tentative.
“Gemma, love!” said Hazel when she opened the door. “We weren’t expecting you tonight.” She looked rumpled, relaxed, and slightly flushed. “Come in,” she said, shooing Gemma into the hall. “The children were knackered, poor dears—I took them to the Serpentine today and wore them out—so we got them down early. Tim and I were just watching a video.”
“I meant to call,” said Gemma, then as Hazel started towards the stairs, “Wait, Hazel. I’ll just nip up and get Toby. You go back to your video.”
Hazel turned. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“All right, then, love.” Padding back in her stockinged feet, Hazel squeezed Gemma’s shoulder and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Toby lay sprawled on his back, arms flung up in the air as if he’d been doing jumping jacks in his sleep. He’d kicked his covers off, as usual, which made it easier for Gemma to slip her arms under him, one hand cradling the back of his head. When she lifted him he barely stirred, and his head flopped against her shoulder as she positioned him in her arms.
She’d turn in early, too, she thought as she carried Toby across the garden, balancing his inert weight against her hip as she let herself into the flat. Then she could get up and enjoy spending some time with Toby in the morning before she had to leave for Holmbury St. Mary again.
But after she had tucked Toby into his own small cot, she went round the flat tidying, unable to settle to anything. Finally, when she had exhausted her repertoire of chores, she searched the fridge until she found a piece of cheddar that hadn’t been attacked by mold, then unearthed a few stale biscuits in the cupboard.
She ate standing at the sink, looking out into the darkened garden, and when she’d finished she poured a glass of wine and eased into the leather chair. Old maid habits, she thought with a wry grimace. Soon she’d be wearing cardies and flannel pants, and then what would become of her?
Jackie usually saved the area near the top of the Portobello Road for the end of her shift. It had been a long time since she’d worked evenings, though, and she wasn’t used to the eerie emptiness of the cul-de-sacs this time of night. The little antique shops that bustled with customers during business hours were dark and barred, and bits of rubbish rattled along the gutters.
As she turned left into the last street, the street lamp at its end flared and died. “Shit,” Jackie said under her breath, but she always finished her rounds, and she wasn’t about to let a case of the rookie spooks stop her doing it tonight. She imagined herself telling her guv’nor that she’d done a bunk because the street was dark and empty, then snickered to herself at the thought of his response.
She’d be home soon enough. Susan, who had to rise with the birds to get to her job at the BBC, would be fast asleep but would have left out a snack and a nightcap for her. Jackie smiled at the prospect. A hot bath, a warm drink, and then she’d curl up with the Mary Wesley novel she’d been saving. There was something rather liberating about being awake in the wee hours while the rest of the world slept.
She stopped, head cocked, listening. The hair on the back of her neck rose in an atavistic response. That soft shuffle behind her—could it have been a footstep?
Now she heard nothing but the slight sigh of the wind between the buildings. “Silly cow,” she said aloud, chasing the shadows. She walked on. A few more steps and she’d reach the bottom of the cul-de-sac, then she’d start the last leg back to the station.
This time the footfall was unmistakable, as was the raw and primitive terror that left her knees like jelly. Jackie spun, heart pounding. Nothing.
She unclipped her radio and thumbed the mike. Too late. She smelled him first, a rancid sweetness. Then the metal burned cold against the base of her skull.
CHAPTER
11
Kincaid saw Gemma into the car with Will Darling, then watched as they sped away around the green. She looked back, once, but by the time he’d lifted his hand to wave to her, she had turned away. A moment later the car disappeared from sight.
He crossed the road and stood for a moment at the end of the walk leading to the pub, collecting himself for the task ahead. Deveney had been called out to a shop burglary in Guildford, which left Kincaid on his own to question Brian Genovase. But perhaps he could turn that to his advantage by making the interview as informal as possible.
The wind had risen from the west, shivering the leaves of the old oak, and the pub sign creaked on its hinges as it swung. Looking up at the lovers silhouetted against the moon, Kincaid thought that the image was perhaps more apt than they’d realized.
He found Brian alone, preparing for Sunday lunch. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pud,” said Brian by way of greeting. He finished lettering the chalkboard with a flourish. “We always do Sundays properly. You’ll do well to get a table early.” His words were friendly enough, but as he spoke he gave Kincaid a wary glance.
“I’ll keep that in mind, but first I’d like a word with you before you get too busy” Kincaid slid onto a bar stool.
Brian stopped in the midst of setting up a rack of clean glassware. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I appreciate what you did for my lad last night. You were decent to him, which can’t be said of the last lot. But I don’t know what else I can tell you. Geoff’s been round to the folk in the village already this morning, told them he’d work free in order to make some reparation for what he did. And first thing tomorrow we’ll get him started again in counseling. It seems this is going to be a long process. I should have—”
“Brian.” Kincaid cut him off. “This isn’t about Geoff.”
Brian stared at him blankly. “Not about—”
“I’m afraid we never quite finished our official inquiries. Can you tell me what you were doing on Wednesday evening, between about six o’clock and half past seven?
