First, I needed to have a peek into what Robbie had been up to over the past couple of years.

  I finished my beer, got my coat, and headed for home and my computer.

  * * *

  In his day, if Sherlock Holmes needed to learn something, he would send a flurry of telegrams racing across Europe and beyond; he’d scour the newspaper notices; he’d order the Baker Street Irregulars to fan out across the alleys and waterways of London.

  Seems terribly inefficient to me. If I want to learn something, after giving the dogs their dinner and taking them for a short walk, I put on the kettle, make a cup of tea, curl up on the couch in the den, and open my iPad.

  I knew a moderate amount about the life of Robert James Ellis, aka Robbie, from when he and Jayne had been together. He’d been born and raised in West London in a family who’d lived on the Cape for generations. He was what in England we call a “lay-about”: shiftless, largely unemployable, and unemployed as often as he could get by while maintaining himself with no income. After barely graduating from high school, he enrolled in a second-rate art college, only to drop out after the first semester. He told everyone who asked, and many who did not, the college had nothing to teach him. He was, in his mind, a true original. Undiscouraged, he attempted to make his living as an artist for a number of years. His style of what he called “brutal realism”—I suppressed a shudder at the image—was not exactly in high demand in a tourist town. Jayne finally managed to talk him into trying something more tourist-friendly. A nice beach at sunset scene, or children splashing in the surf. He gave it a try, and eventually brought several pieces to Beach Fine Arts where Maureen said she’d consider selling them on consignment. As soon as she spotted the dismembered hand, blood dripping from the clawlike fingernails, poking out of the sand close to the holidaying children, she sent Robbie, and his eight-foot-long canvases, packing.

  Eventually, he and Jayne broke up and she moved on to the next unsuitable boyfriend before finally, and sensibly, settling on the faithful Andy. Robbie left town, and I hadn’t cared enough to ask what happened to him.

  I cared now.

  According to what little I could find on the internet, Robbie moved to New York City shortly after he broke up with Jayne. I had no trouble locating an out-of-date website attempting to sell ugly pieces of art at exorbitant prices. His bio was unrecognizable, but the photo was of the Robbie I knew, posing next to a huge canvas covered in shades of gray, dark gray, darker gray, and even darker gray. He called himself an “avant-garde” artist. Someone must have supplied Robbie with the words, maybe in mockery, because he was unlikely to know what it meant. He’s also unlikely to know that the term avant-garde is decades out of date.

  None of the paintings on his web page were marked sold, and the page had last been updated more than a year ago.

  I searched for any mention of Robbie’s work being shown at galleries and found an instance of a one-man show at a small gallery in Lower Manhattan. Clicking on the URL for the gallery gave me a notice that it was permanently closed; no more information was provided other than the owners’ contact details. Judging by the date, the gallery closed only a few weeks after Robbie’s show.

  I leaned back with a sigh. Was it possible I was beginning to feel sorry for Robbie, of all people? He wanted to be an artist, but he couldn’t make it. Much of his failure was down to his own inability to learn or to grow, to experiment, to take advice, to try new things. Maureen McGregor had been willing to give him a chance. But he simply couldn’t adapt enough to take it. Other than the dismembered hand, his painting wasn’t all that bad. Nothing I considered special, but similar to much of the tourist-market oriented stuff that sold well all over the Cape. Aside from the size of his pieces—if anyone bought one, they would have trouble stuffing it into their overloaded car for the trip home.

  I continued digging. Robbie had a good number of friends with social media pages, and his own had absolutely no checks or security features. Between working on his art and begging gallery owners for showings, he did a series of jobs in middle-of-the-road restaurants or with catering companies. I found pictures of him posing with the staff at various events. He seemed to have had a couple of casual girlfriends over the years: wannabe actresses or models he met at his jobs, but nothing that lasted more than a few months.

  A recent entry on his own Facebook page showed Robbie at a bar with friends. “BYE NYC!” he’d written. “It’s been a blast, but it’s home to WL I must go! Big news coming!”

