Kincaid, who had been leaning against a filing cabinet, hands in pockets, straightened up and gave a deceptively courteous smile. "Then I suspect a warrant will make a fairly good battering ram."

"We'll have to start with the parents," Kincaid said as they pushed through the salesroom doors back out into the ordinary hustle of the Old Brompton Road, where passersby untouched by this particular tragedy bumbled past on their own urgent errands, and the lunchtime scent of pizza and kebabs wafted from the open doors of restaurants and cafés.

Gemma knew he hated such interviews as much as she did, but he was better at concealing it. She stopped him with a touch on his arm, having remembered a fragment of conversation. "Wait just a sec."

She ducked back into Harrowby's and emerged a moment later. "I've got Kristin's friend Giles's address from Mrs. March. If he was cut up enough to go home, we should have a word. Especially if Giles might have sent the flowers."

"Where does he live?" Kincaid asked.

"Fulham."

"We'll see the parents on the way, then." He turned to Cullen. "Doug, can you go back to the Yard and get a start on that warrant? I want to know who put that brooch up for sale, whether Mr. Khan likes it or not. And, Gemma, about those flowers-"

"Already on it," Gemma said as she pulled Melody up on her mobile. She'd got the name of the florist from Mrs. March along with Giles's address, and when Melody answered, she asked her if she could use her powers of persuasion to get the name of the sender without a warrant.

"That's asking a lot, boss," Melody said, but she sounded more amused than aggrieved. It might save them valuable time, and she knew it.

"I've no doubt you can do it." Gemma gave her the information and rang off, her smile cut short as she saw the play of emotions on Doug Cullen's face as he watched her.

There was resentment-she guessed as much at her involvement in general as at being given the tedious job of getting a warrant-combined with what might have been a flicker of relief. He was probably glad not to have to cope with Kristin Cahill's parents, she thought, but then again, she'd never seen Cullen display much empathy in interviews.

But he merely nodded at Kincaid and said, "I'll find a sympathetic judge," before handing Kincaid the car keys and heading off towards the tube station.

While Gemma had come via tube, Kincaid and Cullen had come in a Yard Rover, and now Kincaid took over the wheel as he and Gemma made the short drive to World's End. The car was silver and anonymously discreet-nothing obvious to set the neighbors gossiping, Gemma thought as they pulled up to the block of flats just to the west of Edith Grove.

The address they had been given was not in the monolithic seventies-era block of flats that dominated the skyline between the King's Road and the Thames, but rather a more modest council estate that Gemma guessed had been built not long after the war. It looked well tended and comfortable, an image marred by the orange stripes of paint on the street and the Sokkia team working the accident site.

When Kincaid had found a spot to park the Rover, they walked over to speak to the lead investigating officer.

"Don't often get the Yard in an accident reconstruction," the officer said when Kincaid had introduced them.

"Anything interesting yet?" Kincaid asked.

"The laser's faster, not miraculous. I'm Bill Davis, by the way." Davis was a stocky man with a bristle of gray hair and lines round his eyes that suggested he liked a joke. "And there's not much to work with here. Still might have been a drink driver who didn't even see the poor kid. Except that from what we can see of the tire marks, it looks like the driver might have swerved towards the pedestrian." He nodded at the camera mounted over the traffic light. "Maybe you'll get something off the CCTV."

"I've got the Yard on it now," Kincaid told him.

"Going to interview the family?" Davis shook his head, said, "Don't envy you," and went back to his laser.

They found the flat easily. Gemma rang the bell with a slight tightening of the throat and a sympathetic smile at the ready, but the woman who answered almost immediately gave them a quick assessing glance before saying quietly, "Homicide team, then?" and motioning them in.

"Yolanda Fish." She extended a firm, dark-skinned hand to each of them as they introduced themselves. "Detective constable. Family liaison officer." She had a competent sort of compassion about her, just the right balance for family liaison.

It was not a job Gemma envied. The liaison officer was there to provide support and information about an ongoing investigation for the families of victims, but they were also police officers, and bound to report anything they learned in confidence that might have an impact on an investigation.

"Mr. Cahill is taking a bit of a…rest. Not feeling too well." DC Fish glanced towards what Gemma assumed were the bedrooms and lifted a hand to her mouth in a quick but unmistakable mime of drinking. "But Mrs. Cahill-Wanda-is in the kitchen. I'll just tell her you're here before I take you back."

Gemma stopped her. "Is she-"

"Holding up as well as you'd expect. Kristin was an only child, and there aren't any close relatives nearby. Nor a priest, although I know someone who might come in for a bit."

Yolanda's momentary absence gave Gemma a chance to look round the flat, and although the block may have originally been owned by the council, it looked as though this flat had been bought by the owners and refurbished. The sitting room was beautifully proportioned, fitted with expensive hardwood flooring, and arranged with a pleasing assortment of antiques and contemporary furnishings. The walls had been hand finished in a pale buff that set off the artwork and furniture.

The kitchen, when Yolanda beckoned them in, confirmed Gemma's opinion. Pale blue walls set off the collection of antique china on a Welsh dresser and the warm woods of contemporary cupboards and a refectory table.

But then her attention was taken by the woman who sat at the table's end. Gemma put her age in the mid to late forties, and with her chin-length dark hair and her daughter's slight build, she might have passed for a good deal younger on a different day. But on this morning her face was ravaged by grief. The eyes she raised to Gemma's were swollen, her stare blankly uncomprehending. A mug filled with untouched tea sat before her.

Yolanda went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Wanda, these are the police officers I told you about. They need to ask you a few questions." She glanced up at Gemma and Kincaid, adding, "I can make you a cuppa-"

Shaking his head, Kincaid pulled out a chair and sat facing Wanda Cahill. "We won't trouble you long." Yolanda nodded and, moving back to the sink, began drying cups with a tea towel.

Gemma felt a stab of relief at Kincaid's declaration, then was ashamed of her reaction. But the pain in the room was palpable, a miasma in the air that made it seem hard to breathe. She slid into a chair at the opposite end of the table, as if the physical distance might provide some barrier.

As Gemma watched, Wanda Cahill made a visible effort to focus on Kincaid. "I don't understand," she whispered, and her voice sounded rusty, as if sobbing had rasped her throat. "They rang the bell. At first I thought it was a dream, the same dream I'd had since Kristin was a child, whenever she was away from home. And always I would wake up and know it was a dream, and then I could go back to sleep. But it didn't stop, the sound, and I couldn't-I couldn't-I knew-" She looked from Kincaid to Gemma, her brow creased, her fingers pinching at the edge of her unevenly buttoned cardigan.