across some files of the victim’s that contain some fairly damaging information on some of the timeshare owners.”
“Just happened, my ass. You’ve been snooping, Kincaid, where you’d no right to stick your nose.” Childs’ voice contained a note of approval. “Blackmail, eh?”
“Funnily enough, I don’t really think so. Not directly, anyway. I wondered if you could smooth the way for me to make a few discreet inquiries. Don’t want to step on any toes-” Kincaid paused. “Actually, I’d like to stomp the bastard’s shins, but in the interest of departmental good will…”
“I imagine you’ve already stepped on plenty, if you’ve been looking about. The A.C. will appreciate your restraint,” Childs added sarcastically. “But I’ll see what I can do. I believe the Chief Constable up there is an old friend of the A.C. Perhaps the A.C. would be willing to have a word with him on your behalf. Offer the Squad’s assistance if the business does turn nasty. I’ll have a word in his ear. In the meantime, try to keep out of trouble.”
“I’ll tread like an angel,” Kincaid said. “All right if I call Sergeant James?”
“On your head be it,” Childs answered, and Kincaid hung up, satisfied.
Gemma James shoved two combs into her ginger curls, one more attempt on her part to bulldoze them into professionalism. She frowned at herself in the mirror, pulled the combs free and quickly brushed her hair into a pony-tail at the nape of her neck. “I give up,” she said aloud. If God had seen fit to give her red hair and freckles, she might as well accept them gracefully and stop harboring secret desires to be an icy blond or a sultry brunette. A little make-up toned the freckles down to a barely noticeable dusting, and that would have to do.
The phone rang just as she scooped up a rambunctious Toby, ready to take him to the sitter’s. The morning off had improved her outlook, and she reached for the receiver with a return of her usual energy. “No, no, love. Let Mummy get it.” She gripped Toby’s clutching fingers with one hand and picked up the phone with the other, shifting her handbag and balancing the toddler on her hip. Gemma rested her cheek for a moment against his flaxen hair. It was straight as a die, thank god, a genetic wild card, unlike either her own or his dad’s dark mop.
“Gemma?”
“Sir. How’s your holiday?” Gemma grinned into the phone, both surprised and pleased to hear Kincaid’s voice. She toed the uneasy line between Christian name and title.
“Sorry to interrupt your morning, Gemma. Are you working on anything in particular?”
It was business, then, and she’d called it right. “Not really. Why?”
“I’d like you to do some checking for me, and I’d like you to do it as unofficially as possible. I’ve cleared it with the Guv’nor, but I don’t really have any official jurisdiction.”
“Gossip with the old biddies?” Gemma knew Kincaid’s indirect methods.
“Right. Although in some cases you may have to speak directly to relatives. The problem is that I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Anything in these people’s lives that doesn’t mesh, doesn’t seem quite right. Let me fill you in.”
Gemma listened, and wrote, having long since set the squirming Toby down. With half her mind she heard him pulling pots and pans out of the cupboard, his favorite pastime, but her attention was concentrated on Kincaid, and when she finally hung up she wore a small, satisfied smile.
As Kincaid locked the Midget and started across the gravel toward Followdale House, Inspector Peter Raskin came out the door and ran nimbly down the steps to meet him.
“Sir, I’d just about given up on you,” said Raskin, by way of greeting. “Thought you might like to know what the scene of crime lab came up with.”
Kincaid glanced up at the blank faces of the windows above them. “We do need to talk. Let’s move away a bit.” They strolled down to the bench at the end of the garden-the same spot where he and Hannah had stood two nights before and thought how gay and welcoming the house looked with the light spilling from its windows. “You first,” said Kincaid, when they had settled themselves on the bench.
“You were right about the heater and the plug. There’s
“I didn’t buy it, either,” said Kincaid. “What about the p.m.?”
“The best the doc can give us from the stomach contents is between ten and midnight.”
“Not much help, but then I didn’t expect it would be. None of the guests have a definite alibi?”
“Not to speak of.” Raskin ticked them off his fingers. “Cassie says she went to her cottage, alone, around ten, and didn’t come out again. The Hunsingers had gone to bed and to sleep, after tucking in the children and having some herbal tea. Marta and Patrick Rennie say they were in their suite all the time, but she doesn’t look too comfortable about it. The MacKenzie ladies retired around ten, were both asleep by eleven. Janet Lyle had a headache, and her husband fixed her a cup of tea. She then went to sleep and he did, too. Um, let’s see, who’s left?”
“The Frazers?” Kincaid prompted.
“The Frazers, father and daughter, arrived back from dinner in York about ten-thirty, whereupon they both went to bed.”
“And Hannah and I,” Kincaid continued for him, “were walking in this garden around eleven
“After which you each went, alone, to your separate suites,” finished Raskin, and stretched his fingers until the knuckles popped.
“Pretty bloody useless, the whole lot,” said Kincaid in disgust. “Any of them could be lying and we’d never be the wiser. For starters, I don’t think Angela Frazer has a clue whether her dad was in the suite or not. They had a terrible row on the way home and she locked herself in the bathroom. Went to sleep on the tiles.”
Raskin grinned. “Your interrogation technique must be a sight better than my chief’s-he didn’t get more than sullen ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ out of her.”
“I don’t doubt it. Peter,” said Kincaid, feeling his way cautiously, “I paid a call on Sebastian’s mum.” Raskin merely raised his eyebrows. “I had a look at his room. He kept files on the timeshare owners, some of them potentially damaging.”
Both Raskin’s eyebrows shot up this time. “Nash’ll have you on a platter, sir. Since the lab work came back he’s sent a team round there-he’ll likely have a stroke when he finds out you’ve been there before him.”
Kincaid grinned a little guiltily. “It wasn’t premeditated. I’ve since repented and pulled a few strings to smooth your chief’s ruffled feathers. But it might be wise on my part to stay out of his way until things have had a chance to percolate down from the top. If Nash chews me out and then has to eat his words, it’ll make him even more difficult to deal with.”
Raskin gave him a considering look. “Scotland Yard going to be ‘helping us with our inquiries’?”
“Could be. All very politely and politically done, of course.”
“Of course,” Raskin responded, and they grinned at each other in complete understanding. “All right,” prompted Raskin, “could you tell me, sir? Just what sort of dirt did the ever-curious Mr. Wade dig up?”
Kincaid stretched out his legs and contemplated the toes of his trainers meditatively. “There were files on a number of guests who must own other weeks, but I think it would be practical to assume that we should concentrate on those who are here this week. Somehow Sebastian came across a rumor circulating in Dedham village that Emma and Penny MacKenzie helped their dear old dad to a speedier end than nature intended.” Raskin looked startled but didn’t interrupt. “He was diabetic and they administered his insulin themselves-they could have increased his dosage a bit.”
“I suppose it’s possible. I’ve heard more unlikely stories. Next prospect?”
“Graham Frazer. It seems that he’s been carrying on a very torrid affair with Cassie Whitlake-a situation that doesn’t appear to be too damaging to either of them, except that Frazer is involved in a bitter custody battle over Angela and any misconduct might provide ammunition to be used against him. Those are Sebastian’s assumptions, by the way. He was very thorough.