  All terribly boring and rather sad.

  I was about to give up. I didn’t like Robbie, never had. I hadn’t approved of him dating Jayne, but not because he was violent toward her or emotionally abusive. On one memorable occasion, Robbie stumbled into my house in time to save me from a demented killer. I could have handled the situation myself, thank you very much, but for a long, long time, he took every opportunity to remind me I owed my life to him.

  I simply thought Jayne could do better. Much better. Which, absolutely no thanks to me, she eventually had.

  Then I remembered the things he’d said in Ashleigh’s hearing at the party, the way he’d looked at Andy, not to mention me, eyes full of rage, and at Jayne, with unrequited longing.

  So I continued to dig, checking the gossip pages for some of the private parties Robbie worked at. That reminded me of Audrey and her glory years as a much-feted, and greatly feared, gossip columnist. I waded through pages and pages of pictures of beautiful people, with expensive clothes and expensive jewelry, swilling drinks, admiring art or posing for pictures, arms around each other, false smiles. Waitstaff were generally a blur in the background, but I was able to spot Robbie in a couple of pictures.

  My eyes were beginning to water, my vision blurring as I swiped left again and again. The images were running together so much, I almost missed it. I froze, then swiped right. A swanky party, likely a gallery opening. The rich and the famous, the beautiful and the influential. It was a big crowd, guests in the center, staff moving in the background.

  I focused in on a young woman holding a serving tray. She was not looking at the camera, and she was not smiling. Her tray was empty, and she was heading toward the back of the room, likely fetching more canapes.

  Tina Armstrong.

  Robbie was not in that picture, but he’d done other jobs for that catering company.

  Did he and Tina know each other?

  Entirely possible.

  This party had been held three years ago. Tina lived in New York City around that time, before moving to Hollywood. If she was trying to make it as an actress, it was entirely possible she’d be doing waitressing jobs while waiting for her big break. Like all the other actors, singers, dancers, models, artists who gravitated to the Big Apple with stars in their eyes.

  I closed in on Tina again. The picture wasn’t the best, not blown up this much, and she was half turned away from the camera, but I saw no sign of the scar on her face.

  I thought back to the night of Jayne’s party. Tina arrived late. She sat at my table. She called for a drink, and Robbie came over. He’d smiled at her, but she ignored him except to place her order after saying something like, “Still at it?” He’d scowled and gone to get her drink. I’d taken her comment to be a simple remark that she was glad the party wasn’t over yet, and his response nothing but his usual surly self. Might it have been more personal than that?

  Might her comment have been a dig at Robbie still trying to get by waiting tables?

  I glanced at the clock on the iPad. Quarter past ten. Not too late for a drop-in visit.

  I considered expanding my search and going deeper: into newspaper files, even to places I wasn’t supposed to venture on the internet. Such as police records.

  I decided not to take the time. Not tonight.

  Time to beard the pussy cat in his den. I had nothing to fear from Robbie Ellis of all people. However, just in case he didn’t appreciate me dropping in to ask why he hadn’t told the police he knew Tina (and, by the way, stay away from Jayne and Andy), I called Ryan.

  It went to straight to voicemail.

  I sent him a text: Are you busy?

  He replied as I was pulling on my coat: Yeah. Heading for a scene. Bar brawl out of control. One fatality. What’s up?

  Me: It can wait. Love you.

  No reply.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Number 1089 McConnell Street was a small apartment block on the edge of town. Four stories tall, entrance at the far east end of the building, three tiny balconies on each floor with chipped concrete or rusted railings facing the street. Many of those balconies were crammed with bicycles or children’s toys. The cold rain had drizzled to a halt while I’d been at home; the front yard was a mess of dirty melting snow, icy slush, churned-up mud, and boot prints. The building was old, but someone appeared to be trying to maintain it. De-icer had been generously spread across the front walk; the shrubs lining the ground floor windows and balconies were neatly cut back, flower beds dug up and turned over for the winter.

