Free And Justice There Is None by Deborah Crombie Page A

dig yesterday about her efforts to impress Marc still stung. “I just can’t believe that Dawn is dead. She was right there in the clinic yesterday morning, worrying over her cat, with Gavin putting on his usual dog-and-pony show for her—you know how he is with pretty women—”
    “An ordinary day, then.”
    “Except that Dawn always tolerated Gavin; she managed to ignore his advances graciously, if you know what I mean. But yesterday she seemed a little edgy, and when she came out of the examining room she looked like thunder. Didn’t even hear me when I said good-bye.”
    “Maybe Gavin finally went too far.”
    Bryony shrugged. “I’ve always assumed Gavin’s all bark and no bite.”
    “Could she have been upset about the cat?”
    “It was just the usual abscessed bite. Tommy gets in fights, the little bugger.” Bryony filled a second bowl of soup for a frail young man whose retriever looked in better shape than he did.
    “Marc,” she said slowly, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, then with everything that’s happened this morning it flew right out of my mind.” She glanced at him, trying to gauge his responsiveness, then forced herself to go on. “Could I set up a weekly clinic for your clients’ animals?”
    “Here?”
    She nodded. “I thought maybe on Sunday afternoons.”
    “But, Bryony, you know they couldn’t pay.”
    “Of course not. But I could fund it myself in the beginning—it’s my time that’s the most expensive factor—then, if it takes off, I thought I could solicit donations in the neighborhood.”
    “But Bryony, it’s too much—”
    “I could only do vaccinations and minor injuries and illnesses, I know that, but surely that’s better than no care at all.”
    “No, I mean it’s too much for you. I don’t think you realize how much of your time and energy this could take—”
    “How can
you
say that to
me?
You live and breathe for this place; you sleep on a mattress upstairs; you barely have enough money to buy the occasional coffee—” Bryony felt the color stain her cheeks as she realized she’d gone too far. “Oh, Marc, I’m so sorry. I’d no right to say those things—”
    “No, you’re absolutely right. I sounded a self-righteous prig, telling you you weren’t up to the task, and I owe you an apology.” One of his rare smiles lit his face. “I think it’s a splendid idea, and that you’re equally splendid for thinking of it. When shall we start?”
    G EMMA LEFT THE CAR IN THE POLICE STATION CAR PARK, KNOWING that the likelihood of parking anywhere near Portobello Road on a Saturday would be nil. As she walked along Ladbroke Road towards the market, she found that although the rain had stopped it wasbitterly cold, and the bare branches of the trees were pearled with droplets.
    By the time she reached the top end of Portobello Road, she was shivering, and she looked in envy at the one-way tide of shoppers, their brisk steps and bright eyes revealing an insatiable appetite for a bargain. But here the narrow, curving street held only flats and a few posh shops; they had a ways to go before reaching the stalls and arcades packed with imagined treasures.
    She came to a complete halt in front of the entrance to the Manna Café, run by St. Peter’s Church. Why not have some lunch and a hot drink to warm her up? Edging her way through the milling pedestrians, she crossed the pretty little courtyard and pulled open the café door, relaxing instantly as the warmth and cooking aromas enveloped her.
    A half hour later, having devoured a hot bacon sandwich, she nursed a cup of tea and thought about what she had learned. Karl Arrowood was certainly shaping up odds-on favorite for prime suspect, and that was without taking into account the statistical likelihood that he had murdered his wife. If he’d had a vasectomy, and he’d suspected or discovered that his wife was pregnant, that certainly gave him motive. Opportunity was a given; he could even have