And then there was Kit to consider. His son's school term ended in a week, and when Kit made the move from Grantchester to London, Kincaid wanted them to begin as they meant to go on- as a family. He still harbored the fear that his ex-wife's widower, Ian McClellan, who remained Kit's legal guardian, might change his mind about leaving the boy in Kincaid's care when Ian took up a teaching post in Canada in the new year.
And then there were his ex-wife's parents, who felt they should have charge of their grandson. Eugenia Potts was both selfish and hysterical, and when forced to stay in her care, Kit had run away. Since then, Ian had allowed the grandparents only one supervised visit a month, which was coming up the Friday after Christmas. Eugenia had chosen the stuffy formality of afternoon tea at Brown's Hotel for their meeting- not the outing of choice for a twelve-year-old boy.
Nor would Eugenia be happy to see Kincaid, whom she despised, or to learn about Kit's new living arrangements. Over them hung the specter that Eugenia might actually undertake the legal action she threatened on a regular basis, and attempt to wrest Kit's guardianship for herself.
Well, they would just have to deal with that when the time came. If Kincaid's job had not taught him that there were few guarantees of stability in life, he should have learned it from his ex-wife's tragic death.
Thinking of the young woman they had seen that night, her life so unexpectedly snuffed out, Kincaid got up and poured the remains of his wine down the sink. He turned off all but the bedside lamp, then opened the blind and stood looking into the darkened garden. What worried him most was that he had seen a murder like this once before, less than two months ago.
CHAPTER THREE
If you saw Notting Hill at the beginning of the sixties, it would be hard to recognize it as the same place you can see today. Nowadays Notting Hill is wealthy and gentrified. Go back thirty years and the area is a massive slum, full of multi-occupied houses, crawling with rats and rubbish.
– Charlie Phillips and Mike Phillips,
from
A warm, moist current of dog breath woke her. Bryony opened one eye and tried to focus on the lolling pink tongue of Duchess, her golden retriever mix, inches from her face.
'What is it, girl? What time is it?' Turning over, she peered at her alarm clock. Was it seven already? 'Shit,' she muttered, rolling out of bed and giving Duchess a hasty caress as she headed for the loo. She'd meant to be at the cafe before now. Several of them had formed a habit of meeting for early coffee and croissants before the Saturday morning trading got into full swing, and she was dying to tell someone about her project- especially Marc, if the truth be told. Whether or not her plan would work depended on him.
When she'd scrubbed her face and pulled on jeans, boots and sweater, she took Duchess for a quick constitutional in the postage stamp of Powis Square, then set off for Elgin Crescent.
A blanket of cloud hovered over the rooftops, obscuring the light of the rising sun, but at least it had not yet begun to rain. Bryony's long strides devoured the distance from her flat to the cafe, and by the time she pushed open the door she'd worked up a rosy glow.
Her friends sat in the back, gathered round two tables: Wesley, his ebullient dreadlocks sedated by a cap; Fern Adams, whose punk dress and makeup belied her knowledge of the antique silver she traded in the market; Marc, who flashed Bryony the quick smile he seemed to reserve just for her; and Otto, apron-clad, coffee pot in hand. Only Alex Dunn was missing.
They all looked up at her with solemn faces as she came in, and no one offered a greeting.
'What?' Bryony joked. 'Did someone die?'
When no one answered, she gazed at them with dawning horror. 'Oh, no,' she whispered, sinking into the nearest chair. 'Has something happened? Not Alex-'
Otto upended a cup from the stack on the table and poured her a coffee, but it was Wesley who answered. 'It's Dawn Arrowood, the lady that Alex was, um, seeing. She was killed last night. Murdered.'
'Mrs. Arrowood? But that's not possible! She was just in the surgery yesterday, with her cat. Gavin saw them.' The pretty blond woman, so devoted to her cat, was one of the hospital's regular clients. 'I can't believe it. What happened?'
Marc shook his head. 'That's all we know for certain. Although rumors have been going around the market like wildfire since daybreak.'
'Alex-' Bryony glanced uneasily at Fern, whom she knew had been Alex's lover until recently. They had made an odd couple; Alex with his Oxford cloth shirts and Oxbridge haircut, Fern in glitter and camouflage, but their stalls were side by side in the market arcade, and Bryony had seen proximity make stranger bedfellows.
'I told him,' Otto rumbled. 'I told him it was a bad business. But I thought it was he who would come to harm.'
'Does he know?'
'No.' Fern tugged nervously at the silver ring in her eyebrow. 'He was setting up his stall when I left. There were whispers round the arcade, but no one dared say anything to him.'
'But what if he comes in?' asked Bryony. 'We'll have to-' She stopped as Fern's eyes widened. Turning, she saw Alex Dunn pushing open the cafe door.
'Morning, all,' he called out. 'It's going to be a bloody miserable day, but let's hope that won't dampen the Christmas shoppers' enthusiasm. Has anyone got a newspaper? I'd no change for the newsagent this morning-'
'Alex-' interrupted Wesley, then turned helplessly to Otto.
His face creased with distress, Otto said, 'I'm afraid we have some very bad news. Dawn Arrowood was murdered last night.'
Alex stared at him. 'If this is your idea of a joke, it's not amusing. Just leave it alone, Otto. It's my business.'
'I am not joking, Alex. When I heard the first rumor this morning, I went to the house. There are still police everywhere, and I knew one of the constables. He told me it was the truth.'
Blanching, Alex whispered, 'No. There must be some mistake.'
'There is no mistake,' Otto assured him grimly. 'Karl Arrowood came home and found her in the drive.'
Alex looked wildly from one friend to another. 'Oh, Jesus, no!'
'Alex-' Fern reached out and touched his hand, but he jerked away as if burned. She huddled back into her chair, her eyes filling with tears.
'But why- How?' Alex whispered.
'That I don't know,' answered Otto, but the big man didn't meet Alex's eyes and Bryony found herself unexpectedly wondering if he was lying.
'I don't believe it. I'm going to see her.'
'You don't want to cross paths with Karl just now,' Otto cautioned.
'Do you think I give a bloody piss about Karl?' Alex snarled.
Marc came out of his chair in one fluid motion and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. 'I know you're upset, but try to be reasonable, man-'
'Reasonable? Why the hell should I be reasonable?' Alex slapped Marc's hand away. 'Just bugger off, all of you.'
He stormed out of the cafe, and as the door swung closed behind him, Bryony saw that it had begun to rain.
The smell of disinfectant, laced with the faint but undisguisable odor of death, made Gemma clench her teeth against rising nausea. Morning sickness and morgues did not make a good combination, but she was certainly not
