"Kit! Rise and shine!" His dad's voice came from the second floor. Kit imagined him standing at the top of the stairs, buttoning his shirt, fresh from the shower and smelling of soap, his hair still damp and combed with a neatness that would last only until it was dry.

Gemma would be down soon, helping Toby dress-or at least arguing with him over his choices-and then there would be breakfast, and a kitchen full of chatter and barking dogs. Suddenly the day seemed a good deal brighter.

Dumping Tess unceremoniously onto the floor, Kit threw back the covers. "I'm up," he shouted back.

When Gemma came into the kitchen, Kincaid already had coffee on and was putting out cereal boxes for the boys. But when he held out a mug, she shook her head.

"No time. Toby was determined to wear his Spider-Man T-shirt with holes in it rather than his uniform this morning. And I want to get in early, see what's up, then dash to hosp-"

Kincaid was shaking his head.

"What?" asked Gemma, stopping a quick grab for juice.

"You can't keep on delegating to Melody and ducking out of the job. You're going to have to tell your super and Melody about your mum, request some time-"

"But I don't want-I don't like to-" She ran a hand through her shorter hair and the bareness of her neck made her feel vulnerable. She still missed the weight of her long plait on her back. "I don't like airing my personal business at work. In five minutes it will be all over the station and everyone will be giving me sympathetic looks."

"Would you rather they thought you were slipping out for trysts with the milkman?"

Gemma couldn't help smiling. "Trysts? Who on earth says trysts? And no, I don't suppose I want anyone thinking I'm having them-whatever they are-with the milkman." She sighed. "I'll have a word with Mark first thing. And then Melody."

He came round the table and pulled her into a hug, and she let herself relax against him, taking momentary comfort from the warm solidity of his body. "A wise choice," he whispered in her ear. "And besides, I'm better than the milkman."

"And how do you know that?" she whispered back.

He'd put her off, telling her he wanted her to make a positive identification of the body before he discussed details. But instead of sending Erika Rosenthal to the mortuary with a WPC, as would have been his usual custom, Gavin ordered a car and took her himself. If anyone had questioned his reasoning, he would have said it was because he thought he might learn more, and that he wanted no delay in confirming the identity of his victim, and both rationalizations were, in part, true.

But the core of it was that he felt protective, that he didn't want her to face the body on the mortuary slab alone. And then there were the barely admitted thoughts-that he could sit next to her in the back of the car, that her arm might touch his, that the day was warm and her dark hair might blow round her face in the draft from the open window.

She didn't speak as they drove along the Embankment, but sat beside him with her pale blue skirt draped demurely over her knees and her hands clasped once more in her lap. And when they crossed the river at Waterloo, she stared out at the sunlight flickering on the water as if she were any young woman on an outing on a beautiful spring day. Except there was a tension in her he could sense, as if every cell in her body were holding itself in check.

The desire to place his hand over hers became so intense that in order to distract himself he leaned forward and spoke to the driver, suggesting where the officer might wait while they were inside Guy's, and he must have spoken more sharply than he intended because she glanced at him, startled, then looked away.

The car left them at the main gate, and as they crossed the courtyard and entered the corridors that led to the morgue, Gavin allowed himself to guide her by touching her elbow lightly. If she were aware of his touch, she did not object. Nor did she comment on the elusively sweet smell of decay, never quite masked by the antiseptics.

Then they had reached the morgue, and having made sure the body was ready for viewing, Gavin took her in.

The gurney had been moved near the door, and Dr. Rainey's assistant carefully folded back the sheet to reveal the face. The flesh had sunk since the postmortem, making forehead, cheekbones, and chin more prominent, but the features were still recognizable to Gavin, and to Erika Rosenthal as well.

She put a hand to her mouth, the first involuntary gesture he had seen her make. Then she nodded once and dropped her hand to her side. "That's David," she whispered, then she spoke again, more loudly, "Yes, that's my husband," as if Gavin might not have heard her. Or as if, Gavin thought, she needed to lay claim to him.

"Do you…would you like some time-"

"No. No. Tell me how he died."

"Your husband was found in Chelsea, in a garden across from the Embankment. Someone stabbed him, Mrs. Rosenthal. Repeatedly, in the chest. He didn't try to protect himself. And then it looks as though your husband's killer emptied his pockets and his satchel."

She turned away from the gurney, and he saw that her eyes were dry. "Can we go, please?"

"Of course." He led her out, and her footsteps beside his were unfaltering. But when they reached the courtyard, she stopped suddenly and looked round, as if she had lost her bearings.

"Here." Gavin led her to a bench. "Just sit for a bit."

She sank down beside him and closed her eyes. After a moment, she said, "I'll have to make arrangements straightaway. He can't be embalmed, you know. Or cremated. Even though David was not an observant Jew, these are things that would have mattered to him. So burial must take place as soon as possible."

"Yes, I know. But it will be several days before the authorities will release his…body."

Turning, she met his eyes. "How do you know these things, Mr. Hoxley?"

"When I was a child in Chelsea, our neighbors were Jewish. We were close, and I was a curious boy. I wanted to know why they did things differently."

"A curious boy grown into a curious man. And one without prejudice, I think." Her gaze probed him. "Will you find out who did this to my husband? And why?"

"If I can." He didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened by her approbation. "But you'll have to help me. Tell me why you were afraid your husband had committed suicide."

The breeze stirred her skirt, then feathered a tendril of hair across her cheek. "My husband…my husband felt his obligations deeply, Inspector. There were…debts…in his life he could never fulfill-at least not in his eyes." She sighed. "And David was a deeply disillusioned man. Before the war he was a firebrand. He spoke out against the Nazis, putting himself at risk. He couldn't believe that so barbaric a philosophy would be taken seriously by Germans, by the world, and he certainly did not believe that they could prevail."

"He was right, in the end," said Gavin, his mind skittering away from the bloody fields of France.

"Yes. But victory came too late for David, and at too great a cost. He couldn't forgive. Or find anything worthwhile in the present." Had that included his wife? Gavin wondered, then felt a rush of guilt as he realized just how often he had looked at his own wife, and his children, and thought the same. Had Linda and the children known they were being measured and found wanting?

Too quickly, he said, "You mentioned your husband went to the British Museum to work. Do you know what he was writing?"