– Charlie Phillips and Mike Phillips,
from Notting Hill in the Sixties
A warm, moist current of dog breath woke her. Bryony opened one eye and tried to focus on the lolling pink tongue of Duchess, her golden retriever mix, inches from her face.
"What is it, girl? What time is it?" Turning over, she peered at her alarm clock. Was it seven already? "Shit," she muttered, rolling out of bed and giving Duchess a hasty caress as she headed for the loo. She'd meant to be at the café before now. Several of them had formed a habit of meeting for early coffee and croissants before the Saturday morning trading got into full swing, and she was dying to tell someone about her project- especially Marc, if the truth be told. Whether or not her plan would work depended on him.
When she'd scrubbed her face and pulled on jeans, boots and sweater, she took Duchess for a quick constitutional in the postage stamp of Powis Square, then set off for Elgin Crescent.
A blanket of cloud hovered over the rooftops, obscuring the light of the rising sun, but at least it had not yet begun to rain. Bryony's long strides devoured the distance from her flat to the café, and by the time she pushed open the door she'd worked up a rosy glow.
Her friends sat in the back, gathered round two tables: Wesley, his ebullient dreadlocks sedated by a cap; Fern Adams, whose punk dress and makeup belied her knowledge of the antique silver she traded in the market; Marc, who flashed Bryony the quick smile he seemed to reserve just for her; and Otto, apron-clad, coffee pot in hand. Only Alex Dunn was missing.
They all looked up at her with solemn faces as she came in, and no one offered a greeting.
"What?" Bryony joked. "Did someone die?"
When no one answered, she gazed at them with dawning horror. "Oh, no," she whispered, sinking into the nearest chair. "Has something happened? Not Alex-"
Otto upended a cup from the stack on the table and poured her a coffee, but it was Wesley who answered. "It's Dawn Arrowood, the lady that Alex was, um, seeing. She was killed last night. Murdered."
"Mrs. Arrowood? But that's not possible! She was just in the surgery yesterday, with her cat. Gavin saw them." The pretty blond woman, so devoted to her cat, was one of the hospital's regular clients. "I can't believe it. What happened?"
Marc shook his head. "That's all we know for certain. Although rumors have been going around the market like wildfire since daybreak."
"Alex-" Bryony glanced uneasily at Fern, whom she knew had been Alex's lover until recently. They had made an odd couple; Alex with his Oxford cloth shirts and Oxbridge haircut, Fern in glitter and camouflage, but their stalls were side by side in the market arcade, and Bryony had seen proximity make stranger bedfellows.
"I told him," Otto rumbled. "I told him it was a bad business. But I thought it was he who would come to harm."
"Does he know?"
"No." Fern tugged nervously at the silver ring in her eyebrow. "He was setting up his stall when I left. There were whispers round the arcade, but no one dared say anything to him."
"But what if he comes in?" asked Bryony. "We'll have to-" She stopped as Fern's eyes widened. Turning, she saw Alex Dunn pushing open the café door.
"Morning, all," he called out. "It's going to be a bloody miserable day, but let's hope that won't dampen the Christmas shoppers' enthusiasm. Has anyone got a newspaper? I'd no change for the newsagent this morning-"
"Alex-" interrupted Wesley, then turned helplessly to Otto.
His face creased with distress, Otto said, "I'm afraid we have some very bad news. Dawn Arrowood was murdered last night."
Alex stared at him. "If this is your idea of a joke, it's not amusing. Just leave it alone, Otto. It's my business."
"I am not joking, Alex. When I heard the first rumor this morning, I went to the house. There are still police everywhere, and I knew one of the constables. He told me it was the truth."
Blanching, Alex whispered, "No. There must be some mistake."
"There is no mistake," Otto assured him grimly. "Karl Arrowood came home and found her in the drive."
Alex looked wildly from one friend to another. "Oh, Jesus, no!"
"Alex-" Fern reached out and touched his hand, but he jerked away as if burned. She huddled back into her chair, her eyes filling with tears.
"But why- How?" Alex whispered.
"That I don't know," answered Otto, but the big man didn't meet Alex's eyes and Bryony found herself unexpectedly wondering if he was lying.
"I don't believe it. I'm going to see her."
"You don't want to cross paths with Karl just now," Otto cautioned.
"Do you think I give a bloody piss about Karl?" Alex snarled.
Marc came out of his chair in one fluid motion and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I know you're upset, but try to be reasonable, man-"
"Reasonable? Why the hell should I be reasonable?" Alex slapped Marc's hand away. "Just bugger off, all of you."
He stormed out of the café, and as the door swung closed behind him, Bryony saw that it had begun to rain.
The smell of disinfectant, laced with the faint but undisguisable odor of death, made Gemma clench her teeth against rising nausea. Morning sickness and morgues did not make a good combination, but she was certainly not going to announce her discomfort to Kate Ling. Something must have given her away, however, because when Kate glanced up from the postmortem table, she asked, "Are you feeling all right, Gemma?"
"Late night. Not enough sleep," Gemma offered in explanation. It was true enough. After leaving the technicians to finish their search of the Arrowood house, she had set up and staffed the incident room, arranging for the correlation of information in a database, and designed the questionnaire that would be used in the house-to-house inquiries begun this morning. Fortunately, they had been able to use Notting Hill Station itself because of the proximity of the crime, rather than having to set up a mobile incident room, an undertaking always beset with problems. She'd put Gerry Franks in charge, which left her free to conduct interviews.
And she had dealt with the press, refusing to release any details until Dawn Arrowood's family had been informed of her death. By evening, however, the tabloids would be in full cry, and she needed to make use of them, asking anyone who had seen anything odd in the neighborhood of the crime to come forward.
Only then had she allowed herself to go home and slip into bed beside Kincaid, where she had lain awake into the small hours of the morning thinking about the momentous decision she had made.
"Gemma," said Kate Ling, drawing her attention back to the matter at hand. "Here's something you might find interesting. Did anyone mention that the victim was about six weeks pregnant?"
"No." Gemma thought of the dolls and the Enid Blyton books, saved perhaps for a longed-for child? "Her husband did say she hadn't been feeling well."
"Perhaps he didn't know?" Kate raised an eyebrow.
"And if not, why not?" Gemma mused. "Have you come across anything else that might be helpful?"
"Well, it's as we thought last night; there's no evidence of any sort of sexual interference. So it looks like you can rule out sexual motivation for the crime."
"What about the chest wound?"
"A single stab, which penetrated the left lung. From the angle, I'd say it was done last, after she fell to the ground."
"Can you tell if the killer was male or female?"
"Male, I'd say. Or a very tall woman."
"Left- or right-handed?"
"Right."
"Any ideas about the weapon?"
"Something quite sharp and clean-edged. A razor, or possibly a scalpel."
"Oh, God. We can't let the press get hold of that."
"No. You'll have a Jack-the-Ripper panic on your hands, and that you don't need." Kate gave her another assessing glance. "You can take off now, if you want. I'll get the organs off to the lab, and let you know the results."