the front of her coat, discovering a stain where she must have spilled the pop she'd drunk on the train from London to Dorking. The stop at her parents' had been brief-she'd put her bags in her old room, refused her mother's offer of tea, and refused to answer any questions. 'Not now, Mum. There's somebody I have to see.'
The thought of the astonished expression on her mum's face made her smile. No one in her family ever expected little Margaret to be uncooperative, or to have plans of her own.
She crossed the street slowly, pausing again outside the shop. Lights shone through the French panes of the windows, but there was no movement inside. Her heart thumped against her chest and her fingers trembled as she touched the door handle. A bell tinkled briefly somewhere in the back of the shop as she stepped inside. Her heart sank as she looked around at the jumble of rubbish that passed for a display. Old farm implements, china, a rocking horse, moldy books, nothing arranged with a semblance of balance or order, and over everything lay an aura of neglect.
But as she moved carefully through the cluttered aisle, looking, touching, possibilities began to emerge. She had knelt to dip her hand into a basket of antique buttons when a door opened and she heard Theo's voice. 'Can I help- Margaret?'
She stood, a silver-gilt button still clasped in her fingers. 'Hullo, Theo. Why don't you call me Meg. Jasmine did, you know.'
'What are you doing… I mean, it's nice to see you. I just didn't expect-'
'I've come to make you a proposition.' Although her voice felt shaky, it seemed to sound all right, so she took a breath and plowed on. 'Is there someplace we can talk?'
Theo seemed to collect himself. 'Of course. We can go upstairs.'
'I'm afraid it's not much,' he said as he led the way. 'I suppose I've got used to living out of boxes over the years. The bare necessities.'
Meg surveyed the armchair and camp bed, the packing crates and hotplate. 'I know,' she said, thinking of her bedsit, 'but you've made it cozy enough.'
'Here, have a seat,' he directed her to the armchair, 'and I'll make us some tea.'
She watched him fill an electric kettle in the little alcove that served as a kitchen, her tongue suddenly too frozen to make small talk. Dear god, what ever had possessed her to invent such a harebrained scheme? He'd laugh at her, at the very least, at worst reject her with well-deserved scorn-and then where would she be? No worse off than she'd been before, she told herself firmly, and still with the means to start a new life for herself.
Theo brought the tea on a lacquered tray, with china cups and matching cream and sugar. 'Sometimes I do pinch nice things for myself,' he said, seeing her expression. 'Coal-port. I've always had a fondness for this pattern, and it's common enough not to be terribly valuable.'
The china seemed to focus the light in the bare room, and its cobalt-and-rust, intertwining leaf-and-dragon pattern made Meg think of Jasmine. 'Jasmine never lost her taste for the exotic, either.'
Theo didn't speak until he had poured her tea and pulled up a seat for himself, then he said, 'No, and it was in part an affectation, a vanity. It made her different.' He smiled. 'I, on the other hand, never wanted to be different, but I suppose I find things that remind me of my childhood comforting.'
'You never knew your mother, did you?'
'No. Only Jasmine.' Cup in mid-air, he gazed at some point behind Meg's head. 'It's odd to look back on one's childhood from an adult's perspective. Jasmine was only five when Mummy died having me. I see now that taking complete responsibility for me must have been her childish way of dealing with her own grief and loss, but to me it seemed the most natural thing in the world. I thought all families were like ours.' He sipped his tea and returned his cup to the saucer.
Meg gathered her courage. 'Theo, it's Jasmine I've come about.' Seeing his lips purse to form a question, she hurried on. 'Or rather, it's Jasmine's money. You see, I want to help with the shop.'
He was shaking his head before she'd finished. 'I couldn't let you do that. It wouldn't be right. Jasmine did what she thought best for both of us-'
'Theo, I'm not talking about a loan. I want to come in as a working partner. I'll have capital to invest from the sale of the flat, and I'm good with figures. I think we could-' She stopped herself, feeling an idiot. Theo's mouth had formed a perfect round 'o' of astonishment, making his resemblance to a teddy-bear more marked than ever. 'I'm sorry. It was stupid of me.' She finished her tea and stood up, glad she hadn't taken off her coat. The awkwardness of getting into it again would have delayed her exit. 'Thanks for the-'
'Wait, Meg,' Theo said, standing so quickly he sloshed his tea into the saucer as he tried to set it down. He touched her arm. 'You're quite serious, aren't you?'
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
'I thought you were joking at first. You'd really be interested in this place?' His tone expressed his disbelief, and when she nodded again he said, 'Why? What about your job? Your life in London?'
He meant Roger, she thought, but was too tactful to say it. 'I quit my job. And Jasmine was the only thing in my life that really mattered.' She struggled to find words that would make him understand what she wasn't sure she understood herself. They both sat down again without quite realizing it, Meg on the edge of her chair, Theo leaning forward on his stool. 'I didn't count, Theo. Anyone could have done my job, rented my room-and Roger will find a better prospect soon enough. My family complained when I left because it left more work for them, but they didn't miss me.'
'I want…' She looked down at her hands, extended toward him palm upwards, then balled them into fists again and tucked them into her lap. 'I can't…'
'You don't have to explain.' Theo smiled, and she read in it understanding, but not pity. 'I'll make us some more tea, shall I? I forgot the biscuits before.' He gathered up the tea things, and as he started toward the kitchen alcove a thought seemed to strike him. He paused, turning back to her. 'I say, Meg. You don't happen to like old films, do you?'
He'd done all the Saturday chores-cleaned the flat, trundled the laundry down to the service laundromat on East Heath Road, brought in some groceries, even carried bucket and sponges downstairs and washed the Midget where it stood at the curb. A more glorious spring day couldn't be imagined-a day for drives in the country, sipping lemonade at cricket matches, picnics by the Serpentine-yet Kincaid stood in his clean sitting room, staring at the shoe-box that still stood accusingly on his coffee table. Beneath the grief that had dogged his morning like a hangover lay the knowledge that he had missed something yesterday. A connection, a word, a memory slumbered in his brain, awaiting the cue that would allow it to make the synaptic leap into his consciousness. He knew he couldn't force it, yet he couldn't rest.
He went downstairs, folded back the Midget's top, and drove to the Yard.
The corridor was quiet, lacking the weekday hum of voices and keyboards. He waved a greeting into the few occupied offices, then absently pushed open his own door. A familiar figure sat at his desk, copper head bent over a file. 'Gemma!'
'Hullo. Didn't expect to see you in today.' She smiled at him and he thought she looked tired and a little pale.
'What are you doing here?' He sat on his desk, taking in her jeans and trainers, and the bright blue pullover that made the color of her hair shine like a new penny.
Gesturing at the file, she said, 'Hunting for needles in haystacks, I suppose.' She pushed back the chair, propping her feet on the handle of his bottom drawer. 'I spent yesterday learning more about Roger Leveson- Gower, and his friends, and his habits than I or anyone else ever wanted to know, and I came up with nothing. A big, fat zero. A couple of his yobbo friends swear he was drinking with them until the wee hours of the morning, when he supposedly fell into bed with Meg. And I turned up corroborating witnesses.' Sighing, she rubbed her face with her hands, stretching the skin over her cheekbones. 'How did you get on?'
'Dorset was a wash-out.' He acknowledged her I-told-you-so expression with a grin. 'And I talked to the Major,' he added more seriously, finding himself reluctant to recount the Major's tale even to Gemma. 'I don't think he could have killed Jasmine. Of course, he hasn't an alibi, but there is no physical evidence to indicate him, either.'
