Lally hesitated, then the energy seemed to drain from her. She looked suddenly younger than her fourteen years, and frightened.
Her eyes met his in a plea. “Promise?”
“I promise,” Kit said, and wondered just what sort of trouble he’d bound himself to.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’ve left a ready meal by the microwave,” Althea Elsworthy told her sister, Bea. It was just shy of eight o’clock, and she’d said the same thing, at the same time, every morning for as long as she could remember. It was a necessary part of their ritual, however, and any deviation would cause Bea to grow agitated and have to be calmed down before Althea could leave for the hospital.
“My lunch,” said Bea. “Is it mac cheese?” she added querulously, her broad brow furrowed.
“Yes, and I’ve left an apple for you,” Althea answered with a smile.
It was always mac cheese, but Bea never failed to ask. In the evenings, Althea tried to vary her sister’s diet, but it took coaxing, and she’d long ago decided that the repetitive lunch was a small compromise to make for her sister’s continued independence during the day.
Beatrice Elsworthy had been brain damaged since the age of eight, when she suffered a head injury in the car crash that had killed their father. He had been drinking and, against their mother’s wishes, had insisted on taking the two girls out for a Sunday afternoon ice cream.
At the roundabout nearest their house, he had failed to yield right-of-way to an oncoming lorry. It had been Althea’s turn to ride in the
backseat; she had escaped with a broken arm and a chipped tooth.
Her father’s death had not been punishment enough to assuage her mother’s anger. She’d spent the rest of Althea’s childhood nursing her bitterness as well as her injured younger daughter, until she succumbed to cancer the year Althea graduated from medical school.
Althea had cared for Bea ever since.
Now she settled Bea in her favorite armchair, overlooking the cottage’s back garden. Already she had filled the bird feeders and put out nuts for the squirrels on the old tree stump that served as a feeding table. Bea would spend the morning watching the birds and listening to the radio. At noon she would heat her ready meal, and at one she would turn on the telly, already set to BBC.
The intricacies of the human brain never failed to amaze Althea—why was it that her sister, who was incapable of organizing her own lunch, could name every character on
Around four, their neighbor, Paul Doyle, would come across for a cup of tea with Bea, and sometimes they would play simple card games for pennies. Nothing made Bea happier than accumulating a pile of gleaming copper coins, and Althea suspected Paul got them new from the bank, although he’d never admitted doing so.
More and more often lately, she found herself rushing to get home before Paul left, to enjoy a drink and a half hour’s visit in front of the fire. She and Bea had known Paul and his late wife for years, but it was only since he’d retired from his teaching position at a local school the previous year that he’d begun visiting on a regular basis.
Althea told herself it was only natural to enjoy a little companionship. She had never shared her personal circumstances with any of her work colleagues, nor had she any intention of doing so. Pity was the one thing she couldn’t bear. Nor was it justified—she needed Bea just as much as Bea needed her—but her reticence made friendship diffi cult.
Calling the dog, who got up from his rug by the Rayburn and stretched with a popping of joints, she’d just switched on Radio
when the doorbell rang. The dog gave one deep woof and trotted towards the door, his claws clicking on the tiled floor.
Althea frowned. The isolated cottage didn’t invite casual visitors, and Paul seldom called round in the mornings. Giving her sister a pat on the shoulder, she said, “I’ll be right back, love.”
“You won’t leave without telling me?”
“No. I promise.” Althea followed the dog into the front hall, pushing aside his head so that she could crack open the door, then stared in surprise at the woman standing on her doorstep. It took her a moment to place the face, older and thinner than when she had last seen it, but the name clicked just as the woman said, “Dr. Elsworthy? Do you remember me? It’s Annie Le—” She paused, then seemed to correct herself. “Annie Constantine. I’m sorry to bother you at home.”
She felt the dog’s warm breath on her hip and noted the woman’s anxious glance in his direction. “Don’t mind Dan, he’s quite harm-less,” she said, swinging the door wide enough to allow the dog access to the garden.
“Dan?” asked Annie Constantine, drawing her arms close to her body as the dog pushed past her in pursuit of a squirrel.
Althea smiled to herself. The dog was half Irish wolfhound and half mastiff, and everyone assumed he was called something like Boris or Fang. She had named him Danny Boy, and sang his song to him when they were alone in the car, but she had no intention of sharing her little private joke. Nor was she going to ask the woman in. A stranger’s visit would agitate Bea for days.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Constantine?” she asked, stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her.
“It’s Lebow now,” she said, explaining her earlier hesitation. “I’ve gone back to my maiden name.”
Not sure whether this called for condolences or congratulations, Althea merely nodded. “Do go on.” The previous day’s crisp blue skies had given way to tattered gray clouds that mirrored the slush remaining underfoot, and the chill was beginning to seep through her heavy sweater.
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” said Lebow, huddling a bit closer into her fleece jacket, as if preparing for a long stay. Then she told Althea what she wanted.
“I don’t see why I have to do this.” Juliet Newcombe sounded as truculent as a ten-year-old whisked off to visit an ailing and disliked relative.
Kincaid took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at his sister, who sat beside him in the passenger seat of Gemma’s Escort.
The day was shaping up to be gray and unremittingly frigid, and even halfway to Crewe the car’s heater hadn’t managed to dent the chill.
Juliet held her coat closed at the throat, as if warding off something more solid than the cold air issuing from the heater vents, and even with her face averted, he could see the dark shadows under her eyes.
His excuse in taking her had been that he wanted to talk to his sister—true—but he suspected Gemma knew him well enough to guess that he also wanted to see what progress the local police had made in identifying the mummified child.
With another glance at Juliet’s intractable expression, he said reasonably, “It’s routine, I’ve told you. And as you can’t start work again until the police release the crime scene, I should think you’d want to be as cooperative as possible.” Then, reminding himself that his objective was to communicate with her, he added, “Look. I know things are a bit rough for you at the moment with Caspar. If there’s anything I can—”
She shook her head so violently that strands of her dark hair fl ew loose from her clip. When she spoke, the words seemed to explode without volition. “There’s nothing anyone can do. He’s a total shit, and I’m a complete idiot for not having seen it years ago.” She stopped, clamping her lips together as if to stop the flow, and shrugged. “But thanks.”
“I take it you’re not going to go home and kiss and make up, then,” Kincaid said, then asked, “Jules, are you afraid of him?”
