Singla touched her fingers as briefly as courtesy would allow, then frowned at Kincaid. “Superintendent, I’m not sure it is appropriate for a civilian—”
“My
She looked towards Rashid and the SOCOs. Kincaid had told her nothing except that Denis Childs wanted him to have a look at what might be a suspicious death. “What’s happened here?” she asked, meaning
It was Kincaid who answered. “DCI Rebecca Meredith. West London, Major Crimes.”
Gemma stared at him. A Met officer. A senior female Met officer. Not good. Not good at all.
Glancing at the shape on the ground between Rashid and the SOCOs, she caught a glimpse of neon yellow clothing, a tangle of dark, matted hair. “They pulled her out of the river? Possible suicide?”
“Not unless she decided to take a dive out of a rowing boat.” Rashid had come to stand beside them, giving Gemma a quick grin, and she saw that the slogan on the black T-shirt beneath his open jacket read PATHOLOGISTS HAVE MORE FUN.
“She was a rower?”
“She’s wearing rowing gear, and they”—Rashid nodded at the SAR handlers—“found her shell caught in the bank, about a mile upstream. I’d guess that’s where she went out of the boat.”
“Any signs of trauma?” Kincaid asked.
“Some possible contusions on the head, but I can’t tell you if the wounds are ante- or postmortem until I get her on the table.”
“I want to have a closer look in situ before you transport her,” Kincaid said, then turned to Gemma. “Do you—”
“I’ve got to get back.” She was suddenly very aware of time passing. “I’ve left the little ones with Kit, in case you’ve forgotten?”
“Sorry.” He gave an apologetic grimace. “I’ll ring you.” He touched her arm, moving her slightly aside. “Look, love, I’m sure this won’t take—”
She shook her head. The SAR handlers had come up to them, and she felt that their domestic discussion was uncomfortably public. “We’ll talk about it later.” The dogs’ tails were wagging, so she held out a hand for them to snuffle. The female handler, a small, blond woman who would have looked elfin if not for the gravity of her expression, gave her a tight smile.
The man was tall, dark-haired, his face drawn and pale. His Labrador watched him anxiously, brow furrowed in doggy concern.
“We’ve got a team securing the boat,” said the woman. “I’m Tavie, by the way. Tavie Larssen. Thames Valley Search and Rescue. This is Kieran Connolly.” She nodded towards her companion. He didn’t speak.
Kincaid glanced at the sky, and Gemma saw that the clouds were building again, blotting out what remained of the afternoon light. “I want to see where you found the boat, before it gets too dark,” he said, looking at Singla. “Inspector, if you could arrange—”
“I’m going with you.” It was the dark-haired handler, Kieran. His voice sounded stretched to breaking. “I want to see the boat.”
As they all turned to stare at him, his dog whined and licked his hand. “I’m a rower,” he said. “I can tell you what happened.”
Chapter Five
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Gemma heard Charlotte’s sobs as she came up the path towards the road. She quickened her steps, her chest tightening with a mother’s instinctive reaction to the sound of her child in distress.
When she rounded the corner, she saw Kit standing beside the Escort, holding Charlotte, who was kicking her heels against him as she howled. Toby sat in the car, looking mutinous.
“I’m sorry, Gemma,” called Kit. “I know you wanted me to keep them in the car, but I couldn’t stop her crying.” He bounced Charlotte on his hip, cajoling her. “See, I told you she’d come back. Gemma’s here.”
As Gemma reached them, Charlotte twisted in Kit’s grasp and flung herself at Gemma, arms outstretched. Gemma leapt to catch her before she went into free fall.
“Whoa, lovey. Let’s not have an aerial ballet,” Gemma said, tucking Charlotte’s damp face into her shoulder.
“You went ’way” came Charlotte’s muffled wail.
“Yes, I did. And I came back. See?” She held Charlotte away from her long enough to kiss her cheek, but then the child burrowed her face into Gemma’s neck again.
“I don’t want to stay in the car,” said Toby from the Escort’s half-open window. “Why does she get to come out and I don’t? Maybe I should cry, too.” He scrunched up his face.
“Don’t you dare.” Gemma stabbed a finger at him over Charlotte’s shoulder. “And don’t you dare get out of that car. We’re all going home. Now.”
“Dad, too?” asked Kit.
“No,” she said, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “He’s got to stay here for a bit, but I’m sure he’ll come as soon as he can.” Though truthfully, now that she knew what the suspicious death involved, she wasn’t sure at all.
She saw that there were now more uniformed officers on the scene. Traffic on the Marlow Road had come almost to a standstill as motorists slowed to a crawl, mesmerized by the spectacle of flashing lights and patrol cars. Bystanders were gathering as well, some coming down the side road that led to the nearby car park and Hambleden village. Uniform was going to have its hands full.
“Does that mean you won’t be going back to work?” Kit asked. She glanced at him, unsure if he was pleased or disappointed.
“Let’s not worry about that just yet. We’ll sort something out, okay?”
And she bloody well hoped she was right about that. Her boss, Mark Lamb, was expecting her back at Notting Hill next Monday. Excuses about child-care difficulties, no matter how valid, would not go down well.
Charlotte had stopped snuffling, but Toby was now hanging halfway out the car window and looked in immediate danger of falling on his head. “Toby, back in the car. And buckle up, please.”
She gave a last glance back towards the river, wondering what Duncan and Rashid might find and feeling a flare of frustration at being excluded. But just now she had to deal with the problems at hand.
“Kit, we need to get out of the way. Can you grab your things from the Astra, and the keys? You can ask one of the officers to keep them for your dad.” Still holding Charlotte, she reached in and popped open the Escort’s boot for Kit—she knew better than to put Charlotte in the car until the last possible moment.
As Kit tossed in his bag, then jogged over to the nearest constable, Gemma saw a flash of bright blue as a small car pulled out of the jam and into the only remaining space on the verge. It was a little Renault, a Clio, but it wasn’t until the driver’s-side door swung open that recognition clicked.
“Melody?” she said. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, boss.” Melody Talbot grinned. “I’m just playing chauffeur,” she added as the Clio’s passenger door opened and Doug Cullen climbed out.
Gemma’s pleasure at seeing Melody, whose company she’d missed since she’d been away from work, quickly
