"You'd better believe something's happened. The freaking cops were here."

"What?"

Khan had looked her way. "You heard me," she whispered, moving farther from the door. "They wanted to know about the brooch-"

"You didn't mention me?"

"Of course I didn't mention you. What sort of idiot do you take me for?"

"I'm sorry, Kris. I'm sorry. Look, you have to meet me. We have to talk." Dom's voice was urgent. "The Gate. After ten. Please."

"No," Kristin repeated, but the phone went dead in her ear. She was staring at it, biting her lip, when it gave the soft bleep that meant she had a text message. After another furtive glance into the gallery, she opened the message and read the words as they scrolled down the screen.

You said you hated red.

"Is she…upset?" Gavin asked the officer who met him at the Notting Hill nick. He'd always liked this station, with its graceful lines and leafy surroundings. Like Lucan Place, it had survived the war intact. But God, he hated dealing with grieving widows. Sometimes it made him wonder if he was cut out for the job.

"No, not exactly," the constable replied, looking back as he led Gavin towards the interview rooms. "I wouldn't describe her as upset. I've put her in the best room. She's not the sort belongs in the-well, never mind. You'd best see for yourself." He shrugged and left Gavin at an unmarked door.

Squaring his shoulders, Gavin entered the room.

She was young, much younger than he'd imagined, given the age of the victim, and instantly he wondered if the possible identification was a mistake.

Glancing down at the few notes he'd made, he said, "Mrs. Rosenthal? I'm Gavin Hoxley, from Chelsea Police Station." He'd deliberately not looked at the written report, wanting to evaluate this woman's story without any preconceptions.

She sat on the opposite side of the scarred table, but had pushed her chair back so that she could clasp her hands in her lap. Her clothes were simple-a pale blue shirtwaist dress, probably reworked from an earlier style, and a white cardigan. But the wide belt emphasized her slender waist, and the dress's color set off her fine, pale skin. Her dark hair was cut short and waved loosely, as if she hadn't bothered much with styling, but the effect was the more appealing for its casualness.

"Yes, I'm Erika Rosenthal," she said in faintly accented English, and looked up into his eyes. "What can you tell me about my husband?"

It had seemed like a good idea that morning, asking if he could visit Erika, but as Kit walked slowly up Ladbroke Grove after school, he began to have reservations. He'd never been to Erika's house on his own, nor without an invitation, and Erika didn't seem the sort of person you just dropped in on.

But he was curious about the missing brooch, and he didn't want to go home and think about Gran. Adjusting his backpack, he picked up his pace, and soon turned into Arundel Gardens. He was glad Erika lived on the north side, where the houses were stuccoed and painted in colors-the plain, cream brick houses on the south side of the street never seemed as inviting. Sometimes he imagined that the more exotic houses in Lansdowne Road, with their bright colors and almost Moroccan feel, had bled a bit into the north side of Arundel Gardens, like paint running.

The afternoon was warm, and by the time he reached Erika's door he was sweating, the wool of his school blazer scratching his shoulders beneath the straps of his bag. Slipping off the heavy pack, he let it sag from one hand as he rang the bell. He always brought home more books than he needed, but somehow he didn't like to leave things behind.

The buzzer echoed inside the otherwise quiet flat, but there was no reply on the intercom. Kit shuffled his feet and swung his pack, suddenly aware of the distant sound of a dog barking, and nearer by, a car door slamming and the wail of a child. The spring pansies in Erika's basement window box were looking faded and leggy, and the small yard was unswept.

He'd almost made up his mind to go when the door swung open. Erika looked out expectantly, and Kit could have sworn he saw a flicker of disappointment before she smiled and said, "Kit! What a nice surprise."

"You shouldn't answer the door without checking to see who it is, you know." The words came out involuntarily and he flushed, hearing the rudeness.

But Erika merely nodded. "You're right, of course. It's just that I was expecting-I thought it might be Gemma. Do come in. I'll make you something cold to drink."

As Kit followed her into the flat, he realized for the first time that he was looking down at her. He suddenly felt large and gawky, and deliberately pulled in his elbows, afraid he might knock a book or an ornament off the hall shelves.

In the sitting room, there were books and newspapers scattered about, and three empty cups on the table beside Erika's chair. Having been taught early on by his mum to pick up, Kit stacked the cups and saucers and carried them into the kitchen. "I could help with the washing-up," he offered when he saw the worktop and the tiny sink.

"Oh." Erika stood still, as if she'd lost her bearings. "I can't seem to settle to anything." She frowned. "But I'm certain I have ginger beer in the fridge, and some ice cubes in the freezer. The glasses-"

"I'll get the glasses." Kit knew where they were kept. When Erika didn't protest, he very quickly put the drinks together, even adding a sprig of mint from a pot on the kitchen table. The window overlooking the garden was open and the soft, warm air blew in like a caress. Thinking of the unexpected disorder of Erika's sitting room, he said, "Can we sit outside?"

"Oh, of course." She wore a heavy blue cardigan, the buttons misaligned, and hugged it to herself as if she were cold.

Kit led the way through the French doors onto the small terrace that overlooked the communal garden. Pulling out one of the white wrought-iron chairs so that it faced the sun, he said, "Sit here. It will warm you."

Erika complied, then looked up at him with a glimmer of a smile. "You're quite bossy, you know."

"That's what my mum used to say," answered Kit, taking the chair opposite.

"You never talk about your mum."

"No," he said, and found to his surprise that he could. "She quite liked it. Me managing her. She used to call me bossy-boots."

"I can see why." Erika cradled her drink, then sipped. "I like the mint."

"My mum grew it in the garden. We always put it in our summer drinks." He pushed away the thought of long summer evenings in the Cambridgeshire garden that ran down to the river. "Was your father really a jeweler?"

"Oh, a jeweler, yes, but so much more. He was an artist. And a bit of a magpie." Erika gave a surprisingly throaty laugh. "He loved bright things." Sobering, she added slowly, "I sometimes think it was a good thing he didn't survive the first years of the war. He would have hated what Berlin became, what Germany became in those years. He liked his creature comforts, my father."

"He-" Kit hesitated, not sure how to go on.

"Oh, he died in a camp. In 1942, as far as I was able to learn."

"And there wasn't anyone else?"

When she shook her head, wisps of white hair came loose from her smooth knot and danced round her face. "No. Just the two of us. My mother had died when I was younger."

Kit nodded and they sat quietly, sipping their drinks, shared knowledge lying easily between them.

After a bit, Kit said, "What was it like, Berlin before the war?"

Erika smiled. "I always think of flowers. Our garden was full of flowers in summer. Red and pink geraniums, petunias, roses. My father was a very social man, and entertaining was good for his business. Summer seemed one long round of garden parties, shimmering dresses, laughter, the scent of cigarette smoke on the night air. But-" She gave a small sigh, then added more briskly, "But I was a child. And I'm sure if I had been older, I would have realized that even then it mattered that we were Jewish.