“What’s up, guv?” he asked. “Got a hot date?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” she replied, grinning. “And for once I’m determined not to be late.”
Kincaid had rung her from the Yard an hour ago and asked her to meet him at an address a few blocks from the station. He’d given her no explanation, only insisted that she be prompt, and that alone had been enough to arouse her curiosity. A superintendent leading Scotland Yard’s murder inquiries, Duncan’s schedule was as demanding as hers, if not more so, and they were both accustomed to working long hours.
Of course she had been trying to cut back, due to what Kincaid only half-teasingly referred to as her “delicate condition,” but without much success. She had no intention of announcing her pregnancy to her superiors until she absolutely had to, and then she’d be even less inclined to beg off work.
And if an unplanned pregnancy weren’t disastrous enough for the career prospects of a newly promoted detective inspector, Gemma suspected her unmarried state would garner even less favor with her superiors. At least when Toby had come along she’d been married to his dad.
Checking the address she’d scribbled on a scrap of paper, she walked down Ladbroke Grove until she reached St. John’s Gardens, then turned left. The old church stood sentinel on the summit of Notting Hill, and even on such a dreary evening Gemma loved the calm of the place. But Kincaid’s directions sent her onward, down the hill to the west, and after a few blocks she began checking the house numbers.
She saw his MG first, its top buttoned up tight against the damp, and then across the street the address he had given her. It was the end house of a terrace, but faced on St. John’s rather than the cross street. Porch light and street-lamp illuminated dark brown brick set off by gleaming white trim, and a front door the vivid color of cherries. Through the trees that grew between the house and the pavement, she glimpsed a small balcony on the second floor.
Duncan opened the door before she could ring. “What, are you clairvoyant?” she demanded, laughing, as he kissed her cheek.
“Among my many talents.” He took her damp jacket and hung it on an iron coat rack in the hall.
“What’s this all about? Are we meeting someone here?”
“Not exactly,” he answered, with a grin that made her think of her four-year-old son concealing a surprise. “Let’s have a look round, shall we?”
The kitchen lay to the left, a cheerful, yellow room with a scrubbed pine table and a dark blue, oil-fired cooker. Gemma’s heart contracted in a spasm of envy. It was perfect, just the sort of kitchen she had always wanted. She gave a lingering look back as Kincaid urged her into the hall.
On the right, the dining and sitting rooms had been opened into one long space with deep windows and French doors that Gemma presumed must lead to a garden. The dining furniture had an air of Provencal; in the sitting room, a comfortably worn sofa and two armchairs faced a gas fire, and bookcases climbed to the ceiling. In her imagination, Gemma saw the shelves filled with books, the fire lit.
“Nice, yes?” Kincaid queried.
Gemma glanced up at him, her suspicions growing. “Mmmm.”
Undeterred, he continued his tour. “And here, tucked in behind the kitchen, a little loo.” When she had dutifully admired the facilities, he took her into the last room on the left, a small study or library. But there were no books on these shelves, just as there had been no dishes in the kitchen, no personal possessions or photographs in the dining and sitting area.
“I’d put the telly here, wouldn’t you?” he went on smoothly. “So as not to spoil the atmosphere of the sitting room.”
Gemma turned to face him. “Duncan, are you giving up policing for estate agenting? I’m not going a step further until you tell me what this is all about.”
“First, tell me if you like it, love. Do you think you could live here?”
“Of course I like it! But you know what property values are like in this area—there’s no way we could afford something like this even if we pooled our salaries—”
“Just wait before you make a judgment. See the rest of the house.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
Following him up the stairs to the first floor, she mulled over her situation. She must make a change, she knew that. The tiny garage flat she rented was much too small for another child, and Kincaid’s Hampstead flat was no more suitable—especially since it looked as though his twelve-year-old son would be moving in with him over the holidays.
Since she had told Kincaid about the baby, they had talked about living together, combining families, but Gemma had found herself unwilling to face the prospect of such momentous change just yet.
“Two good-sized bedrooms and a bath on this floor.” Kincaid was opening doors and turning on lights for her inspection. They were children’s rooms, obviously, but again the walls bore pale patches where pictures and posters had been removed.
“Now for the
Gemma stood riveted in the doorway. The entire top floor had been converted to a master suite, open and airy, with the small balcony she’d seen from the street at the front.
“There’s more.” Kincaid opened another set of French doors and Gemma stepped out onto a small roof garden that overlooked the treetops. “That’s a communal garden beyond the back garden. You can walk right into it.”
Gemma breathed out a sigh of delight. “Oh, the boys would love it. But it can’t be possible … can it?”
“It very well might be—at least for five years. This house belongs to the guv’s sister—”
