squeezed Gemma’s hand and smiled.
“Hazel would probably report me,” Gemma admitted ruefully. “Mum, I didn’t mean to-”
“No, no, I suspect you’re right.” Vi sighed. “It’s just that he’s so frightened, and I can’t imagine how he would manage if I, well”-she lowered her voice, as if admitting to a dark secret-“if I was gone. But I suppose learning to look after me would be a start.” Frowning, she added, “Did Cyn tell you that neither of you were donor matches?”
“Yes.” Gemma didn’t mention that it was Duncan her sister had told. “But surely-there’s an international database for donors, isn’t there?”
“They’ve put me on the list. But they said the chance of a match was only one in ten thousand…”
“Right.” Vi sat up a bit straighter, as if Gemma’s pep talk had encouraged her. “I’d better be fit in time for your wedding. And you had better choose the venue so you can set a date. You said you were going to find something this week.”
“Well, I-” Gemma felt the telltale color rise in her face-she’d never been able to get away with anything as a child.
“You haven’t looked, have you?” Her mother’s teasing tone did not quite disguise her disappointment.
Scrambling, Gemma told an outright lie. “I have, honestly, Mum. I’ve narrowed it down.”
“Tell me about them, then.” Vi settled herself a little more comfortably, her expression expectant.
“Oh-” Gemma tried to remember some of the places she had rejected out of hand as either too big, too expensive, too pretentiously posh, or just plain silly. “Well, there’s the London Eye, but I’m not very good with heights. Or the HMS
Vi’s eyes had widened. “You can get married on the London Eye? Sounds very impractical to me.”
“You can get married at Westminster Abbey if you want-a civil wedding, that is. You can even get married in the changing rooms at Tottenham Hotspur. Or at the London Dungeon.”
“Why on earth would anyone want to be married there?” Vi gave a shudder.
“Thrills and chills.” Gemma couldn’t help grinning. “The boys would love it.”
“But you wouldn’t. Nor Duncan, I daresay.”
“No.” Gemma looked away. She had left out the stultifyingly boring reception rooms in generic hotels and restaurants. All the prospects had depressed her. She just couldn’t get her mind round the thought of being married in a place that meant nothing to either of them and by a person neither of them knew.
“You won’t consider a church wedding?” Vi asked softly. “Even, you know, Church of England. I’m sure Duncan’s family would like that.”
“Yes, I suppose they would. It would have to be St. John’s, though, our parish church, and we don’t know the rector. Winnie-” She didn’t want to voice her fears about Winnie. “And I don’t feel quite right about using our parish church for hatch, match, and dispatch,” she amended. “It just seems a bit callous, somehow.”
“And it seems to me you have far too many scruples,” said Vi, a little tartly. “Gemma, you’re not-you’re not getting cold feet?”
“No, of course not, Mum.” She wasn’t about to admit it was the second time she’d been asked that in as many days. “I just want-I just want everything to be right.”
Vi seemed to shrink a little, as if suddenly tired. “Well, I hope it doesn’t take you as long to make up your mind about this as it took you to decide you wanted to marry Duncan.” She took Gemma’s hand again. “You couldn’t do better, love. And I do want to see you married.”
“Mum! Don’t talk like that-it’s not like you at all-” Her phone chirped, making her jump. She’d forgotten to turn it off. Grabbing it from her bag, she glanced at the caller ID as she pressed Ignore. It was a London number, unfamiliar. “Sorry, Mum. I-”
“I hope I’m not interrupting?”
Gemma started at the sound of the man’s voice. She hadn’t heard the cubicle curtain move. Guiltily, she slipped her phone into her bag as she turned. A coat and tie-a consultant, then, and a bit sleek and overfed looking.
He gave her a perfunctory smile, letting her know that the apology was strictly rote, then turned to Vi. “Mrs. Walters? I’m Dr. Alexander, your anesthetist. We like to have a little chat before procedures.”
“An anesthetist?” said Gemma, alarmed. “But-”
“It’s routine. For the port,” Vi told Gemma, but she looked at the consultant a little anxiously.
“Absolutely routine, Mrs. Walters. It’s just to make you comfortable. You’ll never know you’ve been under. Now,” he added, his tone making it clear it was time to get down to business, “are there any allergies we need to know about?”
Vi nodded at Gemma. “You go, love. Return your call. I’ll be fine.” But as Gemma gathered her bag and leaned over to kiss her, Vi whispered, “But don’t forget what I said.”
Gemma waited until she was outside the hospital annex to check her message. The voice was male, impatient, and recognizably Cockney. “DI Weller here. Ring me at your earliest convenience.” He left the same number she’d seen on the caller ID.
This was the man, she remembered, who was supposed to be in Shropshire at a wedding and not to be disturbed. Had Sergeant Singh passed along her message, after all, and now he was ringing to give Gemma a bollocking for wasting his time? In no mood to be trifled with, she found a quiet spot between buildings and punched the Return Call key.
He picked up on the first ring. “Weller.”
“This is Inspector James. You rang me?”
There was a murmur of voices, quickly fading, as if Weller had moved out of range. “Look,” he said abruptly, “I don’t know what you have to do with this, but we need to have a word. I’m at Haggerston Park. You know it?”
Gemma searched her memory. Haggerston Park had a farm-she’d been there once, with Toby’s infant school class. And it was not far from the London, just to the north in Bethnal Green. “Yes, but-”
“North side. Come in at Audrey Street.”
“But can’t you tell me what’s going on?” asked Gemma. “Has something-” The sudden roar of the air ambulance powering up drowned out her words. She looked up, searching for the helipad, shouting, “Sorry,” into the phone. The sound grew louder, then the distinctive dark orange helicopter rose above a nearby building. The sight gave her a little chill of excitement-odd, she thought, for a person who didn’t like heights.
As the helicopter moved away, she saw that she’d lost her call. It looked as though Weller had hung up on her.
So DI Weller was not in Shropshire, but in London. Gemma glanced at her watch. Not yet eleven o’clock. Whatever had brought Weller back from Shropshire at that speed could not be good.
Gemma put her mobile back in her bag and hurried towards her car. No point in ringing him back, she was only minutes from the park. And if the news was bad, she preferred to hear it in person.
Once in the car, a quick glance at her A to Zed proved that she was even closer to the park than she’d thought. She drove, trying not to anticipate, trying not to make assumptions, but when she had passed the east side of the park and reached the short dead end that was Audrey Street, the cluster of police vehicles confirmed her fears. This was a major incident, most likely a death.
She went on along Goldsmith until she could make a U-turn, then found a spot for the car. Walking back to Audrey Street, she held her identification up to the uniformed constable manning the first temporary barrier. “Inspector Weller?” she asked.
The constable nodded towards an iron gate at the entrance to a footpath that looked as if it led up into the park. Blue-and-white crime scene tape stretched across the opening. Behind the tape stood a man Gemma would have picked out without the constable’s direction.
Heavyset, rumpled gray suit, gray hair buzzed short. She thought of the Royalty Protection officers she’d seen in Beigel Bake the evening before-he might have been cut from the same cloth. When she reached him, holding
