Chapter Twenty-one
—Lewis Carroll
By noon on Saturday, Charlotte’s birthday party was in full swing.
Gemma thought the weather gods must be hovering somewhere nearby, because the day had once more dawned fine and clear. The air seemed to hold the anticipation of bonfires, and pumpkins appeared to have sprouted overnight on steps and in front of shops in Notting Hill.
No ghoulies and goblins were attending the festivities at their house, however, as the guests who’d bothered with fancy dress were straight out of Lewis Carroll.
Gemma’s friend and former landlady Hazel Cavendish had dressed her daughter, Holly, who was Toby’s age, in a white bunny costume. It was meant for Halloween, but did well enough for the White Rabbit.
Wesley Howard had found, somewhere in the bowels of Portobello Market, an old morning coat with tails and a battered top hat. He’d decorated both hat and coat with colored ribbons, and with his dreadlocks springing up round the hat’s brim, he made a lovely Mad Hatter.
Betty Howard had made Gemma a Queen of Hearts pinny as a surprise, and Toby had, of course, dressed himself as a pirate. When Gemma had gently informed him that there weren’t any pirates in
Kit had reached the age where he thought himself too grown-up to wear fancy dress, but he was quite pleased with himself over having found a Mock Turtle T-shirt.
And Charlotte, in her dress and hair bow, had gone so quiet and wide-eyed with excitement that Gemma feared she might be sick. She was like Kit in that way, and Kit seemed to understand. He’d taken her aside and asked her to help him in the kitchen, and after a few minutes with him she’d joined in playing with Toby and Holly, although she was still unusually subdued.
It was a very adult party for a three-year-old, thought Gemma as she surveyed the gathering from the kitchen doorway. But Charlotte was in many ways more comfortable with adults than with other children, and Gemma now thought it just as well they’d kept the gathering to close friends and family.
Gemma’s sister, Cyn, had begged off, saying that Brendon and Tiffani had a Halloween party they’d be devastated to miss. Gemma supposed she should feel offended that Charlotte’s birthday so obviously took second place, but in truth she was just relieved.
But her parents had made the journey from Leyton. Gemma knew it had taken an enormous effort of persuasion on her mother’s part to convince her father to let hired help take over the bakery, especially on a Saturday, so she’d been fussing over them, trying to let them know she appreciated their presence.
She’d settled them in the dining room with plates of finger sandwiches—cut carefully into hearts and spades by Kit—and cups of tea. When Erika Rosenthal joined them, she heard her father mutter something about being glad there wasn’t any of that “funny food”—referring, Gemma knew, to the Caribbean stew Betty had made for their wedding party in August.
Sighing, she let it go. Perhaps it was time she stopped trying to broaden her father’s horizons. She was happy enough that her parents were visiting comfortably with Erika, and that her mother looked brighter than she had the previous weekend in Glastonbury.
Had it really been only a week, she thought, since they’d repeated their vows in Winnie’s church?
Kincaid came through from the sitting room, where he’d been chatting with Tim Cavendish, and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve put the dogs in the study for a bit of quiet time.” With Toby and Holly running and shrieking, the dogs had gone into play overdrive, barking to join in the game. “I could see your dad’s blood pressure starting to rise,” he said more softly. Nodding at her parents, he added, “Seems to be going well.”
“I only gave them the sandwiches with white bread. That’s the secret.”
He smiled, and she realized this was the first time she’d seen his face relax since he’d come home from the Yard the night before.
While they were doing the washing-up after dinner, he’d given her a terse account of his interview with Denis Childs. The simmering anger was coming off him in waves, like steam.
“Well, you couldn’t really expect them to go in full force and drag him off to the nick, a deputy assistant commissioner,” she’d said, feeling her way. “I mean, what if we’re wrong? There would be hell to pay. It could cost Denis his job.”
“And what if we’re right?” Kincaid had asked, dunking a plate into the soapy water with such force that Gemma had winced.
“I think Craig will be retaining the best defense lawyer he can find,” she said. “He’ll claim the sex was consensual, of course, and that he has no idea what happened to Jenny Hart afterwards. But the skin and blood under her nails might cause him a bit of a problem. Not to mention the hair, fiber, and prints found in her flat.”
“What if the lab evidence goes missing?”
Frowning, she’d glanced at him, seen the strain in his face. “Now you’re being paranoid,” she said quietly.
He’d shaken his head. “I don’t like it, Gemma. I have a really bad feeling about this.”
Toby had come in then, asking about Charlotte’s birthday cake for the hundredth time, and they’d dropped the subject of Angus Craig.
But for the remainder of the evening, Gemma had watched Kincaid check his phone every few minutes for missed calls, his scowl growing deeper as the hours passed and there was no word from Chief Superintendent Childs.
Nor had there been a call that morning.
Now he said, “We’re missing Doug and Melody.”
“Melody rang. They’re coming together in her car. She ferried a load of things from Doug’s flat to the new house.”
Kincaid glanced at her in surprise. “That’s an interesting detente.”
“Don’t you dare tease him,” Gemma warned. “I’m glad to see them a bit less prickly with each other. But if you take the mickey, he’ll go all sensitive about it. You know what he’s like.” From the speculative gleam in Kincaid’s eye, Gemma suspected she was wasting her breath.
But now that he was a little less taciturn, there was something she needed to say. “Alia rang as well, begging off. Family commitments.”
Or at least that was what Alia had told her, but Gemma guessed that Alia’s father had dissuaded her from visiting on a strictly social occasion. Mr. Hakim was a very conservative Bangladeshi, and he didn’t approve of their rather odd blended family or of Charlotte’s mixed-race heritage. He and her dad would probably get on like a house on fire, Gemma thought ruefully.
“But I need to ring her back about Monday,” she said, touching Kincaid’s arm to make sure she had his full attention. She looked up at him, trying to read his expression. “Duncan—I have to let Alia know if she needs to look after Charlotte.”
He stood quietly for a moment, looking round the house as though taking stock. She followed his gaze. In the kitchen, Kit and Betty were conspiring over the punchbowl. In the dining room, Erika was still chatting with her mum while her dad looked on, his teacup resting on his knee. Beyond them, in the sitting room, Hazel and Tim, who seemed to have become more comfortable in their separation, were directing the little ones in some kind of indecipherable game, and Charlotte was looking overly warm and flushed.
“I think we’re going to have a birthday-girl meltdown soon, if we’re not careful,” Kincaid said. “Has Wes gone
