contents of the shopping bag. “A loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese—farmhouse Cheddar, no less—apples, and a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate. Planning a romantic dinner?”
“No, a working one, actually, so I’d better go easy on the wine. But I will have a glass and put my feet up for a bit before I dig in.” Winnie fetched a glass from the cupboard and sat down beside Andrew, slipping out of her shoes with a sigh of relief.
She had often been told that they resembled one another, but she’d always thought that Andrew had got the better part of the deal. He was taller, slimmer, and on him her pleasant features and untidy brown hair were refined to quiet good looks. His tortoiseshell wire-rimmed spectacles added just the right touch of distinction.
Raising an eyebrow, Andrew queried, “Had a good day, then? You look as though you’ve been impressing the bishop.”
“Tougher than that.” She hesitated. How much might she tell him about Faith’s situation without compromising the girl’s trust? Without mentioning names, she briefly outlined her efforts to negotiate a reconciliation.
Andrew swirled the wine round the rim of his glass, then took a swig and studied her over its edge. “Winnie, don’t you think you’ve gone beyond the pale here? This girl is not a member of your congregation, or even C of E as far as you know. No one has asked you to intercede—or interfere, as the case may be—and it seems to me you’re likely to do more harm than good.”
She stared at her brother, astounded. “It’s my job to minister to people, parishioners or not. You know that. And I would never have gone to see the girl’s parents without her permission. She’s seventeen years old, for heaven’s sake, and she misses her home and her family!”
“You don’t have a clue what girls are like these days! Or teenagers, for that matter. They’re lazy and they expect the world handed to them on a platter, and this one probably deserved her predicament—”
“That’s absurd—”
“Not to mention the fact that she’s already got a strike against her if she’s involved with these batty friends of yours. And what makes you think this girl’s told you the truth about anything?” Andrew shook his head in disgust. “Since you met Jack Montfort, you seem to have lost all common sense.”
“Andrew, what on earth has got into you?” Then realization dawned. “This isn’t about my work at all! This is about Jack, isn’t it?”
For a moment she thought he would deny it, then he met her eyes. “Glastonbury is a small town, Winnie. People talk. I went to a council meeting last night, and you and Jack Montfort were a great source of speculation. Montfort may have some justification for going off the deep end, but I can’t see that you have any excuse for plunging in with him. I’m surprised that your bishop hasn’t had a discreet word with you about associating yourself with blatant spiritualism—”
“That’s enough!” She pushed back her chair and stood, her bewilderment turning to icy fury. “You’re being bloody offensive, and you don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’d better go home.”
Andrew stood, too, a little unsteadily, and leaned towards her. “How do you think
For the first time since she was nine years old, Winnie raised her hand and slapped her brother across the face as hard as she could.
“Inspector James …”
Gemma said the words aloud as she drove, trying out the sound on her tongue. Heady things, titles. They tempted you to think you were a different person, when in reality the changes were more like the layers of accretion on a pearl. A little more irritation gained you a little more luster, another layer of knowledge, of experience.
Or perhaps she’d wanted the title to make her into a different person—one whose sense of accomplishment wasn’t tempered by her sense of loss. She’d been so busy worrying about how Kincaid would deal with her decision that she’d failed to take her own response to their separation into account. And in spite of her excitement, and the intensity of her focus on her training, she’d felt a constant ache that seemed only to grow more profound with time. She’d come to think of it as the equivalent of the phantom-limb syndrome—she found herself carrying on imaginary conversations with him throughout the day. It was as if their thought processes had become permanently intertwined. Even when they’d been apart in the course of a job, investigating different avenues on a case, she’d been constantly filing away mental references to share with him.
Kincaid had reacted the way she’d expected, his initial dismay turning quickly to angry bewilderment. “Doesn’t our partnership mean anything to you?” he had asked, and her justifications had sounded weak in her own ears. He’d pulled himself together, of course, had even tried to be understanding and supportive—but he had withdrawn from her. During her last weeks of training in Hampshire, she’d rung him a few times and their conversations had consisted of pleasantly distant chat. Returning to London yesterday, she’d found her new duty assignment awaiting her, and she knew she must tell him about it in person.
He’d been away from the Yard on a case, so she’d gone home, fed Toby his supper, then tucked him up at Hazel’s and headed for Kincaid’s Hampstead flat. She should have rung—he might still be out, he might have other plans, he might not want to see her—and perhaps it was fear of the last that had prompted her to go unannounced.
The traffic was light as she drove through Camden Town, the September evening warm enough to allow her to drive her new car with the windows down. The Ford Escort, whose color went by the romantic and improbable name of Wild Orchid, had been a much-needed gift to herself on her promotion. The increase in her salary had made it feasible, but more than that she had needed some sort of visible symbol of her achievement. And Kincaid had not seen the car yet, which gave her an excuse for showing up on his doorstep.
When she reached Hampstead the glitterati were out in force, strolling and positioning themselves to see and be seen in the sidewalk cafes, cell phones permanently attached to their ears.
Turning into Carlingford Road, she saw Kincaid’s old MG Midget parked in front of his building, covered with its tarp, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was at home. The Major’s ground-floor flat was quiet, as was the stairwell of the building, nor was there any sound of telly or stereo from Kincaid’s flat when she reached the top floor. Her hopes sank, but she knocked, and after a moment he opened the door.
“Gemma! I didn’t know you were back.”