  The vestibule was small but brightly lit, the tiles on the floor cracked and covered with muddy prints, human and canine, paint peeling around the door frame. The heat was turned up way too high. I checked the row of admittance buttons, most of which had names next to them.

  R. Ellis. Apt 1D.

  I pressed the button. It buzzed.

  I waited. It was entirely possible my quarry was not at home. I had no worries about Robbie being able to prepare himself for a visit from me, so I would have called him, if I had his number.

  One of the disadvantages of the cell phone era: not many people have numbers listed in the phone book, in print or online. Sherlock Holmes would have sent a telegram announcing his pending arrival. I didn’t know of any telegram services in West London.

  I pressed the bell again. Again, it buzzed, and again, no voice came through.

  “Can I help you?” A woman walked through the front door.

  “Calling my friend,” I said. “He doesn’t seem to be home.”

  “You’re Gemma, right? From the bookstore.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I—”

  She was in her early sixties, bright blue eyes beneath glasses with heavy purple frames, big smile, curly gray hair, timeworn face. “No reason you should know me. My friends and I like to have afternoon tea at Mrs. Hudson’s on special occasions. Birthdays and the like. I’ve seen you there, and absolutely everyone knows who you are. You’re looking for Robbie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t help you, I’m afraid. I don’t know him except to say hello to as we’re collecting the mail. More like advertising materials these days than mail. Nice enough young man. He’s a famous artist, did you know that?”

  “Uh … no, I didn’t.”

  “West London boy done good. Come back to work on a series of paintings showing the underbelly of the tourist industry. He’s living here to absorb the atmosphere.” Her face twisted in something like disapproval. “I wouldn’t call this building the underbelly. It’s small and the plumbing sometimes makes the most dreadful noise, but they do their best to maintain it. You know what it’s like in places that get so many tourists. No one wants to rent to salesclerks like me.” She smiled at me. “Not that I’m complaining. Good night.”

  “Night. I haven’t been to Robbie’s apartment yet. He’s in number 1D?”

  “Yes. I have 2D, directly above him. Nice to have the corner unit; it lets in a bit more light, particularly on dark days such as these ones. He sometimes plays his music too late and too loudly, but it doesn’t often bother me. I work late shift at the supermarket, and I like to unwind and watch some TV before going to bed.”

  “Would the flats beginning with a one be on the ground floor?”

  “Yes, and so on up. Six apartments on each floor. Not many of us, so it’s nice we all get on.”

  “You must have a good view.”

  “Not one of the best, I’m afraid. The higher floors overlook the parking lot down the hill. Still, it’s better than looking out onto the street.” She pressed her fob against the reader on the wall. It buzzed, the door lock responded, and she opened the door. “Good night, Gemma.”

  “Night.”

  The door swung shut behind her. I made no attempt to put my foot in it, or to otherwise gain access. I had no excuse for barging in where I did not belong, and I suspected my supermarket night-clerk friend was an observant woman.

  Instead, I left the building.

  But I didn’t give up and return to my car. I set off across the cold wet grass. The remains of melted snow and frozen rain instantly soaked into my shoes and from there my socks. Foolishly, I’d worn trainers tonight, thinking I’d be inside the whole time.

  From what the woman told me, easy enough to determine which apartment was Robbie’s. Ground floor, corner unit, rear of the building. From there, he couldn’t have seen my highly distinctive Miata drive up. He hadn’t answered the bell when I rang, but a camera was mounted high on the wall, facing down at the panel to show whoever was standing in front of it. He might have seen me and decided not to respond.

  I rarely take no for an answer.

  I did not intend to break in. If there were signs Robbie was at home, I’d knock on the window and let him know I had no intention of leaving without speaking to him. If he was not at home, I’d come back on another occasion.

  I passed three apartments. The drapes were closed on them all, and the flickering blue light of a TV showed from behind two. The third was dark.

