Free And Justice There Is None by Deborah Crombie Page B

been waiting for Dawn when she arrived home. What Gemma needed was corroboration, and if Arrowood had threatened his wife, Dawn might have told her lover.
    When her waitress, a woman with pale Fräulein-like plaits wrapped round her head, brought her bill, Gemma said, “Do you by any chance know a porcelain dealer called Alex? Youngish, I think, and nice-looking?”
    “That’d be Alex Dunn,” the girl said in an accent nearer East London than East Germany. “I know he lives up the road, in one of the mews, but I’ve no idea which flat.”
    “Do you know where he trades in the market, then?”
    “Um, I think his stall’s in the arcade just down the road on the left, before you get to Elgin Crescent. Just ask anyone in the arcade. They’ll point him out for you.”
    Gemma thanked her and left, feeling fortified to continue hersearch. As she walked on, the crowd grew ever thicker, and music drifted towards her. Reaching the intersection of Portobello and Chepstow Villas, the official beginning of Portobello Market, she paused to listen to the string quartet that was busking on the corner. A past acquaintance having made her kindly disposed towards buskers, she fished a pound coin from her bag and tossed it in the open violin case.
    Continuing onwards, the strains of Mozart faded into the rhythm of a steel drum. A mime in painted face and costume enthralled watchers. In spite of herself Gemma found the cheerful, carnival atmosphere infectious. She would have to bring the children here, she resolved, one Saturday soon.
    With reluctance, she left the bustle and color of the street for the more crowded and smoky confines of the arcade. At least, she thought, it was warm. Stopping at the first stall, which held a miscellany of small objects from pocket watches to penknives, she spoke to the vendor, a shriveled, heavily made-up woman with hennaed hair. “Do you know where I might find Alex Dunn?”
    “His stall’s right in the back, if that’s what you mean, but you won’t find him there today.” The woman shook her head. “A terrible business, his friend being murdered and all.” She leaned forward confidentially, wafting the smell of smoke and sour coffee into Gemma’s face. “They’re saying it’s a regular Jack-the-Ripper killing. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
    There might be some others not sleeping in their own beds tonight, Gemma thought furiously, if she found out who had leaked that particular snippet. “I’m sure there’s no need for you to worry,” she soothed, forcing a smile. “Would you happen to know where Alex went?”
    “Left this morning with young Fern Adams. Looked ghastly, he did—it was all poor Fern could do to keep him on his feet. But I’ve not seen hide nor hair of either of them since.”
    “Who’s Fern Adams? Is she a friend of Alex’s?”
    “She’s a silver vendor, has the stall next to his. Fern’s family’s had a stall or a barrow in the market since after the war; grew up inPortobello Courts, she did. She’s a good girl, Fern, in spite of her looks.” The natural suspicion that had been held in abeyance by the thrill of gossip suddenly asserted itself. “And why might you be asking all these questions, ducks?”
    Gemma produced her warrant card. “It’s just routine inquiries. Do you know where I could find Fern now?”
    “I’d not be one to say,” the woman told her, turning her attention to a waiting customer. Caution had obviously set in.
    “Do you know anyone else I might speak to?” Gemma persisted, refusing to be ignored. “Friends of Alex who might know where he’s gone?”
    The woman scowled at her in annoyance. “I suppose you could try Otto’s Café just round the corner in Elgin Crescent. I know Alex goes there, and some of the others.”
    As Gemma turned to leave, the woman relented and called out, “Mind you, there’s no sign says Otto’s. It’s just that everyone knows it by that name. You can’t