for the cake?” They hadn’t trusted the children not to find the cake in the house, so Wesley had left it at Otto’s cafe.
Gemma nodded, puzzled, not sure he had heard or understood her question.
Then he turned to her, meeting her eyes. “It’s my watch now, running this show.”
“What about the case?” she asked.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing more I can do about Angus Craig. It’s out of my hands. I have no evidence that will link him directly to Becca Meredith’s murder. I’ve no other viable suspects.” There was a slight tick of a frown, quickly erased, as he went on. “I’ve been warned off the Hart case, and I’m obviously out of the loop as far as any developments there.” He paused, watching the children, and she felt him trying to master his frustration.
“But no matter what’s happened with either of those cases, I am unavailable as of Monday. Because”—he met her eyes again and smiled, the broad grin that lit his face and that she loved so—“I have promises to keep. To you, and to a certain little Alice.”
Before she could reply, the bell rang.
“Speak of the devil,” Kincaid said, glancing out the sidelights in the hall. “Or devils.”
It was Melody and Doug, both in jeans and sweaters, looking oddly unprofessional, and both red-cheeked and bright-eyed.
“Have we missed the cake?” asked Doug as they came in. “Do say we haven’t.”
“I need some reward for lifting boxes like a navvy,” Melody said.
“It was only a few CDs,” protested Doug.
“Right. Just a few CDs.” Melody looked at Gemma and rolled her eyes. “Ha. I need refreshment. I seriously
“It’s a children’s birthday party, for heaven’s sake,” said Doug, but the scold seemed mock.
“It may be a children’s party, but the grown-ups are provided for. There’s mulled wine on the Aga.” Kincaid waved them towards the kitchen.
Gemma heard the beep of a horn. That was Wesley’s signal. Looking out, she saw the cafe’s white van maneuvering into a parking spot.
“The cake’s here,” she whispered. “Positions, everyone.”
It was everything Wesley had promised. The round layers of lemon cake—Charlotte’s favorite—were swathed in intricately scalloped white icing. And in icing sugar on the top, a perfect rendition of Alice in a blue dress, but this Alice had pale brown skin and a mass of light brown curls. Just within her reach, nestled at an angle, was the little pharmacy bottle Gemma had found at the market.
“Oh, my God,” Gemma had whispered when Wesley centered the cake on the dining room table. “It’s perfect. Wes, how did you—”
“I made the cake. It was Otto who did the decorating. You know he trained as a pastry chef.”
“Where am I going to put the candles?” asked Gemma, feeling suddenly frantic. “I can’t ruin it. It’s a work of art.”
“We’re going to eat it, remember,” said Wes, laughing. He took the three swirly candles she’d bought and placed them strategically round the edge. “Hurry. I’ve got the camera. You light the candles. Here she comes.”
Hazel and Tim brought the children trooping in from the garden, along with the dogs, who’d been allowed out of confinement, and the room was soon filled with a pandemonium of barking and a more than slightly off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
Gemma thought she would never forget the expression of wonder on Charlotte’s face when she saw the cake.
Then, with encouragement from Kit, and some unsolicited help from Toby, Charlotte blew out her three candles and promptly burst into tears.
Before Gemma could go to comfort her, Duncan scooped her up and whispered something in her ear. With her head against his chest, Charlotte nodded in answer and peeked at the cake again.
Duncan reached down and lifted out the little brown bottle. Wiping the icing from the bottom, he licked his finger clean with an exaggerated “Yum” and handed Charlotte the vial.
“What does it say?” he asked, pointing at Gemma’s little homemade label.
“Drink me,” she whispered, her fingers closing tight round it.
“See what a big girl you are now that you’re three? You can even read!” He set her down with a hug. “Let’s have some cake.”
Wesley and Kit were already slicing and serving while Betty and Hazel poured tea and punch and mulled wine, and the room was soon abuzz with laughter and conversation.
Charlotte, however, refused to eat cake, and instead carried her little bottle round the room for everyone to examine.
Gemma wondered if Charlotte remembered her last birthday, if her parents had made her a cake and sung to her. There was no way of knowing, unless Sandra Gilles had recorded it in her journals or photos, and those were locked away as an inheritance for Charlotte when she was old enough to appreciate them.
But Charlotte had a new family now, Gemma told herself, and they had their own memories to make.
Hazel appeared beside her and gave her a quick hug. “Great party.” Leaning closer, she turned Gemma slightly to one side and whispered in her ear. “Tell me if I’m seeing things.”
Gemma looked where Hazel directed, and saw Charlotte leaning on Gemma’s dad’s knee. He was holding out his teacup as Charlotte added a few imaginary drops from her brown bottle. Then he mimed drinking a sip, and Charlotte giggled. He scrunched down in his chair, as if shrinking, and this time Charlotte gave a peal of laughter.
“Well, I never,” murmured Gemma, closing her mouth from a gape. Her dad had never played with her or Cyn like that, at least that she could remember, or with Toby, or Cyn’s kids. “Will wonders never cease.”
She looked round for Duncan, wanting to share the moment with him, but he had migrated into the kitchen with Doug and Melody.
Wandering in, she caught a fragment of conversation.
“ . . . nothing,” Doug was saying. “If a DNA sample was submitted, it hadn’t come through the system last time I checked this morning.”
They were talking about Angus Craig.
Gemma hesitated at the edge of the room. For one jealous moment, she wanted to shut out any thought of Angus Craig and the things he had done. She wanted to keep her family encased in the safe, bright bubble of the last hour, and pretend that it was impenetrable.
But she knew better.
“Oh,” said Doug. “I did find out what Becca Meredith did on that last Friday afternoon. I finally tracked down Kelly Patterson this morning, at Dulwich Station.
“She didn’t want to talk to me—can’t say I blame her. But when I asked, she decided she didn’t see any harm in telling me that the Vice cop who came into West London Station that day was called Chris Abbott. Becca introduced her as an old mate from uni. I didn’t have a chance to—” He stopped as Kincaid pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans.
“Sorry,” Kincaid said. “I’ve got to—” Then he had the phone to his ear, and he turned away, covering his other ear to cut down on the ambient noise.
Gemma saw him nod, and she assumed he made some reply before ringing off. Then he stood for a moment, his back to them.
When he turned, his face had drained of color.
“That was Denis,” he said. His eyes sought Gemma’s. “Angus Craig’s house burned to the ground in the early hours of the morning. Both he and his wife are presumed to have been in it.”