  As I rounded the building, a light went on in the window on the second floor, the apartment at the corner. My new friend preparing for an evening of watching telly.

  Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. The occasional car drove down the street and continued on its way. Otherwise, all was quiet. Cloud cover was heavy, letting through not a trace of moon or stars, but lights shone from the streetlamps above the sidewalk, and over the parking area at the back, as well as spilling from windows. This building was part of a pair, sharing the parking area. A scattering of cars filled the lot, most of them not the newest models, some in a state of considerable disrepair. One was covered by a tarp, indicating the owners likely wintered away from the Cape. The engine idled on another, headlights on, waiting for its owner to return. A meal delivery, I assumed.

  I stepped around the corner. The downstairs flats had tiny outdoor patios, matching the position of the balconies above, enclosed by a rough concrete wall about two feet high.

  In the flat closest to me, the front room was dark, but a light burned further back in what was likely the kitchen. The drapes were open. Shabby couch, thrift-store table holding a pizza box and several cans of beer, huge flat-screen TV, light flickering. The walls were painted an unimaginative beige, matching the heavily worn carpet. No art was on the walls, no photos on the tabletops. The only color came from the TV mounted on the wall. The sound was turned up high, and even through the closed windows and sliding door to the patio, I could hear the squeal of brakes and rapid gunfire.

  My phone was in my pocket; I’d left my purse in the car. I prepared to haul myself over the wall to the patio and knock on the sliding door. If Robbie was in the back room with a lady guest, too bad. That might even work to my advantage. He’d be desperate to get rid of me and not want her to know he was interested in another woman.

  The sliding door leading to the patio was open just a crack. That would be why I could hear the telly so clearly. Odd on such a cold night. Perhaps Robbie had been showing his date the view and forgot to pull the door shut after him.

  I lifted my right leg, swung it over the edge of the cement wall. I was about to pull the other leg up after it when I saw it: amongst the dead leaves, rusting beer cans and rotting chip packets, the dirty puddles on the concrete patio floor, a sprinkling of glass at the base of the door, reflecting the bright lights of the parking lot. The edges of the drapes moved, and I realized they were outside the door, pulled by a gust of wind. In the living room, a shape moved; a figure stepped into the light.

  It was a man, or perhaps a woman, much the same height as Robbie but substantially thinner. Dressed all in black: black trousers, black winter jacket, black gloves. A black scarf was tied around their mouth and nose, and a knitted black winter hat pulled down over their forehead.

  The figure caught sight of me at the exact moment I saw it. He—she? it?—froze. I froze, perched awkwardly on the wall. The weak light behind the person threw a shadow across their face so I couldn’t see the details of their eyes.

  We stared at each other for a fraction of a moment. Then they moved. The door was wrenched fully open, the figure ran through it. Momentarily trapped by indecision, I made a critical mistake. I didn’t allow myself to drop backward to get my footing established on the ground or forward to try to stop the stranger’s movement.

  They grabbed me by the right arm and pulled hard. I yelled, tried to pull myself free, tottering on top of the low wall as we struggled. I pulled back my other arm in an attempt to get in a punch. Instead, I unbalanced myself. One more sharp yank, and I fell over, crashing onto the hard concrete floor. A sharp stab of pain as my knee hit the surface. The figure vaulted over the wall and ran. I staggered to my feet. To my relief, my knee was sore but still functional. The figure in black ran across the parking lot. They reached the small sedan that had been left running, and jumped in.

  I’d assumed the idling car was for a meal delivery. I cursed myself—never assume.

  I slithered onto the top of the wall and slid down the other side, taking care to keep my right leg from making hard contact with the ground. The car backed up, barely missing the truck parked behind it. It turned, straightened, and headed for the driveway. Whoever this was, they were no professional. They’d driven into the parking bay front first, not prepared for a rapid exit in the event things went wrong.

  I ran across the grass at the side of the building as the car sped past me. It barely slowed at the corner, took a sharp left with a squeal of tires, and tore down the street.