used, he wondered. Taking his dressing gown, he slipped into the warm water. Covering his hand with a fold of fabric, he reached down into the water and carefully pushed the object up from underneath. It was a portable electric heater, about the size of a ladies’ handbag, and unless he was very much mistaken, he’d seen it, or one very much like it, under Cassie’s gray metal desk.
P.C. Trumble, flushed with excitement and authority, gave Kincaid permission to get dried and dressed, and Emma leave to return the children to their suite. Kincaid had no wish to face the officers of Mid-Yorkshire C.I.D. wet and half-naked, without identification. There was no sense in putting oneself at a definite psychological disadvantage. He had toweled his hair, pulled on jeans and a faded blue cotton sweater. Sneakers on, wallet and keys tucked safely in his pocket, he felt armored enough. Only when he was halfway down the pool stairs again did the hollowness in his stomach remind him that he had not eaten breakfast.
He had been surprised on returning to his room to find it just on eight o’clock, the morning passing at its own measured pace. The calm promise of an hour ago seemed a universe removed. The house was beginning to stir. He heard the soft sounds of doors, sensed movement in the rooms around him. The local lads would have to be quick to contain the guests before they began their daily exodus.
Kincaid joined Trumble in a silent vigil by the pool, and when Detective Chief Inspector Bill Nash arrived, accompanied by Detective Inspector Peter Raskin, Kincaid felt glad enough of his clothes. Nash was balding, rumpled and portly, a jolly elf of a man with a hearty Yorkshire voice and little black eyes as cold and opaque as tar pits. Nash flicked the proffered warrant card with a finger, and Kincaid had the feeling he’d been assessed and dismissed within the first five seconds.
“Well now,” drawled Nash, “one of Scotland Yard’s fancy men, with nowt better to do than mess about in other folk’s affairs. How convenient for us. Just how did you happen to be so prompt on the scene, laddie?”
Kincaid bit back a retort born of instant antagonism, forced himself to speak reasonably. “Look, Inspector, it was purely coincidence. I’ve no wish to intrude on your patch, but I would like to watch, if I won’t be in the way.”
“Aye. Just you make sure of that.” Nash seemed to realize that it wasn’t politically expedient to order a senior Scotland Yard officer off the premises, but there was no welcome in his voice. He studied the body with ruminative deliberation. “Mr. Sebastian Wade, is it? Assistant manager. Late assistant manager, I should say.” He stood in silent contemplation a moment longer, then roused himself. “Peter, take Mr. Kincaid’s statement, then he can run along and play.”
The emphasis fell on the ‘mister’, and Raskin looked askance at him, then pulled out his notebook and invited Kincaid to a seat on the wooden bench against the wall. He had not spoken since the introductions. Now, with a sideways glance to make sure Nash was occupied, he gave Kincaid a sympathetic lift of his eyebrow. Raskin was a wiry young man, with a thin, dark, saturnine face and a Heathcliff-like lock of dark hair hanging over his brow. Kincaid answered his quiet questions with half his attention and listened to Nash with the other.
Trumble was delegated to see the guests. “Trumble, isn’t it? Well now, you round them all up in the sitting room, whether they like it or not, and keep them there “I’ll I want them. And if any have left, you find out where they’ve gone and how long ago. Got that?”
“Sir,” said Trumble, his enthusiasm subdued. Kincaid felt for him. The most exciting event of his short career, and he was relegated to babysitter and would miss watching the scene-of-crime team. He was too inexperienced to take advantage of the opportunity to watch the guests’ reactions to his news, or to listen carefully to what they said to one another when they were all gathered together. Nash didn’t enlighten him.
Making, rather than taking, a statement proved a novel experience for Kincaid, and he tried to be as concise about his movements and the sequence of events as possible, all the while keeping an eye on Nash’s slow progress around the pool. Nash squatted beside Sebastian’s body, forearms resting on his heavy thighs, hands dangling loosely in front of him. He reminded Kincaid, unpleasantly, of a satiated vulture. He repeated the posture before Sebastian’s neatly folded pile of clothes, then moved to the pool’s edge and craned his neck up at the electrical cord.
