“Your uncle Tommy? Do you mean Tommy Godwin?” Kincaid said finally, not quite managing to control his surprise.
Gemma felt as if a giant hand were squeezing her diaphragm. She saw again the silver-framed photograph of Matthew Asherton—the blond hair and the impish grin on his friendly face. She remembered Tommy’s voice as he spoke of Caroline, and she wondered why she had not seen it before.
“I heard him telling me mum about it when the kid drowned,” said Hicks. He must have interpreted the shock in their faces as disbelief, because he added on a rising note of panic, “I swear. I never said nothin’, but after I met Con and he went on about them, I remembered the names.”
Gemma felt a wave of nausea sweep over her as the corollary sank in. “I don’t believe you. You can’t be Tommy Godwin’s nephew, it’s just not possible,” she said hotly, thinking of Tommy’s elegance, and of his courteous patience as she’d taken him through his statement at the Yard, but even as she resisted the idea, she felt again that odd sense of familiarity. Could it be something in the line of the nose, or the set of the jaw?
“You go to Clapham and ask me mum, then. She’ll tell you soon enough—”
“You said you made Connor a proposition,” Kincaid dropped the words into Hicks’s protest like stones in a pool. “Just what was it, exactly?”
Hicks rubbed his nose and sniffed, shifting away from eye contact with them.
“Come on, sunshine, you can tell us all about it,” Kincaid urged him. “Spit it out.”
“Well, the Ashertons have got to be pretty stinking with it, haven’t they, what with their titles and all. Always in the newspapers, in the gossip sections. So I figured they’d not like it put about that their kid was wrong side of the blanket, like.”
The intensity of Kincaid’s anger seemed to have abated. “Do I take it that you suggested to Connor that he should blackmail his own in-laws?” he asked, regarding Hicks with cool amusement. “What about your own family? Did it occur to you that this might damage your uncle and your mother?”
“He wasn’t to say I was the one told him,” Hicks said, as if that absolved him of any culpability.
“In other words, you didn’t care how it might affect your uncle as long as it couldn’t be traced back to you.” Kincaid smiled. “Very noble of you, Kenneth. And how did Connor react to your little proposition?”
“He didn’t believe me,” said Hicks, sounding aggrieved. “Not right away. Then he thought about it a bit and he started to get all strung up. He said how much money was I thinking about, and when I told him ‘start with fifty- thousand quid and we’d split it, we could always ask for more later,’ he bloody laughed at me. Told me to shut my friggin’ face and if I ever said another word about it, he’d kill me.” Hicks blinked his pale lashes and added, as if he still couldn’t quite believe it, “After everything I did for him!”
“He really didn’t understand why Connor was angry with him,” Kincaid said to Gemma as they stood at the zebra crossing separating High Wycombe Station from the carpark where they had left Gemma’s Escort. “He’s more than a few bricks short of a load in the morals department, is our Kenneth. I imagine it’s only the fact that he’s such a ‘timorous wee beastie’ that’s kept him to petty villainy—although I think the comparison does an injustice to the poor mouse,” he added, brushing at the sleeve of his sport jacket.
It was one of his favorites, Gemma noticed with the detachment that had overtaken her, a fine blue-and-gray wool that brought out the color of his eyes. Why was he waffling on as if he’d never come across a small-time crook before?
The oncoming traffic came to a halt and they crossed on the stripes. Kincaid glanced at his watch as they reached the opposite pavement. “I think we can manage a word with Tommy Godwin before lunch if we drive like the hounds of hell are after us. In fact,” he said as they reached the car and Gemma dug the Escort’s keys out of her bag, “since it looks as though we may not need to come back here, we’d better pick up our things and get my car back to London as well.”
Without a word, Gemma started the engine as he slid in beside her. She felt as though a kaleidoscope inside her head had shifted, jumbling the pieces so that they no longer made a recognizable pattern.
Kincaid touched her arm. “Gemma, what is it? You’ve been like this since breakfast. If you really don’t feel well—”
She turned toward him, tasting salt where she had bitten the inside of her lip. “Did you believe him?”
“Who, Kenneth?” asked Kincaid, sounding a bit puzzled. “Well, you have to admit, it does make sense of things that—”
“You haven’t met Tommy. Oh, I can believe that Tommy was Matthew’s dad,” she conceded, “but not the rest of it. It’s a cock-and-bull story if I ever—
“Just improbable enough to be true, I’m afraid,” said Kincaid. “And how else could he have found out about Tommy and Matthew? It gives us the missing piece, Gemma—motive. Connor confronted Tommy over dinner that night with what he’d found out, and Tommy killed him to keep him quiet.”
“I don’t believe it,” Gemma said stubbornly, but even as she spoke little slivers of doubt crept into her mind. Tommy loved Caro, and Julia. You could see that. And Gerald he spoke of with respect and affection. Had protecting them been enough reason for murder? But even if she could swallow that premise, the rest still didn’t make sense to her. “Why would Connor have agreed to meet him at the lock?”
“Tommy promised to bring him money.”
Gemma stared blindly at the drizzle that had begun to coat the windscreen. “Somehow I don’t think that Connor wanted money,” she said with quiet certainty. “And that doesn’t explain why Tommy went to London to see Gerald. It can’t have been to establish an alibi, not if Connor was still alive.”
“I think you’re letting your liking for Tommy Godwin affect your judgment, Gemma. No one else has a shred of motive. Surely you can see—”
The anger that had been building in her all morning broke like a flash flood. “You’re the one that’s blind,” she shouted at him. “You’re so besotted with Julia Swann that you won’t consider that she might be implicated in Connor’s death, when you know as well as I do that the husband or wife is most likely to be involved in a spouse’s murder. How can you be sure Trevor Simons isn’t lying to protect her? How do you know she didn’t meet Connor before his dinner with Tommy, before the gallery opening, and arrange to meet him later that night? Maybe she thought a scandal involving her family would damage her career. Maybe she wanted to protect her parents.
