childlike about it, like a playhouse. Or a ship’s cabin, where everything has its place.”
Gemma laughed. “I told her my granddad would have loved it. He was in the navy.” She placed the roses on the small coffee table, the splash of pink the single accent in the black and gray room.
“Red would have been the obvious choice,” he said, smiling.
“Too boring.” Two pairs of cotton knickers, a bit faded and frayed about the elastic, hung suspended in front of the radiator. Flushing, Gemma snatched them down and tucked them away in a drawer beside the bed. She lit lamps and closed the blinds, shutting out the twilit garden. “I’ll just get changed.”
“Let me take you out.” He still felt he needed to make amends. “If you don’t already have plans,” he added, giving her an easy out. “Or we’ll have a quick drink and catch up, and I’ll be on my way.”
She stood for a moment, jacket in one hand and hanger in the other, looking around the room as if assessing the possibilities. “No. There’s a Europa just around the corner. We’ll pick up a few things and cook.” She hung the jacket up decisively, then pulled jeans and a sweater from a chest beneath the rack.
“Here?” he asked, eyeing the kitchen dubiously.
“Coward. All it takes is a bit of practice. You’ll see.”
“It does have its limitations,” Gemma admitted as they pulled chairs up to the half-moon table. “But you learn to adapt. And it’s I not as though I have time to do much fancy cooking.” She looked pointedly at Kincaid as she filled his wineglass.
“Copper’s life. You’ll get no sympathy from me,” he said with a grin, but in truth he admired her determination. With its long, unpredictable hours and heavy caseload, CID was a tough proposition for a single mother, and he thought Gemma managed remarkably well. It didn’t do to let his compassion show, however, as she bristled at anything she could construe as special treatment.
“Cheers.” He lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to your adaptability anytime.” They’d cooked pasta on the gas ring and served it with ready-made sauce, a green salad, a loaf of freshly baked French bread and a bottle of fairly respectable red wine—not bad fare from a kitchen the size of a broom closet.
“Oh, wait. I almost forgot.” Gemma slipped out of her chair and rummaged in her handbag, retrieving a cassette tape. She popped the tape into the player on the shelf above the bed and brought the case to Kincaid. “It’s Caroline Stowe, singing Violetta in
Kincaid listened to the gentle, almost melancholy strains of the overture. As they shopped, he had told Gemma about his encounter with Sharon Doyle and his visits with Trevor Simons and the vicar, and Gemma had related her interviews at the Coliseum. She’d given her usual attention to detail, but there had been an added element in her recital, an interest which stretched beyond the bounds of the case.
“This is the drinking song,” she said as the music changed. “Alfredo sings about his carefree life, before he meets Violetta.” Toby banged his cup enthusiastically on the table in time to the rollicking music. “Listen, now,” Gemma said softly. “That’s Violetta.”
The voice was darker, richer than he’d expected, and even in the first few phrases he could hear its emotional power. He looked at Gemma’s rapt face. “You’re fascinated by all this, aren’t you?”
Gemma sipped her wine, then said slowly, “I suppose I am. I never would have thought it. But there’s something…” She looked away from him and busied herself cutting Toby’s pasta into smaller pieces.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words, Gemma,” Kincaid said, a little amused. “You’re more likely to be guilty of the opposite sin. What is it?”
She looked up at him, pushing a stray copper hair from her cheek. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it,” she said, but her hand went to her chest in a gesture more eloquent than words.
“Did you buy this today?” he asked, tapping the cassette case. A younger Caroline Stowe looked back at him, her delicate beauty accented by the nineteenth-century costume she wore.
“At the ENO shop.”
He grinned at her. “You’re converted, aren’t you? A proselyte. I’ll tell you what—you interview Caroline Stowe tomorrow. We still need a more detailed account of her movements on Thursday evening. And you can satisfy your curiosity.”
“What about the autopsy?” she asked, wiping Toby’s hands with a cloth. “I’d expected to go with you.” She patted Toby on the bottom as she scooted him out of his chair with a whispered, “Jammy time, love.”
Watching her, Kincaid said, “I’ll manage it myself this time. You stay in town until you manage to see Tommy Godwin, then drive to Badger’s End and tackle Dame Caroline.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again after a moment and returned to collecting salad on her fork. Attending autopsies was a particular point of honor with her, and Kincaid felt surprised she hadn’t offered more of an objection.
“I’ve put Thames Valley onto tracing Kenneth Hicks,” he said,” pouring a little more wine into his glass.
“The bookie’s runner? Why would he want to get rid of his source of cash? They’ll never collect anything from Connor Swann now.”
Kincaid shrugged. “Maybe they wanted to make an example of him, start a few rumors among the big gamblers—this is what’s in store if you don’t pay up, mate.”
Gemma finished her pasta and pushed her plate away, then picked up another piece of bread and buttered it in an absent minded way. “But he did pay up, regularly. A bookie’s dream, I should think.”
“They could have had an argument over a payment. Maybe Connor found Kenneth was skimming off the top, threatened to tell the boss.”
“We don’t know that he was.” Gemma stood up and began clearing their dishes. “We don’t know much of anything, for that matter.” Setting down the stack of plates again, she ticked off on her fingers, “We need to map out Connor’s day. We know he had lunch at Badger’s End, and that he was meeting someone, but we don’t know who. Why did he go to London? Who did he see at the Coliseum? Where did he go that night, after he came back from London? Who did he see then?”
