That probably meant spoiled rotten, in Andy's experience. But she had b.a.l.l.s for a vicar's daughter, he had to admit. At twenty, he'd been tough and independent in a street-smart way, but this girl had a poise and confidence he still hadn't managed to achieve.

Her speaking voice, however, while pleasant, was straight Home Counties middle cla.s.s, and he hoped to G.o.d she didn't sing in that little-girl-breathy indie style that made him want to grind his teeth. Or even worse, some sort of faux working-cla.s.s thing like Kate Nash. At least with that accent and her slight stature she was not likely to be another Adele clone.

They reached the next level and stepped into a s.p.a.ce completely different from the cramped anteroom to the studios below.

"Very cool," said Poppy, taking it in, and Andy had to agree.

The room was long and open, with light pouring in the large windows that overlooked the tree-clad hillside to the west. There were several guitar amps, a two-mic setup, small-scale recording equipment, and, by the windows, a baby grand piano that reflected the mottled gray sky in its black-lacquered top.

"Oh, lovely, Caleb. Thank you," said Poppy, giving her manager a quick hug that was not the least bit coy. He might have been a favorite uncle.

She stripped off jacket and gloves, then bent to unlatch her guitar case. When she took out the instrument, Andy gave a low whistle in spite of himself. It was a Fender Pastorius ba.s.s, fretless-an instrument only for a very accomplished musician.

"Can you really play that thing?" he asked.

Poppy shot him a look from under brows that were a dark punctuation to her marmalade hair. "Wait and see, guitar boy."

Stung, he shot back, "A nice prezzie from your daddy?"

She stood, slipping the ba.s.s strap over her head, and seemed to collect herself for a moment. Then she looked him directly in the eyes and said levelly, "I have two younger brothers and a younger sister. We manage, but my father is a Church of England vicar, and there is no way he could afford an instrument like this. I worked all the way through school giving music lessons to spotty, hormonal boys to buy this ba.s.s, and I b.l.o.o.d.y well deserve it. So just shut the f.u.c.k up, okay?"

She waited, and when he didn't reply, she nodded, as if something had been settled between them. Then she plugged the Fender into an amp and said, "Let's see what you got, guitar boy."

CHAPTER FOUR.

The Palace was designed by Sir Joseph Paxton, and after the Great Exhibition finished in October 1851 he had the idea of moving it to Penge Place Estate, Sydenham, as a "Winter Park and Garden under Gla.s.s" . . . Penge Place, now called Crystal Palace Park, was owned by Paxton's friend and railway entrepreneur Leo Schuster.

-www.bbc.co.uk Once the coroner's van arrived, Gemma left the crime scene techs to get on with things, and DC Shara MacNicols in charge of interviewing the hotel staff. Seeing Shara's mutinous expression, she'd said, "Unless you'd rather give the death notification? And, Shara, I think you'll do better with sympathy here. Whether or not the hotel was breaking any rules is not our main concern-at least not until we know how our Mr. Arnott came to be here," she added, and got a grudging nod in return.

When Melody had double-checked the address she'd entered for Vincent Arnott, she looped round into Fox Hill and then up the steep incline of Belvedere Road, back towards the Crystal Palace triangle.

"He could certainly have walked to the hotel," Melody said as she parked at the curb and pulled up the Clio's hand brake as an extra precaution.

Glancing at the vista spread below them as she got out of the car, Gemma wondered if, on a clear day, you could see all the way to the Channel. The view up the hill was pretty impressive, too. "He'd have been fit if he did that climb on a regular basis," she said. "Never mind what else he got up to."

She examined the house, half hidden behind a fortress of hedges. It was detached, a soft, brown brick with white trim on the windows and doors, and large upper and lower bay-fronted rooms on one side. Behind the shelter of the hedges, the lawn was immaculate, and the shrubs in the beds surrounding the house were trimmed to within an inch of their lives. A late-model silver BMW was parked in the curving drive.

"Eminently respectable," mused Melody, nodding at the house. "In an eminently respectable street. Not a hair out of place."

"A bit like our man's clothes and wallet."

"A barrister's tidy mind?" suggested Melody.

