absence.”
“What? Now?”
“I’ll talk to Denis as soon as he comes back from his meeting.”
“But you can’t just take off without notice, without going through the proper chan—”
“And why bloody not? You know how much holiday time I have accrued. I’ll put in for that and I’ll take compassionate leave or sick leave in the meantime. I’ll do whatever it takes, Gemma.”
“And damn the consequences?”
“It’s too late to be talking about consequences,” he said, almost shouting at her. “It doesn’t matter now.”
She stared back at him, her mouth set in a stubborn line, but when she spoke her voice was quiet and level. “What happens to you matters to me. Very much. I know what you’re doing, Duncan, and it scares the hell out of me. You don’t have any intention of leaving this case to the Cambridgeshire force, do you? You know they won’t give you any official sanction to investigate, but you think you can do a better job, and you’re willing to risk damaging your career to prove it.”
Slowly, he said, “What is my career as set against Vic’s life?”
Gemma’s eyes filled with tears. “What you’re doing won’t bring Vic back. You’re only going to hurt yourself, love, and I don’t think I can bear that.”
“I’m sorry, Gemma.” He had no desire to hurt her as well, but he knew he could not let his resolution waver. “You’re wrong. This is the only thing I can do that
“But this isn’t your responsibility,” she said, leaning towards him, pleading with him. “It’s not your fault that Vic died. You couldn’t have done anything more, even if you’d known what was going to happen.”
He stretched his lips into a smile. “You could be right. But I’ll never be sure, will I?”
Gemma left the Yard at half past five. She’d hoped for another chance to talk to Kincaid, to persuade him not to act so hastily, but he’d still been in a meeting when she’d last looked in on him. He’d looked up and said merely, “I’ll be tied up for a while, I’m afraid, Gemma. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Even though she knew he couldn’t have said more, or excused himself from the meeting, without compromising her, it had made her feel shut out, dismissed. It was sadly ironic, she thought as she walked slowly home from the Angel tube stop, that her fear of Vic coming between them had come true only with her death. And what weapons had she against his guilt?
She was simply too tired to shop for her supper tonight, she thought as she neared the Sainsbury’s on the Liverpool Road. She’d have to hope Hazel had made enough for her, or rely on the meager contents of her own pantry.
The busker stood in his usual spot near Sainsbury’s doors, but for the first time in all the months Gemma had seen him there, he was without his dog. A few passersby had stopped to listen to him play his clarinet, and Gemma felt, as she always did, a thrill of pleasure at the sound. She stopped, too, closing her eyes in concentration. Was it Mozart? Or was it just that she’d thought of him when Hazel had put a Mozart clarinet concerto on the CD player the other day?
When he’d finished, the busker nodded at his audience as they tossed a few coins in his instrument case, but he didn’t speak or smile. It occurred to Gemma that she’d never heard him speak, and she was suddenly curious to see if he would.
As the other listeners moved off, she stepped closer and asked, “What’s happened to your dog? Is he all right?” What an arresting face he had, she thought as she watched him, with its prominent cheekbones, strong chin, and long, straight nose. The close cropping of his fair hair served to emphasize the planes of his face, and his very deep-set eyes were blue.
He studied her with his usual wariness, then he shrugged and said, “A little mishap with a car. He’s in hospital.” His voice was surprisingly deep, and his accent suggested he was well educated.
“Oh. Is he going to be all right? Can you manage …” Her spontaneous offer of help faltered under his stare. “I mean …”
But he said politely enough, “A few cracked ribs. And yes, I can manage, thank you.”
“Oh, good. It’s good that he’s not hurt too badly, I mean,” said Gemma, feeling more of an idiot by the minute, but she couldn’t resist one last curious question. “What’s your name?”
She thought he wouldn’t answer, but after a moment he said reluctantly, “Gordon.”
“I’m Gemma.” When there seemed to be nothing else to say, she added awkwardly, “Well, cheerio, then,” and turned away.
She glanced back, once, and saw him lift the clarinet to his lips. The music followed her as she turned west into Richmond Avenue, fading until the last faint notes might have been her imagination.
The damp and dreary weather of the past few days had cleared during the afternoon, and as she neared Thornhill Gardens, pale pink as uniform as a bedsheet spread itself across the sky, then darkened slowly to rose. Against this backdrop the Georgian houses took on a dark and calming geometry, and by the time Gemma reached her flat she felt a bit more able to adjust herself to what she thought of as the other side of her schizophrenic life.
She found Hazel on the patio, watching the last of the sunset while the children played in the garden. When she’d hugged Toby, she sank into the chair beside Hazel and sighed.
The small table between them held a bottle of sherry and two glasses, and Hazel filled the empty glass and handed it to Gemma. “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass. “It sounds as though you’ve had a long day.” She pulled her bulky cardigan a little closer round her throat and took a sip of her drink. “I couldn’t bear to go inside quite yet. The children have had their tea, but not their baths.”
“Wouldn’t have done much good, would it?” said Gemma, as the children were digging happily in the muddy spot beneath the rosebush. “I’ll bathe them in a bit.” She leaned back into the cold curve of the wrought iron chair
