wagging furiously. “No, Jack,” Hugh said. “Stay. Guard the house.”
His tone woke Toby, who sat up, disoriented and cross from his impromptu sleep. He rubbed his eyes and began to cry. Scooping him up, Gemma sat down at the table, holding him in her lap while urging Rosemary and Hugh to go. A moment later the front door slammed and the house was suddenly silent, except for Toby’s grizzling.
“Didn’t want a nap,” he cried. “Now everybody’s gone.”
“You didn’t take a nap,” Gemma assured him, stroking his sleep-damp hair. “You just practiced closing your eyes.” She hugged him but he squirmed, refusing to be placated. “Go on, close your eyes,”
she whispered in his ear. “Just try it.”
Forgetting to sniffle, Toby blinked slowly.
“See how easily you can do it?” Gemma asked. “That’s from practicing.”
He giggled. “That’s silly, Mummy.”
“No, you’re silly. And not everyone’s gone. I’m here, aren’t I? And that means we can do something special, just the two of us.”
Toby slid from her lap, tears forgotten. “Can we do my puzzle?”
Although too young to read the Harry Potter books, he was old enough to be susceptible to the product marketing, and Kit’s gift of a Harry Potter–themed jigsaw had thrilled him.
“Um, okay,” agreed Gemma, deciding she’d worry later about having to dismantle a partially completed puzzle the first time someone needed the kitchen table. “Of course we can.”
Toby tore from the room, and a moment later she heard him pounding up the stairs. The dogs, having returned to the warmth of the stove-side bed, glanced up at the noise. Jack and Tess put their heads down again, but Geordie stretched and came over to her, lay-
ing his head on her knee. As she stroked his head, she realized this was the first moment she’d had on her own since they’d arrived. She felt a little odd, alone in Duncan’s parents’ house, as if she were trespassing, but she was glad of the solitude.
Her peace was short-lived, however. She’d just got Toby settled at the table with his jigsaw when the doorbell rang. She had done enough notifications during her days on the beat that she never felt comfortable with an unexpected caller, but this time the instinctive jab of fear was sharper.
It might be Juliet, she told herself, without a key. Assuring Toby she’d be right back, she shut the barking dogs in the kitchen and went to the door, her heart thumping with a mixture of hope and trepidation.
But the man who stood on the porch when she swung open the door was a stranger. Her first thought was that his slightly battered face seemed an odd match for his well-cut blond hair and his expensively tailored black wool overcoat; her second was that he was rakishly attractive.
Eyeing her with equal interest, he said, “I was looking for Duncan Kincaid. Have I got the right house?” His voice held the drawn-out vowels of the northwest, more pronounced than the faint trace Duncan had retained.
“Yes, but he’s not here just now.” Glancing at the sky, she saw that it had grown later than she’d realized. She forced a smile and added,
“He should be back very soon, though, if you’d like to wait.”
The caller glanced at the darkening sky, as if gauging the time, then shook his head. “No, I don’t want to impose. Just ask him to call Ronnie Babcock, when he comes in.”
“Ronnie Babcock? You’re Chief Inspector Babcock?”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Last time I checked.”
Gemma flushed. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean— It’s just that Duncan’s talked about you.” She stepped out on the porch, offering him her hand. “I’m Gemma.”
The surprised look that followed this pronouncement was worse than his previous bafflement. Then his face cleared and he shook her hand heartily, smiling at her as if she’d just won the lottery. “The old bugger. He didn’t say he was—”
Gemma stopped him before he could go any further. “We’re not.
Married. But we live together.” She felt a flash of fury at Duncan, who had obviously not bothered mentioning her, or their relationship, to his old mate. And why should she feel she had to apologize for the fact that they weren’t married?
“Well, he’s a lucky man, in any case,” said Babcock, making a quick recovery with such charm that her resentment evaporated.
“Look, he really shouldn’t be much longer. He’s just gone out for a walk, and it’s almost dark. Why don’t you —”
“Mummy.” Toby’s voice came plaintively from behind her.
“Jack’s scratching at the door, but I didn’t let him out. Can we finish our puzzle now?”
“My son, Toby,” she explained to Babcock, then ruffling Toby’s fair hair, she added, “It’s cold, lovey. Go back inside and I’ll be right there.” She pulled the door a little more tightly closed behind her.
Jack’s high- pitched bark escalated, and she pictured him hurtling through the house towards the intruding stranger like a black-and-white bullet. Did he bite if not properly introduced?
“It wasn’t important. I won’t keep you,” Babcock told her, and she wasn’t sure whether his quick response meant he feared loss of limb or that he might be drafted to participate in puzzle solving.
“Is it about the baby? The one Juliet found?” she asked.
“Well, yes. I thought he might be interested in the results of the—” He paused, and Gemma suspected he was searching for a more delicate way to say “postmortem.” Her irritation with Duncan flared again. Not that she could reasonably have expected him to tell Babcock she was a fellow police officer if he hadn’t mentioned her at all, but she found being treated like the little woman galling.
“Look,” she began. “There’s no need to tiptoe about with me.
I’m—”
A car, which Gemma had vaguely noticed traveling too fast down the lane, its headlamps unlit in the gathering dusk, turned into the farmhouse drive with a squeal of tires.
Turning to watch, Babcock muttered, “What the hell is he playing at, the mad bastard?” But as the Vauxhall came to a stop and the driver’s door opened, it was Juliet Newcombe who climbed out. She walked towards them, her gait a little tentative, like a toddler just finding its balance.
Gemma’s first thought was that Duncan’s sister was drunk. Her second, as Juliet drew near enough for Gemma to see her pale face and wide, dark eyes, was that she was ill, or very shocked.
Babcock seemed to have come to the same conclusion, saying, “Are you all right, Mrs. Newcombe?”
Juliet stopped, staring at Babcock for a moment as if trying to place him. “Oh. It’s Chief Inspector . . . Babcock, isn’t it?”
“We’ve been trying to reach you this afternoon, Mrs. Newcombe,”
Babcock said pleasantly, but he was scrutinizing her closely, and Gemma knew he would be automatically checking for the smell of alcohol, or the dilated pupils indicating drug use. “We need to get a formal statement from you,” he continued, apparently satisfied that he didn’t need to nick her for driving while impaired. “About yesterday evening.”
“The baby.” Juliet’s voice held a faint note of surprise, as if she’d forgotten her discovery, then her face creased with concern. “Have you found out anything? Do you know who she is?”
“No, I’m afraid not. But we need contact information for your crew. If you could—”
Gemma stepped into the drive and put an arm round the other woman, feeling her shiver. “Juliet, you’re freezing. Come inside. Mr.
Babcock, surely she can give her statement in the morning? I can bring her into the station myself, if you’d like.”
Seeing him hesitate, Gemma knew his curiosity over Juliet’s behavior was warring with the tact necessitated by the fact that he was dealing with a friend’s—and a fellow officer’s—sister. “That’s very kind of you,” he said at last, and she breathed an inner sigh of relief.
“We’ve set up an incident room at Crewe headquarters. Shall we say about nine?” He nodded at them. “And tell Duncan to give me a ring, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Duncan—where is he?” asked Juliet. “I’ve been— I’ve got to—” She broke off as Gemma gave her shoulder a sharp squeeze.