"We'll see." As Gemma tightened her scarf against the wind, she noticed Melody straightening her already perfectly aligned coat. These were little adjustments to their emotional armor, she knew. No one, no matter how long they'd been on the job, liked doing death notifications. A small part of her hoped that Mr. Arnott had lived alone, but a flash of movement at the sitting room window told her otherwise. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

They walked briskly up the drive. By the time they reached the front door, it opened, and a woman peeped out. "I'm sorry," she said, "but my husband doesn't like solicitors. Or Jehovah's Witnesses." She was small, her plain face free of makeup, her short brown hair showing an inch of white at the roots, as if she'd forgotten to have it colored, and she wore what looked like a mismatched a.s.sortment of gardening clothes.

"Mrs. Arnott?" asked Gemma. She and Melody both had their warrant cards ready. "I'm afraid we're not selling anything. We're police officers. Can we come in and speak to you?"

"Police officers? But you don't look it." Mrs. Arnott merely looked puzzled.

"We're CID, Mrs. Arnott. I'm Detective Inspector James, and this is Sergeant Talbot."

The woman blinked pale eyes and frowned. "Has there been a burglary? I'm sure I don't know anything that could help you."

"Mrs. Arnott, may we come in? I'm afraid it's personal."

"Vincent won't like it," said Mrs. Arnott, hesitating. She scrutinized Gemma's ID, then Melody's. "He says you can never trust a card or a name badge, like those people who say they're from the gas company but aren't, really. But it is cold, and I'm sure he wouldn't object to women." She opened the door a little wider and stepped back.

Gemma threw Melody a puzzled glance of her own as they followed Mrs. Arnott inside. "Is your husband at home, Mrs. Arnott?" she asked as they stood in the tiled entry hall. The inside of the house looked as neatly manicured as the outside.

"Oh, no. He must have gone to the shops."

"Must have?"

"Well, I'm not quite sure." Mrs. Arnott blinked at them again, then looked round as if her husband might appear from out of thin air. There was something childlike about her, and Gemma began to wonder if she was quite all there. "I thought he was still asleep when I got up," she continued. "But he must have gone out early for his paper. Vincent sometimes likes to go out for his paper and a coffee on a Sat.u.r.day."

"It's almost noon, Mrs. Arnott," Gemma said, but gently. "So you haven't actually seen your husband this morning?"

"No. No, I suppose I haven't. We have our separate rooms, you see. Vincent says he can't do with my tossing and turning."

"And last night? Was your husband out last night?"

"He walked up to the pub. He usually does on a Friday evening. I don't care for it myself."

"Do you know what time he came in?" Gemma asked.

"Well, I can't be sure. I go to bed early. Up with the larks, you know." Mrs. Arnott smiled at them, uncertainly. "What is this about? I'm sure Vincent can help you when he gets home."

Gemma met Melody's eyes again. "Mrs. Arnott, is there someplace we can sit down?"

"I suppose we could go in the kitchen." Turning, she led them through the cream hallway past a dining room papered in pale brown toile and into a very well-appointed kitchen in the same shades of cream and tan. The neutrality of the room, however, served to emphasize the view from the large windows along the rear wall. They overlooked a garden as riotous, even in its dormant winter state, as the front was severe. This, Gemma guessed, was Mrs. Arnott's province.

"I was just going out to prune the roses," said Mrs. Arnott, with a glance at her mismatched clothes. "I thought the sun might come out for a bit."

"Let's sit down." With a hand on her elbow, Melody guided the woman to one of the chairs in the breakfast nook. Taking out her phone, she showed Mrs. Arnott the photo she'd snapped of Vincent Arnott's driving license. Gemma knew that she and Melody both had scanned the house as they walked through for family photos that might make identification easier, but none had been visible. "Is this your husband?" Melody asked.

Mrs. Arnott's eyes widened. "Of course it is. But how-why do you have his driving license? Did someone steal it?"

Gemma drew a breath. Firmly and quickly, that was best. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Arnott," she said. "But your husband is dead."

After a quick lunch, Kincaid decided to take the car to Bethnal Green. Unlike the boys, Charlotte considered a ride in the Astra a major treat. The old green estate car had been a welcome-at least to Kincaid-gift from his parents the previous autumn. But in a neighborhood where most families considered a new Land Rover a downgrade, Kit was embarra.s.sed by it. Toby, after his initial excitement, had begun to copy Kit's griping.

"Are we going to see the doggies?" Charlotte asked for the tenth time.

Kincaid glanced at her, strapped securely into her booster seat in the back. "No promises, love. They might not be at home."

"We want to see Jazzer and Henny," said Charlotte, her brow creasing. Jazzer and Henny were her names for Jagger and Ginger, the two German shepherd dogs that belonged to Louise Phillips's neighbors, Michael and Tam.

