enormous fried breakfast of eggs, sausage, tomatoes, and toast—God forbid she ate that every morning at home; she’d be the size of a whale and her arteries the consistency of blubber—and had started on second cups of coffee, but there was still no sign of Kit and Tess. When they’d emerged from their room, they’d found his note lying on the hall floor, but they’d no way of knowing whether they’d missed him by minutes or much longer.
She was beginning to regret the languorous hour they’d lingered in bed, the warm nightdress Kincaid had teased her about so mercilessly the night before lying tangled in a heap on the floor. “What if someone comes in?” she’d protested at first, although they’d heard the little boys thundering down the stairs like elephants on speed.
Kincaid had merely laughed, his mouth against her throat. “So?
Do you think we’ll get into trouble?” He pulled away, examining her, and added thoughtfully, “Besides, I like it when you blush. Your skin turns a lovely pink, and it spreads from here”—he touched her cheek—
“to here”—then her throat—“to here.” He trailed his fingers lightly across her collarbone, then circled her breasts. “Just how far down does it go? Shall we see?” His lips followed the path he’d traced, and it didn’t take long for Gemma to forget her embarrassment.
Afterwards, she’d lain with her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder, the length of her body pressed against his warm bare skin as he stroked her hair. The white curtains grew brighter, until the room’s walls began to glow as if lit from within. She liked this room, which had once been Juliet’s, she thought drowsily. She liked this house,
with its worn and colorful comfort, and this family, who seemed prepared to accept her, and her unconventional relationship with their son, without reservation.
But that thought had reminded her of Juliet’s troubles, and of Lally, and of the baby left in the wall, and by the time the smell of coffee began to percolate up the stairs, she’d felt a formless prickle of anxiety.
“We should have bought Kit a watch for Christmas,” Kincaid said now, echoing her thoughts. “Only he wants a model that does everything but talk, so I thought we should save it for his birthday.”
He glanced at his own again as he spoke, then kissed his mother on the cheek as she refilled his mug. “I’ll just—” He stopped as his mobile chirped, unholstering his phone and clicking it open with more than usual alacrity.
“Ronnie,” he said. “Can I ring you back—”
Gemma heard the faint, tinny sound of Ronnie Babcock’s voice issuing from the phone’s speaker, saw Kincaid’s face go blank with shock. She stood, hands gripping the edge of the table, her heart plummeting. “Kit —”
Kincaid shook his head at her and held up his hand, still listening intently. “I’ll be there in five,” he said at last, and rang off. “Kit’s all right,” he reassured them. “But he found a body. Annie Lebow, the woman we met on her narrowboat. She’s been murdered.”
“Oh, God.” Seeing the distress in his face, Gemma felt bad for him as well as frantic for Kit. “I’m so sorry. Where did it happen? Where’s Kit?”
“Ronnie says Kit found her on the towpath beside her boat, just below Barbridge. That’s where Kit is now, at Barbridge.” He was already moving, heading for his coat and the door. “I’ll be back as soon as—”
“Don’t you dare.” The fear- induced rush of adrenaline had left Gemma trembling; now fury erupted in its place. Ever since they’d arrived he’d been sidelining her, treating her as if she were competent
to do no more than look after the children, and she had let him because she wasn’t sure of her ground. But that was going to stop this very minute. “Don’t you even think about leaving me home like the little woman,” she spat out. “I’m going with you, and you’d better not say one bloody word about it.” She stared at him, breathing hard.
Kincaid gaped at her. After a moment, he blinked and said, “Of course you should go. I’m an idiot. Sorry, love.” He turned to his mother. “Will you look after Toby for us, Mum?”
“Of course,” Rosemary answered. “You go. We’ll be fine.” And although her face was strained with worry, when Gemma gave her a quick hug of thanks before following Kincaid from the room, Rosemary added in a whisper, “Good for you, dear.”
Juliet woke slowly, light stabbing into her brain like an ice pick. But before she squeezed her eyes shut again, she saw enough to bring memory jolting back. She knew exactly where she was and what she was doing there.
She was lying on the badly sprung old sofa bed in her father’s study. She had drunk far too many whiskies the night before. She had made up her mind to leave her husband. And beside her lay her daughter, sound asleep. The sofa bed sagged in the center and Lally had slipped towards her, a comforting weight against her hip.
Nausea surged through Juliet and she eased down onto her back again. She lay very still, breathing shallowly, swallowing against the pressure in the back of her throat. After a bit, the sensation eased and she drifted once more into the relief of sleep.
When she woke next, her mind was clearer, although her head still hurt and her mouth felt like the Sahara. Beside her, she heard the soft, steady sound of Lally’s breathing. This time, she turned oh so carefully onto her side and, opening her eyes, gazed upon her sleeping daughter’s face.
Lally lay on her back, the bedclothes held to her chin with both
hands, the dark fan of her lashes casting shadows on her pale cheeks.
As a child, she had slept in the same position, as if protecting herself even in her dreams, while Sam had flailed his arms and legs like a swimmer.
Dear God, thought Juliet, how long had it been since she had watched her daughter sleep? And when had her little baby become so beautiful? She reached out and traced the curve of the girl’s cheek with her finger. Lally’s eyes fluttered at the touch, and for just an instant, her lips curved in a smile of contentment. She pressed her face against her mother’s hand, like an infant seeking contact. Then her eyes flew open and Juliet saw the awareness flood in, felt her daughter stiffen and draw away from her touch. Carefully, deliberately, Lally turned her back to her mother and shifted to the edge of the bed, and Juliet thought her heart would break.
Chapter Sixteen
“The pathologist and the scene-of-crime lads should be here anytime,” Larkin said as Babcock followed her down the towpath.
“Is the sergeant on his way?”
“Oh, he’s on his way. Just not here.” Babcock edged round a dip filled with standing water, glad he had made the decision to change into boots. It was cold as well, as the porcelain-blue sky of early morning had begun to haze over and a sharp west wind stirred the tops of the hedgerows. When Larkin cast a surprised glance over her shoulder, he added, “I’ve sent him to oversee a deconstruction crew at the dairy barn. I think we had better make sure there are no more bodies in those walls. And I’ve put in a request for the equipment we need to scan the floor.”
“Bugger,” Larkin commented succinctly. “Your Mrs. Newcombe will have a coronary. The sarge is probably not too happy, either.”
“I suspect it wouldn’t have been Sergeant Rasansky’s first choice, but it needs to be done.” Babcock wanted to see how Larkin handled herself on a major case. She was buzzed—he could tell that by the contained excitement in her voice and her step—but still she’d been kind and thorough with the witness.
And a good thing, too, as the witness had turned out to be a Scotland Yard superintendent’s son. He’d left the boy waiting for his father’s arrival in the care of the uniformed constable, but for once he had no doubt that his witness would remain available.
Babcock was debating how he felt about having Scotland Yard—and his old mate—breathing over his shoulder
