Free And Justice There Is None by Deborah Crombie

complicated than that. And then I told her not to be so bloody materialistic, that she could do without Karl’s money. She was pretty—more than pretty—she was smart, capable. She could make it on her own. I even told her I’d help her get her job back; we both worked for the BBC before she married Karl, and I’m still there. I could just kick myself now for being so hard on her! I didn’t know I’d never get to see her again.”
    “Was she angry?”
    “No. That would have been easier. But she just shook her head and kept saying that I didn’t understand, that there were things Ididn’t know. She looked almost … frightened. You don’t think … when you asked did I think Karl had something to do with her death …”
    “We haven’t ruled out the possibility of anyone’s involvement, but it’s early days yet. What can you tell me about Dawn’s boyfriend?”
    “Not much. I know his name’s Alex, and that he sells porcelain in Portobello Market. I’ve never met him.”
    “It’s a small world, the market. He shouldn’t be too difficult to trace. Did he know about Dawn’s pregnancy?”
    “I doubt Dawn had said anything to him. She didn’t know what she was going to do.”
    Glancing at her watch, Gemma saw that it was just after noon. The Portobello Market would still be in full swing, giving her a good opportunity to track down Alex the porcelain dealer.
    As she thanked Natalie for her help and took her leave, Natalie stopped her with a touch, her eyes filling again with tears. “Could you let me know when you find out who did this? I don’t want to hear it on the news.”
    “It’s a promise,” Gemma answered, and vowed to keep it.
    B RYONY STOOD BESIDE M ARC AT THE SERVING TABLE, LADLING HOT vegetable soup into bowls. He added wheat rolls and apples to the trays before passing them on to the hungry and indigent waiting patiently in the queue. Clients, he preferred to call them, as he was providing them a service, and feeling the term identified them in a more positive way than saying “the homeless” or “the needy.”
    How like Marc, she thought, to show such sensitivity to the delicate nuances of self-respect. Here, he was in his element, always ready with an interested expression, or a kind word. And they responded, these “clients.” For many he provided the first step towards rejoining mainstream life, but he had no less patience for those who would never leave the streets and the meager existence they provided.
    Through the glass-fronted doors, Bryony could see those shopperswho’d been resolute enough to make it to the bottom end of the Portobello Road, and now milled round the graffiti-decorated pedestrian mall that had been built adjacent to the Motorway flyover. Marc’s soup kitchen was only a few doors from the old Portobello School, with its two entrances marked separately for girls and boys.
    “You’re quiet today,” he commented, when the last person had moved through the queue, a withered woman who favored him with a beatific toothless smile. “I’m sure we always have a bigger crowd on Saturdays when you come.”
    “Sorry. It’s this business about Dawn Arrowood and Alex.”
    “I know,” he replied somberly. “I haven’t quite taken it in myself. But you know what really worries me? Fern. Now poor old Fern thinks she’s going to save the day with Alex, and I doubt very much that’s going to happen. And I’m not sure how convincingly sympathetic she can be, considering the fact that she despised Dawn Arrowood.”
    “I can’t say I blame her, under the circumstances. And she never had a chance to get to know Dawn—not that
I
knew her well, but she seemed a really nice person.”
    “I doubt that would have mattered to Fern. I only hope Alex won’t slap her down too hard.”
    “Fern’s a grown woman—there’s no law that says she can’t make a fool of herself.” Bryony heard her words hit a bit too close to home and flushed. The memory of Gavin’s