"And Miss Louise," Kincaid prompted.

"Yes," said Charlotte. When he glanced back, he saw that she'd tucked her face into the top of Bob's floppy head.

Louise Phillips had not only been Charlotte's father's law partner, but was now the executor of Charlotte's parents' estate.

By the time they reached Louise's flat near Columbia Road Flower Market, the morning's drizzle had let up, and Kincaid thought he might take Charlotte to her favorite cupcake shop in Columbia Road once they'd finished their visit.

"Look," said Charlotte happily as Kincaid unbuckled her from her seat. "Jazzer and Henny!"

Indeed, the dogs were looking down at them from the first-floor balcony Louise shared with her neighbors. They began to bark in ecstatic greeting.

"Some guard dogs you are," Kincaid said, laughing, as he and Charlotte climbed the outside staircase to the balcony. The dogs were now hurling themselves against the gate in tail-wagging delight.

Michael came out of the left-hand flat on the balcony. "Duncan. Louise said you were coming." A landscape designer, Michael wore his graying hair in a ponytail, and no matter the weather, seemed to be perfectly comfortable in Hawaiian shirts and shorts. "h.e.l.lo, little miss," he said to Charlotte. "Someone is glad to see you." Coming to the gate at the top of the stairs, he gave a stern command to the dogs. "You two. Sit."

The dogs sat, whining in antic.i.p.ation, while he opened the gate. "Sit," he repeated, as Charlotte ran to them, then added, "Kisses."

The dogs held their sits but licked Charlotte's face enthusiastically as she hugged them in turn.

"Good to see you." Kincaid shook Michael's hand. "Tam not in?" he asked.

"Recording session. I was just about to take the dogs for a walk. Would you like Charlotte to go with us?"

"That would be brilliant." Kincaid had hoped the dogs would keep Charlotte occupied while he talked to Louise, but Michael's offer was even better.

"I'll just get their leads," said Michael, then he seemed to hesitate. "We won't be long. Louise is-she tires easily."

Kincaid thought he might have said more, but the door on the right of the balcony opened and Louise stepped out. "h.e.l.lo, Duncan. h.e.l.lo, Charlotte." She smiled at them, but Kincaid was shocked at how thin and haggard she looked. Not that she'd ever been robust. "I've made some coffee, Duncan, if you want to come in."

He realized then that she and Michael had prearranged the dog-walking invitation for Charlotte. "Thanks, Louise. Sounds wonderful." Michael and Tam, his partner, were more than neighbors to Louise. They were, Kincaid had learned over the past few months, in essence her family, and Louise's p.r.i.c.kliness seemed only to make them more protective of her.

Kneeling, Kincaid b.u.t.toned Charlotte's coat, then tapped the tip of her nose. "You mind Michael, now. Be a good girl."

Charlotte nodded, too excited to speak. Kincaid waited until Michael had leashed the dogs and they had all trooped down the stairs before he followed Louise inside. He glanced at Louise's sitting room as they pa.s.sed through-it was, as always, cluttered with books and a veritable snowstorm of papers. The kitchen, however, she kept quite tidy. Michael and Tam liked to tease her, saying it was because she never cooked. It was, Kincaid suspected, true.

She had made coffee in a cafetiere and set out two cups and saucers along with a matching sugar bowl and creamer on the small table. The pieces were delicate bone china in a bird-and-flower pattern, which surprised him. Louise was the least frilly woman he knew.

"Charlotte's looking well," she said as she gestured to him to sit, then pushed down the cafetiere's plunger and filled their cups. "How is she doing?"

"Fine, as long as she's at home, or with close friends. But our attempt at school the first week of term was a disaster." He sighed and added a bit of cream to the coffee, which was delicious but strong enough to stand the spoon in. "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I can't stay off work indefinitely, and Gemma can't take any more leave, especially with the new job. This is a critical period for her."

Louise frowned, and Kincaid noticed that there were rough, dry patches on her dark skin. "You know," she said slowly, "Charlotte might have had a difficult time with school under any circ.u.mstances. She was always with Sandra or Naz or the nanny, and she had very little interaction with other children. Quite a protected environment."

Was there, Kincaid wondered, a note of censure in Louise's voice? But she went on. "Still, you have to deal with things as they are. Have you considered options? A nanny?"

