ambitious, Mr. Kincaid. What became of her? Is she a great success? I could never see her as housewife and kids material.'
'No, she never married. And she did quite well for herself. She was supervisor in a borough planning office.'
'Was?' Carol White asked quietly. 'Then she's-'
'She had cancer.'
'Oh. I'm sorry.' Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. 'God, how silly of me. It's not even as though we were great friends, haven't thought of her in years-it's just that whenever I hear of someone I knew growing up dying, it gets me right here.' She thumped her chest with a fist, then reached in her desk drawer for a box of tissues and blew her nose. 'A reminder of my own mortality, I guess. If it can happen to them, it can happen to you.'
'I know exactly what you mean,' Kincaid said, thinking of his own reaction, not only to the deaths of those he knew, but to the deaths of strangers-that aching sense of loss he never quite managed to control.
'But I don't understand.' Giving her eyes one last wipe, Carol threw the tissues in the wastebin beneath her desk and collected herself. 'Why are you asking about Jasmine?'
Kincaid gave her an answer even more brief than the one he'd given Alice Finney, but she nodded, apparently satisfied. Years of working in a solicitor's office would have taught her to be discreet.
'You said you weren't particularly close friends?'
'Oh, we talked, the way girls will in an office, about what was going on, and who's bum Mr. Rawlinson had patted most often that week. Just chatter, really. But if you ventured into anything too personal she'd snap shut like a clam.' Carol paused, screwing up her face in earnest concentration. 'Sometimes… sometimes I had the feeling Jasmine had never had a friend, didn't know what to do with one.'
'Then what gave you the impression she was so ambitious?'
'London. That's all she talked about. And she pinched every penny, brought her dinner from home every day, even did child-minding in the evenings to make a bit extra. I remember that she didn't get on well with her old- maid aunt.'
Kincaid smiled. 'I think that's a safe assumption,' he said, then returned to her earlier point. 'Did Jasmine not go out, then, if she was so careful with her money? A pretty girl that age, you'd think there'd be plenty to do in a town this size.'
Carol shook her head. 'I even tried to fix her up a few times with a double-date, but she wasn't having any.'
'Did she talk about men? I don't mean to sound like a chauvinist, but it does seem the natural thing.'
'I'm sure that's all
'But she never confided in you?'
This time the shake of her head was wistful. 'No. Sorry.'
'What about when she left? Did she tell you anything beforehand?'
'I was just as shocked as anyone. She just came in that day, gave her notice, cleaned out her drawer and left. Mr. Rawlinson was dead chuffed, I can tell you.'
'Did you hear from her after that?'
'Not a word. But she did take me aside and tell me good-bye that day. She wished me luck.'
This time it was Kincaid who sat silently, thinking that this office had probably not changed much… imagining Jasmine sitting where Carol sat… Jasmine bent over the typewriter… Jasmine's dark head silhouetted against the faded cream wallpaper. What had made her take flight, abandoning her carefully made plans, and her brother?
'Did you ever meet her brother, Theo?' he asked, following his thought.
'Not until the old aunt died, and we handled her affairs.' She shrugged, the movement flexing the fabric across her full breasts. 'He wasn't up to much, was he? 'Course, he was just a kid, not more than seventeen or eighteen at the time. That probably explains it.'
'Explains what?'
Carol White looked down at her intertwined fingers, the pink-varnished nails paired like lovers. 'Oh, I've probably said more than I ought. It's been such a long time, and I'm not sure what I really remember. I think Mr. Rawlinson had to handle everything, the funeral arrangements, the sale of the cottage… Theo was so shattered. Almost hysterical. Only natural, I suppose, but at the time I thought his behavior rather odd-most young men who come into enough money to make them independent have to work at appearing grief-stricken.'
'I didn't realize that May Dent had provided so well for Theo.'
'Well enough, but I believe Jasmine held the money in trust until he came of age.' She straightened and took a breath, the sudden sharpness of her movements signaling to Kincaid the end of the interview. 'Mr. Rawlinson should be back soon. Do you want to wait?'
'No. I think you've been more help than he possibly could.' Kincaid stood and replaced his chair, lining the legs up precisely with the worn spots in the aging carpet. When he held out his hand, Carol White took it and said, 'I'm sorry about Jasmine. Really.'
'Thank you,' he said gravely, and she smiled, some of the discomfort leaving her face.
'Mr. Kincaid,' she called as he reached the door, and he turned back. 'It's not true, what I said about not thinking of Jasmine all these years. I've envied her, thought about how glamorous her life must have been, while I stayed here and did all the expected things. I always felt a bit of a coward.' Her shoulders lifted almost imperceptibly. 'Maybe it wasn't such a bad choice, after all.'
Chapter Thirteen
Gemma left the car garaged at the Yard and took the tube to Tottenham Court Road. Driving in London was difficult enough, driving such a short distance in the rain was foolhardy.
The address Felicity Howarth had given for her employer was a street level door tucked between an Indian take-away and a dry cleaners. Gemma wrinkled her nose against the pungent smells coming from the take-away- her stomach already felt empty and it would be at least an hour before she could even consider it lunchtime. Turning her raincoat collar up against the drizzle, she squinted at the names next to the bell-pushes. A tattered business card taped next to the 2B buzzer read 'Home-Care, Inc.'
Having tried the front door and finding it unlocked, Gemma pushed it open and climbed the concrete stairs without pushing the buzzer. She knocked at 2B, and after a moment the door swung open.
'I told you I didn't-' Her mouth open, the woman stared at Gemma in surprise. Recovering enough to smile apologetically, she added, 'Sorry. Thought you were my boyfriend come to finish a row. Can I help you?'
Through the open front door Gemma could see directly into the sitting room of the flat. One side of the room contained ordinary furnishings-sofa, chair, television-the other held a desk, filing cabinets and a computer terminal. 'This is Home-Care?' What began as a statement ended as a tentative question.
'Oh.' The woman sounded taken aback. 'Yes, it is, but most of our business is done by phone, so I wasn't expecting… as you can see.' She gestured at herself-jeans, faded pink T-shirt with the tail out, bare feet sporting scarlet toenail polish. Gemma judged her to be in her forties, a sturdy woman with a pleasant face and a shock of thick brown hair liberally sprinkled with gray.
'My name's Gemma James.' Gemma took her warrant card from her bag and held it up for inspection. 'We're making routine inquiries into the death of one of your patients. A Miss Jasmine Dent.'
Color drained from the woman's face, and her fingers tightened where she held the edge of the door. 'Oh, Christ.' She looked behind her, as if for support, then turned back to Gemma. 'Felicity told me about the p.m. I suppose you'd better come in.' She closed the door and waved Gemma toward the sofa, then added, 'My name's Martha Trevellyan, by the way.' While Gemma sat down on the sofa and pulled her notebook from her bag, Martha
