“I am,” Kincaid answered, “but on holiday. A guest.”
“Well, I don’t know what I’ll be able to do for you, other than certify death.” She opened her bag and knelt beside Sebastian’s body. “Body temperature will be useless for establishing time of death, as will state of rigor.” After gently flexing Sebastian’s limp arm, she pulled on her thin latex gloves. “It’ll take the postmortem to give you anything concrete.”
Kincaid felt oddly uncomfortable, as if it were indecent for him to watch Sebastian’s body violated, and turned away as Dr. Percy got down to business.
Cassie Whitlake stood in the doorway, looking unkempt and disheveled. On her the mild untidiness became shocking disarray. The oak-leaf hair was uncombed, pushed back behind one bare ear. The tail of her blouse hung half out of her skirt and she had shoved her unstockinged feet into a pair of scuffed loafers. The normal pale cream of her complexion would have looked decidedly ruddy next to her present pallor.
Kincaid had turned from contemplating the rear wall of the pool, feeling he’d been squeamish long enough. Besides, the sight of Anne Percy made up for the discomfort of watching what she was doing to Sebastian. He hadn’t heard the door swing open.
Cassie held the door’s metal handle like an anchor, her dilated eyes fixed on the scene before her. Why the hell hadn’t they put a constable on the door, Kincaid thought as he crossed to her, simply to keep things like this from happening. He touched her arm. “Cassie.” She hadn’t looked at him, all her attention frozen on the little tableau by the pool. Anne Percy carefully slipped off her gloves and closed her bag, speaking a quiet word to Peter Raskin. “Cassie,” Kincaid repeated, “let me take you-”
“No. What happened? What happened to him? He had no right. Oh, sod the little bugger.” Tears began to slip down her face, more anger and shock, Kincaid thought, than grief.
“Had no right to do what?”
“He’s killed himself, hasn’t he? Here. He had to do it here, didn’t he? Out of spite. Christ, what am I going to say… how am I going to explain…” The perfect BBC elocution had stretched with shock, the lengthened vowels betraying their South London origins.
“Explain to whom?” asked Kincaid.
“The management. It’s my responsibility, to see that things like this don’t happen. And you-” she looked at Kincaid for the first time-“you’re a bloody cop! That ox of a constable said you were a policeman and were ‘assisting them with their inquiries.’ You never said. What have you been doing-sneaking about and spying on us?”
“Cassie, I’m sorry. At the time it didn’t seem that it was anyone’s business what I did for a living.”
Her attention drifted away from him, back to Sebastian, and her voice rose alarmingly. “When are they going to take him away? Everyone will see. And why have they shut everyone up together like criminals?”
Anne Percy recognized the sound of imminent hysteria and came toward them, exchanging a glance with Kincaid. “I’m Dr. Percy. Can I-”
“I know who you are.” Cassie jerked her arm away from Anne’s touch. “I don’t need any help. I don’t want any sedatives.” She seemed visibly to gather herself together, closing her eyes for a moment and taking a breath.
P.C. Trumble, flushed and perspiring, clattered down the tile stairs and skidded to a stop at the glass door. Kincaid had to move Cassie gently aside so that the door would open-this time she didn’t flinch from his touch.
Trumble looked anxiously around for Inspector Nash, then gave a quick puff of relief when it seemed he might be spared immediate retribution. “You’re all right, Constable.” Peter Raskin’s quiet voice held a hint of amusement as he joined them. “He’s just gone out the back to direct the ambulance crew, now that Dr. Percy’s finished.”
“Miss,” Trumble drew himself up and faced Cassie, “you’re not supposed to be here. It’s restricted. You have to stay with the others until the Chief Inspector’s spoken with everyone.” To Raskin he said, by way of apology, “I didn’t know about the cottage, sir. The others told me, said somebody should inform Miss Whitlake. So I did, and she said she’d join the others straight away. It was only when she didn’t show I discovered she’d come over-”
“It’s my right. I’m in charge here. I’m responsible for every… all right.” Cassie subsided, as she looked at the half-circle of implacable faces. “I’ll wait with the others, but it had better not be too long. I’ve phone calls to make.” She was calmer now, and Kincaid thought he detected a certain calculation returning to her manner. Trumble, with frequent mumblings and glances over his shoulder, hustled her off, and Kincaid noticed that Cassie didn’t look at Sebastian again. Well, what had he expected? A grief-stricken farewell scene over Sebastian’s prostrate body? Not bloody likely. Not from Cassie, anyway. Any tears shed for Sebastian would have to come from another quarter.
CHAPTER 5
Peter Raskin drew Kincaid aside, keeping his chief in line of sight and lowering his voice so that it was audible only to Kincaid. “I’ll let you know the results of the p.m. And the lab reports, if you’re interested. To tell the truth,” he looked across the room at Nash, who was telling off one of the ambulance crew in vitriolic tones, “I’m not happy with this suicide business myself. It’s too pat. The neat ones usually leave a note, and choose something gradual, pills or injection. In my book, those who opt for the violent end take off, leaving everything in a muddle, and go out and have an accident cleaning the gun. The profile here just doesn’t seem to fit.”
“Right.” It was a shame about Raskin. He had the makings of a good copper-unobtrusive, alert, intelligent, and not so stuck on his opinions that he couldn’t see past his own nose-and he had to be saddled with a bugger like Nash. Kincaid wondered what Raskin would make of this disagreement with his chief. If Nash turned out to be wrong, as Kincaid felt sure he would, he’d take it out of somebody’s hide, and Raskin would be wise to keep his thoughts to himself until afterwards.
Kincaid took himself off to Thirsk, ignoring the niggling refrain “with his tail between his legs” that kept creeping unbidden into his thoughts. He thought it best to avoid any more confrontation with Nash until he had more ammunition.
A bench on the market square beckoned, along with a warm-from-the-oven pork pie, bought over the counter at a small bakery, some fresh Wensleydale cheese and a crunchy apple from a market stall. He disposed of his impromptu lunch and set off to explore.
By half-past three Kincaid had exhausted the sightseeing possibilities in the little market town. The day turned out to be as glorious as he’d predicted, the autumn air as rich and bright as a plum ready to fall from the tree. He strolled the town, resolute in his determination to be an uncomplicated tourist, shoving away thoughts of the morning’s events whenever they threatened his equanimity.
The lovely perpendicular church, with its eighty-foot-high battlemented tower, had been a sight worth seeing. The ground around it rose gently from east to west, while the church itself remained level. As a result, the whole tower end of the church seemed to be sinking gradually into the ground. It made him think of a huge battleship plowing into heavy seas and he felt momentarily unsteady on his feet.
His last stop was the local book shop on the square. He emerged with a paperback copy of James Herriot’s
The Blue Plate lived up to its name, with blue plates of various patterns displayed around the room on a plate rail, and cheerful yellow-and-white checked cloths on the tables. It was not until Kincaid was seated at a small table in the back of the room and had placed his order that he noticed the two women in animated conversation at a window table. Maureen Hunsinger, with her round, cheerful face and frizzy hair, wore a dusty blue garment that looked as if it might have had a previous life as a chenille bedspread.
