He was finding it very difficult to accept the idea that Hannah could be Patrick’s mother. He’d never have thought her old enough to have a grown son. And he had seen them together, seen some spark kindled, even felt a faint stirring of envy. Had Hannah seen it as well? No wonder she had been so distraught.
Dear god, what had he driven Hannah to do? He’d meant to shock her into giving him evidence she might be withholding, not to send her off into some rash confrontation with Patrick. For they were both gone, he’d made sure of that. Hannah had bundled him out of her suite with such urgency that he’d had no choice but to go. When he’d returned a few minutes later to try once more to persuade her to talk, he’d seen from the landing window the flash of tail lights as her car turned into the road.
Marta Rennie, sober and sullen, didn’t know where Patrick had gone and didn’t seem to care. “Sightseeing,” she said with derision. “God, it makes me ill.” She’d shut the door on anything else Kincaid might have asked her.
It seemed to Kincaid that everything he had done from the beginning of this affair had gone wrong. Every turn and feint he made came up blank, shadow boxing with an unseen enemy. He should have listened to Penny. He should have kept his ideas about Patrick Rennie to himself.
He should never have let Hannah out of his sight.
The burr of the telephone sounded through the French door, interrupting his recriminations. He dived to answer it, his life line to the outside world. Gemma’s voice came over the line. “Just what sort of a wild goose chase have you sent me on?”
Kincaid laughed, cheered by the asperity in her voice. “I wish I knew. What’s up?”
“My backside’s welded to the car, that’s what.”
“Angling for sympathy again, are you? Well, you won’t get it from me. At least you’re doing something.”
“True. I paid a call on Mrs. Marjorie Frazer at her office in Finchley, bright and early this morning. She was not pleased to see me, I can tell you. Very on-her-dignity solicitorish to begin with. Then she seemed to think about it and decide she didn’t mind painting her ex-husband black. Says she had custody of the daughter, Angela, in the beginning, but got tired of playing the villain. Decided that if Angela had to live with Graham she might decide the sun didn’t rise and set over him.”
“I’d say it’s certainly had that effect. I’m surprised Angela ever did feel that way.”
“It seems Mrs. Frazer has changed her mind. Angela got herself expelled from her fancy boarding school last term. Drugs, I’d say, though Mrs. Frazer didn’t specifically say so. Well, enough is enough, she says. She’s determined now to get full custody, deny him access.” Gemma paused a moment. “I didn’t get the impression that Mrs. Frazer particularly cared for her daughter. More angry at him, and irritated with her.” Gemma sounded both puzzled and incensed at such lack of maternal feeling.
“Poor Angela,” said Kincaid. “So that’s how it is. No wonder she’s desperate for any kindness.”
“He doesn’t sound a very savory character. I’ve done some checking with some contacts in insurance. He’s not well liked. A bit heavy-handed, I take it. And there are whispers-nothing concrete-about fraud, some deals that just skate the line.” She paused for effect, and Kincaid waited patiently, having learned that it was best to let Gemma tell a story in her own way. “He also has a reputation for being pretty heavily into cocaine. Do you suppose Angela borrowed Daddy’s stash?”
“Could be,” Kincaid answered, running over the idea in his mind.
Gemma spoke hesitantly. “Do you think there could be sexual abuse involved as well?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible.” It certainly was, considering the unhealthy nature of what he had seen of Graham and Angela’s relationship. What if Angela had confided in Sebastian? That would account for Sebastian’s venomous dislike of the man. What if Sebastian had threatened Graham with exposure, either to Cassie or his ex-wife? Gemma cleared her throat and he realized he’d left her hanging. “Sorry, Gemma. What else?”
Gemma recounted her interview with Helen North, then added, “I’d say that unless Mr. Lyle has an awfully good job, he might be a bit financially overextended-what with his mortgage and his wife not working and a daughter away at some posh boarding school. Sounds a right prig to me, besides,” she finished.
“Another model husband and father?”
“And devoted son.” Kincaid heard paper rustling as Gemma thumbed through her notebook.
“Where are you?”
“Call box in St. Albans. I haven’t been able to get on to Miles Sterrett at Hannah Alcock’s clinic. They say he’s ill…”
“Hang on, Gemma. I thought I heard someone at the door.” A ghost of a knock, so faint he thought he’d imagined it. When he opened the door there was no one in the hall. He returned to the phone. “Gemma? Must be hearing things. Listen, finish up what you can today and get up here as soon as possible. I feel uneasy about this whole business, melodramatic as it sounds.”
They rang off and Kincaid stood for a moment, debating. He decided it was about time he had another little talk with Angela Frazer.
Kincaid was halfway down the first flight of stairs when he saw a foot, a woman’s foot in a peach-colored sock, outstretched on the flight below him. A flat leather shoe lay overturned nearby. He skidded to a stop, then rounded the landing as his body began to function again.
Hannah Alcock lay crumpled beneath him.
CHAPTER 16
Hannah lay sprawled head down, half on her back, her arms flung out as if she had tried to break her fall. While part of Kincaid’s mind reeled with shock, another part noted details-her sweater, the same soft peach as her socks, had ridden up and exposed a wide, pale slice of skin. Her ribs, so ungracefully bared, rose and fell rhythmically.
Relief rushed through Kincaid in a sickening wave. He closed his eyes and breathed a moment, steadying himself, then maneuvered into a kneeling position beside her. Although her head seemed twisted at an awkward angle, her color looked healthy and he didn’t think she was deeply unconscious. He touched her shoulder gently. “Hannah.” She made a soft sound and her eyelids fluttered. He tried again, more urgently. “Hannah.” Her eyes opened and she looked fuzzily at him, her expression blank. “Hannah. Hannah!”
A flicker of recognition moved in Hannah’s eyes. She turned her head a little and winced. “What…” She shifted again, feeling and cognizance returning together. “My head. Oh, my god. What hap-” She tried to lift herself and pain shot through her face.
“Careful, careful. Take it easy. What hurts?”
“My head… the back of it.”
“Not your neck?”
Tentatively, she rolled her head a little each way. “No. It seems okay.”
“Good. Can you move your legs?” She flexed each leg and nodded. “Okay. That’s good. No, wait,” Kincaid said as she struggled to pull herself into a sitting position. “Let’s do this a stage at a time.” He slid his arm beneath her head and supported it level with her shoulders. “Better?”
“Yes. I think I’m all right, really. I can feel everything, and move everything.” Hannah drew up her arms and legs again, demonstrating. “God, I feel like Humpty Dumpty.” She gave a ghost of a smile.
“I’m just glad you don’t look it,” Kincaid said with feeling. He hesitated to move her, but after a few more minutes of Hannah complaining about the blood running to her head, he temporized. Slipping his arm under her shoulders, he lifted and turned her so that she sat across the step with her back against the wall.
Hannah moved her head fretfully. “I’m all right. Let me get-”
“Wait.” Kincaid interrupted her. “Let’s assess the damage first.” He ran his fingers lightly over the back of her head. Near the crown a lump was already rising. “You’re definitely going to have an egg, but the skin’s not broken. What else?”
She clasped her right wrist in her left hand. “My wrist hurts like hell, but I can move it.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. I imagine you’re going to have some bruising.” As he straightened up he found his hands were