"We've talked about it. But it would mean starting from scratch with a stranger." Alia Hakim, who had been Charlotte's nanny before she came to them, was now enrolled full time at college, hoping to train as a lawyer. "I've wondered if we could find someone to come part-time, then perhaps try a few hours a week in a different school. A friend"-he set down his cup and aligned the handle neatly-"a friend has suggested a school where Charlotte would have extra attention in a less stressful environment. Charlotte's made friends with her little boy, who would be in the same cla.s.s, so that might help. But it's considerably more expensive, even if the school would agree to take her." He had discovered that shark feeding frenzies were tame compared with the compet.i.tion involved in trying to get one's children into elite schools in Notting Hill. "Not to mention the cost of even a part-time nanny."

"But your friend might be able to pull strings with the school?"

"Possibly." He was beginning to feel acutely uncomfortable, and would have been glad for one of Louise's regular cigarette breaks, but she sat quietly, her barely touched coffee cooling in its cup. "The thing is," he went on, "I could sell the Hampstead flat, which would certainly give us the funds to pay for a few years of school fees. But it would take time."

With a lawyer's directness, Louise got straight to the point. "You want to know if the estate can fund a more expensive school?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Kincaid shook his head and pushed away from the table. "Christ, Louise, I haven't felt like this since I was a teenager asking my dad for pocket money. I don't want to come begging for cash. But I'm at my wit's end. If we can't keep Charlotte in some sort of day care, and we can't convince social services that she's in the best possible situation . . . And if I can't go back to work . . . "

Louise held up a hand. "Duncan, stop. It's all right. I was going to ring you, but I was waiting for the contract to be finalized. The Fournier Street house has sold."

"What?" He felt a rush of relief, followed instantly by a profound sense of regret. Louise had organized the disposition of the contents and put the beautifully restored Georgian house on the market in the autumn. But it was not just a house-it was the home Charlotte's parents had made for her, where she had spent most of the first three years of her life. Gone now.

Would she remember it, when she was grown, except in dreams?

"You know I intended to set up a trust for Charlotte's education," Louise continued. "Naz and Sandra bought the house when the market was at rock bottom in the East End, and they did most of the restoration themselves. There should certainly be enough capital from the sale to provide what she needs now. So while we're waiting for completion of the sale, talk to the school. Find a nanny. Give me a written proposal with the costs set out for both school and home care. We'll go from there. And, Duncan," she went on before he could speak, "when she's settled, I think we should start the formal adoption proceedings."

"But-" He stared at her. "You said it was best to wait."

"I've been looking into things. It seems that family courts have recently become more inclined to agree to the adoption of mixed-race children by white families. We should take advantage of the trend-it may not last. Nor"-Louise shook her head and seemed to sag in her chair-"may I."

Suddenly Michael's caution, Louise's obvious exhaustion, and the fact that he'd never seen her go so long without a cigarette clicked together in his mind. His alarm bells went off full force. "Louise, what are you talking about? What's wrong?"

She sighed. "If I don't tell you, Michael or Tam will. I've a spot on my lung."

Gemma could never decide which was worse in the suddenly bereaved-paroxysms of grief or the stunned silence of shock. At least with hysteria you felt there was something you could do, some comfort you could offer, some calming gesture you could make. But the paralyzed ones . . . She shook her head, gazing at the blank face of Vincent Arnott's wife.

"Mrs. Arnott, is there someone you can call to be with you?"

The woman just stared, apparently unable to comprehend Gemma's question.

"Mrs. Arnott?"

A slight shudder went through Mrs. Arnott's body and she gave the same odd blink Gemma had noticed before. "I don't understand. Vincent will be home soon."

"Okay," said Gemma, catching Melody's eye and giving a little shake of her head before turning back to Mrs. Arnott. "Let's make some tea, shall we? And then we'll have a little chat."

Melody rose with her and they stepped into the work area of the kitchen. "I'll try to find out if there's a relative, and if so, get a number," Gemma said quietly. "You ring headquarters, tell them we've got a positive ID. And get an FLO here as soon as possible." She thought for a moment. Both male and female family liaison officers worked regularly with her team, but in this case she thought a woman was definitely the best option. "See if we can get Marie Daeley."

While Melody excused herself, phone already to her ear, Gemma filled the kettle and quickly found tea bags and mugs, milk and sugar. There was a shopping list fixed to the shiny stainless steel door of the fridge with a magnet. The handwriting looked masculine, but a few things had been added in the margins in an almost illegible scrawl. Peering, she decided one said "birds," another "boots." Odd items for a grocery list.