“Cut and dried,” he pronounced. “Decided to end things. Clever little bugger. Plugged it in up above there, dropped it over, then came down and jumped in. If the shock didn’t kill him it would be sure to knock him out long enough for him to drown.”
“No.” Kincaid said it almost involuntarily. “No, he didn’t. Someone came when he was already in the Jacuzzi. He would have had his back to the balcony, that’s where the main jets are. Someone very carefully plugged the thing in and dropped it. Even if Sebastian saw it falling he wouldn’t have had time to climb out.” He didn’t add that the heater must have shorted itself out when it entered the water-the jolt of current wouldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds.
“And just how do you know so much, laddie? You have the second sight?” Nash turned and gave Kincaid his beady glare. “Looks like a suicide to me. Look at his clothes, neatly folded. Typical.”
“No. He was neat. I don’t imagine he ever left his clothes in a heap. It was probably part of his routine. He made no secret of the fact that he liked to come here last thing in the evening. I’d swear you won’t find his fingerprints on that cord or plug. Suicides don’t usually wear gloves. And he wasn’t a suicidal type.”
He had Nash’s full attention now. “You’re very sure of your facts all of a sudden, laddie. I thought I heard you tell my inspector just now that you’d only been here a day. Got to know Mr. Wade here awfully well in a short time, seems to me.” His voice was soft now, weighted with friendly insinuation.
Kincaid felt his fists clenching. He forced himself to hold his tongue-anything he could say about the time he had spent with Sebastian would sound feeble, ludicrously sentimental. There was nothing for it but to beat Nash at his own game. He smiled at him, and said evenly, “I’m very observant. It’s my job, Inspector, in case you’d forgotten.”
Whatever Nash might have replied to this not-so-subtle bit of rank-pulling was interrupted by the arrival of the scene-of-crime team from district headquarters. Kincaid was relieved to see that Nash was competent enough to stand back and let them work without interference, although he didn’t hold out much hope for the results.
The photographer set up his lights and equipment with practiced ease and began taking shots of the body. The forensic biologist was a fair man with rabbity teeth. He wore shorts, a stained sweatshirt and tennis shoes, and looked thoroughly incongruous pulling on his thin latex gloves. He squatted by Sebastian’s clothes, as Nash had done, and began going through them with deft fingers.
There was no sign of a pathologist. Kincaid waited until Peter Raskin was free for a moment and questioned him. “Where’s your M.E.?”
“Out on another call, apparently. They’ve called in a local doctor. Not usually a good idea, but in this case it probably doesn’t matter.”
“You agree with your chief, then? That it was suicide?”
“No. I didn’t say that.” Raskin was cagey, and Kincaid saw a gleam of humor in his eyes. “Just that a preliminary examination of the body isn’t likely to reveal much, and the district M.E. will do the postmortem when he can get to it. Look,” he inclined his head toward the glass doors, “there’s your doctor, now.”
Only the black medical bag gripped in her right hand identified her. She wore kelly green sweats with trainers and damp wisps of hair curled around her heart-shaped face. Nash, occupied with the photographer, hadn’t seen her. Raskin went to greet her and Kincaid followed an unobtrusive pace behind, holding his hand out in turn for her firm clasp.
“I’m Anne Percy.” She looked from their faces to Sebastian’s still form, and back again. “Are you ready for me? I came straightaway. I was running,” she gestured apologetically toward her clothes, “before morning surgery.” A small town G.P., Kincaid thought, used to officiating at family deathbeds, not murder scenes-her uneasy small talk served the same function as a police surgeon’s black jokes. “What happened here? Who was he?”
She looked at Kincaid as she spoke, and after a barely perceptible nod from Raskin, he answered her. “Sebastian Wade, assistant manager here. Uh, suspicious death.” He caught Raskin’s quick lift of an eyebrow, a mannerism he was beginning to recognize as a sign of amusement. “Electrocution, or drowning due to electrocution. Sometime late last night, most likely.”
“He was found in the spa?”
Peter Raskin took up the story. “Mr. Kincaid found him when he came down for his swim this morning.”
“Oh.” Anne Percy seemed momentarily nonplussed. “But I had the impression you were a policeman, too.”
