“I think I see what you mean,” Hannah said, examining her fingertips. “And are you a spy in our camp?”
“I don’t think so. Neither fish nor fowl, really. I’m certainly a nuisance as far as Nash is concerned, and the fact that I outrank him doesn’t help.”
“What is it, by the way? Nash never said, only rather sneeringly referred to you as ‘your friend Kincaid.’
“Superintendent.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “I know, I know,” he said before she could speak. “Newly promoted, however, so it’s not quite as bad as it sounds. I went to Bramshill.” Seeing her expression of noncomprehension, he added, “Police College, near Reading. Special Course. It accelerates promotion to Inspector by about five years.”
What he didn’t add was that only “young officers of exceptional promise” were considered for Bramshill, and meteoric rise through the ranks was expected of its graduates. If Nash had checked his credentials he’d be aware of it, however, and would resent him all the more. “All I wanted,” he misquoted plaintively, “was a week’s holiday, and a little bit of butter for my bread.”
It brought a smile. “Weak. But nobody can be all bad who read Milne.”
“Truce, then?” he asked, extending his hand.
“Yes. All right.” She clasped his hand, briefly. “I feel like a ten year old.”
“That’s the idea.” He noted with satisfaction that some of the strain had left her face. “I’m running away.” He gestured toward his jacket. “Come to York with me for dinner, where no one knows either of us.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s been a shocking day. I think I’d rather be alone. Just drop me at the house as you go.”
Kincaid turned the car in the narrow lane and delivered Hannah as she asked, reaching across the Midget’s narrow passenger space to open her door and let her out. The lights glowed softly in the windows of Followdale House, as welcoming as death.
CHAPTER 6
Sergeant Gemma James eased her Ford Escort into a space no bigger than a motorbike. Even her deft maneuvering couldn’t quite overcome the limitations of space-when she cut the engine and jerked up the handbrake, the car’s rear end stuck out into the street at an angle. Home early, an unusual feat, and still no place to park, because her neighbor’s teenage sons had cluttered every inch of the curbside with their clunkers. Even the baby had left his tricycle overturned in the middle of the path.
She unbuckled Toby from his carseat and lifted him from the car. Balancing the squirming toddler on one hip and her shopping on the other, she kicked the Escort’s door shut with unnecessary spite. She negotiated the path well enough until she caught her toe on the tricycle wheel, stumbled and swore.
An alliterative name and the mortgage on the semidetached house in Leyton were about the only things Rob had left her, and the house’s attributes were dubious-a view of Lea Bridge Road, red brick, peeling paint, a shriveled patch of front garden and next-door neighbors who seemed to be running a scrap yard.
Toby wriggled and shrieked, “Down, down,” kicking his feet against her thigh.
“Shhh. In a minute, love, in a minute.” Gemma bounced him on her hip and jingled her keys while she hunted for the right one. As she deposited Toby on the hall floor, she felt a large damp patch on the hip of her linen jacket. “Bloody hell. That’s torn it, now,” she muttered under her breath. Toby was soaking wet, and when she scooped him up again the odor of stale urine burned her nostrils. “Bloody day care,” she said. One of Toby’s blond eyebrows lifted in such a comical expression of surprise that she had to laugh.
“Bloody,” he repeated seriously, nodding his head.
“Oh, lovey.” Hugging him to her fiercely, sopping nappy and all, she whispered in his ear. “Mummy’s teaching you such bad habits. But it is bloody, it really is.” She carried him upstairs to his cot and stripped him off, then sponged his damp bottom with a wipe. “You’re too big a boy to be wearing nappies. Two already, aren’t you, love? A big boy.”
“Me two,” Toby repeated, grinning at her.
Gemma sighed. She’d taken her holiday earlier in the summer, and she didn’t see how she could possibly train him unless she could stay home with him for a few days.
She pressed her lips against his stomach and blew hard. Toby squealed and giggled with delight as she swung him down and slapped his bottom. He took off around the house, roaring like a freight train, chubby legs pumping, and Gemma followed him more slowly.
Fortified with a glass of Spanish plonk from the fridge, she put away her shopping and picked up the sitting room, tossing Toby’s toys and books in baskets. She had tried to brighten the place up. White, rice-paper globes from Habitat to cover the bare lightbulbs, rice-paper shades on the windows, printed cotton cushions on the dull three-piece suite, colorful travel posters on the walls-but the damp still seeped through the wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling spread like ivy.
The dull thud of heavy metal rock started up next door and the walls began to vibrate. Gemma fetched a broom from the kitchen and banged the handle smartly against the connecting wall. The noise abated a fraction of a decibel. “If you don’t turn down that bloody racket I’ll phone in a complaint,” she shouted at the wall, even though she knew they couldn’t hear a word.
Then the absurdity of it struck her and she started to laugh. Just look at her-standing there screeching like a fishwife, red hair flying, broom in hand-a proper witch. Still smiling, she rescued her wine from the kitchen, sat down on the sofa and propped her feet on the trunk that served as a coffee table. Toby, unperturbed by the noise, pushed a plush teddy bear along the floor and made zooming noises.
She should be as tolerant, Gemma thought wryly. Ten years ago she would have been right in there with the kids next door-but then again, maybe she wouldn’t. At eighteen she’d been much more concerned with making a different life for herself than in having a good time. She’d stayed at school and done her A levels, watching her friends drift away to take sales clerk’s and cashier’s jobs, or get married. On her nineteenth birthday she applied to the Metropolitan Police. Two years later she opted into the CID, her career advancement laid out in her mind like a map.
She hadn’t counted on ending up in a neighborhood like the one she’d left. But then she hadn’t counted on Rob James, either.
Toby climbed up beside her and opened a picture book. “Ball,” he said, jabbing his finger at the page. “Car.”
“Yes, you’re a clever boy, love.” Gemma stroked his straight, fair hair. She really couldn’t complain. She’d done well enough for herself so far, in spite of the obstacles. And tomorrow she had a half-day off, free to spend with Toby.
Perhaps some of her bad temper, she admitted grudgingly, was due to the fact that she’d become very quickly accustomed to working with Duncan Kincaid, and the day had soured a bit without his presence.
And that, Gemma told herself firmly, was a tendency to be kept very well in hand.
Kincaid woke late on Tuesday morning, with that sense of malaise that results from oversleeping. The bedclothes were rumpled and askew. His tongue felt furry-the residue of too much wine the night before.
An unpleasant dream lingered on the edge of his consciousness, teasing him with tattered scraps of images. A child in a well-the small voice calling to him… he couldn’t find a rope… descending into the well, moss coating the palms of his hands like gelatinous glue… to find only bones, small bones that crumbled to dust as he touched them. Ugh! He shook himself and groped his way to the shower, hoping the hot water would clear his head.
Kincaid emerged feeling ravenously hungry. He carried his makeshift breakfast of buttered bread, cheese and a cup of tea out to the balcony, and leaned on the rail as he chewed and thought about his day. He found he’d lost his enthusiasm for playing the tourist. All his plans seemed uninspired, deflated, a reflection of the dull, overcast day. Even the thought of walking the Dales alone, a prospect which had seemed glorious two days ago, failed to please him.
His conscience was nagging him. All these dreams of things left undone, or not done soon enough. His subconscious was throwing little poisoned darts at him, and some appeasement would have to be offered. Official action was difficult, but he felt a need to take some assertive step.
He’d visit Sebastian’s mum. A condolence call. An old-fashioned custom, traditional, respectable, and often
