands.
Otto's café was empty except for an older woman drinking a cup of tea, her greyhound stretched out beside her chair.
"Anyone here?" Kincaid called, and Otto emerged from the kitchen.
"What can I do for you gentlemen? It's Superintendent Kincaid, is it not?"
"Otto, is there anyone called Mitchell that comes in here? You know, one of the regular group?"
"You must be thinking of Marc Mitchell. They were all in earlier this afternoon, Marc, Bryony, Alex and Fern. Wesley was telling everyone the latest developments."
"Marc, the chap who runs the soup kitchen? Jesus." Kincaid had met the man when he'd come to their house, but if he'd been told his last name, it hadn't registered. "Where is his place?"
"Just down Portobello Road, before you get to the flyover. Next to the old Portobello School entrance."
"It's the perfect situation," Cullen said, excitement tightening his voice. "He lives alone, has facilities for washing things, and a kitchen where a trace of blood wouldn't be amiss. And if Wesley told him we'd learned about his parents, he'd know it was only a matter of time until we made the connection-"
"Whose parents?" asked Otto, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"
But Kincaid had taken out his phone and was dialing Gemma again. This time the call went directly to voice mail. "Why in bloody hell would she have switched her phone off?" he muttered as he hung up. He dialed again, this time Notting Hill Station. When he had Melody Talbot on the line, he asked without preamble, "Where's Gemma? Is she there?"
"No." Melody sounded surprised, and a little worried. "She went out about an hour ago. She didn't say where she was going. Have you any idea where she is?"
Kincaid told himself Gemma could have gone anywhere- to run an errand, check on the children, to buy herself a coffee- but none of his logical suppositions lessened the dread that gripped him.
"I'm not mad, you know," Marc said as if he'd read her thoughts.