A Finer End

“Report from forensics,” Douglas Cullen said, sliding the folder across the desk and pulling up a chair.

“Any joy?”

Cullen shook his head regretfully. “No, sir. Nothing, zilch, nada.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve been watching American telly again.” He suspected that Cullen liked to imagine himself a tough, NYPD Blue-type detective—a harmless enough fantasy as long as it didn’t get in the way of his work—but surely no one could look a less likely candidate. With his fair hair, spectacles, and rosy-cheeked, schoolboy complexion, Cullen was the very image of the traditional English bobby.

For the past two weeks, they’d been working a case that looked disturbingly as if it might be the beginning venture of a serial killer. The victim, the owner of an antiques stall in Camden Passage, had been found on her own premises, and so far they had not turned up a smidgen of useful evidence. Kincaid had begun to think that the killer had worn a hermetically sealed suit, and been invisible to boot.

As he opened the folder, his mind wandered to his recent—and unexpected—phone call from his cousin Jack Montfort and the dilemma it had presented him.

How long had it been since he’d seen Jack? He had been away on a case when Emily and the baby died … it would have been his aunt’s funeral, then, but he had done little more than shake Jack’s hand and offer his condolences before rushing back to London.

If there was anyone who’d had more than his share of tragedy, it was his cousin. But now it seemed Jack’s new love was lying in hospital and he seemed distraught, fearing that the hit-and-run might not have been an accident. Hesitantly, Jack had urged, “You could come for the weekend, just see what you think.”

“But I’d have no jurisdiction,” Kincaid had protested.

“It doesn’t matter. I just … It would be good to see you.”

His mother and Jack’s had been close, and the families had spent extended time together in the summers when the children were small. Jack had been a rather solemn but likable boy, always ready for an adventure, and he had grown into an engaging and generous man. Kincaid’s memories of the holiday Jack had given him in his Yorkshire time-share had been marred by Emily’s death so shortly afterwards, but the thoughtfulness of the offer had been typical of Jack.

“I’ll let you know if I can work something out,” Kincaid answered, ringing off. As much as he regretted letting Jack down, he had no real intention of driving to Somerset for the weekend.

There was no way he could leave London; something might break on the case, and Doug Cullen wasn’t experienced enough to handle it alone. And he and Gemma had managed little enough time together lately—he’d been hoping to make the most of Kit’s plans to spend the weekend with friends.

He shuffled papers resolutely, determined to focus on the matter at hand. But as he read through the disappointingly negative report, he couldn’t quite forget the desperation he’d heard in Jack’s final words. His cousin needed his support, and Kincaid suspected how dearly it had cost Jack to ask for it.

“Sir?”

“Oh, sorry, Cullen. Afraid I was wool-gathering.”

“You’ve not heard a word I’ve said.” Cullen sounded a bit injured.

Kincaid gazed at his sergeant speculatively. He was a sound lad; perhaps it was time he had a chance to sink or swim. And Gemma … If her touchiness the past few weeks was anything to go by, Gemma badly needed a holiday. The question was whether he could convince her to take it.

He smiled at Doug Cullen. “Think you could manage on your own for a few days, Sergeant?”

When Jack rang him at the bookshop with news of Winnie’s accident, Nick felt a sharp jolt of relief. Cold, hunger, and common sense had driven him back to his caravan the previous evening, but he’d not been able to rid himself of a gnawing feeling of foreboding.

“How—How is she?” Nick asked.

“Unconscious, but stable. They’ll let me in to see her again soon,” Jack told him.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Let the others know, if you can. I’ll ring you if there’s any … change.” Jack’s voice had wavered and Nick sensed the control it took him to keep it steady.

“Right. I—I’m sorry, Jack.” Unable to find anything more adequate to say, Nick hung up. He stood, then flipped the sign on the shop door and locked it as he left. He would tell Faith, but not on the telephone.

He found her ladling pumpkin soup into bowls, the scent of cinnamon and spices combating the dankness in the cafe. Next door in the shop, Buddy was on the phone, the murmur of his voice an underlying accompaniment to the Gregorian chant playing over the sound system.

When Faith had served her customers, Nick leaned over the bar and whispered urgently, “Have you heard about Winnie?”

For the first time since he’d entered, Faith looked at him directly. Color drained from her already wan face. “Winnie?”

“She was on her bike last night, in Bulwarks Lane. Someone hit her. She’s in hospital, unconscious.”

“Wh-what?” Gripping the serving bar, Faith gave a dazed little shake of her head. “That’s not possible. She was here—Oh!” Her eyes widened. “We saw her, after. I could’ve sworn she said she was going to Jack’s, but she was pushing her bike up the lane.”

“We?”

“Garnet and I. On our way home. Winnie was turning into Lypatt Lane—”

“It must have happened right afterwards, then. You didn’t see anything—or anyone else, did you?”