There were days, however, more bearable than others, particularly those that involved minding Nina and Neil's six-year-old son, Evan. On one such lovely day in May, she and Evan had the house to themselves. They had returned from a lunchtime picnic in the park, and now were lazing over a puzzle, listening to the new Donovan album she'd bought.
She'd taught Evan to sing along with an infectiously happy verse about a girl called "Marianne," and when the verse ended the usually solemn little boy laughed aloud with glee.
"That's your name," he crowed, fingering her silver locket.
"And it's our secret. No one can call me that but you, because you're special." No one had called her by that name since her father died, and she found the evocation of that little girl oddly comforting. She snapped open the locket, holding it out for Evan's inspection. "Look, I've put your picture here, so I can keep it close to me."
"Where did you get the locket?" Evan touched the shiny heart.
"It was my father's."
"Marianne," Evan whispered, cuddling closer. "That's a pretty name. But I think I like Angel better."
As the afternoon grew warmer, Evan fell asleep in her lap, his long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. Angel gazed out the open window at the fresh green of the treetops and the spire of the church in the square. The album liner notes lay open beside her. In a personal appeal, Donovan admonished his listeners to give up drugs, as if it were something that one could do as easily as deciding to cut one's hair, or stop eating meat. If only it were that simple.
What lay before her? Karl would never willingly give her a child, of that she was sure. She stroked Evan's hair from his forehead, feeling the reassuringly solid weight of his relaxed body against her own. Would she ever have a chance to love a child of her own?
Kincaid called Doug Cullen into his office at the Yard first thing on Thursday morning, three days after Karl Arrowood's murder. "See what you can find out about a Bryony Poole," Kincaid asked. "She's a veterinarian, and Gavin Farley's assistant."
As Cullen raised his eyebrows his spectacles rode down his nose, giving him the look of a surprised owl. "A woman? You think that's a serious possibility?"
"She's as tall as a man, and strong," answered Kincaid. "We can't afford to overlook it. But there is a slight problem with this… um, inquiry. Bryony and Gemma have a connection- Gemma adopted a dog through her- so I think it will be better if we handle this one on our own."
"That's awkward," Cullen said with obvious sympathy.
"Yes." Kincaid thought of the cold back Gemma had presented to him in bed the previous night. How wise had it been to encourage her to live in her own patch? It was always risky, because one couldn't help forming friendships and alliances as Gemma had done, but he hadn't expected a situation this difficult, or this soon. This case was nightmare enough without adding personal complications.
"There's something else I want you to look into while you're digging." He slid a copy of Eliza Goddard's birth certificate across his desk. "Ronald Thomas, Marianne Hoffman's first husband. If there's something in Hoffman's past that has a bearing on this case, maybe he can tell us what it is."
Kincaid did not mention Eliza Goddard's request that he find her father- Scotland Yard was not, after all, in the business of private investigations.
At Notting Hill Station, Gemma waded through her own accumulated paperwork with less than her usual alertness. She'd tossed and turned throughout the night, worrying about Bryony Poole.
Knowing that Kincaid was justified in making inquiries and dealing with the consequences were two different things, she'd discovered. She couldn't say anything to Bryony beforehand- that would be highly unprofessional. And yet if Kincaid went to Bryony on his own, as Gemma was certain he would, it must surely seem to Bryony as if Gemma had betrayed their friendship.
A knock on her door provided a welcome interruption to her thoughts. Gerry Franks came in with a sheaf of papers. "The lab boffins must have given up their Christmas dinners to get this done, guv."
Gemma indicated a chair. "Let's hear it, then."
"The paper knife was clean as a whistle. It could have been scrubbed, of course, but the blade edge showed no signs of nicks from a scuffle, and it's doubtful whether Dunn would have had a chance to get it sharpened.
"And the paper knife is a no-show, anyway," Franks continued, "because the scalpel we lifted from the rubbish bin did show traces of Karl Arrowood's blood in the groove between the blade and the handle."
Gemma's hopes rose. "What about prints?"
"No prints. No fibers. No other blood." Franks looked more pained than usual. "The scalpel is of the same type Farley uses, but that doesn't get us far. Every medical supply carries them."
"What about the surgery itself?"
"Nothing there, either. Nor in Farley's workshop shower. And the bits of ash found in the surgery toilet were too far gone to be identified as photographs."
"Any response from the media release?" Gemma had placed her hopes on the request for information from anyone passing in the vicinity of the rubbish bin where the scalpel had been found, as the last appeal had brought them the report of the dark-suited jogger. But that, she reminded herself, had turned out to be just a tantalizing glimpse of a lead that had never materialized.
"Not unless you count one sighting of a space-suited alien and another of Santa Claus," Franks replied with deadpan delivery.
Not sure if he meant to be funny, Gemma said merely, "Figures. Thanks, Gerry. We'll just have to come up with something else."
Standing, Franks clasped his hands in parade-rest fashion and looked determinedly at a point just past Gemma's head. "Um, I understand congratulations are in order, guv."
"Oh. Yes. Thanks. That's very kind of you, Sergeant."
Franks nodded with the relief of one whose duty has been performed. Gemma had told Melody her news first thing that morning, and it had required no great sacrifice on the constable's part when Gemma had asked her to do a bit of discreet gossiping. The dissemination technique had saved Gemma the awkward task of making an announcement to everyone she met.
By early afternoon, Gemma had pored over the fine details of the forensics reports until her eyes ached. Looking up, she saw that the sun, visible for the first time in days, was making a pallid attempt to illuminate the grime on her office window. Perhaps she would go out and fetch coffee for Melody for a change, give her head a chance to clear.
Ten minutes walking brought her to Pembridge Road, but instead of crossing over to the Starbucks, as she had meant to do, a sudden thought made her turn to the left, following Kensington Park Road. A few blocks down the hill, she stopped in front of Arrowood Antiques, gazing at the "Closed" sign hanging from the door. What would happen to the little empire of beautiful things Karl Arrowood had created?
With decision, she pulled out her phone and rang the station. "Is there still no word from Arrowood's solicitor on the terms of his will?" she asked Melody. The senior partner in the firm representing Arrowood was away for the holiday, and no one else in the office knew of a document with a date more recent than that of Karl's marriage to Dawn.
"No, boss. They say they've left word for the senior partner, but he hasn't rung back."