"I'm afraid I am. It's the first thing we do in any homicide investigation. We'll need your clothes as well, for the lab. I'll have one of the technicians bring you some clean things from upstairs."
"But this is outrageous. You can't do this. I'm going to call my contact in the Home Office-"
"You're welcome to ring whomever you like, Mr. Arrowood, but the warrant's already been issued. I'm sorry. I know this is difficult, but it's normal procedure and we've no choice under the circumstances. Now, did your wife keep a diary of her appointments? Or an address book where I might be able to find the name of the friend she met for tea?"
She thought he might refuse, but she held his gaze and after a moment the fight seemed to seep out of him. His shoulders sagged. "In the sitting room. On the desk by the window."
"Thank you. Is there someone you can call to stay with you?"
"No," he said slowly, almost as if the thought surprised him. "No one."
Gemma found the address book and diary easily enough, just where Arrowood had said; small books, covered in floral fabric and smelling of perfume. A quick look showed her that Dawn Arrowood had written only one thing in her diary for that day, at ten o'clock in the morning: Tommy to vet. Was Tommy the gray cat she had met in the hall?
Gemma paged carefully through the neat script in the address book. With helpful feminine logic, Dawn had placed All Saints Animal Hospital under V for vet. Making a note of the number, Gemma continued searching for Dawn's friend Natalie. In the W's, she found a listing for a Natalie Walthorpe, but Walthorpe had been carefully lined through and Caine had been written in after it.
After writing an evidence receipt, Gemma tucked both books in her bag for later perusal.
"Anything upstairs?" she asked the technician.
"No bloody shoes tucked neatly in the wardrobe, if that's what you're hoping," the technician returned cheekily. "You can have a go, if you like."
"Thanks, I will."
As she climbed the stairs, she felt again the brush against her leg, and looked down to find the cat padding up the stairs alongside her. "Tommy?" she said experimentally.
The cat looked up at her and blinked, as if to acknowledge his name. "Okay, Tommy it is."
At the top of the stairs, she turned towards the sound of voices. She was rewarded by the sight of the master bedroom, and within it, two coveralled technicians going over every surface with tweezers and sticky tape.
"Afraid you'll have to observe from the doorway for a bit longer, guv," one of them informed her. "Let us know if there's anything particular you want to look at."
With that Gemma had to be content. She stood, taking in the atmosphere of the pale yellow room. It was a gracious and elegant retreat, large and high-ceilinged, with a draped four-poster bed. The floral print of the drapes was matched by the coverlet and window coverings, a show of expensive decorating that made Gemma feel slightly claustrophobic.
Tommy the cat jumped up on the bed, curled himself into a ball, and began to purr. When the technician gave her the go-ahead, Gemma went into the room and began to look round her.
The bedside table on the right held glossy copies of Vogue and Town and Country, as well as a copy of the latest best-selling novel and a delicate alarm clock. Gemma thought of her own bedside, usually endowed with a stack of dog-eared paperbacks and a used teacup.
Peeking into the en suite bathroom, she found monogrammed, pale yellow towels, and an antique oak sideboard displaying expensive makeup and perfumes tidily arranged on lacquered trays. On the back of the door hung a fluffy toweling dressing gown. Where, Gemma wondered, was the hastily abandoned hairbrush, the jewelry taken off and left to be dealt with at a later time?
The built-in wardrobe revealed more of the same: neatly arranged women's clothes on one side, men's expensive suits on the other. Frowning in frustration, Gemma dug deeper. Shelves held handbags and stored summer clothes, the floor racks of shoes. It was only when she sat back with a sigh of exasperation that she saw the edge of the box behind the shoes. Moving the shoe rack, she pulled out the box- not cardboard, heaven forbid, but a specialty shop storage container- and removed the lid.
Here at last was some semblance of a jumble. Tattered volumes of Enid Blyton's children's books jostled against romantic novels and two dolls; a smaller, obviously hand-papered box held school reports and family photos labeled in a childish, yet recognizable, hand.
Gemma sat back, perplexed. These things had, at one time, defined the woman who had died that night. Why had Dawn Arrowood found it not only necessary to reinvent herself so completely, but to hide away the remnants of the person she had been?
Kincaid had tucked Toby into bed with a reading of Graham Oakley's The Church Mice Adrift, the boy's book of choice as of late, and now sat at Gemma's half-moon table, nursing a glass of the Chardonnay he'd found in her fridge.
As he looked round the room, he thought how deeply Gemma had stamped her presence on this space. It had given her safety and comfort when she had felt adrift in her life- Would he be able to provide her as much security as she'd found here? God knew they needed anchors badly enough in their jobs… and this case she'd landed tonight would test her resources; he'd known that from the outset. The media attention alone would be brutal, especially if she failed to produce a suspect in the amount of time the journalists deemed suitable.
Was he making the right choice in moving her into a house in her own patch, where there would be no escape from the presence of work, and in forcing her to do it so quickly? Yet he felt compelled to act; now that she'd agreed at last, he was afraid if he hesitated she might change her mind.
And then there was Kit to consider. His son's school term ended in a week, and when Kit made the move from Grantchester to London, Kincaid wanted them to begin as they meant to go on- as a family. He still harbored the fear that his ex-wife's widower, Ian McClellan, who remained Kit's legal guardian, might change his mind about leaving the boy in Kincaid's care when Ian took up a teaching post in Canada in the new year.
And then there were his ex-wife's parents, who felt they should have charge of their grandson. Eugenia Potts was both selfish and hysterical, and when forced to stay in her care, Kit had run away. Since then, Ian had allowed the grandparents only one supervised visit a month, which was coming up the Friday after Christmas. Eugenia had chosen the stuffy formality of afternoon tea at Brown's Hotel for their meeting- not the outing of choice for a twelve-year-old boy.
Nor would Eugenia be happy to see Kincaid, whom she despised, or to learn about Kit's new living arrangements. Over them hung the specter that Eugenia might actually undertake the legal action she threatened on a regular basis, and attempt to wrest Kit's guardianship for herself.
Well, they would just have to deal with that when the time came. If Kincaid's job had not taught him that there were few guarantees of stability in life, he should have learned it from his ex-wife's tragic death.
Thinking of the young woman they had seen that night, her life so unexpectedly snuffed out, Kincaid got up and poured the remains of his wine down the sink. He turned off all but the bedside lamp, then opened the blind and stood looking into the darkened garden. What worried him most was that he had seen a murder like this once before, less than two months ago.
CHAPTER THREE
If you saw Notting Hill at the beginning of the sixties, it would be hard to recognize it as the same place you can see today. Nowadays Notting Hill is wealthy and gentrified. Go back thirty years and the area is a massive slum, full of multi-occupied houses, crawling with rats and rubbish.