The blossom-laden branches of a plum tree overhung the walk, and as they passed beneath, petals showered them like confetti. They laughed, the momentary awkwardness dissolved, and then they were saying good-bye before the flat.
Kincaid climbed the stairs alone, feeling the afternoon stretching before him like a desert. The red light on his answering machine flashed a greeting as he entered the flat and his spirits wilted even further. 'Great,' he said under his breath, and punched playback.
The duty sergeant's voice demanded to know just what the hell he thought he was playing at-hospital had called about a post mortem he'd requested-and if he didn't put his paperwork through the proper channels there'd be hell to pay. The remainder of the message he added almost as an afterthought, before ringing off abruptly.
Jasmine Dent's system had contained a lethal amount of morphine.
Chapter Five
Kincaid unsnapped the Midget's tarp and folded it from front to back, then unlocked the boot and stowed it away. He accomplished the maneuver neatly and quickly, having perfected it with much practice. The car's red paintwork gleamed cheerily at him, inviting dalliance in the midafternoon sun, but Kincaid shook his head and slid into the driver's seat. An idle down country lanes was not what he had in mind, tourist-poster day or not. He fished his sunglasses out of the door pocket, and put the car in gear.
After he crossed Rosslyn Hill, Kincaid made his way through the back streets of South Hampstead until he came into Kilburn High Road, just north of Maida Vale. He found Margaret Bellamy's address without difficulty, a dingy, terraced house in a block that had avoided gentrification. The front door was the dark red-brown of dried blood, but its peeling paint showed blotches of brighter colors beneath-lime-green, yellow, royal-blue-testimony to previous owners with more cheerful dispositions. He rang the bell and waited, wrinkling his nose against the odor drifting up from the rubbish bins below the basement railing.
The woman who opened the door wore polyester trousers stretched precariously over her bulky thighs, and a shiny jersey endured equal punishment across her bosom. She eyed Kincaid disapprovingly.
'Margaret Bellamy?' Kincaid tried out his best smile, wondering if she could hear him over the canned laughter bellowing from the back of the house.
The woman studied him a bit longer, then jerked her head toward the stairs. 'Top of the house. On the right.'
Kincaid thanked her and started up the steps, feeling her eyes on his back until he rounded the first landing. The smell of grease and the raucous sounds of the television followed him up three more flights, where the stairs ended in a dim hallway with streakily distempered walls. The two doors were unmarked and he tapped lightly on the right-hand one.
The sound of the downstairs' television switched off, and in the sudden silence Kincaid heard the creak of bedsprings. Margaret Bellamy opened the door with an expectant half-smile. 'Oh. It's you,' she said, disappointment evident in her swollen face. She made an effort to smile again. 'You'd better come in.' Jerking her head toward the hall as she drew him in, she added, 'She's listening, the horrid old snoop. That's why she turned the telly off.' Margaret closed the door and stood awkwardly, as if she didn't know what to do with Kincaid now that she'd shut him in. She looked round the small room and grimaced.
He took in the small bed with its rumpled covers sagging to the floor, a single, stained armchair, a wardrobe, and an old deal table which seemed to serve as desk, dresser, and kitchen.
Margaret made a small, circular motion with her hand and said, 'I'm sorry.' Kincaid thought the apology covered both herself and the room.
He smiled at her. 'I lived in a bedsit myself, when I was training at the Academy. It was pretty dreadful, though I don't think my landlady could've held a candle to yours.' This brought an answering smile from Margaret, and she moved to clear the chair for him. As she bent to scoop up a pile of clothes, she staggered and had to steady herself against the chair back.
'Are you all right?' Kincaid asked, and studied her more carefully. Her soft, brown hair was matted, and her eyelids were puffy from weeping. She wore a large T-shirt which had a section of its tail bunched in the waistband of faded gray sweatpants-probably the result of pulling them on hastily when he knocked on the door.
'Have you been out today at all?' he asked.
Margaret shook her head.
'Eaten?'
'No.'
'I thought as much. Have you anything here?'
Another negative shake. 'Just some tea, really.'
Kincaid thought for a moment, then said briskly, 'You make us some tea. I'll go down and ask your landlady to put together some sandwiches.'
Margaret looked horrified. 'She'd never… She wouldn't-'
'She will.' He stopped at the door. 'Though if Saint George is going to conquer the dragon, he'd better know her name.'
'Oh.' A flicker of amusement lit Margaret's face. 'It's Mrs. Wilson.'
The door from which Kincaid guessed Mrs. Wilson had emerged earlier stood slightly ajar. He tapped smartly. The television still played very faintly, and over it he heard the shuffle of slipper-clad feet. The door opened a moment later and Mrs. Wilson squinted at him through the cigarette smoke which trickled from her nostrils. A dragon indeed.
'Mrs. Wilson?'
She glared at him suspiciously. 'What of it?'
'Can I talk to you for a minute?'
'Not if you're aimin' to sell me something.' The door began to inch closed. 'I don't hold with solicitation.'
Kincaid wondered what she thought he could be selling. 'No. It's about Margaret. Please.'
She snorted with annoyance, but stepped back enough to let Kincaid into the room. He surveyed Mrs. Wilson's lair with interest. It apparently served as sitting room as well as kitchen-a small sofa was jammed between the fittings, and large color television held pride of place next to the fridge.
Mrs. Wilson sat down at the Formica-topped table and picked up the cigarette which lay smoldering in the ashtray. An open tabloid and a half-drunk cup of tea were evidence of her afternoon's activity. She didn't invite Kincaid to sit down.
'She's all wet, that girl,' Mrs. Wilson pronounced disgustedly. 'What's up now? More trouble with the boyfriend?'
Boyfriend? That was a complication he somehow hadn't expected, but it explained Margaret's dashed hopes when she'd opened the door. Kincaid thought quickly. What story would satisfy this harridan? From the looks of the headline in her paper-'Eleven-year-old mum fights authorities for baby!'-Mrs. Wilson's sympathies were aroused by melodrama, but the truth seemed a betrayal of both Margaret and Jasmine.
He improvised. 'It's her uncle. Died suddenly yesterday, and Margaret's not taken it well at all.'
Mrs. Wilson's heavy face remained as unmoved as her stiffly permed hair. 'Figures.' She looked at Kincaid suspiciously. 'What do you have to do with it, anyway?'
'I'm a friend of the family. Duncan Kincaid.' He held out his hand and Mrs. Wilson condescended to touch her pudgy fingertips to his before retrieving her half-smoked cigarette.
'So what's it to me?'
'She's not eaten anything since yesterday. I thought you might make her up some sandwiches?' Kincaid made the last remark with a raised eyebrow and as much persuasion as he could muster.
Mrs. Wilson opened her mouth to refuse, then stopped and eyed Kincaid speculatively. Desire for gossip warred with her natural inclination to do as little for anyone as possible, and maliciousness triumphed over sloth. 'Well, I suppose I could just put something together, but I don't want her getting any ideas, mind you.' She levered herself out of the chair, then jerked her head toward the vacant seat. 'You'd better sit down.' She continued over
