to him. “Alex! Are you all right?”
He moved blindly forward as if unaware of her, stopping before his stall as if he had no clear idea what he was doing there.
“Alex, let me help you,” Fern urged. “You’re soaking—”
“I have to get something.” Pushing her aside, he went into the stall, bumping against the porcelain-laden shelves as if they held Brighton souvenirs. He fell to his knees and rummaged behind the display case, emerging with a brightly colored teapot Fern hadn’t seen before. Wrapping it in a cloth, he shoved it into a carrier bag, then stood. His eyes fell on Fern and for the first time he seemed to register her presence. “You’ll watch the stall for me, won’t you?”
“Alex, what are you doing? You’re soaked. If you don’t look after yourself you’ll catch your death—”
“I have to go, to get away.” He started to push past her but this time she stepped resolutely in front of him.
“Where, Alex? At least tell me where you’re going.”
“Don’t know. I just have to get away from here, that’s all.”
“You’re in no fit state to look after yourself, much less drive. Let me take you.” An idea took shape in her mind. If Karl Arrowood had murdered his wife because he’d found out about Alex, might not Alex be next? But not if Karl couldn’t find him. “Give me your keys,” she ordered. When he handed them over without protest, she called to Doris, who traded antique toys from the stall across the aisle, “Watch the stalls for me, Doris, please. I’ll make it up to you.”
Taking his carrier bag and a handful of bills from her own stall, she quickly locked both screens, then shepherded him out into the street and up the hill to the mews where his Passat sat parked in front of his flat. Alex seemed to have given up all resistance; it was only when she’d bundled him into the passenger seat and buckled herself into the driver’s that he mumbled, “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe,” Fern assured him. “Somewhere no one will think to look for you.”
T HE CROWD OF CURIOUS ONLOOKERS IN FRONT OF THE A RROWOODS’ house had grown since earlier that morning. Gemma saw familiar faces—the press was out in force, and the recognition was mutual. A whisper rippled through the gathering and half a dozen reporters surged to the front.
Putting up her umbrella against the persistent drizzle, she held up her free hand against the clamor of questions. “I’ll speak to you at six this evening, in front of Notting Hill—”
“This house belongs to Karl Arrowood, the antiques dealer,” interrupted Tom MacCrimmon from the
Daily Star
, one of the least reputable tabloids. A woolly-headed man with a red bulbous nose like a Christmas ball, Gemma had found MacCrimmon’s aggressiveness to be tempered by a sense of humor. “Was it someone in the Arrowood family who was killed?”
“The victim’s family has yet to be notified, Tom. Please let us dothat before you speculate in print—or on camera,” she added, seeing the telltale red eye of another reporter’s video camera. “I promise I’ll give you as much as I can this evening.” She turned away and the constable on duty quickly lifted the tape, allowing her inside the sealed perimeter.
Once out of the crowd’s hearing range, she spoke to the officer. “Where’s Mr. Arrowood?”
“Waiting for you at the station, as per your request. Sergeant Franks took him in, and was none too gentle about it.”
“What about the forensics team?”
“Just finishing up. Haven’t found anything obvious, as far as I know.”
“Right. Just keep an eye on the crowd, will you? I need to know if any one person hangs about too long.”
K ARL A RROWOOD HAD BEEN USHERED INTO I NTERVIEW R OOM A, where Gemma suspected he’d worn a path in the floor with his pacing. Fully dressed in a dark suit and tie, clean-shaven, his thick corn-yellow hair neatly brushed, he showed no sign of the shock Gemma had seen last
He moved blindly forward as if unaware of her, stopping before his stall as if he had no clear idea what he was doing there.
“Alex, let me help you,” Fern urged. “You’re soaking—”
“I have to get something.” Pushing her aside, he went into the stall, bumping against the porcelain-laden shelves as if they held Brighton souvenirs. He fell to his knees and rummaged behind the display case, emerging with a brightly colored teapot Fern hadn’t seen before. Wrapping it in a cloth, he shoved it into a carrier bag, then stood. His eyes fell on Fern and for the first time he seemed to register her presence. “You’ll watch the stall for me, won’t you?”
“Alex, what are you doing? You’re soaked. If you don’t look after yourself you’ll catch your death—”
“I have to go, to get away.” He started to push past her but this time she stepped resolutely in front of him.
“Where, Alex? At least tell me where you’re going.”
“Don’t know. I just have to get away from here, that’s all.”
“You’re in no fit state to look after yourself, much less drive. Let me take you.” An idea took shape in her mind. If Karl Arrowood had murdered his wife because he’d found out about Alex, might not Alex be next? But not if Karl couldn’t find him. “Give me your keys,” she ordered. When he handed them over without protest, she called to Doris, who traded antique toys from the stall across the aisle, “Watch the stalls for me, Doris, please. I’ll make it up to you.”
Taking his carrier bag and a handful of bills from her own stall, she quickly locked both screens, then shepherded him out into the street and up the hill to the mews where his Passat sat parked in front of his flat. Alex seemed to have given up all resistance; it was only when she’d bundled him into the passenger seat and buckled herself into the driver’s that he mumbled, “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere safe,” Fern assured him. “Somewhere no one will think to look for you.”
T HE CROWD OF CURIOUS ONLOOKERS IN FRONT OF THE A RROWOODS’ house had grown since earlier that morning. Gemma saw familiar faces—the press was out in force, and the recognition was mutual. A whisper rippled through the gathering and half a dozen reporters surged to the front.
Putting up her umbrella against the persistent drizzle, she held up her free hand against the clamor of questions. “I’ll speak to you at six this evening, in front of Notting Hill—”
“This house belongs to Karl Arrowood, the antiques dealer,” interrupted Tom MacCrimmon from the
Daily Star
, one of the least reputable tabloids. A woolly-headed man with a red bulbous nose like a Christmas ball, Gemma had found MacCrimmon’s aggressiveness to be tempered by a sense of humor. “Was it someone in the Arrowood family who was killed?”
“The victim’s family has yet to be notified, Tom. Please let us dothat before you speculate in print—or on camera,” she added, seeing the telltale red eye of another reporter’s video camera. “I promise I’ll give you as much as I can this evening.” She turned away and the constable on duty quickly lifted the tape, allowing her inside the sealed perimeter.
Once out of the crowd’s hearing range, she spoke to the officer. “Where’s Mr. Arrowood?”
“Waiting for you at the station, as per your request. Sergeant Franks took him in, and was none too gentle about it.”
“What about the forensics team?”
“Just finishing up. Haven’t found anything obvious, as far as I know.”
“Right. Just keep an eye on the crowd, will you? I need to know if any one person hangs about too long.”
K ARL A RROWOOD HAD BEEN USHERED INTO I NTERVIEW R OOM A, where Gemma suspected he’d worn a path in the floor with his pacing. Fully dressed in a dark suit and tie, clean-shaven, his thick corn-yellow hair neatly brushed, he showed no sign of the shock Gemma had seen last
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